The American Senator
by Anthony Trollope
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I.
Dillsborough
CHAPTER II. The
Morton Family
CHAPTER III. The
Masters Family
CHAPTER IV. The
Dillsborough
Club
CHAPTER V.
Reginald Morton
CHAPTER VI. Not
in Love
CHAPTER VII. The
Walk Home
CHAPTER VIII.
The Paragon's
Party at Bragton
CHAPTER IX. The
Old Kennels
CHAPTER X.
Goarly's Revenge
CHAPTER XI. From
Impington Gorse
CHAPTER XII.
Arabella Trefoil
CHAPTER XIII. At
Bragton
CHAPTER XIV. The
Dillsborough
Feud
CHAPTER XV. A
fit
Companion,—for
me and my
Sisters
CHAPTER XVI. Mr.
Gotobed's
Philanthropy
CHAPTER XVII.
Lord Rufford's
Invitation
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Attorney's
Family is
disturbed
CHAPTER XIX.
"Who valued the
Geese?"
CHAPTER XX.
There are
Convenances
CHAPTER XXI. The
first Evening at
Rufford Hall
CHAPTER XXII.
Jemima
CHAPTER XXIII.
Poor Caneback
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Ball
CHAPTER XXV. The
last Morning at
Rufford Hall
CHAPTER XXVI.
Give me six
Months
CHAPTER XXVII.
"Wonderful
Bird!"
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I.
Mounser Green
CHAPTER II. The
Senator's Letter
CHAPTER III. At
Cheltenham
CHAPTER IV. The
Rufford
Correspondence
CHAPTER V. "It
is a long Way"
CHAPTER VI. The
Beginning of
persecution
CHAPTER VII.
Mary's Letter
CHAPTER VIII.
Chowton Farm for
Sale.
CHAPTER IX.
Mistletoe
CHAPTER X. How
Things were
arranged
CHAPTER XI. "You
are so severe"
CHAPTER XII. The
Day at Peltry
CHAPTER XIII.
Lord Rufford
wants to see a
Horse
CHAPTER XIV. The
Senator is badly
treated
CHAPTER XV. Mr.
Mainwaring's
little Dinner
CHAPTER XVI.
Persecution
CHAPTER XVII.
"Particularly
proud of you"
CHAPTER XVIII.
Lord Rufford
makes up his
Mind
CHAPTER XIX. It
cannot be
Arranged
CHAPTER XX. "But
there is some
one"
CHAPTER XXI. The
Dinner at the
Bush
CHAPTER XXII.
Miss Trefoil's
Decision
CHAPTER XXIII.
"In these Days
one can't make a
Man marry"
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Senator's
second Letter
CHAPTER XXV.
Providence
interferes
CHAPTER XXVI.
Lady Ushant at
Bragton
CHAPTER XXVII.
Arabella again
at Bragton
VOLUME III
CHAPTER I. "I
have told him
Everything."
CHAPTER II. "Now
what have you
got to say?"
CHAPTER III.
Mrs. Morton
returns
CHAPTER IV. The
two old Ladies
CHAPTER V. The
Last Effort
CHAPTER VI.
Again at
Mistletoe
CHAPTER VII. The
Success of Lady
Augustus
CHAPTER VIII.
"We shall kill
each other"
CHAPTER IX.
Changes at
Bragton
CHAPTER X. The
Will
CHAPTER XI. The
New Minister
CHAPTER XII. "I
must go"
CHAPTER XIII. In
the Park
CHAPTER XIV.
Lord Rufford's
Model Farm
CHAPTER XV.
Scrobby's Trial
CHAPTER XVI. At
Last
CHAPTER XVII.
"My own, own
Husband"
CHAPTER XVIII.
"Bid him be a
Man"
CHAPTER XIX. "Is
it tanti?"
CHAPTER XX.
Benedict
CHAPTER XXI.
Arabella's
Success
CHAPTER XXII.
The Wedding
CHAPTER XXIII.
The Senator's
Lecture.—No. I
CHAPTER XXIV.
The Senator's
Lecture.—No. II
CHAPTER XXV. The
Last Days of
Mary Masters
CHAPTER XXVI.
Conclusion
VOLUME I
CHAPTER I. Dillsborough
I never could understand why anybody should ever have begun to live
at Dillsborough, or why the population there should have been at any
time recruited by new comers. That a man with a family should cling to
a house in which he has once established himself is intelligible. The
butcher who supplied Dillsborough, or the baker, or the ironmonger,
though he might not drive what is called a roaring trade, nevertheless
found himself probably able to live, and might well hesitate before he
would encounter the dangers of a more energetic locality. But how it
came to pass that he first got himself to Dillsborough, or his father,
or his grandfather before him, has always been a mystery to me. The
town has no attractions, and never had any. It does not stand on a bed
of coal and has no connection with iron. It has no water peculiarly
adapted for beer, or for dyeing, or for the cure of maladies. It is
not surrounded by beauty of scenery strong enough to bring tourists
and holiday travellers. There is no cathedral there to form, with its
bishops, prebendaries, and minor canons, the nucleus of a clerical
circle. It manufactures nothing specially. It has no great horse fair,
or cattle fair, or even pig market of special notoriety. Every
Saturday farmers and graziers and buyers of corn and sheep do
congregate in a sleepy fashion about the streets, but Dillsborough
has no character of its own, even as a market town. Its chief glory
is its parish church, which is ancient and inconvenient, having not
as yet received any of those modern improvements which have of late
become common throughout England; but its parish church, though
remarkable, is hardly celebrated. The town consists chiefly of one
street which is over a mile long, with a square or market-place in
the middle, round which a few lanes with queer old names are
congregated, and a second small open space among these lanes, in
which the church stands. As you pass along the street north-west,
away from the railway station and from London, there is a steep hill,
beginning to rise just beyond the market-place. Up to that point it is
the High Street, thence it is called Bullock's Hill. Beyond that you
come to Norrington Road,—Norrington being the next town, distant from
Dillsborough about twelve miles. Dillsborough, however, stands in the
county of Rufford, whereas at the top of Bullock's Hill you enter the
county of Ufford, of which Norrington is the assize town. The
Dillsborough people are therefore divided, some two thousand five
hundred of them belonging to Rufford, and the remaining five hundred
to the neighbouring county. This accident has given rise to not a few
feuds, Ufford being a large county, with pottery, and ribbons, and
watches going on in the farther confines; whereas Rufford is small and
thoroughly agricultural. The men at the top of Bullock's Hill are
therefore disposed to think themselves better than their
fellow-townsfolks, though they are small in number and not specially
thriving in their circumstances.
At every interval of ten years, when the census is taken, the
population of Dillsborough is always found to have fallen off in some
slight degree. For a few months after the publication of the figures a
slight tinge of melancholy comes upon the town. The landlord of the
Bush Inn, who is really an enterprising man in his way and who has
looked about in every direction for new sources of business, becomes
taciturn for a while and forgets to smile upon comers; Mr. Ribbs, the
butcher, tells his wife that it is out of the question that she and
the children should take that long-talked-of journey to the sea-coast;
and Mr. Gregory Masters, the well-known old-established attorney of
Dillsborough, whispers to some confidential friend that he might as
well take down his plate and shut up his house. But in a month or two
all that is forgotten, and new hopes spring up even in Dillsborough;
Mr. Runciman at the Bush is putting up new stables for hunting-horses,
that being the special trade for which he now finds that there is an
opening; Mrs. Ribbs is again allowed to suggest Mare-Slocumb; and Mr.
Masters goes on as he has done for the last forty years, making the
best he can of a decreasing business.
Dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, in its own way,
solid enough. The Bush, which in the time of the present landlord's
father was one of the best posting inns on the road, is not only
substantial, but almost handsome. A broad coach way, cut through the
middle of the house, leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean yard, and
on each side of the coach way there are bay windows looking into the
street,—the one belonging to the commercial parlour, and the other to
the so-called coffee-room. But the coffee-room has in truth fallen
away from its former purposes, and is now used for a farmer's ordinary
on market days, and other similar purposes. Travellers who require the
use of a public sitting-room must all congregate in the commercial
parlour at the Bush. So far the interior of the house has fallen from
its past greatness. But the exterior is maintained with much care. The
brickwork up to the eaves is well pointed, fresh, and comfortable to
look at. In front of the carriage-way swings on two massive supports
the old sign of the Bush, as to which it may be doubted whether even
Mr. Runciman himself knows that it has swung there, or been displayed
in some fashion, since it was the custom for the landlord to beat up
wine to freshen it before it was given to the customers to drink. The
church, too, is of brick—though the tower and chancel are of stone.
The attorney's house is of brick, which shall not be more particularly
described now as many of the scenes which these pages will have to
describe were acted there; and almost the entire High Street in the
centre of the town was brick also.
But the most remarkable house in Dillsborough was one standing in a
short thoroughfare called Hobbs Gate, leading down by the side of the
Bush Inn from the market-place to Church Square, as it is called. As
you pass down towards the church this house is on the right hand, and
it occupies with its garden the whole space between the market-place
and Church Square. But though the house enjoys the privilege of a
large garden,—so large that the land being in the middle of a town
would be of great value were it not that Dillsborough is in its
decadence,—still it stands flush up to the street upon which the
front door opens. It has an imposing flight of stone steps guarded by
iron rails leading up to it, and on each side of the door there is a
row of three windows, and on the two upper stories rows of seven
windows. Over the door there is a covering, on which there are
grotesquely-formed, carved wooden faces; and over the centre of each
window, let into the brickwork, is a carved stone. There are also
numerous underground windows, sunk below the earth and protected by
iron railings. Altogether the house is one which cannot fail to
attract attention; and in the brickwork is clearly marked the date,
1701,—not the very best period for English architecture as regards
beauty, but one in which walls and roofs, ceilings and buttresses,
were built more substantially than they are to-day. This was the only
house in Dillsborough which had a name of its own, and it was called
Hoppet Hall, the Dillsborough chronicles telling that it had been
originally built for and inhabited by the Hoppet family. The only
Hoppet now left in Dillsborough is old Joe Hoppet, the ostler at the
Bush; and the house, as was well known, had belonged to some member of
the Morton family for the last hundred years at least. The garden and
ground it stands upon comprise three acres, all of which are
surrounded by a high brick wall, which is supposed to be coeval with
the house. The best Ribston pippins,—some people say the only real
Ribston pippins,—in all Rufford are to be found here, and its
Burgundy pears and walnuts are almost equally celebrated. There are
rumours also that its roses beat everything in the way of roses for
ten miles round. But in these days very few strangers are admitted to
see the Hoppet Hall roses. The pears and apples do make their way out,
and are distributed either by Mrs. Masters, the attorney's wife, or
Mr. Runciman, the innkeeper. The present occupier of the house is a
certain Mr. Reginald Morton, with whom we shall also be much concerned
in these pages, but whose introduction to the reader shall be
postponed for awhile.
The land around Dillsborough is chiefly owned by two landlords, of
whom the greatest and richest is Lord Rufford. He, however, does not
live near the town, but away at the other side of the county, and is
not much seen in these parts unless when the hounds bring him here, or
when, with two or three friends, he will sometimes stay for a few days
at the Bush Inn for the sake of shooting the coverts. He is much liked
by all sporting men, but is not otherwise very popular with the people
round Dillsborough. A landlord if he wishes to be popular should be
seen frequently. If he lives among his farmers they will swear by him,
even though he raises his rental every ten or twelve years and never
puts a new roof to a barn for them. Lord Rufford is a rich man who
thinks of nothing but sport in all its various shapes, from
pigeon-shooting at Hurlingham to the slaughter of elephants in Africa;
and though he is lenient in all his dealings, is not much thought of
in the Dillsborough side of the county, except by those who go out
with the hounds. At Rufford, where he generally has a full house for
three months in the year and spends a vast amount of money, he is more
highly considered.
The other extensive landlord is Mr. John Morton, a young man, who,
in spite of his position as squire of Bragton, owner of Bragton Park,
and landlord of the entire parishes of Bragton and Mallingham, the
latter of which comes close up to the confines of Dillsborough,—was
at the time at which our story begins, Secretary of Legation at
Washington. As he had been an absentee since he came of age, soon
after which time he inherited the property, he had been almost less
liked in the neighbourhood than the lord. Indeed, no one in
Dillsborough knew much about him, although Bragton Hall was but four
miles from the town, and the Mortons had possessed the property and
lived on it for the last three centuries. But there had been
extravagance, as will hereafter have to be told, and there had been no
continuous residence at Bragton since the death of old Reginald
Morton, who had been the best known and the best loved of all the
squires in Rufford, and had for many years been master of the Rufford
hounds. He had lived to a very great age, and, though the
great-grandfather of the present man, had not been dead above twenty
years. He was the man of whom the older inhabitants of Dillsborough
and the neighbourhood still thought and still spoke when they gave
vent to their feelings in favour of gentlemen. And yet the old squire
in his latter days had been able to do little or nothing for
them,—being sometimes backward as to the payment of money he owed
among them. But he had lived all his days at Bragton Park, and his
figure had been familiar to all eyes in the High Street of
Dillsborough and at the front entrance of the Bush. People still spoke
of old Mr. Reginald Morton as though his death had been a sore loss to
the neighbourhood.
And there were in the country round sundry yeomen, as they ought to
be called,—gentlemen-farmers as they now like to style
themselves,—men who owned some acres of land, and farmed these acres
themselves. Of these we may specially mention Mr. Lawrence Twentyman,
who was quite the gentleman-farmer. He possessed over three hundred
acres of land, on which his father had built an excellent house. The
present Mr. Twentyman, Lawrence Twentyman, Esquire, as he was called
by everybody, was by no means unpopular in the neighbourhood. He not
only rode well to hounds but paid twenty-five pounds annually to the
hunt, which entitled him to feel quite at home in his red coat. He
generally owned a racing colt or two, and attended meetings; but was
supposed to know what he was about, and to have kept safely the five
or six thousand pounds which his father had left him. And his farming
was well done; for though he was, out-and-out, a gentleman-farmer, he
knew how to get the full worth in work done for the fourteen shillings
a week which he paid to his labourers,—a deficiency in which
knowledge is the cause why gentlemen in general find farming so
expensive an amusement. He was a handsome, good-looking man of about
thirty, and would have been a happy man had he not been too ambitious
in his aspirations after gentry. He had been at school for three years
at Cheltenham College, which, together with his money and appearance
and undoubted freehold property, should, he thought, have made his
position quite secure to him; but, though he sometimes called young
Hampton of Hampton Wick "Hampton," and the son of the rector of
Dillsborough "Mainwaring," and always called the rich young brewers
from Norrington "Botsey,"—partners in the well-known firm of
Billbrook Botsey; and though they in return called him "Larry" and
admitted the intimacy, still he did not get into their houses. And
Lord Rufford, when he came into the neighbourhood, never asked him to
dine at the Bush. And—worst of all,—some of the sporting men and
others in the neighbourhood, who decidedly were not gentlemen, also
called him "Larry." Mr. Runciman always did so. Twenty or twenty-five
years ago Runciman had been his father's special friend, before the
house had been built and before the days at Cheltenham College.
Remembering this Lawrence was too good a fellow to rebuke Runciman;
but to younger men of that class he would sometimes make himself
objectionable. There was another keeper of hunting stables, a younger
man, named Stubbings, living at Stanton Corner, a great hunting
rendezvous about four miles from Dillsborough; and not long since
Twentyman had threatened to lay his whip across Stubbings' shoulders
if Stubbings ever called him "Larry" again. Stubbings, who was a
little man and rode races, only laughed at Mr. Twentyman who was six
feet high, and told the story round to all the hunt. Mr. Twentyman was
more laughed at than perhaps he deserved. A man should not have his
Christian name used by every Tom and Dick without his sanction. But
the difficulty is one to which men in the position of Mr. Lawrence
Twentyman are often subject.
Those whom I have named, together with Mr. Mainwaring the rector,
and Mr. Surtees his curate, made up the very sparse aristocracy of
Dillsborough. The Hamptons of Hampton Wick were Ufford men, and
belonged, rather to Norrington than Dillsborough. The Botseys, also
from Norrington, were members of the U.R.U., or Ufford and Rufford
United Hunt Club; but they did not much affect Dillsborough as a
town. Mr. Mainwaring, who has been mentioned, lived in another brick
house behind the church, the old parsonage of St. John's. There was
also a Mrs. Mainwaring, but she was an invalid. Their family consisted
of one son, who was at Brasenose at this time. He always had a horse
during the Christmas vacation, and if rumour did not belie him, kept
two or three up at Oxford. Mr. Surtees, the curate, lived in lodgings
in the town. He was a painstaking, clever, young man, with aspirations
in church matters, which were always being checked by his rector.
Quieta non movere was the motto by which the rector governed his life,
and he certainly was not at all the man to allow his curate to drive
him into activity.
Such, at the time of our story, was the little town of
Dillsborough.
CHAPTER II. The Morton Family
I can hardly describe accurately the exact position of the Masters
family without first telling all that I know about the Morton family;
and it is absolutely essential that the reader should know all the
Masters family intimately. Mr. Masters, as I have said in the last
chapter, was the attorney in Dillsborough, and the Mortons had been
for centuries past the squires of Bragton.
I need not take the reader back farther than old Reginald Morton.
He had come to the throne of his family as a young man, and had sat
upon it for more than half a century. He had been a squire of the old
times, having no inclination for London seasons, never wishing to keep
up a second house, quite content with his position as quire of
Bragton, but with considerable pride about him as to that position. He
had always liked to have his house full, and had hated petty
oeconomies. He had for many years hunted the county at his own
expense, the amusement at first not having been so expensive as it
afterwards became. When he began the work, it had been considered
sufficient to hunt twice a week. Now the Rufford and Ufford hounds
have four days, and sometimes a bye. It went much against Mr.
Reginald Morton's pride when he was first driven to take a
subscription.
But the temporary distress into which the family fell was caused
not so much by his own extravagance as by that of two sons, and by
his indulgence in regard to them. He had three children, none of whom
were very fortunate in life. The eldest, John, married the daughter of
a peer, stood for Parliament, had one son, and died before he was
forty, owing something over 20,000 pounds. The estate was then worth
7,000 pounds a year. Certain lands not lying either in Bragton or
Mallingham were sold, and that difficulty was surmounted, not without
a considerable diminution of income. In process of time the grandson,
who was a second John Morton, grew up and married, and became the
father of a third John Morton, the young man who afterwards became
owner of the property and Secretary of Legation at Washington. But the
old squire outlived his son and his grandson, and when he died had
three or four great-grand-children playing about the lawns of Bragton
Park. The peer's daughter had lived, and had for many years drawn a
dower from the Bragton property, and had been altogether a very heavy
incumbrance.
But the great trial of the old man's life, as also the great
romance, had arisen from the career of his second son, Reginald. Of
all his children, Reginald had been the dearest to him. He went to
Oxford, and had there spent much money; not as young men now spend
money, but still to an extent that had been grievous to the old
squire. But everything was always paid for Reginald. It was
necessary, of course, that he should have a profession, and he took a
commission in the army. As a young man he went to Canada. This was in
1829, when all the world was at peace, and his only achievement in
Canada was to marry a young woman who is reported to have been pretty
and good, but who had no advantages either of fortune or birth. She
was, indeed, the daughter of a bankrupt innkeeper in Montreal. Soon
after this he sold out and brought his wife home to Bragton. It was at
this period of the squire's life that the romance spoken of occurred.
John Morton, the brother with the aristocratic wife, was ten or twelve
years older than Reginald, and at this time lived chiefly at Bragton
when he was not in town. He was, perhaps, justified in regarding
Bragton as almost belonging to him, knowing as he did that it must
belong to him after his father's lifetime, and to his son after him.
His anger against his brother was hot, and that of his wife still
hotter. He himself had squandered thousands, but then he was the heir.
Reginald, who was only a younger brother, had sold his commission. And
then he had done so much more than this! He had married a woman who
was not a lady! John was clearly of opinion that at any rate the wife
should not be admitted into Bragton House. The old squire in those
days was not a happy man; he had never been very strong-minded, but
now he was strong enough to declare that his house-door should not be
shut against a son of his,—or a son's wife, as long as she was
honest. Hereupon the Honourable Mrs. Morton took her departure, and
was never seen at Bragton again in the old squire's time. Reginald
Morton came to the house, and soon afterwards another little Reginald
was born at Bragton Park. This happened as long ago as 1835, twenty
years before the death of the old squire.
But there had been another child, a daughter, who had come between
the two sons, still living in these days, who will become known to
any reader who will have patience to follow these pages to the end.
She married, not very early in life, a certain Sir William Ushant,
who was employed by his country in India and elsewhere, but who
found, soon after his marriage, that the service of his country
required that he should generally leave his wife at Bragton. As her
father had been for many years a widower, Lady Ushant became the
mistress of the house.
But death was very busy with the Mortons. Almost every one died,
except the squire himself and his daughter, and that honourable
dowager, with her income and her pride who could certainly very well
have been spared. When at last, in 1855, the old squire went, full of
years, full of respect, but laden also with debts and money troubles,
not only had his son John, and his grandson John, gone before him, but
Reginald and his wife were both lying in Bragton Churchyard.
The elder branch of the family, John the great-grandson, and his
little sisters, were at once taken away from Bragton by the
honourable grandmother. John, who was then about seven years old, was
of course the young squire, and was the owner of the property. The
dowager, therefore, did not undertake an altogether unprofitable
burden. Lady Ushant was left at the house, and with Lady Ushant, or
rather immediately subject to her care, young Reginald Morton, who was
then nineteen years of age, and who was about to go to Oxford. But
there immediately sprang up family lawsuits, instigated by the
honourable lady on behalf of her grandchildren, of which Reginald
Morton was the object. The old man had left certain outlying
properties to his grandson Reginald, of which Hoppet Hall was a part.
For eight or ten years the lawsuit was continued, and much money was
expended. Reginald was at last successful, and became the undoubted
owner of Hoppet Hall; but in the meantime he went to Germany for his
education, instead of to Oxford, and remained abroad even after the
matter was decided,— living, no one but Lady Ushant knew where, or
after what fashion.
When the old squire died the children were taken away, and Bragton
was nearly deserted. The young heir was brought up with every
caution, and, under the auspices of his grandmother and her family,
behaved himself very unlike the old Mortons. He was educated at Eton,
after leaving which he was at once examined for Foreign Office
employment, and commenced his career with great eclat. He had been
made to understand clearly that it would be better that he should not
enter in upon his squirearchy early in life. The estate when he came
of age had already had some years to recover itself, and as he went
from capital to capital, he was quite content to draw from it an
income which enabled him to shine with peculiar brilliance among his
brethren. He had visited Bragton once since the old squire's death,
and had found the place very dull and uninviting. He had no ambition
whatever to be master of the U.R.U.; but did look forward to a time
when he might be Minister Plenipotentiary at some foreign court.
For many years after the old man's death, Lady Ushant, who was then
a widow, was allowed to live at Bragton. She was herself childless,
and being now robbed of her great-nephews and nieces, took a little
girl to live with her, named Mary Masters. It was a very desolate
house in those days, but the old lady was careful as to the education
of the child, and did her best to make the home happy for her. Some
two or three years before the commencement of this story there arose a
difference between the manager of the property and Lady Ushant, and
she was made to understand, after some half-courteous manner, that
Bragton house and park would do better without her. There would be no
longer any cows kept, and painters must come into the house, and there
were difficulties about fuel. She was not turned out exactly; but she
went and established herself in lonely lodgings at Cheltenham. Then
Mary Masters, who had lived for more than a dozen years at Bragton,
went back to her father's house in Dillsborough.
Any reader with an aptitude for family pedigrees will now
understand that Reginald, Master of Hoppet Hall, was first cousin to
the father of the Foreign Office paragon, and that he is therefore the
paragon's first cousin once removed. The relationship is not very
distant, but the two men, one of whom was a dozen years older than the
other, had not seen each other for more than twenty years,—at a time
when one of them was a big boy, and the other a very little one; and
during the greater part of that time a lawsuit had been carried on
between them in a very rigorous manner. It had done much to injure
both, and had created such a feeling of hostility that no intercourse
of any kind now existed between them.
It does not much concern us to know how far back should be dated
the beginning of the connection between the Morton family and that of
Mr. Masters, the attorney; but it is certain that the first attorney
of that name in Dillsborough became learned in the law through the
patronage of some former Morton. The father of the present Gregory
Masters, and the grandfather, had been thoroughly trusted and employed
by old Reginald Morton, and the former of the two had made his will.
Very much of the stewardship and management of the property had been
in their hands, and they had thriven as honest men, but as men with a
tolerably sharp eye to their own interests. The late Mr. Masters had
died a few years before the squire, and the present attorney had
seemed to succeed to these family blessings. But the whole order of
things became changed. Within a few weeks of the squire's death Mr.
Masters found that he was to be entrusted no further with the affairs
of the property, but that, in lieu of such care, was thrown upon him
the task of defending the will which he had made against the owner of
the estate. His father and grandfather had contrived between them to
establish a fairly good business, independently of Bragton, which
business, of course, was now his. As far as reading went, and
knowledge, he was probably a better lawyer than either of them; but
he lacked their enterprise and special genius, and the thing had
dwindled with him. It seemed to him, perhaps not unnaturally, that he
had been robbed of an inheritance. He had no title deeds, as had the
owners of the property; but his ancestors before him, from generation
to generation, had lived by managing the Bragton property. They had
drawn the leases, and made the wills, and collected the rents, and had
taught themselves to believe that a Morton could not live on his land
without a Masters. Now there was a Morton who did not live on his
land, but spent his rents elsewhere without the aid of any Masters,
and it seemed to the old lawyer that all the good things of the world
had passed away. He had married twice, his first wife having, before
her marriage, been well known at Bragton Park. When she had died, and
Mr. Masters had brought a second wife home, Lady Ushant took the only
child of the mother, whom she had known as a girl, into her own
keeping, till she also had been compelled to leave Bragton. Then Mary
Masters had returned to her father and stepmother.
The Bragton Park residence is a large, old-fashioned, comfortable
house, but by no means a magnificent mansion. The greater part of it
was built one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rooms are small and
low. In the palmy days of his reign, which is now more than half a
century since, the old squire made alterations, and built new stables
and kennels, and put up a conservatory; but what he did then has
already become almost old-fashioned now. What he added he added in
stone, but the old house was brick. He was much abused at the time for
his want of taste, and heard a good deal about putting new cloth as
patches on old rents; but, as the shrubs and ivy have grown up, a
certain picturesqueness has come upon the place, which is greatly due
to the difference of material. The place is somewhat sombre, as there
is no garden close to the house. There is a lawn, at the back, with
gravel walks round it; but it is only a small lawn; and then divided
from the lawn by a ha-ha fence, is the park. The place, too, has that
sad look which always comes to a house from the want of a tenant. Poor
Lady Ushant, when she was there, could do little or nothing. A
gardener was kept, but there should have been three or four gardeners.
The man grew cabbages and onions, which he sold, but cared nothing for
the walks or borders. Whatever it may have been in the old time,
Bragton Park was certainly not a cheerful place when Lady Ushant lived
there. In the squire's time the park itself had always been occupied
by deer. Even when distress came he would not allow the deer to be
sold. But after his death they went very soon, and from that day to
the time of which I am writing, the park has been leased to some
butchers or graziers from Dillsborough.
The ground hereabouts is nearly level, but it falls away a little
and becomes broken and pretty where the river Dill runs through the
park, about half a mile from the house. There is a walk called the
Pleasance, passing down through shrubs to the river, and then
crossing the stream by a foot-bridge, and leading across the fields
towards Dillsborough. This bridge is, perhaps, the prettiest spot in
Bragton, or, for that matter, anywhere in the county round; but. even
here there is not much of beauty to be praised. It is here, on the
side of the river away from the house, that the home meet of the
hounds used to be held; and still the meet at Bragton Bridge is
popular in the county.
CHAPTER III. The Masters Family
At six o'clock one November morning, Mr. Masters, the attorney, was
sitting at home with his family in the large parlour of his house,
his office being on the other side of the passage which cut the house
in two and was formally called the hall. Upstairs, over the parlour,
was a drawing-room; but this chamber, which was supposed to be
elegantly furnished, was very rarely used. Mr. and Mrs. Masters did
not see much company, and for family purposes the elegance of the
drawing-room made it unfit. It added, however, not a little to the
glory of Mrs. Masters' life. The house itself was a low brick building
in the High Street, at the corner where the High Street runs into the
market-place, and therefore, nearly opposite to the Bush. It had none
of the elaborate grandeur of the inn nor of the simple stateliness of
Hoppet Hall, but, nevertheless, it maintained the character of the
town and was old, substantial, respectable, and dark.
"I think it a very spirited thing of him to do, then," said Mrs.
Masters.
"I don't know, my dear. Perhaps it is only revenge."
"What have you to do with that? What can it matter to a lawyer
whether it's revenge or anything else? He's got the means, I
suppose?"
"I don't know, my dear."
"What does Nickem say?"
"I suppose he has the means," said Mr. Masters, who was aware that
if he told his wife a fib on the matter, she would learn the truth
from his senior clerk, Mr. Samuel Nickem. Among the professional
gifts which Mr. Masters possessed, had not been that great gift of
being able to keep his office and his family distinct from each
other. His wife always knew what was going on, and was very free with
her advice; generally tendering it on that side on which money was to
be made, and doing so with much feminine darkness as to right or
wrong. His Clerk, Nickem, who was afflicted with no such darkness, but
who ridiculed the idea of scruple in an attorney, often took part
against him. It was the wish of his heart to get rid of Nickem; but
Nickem would have carried business with him and gone over to some
enemy, or, perhaps have set up in some irregular manner on his own
bottom; and his wife would have given him no peace had he done so, for
she regarded Nickem as the mainstay of the house.
"What is Lord Rufford to you?" asked Mrs. Masters.
"He has always been very friendly."
"I don't see it at all. You have never had any of his money. I
don't know that you are a pound richer by him."
"I have always gone with the gentry of the county."
"Fiddlesticks! Gentry! Gentry are very well as long as you can make
a living out of them. You could afford to stick up for gentry till
you lost the Bragton property." This was a subject that was always
sore between Mr. Masters and his wife. The former Mrs. Masters had
been a lady—the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman; and had been
much considered by the family at Bragton. The present Mrs. Masters
was the daughter of an ironmonger at Norrington, who had brought a
thousand pounds with her, which had been very useful. No doubt Mr.
Masters' practice had been considerably affected by the lowliness of
his second marriage. People who used to know the first Mrs. Masters,
such as Mrs. Mainwaring, and the doctor's wife, and old Mrs. Cooper,
the wife of the vicar of Mallingham, would not call on the second Mrs.
Masters. As Mrs. Masters was too high-spirited to run after people who
did not want her, she took to hating gentry instead.
"We have always been on the other side," said the old attorney, "I
and my father and grandfather before me."
"They lived on it and you can't. If you are going to say that you
won't have any client that isn't a gentleman, you might as well put
up your shutters at once."
"I haven't said so. Isn't Runciman my client?" "He always goes with
the gentry. He a'most thinks he's one of them himself."
"And old Nobbs, the greengrocer. But it's all nonsense. Any man is
my client, or any woman, Who can come and pay me for business that is
fit for me to do."
"Why isn't this fit to be done? If the man's been damaged, why
shouldn't he be paid?"
"He's had money offered him."
"If he thinks it ain't enough, who's to say that it is,—unless a
jury?" said Mrs. Masters, becoming quite eloquent. "And how's a poor
man to get a jury to say that, unless he comes to a lawyer? Of course,
if you won't have it, he'll go to Bearside. Bearside won't turn him
away." Bearside was another attorney, an interloper of about ten
years' standing, whose name was odious to Mr. Masters.
"You don't know anything about it, my dear," said he, aroused at
last to anger.
"I know you're letting anybody who likes take the bread out of the
children's mouths." The children, so called, were sitting round the
table and could not but take an interest in the matter. The eldest
was that Mary Masters, the daughter of the former wife, whom Lady
Ushant had befriended, a tall girl, with dark brown hair, so dark as
almost to be black, and large, soft, thoughtful grey eyes. We shall
have much to say of Mary Masters, and can hardly stop to give an
adequate description of her here. The others were Dolly and Kate, two
girls aged sixteen and fifteen. The two younger "children" were eating
bread and butter and jam in a very healthy manner, but still had their
ears wide open to the conversation that was being held. The two
younger girls sympathised strongly with their mother. Mary, who had
known much about the Mortons, and was old enough to understand the
position which her grandfather had held in reference to the family, of
course leaned in her heart to her father's side. But she was wiser
than her father, and knew that in such discussions her mother often
showed a worldly wisdom which, in their present circumstances, they
could hardly afford to disregard, unpalatable through it might be.
Mr. Masters disliked these discussions altogether, but he disliked
them most of all in presence of his children. He looked round upon
them in a deprecatory manner, making a slight motion with his hand
and bringing his head down on one side, and then he gave a long sigh.
If it was his intention to convey some subtle warning to his wife,
some caution that she alone should understand, he was deceived. The
"children" all knew what he meant quite as well as did their mother.
"Shall we go out, mamma?" asked Dolly. "Finish your teas, my
dears," said Mr. Masters, who wished to stop the discussion rather
than to carry it on before a more select audience.
"You've got to make up your mind to-night," said Mrs. Masters, "and
you'll be going over to the Bush at eight"
"No, I needn't. He is to come on Monday. I told Nickem I wouldn't
see him to-night; nor, of course, to-morrow."
"Then he'll go to Bearside."
"He may go to Bearside and be —! Oh, Lord! I do wish you'd let me
drop the business for a few minutes when I am in here. You don't know
anything about it. How should you?"
"I know that if I didn't speak you'd let everything slip through
your fingers. There's Mr. Twentyman. Kate, open the door."
Kate, who was fond of Mr. Twentyman, rushed up, and opened the
front door at once. In saying so much of Kate, I do not mean it to be
understood that any precocious ideas of love were troubling that young
lady's bosom. Kate Masters was a jolly bouncing schoolgirl of fifteen,
who was not too proud to eat toffy, and thought herself still a child.
But she was very fond of Lawrence Twentyman, who had a pony that she
could ride, and who was always good-natured to her. All the family
liked Mr. Twentyman,—unless it might be Mary, who was the one that he
specially liked himself. And Mary was not altogether averse to him,
knowing him to be good-natured, manly, and straightforward. But Mr.
Twentyman had proposed to her, and she had certainly not accepted him.
This, however, had broken none of the family friendship. Every one in
the house, unless it might be Mary herself, hoped that Mr. Twentyman
might prevail at last. The man was worth six or seven hundred a year,
and had a good house, and owed no one a shilling. He was handsome, and
about the best-tempered fellow known. Of course they all desired that
he should prevail with Mary. "I wish that I were old enough, Larry,
that's all!" Kate had said to him once, laughing. "I wouldn't have
you, if you were ever laughing." "I wouldn't have you, if you were
ever so old," Larry had replied; "you'd want to be out hunting every
day." That will show the sort of terms that Larry was on with his
friend Kate. He called at the house every Saturday with the declared
object of going over to the club that was held that evening in the
parlour at the Bush, whither Mr. Masters also always went. It was
understood at home that Mr. Masters should attend this club every
Saturday from eight till eleven, but that he was not at any other time
to give way to the fascinations of the Bush. On this occasion, and we
may say on almost every Saturday night, Mr. Twentyman arrived a full
hour before the appointed time. The reason of his doing so was of
course well understood, and was quite approved by Mrs. Masters. She
was not, at any rate as yet, a cruel stepmother; but still, if the
girl could be transferred to so eligible a home as that which Mr.
Twentyman could give her, it would be well for all parties.
When he took his seat he did not address himself specially to the
lady of his love. I don't know how a gentleman is to do so in the
presence of her father, and mother, and sisters. Saturday after
Saturday he probably thought that some occasion would arise; but, if
his words could have been counted, it would have been found that he
addressed fewer to her than to any one in the room.
"Larry," said his special friend Kate, "am I to have the pony at
the Bridge meet?"
"How very free you are, Miss!" said her mother.
"I don't know about that," said Larry. "When is there to be a meet
at the Bridge? I haven't heard."
"But I have. Tony Tuppett told me that they would be there this day
fortnight." Tony Tuppett was the huntsman of the U.R.U.
"That's more than Tony can know. He may have guessed it."
"Shall I have the pony if he has guessed right?"
Then the pony was promised; and Kate, trusting in Tony Tuppett's
sagacity, was happy.
"Have you heard of all this about Dillsborough Wood?" asked Mrs.
Masters. The attorney shrank at the question, and shook himself
uneasily in his chair.
"Yes; I've heard about it," said Larry.
"And what do you think about it? I don't see why Lord Rufford is to
ride over everybody because he's a lord." Mr. Twentyman scratched his
head. Though a keen sportsman himself, he did not specially like Lord
Rufford,—a fact which had been very well known to Mrs. Masters. But,
nevertheless, this threatened action against the nobleman was
distasteful to him. It was not a hunting affair, or Mr. Twentyman
could not have doubted for a moment. It was a shooting difficulty, and
as Mr. Twentyman had never been asked to fire a gun on the Rufford
preserves, it was no great sorrow to him that there should be such a
difficulty. But the thing threatened was an attack upon the country
gentry and their amusements, and Mr. Twentyman was a country gentleman
who followed sport. Upon the whole his sympathies were with Lord
Rufford.
"The man is an utter blackguard, you know," said Larry. "Last year
he threatened to shoot the foxes in Dillsborough Wood."
"No!" said Kate, quite horrified.
"I'm afraid he's a bad sort of fellow all round," said the
attorney.
"I don't see why he shouldn't claim what he thinks due to him,"
said Mrs. Masters.
"I'm told that his lordship offered him seven-and-six an acre for
the whole of the two fields," said the gentleman-farmer.
"Goarly declares," said Mrs. Masters, "that the pheasants didn't
leave him four bushels of wheat to the acre."
Goarly was the man who had proposed himself as a client to Mr.
Masters, and who was desirous of claiming damages to the amount of
forty shillings an acre for injury, done to the crops on two fields
belonging to himself which lay adjacent to Dillsborough Wood, a
covert belonging to Lord Rufford, about four miles from the town, in
which both pheasants and foxes were preserved with great care.
"Has Goarly been to you?" asked Twentyman.
Mr. Masters nodded his head. "That's just it," said Mrs. Masters.
"I don't see why a man isn't to go to law if he pleases—that is, if
he can afford to pay for it. I have nothing to say against gentlemen's
sport; but I do say that they should run the same chance as others.
And I say it's a shame if they're to band themselves together and make
the county too hot to hold any one as doesn't like to have his things
ridden over, and his crops devoured, and his fences knocked to
Jericho. I think there's a deal of selfishness in sport and a deal of
tyranny."
"Oh, Mrs. Masters!" exclaimed Larry.
"Well, I do. And if a poor man,—or a man whether he's poor or no,"
added Mrs. Masters, correcting herself, as she thought of the money
which this man ought to have in order that he might pay for his
lawsuit,—"thinks himself injured, it's nonsense to tell me that
nobody should take up his case. It's just as though the butcher
wouldn't sell a man a leg of mutton because Lord Rufford had a spite
against him. Who's Lord Rufford?"
"Everybody knows that I care very little for his lordship," said'
Mr. Twentyman.
"Nor I; and I don't see why Gregory should. If Goarly isn't
entitled to what he wants he won't get it; that's all. But let it be
tried fairly."
Hereupon Mr. Masters took up his hat and left the room, and Mr.
Twentyman followed him, not having yet expressed any positive opinion
on the delicate matter submitted to his judgment. Of course, Goarly
was a brute. Had he not threatened to shoot foxes? But, then, an
attorney must live by lawsuits, and it seemed to Mr. Twentyman that an
attorney should not stop to inquire whether a new client is a brute or
not.
CHAPTER IV. The Dillsborough Club
The club, so called at Dillsborough, was held every Saturday
evening in a back parlour at the Bush, and was attended generally by
seven or eight members. It was a very easy club. There was no
balloting, and no other expense attending it other than that of
paying for the liquor which each man chose to drink. Sometimes, about
ten o'clock, there was a little supper, the cost of which was defrayed
by subscription among those who partook of it. It was one rule of the
club, or a habit, rather, which had grown to be a rule, that Mr.
Runciman might introduce into it any one he pleased. I do not know
that a similar privilege was denied to any one else; but as Mr.
Runciman had a direct pecuniary advantage in promoting the club, the
new-comers were generally ushered in by him. When the attorney and
Twentyman entered the room Mr. Runciman was seated as usual in an
arm-chair at the corner of the fire nearest to the door, with the bell
at his right hand. He was a hale, good-looking man about fifty, with
black hair, now turning grey at the edges, and a clean-shorn chin. He
had a pronounced strong face of his own, one capable of evincing anger
and determination when necessary, but equally apt for smiles or, on
occasion, for genuine laughter. He was a masterful but a pleasant man,
very civil to customers and to his friends generally while they took
him the right way; but one who could be a Tartar if he were offended,
holding an opinion that his position as landlord of an inn was one
requiring masterdom. And his wife was like him in everything,—except
in this, that she always submitted to him. He was a temperate man in
the main; but on Saturday nights he would become jovial, and sometimes
a little quarrelsome. When this occurred the club would generally
break itself up and go home to bed, not in the least offended. Indeed
Mr. Runciman was the tyrant of the club, though it was held at his
house expressly with the view of putting money into his pocket.
Opposite to his seat was another arm-chair,—not so big as Mr.
Runciman's, but still a soft and easy chair, which was always left
for the attorney. For Mr. Masters was a man much respected through
all Dillsborough, partly on his own account, but more perhaps for the
sake of his father and grandfather. He was a round-faced, clean-shorn
man, with straggling grey hair, who always wore black clothes and a
white cravat. There was something in his appearance which recommended
him among his neighbours, who were disposed to say he "looked the
gentleman;" but a stranger might have thought his cheeks to be flabby
and his mouth to be weak.
Making a circle, or the beginning of a circle, round the fire, were
Nupper, the doctor,—a sporting old bachelor doctor who had the
reputation of riding after the hounds in order that he might be ready
for broken bones and minor accidents; next to him, in another
arm-chair, facing the fire, was Ned Botsey, the younger of the two
brewers from Norrington, who was in the habit during the hunting
season of stopping from Saturday to Monday at the Bush, partly
because the Rufford hounds hunted on Saturday and Monday and on those
days seldom met in the Norrington direction, and partly because he
liked the sporting conversation of the Dillsborough Club. He was a
little man, very neat in his attire, who liked to be above his
company, and fancied that he was so in Mr. Runciman's parlour. Between
him and the attorney's chair was Harry Stubbings, from Stanton Corner,
the man who let out hunters, and whom Twentyman had threatened to
thrash. His introduction to the club had taken place lately, not
without some opposition; but Runciman had set his foot upon that,
saying that it was "all d— nonsense." He had prevailed, and Twentyman
had consented to meet the man; but there was no great friendship
between them. Seated back on the sofa was Mr. Ribbs, the butcher, who
was allowed into the society as being a specially modest man. His
modesty, perhaps, did not hinder him in an affair of sheep or
bullocks, nor yet in the collection of his debts; but at the club he
understood his position, and rarely opened his mouth to speak. When
Twentyman followed the attorney into the room there was a vacant chair
between Mr. Botsey and Harry Stubbings; but he would not get into it,
preferring to seat himself on the table at Botsey's right hand.
"So Goarly was with you, Mr. Masters," Mr. Runciman began as soon
as the attorney was seated. It was clear that they had all been
talking about Goarly and his law-suit, and that Goarly and the
law-suit would be talked about very generally in Dillsborough.
"He was over at my place this evening," said the attorney.
"You are not going to take his case up for him, Mr. Masters?" said
young Botsey. "We expect something better from you than that."
Now Ned Botsey was rather an impudent young man, and Mr. Masters,
though he was mild enough at home, did not like impudence from the
world at large. "I suppose, Mr. Botsey," said he, "that if Goarly
were to go to you for a barrel of beer you'd sell it to him?"
"I don't know whether I should or not. I dare say my people would.
But that's a different thing."
"I don't see any difference at all. You're not very particular as
to your customers, and I don't ask you any questions about them. Ring
the bell, Runciman, please." The bell was rung, and the two newcomers
ordered their liquor.
It was quite right that Ned Botsey should be put down. Every one in
the room felt that. But there was something in the attorney's tone
which made the assembled company feel that he had undertaken Goarly's
case; whereas, in the opinion of the company, Goarly was a scoundrel
with whom Mr. Masters should have had nothing to do. The attorney had
never been a sporting man himself, but he had always been, as it were,
on that side.
"Goarly is a great fool for his pains," said the doctor. "He has
had a very fair offer made him, and, first or last, it'll cost him
forty pounds."
"He has got it into his head," said the landlord, "that he can sue
Lord Rufford for his fences. Lord Rufford is not answerable for his
fences."
"It's the loss of crop he's going for," said Twentyman.
"How can there be pheasants to that amount in Dillsborough Wood,"
continued the landlord, "when everybody knows that foxes breed there
every year? There isn't a surer find for a fox in the whole county.
Everybody knows that Lord Rufford never lets his game stand in the way
of foxes."
Lord Rufford was Mr. Runciman's great friend and patron and best
customer, and not a word against Lord Rufford was allowed in that
room, though elsewhere in Dillsborough ill-natured things were
sometimes said of his lordship. Then there came on that well-worn
dispute among sportsmen, whether foxes and pheasants are or are not
pleasant companions to each other. Every one was agreed that, if not,
then the pheasants should suffer, and that any country gentleman who
allowed his gamekeeper to entrench on the privileges of foxes in order
that pheasants might be more abundant, was a "brute" and a "beast,"
and altogether unworthy to live in England. Larry Twentyman and Ned
Botsey expressed an opinion that pheasants were predominant in
Dillsborough Wood, while Mr. Runciman, the doctor, and Harry Stubbings
declared loudly that everything that foxes could desire was done for
them in that Elysium of sport.
"We drew the wood blank last time we were there," said Larry.
"Don't you remember, Mr. Runciman, about the end of last March?"
"Of course I remember," said the landlord. "Just the end of the
season, when two vixens had litters in the wood! You don't suppose
Bean was going to let that old butcher, Tony, find a fox in
Dillsborough at that time." Bean was his lordship's head gamekeeper
in that part of the country. "How many foxes had we found there
during the season?"
"Two or three," suggested Botsey.
"Seven!" said the energetic landlord; "seven, including
cub-hunting,—and killed four! If you kill four foxes out of an
eighty-acre wood, and have two litters at the end of the season, I
don't think you have much to complain of."
"If they all did as well as Lord Rufford, you'd have more foxes
than you'd know what to do with," said the doctor.
Then this branch of the conversation was ended by a bet of a new
hat between Botsey and the landlord as to the finding of a fox in
Dillsborough Wood when it should next be drawn; as to which, when the
speculation was completed, Harry Stubbings offered Mr. Runciman ten
shillings down for his side of the bargain.
But all this did not divert the general attention from the
important matter of Goarly's attack. "Let it be how it will," said
Mr. Runciman, "a fellow like that should be put down." He did not
address himself specially to Mr. Masters, but that gentleman felt
that he was being talked at.
"Certainly he ought," said Dr. Nupper. "If he didn't feel satisfied
with what his lordship offered him, why couldn't he ask his lordship
to refer the matter to a couple of farmers who understood it?"
"It's the spirit of the thing," said Mr. Ribbs, from his place on
the sofa. "It's a hodious spirit."
"That's just it, Mr. Ribbs," said Harry Stubbings. "It's all meant
for opposition. Whether it's shooting or whether it's hunting, it's
all one. Such a chap oughtn't to be allowed to have land. I'd take it
away from him by Act of Parliament. It's such as him as is destroying
the country."
"There ain't many of them hereabouts, thank God!" said the
landlord.
"Now, Mr. Twentyman," said Stubbings, who was anxious to make
friends with the gentleman-farmer, "you know what land can do, and
what land has done, as well as any man. What would you say was the
real damage done to them two wheat-fields by his lordship's game last
autumn? You saw the crops as they were growing, and you know what came
off the land."
"I wouldn't like to say."
"But if you were on your oath, Mr. Twentyman?
"Was there more than seven-and-sixpence an acre lost?"
"No, nor five shillings," said Runciman.
"I think Goarly ought to take his lordship's offer—if you mean
that," said Twentyman.
Then there was a pause, during which more drink was brought in, and
pipes were re-lighted. Everybody wished that Mr. Masters might be got
to say that he would not take the case, but there was a delicacy about
asking him. "If I remember right he was in Rufford Gaol once," said
Runciman.
"He was let out on bail and then the matter was hushed up somehow,"
said the attorney.
"It was something about a woman," continued Runciman. "I know that
on that occasion he came out an awful scoundrel."
"Don't you remember," asked Botsey, "how he used to walk up and
down the covert-side with a gun, two years ago, swearing he would
shoot the fox if he broke over his land?"
"I heard him say it, Botsey," said Twentyman. "It wouldn't have
been the first fox he's murdered," said the doctor.
"Not by many," said the landlord.
"You remember that old woman near my place?" said Stubbings. "It
was he that put her up to tell all them lies about her turkeys. I ran
it home to him! A blackguard like that! Nobody ought to take him up."
"I hope you won't, Mr. Masters;" said the doctor. The doctor was as
old as the attorney, and had known him for many years. No one else
could dare to ask the question.
"I don't suppose I shall, Nupper," said the attorney from his
chair. It was the first word he had spoken since he had put down
young Botsey. "It wouldn't just suit me; but a man has to judge of
those things for himself."
Then there was a general rejoicing, and Mr. Runciman stood broiled
bones, and ham and eggs, and bottled stout for the entire club; one
unfortunate effect of which unwonted conviviality was that Mr.
Masters did not get home till near twelve o'clock. That was sure to
cause discomfort; and then he had pledged himself to decline Goarly's
business.
CHAPTER V. Reginald Morton
We will now go back to Hoppet Hall and its inhabitants. When the
old squire died he left by his will Hoppet Hall and certain other
houses in Dillsborough, which was all that he could leave, to his
grandson Reginald Morton. Then there arose a question whether this
property also was not entailed. The former Mr. Masters, and our
friend of the present day, had been quite certain of the squire's
power to do what he liked with it; but others had been equally
certain on the other side, and there had been a lawsuit. During that
time Reginald Morton had been forced to live on a very small
allowance. His aunt, Lady Ushant, had done what little she could for
him, but it had been felt to be impossible that he should remain at
Bragton, which was the property of the cousin who was at law with him.
From the moment of his birth the Honourable Mrs. Morton, who was also
his aunt by marriage, had been his bitter enemy. He was the son of an
innkeeper's daughter, and according to her theory of life, should
never even have been noticed by the real Mortons. And this honourable
old lady was almost equally adverse to Lady Ushant, whose husband had
simply been a knight, and who had left nothing behind him. Thus
Reginald Morton had been friendless since his grandfather died, and
had lived in Germany, nobody quite knew how. During the entire period
of this law-suit Hoppet Hall had remained untenanted.
When the property was finally declared to belong to Reginald
Morton, the Hall, before it could be used, required considerable
repair. But there was other property. The Bush Inn belonged to
Reginald Morton, as did the house in which Mr. Masters lived, and
sundry other smaller tenements in the vicinity. There was an income
from these of about five hundred pounds a year. Reginald, who was
then nearly thirty years of age, came over to England, and stayed for
a month or two at Bragton with his aunt, to the infinite chagrin of
the old dowager. The management of the town property was entrusted to
Mr. Masters, and Hoppet Hall was repaired. At this period Mr.
Mainwaring had just come to Dillsborough, and having a wife with some
money and perhaps quite as much pretension, had found the rectory too
small, and had taken the Hall on a lease for seven years. When this
was arranged Reginald Morton again went to Germany, and did not return
till the lease had run out. By that time Mr. Mainwaring, having spent
a little money, found that the rectory would be large enough for his
small family. Then the Hall was again untenanted for awhile, till,
quite suddenly, Reginald Morton returned to Dillsborough, and took up
his permanent residence in his own house.
It soon became known that the new-comer would not add much to the
gaiety of the place. The only people whom he knew in Dillsborough
were his own tenants, Mr. Runciman and Mr. Masters, and the
attorney's eldest daughter. During those months which he had spent
with Lady Ushant at Bragton, Mary had been living there, then a child
of twelve years old; and, as a child, had become his fast friend. With
his aunt he had, continually corresponded, and partly at her
instigation, and partly from feelings of his own, he had at once gone
to the attorney's house. This was now two years since, and he had
found in his old playmate a beautiful young woman, in his opinion very
unlike the people with whom she lived. For the first twelvemonths he
saw her occasionally,—though not indeed very often. Once or twice he
had drunk tea at the attorney's house, on which occasions the
drawing-room upstairs had been almost as grand as it was
uncomfortable. Then the attentions of Larry Twentyman began to make
themselves visible, infinitely to Reginald Morton's disgust. Up to
that time he had no idea of falling in love with the girl himself.
Since he had begun to think on such subjects at all he had made up his
mind that he would not marry. He was almost the more proud of his
birth by his father's side, because he had been made to hear so much
of his mother's low position. He had told himself a hundred times that
under no circumstances could he marry any other than a lady of good
birth. But his own fortune was small, and he knew himself well enough
to be sure that he would not marry for money. He was now nearly forty
years of age and had never yet been thrown into the society of any one
that had attracted him. He was sure that he would not marry. And yet
when he saw that Mr. Twentyman was made much of and flattered by the
whole Masters family, apparently because he was regarded as an
eligible husband for Mary, Reginald Morton was not only disgusted, but
personally offended. Being a most unreasonable man he conceived a
bitter dislike to poor Larry, who, at any rate, was truly in love, and
was not looking too high in desiring to marry the portionless daughter
of the attorney. But Morton thought that the man ought to be kicked
and horsewhipped, or, at any rate, banished into some speechless
exile for his presumption.
With Mr. Runciman he had dealings, and in some sort friendship.
There were two meadows attached to Hoppet Hall, fields lying close to
the town, which were very suitable for the landlord's purposes. Mr.
Mainwaring had held them in his own hands, taking them up from Mr.
Runciman, who had occupied them while the house was untenanted, in a
manner which induced Mr. Runciman to feel that it was useless to go to
church to hear such sermons as those preached by the rector. But
Morton had restored the fields, giving them rent free, on condition
that he should be supplied with milk and butter. Mr. Runciman, no
doubt, had the best of the bargain, as he generally had in all
bargains; but he was a man who liked to be generous when generously
treated. Consequently he almost overdid his neighbour with butter and
cream, and occasionally sent in quarters of lamb and sweetbreads to
make up the weight. I don't know that the offerings were particularly
valued; but friendship was engendered. Runciman, too, had his grounds
for quarrelling with those who had taken up the management of the
Bragton property after the squire's death, and had his own antipathy
to the Honourable Mrs. Morton and her grandson, the Secretary of
Legation. When the law-suit was going on he had been altogether on
Reginald Morton's side. It was an affair of sides, and quite natural
that Runciman and the attorney should be friendly with the new-comer
at Hoppet Hall, though there were very few points of personal sympathy
between them.
Reginald Morton was no sportsman, nor was he at all likely to
become a member of the Dillsborough Club. It was currently reported
of him in the town that he had never sat on a horse or fired off a
gun. As he had been brought up as a boy by the old squire this was
probably an exaggeration, but it is certain that at this period of
his life he had given up any aptitudes in that direction for which
his early training might have suited him. He had brought back with
him to Hoppet Hall many cases of books which the ignorance of
Dillsborough had magnified into an enormous library, and he was
certainly a sedentary, reading man. There was already a report in the
town that he was engaged in some stupendous literary work, and the men
and women generally looked upon him as a disagreeable marvel of
learning. Dillsborough of itself was not bookish, and would have
regarded any one known to have written an article in a magazine almost
as a phenomenon.
He seldom went to church, much to the sorrow of Mr. Surtees, who
ventured to call at the house and remonstrate with him. He never
called again. And though it was the habit of Mr. Surtees' life to
speak as little ill as possible of any one, he was not able to say
any good of Mr. Morton. Mr. Mainwaring, who would never have troubled
himself though his parishioner had not entered a place of worship once
in a twelvemonth, did say many severe things against his former
landlord. He hated people who were unsocial and averse to dining out,
and who departed from the ways of living common among English country
gentlemen. Mr. Mainwaring was, upon the whole, prepared to take the
other side.
Reginald Morton, though he was now nearly forty, was a young
looking handsome man, with fair hair, cut short, and a light beard,
which was always clipped. Though his mother had been an innkeeper's
daughter in Montreal he had the Morton blue eyes and the handsome
well-cut Morton nose. He was nearly six feet high, and strongly made,
and was known to be a much finer man than the Secretary of Legation,
who was rather small, and supposed to be not very robust.
Our lonely man was a great walker, and had investigated every lane
and pathway, and almost every hedge within ten miles of Dillsborough
before he had resided there two years; but his favourite rambles were
all in the neighbourhood of Bragton. As there was no one living in the
house,—no one but the old housekeeper who had lived there always,—he
was able to wander about the place as he pleased. On the Tuesday
afternoon, after the meeting of the Dillsborough Club which has been
recorded, he was seated, about three o'clock, on the rail of the
foot-bridge over the Dil, with a long German pipe hanging from his
mouth. He was noted throughout the whole country for this pipe, or for
others like it, such a one usually being in his mouth as he wandered
about. The amount of tobacco which he had smoked since his return to
these parts, exactly in that spot, was considerable, for there he
might have been found at some period of the afternoon at least three
times a week. He would sit on this rail for half an hour looking down
at the sluggish waters of the little river, rolling the smoke out of
his mouth at long intervals, and thinking perhaps of the great book
which he was supposed to be writing. As he sat there now, he suddenly
heard voices and laughter, and presently three girls came round the
corner of the hedge, which, at this spot, hid the Dillsborough
path,—and he saw the attorney's three daughters.
"It's Mr. Morton," said Dolly in a whisper.
"He's always walking about Bragton," said Kate in another whisper.
"Tony Tuppett says that he's the Bragton ghost"
"Kate," said Mary, also in a low voice, "you shouldn't talk so much
about what you hear from Tony Tuppett."
"Bosh!" said Kate, who knew that she could not be scolded in the
presence of Mr. Morton.
He came forward and shook hands with them all, and took off his hat
to Mary. "You've walked a long way, Miss Masters," he said.
"We don't think it far. I like sometimes to come and look at the
old place."
"And so do I. I wonder whether you remember how often I've sat you
on this rail and threatened to throw you into the river?"
"I remember very well that you did threaten me once, and that I
almost believed that you would throw me in."
"What had she done that was naughty, Mr. Morton?" asked Kate.
"I don't think she ever did anything naughty in those days. I don't
know whether she has changed for the worse since."
"Mary is never naughty now," said Dolly. "Kate and I are naughty,
and it's very much better fun than being good."
"The world has found out that long ago, Miss Dolly; only the world
is not quite so candid in owning it as you are. Will you come and
walk round the house, Miss Masters? I never go in, but I have no
scruples about the paths and park."
At the end of the bridge leading into the shrubbery there was a
stile, high indeed, but made commodiously with steps, almost like a
double stair case, so that ladies could pass it without trouble. Mary
had given her assent to the proposed walk, and was in the act of
putting out her hand to be helped over the stile, when Mr. Twentyman
appeared at the other side of it.
"If here isn't Larry!" said Kate.
Morton's face turned as black as thunder, but he immediately went
back across the bridge, leading Mary with him. The other girls, who
had followed him on to the bridge, had of course to go back also.
Mary was made very unhappy by the meeting. Mr. Morton would of
course think that it had been planned, whereas by Mary herself it had
been altogether unexpected. Kate, when the bridge was free, rushed
over it and whispered something to Larry. The meeting had indeed been
planned between her and Dolly and the lover, and this special walk had
been taken at the request of the two younger girls.
Morton stood stock still, as though he expected that Twentyman
would pass by. Larry hurried over the bridge, feeling sure that the
meeting with Morton had been accidental and thinking that he would
pass on towards the house.
Larry was not at all ashamed of his purpose, nor was he inclined to
give way and pass on. He came up boldly to his love, and shook hands
with her with a pleasant smile. "If you are walking back to
Dillsborough," he said, "maybe you'll let me go a little way with
you?"
"I was going round the house with Mr. Morton," she said timidly.
"Perhaps I can join you?" said he, bobbing his head at the other
man.
"If you intended to walk back with Mr. Twentyman—," began Morton.
"But I didn't," said the poor girl, who in truth understood more of
it all than did either of the two men. "I didn't expect him, and I
didn't expect you. It's a pity I can't go both ways, isn't it?" she
added, attempting to appear cheerful.
"Come back, Mary," said Kate; "we've had walking enough, and shall
be awfully tired before we get home."
Mary had thought that she would like extremely to go round the
house with her old friend and have a hundred incidents of her early
life called to her memory. The meeting with Reginald Morton had been
altogether pleasant to her. She had often felt how much she would have
liked it had the chance of her life enabled her to see more frequently
one whom as a child she had so intimately known. But at the moment she
lacked the courage to walk boldly across the bridge, and thus to rid
herself of Lawrence Twentyman. She had already perceived that Morton's
manner had rendered it impossible that her lover should follow them.
"I am afraid I must go home," she said. It was the very thing she did
not want to do,—this going home with Lawrence Twentyman; and yet she
herself said that she must do it,—driven to say so by a nervous dread
of showing herself to be fond of the other man's company.
"Good afternoon to you," said Morton very gloomily, waving his hat
and stalking across the bridge.
CHAPTER VI. Not in Love
Reginald Morton, as he walked across the bridge towards the house,
was thoroughly disgusted with all the world. He was very angry with
himself, feeling that he had altogether made a fool of himself by his
manner. He had shown himself to be offended, not only by Mr.
Twentyman, but by Miss Masters also, and he was well aware, as he
thought of it all, that neither of them had given him any cause of
offence. If she chose to make an appointment for a walk with Mr.
Lawrence Twentyman and to keep it, what was that to him? His anger
was altogether irrational, and he knew that it was so. What right had
he to have an opinion about it if Mary Masters should choose to like
the society of Mr. Twentyman? It was an affair between her and her
father and mother in which he could have no interest; and yet he had
not only taken offence, but was well aware that he had shown his
feeling.
Nevertheless, as to the girl herself, he could not argue himself
out of his anger. It was grievous to him that he should have gone out
of his way to ask her to walk with him just at the moment when she was
expecting this vulgar lover,—for that she had expected him he felt no
doubt. Yet he had heard her disclaim any intention of walking with the
man! But girls are sly, especially when their lovers are concerned. It
made him sore at heart to feel that this girl should be sly, and
doubly sore to think that she should have been able to love such a one
as Lawrence Twentyman.
As he roamed about among the grounds this idea troubled him much.
He assured himself that he was not in love with her himself, and that
he had no idea of falling in love with her; but it sickened him to
think that a girl who had been brought up by his aunt, who had been
loved at Bragton, whom he had liked, who looked so like a lady, should
put herself on a par with such a wretch as that. In all this he was
most unjust to both of them. He was specially unjust to poor Larry,
who was by no means a wretch. His costume was not that to which Morton
had been accustomed in Germany, nor would it have passed without
notice in Bond Street. But it was rational and clean. When he came to
the bridge to meet his sweetheart he had on a dark-green shooting
coat, a billicock hat, brown breeches, and gaiters nearly up to his
knees. I don't know that a young man in the country could wear more
suitable attire. And he was a well-made man, just such a one as, in
this dress, would take the eye of a country girl. There was a little
bit of dash about him, just a touch of swagger, which better breeding
might have prevented. But it was not enough to make him odious to an
unprejudiced observer. I could fancy that an old lady from London,
with an eye in her head for manly symmetry, would have liked to look
at Larry, and would have thought that a girl in Mary's position would
be happy in having such a lover, providing that his character was good
and his means adequate. But Reginald Morton was not an old woman, and
to his eyes the smart young farmer with his billicock hat, not quite
straight on his head, was an odious thing to behold. He exaggerated
the swagger, and took no notice whatever of the well-made limbs. And
then this man had proposed to accompany him, had wanted to join his
party, had thought it possible that a flirtation might be carried on
in his presence! He sincerely hated the man. But what was he to think
of such a girl as Mary Masters when she could bring herself to like
the attentions of such a lover?
He was very cross with himself because he knew how unreasonable was
his anger. Of one thing only could he assure himself,—that he would
never again willingly put himself in Mary's company. What was
Dillsborough and the ways of its inhabitants to him? Why should he so
far leave the old fashions of his life as to fret himself about an
attorney's daughter in a little English town? And yet he did fret
himself, walking rapidly, and smoking his pipe a great deal quicker
than was his custom.
When he was about to return home he passed the front of the house,
and there, standing at the open door, he saw Mrs. Hopkins, the
housekeeper, who had in truth been waiting for him. He said a
good-natured word to her, intending to make his way on without
stopping, but she called him back. "Have you heard the news, Mr.
Reginald?" she said.
"I haven't heard any news this twelvemonth," he replied.
"Laws, that is so like you, Mr. Reginald. The young squire is to be
here next week."
"Who is the young squire? I didn't know there was any squire now."
"Mr. Reginald!"
"A squire as I take it, Mrs. Hopkins, is a country gentleman who
lives on his own property. Since my grandfather's time no such
gentleman has lived at Bragton."
"That's true, too, Mr. Reginald. Any way Mr. Morton is coming down
next week."
"I thought he was in America."
"He has come home, for a turn like,—and is staying up in town with
the old lady." The old lady always meant the Honourable Mrs. Morton.
"And is the old lady coming down with him?"
"I fancy she is, Mr. Reginald. He didn't say as much, but only that
there would be three or four, a couple of ladies he said, and perhaps
more. So I am getting the east bedroom, with the dressing-room, and
the blue room for her ladyship." People about Bragton had been
accustomed to call Mrs. Morton her ladyship. "That's where she always
used to be. Would you come in and see, Mr. Reginald?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Hopkins. If you were asking me into a house of
your own, I would go in and see all the rooms and chat with you for
an hour; but I don't suppose I shall ever go into this house again
unless things change very much indeed."
"Then I'm sure I hope they will change, Mr. Reginald." Mrs. Hopkins
had known Reginald Morton as a boy growing up into manhood, had
almost been present at his birth, and had renewed her friendship
while he was staying with Lady Ushant; but of the present squire, as
she called him, she had seen almost nothing, and what she had once
remembered of him had now been obliterated by an absence of twenty
years. Of course she was on Reginald's side in the family quarrel,
although she was the paid servant of the Foreign Office paragon.
"And they are to be here next week. What day next week, Mrs.
Hopkins?" Mrs. Hopkins didn't know on what day she was to expect the
visitors, nor how long they intended to stay. Mr. John Morton had said
in his letter that he would send his own man down two days before his
arrival, and that was nearly all that he had said.
Then Morton started on his return walk to Dillsborough, again
taking the path across the bridge. "Ah!" he said to himself with a
shudder as he crossed the stile, thinking of his own softened
feelings as he had held out his hand to help Mary Masters, and then
of his revulsion of feeling when she declared her purpose of walking
home with Mr. Twentyman. And he struck the rail of the bridge with his
stick as though he were angry with the place altogether. And he
thought to himself that he would never come there any more, that he
hated the place, and that he would never cross that bridge again.
Then his mind reverted to the tidings he had heard from Mrs.
Hopkins. What ought he to do when his cousin arrived? Though there
had been a long lawsuit, there had been no actual declared quarrel
between him and the heir. He had, indeed, never seen the heir for the
last twenty years, nor had they ever interchanged letters. There had
been no communication whatever between them, and therefore there could
hardly be a quarrel. He disliked his cousin; nay, almost hated him; he
was quite aware of that. And he was sure also that he hated that
Honourable old woman worse than any one else in the world, and that he
always would do so. He knew that the Honourable old woman had
attempted to drive his own mother from Bragton, and of course he hated
her. But that was no reason why he should not call on his cousin. He
was anxious to do what was right. He was specially anxious that blame
should not be attributed to him. What he would like best would be that
he might call, might find nobody at home,—and that then John Morton
should not return the courtesy. He did not want to go to Bragton as a
guest; he did not wish to be in the wrong himself; but he was by no
means equally anxious that his cousin should keep himself free from
reproach.
The bridge path came out on the Dillsborough road just two miles
from the town, and Morton, as he got over the last stile, saw
Lawrence Twentyman coming towards him on the road. The man, no doubt,
had gone all the way into Dillsborough with the girls, and was now
returning home. The parish of Bragton lies to the left of the high
road as you go into the town from Rufford and the direction of London,
whereas Chowton Farm, the property of Mr. Twentyman, is on the right
of the road, but in the large parish of St. John's, Dillsborough.
Dillsborough Wood lies at the back of Larry Twentyman's land, and
joining on to Larry's land and also to the wood is the patch of ground
owned by "that scoundrel Goarly". Chowton Farm gate opens on to the
high road, so that Larry was now on his direct way home. As soon as he
saw Morton he made up his mind to speak to him. He was quite sure from
what had passed between him and the girls, on the road home, that he
had done something wrong. He was convinced that he had interfered in
some ill-bred way, though he did not at all know how. Of Reginald
Morton he was not in the least jealous. He, too, was of a jealous
temperament, but it had never occurred to him to join Reginald Morton
and Mary Masters together. He was very much in love with Mary, but had
no idea that she was in any way above the position which she might
naturally hold as daughter of the Dillsborough attorney. But of
Reginald Morton's attributes and scholarship and general standing he
had a mystified appreciation which saved him from the pain of thinking
that such a man could be in love with his sweetheart. As he certainly
did not wish to quarrel with Morton, having always taken Reginald's
side in the family disputes, he thought that he would say a civil word
in passing, and, if possible, apologise. When Morton came up he raised
his hand to his head and did open his mouth, though not pronouncing
any word very clearly. Morton looked at him as grim as death, just
raised his hand, and then passed on with a quick step. Larry was
displeased; but the other was so thoroughly a gentleman,—one of the
Mortons, and a man of property in the county,—that he didn't even yet
wish to quarrel with him. "What the deuce have I done?" said he to
himself as he walked on—"I didn't tell her not to go up to the
house. If I offered to walk with her what was that to him?" It must
be remembered that Lawrence Twentyman was twelve years younger than
Reginald Morton, and that a man of twenty-eight is apt to regard a
man of forty as very much too old for falling in love. It is a
mistake which it will take him fully ten years to rectify, and then
he will make a similar mistake as to men of fifty. With his awe for
Morton's combined learning and age, it never occurred to him to be
jealous.
Morton passed on rapidly, almost feeling that he had been a brute.
But what business had the objectionable man to address him? He tried
to excuse himself, but yet he felt that he had been a brute, and had
so demeaned himself in reference to the daughter of the Dillsborough
attorney! He would teach himself to do all he could to promote the
marriage. He would give sage advice to Mary Masters as to the wisdom
of establishing herself,—having not an hour since made up his mind
that he would never see her again! He would congratulate the attorney
and Mrs. Masters. He would conquer the absurd feeling which at present
was making him wretched. He would cultivate some sort of acquaintance
with the man, and make the happy pair a wedding present. But, yet,
what "a beast" the man was, with that billicock hat on one side of his
head, and those tight leather gaiters.
As he passed through the town towards his own house, he saw Mr.
Runciman standing in front of the hotel. His road took him up Hobbs
gate, by the corner of the Bush; but Runciman came a little out of
the way to meet him. "You have heard the news?" said the innkeeper.
"I have heard one piece of news."
"What's that, sir?"
"Come,—you tell me yours first"
"The young squire is coming down to Bragton next week."
"That's my news too. It is not likely that there should be two
matters of interest in Dillsborough on the same day."
"I don't know why Dillsborough should be worse off than any other
place, Mr. Morton; but at any rate the squire's coming."
"So Mrs. Hopkins told me. Has he written to you?"
"His coachman or his groom has; or perhaps he keeps what they call
an ekkery. He's much too big a swell to write to the likes of me.
Lord bless me,—when I think of it, I wonder how many dozen of orders
I've had from Lord Rufford under his own hand. 'Dear Runcimam, dinner
at eight; ten of us; won't wait a moment. Yours R.' I suppose Mr.
Morton would think that his lordship had let himself down by anything
of that sort?"
"What does my cousin want?"
"Two pair of horses,—for a week certain, and perhaps longer, and
two carriages. How am I to let anyone have two pair of horses for a
week certain,—and perhaps longer? What are other customers to do? I
can supply a gentleman by the month and buy horses to suit; or I can
supply him by the job. But I guess Mr. Morton don't well know how
things are managed in this country. He'll have to learn.
"What day does he come?"
"They haven't told me that yet, Mr. Morton."
CHAPTER VII. The Walk Home
Mary Masters, when Reginald Morton had turned his back upon her at
the bridge, was angry with herself and with him, which was
reasonable; and very angry also with Larry Twentyman, which was
unreasonable. As she had at once acceded to Morton's proposal that
they should walk round the house together, surely he should not have
deserted her so soon. It had not been her fault that the other man had
come up. She had not wanted him. But she was aware that when the
option had in some sort been left to herself, she had elected to walk
back with Larry. She knew her own motives and her own feelings, but
neither of the men would understand them. Because she preferred the
company of Mr. Morton, and had at the moment feared that her sisters
would have deserted her had she followed him, therefore she had
declared her purpose of going back to Dillsborough, in doing which she
knew that Larry and the girls would accompany her. But of course Mr,
Morton would think that she had preferred the company of her
recognised admirer. It was pretty well known in Dillsborough that
Larry was her lover. Her stepmother had spoken of it very freely; and
Larry himself was a man who did not keep his lights hidden under a
bushel. "I hope I've not been in the way, Mary," said Mr. Twentyman,
as soon as Morton was out of hearing.
"In the way of what?"
"I didn't think there was any harm in offering to go up to the
house with you if you were going."
"Who has said there was any harm?" The path was only broad enough
for one and she was walking first. Larry was following her and the
girls were behind him.
"I think that Mr. Morton is a very stuck-up fellow," said Kate, who
was the last.
"Hold your tongue, Kate," said Mary. "You don't know what you are
talking about"
"I know as well as any one when a person is good-natured. What made
him go off in that hoity-toity fashion? Nobody had said anything to
him."
"He always looks as though he were going to eat somebody," said
Dolly.
"He shan't eat me," said Kate.
Then there was a pause, during which they all went along quickly,
Mary leading the way. Larry felt that he was wasting his opportunity;
and yet hardly knew how to use it, feeling that the girl was angry
with him.
"I wish you'd say, Mary, whether you think that I did anything
wrong?"
"Nothing wrong to me, Mr. Twentyman."
"Did I do anything wrong to him?"
"I don't know how far you may be acquainted with him. He was
proposing to go somewhere, and you offered to go with him."
"I offered to go with you," said Larry, sturdily. "I suppose I'm
sufficiently acquainted with you."
"Quite so," said Mary.
"Why should he be so proud? I never said an uncivil word to him.
He's nothing to me. If he can do without me, I'm sure that I can do
without him."
"Very well indeed, I should think."
"The truth is, Mary—"
"There has been quite enough said about it, Mr. Twentyman."
"The truth is, Mary, I came on purpose to have a word with you."
Hearing this, Kate rushed on and pulled Larry by the tail of his
coat.
"How did you know I was to be there?" demanded Mary sharply.
"I didn't know. I had reason to think you perhaps might be there.
The girls I knew had been asking you to come as far as the bridge. At
any rate I took my chance. I'd seen him some time before, and then I
saw you."
"If I'm to be watched about in that way," said Mary angrily, "I
won't go out at all."
"Of course I want to see you. Why shouldn't I? I'm all fair and
above board;—ain't I? Your father and mother know all about it. It
isn't as though I were doing anything clandestine." He paused for a
reply, but Mary walked on in silence. She knew quite well that he was
warranted in seeking her, and that nothing but a very positive
decision on her part could put an end to his courtship. At the
present moment she was inclined to be very positive, but he had
hardly as yet given her an opportunity of speaking out. "I think you
know, Mary, what it is that I want." They were now at a rough stile
which enabled him to come close up to her and help her. She tripped
over the stile with a light step and again walked on rapidly. The
field they were in enabled him to get up to her side, and now if ever
was his opportunity. It was a long straggling meadow which he knew
well, with the Dill running by it all the way,—or rather two meadows
with an open space where there had once been a gate. He had ridden
through the gap a score of times, and knew that at the further side of
the second meadow they would come upon the high road. The fields were
certainly much better for his purpose than the road. "Don't you think,
Mary, you could say a kind word to me?"
"I never said anything unkind."
"You can't think ill of me for loving you better than all the
world."
"I don't think ill of you at all. I think very well of you."
"That's kind."
"So I do. How can I help thinking well of you, when I've never
heard anything but good of you?"
"Then why shouldn't you say at once that you'll have me, and make
me the happiest man in all the county?"
"Because—"
"Well!"
"I told you before, Mr. Twentyman, and that ought to have been
enough. A young woman doesn't fall in love with every man that she
thinks well of. I should like you as well as all the rest of the
family if you would only marry some other girl,"
"I shall never do that."
"Yes you will;—some day."
"Never. I've set my heart upon it, and I mean to stick to it. I'm
not the fellow to turn about from one girl to another. What I want is
the girl I love. I've money enough and all that kind of thing of my
own."
"I'm sure you're disinterested, Mr. Twentyman."
"Yes, I am. Ever since you've been home from Bragton it has been
the same thing, and when I felt that it was so, I spoke up to your
father honestly. I haven't been beating about the bush, and I haven't
done anything that wasn't honourable." They were very near the last
stile now. "Come, Mary, if you won't make me a promise, say that
you'll think of it"
"I have thought of it, Mr. Twentyman, and I can't make you any
other answer. I dare say I'm very foolish."
"I wish you were more foolish. Perhaps then you wouldn't be so hard
to please."
"Whether I'm wise or foolish, indeed, indeed, it's no good your
going on. Now we're on the road. Pray go back home, Mr. Twentyman."
"It'll be getting dark in a little time."
"Not before we're in Dillsborough. If it were ever so dark we could
find our way home by ourselves. Come along, Dolly."
Over the last stile he had stayed a moment to help the younger
girl, and as he did so Kate whispered a word in his ear. "She's angry
because she couldn't go up to the house with that stuck-up fellow." It
was a foolish word; but then Kate Masters had not had much experience
in the world. Whether overcome by Mary's resolute mode of speaking, or
aware that the high road would not suit his purpose, he did turn back
as soon as he had seen them a little way on their return towards the
town. He had not gone half a mile before he met Morton, and had been
half-minded to make some apology to him. But Morton had denied him the
opportunity, and he had walked on to his own house,—low in spirits
indeed, but still with none of that sorest of agony which comes to a
lover from the feeling that his love loves some one else. Mary had
been very decided with him,—more so he feared than before; but still
he saw no reason why he should not succeed at last. Mrs. Masters had
told him that Mary would certainly give a little trouble in winning,
but would be the more worth the winner's trouble when won. And she had
certainly shown no preference for any other young man about the town.
There had been a moment when he had much dreaded Mr. Surtees. Young
clergymen are apt to be formidable rivals, and Mr. Surtees had
certainly made some overtures of friendship to Mary Masters. But Larry
had thought that he had seen that these overtures had not led to much,
and then that fear had gone from him. He did believe that Mary was now
angry because she had not been allowed to walk about Bragton with her
old friend Mr. Morton. It had been natural that she should like to do
so. It was the pride of Mary's life that she had been befriended by
the Mortons and Lady Ushant. But it did not occur to him that he ought
to be jealous of Mr. Morton,—though it had occurred to Kate Masters.
There was very little said between the sisters on their way back to
the town. Mary was pretty sure now that the two girls had made the
appointment with Larry, but she was unwilling to question them on the
subject. Immediately on their arrival at home they heard the great
news. John Morton was coming to Bragton with a party of ladies and
gentlemen. Mrs. Hopkins had spoken of four persons. Mrs. Masters told
Mary that there were to be a dozen at least, and that four or five
pairs of horses and half a dozen carriages had been ordered from Mr.
Runciman. "He means to cut a dash when he does begin," said Mrs.
Masters.
"Is he going to stay, mother?"
"He wouldn't come down in that way if it was only for a few days I
suppose. But what they will do for furniture I don't know."
"There's plenty of furniture, mother."
"A thousand years old. Or for wine, or fruit, or plate."
"The old plate was there when Lady Ushant left."
"People do things now in a very different way from what they used.
A couple of dozen silver forks made quite a show on the old squire's
table. Now they change the things so often that ten dozen is nothing.
I don't suppose there's a bottle of wine in the cellar."
"They can get wine from Cobbold, mother."
"Cobbold's wine won't go down with them I fancy. I wonder what
servants they're bringing."
When Mr. Masters came in from his office the news was corroborated.
Mr. John Morton was certainly coming to Bragton. The attorney had
still a small unsettled and disputed claim against the owner of the
property, and he had now received by the day mail an answer to a
letter which he had written to Mr. Morton, saying that that gentleman
would see him in the course of the next fortnight.
CHAPTER VIII. The Paragon's Party at
Bragton
There was certainly a great deal of fuss made about John Morton's
return to the home of his ancestors,—made altogether by himself and
those about him, and not by those who were to receive him. On the
Thursday in the week following that of which we have been speaking,
two carriages from the Bush met the party at the Railway Station and
took them to Bragton. Mr. Runciman, after due consideration, put up
with the inconsiderate nature of the order given, and supplied the
coaches and horses as required,—consoling himself no doubt with the
reflection that he could charge for the unreasonableness of the demand
in the bill. The coachman and butler had come down two days before
their master, so that things might be in order. Mrs. Hopkins learned
from the butler that though the party would at first consist only of
three, two other very august persons were to follow on the
Saturday,—no less than Lady Augustus Trefoil and her daughter
Arabella. And Mrs. Hopkins was soon led to imagine, though no positive
information was given to her on the subject, that Miss Trefoil was
engaged to be married to their Master. "Will he live here altogether,
Mr, Tankard?" Mrs. Hopkins asked. To this question Mr. Tankard was
able to give a very definite answer. He was quite sure that Mr. Morton
would not live anywhere altogether. According to Mr. Tankard's ideas,
the whole foreign policy of England depended on Mr. John Morton's
presence in some capital, either in Europe, Asia, or America,—upon
Mr. Morton's presence, and of course upon his own also. Mr. Tankard
thought it not improbable that they might soon be wanted at Hong
Kong, or some very distant place, but in the meantime they were bound
to be back at Washington very shortly. Tankard had himself been at
Washington, and also before that at Lisbon, and could tell Mrs.
Hopkins how utterly unimportant had been the actual ministers at those
places, and how the welfare of England had depended altogether on the
discretion and general omniscience of his young master,—and of
himself. He, Tankard, had been the only person in Washington who had
really known in what order Americans should go out to dinner one after
another. Mr. Elias Gotobed, who was coming, was perhaps the most
distinguished American of the day, and was Senator for Mickewa.
"Mickey war!" said poor Mrs. Hopkins,—"that's been one of them
terrible American wars we used to hear of." Then Tankard explained to
her that Mickewa was one of the Western States and Mr. Elias Gotobed
was a great Republican, who had very advanced opinions of his own
respecting government, liberty, and public institutions in general.
With Mr. Morton and the Senator was coming the Honourable Mrs. Morton.
The lady had her lady's maid,—and Mr, Morton had his own man; so that
there would be a great influx of persons.
Of course there was very much perturbation of spirit. Mrs. Hopkins,
after that first letter, the contents of which she had communicated
to Reginald Morton, had received various despatches and been asked
various questions. Could she find a cook? Could she find two
housemaids? And all these were only wanted for a time. In her
distress she went to Mrs. Runciman, and did get assistance. "I
suppose he thinks he's to have the cook out of my kitchen?" Runciman
had said. Somebody, however, was found who said she could cook, and
two girls who professed that they knew how to make beds. And in this
way an establishment was ready before the arrival of the Secretary of
Legation and the great American Senator. Those other. questions of
wine and plate and vegetables had, no doubt, settled themselves after
some fashion.
John Morton had come over to England on leave of absence for four
months, and had brought with him the Senator from Mickewa. The
Senator had never been in England before, and was especially anxious
to study the British Constitution and to see the ways of Britons with
his own eyes. He had only been a fortnight in London before this
journey down to the county had been planned. Mr. Gotobed wished to see
English country life and thought that he could not on his first
arrival have a better opportunity. It must be explained also that
there was another motive, for this English rural sojourn. Lady
Augustus Trefoil, who was an adventurous lady, had been travelling in
the United States with her daughter, and had there fallen in with Mr.
John Morton. Arabella Trefoil was a beauty, and a woman of fashion,
and had captivated the Paragon. An engagement had been made, subject
to various stipulations; the consent of Lord Augustus in the first
place,—as to which John Morton who only understood foreign affairs
was not aware, as he would have been had he lived in England, that
Lord Augustus was nobody. Lady Augustus had spoken freely as to
settlements, value of property, life insurance and such matters; and
had spoken firmly, as well as freely, expressing doubt as to the
expediency of such an engagement;—all of which had surprised Mr.
Morton considerably, for the young lady had at first been left in his
hands with almost American freedom. And now Lady Augustus and her
daughter were coming down on a visit of inspection. They had been
told, as had the Senator, that things would be in the rough. The house
had not been properly inhabited for nearly a quarter of a century. The
Senator had expressed himself quite contented. Lady Augustus had only
hoped that everything would be made as comfortable as possible for her
daughter. I don't know what more could have been done at so short a
notice than to order two carriages, two housemaids, and a cook.
A word or two must also be said of the old lady who made one of the
party. The Honourable Mrs. Morton was now seventy, but no old lady
ever showed less signs of advanced age. It is not to be understood
from this that she was beautiful;—-but that she was very strong.
What might be the colour of her hair, or whether she had any, no man
had known for many years. But she wore so perfect a front that some
people were absolutely deluded. She was very much wrinkled;— but as
there are wrinkles which seem to come from the decay of those muscles
which should uphold the skin, so are there others which seem to denote
that the owner has simply got rid of the watery weaknesses of
juvenility. Mrs. Morton's wrinkles were strong wrinkles. She was thin,
but always carried herself bolt upright, and would never even lean
back in her chair. She had a great idea of her duty, and hated
everybody who differed from her with her whole heart. She was the
daughter of a Viscount, a fact which she never forgot for a single
moment, and which she thought gave her positive superiority to all
women who were not the daughters of Dukes or Marquises, or of Earls.
Therefore, as she did not live much in the fashionable world, she
rarely met any one above herself. Her own fortune on her marriage had
been small, but now she was a rich woman. Her husband had been dead
nearly half a century and during the whole of that time she had been
saving money. To two charities she gave annually five pounds per annum
each. Duty demanded it, and the money was given. Beyond that she had
never been known to spend a penny in charity. Duty, she had said more
than once, required of her that she do something to repair the ravages
made on the Morton property by the preposterous extravagance of the
old squire in regard to the younger son, and that son's—child. In her
anger she had not hesitated on different occasions to call the present
Reginald a bastard, though the expression was a wicked calumny for
which there was no excuse. Without any aid of hers the Morton property
had repaired itself. There had been a minority of thirteen or fourteen
years, and since that time the present owner had not spent his income.
But John Morton was not himself averse to money, and had always been
careful to maintain good relations with his grandmother. She had now
been asked down to Bragton in order that she might approve, if
possible, of the proposed wife. It was not likely that she should
approve absolutely of anything; but to have married without an appeal
to her would have been to have sent the money flying into the hands of
some of her poor paternal cousins. Arabella Trefoil was the
granddaughter of a duke, and a step had so far been made in the right
direction. But Mrs. Morton knew that Lord Augustus was nobody, that
there would be no money, and that Lady Augustus had been the daughter
of a banker, and that her fortune had been nearly squandered.
The Paragon was not in the least afraid of his American visitor,
nor, as far as the comforts of his house were concerned, of his
grandmother. Of the beauty, and her mother he did stand in awe;— but
he had two days in which to look to things before they would come. The
train reached the Dillsborough Station at half-past three, and the two
carriages were there to meet them. "You will understand, Mr. Gotobed,"
said the old lady, "that my grandson has nothing of his own
established here as yet." This little excuse was produced by certain
patches and tears in the cushions and linings of the carriages. Mr.
Gotobed smiled and bowed and declared that everything was "fixed
convenient" Then the Senator followed the old lady into one carriage;
Mr. Morton followed alone into the other; and they were driven away to
Bragton.
When Mrs. Hopkins had taken the old lady up to her room Mr. Morton
asked the Senator to walk round the grounds. Mr. Gotobed, lighting an
enormous cigar of which he put half down his throat for more
commodious and quick consumption, walked on to the middle of the
drive, and turning back looked up at the house, "Quite a pile," he
said, observing that the offices and outhouses extended a long way to
the left till they almost joined other buildings in which were the
stables and coach-house.
"It's a good-sized house;"—said the owner; "nothing very
particular, as houses are built now-a-days."
"Damp; I should say?"
"I think not. I have never lived here much myself; but I have not
heard that it is considered so."
"I guess it's damp. Very lonely;—isn't it?"
"We like to have our society inside, among ourselves, in the
country."
"Keep a sort of hotel-like?" suggested Mr. Gotobed. "Well, I don't
dislike hotel life, especially when there are no charges. How many
servants do you want to keep up such a house as that?"
Mr. Morton explained that at present he knew very little about it
himself, then led him away by the path over the bridge, and turning
to the left showed him the building which had once been the kennels
of the Rufford hounds, "All that for dogs!" exclaimed Mr. Gotobed.
"All for dogs," said Morton. "Hounds, we generally call them."
"Hounds are they? Well; I'll remember; though 'dogs' seems to me
more civil. How many used there to be?"
"About fifty couple, I think."
"A hundred dogs! No wonder your country gentlemen burst up so
often. Wouldn't half-a-dozen do as well,—except for the show of the
thing?"
"Half-a-dozen hounds couldn't hunt a fox, Mr. Gotobed."
"I guess half-a-dozen would do just as well, only for the show.
What strikes me, Mr. Morton, on visiting this old country is that so
much is done for show."
"What do you say to New York, Mr. Gotobed?"
"There certainly are a couple of hundred fools in New York, who,
having more money than brains, amuse themselves by imitating European
follies. But you won't find that through the country, Mr. Morton. You
won't find a hundred dogs at an American planter's house when ten or
twelve would do as well."
"Hunting is not one of your amusements."
"Yes it is. I've been a hunter myself. I've had nothing to eat but
what I killed for a month together. That's more than any of your
hunters can say. A hundred dogs to kill one fox!"
"Not all at the same time, Mr. Gotobed."
"And you have got none now?"
"I don't hunt myself."
"And does nobody hunt the foxes about here at present?" Then Morton
explained that on the Saturday following the U.R.U. hounds, under the
mastership of that celebrated sportsman Captain Glomax, would meet at
eleven o'clock exactly at the spot on which they were then standing,
and that if Mr. Gotobed would walk out after breakfast he should see
the whole paraphernalia, including about half a hundred "dogs," and
perhaps a couple of hundred men on horseback. "I shall be delighted to
see any institution of this great country," said Mr. Gotobed, "however
much opposed it may be to my opinion either of utility or rational
recreation." Then, having nearly eaten up one cigar, he lit another
preparatory to eating it, and sauntered back to the house.
Before dinner that evening there were a few words between the
Paragon and his grandmother. "I'm afraid you won't like my American
friend," he said.
"He is all very well, John. Of course an American member of
Congress can't be an English gentleman. You, in your position, have
to be civil to such people. I dare say I shall get on very well with
Mr. Gotobed."
"I must get somebody to meet him."
"Lady Augustus and her daughter are coming."
"They knew each other in Washington. And there will be so many
ladies."
"You could ask the Coopers from Mallingham," suggested the lady.
"I don't think they would dine out. He's getting very old."
"And I'm told the Mainwarings at Dillsborough are very nice
people," said Mrs. Morton, who knew that Mr. Mainwaring at any rate
came from a good family.
"I suppose they ought to call first. I never saw them in my life.
Reginald Morton, you know, is living at Hoppet Hall in Dillsborough."
"You don't mean to say you wish to ask him to this house?"
"I think I ought. Why should I take upon myself to quarrel with a
man I have not seen since I was a child, and who certainly is my
cousin?"
"I do not know that he is your cousin; nor do you."
John Morton passed by the calumny which he had heard before, and
which he knew that it was no good for him to attempt to subvert. "He
was received here as one of the family, ma'am."
"I know he was; and with what result?"
"I don't think that I ought to turn my back upon him because my
great-grandfather left property away from me to him. It would give me
a bad name in the county. It would be against me when I settle down to
live here. I think quarrelling is the most foolish thing a man can
do,—especially with his own relations."
"I can only say this, John;—let me know if he is coming, so that I
may not be called upon to meet him. I will not eat at table with
Reginald Morton." So saying the old lady, in a stately fashion,
stalked out of the room.
CHAPTER IX. The Old Kennels
On the next morning Mrs. Morton asked her grandson what he meant to
do with reference to his suggested invitation to Reginald. "As you
will not meet him of course I have given up the idea," he said. The
"of course" had been far from true. He had debated the matter very
much with himself. He was an obstinate man, with something of
independence in his spirit. He liked money, but he liked having his
own way too. The old lady looked as though she might live to be a
hundred,—and though she might last only for ten years longer, was it
worth his while to be a slave for that time? And he was by no means
sure of her money, though he should be a slave. He almost made up his
mind that he would ask Reginald Morton. But then the old lady would be
in her tantrums, and there would be the disagreeable necessity of
making an explanation to that inquisitive gentleman Mr. Elias Gotobed.
"I couldn't have met him, John; I couldn't indeed. I remember so
well all that occurred when your poor infatuated great-grandfather
would have that woman into the house! I was forced to have my meals
in my bedroom, and to get myself taken away as soon as I could get a
carriage and horses. After all that I ought not to be asked to meet
the child."
"I was thinking of asking old Mr. Cooper on Monday. I know she
doesn't go out. And perhaps Mr. Mainwaring wouldn't take it amiss.
Mr. Puttock, I know, isn't at home; but if he were, he couldn't
come." Mr. Puttock was the rector of Bragton, a very rich living, but
was unfortunately afflicted with asthma.
"Poor man. I heard of that; and he's only been here about six
years. I don't see why Mr. Mainwaring should take it amiss at all.
You can explain that you are only here a few days. I like to meet
clergymen. I think that it is the duty of a country gentleman to ask
them to his house. It shows a proper regard for religion. By-the-bye,
John, I hope that you'll see that they have a fire in the church on
Sunday." The Honourable Mrs. Morton always went to church, and had no
doubt of her own sincerity when she reiterated her prayer that as she
forgave others their trespasses, so might she be forgiven hers. As
Reginald Morton had certainly never trespassed against her perhaps
there was no reason why her thoughts should be carried to the
necessity of forgiving him.
The Paragon wrote two very diplomatic notes, explaining his
temporary residence and expressing his great desire to become
acquainted with his neighbours. Neither of the two clergymen were
offended, and both of them promised to eat his dinner on Monday. Mr.
Mainwaring was very fond of dining out, and would have gone almost to
any gentleman's house. Mr. Cooper had been enough in the neighbourhood
to have known the old squire, and wrote an affectionate note
expressing his gratification at the prospect of renewing his
acquaintance with the little boy whom he remembered. So the party was
made up for Monday. John Morton was very nervous on the matter,
fearing that Lady Augustus would think the land to be barren.
The Friday passed by without much difficulty. The Senator was
driven about, and everything was inquired into. One or two farm
houses were visited, and the farmers' wives were much disturbed by
the questions asked them. "I don't think they'd get a living in the
States," was the Senator's remark after leaving one of the homesteads
in which neither the farmer nor his wife had shown much power of
conversation. "Then they're right to stay where they are," replied Mr.
Morton, who in spite of his diplomacy could not save himself from
being nettled. "They seem to get a very good living here, and they pay
their rent punctually."
On the Saturday morning the hounds met at the "Old Kennels," as the
meet was always called, and here was an excellent opportunity of
showing to Mr. Gotobed one of the great institutions of the country.
It was close to the house and therefore could be reached without any
trouble, and as it was held on Morton's own ground, he could do more
towards making his visitor understand the thing than might have been
possible elsewhere. When the hounds moved the carriage would be ready
to take them about the roads, and show them as much as could be seen
on wheels.
Punctually at eleven John Morton and his American guest were on the
bridge, and Tony Tuppett was already occupying his wonted place,
seated on a strong grey mare that had done a great deal of work, but
would live,—as Tony used to say,—to do a great deal more. Round him
the hounds were clustered,—twenty-three couple in all,— some seated
on their haunches, some standing obediently still, while a few moved
about restlessly, subject to the voices and on one or two occasions to
a gentle administration of thong from the attendant whips. Four or
five horsemen were clustering round, most of them farmers, and were
talking to Tony. Our friend Mr. Twentyman was the only man in a red
coat who had yet arrived, and with him, on her brown pony, was Kate
Masters, who was listening with all her ears to every word that Tony
said.
"That, I guess, is the Captain you spoke of," said the Senator
pointing to Tony Tuppett.
"Oh no;—that's the huntsman. Those three men in caps are the
servants who do the work."
"The dogs can't be brought out without servants to mind them!
They're what you call gamekeepers." Morton was explaining that the
men were not gamekeepers when Captain Glomax himself arrived, driving
a tandem. There was no road up to the spot, but on hunt mornings,—or
at any rate when the meet was at the old kennels,— the park-gates
were open so that vehicles could come up on the green sward.
"That's Captain Glomax, I suppose," said Morton. "I don't know him,
but from the way he's talking to the huntsman you may be sure of it"
"He is the great man, is he? All these dogs belong to him?"
"Either to him or the hunt"
"And he pays for those servants?"
"Certainly."
"He is a very rich man, I suppose." Then Mr. Morton endeavoured to
explain the position of Captain Glomax. He was not rich. He was no one
in particular—except that he was Captain Glomax; and his one
attribute was a knowledge of hunting. He didn't keep the "dogs" out of
his own pocket. He received 2,000 pounds a year from the gentlemen of
the county, and he himself only paid anything which the hounds and
horses might cost over that. "He's a sort of upper servant then?"
asked the Senator.
"Not at all. He's the greatest man in the county on hunting days."
"Does he live out of it?"
"I should think not."
"It's a deal of trouble, isn't it?"
"Full work for an active man's time, I should say." A great many
more questions were asked and answered, at the end of which the
Senator declared that he did not quite understand it, but that as far
as he saw he did not think very much of Captain Glomax.
"If he could make a living out of it I should respect him," said
the Senator;—" though it's like knife-grinding or handling arsenic,
an unwholesome sort of profession."
"I think they look very nice," said Morton, as one or two
well-turned-out young men rode up to the place.
"They seem to me to have thought more about their breeches than
anything else," said the Senator. "But if they're going to hunt why
don't they hunt? Have they got a fox with them?" Then there was a
further explanation.
At this moment there was a murmur as of a great coming arrival, and
then an open carriage with four post-horses was brought at a quick
trot into the open space. There were four men dressed for hunting
inside, and two others on the box. They were all smoking, and all
talking. It was easy to see that they did not consider themselves the
least among those who were gathered together on this occasion. The
carriage was immediately surrounded by grooms and horses, and the
ceremony of disencumbering themselves of great coats and aprons, of
putting on spurs and fastening hat-strings was commenced. Then there
were whispered communications from the grooms, and long faces under
some of the hats. This horse hadn't been fit since last Monday's run,
and that man's hack wasn't as it should be. A muttered curse might
have been heard from one gentleman as he was told, on jumping from the
box, that Harry Stubbings hadn't sent him any second horse to ride. "I
didn't hear nothing about it till yesterday, Captain," said Harry
Stubbings, "and every foot I had fit to come out was bespoke." The
groom, however, who heard this was quite aware that Mr. Stubbings did
not wish to give unlimited credit to the Captain, and he knew also
that the second horse was to have carried his master the whole day, as
the animal which was brought to the meet had been ridden hard on the
previous Wednesday. At all this the Senator looked with curious eyes,
thinking that he had never in his life seen brought together a set of
more useless human beings.
"That is Lord Rufford," said Morton, pointing to a stout,
ruddy-faced, handsome man of about thirty, who was the owner of the
carriage.
"Oh, a lord. Do the lords hunt, generally?"
"That's as they like it."
"Senators with us wouldn't have time for that," said the Senator.
"But you are paid to do your work."
"Everybody from whom work is expected should be paid. Then the work
will be done, or those who pay will know the reason why."
"I must speak to Lord Rufford," said Morton. "If you'll come with
me, I'll introduce you." The Senator followed willingly enough and
the introduction was made while his lordship was still standing by
his horse. The two men had known each other in London, and it was
natural that Morton, as owner of the ground, should come out and
speak to the only man who knew him. It soon was spread about that the
gentleman talking to Lord Rufford was John Morton, and many who lived
in the county came up to shake hands with him, To some of these the
Senator was introduced and the conversation for a few minutes seemed
to interrupt the business on hand. "I am sorry you should be on foot,
Mr. Gotobed," said the lord.
"And I am sorry that I cannot mount him," said Mr. Morton.
"We can soon get over that difficulty if he will allow me to offer
him a horse."
The Senator looked as though he would almost like it, but he didn't
quite like it. "Perhaps your horse might kick me off, my lord."
"I can't answer for that; but he isn't given to kicking, and there
he is, if you'll get on him." But the Senator felt that the
exhibition would suit neither his age nor position, and refused.
"We'd better be moving," said Captain Glomax. "I suppose, Lord
Rufford, we might as well trot over to Dillsborough Wood at once. I
saw Bean as I came along and he seemed to wish we should draw the
wood first." Then there was a little whispering between his lordship
and the Master and Tony Tuppett. His lordship thought that as Mr.
Morton was there the hounds might as well be run through the Bragton
spinnies. Tony made a wry face and shook his head. He knew that though
the Old Kennels might be a very good place for meeting there was no
chance of finding a fox at Bragton. And Captain Glomax, who, being an
itinerary master, had no respect whatever for a country gentleman who
didn't preserve, also made a long face and also shook his head. But
Lord Rufford, who knew the wisdom of reconciling a newcomer in the
county to foxhunting, prevailed and the hounds and men were taken
round a part of Bragton Park.
"What if t' old squire 've said if he'd 've known there hadn't been
a fox at Bragton for more nor ten year?" This remark was made by
Tuppett to Mr. Runciman who was riding by him. Mr. Runciman replied
that there was a great difference in people. "You may say that, Mr.
Runciman. It's all changes. His lordship's father couldn't bear the
sight of a hound nor a horse and saddle. Well;—I suppose I needn't
gammon any furder. We'll just trot across to the wood at once"
"They haven't begun yet as far as I can see," said Mr. Gotobed
standing up in the carriage.
"They haven't found as yet," replied Morton.
"They must go on till they find a fox? They never bring him with
them?" Then there was an explanation as to bagged foxes, Morton not
being very conversant with the subject he had to explain. "And if
they shouldn't find one all day?"
"Then it'll be a blank."
"And these hundred gentlemen will go home quite satisfied with
themselves?"
"No; they'll go home quite dissatisfied."
"And have paid their money and given their time for nothing? Do you
know it doesn't seem to me the most heart-stirring thing in the
world. Don't they ride faster than that?" At this moment Tony with
the hounds at his heels was trotting across the park at a huntsman's
usual pace from covert to covert. The Senator was certainly
ungracious. Nothing that he saw produced from him a single word
expressive of satisfaction.
Less than a mile brought them to the gate and road leading up to
Chowton Farm. They passed close by Larry Twentyman's door, and not a
few, though it was not yet more than half-past eleven, stopped to have
a glass of Larry's beer. When the hounds were in the neighbourhood
Larry's beer was always ready. But Tony and his attendants trotted by
with eyes averted, as though no thought of beer was in their minds.
Nothing had been done, and a huntsman is not entitled to beer till he
has found a fox. Captain Glomax followed with Lord Rufford and a host
of others. There was plenty of way here for carriages, and half a
dozen vehicles passed through Larry's farmyard. Immediately behind the
house was a meadow, and at the bottom of the meadow a stubble field,
next to which was the ditch and bank which formed the bounds of
Dillsborough Wood. Just at this side of the gate leading into the
stubble-field there was already a concourse of people when Tony
arrived near it with the hounds, and immediately there was a holloaing
and loud screeching of directions, which was soon understood to mean
that the hounds were at once to be taken away! The Captain rode on
rapidly, and then sharply gave his orders. Tony was to take the hounds
back to Mr. Twentyman's farmyard as fast as he could, and shut them up
in a barn. The whips were put into violent commotion. Tony was eagerly
at work. Not a hound was to be allowed near the gate. And then, as
the crowd of horsemen and carriages came on, the word "poison" was
passed among them from mouth to mouth!
"What does all this mean?" said the Senator.
"I don't at all know. I'm afraid there's something wrong," replied
Morton.
"I heard that man say `poison'. They have taken the dogs back
again." Then the Senator and Morton got out of the carriage and made
their way into the crowd. The riders who had grooms on second horses
were soon on foot, and a circle was made, inside which there was some
object of intense interest. In the meantime the hounds had been
secured in one of Mr. Twentyman's barns.
What was that object of interest shall be told in the next chapter.
CHAPTER X. Goarly's Revenge
The Senator and Morton followed close on the steps of Lord Rufford
and Captain Glomax and were thus able to make their way into the
centre of the crowd. There, on a clean sward of grass, laid out as
carefully as though he were a royal child prepared for burial, was—a
dead fox. "It's pi'son, my lord; it's pi'son to a moral," said Bean,
who as keeper of the wood was bound to vindicate himself, and his
master, and the wood. "Feel of him, how stiff he is." A good many did
feel, but Lord Rufford stood still and looked at the poor victim in
silence. "It's easy knowing how he come by it," said Bean.
The men around gazed into each other's faces with a sad tragic air,
as though the occasion were one which at the first blush was too
melancholy for many words. There was whispering here and there and
one young farmer's son gave a deep sigh, like a steam-engine
beginning to work, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
"There ain't nothin' too bad,—nothin," said another,—leaving his
audience to imagine whether he were alluding to the wretchedness of
the world in general or to the punishment which was due to the
perpetrator of this nefarious act. The dreadful word "vulpecide" was
heard from various lips with an oath or two before it. "It makes me
sick of my own land, to think it should be done so near," said Larry
Twentyman, who had just come up. Mr. Runciman declared that they must
set their wits to work not only to find the criminal but to prove the
crime against him, and offered to subscribe a couple of sovereigns on
the spot to a common fund to be raised for the purpose. "I don't know
what is to be done with a country like this," said Captain Glomax,
who, as an itinerant, was not averse to cast a slur upon the land of
his present sojourn.
"I don't remember anything like it on my property before," said the
lord, standing up for his own estate and the county at large.
"Nor in the hunt," said young Hampton. "Of course such a thing may
happen anywhere. They had foxes poisoned in the Pytchley last year."
"It shows a d— bad feeling somewhere," said the Master.
"We know very well where the feeling is," said Bean who had by this
time taken up the fox, determined not to allow it to pass into any
hands less careful than his own.
"It's that scoundrel, Goarly," said one of the Botseys. Then there
was an indignant murmur heard, first of all from two or three and
then running among the whole crowd. Everybody knew as well as though
he had seen it that Goarly had baited meat with strychnine and put it
down in the wood. "Might have pi'soned half the pack!" said Tony
Tuppett, who had come up on foot from the barn where the hounds were
still imprisoned, and had caught hold in an affectionate manner of a
fore pad of the fox which Bean had clutched by the two hind legs. Poor
Tony Tuppett almost shed tears as he looked at the dead animal, and
thought what might have been the fate of the pack. "It's him, my
lord," he said, "as we run through Littleton gorse Monday after
Christmas last, and up to Impington Park where he got away from us in
a hollow tree. He's four year old," added Tony, looking at the
animal's mouth, "and there warn't a finer dog fox in the county."
"Do they know all the foxes?" asked the Senator. In answer to this,
Morton only shook his head, not feeling quite sure himself how far a
huntsman's acquaintance in that line might go, and being also too much
impressed by the occasion for speculative conversation.
"It's that scoundrel Goarly" had been repeated again and again; and
then on a sudden Goarly himself was seen standing on the further
hedge of Larry's field with a gun in his hand. He was not at this
time above two hundred yards from them, and was declared by one of
the young farmers to be grinning with delight. The next field was
Goarly's, but the hedge and ditch belonged to Twentyman. Larry rushed
forward as though determined to thrash the man, and two or three
followed him. But Lord Rufford galloped on and stopped them. "Don't
get into a row with a fellow like that," he said to Twentyman.
"He's on my land, my lord," said Larry impatiently.
"I'm on my own now, and let me see who'll dare to touch me," said
Goarly jumping down.
"You've put poison down in that wood," said Larry.
"No I didn't; but I knows who did. It ain't I as am afeard for my
young turkeys" Now it was well known that old Mrs. Twentyman, Larry's
mother, was fond of young turkeys, and that her poultry-yard had
suffered. Larry, in his determination to be a gentleman, had always
laughed at his mother's losses. But now to be accused in this way was
terrible to his feelings! He made a rush as though to jump over the
hedge, but Lord Rufford again intercepted him. "I didn't think, Mr.
Twentyman, that you'd care for what such a fellow as that might say."
By this time Lord Rufford was off his horse, and had taken hold of
Larry.
"I'll tell you all what it is," screamed Goarly, standing just at
the edge of his own field,—"if a hound comes out of the wood on to
my land, I'll shoot him. I don't know nothing about p'isoning, though
I dare say Mr. Twentyman does. But if a hound comes on my land, I'll
shoot him,—open, before you all" There was, however, no danger of
such a threat being executed on this day, as of course no hound would
be allowed to go into Dillsborough Wood.
Twentyman was reluctantly brought back into the meadow where the
horses were standing, and then a consultation was held as to what
they should do next. There were some who thought that the hounds
should be taken home for the day. It was as though some special
friend of the U.R.U. had died that morning, and that the spirits of
the sportsmen were too dejected for their sport. Others, with prudent
foresight, suggested that the hounds might run back from some distant
covert to Dillsborough, and that there should be no hunting till the
wood had been thoroughly searched. But the strangers, especially those
who had hired horses, would not hear of this; and after considerable
delay it was arranged that the hounds should be trotted off as quickly
as possible to Impington Gorse, which was on the other side of
Impington Park, and fully five miles distant. And so they started,
leaving the dead fox in the hands of Bean the gamekeeper.
"Is this the sort of thing that occurs every day?" asked the
Senator as he got back into the carriage.
"I should fancy not," answered Morton. "Somebody has poisoned a
fox, and I don't think that that is very often done about here."
"Why did he poison him?"
"To save his fowls I suppose."
"Why shouldn't he poison him if the fox takes his fowls? Fowls are
better than foxes."
"Not in this country," said Morton.
"Then I'm very glad I don't live here," said Mr. Gotobed. "These
friends of yours are dressed very nicely and look very well,—but a
fox is a nasty animal. It was that man standing up on the bank;—
wasn't it?" continued the Senator, who was determined to understand
it all to the very bottom, in reference to certain lectures which he
intended to give on his return to the States,—and perhaps also in the
old country before he left it.
"They suspect him."
"That man with the gun! One man against two hundred! Now I respect
that man;—I do with all my heart."
"You'd better not say so here, Mr. Gotobed."
"I know how full of prejudice you all air',—but I do respect him.
If I comprehend the matter rightly, he was on his own land when we
saw him."
"Yes;—that was his own field."
"And they meant to ride across it whether he liked it or no?"
"Everybody rides across everybody's land out hunting."
"Would they ride across your park, Mr. Morton, if you didn't let
them?"
"Certainly they would,—and break down all my gates if I had them
locked, and pull down my park palings to let the hounds through."
"And you could get no compensation?"
"Practically I could get none. And certainly I should not try. The
greatest enemy to hunting in the whole county would not be foolish
enough to make the attempt"
"Why so?"
"He would get no satisfaction, and everybody would hate him."
"Then I respect that man the more. What is that man's name?" Morton
hadn't heard the name, or had forgotten it. "I shall find that man
out, and have some conversation with him, Mr. Morton. I respect that
man, Mr. Morton. He's one against two hundred, and he insists upon his
rights. Those men standing round and wiping their eyes, and stifled
with grief because a fox had been poisoned, as though some great
patriot had died among them in the service of his country, formed one
of the most remarkable phenomena, Sir, that ever I beheld in any
country. When I get among my own people in Mickewa and tell them that,
they won't believe me, sir."
In the meantime the cavalcade was hurrying away to Impington
Gorse, and John Morton, feeling that he had not had an opportunity as
yet of showing his American friend the best side of hunting, went with
them. The five miles were five long miles, and as the pace was not
above seven miles an hour, nearly an hour was occupied. There was
therefore plenty of opportunity for the Senator to inquire whether the
gentlemen around him were as yet enjoying their sport. There was an
air of triumph about him as to the misfortunes of the day, joined to a
battery of continued raillery, which made it almost impossible for
Morton to keep his temper. He asked whether it was not at any rate
better than trotting a pair of horses backwards and forwards over the
same mile of road for half the day, as is the custom in the States.
But the Senator, though he did not quite approve of trotting matches,
argued that there was infinitely more of skill and ingenuity in the
American pastime. "Everybody is so gloomy," said the Senator, lighting
his third cigar. "I've been watching that young man in pink boots for
the last half hour, and he hasn't spoken a word to any one."
"Perhaps he's a stranger," said Morton.
"And that's the way you treat him!"
It was past two when the hounds were put into the gorse, and
certainly no one was in a very good humour. A trot of five miles is
disagreeable, and two o'clock in November is late for finding a first
fox; and then poisoning is a vice that may grow into a habit! There
was a general feeling that Goarly ought to be extinguished, but an
idea that it might be difficult to extinguish him. The whips,
nevertheless, cantered on to the corner of the covert, and Tony put in
his hounds with a cheery voice. The Senator remarked that the gorse
was a very little place,—for as they were on the side of an opposite
hill they could see it all. Lord Rufford, who was standing by the
carriage, explained to him that it was a favourite resort of foxes,
and difficult to draw as being very close. "Perhaps they've poisoned
him too," said the Senator. It was evident from his voice that had
such been the case, he would not have been among the mourners. "The
blackguards are not yet thick enough in our country for that," said
Lord Rufford, meaning to be sarcastic.
Then a whimper was heard from a hound,—at first very low, and then
growing into a fuller sound. "There he is," said young Hampton. "For
heaven's sake get those fellows away from that side, Glomax." This was
uttered with so much vehemence that the Senator looked up in surprise.
Then the Captain galloped round the side of the covert, and, making
use of some strong language, stopped the ardour of certain gentlemen
who were in a hurry to get away on what they considered good terms.
Lord Rufford, Hampton, Larry Twentyman and others sat stock-still on
their horses, watching the gorse. Ned Botsey urged himself a little
forward down the hill, and was creeping on when Captain Glomax asked
him whether he would be so— —obliging kind as to remain where he was
for half a minute. Fred took the observations in good part and stopped
his horse. "Does he do all that cursing and swearing for the 2,000
pounds?" asked the Senator.
The fox traversed the gorse back from side to side and from corner
to corner again and again. There were two sides certainly at which he
might break, but though he came out more than once he could not be got
to go away.
"They'll kill him now before he breaks," said the elder Botsey.
"Brute!" exclaimed his brother.
"They're hot on him now," said Hampton. At this time the whole side
of the hill was ringing with the music of the hounds.
"He was out then, but Dick turned him," said Larry. Dick was one of
the whips.
"Will you be so kind, Mr. Morton," asked the Senator, "as to tell
me whether they're hunting yet? They've been at it for three hours
and a half, and I should like to know when they begin to amuse
themselves."
Just as he had spoken there came from Dick a cry that he was away.
Tony, who had been down at the side of the gorse, at once jumped into
it, knowing the passage through. Lord Rufford, who for the last five
or six minutes had sat perfectly still on his horse, started down the
hill as though he had been thrown from a catapult. There was a little
hand-gate through which it was expedient to pass, and in a minute a
score of men were jostling for the way, among whom were the two
Botseys, our friend Runciman, and Larry Twentyman, with Kate Masters
on the pony close behind him. Young Hampton jumped a very nasty fence
by the side of the wicket, and Lord Rufford followed him. A score of
elderly men, with some young men among them too, turned back into a
lane behind them, having watched long enough to see that they were to
take the lane to the left, and not the lane to the right. After all
there was time enough, for when the men had got through the hand-gate
the hounds were hardly free of the covert, and Tony, riding up the
side of the hill opposite, was still blowing his horn. But they were
off at last, and the bulk of the field got away on good terms with the
hounds. "Now they are hunting," said Mr. Morton to the Senator.
"They all seemed to be very angry with each other at that narrow
gate"
"They were in a hurry, I suppose."
"Two of them jumped over the hedge. Why didn't they all jump? How
long will it be now before they catch him?"
"Very probably they may not catch him at all."
"Not catch him after all that! Then the man was certainly right to
poison that other fox in the wood. How long will they go on?"
"Half an hour perhaps."
"And you call that hunting! Is it worth the while of all those men
to expend all that energy for such a result? Upon the whole, Mr.
Morton, I should say that it is one of the most incomprehensible
things that I have ever seen in the course of a rather long and
varied life. Shooting I can understand, for you have your birds.
Fishing I can understand, as you have your fish. Here you get a fox
to begin with, and are all broken-hearted. Then you come across
another, after riding about all day, and the chances are you can't
catch him!"
"I suppose," said Mr. Morton angrily, "the habits of one country
are incomprehensible to the people of another. When I see Americans
loafing about in the bar-room of an hotel, I am lost in amazement."
"There is not a man you see who couldn't give a reason for his
being there. He has an object in view, though perhaps it may be no
better than to rob his neighbour. But here there seems to be no
possible motive."
CHAPTER XI. From Impington Gorse
The fox ran straight from the covert through his well-known haunts
to Impington Park, and as the hounds were astray there for two or
three minutes there was a general idea that he too had got up into a
tree,—which would have amused the Senator very much had the Senator
been there. But neither had the country nor the pace been adapted to
wheels, and the Senator and the Paragon were now returning along the
road towards Bragton. The fox had tried his old earths at Impington
High wood, and had then skulked back along the outside of the covert.
Had not one of the whips seen him he would have been troubled no
further on that day, a fact, which if it could have been explained to
the Senator in all its bearings, would greatly have added to his
delight. But Dick viewed him; and with many holloas and much blowing
of horns, and prayers from Captain Glomax that gentlemen would only be
so good as to hold their tongues, and a full-tongued volley of abuse
from half the field against an unfortunate gentleman who rode after
the escaping fox before a hound was out of the covert, they settled
again to their business. It was pretty to see the quiet ease and
apparent nonchalance and almost affected absence of bustle of those
who knew their work,—among whom were especially to be named young
Hampton, and the elder Botsey, and Lord Rufford, and, above all, a
dark-visaged, long-whiskered, sombre, military man who had been in
the carriage with Lord Rufford, and who had hardly spoken a word to
any one the whole day. This was the celebrated Major Caneback, known
to all the world as one of the dullest men and best riders across
country that England had ever produced. But he was not so dull but
that he knew how to make use of his accomplishment, so as always to
be able to get a mount on a friend's horses. If a man wanted to make
a horse, or to try a horse, or to sell a horse, or to buy a horse, he
delighted to put Major Caneback up. The Major was sympathetic and made
his friend's horses, and tried them, and sold them. Then he would take
his two bottles of wine,—of course from his friend's cellar,—and
when asked about the day's sport would be oracular in two words,
"Rather slow," "Quick spurt," "Goodish thing," "Regularly mulled," and
such like. Nevertheless it was a great thing to have Major Caneback
with you. To the list of those who rode well and quietly must in
justice be added our friend Larry Twentyman, who was in truth a good
horseman. And he had three things to do which it was difficult enough
to combine. He had a young horse which he would have liked to sell; he
had to coach Kate Masters on his pony; and he desired to ride like
Major Caneback.
From Impington Park they went in a straight line to Littleton Gorse
skirting certain small woods which the fox disdained to enter. Here
the pace was very good, and the country was all grass. It was the
very cream of the U.R.U; and could the Senator have read the feelings
of the dozen leading men in the run, he would have owned that they
were for the time satisfied with their amusement. Could he have read
Kate Master's feelings he would have had to own that she was in an
earthly Paradise. When the pony paused at the big brook, brought his
four legs steadily down on the brink as though he were going to bathe,
then with a bend of his back leaped to the other side, dropping his
hind legs in and instantly recovering them, and when she saw that
Larry had waited just a moment for her, watching to see what might be
her fate, she was in heaven. "Wasn't it a big one, Larry?" she asked
in her triumph. "He did go in behind!" "Those cats of things always do
it somehow," Larry replied darting forward again and keeping the Major
well in his eye. The brook had stopped one or two, and tidings came up
that Ned Botsey had broken his horse's back. The knowledge of the
brook had sent some round by the road,—steady riding men such as Mr.
Runciman and Doctor Nupper. Captain Glomax had got into it and came up
afterwards wet through, with temper by no means improved. But the
glory of the day had been the way in which Lord Rufford's young bay
mare, who had never seen a brook before, had flown over it with the
Major on her back, taking it, as Larry afterwards described, "just in
her stride, without condescending to look at it. I was just behind the
Major, and saw her do it" Larry understood that a man should never
talk of his own place in a run, but he didn't quite understand that
neither should he talk of having been close to another man who was
supposed to have had the best of it. Lord Rufford, who didn't talk
much of these things, quite understood that he had received full value
for his billet and mount in the improved character of his mare.
Then there, was a little difficulty at the boundary fence of
Impington Hall Farm. The Major who didn't know the ground, tried it
at an impracticable place, and brought his mare down. But she fell at
the right side, and he was quick enough in getting away from her, not
to fall under her in the ditch. Tony Tuppet, who knew every foot of
that double ditch and bank, and every foot in the hedge above, kept
well to the left and crept through a spot where one ditch ran into the
other, intersecting of the fence. Tony, like a knowing huntsman as he
was, rode always for the finish and not for immediate glory. Both Lord
Rufford and Hampton, who in spite of their affected nonchalance were
in truth rather riding against one another, took it all in a fly,
choosing a lighter spot than that which the Major had encountered.
Larry had longed to follow them, or rather to take it alongside of
them, but was mindful at last of Kate and hurried down the ditch to
the spot which Tony had chosen and which was now crowded by horsemen.
"He would have done it as well as the best of them," said Kate,
panting for breath.
"We're all right," said Larry. "Follow me. Don't let them hustle
you out. Now, Mat, can't you make way for a lady half a minute?" Mat
growled, quite understanding the use which was being made of Kate
Masters; but he did give way and was rewarded with a gracious smile.
"You are going uncommon well, Miss Kate," said Mat, "and I won't stop
you." "I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Ruggles," said Kate, not
scrupling for a moment to take the advantage offered her. The fox had
turned a little to the left, which was in Larry's favour, and the
Major was now close to him, covered on one side with mud, but still
looking as though the mud were all right. There are some men who can
crush their hats, have their boots and breeches full of water, and be
covered with dirt from their faces downwards, and yet look as though
nothing were amiss, while, with others, the marks of a fall are always
provocative either of pity or ridicule. "I hope you're not hurt, Major
Caneback," said Larry, glad of the occasion to speak to so
distinguished an individual. The Major grunted as he rode on, finding
no necessity here even for his customary two words. Little accidents,
such as that, were the price he paid for his day's entertainment.
As they got within view of Littleton Gorse Hampton, Lord Rufford,
and Tony had the best of it, though two or three farmers were very
close to them. At this moment Tony's mind was much disturbed, and he
looked round more than once for Captain Glomax. Captain Glomax had got
into the brook, and had then ridden down to the high road which ran
here near to them and which, as he knew, ran within one field of the
gorse. He had lost his place and had got a ducking and was a little
out of humour with things in general. It had not been his purpose to
go to Impington on this day, and he was still, in his mind, saying
evil things of the U.R.U. respecting that poisoned fox. Perhaps he was
thinking, as itinerant masters often must think, that it was very hard
to have to bear so many unpleasant things for a poor 2,000 pounds a
year, and meditating, as he had done for the last two seasons, a
threat that unless the money were increased, he wouldn't hunt the
country more than three times a week. As Tony got near to the gorse
and also near to the road he managed with infinite skill to get the
hounds off the scent, and to make a fictitious cast to the left as
though he thought the fox had traversed that way. Tony knew well
enough that the fox was at that moment in Littleton Gorse;—but he
knew also that the gorse was only six acres, that such a fox as he had
before him wouldn't stay there two minutes after the first hound was
in it, and that Dillsborough Wood, which to his imagination was full
of poison,— would then be only a mile and a half before him. Tony,
whose fault was a tendency to mystery,—as is the fault of most
huntsmen,— having accomplished his object in stopping the hounds,
pretended to cast about with great diligence. He crossed the road and
was down one side of a field and along another, looking anxiously for
the Captain. "The fox has gone on to the gorse," said the elder
Botsey; "what a stupid old pig he is;"—meaning that Tony Tuppet was
the pig.
"He was seen going on," said Larry, who had come across a man
mending a drain.
"It would be his run of course," said Hampton, who was generally up
to Tony's wiles, but who was now as much in the dark as others. Then
four or five rode up to the huntsman and told him that the fox had
been seen heading for the gorse. Tony said not a word but bit his lips
and scratched his head and bethought himself what fools men might be
even though they did ride well to hounds. One word of explanation
would have settled it all, but he would not speak that word till he
whispered it to Captain Glomax.
In the meantime there was a crowd in the road waiting to see the
result of Tony's manoeuvres. And then, as is usual on such occasions,
a little mild repartee went about,—what the sportsmen themselves
would have called "chaff." Ned Botsey came up, not having broken his
horse's back as had been rumoured, but having had to drag the brute
out of the brook with the help of two countrymen, and the Major was
asked about his fall till he was forced to open his mouth. "Double
ditch; mare fell; matter of course." And then he got himself out of
the crowd, disgusted with the littleness of mankind. Lord Rufford had
been riding a very big chestnut horse, and had watched the anxious
struggles of Kate Masters to hold her place. Kate, though fifteen, and
quite up to that age in intelligence and impudence, was small and
looked almost a child. "That's a nice pony of yours, my dear," said
the Lord. Kate, who didn't quite like being called "my dear," but who
knew that a lord has privileges, said that it was a very good pony.
"Suppose we change," said his lordship. "Could you ride my horse?"
"He's very big," said Kate. "You'd look like a tom-tit on a haystack,"
said his lordship. "And if you got on my pony, you'd look like a
haystack on a tom-tit," said Kate. Then it was felt that Kate Masters
had had the best of that little encounter. "Yes;—I got one there,"
said Lord Rufford, while his friends were laughing at him.
At length Captain Glomax was seen in the road and Tony was with him
at once, whispering in his ear that the hounds if allowed to go on
would certainly run into Dillsborough Wood. "D— the hounds,"
muttered the Captain; but he knew too well what he was about to face
so terrible a danger. "They're going home," he said as soon as he had
joined Lord Rufford and the crowd.
"Going home!" exclaimed a pink-coated young rider of a hired horse
which had been going well with him; and as he said so he looked at
his watch.
"Unless you particularly wish me to take the hounds to some covert
twenty miles off," answered the sarcastic Master.
"The fox certainly went on to Littleton," said the elder Botsey.
"My dear fellow," said the Captain, "I can tell you where the fox
went quite as well as you can tell me. Do allow a man to know what
he's about some times."
"It isn't generally the custom here to take the hounds off a
running fox," continued Botsey, who subscribed 50 pounds, and did not
like being snubbed.
"And it isn't generally the custom to have fox-coverts poisoned,"
said the Captain, assuming to himself the credit due to Tony's
sagacity. "If you wish to be Master of these hounds I haven't the
slightest objection, but while I'm responsible you must allow me to
do my work according to my own judgment" Then the thing was
understood and Captain Glomax was allowed to carry off the hounds and
his ill-humour without another word.
But just at that moment, while the hounds and the master, and Lord
Rufford and his friends, were turning back in their own direction,
John Morton came up with his carriage and the Senator. "Is it all
over?" asked the Senator.
"All over for to-day," said Lord Rufford. "Did you catch the
animal?"
"No, Mr. Gotobed; we couldn't catch him. To tell the truth we
didn't try; but we had a nice little skurry for four or five miles."
"Some of you look very wet" Captain Glomax and Ned Botsey were
standing near the carriage; but the Captain as soon as he heard this,
broke into a trot and followed the hounds.
"Some of us are very wet," said Ned. "That's part of the fun."
"Oh;—that's part of the fun. You found one fox dead and you didn't
kill another because you didn't try. Well; Mr. Morton, I don't think
I shall take to fox hunting even though they should introduce it in
Mickewa. "What's become of the rest of the men?"
"Most of them are in the brook," said Ned Botsey as he rode on
towards Dillsborough.
Mr. Runciman was also there and trotted on homewards with Botsey,
Larry, and Kate Masters. "I think I've won my bet," said the
hotel-keeper.
"I don't see that at all. We didn't find in Dillsborough Wood."
"I say we did find in Dillsborough Wood. We found a fox though
unfortunately the poor brute was dead."
"The bet's off I should say. What do you say, Larry?"
Then Runciman argued his case at great length and with much
ability. It had been intended that the bet should be governed by the
fact whether Dillsborough Wood did or did not contain a fox on that
morning. He himself had backed the wood, and Botsey had been strong in
his opinion against the wood. Which of them had been practically
right? Had not the presence of the poisoned fox shown that he was
right? "I think you ought to pay," said Larry.
"All right," said Botsey riding on, and telling himself that that
was what came from making a bet with a man who was not a gentleman.
"He's as unhappy about that hat," said Runciman, "as though beer
had gone down a penny a gallon."
CHAPTER XII. Arabella Trefoil
On the Sunday the party from Bragton went to the parish church,—
and found it very cold. The duty was done by a young curate who lived
in Dillsborough, there being no house in Bragton for him. The rector
himself had not been in the church for the last six months, being an
invalid. At present he and his wife were away in London, but the
vicarage was kept up for his use. The service was certainly not
alluring. It was a very wet morning and the curate had ridden over
from Dillsborough on a little pony which the rector kept for him in
addition to the 100 pounds per annum paid for his services. That he
should have got over his service quickly was not a matter of
surprise,—nor was it wonderful that there should have been no
soul-stirring matter in his discourse as he had two sermons to preach
every week and to perform single-handed all the other clerical duties
of a parish lying four miles distant from his lodgings. Perhaps had he
expected the presence of so distinguished a critic as the Senator from
Mickewa he might have done better. As it was, being nearly wet through
and muddy up to his knees, he did not do the work very well. When
Morton and his friends left the church and got into the carriage for
their half-mile drive home across the park, Mrs. Morton was the first
to speak. "John," she said, "that church is enough to give any woman
her death. I won't go there any more."
"They don't understand warming a church in the country," said John
apologetically.
"Is it not a little too large for the congregation?" asked the
Senator.
The church was large and straggling and ill arranged, and on this
particular Sunday had been almost empty. There was in it an harmonium
which Mrs. Puttock played when she was at home, but in her absence the
attempt made by a few rustics to sing the hymns had not been a musical
success. The whole affair had been very sad, and so the Paragon had
felt it who knew,—and was remembering through the whole service, how
these things are done in transatlantic cities.
"The weather kept the people away I suppose," said Morton.
"Does that gentleman generally draw large congregations?" asked the
persistent Senator.
"We don't go in for drawing congregations here." Under the
cross-examination of his guest the Secretary of Legation almost lost
his diplomatic good temper. "We have a church in every parish for
those who choose to attend it"
"And very few do choose," said the Senator. "I can't say that
they're wrong." There seemed at the moment to be no necessity to
carry the disagreeable conversation any further as they had now
reached the house. Mrs. Morton immediately went up-stairs, and the
two gentlemen took themselves to the fire in the so-called library,
which room was being used as more commodious than the big
drawing-room. Mr. Gotobed placed himself on the rug with his back to
the fire and immediately reverted to the Church. "That gentleman is
paid by tithes I suppose."
"He's not the rector. He's a curate."
"Ah;—just so. He looked like a curate. Doesn't the rector do
anything?"
Then Morton, who was by this time heartily sick of explaining,
explained the unfortunate state of Mr. Puttock's health, and the
conversation was carried on till gradually the Senator learned that
Mr. Puttock received 800 pounds a year and a house for doing nothing,
and that he paid his deputy 100 pounds a year with the use of a pony.
"And how long will that be allowed to go on, Mr. Morton?" asked the
Senator.
To all these inquiries Morton found himself compelled not only to
answer, but to answer the truth. Any prevarication or attempt at
mystification fell to the ground at once under the Senator's
tremendous powers of inquiry. It had been going on for four years,
and would probably go on now till Mr. Puttock died. "A man of his age
with the asthma may live for twenty years," said the Senator who had
already learned that Mr. Puttock was only fifty. Then he ascertained
that Mr. Puttock had not been presented to, or selected for the living
on account of any peculiar fitness;—but that he had been a fellow of
Rufford at Oxford till he was forty-five, when he had thought it well
to marry and take a living. "But he must have been asthmatic then?"
said the Senator.
"He may have had all the ailments endured by the human race for
anything I know," said the unhappy host.
"And for anything the bishop cared as far as I can see," said the
Senator. "Well now, I guess, that couldn't occur in our country. A
minister may turn out badly with us as well as with you. But we don't
appoint a man without inquiry as to his fitness,—and if a man can't
do his duty he has to give way to some one who can. If the sick man
took the small portion of the stipend and the working man the larger,
would not better justice be done, and the people better served?"
"Mr. Puttock has a freehold in the parish."
"A freehold possession of men's souls! The fact is, Mr. Morton,
that the spirit of conservatism in this country is so strong that you
cannot bear to part with a shred of the barbarism of the middle ages.
And when a rag is sent to the winds you shriek with agony at the
disruption, and think that the wound will be mortal." As Mr. Gotobed
said this he extended his right hand and laid his left on his breast
as though he were addressing the Senate from his own chair. Morton,
who had offered to entertain the gentleman for ten days, sincerely
wished that he were doing so.
On the Monday afternoon the Trefoils arrived. Mr. Morton, with his
mother and both the carriages, went down to receive them,—with a
cart also for luggage, which was fortunate, as Arabella Trefoil's big
box was very big indeed, and Lady Augustus, though she was economical
in most things, had brought a comfortable amount of clothes. Each of
them had her own lady's maid, so that the two carriages were
necessary. How it was that these ladies lived so luxuriously was a
mystery to their friends, as for some time past they had enjoyed no
particular income of their own. Lord Augustus had spent everything
that came to his hand, and the family owned no house at all.
Nevertheless Arabella Trefoil was to be seen at all parties
magnificently dressed, and never stirred anywhere without her own
maid. It would have been as grievous to her to be called on to live
without food as to go without this necessary appendage. She was a big,
fair girl whose copious hair was managed after such a fashion that no
one could guess what was her own and what was purchased. She certainly
had fine eyes, though I could never imagine how any one could look at
them and think it possible that she should be in love. They were very
large, beautifully blue, but never bright; and the eyebrows over them
were perfect. Her cheeks were somewhat too long and the distance from
her well-formed nose, to her upper lip too great. Her mouth was small
and her teeth excellent. But the charm of which men spoke the most was
the brilliance of her complexion. If, as the ladies said, it was all
paint, she, or her maid, must have been a great artist. It never
betrayed itself to be paint. But the beauty on which she prided
herself was the grace of her motion. Though she was tall and big she
never allowed an awkward movement to escape from her. She certainly
did it very well. No young woman could walk across an archery ground
with a finer step, or manage a train with more perfect ease, or sit
upon her horse with a more complete look of being at home there. No
doubt she was slow, but though slow she never seemed to drag. Now she
was, after a certain fashion, engaged to marry John Morton and perhaps
she was one of the most unhappy young persons in England.
She had long known that it was her duty to marry, and especially
her duty to marry well. Between her and her mother there had been no
reticence on this subject. With worldly people in general, though the
worldliness is manifest enough and is taught by plain lessons from
parents to their children, yet there is generally some thin veil even
among themselves, some transparent tissue of lies, which, though they
never quite hope to deceive each other, does produce among them
something of the comfort of deceit. But between Lady Augustus and her
daughter there had for many years been nothing of the kind. The
daughter herself had been too honest for it. "As for caring about him,
mamma," she had once said, speaking of a suitor, "of course I don't.
He is nasty, and odious in every way. But I have got to do the best I
can, and what is the use of talking about such trash as that?" Then
there had been no more trash between them.
It was not John Morton whom Arabella Trefoil had called nasty and
odious. She had had many lovers, and had been engaged to not a few,
and perhaps she liked John Morton as well as any of them, except one.
He was quiet, and looked like a gentleman, and was reputed for no
vices. Nor did she quarrel with her fate in that he himself was not
addicted to any pleasures. She herself did not care much for pleasure.
But she did care to be a great lady,—one who would be allowed to swim
out of rooms before others, one who could snub others, one who could
show real diamonds when others wore paste, one who might be sure to be
asked everywhere even by the people who hated her. She rather liked
being hated by women and did not want any man to be in love with
her,—except as far as might be sufficient for the purpose of
marriage. The real diamonds and the high rank would not be hers with
John Morton. She would have to be content with such rank as is
accorded to Ministers at the Courts at which they are employed. The
fall would be great from what she had once expected,—and therefore
she was miserable. There had been a young man, of immense wealth, of
great rank, whom at one time she really had fancied that she had
loved; but just as she was landing her prey, the prey had been rescued
from her by powerful friends, and she had been all but broken-hearted.
Mr. Morton's fortune was in her eyes small, and she was beginning to
learn that he knew how to take care of his own money. Already there
had been difficulties as to settlements, difficulties as to pin-money,
difficulties as to residence, Lady Augustus having been very urgent.
John Morton, who had really been captivated by the beauty of Arabella,
was quite in earnest; but there were subjects on which he would not
give way. He was anxious to put his best leg foremost so that the
beauty might be satisfied and might become his own, but there was a
limit beyond which he would not go. Lady Augustus had more than once
said to her daughter that it would not do; and then there would be all
the weary work to do again!
Nobody seeing the meeting on the platform would have imagined that
Mr. Morton and Miss Trefoil were lovers,—and as for Lady Augustus it
would have been thought that she was in some special degree offended
with the gentleman who had come to meet her. She just gave him the tip
of her fingers and then turned away to her maid and called for the
porters and made herself particular and disagreeable. Arabella
vouchsafed a cold smile, but then her smiles were always cold. After
that she stood still and shivered. "Are you cold?" asked Morton. She
shook her head and shivered again. "Perhaps you are tired?" Then she
nodded her head. When her maid came to her in some trouble about the
luggage, she begged that she "might not be bothered;" saying that no
doubt her mother knew all about it. "Can I do anything?" asked Morton.
"Nothing at all I should think," said Miss Trefoil. In the meantime
old Mrs. Morton was standing by as black as thunder—for the Trefoil
ladies had hardly noticed her.
The luggage turned up all right at last,—as luggage always does,
and was stowed away in the cart. Then came the carriage arrangement.
Morton had intended that the two elder ladies should go together with
one of the maids, and that he should put his love into the other,
which having a seat behind could accommodate the second girl without
disturbing them in the carriage. But Lady Augustus had made some
exception to this and had begged that her daughter might be seated
with herself. It was a point which Morton could not contest out there
among the porters and drivers, so that at last he and his grandmother
had the phaeton together with the two maids in the rumble. "I never
saw such manners in all my life," said the Honourable Mrs. Morton,
almost bursting with passion.
"They are cold and tired, ma'am."
"No lady should be too cold or too tired to conduct herself with
propriety. No real lady is ever so."
"The place is strange to them, you know."
"I hope with all my heart that it may never be otherwise than
strange to them."
When they arrived at the house the strangers were carried into the
library and tea was of course brought to them. The American Senator
was there, but the greetings were very cold. Mrs. Morton took her
place and offered her hospitality in the most frigid manner. There
had not been the smallest spark of love's flame shown as yet, nor did
the girl as she sat sipping her tea seem to think that any such spark
was wanted. Morton did get a seat beside her and managed to take away
her muff and one of her shawls, but she gave them to him almost as she
might have done to a servant. She smiled indeed, but she smiled as
some women smile at everybody who has any intercourse with them. "I
think perhaps Mrs. Morton will let us go up-stairs," said Lady
Augustus. Mrs. Morton immediately rang the bell and prepared to
precede the ladies to their chambers. Let them be as insolent as they
would she would do what she conceived to be her duty. Then Lady
Augustus stalked out of the room and her daughter swum after her.
"They don't seem to be quite the same as they were in Washington,"
said the Senator.
John Morton got up and left the room without making any reply. He
was thoroughly unhappy. What was he to do for a week with such a
houseful of people? And then, what was he to do for all his life if
the presiding spirit of the house was to be such a one as this? She
was very beautiful—certainly. So he told himself; and yet as he
walked round the park he almost repented of what he had done. But
after twenty minutes fast walking he was able to convince himself
that all the fault on this occasion lay with the mother. Lady
Augustus had been fatigued with her journey and had therefore made
everybody near her miserable.
CHAPTER XIII. At Bragton
When the ladies went up-stairs the afternoon was not half over and
they did not dine till past seven. As Morton returned to the house in
the dusk he thought that perhaps Arabella might make some attempt to
throw herself in his way. She had often done so when they were not
engaged, and surely she might do so now. There was nothing to prevent
her coming down to the library when she had got rid of her travelling
clothes, and in this hope he looked into the room. As soon as the door
was open the Senator, who was preparing his lecture in his mind, at
once asked whether no one in England had an apparatus for warming
rooms such as was to be found in every well-built house in the States.
The Paragon hardly vouchsafed him a word of reply, but escaped
up-stairs trusting that he might meet Miss Trefoil on the way. He was
a bold man and even ventured to knock at her door;—but there was no
reply, and, fearing the Senator, he had to betake himself to his own
privacy. Miss Trefoil had migrated to her mother's room, and there,
over the fire, was holding a little domestic conversation. "I never
saw such a barrack in my life," said Lady Augustus.
"Of course, mamma, we knew that we should find the house such as it
was left a hundred years ago. He told us that himself."
"He should have put something in it to make it at any rate decent
before we came in."
"What's the use if he's to live always at foreign courts?"
"He intends to come home sometimes, I suppose, and, if he didn't,
you would." Lady Augustus was not going to let her daughter marry a
man who could not give her a home for at any rate a part of the year.
"Of course he must furnish the place and have an immense deal done
before he can marry. I think it is a piece of impudence to bring one
to such a place as this."
"That's nonsense, mamma, because he told us all about it"
"The more I see of it all, Arabella, the more sure I am that it
won't do."
"It must do, mamma."
"Twelve hundred a year is all that he offers, and his lawyer says
that he will make no stipulation whatever as to an allowance."
"Really, mamma, you might leave that to me."
"I like to have everything fixed, my dear,—and certain."
"Nothing really ever is certain. While there is anything to get you
may be sure that I shall have my share. As far as money goes I'm not
a bit afraid of having the worst of it,—only there will be so very
little between us."
"That's just it."
"There's no doubt about the property, mamma."
"A nasty beggarly place!"
"And from what everybody says he's sure to be a minister or
ambassador or something of that sort."
"I've no doubt he will. And where'll he have to go to? To Brazil,
or the West Indies, or some British Colony," said her ladyship
showing her ignorance of the Foreign Office service. "That might be
very well. You could stay at home. Only where would you live? He
wouldn't keep a house in town for you. Is this the sort of place
you'd like?"
"I don't think it makes any difference where one is," said Arabella
disgusted.
"But I do,—a very great difference. It seems to me that he's
altogether under the control of that hideous old termagant. Arabella,
I think you'd better make up your mind that it won't do."
"It must do," said Arabella.
"You're very fond of him it seems."
"Mamma, how you do delight to torture me;—as if my life weren't
bad enough without your making it worse."
"I tell you, my dear, what I'm bound to. tell you—as your mother.
I have my duty to do whether it's painful or not."
"That's nonsense, mamma. You know it is. That might have been all
very well ten years ago."
"You were almost in your cradle, my dear."
"Psha! cradle! I'll tell you what it is, mamma. I've been at it
till I'm nearly broken down. I must settle somewhere;—or else
die;—or else run away. I can't stand this any longer and I won't.
Talk of work,—men's work! What man ever has to work as I do? I
wonder which was the hardest part of that work, the hairdressing and
painting and companionship of the lady's maid or the continual smiling
upon unmarried men to whom she had nothing to say and for whom she did
not in the least care! I can't do it any more, and I won't. As for Mr.
Morton, I don't care that for him. You know I don't. I never cared
much for anybody, and shall never again care at all."
"You'll find that will come all right after you are married."
"Like you and papa, I suppose."
"My dear, I had no mother to take care of me, or I shouldn't have
married your father."
"I wish you hadn't, because then I shouldn't be going to marry Mr.
Morton. But, as I have got so far, for heaven's sake let it go on. If
you break with him I'll tell him everything and throw myself into his
hands." Lady Augustus sighed deeply. "I will, mamma. It was you
spotted this man, and when you said that you thought it would do, I
gave way. He was the last man in the world I should have thought of
myself."
"We had heard so much about Bragton!"
"And Bragton is here. The estate is not out of elbows."
"My dear, my opinion is that we've made a mistake. He's not the
sort of man I took him to be. He's as hard as a file."
"Leave that to me, mammal"
"You are determined then?"
"I think I am. At any rate let me look about me. Don't give him an
opportunity of breaking off till I have made up my mind. I can always
break off if I like it. No one in London has heard of the engagement
yet. Just leave me alone for this week to see what I think about it"
Then Lady Augustus threw herself back in her chair and went to sleep,
or pretended to do so.
A little after half-past seven she and her daughter, dressed for
dinner, went down to the library together. The other guests were
assembled there, and Mrs. Morton was already plainly expressing her
anger at the tardiness of her son's guests. The Senator had got hold
of Mr. Mainwaring and was asking pressing questions as to church
patronage,—a subject not very agreeable to the rector of St. John's,
as his living had been bought for him with his wife's money during the
incumbency of an old gentleman of seventy-eight. Mr. Cooper, who was
himself nearly that age and who was vicar of Mallingham, a parish
which ran into Dillsborough and comprehended a part of its population,
was listening to these queries with awe, and perhaps with some little
gratification, as he had been presented to his living by the bishop
after a curacy of many years. "This kind of things, I believe, can be
bought and sold in the market," said the Senator, speaking every word
with absolute distinctness. But as he paused for an answer the two
ladies came in and the conversation was changed. Both the clergymen
were introduced to Lady Augustus and her daughter, and Mr. Mainwaring
at once took refuge under the shadow of the ladies' title.
Arabella did not sit down, so that Morton had an opportunity of
standing near to his love. "I suppose you are very tired," he said.
"Not in the least." She smiled her sweetest as she answered him,—
but yet it was not very sweet. "Of course we were tired and cross
when we got out of the train. People always are; aren't they?"
"Perhaps ladies are."
"We were. But all that about the carriages, Mr. Morton, wasn't my
doing. Mamma had been talking to me so much that I didn't know
whether I was on my head or my heels. It was very good of you to come
and meet us, and I ought to have been more gracious." In this way she
made her peace, and as she was quite in earnest,—doing a portion of
the hard work of her life,—she continued to smile as sweetly as she
could. Perhaps he liked it;—but any man endowed with that power of
appreciation which we call sympathy, would have felt it to be as cold
as though it had come from a figure on a glass window.
The dinner was announced. Mr. Morton was honoured with the hand of
Lady Augustus. The Senator handed the old lady into the dining-room
and Mr. Mainwaring the younger lady,—so that Arabella was sitting
next to her lover. It had all been planned by Morton and acceded to
by his grandmother. Mr. Gotobed throughout the dinner had the best of
the conversation, though Lady Augustus had power enough to snub him on
more than one occasion. "Suppose we were to allow at once," she said,
"that everything is better in the United States than anywhere else,
shouldn't we get along easier?"
"I don't know that getting along easy is what we have particularly
got in view," said Mr. Gotobed, who was certainly in quest of
information.
"But it is what I have in view, Mr. Gotobed;—so if you please
we'll take the pre-eminence of your country for granted." Then she
turned to Mr. Mainwaring on the other side. Upon this the Senator
addressed himself for a while to the table at large and had soon
forgotten altogether the expression of the lady's wishes.
"I believe you have a good many churches about here," said Lady
Augustus trying to make conversation to her neighbour.
"One in every parish, I fancy," said Mr. Mainwaring, who preferred
all subjects to clerical subjects. "I suppose London is quite empty
now."
"We came direct from the Duke's," said Lady Augustus, "and did not
even sleep in town;—but it is empty." The Duke was the brother of
Lord Augustus, and a compromise had been made with Lady Augustus, by
which she and her daughter should be allowed a fortnight every year at
the Duke's place in the country, and a certain amount of entertainment
in town.
"I remember the Duke at Christchurch," said the parson. "He and I
were of the same par. He was Lord Mistletoe then. Dear me, that was a
long time ago. I wonder whether he remembers being upset out of a trap
with me one day after dinner. I suppose we had dined in earnest. He
has gone his way, and I have gone mine, and I've never seen him since.
Pray remember me to him." Lady Augustus said she would, and did
entertain some little increased respect for the clergyman who could
boast that he had been tipsy in company with her worthy
brother-in-law.
Poor Mr. Cooper did not get on very well with Mrs. Morton. All his
remembrances of the old squire were eulogistic and affectionate. Hers
were just the reverse. He had a good word to say for Reginald
Morton,—to which she would not even listen. She was willing enough
to ask questions about the Mallingham tenants;—but Mr. Cooper would
revert back to the old days, and so conversation was at an end.
Morton tried to make himself agreeable to his left-hand neighbour,
trying also very hard to make himself believe that he was happy in
his immediate position. How often in the various amusements of the
world is one tempted to pause a moment and ask oneself whether one
really likes it! He was conscious that he was working hard,
struggling to be happy, painfully anxious to be sure that he was
enjoying the luxury of being in love. But he was not at all
contented. There she was, and very beautiful she looked; and he
thought that he could be proud of her if she sat at the end of his
table;—and he knew that she was engaged to be his wife. But he
doubted whether she was in love with him; and he almost doubted
sometimes whether he was very much in love with her. He asked her in
so many words what he should do to amuse her. Would she like to ride
with him, as if so he would endeavour to get saddle-horses. Would she
like to go out hunting? Would she be taken round to see the
neighbouring towns, Rufford and Norrington? "Lord Rufford lives
somewhere near Rufford?" she asked. Yes; he lived at Rufford Hall,
three or four miles from the town. Did Lord Rufford hunt? Morton
believed that he was greatly given to hunting. Then he asked Arabella
whether she knew the young lord. She had just met him, she said, and
had only asked the question because of the name. "He is one of my
neighbours down here," said Morton;—"but being always away of course
I see nothing of him." After that Arabella consented to be taken out
on horseback to see a meet of the hounds although she could not hunt.
"We must see what we can do about horses," he said. She however
professed her readiness to go in the carriage if a saddle-horse could
not be found.
The dinner party I fear was very dull. Mr. Mainwaring perhaps liked
it because he was fond of dining anywhere away from home. Mr. Cooper
was glad once more to see his late old friend's old dining-room. Mr.
Gotobed perhaps obtained some information. But otherwise the affair
was dull. "Are we to have a week of this?" said Lady Augustus when she
found herself up-stairs.
"You must, mamma, if we are to stay till we go to the Gores. Lord
Rufford is here in the neighbourhood."
"But they don't know each other."
"Yes they do;—slightly. I am to go to the meet someday and he'll
be there."
"It might be dangerous."
"Nonsense, mamma! And after all you've been saying about dropping
Mr. Morton!"
"But there is nothing so bad as a useless flirtation."
"Do I ever flirt? Oh, mamma, that after so many years you shouldn't
know me! Did you ever see me yet making myself happy in any way? What
nonsense you talk!" Then without waiting for, or making, any apology,
she walked off to her own room.
CHAPTER XIV. The Dillsborough Feud
"It's that nasty, beastly, drunken club," said Mrs. Masters to her
unfortunate husband on the Wednesday morning. It may perhaps be
remembered that the poisoned fox was found on the Saturday, and it
may be imagined that Mr. Goarly had risen in importance since that
day. On the Saturday Bean with a couple of men employed by Lord
Rufford, had searched the wood, and found four or five red herrings
poisoned with strychnine. There had been no doubt about the magnitude
of the offence. On the Monday a detective policeman, dressed of course
in rustic disguise but not the less known to every one in the place,
was wandering about between Dillsborough and Dillsborough Wood and
making futile inquiries as to the purchase of strychnine,—and also as
to the purchase of red herrings. But every one knew, and such leading
people as Runciman and Dr. Nupper were not slow to declare, that
Dillsborough was the only place in England in which one might be sure
that those articles had not been purchased. And on the Tuesday it
began to be understood that Goarly had applied to Bearside, the other
attorney, in reference to his claim against Lord Rufford's pheasants.
He had contemptuously refused the 7s. 6d. an acre offered him, and put
his demand at 40s. As to the poisoned fox and the herrings and the
strychnine Goarly declared that he didn't care if there were twenty
detectives in the place. He stated it to be his opinion that Larry
Twentyman had put down the poison. It was all very well, Goarly said,
for Larry to be fond of gentlemen and to ride to hounds, and make
pretences;—but Larry liked his turkeys as well as anybody else, and
Larry had put down the poison. In this matter Goarly overreached
himself. No one in Dillsborough could be brought to believe that. Even
Harry Stubbings was ready to swear that he should suspect himself as
soon. But nothing was clearer than this,—that Goarly was going to
make a stand against the hunt and especially against Lord Rufford. He
had gone to Bearside and Bearside had taken up the matter in a serious
way. Then it became known very quickly that Bearside had already
received money, and it was surmised that Goarly had some one at his
back. Lord Rufford had lately ejected from a house of his on the other
side of the county a discontented litigious retired grocer from
Rufford, who had made some money and had set himself up in a pretty
little residence with a few acres of land. The man had made himself
objectionable and had been dispossessed. The man's name was Scrobby;
and hence had come these sorrows. This was the story that had already
made itself known in Dillsborough on the Tuesday evening. But up to
that time not a tittle of evidence had come to light as to the
purchase of the red herrings or the strychnine. All that was known was
the fact that had not Tony Tuppett stopped the hounds before they
reached the wood, there must have been a terrible mortality. "It's
that nasty, beastly, drunken club," said Mrs. Masters to her husband.
Of course it was at this time known to the lady that her husband had
thrown away Goarly's business and that it had been transferred to
Bearside. It was also surmised by her, as it was by the town in
general, that Goarly's business would come to considerable
dimensions;—just the sort of case as would have been sure to bring
popularity if carried through, as Nickem, the senior clerk, would
have carried it. And as soon as Scrobby's name was heard by Mrs.
Masters, there was no end to the money in the lady's imagination to
which this very case might not have amounted.
"The club had nothing to do with it, my dear."
"What time did you come home on Saturday night;—or Sunday morning
I mean? Do you mean to tell me you didn't settle it there?"
"There was no nastiness, and no beastliness, and no drunkenness
about it. I told you before I went that I wouldn't take it"
"No;—you didn't. How on earth are you to go on if you chuck the
children's bread out of their mouths in that way?"
"You won't believe me. Do you ask Twentyman what sort of a man
Goarly is." The attorney knew that Larry was in great favour with his
wife as being the favoured suitor for Mary's hand, and had thought
that this argument would be very strong.
"I don't want Mr. Twentyman to teach me what is proper for my
family,—nor yet to teach you your business. Mr. Twentyman has his
own way of living. He brought home Kate the other day with hardly a
rag of her sister's habit left. She don't go out hunting any more."
"Very well, my dear."
"Indeed for the matter of that I don't see how any of them are to
do anything. What'll Lord Rufford do for you?"
"I don't want Lord Rufford to do anything for me." The attorney was
beginning to have his spirit stirred within him.
"You don't want anybody to do anything, and yet you will do nothing
yourself, just because a set of drinking fellows in a tap-room, which
you call a club—"
"It isn't a tap-room."
"It's worse, because nobody can see what you're doing. I know how
it was. You hadn't the pluck to hold to your own when Runciman told
you not" There was a spice of truth in this which made it all the
more bitter. "Runciman knows on which side his bread is buttered. He
can make his money out of these swearing-tearing fellows. He can send
in his bills, and get them paid too. And it's all very well for Larry
Twentyman to be hobbing and nobbing with the likes of them Botseys.
But for a father of a family like you to be put off his business by
what Mr. Runciman says is a shame."
"I shall manage my business as I think fit," said the attorney.
"And when we're all in the poor-house what'll you do then?" said
Mrs. Masters,—with her handkerchief out at the spur of the moment.
Whenever she roused her husband to a state of bellicose ire by her
taunts she could always reduce him again by her tears. Being well
aware of this he would bear the taunts as long as he could, knowing
that the tears would be still worse. He was so soft-hearted that when
she affected to be miserable, he could not maintain the sternness of
his demeanour and leave her in her misery. "When everything has gone
away from us, what are we to do? My little bit of money has
disappeared ever so long." Then she sat herself down in her chair and
had a great cry. It was useless for him to remind her that hitherto
she had never wanted anything for herself or her children. She was
resolved that everything was going to the dogs because Goarly's case
had been refused. "And what will all those sporting men do for you?"
she repeated. "I hate the very name of a gentleman;—so I do. I wish
Goarly had killed all the foxes in the county. Nasty vermin! What good
are the likes of them?"
Nickem, the senior clerk, was at first made almost as unhappy as
Mrs. Masters by the weak decision to which his employer had come, and
had in the first flush of his anger resolved to leave the office. He
was sure that the case was one which would just have suited him. He
would have got up the evidence as to the fertility of the land, the
enormous promise of crop, and the ultimate absolute barrenness, to a
marvel. He would have proved clouds of pheasants. And then Goarly's
humble position, futile industry, and general poverty might have been
contrasted beautifully with Lord Rufford's wealth, idleness, and
devotion to sport. Anything above the 7s. 6d. an acre obtained against
the lord would have been a triumph, and he thought that if the thing
had been well managed, they might probably have got 15s. And then, in
such a case, Lord Rufford could hardly have taxed the costs. It was
really suicide for an attorney to throw away business so excellent as
this. And now it had gone to Bearside whom Nickem remembered as a
junior to himself when they were both young hobbledehoys at
Norrington,—a dirty, blear-eyed, pimply-faced boy who was suspected
of purloining halfpence out of coat-pockets. The thing was very trying
to Nat Nickem. But suddenly, before that Wednesday was over, another
idea had occurred to him, and he was almost content. He knew Goarly,
and he had heard of Scrobby and Scrobby's history in regard to the
tenement at Rufford. As he could not get Goarly's case why should he
not make something of the case against Goarly? That detective was
merely eking out his time and having an idle week among the
public-houses. If he could set himself up as an amateur detective he
thought that he might perhaps get to the bottom of it all. It is not a
bad thing to be concerned on the same side with a lord when the lord
is in earnest. Lord Rufford was very angry about the poison in the
covert and would probably be ready to pay very handsomely for having
the criminal found and punished. The criminal of course was Goarly.
Nickem did not doubt that for a moment, and would not have doubted it
whichever side he might have taken. Nickem did not suppose that any
one for a moment really doubted Goarly's guilt. But to his eyes such
certainty amounted to nothing, if evidence of the crime were not
forthcoming. He probably felt within his own bosom that the last
judgment of all would depend in some way on terrestrial evidence, and
was quite sure that it was by such that a man's conscience should be
affected. If Goarly had so done the deed as to be beyond the
possibility of detection, Nickem could not have brought himself to
regard Goarly as a sinner. As it was he had considerable respect for
Goarly;—but might it not be possible to drop down upon Scrobby?
Bearside with his case against the lord would be nowhere, if Goarly
could be got to own that he had been suborned by Scrobby to put down
the poison. Or, if in default of this, any close communication could
be proved between Goarly and Scrobby,—Scrobby's injury and spirit of
revenge being patent,—then too Bearside would not have much of a
case. A jury would look at that question of damages with a very
different eye if Scrobby's spirit of revenge could be proved at the
trial, and also the poisoning, and also machinations between Scrobby
and Goarly.
Nickem was a little red-haired man about forty, who wrote a good
flourishing hand, could endure an immense amount of work, and drink a
large amount of alcohol without being drunk. His nose and face were
all over blotches, and he looked to be dissipated and disreputable.
But, as he often boasted, no one could say that "black was the white
of his eye;"—by which he meant to insinuate that he had not been
detected in anything dishonest and that he was never too tipsy to do
his work. He was a married man and did not keep his wife and children
in absolute comfort; but they lived, and Mr. Nickem in some fashion
paid his way.
There was another clerk in the office, a very much younger man,
named Sundown, and Nickem could not make his proposition to Mr.
Masters till Sundown had left the office. Nickem himself had only
matured his plans at dinner time and was obliged to be reticent, till
at six o'clock Sundown took himself off. Mr. Masters was, at the
moment, locking his own desk, when Nickem winked at him to stay. Mr.
Masters did stay, and Sundown did at last leave the office.
"You couldn't let me leave home for three days?" said Nickem.
"There ain't much a doing."
"What do you want it for?"
"That Goarly is a great blackguard, Mr. Masters."
"Very likely. Do you know anything about him?"
Nickem scratched his head and rubbed his chin. "I think I could
manage to know something."
"In what way?"
"I don't think I'm quite prepared to say, sir. I shouldn't use your
name of course. But they're down upon Lord Rufford, and if you could
lend me a trifle of 30s., sir, I think I could get to the bottom of
it. His lordship would be awful obliged to any one who could hit it
off"
Mr. Masters did give his clerk leave for three days, and did
advance him the required money. And when he suggested in a whisper
that perhaps the circumstance need not be mentioned to Mrs. Masters,
Nickem winked again and put his fore-finger to the side of his big
carbuncled nose.
That evening Larry Twentyman came in, but was not received with any
great favour by Mrs. Masters. There was growing up at this moment in
Dillsborough the bitterness of real warfare between the friends and
enemies of sport in general, and Mrs. Masters was ranking herself
thereby among the enemies. Larry was of course one of the friends. But
unhappily there was a slight difference of sentiment even in Larry's
own house, and on this very morning old Mrs. Twentyman had expressed
to Mrs. Masters a feeling of wrong which had gradually risen from the
annual demolition of her pet broods of turkeys. She declared that for
the last three years every turkey poult had gone, and that at last she
was beginning to feel it. "It's over a hundred of 'em they've had, and
it is wearing," said the old woman. Larry had twenty times begged her
to give up the rearing turkeys, but her heart had been too high for
that. "I don't know why Lord Rufford's foxes are to be thought of
always, and nobody is to think about your poor mother's poultry," said
Mrs. Masters, lugging the subject in neck and heels.
"Has she been talking to you, Mrs. Masters, about her turkeys?"
"Your mother may speak to me I suppose if she likes it, without
offence to Lord Rufford."
"Lord Rufford has got nothing to do with it"
"The wood belongs to him," said Mrs. Masters.
"Foxes are much better than turkeys anyway," said Kate Masters.
"If you don't hold your tongue, miss, you'll be sent to bed. The
wood belongs to his lordship, and the foxes are a nuisance."
"He keeps the foxes for the county, and where would the county be
without them?" began Larry. "What is it brings money into such a
place as this?"
"To Runciman's stables and Harry Stubbings and the like of them.
What money does it bring in to steady honest people?"
"Look at all the grooms," said Larry.
"The impudentest set of young vipers about the place," said the
lady.
"Look at Grice's business." Grice was the saddler.
"Grice indeed! What's Grice?"
"And the price of horses?"
"Yes;—making everything dear that ought to be cheap. I don't see
and I never shall see and I never will see any good in extravagant
idleness. As for Kate she shall never go out hunting again. She has
torn Mary's habit to pieces. And shooting is worse. Why is a man to
have a flock of voracious cormorants come down upon his corn fields?
I'm The American Senator, all in favour of Goarly, and so, I tell you,
Mr. Twentyman." After this poor Larry went away, finding that he had
no opportunity for saying a word to Mary Masters.
CHAPTER XV. A fit Companion,—for
me and my Sisters
On that same Wednesday Reginald Morton had called at the attorney's
house, had asked for Miss Masters, and had found her alone. Mrs.
Masters at the time had been out, picking up intelligence about the
great case, and the two younger girls had been at school. Reginald,
as he walked home from Bragton all alone on that occasion when Larry
had returned with Mary, was quite sure that he would never willingly
go into Mary's presence again. Why should he disturb his mind about
such a girl,—one who could rush into the arms of such a man as Larry
Twentyman? Or, indeed, why disturb his mind about any girl? That was
not the manner of life which he planned for himself. After that he
shut himself up for a few days and was not much seen by any of the
Dillsborough folk. But on this Wednesday he received a letter,
and,—as he told himself, merely in consequence of that letter,—he
called at the attorney's house and asked for Miss Masters.
He was shown up into the beautiful drawing-room, and in a few
minutes Mary came to him. "I have brought you a letter from my aunt,"
he said.
"From Lady Ushant? I am so glad."
"She was writing to me and she put this under cover. I know what it
contains. She wants you to go to her at Cheltenham for a month."
"Oh, Mr. Morton!"
"Would you like to go?"
"How should I not like to go? Lady Ushant is my dearest, dearest
friend. It is so very good of her to think of me."
"She talks of the first week in December and wants you to be there
for Christmas."
"I don't at all know that I can go, Mr. Morton"
"Why not go?"
"I'm afraid mamma will not spare me." There were many reasons. She
could hardly go on such a visit without some renewal of her scanty
wardrobe, which perhaps the family funds would not permit. And, as
she knew very well, Mrs. Masters was not at all favourable to Lady
Ushant. If the old lady had altogether kept Mary it might have been
very well; but she had not done so and Mrs. Masters had more than
once said that that kind of thing must be all over;—meaning that
Mary was to drop her intimacy with high-born people that were of no
real use. And then there was Mr. Twentyman and his suit. Mary had for
some time felt that her step-mother intended her to understand that
her only escape from home would be by becoming Mrs. Twentyman. "I
don't think it will be possible, Mr. Morton."
"My aunt will be very sorry."
"Oh,—how sorry shall I be! It is like having another little bit of
heaven before me."
Then he said what he certainly should not have said. "I thought,
Miss Masters, that your heaven was all here."
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Morton?" she asked blushing up to
her hair. Of course she knew what he meant, and of course she was
angry with him. Ever since that walk her mind had been troubled by
ideas as to what he would think about her, and now he was telling her
what he thought.
"I fancied that you were happy here without going to see an old
woman who after all has not much amusement to offer to you."
"I don't want any amusement."
"At any rate you will answer Lady Ushant?"
"Of course I shall answer her."
"Perhaps you can let me know. She wishes me to take you to
Cheltenham. I shall go for a couple of days, but I shall not stay
longer. If you are going perhaps you would allow me to travel with
you."
"Of course it would be very kind; but I don't suppose that I shall
go. I am sure Lady Ushant won't believe that I am kept away from her
by any pleasure of my own here. I can explain it all to her and she
will understand me." She hardly meant to reproach him. She did not
mean to assume an intimacy sufficient for reproach. But he felt that
she had reproached him. "I love Lady Ushant so dearly that I would go
anywhere to see her if I could."
"Then I think it could be managed. Your father——"
"Papa does not attend much to us girls. It is mamma that manages
all that. At any rate, I will write to Lady Ushant, and will ask papa
to let you know"
Then it seemed as though there were nothing else for him but to
go;—and yet he wanted to say some other word. If he had been cruel
in throwing Mr. Twentyman in her teeth, surely he ought to apologize.
"I did not mean to say anything to offend you."
"You have not offended me at all, Mr. Morton."
"If I did think that,—that——"
"It does not signify in the least. I only want Lady Ushant to
understand that if I could possibly go to her I would rather do that
than anything else in the world. Because Lady Ushant is kind to me I
needn't expect other people to be so." Reginald Morton was of course
the "other people."
Then he paused a moment. "I did so long," he said, "to walk round
the old place with you the other day before these people came there,
and I was so disappointed when you would not come with me."
"I was coming."
"But you went back with—that other man"
"Of course I did when you showed so plainly that you didn't want
him to join you. What was I to do? I couldn't send him away. Mr.
Twentyman is a very intimate friend of ours, and very kind to Dolly
and Kate."
"I wished so much to talk to you about the old days."
"And I wish to go for your aunt, Mr. Morton; but we can't all of us
have what we wish. Of course I saw that you were very angry, but I
couldn't help that. Perhaps it was wrong in Mr. Twentyman to offer to
walk with you."
"I didn't say so at all."
"You looked it at any rate, Mr. Morton. And as Mr. Twentyman is a
friend of ours—"
"You were angry with me."
"I don't say that. But as you were too grand for our friend of
course you were too grand for us."
"That is a very unkind way of putting it. I don't think I am grand.
A man may wish to have a little conversation with a very old friend
without being interrupted, and yet not be grand. I dare say Mr.
Twentyman is just as good as I am."
"You don't think that, Mr. Morton"
"I believe him to be a great deal better, for he earns his bread,
and takes care of his mother, and as far as I know does his duty
thoroughly."
"I know the difference, Mr. Morton, and of course I know how you
feel it. I don't suppose that Mr. Twentyman is a fit companion for
any of the Mortons, but for all that he may be a fit companion for
me,—and my sisters." Surely she must have said this with the express
object of declaring to him that in spite of the advantages of her
education she chose to put herself in the ranks of the Twentymans,
Runcimans and such like. He had come there ardently wishing that she
might be allowed to go to his aunt, and resolved that he would take
her himself if it were possible. But now he almost thought that she
had better not go. If she had made her election, she must be allowed
to abide by it. If she meant to marry Mr. Twentyman what good could
she get by associating with his aunt or with him? And had she not as
good as told him that she meant to marry Mr. Twentyman? She had at any
rate very plainly declared that she regarded Mr. Twentyman as her
equal in rank. Then he took his leave without any further explanation.
Even if she did go to Cheltenham he would not take her.
After that he walked straight out to Bragton. He was of course
altogether unconscious what grand things his cousin John had intended
to do by him, had not the Honourable old lady interfered; but he had
made up his mind that duty required him to call at the house. So he
walked by the path across the bridge and when he came out on the
gravel road near the front door he found a gentleman smoking a cigar
and looking around him. It was Mr. Gotobed who had just returned from
a visit which he had made, the circumstances of which must be narrated
in the next chapter. The Senator lifted his hat and remarked that it
was a very fine afternoon. Reginald lifted his hat and assented. "Mr.
Morton, Sir, I think is out with the ladies, taking a drive."
"I will leave a card then."
"The old lady is at home, sir, if you wish to see her," continued
the Senator following Reginald up to the door.
"Oh, Mr. Reginald, is that you?" said old Mrs. Hopkins taking the
card. "They are all out,—except herself." As he certainly did not
wish to see "herself," he greeted the old woman and left his card.
"You live in these parts, sir?" asked the Senator.
"In the town yonder."
"Because Mr. Morton's housekeeper seems to know you."
"She knows me very well as I was brought up in this house. Good
morning to you."
"Good afternoon to you, sir. Perhaps you can tell me who lives in
that country residence,—what you call a farm-house,—on the other
side of the road." Reginald said that he presumed the gentleman was
alluding to Mr. Twentyman's house.
"Ah, yes,—I dare say. That was the name I heard up there. You are
not Mr. Twentyman, sir?"
"My name is Morton"
"Morton is it;—perhaps my friend's;—ah—ah,—yes." He didn't like
to say uncle because Reginald didn't look old enough, and he knew he
ought not to say brother, because the elder brother in England would
certainly have had the property.
"I am Mr. John Morton's cousin."
"Oh;—Mr. Morton's cousin. I asked whether you were the owner of
that farm-house because I intruded just now by passing through the
yards, and I would have apologized. Good afternoon to you, sir." Then
Reginald having thus done his duty returned home.
Mary Masters when she was alone was again very angry with herself.
She knew thoroughly how perverse she had been when she declared that
Larry Twentyman was a fit companion for herself, and that she had said
it on purpose to punish the man who was talking to her. Not a day
passed, or hardly an hour of a day, in which she did not tell herself
that the education she had received and the early associations of her
life had made her unfit for the marriage which her friends were urging
upon her. It was the one great sorrow of her life. She even repented
of the good things of her early days because they had given her a
distaste for what might have otherwise been happiness and good
fortune. There had been moments in which she had told herself that she
ought to marry Larry Twentyman and adapt herself to the surroundings
of her life. Since she had seen Reginald Morton frequently, she had
been less prone to tell herself so than before; and yet to this very
man she had declared her fitness for Larry's companionship!
CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Gotobed's
Philanthropy
Mr. Gotobed, when the persecutions of Goarly were described to him
at the scene of the dead fox, had expressed considerable admiration
for the man's character as portrayed by what he then heard. The
man,—a poor man too and despised in the land, was standing up for
his rights, all alone, against the aristocracy and plutocracy of the
county. He had killed the demon whom the aristocracy and plutocracy
worshipped, and had appeared there in arms ready to defend his own
territory,—one against so many, and so poor a man against men so
rich! The Senator had at once said that he would call upon Mr. Goarly,
and the Senator was a man who always carried out his purposes.
Afterwards, from John Morton, and from others who knew the country
better than Morton, he learned further particulars. On the Monday and
Tuesday he fathomed,—or nearly fathomed,—that matter of the 7s. 6d.
an acre. He learned at any rate that the owner of the wood admitted a
damage done by him to the corn and had then, himself, assessed the
damage without consultation with the injured party; and he was
informed also that Goarly was going to law with the lord for a fuller
compensation. He liked Goarly for killing the fox, and he liked him
more for going to law with Lord Rufford.
He declared openly at Bragton his sympathy with the man and his
intention of expressing it. Morton was annoyed and endeavoured to
persuade him to leave the man alone; but in vain. No doubt had he
expressed himself decisively and told his friend that he should be
annoyed by a guest from his house taking part in such a matter, the
Senator would have abstained and would merely have made one more note
as to English peculiarities and English ideas of justice; but Morton
could not bring himself to do this. "The feeling of the country will
be altogether against you," he had said, hoping to deter the Senator.
The Senator had replied that though the feeling of that little bit of
the country might be against him he did not believe that such would be
the case with the feeling of England generally. The ladies had all
become a little afraid of Mr. Gotobed and hardly dared to express an
opinion. Lady Augustus did say that she supposed that Goarly was a low
vulgar fellow, which of course strengthened the Senator in his
purpose.
The Senator on Wednesday would not wait for lunch but started a
little before one with a crust of bread in his pocket to find his way
to Goarly's house. There was no difficulty in this as he could see the
wood as soon as he had got upon the high road. He found Twentyman's
gate and followed directly the route which the hunting party had
taken, till he came to the spot on which the crowd had been assembled.
Close to this there was a hand-gate leading into Dillsborough wood,
and standing in the gateway was a man. The Senator thought that this
might not improbably be Goarly himself, and asked the question, "Might
your name be Mr. Goarly, sir?"
"Me Goarly!" said the man in infinite disgust. "I ain't nothing of
the kind,—and you knows it" That the man should have been annoyed at
being taken for Goarly, that man being Bean the gamekeeper who would
willingly have hung Goarly if he could, and would have thought it
quite proper that a law should be now passed for hanging him at once,
was natural enough. But why he should have told the Senator that the
Senator knew he was not Goarly it might be difficult to explain. He
probably at once regarded the Senator as an enemy, as a man on the
other side, and therefore as a cunning knave who would be sure to come
creeping about on false pretences. Bean, who had already heard of
Bearside and had heard of Scrobby in connection with this matter,
looked at the Senator very hard. He knew Bearside. The man certainly
was not the attorney, and from what he had heard of Scrobby be didn't
think he was Scrobby. The man was not like what in his imagination
Scrobby would be. He did not know what to make of Mr. Gotobed,—who
was a person of an imposing appearance, tall and thin, with a long
nose and look of great acuteness, dressed in black from head to foot,
but yet not looking quite like an English gentleman. He was a man to
whom Bean in an ordinary way would have been civil,—civil in a cold
guarded way; but how was he to be civil to anybody who addressed him
as Goarly?
"I did not know it," said the Senator. "As Goarly lives near here I
thought you might be Goarly. When I saw Goarly he had a gun, and you
have a gun. Can you tell me where Goarly lives?"
"Tother side of the wood," said Bean pointing back with his thumb.
"He never had a gun like this in his hand in all his born days."
"I dare say not, my friend. I can go through the wood I guess;" for
Bean had pointed exactly over the gateway.
"I guess you can't then," said Bean. The man who, like other
gamekeepers, lived much in the company of gentlemen, was ordinarily a
civil courteous fellow, who knew how to smile and make things
pleasant. But at this moment he was very much put out. His covert had
been found full of red herrings and strychnine, and his fox had been
poisoned. He had lost his guinea on the day of the hunt, the guinea
which would have been his perquisite had they found a live fox in his
wood. And all this was being done by such a fellow as Goarly! And now
this abandoned wretch was bringing an action against his Lordship and
was leagued with such men as Scrobby and Bearside! It was a dreadful
state of things! How was it likely that he should give a passage
through the wood to anybody coming after Goarly? "You're on Mr.
Twentyman's land now, as I dare say you know."
"I don't know anything about it"
"Well; that wood is Lord Rufford's wood."
"I did know as much as that, certainly."
"And you can't go into it."
"How shall I find Mr. Goarly's house?"
"If you'll get over that there ditch you'll be on Mister Goarly's
land and that's all about it" Bean as he said this put a strongly
ironical emphasis on the term of respect and then turned back into
the wood.
The Senator made his way down the fence to the bank on which Goarly
had stood with his gun, then over into Goarly's field, and so round
the back of the wood till he saw a small red brick house standing
perhaps four hundred yards from the covert, just on the elbow of a
lane. It was a miserable-looking place with a pigsty and a dung heap
and a small horse-pond or duck-puddle all close around it. The stack
of chimneys seemed to threaten to fall, and as he approached from
behind he could see that the two windows opening that way were stuffed
with rags. There was a little cabbage garden which now seemed to be
all stalks, and a single goose waddling about the duck-puddle. The
Senator went to the door, and having knocked, was investigated by a
woman from behind it. Yes, this was Goarly's house. What did the
gentleman want? Goarly was at work in the field. Then she came out,
the Senator having signified his friendly intentions, and summoned
Goarly to the spot.
"I hope I see you well, sir," said the Senator putting out his hand
as Goarly came up dragging a dung-York behind him.
Goarly rubbed his hand on his breeches before he gave it to be
shaken and declared himself to be "pretty tidy, considering."
"I was present the other day, Mr. Goarly, when that dead fox was
exposed to view."
"Was you, sir?"
"I was given to understand that you had destroyed the brute."
"Don't you believe a word on it then," said the woman interposing.
"He didn't do nothing of the kind. Who ever seed him a' buying of red
herrings and p'ison?"
"Hold your jaw," said Goarly,—familiarly. "Let 'em prove it. I
don't know who you are, sir; but let 'em prove it"
"My name, Mr. Goarly, is Elias Gotobed. I am an American citizen,
and Senator for the State of Mickewa." Mr. and Mrs. Goarly shook
their heads at every separate item of information tendered to them.
"I am on a visit to this country and am at present staying at the
house of my friend, Mr. John Morton."
"He's the gentl'man from Bragton, Dan."
"Hold your jaw, can't you?" said the husband. Then he touched his
hat to the Senator intending to signify that the Senator might, if he
pleased, continue his narrative.
"If you did kill that fox, Mr. Goarly, I think you were quite right
to kill him." Then Goarly winked at him, "I cannot imagine that even
the laws of England could justify a man in perpetuating a breed of
wild animals that are destructive to his neighbours' property."
"I could shoot 'un; not a doubt about that, Mister. I could shoot
'un; and I wull."
"Have a care, Dan," whispered Mrs. Goarly.
"Hold your jaw,—will ye? I could shoot 'un, Mister. I don't
rightly know about p'ison."
"That fox we saw was poisoned I suppose," said the Senator
carelessly.
"Have a care, Dan;—have a care!" whispered the wife.
"Allow me to assure both of you," said the Senator, "that you need
fear nothing from me. I have come quite as a friend."
"Thank 'ee, sir," said Goarly again touching his hat.
"It seems to me," said the Senator, "that in this matter a great
many men are leagued together against you."
"You may say that, sir. I didn't just catch your name, sir."
"My name is Gotobed;—Gotobed; Elias Gotobed, Senator from the
State of Mickewa to the United States Congress." Mrs. Goarly who
understood nothing of all these titles, and who had all along
doubted, dropped a suspicious curtsey. Goarly, who understood a
little now, took his hat altogether off. He was very much puzzled but
inclined to think that if he managed matters rightly, profit might be
got out of this very strange meeting. "In my country, Mr. Goarly, all
men are free and equal."
"That's a fine thing, sir."
"It is a fine thing, my friend, if properly understood and properly
used. Coming from such a country I was shocked to see so many rich
men banded together against one who I suppose is not rich."
"Very far from it," said the woman.
"It's my own land, you know," said Goarly who was proud of his
position as a landowner. "No one can't touch me on it, as long as the
rates is paid. I'm as good a man here,"—and he stamped his foot on
the ground,—"as his Lordship is in that there wood."
This was the first word spoken by the Goarlys that had pleased the
Senator, and this set him off again. "Just so;—and I admire a man
that will stand up for his own rights. I am told that you have found
his Lordship's pheasants destructive to your corn."
"Didn't leave him hardly a grain last August," said Mrs. Goarly.
"Will you hold your jaw, woman, or will you not?" said the man
turning round fiercely at her. "I'm going to have the law of his
Lordship, sir. What's seven and six an acre? There's that quantity of
pheasants in that wood as'd eat up any mortal thing as ever was
grooved. Seven and six!"
"Didn't you propose arbitration?"
"I never didn't propose nothin'. I've axed two pound, and my lawyer
says as how I'll get it. What I sold come off that other bit of
ground down there. Wonderful crop! And this 'd've been the same. His
Lordship ain't nothin' to me, Mr. Gotobed."
"You don't approve of hunting, Mr. Goarly."
"Oh, I approves if they'd pay a poor man for what harm they does
him. Look at that there goose." Mr. Gotobed did look at the goose.
"There's nine and twenty they've tuk from me, and only left un that."
Now Mrs. Goarly's goose was well known in those parts. It was declared
that she was more than a match for any fox in the county, but that
Mrs. Goarly for the last two years had never owned any goose but this
one.
"The foxes have eaten there all?" asked the Senator.
"Every mortal one."
"And the gentlemen of the hunt have paid you nothing."
"I had four half-crowns once," said the woman.
"If you don't send the heads you don't get it," said the man, "and
then they'll keep you waiting months and months, just for their
pleasures. Who's a going to put up with that? I ain't."
"And now you're going to law?"
"I am,—like a man. His Lordship ain't nothin' to me. I ain't
afeard of his Lordship."
"Will it cost you much?"
"That's just what it will do, sir," said the woman.
"Didn't I tell you, hold your jaw?"
"The gentleman was going to offer to help us a little, Dan."
"I was going to say that I am interested in the case, and that you
have all my good wishes. I do not like to offer pecuniary help."
"You're very good, sir; very good. This bit of land is mine; not a
doubt of it;—but we're poor, sir."
"Indeed we is," said the woman. "What with taxes and rates, and
them foxes as won't let me rear a head of poultry and them brutes of
birds as eats up the corn, I often tells him he'd better sell the bit
o' land and just set up for a public."
"It belonged to my feyther and grandfeyther," said Goarly.
Then the Senator's heart was softened again and he explained at
great length that he would watch the case and if he saw his way
clearly, befriend it with substantial aid. He asked about the
attorney and took down Bearside's address. After that he shook hands
with both of them, and then made his way back to Bragton through Mr.
Twentyman's farm.
Mr. and Mrs. Goarly were left in a state of great perturbation of
mind. They could not in the least make out among themselves who the
gentleman was, or whether he had come for good or evil. That he
called himself Gotobed Goarly did remember, and also that he had said
that he was an American. All that which had referred to senatorial
honours and the State of Mickewa had been lost upon Goarly. The
question of course arose whether he was not a spy sent out by Lord
Rufford's man of business, and Mrs. Goarly was clearly of opinion that
such had been the nature of his employment. Had he really been a
friend, she suggested, he would have left a sovereign behind him. "He
didn't get no information from me," said Goarly.
"Only about Mr. Bearside."
"What's the odds of that? They all knows that. Bearside! Why should
I be ashamed of Bearside? I'll do a deal better with Bearside than I
would with that old woman, Masters."
"But he took it down in writing, Dan."
"What the d—'s the odds in that?"
"I don't like it when they puts it down in writing."
"Hold your jaw," said Goarly as he slowly shouldered the dung-fork
to take it back to his work. But as they again discussed the matter
that night the opinion gained ground upon them that the Senator had
been an emissary from the enemy.
CHAPTER XVII. Lord Rufford's
Invitation
On that same Wednesday afternoon when Morton returned with the
ladies in the carriage he found that a mounted servant had arrived
from Rufford Hall with a letter and had been instructed to wait for
an answer. The man was now refreshing himself in the servants' hall.
Morton, when he had read the letter, found that it required some
consideration before he could answer it. It was to the following
purport. Lord Rufford had a party of ladies and gentlemen at Rufford
Hall, as his sister, Lady Penwether, was staying with him. Would Mr.
Morton and his guests come over to Rufford Hall on Monday and stay
till Wednesday? On Tuesday there was to be a dance for the people of
the neighbourhood. Then he specified, as the guests invited, Lady
Augustus and her daughter and Mr. Gotobed,— omitting the honourable
Mrs. Morton of whose sojourn in the county he might have been
ignorant. His Lordship went on to say that he trusted the abruptness
of the invitation might be excused on account of the nearness of their
neighbourhood and the old friendship which had existed between their
families. He had had, he said, the pleasure of being acquainted with
Lady Augustus and her daughter in London and would be proud to see Mr.
Gotobed at his house during his sojourn in the county. Then he added
in a postscript that the hounds met at Rufford Hall on Tuesday and
that he had a horse that carried a lady well if Miss Trefoil would
like to ride him. He could also put up a horse for Mr. Morton.
This was all very civil, but there was something in it that was
almost too civil. There came upon Morton a suspicion, which he did
not even define to himself, that the invitation was due to Arabella's
charms. There were many reasons why he did not wish to accept it. His
grandmother was left out and he feared that she would be angry. He did
not feel inclined to take the American Senator to the lord's house,
knowing as he did that the American Senator was interfering in a
ridiculous manner on behalf of Goarly. And he did not particularly
wish to be present at Rufford Hall with the Trefoil ladies. Hitherto
he had received very little satisfaction from their visit to
Bragton,—so little that he had been more than once on the verge of
asking Arabella whether she wished to be relieved from her engagement.
She had never quite given him the opportunity. She had always been
gracious to him in a cold, disagreeable, glassy manner,—in a manner
that irked his spirit but still did not justify him in expressing
anger. Lady Augustus was almost uncivil to him, and from time to time
said little things which were hard to bear; but he was not going to
marry Lady Augustus, and could revenge himself against her by
resolving in his own breast that he would have as little as possible
to do with her after his marriage., That was the condition of his mind
towards them, and in that condition he did not want to take them to
Lord Rufford's house. Their visit to him would be over on Monday, and
it would he thought be better for him that they should then go on
their way to the Gores as they had proposed.
But he did not like to answer the letter by a refusal without
saying a word to his guests on the subject. He would not object to
ignore the Senator, but he was afraid that if nothing were to be said
to Arabella she would hear of it hereafter and would complain of such
treatment. He therefore directed that the man might be kept waiting
while he consulted the lady of his choice. It was with difficulty that
he found himself alone with her,—and then only by sending her maid in
quest of her. He did get her at last into his own sitting-room and
then, having placed her in a chair near the fire, gave her Lord
Rufford's letter to read. "What can it be," said she looking up into
his face with her great inexpressive eyes, "that has required all this
solemnity?" She still looked up at him and did not even open the
letter.
"I did not like to answer that without showing it to you. I don't
suppose you would care to go."
"Go where?"
"It is from Lord Rufford,—for Monday."
"From Lord Rufford!"
"It would break up all your plans and your mother's, and would
probably be a great bore."
Then she did read the letter, very carefully and very slowly,
weighing every word of it as she read it. Did it mean more than it
said? But though she read it slowly and carefully and was long before
she made him any answer, she had very quickly resolved that the
invitation should be accepted. It would suit her very well to know
Lady Penwether. It might possibly suit her still better to become
intimate with Lord Rufford. She was delighted at the idea of riding
Lord Rufford's horse. As her eyes dwelt on the paper she, too, began
to think that the invitation had been chiefly given on her account. At
any rate she would go. She had understood perfectly well from the
first tone of her lover's voice that he did not wish to subject her to
the allurements of Rufford Hall. She was clever enough, and could read
it all. But she did not mean to throw away a chance for the sake of
pleasing him. She must not at once displease him by declaring her
purpose strongly, and therefore, as she slowly continued her reading,
she resolved that she would throw the burden upon her mother. "Had I
not better show this to mamma?" she said.
"You can if you please. You are going to the Gores on Monday."
"We could not go earlier; but we might put it off for a couple of
days if we pleased. Would it bore you?"
"I don't mind about myself. I'm not a very great man for dances."
"You'd sooner write a report,—wouldn't you,—about the products of
the country?"
"A great deal sooner," said the Paragon.
"But you see we haven't all of us got products to write about. I
don't care very much about it myself;—but if you don't mind I'll ask
mamma." Of course he was obliged to consent, and merely informed her
as she went off with the letter that a servant was waiting for an
answer.
"To go to Lord Rufford's!" said Lady Augustus.
"From Monday till Wednesday, mamma. Of course we must go:"
"I promised poor Mrs. Gore."
"Nonsense, mamma! The Gores can do very well without us. That was
only to be a week and we can still stay out our time. Of course this
has only been sent because we are here."
"I should say so. I don't suppose Lord Rufford would care to know
Mr. Morton. Lady Penwether goes everywhere; doesn't she?"
"Everywhere. It would suit me to a `t' to get on to Lady
Penwether's books. But, mamma, of course it's not that. If Lord
Rufford should say a word it is so much easier to manage down in the
country than up in London. He has 40,000 pounds a year, if he has a
penny."
"How many girls have tried the same thing with him! But I don't
mind. I've always said that John Morton and Bragton would not do?"
"No, mamma; you haven't. You were the first to say they would do."
"I only said that if there were nothing else—"
"Oh, mamma, how can you say such things! Nothing else,—as if he
were the last man! You said distinctly that Bragton was 7,000 pounds
a year, and that it would do very well. You may change your mind if
you like; but it's no good trying to back out of your own doings."
"Then I have changed my mind."
"Yes,—without thinking what I have to go through. I'm not going to
throw myself at Lord Rufford's head so as to lose my chance here;—
but we'll go and see how the land lies. Of course you'll go, mamma."
"If you think it is for your advantage, my dear."
"My advantage! It's part of the work to be done and we may as well
do it. At any rate I'll tell him to accept. We shall have this odious
American with us, but that can't be helped."
"And the old woman?"
"Lord Rufford doesn't say anything about her. I don't suppose he's
such a muff but what he can leave his grandmother behind for a couple
of days." Then she went back to Morton and told him that her mother
was particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of Lady Penwether
and that she had decided upon going to Rufford Hall. "It will be a
very nice opportunity," said she, "for you to become acquainted with
Lord Rufford."
Then he was almost angry. "I can make plenty of such opportunities
for myself, when I want them," he said. "Of course if you and Lady
Augustus like it, we will go. But let it stand on its right bottom."
"It may stand on any bottom you please."
"Do you mean to ride the man's horse?"
"Certainly I do. I never refuse a good offer. Why shouldn't I ride
the man's horse? Did you never hear before of a young lady borrowing
a gentleman's horse?"
"No lady belonging to me will ever do so, unless the gentleman be a
very close friend indeed."
"The lady in this case does not belong to you, Mr. Morton, and
therefore, if you have no other objection, she will ride Lord
Rufford's horse. Perhaps you will not think it too much trouble to
signify the lady's acceptance of the mount in your letter." Then she
swam out of the room knowing that she left him in anger. After that he
had to find Mr. Gotobed. The going was now decided on as far as he was
concerned, and it would make very little difference whether the
American went or not,—except that his letter would have been easier
to him in accepting the invitation for three persons than for four.
But the Senator was of course willing. It was the Senator's object to
see England, and Lord Rufford's house would be an additional bit of
England. The Senator would be delighted to have an opportunity of
saying what he thought about Goarly at Lord Rufford's table. After
that, before this weary letter could be written, he was compelled to
see his grandmother and explain to her that she had been omitted.
"Of course, ma'am, they did not know that you were at Bragton, as
you were not in the carriage at the 'meet.'"
"That's nonsense, John. Did Lord Rufford suppose that you were
entertaining ladies here without some one to be mistress of the
house? Of course he knew that I was here. I shouldn't have gone;—
you may be sure of that. I'm not in the habit of going to the houses
of people I don't know. Indeed I think it's an impertinence in them to
ask in that way. I'm surprised that you would go on such an
invitation."
"The Trefoils knew them."
"If Lady Penwether knew them why could not Lady Penwether ask them
independently of us? I don't believe they ever spoke to Lady
Penwether in their lives. Lord Rufford and Miss Trefoil may very
likely be London acquaintances. He may admire her and therefore
choose to have her at his ball. I know nothing about that. As far as
I am concerned he's quite welcome to keep her."
All this was not very pleasant to John Morton. He knew already that
his grandmother and Lady Augustus hated each other, and said spiteful
things not only behind each other's backs, but openly to each other's
faces. But now he had been told by the girl who was engaged to be his
wife that she did not belong to him; and by his grandmother, who stood
to him in the place of his mother, that she wished that this girl
belonged to some one else! He was not quite sure that he did not wish
it himself. But, even were it to be so, and should there be reason for
him to be gratified at the escape, still he did not relish the idea of
taking the girl himself to the other man's house. He wrote the letter,
however, and dispatched it. But even the writing of it was difficult
and disagreeable. When various details of hospitality have been
offered by a comparative stranger a man hardly likes to accept them
all. But in this case he had to do it. He would be delighted, he said,
to stay at Rufford Hall from the Monday to the Wednesday;—Lady
Augustus and Miss Trefoil would also be delighted; and so also would
Mr. Gotobed be delighted. And Miss Trefoil would be further delighted
to accept Lord Rufford's offer of a horse for the Tuesday. As for
himself, if he rode at all, a horse would come for him to the meet.
Then he wrote another note to Mr. Harry Stubbings, bespeaking a mount
for the occasion.
On that evening the party at Bragton was not a very pleasant one.
"No doubt you are intimate with Lady Penwether, Lady Augustus," said
Mrs. Morton. Now Lady Penwether was a very fashionable woman whom to
know was considered an honour.
"What makes you ask, ma'am?" said Lady Augustus.
"Only as you were taking your daughter to her brother's house, and
as he is a bachelor."
"My dear Mrs. Morton, really you may leave me to take care of
myself and of my daughter too. You have lived so much out of the
world for the last thirty years that it is quite amusing."
"There are some persons' worlds that it is a great deal better for
a lady to be out of," said Mrs. Morton. Then Lady Augustus put up her
hands, and turned round, and affected to laugh, of all which things
Mr. Gotobed, who was studying English society, made notes in his own
mind.
"What sort of position does that man Goarly occupy here?" the
Senator asked immediately after dinner.
"No position at all," said Morton.
"Every man created holds some position as I take it. The land is
his own."
"He has I believe about fifty acres."
"And yet he seems to be in the lowest depth of poverty and
ignorance."
"Of course he mismanages his property and probably drinks."
"I dare say, Mr. Morton. He is proud of his rights, and talked of
his father and his grandfather, and yet I doubt whether you would
find a man so squalid and so ignorant in all the States. I suppose he
is injured by having a lord so near him."
"Quite the contrary if he would be amenable."
"You mean if he would be a creature of the lord's. And why was that
other man so uncivil to me;—the man who was the lord's gamekeeper?"
"Because you went there as a friend of Goarly."
"And that's his idea of English fair play?" asked the Senator with
a jeer.
"The truth is, Mr. Gotobed," said Morton endeavouring to explain it
all, "you see a part only and not the whole. That man Goarly is a
rascal."
"So everybody says."
"And why can't you believe everybody?"
"So everybody says on the lord's side. But before I'm done I'll
find out what people say on the other side. I can see that he is
ignorant and squalid; but that very probably is the lord's fault. It
may be that he is a rascal and that the lord is to blame for that too.
But if the lord's pheasants have eaten up Goarly's corn, the lord
ought to pay for the corn whether Goarly be a rascal or not" Then John
Morton made up his mind that he would never ask another American
Senator to his house.
CHAPTER XVIII. The Attorney's
Family is disturbed
On that Wednesday evening Mary Masters said nothing to any of her
family as to the invitation from Lady Ushant. She very much wished to
accept it. Latterly, for the last month or two, her distaste to the
kind of life for which her stepmother was preparing her, had increased
upon her greatly. There bad been days in which she had doubted whether
it might not be expedient that she should accept Mr. Twentyman's
offer. She believed no ill of him. She thought him to be a fine manly
young fellow with a good heart and high principles. She never asked
herself whether he were or were not a gentleman. She had never even
inquired of herself whether she herself were or were not especially a
lady. But with all her efforts to like the man,—because she thought
that by doing so she would relieve and please her father,—yet he was
distasteful to her; and now, since that walk home with him from
Bragton Bridge, he was more distasteful than ever. She did not tell
herself that a short visit, say for a month, to Cheltenham, would
prevent his further attentions, but she felt that there would be a
temporary escape. I do not think that she dwelt much on the suggestion
that Reginald Morton should be her companion on the journey, but the
idea of such companionship, even for a short time, was pleasant to
her. If he did this surely then he would forgive her for having left
him at the bridge. She had much to think of before she could resolve
how she should tell her tidings. Should she show the letter first to
her stepmother or to her father? In the ordinary course of things in
that house the former course would be expected. It was Mrs. Masters
who managed everything affecting the family. It was she who gave
permission or denied permission for every indulgence. She was
generally fair to the three girls, taking special pride to herself for
doing her duty by her stepdaughter;—but on this very account she was
the more likely to be angry if Mary passed her by on such an occasion
as this and went to her father. But should her stepmother have once
refused her permission, then the matter would have been decided
against her. It would be quite useless to appeal from her stepmother
to her father; nor would such an appeal come within the scope of her
own principles. The Mortons, and especially Lady Ushant, had been her
father's friends in old days and she thought that perhaps she might
prevail in this case if she could speak to her father first. She knew
well what would be the great, or rather the real objection. Her mother
would not wish that she should be removed so long from Larry
Twentyman. There might be difficulties about her clothes, but her
father, she knew would be kind to her.
At last she made up her mind that she would ask her father. He was
always at his office-desk for half an hour in the morning, before the
clerks had come, and on the following day, a minute or two after he
had taken his seat, she knocked at the door. He was busy reading a
letter from Lord Rufford's man of business, asking him certain
questions about Goarly and almost employing him to get up the case on
Lord Rufford's behalf. There was a certain triumph to him in this. It
was not by his means that tidings had reached Lord Rufford of his
refusal to undertake Goarly's case. But Runciman, who was often
allowed by his lordship to say a few words to him in the
hunting-field, had mentioned the circumstance. "A man like Mr. Masters
is better without such a blackguard as that," the Lord had said. Then
Runciman had replied, "No doubt, my Lord; no doubt. But Dillsborough
is a poor place, and business is business, my Lord." Then Lord Rufford
had remembered it, and the letter which the attorney was somewhat
triumphantly reading had been the consequence.
"Is that you, Mary? What can I do for you, my love?"
"Papa, I want you to read this." Then Mr. Masters read the letter.
"I should so like to go."
"Should you, my dear?"
"Oh yes! Lady Ushant has been so kind to me, all my life! And I do
so love her!"
"What does mamma say?"
"I haven't asked mamma."
"Is there any reason why you shouldn't go?"
Of that one reason,—as to Larry Twentyman,—of course she would
say nothing. She must leave him to discuss that with her mother. "I
should want some clothes, papa; a dress, and some boots, and a new
hat, and there would be money for the journey and a few other
things." The attorney winced, but at the same time remembered that
something was due to his eldest child in the way of garments and
relaxation. "I never like to be an expense, papa."
"You are very good about that, my dear. I don't see why you
shouldn't go. It's very kind of Lady Ushant. I'll talk to mamma."
Then Mary went away to get the breakfast, fearing that before long
there would be black looks in the house.
Mr. Masters at once went up to his wife, having given himself a
minute or two to calculate that he would let Mary have twenty pounds
for the occasion,—and made his proposition. "I never heard of such
nonsense in my life," said Mrs. Masters.
"Nonsense,—my dear! Why should it be nonsense?"
"Cocking her up with Lady Ushant! What good will Lady Ushant do
her? She's not going to live with ladies of quality all her life."
"Why shouldn't she live with ladies?"
"You know what I mean, Gregory. The Mortons have dropped you, for
any use they were to you, long ago, and you may as well make up your
mind to drop them. You'll go on hankering after gentlefolks till
you've about ruined yourself."
When he remembered that he had that very morning received a
commission from Lord Rufford he thought that this was a little too
bad. But he was not now in a humour to make known to her this piece
of good news. "I like to feel that she has got friends," he said,
going back to Mary's proposed visit.
"Of course she has got friends, if she'll only take up with them as
she ought to do. Why does she go on shilly-shallying with that young
man, instead of closing upon it at once? If she did that she wouldn't
want such friends as Lady Ushant. Why did the girl come to you with
all this instead of asking me?"
"There would be a little money wanted."
"Money! Yes, I dare say. It's very easy to want money but very hard
to get it. If you send clients away out of the office with a flea in
their ear I don't see how she's to have all manner of luxuries. She
ought to have come to me"
"I don't see that at all, my dear."
"If I'm to look after her she shall be said by me;—that's all.
I've done for her just as I have for my own and I'm not going to have
her turn up her nose at me directly she wants anything for herself. I
know what's fit for Mary, and it ain't fit that she should go
trapesing away to Cheltenham, doing nothing in that old woman's
parlour, and losing her chances for life. Who is to suppose that Larry
Twentyman will go on dangling after her in this way, month after
month? The young man wants a wife, and of course he'll get one."
"You can't make her marry the man if she don't like him."
"Like him! She ought to be made to like him. A young man well off
as he is, and she without a shilling! All that comes from Ushanting."
It never occurred to Mrs. Masters that perhaps the very qualities that
had made poor Larry so vehemently in love with Mary had come from her
intercourse with Lady Ushant. "If I'm to have my way she won't go a
yard on the way to Cheltenham."
"I've told her she may go," said Mr. Masters, whose mind was
wandering back to old days,—to his first wife, and to the time when
he used to be an occasional guest in the big parlour at Bragton. He
was always ready to acknowledge to himself that his present wife was a
good and helpful companion to him and a careful mother to his
children; but there were moments in which he would remember with soft
regret a different phase of his life. Just at present he was somewhat
angry, and resolving in his own mind that in this case he would have
his own way.
"Then I shall tell her she mayn't," said Mrs. Masters with a look
of dogged determination.
"I hope you will do nothing of the kind, my dear. I've told her
that she shall have a few pounds to get what she wants, and I won't
have her disappointed." After that Mrs. Masters bounced out of the
room, and made herself very disagreeable indeed over the tea-things.
The whole household was much disturbed that day. Mrs. Masters said
nothing to Mary about Lady Ushant all the morning, but said a great
deal about other things. Poor Mary was asked whether she was not
ashamed to treat a young man as she was treating Mr. Twentyman. Then
again it was demanded of her whether she thought it right that all the
house should be knocked about for her. At dinner Mrs. Masters would
hardly speak to her husband but addressed herself exclusively to Dolly
and Kate. Mr. Masters was not a man who could, usually, stand this
kind of thing very long and was accustomed to give up in despair and
then take himself off to the solace of his office-chair. But on the
present occasion he went through his meal like a Spartan, and retired
from the room without a sign of surrender. In the afternoon about five
o'clock Mary watched her opportunity and found him again alone. It was
incumbent on her to reply to Lady Ushant. Would it not be better that
she should write and say how sorry she was that she could not come?
"But I want you to go," said he.
"Oh, papa;—I cannot bear to cause trouble."
"No, my dear; no; and I'm sure I don't like trouble myself. But in
this case I think you ought to go. What day has she named?" Then Mary
declared that she could not possibly go so soon as Lady Ushant had
suggested, but that she could be ready by the 18th of December. "Then
write and tell her so, my dear, and I will let your mother know that
it is fixed." But Mary still hesitated, desiring to know whether she
had not better speak to her mother first. "I think you had better
write your letter first,"—and then he absolutely made her write it in
the office and give it to him to be posted. After that he promised to
communicate to Reginald Morton what had been done.
The household was very much disturbed the whole of that evening.
Poor Mary never remembered such a state of things, and when there had
been any difference of opinion, she had hitherto never been the cause
of it. Now it was all owing to her! And things were said so terrible
that she hardly knew how to bear them. Her father had promised her the
twenty pounds, and it was insinuated that all the comforts of the
family must be stopped because of this lavish extravagance. Her father
sat still and bore it, almost without a word. Both Dolly and Kate were
silent and wretched. Mrs. Masters every now and then gurgled in her
throat, and three or four times wiped her eyes. "I'm better out of the
way altogether," she said at last, jumping up and walking towards the
door as though she were going to leave the room,—and the house, for
ever.
"Mamma," said Mary, rising from her seat, "I won't go. I'll write
and tell Lady Ushant that I can't do it."
"You're not to mind me," said Mrs. Masters. "You're to do what your
papa tells you. Everything that I've been striving at is to be thrown
away. I'm to be nobody, and it's quite right that your papa should
tell you so."
"Dear mamma, don't talk like that," said Mary, clinging hold of her
stepmother.
"Your papa sits there and won't say a word," said Mrs. Masters,
stamping her foot.
"What's the good of speaking when you go on like that before the
children?" said Mr. Masters, getting up from his chair. "I say that
it's a proper thing that the girl should go to see the old friend who
brought her up and has been always kind to her,—and she shall go."
Mrs. Masters seated herself on the nearest chair and leaning her head
against the wall, began to go into hysterics. "Your letter has already
gone, Mary; and I desire you will write no other without letting me
know." Then he left the room and the house,—and absolutely went over
to the Bush. This latter proceeding was, however, hardly more than a
bravado; for he merely took the opportunity of asking Mrs. Runciman a
question at the bar, and then walked back to his own house, and shut
himself up in the office.
On the next morning he called on Reginald Morton and told him that
his daughter had accepted Lady Ushant's invitation, but could not go
till the 18th. "I shall be proud to take charge of her," said
Reginald. "And as for the change in the day it will suit me all the
better." So that was settled.
On the next day, Friday, Mrs. Masters did not come down to
breakfast, but was waited upon up-stairs by her own daughters. This
with her was a most unusual circumstance. The two maids were of
opinion that such a thing had never occurred before, and that
therefore Master must have been out half the night at the
public-house although they had not known it. To Mary she would hardly
speak a word. She appeared at dinner and called her husband Mr.
Masters when she helped him to stew. All the afternoon she averred
that her head was splitting, but managed to say many very bitter
things about gentlemen in general, and expressed a vehement hope that
that poor man Goarly would get at least a hundred pounds. It must be
owned, however, that at this time she had heard nothing of Lord
Rufford's commission to her husband. In the evening Larry came in and
was at once told the terrible news. "Larry," said Kate, "Mary is going
away for a month."
"Where are you going, Mary?" asked the lover eagerly.
"To Lady Ushant's, Mr. Twentyman."
"For a month!"
"She has asked me for a month," said Mary.
"It's a regular fool's errand," said Mrs. Masters. "It's not done
with my consent, Mr. Twentyman. I don't think she ought to stir from
home till things are more settled."
"They can be settled this moment as far as I am concerned," said
Larry standing up.
"There now," said Mrs. Masters. At this time Mr. Masters was not in
the room. "If you can make it straight with Mr. Twentyman I won't say
a word against your going away for a month."
"Mamma, you shouldn't!" exclaimed Mary.
"I hate such nonsense. Mr. Twentyman is behaving honest and
genteel. What more would you have? Give him an answer like a sensible
girl."
"I have given him an answer and I cannot say anything more," said
Mary as she left the room.
CHAPTER XIX. "Who valued the Geese?"
Before the time had come for the visit to Rufford Hall Mr. Gotobed
had called upon Bearside the attorney and had learned as much as Mr.
Bearside chose to tell him of the facts of the case. This took place
on the Saturday morning and the interview was on the whole
satisfactory to the Senator. But then having a theory of his own in
his head, and being fond of ventilating his own theories, he
explained thoroughly to the man the story which he wished to hear
before the man was called upon to tell his story. Mr. Bearside of
course told it accordingly. Goarly was a very poor man, and very
ignorant; was perhaps not altogether so good a member of society as
he might have been; but no doubt he had a strong case against the
lord. The lord, so said Mr. Bearside, had fallen into a way of paying
a certain recompense in certain cases for crops damaged by game; and
having in this way laid down a rule for himself did not choose to have
that rule disturbed. "Just feudalism!" said the indignant Senator. "No
better, nor yet no worse than that, sir," said the attorney who did
not in the least know what feudalism was. "The strong hand backed by
the strong rank and the strong purse determined to have its own way!"
continued the Senator. "A most determined man is his lordship," said
the attorney. Then the Senator expressed his hope that Mr. Bearside
would be able to see the poor man through it, and Mr. Bearside
explained to the Senator that the poor man was a very poor man indeed,
who had been so unfortunate with his land that he was hardly able to
provide bread for himself and his children. He went so far as to
insinuate that he was taking up this matter himself solely on the
score of charity, adding that as he could not of course afford to be
money out of pocket for expenses of witnesses, etc, he did not quite
see how he was to proceed. Then the Senator made certain promises. He
was, he said, going back to London in the course of next week, but he
did not mind making himself responsible to the extent of fifty dollars
if the thing were carried on, bona fide, to a conclusion. Mr. Bearside
declared that it would of course be bona fide, and asked the Senator
for his address. Would Mr. Gotobed object to putting his name to a
little docket certifying to the amount promised? Mr. Gotobed gave an
address, but thought that in such a matter as that his word might be
trusted. If it were not trusted then the offer might fall to the
ground. Mr. Bearside was profuse in his apologies and declared that
the gentleman's word was as good as his bond.
Mr. Gotobed made no secret of his doings. Perhaps he had a feeling
that he could not justify himself in so strange a proceeding without
absolute candour. He saw Mr. Mainwaring in the street as he left
Bearside's office and told him all about it. "I just want, sir, to see
what'll come of it"
"You'll lose your fifty dollars, Mr. Gotobed, and only cause a
little vexation to a high-spirited young nobleman."
"Very likely, sir. But neither the loss of my dollars, nor Lord
Rufford's slight vexation will in the least disturb my rest. I'm not
a rich man, sir, but I should like to watch the way in which such a
question will be tried and brought to a conclusion in this
aristocratic country. I don't quite know what your laws may be, Mr.
Mainwaring."
"Just the same as your own, Mr. Gotobed, I take it"
"We have no game laws, sir. As I was saying I don't understand your
laws, but justice is the same everywhere. If this great lord's game
has eaten up the poor man's wheat the great lord ought to pay for
it."
"The owners of game pay for the damage they do three times over,"
said the parson, who was very strongly on that side of the question.
"Do you think that such men as Goarly would be better off if the
gentry were never to come into the country at all?"
"Perhaps, Mr. Mainwaring, I may think that there would be no
Goarlys if there were no Ruffords. That, however, is a great question
which cannot be argued on this case. All we can hope here is that one
poor man may have an act of justice done him though in seeking for it
he has to struggle against so wealthy a magnate as Lord Rufford."
"What I hope is that he may be found out," replied Mr. Mainwaring
with equal enthusiasm, "and then he will be in Rufford gaol before
long. That's the justice I look for. Who do you think put down the
poison in Dillsborough wood?"
"How was it that the poor woman lost all her geese?" asked the
Senator.
"She was paid for a great many more than she lost, Mr. Gotobed."
"That doesn't touch upon the injustice of the proceeding. Who
assessed the loss, sir? Who valued the geese? Am I to keep a pet
tiger in my garden, and give you a couple of dollars when he destroys
your pet dog, and think myself justified because dogs as a rule are
not worth more than two dollars each? She has a right to her own geese
on her own ground."
"And Lord Rufford, sir, as I take it," said Runciman, who had been
allowed to come up and hear the end of the conversation, "has a right
to his own foxes in his own coverts."
"Yes,—if he could keep them there, my friend. But as it is the
nature of foxes to wander away and to be thieves, he has no such
right."
"Of course, sir, begging your pardon," said Runciman, "I was
speaking of England." Runciman had heard of the Senator Gotobed, as
indeed had all Dillsborough by this time.
"And I am speaking of justice all the world over," said the Senator
slapping his hand upon his thigh. "But I only want to see. It may be
that England is a country in which a poor man should not attempt to
hold a few acres of land."
On that night the Dillsborough club met as usual and, as a matter
of course, Goarly and the American Senator were the subjects chiefly
discussed. Everybody in the room knew,—or thought that he knew,—that
Goarly was a cheating fraudulent knave, and that Lord Rufford was, at
any rate, in this case acting properly. They all understood the old
goose, and were aware, nearly to a bushel, of the amount of wheat
which the man had sold off those two fields. Runciman knew that the
interest on the mortgage had been paid, and could only have been paid
out of the produce; and Larry Twentyman knew that if Goarly took his
7s. 6d. an acre he would be better off than if the wood had not been
there. But yet among them all they didn't quite see how they were to
confute the Senator's logic. They could not answer it satisfactorily,
even among themselves; but they felt that if Goarly could be detected
in some offence, that would confute the Senator. Among themselves it
was sufficient to repeat the well-known fact that Goarly was a rascal;
but with reference to this aggravating, interfering, and most
obnoxious American it would be necessary to prove it.
"His Lordship has put it into Masters's hands, I'm told," said the
doctor. At this time neither the attorney nor Larry Twentyman were in
the room.
"He couldn't have done better," said Runciman, speaking from behind
a long clay pipe.
"All the same he was nibbling at Goarly," said Ned Botsey.
"I don't know that he was nibbling at Goarly at all, Mr. Botsey,"
said the landlord. "Goarly came to him, and Goarly was refused. What
more would you have?"
"It's all one to me," said Botsey; "only I do think that in a
sporting county like this the place ought to be made too hot to hold
a blackguard like that. If he comes out at me with his gun I'll ride
over him. And I wouldn't mind riding over that American too."
"That's just what would suit Goarly's book," said the doctor.
"Exactly what Goarly would like," said Harry Stubbings.
Then Mr. Masters and Larry entered the room. On that evening two
things had occurred to the attorney. Nickem had returned, and had
asked for and received an additional week's leave of absence. He had
declined to explain accurately what he was doing but gave the attorney
to understand that he thought that he was on the way to the bottom of
the whole thing. Then, after Nickem had left him, Mr. Masters had a
letter of instructions from Lord Rufford's steward. When he received
it, and found that his paid services had been absolutely employed on
behalf of his Lordship, he almost regretted the encouragement he had
given to Nickem. In the first place he might want Nickem. And then he
felt that in his present position he ought not to be a party to
anything underhand. But Nickem was gone, and he was obliged to console
himself by thinking that Nickem was at any rate employing his
intellect on the right side. When he left his house with Larry
Twentyman he had told his wife nothing about Lord Rufford. Up to this
time he and his wife had not as yet reconciled their difference, and
poor Mary was still living in misery. Larry, though he had called for
the attorney, had not sat down in the parlour, and had barely spoken
to Mary. "For gracious sake, Mr. Twentyman, don't let him stay in that
place there half the night," said Mrs. Masters. "It ain't fit for a
father of a family."
"Father never does stay half the night," said Kate, who took more
liberties in that house than any one else.
"Hold your tongue, miss. I don't know whether it wouldn't be better
for you, Mr. Twentyman, if you were not there so often yourself."
Poor Larry felt this to be hard. He was not even engaged as yet,
and as far as he could see was not on the way to be engaged. In such
condition surely his possible mother-in-law could have no right to
interfere with him. He condescended to make no reply, but crossed the
passage and carried the attorney off with him.
"You've heard what that American gentleman has been about, Mr.
Masters?" asked the landlord.
"I'm told he's been with Bearside."
"And has offered to pay his bill for him if he'll carry on the
business for Goarly. Whoever heard the like of that?"
"What sort of a man is he?" asked the doctor. "A great man in his
own country everybody says," answered Runciman. "I wish he'd stayed
there. He comes over here and thinks he understands everything just
as though he had lived here all his life. Did you say gin cold,
Larry; and rum for you, Mr. Masters?" Then the landlord gave the
orders to the girl who had answered the bell.
"But they say he's actually going to Lord Rufford's," said young
Botsey who would have given one of his fingers to be asked to the
lord's house.
"They are all going from Bragton," said Runciman.
"The young squire is going to ride one of my horses," said Harry
Stubbings.
"That'll be an easy three pounds in your pockets, Harry," said the
doctor. In answer to which Harry remarked that he took all that as it
came, the heavies and lights together, and that there was not much
change to be got out of three sovereigns when some gentlemen had had a
horse out for the day,—particularly when a gentleman didn't pay
perhaps for twelve months.
"The whole party is going," continued the landlord. "How he is to
have the cheek to go into his Lordship's house after what he is doing
is more than I can understand."
"What business is it of his?" said Larry angrily. "That's what I
want to know. What'd he think if we went and interfered over there? I
shouldn't be surprised if he got a little rough usage before he's out
of the county. I'm told he came across Bean when he was ferreting
about the other day, and that Bean gave him quite as good as he
brought."
"I say he's a spy," said Ribbs the butcher from his seat on the
sofa. "I hates a spy."
Soon after that Mr. Masters left the room and Larry Twentyman
followed him. There was something almost ridiculous in the way the
young man would follow the attorney about on these Saturday
evenings,—as though he could make love to the girl by talking to the
father. But on this occasion he had something special to say. "So
Mary's going to Cheltenham, Mr. Masters."
"Yes, she is. You don't see any objection to that, I hope."
"Not in the least, Mr. Masters. I wish she might go anywhere to
enjoy herself. And from all I've heard Lady Ushant is a very good
sort of lady."
"A very good sort of lady. She won't do Mary any harm, Twentyman."
"I don't suppose she will. But there's one thing I should like to
know. Why shouldn't she tell me before she goes that she'll have me?"
"I wish she would with all my heart."
"And Mrs. Masters is all on my side."
"Quite so."
"And the girls have always been my friends."
"I think we are all your friends, Twentyman. I'm sure Mary is. But
that isn't marrying; is it?"
"If you would speak to her, Mr. Masters."
"What would you have me say? I couldn't bid my girl to have one man
or another. I could only tell her what I think, and that she knows
already."
"If you were to say that you wished it! She thinks so much about
you:'
"I couldn't tell her that I wished it in a manner that would drive
her into it. Of course it would be a very good match. But I have
only to think of her happiness and I must leave her to judge what
will make her happy."
"I should like to have it fixed some way before she starts," said
Larry in an altered tone.
"Of course you are your own master, Twentyman. And you have behaved
very well"
"This is a kind of thing that a man can't stand," said the young
farmer sulkily. "Good night, Mr. Masters" Then he walked off home to
Chowton Farm meditating on his own condition and trying to make up his
mind to leave the scornful girl and become a free man. But he couldn't
do it. He couldn't even quite make up his mind that he would try to do
it. There was a bitterness within as he thought of permanent fixed
failure which he could not digest. There was a craving in his heart
which he did not himself quite understand, but which made him think
that the world would be unfit to be lived in if he were to be
altogether separated from Mary Masters. He couldn't separate himself
from her. It was all very well thinking of it, talking of it,
threatening it; but in truth he couldn't do it. There might of course
be an emergency in which he must do it. She might declare that she
loved some one else and she might marry that other person. In that
event he saw no other alternative but,— as he expressed it to
himself,—"to run a mucker." Whether the "mucker" should be run
against Mary, or against the fortunate lover, or against himself, he
did not at present resolve.
But he did resolve as he reached his own hall door that he would
make one more passionate appeal to Mary herself before she started
for Cheltenham, and that he would not make it out on a public path,
or in the Masters' family parlour before all the Masters' family;—
but that he would have her secluded, by herself, so that he might
speak out all that was in him, to the best of his ability.
CHAPTER XX. There are Convenances
Before the Monday came the party to Rufford Hall had become quite a
settled thing and had been very much discussed. On the Saturday the
Senator had been driven to the meet, a distance of about ten miles,
on purpose that he might see Lord Rufford and explain his views about
Goarly. Lord Rufford had bowed and stared, and laughed, and had then
told the Senator that he thought he would "find himself in the wrong
box." "That's quite possible, my Lord. I guess, it won't be the first
time I've been in the wrong box, my Lord. Sometimes I do get right.
But I thought I would not enter your lordship's house as a guest
without telling you what I was doing." Then Lord Rufford assured him
that this little affair about Goarly would make no difference in that
respect. Mr. Gotobed again scrutinised the hounds and Tony Tuppett,
laughed in his sleeve because a fox wasn't found in the first quarter
of an hour, and after that was driven back to Bragton.
The Sunday was a day of preparation for the Trefoils. Of course
they didn't go to church. Arabella indeed was never up in time for
church and Lady Augustus only went when her going would be duly
registered among fashionable people. Mr. Gotobed laughed when he was
invited and asked whether anybody was ever known to go to church two
Sundays running at Bragton. "People have been known to refuse with
less acrimony," said Morton. "I always speak my mind, sir," replied
the Senator. Poor John Morton, therefore, went to his parish church
alone.
There were many things to be considered by the Trefoils. There was
the question of dress. If any good was to be done by Arabella at
Rufford it must be done with great despatch. There would be the
dinner on Monday, the hunting on Tuesday, the ball, and then the
interesting moment of departure. No girl could make better use of her
time; but then, think of her difficulties! All that she did would have
to be done under the very eyes of the man to whom she was engaged, and
to whom she wished to remain engaged,—unless, as she said to herself,
she could "pull off the other event." A great deal must depend on
appearance. As she and her mother were out on a lengthened cruise
among long-suffering acquaintances, going to the De Brownes after the
Gores, and the Smijthes after the De Brownes, with as many holes to
run to afterwards as a four-year-old fox,— though with the same
probability of finding them stopped,—of course she had her wardrobe
with her. To see her night after night one would think that it was
supplied with all that wealth would give. But there were deficiencies
and there were make-shifts, very well known to herself and well
understood by her maid. She could generally supply herself with gloves
by bets, as to which she had never any scruple in taking either what
she did win or did not, and in dunning any who might chance to be
defaulters. On occasions too, when not afraid of the bystanders, she
would venture on a hat, and though there was difficulty as to the
payment, not being able to give her number as she did with gloves, so
that the tradesmen could send the article, still she would manage to
get the hat,—and the trimmings. It was said of her that she once
offered to lay an Ulster to a sealskin jacket, but that the young man
had coolly said that a sealskin jacket was beyond a joke and had asked
her whether she was ready to "put down" her Ulster. These were little
difficulties from which she usually knew how to extricate herself
without embarrassment; but she had not expected to have to marshal
her forces against such an enemy as Lord Rufford, or to sit down for
the besieging of such a city this campaign. There were little things
which required to be done, and the lady's-maid certainly had not time
to go to church on Sunday.
But there were other things which troubled her even more than her
clothes. She did not much like Bragton, and at Bragton, in his own
house, she did not very much like her proposed husband. At Washington
he had been somebody. She had met him everywhere then, and had heard
him much talked about. At Washington he had been a popular man and had
had the reputation of being a rich man also; but here, at home, in the
country he seemed to her to fall off in importance, and he certainly
had not made himself pleasant. Whether any man could be pleasant to
her in the retirement of a country house,—any man whom she would have
no interest in running down,— she did not ask herself. An engagement
to her must under any circumstances be a humdrum thing,—to be
brightened only by wealth. But here she saw no signs of wealth.
Nevertheless she was not prepared to shove away the plank from below
her feet, till she was sure that she had a more substantial board on
which to step. Her mother, who perhaps did not see in the character of
Morton all the charms which she would wish to find in a son-in-law,
was anxious to shake off the Bragton alliance; but Arabella, as she
said so often both to herself and to her mother, was sick of the dust
of the battle and conscious of fading strength. She would make this
one more attempt, but must make it with great care. When last in town
this young lord had whispered a word or two to her, which then had
set her hoping for a couple of days; and now, when chance had brought
her into his neighbourhood, he had gone out of his way,— very much
out of his way,—to renew his acquaintance with her. She would be mad
not to give herself the chance; but yet she could not afford to let
the plank go from under her feet.
But the part she had to play was one which even she felt to be
almost beyond her powers. She could perceive that Morton was
beginning to be jealous,—and that his jealousy was not of that
nature which strengthens a tie but which is apt to break it
altogether. His jealousy, if fairly aroused, would not be appeased by
a final return to himself. She had already given him occasion to
declare himself off, and if thoroughly angered he would no doubt use
it. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, he was becoming more sombre
and hard, and she was well aware that there was reason for it. It did
not suit her to walk about alone with him through the shrubberies. It
did not suit her to be seen with his arm round her waist. Of course
the people of Bragton would talk of the engagement, but she would
prefer that they should talk of it with doubt. Even her own maid had
declared to Mrs. Hopkins that she did not know whether there was or
was not an engagement,—her own maid being at the time almost in her
confidence. Very few of the comforts of a lover had been vouchsafed to
John Morton during this sojourn at Bragton and very little had been
done in accordance with his wishes. Even this visit to Rufford, as she
well knew, was being made in opposition to him. She hoped that her
lover would not attempt to ride to hounds on the Tuesday, so that she
might be near the lord unseen by him,—and that he would leave Rufford
on the Wednesday before herself and her mother. At the ball of course
she could dance with Lord Rufford, and could keep her eye on her lover
at the same time.
She hardly saw Morton on the Sunday afternoon, and she was again
closeted on the Monday till lunch. They were to start at four and
there would not be much more than time after lunch for her to put on
her travelling gear, Then, as they all felt, there was a difficulty
about the carriages. Who was to go with whom? Arabella, after lunch,
took the bull by the horns. "I suppose," she said as Morton followed
her out into the hall, "mamma and I had better go in the phaeton."
"I was thinking that Lady Augustus might consent to travel with Mr.
Gotobed and that you and I might have the phaeton."
"Of course it would be very pleasant," she answered smiling.
"Then why not let it be so?"
"There are convenances."
"How would it be if you and I were going without anybody else? Do
you mean to say that in that case we might not sit in the same
carriage?"
"I mean to say that in that case I should not go at all. It isn't
done in England. You have beer in the States so long that you forget
all our old-fashioned ways."
"I do think that is nonsense." She only smiled and shook her head.
"Then the Senator shall go in the phaeton, and I will go with you and
your mother."
"Yes,—and quarrel with mamma all the time as you always do. Let me
have it my own way this time."
"Upon my word I believe you are ashamed of me," he said leaning
back upon the hall table. He had shut the dining-room door and she
was standing close to him.
"What nonsense!"
"You have only got to say so, Arabella, and let there be an end of
it all."
"If you wish it, Mr. Morton."
"You know I don't wish it. You know I am ready to marry you
to-morrow."
"You have made ever so many difficulties as far as I can
understand."
"You have unreasonable people acting for you, Arabella, and of
course I don't mean to give way to them."
"Pray don't talk to me about money. I know nothing about it and
have taken no part in the matter. I suppose there must be
settlements?"
"Of course there must"
"And I can only do what other people tell me. You at any rate have
something to do with it all, and I have absolutely nothing."
"That is no reason you shouldn't go in the same carriage with me to
Rufford."
"Are you coming back to that, just like a big child? Do let us
consider that as settled. I'm sure you'll let mamma and me have the
use of the phaeton." Of course the little contest was ended in the
manner proposed by Arabella.
"I do think," said Arabella, when she and her mother were seated in
the carriage, "that we have treated him very badly."
"Quite as well as he deserves! What a house to bring us to; and
what people! Did you ever come across such an old woman before! And
she has him completely under her thumb. Are you prepared to live with
that harridan?"
"You may let me alone, mamma, for all that. She won't be in my way
after I'm married, I can tell you."
"You'll have something to do then."
"I ain't a bit afraid of her."
"And to ask us to meet such people as this American!"
"He's going back to Washington and it suited him to have him. I
don't quarrel with him for that. I wish I were married to him and
back in the States."
"You do?"
"I do."
"You have given it all up about Lord Rufford then?"
"No;—that's just where it is. I haven't given it up, and I still
see trouble upon trouble before me. But I know how it will be. He
doesn't mean anything. He's only amusing himself."
"If he'd once say the word he couldn't get back again. The Duke
would interfere then."
"What would he care for the Duke? The Duke is no more than anybody
else nowadays. I shall just fall to the ground between two stools. I
know it as well as if it were done already. And then I shall have to
begin again! If it comes to that I shall do something terrible. I know
I shall." Then they turned in at Lord Rufford's gates; and as they
were driven up beneath the oaks, through the gloom, both mother and
daughter thought how charming it would be to be the mistress of such a
park.
CHAPTER XXI. The first Evening at
Rufford Hall
The phaeton arrived the first, the driver having been especially
told by Arabella that he need not delay on the road for the other
carriage. She had calculated that she might make her entrance with
better effect alone with her mother than in company with Morton and
the Senator. It would have been worth the while of any one who had
witnessed her troubles on that morning to watch the bland serenity
and happy ease with which she entered the room. Her mother was fond
of a prominent place but was quite contented on this occasion to play
a second fiddle for her daughter. She had seen at a glance that
Rufford Hall was a delightful house. Oh,—if it might become the home
of her child and her grandchildren,—and possibly a retreat for
herself! Arabella was certainly very handsome at this moment. Never
did she look better than when got up with care for travelling,
especially as seen by an evening light. Her slow motions were adapted
to heavy wraps, and however she might procure her large sealskin
jacket she graced it well when she had it. Lord Rufford came to the
door to meet them and immediately introduced them to his sister. There
were six or seven people in the room, mostly ladies, and tea was
offered to the new-comers. Lady Penwether was largely made, like her
brother; but was a languidly lovely woman, not altogether unlike
Arabella herself in her figure and movements, but with a more
expressive face, with less colour, and much more positive assurance of
high breeding. Lady Penwether was said to be haughty, but it was
admitted by all people that when Lady Penwether had said a thing or
had done a thing, it might be taken for granted that the way in which
she had done or said that thing was the right way. The only other
gentleman there was Major Caneback, who had just come in from hunting
with some distant pack and who had been brought into the room by Lord
Rufford that he might give some account of the doings of the day.
According to Caneback, they had been talking in the Brake country
about nothing but Goarly and the enormities which had been perpetrated
to the U.R.U. "By-the-bye, Miss Trefoil," said Lord Rufford, "what
have you done with your Senator?"
"He's on the road, Lord Rufford, examining English institutions as
he comes along. He'll be here by midnight."
"Imagine the man coming to me and telling me that he was a friend
of Goarly's. I rather liked him for it. There was a thorough pluck
about it. They say he's going to find all the money."
"I thought Mr. Scrobby was to do that?" said Lady Penwether.
"Mr. Scrobby will not have the slightest objection to have that
part of the work done for him. If all we hear is true Miss Trefoil's
Senator may have to defend both Scrobby and Goarly."
"My Senator as you call him will be quite up to the occasion."
"You knew him in America, Miss Trefoil?" asked Lady Penwether.
"Oh yes. We used to meet him and Mrs. Gotobed everywhere. But we
didn't exactly bring him over with us;—though our party down to
Bragton was made up in Washington," she added, feeling that she might
in this way account in some degree for her own presence in John
Morton's house. "It was mamma and Mr. Morton arranged it all."
"Oh my dear it was you and the Senator," said Lady Augustus, ready
for the occasion.
"Miss Trefoil," said the lord, "let us have it all out at once. Are
you taking Goarly's part?"
"Taking Goarly's part!" ejaculated the Major. Arabella affected to
give a little start, as though frightened by the Major's enthusiasm.
"For heaven's. sake let us know our foes," continued Lord Rufford.
"You see the effect such an announcement had upon Major Caneback. Have
you made an appointment before dawn with Mr. Scrobby under the elms?
Now I look at you I believe in my heart you're a Goarlyite,—only
without the Senator's courage to tell me the truth beforehand."
"I really am very much obliged to Goarly," said Arabella, "because
it is so nice to have something to talk about."
"That's just what I think, Miss Trefoil," declared a young lady,
Miss Penge, who was a friend of Lady Penwether. "The gentlemen have
so much to say about hunting which nobody can understand! But now
this delightful man has scattered poison all over the country there
is something that comes home to our understanding. I declare myself a
Goarlyite at once, Lord Rufford, and shall put myself under the
Senator's leading directly he comes."
During all this time not a word had been said of John Morton, the
master of Bragton, the man to whose party these new-comers belonged.
Lady Augustus and Arabella clearly understood that John Morton was
only a peg on which the invitation to them had been hung. The feeling
that it was so grew upon them with every word that was spoken,—and
also the conviction that he must be treated like a peg at Rufford. The
sight of the hangings of the room, so different to the old-fashioned
dingy curtains at Bragton, the brilliancy of the mirrors, all the
decorations of the place, the very blaze from the big grate, forced
upon the girl's feelings a conviction that this was her proper sphere.
Here she was, being made much of as a new-comer, and here if possible
she must remain. Everything smiled on her with gilded dimples, and
these were the smiles she valued. As the softness of the cushions sank
into her heart, and mellow nothingnesses from well-trained voices
greeted her ears, and the air of wealth and idleness floated about her
cheeks, her imagination rose within her and assured her that she
could secure something better than Bragton. The cautions with which
she had armed herself faded away. This, this was the kind of thing
for which she had been striving. As a girl of spirit was it not worth
her while to make another effort even though there might be danger?
Aut Caesar aut nihil. She knew nothing about Caesar; but before the
tardy wheels which brought the Senator and Mr. Morton had stopped at
the door she had declared to herself that she would be Lady Rufford.
The fresh party was of course brought into the drawing-room and tea
was offered; but Arabella hardly spoke to them, and Lady Augustus did
not speak to them at all, and they were shown up to their bedrooms
with very little preliminary conversation.
It was very hard to put Mr. Gotobed down;—or it might be more
correctly said, as there was no effort to put him down,—that it was
not often that he failed in coming to the surface. He took Lady
Penwether out to dinner and was soon explaining to her that this
little experiment of his in regard to Goarly was being tried simply
with the view of examining the institutions of the country. "We don't
mind it from you," said Lady Penwether, "because you are in a certain
degree a foreigner." The Senator declared himself flattered by being
regarded as a foreigner only "in a certain degree." "You see you speak
our language, Mr. Gotobed, and we can't help thinking you are
half-English."
"We are two-thirds English, my lady," said Mr. Gotobed; "but then
we think the other third is an improvement."
"Very likely."
"We have nothing so nice as this;" as he spoke he waved his right
hand to the different corners of the room. "Such a dinner-table as I
am sitting down to now couldn't be fixed in all the United States
though a man might spend three times as many dollars on it as his
lordship does."
"That is very often done, I should think."
"But then as we have nothing so well done as a house like this, so
also have we nothing so ill done as the houses of your poor people."
"Wages are higher with you, Mr. Gotobed"
"And public spirit, and the philanthropy of the age, and the
enlightenment of the people, and the institutions of the country all
round. They are all higher."
"Canvas-back ducks," said the Major, who was sitting two or three
off on the other side.
"Yes, sir, we have canvas-back ducks."
"Make up for a great many faults," said the Major.
"Of course, sir, when a man's stomach rises above his intelligence
he'll have to argue accordingly," said the Senator.
"Caneback, what are you going to ride to-morrow?" asked the lord
who saw the necessity of changing the conversation, as far at least
as the Major was concerned.
"Jemima;—mare of Purefoy's; have my neck broken, they tell me."
"It's not improbable," said Sir John Purefoy who was sitting at
Lady Penwether's left hand. "Nobody ever could ride her yet."
"I was thinking of asking you to let Miss Trefoil try her," said
Lord Rufford. Arabella was sitting between Sir John Purefoy and the
Major.
"Miss Trefoil is quite welcome," said Sir John. "It isn't a bad
idea. Perhaps she may carry a lady, because she has never been tried.
I know that she objects strongly to carry a man."
"My dear," said Lady Augustus, "you shan't do anything of the
kind." And Lady Augustus pretended to be frightened.
"Mamma, you don't suppose Lord Rufford wants to kill me at once."
"You shall either ride her, Miss Trefoil, or my little horse Jack.
But I warn you beforehand that as Jack is the easiest ridden horse in
the country, and can scramble over anything, and never came down in
his life, you won't get any honour and glory; but on Jemima you might
make a character that would stick to you till your dying day."
"But if I ride Jemima that dying day might be to-morrow. I think
I'll take Jack, Lord Rufford, and let Major Caneback have the honour.
Is Jack fast?" In this way the anger arising between the Senator and
the Major was assuaged. The Senator still held his own, and, before
the question was settled between Jack and Jemima, had told the company
that no Englishman knew how to ride, and that the only seat fit for a
man on horseback was that suited for the pacing horses of California
and Mexico. Then he assured Sir John Purefoy that eighty miles a day
was no great journey for a pacing horse, with a man of fourteen stone
and a saddle and accoutrements weighing four more. The Major's
countenance, when the Senator declared that no Englishman could ride,
was a sight worth seeing.
That evening, even in the drawing-room, the conversation was
chiefly about horses and hunting, and those terrible enemies Goarly
and Scrobby. Lady Penwether and Miss Penge who didn't hunt were
distantly civil to Lady Augustus of whom of course a woman so much in
the world as Lady Penwether knew something. Lady Penwether had
shrugged her shoulders when consulted as to these special guests and
had expressed a hope that Rufford "wasn't going to make a goose of
himself." But she was fond of her brother and as both Lady Purefoy and
Miss Penge were special friends of hers, and as she had also been
allowed to invite a couple of Godolphin's girls to whom she wished to
be civil, she did as she was asked. The girl, she said to Miss Penge
that evening, was handsome, but penniless and a flirt. The mother she
declared to be a regular old soldier. As to Lady Augustus she was
right; but she had perhaps failed to read Arabella's character
correctly. Arabella Trefoil was certainly not a flirt. In all the
horsey conversation Arabella joined, and her low, clear, slow voice
could be heard now and then as though she were really animated with
the subject. At Bragton she had never once spoken as though any matter
had interested her. During this time Morton fell into conversation
first with Lady Purefoy and then with the two Miss Godolphins, and
afterwards for a few minutes with Lady Penwether who knew that he was
a county gentleman and a respectable member of the diplomatic
profession. But during the whole evening his ear was intent on the
notes of Arabella's voice; and also, during the whole evening, her eye
was watching him. She would not lose her chance with Lord Rufford for
want of any effort on her own part. If aught were required from her in
her present task that might be offensive to Mr. Morton,—anything that
was peremptorily demanded for the effort,—she would not scruple to
offend the man. But if it might be done without offence, so much the
better. Once he came across the room and said a word to her as she was
talking to Lord Rufford and the Purefoys. "You are really in earnest
about riding to-morrow."
"Oh dear, yes. Why shouldn't I be in earnest?"
"You are coming out yourself I hope," said the Lord.
"I have no horses here of my own, but I have told that man
Stubbings to send me something, and as I haven't been at Bragton for
the last seven years I have nothing proper to wear. I shan't be called
a Goarlyite I hope if I appear in trowsers."
"Not unless you have a basket of red herrings on your arm," said
Lord Rufford. Then Morton retired back to the Miss Godolphins finding
that he had nothing more to say to Arabella.
He was very angry,—though he hardly knew why or with whom. A girl
when she is engaged is not supposed to talk to no one but her
recognised lover in a mixed party of ladies and gentlemen, and she is
especially absolved from such a duty when they chance to meet in the
house of a comparative stranger. In such a house and among such people
it was natural that the talk should be about hunting, and as the girl
had accepted the loan of a horse it was natural that she should join
in such conversation. She had never sat for a moment apart with Lord
Rufford. It was impossible to say that she had flirted with the
man,—and yet Morton felt that he was neglected, and felt also that he
was only there because this pleasure-seeking young Lord had liked to
have in his house the handsome girl whom he, Morton, intended to
marry. He felt thoroughly ashamed of being there as it were in the
train of Miss Trefoil. He was almost disposed to get up and declare
that the girl was engaged to marry him. He thought that he could put
an end to the engagement without breaking his heart; but if the
engagement was an engagement he could not submit to treatment such as
this, either from her or from others. He would see her for the last
time in the country at the ball on the following evening,—as of
course he would not be near her during the hunting,—and then he would
make her understand that she must be altogether his or altogether
cease to be his. And so resolving he went to bed, refusing to join the
gentlemen in the smoking-room.
"Oh, mamma," Arabella said to her mother that evening, "I do so
wish I could break my arm tomorrow."
"Break your arm, my dear!"
"Or my leg would be better. I wish I could have the courage to
chuck myself off going over some gate. If I could be laid up here now
with a broken limb I really think I could do it."
CHAPTER XXII. Jemima
As the meet on the next morning was in the park the party at
Rufford Hall was able to enjoy the luxury of an easy morning together
with the pleasures of the field. There was no getting up at eight
o'clock, no hurry and scurry to do twenty miles and yet be in time, no
necessity for the tardy dressers to swallow their breakfasts while
their more energetic companions were raving at them for compromising
the chances of the day by their delay. There was a public breakfast
down-stairs, at which all the hunting farmers of the country were to
be seen, and some who, only pretended to be hunting farmers on such
occasions. But up-stairs there was a private breakfast for the ladies
and such of the gentlemen as preferred tea to champagne and cherry
brandy. Lord Rufford was in and out of both rooms, making himself
generally agreeable. In the public room there was a great deal said
about Goarly, to all of which the Senator listened with eager
ears,—for the Senator preferred the public breakfast as offering
another institution to his notice. "He'll swing on a gallows afore
he's dead," said one energetic farmer who was sitting next to Mr.
Gotobed,—a fat man with a round head, and a bullock's neck, dressed
in a black coat with breeches and top-boots. John Runce was not a
riding man. He was too heavy and short-winded;—too fond of his beer
and port wine; but he was a hunting man all over, one who always had a
fox in the springs at the bottom of his big meadows, one to whom it
was the very breath of his nostrils to shake hands with the hunting
gentry and to be known as a staunch friend to the U.R.U. A man did not
live in the county more respected than John Runce, or who was better
able to pay his way. To his thinking an animal more injurious than
Goarly to the best interests of civilisation could not have been
produced by all the evil influences of the world combined. "Do you
really think," said the Senator calmly, "that a man should be hanged
for killing a fox?" John Runce, who was not very ready, turned round
and stared at him. "I haven't heard of any other harm that he has
done, and perhaps he had some provocation for that." Words were
wanting to Mr. Runce, but not indignation. He collected together his
plate and knife and fork and his two glasses and his lump of bread,
and, looking the Senator full in the face, slowly pushed back his
chair and, carrying his provisions with him, toddled off to the other
end of the room. When he reached a spot where place was made for him
he had hardly breath left to speak. "Well," he said, "I never—!" He
sat a minute in silence shaking his head, and continued to shake his
head and look round upon his neighbours as he devoured his food.
Up-stairs there was a very cosy party who came in by degrees. Lady
Penwether was there soon after ten with Miss Penge and some of the
gentlemen, including Morton, who was the only man seen in that room
in black. Young Hampton, who vas intimate in the house, made his way
up there and Sir John Purefoy joined the party. Sir John was a hunting
man who lived in the county and was an old friend of the family. Lady
Purefoy hunted also, and came in later. Arabella was the last,—not
from laziness, but aware that in this way the effect might be the
best. Lord Rufford was in the room when she entered it and of course
she addressed herself to him. "Which is it to be, Lord Rufford, Jack
or Jemima?"
"Which ever you like."
"I am quite indifferent. If you'll put me on the mare I'll ride
her,—or try."
"Indeed you won't," said Lady Augustus.
"Mamma knows nothing about it, Lord Rufford. I believe I could do
just as well as Major Caneback."
"She never had a lady on her in her life," said Sir John.
"Then it's time for her to begin. But at any rate I must have some
breakfast first" Then Lord Rufford brought her a cup of tea and Sir
John gave her a cutlet, and she felt herself to be happy. She was
quite content with her hat, and though her habit was not exactly a
hunting habit, it fitted her well. Morton had never before seen her
in a riding dress and acknowledged that it became her. He struggled
to think of something special to say to her, but there was nothing.
He was not at home on such an occasion. His long trowsers weighed him
down, and his ordinary morning coat cowed him. He knew in his heart
that she thought no thing of him as he was now. But she said a word to
him,—with that usual smile of hers. "Of course, Mr. Morton, you are
coming with us."
"A little way perhaps."
"You'll find that any horse from Stubbings can go," said Lord
Rufford. "I wish I could say as much of all mine."
"Jack can go, I hope, Lord Rufford." Lord Rufford nodded his head.
"And I shall expect you to give me a lead." To this he assented,
though it was perhaps more than he had intended. But on such an
occasion it is almost impossible to refuse such a request.
At half-past eleven they were all out in the park, and Tony was
elate as a prince having been regaled with a tumbler of champagne.
But the great interest of the immediate moment were the frantic
efforts made by Jemima to get rid of her rider. Once or twice Sir
John asked the Major to give it up, but the Major swore that the mare
was a good mare and only wanted riding. She kicked and squealed and
backed and went round the park with him at a full gallop. In the park
there was a rail with a ha-ha ditch, and the Major rode her at it in a
gallop. She went through the timber, fell in the ditch, and then was
brought up again without giving the man a fall. He at once put her
back at the same fence, and she took it, almost in her stride, without
touching it. "Have her like a spaniel before the day's over," said the
Major, who thoroughly enjoyed these little encounters.
Among the laurels at the bottom of the park a fox was found, and
then there was a great deal of riding about the grounds. All this was
much enjoyed by the ladies who were on foot,—and by the Senator who
wandered about the place alone. A gentleman's park is not always the
happiest place for finding a fox. The animal has usually many
resources there and does not like to leave it. And when he does go
away it is not always easy to get after him. But ladies in a carriage
or on foot on such occasions have their turn of the sport. On this
occasion it was nearly one before the fox allowed himself to be
killed, and then he had hardly been outside the park palings. There
was a good deal of sherry drank before the party got away and hunting
men such as Major Caneback began to think that the day was to be
thrown away. As they started off for Shugborough Springs, the little
covert on John Runce's farm which was about four miles from Rufford
Hall, Sir John asked the Major to get on another animal. "You've had
trouble enough with her for one day, and given her enough to do." But
the Major was not of that way of thinking. "Let her have the day's
work," said the Major. "Do her good. Remember what she's learned." And
so they trotted off to Shugborough.
While they were riding about the park Morton had kept near to Miss
Trefoil. Lord Rufford, being on his own place and among his own
coverts, had had cares on his hand and been unable to devote himself
to the young lady. She had never for a moment looked up at her lover,
or tried to escape from him. She had answered all his questions,
saying, however, very little, and had bided her time. The more
gracious she was to Morton now the less ground would he have for
complaining of her when she should leave him by-and-by. As they were
trotting along the road Lord Rufford came up and apologized. "I'm
afraid I've been very inattentive, Miss Trefoil; but I dare say you've
been in better hands."
"There hasn't been much to do;—has there?"
"Very little. I suppose a man isn't responsible for having foxes
that won't break. Did you see the Senator? He seemed to think it was
all right. Did you hear of John Runce?" Then he told the story of John
Runce, which had been told to him.
"What a fine old fellow! I should forgive him his rent"
"He is much better able to pay me double. Your Senator, Mr. Morton,
is a very peculiar man."
"He is peculiar," said Morton, "and I am sorry to say can make
himself very disagreeable."
"We might as well trot on as Shugborough is a small place, and a
fox always goes away from it at once. John Runce knows how to train
them better than I do. Then they made their way on through the
straggling horses, and John Morton, not wishing to seem to be afraid
of his rival, remained alone. "I wish Caneback had left that mare
behind," said the lord as they went. "It isn't the country for her,
and she is going very nastily with him. Are you fond of hunting, Miss
Trefoil?"
"Very fond of it," said Arabella who had been out two or three
times in her life.
"I like a girl to ride to hounds," said his lordship. "I don't
think she ever looks so well." Then Arabella determined that come
what might she would ride to hounds.
At Shugborough Springs a fox was found before half the field was
up, and he broke almost as soon as he was found. "Follow me through
the hand gates," said the lord, "and from the third field out it's
fair riding. Let him have his head, and remember he hangs a moment as
he comes to his fence. You won't be left behind unless there's
something out of the way to stop us." Arabella's heart was in her
mouth, but she was quite resolved. Where he went she would follow. As
for being left behind she would not care the least for that if he were
left behind with her. They got well away, having to pause a moment
while the hounds came up to Tony's horn out of the wood. Then there
was plain sailing and there were very few before them. "He's one of
the old sort, my lord," said Tony as he pressed on, speaking of the
fox. "Not too near me, and you'll go like a bird," said his lordship.
"He's a nice little horse, isn't he? When I'm going to be married,
he'll be the first present I shall make her."
"He'd tempt almost any girl," said Arabella.
It was wonderful how well she went, knowing so little about it as
she did. The horse was one easily ridden, and on plain ground she
knew what she was about in a saddle. At any rate she did not disgrace
herself and when they had already run some three or four miles Lord
Rufford had nearly the best of it and she had kept with him. "You
don't know where you are I suppose," he said when they came to a
check.
"And I don't in the least care, if they'd only go on," said she
eagerly.
"We're back at Rufford Park. We've left the road nearly a mile to
our left, but there we are. Those trees are the park."
"But must we stop there?"
"That's as the fox may choose to behave. We shan't stop unless he
does." Then young Hampton came up, declaring that there was the very
mischief going on between Major Caneback and Jemima. According to
Hampton's account, the Major had been down three or four times, but
was determined to break either the mare's neck or her spirit. He had
been considerably hurt, so Hampton said, in one shoulder, but had
insisted on riding on. "That's the worst of him," said Lord Rufford.
"He never knows when to give up."
Then the hounds were again on the scent and were running very fast
towards the park. "That's a nasty ditch before us," said the Lord.
"Come down a little to the left. The hounds are heading that way, and
there's a gate." Young Hampton in the meantime was going straight for
the fence. "I'm not afraid," said Arabella.
"Very well. Give him his head and he'll do it"
Just at that moment there was a noise behind them and the Major on
Jemima rushed up. She was covered with foam and he with dirt, and her
sides were sliced with the spur. His hat was crushed, and he was
riding almost altogether with his right hand. He came close to
Arabella and she could see the rage in his face as the animal rushed
on with her head almost between her knees. "He'll have another fall
there," said Lord Rufford.
Hampton who had passed them was the first over the fence, and the
other three all took it abreast. The Major was to the right, the lord
to the left and the girl between them. The mare's head was perhaps the
first. She rushed at the fence, made no leap at all, and of course
went headlong into the ditch. The Major still stuck to her though two
or three voices implored him to get off. He afterwards declared that
he had not strength to lift himself out of the saddle. The mare lay
for a moment;—then blundered out, rolled over him, jumped on to her
feet, and lunging out kicked her rider on the head as he was rising.
Then she went away and afterwards jumped the palings into Rufford
Park. That evening she was shot.
The man when kicked had fallen back close under the feet of Miss
Trefoil's horse. She screamed and half-fainting, fell also;—but fell
without hurting herself. Lord Rufford of course stopped, as did also
Mr. Hampton and one of the whips, with several others in the course of
a minute or two. The Major was senseless,—but they who understood
what they were looking at were afraid that the case was very bad. He
was picked up and put on a door and within half an hour was on his bed
in Rufford Hall. But he did not speak for some hours and before six
o'clock that evening the doctor from Rufford had declared that he had
mounted his last horse and ridden his last hunt!
"Oh Lord Rufford," said Arabella, "I shall never recover that. I
heard the horse's feet against his head." Lord Rufford shuddered and
put his hand round her waist to support her. At that time they were
standing on the ground. "Don't mind me if you can do any good to him."
But there was nothing that Lord Rufford could do as four men were
carrying the Major on a shutter. So he and Arabella returned together,
and when she got off her horse she was only able to throw herself into
his arms.
CHAPTER XXIII. Poor Caneback
A closer intimacy will occasionally be created by some accident,
some fortuitous circumstance, than weeks of ordinary intercourse will
produce. Walk down Bond Street in a hailstorm of peculiar severity and
you may make a friend of the first person you meet, whereas you would
be held to have committed an affront were you to speak to the same
person in the same place on a fine day. You shall travel smoothly to
York with a lady and she will look as though she would call the guard
at once were you so much as to suggest that it were a fine day; but if
you are lucky enough to break a wheel before you get to Darlington,
she will have told you all her history and shared your sherry by the
time you have reached that town. Arabella was very much shocked by the
dreadful accident she had seen. Her nerves had suffered, though it may
be doubted whether her heart had been affected much. But she was quite
conscious when she reached her room that the poor Major's misfortune,
happening as it had done just beneath her horse's feet, had been a
godsend to her. For a moment the young lord's arm had been round her
waist and her head had been upon his shoulder. And again when she had
slipped from her saddle she had felt his embrace. His fervour to her
had been simply the uncontrolled expression of his feeling at the
moment,—as one man squeezes another tightly by the hand in any
crisis of sudden impulse. She knew this; but she knew also that he
would probably revert to the intimacy which the sudden emotion had
created. The mutual galvanic shock might be continued at the next
meeting,—and so on. They had seen the tragedy together and it would
not fail to be a bond of union. As she told the tragedy to her mother,
she delicately laid aside her hat and whip and riding dress, and then
asked whether it was not possible that they might prolong their stay
at Rufford. "But the Gores, my dear! I put them off, you know, for two
days only." Then Arabella declared that she did not care a straw for
the Gores. In such a matter as this what would it signify though they
should quarrel with a whole generation of Gores? For some time she
thought that she would not come down again that afternoon or even that
evening. It might well be that the sight of the accident should have
made her too ill to appear. She felt conscious that in that moment and
in the subsequent half hour she had carried herself well, and that
there would be an interest about her were she to own herself compelled
to keep her room. Were she now to take to her bed they could not turn
her out on the following day. But at last her mother's counsel put an
end to that plan. Time was too precious. "I think you might lose more
than you'd gain," said her mother.
Both Lord Rufford and his sister were very much disturbed as to
what they should do on the occasion. At half-past six Lord Rufford
was told that the Major had recovered his senses, but that the case
was almost hopeless. Of course he saw his guest. "I'm all right,"
said the Major. The Lord sat there by the bedside, holding the man's
hand for a few moments, and then got up to leave him. "No nonsense
about putting off," said the Major in a faint voice; "beastly bosh all
that!"
But what was to be done? The dozen people who were in the house
must of course sit down to dinner. And then all the neighbourhood for
miles round were coming to a ball. It would be impossible to send
messages to everybody. And there was the feeling too that the man was
as yet only ill, and that his recovery was possible. A ball, with a
dead man in one of the bedrooms, would be dreadful. With a dying man
it was bad enough;—but then a dying man is always also a living man!
Lord Rufford had already telegraphed for a first-class surgeon from
London, it having been whispered to him that perhaps Old Nokes from
Rufford might be mistaken. The surgeon could not be there till four
o'clock in the morning by which time care would have been taken to
remove the signs of the ball; but if there was reason to send for a
London surgeon, then also was there reason for hope; and if there were
ground for hope, then the desirability of putting off the ball was
very much reduced. "He's at the furthest end of the corridor," the
Lord said to his sister, "and won't hear a sound of the music."
Though the man were to die why shouldn't the people dance? Had the
Major been dying three or four miles off, at the hotel at Rufford,
there would only have been a few sad looks, a few shakings of the
head, and the people would have danced without any flaw in their
gaiety. Had it been known at Rufford Hall that he was lying at that
moment in his mortal agony at Aberdeen, an exclamation or two,—
"Poor Caneback!"—"Poor Major!"—would have been the extent of the
wailing, and not the pressure of a lover's hand would have been
lightened, or the note of a fiddle delayed. And nobody in that house
really cared much for Caneback. He was not a man worthy of much care.
He was possessed of infinite pluck, and now that he was dying could
bear it well. But he had loved no one particularly, had been dear to
no one in these latter days of his life, had been of very little use
in the world, and had done very little more for society than any other
horse-trainer! But nevertheless it is a bore when a gentleman dies in
your house,—and a worse bore if he dies from an accident than if from
an illness for which his own body may be supposed to be responsible.
Though the gout should fly to a man's stomach in your best bedroom,
the idea never strikes you that your burgundy has done it! But here
the mare had done the mischief.
Poor Caneback;—and poor Lord Rufford! The Major was quite certain
that it was all over with himself. He had broken so many of his bones
and had his head so often cracked that he understood his own anatomy
pretty well. There he lay quiet and composed, sipping small modicums
of brandy and water, and taking his outlook into such transtygian
world as he had fashioned for himself in his dull imagination. If he
had misgivings he showed them to no bystander. If he thought then that
he might have done better with his energies than devote them to
dangerous horses, he never said so. His voice was weak, but it never
quailed; and the only regret he expressed was that he had not changed
the bit in Jemima's mouth. Lord Rufford's position was made worse by
an expression from Sir John Purefoy that the party ought to be put
off. Sir John was in a measure responsible for what his mare had done,
and was in a wretched state. "If it could possibly affect the poor
fellow I would do it," said Lord Rufford; "but it would create very
great inconvenience and disappointment. I have to think of other
people." "Then I shall send my wife home," said Sir John. And Lady
Purefoy was sent home. Sir John himself of course could not leave the
house while the man was alive. Before they all sat down to dinner the
Major was declared to be a little stronger. That settled the question
and the ball was not put off.
The ladies came down to dinner in a melancholy guise. They were not
fully dressed for the evening and were of course inclined to be
silent and sad. Before Lord Rufford came in Arabella managed to get
herself on to the sofa next to Lady Penwether, and then to undergo
some little hysterical manifestation, "Oh Lady Penwether; if you had
seen it;—and heard it!"
"I am very glad that I was spared anything so horrible."
"And the man's face as he passed me going to the leap! It will
haunt me to my dying day!" Then she shivered, and gurgled in her
throat, and turning suddenly round, hid her face on the elbow of the
couch.
"I've been afraid all the afternoon that she would be ill,"
whispered Lady Augustus to Miss Penge. "She is so susceptible!"
When Lord Rufford came into the room Arabella at once got up and
accosted him with a whisper. Either he took her or she took him into
a distant part of the room where they conversed apart for five
minutes. And he, as he told her how things were going and what was
being done, bent over her and whispered also. "What good would it do,
you know?" she said with affected intimacy as he spoke of his
difficulty about the ball. "One would do anything if one could be of
service,—but that would do nothing." She felt completely that her
presence at the accident had given her a right to have peculiar
conversations and to be consulted about everything. Of course she was
very sorry for Major Caneback. But as it had been ordained that Major
Caneback was to have his head split in two by a kick from a horse, and
that Lord Rufford was to be there to see it, how great had been the
blessing which had brought her to the spot at the same time!
Everybody there saw the intimacy and most of them understood the
way in which it was being used. "That girl is very clever, Rufford,"
his sister whispered to him before dinner. "She is very much excited
rather than clever just at present," he answered;— upon which Lady
Penwether shook her head. Miss Penge whispered to Miss Godolphin that
Miss Trefoil was making the most of it; and Mr. Morton, who had come
into the room while the conversation apart was going on, had certainly
been of the same opinion.
She had seated herself in an arm-chair away from the others after
that conversation was over, and as she sat there Morton came up to
her. He had been so little intimate with the members of the party
assembled and had found himself so much alone, that he had only
lately heard the story about Major Caneback, and had now only heard
it imperfectly. But he did see that an absolute intimacy had been
effected where two days before there had only been a slight
acquaintance; and he believed that this sudden rush had been in some
way due to the accident of which he had been told. "You know what has
happened?" he said.
"Oh, Mr. Morton; do not talk to me about it."
"Were you not speaking of it to Lord Rufford?"
"Of course I was. We were together."
"Did you see it?" Then she shuddered, put her handkerchief up to
her eyes, and turned her face away. "And yet the ball is to go on?"
he asked.
"Pray, pray, do not dwell on it,—unless you wish to force me back
to my room. When I left it I felt that I was attempting to do too
much." This might have been all very well had she not been so
manifestly able to talk to Lord Rufford on the same subject. If there
is any young man to whom a girl should be able to speak when she is in
a state of violent emotion, it is the young man to whom she is
engaged. So at least thought Mr. John Morton.
Then dinner was announced, and the dinner certainly was sombre
enough. A dinner before a ball in the country never is very much of a
dinner. The ladies know that there is work before them, and keep
themselves for the greater occasion. Lady Purefoy had gone, and Lady
Penwether was not very happy in the prospects for the evening. Neither
Miss Penge nor either of the two Miss Godolphins had entertained
personal hopes in regard to Lord Rufford, but nevertheless they took
badly the great favour shown to Arabella. Lady Augustus did not get on
particularly well with any of the other ladies,—and there seemed
during the dinner to be an air of unhappiness over them all. They
retired as soon as it was possible, and then Arabella at once went up
to her bedroom.
"Mr. Nokes says he is a little stronger, my Lord," said the butler
coming into the room. Mr. Nokes had gone home and had returned again.
"He might pull through yet," said Mr. Hampton. Lord Rufford shook
his head. Then Mr. Gotobed told a wonderful story of an American who
had had his brains knocked almost out of his head and had sat in
Congress afterwards. "He was the finest horseman I ever saw on a
horse," said Hampton.
"A little too much temper," said Captain Battersby, who was a very
old friend of the Major.
"I'd give a good deal that that mare had never been brought to my
stables," said Lord Rufford. "Purefoy will never get over it, and I
shan't forget it in a hurry." Sir John at this time was up-stairs
with the sufferer. Even while drinking their wine they could not keep
themselves from the subject, and were convivial in a cadaverous
fashion.
CHAPTER XXIV. The Ball
The people came of course, but not in such numbers as had been
expected. Many of those in Rufford had heard of the accident, and
having been made acquainted with Nokes's report, stayed away.
Everybody was told that supper would be on the table at twelve, and
that it was generally understood that the house was to be cleared by
two. Nokes seemed to think that the sufferer would live at least till
the morrow, and it was ascertained to a certainty that the music could
not affect him. It was agreed among the party in the house that the
ladies staying there should stand up for the first dance or two, as
otherwise the strangers would be discouraged and the whole thing would
be a failure. This request was made by Lady Penwether because Miss
Penge had said that she thought it impossible for her to dance. Poor
Miss Penge, who was generally regarded as a brilliant young woman, had
been a good deal eclipsed by Arabella and had seen the necessity of
striking out some line for herself. Then Arabella had whispered a few
words to Lord Rufford, and the lord had whispered a few words to his
sister, and Lady Penwether had explained what was to be done to the
ladies around. Lady Augustus nodded her head and said that it was all
right. The other ladies of course agreed, and partners were selected
within the house party. Lord Rufford stood up with Arabella and John
Morton with Lady Penwether. Mr. Gotobed selected Miss Penge, and
Hampton and Battersby the two Miss Godolphins. They all took their
places with a lugubrious but business-like air, as aware that they
were sacrificing themselves in the performance of a sad duty. But
Morton was not allowed to dance in the same quadrille with the lady of
his affections. Lady Penwether explained to him that she and her
brother had better divide themselves,—for the good of the company
generally,—and therefore he and Arabella were also divided.
A rumour had reached Lady Penwether of the truth in regard to their
guests from Bragton. Mr. Gotobed had whispered to her that he had
understood that they certainly were engaged; and, even before that,
the names of the two lovers had been wafted to her ears from the
other side of the Atlantic. Both John Morton and Lady Augustus were
"somebodies," and Lady Penwether generally knew what there was to be
known of anybody who was anybody. But it was quite clear to her,—more
so even than to poor John Morton, that the lady was conducting herself
now as though she were fettered by no bonds, and it seemed to Lady
Penwether also that the lady was very anxious to contract other bonds.
She knew her brother well. He was always in love with somebody; but as
he had hitherto failed of success where marriage was desirable, so had
he avoided disaster when it was not. He was one of those men who are
generally supposed to be averse to matrimony. Lady Penwether and some
other relatives were anxious that he should take a wife;—but his
sister was by no means anxious that he should take such a one as
Arabella Trefoil. Therefore she thought that she might judiciously ask
Mr. Morton a few questions. "I believe you knew the Trefoils in
Washington?" she said. Morton acknowledged that he had seen much of
them there. "She is very handsome certainly."
"I think so."
"And rides well I suppose."
"I don't know. I never heard much of her riding."
"Has she been staying long at Bragton?" "Just a week."
"Do you know Lord Augustus?" Morton said that he did not know Lord
Augustus and then answered sundry other questions of the same nature
in the same uncommunicative way. Though he had once or twice almost
fancied that he would like to proclaim aloud that the girl was engaged
to him, yet he did not like to have the fact pumped out of him. And if
she were such a girl as she now appeared to be, might it not be better
for him to let her go? Surely her conduct here at Rufford Hall was
opportunity enough. No doubt she was handsome. No doubt he loved
her,—after his fashion of loving. But to lose her now would not break
his heart, whereas to lose her after he was married to her, would, he
knew well, bring him to the very ground. He would ask her a question
or two this very night, and then come to some resolution. With such
thoughts as these crossing his mind he certainly was not going to
proclaim his engagement to Lady Penwether. But Lady Penwether was a
determined woman. Her smile, when she condescended to smile, was very
sweet,— lighting up her whole face and flattering for the moment the
person on whom it shone. It was as though a rose in emitting its
perfume could confine itself to the nostrils of its one favoured
friend. And now she smiled on Morton as she asked another question. "I
did hear," she said, "from one of your Foreign Office young men that
you and Miss Trefoil were very intimate."
"Who was that, Lady Penwether?"
"Of course I shall mention no name. You might call out the poor lad
and shoot him, or, worse still, have him put down to the bottom of
his class. But I did hear it. And then, when I find her staying with
her mother at your house, of course I believe it to be true."
"Now she is staying at your brother's house,—which is much the
same thing."
"But I am here."
"And my grandmother is at Bragton."
"That puts me in mind, Mr. Morton. I am so sorry that we did not
know it, so that we might have asked her."
"She never goes out anywhere, Lady Penwether."
"And there is nothing then in the report that I heard?"
Morton paused a moment before he answered, and during that moment
collected his diplomatic resources. He was not a weak man, who could
be made to tell anything by the wiles of a pretty woman. "I think," he
said, "that when people have anything of that kind which they wish to
be known, they declare it."
"I beg your pardon. I did not mean to unravel a secret."
"There are secrets, Lady Penwether, which people do like to
unravel, but which the owners of them sometimes won't abandon." Then
there was nothing more said on the subject. Lady Penwether did not
smile again, and left him to go about the room on her business as
hostess, as soon as the dance was over. But she was sure that they
were engaged.
In the meantime, the conversation between Lord Rufford and Arabella
was very different in its tone, though on the same subject. He was
certainly very much struck with her, not probably ever waiting to
declare to himself that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen in his life, but still feeling towards her an attraction which
for the time was strong. A very clever girl would frighten him; a very
horsey girl would disgust him; a very quiet girl would bore him; or a
very noisy girl annoy him. With a shy girl he could never be at his
ease, not enjoying the labour of overcoming such a barrier; and yet he
liked to be able to feel that any female intimacy which he admitted
was due to his own choice and not to that of the young woman. Arabella
Trefoil was not very clever, but she had given all her mind to this
peculiar phase of life, and, to use a common phrase, knew what she was
about. She was quite alive to the fact that different men require
different manners in a young woman; and as she had adapted herself to
Mr. Morton at Washington, so could she at Rufford adapt herself to
Lord Rufford. At the present moment the lord was in love with her as
much as he was wont to be in love. "Doesn't it seem an immense time
since we came here yesterday?" she said to him. "There has been so
much done"
"There has been a great misfortune."
"I suppose that is it. Only for that how very very pleasant it
would have been!"
"Yes, indeed. It was a nice run, and that little horse carried you
charmingly. I wish I could see you ride him again" She shook her head
as she looked up into his face. "Why do you shake your head?"
"Because I am afraid there is no possible chance of such happiness.
We are going to such a dull house to-morrow! And then to so many dull
houses afterwards."
"I don't know why you shouldn't come back and have another day or
two;—when all this sadness has gone by."
"Don't talk about it, Lord Rufford."
"Why not?"
"I never like to talk about any pleasure because it always vanishes
as soon as it has come;—and when it has been real pleasure it never
comes back again. I don't think I ever enjoyed anything so much as our
ride this morning, till that tragedy came."
"Poor Caneback!"
"I suppose there is no hope?" He shook his head. "And we must go on
to those Gores to-morrow without knowing anything about it. I wonder
whether you could send me a line."
"Of course I can, and I will." Then he asked her a question looking
into her face. "You are not going back to Bragton?"
"Oh dear, no."
"Was Bragton dull?"
"Awfully dull; frightfully dull."
"You know what they say?"
"What who say, Lord Rufford? People say anything,—the more
ill-natured the better they like it, I think."
"Have you not heard what they say about you and Mr. Morton?"
"Just because mamma made a promise when in Washington to go to
Bragton with that Mr. Gotobed. Don't you find they marry you to
everybody?"
"They have married me to a good many people. Perhaps they'll marry
me to you to-morrow. That would not be so bad."
"Oh, Lord Rufford! Nobody has ever condemned you to anything so
terrible as that."
"There was no truth in it then, Miss Trefoil?"
"None at all, Lord Rufford. Only I don't know why you should ask
me."
"Well; I don't know. A man likes sometimes to be sure how the land
lies. Mr. Morton looks so cross that I thought that perhaps the very
fact of my dancing with you might be an offence."
"Is he cross?"
"You know him better than I do. Perhaps it's his nature. Now I must
do one other dance with a native and then my work will be over."
"That isn't very civil, Lord Rufford."
"If you do not know what I meant, you're not the girl I take you to
be." Then as she walked with him back out of the ball-room into the
drawing-room she assured him that she did know what he meant, and
that therefore she was the girl he took her to be.
She had determined that she would not dance again and had resolved
to herd with the other ladies of the house,—waiting for any
opportunity that chance might give her for having a last word with
Lord Rufford before they parted for the night,—when Morton came up
to her and demanded rather than asked that she would stand up with
him for a quadrille. "We settled it all among ourselves, you know,"
she said. "We were to dance only once, just to set the people off."
He still persisted, but she still refused, alleging that she was
bound by the general compact; and though he was very urgent she would
not yield. "I wonder how you can ask me," she said. "You don't suppose
that after what has occurred I can have any pleasure in dancing." Upon
this he asked her to take a turn with him through the rooms, and to
that she found herself compelled to assent. Then he spoke out to her.
"Arabella," he said, "I am not quite content with what has been going
on since we came to this house."
"I am sorry for that."
"Nor, indeed, have I been made very happy by all that has occurred
since your mother and you did me the honour of coming to Bragton."
"I must acknowledge you haven't seemed to be very happy, Mr.
Morton."
"I don't want to distress you;—and as far as possible I wish to
avoid distressing myself. If it is your wish that our engagement
should be over, I will endeavour to bear it. If it is to be
continued, I expect that your manner to me should be altered"
"What am I to say?"
"Say what you feel."
"I feel that I can't alter my manner, as you call it."
"You do wish the engagement to be over then?"
"I did not say so. The truth is, Mr. Morton, that there is some
trouble about the lawyers."
"Why do you always call me Mr. Morton?"
"Because I am aware how probable it is that all this may come to
nothing. I can't walk out of the house and marry you as the cook maid
does the gardener. I've got to wait till I'm told that everything is
settled; and at present I'm told that things are not settled because
you won't agree."
"I'll leave it to anybody to say whether I've been unreasonable."
"I won't go into that. I haven't meddled with it, and I don't know
anything about it. But until it is all settled as a matter of course
there must be some little distance between us. It's the commonest
thing in the world, I should say."
"What is to be the end of it?"
"I do not know. If you think yourself injured you can back out of
it at once. I've nothing more to say about it."
"And you think I can like the way you're going on here?"
"If you're jealous, Mr. Morton, there's an end of it. I tell you
fairly once for all, that as long as I'm a single woman I will
regulate my conduct as I please. You can do the same, and I shall not
say a word to you." Then she withdrew her arm from him, and, leaving
him, walked across the room and joined her mother. He went off at once
to his own room resolving that he would write to her from Bragton. He
had made his propositions in regard to money which he was quite aware
were as liberal as was fit. If she would now fix a day for their
marriage, he would be a happy man. If she would not bring herself to
do this, then he would have no alternative but to regard their
engagement as at an end.
At two o'clock the guests were nearly all gone. The Major was
alive, and likely to live at least for some hours, and the Rufford
people generally were glad that they had not put off the ball. Some
of them who were staying in the house had already gone to bed, and
Lady Penwether, with Miss Penge at her side, was making her last
adieux in the drawing-room. The ball-room was reached from the
drawing-room, with a vestibule between them, and opening from this
was a small chamber, prettily furnished but seldom used, which had no
peculiar purpose of its own, but in which during the present evening
many sweet words had probably been spoken. Now, at this last moment,
Lord Rufford and Arabella Trefoil were there alone together. She had
just got up from a sofa, and he had taken her hand in his. She did not
attempt to withdraw it, but stood looking down upon the ground. Then
he passed his arm round her waist and lifting her face to his held her
in a close embrace from which she made no effort to free herself. As
soon as she was released she hastened to the door which was all but
closed, and as she opened it and passed through to the drawing-room
said some ordinary word to him quite aloud in her ordinary voice. If
his action had disturbed her she knew very well how to recover her
equanimity.
CHAPTER XXV. The last Morning at
Rufford Hall
"Well, my love?" said Lady Augustus, as soon as her daughter had
joined her in her bedroom. On such occasions there was always a
quarter of an hour before going to bed in which the mother and
daughter discussed their affairs, while the two lady's maids were
discussing their affairs in the other room. The two maids probably
did not often quarrel, but the mother and daughter usually did.
"I wish that stupid man hadn't got himself hurt."
"Of course, my dear; we all wish that. But I really don't see that
it has stood much in your way.
"Yes it has. After all there is nothing like dancing, and we
shouldn't all have been sent to bed at two o'clock."
"Then it has come to nothing?"
"I didn't say that at all, mamma. I think I have done uncommonly
well. Indeed I know I have. But then if everything had not been
upset, I might have done so much better."
"What have you done?" asked Lady Augustus, timidly. She knew
perfectly well that her daughter would tell her nothing, and yet she
always asked these questions and was always angry when no information
was given to her. Any young woman would have found it very hard to
give the information needed. "When we were alone he sat for five
minutes with his arm round my waist, and then he kissed me. He didn't
say much, but then I knew perfectly well that he would be on his guard
not to commit himself by words. But I've got him to promise that he'll
write to me, and of course I'll answer in such a way that he must
write again. I know he'll want to see me, and I think I can go very
near doing it. But he's an old stager and knows what he's about: and
of course there'll be ever so many people to tell him I'm not the sort
of girl he ought to marry. He'll hear about Colonel de B—, and Sir C.
D—, and Lord E. F—, and there are ever so many chances against me.
But I've made up my mind to try it. It's taking the long odds. I can
hardly expect to win, but if I do pull it off I'm made for ever!" A
daughter can hardly say all that to her mother. Even Arabella Trefoil
could not say it to her mother,—or, at any rate, she would not. "What
a question that is to ask, mamma?" she did say tossing her head.
"Well, my dear, unless you tell me something how can I help you?"
"I don't know that I want you to help me,—at any rate not in that
way."
"In what way?"
"Oh, mamma, you are so odd."
"Has he said anything?"
"Yes, he has. He said he liked dry champagne and that he never ate
supper."
"If you won't tell me how things are going you may fight your own
battles by yourself."
"That's just what I must do. Nobody else can fight my battles for
me."
"What are you going to do about Mr. Morton?"
"Nothing."
"I saw him talking to you and looking as black as thunder."
"He always looks as black as thunder."
"Is that to be all off? I insist upon having an answer to that
question."
"I believe you fancy, mamma, that a lot of men can be played like a
parcel of chessmen, and that as soon as a knight is knocked on the
head you can take him up and put him into the box and have done with
him."
"You haven't done with Mr. Morton then?"
"Poor Mr. Morton! I do feel he is badly used because he is so
honest. I sometimes wish that I could afford to be honest too and to
tell somebody the downright truth. I should like to tell him the truth
and I almost think I will. `My dear fellow, I did for a time think I
couldn't do better, and I'm not at all sure now that I can. But then
you are so very dull, and I'm not certain that I should care to be
Queen of the English society at the Court of the Emperor of Morocco!
But if you'll wait for another six months, I shall be able to tell
you.' That's what I should have to say to him."
"Who is talking nonsense now, Arabella?"
"I am not. But I shan't say it. And now, mamma, I'll tell you what
we must do."
"You must tell me why also?"
"I can do nothing of the kind. He knows the Duke." The Duke with
the Trefoils always meant the Duke of Mayfair who was Arabella's
ducal uncle.
"Intimately?"
"Well enough to go there. There is to be a great shooting at
Mistletoe,"—Mistletoe was the Duke's place,—"in January. I got that
from him, and he can go if he likes. He won't go as it is: but if I
tell him I'm to be there, I think he will."
"What did you tell him?"
"Well;—I told him a tarradiddle of course. I made him understand
that I could be there if I pleased, and he thinks that I mean to be
there if he goes."
"But I'm sure the Duchess won't have me again."
"She might let me come."
"And what am I to do?"
"You could go to Brighton with Miss De Groat;—or what does it
matter for a fortnight? You'll get the advantage when it's done. It's
as well to have the truth out at once, mamma,—I cannot carry on if
I'm always to be stuck close to your apron-strings. There are so many
people won't have you."
"Arabella, I do think you are the most ungrateful, hard-hearted
creature that ever lived."
"Very well; I don't know what I have to be grateful about, and I
need to be hard-hearted. Of course I am hard-hearted. The thing will
be to get papa to see his brother."
"Your papa!"
"Yes; that's what I mean to try. The Duke of course would like me
to marry Lord Rufford. Do you think that if I were at home here it
wouldn't make Mistletoe a very different sort of place for you? The
Duke does like papa in a sort of way, and he's civil enough to me
when I'm there. He never did like you."
"Everybody is so fond of you! It was what you did when young
Stranorlar was there which made the Duchess almost turn us out of the
house."
"What's the good of your saying that, mamma? If you go on like that
I'll separate myself from you and throw myself on papa."
"Your father wouldn't lift his little finger for you."
"I'll try at any rate. Will you consent to my going there without
you if I can manage it?"
"What did Lord Rufford say?" Arabella here made a grimace. "You can
tell me something. What are the lawyers to say to Mr. Morton's
people?"
"Whatever they like."
"If they come to arrangements do you mean to marry him?"
"Not for the next two months certainly. I shan't see him again now
heaven knows when. He'll write no doubt,—one of his awfully sensible
letters, and I shall take my time about answering him. I can stretch
it out for two months. If I'm to do any good with this man it will be
all arranged before that time. If the Duke could really be made to
believe that Lord Rufford was in earnest I'm sure he'd have me there.
As to her, she always does what he tells her."
"He is going to write to you?"
"I told you that before, mamma. What is the good of asking a lot of
questions? You know now what my plan is, and if you won't help me I
must carry it out alone. And, remember, I don't want to start
to-morrow till after Morton and that American have gone." Then
without a kiss or wishing her mother good night she went off to her
own room.
The next morning at about nine Arabella heard from her maid that
the Major was still alive but senseless. The London surgeon had been
there and had declared it to be possible that the patient should live,
but barely possible. At ten they were all at breakfast, and the
carriage from Bragton was already at the door to take back Mr. Morton
and his American friend. Lady Augustus had been clever enough to
arrange that she should have the phaeton to take her to the Rufford
Station a little later on in the day, and had already hinted to one of
the servants that perhaps a cart might be sent with the luggage. The
cart was forthcoming. Lady Augustus was very clever in arranging her
locomotion and seldom paid for much more than her railway tickets.
"I had meant to say a few words to you, my lord, about that man
Goarly," said the Senator, standing. before the fire in the
breakfast-room, "but this sad catastrophe has stopped me."
"There isn't much to say about him, Mr. Gotobed."
"Perhaps not; only I would not wish you to think that I would
oppose you without some cause. If the man is in the wrong according
to law let him be proved to be so. The cost to you will be nothing.
To him it might be of considerable importance."
"Just so. Won't you sit down and have some breakfast. If Goarly
ever makes himself nuisance enough it may be worth my while to buy
him out at three times the value of his land. But he'll have to be a
very great nuisance before I shall do that. Dillsborough wood is not
the only fox covert in the county." After that there was no more said
about it; but neither did Lord Rufford understand the Senator nor did
the Senator understand Lord Rufford. John Runce had a clearer
conviction on his mind than either of them. Goarly ought to be hanged,
and no American should under any circumstances be allowed to put his
foot upon British soil. That was Runce's idea of the matter.
The parting between Morton and the Trefoils was very chill and
uncomfortable. "Good-bye, Mr. Morton;—we had such a pleasant time at
Bragton!" said Lady Augustus. "I shall write to you this afternoon,"
he whispered to Arabella as he took her hand. She smiled and murmured
a word of adieu, but made him no reply. Then they were gone, and as he
got into the carriage he told himself that in all probability he would
never see her again. It might be that he would curtail his leave of
absence and get back to Washington as quickly as possible.
The Trefoils did not start for an hour after this, during which
Arabella could hardly find an opportunity for a word in private. She
could not quite appeal to him to walk with her in the grounds, or even
to take a turn with her round the empty ballroom. She came down
dressed for walking, thinking that so she might have the best chance
of getting him for a quarter of an hour to herself, but he was either
too wary or else the habits of his life prevented it. And in what she
had to do it was so easy to go beyond the proper line! She would wish
him to understand that she would like to be alone with him after what
had passed between them on the previous evening, but she must be
careful not to let him imagine that she was too anxious. And then
whatever she did she had to do with so many eyes upon her! And when
she went, as she would do now in so short a time, so many hostile
tongues would attack her! He had everything to protect him; and she
had nothing, absolutely nothing, to help her! It was thus that she
looked at it; and yet she had courage for the battle. Almost at the
last moment she did get a word with him in the hall. "How is he?"
"Oh, better, decidedly."
"I am so glad. If I could only think that he could live! Well, my
Lord, we have to say good-bye."
"I suppose so."
"You'll write me a line,—about him."
"Certainly."
"I shall be so glad to have a line from Rufford. Maddox Hall, you
know; Stafford."
"I will remember."
"And dear old Jack. Tell me when you write what Jack has been
doing." Then she put out her hand and he held it. "I wonder whether
you will ever remember—" But she did not quite know what to bid him
remember, and therefore turned away her face and wiped away a tear,
and then smiled as she turned her back on him. The carriage was at the
door, and the ladies flocked into the hall, and then not another word
could be said.
"That's what I call a really nice country house," said Lady
Augustus as she was driven away. Arabella sat back in the phaeton
lost in thought and said nothing. "Everything so well done, and yet
none of all that fuss that there is at Mistletoe." She paused but
still her daughter did not speak. "If I were beginning the world
again I would not wish for a better establishment than that. Why
can't you answer me a word when I speak to you?"
"Of course it's all very nice. What's the good of going on in that
way? What a shame it is that a man like that should have so much and
that a girl like me should have nothing at all. I know twice as much
as he does, and am twice as clever, and yet I've got to treat him as
though he were a god. He's all very well, but what would anybody think
of him if he were a younger brother with 300 pounds a year." This was
a kind of philosophy which Lady Angustus hated. She threw herself back
therefore in the phaeton and pretended to go to sleep.
The wheels were not out of sight of the house before the attack on
the Trefoils began. "I had heard of Lady Augustus before," said Lady
Penwether, "but I didn't think that any woman could be so
disagreeable."
"So vulgar," said Miss Penge.
"Wasn't she the daughter of an ironmonger?" asked the elder Miss
Godolphin.
"The girl of course is handsome," said Lady Penwether.
"But so self-sufficient," said Miss Godolphin.
"And almost as vulgar as her mother," said Miss Penge.
"She may be clever," said Lady Penwether, "but I do not think I
should ever like her."
"She is one of those girls whom only gentlemen like," said Miss
Penge.
"And whom they don't like very long," said Lady Penwether.
"How well I understand all this," said Lord Rufford turning to the
younger Miss Godolphin. "It is all said for my benefit, and
considered to be necessary because I danced with the young lady last
night."
"I hope you are not attributing such a motive to me," said Miss
Penge.
"Or to me," said Miss Godolphin.
"I look on both of you and Eleanor as all one on the present
occasion. I am considered to be falling over a precipice, and she has
got hold of my coat tails. Of course you wouldn't be Christians if you
didn't both of you seize a foot"
"Looking at it in that light I certainly wish to be understood as
holding on very fast," said Miss Penge.
CHAPTER XXVI. Give me six Months
There was a great deal of trouble and some very genuine sorrow in
the attorney's house at Dillsborough during the first week in
December. Mr. Masters had declared to his wife that Mary should go to
Cheltenham and a letter was written to Lady Ushant accepting the
invitation. The twenty pounds too was forthcoming and the dress and
the boots and the hat were bought. But while this was going on Mrs.
Masters took care that there should be no comfort whatever around
them and made every meal a separate curse to the unfortunate lawyer.
She told him ten times a day that she had been a mother to his
daughter, but declared that such a position was no longer possible to
her as the girl had been taken altogether out of her hands. To Mary
she hardly spoke at all and made her thoroughly wish that Lady
Ushant's kindness had been declined. "Mamma," she said one day, "I had
rather write now and tell her that I cannot come."
"After all the money has been wasted!"
"I have only got things that I must have had very soon."
"If you have got anything to say you had better talk to your
father. I know nothing about it"
"You break my heart when you say that, mamma."
"You think nothing about breaking mine;—or that young man's who is
behaving so well to you. What makes me mad is to see you
shilly-shallying with him."
"Mamma, I haven't shilly-shallied."
"That's what I call it. Why can't you speak him fair and tell him
you'll have him and settle yourself down properly? You've got some
idea into your silly head that what you call a gentleman will come
after you."
"Mamma, that isn't fair."
"Very well, miss. As your father takes your part of course you can
say what you please to me. I say it is so." Mary knew very well what
her another meant and was safe at least from any allusion to Reginald
Morton. There was an idea prevalent in the house, and not without some
cause, that Mr. Surtees the curate had looked with an eye of favour on
Mary Masters. Mr. Surtees was certainly a gentleman, but his income
was strictly limited to the sum of 120 pounds per annum which he
received from Mr. Mainwaring. Now Mrs. Masters disliked clergymen,
disliked gentlemen, and especially disliked poverty; and therefore was
not disposed to look upon Mr. Surtees as an eligible suitor for her
stepdaughter. But as the curate's courtship had hitherto been of the
coldest kind and as it had received no encouragement from the young
lady, Mary was certainly justified in declaring that the allusion was
not fair. "What I want to know is this;—are you prepared to marry
Lawrence Twentyman?" To this question, as Mary could not give a
favourable answer, she thought it best to make none at all. "There is
a man as has got a house fit for any woman, and means to keep it; who
can give a young woman everything that she ought to want;—and a
handsome fellow too, with some life in him; one who really dotes on
you,—as men don't often do on young women now as far as I can see. I
wonder what it is you would have?"
"I want nothing, mamma."
"Yes you do. You have been reading books of poetry till you don't
know what it is you do want. You've got your head full of claptraps
and tantrums till you haven't a grain of sense belonging to you. I
hate such ways. It's a spurning of the gifts of Providence not to
have such a man as Lawrence Twentyman when he comes in your way. Who
are you, I wonder, that you shouldn't be contented with such as him?
He'll go and take some one else and then you'll be fit to break your
heart, fretting after him, and I shan't pity you a bit. It'll serve
you right and you'll die an old maid, and what there will be for you
to live upon God in heaven only knows. You're breaking your father's
heart, as it is." Then she sat down in a rocking-chair and throwing
her apron over her eyes gave herself up to a deluge of hysterical
tears.
This was very hard upon Mary for though she did not believe all the
horrible things which her stepmother said to her she did believe some
of them. She was not afraid of the fate of an old maid which was
threatened, but she did think that her marriage with this man would be
for the benefit of the family and a great relief to her father. And
she knew too that he was respectable, and believed him to be
thoroughly earnest in his love. For such love as that it is impossible
that a girl should not be grateful. There was nothing to allure him,
nothing to tempt him to such a marriage, but a simple appreciation of
her personal merits. And in life he was at any rate her equal. She had
told Reginald Morton that Larry Twentyman was a fit companion for her
and for her sisters, and she owned as much to herself every day. When
she acknowledged all this she was tempted to ask herself whether she
ought not to accept the man, if not for her own sake at least for that
of the family.
That same evening her father called her into the office after the
clerks were gone and spoke to her thus. "Your mamma is very unhappy,
my dear," he said.
"I'm afraid I have made everybody unhappy by wanting to go to
Cheltenham."
"It is not only that. That is reasonable enough and you ought to
go. Mamma would say nothing more about that,—if you would make up
your mind to one thing."
"What thing, papa?" Of course she knew very well what the thing
was.
"It is time for you to think of settling in life, Mary. I never
would put it into a girl's head that she ought to worry herself about
getting a husband unless the opportunity seemed to come in her way.
Young women should be quiet and wait till they're sought after. But
here is a young man seeking you whom we all like and approve. A good
house is a very good thing when it's fairly come by."
"Yes, papa."
"And so is a full house. A girl shouldn't run after money, but
plenty is a great comfort in this world when it can be had without
blushing for."
"Yes, papa."
"And so is an honest man's love. I don't like to see any girl
wearying after some fellow to be always fal-lalling with her. A good
girl will be able to be happy and contented without that. But a lone
life is a poor life, and a good husband is about the best blessing
that a young woman can have." To this proposition Mary perhaps agreed
in her own mind but she gave no spoken assent. "Now this young man
that is wanting to marry you has got all these things, and as far as I
can judge with my experience in the world, is as likely to make a good
husband as any one I know." He paused for an answer but Mary could
only lean close upon his arm and be silent. "Have you anything to say
about it, my dear? You see it has been going on now a long time, and
of course he'll look to have it decided." But still she could say
nothing. "Well, now;—he has been with me to-day."
"Mr. Twentyman?"
"Yes,—-Mr. Twentyman. He knows you're going to Cheltenham and of
course he has nothing to say against that. No young man such as he
would be sorry that his sweetheart should be entertained by such a
lady as Lady Ushant. But he says that he wants to have an answer
before you go."
"I did answer him, papa."
"Yes,—you refused him. But he hopes that perhaps you may think
better of it. He has been with me and I have told him that if he will
come to-morrow you will see him. He is to be here after dinner and you
had better just take him up-stairs and hear what he has to say. If you
can make up your mind to like him you will please all your family. But
if you can't, I won't quarrel with you, my dear."
"Oh papa, you are always so good."
"Of course I am anxious that you should have a home of your own;—
but let it be how it may I will not quarrel with my child."
All that evening, and almost all the night, and again on the
following morning Mary turned it over in her mind. She was quite sure
that she was not in love with Larry Twentyman; but she was by no means
sure that it might not be her duty to accept him without being in love
with him. Of course he must know the whole truth; but she could tell
him the truth and then leave it for him to decide. What right had she
to stand in the way of her friends, or to be a burden to them when
such a mode of life was offered to her? She had nothing of her own,
and regarded herself as being a dead weight on the family. And she was
conscious in a certain degree of isolation in the household,—as being
her father's only child by the first marriage. She would hardly know
how to look her father in the face and tell him that she had again
refused the man. But yet there was something awful to her in the idea
of giving herself to a man without loving him,—in becoming a man's
wife when she would fain remain away from him! Would it be possible
that she should live with him while her feelings were of such a
nature? And then she blushed as she lay in the dark, with her cheek on
her pillow, when she found herself forced to inquire within her own
heart whether she did not love some one else. She would not own it,
and yet she blushed, and yet she thought of it. If there might be such
a man it was not the young clergyman to whom her mother had alluded.
Through all that morning she was very quiet, very pale, and in
truth very unhappy. Her father said no further word to her, and her
stepmother had been implored to be equally reticent. "I shan't speak
another word," said Mrs. Masters; "her fortune is in her own hands and
if she don't choose to take it I've done with her. One man may lead a
horse to water but a hundred can't make him drink. It's just the same
with an obstinate pig-headed young woman."
At three o'clock Mr. Twentyman came and was at once desired to go
up to Mary who was waiting for him in the drawing-room. Mrs. Masters
smiled and was gracious as she spoke to him, having for the moment
wreathed herself in good humour so that he might go to his wooing in
better spirit. He had learned his lesson by heart as nearly as he was
able and began to recite it as soon as he had closed the door. "So
you're going to Cheltenham on Thursday?" he said.
"Yes, Mr. Twentyman."
"I hope you'll enjoy your visit there. I remember Lady Ushant
myself very well. I don't suppose she will remember me, but you can
give her my compliments."
"I certainly will do that."
"And now, Mary, what have you got to say to me?" He looked for a
moment as though he expected she would say what she had to say at
once,—without further question from him; but he knew that it could
not be so and he had prepared his lesson further than that. "I think
you must believe that I really do love you with all my heart."
"I know that you are very good to me, Mr. Twentyman."
"I don't say anything about being good; but I'm true:—that I am.
I'd take you for my wife tomorrow if you hadn't a friend in the
world, just for downright love. I've got you so in my heart, Mary,
that I couldn't get rid of you if I tried ever so. You must know that
it's true."
"I do know that it's true."
"Well! Don't you think that a fellow like that deserves something
from a girl?"
"Indeed I do."
"Well!"
"He deserves a great deal too much for any girl to deceive him. You
wouldn't like a young woman to marry you without loving you. I think
you deserve a great deal too well of me for that."
He paused a moment before he replied. "I don't know about that," he
said at last. "I believe I should be glad to take you just anyhow. I
don't think you can hate me."
"Certainly not. I like you as well, Mr. Twentyman, as one friend
can like another,—without loving."
"I'll be content with that, Mary, and chance it for the rest. I'll
be that kind to you that I'll make you love me before twelve months
are over. You come and try. You shall be mistress of everything.
Mother isn't one that will want to be in the way."
"It isn't that, Larry," she said.
She hadn't called him Larry for a long time and the sound of his
own name from her lips gave him infinite hope. "Come and try. Say
you'll try. If ever a man did his best to please a woman I'll do it
to please you." Then he attempted to take her in his arms but she
glided away from him round the table. "I won't ask you not to go to
Cheltenham, or anything of that. You shall have your own time. By
George you shall have everything your own way." Still she did not
answer him but stood looking down upon the table. "Come; say a word
to a fellow."
Then at last she spoke—"Give me six months to think of it."
"Six months! If you'd say six weeks."
"It is such a serious thing to do."
"It is serious, of course. I'm serious, I know. I shouldn't hunt
above half as often as I do now; and as for the club,—I don't
suppose I should go near the place once a month. Say six weeks, and
then, if you'll let me have one kiss, I'll not trouble you till
you're back from Cheltenham."
Mary at once perceived that he had taken her doubt almost as a
complete surrender, and had again to become obdurate. At last she
promised to give him a final answer in two months, but declared as
she said so that she was afraid she could not bring herself to do as
he desired. She declined altogether to comply with that other request
which he made, and then left him in the room declaring that at present
she could say nothing further. As she did so she felt sure that she
would not be able to accept him in two months' time whatever she might
bring herself to do when the vast abyss of six months should have
passed by.
Larry made his way down into the parlour with hopes considerably
raised. There he found Mrs. Masters and when he told her what had
passed she assured him that the thing was as good as settled.
Everybody knew, she said, that when a girl doubted she meant to
yield. And what were two months? The time would have nearly gone by
the end of her visit to Cheltenham. It was now early in December, and
they might be married and settled at home before the end of April.
Mrs. Masters, to give him courage, took out a bottle of currant wine
and drank his health, and told him that in three months' time she
would give him a kiss and call him her son. And she believed what she
said. This, she thought, was merely Mary's way of letting herself down
without a sudden fall.
Then the attorney came in and also congratulated him. When the
attorney was told that Mary had taken two months for her decision he
also felt that the matter was almost as good as settled. This at any
rate was clear to him,—that the existing misery of his household
would for the present cease, and that Mary would be allowed to go upon
her visit without further opposition. He at present did not think it
wise to say another word to Mary about the young man; nor would Mrs.
Masters condescend to do so. Mary would of course now accept her lover
like any other girl, and had been such a fool,—so thought Mrs.
Masters,—that she had thoroughly deserved to lose him.
CHAPTER XXVII. "Wonderful Bird!"
There were but two days between the scenes described in the last
chapter and the day fixed for Mary's departure, and during these two
days Larry Twentyman's name was not mentioned in the house. Mrs.
Masters did not make herself quite pleasant to her stepdaughter,
having still some grudge against her as to the twenty pounds. Nor,
though she had submitted to the visit to Cheltenham, did she approve
of it. It wasn't the way, she said, to make such a girl as Mary like
her life at Chowton Farm, going and sitting and doing nothing in old
Lady Ushant's drawing-room. It was cocking her up with gimcrack
notions about ladies till she'd be ashamed to look at her own hands
after she had done a day's work with them. There was no doubt some
truth in this. The woman understood the world and was able to measure
Larry Twentyman and Lady Ushant and the rest of them. Books and pretty
needlework and easy conversation would consume the time at Cheltenham,
whereas at Chowton Farm there would be a dairy and a poultry
yard,—under difficulties on account of the foxes,—with a prospect of
baby linen and children's shoes and stockings. It was all that
question of gentlemen and ladies, and of non-gentlemen and non-ladies!
They ought, Mrs. Masters thought, to be kept distinct. She had never,
she said, wanted to put her finger into a pie that didn't belong to
her. She had never tried to be a grand lady. But Mary was perilously
near the brink on either side, and as it was to be her lucky fate at
last to sit down to a plentiful but work-a-day life at Chowton Farm
she ought to have been kept away from the maundering idleness of Lady
Ushant's lodgings at Cheltenham. But Mary heard nothing of this during
these two days, Mrs. Masters bestowing the load of her wisdom upon her
unfortunate husband.
Reginald Morton had been twice over at Mrs. Masters' house with
reference to the proposed journey. Mrs. Masters was hardly civil to
him, as he was supposed to be among the enemies;—but she had no
suspicion that he himself was the enemy of enemies. Had she
entertained such an idea she might have reconciled herself to it, as
the man was able to support a wife, and by such a marriage she would
have been at once relieved from all further charge. In her own mind
she would have felt very strongly that Mary had chosen the wrong man,
and thrown herself into the inferior mode of life. But her own
difficulties in the matter would have been solved. There was, however,
no dream of such a kind entertained by any of the family. Reginald
Morton was hardly regarded as a young man, and was supposed to be
gloomy, misanthropic, and bookish. Mrs. Masters was not at all averse
to the companionship for the journey, and Mr. Masters was really
grateful to one of the old family for being kind to his girl.
Nor must it be supposed that Mary herself had any expectations or
even any hopes. With juvenile aptness to make much of the little
things which had interested her, and prone to think more than was
reasonable of any intercourse with a man who seemed to her to be so
superior to others as Reginald Morton, she was anxious for an
opportunity to set herself right with him about that scene at the
bridge. She still thought that he was offended and that she had given
him cause for offence. He had condescended to make her a request to
which she had acceded,—and she had then not done as she had promised.
She thought she was sure that this was all she had to say to him, and
yet she was aware that she was unnaturally excited at the idea of
spending three or four hours alone with him. The fly which was to take
him to the railway station called for Mary at the attorney's door at
ten o'clock, and the attorney handed her in. "It is very good of you
indeed, Mr. Morton, to take so much trouble with my girl," said the
attorney, really feeling what he said. "It is very good of you to
trust her to me," said Reginald, also sincerely. Mary was still to him
the girl who had been brought up by his aunt at Bragton, and not the
fit companion for Larry Twentyman.
Reginald Morton had certainly not made up his mind to ask Mary
Masters to be his wife. Thinking of Mary Masters very often as he had
done during the last two months, he was quite sure that he did not
mean to marry at all. He did acknowledge to himself that were he to
allow himself to fall in love with any one it would be with Mary
Masters,—but for not doing so there were many reasons. He had lived
so long alone that a married life would not suit him; as a married man
he would be a poor man; he himself was averse to company, whereas most
women prefer society. And then, as to this special girl, had he not
reason for supposing that she preferred another man to him, and a man
of such a class that the very preference showed her to be unfit to
mate with him? He also cozened himself with an idea that it was well
that he should have the opportunity which the journey would give him
of apologising for his previous rudeness to her.
In the carriage they had the compartment to themselves with the
exception of an old lady at the further end who had a parrot in a
cage for which she had taken a first-class ticket. "I can't offer you
this seat," said the old lady, "because it has been booked and paid
for my bird." As neither of the new passengers had shown the slightest
wish for the seat the communication was perhaps unnecessary. Neither
of the two had any idea of separating from the other for the sake of
the old lady's company.
They had before them a journey of thirty miles on one railway, then
a stop of half an hour at the Hinxton junction; and then another
journey of about equal length. In the first hour very little was said
that might not have been said in the presence of Lady Ushant,—or even
of Mrs. Masters. There might be a question whether, upon the whole,
the parrot had not the best of the conversation, as the bird, which
the old lady declared to be the wonder of his species, repeated the
last word of nearly every sentence spoken either by our friends or by
the old lady herself. "Don't you think you'd be less liable to cold
with that window closed?" the old lady said to Mary.
"Cosed,—cosed,—cosed," said the bird, and Morton was of course
constrained to shut the window. "He is a wonderful bird," said the old
lady. "Wonderful bird;—wonderful bird;—wonderful bird," said the
parrot, who was quite at home with this expression. "We shall be able
to get some lunch at Hinxton," said Reginald. "Inxton," screamed the
bird—"Caw,—caw—caw." "He's worth a deal of money," said the old
lady. "Deal o' money, Deal o' money," repeated the bird as he
scrambled round the wire cage with a tremendous noise, to the great
triumph of the old lady.
No doubt the close attention which the bird paid to everything that
passed, and the presence of the old lady as well, did for a time
interfere with their conversation. But, after awhile, the old lady was
asleep, and the bird, having once or twice attempted to imitate the
somnolent sounds which his mistress was making, seemed also to go to
sleep himself. Then Reginald, beginning with Lady Ushant and the old
Morton family generally, gradually got the conversation round to
Bragton and the little bridge. He had been very stern when he had left
her there, and he knew also that at that subsequent interview, when he
had brought Lady Ushant's note to her at her father's house, he had
not been cordially kind to her. Now they were thrown together for an
hour or so in the closest companionship, and he wished to make her
comfortable and happy. "I suppose you remember Bragton?" he said.
"Every path and almost every tree about the place."
"So do I. I called there the other day. Family quarrels are so
silly, you know."
"Did you see Mr. Morton?"
"No;—and he hasn't returned my visit yet. I don't know whether he
will,—and I don't much mind whether he does or not. That old woman
is there, and she is very bitter against me. I don't care about the
people, but I am sorry that I cannot see the place."
"I ought to have walked with you that day," she said in a very low
tone. The parrot opened his eyes and looked at them as though he were
striving to catch his cue.
"Of course you ought." But as he said this he smiled and there was
no offence in his voice. "I dare say you didn't guess how much I
thought of it. And then I was a bear to you. I always am a bear when
I am not pleased."
"Peas, peas, peas," said the parrot.
"I shall be a bear to that brute of a bird before long."
"What a very queer bird he is."
"He is a public nuisance,—and so is the old lady who brought him
here," This was said quite in a whisper. "It is very odd, Miss
Masters, but you are literally the only person in all Dillsborough in
regard to whom I have any genuine feeling of old friendship."
"You must remember a great many."
"But I did not know any well enough. I was too young to have seen
much of your father. But when I came back at that time you and I were
always together."
"Gedder, gedder, gedder," said the parrot.
"If that bird goes on like that I'll speak to the guard," said Mr.
Morton with affected anger. "Polly mustn't talk," said the old lady
waking up.
"Tok, tok, tok, tok," screamed the parrot. Then the old lady threw
a shawl over him and again went to sleep.
"If I behaved badly I beg your pardon," said Mary.
"That's just what I wanted to say to you, Miss Masters,—only a man
never can do those things as well as a lady. I did behave badly, and
I do beg your pardon. Of course I ought to have asked Mr. Twentyman to
come with us. I know that he is a very good fellow."
"Indeed he is," said Mary Masters, with all the emphasis in her
power. "Deedy is, deedy is, deedy is, deedy is," repeated the parrot
in a very angry voice about a dozen times under his shawl, and while
the old lady was remonstrating with her too talkative companion their
tickets were taken and they ran into the Hinxton Station. "If the old
lady is going on to Cheltenham we'll travel third class before we'll
sit in the same carriage again with that bird," said Morton laughing
as he took Mary into the refreshment-room. But the old lady did not
get into the same compartment as they started, and the last that was
heard of the parrot at Hinxton was a quarrel between him and the guard
as to certain railway privileges.
When they had got back into the railway carriage Morton was very
anxious to ask whether she was in truth engaged to marry the young
man as to whose good fellowship she and the parrot had spoken up so
emphatically, but he hardly knew how to put the question. And were
she to declare that she was engaged to him, what should he say then?
Would he not be bound to congratulate her? And yet it would be
impossible that any word of such congratulation should pass his lips?
"You will stay a month at Cheltenham?" he said.
"Your aunt was kind enough to ask me for so long."
"I shall go back on Saturday. If I were to stay longer I should
feel myself to be in her way. And I have come to live a sort of
hermit's life. I hardly know how to sit down and eat my dinner in
company, and have no idea of seeing a human being before two
o'clock."
"What do you do with yourself?"
"I rush in and out of the garden and spend my time between my books
and my flowers and my tobacco pipes."
"Do you mean to live always like that?" she asked, in perfect
innocency.
"I think so. Sometimes I doubt whether it's wise."
"I don't think it wise at all," said Mary.
"Why not?"
"People should live together, I think."
"You mean that I ought to have a wife?"
"No;—I didn't mean that. Of course that must be just as you might
come to like any one well enough. But a person need not shut himself
up and be a hermit because he is not married. Lord Rufford is not
married and he goes everywhere."
"He has money and property and is a man of pleasure."
"And your cousin, Mr. John Morton."
"He is essentially a man of business, which I never could have
been. And they say he is going to be married to that Miss Trefoil who
has been staying there. Unfortunately I have never had anything that I
need do in all my life, and therefore I have shut myself up as you
call it. I wonder what your life will be." Mary blushed and said
nothing. "If there were anything to tell I wish I knew it"
"There is nothing to tell."
"Nothing?"
She thought a moment before she answered him and then she said,
"Nothing. What should I have to tell?" she added trying to laugh.
He remained for a few minutes silent, and then put his head out
towards her as he spoke. "I was afraid that you might have to tell
that you were engaged to marry Mr. Twentyman."
"I am not"
"Oh!—I am so glad to hear it"
"I don't know why you should be glad. If I had said I was, it would
have been very uncivil if you hadn't declared yourself glad to hear
that"
"Then I must have been uncivil for I couldn't have done it. Knowing
how my aunt loves you, knowing what she thinks of you and what she
would think of such a match, remembering myself what I do of you, I
could not have congratulated you on your engagement to a man whom I
think so much inferior to yourself in every respect. Now you know it
all,—why I was angry at the bridge, why I was hardly civil to you at
your father's house; and, to tell the truth, why I have been so
anxious to be alone with you for half an hour. If you think it an
offence that I should take so much interest in you, I will beg your
pardon for that also."
"Oh, no!"
"I have never spoken to my aunt about it, but I do not think that
she would have been contented to hear that you were to become the
wife of Mr. Twentyman."
What answer she was to make to this or whether she was to make any
she had not decided when they were interrupted by the reappearance of
the old lady and the bird. She was declaring to the guard at the
window, that as she had paid for a first-class seat for her parrot
she would get into any carriage she liked in which there were two
empty seats. Her bird had been ill-treated by some scurrilous
ill-conditioned travellers and she had therefore returned to the
comparative kindness of her former companions. "They threatened to
put him out of the window, sir," said the old woman to Morton as she
was forcing her way in. "Windersir, windersir," said the parrot.
"I hope he'll behave himself here, ma'am," said Morton.
"Heremam, heremam, heremam," said the parrot.
"Now go to bed like a good bird," said the old lady putting her
shawl over the cage,—whereupon the parrot made a more diabolical
noise than ever under the curtain.
Mary felt that there was no more to be said about Mr. Twentyman and
her hopes and prospects, and for the moment she was glad to be left
in peace. The old lady and the parrot continued their conversation
till they had all arrived in Cheltenham;—and Mary as she sat alone
thinking of it afterwards might perhaps feel a soft regret that
Reginald Morton had been interrupted by the talkative animal.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I. Mounser Green
"So Peter Boyd is to go to Washington in the Paragon's place, and
Jack Slade goes to Vienna, and young Palliser is to get Slade's berth
at Lisbon." This information was given by a handsome man, known as
Mounser Green, about six feet high, wearing a velvet shooting
coat,—more properly called an office coat from its present uses, who
had just entered a spacious well-carpeted comfortable room in which
three other gentlemen were sitting at their different tables. This was
one of the rooms in the Foreign Office and looked out into St. James's
Park. Mounser Green was a distinguished clerk in that department,—and
distinguished also in various ways, being one of the fashionable men
about town, a great adept at private theatricals, remarkable as a
billiard player at his club, and a contributor to various magazines.
At this moment he had a cigar in his mouth, and when he entered the
room he stood with his back to the fire ready for conversation and
looking very unlike a clerk who intended to do any work. But there was
a general idea that Mounser Green was invaluable to the Foreign
Office. He could speak and write two or three foreign languages; he
could do a spurt of work,—ten hours at a sitting when required; he
was ready to go through fire and water for his chief; and was a
gentleman all round. Though still nominally a young man, being perhaps
thirty-five years of age—he had entered the service before
competitive examination had assumed its present shape and had
therefore the gifts which were required for his special position.
Some critics on the Civil Service were no doubt apt to find fault
with Mounser Green. When called upon at his office he was never seen
to be doing anything, and he always had a cigar in his mouth. These
gentlemen found out too that he never entered his office till
half-past twelve, perhaps not having also learned that he was
generally there till nearly seven. No doubt during the time that he
remained there he read a great many newspapers, and wrote a great
many private notes,—on official paper! But there may be a question
whether even these employments did not help to make Mounser Green the
valuable man he was.
"What a lounge for Jack Slade," said young Hoffmann.
"I'll tell you who it won't be a lounge for, Green," said Archibald
Currie, the clerk who held the second authority among them. "What
will Bell Trefoil think of going to Patagonia?"
"That's all off," said Mounser Green.
"I don't think so," said Charley Glossop, one of the numerous
younger sons of Lord Glossop. "She was staying only the other day
down at the Paragon's place in Rufford, and they went together to my
cousin Rufford's house. His sister, that's Lady Penwether, told me
they were certainly engaged then."
"That was before the Paragon had been named for Patagonia. To tell
you a little bit of my own private mind,—which isn't scandal," said
Mounser Green, "because it is only given as opinion,—I think it just
possible that the Paragon has taken this very uncomfortable mission
because it offered him some chance of escape."
"Then he has more sense about him than I gave him credit for," said
Archibald Currie.
"Why should a man like Morton go to Patagonia?" continued Green.
"He has an independent fortune and doesn't want the money. He'd have
been sure to have something comfortable in Europe very soon if he had
waited, and was much better off as second at a place like Washington.
I was quite surprised when he took it."
"Patagonia isn't bad at all," said Currie.
"That depends on whether a man has got money of his own. When I
heard about the Paragon and Bell Trefoil at Washington, I knew there
had been a mistake made. He didn't know what he was doing. I'm a poor
man, but I wouldn't take her with 5,000 pounds a year, settled on
myself." Poor Mounser Green!
"I think she's the handsomest girl in London," said Hoffmann, who
was a young man of German parentage and perhaps of German taste.
"That may be," continued Green; "but, heaven and earth! what a life
she would lead a man like the Paragon! He's found it out, and
therefore thought it well to go to South America. She has declined
already, I'm told; but he means to stick to the mission." During all
this time Mounser Green was smoking his cigar with his back to the
fire, and the other clerks looked as though they had nothing to do but
talk about the private affairs of ministers abroad and their friends.
Of course it will be understood that since we last saw John Morton the
position of Minister Plenipotentiary at Patagonia had been offered to
him and that he had accepted the place in spite of Bragton and of
Arabella Trefoil.
At that moment a card was handed to Mounser Green by a messenger
who was desired to show the gentleman up. "It's the Paragon himself,"
said Green.
We'll make him tell us whether he's going out single or double,"
said Archibald Currie.
"After what the Rufford people said to me I'm sure he's going to
marry her," said young Glossop. No doubt Lady Penwether had been
anxious to make it understood by every one connected with the family
that if any gossip should be heard about Rufford and Arabella Trefoil
there was nothing in it.
Then the Paragon was shown into the room and Mounser Green and the
young men were delighted to see him. Colonial governors at their
seats of government, and Ministers Plenipotentiary in their
ambassadorial residences are very great persons indeed; and when met
in society at home, with the stars and ribbons which are common among
them now, they are, less indeed, but still something. But at the
colonial and foreign offices in London, among the assistant
secretaries and clerks, they are hardly more than common men. All the
gingerbread is gone there. His Excellency is no more than Jones, and
the Representative or Alter Ego of Royalty mildly asks little favours
of the junior clerks.
"Lord Drummond only wants to know what you wish and it shall be
done," said Mounser Green. Lord Drummond was the Minister for Foreign
Affairs of the day. "I hope I need hardly say that we were delighted
that you accepted the offer."
"One doesn't like to refuse a step upward," said Morton; "otherwise
Patagonia isn't exactly the place one would like."
"Very good climate," said Currie. "Ladies I have known who have
gone there have enjoyed it very much."
"A little rough I suppose?"
"They didn't seem to say so. Young Bartletot took his wife out
there, just married. He liked it. There wasn't much society, but they
didn't care about that just at first"
"Ah;—I'm a single man," said Morton laughing. He was too good a
diplomate to be pumped in that simple way by such a one as Archibald
Currie.
"You'll like to see Lord Drummond. He is here and will be glad to
shake hands with you. Come into my room," Then Mounser Green led the
way into a small inner sanctum in which it may be presumed that he
really did his work. It was here at any rate that he wrote the notes
on official note paper.
"They haven't settled as yet how they're to be off it," said Currie
in a whisper, as soon as the two men were gone, "but I'll bet a
five-pound note that Bell Trefoil doesn't go out to Patagonia as his
wife."
"We know the Senator here well enough." This was said in the inner
room by Mounser Green to Morton, who had breakfasted with the Senator
that morning and had made an appointment to meet him at the Foreign
Office. The Senator wanted to secure a seat for himself at the opening
of Parliament which was appointed to take place in the course of the
next month, and being a member of the Committee on Foreign Affairs in
the American Senate of course thought himself entitled to have things
done for him by the Foreign Office clerks. "Oh yes, I'll see him. Lord
Drummond will get him a seat as a matter of course. How is he getting
on with your neighbour at Dillsborough?"
"So you've heard of that."
"Heard of it! who hasn't heard of it?"—At this moment the
messenger came in again and the Senator was announced. "Lord Drummond
will manage about the seats in the House of Lords, Mr. Gotobed. Of
course he'll see you if you wish it; but I'll take a note of it"
"If you'll do that, Mr. Green, I shall be fixed up straight. And
I'd a great deal sooner see you than his lordship."
"That's very flattering, Mr. Gotobed, but I'm sure I don't know
why."
"Because Lord Drummond always seems to me to have more on hand than
he knows how to get through, and you never seem to have anything to
do."
"That's not quite so flattering,—and would be killing, only that I
feel that your opinion is founded on error. Mens conscia recti, Mr.
Gotobed."
"Exactly. I understand English pretty well; better as far as I can
see than some of those I meet around me here; but I don't go beyond
that, Mr. Green."
"I merely meant to observe, Mr. Gotobed, that as, within my own
breast, I am conscious of my zeal and diligence in Her Majesty's
service your shafts of satire pass me by without hurting me. Shall I
offer you a cigar? A candle burned at both ends is soon consumed." It
was quite clear that as quickly as the Senator got through one end of
his cigar by the usual process of burning, so quickly did he eat the
other end. But he took that which Mounser Green offered him without
any displeasure at the allusion. "I'm sorry to say that I haven't a
spittoon," said Mounser Green, "but the whole fire-place is at your
service." The Senator could hardly have heard this, as it made no
difference in his practice.
Morton at this moment was sent for by the Secretary of State, and
the Senator expressed his intention of waiting for him in Mr. Green's
room. "How does the great Goarly case get on, Mr. Gotobed?" asked the
clerk.
Well! I don't know that it's getting on very much."
"You are not growing tired of it, Senator?"
"Not by any means. But it's getting itself complicated, Mr. Green.
I mean to see the end of it, and if I'm beat,—why I can take a
beating as well as another man."
"You begin to think you will be beat?"
"I didn't say so, Mr. Green. It is very hard to understand all the
ins and outs of a case like that in a foreign country."
"Then I shouldn't try it, Senator."
"There I differ. It is my object to learn all I can."
"At any rate I shouldn't pay for the lesson as you are like to do.
What'll the bill be? Four hundred dollars?"
"Never mind, Mr. Green. If you'll take the opinion of a good deal
older man than yourself and one who has perhaps worked harder, you'll
understand that there's no knowledge got so thoroughly as that for
which a man pays." Soon after this Morton came out from the great
man's room and went away in company with the Senator.
CHAPTER II. The Senator's Letter
Soon after this Senator Gotobed went down, alone, to Dillsborough
and put himself up at the Bush Inn. Although he had by no means the
reputation of being a rich man, he did not seem to care much what
money he spent in furthering any object he had taken in hand. He
never knew how near he had been to meeting the direst inhospitality
at Mr. Runciman's house. That worthy innkeeper, knowing well the
Senator's sympathy with Goarly, Scrobby and Bearside, and being heart
and soul devoted to the Rufford interest, had almost refused the
Senator the accommodation he wanted. It was only when Mrs. Runciman
represented to him that she could charge ten shillings a day for the
use of her sitting-room, and also that Lord Rufford himself had
condescended to entertain the gentleman, that Runciman gave way. Mr.
Gotobed would, no doubt, have delighted in such inhospitality. He
would have gone to the second-rate inn, which was very second-rate
indeed, and have acquired a further insight into British manners and
British prejudices. As it was, he made himself at home in the best
upstairs sitting-room at the Bush, and was quite unaware of the
indignity offered to him when Mr. Runciman refused to send him up the
best sherry. Let us hope that this refusal was remembered by the young
woman in the bar when she made out the Senator's bill.
He stayed at Dillsborough for three or four days during which he
saw Goarly once and Bearside on two or three occasions,—and moreover
handed to that busy attorney three bank notes for five pounds each.
Bearside was clever enough to make him believe that Goarly would
certainly obtain serious damages from the lord. With Bearside he was
fairly satisfied, thinking however that the man was much more
illiterate and ignorant than the general run of lawyers in the United
States; but with Goarly he was by no means satisfied. Goarly
endeavoured to keep out of his way and could not be induced to come to
him at the Bush. Three times he walked out to the house near
Dillsborough Wood, on each of which occasions Mrs. Goarly pestered him
for money, and told him at great length the history of her forlorn
goose. Scrobby, of whom he had heard, he could not see at all; and he
found that Bearside was very unwilling to say anything about Scrobby.
Scrobby, and the red herrings and the strychnine and the dead fox
were, according to Bearside, to be kept quite distinct from the
pheasants and the wheat. Bearside declared over and over again that
there was no evidence to connect his client with the demise of the
fox. When asked whether he did not think that his client had compassed
the death of the animal, he assured the Senator that in such matters,
he never ventured to think.
"Let us go by the evidence, Mr. Gotobed," he said.
"But I am paying my money for the sake of getting at the facts."
"Evidence is facts, sir," said the attorney. "Any way let us settle
about the pheasants first"
The condition of the Senator's mind may perhaps be best made known
by a letter which he wrote from Dillsborough to his especial and
well-trusted friend Josiah Scroome, a member of the House of
Representatives from his own state of Mickewa. Since he had been in
England he had written constantly to his friend, giving him the
result of his British experiences.
Bush Inn, Dillsborough, Ufford County, England, December 16,
187-.
MY DEAR SIR,
Since my last I have enjoyed myself very well and I am I trust
beginning to understand something of the mode of thinking of this
very peculiar people. That there should be so wide a difference
between us Americans and these English, from whom we were divided, so
to say, but the other day, is one of the most peculiar physiological
phenomena that the history of the world will have afforded. As far as
I can hear a German or even a Frenchman thinks much more as an
Englishman thinks than does an American. Nor does this come mainly
from the greater prevalence with us of democratic institutions. I do
not think that any one can perceive in half an hour's conversation the
difference between a Swiss and a German; but I fancy, and I may say I
flatter. myself, that an American is as easily distinguished from an
Englishman, as a sheep from a goat or a tall man from one who is
short.
And yet there is a pleasure in associating with those here of the
highest rank which I find it hard to describe, and which perhaps I,
ought to regard as a pernicious temptation to useless luxury. There
is an ease of manner with them which recalls with unfavourable
reminiscences the hard self-consciousness of the better class of our
citizens. There is a story of an old hero who with his companions fell
among beautiful women and luscious wine, and, but that the hero had
been warned in time, they would all have been turned into filthy
animals by yielding to the allurements around them. The temptation
here is perhaps the same. I am not a hero; and, though I too have been
warned by the lessons I have learned under our happy Constitution, I
feel that I might easily become one of the animals in question.
And, to give them their due, it is better than merely beautiful
women and luscious wine. There is a reality about them, and a desire
to live up to their principles which is very grand. Their principles
are no doubt bad, utterly antagonistic to all progress, unconscious
altogether of the demand for progressive equality which is made by the
united voices of suffering mankind. The man who is born a lord and who
sees a dozen serfs around him who have been born to be half-starved
ploughmen, thinks that God arranged it all and that he is bound to
maintain a state of things so comfortable to himself, as being God's
vicegerent here on earth. But they do their work as vicegerents with
an easy grace, and with sweet pleasant voices and soft movements,
which almost make a roan doubt whether the Almighty has not in truth
intended that such injustice should be permanent. That one man should
be rich and another poor is a necessity in the present imperfect state
of civilisation;—but that one man should be born to be a legislator,
born to have everything, born to be a tyrant,—and should think it all
right, is to me miraculous. But the greatest miracle of all is that
they who are not so born, who have been born to suffer the reverse
side,— should also think it to be all right.
With us it is necessary that a man, to shine in society, should
have done something, or should at any rate have the capacity of doing
something. But here the greatest fool that you meet will shine, and
will be admitted to be brilliant, simply because he has possessions.
Such a one will take his part in conversation though he knows nothing,
and, when inquired into, he will own that he knows nothing. To know
anything is not his line in life. But he can move about, and chatter
like a child of ten, and amuse himself from morning to night with
various empty playthings,—and be absolutely proud of his life!
I have lately become acquainted with a certain young lord here of
this class who has treated me with great kindness, although I have
taken it into my head to oppose him as to a matter in which he is
much interested. I ventured to inquire of him as to the pursuits of
his life. He is a lord, and therefore a legislator, but he made no
scruple to tell me that he never goes near the Chamber in which it is
his privilege to have a seat. But his party does not lose his support.
Though he never goes near the place, he can vote, and is enabled to
trust his vote to some other more ambitious lord who does go there. It
required the absolute evidence of personal information from those who
are themselves concerned to make me believe that legislation in Great
Britain could be carried on after such a fashion as this! Then he told
me what he does do. All the winter he hunts and shoots, going about to
other rich men's houses when there is no longer sufficient for him to
shoot left on his own estate. That lasts him from the 1st of September
to the end of March, and occupies all his time. August he spends in
Scotland, also shooting other animals. During the other months he
fishes, and plays cricket and tennis, and attends races, and goes
about to parties in London. His evenings he spends at a card table
when he can get friends to play with him. It is the employment of his
life to fit in his amusements so that he may not have a dull day.
Wherever he goes he carries his wine with him and his valet and his
grooms; and if he thinks there is anything to fear, his cook also. He
very rarely opens a book. He is more ignorant than a boy of fifteen
with us, and yet he manages to have something to say about everything.
When his ignorance has been made as clear as the sun at noon-day, he
is no whit ashamed. One would say that such a life would break the
heart of any man; but upon my word, I doubt whether I ever came across
a human being so self-satisfied as this young lord.
I have come down here to support the case of a poor man who is I
think being trampled on by this do-nothing legislator. But I am bound
to say that the lord in his kind is very much better than the poor man
in his. Such a wretched, squalid, lying, cowardly creature I did not
think that even England could produce. And yet the man has a property
in land on which he ought to be able to live in humble comfort. I feel
sure that I have leagued myself with a rascal, whereas I believe the
lord, in spite of his ignorance and his idleness, to be honest. But
yet the man is being hardly used, and has had the spirit, or rather
perhaps has been instigated by others, to rebel. His crops have been
eaten up by the lord's pheasants, and the lord, exercising plenary
power as though he were subject to no laws, will only pay what
compensation he himself chooses to award. The whole country here is in
arms against the rebel, thinking it monstrous that a man living in a
hovel should contest such a point with the owner of half-a-dozen
palaces. I have come forward to help the man for the sake of seeing
how the matter will go; and I have to confess that though those under
the lord have treated me as though I were a miscreant, the lord
himself and his friends have been civil enough.
I say what I think wherever I go, and I do not find it taken in bad
part. In that respect we might learn something even from Englishmen.
When a Britisher over in the States says what he thinks about us, we
are apt to be a little rough with him. I have, indeed, known towns in
which he couldn't speak out with personal safety. Here there is no
danger of that kind. I am getting together the materials for a lecture
on British institutions in general, in which I shall certainly speak
my mind plainly, and I think I shall venture to deliver it in London
before I leave for New York in the course of next spring. I will,
however, write to you again before that time comes.
Believe me to be, Dear Sir, With much sincerity, Yours truly, Elias Gotobed. The Honble. Josiah Scroome, 25, Q Street, Minnesota Avenue, Washington.
On the morning of the Senator's departure from Dillsborough, Mr.
Runciman met him standing under the covered way leading from the inn
yard into the street. He was waiting for the omnibus which was being
driven about the town, and which was to call for him and take him down
to the railway station. Mr. Runciman had not as yet spoken to him
since he had been at the inn, and had not even made himself personally
known to his guest. "So, Sir, you are going to leave us," said the
landlord, with a smile which was intended probably as a smile of
triumph.
"Yes, sir," said the Senator. "It's about time, I guess, that I
should get back to London."
"I dare say it is, Sir," said the landlord. "I dare say you've seen
enough of Mr. Goarly by this time."
"That's as may be. I don't know whom I have the pleasure of
speaking to."
"My name is Runciman, Sir. I'm the landlord here."
"I hope I see you well, Mr. Runciman. I have about come to an end
of my business here."
"I dare say you have, sir. I should say so. Perhaps I might express
an opinion that you never came across a greater blackguard than
Goarly either in this country or your own."
"That's a strong opinion, Mr. Runciman."
"It's the general opinion here, sir. I should have thought you'd
found it out before this."
"I don't know that I am prepared at this moment to declare all that
I have found out"
"I thought you'd have been tired of it by this time, Mr. Gotobed."
"Tired of what?"
"Tired of the wrong side, sir."
"I don't know that I am on the wrong side. A man may be in the
right on one point even though his life isn't all that it ought to
be."
"That's true, sir; but if they told you all that they know up
street,"—and Runciman pointed to the part of the town in which
Bearside's office was situated,—"I should have thought you would
have understood who was going to win and who was going to lose. Good
day, sir; I hope you'll have a pleasant journey. Much obliged to you
for your patronage, sir;" and Runciman, still smiling unpleasantly,
touched his hat as the Senator got into the omnibus.
The Senator was not very happy as to the Goarly business. He had
paid some money and had half promised more, and had found out that he
was in a boat with thoroughly disreputable persons. As he had said to
the landlord, a man may have the right on his side in an action at law
though he be a knave or a rascal; and if a lord be unjust to a poor
man, the poor man should have justice done him, even though he be not
quite a pattern poor man. But now he was led to believe by what the
landlord had said to him that he was being kept in the dark, and that
there were facts generally known that he did not know. He had learned
something of English manners and English institutions by his
interference, but there might be a question whether he was not paying
too dearly for his whistle. And there was growing upon him a feeling
that before he had done he would have to blush for his colleagues.
As the omnibus went away Dr. Nupper joined Mr. Runciman under the
archway. "I'm blessed if I can understand that man," said Runciman.
"What is it he's after?"
"Notoriety," said the doctor, with the air of a man who has
completely solved a difficult question.
"He'll have to pay for it, and that pretty smart," said Runciman.
"I never heard of such a foolish thing in all my life. What the
dickens is it to him? One can understand Bearside, and Scrobby too.
When a fellow has something to get, one does understand it. But why
an old fellow like that should come down from the moon to pay ever so
much money for such a man as Goarly, is what I don't understand."
"Notoriety," said the doctor.
"He evidently don't know that Nickem has got round Goarly," said
the landlord.
CHAPTER III. At Cheltenham
The month at Cheltenham was passed very quietly and would have been
a very happy month with Mary Masters but that there grew upon her
from day to day increasing fears of what she would have to undergo
when she returned to Dillsborough. At the moment when she was
hesitating with Larry Twentyman, when she begged him to wait six
months and then at last promised to give him an answer at the end of
two, she had worked herself up to think that it might possibly be her
duty to accept her lover for the sake of her family. At any rate she
had at that moment thought that the question of duty ought to be
further considered, and therefore she had vacillated. When the two
months' delay was accorded to her, and within that period the
privilege of a long absence from Dillsborough, she put the trouble
aside for a while with the common feeling that the chapter of
accidents might do something for her. Before she had reached
Cheltenham the chapter of accidents had done much. When Reginald
Morton told her that he could not have congratulated her on such
prospects, and had explained to her why in truth he had been angry at
the bridge,—how he had been anxious to be alone with her that he
might learn whether she were really engaged to this man,—then she had
known that her answer to Larry Twentyman at the end of the two months
must be a positive refusal.
But as she became aware of this a new trouble arose and harassed
her very soul. When she had asked for the six months she had not at
the moment been aware, she had not then felt, that a girl who asks
for time is supposed to have already surrendered. But since she had
made that unhappy request the conviction had grown upon her. She had
read it in every word her stepmother said to her and in her father's
manner. The very winks and hints and little jokes which fell from her
younger sisters told her that it was so. She could see around her the
satisfaction which had come from the settlement of that difficult
question,—a satisfaction which was perhaps more apparent with her
father than even with the others. Then she knew what she had done, and
remembered to have heard that a girl who expresses a doubt is supposed
to have gone beyond doubting. While she was still at Dillsborough
there was a feeling that no evil would arise from this if she could at
last make up her mind to be Mrs. Twentyman; but when the settled
conviction came upon her, after hearing Reginald Morton's words, then
she was much troubled.
He stayed only a couple of days at Cheltenham and during that time
said very little to her. He certainly spoke no word which would give
her a right to think that he himself was attached to her. He had been
interested about her, as was his aunt, Lady Ushant, because she had
been known and her mother had been known by the old Mortons. But there
was nothing of love in all that. She had never supposed that there
would be; and yet there was a vague feeling in her bosom that as he
had been strong in expressing his objection to Mr. Twentyman there
might have been something more to stir him than the memory of those
old days at Bragton!
"To my thinking there is a sweetness about her which I have never
seen equalled in any young woman." This was said by Lady Ushant to
her nephew after Mary had gone to bed on the night before he left.
"One would suppose," he answered, "that you wanted me to ask her to
be my wife."
"I never want anything of that kind, Reg. I never make in such
matters,—or mar if I can help it."
"There is a man at Dillsborough wants to marry her."
"I can easily believe that there should be two or three. Who is the
man?"
"Do you remember old Twentyman of Chowton?"
"He was our near neighbour. Of course I remember him. I can
remember well when they bought the land."
"It is his son."
"Surely he can hardly be worthy of her, Reg"
"And yet they say he is very worthy. I have asked about him, and he
is not a bad fellow. He keeps his money and has ideas of living
decently. He doesn't drink or gamble. But he's not a gentleman or
anything like one. I should think he never opens a book. Of course it
would be a degradation."
"And what does Mary say herself?"
"I fancy she has refused him." Then he added after a pause, "Indeed
I know she has."
"How should you know? Has she told you?" In answer to this he only
nodded his head at the old lady. "There must have been close
friendship, Reg, between you two when she told you that. I hope you
have not made her give up one suitor by leading her to love another
who does not mean to ask her."
"I certainly have not done that," said Reg. Men may often do much
without knowing that they do anything, and such probably had been the
case with Reginald Morton during the journey from Dillsborough to
Cheltenham.
"What would her father wish?"
"They all want her to take the man."
"How can she do better?"
"Would you have her marry a man who is not a gentleman, whose wife
will never be visited by other ladies; in marrying whom she would go
altogether down into another and a lower world?"
This was a matter on which Lady Ushant and her nephew had conversed
often, and he thought he knew her to be thoroughly wedded to the
privileges which she believed to be attached to her birth. With him
the same feeling was almost the stronger because he was so well aware
of the blot upon himself caused by the lowness of his own father's
marriage. But a man, he held, could raise a woman to his own rank,
whereas a woman must accept the level of her husband.
"Bread and meat and chairs and tables are very serious things,
Reg."
"You would then recommend her to take this man, and pass altogether
out of your own sphere?"
"What can I do for her? I am an old woman who will be dead probably
before the first five years of her married life have passed over her.
And as for recommending, I do not know enough to recommend anything.
Does she like the man?"
"I am sure she would feel herself degraded by marrying him."
"I trust she will never live to feel herself degraded. I do not
believe that she could do anything that she thought would degrade
her. But I think that you and I had better leave her to herself in
this matter." Further on in the same evening, or rather late in the
night,—for they had then sat talking together for hours over the
fire,—she made a direct statement to him. "When I die, Reg, I have
but 5,000 pounds to leave behind me, and this I have divided between
you and her. I shall not tell her because I might do more harm than
good. But you may know."
"That would make no difference to me," he said.
"Very likely not, but I wish you to know it. What troubles me is
that she will have to pay so much out of it for legacy duty. I might
leave it all to you and you could give it her." An honester or more
religious or better woman than old Lady Ushant there was not in
Cheltenham, but it never crossed her conscience that it would be wrong
to cheat the revenue. It may be doubted whether any woman has ever
been brought to such honesty as that.
On the next morning Morton went away without saying another word in
private to Mary Masters and she was left to her quiet life with the
old lady. To an ordinary visitor nothing could have been less
exciting, for Lady Ushant very seldom went out and never entertained
company. She was a tall thin old lady with bright eyes and grey hair
and a face that was still pretty in spite of sunken eyes and sunken
cheeks and wrinkled brow. There was ever present with her an air of
melancholy which told a whole tale of the sadness of a long life. Her
chief excitement was in her two visits to church on Sunday and in the
letter which she wrote every week to her nephew at Dillsborough. Now
she had her young friend with her, and that too was an excitement to
her,—and the more so since she had heard the tidings of Larry
Twentyman's courtship.
She made up her mind that she would not speak on the subject to her
young friend unless her young friend should speak to her. In the
first three weeks nothing was said; but four or five days before
Mary's departure there came up a conversation about Dillsborough and
Bragton. There had been many conversations about Dillsborough and
Bragton, but in all of them the name of Lawrence Twentyman had been
scrupulously avoided. Each had longed to name him, and yet each had
determined not to do so. But at length it was avoided no longer. Lady
Ushant had spoken of Chowton Farm and the widow. Then Mary had spoken
of the place and its inhabitants. "Mr. Twentyman comes a great deal to
our house now," she said.
"Has he any reason, my dear?"
"He goes with papa once a week to the club; and he sometimes lends
my sister Kate a pony. Kate is very fond of riding."
"There is nothing else?"
"He has got to be intimate and I think mamma likes him."
"He is a good young man then?"
"Very good," said Mary with an emphasis.
"And Chowton belongs to him."
"Oh yes;—it belongs to him."
"Some young men make such ducks and drakes of their property when
they get it"
"They say that he's not like that at all. People say that he
understands farming very well and that he minds everything himself."
"What an excellent young man! There is no other reason for his
coming to your house, Mary?" Then the sluice-gates were opened and
the whole story was told. Sitting there late into the night Mary told
it all as well as she knew how,—all of it except in regard to any
spark of love which might have fallen upon her in respect of Reginald
Morton. Of Reginald Morton in her story of course she did not speak;
but all the rest she declared. She did not love the man. She was quite
sure of that. Though she thought so well of him there was, she was
quite sure, no feeling in her heart akin to love. She had promised to
take time because she had thought that she might perhaps be able to
bring herself to marry him without loving him,— to marry him because
her father wished it, and because her going from home would be a
relief to her stepmother and sisters, because it would be well for
them all that she should be settled out of the way. But since that she
had made up her mind,—she thought that she had quite made up her
mind,—that it would be impossible.
"There is nobody else, Mary?" said Lady Ushant putting her hand on
to Mary's lap. Mary protested that there was nobody else without any
consciousness that she was telling a falsehood. "And you are quite
sure that you cannot do it?"
"Do you think that I ought, Lady Ushant?"
"I should be very sorry to say that, my dear. A young woman in such
a matter must be governed by her feelings. Only he seems to be a
deserving young man!" Mary looked askance at her friend, remembering
at the moment Reginald Morton's assurance that his aunt would have
disapproved of such an engagement. "But I never would persuade a girl
to marry a man she did not love. I think it would be wicked. I always
thought so."
There was nothing about degradation in all this. It was quite clear
to Mary that had she been able to tell Lady Ushant that she was head
over ears in love with this young man and that therefore she was going
to marry him, her old friend would have found no reason to lament such
an arrangement. Her old friend would have congratulated her. Lady
Ushant evidently thought Larry Twentyman to be good enough as soon as
she heard what Mary found herself compelled to say in the young man's
favour. Mary was almost disappointed; but reconciled herself to it
very quickly, telling herself that there was yet time for her to
decide in favour of her lover if she could bring herself to do so.
And she did try that night and all the next day, thinking that if
she could so make up her mind she would declare her purpose to Lady
Ushant before she left Cheltenham. But she could not do it, and in
the struggle with herself at last she learned something of the truth.
Lady Ushant saw nothing but what was right and proper in a marriage
with Lawrence Twentyman, but Reginald Morton had declared it to be
improper, and therefore it was out of her reach. She could not do it.
She could not bring herself, after what he had said, to look him in
the face and tell him that she was going to become the wife of Larry
Twentyman. Then she asked herself the fatal question;—was she in love
with Reginald Morton? I do not think that she answered it in the
affirmative, but she became more and more sure that she could never
marry Larry Twentyman.
Lady Ushant declared herself to have been more than satisfied with
the visit and expressed a hope that it might be repeated in the next
year. "I would ask you to come and make your home here while I have a
home to offer you, only that you would be so much more buried here
than at Dillsborough: And you have duties there which perhaps you
ought not to leave. But come again when your papa will spare you."
On her journey back she certainly was not very happy. There were
yet three weeks wanting to the time at which she would be bound to
give her answer to Larry Twentyman; but why should she keep the man
waiting for three weeks when her answer was ready? Her stepmother she
knew would soon force her answer from her, and her father would be
anxious to know what had been the result of her meditations. The real
period of her reprieve had been that of her absence at Cheltenham, and
that period was now come to an, end. At each station as she passed
them she remembered what Reginald Morton had been saying to her, and
how their conversation had been interrupted,—and perhaps occasionally
aided,—by the absurdities of the bird. How sweet it had been to be
near him and to listen to his whispered voice! How great was the
difference between him and that other young man, the smartness of
whose apparel was now becoming peculiarly distasteful to her!
Certainly it would have been better for her not to have gone to
Cheltenham if it was to be her fate to become Mrs. Twentyman. She was
quite sure of that now.
She came up from the Dillsborough Station alone in the Bush
omnibus. She had not expected any one to meet her. Why should any one
meet her? The porter put up her box and the omnibus left her at the
door. But she remembered well how she had gone down with Reginald
Morton, and how delightful had been every little incident of the
journey. Even to walk with him up and down the platform while waiting
for the train had been a privilege. She thought of it as she got out
of the carriage and remembered that she had felt that the train had
come too soon.
At her own door her father met her and took her into the parlour
where the tea-things were spread, and where her sisters were already
seated. Her stepmother soon came in and kissed her kindly. She was
asked how she had enjoyed herself, and no disagreeable questions were
put to her that night. No questions, at least, were asked which she
felt herself bound to answer. After she was in bed Kate came to her
and did say a word. "Well, Mary, do tell me. I won't tell any one."
But Mary refused to speak a word.
CHAPTER IV. The Rufford
Correspondence
It might be surmised from the description which Lord Rufford had
given of his own position to his sister and his sister's two friends,
when he pictured himself as falling over the edge of the precipice
while they hung on behind to save him, that he was sufficiently aware
of the inexpediency of the proposed intimacy with Miss Trefoil. Any
one hearing him would have said that Miss Trefoil's chances in that
direction were very poor,—that a man seeing his danger so plainly and
so clearly understanding the nature of it would certainly avoid it.
But what he had said was no more than Miss Trefoil knew that he would
say,—-or, at any rate would think. Of course she had against her not
only all his friends,—but the man himself also and his own fixed
intentions. Lord Rufford was not a marrying man,—which was supposed
to signify that he intended to lead a life of pleasure till the
necessity of providing an heir should be forced upon him, when he
would take to himself a wife out of his own class in life twenty years
younger than himself for whom he would not care a straw. The odds
against Miss Trefoil were of course great;—but girls have won even
against such odds as these. She knew her own powers, and was aware
that Lord Rufford was fond of feminine beauty and feminine flutter and
feminine flattery, though he was not prepared to marry. It was quite
possible that she might be able to dig such a pit for him that it
would be easier for him to marry her than to get out in any other way.
Of course she must trust something to his own folly at first. Nor did
she trust in vain. Before her week was over at Mrs. Gore's she
received from him a letter, which, with the correspondence to which it
immediately led, shall be given in this chapter.
Letter No. I.
Rufford, Sunday.
My Dear Miss Trefoil,
We have had a sad house since you left us. Poor Caneback got better
and then worse and then better,—and at last died yesterday
afternoon. And now; there is to be the funeral! The poor dear old boy
seems to have had nobody belonging to him and very little in the way
of possessions. I never knew anything of him except that he was, or
had been, in the Blues, and that he was about the best man in England
to hounds on a bad horse. It now turns out that his father made some
money in India,—a sort of Commissary purveyor,— and bought a
commission for him twenty-five years ago. Everybody knew him but
nobody knew anything about, him. Poor old Caneback! I wish he had
managed to die anywhere else and I don't feel at all obliged to
Purefoy for sending that brute of a mare here. He said something to me
about that wretched ball;—not altogether so wretched! was it? But I
didn't like what he said and told him a bit of my mind. Now we're two
for a while; and I don't care for how long unless he comes round.
I cannot stand a funeral and I shall get away from this. I will pay
the bill and Purefoy may do the rest. I'm going for Christmas to
Surbiton's near Melton with a string of horses. Surbiton is a
bachelor, and as there will be no young ladies to interfere with me I
shall have the more time to think of you. We shall have a little play
there instead. I don't know whether it isn't the better of the two, as
if one does get sat upon, one doesn't feel so confoundedly
sheep-faced. I have been out with the hounds two or three times since
you went, as I could do no good staying with that poor fellow and
there was a time when we thought he would have pulled through. I rode
Jack one day, but he didn't carry me as well as he did you. I think
he's more of a lady's horse. If I go to Mistletoe I shall have some
horses somewhere in the neighbourhood and I'll make them take Jack, so
that you may have a chance.
I never know how to sign myself to young ladies. Suppose I say that
I am yours,
Anything you like best, R.
This was a much nicer letter than Arabella had expected, as there
were one or two touches in it, apart from the dead man and the
horses, which she thought might lead to something,—and there was a
tone in the letter which seemed to show that he was given to
correspondence. She took care to answer it so that he should get her
letter on his arrival at Mr. Surbiton's house. She found out Mr.
Surbiton's address, and then gave a great deal of time to her letter.
Letter No. 2.
Murray's Hotel, Green Street, Thursday.
My Dear Lord Rufford,
As we are passing through London on our way from one purgatory with
the Gores to another purgatory with old Lady De Browne, and as mamma
is asleep in her chair opposite, and as I have nothing else on earth
to do, I think I might as well answer your letter. Poor old Major! I
am sorry for him, because he rode so bravely. I shall never forget his
face as he passed us, and again as he rose upon his knee when that
horrid blow came! How very odd that he should have been like that,
without any friends. What a terrible nuisance to you! I think you were
quite wise to come away. I am sure I should have done so. I can't
conceive what right Sir John Purefoy can have had to say anything, for
after all it was his doing. Do you remember when you talked of my
riding Jemima? When I think of it I can hardly hold myself for
shuddering.
It is so kind of you to think of me about Jack. I am never very
fond of Mistletoe. Don't you be mischievous now and tell the Duchess
I said so. But with Jack in the neighbourhood I can stand even her
Grace. I think I shall be there about the middle of January but it
must depend on all those people mamma is going to. I shall have to
make a great fight, for mamma thinks that ten days in the year at
Mistletoe is all that duty requires. But I always stick up for my
uncle, and mean in this instance to have a little of my own way. What
are parental commands in opposition to Jack and all his glories?
Besides mamma does not mean to go herself.
I shall leave it to you to say whether the ball was `altogether
wretched.' Of course there must have been infinite vexation to you,
and to us who knew of it all there was a feeling of deep sorrow. But
perhaps we were able, some of us, to make it a little lighter for you.
At any rate I shall never forget Rufford, whether the memory be more
pleasant or more painful. There are moments which one never can
forget!
Don't go and gamble away your money among a lot of men. Though I
dare say you have got so much that it doesn't signify whether you
lose some of it or not. I do think it is such a shame that a man like
you should have such a quantity, and that a poor girl such as I am
shouldn't have enough to pay for her hats and gloves. Why shouldn't I
send a string of horses about just when I please? I believe I could
make as good a use of them as you do, and then I could lend you Jack.
I would be so good-natured. You should have Jack every day you wanted
him.
You must write and tell me what day you will be at Mistletoe. It is
you that have tempted me and I don't mean to be there without
you,—or I suppose I ought to say, without the horse. But of course
you will have understood that. No young lady ever is supposed to
desire the presence of any young man. It would be very improper of
course. But a young man's Jack is quite another thing.
So far her pen had flown with her, but then there came the
necessity for a conclusion which must be worded in some peculiar way,
as his had been so peculiar. How far might she dare to be affectionate
without putting him on his guard? Or in what way might she be saucy so
as best to please him? She tried two or three, and at last she ended
her letter as follows.
I have not had much experience in signing myself to young gentlemen
and am therefore quite in as great a difficulty as you were; but,
though I can't swear that I am everything that you like best, I will
protest that I am pretty nearly what you ought to like,—as far as
young ladies go.
In the meantime I certainly am, Yours truly, A. T.
P.S. Mind you write—about Jack; and address to Lady Smijth—
Greenacres Manor—Hastings.
There was a great deal in this letter which was not true. But then
such ladies as Miss Trefoil can never afford to tell the truth.
The letter was not written from Murray's Hotel, Lady Augustus
having insisted on staying at certain lodgings in Orchard Street
because her funds were low. But on previous occasions they had stayed
at Murray's. And her mamma, instead of being asleep when the letter
was written, was making up her accounts. And every word about
Mistletoe had been false. She had not yet secured her invitation. She
was hard at work on the attempt, having induced her father absolutely
to beg the favour from his brother. But at the present moment she was
altogether diffident of success. Should she fail she must only tell
Lord Rufford that her mother's numerous engagements had at the last
moment made her happiness impossible. That she was going to Lady
Smijth's was true, and at Lady Smijth's house she received the
following note from Lord Rufford. It was then January, and the great
Mistletoe question was not as yet settled.
Letter No. 3.
December 31.
My Dear Miss Trefoil,
Here I am still at Surbiton's and we have had such good sport that
I'm half inclined to give the Duke the slip. What a pity that you
can't come here instead. Wouldn't it be nice for you and half a dozen
more without any of the Dowagers or Duennas? You might win some of the
money which I lose. I have been very unlucky and, if you had won it
all, there would be plenty of room for hats and gloves,—and for
sending two or three Jacks about all the winter into the bargain. I
never did win yet. I don't care very much about it, but I don't know
why I should always be so uncommonly unlucky.
We had such a day yesterday,—an hour and ten minutes all in the
open, and then a kill just as the poor fellow was trying to make a
drain under the high road. There were only five of us up. Surbiton
broke his horse's back at a bank, and young De Canute came down on to
a road and smashed his collar bone. Three or four of the hounds were
so done that they couldn't be got home. I was riding Black Harry and
he won't be out again for a fortnight. It was the best thing I've seen
these two years. We never have it quite like that with the U.R.U.
If I don't go to Mistletoe I'll send Jack and a groom if you think
the Duke would take them in and let you ride the horse. If so I shall
stay here pretty nearly all January, unless there should be a frost.
In that case I should go back to Rufford as I have a deal of shooting
to do. I shall be so sorry not to see you;—but there is always a sort
of sin in not sticking to hunting when it's good. It so seldom is just
what it ought to be.
I rather think that after all we shall be down on that fellow who
poisoned our fox, in spite of your friend the Senator.
Yours always faithfully, R.
There was a great deal in this letter which was quite terrible to
Miss Trefoil. In the first place by the time she received it she had
managed the matter with her uncle. Her father had altogether refused
to mention Lord Rufford's name, though he had heard the very plain
proposition which his daughter made to him with perfect serenity. But
he had said to the Duke that it would be a great convenience if Bell
could be received at Mistletoe for a few days, and the Duke had got
the Duchess to assent. Lady Augustus, too, had been disposed of, and
two very handsome new dresses had been acquired. Her habit had been
altered with reckless disregard of the coming spring and she was fully
prepared for her campaign. But what would Mistletoe be to her without
Lord Rufford? In spite of all that had been done she would not go
there. Unless she could turn him by her entreaties she would pack up
everything and start for Patagonia, with the determination to throw
herself overboard on the way there if she could find the courage.
She had to think very much of her next letter. Should she write in
anger or should she write in love, or should she mingle both? There
was no need for care now, as there had been at first. She must reach
him at once, or everything would be over. She must say something that
would bring him to Mistletoe, whatever that something might be. After
much thought she determined that mingled anger and love would be the
best. So she mingled them as follows:
Letter No. 4.
Greenacre Manor, Monday.
Your last letter which I have just got has killed me. You must know
that I have altered my plans and done it at immense trouble for the
sake of meeting you at Mistletoe. It will be most unkind,—I might
say worse,—if you put me off. I don't think you can do it as a
gentleman. I'm sure you would not if you knew what I have gone
through with mamma and the whole set of them to arrange it. Of course
I shan't go if you don't come. Your talk of sending the horse there is
adding an insult to the injury. You must have meant to annoy me or you
wouldn't have pretended to suppose that it was the horse I wanted to
see. I didn't think I could have taken so violent a dislike to poor
Jack as I did for a moment. Let me tell you that I think you are bound
to go to Mistletoe though the hunting at Melton should be better than
was ever known before. When the hunting is good in one place of course
it is good in another. Even I am sportsman enough to know that. I
suppose you have been losing a lot of money and are foolish enough to
think you can win it back again.
Please, please come. It was to be the little cream of the year for
me. It wasn't Jack. There! That ought to bring you. And yet, if you
come, I will worship Jack. I have not said a word to mamma about
altering my plans, nor shall I while there is a hope. But to
Mistletoe I will not go, unless you are to be there. Pray answer this
by return of post. If we have gone your letter will of course follow
us. Pray come. Yours if you do come—; what shall I say? Fill it as
you please. A. T.
Lord Rufford when he received the above very ardent epistle was
quite aware that he had better not go to Mistletoe. He understood the
matter nearly as well as Arabella did herself. But there was a feeling
with him that up to that stage of the affair he ought to do what he
was asked by a young lady, even though there might be danger. Though
there was danger there would still be amusement. He therefore wrote
again as follows:
Letter No. 5.
Dear Miss Trefoil,
You shan't be disappointed whether it be Jack or any less useful
animal that you wish to see. At any rate Jack,—and the other
animal,—will be at Mistletoe on the 15th. I have written to the Duke
by this post. I can only hope that you will be grateful. After all
your abuse about my getting back my money I think you ought to be very
grateful. I have got it back again, but I can assure you that has had
nothing to do with it. Yours ever, R.
P.S. We had two miserably abortive days last week.
Arabella felt that a great deal of the compliment was taken away by
the postscript; but still she was grateful and contented.
CHAPTER V. "It is a long Way"
While the correspondence given in the last chapter was going on
Miss Trefoil had other troubles besides those there narrated, and
other letters to answer. Soon after her departure from Rufford she
received a very serious but still an affectionate epistle from John
Morton in which he asked her if it was her intention to become his
wife or not. The letter was very long as well as very serious and
need not be given here at length. But that was the gist of it; and he
went on to say that in regard to money he had made the most liberal
proposition in his power, that he must decline to have any further
communication with lawyers, and that he must ask her to let him know
at once,—quite at once,—whether she did or did not regard herself as
engaged to him. It was a manly letter and ended by a declaration that
as far as he himself was concerned his feelings were not at all
altered. This she received while staying at the Gores', but, in
accordance with her predetermined strategy, did not at once send any
answer to it. Before she heard again from Morton she had received that
pleasant first letter from Lord Rufford, and was certainly then in no
frame of mind to assure Mr. Morton that she was ready to declare
herself his affianced wife before all the world. Then, after ten days,
he had written to her again and had written much more severely. It
wanted at that time but a few days to Christmas, and she was waiting
for a second letter from Lord Rufford. Let what might come of it she
could not now give up the Rufford chance. As she sat thinking of it,
giving the very best of her mind to it, she remembered the warmth of
that embrace in the little room behind the drawing-room, and those
halcyon minutes in which her head had been on his shoulder, and his
arm round her waist. Not that they were made halcyon to her by any of
the joys of love. In giving the girl her due it must be owned that she
rarely allowed herself to indulge in simple pleasures. If Lord
Rufford, with the same rank and property, had been personally
disagreeable to her it would have been the same. Business to her had
for many years been business, and her business had been so very hard
that she had never allowed lighter things to interfere with it. She
had had justice on her side when she rebuked her mother for accusing
her of flirtations. But could such a man as Lord Rufford— with his
hands so free,—venture to tell himself that such tokens of affection
with such a girl would mean nothing? If she might contrive to meet him
again of course they would be repeated; and then he should be forced
to say that they did mean something. When therefore the severe letter
came from Morton,—severe and pressing, telling her that she was bound
to answer him at once and that were she still silent he must in regard
to his own honour take that as an indication of her intention to break
off the match,—she felt that she must answer it. The answer must,
however, still be ambiguous. She would not if possible throw away that
stool quite as yet, though her mind was intent on ascending to the
throne which it might be within her power to reach. She wrote to him
an ambiguous letter, but a letter which certainly was not intended to
liberate him. "He ought," she said, "to understand that a girl
situated as she was could not ultimately dispose of herself till her
friends had told her that she was free to do so. She herself did not
pretend to have any interest in the affairs as to which her father
and his lawyers were making themselves busy. They had never even
condescended to tell her what it was they wanted on her behalf;—
nor, for the matter of that, had he, Morton, ever told her what it
was that he refused to do. Of course she could not throw herself into
his arms till these things were settled."—By that expression she had
meant a metaphorical throwing of herself, and not such a flesh and
blood embracing as she had permitted to the lord in the little room at
Rufford. Then she suggested that he should appeal again to her father.
It need hardly be said that her father knew very little about it, and
that the lawyers had long since written to Lady Augustus to say that
better terms as to settlement could not be had from Mr. John Morton.
Morton, when he wrote his second letter, had received the offer of
the mission to Patagonia and had asked for a few days to think of it.
After much consideration he had determined that, he would say nothing
to Arabella of the offer. Her treatment of him gave her no right to be
consulted. Should she at once write back declaring her readiness to
become his wife, then he would consult her,—and would not only
consult her but would be prepared to abandon the mission at the
expression of her lightest wish. Indeed in that case he thought that
he would himself advise that it should be abandoned. Why should he
expatriate himself to such a place with such a wife as Arabella
Trefoil? He received her answer and at once accepted the offer. He
accepted it, though he by no means assured himself that the engagement
was irrevocably annulled. But now, if she came to him, she must take
her chance. She must be told that he at any rate was going to
Patagonia, and that unless she could make up her mind to do so too,
she must remain Arabella Trefoil for him. He would not even tell her
of his appointment. He had done all that in him lay and would prepare
himself for his journey as a single man. A minister going out to
Patagonia would of course have some little leave of absence allowed
him, and he arranged with his friend Mounser Green that he should not
start till April.
But when Lord Rufford's second letter reached Miss Trefoil down at
Greenacre Manor, where she had learned by common report that Mr.
Morton was to be the new minister at Patagonia,—when she believed as
she then did that the lord was escaping her, that, seeing and feeling
his danger, he had determined not to jump into the lion's mouth by
meeting her at Mistletoe, that her chance there was all over; then she
remembered her age, her many seasons, the hard work of her toilet,
those tedious long and bitter quarrels with her mother, the
ever-renewed trouble of her smiles, the hopelessness of her future
should she smile in vain to the last, and the countless miseries of
her endless visitings; and she remembered too the 1200 pounds a year
that Morton had offered to settle on her and the assurance of a home
of her own though that home should be at Bragton. For an hour or two
she had almost given up the hope of Rufford and had meditated some
letter to her other lover which might at any rate secure him. But she
had collected her courage sufficiently to make that last appeal to the
lord, which had been successful. Three weeks now might settle all that
and for three weeks it might still be possible so to manage her
affairs that she might fall back upon Patagonia as her last resource.
About this time Morton returned to Bragton, waiting however till he
was assured that the Senator had completed his visit to Dillsborough.
He had been a little ashamed of the Senator in regard to the great
Goarly conflict and was not desirous of relieving his solitude by the
presence of the American. On this occasion he went quite alone and
ordered no carriages from the Bush and no increased establishment of
servants. He certainly was not happy in his mind. The mission to
Patagonia was well paid, being worth with house and etceteras nearly
3000 pounds a year; and it was great and quick promotion for one so
young as himself. For one neither a lord nor connected with a Cabinet
Minister Patagonia was a great place at which to begin his career as
Plenipotentiary on his own bottom;— but it is a long way off and has
its drawbacks. He could not look to be there for less than four years;
and there was hardly reason why a man in his position should
expatriate himself to such a place for so long a time. He felt that he
should not have gone but for his engagement to Arabella Trefoil, and
that neither would he have gone had his engagement been solid and
permanent. He was going in order that he might be rid of that trouble,
and a man's feelings in such circumstances cannot be satisfactory to
himself. However he had said that he would go, and he knew enough of
himself to be certain that having said so he would not alter his mind.
But he was very melancholy and Mrs. Hopkins declared to old Mrs.
Twentyman that the young squire was "hipped,"—"along of his lady
love," as she thought.
His hands had been so full of his visitors when at Bragton before,
and he had been carried off so suddenly to Rufford, and then had
hurried up to London in such misery, that he had hardly had time to
attend to his own business. Mr. Masters had made a claim upon him
since he had been in England for 127l. 8s. 4d in reference to certain
long-gone affairs in which the attorney declared he had been badly
treated by those who had administered the Morton estate. John Morton
had promised to look into the matter and to see Mr. Masters. He had
partially looked into it and now felt ashamed that he had not fully
kept his promise. The old attorney had not had much hope of getting
his money. It was doubtful to himself whether he could make good his
claim against the Squire at law, and it was his settled purpose to
make no such attempt although he was quite sure that the money was his
due. Indeed if Mr. Morton would not do anything further in the matter,
neither would he. He was almost too mild a man to be a successful
lawyer, and had a dislike to asking for money. Mr. Morton had promised
to see him, but Mr. Morton had probably—forgotten it. Some gentlemen
seem apt to forget such promises.
Mr. Masters was somewhat surprised therefore when he was told one
morning in his office that Mr. Morton from Bragton wished to see him.
He thought that it must be Reginald Morton, having not heard that the
Squire had returned to the country. But John Morton was shown into the
office, and the old attorney immediately arose from his arm-chair.
Sundown was there, and was at once sent out of the room. Sundown on
such occasions was accustomed to retire to some settlement seldom
visited by the public which was called the back office. Nickem was
away intent on unravelling the Goarly mystery, and the attorney could
ask his visitor to take a confidential seat. Mr. Morton however had
very little to say. He was full of apologies and at once handed out a
cheque for the sum demanded. The money was so much to the attorney
that he was flurried by his own success. "Perhaps," said Morton, "I
ought in fairness to add interest"
"Not at all;—by no means. Lawyers never expect that. Really, Mr.
Morton, I am very much obliged. It was so long ago that I thought
that perhaps you might think—"
"I do not doubt that it's all right"
"Yes, Mr. Morton—it is all right. It is quite right. But your
coming in this way is quite a compliment. I am so proud to see the
owner of Bragton once more in this house. I respect the family as I
always did; and as for the money—"
"I am only sorry that it has been delayed so long. Good morning,
Mr. Masters."
The attorney's affairs were in such a condition that an unexpected
cheque for 127l. 8s. 4d. sufficed to exhilarate him. It was as though
the money had come down to him from the very skies. As it happened
Mary returned from Cheltenham on that same evening and the attorney
felt that if she had brought back with her an intention to be Mrs.
Twentyman he could still be a happy and contented man.
And there had been another trouble on John Morton's mind. He had
received his cousin's card but had not returned the visit while his
grandmother had been at Bragton. Now he walked on to Hoppet Hall and
knocked at the door.—Yes;—Mr. Morton was at home, and then he was
shown into the presence of his cousin whom he had not seen since he
was a boy. "I ought to have come sooner," said the Squire, who was
hardly at his ease.
"I heard you had a house full of people at Bragton."
"Just that,—and then I went off rather suddenly to the other side
of the country; and then I had to go up to London. Now I'm going to
Patagonia."
"Patagonia! That's a long way off."
"We Foreign Office slaves have to be sent a long way off."
"But we heard, John," said Reginald, who did not feel it to be his
duty to stand on any ceremony with his younger cousin, "we heard that
you were going to be married to Miss Trefoil. Are you going to take a
wife out to Patagonia?"
This was a question which he certainly had not expected. "I don't
know how that may be," he said frowning.
"We were told here in Dillsborough that it was all settled. I hope
I haven't asked an improper question."
"Of course people will talk."
"If it's only talk I beg pardon. Whatever concerns Bragton is
interesting to me, and from the way in which I heard this I thought
it was a certainty. Patagonia;—well! You don't want an assistant
private secretary I suppose? I should like to see Patagonia."
"We are not allowed to appoint those gentlemen ourselves."
"And I suppose I should be too old to get in at the bottom. It
seems a long way off for a man who is the owner of Bragton."
"It is a long way."
"And what will you do with the old place?"
"There's no one to live there. If you were married you might
perhaps take it" This was of course said in joke, as old Mrs. Morton
would have thought Bragton to be disgraced for ever, even by such a
proposition.
"You might let it."
"Who would take such a place for five years? I suppose old Mrs.
Hopkins will remain, and that it will become more and more desolate
every year. I mustn't let the old house tumble down; that's all."
Then the Minister Plenipotentiary to Patagonia took his departure and
walked back to Bragton thinking of the publicity of his engagement.
All Dillsborough had heard that he was to be married to Miss Trefoil,
and this cousin of his had been so sure of the fact that he had not
hesitated to ask a question about it in the first moment of their
first interview. Under such circumstances it would be better for him
to go to Patagonia than to remain in England.
CHAPTER VI. The Beginning of
persecution
When Mary Masters got up on the morning after her arrival she knew
that she would have to endure much on that day. Everybody had smiled
on her the preceding evening, but the smiles were of a nature which
declared themselves to be preparatory to some coming event. The people
around her were gracious on the presumption that she was going to do
as they wished, and would be quite prepared to withdraw their smiles
should she prove to be contumacious. Mary, as she crept down in the
morning, understood all this perfectly. She found her stepmother alone
in the parlour and was at once attacked with the all important
question. "My dear, I hope you have made up your mind about Mr.
Twentyman."
"There were to be two months, mamma."
"That's nonsense, Mary. Of course you must know what you mean to
tell him." Mary thought that she did know, but was not at the present
moment disposed to make known her knowledge and therefore remained
silent. "You should remember how much this is to your papa and me and
should speak out at once. Of course you need not tell Mr. Twentyman
till the end of the time unless you like it"
"I thought I was to be left alone for two months."
"Mary, that is wicked. When your papa has so many things to think
of and so much to provide for, you should be more thoughtful of him.
Of course he will want to be prepared to give you what things will be
necessary." Mrs. Masters had not as yet heard of Mr. Morton's cheque,
and perhaps would not hear of it till her husband's bank book fell
into her hands. The attorney had lately found it necessary to keep
such matters to himself when it was possible, as otherwise he was
asked for explanations which it was not always easy for him to give.
"You know," continued Mrs. Masters, "how hard your father finds it to
get money as it is wanted."
"I don't want anything, mamma."
"You must want things if you are to be married in March or April."
"But I shan't be married in March or April. Oh, mamma, pray don't."
"In a week's time or so you must tell Larry. After all that has
passed of course he won't expect to have to wait long, and you can't
ask him. Kate my dear,"—Kate had just entered the room, "go into the
office and tell your father to come into breakfast in five minutes.
You must know, Mary, and I insist on your telling me."
"When I said two months,—only it was he said two months—"
"What difference does it make, my dear?"
"It was only because he asked me to put it off. I knew it could
make no difference."
"Do you mean to tell me, Mary, that you are going to refuse him
after all?"
"I can't help it," said Mary, bursting out into tears.
"Can't help it! Did anybody ever see such an idiot since girls were
first created? Not help it, after having given him as good as a
promise! You must help it. You must be made to help it"
There was an injustice in this which nearly killed poor Mary. She
had been persuaded among them to put off her final decision, not
because she had any doubt in her own mind, but at their request, and
now she was told that in granting this delay she had "given as good as
a promise!" And her stepmother also had declared that she "must be
made to help it,"—or in other words be made to marry Mr. Twentyman in
opposition to her own wishes! She was quite sure that no human being
could have such right of compulsion over her. Her father would not
attempt it, and it was, after all, to her father alone, that she was
bound by duty. At the moment she could make no reply, and then her
father with the two girls came in from the office.
The attorney was still a little radiant with his triumph about the
cheque and was also pleased with his own discernment in the matter of
Goarly. He had learned that morning from Nickem that Goarly had
consented to take 7s. 6d. an acre from Lord Rufford and was prepared
to act "quite the honourable part" on behalf of his lordship. Nickem
had seemed to think that the triumph would not end here, but had
declined to make any very definite statements. Nickem clearly fancied
that he had been doing great things himself, and that he might be
allowed to have a little mystery. But the attorney took great credit
to himself in that he had rejected Goarly's case, and had been
employed by Lord Rufford in lieu of Goarly. When he entered the
parlour he had for the moment forgotten Larry Twentyman, and was
disposed to greet his girl lovingly;—but he found her dissolved in
bitter tears. "Mary, my darling, what is it ails you?" he said.
"Never mind about your darling now, but come to breakfast. She is
giving, herself airs,—as usual."
But Mary never did give herself airs and her father could not
endure the accusation. "She would not be crying," he said, "unless
she had something to cry for."
"Pray don't make a fuss about things you don't understand," said
his wife. "Mary, are you coming to the table? If not you had better go
up-stairs. I hate such ways, and I won't have them. This comes of
Ushanting! I knew what it would be. The place for girls is to stay at
home and mind their work,—till they have got houses of their own to
look after. That's what I intend my girls to do. There's nothing on
earth so bad for girls as that twiddle-your-thumbs visiting about when
they think they've nothing to do but to show what sort of ribbons and
gloves they've got. Now, Dolly, if you've got any hands will you cut
the bread for your father? Mary's a deal too fine a lady to do
anything but sit there and rub her eyes." After that the breakfast was
eaten in silence.
When the meal was over Mary followed her father into the office and
said that she wanted to speak to him. When Sundown had disappeared
she told her tale. "Papa," she said, "I am so sorry, but I can't do
what you want about Mr. Twentyman."
"Is it so, Mary?"
"Don't be angry with me, papa."
"Angry! No;—I won't be angry. I should be very sorry to be angry
with my girl. But what you tell me will make us all very unhappy;—
very unhappy indeed. What will you say to Lawrence Twentyman?"
"What I said before, papa."
"But he is quite certain now that you mean to take him. Of course
we were all certain when you only wanted a few more days to think of
it." Mary felt this to be the cruellest thing of all. "When he asked
me I said I wouldn't pledge you, but I certainly had no doubt. What is
the matter, Mary?"
She could understand that a girl might be asked why she wanted to
marry a man, and that in such a condition she ought to be able to
give a reason; but it was she thought very hard that she should be
asked why she didn't want to marry a man. "I suppose, papa," she said
after a pause, "I don't like him in that way."
"Your mamma will be sure to say that it is because you went to Lady
Ushant's."
And so in part it was,—as Mary herself very well knew; though Lady
Ushant herself had had nothing to do with it. "Lady Ushant," she
said, "would be very well pleased,—if she thought that I liked him
well enough."
"Did you tell Lady Ushant?"
"Yes; I told her all about it,—and how you would all be pleased.
And I did try to bring myself to it. Papa,—pray, pray don't want to
send me away from you."
"You would be so near to us all at Chowton Farm!"
"I am nearer here, papa." Then she embraced him, and he in a manner
yielded to her. He yielded to her so far as to part with her at the
present moment with soft loving words.
Mrs. Masters had a long conversation with her husband on the
subject that same day, and condescended even to say a few words to
the two girls. She had her own theory and her own plan in the present
emergency. According to her theory girls shouldn't be indulged in any
vagaries, and this rejecting of a highly valuable suitor was a most
inexcusable vagary. And, if her plan were followed, a considerable
amount of wholesome coercion would at once be exercised towards this
refractory young woman. There was in fact more than a fortnight
wanting to the expiration of Larry's two months, and Mrs. Masters was
strongly of opinion that if Mary were put into a sort of domestic
"coventry" during this period, if she were debarred from friendly
intercourse with the family and made to feel that such wickedness as
hers, if continued, would make her an outcast, then she would come
round and accept Larry Twentyman before the end of the time. But this
plan could not be carried out without her husband's co-operation. Were
she to attempt it single-handed, Mary would take refuge in her
father's softness of heart and there would simply be two parties in
the household. "If you would leave her to me and not speak to her, it
would be all right," Mrs. Masters said to her husband.
"Not speak to her!"
"Not cosset her and spoil her for the next week or two. Just leave
her to herself and let her feel what she's doing. Think what Chowton
Farm would be, and you with your business all slipping through your
fingers."
"I don't know that it's slipping through my fingers at all," said
the attorney mindful of his recent successes.
"If you mean to say you don't care about it—!"
"I do care about it very much. You know I do. You ought not to talk
to me in that way."
"Then why won't you be said by me? Of course if you cocker her up,
she'll think she's to have her own way like a grand lady. She don't
like him because he works for his bread,—that's what it is; and
because she's been taught by that old woman to read poetry. I never
knew that stuff do any good to anybody. I hate them fandangled lines
that are all cut up short to make pretence. If she wants to read why
can't she take the cookery book and learn something useful? It just
comes to this;—if you want her to marry Larry Twentyman you had
better not notice her for the next fortnight. Let her go and come and
say nothing to her. She'll think about it, if she's left to herself."
The attorney did want his daughter to marry the man and was half
convinced by his wife. He could not bring himself to be cruel and
felt that his heart would bleed every hour of the day that he
separated himself from his girl;—but still he thought that he might
perhaps best in this way bring about a result which would be so
manifestly for her advantage. It might be that the books of poetry and
the modes of thought which his wife described as "Ushanting" were of a
nature to pervert his girl's mind from the material necessities of
life and that a little hardship would bring her round to a more
rational condition. With a very heavy heart he consented to do his
part,—which was to consist mainly of silence. Any words which might
be considered expedient were to come from his wife.
Three or four days went on in this way, which were days of absolute
misery to Mary. She soon perceived and partly understood her father's
silence. She knew at any rate that for the present she was debarred
from his confidence. Her mother did not say much, but what she did say
was all founded on the theory that Ushanting and softness in general
are very bad for young women. Even Dolly and Kate were hard to
her,—each having some dim idea that Mary was to be coerced towards
Larry Twentyman and her own good. At the end of that time, when Mary
had been at home nearly a week, Larry came as usual on the Saturday
evening. She, well knowing his habit, took care to be out of the way.
Larry, with a pleasant face, asked after her, and expressed a hope
that she had enjoyed herself at Cheltenham.
"A nasty idle place where nobody does anything as I believe," said
Mrs. Masters. Larry received a shock from the tone of the lady's
voice. He had allowed himself to think that all his troubles were now
nearly over, but the words and the voice frightened him. He had told
himself that he was not to speak of his love again till the two months
were over, and like an honourable man he was prepared to wait the full
time. He would not now have come to the attorney's house but that he
knew the attorney would wait for him before going over to the club. He
had no right to draw deductions till the time should be up. But he
could not help his own feelings and was aware that his heart sank
within him when he was told that Cheltenham was a nasty idle place.
Abuse of Cheltenham at the present moment was in fact abuse of
Mary;—and the one sin which Mary could commit was persistence in her
rejection of his suit. But he determined to be a man as he walked
across the street with his old friend, and said not a word about his
love. "They tell me that Goarly has taken his 7s. 6d., Mr. Masters."
"Of course he has taken it, Larry. The worse luck for me. If he had
gone on I might have had a bill against his Lordship as long as my
arm. Now it won't be worth looking after."
"I'm sure you're very glad, Mr. Masters."
"Well; yes; I am glad. I do hate to see a fellow like that who
hasn't got a farthing of his own, propped up from behind just to
annoy his betters."
"They say that Bearside got a lot of money out of that American."
"I suppose he got something."
"What an idiot that man must be. Can you understand it, Mr.
Masters?"
They now entered the club and Goarly and Nickem and Scrobby were of
course being discussed. "Is it true, Mr. Masters, that Scrobby is to
be arrested?" asked Fred Botsey at once.
"Upon my word I can't say, Mr. Botsey; but if you tell me it is so
I shan't cry my eyes out"
"I thought you would have known"
"A gentleman may know a thing, Mr. Botsey," said the landlord, "and
not exactly choose to tell it."
"I didn't suppose there was any secret," said the brewer. As Mr.
Masters made no further remark it was of course conceived that he
knew all about it and he was therefore treated with some increased
deference. But there was on that night great triumph in the club as
it was known as a fact that Goarly had withdrawn his claim, and that
the American Senator had paid his money for nothing. It was moreover
very generally believed that Goarly was going to turn evidence against
Scrobby in reference to the poison.
CHAPTER VII. Mary's Letter
The silent system in regard to Mary was carried on in the
attorney's house for a week, during which her sufferings were very
great. From the first she made up her mind to oppose her stepmother's
cruelty by sheer obstinacy. She had been told that she must be made to
marry Mr. Twentyman, and the injustice of that threat had at once made
her rebel against her stepmother's authority. She would never allow
her stepmother to make her marry any one. She put herself into a state
of general defiance and said as little as was said to her. But her
father's silence to her nearly broke her heart. On one or two
occasions, as opportunity offered itself to her, she said little soft
words to him in privacy. Then he would partly relent, would kiss her
and bid her be a good girl, and would quickly hurry away from her. She
could understand that he suffered as well as herself, and she perhaps
got some consolation from the conviction. At last, on the following
Saturday she watched her opportunity and brought to him when he was
alone in his office a letter which she had written to Larry
Twentyman. "Papa," she said, "would you read that?" He took and read
the letter, which was as follows:—
My Dear Mr. Twentyman,
Something was said about two months which are now very nearly over.
I think I ought to save you from the trouble of coming to me again by
telling you in a letter that it cannot be as you would have it. I have
thought of it a great deal and have of course been anxious to do as my
friends wish. And I am very grateful to you, and know how good and how
kind you are. And I would do anything for you,— except this. But it
never can be. I should not write like this unless I were quite
certain. I hope you won't be angry with me and think that I should
have spared you the trouble of doubting so long. I know now that I
ought not to have doubted at all; but I was so anxious not to seem to
be obstinate that I became foolish about it when you asked me. What I
say now is quite certain.
Dear Mr. Twentyman, I shall always think of you with esteem and
regard, because I know how good you are; and I hope you will come to
like somebody a great deal better than me who will always love you
with her whole heart.
Yours very truly, Mary Masters.
P.S. I shall show this letter to papa.
Mr. Masters read it as she stood by him,—and then read it again
very slowly rubbing one hand over the other as he did so. He was
thinking what he should do;—or rather what he should say. The idea
of stopping the letter never occurred to him.
If she chose to refuse the man of course she must do so; and
perhaps, if she did refuse him, there was no way better than this.
"Must it be so, Mary?" he said at last.
"Yes, papa."
"But why?"
"Because I do not love him as I should have to love any man that I
wanted to marry. I have tried it, because you wished it, but I cannot
do it"
"What will mamma say?"
"I am thinking more, papa, of you," she said putting her arm over
his shoulder. "You have always been so good to me, and so kind!" Here
his heart misgave him, for he felt that during the last week he had
not been kind to her. "But you would not wish me to give myself to a
man and then not to care for him."
"No, my dear."
"I couldn't do it. I should fall down dead first. I have thought so
much about it,—for your sake; and have tried it with myself. I
couldn't do it"
"Is there anybody else, Mary?" As he asked the question he held her
hand beneath his own on the desk, but he did not dare to look into
her face. He had been told by his wife that there was somebody else;
that the girl's mind was running upon Mr. Surtees, because Mr. Surtees
was a gentleman. He was thinking of Mr. Surtees, and certainly not of
Reginald Morton.
To her the moment was very solemn and when the question was asked
she felt that she could not tell her father a falsehood. She had
gradually grown bold enough to assure herself that her heart was
occupied with that man who had travelled with her to Cheltenham; and
she felt that that feeling alone must keep her apart from any other
love. And yet, as she had no hope, as she had assured herself that her
love was a burden to be borne and could never become a source of
enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested from her? What good would
such a violation do? But she could not tell the falsehood, and
therefore she held her tongue.
Gradually he looked up into her face, still keeping her hand
pressed on the desk under his. It was his left hand that so guarded
her, while she stood by his right shoulder. Then he gently wound his
right arm round her waist and pressed her to him. "Mary," he said, "if
it is so, had you not better tell me?" But she was sure that she had
better not mention that name even to him. It was impossible that she
should mention it. She would have outraged to herself her own maiden
modesty by doing so. "Is it,"—he asked very softly,—"is it Surtees?"
"Oh no!" she said quickly, almost escaping from the grasp of his
arm in her start.
Then he was absolutely at a loss. Beyond Mr. Surtees or Larry
Twentyman he did not know what possible lover Dillsborough could have
afforded. And yet the very rapidity of her answer when the curate's
name had been mentioned had convinced him that there was some other
person,—had increased the strength of that conviction which her
silence had produced. "Have you nothing that you can tell me, Mary?"
"No, papa." Then he gave her back the letter and she left the room
without another word. Of course his sanction to the letter had now
been given, and it was addressed to Chowton Farm and posted before
half an hour was over. She saw him again in the afternoon of the same
day and asked him to tell her stepmother what she had done. "Mamma
ought to know," she said.
"But you haven't sent it"
"Yes, papa;—it is in the post"
Then it occurred to him that his wife would tell him that he should
have prevented the sending of the letter,—that he should have
destroyed it and altogether taken the matter with a high hand. "You
can't tell her yourself?" he asked.
"I would rather you did. Mamma has been so hard to me since I came
home."
He did tell his wife and she overwhelmed him by the violence of her
reproaches. He could never have been in earnest, or he would not have
allowed such a letter as that to pass through his hands. He must be
afraid of his own child. He did not know his own duty. He had been
deceiving her,—his wife,—from first to last. Then she threw herself
into a torrent of tears declaring that she had been betrayed. There
had been a conspiracy between them, and now everything might go to the
dogs, and she would not lift up her hands again to save them. But
before the evening came round she was again on the alert, and again
resolved that she would not even yet give way. What was there in a
letter more than in a spoken word? She would tell Larry to disregard
the letter. But first she made a futile attempt to clutch the letter
from the guardianship of the Post Office, and she went to the
Postmaster assuring him that there had been a mistake in the family,
that a wrong letter had been put into a wrong envelope, and begging
that the letter addressed to Mr. Twentyman might be given back to her.
The Postmaster, half vacillating in his desire to oblige a neighbour,
produced the letter and Mrs. Masters put out her hand to grasp it; but
the servant of the public,—who had been thoroughly grounded in his
duties by one of those trusty guardians of our correspondence who
inspect and survey our provincial post offices,—remembered himself
at the last moment and expressing the violence of his regret,
replaced the letter in the box. Mrs. Masters, in her anger and grief,
condescended to say very hard things to her neighbour; but the man
remembered his duty and was firm.
On that evening Larry Twentyman did not attend the Dillsborough
Club, having in the course of the week notified to the attorney that
he should be a defaulter. Mr. Masters himself went over earlier than
usual, his own house having become very uncomfortable to him. Mrs.
Masters for an hour sat expecting that Larry would come, and when the
evening passed away without his appearance, she was convinced that the
unusual absence was a part of the conspiracy against her.
Larry did not get his letter till the Monday morning. On the last
Thursday and Saturday he had consoled himself for his doubts with the
U.R.U., and was minded to do so on the Monday also. He had not gone to
the club on Saturday and had moped about Chowton all the Sunday in a
feverish state because of his doubts. It seemed to him that the two
months would never be over. On the Monday he was out early on the farm
and then came down in his boots and breeches, and had his red coat
ready at the fire while he sat at breakfast. The meet was fifteen
miles off and he had sent on his hunter, intending to travel thither
in his dog cart. Just as he was cutting himself a slice of beef the
postman came, and of course he read his letter. He read it with the
carving knife in his hand, and then he stood gazing at his mother.
"What is it, Larry?" she asked; "is anything wrong?"
"Wrong,—well; I don't know," he said. "I don't know what you call
wrong. I shan't hunt; that's all." Then he threw aside the knife and
pushed away his plate and marched out of the room with the open letter
in his hand.
Mrs. Twentyman knew very well of his love,—as indeed did nearly
all Dillsborough; but she had heard nothing of the two months and did
not connect the letter with Mary Masters. Surely he must have lost a
large sum of money. That was her idea till she saw him again late in
the afternoon.
He never went near the hounds that day or near his business. He was
not then man enough for either. But he walked about the fields,
keeping out of sight of everybody. It was all over now. It must be
all over when she wrote to him a letter like that. Why had she
tempted him to thoughts of happiness and success by that promise of
two months' grace? He supposed that he was not good enough;—or that
she thought he was not good enough. Then he remembered his acres, and
his material comforts, and tried to console himself by reflecting that
Mary Masters might very well do worse in the world. But there was no
consolation in it. He had tried his best because he had really loved
the girl. He had failed, and all the world,— all his world, would
know that he had failed. There was not a man in the club,—hardly a
man in the hunt,—who was not aware that he had offered to Mary
Masters. During the last two months he had not been so reticent as was
prudent, and had almost boasted to Fred Botsey of success. And then
how was he to live at Chowton Farm without Mary Masters as his wife?
As he returned home he almost made up his mind that he would not
continue to live at Chowton Farm.
He came back through Dillsborough Wood; and there, prowling about,
he met Goarly. "Well, Mr. Twentyman," said the man, "I am making it
all straight now with his Lordship."
"I don't care what you're doing," said Larry in his misery. "You
are an infernal blackguard and that's the best of you."
CHAPTER VIII. Chowton Farm for Sale.
John Morton had returned to town soon after his walk into
Dillsborough and had there learned from different sources that both
Arabella Trefoil and Lord Rufford had gone or were going to
Mistletoe. He had seen Lord Augustus who, though he could tell him
nothing else about his daughter, had not been slow to inform him that
she was going to the house of her noble uncle. When Morton had spoken
to him very seriously about the engagement he declared that he knew
nothing about it,—except that he had given his consent if the
settlements were all right. Lady Augustus managed all that. Morton had
then said that under those circumstances he feared he must regard the
honour which he had hoped to enjoy as being beyond his reach. Lord
Augustus had shrugged his shoulders and had gone back to his whist,
this interview having taken place in the strangers' room of his club.
That Lord Rufford was also going to Mistletoe he heard from young
Glossop at the Foreign Office. It was quite possible that Glossop had
been instructed to make this known to Morton by his sister Lady
Penwether. Then Morton declared that the thing was over and that he
would trouble himself no more about it. But this resolution did not
make him at all contented, and in his misery he went again down to his
solitude at Bragton.
And now when he might fairly consider himself to be free, and when
he should surely have congratulated himself on a most lucky escape
from the great danger into which he had fallen, his love and
admiration for the girl returned to him in a most wonderful manner.
He thought of her beauty and her grace, and the manner in which she
would sit at the head of his table when the time should come for him
to be promoted to some great capital. To him she had fascinations
which the reader, who perhaps knows her better than he ever did, will
not share. He could forgive the coldness of her conduct to himself—he
himself not being by nature demonstrative or impassioned,—if only she
were not more kind to any rival. It was the fact that she should be
visiting at the same house with Lord Rufford after what he had seen at
Rufford Hall which had angered him. But now in his solitude he thought
that he might have been wrong at Rufford Hall. If it were the case
that the girl feared that her marriage might be prevented by the
operations of lawyers and family friends, of course she would be right
not to throw herself into his arms,—even metaphorically. He was a
cold, just man who, when he had loved, could not easily get rid of his
love, and now he would ask himself whether he was not hard upon the
girl. It was natural that she should be at Mistletoe; but then why
should Lord Rufford be there with her?
His prospects at Patagonia did not console him much. No doubt it
was a handsome mission for a man of his age and there were sundry
Patagonian questions of importance at the present moment which would
give him a certain weight. Patagonia was repudiating a loan, and it
was hoped that he might induce a better feeling in the Patagonian
Parliament. There was the Patagonian railway for joining the Straits
to the Cape the details of which he was now studying with great
diligence. And then there was the vital question of boundary between
Patagonia and the Argentine Republic by settling which, should he be
happy enough to succeed in doing so, he would prevent the horrors of
warfare. He endeavoured to fix his mind with satisfaction on these
great objects as he pored over the reports and papers which had been
heaped upon him since. he had accepted the mission. But there was
present to him always a feeling that the men at the Foreign Office had
been glad to get any respectable diplomate to go to Patagonia, and
that his brethren in the profession had marvelled at his acceptance of
such a mission. One never likes to be thanked over much for doing
anything. It creates a feeling that one has given more than was
expedient. He knew that he must now go to Patagonia, but he repented
the alacrity with which he had acceded to the proposition. Whether he
did marry Arabella Trefoil or whether he did not, there was no
adequate reason for such a banishment. And yet he could not now escape
it!
It was on a Monday morning that Larry Twentyman had found himself
unable to go hunting. On the Tuesday he gave his workmen about the
farm such a routing as they had not received for many a month. There
had not been a dung heap or a cowshed which he had not visited, nor a
fence about the place with which he had not found fault. He was at it
all day, trying thus to console himself, but in vain; and when his
mother in the evening said some word of her misery in regard to the
turkeys he had told her that as far as he was concerned Goarly might
poison every fox in the county. Then the poor woman knew that matters
were going badly with her son. On the Wednesday, when the hounds met
within two miles of Chowton, he again stayed at home; but in the
afternoon he rode into Dillsborough and contrived to see the attorney
without being seen by any of the ladies of the family. The interview
did not seem to do him any good. On the Thursday morning he walked
across to Bragton and with a firm voice asked to see the Squire.
Morton who was deep in the boundary question put aside his papers and
welcomed his neighbour.
Now it must be explained that when, in former years, his son's
debts had accumulated on old Mr. Reginald Morton, so that he had been
obliged to part with some portion of his unentailed property, he had
sold that which lay in the parish of St. John's, Dillsborough. The
lands in Bragton and Mallingham he could not sell; but Chowton Farm
which was in St. John's had been bought by Larry Twentyman's
grandfather. For a time there had been some bitterness of feeling; but
the Twentymans had been well-to-do respectable people, most anxious to
be good neighbours, and had gradually made themselves liked by the
owner of Bragton. The present Squire had of course known nothing of
Chowton as a part of the Morton property, and had no more desire for
it than for any of Lord Rufford's acres which were contiguous to his
own. He shook hands cordially with his neighbour, as though this visit
were the most natural thing in the world, and asked some questions
about Goarly and the hunt.
"I believe that'll all come square, Mr. Morton. I'm not interesting
myself much about it now." Larry was not dressed like himself. He had
on a dark brown coat, and dark pantaloons and a chimney-pot hat. He
was conspicuous generally for light-coloured close-fitting garments
and for a billycock hat. He was very unlike his usual self on the
present occasion.
"I thought you were just the man who did interest himself about
those things."
"Well; yes; once it was so, Mr. Morton. What I've got to say now,
Mr. Morton, is this. Chowton Farm is in the market! But I wouldn't
say a word to any one about it till you had had the offer."
"You going to sell Chowton!"
"Yes, Mr. Morton, I am."
"From all I have heard of you I wouldn't have believed it if
anybody else had told me."
"It's a fact, Mr. Morton. There are three hundred and twenty acres.
I put the rental at 30s. an acre. You know what you get, Mr. Morton,
for the land that lies next to it. And I think twenty-eight years'
purchase isn't more than it's worth. Those are my ideas as to price,
Mr. Morton. There isn't a halfpenny owing on it—not in the way of
mortgage."
"I dare say it's worth that"
"Up at auction I might get a turn more, Mr. Morton;—but those are
my ideas at present"
John Morton who was a man of business went to work at once with his
pencil and in two minutes had made out a total. "I don't know that I
could put my hand on 14,000 pounds even if I were minded to make the
purchase."
"That needn't stand in the way, sir. Any part you please could lie
on mortgage at 4.5 per cent" Larry in the midst of his distress had
certain clear ideas about business.
"This is a very serious proposition, Mr. Twentyman."
"Yes, indeed, sir."
"Have you any other views in life?"
"I can't say as I have any fixed. I shan't be idle, Mr. Morton. I
never was idle. I was thinking perhaps of New Zealand."
"A very fine colony for a young man, no doubt. But, seeing how well
you are established here—."
"I can't stay here, Mr. Morton. I've made up my mind about that.
There are things which a man can't bear,—not and live quiet. As for
hunting, I don't care about it any more than—nothing."
"I am sorry that anything should have made you so unhappy."
"Well;—I am unhappy. That's about the truth of it. And I always
shall be unhappy here. There's nothing else for it but going away."
"If it's anything sudden, Mr. Twentyman, allow me to say that you
ought not to sell your property without grave consideration."
"I have considered it,—very grave, Mr. Morton."
"Ah,—but I mean long consideration. Take a year to think of it.
You can't buy such a place back in a year. I don't know you well
enough to be justified in inquiring into the circumstances of your
trouble;—but unless it be something which makes it altogether
inexpedient, or almost impossible that you should remain in the
neighbourhood, you should not sell Chowton."
"I'll tell you, Mr. Morton," said Larry almost weeping. Poor Larry
whether in his triumph or his sorrow had no gift of reticence and now
told his neighbour the whole story of his love. He was certain it had
become quite hopeless. He was sure that she would never have written
him a letter if there had been any smallest chance left. According to
his ideas a girl might say "no" half-a-dozen times and yet not mean
much; but when she had committed herself to a letter she could not go
back from it.
"Is there anybody else?" asked Morton.
"Not as I know. I never saw anything like—like lightness with her,
with any man. They said something about the curate but I don't
believe a word of it."
"And the family approve of it?"
"Every one of them,—father and stepmother and sisters and all. My
own mother too! There ain't a ha'porth against it. I don't want any
one to give me sixpence in money. And she should live just like a
lady. I can keep a servant for her to cook and do every mortal thing.
But it ain't nothing of all that, Mr. Morton."
"What is it then?"
The poor man paused before he made his answer; but when he did, he
made it plain enough. "I ain't good enough for her! Nor more I ain't,
Mr. Morton. She was brought up in this house, Mr. Morton, by your own
grand-aunt."
"So I have heard, Mr. Twentyman."
"And there's more of Bragton than there is of Dillsborough about
her; that's just where it is. I know what I am and I know what she
is, and I ain't good enough for her. It should be somebody that can
talk books to her. I can tell her how to plant a field of wheat or
how to run a foal;—but I can't sit and read poetry, nor yet be read
to. There's plenty of 'em would sell themselves because the land's all
there, and the house, and the things in it. What makes me mad is that
I should love her all the better because she won't. My belief is, Mr.
Morton, they're as poor as job. That makes no difference to me because
I don't want it; but it makes no difference to her neither! She's
right, Mr. Morton. I'm not good enough, and so I'll just cut it as far
as Dillsborough is concerned. You'll think of what I said of taking
the land?"
Mr. Morton said much more to him, walking with him to the gate of
Chowton Farm. He assured him that the young lady might yet be won. He
had only, Morton said, to plead his case to her as well as he had
pleaded up at Bragton and he thought that she would be won. "I
couldn't speak out free to her,—not if it was to save the whole
place," said the unfortunate lover. But Morton still continued his
advice. As to leaving Chowton because a young lady refused him, that
would be unmanly—"There isn't a bit of a man left about me," said
Larry weeping. Morton nevertheless went on. Time would cure these
wounds; but no time would give him back Chowton should he once part
with it. If he must leave the place for a time let him put a caretaker
on the farm, even though by doing so the loss might be great. He
should do anything rather than surrender his house. As to buying the
land himself, Morton would not talk about it in the present
circumstances. Then they parted at Chowton gate with many expressions
of friendship on each side.
John Morton, as he returned home, could not help thinking that the
young farmer's condition was after all better than his own. There was
an honesty about both the persons concerned of which at any rate they
might be proud. There was real love,—and though that love was not at
present happy it was of a nature to inspire perfect respect. But in
his own case he was sure of nothing.
CHAPTER IX. Mistletoe
When Arabella Trefoil started from London for Mistletoe, with no
companion but her own maid, she had given more serious consideration
to her visit than she had probably ever paid to any matter up to that
time. She had often been much in earnest but never so much in earnest
as now. Those other men had perhaps been worthy, worthy as far as her
ideas went of worth, but none of them so worthy as this man.
Everything was there if she could only get it;—money, rank, fashion,
and an appetite for pleasure. And he was handsome too, and
good-humoured, though these qualities told less with her than the
others. And now she was to meet him in the house of her great
relations,—in a position in which her rank and her fashion would seem
to be equal to his own. And she would meet him with the remembrance
fresh in his mind as in her own of those passages of love at Rufford.
It would be impossible that he should even seem to forget them. The
most that she could expect would be four or five days of his company,
and she knew that she must be upon her mettle. She must do more now
than she had ever attempted before. She must scruple at nothing that
might bind him. She would be in the house of her uncle and that uncle
a duke, and she thought that those facts might help to quell him. And
she would be there without her mother, who was so often a heavy
incubus on her shoulders. She thought of it all, and made her plans
carefully and even painfully. She would be at any rate two days in the
house before his arrival. During that time she would curry favour with
her uncle by all her arts, and would if possible reconcile herself to
her aunt. She thought once of taking her aunt into her full confidence
and balanced the matter much in her mind. The Duchess, she knew, was
afraid of her,—or rather afraid of the relationship, and would of
course be pleased to have all fears set at rest by such an alliance.
But her aunt was a woman who had never suffered hardships, whose own
marriage had been easily arranged, and whose two daughters had been
pleasantly married before they were twenty years old. She had had no
experience of feminine difficulties, and would have no mercy for such
labours as those to which her less fortunate niece was driven. It
would have been a great thing to have the cordial co-operation of her
aunt; but she could not venture to ask for it.
She had stretched her means and her credit to the utmost in regard
to her wardrobe, and was aware that she had never been so well
equipped since those early days of her career in which her father and
mother had thought that her beauty, assisted by a generous
expenditure, would serve to dispose of her without delay. A generous
expenditure may be incurred once even by poor people, but cannot
possibly be maintained over a dozen years. Now she had taken the
matter into her own hands and had done that which would be ruinous if
not successful. She was venturing her all upon the die,—with the
prospect of drowning herself on the way out to Patagonia should the
chances of the game go against her. She forgot nothing. She could
hardly hope for more than one day's hunting and yet that had been
provided for as though she were going to ride with the hounds through
all the remainder of the season.
When she reached Mistletoe there were people going and coming every
day, so that an arrival was no event. She was kissed by her uncle and
welcomed with characteristic coldness by her aunt, then allowed to
settle in among the other guests as though she had been there all the
winter. Everybody knew that she was a Trefoil and her presence
therefore raised no question. The Duchess of Omnium was among the
guests. The Duchess knew all about her and vouchsafed to her the
smallest possible recognition. Lady Chiltern had met her before, and
as Lady Chiltern was always generous, she was gracious to Arabella.
She was sorry to see Lady Drummond, because she connected Lady
Drummond with the Foreign Office and feared that the conversation
might be led to Patagonia and its new minister. She contrived to
squeeze her uncle's hand and to utter a word of warm thanks,—which
his grace did not perfectly understand. The girl was his niece and the
Duke had an idea that he should be kind to the family of which he was
the head. His brother's wife had become objectionable to him, but as
to the girl, if she wanted a home for a week or two, he thought it to
be his duty to give it to her.
Mistletoe is an enormous house with a frontage nearly a quarter of
a mile long, combining as it does all the offices, coach houses, and
stables. There is nothing in England more ugly or perhaps more
comfortable. It stands in a huge park which, as it is quite flat,
never shows its size and is altogether unattractive. The Duke himself
was a hospitable, easy man who was very fond of his dinner and
performed his duties well; but could never be touched by any
sentiment. He always spent six months in the country, in which he
acted as landlord to a great crowd of shooting, hunting, and flirting
visitors, and six in London, in which he gave dinners and dined out
and regularly took his place in the House of Lords without ever
opening his mouth. He was a grey-haired comely man of sixty, with a
large body and a wonderful appetite. By many who understood the
subject he was supposed to be the best amateur judge of wine in
England. His son Lord Mistletoe was member for the county and as the
Duke had no younger sons he was supposed to be happy at all points.
Lord Mistletoe, who had a large family of his own, lived twenty miles
off,—so that the father and son could meet pleasantly without fear of
quarrelling.
During the first evening Arabella did contrive to make herself very
agreeable. She was much quieter than had been her wont when at
Mistletoe before, and though there were present two or three very
well circumstanced young men she took but little notice of them. She
went out to dinner with Sir Jeffrey Bunker, and made herself agreeable
to that old gentleman in a remarkable manner. After dinner, something
having been said of the respectable old game called cat's cradle, she
played it to perfection with Sir Jeffrey, till her aunt thought that
she must have been unaware that Sir Jeffrey had a wife and family. She
was all smiles and all pleasantness, and seemed to want no other
happiness than what the present moment gave her. Nor did she once
mention Lord Rufford's name.
On the next morning after breakfast her aunt sent for her to come
up-stairs. Such a thing had never happened to her before. She could
not recollect that, on any of those annual visits which she had made
to Mistletoe for more years than she now liked to think of, she had
ever had five minutes' conversation alone with her aunt. It had always
seemed that she was to be allowed to come and go by reason of her
relationship, but that she was to receive no special mark of
confidence or affection. The message was whispered into her ear by her
aunt's own woman as she was listening with great attention to Lady
Drummond's troubles in regard to her nursery arrangements. She nodded
her head, heard a few more words from Lady Drummond, and then, with a
pretty apology and a statement made so that all should hear her, that
her aunt wanted her, followed the maid up-stairs. "My dear," said her
aunt, when the door was closed, "I want to ask you whether you would
like me to ask Mr. Morton to come here while you are with us?" A
thunderbolt at her feet could hardly have surprised or annoyed her
more. If there was one thing that she wanted less than another it was
the presence of the Paragon at Mistletoe. It would utterly subvert
everything and rob her of every chance. With a great effort she
restrained all emotion and simply shook her head. She did it very
well, and betrayed nothing. "I ask," said the Duchess, "because I have
been very glad to hear that you are engaged to marry him. Lord
Drummond tells me that he is a most respectable young man."
"Mr. Morton will be so much obliged to Lord Drummond."
"And I thought that if it were so, you would be glad that he should
meet you here. I could manage it very well, as the Drummonds are
here, and Lord Drummond would be glad to meet him."
They had not been above a minute or two together, and Arabella had
been called upon to expend her energy in suppressing any expression
of her horror; but still, by the time that she was called on to
speak, she had fabricated her story. "Thanks, aunt; it is so good of
you; and if everything was going straight, there would be nothing of
course that I should like so much."
"You are engaged to him?"
"Well; I was going to tell you. I dare say it is not his fault; but
papa and mamma and the lawyers think that he is not behaving well
about money;—settlements and all that. I suppose it will all come
right; but in the meantime perhaps I had better not meet him."
"But you were engaged to him?"
This had to be answered without pause. "Yes," said Arabella; "I was
engaged to him."
"And he is going out almost immediately?"
"He is going, I know."
"I suppose you will go with him?"
This was very hard. She could not say that she certainly was not
going with him. And yet she had to remember that her coming campaign
with Lord Rufford must be carried on in part beneath her aunt's eyes.
When she had come to Mistletoe she had fondly hoped that none of the
family there would know anything about Mr. Morton. And now she was
called upon to answer these horrid questions without a moment's
notice! "I don't think I shall go with him, aunt; though I am unable
to say anything certain just at present. If he behaves badly of course
the engagement must be off."
"I hope not. You should think of it very seriously. As for money,
you know, you have none of your own, and I am told that he has a very
nice property in Rufford. There is a neighbour of his coming here
to-morrow, and perhaps he knows him."
"Who is the neighbour, aunt?" asked Arabella, innocently.
"Lord Rufford. He is coming to shoot. I will ask him about the
property."
"Pray don't mention my name, aunt. It would be so unpleasant if
nothing were to come of it. I know Lord Rufford very well."
"Know Lord Rufford very well!"
"As one does know men that one meets about"
"I thought it might settle everything if we had Mr. Morton here."
"I couldn't meet him, aunt; I couldn't indeed. Mamma doesn't think
that he is behaving well." To the Duchess condemnation from Lady
Augustus almost amounted to praise. She felt sure that Mr. Morton was
a worthy man who would not probably behave badly, and though she could
not unravel the mystery, and certainly had no suspicion in regard to
Lord Rufford, she was sure that there was something wrong. But there
was nothing more to be said at present. After what Arabella had told
her Mr. Morton could not be asked there to meet her niece. But all the
slight feeling of kindness to the girl which had been created by the
tidings of so respectable an engagement were at once obliterated from
the Duchess's bosom. Arabella, with many expressions of thanks and a
good-humoured countenance, left the room, cursing the untowardness of
her fate which would let nothing run smooth.
Lord Rufford was to come. That at any rate was now almost certain.
Up to the present she had doubted, knowing the way in which such men
will change their engagements at the least caprice. But the Duchess
expected him on the morrow. She had prepared the way for meeting him
as an old friend without causing surprise, and had gained that step.
But should she succeed, as she hoped, in exacting continued homage
from the man, homage for the four or five days of his sojourn at
Mistletoe,—this must be carried on with the knowledge on the part of
many in the house that she was engaged to that horrid Patagonian
Minister! Was ever a girl called upon to risk her entire fate under so
many disadvantages?
When she went up to dress for dinner on the day of his expected
arrival Lord Rufford had not come. Since the interview in her aunt's
room she had not heard his name mentioned. When she came into the
drawing-room, a little late, he was not there. "We won't wait,
Duchess," said the Duke to his wife at three minutes past eight. The
Duke's punctuality at dinner-time was well known, and everybody else
was then assembled. Within two minutes after the Duke's word dinner
was announced, and a party numbering about thirty walked away into the
dinner-room. Arabella, when they were all settled, found that there
was a vacant seat next herself. If the man were to come, fortune would
have favoured her in that.
The fish and soup had already disappeared and the Duke was wakening
himself to eloquence on the first entree when Lord Rufford entered
the room. "There never were trains so late as yours, Duchess," he
said, "nor any part of the world in which hired horses travel so
slowly. I beg the Duke's pardon, but I suffer the less because I know
his Grace never waits for anybody."
"Certainly not," said the Duke, "having some regard for my friends'
dinners."
"And I find myself next to you," said Lord Rufford as he took his
seat. "Well; that is more than I deserve."
CHAPTER X. How Things were arranged
"Jack is here," said Lord Rufford, as soon as the fuss of his late
arrival had worn itself away.
"I shall be proud to renew my acquaintance."
"Can you come to-morrow?"
"Oh yes," said Arabella, rapturously.
"There are difficulties, and I ought to have written to you about
them. I am going with the Fitzwilliam." Now Mistletoe was in
Lincolnshire, not very far from Peterborough, not very far from
Stamford, not very far from Oakham. A regular hunting man like Lord
Rufford knew how to compass the difficulties of distance in all
hunting countries. Horses could go by one train or overnight, and he
could follow by another. And a post chaise could meet him here or
there. But when a lady is added, the difficulty is often increased
fivefold.
"Is it very far?" asked Arabella.
"It is a little far. I wonder who are going from here?"
"Heaven only knows. I have passed my time in playing cat's cradle
with Sir Jeffrey Bunker for the amusement of the company, and in
confidential communications with my aunt and Lady Drummond. I haven't
heard hunting mentioned."
"Have you anything on wheels going across to Holcombe Cross
to-morrow, Duke?" asked Lord Rufford. The Duke said that he did not
know of anything on wheels going to Holcombe Cross. Then a hunting
man who had heard the question said that he and another intended to
travel by train to Oundle. Upon this Lord Rufford turned round and
looked at Arabella mournfully.
"Cannot I go by train to Oundle?" she asked.
"Nothing on earth so jolly if your pastors and masters and all that
will let you."
"I haven't got any pastors and masters."
"The Duchess!" suggested Lord Rufford.
"I thought all that kind of nonsense was over," said Arabella.
"I believe a great deal is over. You can do many things that your
mother and grandmother couldn't do; but absolute freedom,—what you
may call universal suffrage,—hasn't come yet, I fear. It's twenty
miles by road, and the Duchess would say something awful if I were to
propose to take you in a post chaise."
"But the railway!"
"I'm afraid that would be worse. We couldn't ride back, you know,
as we did at Rufford. At the best it would be rather a rough and
tumble kind of arrangement. I'm afraid we must put it off. To tell
you the truth I'm the least bit in the world afraid of the Duchess."
"I am not at all," said Arabella angrily.
Then Lord Rufford ate his dinner and seemed to think that that
matter was settled. Arabella knew that he might have hunted
elsewhere,—that the Cottesmore would be out in their own county
within twelve miles of them, and that the difficulty of that ride
would be very much less. The Duke might have been persuaded to send a
carriage that distance. But Lord Rufford cared more about the chance
of a good run than her company! For a while she was sulky;— for a
little while, till she remembered how ill she could afford to indulge
in such a feeling. Then she said a demure word or two to the gentleman
on the other side of her who happened to be a clergyman, and did not
return to the hunting till Lord Rufford had eaten his cheese. "And is
that to be the end of Jack as far as I'm concerned?"
"I have been thinking about it ever since. This is Thursday."
"Not a doubt about it."
"To-morrow will be Friday and the Duke has his great shooting on
Saturday. There's nothing within a hundred miles of us on Saturday. I
shall go with the Pytchley if I don't shoot, but I shall have to get
up just when other people are going to bed. That wouldn't suit you."
"I wouldn't mind if I didn't go to bed at all."
"At any rate it wouldn't suit the Duchess. I had meant to go away
on Sunday. I hate being anywhere on Sunday except in a railway
carriage. But if I thought the Duke would keep me till Tuesday
morning we might manage Peltry on Monday. I meant to have got back to
Surbiton's on Sunday and have gone from there."
"Where is Peltry?"
"It's a Cottesmore meet,—about five miles this Side of Melton."
"We could ride from here."
"It's rather far for that, but we could talk over the Duke to send
a carriage. Ladies always like to see a meet, and perhaps we could
make a party. If not we must put a good face on it and go in anything
we can get. I shouldn't fear the Duchess so much for twelve miles as I
should for twenty."
"I don't mean to let the Duchess interfere with me," said Arabella
in a whisper.
That evening Lord Rufford was very good-natured and managed to
arrange everything. Lady Chiltern and another lady said that they
would be glad to go to the meet, and a carriage or carriages were
organised. But nothing was said as to Arabella's hunting because the
question would immediately be raised as to her return to Mistletoe in
the evening. It was, however, understood that she was to have a place
in the carriage.
Arabella had gained two things. She would have her one day's
hunting, and she had secured the presence of Lord Rufford at
Mistletoe for Sunday. With such a man as his lordship it was almost
impossible to find a moment for confidential conversation. He worked
so hard at his amusements that he was as bad a lover as a barrister
who has to be in Court all day,—almost as bad as a sailor who is
always going round the world. On this evening it was ten o'clock
before the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, and then Lord
Rufford's time was spent in arranging the party for the meet on
Monday. When the ladies went up to bed Arabella had had no other
opportunity than what Fortune had given her at dinner.
And even then she had been watched. That juxtaposition at the
dinner-table had come of chance and had been caused by Lord Rufford's
late arrival. Old Sir Jeffrey should have been her neighbour, with the
clergyman on the other side, an arrangement which Her Grace had
thought safe with reference to the rights of the Minister to
Patagonia. The Duchess, though she was at some distance down the
table, had seen that her niece and Lord Rufford were intimate, and
remembered immediately what had been said up-stairs. They could not
have talked as they were then talking,— sometimes whispering as the
Duchess could perceive very well,— unless there had been considerable
former intimacy. She began gradually to understand various
things;—why Arabella Trefoil had been so anxious to come to Mistletoe
just at this time, why she had behaved so unlike her usual self before
Lord Rufford's arrival, and why she had been so unwilling to have Mr.
Morton invited. The Duchess was in her way a clever woman and could
see many things. She could see that though her niece might be very
anxious to marry Lord Rufford, Lord Rufford might indulge himself in a
close intimacy with the girl without any such intention on his part.
And, as far as the family was concerned, she would have been quite
contented with the Morton alliance. She would have asked Morton now
only that it would be impossible that he should come in time to be of
service. Had she been consulted in the first instance she would have
put her veto on that drive to the meet: but she had heard nothing
about it until Lady Chiltern had said that she would go. The Duchess
of Omnium had since declared that she also would go, and there were to
be two carriages. But still it never occurred to the Duchess that
Arabella intended to hunt. Nor did Arabella intend that she should
know it till the morning came.
The Friday was very dull. The hunting men of course had gone before
Arabella came down to breakfast. She would willingly have got up at
seven to pour out Lord Rufford's tea, had that been possible; but, as
it was, she strolled into the breakfast room at half-past ten. She
could see by her aunt's eye and hear in her voice that she was in part
detected; and that she would do herself no further service by acting
the good girl; and she therefore resolutely determined to listen to no
more twaddle. She read a French novel which she had brought with her,
and spent as much of the day as she could in her bedroom. She did not
see Lord Rufford before dinner, and at dinner sat between Sir Jeffrey
and an old gentleman out of Stamford who dined at Mistletoe that
evening. "We've had no such luck to-night," Lord Rufford said to her
in the drawing-room.
"The old dragon took care of that," replied Arabella.
"Why should the old dragon think that I'm dangerous?"
"Because—; I can't very well tell you why, but I dare say you
know."
"And do you think I am dangerous?"
"You're a sort of a five-barred gate," said Arabella laughing. "Of
course there is a little danger, but who is going to be stopped by
that?"
He could make no reply to this because the Duchess called him away
to give some account to Lady Chiltern about Goarly and the U.R.U.,
Lady Chiltern's husband being a master of hounds and a great
authority on all matters relating to hunting. "Nasty old dragon!"
Arabella said to herself when she was thus left alone.
The Saturday was the day of the great shooting and at two o'clock
the ladies went out to lunch with the gentlemen by the side of the
wood. Lord Rufford had at last consented to be one of the party. With
logs of trees, a few hurdles, and other field appliances, a rustic
banqueting hall was prepared and everything was very nice. Tons of
game had been killed, and tons more were to be killed after luncheon.
The Duchess was not there and Arabella contrived so to place herself
that she could be waited upon by Lord Rufford, or could wait upon him.
Of course a great many eyes were upon her, but she knew how to sustain
that. Nobody was present who could dare to interfere with her. When
the eating and drinking were over she walked with him to his corner by
the next covert, not heeding the other ladies; and she stood with him
for some minutes after the slaughter had begun. She had come to feel
that the time was slipping between her fingers and that she must say
something effective. The fatal word upon which everything would depend
must be spoken at the very latest on their return home on Monday, and
she was aware that much must probably be said before that. "Do we
hunt or shoot tomorrow?" she said.
"To-morrow is Sunday."
"I am quite aware of that, but I didn't know whether you could live
a day without sport."
"The country is so full of prejudice that I am driven to Sabbatical
quiescence."
"Take a walk with me to-morrow," said Arabella.
"But the Duchess," exclaimed Lord Rufford in a stage whisper. One
of the beaters was so near that he could not but have heard;—but
what does a beater signify?
"H'mh'm the Duchess! You be at the path behind the great
conservatory at half-past three and we won't mind the Duchess." Lord
Rufford was forced to ask for many other particulars as to the
locality and then promised that he would be there at the time named.
CHAPTER XI. "You are so severe"
On the next morning Arabella went to church as did of course a
great many of the party. By remaining at home she could only have
excited suspicion. The church was close to the house, and the family
pew consisted of a large room screened off from the rest of the
church, with a fire-place of its own,—so that the labour of attending
divine service was reduced to a minimum. At two o'clock they lunched,
and that amusement lasted nearly an hour. There was an afternoon
service at three in attending which the Duchess was very particular.
The Duke never went at that time nor was it expected that any of the
gentlemen would do so; but women are supposed to require more church
than men, and the Duchess rather made it a point that at any rate the
young ladies staying in the house should accompany her. Over the other
young ladies there her authority could only be that of influence, but
such authority generally sufficed. From her niece it might be supposed
that she would exact obedience, and in this instance she tried it. "We
start in five minutes," she said to Arabella as that young lady was
loitering at the table.
"Don't wait for me; aunt, I'm not going," said Arabella boldly.
"I hope you will come to church with us," said the Duchess sternly.
"Not this afternoon."
"Why not, Arabella?"
"I never do go to church twice on Sundays. Some people do, and some
people don't. I suppose that's about it."
"I think that all young women ought to go to church on Sunday
afternoon unless there is something particular to prevent them."
Arabella shrugged her shoulders and the Duchess stalked angrily away.
"That makes me feel so awfully wicked," said the Duchess of Omnium,
who was the only other lady then left in the room. Then she got up
and went out and Arabella of course followed her. Lord Rufford had
heard it all but had stood at the window and said nothing. He had not
been to church at all, and was quite accustomed to the idea that as a
young nobleman who only lived for pleasure he was privileged to be
wicked. Had the Duchess of Mayfair been blessed with a third daughter
fit for marriage she would not have thought of repudiating such a
suitor as Lord Rufford because he did not go to church.
When the house was cleared Arabella went upstairs and put on her
hat. It was a bright beautiful winter's day, not painfully cold
because the air was dry, but still a day that warranted furs and a
muff. Having prepared herself she made her way alone to a side door
which led from a branch of the hall on to the garden terrace, and up
and down that she walked two or three times,—so that any of the
household that saw her might perceive that she had come out simply
for exercise. At the end of the third turn instead of coming back she
went on quickly to the conservatory and took the path which led round
to the further side. There was a small lawn here fitted for garden
games, and on the other end of it an iron gate leading to a path into
the woods. At the further side of the iron gate and leaning against
it, stood Lord Rufford smoking a cigar. She did not pause a moment but
hurried across the lawn to join him. He opened the gate and she passed
through. "I'm not going to be done by a dragon," she said as she took
her place alongside of him.
"Upon my, word, Miss Trefoil, I don't think I ever knew a human
being with so much pluck as you have got"
"Girls have to have pluck if they don't mean to be sat upon;—a
great deal more than men. The idea of telling me that I was to go to
church as though I were twelve years old!"
"What would she say if she knew that you were walking here with
me?"
"I don't care what she'd say. I dare say she walked with somebody
once;—only I should think the somebody must have found it very
dull."
"Does she know that you're to hunt to-morrow?"
"I haven't told her and don't mean. I shall just come down in my
habit and hat and say nothing about it. At what time must we start?"
"The carriages are ordered for half-past nine. But I'm afraid you
haven't clearly before your eyes all the difficulties which are
incidental to hunting."
"What do you mean?"
"It looks as like a black frost as anything I ever saw in my life."
"But we should go?"
"The horses won't be there if there is a really hard frost. Nobody
would stir. It will be the first question I shall ask the man when he
comes to me, and if there have been seven or eight degrees of frost I
shan't get up."
"How am I to know?"
"My man shall tell your maid. But everybody will soon know all
about it. It will alter everything."
"I think I shall go mad."
"In white satin?"
"No;—in my habit and hat. It will be the hardest thing, after all!
I ought to have insisted on going to Holcombe Cross on Friday. The
sun is shining now. Surely it cannot freeze."
"It will be uncommonly ill-bred if it does."
But, after all, the hunting was not the main point. The hunting had
been only intended as an opportunity; and if that were to be
lost,—in which case Lord Rufford would no doubt at once leave
Mistletoe,—there was the more need for using the present hour, the
more for using even the present minute. Though she had said that the
sun was shining, it was the setting sun, and in another half hour the
gloom of the evening would be there. Even Lord Rufford would not
consent to walk about with her in the dark. "Oh, Lord Rufford," she
said, "I did so look forward to your giving me another lead." Then she
put her hand upon his arm and left it there.
"It would have been nice," said he, drawing her hand a little on,
and remembering as he did so his own picture of himself on the cliff
with his sister holding his coat-tails.
"If you could possibly know," she said, "the condition I am in."
"What condition?"
"I know that I can trust you."
"Oh dear, yes. If you mean about telling, I never tell anything."
"That's what I do mean. You remember that man at your place?"
"What man? Poor Caneback?"
"Oh dear no! I wish they could change places because then he could
give me no more trouble."
"That's wishing him to be dead, whoever he is."
"Yes. Why should he persecute me? I mean that man we were staying
with at Bragton."
"Mr. Morton?"
"Of course I do. Don't you remember your asking me about him, and
my telling you that I was not engaged to him?"
"I remember that"
"Mamma and this horrid old Duchess here want me to marry him.
They've got an idea that he is going to be ambassador at Pekin or
something very grand, and they're at me day and night"
"You needn't take him unless you like him."
"They do make me so miserable!" And then she leaned heavily upon
his arm. He was a man who could not stand such pressure as this
without returning it. Though he were on the precipice, and though he
must go over, still he could not stand it. "You remember that night
after the ball?"
"Indeed I do."
"And you too had asked me whether I cared for that horrid man."
"I didn't see anything horrid. You had been staying at his house
and people had told me. What was I to think?"
"You ought to have known what to think. There; let me go,"—for now
he had got his arm round her waist. "You don't care for me a bit. I
know you don't. It would be all the same to you whom I married;—or
whether I died."
"You don't think that, Bella?" He fancied that he had heard her
mother call her Bella, and that the name was softer and easier than
the full four syllables. It was at any rate something for her to have
gained.
"I do think it. When I came here on purpose to have a skurry over
the country with you, you went away to Holcombe Cross though you
could have hunted here, close in the neighbourhood. And now you tell
me there will be a frost to-morrow."
"Can I help that, darling?"
"Darling! I ain't your darling. You don't care a bit for me. I
believe you hope there'll be a frost." He pressed her tighter, but
laughed as he did so. It was evidently a joke to him;—a pleasant
joke no doubt. "Leave me alone, Lord Rufford. I won't let you, for I
know you don't love me." Very suddenly he did leave his hold of her
and stood erect with his hands in his pockets, for the rustle of a
dress was heard. It was still daylight, but the light was dim and the
last morsel of the grandeur of the sun had ceased to be visible
through the trees. The church-going people had been released, and the
Duchess having probably heard certain tidings, had herself come to
take a walk in the shrubbery behind the conservatory. Arabella had
probably been unaware that she and her companion by a turn in the
walks were being brought back towards the iron gate. As it was they
met the Duchess face to face.
Lord Rufford had spoken the truth when he had said that he was a
little afraid of the Duchess. Such was his fear that at the moment he
hardly knew what he was to say. Arabella had boasted when she had
declared that she was not at all afraid of her aunt;—but she was
steadfastly minded that she would not be cowed by her fears. She had
known beforehand that she would have occasion for much presence of
mind, and was prepared to exercise it at a moment's notice. She was
the first to speak. "Is that you, aunt? you are out of church very
soon."
"Lord Rufford," said the Duchess, "I don't think this is a proper
time for walking out."
"Don't you, Duchess? The air is very nice."
"It is becoming dark and my niece had better return to the house
with me. Arabella, you can come this way. It is just as short as the
other. If you go on straight, Lord Rufford, it will take you to the
house." Of course Lord Rufford went on straight and of course Arabella
had to turn with her aunt. "Such conduct as this is shocking," began
the Duchess.
"Aunt, let me tell you."
"What can you tell me?"
"I can tell you a great deal if you will let me. Of course I am
quite prepared to own that I did not intend to tell you anything."
"I can well believe that"
"Because I could hardly hope for your sympathy. You have never
liked me."
"You have no right to say that"
"I don't do it in the way of finding fault. I don't know why you
should. But I have been too much afraid of you to tell you my
secrets. I must do so now because you have found me walking with Lord
Rufford. I could not otherwise excuse myself."
"Is he engaged to marry you?"
"He has asked me"
"No!"
"But he has, aunt. You must be a little patient and let me tell it
you all. Mamma did make up an engagement between me and Mr. Morton at
Washington."
"Did you know Lord Rufford then?"
"I knew him, but did not think he was behaving quite well. It is
very hard sometimes to know what a man means. I was angry when I went
to Washington. He has told me since that he loves me,—and has
offered."
"But you are engaged to marry the other man."
"Nothing on earth shall make me marry Mr. Morton. Mamma did it, and
mamma now has very nearly broken it off because she says he is very
shabby about money. Indeed it is broken off. I bad told him so even
before Lord Rufford had proposed to me."
"When did he propose and where?"
"At Rufford. We were staying there in November."
"And you asked to come here that you might meet him?"
"Just so. Was that strange? Where could I be better pleased to meet
him than in my uncle's house?"
"Yes;—if you had told us all this before."
"Perhaps I ought; but you are so severe, I did not dare. Do not
turn against me now. My uncle could not but like that his niece
should marry Lord Rufford."
"How can I turn against you if it is settled? Lord Rufford can do
as he pleases. Has he told your father,—or your mother?"
"Mamma knows it."
"But not from him?" asked the Duchess.
Arabella paused a moment but hardly a moment before she answered.
It was hard upon her that she should have to make up her mind on
matters of such importance with so little time for consideration.
"Yes," she said; "mamma knows it from him. Papa is so very
indifferent about everything that Lord Rufford has not spoken to
him."
"If so, it will be best that the Duke should speak to him."
There was another pause, but hardly long enough to attract notice.
"Perhaps so," she said; "but not quite yet. He is so peculiar, so
touchy. The Duke is not quite like my father and he would think
himself suspected."
"I cannot imagine that if he is in earnest."
"That is because you do not know him as I do. Only think where I
should be if I were to lose him!"
"Lose him!"
"Oh, aunt, now that you know it I do hope that you will be my
friend. It would kill me if he were to throw me over."
"But why should he throw you over if he proposed to you only last
month?"
"He might do it if he thought that he were interfered with. Of
course I should like my uncle to speak to him, but not quite
immediately: If he were to say that he had changed his mind, what
could I do, or what could my uncle do?"
"That would be very singular conduct."
"Men are so different now, aunt. They give themselves so much more
latitude. A man has only to say that he has changed his mind and
nothing ever comes of it."
"I have never been used to such men, my dear."
"At any rate do not ask the Duke to speak to him to-day. I will
think about it and perhaps you will let me see you to-morrow, after
we all come in." To this the Duchess gravely assented. "And I hope
you won't be angry because you found me walking with him, or because
I did not go to church. It is everything to me. I am sure, dear aunt,
you will understand that" To this the Duchess made no reply, and they
both entered the house together. What became of Lord Rufford neither
of them saw.
Arabella when she regained her room thought that upon the whole
fortune had favoured her by throwing her aunt in her way. She had, no
doubt, been driven to tell a series of barefaced impudent lies,—lies
of such a nature that they almost made her own hair stand on end as
she thought of them;—but they would matter nothing if she succeeded;
and if she failed in this matter she did not care much what her aunt
thought of her. Her aunt might now do her a good turn; and some lies
she must have told;—such had been the emergencies of her position! As
she thought of it all she was glad that her aunt had met her; and when
Lord Rufford was summoned to take her out to dinner on that very
Sunday,—a matter as to which her aunt managed everything
herself,—she was immediately aware that her lies had done her good
service.
"This was more than I expected," Lord Rufford said when they were
seated.
"She knew that she had overdone it when she sent you away in that
cavalier way," replied Arabella, "and now she wants to show that she
didn't mean anything."
CHAPTER XII. The Day at Peltry
The Duchess did tell the Duke the whole story about Lord Rufford
and Arabella that night,—as to which it may be said that she also
was false. But according to her conscience there were two ways of
telling such a secret. As a matter of course she told her husband
everything. That idle placid dinner-loving man was in truth consulted
about each detail of the house and family; but the secret was told to
him with injunctions that he was to say nothing about it to any one
for twenty-four hours. After that the Duchess was of opinion that he
should speak to Lord Rufford. "What could I say to him?" asked the
Duke. "I'm not her father."
"But your brother is so indifferent"
"No doubt. But that gives me no authority. If he does mean to marry
the girl he must go to her father; or it is possible that he might
come to me. But if he does not mean it, what can I do?" He promised,
however, that he would think of it.
It was still dark night, or the morning was dark as night, when
Arabella got out of bed and opened her window. The coming of a frost
now might ruin her. The absence of it might give her everything in
life that she wanted. Lord Rufford had promised her a tedious
communication through servants as to the state of the weather. She was
far too energetic, far too much in earnest, to wait for that. She
opened the window and putting out her hand she felt a drizzle of rain.
And the air, though the damp from it seemed to chill her all through,
was not a frosty air. She stood there a minute so as to be sure and
then retreated to her bed.
Fortune was again favouring her;—but then how would it be if it
should turn to hard rain? In that case Lady Chiltern and the other
ladies certainly would not go, and how in such case should she get
herself conveyed to the meet? She would at any rate go down in her
hat and habit and trust that somebody would provide for her. There
might be much that would be disagreeable and difficult, but hardly
anything could be worse than the necessity of telling such lies as
those which she had fabricated on the previous afternoon.
She had been much in doubt whether her aunt had or had not believed
her. That the belief was not a thorough belief she was almost
certain. But then there was the great fact that after the story had
been told she had been sent out to dinner leaning on Lord Rufford's
arm. Unless her aunt had believed something that would not have taken
place. And then so much of it was true. Surely it would be impossible
that he should not propose after what had occurred! Her aunt was
evidently alive to the advantage of the marriage, to the advantage
which would accrue not to her, Arabella, individually, but to the
Trefoils generally. She almost thought that her aunt would not put
spokes in her wheel for this day. She wished now that she had told her
aunt that she intended to hunt, so that there need not be any
surprise.
She slept again and again looked out of the window. It rained a
little but still there were hours in which the rain might cease.
Again she slept and at eight her maid brought her word that there
would be hunting. It did rain a little but very little. Of course she
would dress herself in riding attire.
At nine o'clock she walked into the breakfast parlour properly
equipped for the day's sport. There were four or five men there in
red coats and top boots, among whom Lord Rufford was conspicuous.
They were just seating themselves at the breakfast table, and her
aunt was already in her place. Lady Chiltern had come into the room
with herself, and at the door had spoken some good-natured words of
surprise. "I did not know that you were a sportswoman, Miss Trefoil."
"I do ride a little when I am well mounted," Arabella had said as she
entered the room. Then she collected herself, and arranged her
countenance, and endeavoured to look as though she were doing the most
ordinary thing in the world. She went round the room and kissed her
aunt's brow. This she had not done on any other morning; but then on
other mornings she had been late. "Are you going to ride?" said the
Duchess.
"I believe so, aunt."
"Who is giving you a horse?"
"Lord Rufford is lending me one. I don't think even his good-nature
will extend to giving away so perfect an animal. I know him well for
I rode him when I was at Rufford." This she said so that all the room
should hear her.
"You need not be afraid, Duchess," said Lord Rufford. "He is quite
safe"
"And his name is Jack," said Arabella laughing as she took her
place with a little air of triumph. "Lord Rufford offered to let me
have him all the time I was here, but I didn't know whether you would
take me in so attended."
There was not one who heard her who did not feel that she spoke as
though Lord Rufford were all her own. Lord Rufford felt it himself
and almost thought he might as well turn himself round and bid his
sister and Miss Penge let him go. He must marry some day and why
should not this girl do as well as any one else? The Duchess did not
approve of young ladies hunting. She certainly would not have had her
niece at Mistletoe had she expected such a performance. But she could
not find fault now. There was a feeling in her bosom that if there
were an engagement it would be cruel to cause obstructions. She
certainly could not allow a lover in her house for her husband's niece
without having official authenticated knowledge of the respectability
of the lover; but the whole thing had come upon her so suddenly that
she was at a loss what to do or what to say. It certainly did not seem
to her that Arabella was in the least afraid of being found out in any
untruth. If the girl were about to become Lady Rufford then it would
be for Lord Rufford to decide whether or no she should hunt. Soon
after this the Duke came in and he also alluded to his niece's costume
and was informed that she was to ride one of Lord Rufford's horses. "I
didn't hear it mentioned before," said the Duke. "He'll carry Miss
Trefoil quite safely," said Lord Rufford who was at the moment
standing over a game pie on the sideboard. Then the subject was
allowed to drop.
At half-past nine there was no rain, and the ladies were so nearly
punctual that the carriages absolutely started at ten. Some of the
men rode on; one got a seat on the carriage; and Lord Rufford drove
himself and a friend in a dog-cart, tandem. The tandem was off before
the carriages, but Lord Rufford assured them that he would get the
master to allow them a quarter of an hour. Arabella contrived to say
one word to him. "If you start without me I'll never speak to you
again." He nodded and smiled; but perhaps thought that if so it might
be as well that he should start without waiting for her.
At the last moment the Duchess had taken it into her head that she
too would go to the meet. No doubt she was actuated by some feeling
in regard to her niece; but it was not till Arabella was absolutely
getting on to Jack at the side of the carriage,—under the auspices
of Jack's owner,—that the idea occurred to her Grace that there
would be a great difficulty as to the return home. "Arabella, how do
you mean to get back?" she asked.
"That will be all right, aunt," said Arabella.
"I will see to that," said Lord Rufford.
The gracious but impatient master of the hounds had absolutely
waited full twenty minutes for the Duchess's party; and was not
minded to wait a minute longer for conversation. The moment that the
carriages were there the huntsmen had started so that there was an
excuse for hurry. Lord Rufford as he was speaking got on to his own
horse, and before the Duchess could expostulate they were away. There
was a feeling of triumph in Arabella's bosom as she told herself that
she had at any rate secured her day's hunting in spite of such
heart-breaking difficulties.
The sport was fairly good. They had twenty minutes in the morning
and a kill. Then they drew a big wood during which they ate their
lunch and drank their sherry. In the big wood they found a fox but
could not do anything with him. After that they came on a third in a
stubble field and ran him well for half an hour, when he went to
ground. It was then three o'clock; and as the days were now at the
shortest the master declined to draw again. They were then about
sixteen miles from Mistletoe, and about ten from Stamford where Lord
Rufford's horses were standing. The distance from Stamford to
Mistletoe was eight. Lord Rufford proposed that they should ride to
Stamford and then go home in a hired carriage. There seemed indeed to
be no other way of getting home without taking three tired horses
fourteen miles out of their way. Arabella made no objection whatever
to the arrangement. Lord Rufford did in truth make a slight
effort,—the slightest possible,—to induce a third person to join
their party. There was still something pulling at his coat-tail, so
that there might yet be a chance of saving him from the precipice. But
he failed. The tired horseman before whom the suggestion was casually
thrown out, would have been delighted to accept it, instead of riding
all the way to Mistletoe; but he did not look upon it as made in
earnest. Two, he knew, were company and three none.
The hunting field is by no means a place suited for real
love-making. Very much of preliminary conversation may be done there
in a pleasant way, and intimacies may be formed. But when lovers have
already walked with arms round each other in a wood, riding together
may be very pleasant but can hardly be ecstatic. Lord Rufford might
indeed have asked her to be Lady R. while they were breaking up the
first fox, or as they loitered about in the big wood;—but she did not
expect that. There was no moment during the day's sport in which she
had a right to tell herself that he was misbehaving because he did not
so ask her. But in a post chaise it would be different.
At the inn at Stamford the horses were given up, and Arabella
condescended to take a glass of cherry brandy. She had gone through a
long day; it was then half-past four, and she was not used to be many
hours on horseback. The fatigue seemed to her to be very much greater
than it had been when she got back to Rufford immediately after the
fatal accident. The ten miles along the road, which had been done in
little more than an hour, had almost overcome her. She had determined
not to cry for mercy. as the hard trot went on. She had passed herself
off as an accustomed horsewoman, and having done so well across the
country, would not break down coming home. But, as she got into the
carriage, she was very tired. She could almost have cried with
fatigue;—and yet she told herself that now,— now,—must the work be
done. She would perhaps tell him that she was tired. She might even
assist her cause by her languor; but, though she should die for it,
she would not waste her precious moments by absolute rest. "May I
light a cigar?" he said as he got in.
"You know you may. Wherever I may be with you do you think that I
would interfere with your gratifications?"
"You are the best girl in all the world," he said as he took out
his case and threw himself back in the corner."
"Do you call that a long day?" she asked when he had lit his cigar.
"Not very long."
"Because I am so tired."
"We came home pretty sharp. I thought it best not to shock her
Grace by too great a stretch into the night. As it is you will have
time to go to bed for an hour or two before you dress. That's what I
do when I am in time. You'll be right as a trivet then."
"Oh; I'm right now,—only tired. It was very nice."
"Pretty well. We ought to have killed that last fox. And why on
earth we made nothing of that fellow in Gooseberry Grove I couldn't
understand. Old Tony would never have left that fox alive above
ground. Would you like to go to sleep?"
"O dear no."
"Afraid of gloves?" said he, drawing nearer to her. They might pull
him as they liked by his coat-tails but as he was in a post chaise
with her he must make himself agreeable. She shook her head and
laughed as she looked at him through the gloom. Then of course he
kissed her.
"Lord Rufford, what does this mean?"
"Don't you know what it means?"
"Hardly."
"It means that I think you the jolliest girl out. I never liked
anybody so well as I do you."
"Perhaps you never liked anybody," said she.
"Well;—yes, I have; but I am not going to boast of what fortune
has done for me in that way. I wonder whether you care for me?"
"Do you want to know?"
"I should like to know that you did."
"Because you have never asked me."
"Am I not asking you now, Bella?"
"There are different ways of asking,—but there is only one way
that will get an answer from me. No;—no. I will not have it. I have
allowed too much to you already. Oh, I am so tired." Then she sank
back almost into his arms,—but recovered herself very quickly. "Lord
Rufford," she said, "if you are a man of honour let there be an end of
this. I am sure you do not wish to make me wretched."
"I would do anything to make you happy."
"Then tell me that you love me honestly, sincerely, with all your
heart,—and I shall be happy."
"You know I do."
"Do you? Do you?" she said, and then she flung herself on to his
shoulder, and for a while she seemed to faint. For a few minutes she
lay there and as she was lying she calculated whether it would be
better to try at this moment to drive him to some clearer declaration,
or to make use of what he had already said without giving him an
opportunity of protesting that he had not meant to make her an offer
of marriage. He had declared that he loved her honestly and with his
whole heart. Would not that justify her in setting her uncle at him?
And might it not be that the Duke would carry great weight with
him;—that the Duke might induce him to utter the fatal word though
she, were she to demand it now, might fail? As she thought of it all
she affected to swoon, and almost herself believed that she was
swooning. She was conscious but hardly more than conscious that he was
kissing her;—and yet her brain was at work. She felt that he would be
startled, repelled, perhaps disgusted were she absolutely to demand
more from him now. "Oh, Rufford;—oh, my dearest," she said as she
woke up, and with her face close to his, so that he could look into
her eyes and see their brightness even through the gloom. Then she
extricated herself from his embrace with a shudder and a laugh. "You
would hardly believe how tired I am," she said putting out her
ungloved hand. He took it and drew her to him and there she sat in his
arms for the short remainder of the journey.
They were now in the park, and as the lights of the house came in
sight he gave her some counsel. "Go up to your room at once, dearest,
and lay down."
"I will. I don't think I could go in among them. I should fall."
"I will see the Duchess and tell her that you are all right, but
very tired. If she goes up to you had better see her."
"Oh, yes. But I had rather not."
"She'll be sure to come. And, Bella, Jack must be yours now."
"You are joking."
"Never more serious in my life. Of course he must remain with me
just at present, but he is your horse." Then, as the carriage was
stopping, she took his hand and kissed it.
She got to her room as quickly as possible; and then, before she
had even taken off her hat, she sat down to think of it all,—
sending her maid away meanwhile to fetch her a cup of tea. He must
have meant it for an offer. There had at any rate been enough to
justify her in so taking it. The present he had made to her of the
horse could mean nothing else. Under no other circumstances would it
be possible that she should either take the horse or use him.
Certainly it was an offer, and as such she would instruct her uncle
to use it. Then she allowed her imagination to revel in thoughts of
Rufford Hall, of the Rufford house in town, and a final end to all
those weary labours which she would thus have brought to so glorious
a termination.
CHAPTER XIII. Lord Rufford wants to
see a Horse
Lord Rufford had been quite right about the Duchess. Arabella had
only taken off her hat and was drinking her tea when the Duchess came
up to her. "Lord Rufford says that you were too tired to come in,"
said the Duchess.
"I am tired, aunt;—very tired. But there is nothing the matter
with me. We had to ride ever so far coming home and it was that
knocked up.
"It was very bad, your in a post chaise, Arabella."
"Why was it bad, aunt? I thought it very nice."
"My dear, it shouldn't have been done. You ought to have known
that. I certainly wouldn't have had you here had I thought that there
would be anything of the kind."
"It is going to be all right," said Arabella laughing.
According to her Grace's view of things it was not and could not be
made "all right." It would not have been all right were the girl to
become Lady Rufford to-morrow. The scandal, or loud reproach due to
evil doings, may be silenced by subsequent conduct. The merited
punishment may not come visibly. But nothing happening after could
make it right that a young lady should come home from hunting in a
post chaise alone with a young unmarried man. When the Duchess first
heard it she thought what would have been her feelings if such a thing
had been suggested in reference to one of her own daughters! Lord
Rufford had come to her in the drawing-room and had told her the story
in a quiet pleasant manner,—merely saying that Miss Trefoil was too
much fatigued to show herself at the present moment. She had thought
from his manner that her niece's story had been true. There was a
cordiality and apparent earnestness as to the girl's comfort which
seemed to be compatible with the story. But still she could hardly
understand that Lord Rufford should wish to have it known that he
travelled about the country in such a fashion with the girl he
intended to marry. But if it were true, then she must look after her
niece. And even if it were not true,— in which case she would never
have the girl at Mistletoe again,— yet she could not ignore her
presence in the house. It was now the 18th of January. Lord Rufford
was to go on the following day, and Arabella on the 20th. The
invitation had not been given so as to stretch beyond that. If it
could be at once decided,—declared by Lord Rufford to the Duke,—that
the match was to be a match, then the invitation should be renewed,
Arabella should be advised to put off her other friends, and Lord
Rufford should be invited to come back early in the next month and
spend a week or two in the proper fashion with his future bride. All
that had been settled between the Duke and the Duchess. So much should
be done for the sake of the family. But the Duke had not seen his way
to asking Lord Rufford any question.
The Duchess must now find out the truth if she could,—so that if
the story were false she might get rid of the girl and altogether
shake her off from the Mistletoe roof tree. Arabella's manner was
certainly free from any appearance of hesitation or fear. "I don't
know about being all right," said the Duchess. "It cannot be right
that you should have come home with him alone in a hired carriage."
"Is a hired carriage wickeder than a private one?"
"If a carriage had been sent from here for you, it would have been
different;—but even then he should not have come with you."
"But he would I'm sure;—and I should have asked him. What;—the
man I'm engaged to marry! Mayn't he sit in a carriage with me?"
The Duchess could not explain herself, and thought that she had
better drop that topic. "What does he mean to do now, Arabella?"
"What does who mean, aunt?"
"Lord Rufford."
"He means to marry me. And he means to go from here to Mr.
Surbiton's to-morrow. I don't quite understand the question."
"And what do you mean to do?"
"I mean to marry him. And I mean to join mamma in London on
Wednesday. I believe we are to go to the Connop Green's the next day.
Mr. Connop Green is a sort of cousin of mamma;—but they are odious
people."
"Who is to see Lord Rufford? However, my dear, if you are very
tired, I will leave you now."
"No, aunt. Stay a moment if you will be so very kind. I am tired;
but if I were twice as tired I would find strength to talk about
this. If my uncle would speak to Lord Rufford at once I should take
it as the very kindest thing he could do. I could not send him to my
uncle; for, after all, one's uncle and one's father are not the same.
I could only refer him to papa. But if the Duke would speak to him!"
"Did he renew his offer to-day?"
"He has done nothing else but renew it ever since he has been in
the carriage with me. That's the plain truth. He made his offer at
Rufford. He renewed it in the wood yesterday;—and he repeated it
over and over again as we came home to-day. It may have been very
wrong, but so it was." Miss Trefoil must have thought that kissing
and proposing were the same thing. Other young ladies have, perhaps,
before now made such a mistake. But this young lady had had much
experience and should have known better.
"Lord Rufford had better perhaps speak to your uncle."
"Will you tell him so, aunt?"
The Duchess thought about it for a moment. She certainly could not
tell Lord Rufford to speak to the Duke without getting the Duke's
leave to tell him so. And then, if all this were done, and Lord
Rufford were to assure the Duke that the young lady had made a
mistake, how derogatory would all that be to the exalted quiescence
of the house of Mayfair! She thoroughly wished that her niece were
out of the house; for though she did believe the story, her belief
was not thorough. "I will speak to your uncle," she said. "And now
you had better go to sleep."
"And, dear aunt, pray excuse me at dinner. I have been so excited,
so flurried, and so fatigued, that I fear I should make a fool of
myself if I attempted to come down. I should get into a swoon, which
would be dreadful. My maid shall bring me a bit of something and a
glass of sherry, and you shall find me in the drawing-room when you
come out" Then the Duchess went, and Arabella was left alone to take
another view of the circumstances of the campaign.
Though there were still infinite dangers, yet she could hardly wish
that anything should be altered. Should Lord Rufford disown her,
which she knew to be quite possible, there would be a general
collapse and the world would crash over her head. But she had known,
when she took this business in hand, that as success would open
Elysium to her, so would failure involve her in absolute ruin. She was
determined that she would mar nothing now by cowardice, and having so
resolved, and having fortified herself with perhaps two glasses of
sherry, she went down to the drawing-room a little before nine, and
laid herself out upon a sofa till the ladies should come in.
Lord Rufford had gone to bed, as was his wont on such occasions,
with orders that he should be called to dress for dinner at half-past
seven. But as he laid himself down he made up his mind that, instead
of sleeping, he would give himself up to thinking about Arabella
Trefoil. The matter was going beyond a joke, and would require some
thinking. He liked her well enough, but was certainly not in love with
her. I doubt whether men ever are in love with girls who throw
themselves into their arms. A man's love, till it has been chastened
and fastened by the feeling of duty which marriage brings with it, is
instigated mainly by the difficulty of pursuit. "It is hardly possible
that anything so sweet as that should ever be mine; and yet, because I
am a man, and because it is so heavenly sweet, I will try." That is
what men say to themselves, but Lord Rufford had had no opportunity of
saying that to himself in regard to Miss Trefoil. The thing had been
sweet, but not heavenly sweet; and he had never for a moment doubted
the possibility. Now at any rate he would make up his mind. But,
instead of doing so, he went to sleep, and when he got up he was ten
minutes late, and was forced, as he dressed himself, to think of the
Duke's dinner instead of Arabella Trefoil.
The Duchess before dinner submitted herself and all her troubles at
great length to the Duke, but the Duke could give her no substantial
comfort. Of course it had all been wrong. He supposed that they ought
not to have been found walking together in the dark on Sunday
afternoon. The hunting should not have been arranged without sanction;
and the return home in the hired carriage had no doubt been highly
improper. But what could he do? If the marriage came off it would be
all well. If not, this niece must not be invited to Mistletoe again.
As to speaking to Lord Rufford, he did not quite see how he was to set
about it. His own girls had been married in so very different a
fashion! He could imagine nothing so disagreeable as to have to ask a
gentleman his intentions. Parental duty might make it necessary when a
daughter had not known how to keep her own position intact; but here
there was no parental duty. If Lord Rufford would speak to him, then
indeed there would be no difficulty. At last he told his wife that, if
she could find an opportunity of suggesting to the young Lord that, he
might perhaps say a word to the young lady's uncle without
impropriety, if she could do this in a light easy way, so as to run no
peril of a scene,—she might do so.
When the two duchesses and all the other ladies came out into the
drawing-room, Arabella was found upon the sofa. Of course she became
the centre of a little interest for a few minutes, and the more so, as
her aunt went up to her and made some inquiries. Had she had any
dinner? Was she less fatigued? The fact of the improper return home in
the post chaise had become generally known, and there were some there
who would have turned a very cold shoulder to Arabella had not her
aunt noticed her. Perhaps there were some who had envied her Jack, and
Lord Rufford's admiration, and even the post chaise. But as long as
her aunt countenanced her it was not likely that any one at Mistletoe
would be unkind to her. The Duchess of Omnium did indeed remark to
Lady Chiltern that she remembered something of the same kind happening
to the same girl soon after her own marriage. As the Duchess had now
been married a great many years this was unkind,—but it was known
that when the Duchess of Omnium did dislike any one, she never
scrupled to show it. "Lord Rufford is about the silliest man of his
day," she said afterwards to the same lady; "but there is one thing
which I do not think even he is silly enough to do."
It was nearly ten o'clock when the gentlemen came into the room and
then it was that the Duchess,—Arabella's aunt,—must find the
opportunity of giving Lord Rufford the hint of which the Duke had
spoken. He was to leave Mistletoe on the morrow and might not
improbably do so early. Of all women she was the steadiest, the most
tranquil, the least abrupt in her movements. She could not pounce upon
a man, and nail him down, and say what she had to say, let him be as
unwilling as he might to hear it. At last, however, seeing Lord
Rufford standing alone,—he had then just left the sofa on which
Arabella was still lying,—without any apparent effort she made her
way up to his side. "You had rather a long day," she said.
"Not particularly, Duchess."
"You had to come home so far!"
"About the average distance. Did you think it a hard day, Maurice?"
Then he called to his aid a certain Lord Maurice St. John, a
hard-riding and hard-talking old friend of the Trefoil family who
gave the Duchess a very clear account of all the performance, during
which Lord Rufford fell into an interesting conversation with Mrs.
Mulready, the wife of the neighbouring bishop.
After that the Duchess made another attempt. "Lord Rufford," she
said, "we should be so glad if you would come back to us the first
week in February. The Prices will be here and the Mackenzies, and—."
"I am pledged to stay with my sister till the fifth, and on the
sixth Surbiton and all his lot come to me. Battersby, is it not the
sixth that you and Surbiton come to Rufford?"
"I rather think it is," said Battersby.
"I wish it were possible. I like Mistletoe so much. It's so
central."
"Very well for hunting;—is it not, Lord Rufford?" But that horrid
Captain Battersby did not go out of the way.
"I wonder whether Lady Chiltern would do me a favour," said Lord
Rufford stepping across the room in search of that lady. He might be
foolish, but when the Duchess of Omnium declared him to be the
silliest man of the day I think she used a wrong epithet. The Duchess
was very patient and intended to try again, but on that evening she
got no opportunity.
Captain Battersby was Lord Rufford's particular friend on this
occasion and had come over with him from Mr. Surbiton's house. "Bat,"
he said as they were sitting close to each other in the smoking-room
that night, "I mean to make an early start tomorrow."
"What;—to get to Surbiton's?"
"I've got something to do on the way. I want to look at a horse at
Stamford."
"I'll be off with you."
"No;—don't do that. I'll go in my own cart. I'll make my man get
hold of my groom and manage it somehow. I can leave my things and you
can bring them. Only say to-morrow that I was obliged to go."
"I understand."
"Heard something, you know, and all that kind of thing. Make my
apologies to the Duchess. In point of fact I must be in Stamford at
ten."
"I'll manage it all," said Captain Battersby, who made a very
shrewd guess at the cause which drew his friend to such an
uncomfortable proceeding. After that Lord Rufford went to his room
and gave a good deal of trouble that night to some of the servants in
reference to the steps which would be necessary to take him out of
harm's way before the Duchess would be up on the morrow.
Arabella when she heard of the man's departure on the following
morning, which she luckily did from her own maid, was for some time
overwhelmed by it. Of course the man was running away from her. There
could be no doubt of it. She had watched him narrowly on the previous
evening, and had seen that her aunt had tried in vain to speak to him.
But she did not on that account give up the game. At any rate they had
not found her out at Mistletoe. That was something. Of course it would
have been infinitely better for her could he have been absolutely
caught and nailed down before he left the house; but that was perhaps
more than she had a right to expect. She could still pursue him; still
write to him;—and at last, if necessary, force her father to do so.
But she must trust now chiefly to her own correspondence.
"He told me, aunt, the last thing last night that he was going,"
she said.
"Why did you not mention it?"
"I thought he would have told you. I saw him speaking to you. He
had received some telegram about a horse. He's the most flighty man
in the world about such things. I am to write to him before I leave
this to-morrow." Then the Duchess did not believe a word of the
engagement. She felt at any rate certain that if there was an
engagement, Lord Rufford did not mean to keep it.
CHAPTER XIV. The Senator is badly
treated
When these great efforts were being made by Arabella Trefoil at
Mistletoe, John Morton was vacillating in an unhappy mood between
London and Bragton. It may be remembered that an offer was made to
him as to the purchase of Chowton Farm. At that time the Mistletoe
party was broken up, and Miss Trefoil was staying with her mother at
the Connop Greens. By the morning post on the next day he received a
note from the Senator in which Mr. Gotobed stated that business
required his presence at Dillsborough and suggested that he should
again become a guest at Bragton for a few days. Morton was so sick of
his own company and so tired of thinking of his own affairs that he
was almost glad to welcome the Senator. At any rate he had no means of
escaping, and the Senator came. The two men were alone at the house
and the Senator was full of his own wrongs as well as those of
Englishmen in general. Mr. Bearside had written to him very
cautiously, but pressing for an immediate remittance of 25 pounds, and
explaining that the great case could not be carried on without that
sum of money. This might have been very well as being open to the idea
that the Senator had the option of either paying the money or of
allowing the great case to be abandoned, but that the attorney in the
last paragraph of his letter intimated that the Senator would be of
course aware that he was liable for the whole cost of the action be it
what it might. He had asked a legal friend in London his opinion, and
the legal friend had seemed to think that perhaps he was liable. What
orders he had given to Bearside he had given without any witness, and
at any rate had already paid a certain sum. The legal friend, when he
heard all that Mr. Gotobed was able to tell him about Goarly, had
advised the Senator to settle with Bearside, taking a due receipt and
having some person with him when he did so. The legal friend had
thought that a small sum of money would suffice. "He went so far as to
suggest," said the Senator with indignant energy, "that if I contested
my liability to the man's charges, the matter would go against me
because I had interfered in such a case on the unpopular side. I
should think that in this great country I should find justice
administered on other terms than that." Morton attempted to explain
to him that his legal friend had not been administering justice but
only giving advice. He had, so Morton told him, undoubtedly taken up
the case of one blackguard, and in urging it had paid his money to
another. He had done so as a foreigner,—loudly proclaiming as his
reason for such action that the man he supported would be unfairly
treated unless he gave his assistance. Of course he could not expect
sympathy. "I want no sympathy," said the Senator;—"I only want
justice." Then the two gentlemen had become a little angry with each
other. Morton was the last man in the world to have been aggressive on
such a matter; but with the Senator it was necessary either to be
prostrate or to fight.
But with Mr. Gotobed such fighting never produced ill blood. It was
the condition of his life, and it must be supposed that he liked it.
On the next morning he did not scruple to ask his host's advice as to
what he had better do, and they agreed to walk across to Goarly's
house and to ascertain from the man himself what he thought or might
have to say about his own case. On their way they passed up the road
leading to Chowton Farm, and at the gate leading into the garden they
found Larry Twentyman standing. Morton shook hands with the young
farmer and introduced the Senator. Larry was still woe-begone though
he endeavoured to shake off his sorrows and to appear to be gay. "I
never see much of the man," he said when they told him that they were
going across to call upon his neighbour, "and I don't know that I want
to."
"He doesn't seem to have much friendship among you all," said the
Senator.
"Quite as much as he deserves, Mr. Gotobed," replied Larry. The
Senator's name had lately become familiar as a household word in
Dillsborough, and was, to tell the truth, odious to such men as Larry
Twentyman. "He's a thundering rascal, and the only place fit for him
in the county is Rufford gaol. He's like to be there soon, I think."
"That's what provokes me," said the Senator. "You think he's a
rascal, Mister."
"I do."
"And because you take upon yourself to think so you'd send him to
Rufford gaol! There was one gentleman somewhere about here told me he
ought to be hung, and because I would not agree with him he got up and
walked away from me at table, carrying his provisions with him.
Another man in the next field to this insulted me because I said I was
going to see Goarly. The clergyman in Dillsborough and the
hotelkeepers were just as hard upon me. But you see, Mister, that what
we want to find out is whether Goarly or the Lord has the right of it
in this particular case."
"I know which has the right without any more finding out," said
Larry. "The shortest way to his house is by the ride through the
wood, Mr. Morton. It takes you out on his land on the other side. But
I don't think you'll find him there. One of my men told me that he had
made himself scarce." Then he added as the two were going on, "I
should like to have just a word with you, Mr. Morton. I've been
thinking of what you said, and I know it was kind. I'll take a month
over it. I won't talk of selling Chowton till the end of
February;—but if I feel about it then as I do now I can't stay."
"That's right, Mr. Twentyman;—and work hard, like a man, through
the month. Go out hunting, and don't allow yourself a moment for
moping."
"I will," said Larry, as he retreated to the house, and then he
gave directions that his horse might be ready for the morrow.
They went in through the wood, and the Senator pointed out the spot
at which Bean the gamekeeper had been so insolent to him. He could
not understand, he said, why he should be treated so roughly, as
these men must be aware that he had nothing to gain himself. "If I
were to go into Mickewa," said Morton, "and interfere there with the
peculiarities of the people as you have done here, it's my belief that
they'd have had the eyes out of my head long before this."
"That only shows that you don't know Mickewa," said the Senator.
"Its people are the most law-abiding population on the face of the
earth."
They passed through the wood, and a couple of fields brought them
to Goarly's house. As they approached it by the back the only live
thing they saw was the old goose which had been so cruelly deprived
of her companions and progeny. The goose was waddling round the dirty
pool, and there were to be seen sundry ugly signs of a poor man's
habitation, but it was not till they had knocked at the window as well
as the door that Mrs. Goarly showed herself. She remembered the
Senator at once and curtseyed to him; and when Morton introduced
himself she curtseyed again to the Squire of Bragton. When Goarly was
asked for she shook her head and declared that she knew nothing about
him. He had been gone, she said, for the last week, and had left no
word as to whither he was going;— nor had he told her why. "Has he
given up his action against Lord Rufford?" asked the Senator.
"Indeed then, sir, I can't tell you a word about it."
"I've been told that he has taken Lord Rufford's money."
"He ain't 'a taken no money as I've seed, sir. I wish he had, for
money's sore wanted here, and if the gen'leman has a mind to be
kind-hearted—" Then she intimated her own readiness to take any
contribution to the good cause which the Senator might be willing to
make at that moment. But the Senator buttoned up his breeches pockets
with stern resolution. Though he still believed Lord Rufford to be
altogether wrong, he was beginning to think that the Goarlys were not
worthy his benevolence. As she came to the door with them and
accompanied them a few yards across the field she again told the
tragic tale of her goose;—but the Senator had not another word to say
to her.
On that same day Morton drove Mr. Gotobed into Dillsborough and
consented to go with him to Mr. Bearside's office. They found the
attorney at home, and before anything was said as to payment they
heard his account of the action. If Goarly had consented to take any
money from Lord Rufford he knew nothing about it. As far as he was
aware the action was going on. Ever so many witnesses must be brought
from a distance who had seen the crop standing and who would have no
bias against the owner,—as would be the case with neighbours, such as
Lawrence Twentyman. Of course it was not easy to oppose such a man as
Lord Rufford and a little money must be spent. Indeed such, he said,
was his interest in the case that he had already gone further than he
ought to have done out of his own pocket. Of course they would be
successful,—that is if the matter were carried on with spirit, and
then the money would all come back again. But just at present a little
money must be spent. "I don't mean to spend it," said the Senator.
"I hope you won't stick to that, Mr. Gotobed."
"But I shall, sir. I understand from your letter that you look to
me for funds."
"Certainly I do, Mr. Gotobed; because you told me to do so."
"I told you nothing of the kind, Mr. Bearside."
"You paid me 15 pounds on account, Mr. Gotobed."
"I paid you 15 pounds certainly."
"And told me that more should be coming as it was wanted. Do you
think I should have gone on for such a man as Goarly,—a fellow
without a shilling,—unless he had some one like you to back him? It
isn't likely. Now, Mr. Morton, I appeal to you."
"I don't suppose that my friend has made himself liable for your
bill because he paid you 15 pounds with the view of assisting
Goarly," said Morton.
"But he said that he meant to go on, Mr. Morton, He said that
plain, and I can swear it. Now, Mr, Gotobed, you just say out like an
honest man whether you didn't give me to understand that you meant to
go on."
"I never employed you or made myself responsible for your bill."
"You authorized me, distinctly,—most distinctly, and I shall stick
to it. When a gentleman comes to a lawyer's office and pays his money
and tells that lawyer as how he means to see the case out,—
explaining his reasons as you did when you said all that against the
landlords and squires and nobility of this here country,—why then
that lawyer has a right to think that that gentleman is his mark."
"I thought you were employed by Mr. Scrobby," said Morton, who had
heard much of the story by this time.
"Then, Mr. Morton, I must make bold to say that you have heard
wrong. I know nothing of Mr. Scrobby and don't want. There ain't
nothing about the poisoning of that fox in this case of ours. Scrobby
and Goarly may have done that, or Scrobby and Goarly may be as
innocent as two babes unborn for aught I know or care. Excuse me, Mr.
Morton, but I have to be on my p's and q's I see. This is a case for
trespass and damage against Lord Rufford in which we ask for 40s. an
acre. Of course there is expenses. There's my own time. I ain't to be
kept here talking to you two gentlemen for nothing, I suppose. Well;
this gentleman comes to me and pays me 15 pounds to go on. I couldn't
have gone on without something. The gentleman saw that plain enough.
And he told me he'd see me through the rest of it"
"I said nothing of the kind, sir."
"Very well. Then we must put it to a jury. May I make bold to ask
whether you are going out of the country all at once?"
"I shall be here for the next two months, at least"
"Happy to hear it, Sir, and have no doubt it will all be settled
before that time—amiable or otherwise. But as I am money out of
pocket I did hope you would have paid me something on account
to-day."
Then Mr. Gotobed made his offer, informing Mr. Bearside that he had
brought his friend, Mr. Morton, with him in order that there might be
a witness. "I could see that, sir, with half an eye," said the
attorney unabashed. He was willing to pay Mr. Bearside a further sum
of ten pounds immediately to be quit of the affair, not because he
thought that any such sum was due, but because he wished to free
himself from further trouble in the matter. Mr. Bearside hinted in a
very cavalier way that 20 pounds might be thought of. A further
payment of 20 pounds would cover the money he was out of pocket. But
this proposition Mr. Gotobed indignantly refused, and then left the
office with his friend. "Wherever there are lawyers there will be
rogues," said the Senator, as soon as he found himself in the street.
"It is a noble profession, that of the law; the finest perhaps that
the work of the world affords; but it gives scope and temptation for
roguery. I do not think, however, that you would find anything in
America so bad as that"
"Why did you go to him without asking any questions?"
"Of whom was I to ask questions? When I took up Goarly's case he
had already put it into this man's hands."
"I am sorry you should be troubled, Mr. Gotobed; but, upon my word,
I cannot say but what it serves you right."
"That is because you are offended with me. I endeavoured to protect
a poor man against a rich man, and that in this country is cause of
offence."
After leaving the attorney's office they called on Mr. Mainwaring
the rector, and found that he knew, or professed to know, a great
deal more about Goarly, than they had learned from Bearside.
According to his story Nickem, who was clerk to Mr. Masters, had
Goarly in safe keeping somewhere. The rector indeed was acquainted
with all the details. Scrobby had purchased the red herrings and
strychnine, and had employed Goarly to walk over by night to Rufford
and fetch them. The poison at that time had been duly packed in the
herrings. Goarly had done this and had, at Scrobby's instigation, laid
the bait down in Dillsborough Wood. Nickem was now at work trying to
learn where Scrobby had purchased the poison, as it was feared that
Goarly's evidence alone would not suffice to convict the man. But if
the strychnine could be traced and the herrings, then there would be
almost a certainty of punishing Scrobby.
"And what about Goarly?" asked the Senator.
"He would escape of course," said the rector. "He would get a
little money and after such an experience would probably become a
good friend to fox-hunting."
"And quite a respectable man!" The rector did not guarantee this
but seemed to think that there would at any rate be promise of
improved conduct. "The place ought to be too hot to hold him!"
exclaimed the Senator indignantly. The rector seemed to think it
possible that he might find it uncomfortable at first, in which case
he would sell the land at a good price to Lord Rufford and every one
concerned would have been benefited by the transaction,— except
Scrobby for whom no one would feel any pity.
The two gentlemen then promised to come and dine with the rector on
the following day. He feared he said that he could not make up a
party as there was, he declared,—nobody in Dillsborough. "I never
knew such a place," said the rector. "Except old Nupper, who is
there? Masters is a very decent fellow himself, but he has got out of
that kind of thing;—and you can't ask a man without asking his wife.
As for clergymen, I'm sick of dining with my own cloth and discussing
the troubles of sermons. There never was such a place as
Dillsborough." Then he whispered a word to the Squire. Was the Squire
unwilling to meet his cousin Reginald Morton? Things were said and
people never knew what was true and what was false. Then John Morton
declared that he would be very happy to meet his cousin.
CHAPTER XV. Mr. Mainwaring's little
Dinner
The company at the rector's house consisted of the Senator, the two
Mortons, Mr. Surtees the curate, and old Doctor Nupper. Mrs.
Mainwaring was not well enough to appear, and the rector therefore
was able to indulge himself in what he called a bachelor party. As a
rule he disliked clergymen, but at the last had been driven to invite
his curate because he thought six a better number than five for
joviality. He began by asking questions as to the Trefoils which were
not very fortunate. Of course he had heard that Morton was to marry
Arabella Trefoil, and though he made no direct allusion to the fact,
as Reginald had done, he spoke in that bland eulogistic tone which
clearly showed his purpose. "They went with you to Lord Rufford's, I
was told."
"Yes;—they did."
"And now they have left the neighbourhood. A very clever young
lady, Miss Trefoil;—and so is her mother, a very clever woman." The
Senator, to whom a sort of appeal was made, nodded his assent. "Lord
Augustus, I believe, is a brother of the Duke of Mayfair?"
"Yes, he is," said Morton. "I am afraid we are going to have frost
again." Then Reginald Morton was sure that the marriage would never
take place.
"The Trefoils are a very distinguished family," continued the
rector. "I remember the present Duke's father when he was in the
cabinet, and knew this man almost intimately when we were at
Christchurch together. I don't think this Duke ever took a prominent
part in politics."
"I don't know that he ever did," said Morton.
"Dear, dear, how tipsy he was once driving back to Oxford with me
in a gig. But he has the reputation of being one of the best
landlords in the country now."
"I wonder what it is that gives a man the reputation of being a
good landlord. Is it foxes?" asked the Senator. The rector
acknowledged with a smile that foxes helped. "Or does it mean that he
lets his land below the value? If so, he certainly does more harm than
good, though he may like the popularity which he is rich enough to
buy."
"It means that he does not exact more than his due," said the
rector indiscreetly.
"When I hear a man so highly praised for common honesty I am of
course led to suppose that dishonesty in his particular trade is the
common rule. The body of English landlords must be exorbitant tyrants
when one among them is so highly eulogised for taking no more than his
own." Luckily at that moment dinner was announced, and the exceptional
character of the Duke of Mayfair was allowed to drop.
Mr. Mainwaring's dinner was very good and his wines were
excellent,—a fact of which Mr. Mainwaring himself was much better
aware than any of his guests. There is a difficulty in the giving of
dinners of which Mr. Mainwaring and some other hosts have become
painfully aware. What service do you do to any one in pouring your
best claret down his throat, when he knows no difference between that
and a much more humble vintage, your best claret which you feel so
sure you cannot replace? Why import canvas-back ducks for appetites
which would be quite as well satisfied with those out of the next
farm-yard? Your soup, which has been a care since yesterday, your
fish, got down with so great trouble from Bond Street on that very
day, your saddle of mutton, in selecting which you have affronted
every butcher in the neighbourhood, are all plainly thrown away! And
yet the hospitable hero who would fain treat his friends as he would
be treated himself can hardly arrange his dinners according to the
palates of his different guests; nor will he like, when strangers sit
at his board, to put nothing better on his table than that cheaper
wine with which needful economy induces him to solace himself when
alone. I,—I who write this,—have myself seen an honoured guest
deluge with the pump my, ah! so hardly earned, most scarce and most
peculiar vintage! There is a pang in such usage which some will not
understand, but which cut Mr. Mainwaring to the very soul. There was
not one among them there who appreciated the fact that the claret on
his dinner table was almost the best that its year had produced. It
was impossible not to say a word on such a subject at such a
moment;—though our rector was not a man who usually lauded his own
viands. "I think you will find that claret what you like, Mr.
Gotobed," he said. "It's a '57 Mouton, and judges say that it is
good."
"Very good indeed," said the Senator. "In the States we haven't got
into the way yet of using dinner clarets." It was as good as a play
to see the rector wince under the ignominious word. "Your great
statesman added much to your national comfort when he took the duty
off the lighter kinds of French wines."
The rector could not stand it. He hated light wines. He hated cheap
things in general. And he hated Gladstone in particular. "Nothing,"
said he, "that the statesman you speak of ever did could make such
wine as that any cheaper. I am sorry, Sir, that you don't perceive
the difference."
"In the matter of wine," said the Senator, "I don't think that I
have happened to come across anything so good in this country as our
old Madeiras. But then, sir, we have been fortunate in our climate.
The English atmosphere is not one in which wine seems to reach its
full perfection." The rector heaved a deep sigh as he looked up to the
ceiling with his hands in his trowsers-pockets. He knew, or thought
that he knew, that no one could ever get a glass of good wine in the
United States. He knew, or thought that he knew, that the best wine in
the world was brought to England. He knew, or thought he knew, that in
no other country was wine so well understood, so diligently sought
for, and so truly enjoyed as in England. And he imagined that it was
less understood and less sought for and less enjoyed in the States
than in any other country. He did not as yet know the Senator well
enough to fight with him at his own table, and could only groan and
moan and look up at the ceiling. Doctor Nupper endeavoured to take
away the sting by smacking his lips, and Reginald Morton, who did not
in truth care a straw what he drank, was moved to pity and declared
the claret to be very fine. "I have nothing to say against it," said
the Senator, who was not in the least abashed.
But when the cloth was drawn, for the rector clung so lovingly to
old habits that he delighted to see his mahogany beneath the wine
glasses,—a more serious subject of dispute arose suddenly, though
perhaps hardly more disagreeable. "The thing in England," said the
Senator, "which I find most difficult to understand, is the matter of
what you call Church patronage."
"If you'll pass half an hour with Mr. Surtees to-morrow morning,
he'll explain it all to you," said the rector, who did not like that
any subject connected with his profession should be mooted after
dinner.
"I should be delighted," said Mr. Surtees.
"Nothing would give me more pleasure," said the Senator; "but what
I mean is this;—the question is, of course, one of paramount
importance."
"No doubt it is," said the deluded rector.
"It is very necessary to get good doctors."
"Well, yes, rather;—considering that all men wish to live." That
observation, of course, came from Doctor Nupper.
"And care is taken in employing a lawyer,—though, after my
experience of yesterday, not always, I should say, so much care as is
needful. The man who wants such aid looks about him and gets the best
doctor he can for his money, or the best lawyer. But here in England
he must take the clergyman provided for him."
"It would be very much better for him if he did," said the rector.
"A clergyman at any rate is supposed to be appointed; and that
clergyman he must pay."
"Not at all," said the rector. "The clergy are paid by the wise
provision of former ages."
"We will let that pass for the present," said the Senator. "There
he is, however he may be paid. How does he get there?" Now it was the
fact that Mr. Mainwaring's living had been bought for him with his
wife's money,—a fact of which Mr. Gotobed was not aware, but which he
would hardly have regarded had he known it. "How does he get there?"
"In the majority of cases the bishop puts him there," said Mr.
Surtees.
"And how is the bishop governed in his choice? As far as I can
learn the stipends are absurdly various, one man getting 100 pounds a
year for working like a horse in a big town, and another 1000 pounds
for living an idle life in a luxurious country house. But the bishop
of course gives the bigger plums to the best men. How is it then that
the big plums find their way so often to the sons and sons-in-law and
nephews of the bishops?"
"Because the bishop has looked after their education and
principles," said the rector.
"And taught them how to choose their wives," said the Senator with
imperturbable gravity.
"I am not the son of a bishop, sir," exclaimed the rector.
"I wish you had been, sir, if it would have done you any good. A
general can't make his son a colonel at the age of twenty-five, or an
admiral his son a first lieutenant, or a judge his a Queen's
Counsellor,—nor can the head of an office promote his to be a chief
secretary. It is only a bishop can do this;—I suppose because a cure
of souls is so much less important than the charge of a ship or the
discipline of twenty or thirty clerks."
"The bishops don't do it," said the rector fiercely.
"Then the statistics which have been put into my hands belie them.
But how is it with those the bishops don't appoint? There seems to me
to be such a complication of absurdities as to defy explanation."
"I think I could explain them all," said Mr. Surtees mildly.
"If you can do so satisfactorily, I shall be very glad to hear it,"
continued the Senator, who seemed in truth to be glad to hear no one
but himself. "A lad of one-and-twenty learns his lessons so well that
he has to be rewarded at his college, and a part of his reward
consists in his having a parish entrusted to him when he is forty
years old, to which he can maintain his right whether he be in any way
trained for such work or no. Is that true?"
"His collegiate education is the best training he can have," said
the rector.
"I came across a young fellow the other day," continued the
Senator, "in a very nice house, with 700 pounds a year, and learned
that he had inherited the living because he was his father's second
son. Some poor clergyman had been keeping it ready for him for the
last fifteen years and had to turn out as soon as this young spark
could be made a clergyman."
"It was his father's property," said the rector, "and the poor man
had had great kindness shown him for those fifteen years"
"Exactly;—his father's property! And this is what you call a cure
of souls! And another man had absolutely had his living bought for
him by his uncle, just as he might have bought him a farm. He
couldn't have bought him the command of a regiment or a small
judgeship. In those matters you require capacity. It is only when you
deal with the Church that you throw to the winds all ideas of fitness.
`Sir,' or `Madam,' or perhaps, `my little dear, you are bound to come
to your places in Church and hear me expound the Word of God because I
have paid a heavy sum of money for the privilege of teaching you, at
the moderate salary of 600 pounds a year!'"
Mr. Surtees sat aghast, with his mouth open, and knew not how to
say a word. Doctor Nupper rubbed his red nose. Reginald Morton
attempted some suggestion about the wine which fell wretchedly flat.
John Morton ventured to tell his friend that he did not understand the
subject. "I shall be most happy to be instructed," said the Senator.
"Understand it!" said the rector, almost rising in his chair to
rebuke the insolence of his guest—"He understands nothing about it,
and yet he ventures to fall foul with unmeasured terms on an
establishment which has been brought to its present condition by the
fostering care of perhaps the most pious set of divines that ever
lived, and which has produced results with which those of no other
Church can compare!"
"Have I represented anything untruly?" asked the Senator.
"A great deal, sir."
"Only put me right, and no man will recall his words more readily.
Is it not the case that livings in the Church of England can be
bought and sold?"
"The matter is one, Sir," said the rector, "which cannot be
discussed in this manner. There are two clergymen present to whom
such language is distasteful; as it is also I hope to the others who
are all members of the Church of England. Perhaps you will allow me to
request that the subject may be changed." After that conversation
flagged and the evening was by no means joyous. The rector certainly
regretted that his '57 claret should have been expended on such a man.
"I don't think," said he when John Morton had taken the Senator away,
"that in my whole life before I ever met such a brute as that American
Senator."
CHAPTER XVI. Persecution
There was great consternation in the attorney's house after the
writing of the letter to Lawrence Twentyman. For twenty-four hours
Mrs. Masters did not speak to Mary, not at all intending to let her
sin pass with such moderate punishment as that, but thinking during
that period that as she might perhaps induce Larry to ignore the
letter and look upon it as though it were not written, it would be
best to say nothing till the time should come in which the lover
might again urge his suit. But when she found on the evening of the
second day that Larry did not come near the place she could control
herself no longer, and accused her step-daughter of ruining herself,
her father, and the whole family. "That is very unfair, mamma," Mary
said. "I have done nothing. I have only not done that which nobody had
a right to ask me to do."
"Right indeed! And who are you with your rights? A decent
well-behaved young man with five or six hundred a year has no right
to ask you to be his wife! All this comes of you staying with an old
woman with a handle to her name."
It was in vain that Mary endeavoured to explain that she had not
alluded to Larry when she declared that no one had a right to ask her
to do it. She had, she said, always thanked him for his good opinion
of her, and had spoken well of him whenever his name was mentioned.
But it was a matter on which a young woman was entitled to judge for
herself, and no one had a right to scold her because she could not
love him. Mrs. Masters hated such arguments, despised this rodomontade
about love, and would have crushed the girl into obedience could it
have been possible. "You are an idiot," she said, "an ungrateful
idiot; and unless you think better of it you'll repent your folly to
your dying day. Who do you think is to come running after a moping
slut like you?" Then Mary gathered herself up and left the room,
feeling that she could not live in the house if she were to be called
a slut.
Soon after this Larry came to the attorney and got him to come out
into the street and to walk with him round the churchyard. It was the
spot in Dillsborough in which they would most certainly be left
undisturbed. This took place on the day before his proposition for
the sale of Chowton Farm. When he got the attorney into the
churchyard he took out Mary's letter and in speechless agony handed
it to the attorney. "I saw it before it went," said Masters putting
it back with his hand:
"I suppose she means it?" asked Larry.
"I can't say to you but what she does, Twentyman. As far as I know
her she isn't a girl that would ever say anything that she didn't
mean."
"I was sure of that. When I got it and read it, it was just as
though some one had come behind me and hit me over the head with a
wheel-spoke. I couldn't have ate a morsel of breakfast if I knew I
wasn't to see another bit of food for four-and-twenty hours."
"I knew you would feel it, Larry."
"Feel it! Till it came to this I didn't think of myself but what I
had more strength. It has knocked me about till I feel all over like
drinking."
"Don't do that, Larry."
"I won't answer for myself what I'll do. A man sets his heart on a
thing,—just on one thing,—and has grit enough in him to be sure of
himself that if he can get that nothing shall knock him over. When
that thoroughbred mare of mine slipped her foal who can say I ever
whimpered. When I got pleuro among the cattle I killed a'most the lot
of 'em out of hand, and never laid awake a night about it. But I've
got it so heavy this time I can't stand it. You don't think I have any
chance, Mr. Masters?"
"You can try of course. You're welcome to the house."
"But what do you think? You must know her."
"Girls do change their minds."
"But she isn't like other girls. Is she now? I come to you because
I sometimes think Mrs. Masters is a little hard on her. Mrs. Masters
is about the best friend I have. There isn't anybody more on my side
than she is. But I feel sure of this;—Mary will never be drove."
"I don't think she will, Larry."
"She's got a will of her own as well as another."
"No man alive ever had a better daughter."
"I'm sure of that, Mr. Masters; and no man alive 'll ever have a
better wife. But she won't be drove. I might ask her again, you
think?"
"You certainly have my leave."
"But would it be any good? I'd rather cut my throat and have done
with it than go about teasing her because her parents let me come to
her." Then there was a pause during which they walked on, the attorney
feeling that he had nothing more to say. "What I want to know," said
Larry, "is this. Is there anybody else?"
That was just the point on which the attorney himself was
perplexed. He had asked Mary that question, and her silence had
assured him that it was so. Then he had suggested to her the name of
the only probable suitor that occurred to him; and she had repelled
the idea in a manner that had convinced him at once. There was some
one, but Mr. Surtees was not the man. There was some one, he was sure,
but he had not been able to cross-examine her on the subject. He had,
since that, cudgelled his brain to think who that some one might be,
but had not succeeded in suggesting a name even to himself. That of
Reginald Morton, who hardly ever came to the house and whom he
regarded as a silent, severe, unapproachable man, did not come into
his mind. Among the young ladies of Dillsborough Reginald Morton was
never regarded as even a possible lover. And yet there was assuredly
some one. "If there is any one else I think you ought to tell me,"
continued Larry.
"It is quite possible."
"Young Surtees, I suppose."
"I do not say there is anybody; but if there be anybody I do not
think it is Surtees."
"Who else then?"
"I cannot say, Larry. I know nothing about it."
"But there is some one?"
"I do not say so. You ask me and I tell you all I know."
Again they walked round the churchyard in silence and the attorney
began to be anxious that the interview might be over. He hardly liked
to be interrogated about the state of his daughter's heart, and yet he
had felt himself bound to tell what he knew to the man who had in all
respects behaved well to him. When they had returned for the third or
fourth time to the gate by which they had entered Larry spoke again.
"I suppose I may as well give it up."
"What can I say?"
"You have been fair enough, Mr. Masters. And so has she. And so has
everybody. I shall just get away as quick as I can, and go and hang
myself. I feel above bothering her any more. When she sat down to
write a letter like that she must have been in earnest"
"She certainly was in earnest, Larry."
"What's the use of going on after that? Only it is so hard for a
fellow to feel that everything is gone. It is just as though the
house was burnt down, or I was to wake in the morning and find that
the land didn't belong to me."
"Not so bad as that, Larry."
"Not so bad, Mr. Masters! Then you don't know what it is I'm
feeling. I'd let his lordship or Squire Morton have it all, and go in
upon it as a tenant at 30s. an acre, so that I could take her along
with me. I would, and sell the horses and set to and work in my
shirt-sleeves. A man could stand that. Nobody wouldn't laugh at me
then. But there's an emptiness now here that makes me sick all
through, as though I hadn't got stomach left for anything." Then poor
Larry put his hand upon his heart and hid his face upon the churchyard
wall. The attorney made some attempt to say a kind word to him, and
then, leaving him there, slowly made his way back to his office.
We already know what first step Larry took with the intention of
running away from his cares. In the house at Dillsborough things were
almost as bad as they were with him. Over and over again Mrs. Masters
told her husband that it was all his fault, and that if he had torn
the letter when it was showed to him, everything would have been right
by the end of the two months. This he bore with what equanimity he
could, shutting himself up very much in his office, occasionally
escaping for a quarter of an hour of ease to his friends at the Bush,
and eating his meals in silence. But when he became aware that his
girl was being treated with cruelty,—that she was never spoken to by
her stepmother without harsh words, and that her sisters were
encouraged to be disdainful to her, then his heart rose within him and
he rebelled. He declared aloud that Mary should not be persecuted, and
if this kind of thing were continued he would defend his girl let the
consequences be what they might.
"What are you going to defend her against?" asked his wife.
"I won't have her ill-used because she refuses to marry at your
bidding."
"Bah! You know as much how to manage a girl as though you were an
old maid yourself. Cocker her up and make her think that nothing is
good enough for her! Break her spirit, and make her come round, and
teach her to know what it is to have an honest man's house offered to
her. If she don't take Larry Twentyman's she's like to have none of
her own before long." But Mr. Masters would not assent to this plan of
breaking his girl's spirit, and so there was continual war in the
place and every one there was miserable.
Mary herself was so unhappy that she convinced herself that it was
necessary that some change should be made. Then she remembered Lady
Ushant's offer of a home, and not only the offer, but the old lady's
assurance that to herself such an arrangement, if possible, would be
very comfortable. She did not suggest to herself that she would leave
her father's home for ever and always; but it might be that an absence
of some months might relieve the absolute misery of their present mode
of living. The effect on her father was so sad that she was almost
driven to regret that he should have taken her own part. Her
stepmother was not a bad woman; nor did Mary even now think her to be
had. She was a hardworking, painstaking wife, with a good general idea
of justice. In the division of puddings and pies and other material
comforts of the household she would deal evenly between her own
children and her step-daughter. She had not desired to send Mary away
to an inadequate home, or with a worthless husband. But when the
proper home and the proper man were there she was prepared to use any
amount of hardship to secure these good things to the family
generally. This hardship Mary could not endure, nor could Mary's
father on her behalf, and therefore Mary prepared a letter to Lady
Ushant in which, at great length, she told her old friend the whole
story. She spoke as tenderly as was possible of all concerned, but
declared that her stepmother's feelings on the subject were so strong
that every one in the house was made wretched. Under these
circumstances,—for her father's sake if only for that,—she thought
herself bound to leave the house. "It is quite impossible," she said,
"that I should do as they wish me. That is a matter on which a young
woman must judge for herself. If you could have me for a few months it
would perhaps all pass by. I should not dare to ask this but for what
you said yourself; and, dear Lady Ushant, pray remember that I do not
want to be idle. There are a great many things I can do; and though I
know that nothing can pay for kindness, I might perhaps be able not
to be a burden." Then she added in a postscript—"Papa is everything
that is kind;—but then all this makes him so miserable!"
When she had kept the letter by her for a day she showed it to her
father, and by his consent it was sent. After much consultation it
was agreed between them that nothing should be said about it to Mrs.
Masters till the answer should come; and that, should the answer be
favourable, the plan should be carved out in spite of any domestic
opposition. In this letter Mary told as accurately as she could the
whole story of Larry's courtship, and was very clear in declaring that
under no possible circumstances could she encourage any hope. But of
course she said not a word as to any other man or as to any love on
her side. "Have you told her everything?" said her father as he closed
the letter.
"Yes, papa;—everything that there is to be told." Then there arose
within his own bosom an immense desire to know that secret, so that
if possible he might do something to relieve her pain;—but he could
not bring himself to ask further questions.
Lady Ushant on receiving the letter much doubted what she ought to
do. She acknowledged at once Mary's right to appeal to her; and
assured herself that the girl's presence would be a comfort and a
happiness to herself. If Mary were quite alone in the world Lady
Ushant would have been at once prepared to give her a home. But she
doubted as to the propriety of taking the girl from her own family.
She doubted even whether it would not be better that Mary should be
left within the influence of Larry Twentyman's charms. A settlement,
an income, and assured comforts for life are very serious things to
all people who have reached Lady Ushant's age. And then she had a
doubt within her own mind whether Mary might not be debarred from
accepting this young man by some unfortunate preference for Reginald
Morton. She had seen them together and had suspected something of the
truth before it had glimmered before the eyes of any one in
Dillsborough. Had Reginald been so inclined Lady Morton would have
been very glad to see him marry Mary Masters. For both their sakes she
would have preferred such a match to one with the owner of Chowton
Farm. But she did not think that Reginald himself was that way minded,
and she fancied that poor Mary might be throwing away her prosperity
in life were she to wait for Reginald's love. Larry Twentyman was at
any rate sure;—and perhaps it might be unwise to separate the girl
from her lover.
In her doubt she determined to refer the case to Reginald himself,
and instead of writing to Mary she wrote to him. She did not send him
Mary's letter,—which would, she felt, have been a breach of faith;
nor did she mention the name of Larry Twentyman. But she told him that
Mary had proposed to come to Cheltenham for a long visit because there
were disturbances at home,—which disturbances had arisen from her
rejection of a certain suitor. Lady Ushant said a great deal as to the
inexpediency of fostering family quarrels, and suggested that Mary
might perhaps have been a little impetuous. The presence of this lover
could hardly do her much injury. These were not days in which young
women were forced to marry men. What did he, Reginald Morton, think
about it? He was to remember that as far as she herself was concerned,
she dearly loved Mary Masters and would be delighted to have her at
Cheltenham; and, so remembering, he was to see the attorney, and Mary
herself, and if necessary Mrs. Masters;—and then to report his
opinion to Cheltenham.
Then, fearing that her nephew might be away for a day or two, or
that he might not be able to perform his commission instantly, and
thinking that Mary might be unhappy if she received no immediate
reply to such a request as hers had been, Lady Ushant by the same
post wrote to her young friend as follows;—
Dear Mary,
Reginald will go over and see your father about your proposition.
As far as I myself am concerned nothing would give me so much
pleasure. This is quite sincere. But the matter is in other respects
very important. Of course I have kept your letter all to myself, and
in writing to Reginald I have mentioned no names.
Your affectionate friend, Margaret Ushant.
CHAPTER XVII. "Particularly proud
of you"
Arabella Trefoil left her uncle's mansion on the day after her
lover's departure, certainly not in triumph, but with somewhat
recovered spirits. When she first heard that Lord Rufford was
gone,—that he had fled away as it were in the middle of the night
without saying a word to her, without a syllable to make good the
slight assurances of his love that had been given to her in the post
carriage, she felt that she was deserted and betrayed. And when she
found herself altogether neglected on the following day, and that the
slightly valuable impression which she had made on her aunt was
apparently gone, she did for half an hour think in earnest of the
Paragon and Patagonia. But after a while she called to mind all that
she knew of great efforts successfully made in opposition to almost
overwhelming difficulties. She had heard of forlorn hopes, and perhaps
in her young days had read something of Caesar still clinging to his
Commentaries as he struggled in the waves. This was her forlorn hope,
and she would be as brave as any soldier of them all. Lord Rufford's
embraces were her Commentaries, and let the winds blow and the waves
roll as they might she would still cling to them. After lunch she
spoke to her aunt with great courage,—as the Duchess thought with
great effrontery. "My uncle wouldn't speak to Lord Rufford before he
went?"
"How could he speak to a man who ran away from his house in that
way?"
"The running away, as you call it, aunt, did not take place till
two days after I had told you all about it. I thought he would have
done as much as that for his brother's daughter."
"I don't believe in it at all," said the Duchess sternly.
"Don't believe in what, aunt? You don't mean to say that you don't
believe that Lord Rufford has asked me to be his wife!" Then she
paused, but the Duchess absolutely lacked the courage to express her
conviction again. "I don't suppose it signifies much," continued
Arabella, "but of course it would have been something to me that Lord
Rufford should have known that the Duke was anxious for my welfare. He
was quite prepared to have assured my uncle of his intentions."
"Then why didn't he speak himself?"
"Because the Duke is not my father. Really, aunt, when I hear you
talk of his running away I do feel it to be unkind. As if we didn't
all know that a man like that goes and comes as he pleases. It was
just before dinner that he got the message, and was he to run round
and wish everybody good-bye like a schoolgirl going to bed?"
The Duchess was almost certain that no message had come, and from
various little things which she had observed and from tidings which
had reached her, very much doubted whether Arabella had known
anything of his intended going. She too had a maid of her own who on
occasions could bring information. But she had nothing further to say
on the subject. If Arabella should ever become Lady Rufford she would
of course among other visitors be occasionally received at Mistletoe.
She could never be a favourite, but things would to a certain degree
have rectified themselves. But if, as the Duchess expected, no such
marriage took place, then this ill-conducted niece should never be
admitted within the house again.
Later on in the afternoon, some hours after it became dusk,
Arabella contrived to meet her aunt in the hall with a letter in her
hand, and asked where the letter-box was. She knew where to deposit
her letters as well as did the Duchess herself; but she desired an
opportunity of proclaiming what she had done. "I am writing to Lord
Rufford. Perhaps as I am in your house I ought to tell you what I have
done."
"The letter-box is in the billiard-room, close to the door," said
the Duchess passing on. Then she added as she went, "The post for
to-day has gone already."
"His Lordship will have to wait a day for his letter. I dare say it
won't break his heart," said Arabella, as she turned away to the
billiard-room.
All this had been planned; and, moreover, she had so written her
letter that if her magnificent aunt should condescend to tamper with
it all that was in it should seem to corroborate her own story. The
Duchess would have considered herself disgraced if ever she had done
such a thing;—but the niece of the Duchess did not quite understand
that this would be so. The letter was as follows:
Mistletoe, 19th Jany. 1875.
Dearest R.,
Your going off like that was, after all, very horrid. My aunt
thinks that you were running away from me. I think that you were
running away from her. Which was true? In real earnest I don't for a
moment think that either I or the Duchess had anything to do with it,
and that you did go because some horrid man wrote and asked you. I
know you don't like being bound by any of the conventionalities. I
hope there is such a word, and that if not, you'll understand it just
the same.
Oh, Peltry,—and oh, Jack,—and oh, that road back to Stamford! I
am so stiff that I can't sit upright, and everybody is cross to me,
and everything is uncomfortable. What horrible things women are!
There isn't one here, not even old Lady Rumpus, who hasn't an
unmarried daughter left in the world, who isn't jealous of me,
because—because—. I must leave you to guess why they all hate me
so! And I'm sure if you had given Jack to any other woman I should
hate her, though you may give every horse you have to any man that
you please. I wonder whether I shall have another day's hunting
before it is all over. I suppose not. It was almost by a miracle that
we managed yesterday—only fancy—yesterday! It seems to be an age
ago!
Pray, pray, pray write to me at once,—to the Connop Greens, so
that I may get a nice, soft, pleasant word directly I get among those
nasty, hard, unpleasant people. They have lots of money, and plenty of
furniture, and I dare say the best things to eat and drink in the
world,—but nothing else. There will be no Jack; and if there were,
alas, alas, no one to show me the way to ride him.
I start to-morrow, and as far as I understand, shall have to make
my way into Hampshire all by myself, with only such security as my
maid can give me. I shall make her go in the same carriage and shall
have the gratification of looking at her all the way. I suppose I
ought not to say that I will shut my eyes and try to think that
somebody else is there.
Good-bye dear, dear, dear R. I shall be dying for a letter from
you. Yours ever with all my heart. A.
P.S. I shall write you such a serious epistle when I get to the
Greens.
This was not such a letter as she thought that her aunt would
approve; but it was, she fancied, such as the Duchess would believe
that she would write to her lover. And if it were allowed to go on
its way it would make Lord Rufford feel that she was neither alarmed
nor displeased by the suddenness of his departure. But it was not
expected to do much good. It might produce some short, joking,
half-affectionate reply, but would not draw from him that serious word
which was so necessary for the success of her scheme. Therefore she
had told him that she intended to prepare a serious missile. Should
this pleasant little message of love miscarry, the serious missile
would still be sent, and the miscarriage would occasion no harm.
But then further plans were necessary. It might be that Lord
Rufford would take no notice of the serious missile,—which she
thought very probable. Or it might be that he would send back a
serious reply, in which he would calmly explain to her that she had
unfortunately mistaken his sentiments;—which she believed would be a
stretch of manhood beyond his reach. But in either case she would be
prepared with the course which she would follow. In the first she
would begin by forcing her father to write to him a letter which she
herself would dictate. In the second she would set the whole family at
him as far as the family were within her reach. With her cousin Lord
Mistletoe, who was only two years older than herself, she had always
held pleasant relations. They had been children together, and as they
had grown up the young Lord had liked his pretty cousin. Latterly they
had seen each other but rarely, and therefore the feeling still
remained. She would tell Lord Mistletoe her whole story,—that is the
story as she would please to tell it,—and implore his aid. Her father
should be driven to demand from Lord Rufford an execution of his
alleged promises. She herself would write such a letter to the Duke as
an uncle should be unable not to notice. She would move heaven and
earth as to her wrongs. She thought that if her friends would stick
to her, Lord Rufford would be weak as water in their hands. But it
must be all done immediately,—so that if everything failed she might
be ready to start to Patagonia some time in April. When she looked
back and remembered that it was hardly more than two months since she
had been taken to Rufford Hall by Mr. Morton she could not accuse
herself of having lost any time.
In London she met her mother,—as to which meeting there had been
some doubt,—and underwent the tortures of a close examination. She
had thought it prudent on this occasion to tell her mother something,
but not to tell anything quite truly. "He has proposed to me," she
said.
"He has!" said Lady Augustus, holding up her hands almost in awe.
"Is there anything so wonderful in that?"
"Then it is all arranged. Does the Duke know it?"
"It is not all arranged by any means, and the Duke does know it.
Now, mamma, after that I must decline to answer any more questions. I
have done this all myself, and I mean to continue it in the same way."
"Did he speak to the Duke? You will tell me that."
"I will tell you nothing."
"You will drive me mad, Arabella."
"That will be better than your driving me mad just at present. You
ought to feel that I have a great deal to think of."
"And have not I?"
"You can't help me;—not at present."
"But he did propose,—in absolute words?"
"Mamma, what a goose you are! Do you suppose that men do it all now
just as it is done in books? 'Miss Arabella Trefoil, will you do me
the honour to become my wife?' Do you think that Lord Rufford would
ask the question in that way?"
"It is a very good way."
"Any way is a good way that answers the purpose. He has proposed,
and I mean to make him stick to it"
"You doubt then?"
"Mamma, you are so silly! Do you not know what such a man is well
enough to be sure that he'll change his mind half-a-dozen times if he
can? I don't mean to let him; and now, after that, I won't say another
word."
"I have got a letter here from Mr. Short saying that something must
be fixed about Mr. Morton." Mr. Short was the lawyer who had been
instructed to prepare the settlements.
"Mr. Short may do whatever he likes," said Arabella. There were
very hot words between them that night in London, but the mother
could obtain no further information from her daughter.
That serious epistle had been commenced even before Arabella had
left Mistletoe; but the composition was one which required great
care, and it was not completed and copied and recopied till she had
been two days in Hampshire. Not even when it was finished did she say
a word to her mother about it. She had doubted much as to the phrases
which in such an emergency she ought to use, but she thought it safer
to trust to herself than to her mother. In writing such a letter as
that posted at Mistletoe she believed herself to be happy. She could
write it quickly, and understood that she could convey to her
correspondent some sense of her assumed mood. But her serious letter
would, she feared, be stiff and repulsive. Whether her fears were
right the reader shall judge,—for the letter when written was as
follows:
Marygold Place, Basingstoke, Saturday.
My Dear Lord Rufford,
You will I suppose have got the letter that I wrote before I left
Mistletoe, and which I directed to Mr. Surbiton's. There was not much
in it,—except a word or two as to your going and as to my desolation,
and just a reminiscence of the hunting. There was no reproach that you
should have left me without any farewell, or that you should have gone
so suddenly, after saying so much, without saying more. I wanted you
to feel that you had made me very happy, and not to feel that your
departure in such a way had robbed me of part of the happiness.
It was a little bad of you, because it did of course leave me to
the hardness of my aunt; and because all the other women there would
of course follow her. She had inquired about our journey home, that
dear journey home, and I had of course told her,—well I had better
say it out at once; I told her that we were engaged. You, I am sure,
will think that the truth was best. She wanted to know why you did not
go to the Duke. I told her that the Duke was not my father; but that
as far as I was concerned the Duke might speak to you or not as he
pleased. I had nothing to conceal. I am very glad he did not, because
he is pompous, and you would have been bored. If there is one thing I
desire more than another it is that nothing belonging to me shall ever
be a bore to you. I hope I may never stand in the way of anything that
will gratify you,—as I said when you lit that cigar. You will have
forgotten, I dare say. But, dear Rufford,—dearest; I may say that,
mayn't I?—say something, or do something to make me satisfied. You
know what I mean;—don't you? It isn't that I am a bit afraid myself.
I don't think so little of myself, or so badly of you. But I don't
like other women to look at me as though I ought not to be proud of
anything. I am proud of everything; particularly proud of you,—and
of Jack.
Now there is my serious epistle, and I am sure that you will answer
it like a dear, good, kind-hearted, loving-lover. I won't be afraid
of writing the word, nor of saying that I love you with all my heart,
and that I am always your own
Arabella.
She kept the letter till the Sunday, thinking that she might have
an answer to that written from Mistletoe, and that his reply might
alter its tone, or induce her to put it aside altogether; but when on
Sunday morning none came, her own was sent. The word in it which
frightened herself was the word "engaged." She tried various other
phrases, but declared to herself at last that it was useless to "beat
about the bush." He must know the light in which she was pleased to
regard those passages of love which she had permitted so that there
might be no mistake. Whether the letter would be to his liking or not,
it must be of such a nature that it would certainly draw from him an
answer on which she could act. She herself did not like the letter;
but, considering her difficulties, we may own that it was not much
amiss.
CHAPTER XVIII. Lord Rufford makes
up his Mind
As it happened, Lord Rufford got the two letters together, the
cause of which was as follows.
When he ran away from Mistletoe, as he certainly did, he had
thought much about that journey home in the carriage, and was quite
aware that he had made an ass of himself. As he sat at dinner on that
day at Mistletoe his neighbour had said some word to him in joke as to
his attachment to Miss Trefoil, and after the ladies had left the room
another neighbour of the other sex had hoped that he had had a
pleasant time on the road. Again, in the drawing-room it had seemed to
him that he was observed. He could not refrain from saying a few words
to Arabella as she lay on the sofa. Not to do so after what had
occurred would have been in itself peculiar. But when he did so, some
other man who was near her made way for him, as though she were
acknowledged to be altogether his property. And then the Duchess had
striven to catch him, and lead him into special conversation. When
this attempt was made he decided that he must at once retreat,—or
else make up his mind to marry the young lady. And therefore he
retreated.
He breakfasted that morning at the inn at Stamford, and as he
smoked his cigar afterwards, he positively resolved that he would
under no circumstances marry Arabella Trefoil. He was being hunted
and run down, and, with the instinct of all animals that are hunted,
he prepared himself for escape. It might be said, no doubt would be
said, that he behaved badly. That would be said because it would not
be open to him to tell the truth. The lady in such a case can always
tell her story, with what exaggeration she may please to give, and can
complain. The man never can do so. When inquired into, he cannot say
that he has been pursued. He cannot tell her friends that she began
it, and in point of fact did it all. "She would fall into my arms; she
would embrace me; she persisted in asking me whether I loved her!"
Though a man have to be shot for it, or kicked for it, or even though
he have to endure perpetual scorn for it, he cannot say that, let it
be ever so true. And yet is a man to be forced into a marriage which
he despises? He would not be forced into the marriage,—and the sooner
he retreated the less would be the metaphorical shooting and kicking
and the real scorn. He must get out of it as best he could;—but that
he would get out of it he was quite determined.
That afternoon he reached Mr. Surbiton's house, as did also Captain
Battersby, and his horses, grooms, and other belongings. When there
he received a lot of letters, and among others one from Mr. Runciman,
of the Bush, inquiring as to a certain hiring of rooms and preparation
for a dinner or dinners which had been spoken of in reference to a
final shooting decreed to take place in the neighbourhood of
Dillsborough in the last week of January. Such things were often
planned by Lord Rufford, and afterwards forgotten or neglected. When
he declared his purpose to Runciman, he had not intended to go to
Mistletoe, nor to stay so long with his friend Surbiton. But now he
almost thought that it would be better for him to be back at Rufford
Hall, where at present his sister was staying with her husband, Sir
George Penwether.
In the evening of the second or third day his old friend Tom
Surbiton said a few words to him which had the effect of sending him
back to Rufford. They had sat out the rest of the men who formed the
party and were alone in the smoking-room. "So you're going to marry
Miss Trefoil," said Tom Surbiton, who perhaps of all his friends was
the most intimate.
"Who says so?"
"I am saying so at present"
"You are not saying it on your own authority. You have never seen
me and Miss Trefoil in a room together."
"Everybody says so. of course such a thing cannot be arranged
without being talked about"
"It has not been arranged."
"If you don't mean to have it arranged, you had better look to it.
I am speaking in earnest, Rufford. I am not going to give up
authorities. Indeed if I did I might give up everybody. The very
servants suppose that they know it, and there isn't a groom or
horseboy about who isn't in his heart congratulating the young lady
on her promotion."
"I'll tell you what it is, Tom."
"Well;—what is it?"
"If this had come from any other man than yourself I should quarrel
with him. I am not engaged to the young lady, nor have I done
anything to warrant anybody in saying so."
"Then I may contradict it."
"I don't want you either to contradict it or affirm it. It would be
an impertinence to the young lady if I were to instruct any one to
contradict such a report. But as a fact I am not engaged to marry
Miss Trefoil, nor is there the slightest chance that I ever shall be
so engaged." So saying he took up his candlestick and walked off.
Early on the next morning he saw his friend and made some sort of
laughing apology for his heat on the previous evening. "It is so d—
hard when these kind of things are said because a man has lent a young
lady a horse. However, Tom, between you and me the thing is a lie."
"I am very glad to hear it," said Tom.
"And now I want you to come over to Rufford on the twenty-eighth."
Then he explained the details of his proposed party, and got his
friend to promise that he would come. He also made it understood that
he was going home at once. There were a hundred things, he said, which
made it necessary. So the horses and grooms and servant and
portmanteaus were again made to move, and Lord Rufford left his friend
on that day and went up to London on his road to Rufford.
He was certainly disturbed in his mind, foreseeing that there might
be much difficulty in his way. He remembered with fair accuracy all
that had occurred during the journey from Stamford to Mistletoe. He
felt assured that up to that time he had said nothing which could be
taken to mean a real declaration of love. All that at Rufford had been
nothing. He had never said a word which could justify the girl in a
hope. In the carriage she had asked him whether he loved her, and he
had said that he did. He had also declared that he would do anything
in his power to make her happy. Was a man to be bound to marry a girl
because of such a scene as that? There was, however, nothing for him
to do except to keep out of the girl's way. If she took any steps,
then he must act. But as he thought of it, he swore to himself that
nothing should induce him to marry her.
He remained a couple of days in town and reached Rufford Hall on
the Monday, just a week from the day of that fatal meet at Peltry.
There he found Sir George and his sister and Miss Penge, and spent
his first evening in quiet. On the Tuesday he hunted with the U.R.U.,
and made his arrangements with Runciman. He invited Hampton to shoot
with him. Surbiton and Battersby were coming, and his brother-in-law.
Not wishing to have less than six guns he asked Hampton how he could
make up his party. "Morton doesn't shoot," he said, "and is as stiff
as a post." Then he was told that John Morton was supposed to be very
ill at Bragton. "I'm sick of both the Botseys," continued the lord,
thinking more of his party than of Mr. Morton's health. "Purefoy is
still sulky with me because he killed poor old Caneback." Then Hampton
suggested that if he would ask Lawrence Twentyman it might be the
means of saving that unfortunate young man's life. The story of his
unrequited love was known to every one at Dillsborough and it was now
told to Lord Rufford. "He is not half a bad fellow," said Hampton,
"and quite as much like a gentleman as either of the Botseys."
"I shall be delighted to save the life of so good a man on such
easy terms," said the lord. Then and there, with a pencil, on the
back of an old letter, he wrote a line to Larry asking him to shoot
on next Saturday and to dine with him afterwards at the Bush.
That evening on his return home he found both the letters from
Arabella. As it happened he read them in the order in which they had
been written, first the laughing letter, and then the one that was
declared to be serious. The earlier of the two did not annoy him much.
It contained hardly more than those former letters which had induced
him to go to Mistletoe. But the second letter opened up her entire
strategy. She had told the Duchess that she was engaged to him, and
the Duchess of course would have told the Duke. And now she wrote to
him asking him to acknowledge the engagement in black and white. The
first letter he might have ignored. He might have left it unanswered
without gross misconduct. But the second letter, which she herself had
declared to be a serious epistle, was one which he could not neglect.
Now had come his difficulty. What must he do? How should he answer it?
Was it imperative on him to write the words with his own hand? Would
it be possible that he should get his sister to undertake the
commission? He said nothing about it to any one for four and twenty
hours; but he passed those hours in much discomfort. It did seem so
hard to him that because he had been forced to carry a lady home from
hunting in a post chaise, that he should be driven to such straits as
this? The girl was evidently prepared to make a fight of it. There
would be the Duke and the Duchess and that prig Mistletoe, and that
idle ass Lord Augustus, and that venomous old woman her mother, all at
him. He almost doubted whether a shooting excursion in Central Africa
or a visit to the Pampas would not be the best thing for him. But
still, though he should resolve to pass five years among the Andes, he
must answer the lady's letter before he went.
Then he made up his mind that he would tell everything to his
brother-in-law, as far as everything can be told in such a matter.
Sir George was near fifty, full fifteen years older than his wife,
who was again older than her brother. He was a man of moderate
wealth, very much respected, and supposed to be possessed of almost
infinite wisdom. He was one of those few human beings who seem never
to make a mistake. Whatever he put his hand to came out well;—and yet
everybody liked him. His brother-in-law was a little afraid of him,
but yet was always glad to see him. He kept an excellent house in
London, but having no country house of his own passed much of his time
at Rufford Hall when the owner was not there. In spite of the young
peer's numerous faults Sir George was much attached to him, and always
ready to help him in his difficulties. "Penwether," said the Lord, "I
have got myself into an awful scrape."
"I am sorry to hear it. A woman, I suppose,"
"Oh, yes. I never gamble, and therefore no other scrape can be
awful. A young lady wants to marry me"
"That is not unnatural."
"But I am quite determined, let the result be what it may, that I
won't marry the young lady."
"That will be unfortunate for her, and the more so if she has a
right to expect it. Is the young lady Miss Trefoil?"
"I did not mean to mention any name, till I was sure it might be
necessary. But it is Miss Trefoil."
"Eleanor had told me something of it"
"Eleanor knows nothing about this, and I do not ask you to tell
her. The young lady was here with her mother,—and for the matter of
that with a gentleman to whom she was certainly engaged; but nothing
particular occurred here. That unfortunate ball was going on when poor
Caneback was dying. But I met her since that at Mistletoe."
"I can hardly advise, you know, unless you tell me everything."
Then Lord Rufford began. "These kind of things are sometimes deuced
hard upon a man. Of course if a man were a saint or a philosopher or
a Joseph he wouldn't get into such scrapes,—and perhaps every man
ought to be something of that sort. But I don't know how a man is to
do it, unless it's born with him."
"A little prudence I should say."
"You might as well tell a fellow that it is his duty to be six feet
high"
"But what have you said to the young lady,—or what has she said to
you?"
"There has been a great deal more of the latter than the former. I
say so to you, but of course it is not to be said that I have said
so. I cannot go forth to the world complaining of a young lady's
conduct to me. It is a matter in which a man must not tell the
truth."
"But what is the truth?"
"She writes me word to say that she has told all her friends that I
am engaged to her, and kindly presses me to make good her assurances
by becoming so."
"And what has passed between you?"
"A fainting fit in a carriage and half-a-dozen kisses."
"Nothing more?"
"Nothing more that is material. Of course one cannot tell it all
down to each mawkish word of humbugging sentiment. There are her
letters, and what I want you to remember is that I never asked her to
be my wife, and that no consideration on earth shall induce me to
become her husband. Though all the duchesses in England were to
persecute me to the death I mean to stick to that."
Then Sir George read the letters and handed them back. "She seems
to me," said he, "to have more wit about her than any of the family
that I have had the honour of meeting."
"She has wit enough,—and pluck too."
"You have never said a word to her to encourage these hopes"
"My dear Penwether, don't you know that if a man with a large
income says to a girl like that that the sun shines he encourages
hope. I understand that well enough. I am a rich man with a title,
and a big house, and a great command of luxuries. There are so many
young ladies who would also like to be rich, and to have a title, and
a big house, and a command of luxuries! One sometimes feels oneself
like a carcase in the midst of vultures."
"Marry after a proper fashion, and you'll get rid of all that."
"I'll think about it, but in the meantime what can I say to this
young woman? When I acknowledge that I kissed ham, of course I
encouraged hopes."
"No doubt"
"But St. Anthony would have had to kiss this young woman if she had
made her attack upon him as she did on me; and after all a kiss
doesn't go for everything. These are things, Penwether, that must not
be inquired into too curiously. But I won't marry her though it were a
score of kisses. And now what must I do?" Sir George said that he
would take till the next morning to think about it,— meaning to make
a draft of the reply which he thought his brother-in-law might best
send to the lady.
CHAPTER XIX. It cannot be Arranged
When Reginald Morton received his aunt's letter he understood from
it more than she had intended. Of course the man to whom allusion was
made was Mr. Twentyman; and of course the discomfort at. home had come
from Mrs. Masters' approval of that suitor's claim. Reginald, though
he had seen but little of the inside of the attorney's household,
thought it very probable that the stepmother would make the girl's
home very uncomfortable for her. Though he knew well all the young
farmer's qualifications as a husband,— namely that he was well to do
in the world and bore a good character for honesty and general
conduct,—still he thoroughly, nay heartily approved of Mary's
rejection of the man's hand. It seemed to him to be sacrilege that
such a one should have given to him such a woman. There was, to his
thinking, something about Mary Masters that made it altogether unfit
that she should pass her life as the mistress of Chowton Farm, and he
honoured her for the persistence of her refusal. He took his pipe and
went out into the garden in order that he might think of it all as he
strolled round his little domain.
But why should he think so much about it? Why should he take so
deep an interest in the matter? What was it to him whether Mary
Masters married after her kind, or descended into what he felt to be
an inferior manner of life? Then he tried to tell himself what were
the gifts in the girl's possession which made her what she was, and he
pictured her to himself, running over all her attributes. It was not
that she specially excelled in beauty. He had seen Miss Trefoil as she
was being driven about the neighbourhood, and having heard much of the
young lady as the future wife of his own cousin, had acknowledged to
himself that she was very handsome. But he had thought at the same
time that under no possible circumstances could he have fallen in love
with Miss Trefoil. He believed that he did not care much for female
beauty, and yet he felt that he could sit and look at Mary Masters by
the hour together. There was a quiet even composure about her, always
lightened by the brightness of her modest eyes, which seemed to tell
him of some mysterious world within, which was like the unseen
loveliness that one fancies to be hidden within the bosom of distant
mountains. There was a poem to be read there of surpassing beauty,
rhythmical and eloquent as the music of the spheres, if it might only
be given to a man to read it. There was an absence, too, of all
attempt at feminine self-glorification which he did not analyse but
thoroughly appreciated. There was no fussy amplification of hair, no
made-up smiles, no affectation either in her good humour or her anger,
no attempt at effect in her gait, in her speech, or her looks. She
seemed to him to be one who had something within her on which she
could feed independently of the grosser details of the world to which
it was her duty to lend her hand. And then her colour charmed his
eyes. Miss Trefoil was white and red; white as pearl powder and red as
paint. Mary Masters, to tell the truth, was brown. No doubt that was
the prevailing colour, if one colour must be named. But there was so
rich a tint of young life beneath the surface, so soft but yet so
visible an assurance of blood and health and spirit, that no one could
describe her complexion by so ugly a word without falsifying her
gifts. In all her movements she was tranquil, as a noble woman should
be. Even when she had turned from him with some anger at the bridge,
she had walked like a princess. There was a certainty of modesty about
her which was like a granite wall or a strong fortress. As he thought
of it all he did not understand how such a one as Lawrence Twentyman
should have dared to ask her to be his wife,—or should even have
wished it.
We know what were her feelings in regard to himself, how she had
come to look almost with worship on the walls within which he lived;
but he had guessed nothing of this. Even now, when he knew that she
had applied to his aunt in order that she might escape from her lover,
it did not occur to him that she could care for himself. He was older
than she, nearly twenty years older, and even in his younger years, in
the hard struggles of his early life, had never regarded himself as a
man likely to find favour with women. There was in his character much
of that modesty for which he gave her such infinite credit. Though he
thought but little of most of those around him, he thought also but
little of himself. It would break his heart to ask and be refused; but
he could, he fancied, live very well without Mary Masters. Such, at
any rate, had been his own idea of himself hitherto; and now, though
he was driven to think much of her, though on the present occasion he
was forced to act on her behalf, he would not tell himself that he
wanted to take her for his wife. He constantly assured himself that he
wanted no wife, that for him a solitary life would be the best. But
yet it made him wretched when he reflected that some man would
assuredly marry Mary Masters. He had heard of that excellent but
empty-head young man Mr. Surtees. When the idea occurred to him he
found himself reviling Mr. Surtees as being of all men the most puny,
the most unmanly, and the least worthy of marrying Mary Masters. Now
that Mr. Twentyman was certainly disposed of, he almost became
jealous of Mr. Surtees.
It was not till three or four o'clock in the afternoon that he went
out on his commission to the attorney's house, having made up his
mind that he would do everything in his power to facilitate Mary's
proposed return to Cheltenham. He asked first for Mr. Masters and
then for Miss Masters, and learned that they were both out together.
But he had been desired also to see Mrs. Masters, and on inquiring for
her was again shown into the grand drawing-room. Here he remained a
quarter of an hour while the lady of the house was changing her cap
and apron, which he spent in convincing himself that this house was
altogether an unfit residence for Mary. In the chamber in which he was
standing it was clear enough that no human being ever lived. Mary's
drawing-room ought to be a bower in which she at least might pass her
time with books and music and pretty things around her. The squalor of
the real living room might be conjectured from the untouched
cleanliness of this useless sanctum. At last the lady came to him and
welcomed him with very grim courtesy. As a client of her husband he
was very well;—but as a nephew of Lady Ushant he was injurious. It
was he who had carried Mary away to Cheltenham where she had been
instigated to throw her bread-and-butter into the fire,—as Mrs.
Masters expressed it,—by that pernicious old woman Lady Ushant. "Mr.
Masters is out walking," she said. Reginald clearly understood by the
contempt which she threw almost unconsciously into her words that she
did not approve of her husband going out walking at such an hour.
"I had a message for him—and also for you. My aunt, Lady Ushant,
is very anxious that your daughter Mary should return to her at
Cheltenham for a while." The proposition to Mrs. Masters' thinking
was so monstrous, and was at the same time so unexpected, that it
almost took away her breath. At any rate she stood for a moment
speechless. "My aunt is very fond of your daughter," he continued,
"and if she can be spared would be delighted to have her. Perhaps she
has written to Miss Masters, but she has asked me to come over and see
if it can be arranged."
"It cannot be arranged," said Mrs. Masters. "Nothing of the kind
can be arranged."
"I am sorry for that"
"It is only disturbing the girl, and upsetting her, and filling her
head full of nonsense. What is she to do at Cheltenham? This is her
home and here she had better be." Though things had hitherto gone
very badly, though Larry Twentyman had not shown himself since the
receipt of the letter, still Mrs. Masters had not abandoned all hope.
She was fixed in opinion that if her husband were joined with her they
could still, between them, so break the girl's spirit as to force her
into a marriage. "As for letters," she continued, "I don't know
anything about them. There may have been letters but if so they have
been kept from me. "She was so angry that she could not even attempt
to conceal her wrath.
"Lady Ushant thinks—" began the messenger.
"Oh yes, Lady Ushant is very well of course. Lady Ushant is your
aunt, Mr. Morton, and I haven't anything to say against her. But Lady
Ushant can't do any good to that girl. She has got her bread to earn,
and if she won't do it one way then she must do it another. She's
obstinate and pigheaded, that's the truth of it. And her father's just
as bad. He has taken her out now merely because she likes to be idle,
and to go about thinking herself a fine lady. Lady Ushant doesn't do
her any good at all by cockering her up."
"My aunt, you know, saw very much of her when she was young."
"I know she did, Mr. Morton; and all that has to be undone,—and I
have got the undoing of it. Lady Ushant is one thing and her papa's
business is quite another. At any rate if I have my say she'll not go
to Cheltenham any more. I don't mean to be uncivil to you, Mr. Morton,
or to say anything as oughtn't to be said of your aunt. But when you
can't make people anything but what they are, it's my opinion that
it's best to leave them alone. Good day to you, sir, and I hope you
understand what it is that I mean."
Then Morton retreated and went down the stairs, leaving the lady in
possession of her own grandeur. He had not quite understood what she
had meant, and was still wondering at the energy of her opposition.
when he met Mary herself at the front door. Her father was not with
her, but his retreating form was to be seen entering the portal of the
Bush. "Oh, Mr. Morton!" exclaimed Mary surprised to have the
house-door opened for her by him.
"I have come with a message from my aunt"
"She told me that you would do so."
"Lady Ushant would of course be delighted to have you if it could
be arranged."
"Then Lady Ushant will be disappointed," said Mrs. Masters who had
descended the stairs. "There has been something going on behind my
back."
"I wrote to Lady Ushant," said Mary.
"I call that sly and deceitful;—very sly and very deceitful. If I
know it you won't stir out of this house to go to Cheltenham. I
wonder Lady Ushant would go to put you up in that way against those
you're bound to obey."
"I thought Mrs. Masters had been told," said Reginald.
"Papa did know that I wrote," said Mary.
"Yes;—and in this way a conspiracy is to be made up in the House!
If she goes to Cheltenham I won't stay here. You may tell Lady Ushant
that I say that. I'm not going to be one thing one day and another,
and to be made a tool of all round." By this time Dolly and Kate had
cone down from the upper regions and were standing behind their
mother. "What do you two do there, standing gaping like fools," said
the angry mother. "I suppose your father has gone over to the
public-house again. That, miss, is what comes from your pig headiness.
Didn't I tell you that you were ruining everybody belonging to you?"
Before all this was over Reginald Morton had escaped, feeling that he
could do no good to either side by remaining a witness to such a
scene. He must take some other opportunity of finding the attorney and
of learning from him whether he intended that his daughter should be
allowed to accept Lady Ushant's invitation.
Poor Mary as she shrunk into the house was nearly heartbroken. That
such things should be at all was very dreadful, but that the scene
should have taken place in the presence of Reginald Morton was an
aggravation of the misery which nearly overwhelmed her. How could she
make him understand whence had arisen her stepmother's anger and that
she herself had been neither sly nor deceitful nor pigheaded?
CHAPTER XX. "But there is some one"
When Mr. Masters had gone across to the Bush his purpose had
certainly been ignoble, but it had had no reference to brandy and
water. And the allusion made by Mrs. Masters to the probable ruin
which was to come from his tendencies in that direction had been
calumnious, for she knew that the man was not given to excess in
liquor. But as he approached his own house he bethought himself that
it would not lead to domestic comfort if he were seen returning from
his walk with Mary, and he had therefore made some excuse as to the
expediency of saying a word to Runciman whom he espied at his own
door. He said his word to Runciman, and so loitered away perhaps a
quarter of an hour, and then went back to his office. But his wife had
kept her anger at burning heat and pounced upon him before he had
taken his seat. Sundown was there copying, sitting with his eyes
intent on the board before him as though he were quite unaware of the
sudden entrance of his master's wife. She in her fury did not regard
Sundown in the least, but at once commenced her attack. "What is all
this, Mr. Masters," she said, "about Lady Ushant and going to
Cheltenham? I won't have any going to Cheltenham and that's flat" Now
the attorney had altogether made up his mind that his daughter should
go to Cheltenham if her friend would receive her. Whatever might be
the consequences, they must be borne. But he thought it best to say
nothing at the first moment of the attack, and simply turned his
sorrowful round face in silence up to the partner of all his cares
and the source of so many of them. "There have been letters,"
continued the lady;—"letters which nobody has told me nothing about.
That proud peacock from Hoppet Hall has been here, as though he had
nothing to do but carry Mary away about the country just as he
pleased. Mary won't go to Cheltenham with him nor yet without
him;—not if I am to remain here."
"Where else should you remain, my dear?" asked the attorney.
"I'd sooner go into the workhouse than have all this turmoil.
That's where we are all likely to go if you pass your time between
walking about with that minx and the public-house opposite." Then the
attorney was aware that he had been watched, and his spirit began to
rise within him. He looked at Sundown, but the man went on copying
quicker than ever.
"My dear," said Mr. Masters, "you shouldn't talk in that way before
the clerk. I wanted to speak to Mr. Runciman, and, as to the
workhouse, I don't know that there is any more danger now than there
has been for the last twenty years."
"It's alway's off and on as far as I can see. Do you mean to send
that girl to Cheltenham?"
"I rather think she had better go—for a time."
"Then I shall leave this house and go with my girls to Norrington."
Now this threat, which had been made before, was quite without
meaning. Mrs. Masters' parents were both dead, and her brother, who
had a large family, certainly would not receive her. "I won't remain
here, Mr. Masters, if I ain't to be mistress of my own house. What is
she to go to Cheltenham for, I should like to know?"
Then Sundown was desired by his wretched employer to go into the
back settlement and the poor man prepared himself for the battle as
well as he could. "She is not happy here," he said.
"Whose fault is that? Why shouldn't she be happy? Of course you
know what it means. She has got round you because she wants to be a
fine lady. What means have you to make her a fine lady? If you was to
die to-morrow what would there be for any of 'em? My little bit of
money is all gone. Let her stay here and be made to marry Lawrence
Twentyman. That's what I say."
"She will never marry Mr. Twentyman."
"Not if you go on like this she won't. If you'd done your duty by
her like a real father instead of being afraid of her when she puts
on her tantrums; she'd have been at Chowton Farm by this time."
It was clear to him that now was the time not to be afraid of his
wife when she put on her tantrums,—or at any rate, to appear not to
be afraid. "She has been very unhappy of late."
"Oh, unhappy! She's been made more of than anybody else in this
house."
"And a change will do her good. She has my permission to go;—and
go she shall!" Then the word had been spoken.
"She shall!"
"It is very much for the best. While she is here the house is made
wretched for us all."
"It'll be wretcheder yet; unless it would make you happy to see me
dead on the threshold,—which I believe it would. As for her, she's
an ungrateful, sly, wicked slut"
"She has done nothing wicked that I know of."
"Not writing to that old woman behind my back?"
"She told me what she was doing and showed me the letter."
"Yes; of course. The two of you were in it. Does that make it any
better? I say it was sly and wicked; and you were sly and wicked as
well as she. She has got the better of you, and now you are going to
send her away from the only chance she'll ever get of having a decent
home of her own over her head."
"There's nothing more to be said about it, my dear. She'll go to
Lady Ushant" Having thus pronounced his dictum with all the marital
authority he was able to assume he took his hat and sallied forth.
Mrs. Masters, when she was left alone, stamped her foot and hit the
desk with a ruler that was lying there. Then she went up-stairs and
threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of weeping and wailing.
Mr. Masters, when he closed his door, looked up the street and down
the street and then again went across to the Bush. Mr. Runciman was
still there, and was standing with a letter in his hand, while one of
the grooms from Rufford Hall was holding a horse beside him. "Any
answer, Mr. Runciman?" said the groom.
"Only to tell his lordship that everything will be ready for him.
You'd better go through and give the horse a feed of corn, and get a
bit of something to eat and a glass of beer yourself." The man wasn't
slow to do as he was bid;—and in this way the Bush had become very
popular with the servants of the gentry around the place. "His
lordship is to be here from Friday to Sunday with a party, Mr.
Masters."
"Oh, indeed."
"For the end of the shooting. And who do you think he has asked to
be one of the party?"
"Not Mr. Reginald?"
"I don't think they ever spoke in their lives. Who but Larry
Twentyman!"
"No!"
"It'll be the making of Larry. I only hope he won't cock his beaver
too high."
"Is he coming?"
"I suppose so. He'll be sure to come. His Lordship only tells me
that there are to be six of 'em on Saturday and five on Friday night.
But the lad there knew who they all were. There's Mr. Surbiton and
Captain Battersby and Sir George are to come over with his lordship
from Rufford. And young Mr. Hampton is to join them here, and Larry
Twentyman is to shoot with them on Saturday and dine afterwards. Won't
those two Botseys be jealous; that's all?"
"It only shows what they think of Larry," said the attorney.
"Larry Twentyman is a very good fellow," said the landlord. "I
don't know a better fellow round Dillsborough, or one who is more
always on the square. But he's weak. You know him as well as I, Mr.
Masters."
"He's not so weak but what he can keep what he's got."
"This'll be the way to try him. He'd melt away like water into sand
if he were to live for a few weeks with such men as his Lordship's
friends. I suppose there's no chance of his taking a wife home to
Chowton with him?" The attorney shook his head. "That'd be the making
of him, Mr. Masters; a good girl like that who'd keep him at home. If
he takes it to heart he'll burst out somewhere and spend a lot of
money."
The attorney declined Mr. Runciman's offer of a glass of beer and
slowly made his way round the corner of the inn by Hobb's gate to the
front door of Hoppet Hall. Then he passed on to the churchyard, still
thinking of the misery of his position. When he reached the church he
turned back, still going very slowly, and knocked at the door of
Hoppet Hall. He was shown at once by Reginald's old housekeeper up to
the library, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the master of
the house. "I was over looking for you an hour or two ago," said
Reginald.
"I heard you were there, Mr. Morton, and so I thought I would come
to you. You didn't see Mary?"
"I just saw her,—but could hardly say much. She had written to my
aunt about going to Cheltenham."
"I saw the letter before she sent it, Mr. Morton."
"So she told me. My aunt would be delighted to have her, but it
seems that Mrs. Masters does not wish her to go."
"There is some trouble about it, Mr. Morton;—but I may as well
tell you at once that I wish her to go. She would be better for
awhile at Cheltenham with such a lady as your aunt than she can be at
home. Her stepmother and she cannot agree on a certain point. I dare
say you know what it is, Mr. Morton?"
"In regard, I suppose, to Mr. Twentyman?"
"Just that. Mrs. Masters thinks that Mr. Twentyman would make an
excellent husband. And so do I. There's nothing in the world against
him, and as compared with me he's a rich man. I couldn't give the poor
girl any fortune, and he wouldn't want any. But money isn't
everything."
"No indeed."
"He's an industrious steady young man too, and he has had my word
with him all through. But I can't compel my girl to marry him if she
don't like him. I can't even try to compel her. She's as good a girl
as ever stirred about a house."
"I can well believe that"
"And nothing would take such a load off me as to know that she was
going to be well married. But as she don't like the young man well
enough, I won't have her hardly used."
"Mrs. Masters perhaps is hard to her."
"God forbid I should say anything against my wife. I never did, and
I won't now. But Mary will be better away; and if Lady Ushant will be
good enough to take her, she shall go."
"When will she be ready, Mr. Masters?"
"I must ask her about that;—in a week perhaps, or ten days."
"She is quite decided against the young man?"
"Quite. At the bidding of all of us she said she'd take two months
to think of it. But before the time was up she wrote to him to say it
could never be. It quite upset my wife; because it would have been
such an excellent arrangement"
Reginald wished to learn more but hardly knew how to ask the father
questions. Yet, as he had been trusted so far, he thought that he
might be trusted altogether. "I must own," he said, "that I think
that Mr. Twentyman would hardly be a fit husband for your daughter."
"He is a very good young man."
"Very likely;—but she is something more than a very good young
woman. A young lady with her gifts will be sure to settle well in
life some day." The attorney shook his head. He had lived long enough
to see many young ladies with good gifts find it difficult to settle
in life; and perhaps that mysterious poem which Reginald found in
Mary's eyes was neither visible nor audible to Mary's father. "I did
hear," said Reginald, "that Mr. Surtees—"
"There's nothing in that."
"Oh, indeed. I thought that perhaps as she is so determined not to
do as her friends would wish, that there might be something else." He
said this almost as a question, looking close into the attorney's eyes
as he spoke.
"It is always possible," said Mr. Masters.
"But you don't think there is anybody?"
"It is very hard to say, Mr. Morton."
"You don't expect anything of that sort?"
Then the attorney broke forth into sudden confidence. "To tell the
truth then, Mr. Morton, I think there is somebody, though who it is I
know as little as the baby unborn. She sees nobody here at
Dillsborough to be intimate with. She isn't one of those who would
write letters or do anything on the sly."
"But there is some one?"
"She told me as much herself. That is, when I asked her she would
not deny it. Then I thought that perhaps it might be somebody at
Cheltenham."
"I think not. She was there so short a time, Mr. Morton; and Lady
Ushant would be the last person in the world to let such a thing as
that go on without telling her parents. I don't think there was any
one at Cheltenham. She was only there a month."
"I did fancy that perhaps that was one reason why she should want
to go back."
"I don't believe it. I don't in the least believe it," said
Reginald enthusiastically. "My aunt would have been sure to have seen
it. It would have been impossible without her knowledge. But there is
somebody?"
"I think so, Mr. Masters;—and if she does go to Cheltenham perhaps
Lady Ushant had better know." To this Reginald agreed, or half
agreed. It did not seem to him to be of much consequence what might
be done at Cheltenham. He felt certain that the lover was not there.
And yet who was there at Dillsborough? He had seen those young Botseys
about. Could it possibly be one of them? And during the Christmas
vacation the rector's scamp of a son had been home from Oxford; to
whom Mary Masters had barely spoken. Was it young Mainwaring? Or could
it be possible that she had turned an eye of favour on Dr. Nupper's
elegantly-dressed assistant. There was nothing too monstrous for him
to suggest to himself as soon as the attorney had left him.
But there was a young man in Dillsborough,—one man at any rate
young enough to be a lover,—of whom Reginald did not think; as to
whom, had his name been suggested as that of the young man to whom
Mary's heart had been given, he would have repudiated such a
suggestion with astonishment and anger. But now, having heard this
from the girl's father, he was again vexed, and almost as much
disgusted as when he had first become aware that Larry Twentyman was
a suitor for her hand. Why should he trouble himself about a girl who
was ready to fall in love with the first man that she saw about the
place? He tried to pacify himself by some such question as this, but
tried in vain.
CHAPTER XXI. The Dinner at the Bush
Here is the letter which at his brother-in-law's advice Lord
Rufford wrote to Arabella:
Rufford, 3 February, 1875.
My Dear Miss Trefoil,
It is a great grief to me that I should have to answer your letter
in a manner that will I fear not be satisfactory to you. I can only
say that you have altogether mistaken me if you think that I have
said anything which was intended as an offer of marriage. I cannot
but be much flattered by your good opinion. I have had much pleasure
from our acquaintance, and I should have been glad if it could have
been continued. But I have had no thoughts of marriage. If I have said
a word which has, unintentionally on my part, given rise to such an
idea I can only beg your pardon heartily. If I were to add more after
what I have now said perhaps you would take it as impertinence.
Yours most sincerely, Rufford.
He had desired to make various additions and suggestions which
however had all been disallowed by Sir George Penwether. He had
proposed among other things to ask her whether he should keep Jack
for her for the remainder of the season or whether he should send the
horse elsewhere, but Sir George would not allow a word in the letter
about Jack. "You did give her the horse then?" he asked.
"I had hardly any alternative as the things went. She would have
been quite welcome to the horse if she would have let me alone
afterwards."
"No doubt; but when young gentlemen give young ladies horses—"
"I know all about it, my dear fellow. Pray don't preach more than
you can help. Of course I have been an infernal ass. I know all that.
But as the horse is hers—"
"Say nothing about the horse. Were she to ask for it of course she
could have it; but that is not likely."
"And you think I had better say nothing else."
"Not a word. Of course it will be shown to all her friends and may
possibly find its way into print. I don't know what steps such a
young lady may be advised to take. Her uncle is a man of honour. Her
father is an ass and careless about everything. Mistletoe will not
improbably feel himself bound to act as though he were her brother.
They will, of course, all think you to be a rascal,—and will say so."
"If Mistletoe says so I'll horsewhip him."
"No you won't, Rufford. You will remember that this woman is a
woman, and that a woman's friends are bound to stand up for her.
After all your hands are not quite clean in the matter."
"I am heavy enough on myself Penwether. I have been a fool and I
own it. But I have done nothing unbecoming a gentleman." He was
almost tempted to quarrel with his brother-in-law, but at last he
allowed the letter to be sent just as Sir George had written it, and
then tried to banish the affair from his mind for the present so that
he might enjoy his life till the next hostile step should be taken by
the Trefoil clan.
When Larry Twentyman received the lord's note, which was left at
Chowton Farm by Hampton's groom, he was in the lowest depth of
desolation. He had intended to hunt that day in compliance with John
Morton's advice, but had felt himself quite unable to make the effort.
It was not only that he had been thrown over by Mary Masters, but that
everybody knew that he had been thrown over. If he had kept the matter
secret, perhaps he might have borne it; but it is so hard to bear a
sorrow of which all one's neighbours are conscious. When a man is
reduced by poverty to the drinking of beer instead of wine, it is not
the loss of the wine that is so heavy on him as the consciousness that
those around him are aware of the reason. And he is apt to extend his
idea of this consciousness to a circle that is altogether indifferent
of the fact. That a man should fail in his love seems to him to be of
all failures the most contemptible, and Larry thought that there would
not be one in the field unaware of his miserable rejection. In spite
of his mother's prayers he had refused to go, and had hung about the
farm all day.
Then there came to him Lord Rufford's note. It had been quite
unexpected, and a month or two before, when his hopes had still been
high in regard to Mary Masters, would have filled him with delight. It
was the foible of his life to be esteemed a gentleman, and his poor
ambition to be allowed to live among men of higher social standing
than himself. Those dinners of Lord Rufford's at the Bush had been a
special grief to him. The young lord had been always courteous to him
in the field, and he had been able, as he thought, to requite such
courtesy by little attentions in the way of game preserving. If
pheasants from Dillsborough Wood ate Goarly's wheat, so did they eat
Larry Twentyman's barley. He had a sportsman's heart, above complaint
as to such matters, and had always been neighbourly to the lord. No
doubt pheasants and hares were left at his house whenever there was
shooting in the neighbourhood, which to his mother afforded great
consolation. But Larry did not care for the pheasants and hares. Had
he so pleased he could have shot them on his own land; but he did not
preserve, and, as a good neighbour, he regarded the pheasants and
hares as Lord Rufford's property. He felt that he was behaving as a
gentleman as well as a neighbour, and that he should be treated as
such. Fred Botsey had dined at the Bush with Lord Rufford, and Larry
looked on Fred as in no way better than himself.
Now at last the invitation had come. He was asked to a day's
shooting and to dine with the lord and his party at the inn. How
pleasant would it be to give a friendly nod to Runciman as he went
into the room, and to assert afterwards in Botsey's hearing something
of the joviality of the evening. Of course Hampton would be there as
Hampton's servant had brought the note, and he was very anxious to be
on friendly terms with Mr. Hampton. Next to the lord himself there was
no one in the hunt who carried his head so high as young Hampton.
But there arose to him the question whether all this had not
arrived too late! Of what good is it to open up the true delights of
life to a man when you have so scotched and wounded him that he has no
capability left of enjoying anything? As he sat lonely with his pipe
in his mouth he thought for a while that he would decline the
invitation. The idea of selling Chowton Farm and of establishing
himself at some Antipodes in which the name of Mary Masters should
never have been heard, was growing upon him. Of what use would the
friendship of Lord Rufford be to him at the other side of the globe?
At last, however, the hope of giving that friendly nod to Runciman
overcame him, and he determined to go. He wrote a note, which caused
him no little thought, presenting his compliments to Lord Rufford and
promising to meet his lordship's party at Dillsborough Wood.
The shooting went off very well and Larry behaved himself with
propriety. He wanted the party to come in and lunch, and had given
sundry instructions to his mother on that head. But they did not
remain near to his place throughout the day, and his efforts in that
direction were not successful. Between five and six he went home, and
at half-past seven appeared at the Bush attired in his best. He never
yet had sat down with a lord, and his mind misgave him a little; but
he had spirit enough to look about for Runciman,—who, however, was
not to be seen.
Sir George was not there, but the party had been made up, as
regarded the dinner, by the addition of Captain Glomax, who had
returned from hunting. Captain Glomax was in high glee, having
had,—as he declared,—the run of the season. When a Master has been
deserted on any day by the choice spirits of his hunt he is always apt
to boast to them that he had on that occasion the run of the season.
He had taken a fox from Impington right across to Hogsborough, which,
as every one knows, is just on the borders of the U.R.U., had then run
him for five miles into Lord Chiltern's country, and had killed him in
the centre of the Brake Hunt, after an hour and a half, almost without
a check. "It was one of those straight things that one doesn't often
see now-a-days," said Glomax.
"Any pace?" asked Lord Rufford.
"Very good, indeed, for the first forty minutes. I wish you had all
been there. It was better fun I take it than shooting rabbits."
Then Hampton put the Captain through his facings as to time and
distance and exact places that had been passed, and ended by
expressing an opinion that he could have kicked his hat as fast on
foot. Whereupon the Captain begged him to try, and hinted that he did
not know the country. In answer to which Hampton offered to bet a
five-pound note that young Jack Runce would say that the pace had been
slow. Jack was the son of the old farmer whom the Senator had so
disgusted, and was supposed to know what he was about on a horse. But
Glomax declined the bet saying that he did not care a — for Jack
Runce. He knew as much about pace as any farmer, or for the matter of
that any gentleman, in Ufford or Rufford, and the pace for forty
minutes had been very good. Nevertheless all the party were convinced
that the "thing" had been so slow that it had not been worth riding
to;—a conviction which is not uncommon with gentlemen when they have
missed a run. In all this discussion poor Larry took no great part
though he knew the country as well as any one. Larry had not as yet
got over the awe inspired by the lord in his black coat.
Perhaps Larry's happiest moment in the evening was when Runciman
himself brought in the soup, for at that moment Lord Rufford put his
hand on his shoulder and desired him to sit down,—and Runciman both
heard and saw it. And at dinner, when the champagne had been twice
round, he became more comfortable. The conversation got upon Goarly,
and in reference to that matter he was quite at home. "It's not my
doing," said Lord Rufford. "I have instructed no one to keep him
locked up."
"It's a very good job from all that I can hear," said Tom Surbiton.
"All I did was to get Mr. Masters here to take up the case for me,
and I learned from him to-day that the rascal had already agreed to
take the money I offered. He only bargains that it shall be paid into
his own hands,—no doubt desiring to sell the attorney he has
employed."
"Bearside has got his money from the American Senator, my Lord,"
said Larry.
"They may fight it out among them. I don't care who gets the money
or who pays it as long as I'm not imposed upon."
"We must proceed against that man Scrobby," said Glomax with all
the authority of a Master.
"You'll never convict him on Goarly's evidence," said the Lord.
Then Larry could give them further information. Nickem had
positively traced the purchase of the red herrings. An old woman in
Rufford was ready to swear that she herself had sold them to Mrs.
Scrobby. Tom Surbiton suggested that the possession of red herrings
was not of itself a crime. Hampton thought that it was corroborative.
Captain Batsby wanted to know whether any of the herrings were still
in existence, so that they could be sworn to. Glomax was of opinion
that villainy of so deep a dye could not have taken place in any other
hunting country in England.
"There's been strychnine put down in the Brake too," said Hampton.
"But not in cartloads," said the Master.
"I rather think," said Larry, "that Nickem knows where the
strychnine was bought. That'll make a clear case of it. Hanging would
be too good for such a scoundrel" This was said after the third glass
of champagne, but the opinion was one which was well received by the
whole company. After that the Senator's conduct was discussed, and
they all agreed that in the whole affair that was the most marvellous
circumstance. "They must be queer people over there," said Larry.
"Brutes!" said Glomax. "They once tried a pack of hounds somewhere
in one of the States, but they never could run a yard."
There was a good deal of wine drank, which was not unusual at Lord
Rufford's dinners. Most of the company were seasoned vessels, and
none of them were much the worse for what they drank. But the
generous wine got to Larry's heart, and perhaps made his brain a
little soft. Lord Rufford remembering what had been said about the
young man's misery tried to console him by attention; and as the
evening wore on, and when the second cigars had been lit all round,
the two were seated together in confidential conversation at a corner
of the table: "Yes, my lord; I think I shall hook it," said Larry.
"Something has occurred that has made the place not quite so
comfortable to me; and as it is all my own I think I shall sell it."
"We should miss you immensely in the hunt," said Lord Rufford, who
of course knew what the something was.
"It's very kind of you to say so, my lord. But there are things
which may make a man go."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"Just a young woman, my lord. I don't want it talked about, but I
don't mind mentioning it to you."
"You should never let those troubles touch you so closely," said
his lordship, whose own withers at this moment were by no means
unwrung.
"I dare say not. But if you feel it, how are you to help it? I
shall do very well when I get away. Chowton Farm is not the only spot
in the world."
"But a man so fond of hunting as you are!"
"Well;—yes. I shall miss the hunting, my lord,—shan't I? If Mr.
Morton don't buy the place I should like it to go to your lordship. I
offered it to him first because it came from them."
"Quite right. By-the-bye, I hear that Mr. Morton is very ill."
"So I heard," said Larry. "Nupper has been with him, I know, and I
fancy they have sent for somebody from London. I don't know that he
cares much about the land. He thinks more of the foreign parts he's
always in. I don't believe we should fall out about the price, my
lord." Then Lord Rufford explained that he would not go into that
matter just at present, but that if the place were in the market he
would certainly like to buy it. He, however, did as John Morton had
done before, and endeavoured to persuade the poor fellow that he
should not alter the whole tenor of his life because a young lady
would not look at him.
"Good night, Mr. Runciman," said Larry as he made his way
down-stairs to the yard. "We've had an uncommon pleasant evening."
"I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, Larry." Larry thought that his
Christian name from the hotel keeper's lips had never sounded so
offensively as on the present occasion.
CHAPTER XXII. Miss Trefoil's
Decision
Lord Rufford's letter reached Arabella at her cousin's house, in
due course, and was handed to her in the morning as she came down to
breakfast. The envelope bore his crest and coronet, and she was sure
that more than one pair of eyes had already seen it. Her mother had
been in the room some time before her, and would of course know that
the letter was from Lord Rufford. An indiscreet word or two had been
said in the hearing of Mrs. Connop Green,—as to which Arabella had
already scolded her mother most vehemently, and Mrs. Connop Green too
would probably have seen the letter, and would know that it had come
from the lover of whom boasts had been made. The Connop Greens would
be ready to worship Arabella down to the very soles of her feet if she
were certainly,—without a vestige of doubt,—engaged to be the wife
of Lord Rufford. But there had been so many previous mistakes! And
they, too, had heard of Mr. John Morton. They too were a little afraid
of Arabella though she was undoubtedly the niece of a Duke.
She was aware now,—as always,—how much depended on her personal
bearing; but this was a moment of moments! She would fain have kept
the letter, and have opened it in the retirement of her own room. She
knew its terrible importance, and was afraid of her own countenance
when she should read it. All the hopes of her life were contained in
that letter. But were she to put it in her pocket she would betray her
anxiety by doing so. She found herself bound to open it and read it at
once,—and she did open it and read it.
After all it was what she had expected. It was very decided, very
short, very cold, and carrying with it no sign of weakness. But it
was of such a letter that she had thought when she resolved that she
would apply to Lord Mistletoe, and endeavour to put the whole family
of Trefoil in arms. She had been,—so she had assured herself,—quite
sure that that kind, loving response which she had solicited, would
not be given to her. But yet the stern fact, now that it was
absolutely in her hands, almost overwhelmed her. She could not
restrain the dull dead look of heart-breaking sorrow which for a few
moments clouded her face,—a look which took away all her beauty,
lengthening her cheeks, and robbing her eyes of that vivacity which it
was the task of her life to assume. "Is anything the matter, my dear?"
asked Mrs. Connop Green.
Then she made a final effort,—an heroic effort. "What do you
think, mamma?" she said, paying no attention to her cousin's inquiry.
"What is it, Arabella?"
"Jack got some injury that day at Peltry, and is so lame that they
don't know whether he'll ever put his foot to the ground again"
"Poor fellow," said Mr. Green. "Who is Jack?"
"Jack is a horse, Mr. Green; and such a horse that one cannot but
be sorry for him. Poor Jack! I don't know any Christian whose
lameness would be such a nuisance."
"Does Lord Rufford write about his horses?" asked Mrs. Connop
Green, thus betraying that knowledge as to the letter which she had
obtained from the envelope.
"If you must know all the truth about it," said Arabella, "the
horse is my horse, and not Lord Rufford's. And as he is the only
horse I have got, and as he's the dearest horse in all the world, you
must excuse my being a little sorry about him. Poor Jack!" After that
the breakfast was eaten and everybody in the room believed the story
of the horse's lameness—except Lady Augustus.
When breakfast and the loitering after breakfast were well over, so
that she could escape without exciting any notice, she made her way
up to her bedroom. In a few minutes,—so that again there should be
nothing noticeable,—her mother followed her. But her door was
locked. "It is I, Arabella," said her mother.
"You can't come in at present, I am busy."
"But Arabella."
"You can't come in at present, mamma." Then Lady Augustus slowly
glided away to her own room and there waited for tidings.
The whole form of the girl's face was altered when she was alone.
Her features in themselves were not lovely. Her cheeks and chin were
heavy. Her brow was too low, and her upper lip too long. Her nose and
teeth were good, and would have been very handsome had they belonged
to a man. Her complexion had always been good till it had been injured
by being improved,—and so was the carriage of her head and the
outside lines of her bust and figure, and her large eyes, though never
soft, could be bright and sparkle. Skill had done much for her and
continued effort almost more. But now the effort was dropped and that
which skill had done turned against her. She was haggard, lumpy, and
almost hideous in her bewildered grief.
Had there been a word of weakness in the short letter she might
have founded upon it some hope. It did not occur to her that he had
had the letter written for him, and she was astonished at its curt
strength. How could he dare to say that she had mistaken him? Had she
not lain in his arms while he embraced her? How could he have found
the courage to say that he had had no thought of marriage when he had
declared to her that he loved her? She must have known that she had
hunted him as a fox is hunted;—and yet she believed that she was
being cruelly ill-used. For a time all that dependence on Lord
Mistletoe and her uncle deserted her. What effect could they have on a
man who would write such a letter as that? Had she known that the
words were the words of his brother-in-law, even that would have given
her some hope.
But what should she do? Whatever steps she took she must take at
once. And she must tell her mother. Her mother's help would be
necessary to her now in whatever direction she might turn her mind.
She almost thought that she would abandon him without another word.
She had been strong in her reliance on family aid till the time for
invoking it had come; but now she believed that it would be useless.
Could it be that such a man as this would be driven into marriage by
the interference of Lord Mistletoe! She would much like to bring down
some punishment on his head; but in doing so she would cut all other
ground from under her own feet. There were still open to her Patagonia
and the Paragon.
She hated the Paragon, and she recoiled with shuddering from the
idea of Patagonia. But as for hating,—she hated Lord Rufford most.
And what was there that she loved? She tried to ask herself some
question even as to that. There certainly was no man for whom she
cared a straw; nor had there been for the last six or eight years.
Even when he was kissing her she was thinking of her built-up hair,
of her pearl powder, her paint, and of possible accidents and
untoward revelations. The loan of her lips had been for use only, and
not for any pleasure which she had even in pleasing him. In her very
swoon she had felt the need of being careful at all points. It was all
labour, and all care,—and, alas, alas, all disappointment!
But there was a future through which she must live. How might she
best avoid the misfortune of poverty for the twenty, thirty, or forty
years which might be accorded to her? What did it matter whom or what
she hated? The housemaid probably did not like cleaning grates; nor
the butcher killing sheep; nor the sempstress stitching silks. She
must live. And if she could only get away from her mother that in
itself would be something. Most people were distasteful to her, but no
one so much as her mother. Here in England she knew that she was
despised among the people with whom she lived. And now she would be
more despised than ever. Her uncle and aunt, though she disliked them,
had been much to her. It was something,—that annual visit to
Mistletoe, though she never enjoyed it when she was there. But she
could well understand that after such a failure as this, after such a
game, played before their own eyes in their own house, her uncle and
her aunt would drop her altogether. She had played this game so boldly
that there was no retreat. Would it not therefore be better that she
should fly altogether?
There were a time on that morning in which she had made up her mind
that she would write a most affectionate letter to Morton, telling
him that her people had now agreed to his propositions as to
settlement, and assuring him that from henceforward she would be all
his own. She did think that were she to do so she might still go with
him to Patagonia. But, if so, she must do it at once. The delay had
already been almost too long. In that case she would not say a word in
reply to Lord Rufford, and would allow all that to be as though it had
never been. Then again there arose to her mind the remembrance of
Rufford Hall, of all the glories, of the triumph over everybody. Then
again there was the idea of a "forlorn hope." She thought that she
could have brought herself to do it, if only death would have been the
alternative of success when she had resolved to make the rush.
It was nearly one when she went to her mother and even then she was
undecided. But the joint agony of the solitude and the doubts had
been too much for her and she found herself constrained to seek a
counsellor. "He has thrown you over," said Lady Augustus as soon as
the door was closed.
"Of course he has," said Arabella walking up the room, and again
playing her part even before her mother.
"I knew it would be so."
"You knew nothing of the kind, mamma, your saying so is simply an
untruth. It was you who put me up to it."
"Arabella, that is false."
"It wasn't you, I suppose, who made me throw over Mr. Morton and
Bragton."
"Certainly not."
"That is so like you, mamma. There isn't a single thing that you do
or say that you don't deny afterwards." These little compliments were
so usual among them that at the present moment they excited no great
danger. "There's his letter. I suppose you had better read it." And
she chucked the document to her mother.
"It is very decided," said Lady Augustus.
"It is the falsest, the most impudent, and the most scandalous
letter that a man ever wrote to a woman. I could horsewhip him for it
myself if I could get near him."
"Is it all over, Arabella?"
"All over! What questions you do ask, mamma! No. It is not all
over. I'll stick to him like a leech. He proposed to me as plainly as
any man ever did to any woman. I don't care what people may say or
think. He hasn't heard the last of me; and so he'll find." And thus in
her passion she made up her mind that she would not yet abandon the
hunt.
"What will you do, my dear?"
"What will I do? How am I to say what I will do? If I were standing
near him with a knife in my hand I would stick it into his heart. I
would! Mistaken him! Liar! They talk of girls lying; but what girl
would lie like that?"
"But something must be done"
"If papa were not such a fool as he is, he could manage it all for
me," said Arabella dutifully. "I must see my father and I must
dictate a letter for him. Where is papa?"
"In London, I suppose."
"You must come up to London with me tomorrow. We shall have to go
to his club and get him out. It must be done immediately; and then I
must see Lord Mistletoe, and I will write to the Duke."
"Would it not be better to write to your papa?" said Lady Augustus,
not liking the idea of being dragged away so quickly from comfortable
quarters.
"No; it wouldn't. If you won't go I shall, and you must give me
some money. I shall write to Lord Rufford too."
And so it was at last decided, the wretched old woman being dragged
away up to London on some excuse which the Connop Greens were not
sorry to accept. But on that same afternoon Arabella wrote to Lord
Rufford:
Your letter has amazed me. I cannot understand it. It seems to be
almost impossible that it should really have come from you. How can
you say that I have mistaken you? There has been no mistake. Surely
that letter cannot have been written by you.
Of course I have been obliged to tell my father everything.
Arabella.
On the following day at about four in the afternoon the mother and
daughter drove up to the door of Graham's Club in Bond Street, and
there they found Lord Augustus. With considerable difficulty he was
induced to come down from the whist room, and was forced into the
brougham. He was a handsome fat man, with a long grey beard, who
passed his whole life in eating, drinking, and playing whist, and was
troubled by no scruples and no principles. He would not cheat at cards
because it was dangerous and ungentlemanlike, and if discovered would
lead to his social annihilation; but as to paying money that he owed
to tradesmen, it never occurred to him as being a desirable thing as
long as he could get what he wanted without doing so. He had expended
his own patrimony and his wife's fortune, and now lived on an
allowance made to him by his brother. Whatever funds his wife might
have not a shilling of them ever came from him. When he began to
understand something of the nature of the business on hand, he
suggested that his brother, the Duke, could do what was desirable
infinitely better than he could. "He won't think anything of me," said
Lord Augustus.
"We'll make him think something," said Arabella sternly. "You must
do it, papa. They'd turn you out of the club if they knew that you
had refused." Then he looked up in the brougham and snarled at her.
"Papa, you must copy the letter and sign it."
"How am I to know the truth of it all?" he asked.
"It is quite true," said Lady Augustus. There was very much more of
it, but at last he was carried away bodily, and in his daughter's
presence he did write and sign the following letter;—
My Lord,
I have heard from my daughter a story which has surprised me very
much. It appears that she has been staying with you at Rufford Hall,
and again at Mistletoe, and that while at the latter place you
proposed marriage to her. She tells me with heart-breaking concern
that you have now repudiated your own proposition,—not only once made
but repeated. Her condition is most distressing. She is in all
respects your Lordship's equal. As her father I am driven to ask you
what excuse you have to make, or whether she has interpreted you
aright.
I have the honour to be, Your very humble servant, Augustus Trefoil.
CHAPTER XXIII. "In these Days one
can't make a Man marry"
This was going on while Lord Rufford was shooting in the
neighbourhood of Dillsborough; and when the letter was being put into
its envelope at the lodgings in Orchard Street, his Lordship was just
sitting down to dinner with his guests at the Bush. At the same time
John Morton was lying ill at Bragton;—a fact of which Arabella was
not aware.
The letter from Lord Augustus was put into the post on Saturday
evening; but when that line of action was decided upon by Arabella
she was aware that she must not trust solely to her father. Various
plans were fermenting in her brain; all, or any of which, if carried
out at all, must be carried out at the same time and at once. There
must be no delay, or that final chance of Patagonia would be gone. The
leader of a forlorn hope, though he be ever so resolved to die in the
breach, still makes some preparation for his escape. Among her plans
the first in order was a resolution to see Lord Mistletoe whom she
knew to be in town. Parliament was to meet in the course of the next
week and he was to move the address. There had been much said about
all this at Mistletoe from which she knew that he was in London
preparing himself among the gentlemen at the Treasury. Then she
herself would write to the Duke. She thought that she could concoct a
letter that would move even his heart. She would tell him that she was
a daughter of the house of Trefoil, and "all that kind of thing." She
had it distinctly laid down in her mind. And then there was another
move which she would make before she altogether threw up the game. She
would force herself into Lord Rufford's presence and throw herself
into his arms,—at his feet if need be,—and force him into
compliance. Should she fail, then she, too, had an idea what a raging
woman could do. But her first step now must be with her cousin
Mistletoe. She would not write to the Duke till she had seen her
cousin.
Lord Mistletoe when in London lived at the family house in
Piccadilly, and thither early on the Sunday morning she sent a note
to say that she especially wished to see her cousin and would call at
three o'clock on that day. The messenger brought back word that Lord
Mistletoe would be at home, and exactly at that hour the hired
brougham stopped at the door. Her mother had wished to accompany her
but she had declared that if she could not go alone she would not go
at all. In that she was right; for whatever favour the young heir to
the family honours might retain for his fair cousin, who was at any
rate a Trefoil, he had none for his uncle's wife. She was shown into
his own sitting-room on the ground floor, and then he immediately
joined her. "I wouldn't have you shown upstairs," he said, "because I
understand from your note that you want to see me in particular."
"That is so kind of you."
Lord Mistletoe was a young man about thirty, less in stature than
his father or uncle, but with the same handsome inexpressive face.
Almost all men take to some line in life. His father was known as a
manager of estates; his uncle as a whist-player; he was minded to
follow the steps of his grandfather and be a statesman. He was eaten
up by no high ambition but lived in the hope that by perseverance he
might live to become a useful Under Secretary, and perhaps,
ultimately, a Privy Seal. As he was well educated and laborious, and
had no objection to sitting for five hours together in the House of
Commons with nothing to do and sometimes with very little to hear, it
was thought by his friends that he would succeed. "And what is it I
can do?" he said with that affable smile to which he had already
become accustomed as a government politician.
"I am in great trouble," said Arabella, leaving her hand for a
moment in his as she spoke.
"I am sorry for that. What sort of trouble?" He knew that his uncle
and his aunt's family were always short of money, and was already
considering to what extent he would go in granting her petition.
"Do you know Lord Rufford?"
"Lord Rufford! Yes;—I know him; but very slightly. My father knows
him very much better than I do."
"I have just been at Mistletoe, and he was there. My story is so
hard to tell. I had better out with it at once. Lord Rufford has
asked me to be his wife."
"The deuce he has! It's a very fine property and quite
unembarrassed."
"And now he repudiates his engagement" Upon hearing this the young
lord's face became very long. He also had heard something of the past
life of his handsome cousin, though he had always felt kindly to her.
"It was not once only."
"Dear me! I should have thought your father would be the proper
person."
"Papa has written;—but you know what papa is."
"Does the Duke know of it,—or my mother?"
"It partly went on at Mistletoe. I would tell you the whole story
if I knew how." Then she did tell him her story, during the telling
of which he sat profoundly silent. She had gone to stay with Lady
Penwether at Lord Rufford's house, and then he had first told her of
his love. Then they had agreed to meet at Mistletoe, and she had
begged her aunt to receive her. She had not told her aunt at once, and
her aunt had been angry with her because they had walked together.
Then she had told everything to the Duchess and had begged the Duchess
to ask the Duke to speak to Lord Rufford. At Mistletoe Lord Rufford
had twice renewed his offer,—and she had then accepted him. But the
Duke had not spoken to him before he left the place. She owned that
she thought the Duchess had been a little hard to her. Of course she
did not mean to complain, but the Duchess had been angry with her
because she had hunted. And now, in answer to the note from herself,
had come a letter from Lord Rufford in which he repudiated the
engagement. "I only got it yesterday and I came at once to you. I do
not think you will see your cousin treated in that way without raising
your hand. You will remember that I have no brother?"
"But what can I do?" asked Lord Mistletoe. She had taken great
trouble with her face, so that she was able to burst out into tears.
She had on a veil which partly concealed her. She did not believe in
the effect of a pocket handkerchief, but sat with her face half
averted. "Tell him what you think about it," she said.
"Such engagements, Arabella," he said, "should always be
authenticated by a third party. It is for that reason that a girl
generally refers her lover to her father before she allows herself to
be considered as engaged."
"Think what my position has been! I wanted to refer him to my uncle
and asked the Duchess."
"My mother must have had some reason. I'm sure she must. There
isn't a woman in London knows how such things should be done better
than my mother. I can write to Lord Rufford and ask him for an
explanation; but I do not see what good it would do."
"If you were in earnest about it he would be—afraid of you."
"I don't think he would in the least. If I were to make a noise
about it, it would only do you harm. You wouldn't wish all the world
to know that he had—jilted me! I don't care what the world knows. Am
I to put up with such treatment as that and do nothing? Do you like to
see your cousin treated in that way?"
"I don't like it at all. Lord Rufford is a good sort of man in his
way, and has a large property. I wish with all my heart that it had
come off all right; but in these days one can't make a man marry.
There used to be the alternative of going out and being shot at; but
that is over now."
"And a man is to do just as he pleases?"
"I am afraid so. If a man is known to have behaved badly to a girl,
public opinion will condemn him."
"Can anything be worse than this treatment of me?" Lord Mistletoe
could not tell her that he had alluded to absolute knowledge and that
at present he had no more than her version of the story;—or that the
world would require more than that before the general condemnation of
which he had spoken would come. So he sat in silence and shook his
head. "And you think that I should put up with it quietly!"
"I think that your father should see the man." Arabella shook her
head contemptuously. "If you wish it I will write to my mother."
"I would rather trust to my uncle."
"I don't know what he could do;—but I will write to him if you
please."
"And you won't see Lord Rufford?"
He sat silent for a minute or two during which she pressed him over
and over again to have an interview with her recreant lover, bringing
up all the arguments that she knew, reminding him of their former
affection for each other, telling him that she had no brother of her
own, and that her own father was worse than useless in such a matter.
A word or two she said of the nature of the prize to be gained, and
many words as to her absolute right to regard that prize as her own.
But at last he refused. "I am not the person to do it," he said. "Even
if I were your brother I should not be so,—unless with the view of
punishing him for his conduct;—in which place the punishment to you
would be worse than any I could inflict on him. It cannot be good that
any young lady should have her name in the mouths of all the lovers of
gossip in the country."
She was going to burst out at him in her anger, but before the
words were out of her mouth she remembered herself. She could not
afford to make enemies and certainly not an enemy of him. "Perhaps,
then," she said, "you had better tell your mother all that I have
told you. I will write to the Duke myself."
And so she left him, and as she returned to Orchard Street in the
brougham, she applied to him every term of reproach she could bring
to mind. He was selfish, and a coward, and utterly devoid of all
feeling of family honour. He was a prig, and unmanly, and false. A
real cousin would have burst out into a passion and have declared
himself ready to seize Lord Rufford by the throat and shake him into
instant matrimony. But this man, through whose veins water was running
instead of blood, had no feeling, no heart, no capability for anger!
Oh, what a vile world it was! A little help,—so very little,—would
have made everything straight for her! If her aunt had only behaved at
Mistletoe as aunts should behave, there would have been no difficulty.
In her misery she thought that the world was more cruel to her than to
any other person in it.
On her arrival at home she was astounded by a letter that she found
there,—a letter of such a nature that it altogether drove out of her
head the purpose which she had of writing to the Duke on that evening.
The letter was from John Morton and now reached her through the lawyer
to whom it had been sent by private hand for immediate delivery. It
ran as follows:
Dearest Arabella,
I am very ill,—so ill that Dr. Fanning who has come down from
London, has, I think, but a poor opinion of my case. He does not say
that it is hopeless,—and that is all. I think it right to tell you
this, as my affection for you is what it always has been. If you wish
to see me, you and your mother had better come to Bragton at once. You
can telegraph. I am too weak to write more.
Yours most affectionately, John Morton.
P.S. There is nothing infectious.
"John Morton is dying," she almost screamed out to her mother.
"Dying!"
"So he says. Oh, what an unfortunate wretch I am! Everything that
touches me comes to grief. Then she burst out into a flood of true
unfeigned tears.
"It won't matter so much," said Lady Augustus, "if you mean to
write to the Duke and go on with this other—affair."
"Oh, mamma, how can you talk in that way?"
"Well; my dear; you know—"
"I am heartless. I know that. But you are ten times worse. Think
how I have treated him!"
"I don't want him to die, my dear; but what can I say? I can't do
him any good. It is all in God's hands, and if he must die—why, it
won't make so much difference to you. I have looked upon all that as
over for a long time."
"It is not over. After all he has liked me better than any of them.
He wants me to go to Bragton."
"That of course is out of the question."
"It is not out of the question at all. I shall go."
"Arabella!"
"And you must go with me, mamma."
"I will do no such thing," said Lady Augustus, to whom the idea of
Bragton was terrible.
"Indeed you must. He has asked me to go, and I shall do it. You can
hardly let me go alone."
"And what will you say to Lord Rufford?"
"I don't care for Lord Rufford. Is he to prevent my going where I
please?"
"And your father,—and the Duke,—and the Duchess! How can you go
there after all that you have been doing since you left?"
"What do I care for the Duke and the Duchess. It has come to that,
that I care for no one. They are all throwing me over. That little
wretch Mistletoe will do nothing. This man really loved me. He has
never treated me badly. Whether he live or whether he die, he has
been true to me." Then she sat and thought of it all. What would Lord
Rufford care for her father's letter? If her cousin Mistletoe would
not stir in her behalf what chance had she with her uncle? And, though
she had thoroughly despised her cousin, she had understood and had
unconsciously believed much that he had said to her. "In these days
one can't make a man marry!" What horrid days they were! But John
Morton would marry her to-morrow if he were well,—in spite of all her
ill usage! Of course he would die and so she would again be
overwhelmed; but yet she would go and see him. As she determined to do
so there was something even in her hard callous heart softer than the
love of money and more human than the dream of an advantageous
settlement in life.
CHAPTER XXIV. The Senator's second
Letter
In the mean time our friend the Senator, up in London, was much
distracted in his mind, finding no one to sympathise with him in his
efforts, conscious of his own rectitude of purpose, always brave
against others, and yet with a sad doubt in his own mind whether it
could be possible that he should always be right and everybody around
him wrong.
Coming away from Mr. Mainwaring's dinner he had almost quarrelled
with John Morton, or rather John Morton had altogether quarrelled
with him. On their way back from Dillsborough to Bragton the minister
elect to Patagonia had told him, in so many words, that he had
misbehaved himself at the clergyman's house. "Did I say anything that
was untrue?" asked the Senator—"Was I inaccurate in my statements? If
so no man alive will be more ready to recall what he has said and to
ask for pardon." Mr. Morton endeavoured to explain to him that it was
not his statements which were at fault so much as the opinions based
on them and the language in which those opinions were given. But the
Senator could not be made to understand that a man had not a right to
his opinions, and a right also to the use of forcible language as long
as he abstained from personalities. "It was extremely personal,—all
that you said about the purchase of livings," said Morton. "How was I
to know that?" rejoined the Senator. "When in private society I
inveigh against pickpockets I cannot imagine, sir, that there should
be a pickpocket in the company." As the Senator said this he was
grieving in his heart at the trouble he had occasioned, and was
almost repenting the duties he had imposed on himself; but, yet, his
voice was bellicose and antagonistic. The conversation was carried on
till Morton found himself constrained to say that though he
entertained great personal respect for his guest he could not go with
him again into society. He was ill at the time,—though neither he
himself knew it nor the Senator. On the next morning Mr. Gotobed
returned to London without seeing his host, and before the day was
over Mr. Nupper was at Morton's bedside. He was already suffering from
gastric fever.
The Senator was in truth unhappy as he returned to town. The
intimacy between him and the late Secretary of Legation at his
capital had arisen from a mutual understanding between them that each
was to be allowed to see the faults and to admire the virtues of their
two countries, and that conversation between them was to be based on
the mutual system. But nobody can, in truth, endure to be told of
shortcomings,—either on his own part or on that of his country. He
himself can abuse himself, or his country; but he cannot endure it
from alien lips. Mr. Gotobed had hardly said a word about England
which Morton himself might not have said,—but such words coming from
an American had been too much even for the guarded temper of an
unprejudiced and phlegmatic Englishman. The Senator as he returned
alone to London understood something of this,—and when a few days
later he heard that the friend who had quarrelled with him was ill, he
was discontented with himself and sore at heart.
But he had his task to perform, and he meant to perform it to the
best of his ability. In his own country he had heard vehement abuse
of the old land from the lips of politicians, and had found at the
same time almost on all sides great social admiration for the people
so abused. He had observed that every Englishman of distinction was
received in the States as a demigod, and that some who were not very
great in their own land had been converted into heroes in his. English
books were read there; English laws were obeyed there; English habits
were cultivated, often at the expense of American comfort. And yet it
was the fashion among orators to speak of the English as a worn-out,
stupid and enslaved people. He was a thoughtful man and all this had
perplexed him;—so that he had obtained leave from his State and from
Congress to be absent during a part of a short Session, and had come
over determined to learn as much as he could. Everything he heard and
almost everything he saw offended him at some point. And, yet in the
midst of it all, he was conscious that he was surrounded by people who
claimed and made good their claims to superiority. What was a lord,
let him be ever so rich and have ever so many titles? And yet, even
with such a popinjay as Lord Rufford, he himself felt the lordship.
When that old farmer at the hunt breakfast had removed himself and
his belongings to the other side of the table the Senator, though
aware of the justice of his cause, had been keenly alive to the
rebuke. He had expressed himself very boldly at the rector's house at
Dillsborough, and had been certain that not a word of real argument
had been possible in answer to him. But yet he left the house with a
feeling almost of shame, which had grown into real penitence before he
reached Bragton. He knew that he had already been condemned by
Englishmen as ill-mannered, ill-conditioned and absurd. He was as much
alive as any man to the inward distress of heart which such a
conviction brings with it to all sensitive minds. And yet he had his
purpose and would follow it out. He was already hard at work on the
lecture which he meant to deliver somewhere in London before he went
back to his home duties, and had made it known to the world at large
that he meant to say some sharp things of the country he was visiting.
Soon after his return to town he was present at the opening of
Parliament, Mr. Mounser Green of the Foreign Office having seen that
he was properly accommodated with a seat. Then he went down to the
election of a member of Parliament in the little borough of
Quinborough. It was unfortunate for Great Britain, which was on its
trial, and unpleasant also for the poor Senator who had appointed
himself judge, that such a seat should have fallen vacant at that
moment. Quinborough was a little town of 3,000 inhabitants clustering
round the gates of a great Whig Marquis, which had been spared,—who
can say why?—at the first Reform Bill, and having but one member had
come out scatheless from the second. Quinborough still returned its
one member with something less than 500 constituents, and in spite of
household suffrage and the ballot had always returned the member
favoured by the Marquis. This nobleman, driven no doubt by his
conscience to make some return to the country for the favour shown to
his family, had always sent to Parliament some useful and
distinguished man who without such patronage might have been unable to
serve his country. On the present occasion a friend of the people,—so
called,—an unlettered demagogue such as is in England in truth
distasteful to all classes, had taken himself down to Quinborough as a
candidate in opposition to the nobleman's nominee. He had been backed
by all the sympathies of the American Senator who knew nothing of him
or his unfitness, and nothing whatever of the patriotism of the
Marquis. But he did know what was the population and what the
constituency of Liverpool, and also what were those of Quinborough. He
supposed that he knew what was the theory of representation in
England, and he understood correctly that hitherto the member for
Quinborough had been the nominee of that great lord. These things were
horrid to him. There was to his thinking a fiction,—more than
fiction, a falseness,—about all this which not only would but ought
to bring the country prostrate to the dust. When the working-man's
candidate, whose political programme consisted of a general disbelief
in all religions, received—by ballot!—only nine votes from those 500
voters, the Senator declared to himself that the country must be
rotten to the core. It was not only that Britons were slaves,—but
that they "hugged their chains." To the gentleman who assured him that
the Right Honble. — — would make a much better member of Parliament
than Tom Bobster the plasterer from Shoreditch he in vain tried to
prove that the respective merits of the two men had nothing to do with
the question. It had been the duty of those 500 voters to show to the
world that in the exercise of a privilege entrusted to them for the
public service they had not been under the dictation of their rich
neighbour. Instead of doing so they had, almost unanimously, grovelled
in the dust at their rich neighbour's feet. "There are but one or two
such places left in all England," said the gentleman. "But those one
or two," answered the Senator, "were wilfully left there by the
Parliament which represented the whole nation."
Then, quite early in the Session, immediately after the voting of
the address, a motion had been made by the Government of the day for
introducing household suffrage into the counties. No one knew the
labour to which the Senator subjected himself in order that he might
master all these peculiarities,—that he might learn how men became
members of Parliament and how they ceased to be so, in what degree the
House of Commons was made up of different elements, how it came to
pass, that though there was a House of Lords, so many lords sat in the
lower chamber. All those matters which to ordinary educated Englishmen
are almost as common as the breath of their nostrils, had been to him
matter of long and serious study. And as the intent student, who has
zealously buried himself for a week among commentaries and notes,
feels himself qualified to question Porson and to Be-Bentley Bentley,
so did our Senator believe, while still he was groping among the
rudiments, that he had all our political intricacies at his fingers'
ends. When he heard the arguments used for a difference of suffrage in
the towns and counties, and found that even they who were proposing
the change were not ready absolutely to assimilate the two and still
held that rural ascendency,—feudalism as he called it,—should
maintain itself by barring a fraction of the House of Commons from the
votes of the majority, he pronounced the whole thing to be a sham. The
intention was, he said, to delude the people. "It is all coming,"
said the gentleman who was accustomed to argue with him in those
days. He spoke in a sad vein, which was in itself distressing to the
Senator. "Why should you be in such a hurry?" The Senator suggested
that if the country delayed much longer this imperative task of
putting its house in order, the roof would have fallen in before the
repairs were done. Then he found that this gentleman too, avoided his
company, and declined to sit with him any more in the Gallery of the
House of Commons.
Added to all this was a private rankling, sore in regard to Goarly
and Bearside. He had now learned nearly all the truth about Goarly,
and had learned also that Bearside had known the whole when he had
last visited that eminent lawyer's office. Goarly had deserted his
supporters and had turned evidence against Scrobby, his partner in
iniquity. That Goarly was a rascal the Senator had acknowledged. So
far the general opinion down in Rufford had been correct. But he
could get nobody to see,—or at any rate could get nobody to
acknowledge,—that the rascality of Goarly had had nothing to do with
the question as he had taken it up. The man's right to his own
land,—his right to be protected from pheasants and foxes, from
horses and hounds,—was not lessened by the fact that he was a poor
ignorant squalid dishonest wretch. Mr. Gotobed had now received a
bill from Bearside for 42l. 7s. 9d. for costs in the case, leaving
after the deduction of 15l. already paid a sum of 27l. 7s. 9d. stated
to be still due. And this was accompanied by an intimation that as he,
Mr. Gotobed, was a foreigner soon about to leave the country, Mr.
Bearside must request that his claim might be settled quite at once.
No one could be less likely than our Senator to leave a foreign
country without paying his bills. He had quarrelled with Morton,—who
also at this time was too ill to have given him much assistance.
Though he had become acquainted with half Dillsborough, there was
nobody there to whom he could apply. Thus he was driven to employ a
London attorney, and the London attorney told him that he had better
pay Bearside;—the Senator remembering at the time that he would also
have to pay the London attorney for his advice. He gave this second
lawyer authority to conclude the matter, and at last Bearside accepted
20 pounds. When the London attorney refused to take anything for his
trouble, the Senator felt such conduct almost as an additional
grievance. In his existing frame of mind he would sooner have expended
a few more dollars than be driven to think well of anything connected
with English law.
It was immediately after he had handed over the money in
liquidation of Bearside's claim that he sat down to write a further
letter to his friend and correspondent Josiah Scroome. His letter was
not written in the best of tempers; but still, through it all, there
was a desire to be just, and an anxiety to abstain from the use of
hard phrases. The letter was as follows;—
Fenton's Hotel, St. James' Street, London, Feb. 12, 187-.
My Dear Sir,
Since I last wrote I have had much to trouble me and little perhaps
to compensate me for my trouble. I told you, I think, in one of my
former letters that wherever I went I found myself able to say what I
pleased as to the peculiarities of this very peculiar people. I am not
now going to contradict what I said then. Wherever I go I do speak
out, and my eyes are still in my head and my head is on my shoulders.
But I have to acknowledge to myself that I give offence. Mr. Morton,
whom you knew at the British Embassy in Washington,— and who I fear
is now very ill,—parted from me, when last I saw him, in anger
because of certain opinions I had expressed in a clergyman's house,
not as being ill-founded but as being antagonistic to the clergyman
himself. This I feel to be unreasonable. And in the neighbourhood of
Mr. Morton's house, I have encountered the ill will of a great many,
not for having spoken untruth, for that I have never heard alleged,
but because I have not been reticent in describing the things which I
have seen.
I told you, I think, that I had returned to Mr. Morton's
neighbourhood with the view of defending an oppressed man against the
power of the lord who was oppressing him. Unfortunately for me the
lord, though a scapegrace, spends his money freely and is a hospitable
kindly-hearted honest fellow; whereas the injured victim has turned
out to be a wretched scoundrel. Scoundrel though he is, he has still
been ill used; and the lord, though good-natured, has been a tyrant.
But the poor wretch has thrown me over and sold himself to the other
side and I have been held up to ignominy by all the provincial
newspapers. I have also had to pay through the nose 175 dollars for my
quixotism—a sum which I cannot very well afford. This money I have
lost solely with the view of defending the weak, but nobody with whom
I have discussed the matter seems to recognise the purity of my
object. I am only reminded that I have put myself into the same boat
with a rascal.
I feel from day to day how thoroughly I could have enjoyed a
sojourn in this country if I had come here without any line of duty
laid down for myself. Could I have swum with the stream and have said
yes or no as yes or no were expected, I might have revelled in
generous hospitality. Nothing can be pleasanter than the houses here
if you will only be as idle as the owners of them. But when once you
show them that you have an object, they become afraid of you. And
industry,—in such houses as I now speak of, is a crime. You are there
to glide through the day luxuriously in the house,— or to rush
through it impetuously on horseback or with a gun if you be a
sportsman. Sometimes, when I have asked questions about the most
material institutions of the country, I have felt that I was looked
upon with absolute loathing. This is disagreeable.
And yet I find it more easy in this country to sympathise with the
rich than with the poor. I do not here describe my own actual
sympathies, but only the easiness with which they might be evoked.
The rich are at any rate pleasant. The poor are very much the
reverse. There is no backbone of mutiny in them against the
oppression to which they are subjected; but only the whining of a dog
that knows itself to be a slave and pleads with his soft paw for
tenderness from his master; or the futile growlings of the caged tiger
who paces up and down before his bars and has long ago forgotten to
attempt to break them. They are a long-suffering race, who only now
and then feel themselves stirred up to contest a point against their
masters on the basis of starvation. 'We. won't work but on such and
such terms, and, if we cannot get them, we will lie down and die.'
That I take it is the real argument of a strike. But they never do lie
down and die. If one in every parish, one in every county, would do
so, then the agricultural labourers of the country might live almost
as well as the farmers' pigs.
I was present the other day at the opening of Parliament. It was a
very grand ceremony, though the Queen did not find herself well
enough to do her duty in person. But the grandeur was everything. A
royal programme was read from the foot of the throne, of which even I
knew all the details beforehand, having read them in the newspapers.
Two opening speeches were then made by two young lords,—not after all
so very young,—which sounded like lessons recited by schoolboys.
There was no touch of eloquence,—no approach to it. It was clear that
either of them would have been afraid to attempt the idiosyncrasy of
passionate expression. But they were exquisitely dressed and had
learned their lessons to a marvel. The flutter of the ladies' dresses,
and the presence of the peers, and the historic ornamentation of the
house were all very pleasant; but they reminded me of a last year's
nut, of which the outside appearance has been mellowed and improved by
time,—but the fruit inside has withered away and become tasteless.
Since that I have been much interested with an attempt,—a further
morsel of cobbling, which is being done to improve the representation
of the people. Though it be but cobbling, if it be in the right
direction one is glad of it. I do not know how far you may have
studied the theories and system of the British House of Commons, but,
for myself, I must own that it was not till the other day that I was
aware that, though it acts together as one whole, it is formed of two
distinct parts. The one part is sent thither from the towns by
household suffrage; and, this, which may be said to be the healthier
of the two as coming more directly from the people, is nevertheless
disfigured by a multitude of anomalies. Population hardly bears upon
the question. A town with 15,000 inhabitants has two members,—whereas
another with 400,000 has only three, and another with 50,000 has one.
But there is worse disorder than this. In the happy little village of
Portarlington 200 constituents choose a member among them, or have one
chosen for them by their careful lord; whereas in the great city of
London something like 25,000 registered electors only send four to
Parliament. With this the country is presumed to be satisfied. But in
the counties, which by a different system send up the other part of
the House, there exists still a heavy property qualification for
voting. There is, apparent to all, a necessity for change here;—but
the change proposed is simply a reduction of the qualification, so
that the rural labourer, whose class is probably the largest, as it is
the poorest, in the country,—is still disfranchised, and will remain
so, unless it be his chance to live within the arbitrary line of some
so-called borough. For these boroughs, you must know, are sometimes
strictly confined to the aggregations of houses which constitute the
town, but sometimes stretch out their arms so as to include rural
districts. The divisions I am assured were made to suit the
aspirations of political magnates when the first Reform Bill was
passed! What is to be expected of a country in which such absurdities
are loved and sheltered?
I am still determined to express my views on these matters before I
leave England, and am with great labour preparing a lecture on the
subject. I am assured that I shall not be debarred from my utterances
because that which I say is unpopular. I am told that as long as I do
not touch Her Majesty or Her Majesty's family, or the Christian
religion,—which is only the second Holy of Holies,—I may say
anything. Good taste would save me from the former offence, and my own
convictions from the latter. But my friend who so informs me doubts
whether many will come to hear me. He tells me that the serious
American is not popular here, whereas the joker is much run after. Of
that I must take my chance. In all this I am endeavouring to do a
duty,—feeling every day more strongly my own inadequacy. Were I to
follow my own wishes I should return by the next steamer to my duties
at home.
Believe me to be, Dear Sir, With much sincerity, Yours truly, Elias Gotobed.
CHAPTER XXV. Providence interferes
The battle was carried on very fiercely in Mr. Masters' house in
Dillsborough, to the misery of all within it; but the conviction
gained ground with every one there that Mary was to be sent to
Cheltenham for some indefinite time. Dolly and Kate seemed to think
that she was to go, never to return. Six months, which had been
vaguely mentioned as the proposed period of her sojourn, was to them
almost as indefinite as eternity. The two girls had been intensely
anxious for the marriage, wishing to have Larry for a brother, looking
forward with delight to their share in the unrestricted plenteousness
of Chowton Farm, longing to be allowed to consider themselves at home
among the ricks and barns and wide fields; but at this moment things
had become so tragic that they were cowed and unhappy,—not that Mary
should still refuse Larry Twentyman, but that she should be going away
for so long a time. They could quarrel with their elder sister while
the assurance was still with them that she would be there to forgive
them;—but now that she was going away and that it had come to be
believed by both of them that poor Lawrence had no chance, they were
sad and downhearted. In all that misery the poor attorney had the
worst of it. Mary was free from her stepmother's zeal and her
stepmother's persecution at any rate at night; but the poor father was
hardly allowed to sleep. For Mrs. Masters never gave up her game as
altogether lost. Though she might be driven alternately into towering
passion and prostrate hysterics, she would still come again to the
battle. A word of encouragement would, she said, bring Larry Twentyman
back to his courtship, and that word might be spoken, if Mary's visit
to Cheltenham were forbidden. What did the letter signify, or all the
girl's protestations? Did not everybody know how self-willed young
women were; but how they could be brought round by proper usage? Let
Mary once be made to understand that she would not be allowed to be a
fine lady, and then she would marry Mr. Twentyman quick enough. But
this "Ushanting," this journeying to Cheltenham in order that nothing
might be done, was the very way to promote the disease! This Mrs.
Masters said in season and out of season, night and day, till the poor
husband longed for his daughter's departure, in order that that point
might at any rate be settled. In all these disputes he never quite
yielded. Though his heart sank within him he was still firm. He would
turn his back to his wife and let her run on with her arguments
without a word of answer,—till at last he would bounce out of bed and
swear that if she did not leave him alone he would go and lock himself
into the office and sleep with his head on the office desk.
Mrs. Masters was almost driven to despair;—but at last there came
to her a gleam of hope, most unexpectedly. It had been settled that
Mary should make her journey on Friday the 12th February and that
Reginald Morton was again to accompany her. This in itself was to
Mrs. Masters an aggravation of the evil which was being done. She was
not in the least afraid of Reginald Morton; but this attendance on
Mary was in the eyes of her stepmother a cockering of her up, a making
a fine lady of her, which was in itself of all things the most
pernicious. If Mary must go to Cheltenham, why could she not go by
herself, second class, like any other young woman? "Nobody would eat
her,"—Mrs. Masters declared. But Reginald was firm in his purpose of
accompanying her. He had no objection whatever to the second class if
Mr. Masters preferred it. But as he meant to make the journey on the
same day of course they would go together. Mr. Masters said that he
was very much obliged. Mrs. Masters protested that it was all trash
from beginning to the end.
Then there came a sudden disruption to all these plans, and a
sudden renewal of her hopes to Mrs. Masters which for one half day
nearly restored her to good humour. Lady Ushant wrote to postpone the
visit because she herself had been summoned to Bragton. Her letter to
Mary, though affectionate, was very short. Her grand-nephew John, the
head of the family, had expressed a desire to see her, and with that
wish she was bound to comply. Of course, she said, she would see Mary
at Bragton; or if that were not possible, she herself would come into
Dillsborough. She did not know what might be the length of her visit,
but when it was over she hoped that Mary would return with her to
Cheltenham. The old lady's letter to Reginald was much longer; because
in that she had to speak of the state of John Morton's health,—and of
her surprise that she should be summoned to his bedside. Of course she
would go,—though she could not look forward with satisfaction to a
meeting with the Honble. Mrs. Morton. Then she could not refrain from
alluding to the fact that if "anything were to happen" to John Morton,
Reginald himself would be the Squire of Bragton. Reginald when he
received this at once went over to the attorney's house, but he did
not succeed in seeing Mary. He learned, however, that they were all
aware that the journey had been postponed.
To Mrs. Masters it seemed that all this had been a dispensation of
Providence. Lady Ushant's letter had been received on the Thursday
and Mrs. Masters at once found it expedient to communicate with Larry
Twentyman. She was not excellent herself at the writing of letters,
and therefore she got Dolly to be the scribe. Before the Thursday
evening the following note was sent to Chowton Farm;
Dear Larry,
Pray come and go to the club with father on Saturday. We haven't
seen you for so long! Mother has got something to tell you.
Your affectionate friend, Dolly.
When this was received the poor man was smoking his moody pipe in
silence as he roamed about his own farmyard in the darkness of the
night. He had not as yet known any comfort and was still firm in his
purpose of selling the farm. He had been out hunting once or twice but
fancied that people looked at him with peculiar eyes. He could not
ride, though he made one or two forlorn attempts to break his neck. He
did not care in the least whether they found or not; and when Captain
Glomax was held to have disgraced himself thoroughly by wasting an
hour in digging out and then killing a vixen, he had not a word to say
about it. But, as he read Dolly's note, there came back something of
life into his eyes. He had forsworn the club, but would certainly go
when thus invited. He wrote a scrawl to Dolly, "I'll come," and,
having sent it off by the messenger, tried to trust that there might
yet be ground for hope. Mrs. Masters would not have allowed Dolly to
send such a message without good reason.
On the Friday Mrs. Masters could not abstain from proposing that
Mary's visit to Cheltenham should be regarded as altogether out of
the question. She had no new argument to offer,—except this last
interposition of Providence in her favour. Mr. Masters said that he
did not see why Mary should not return with Lady Ushant. Various
things, however, might happen. John Morton might die, and then who
could tell whether Lady Ushant would ever return to Cheltenham? In
this way the short-lived peace soon came to an end, especially as
Mrs. Masters endeavoured to utilize for general family purposes
certain articles which had been purchased with a view to Mary's
prolonged residence away from home. This was resented by the
attorney, and the peace was short-lived.
On the Saturday Larry came, to the astonishment of Mr. Masters, who
was still in his office at half-past seven. Mrs. Masters at once got
hold of him and conveyed him away into the sacred drawing-room. "Mary
is not going," she said.
"Not going to Cheltenham!"
"It has all been put off. She shan't go at all if I can help it."
"But why has it been put off, Mrs. Masters?"
"Lady Ushant is coming to Bragton. I suppose that poor man is
dying."
"He is very ill certainly."
"And if anything happens there who can say what may happen anywhere
else? Lady Ushant will have something else except Mary to think of,
if her own nephew comes into all the property."
"I didn't know she was such friends with the Squire as that"
"Well;—there it is. Lady Ushant is coming to Bragton and Mary is
not going to Cheltenham." This she said as though the news must be of
vital importance to Larry Twentyman. He stood for awhile scratching
his head as he thought of it. At last it appeared to him that Mary's
continual residence in Dillsborough would of itself hardly assist him.
"I don't see, Mrs. Masters, that that will make her a bit kinder to
me."
"Larry, don't you be a coward,—nor yet soft."
"As for coward, Mrs. Masters, I don't know—"
"I suppose you really do love the girl."
"I do;—I think I've shown that."
"And you haven't changed your mind?"
"Not a bit"
"That's why I speak open to you. Don't you be afraid of her. What's
the letter which a girl like that writes? When she gets tantrums into
her head of course she'll write a letter."
"But there's somebody else, Mrs. Masters.
"Who says so? I say there ain't nobody;—nobody. If anybody tells
you that it's only just to put you off. It's just poetry and books
and rubbish. She wants to be a fine lady."
"I'll make her a lady."
"You make her Mrs. Twentyman, and don't you be made by any one to
give it up. Go to the club with Mr. Masters now, and come here just
the same as usual. Come to-morrow and have a gossip with the girls
together and show that you can keep your pluck up. That's the way to
win her." Larry did go to the club and did think very much of it as he
walked home. He had promised to come on the Sunday afternoon, but he
could not bring himself to believe in that theory of books and poetry
put forward by Mrs. Masters. Books and poetry would not teach a girl
like Mary to reject her suitor if she really loved him.
CHAPTER XXVI. Lady Ushant at Bragton
On the Sunday Larry came into Dillsborough and had "his gossip with
the girls" according to order;—but it was not very successful. Mrs.
Masters who opened the door for him instructed him in a special
whisper "to talk away just as though he did not care a fig for Mary."
He made the attempt manfully,—but with slight effect. His love was
too genuine, too absorbing, to leave with him the power which Mrs.
Masters assumed him to have when she gave him such advice. A man
cannot walk when he has broken his ankle-bone, let him be ever so
brave in the attempt. Larry's heart was so weighed that he could not
hide the weight. Dolly and Kate had also received hints and struggled
hard to be merry. In the afternoon a walk was suggested, and Mary
complied; but when an attempt was made by the younger girls to leave
the lover and Mary together, she resented it by clinging closely to
Dolly;—and then all Larry's courage deserted him. Very little good
was done on the occasion by Mrs. Masters' manoeuvres.
On the Monday morning, in compliance with a request made by Lady
Ushant, Mary walked over to Bragton to see her old friend. Mrs.
Masters had declared the request to be very unreasonable. "Who is to
walk five miles and back to see an old woman like that?" To this Mary
had replied that the distance across the fields to Bragton was only
four miles and that she had often walked it with her sisters for the
very pleasure of the walk. "Not in weather like this," said Mrs.
Masters. But the day was well enough. Roads in February are often a
little wet, but there was no rain falling. "I say it's unreasonable,"
said Mrs. Masters. "If she can't send a carriage she oughtn't to
expect it." This coming from Mrs. Masters, whose great doctrine it was
that young women ought not to be afraid of work, was so clearly the
effect of sheer opposition that Mary disdained to answer it. Then she
was accused of treating her stepmother with contempt.
She did walk to Bragton, taking the path by the fields and over the
bridge, and loitering for a few minutes as she leant upon the rail.
It was there and there only that she had seen together the two men
who between them seemed to cloud all her life,—the man whom she
loved and the man who loved her. She knew now,—she thought that she
knew quite well,—that her feelings for Reginald Morton were of such a
nature that she could not possibly become the wife of any one else.
But had she not seen him for those few minutes on this spot, had he
not fired her imagination by telling her of his desire to go back with
her over the sites which they had seen together when she was a child,
she would not, she thought, have been driven to make to herself so
grievous a confession. In that case it might have been that she would
have brought herself to give her hand to the suitor of whom all her
friends approved. And then with infinite tenderness she thought of all
Larry's virtues,—and especially of that great virtue in a woman's
eyes, the constancy of his devotion to herself. She did love him,—but
with a varied love,—a love which was most earnest in wishing his
happiness, which would have been desirous of the closest friendship if
only nothing more were required. She swore to herself a thousand times
that she did not look down upon him because he was only a farmer, that
she did not think herself in any way superior to him. But it was
impossible that she should consent to be his wife. And then she
thought of the other man,—with feelings much less kind. Why had he
thrust himself upon her life and disturbed her? Why had he taught her
to think herself unfit to mate with this lover who was her equal? Why
had he assured her that were she to do so her old friends would be
revolted? Why had he exacted from her a promise,—a promise which was
sacred to her,—that she would not so give herself away? Yes;— the
promise was certainly sacred; but he had been cold and cruel in
forcing it from her lips. What business was it of his? Why should he
have meddled with her? In the shallow streamlet of her lowly life the
waters might have glided on, slow but smoothly, had he not taught them
to be ambitious of a rapider, grander course. Now they were disturbed
by mud, and there could be no pleasure in them.
She went on over the bridge, and round by the shrubbery to the hall
door which was opened to her by Mrs. Hopkins. Yes, Lady Ushant was
there;—but the young Squire was very ill and his aunt was then with
him. Mr. Reginald was in the library. Would Miss Masters be shown in
there, or would she go up to Lady Ushant's own room? Of course she
replied that she would go up-stairs and there wait for Lady Ushant.
When she was found by her friend she was told at length the story
of all the circumstances which had brought Lady Ushant to Bragton.
When John Morton had first been taken ill,—before any fixed idea of
danger had occurred to himself or to others,—his grandmother had come
to him. Then, as he gradually became weaker he made various
propositions which were all of them terribly distasteful to the old
woman. In the first place he had insisted on sending for Miss Trefoil.
Up to this period Mary Masters had hardly heard the name of Miss
Trefoil, and almost shuddered as she was at once immersed in all these
family secrets. "She is to be here to-morrow," said Lady Ushant.
"Oh dear,—how sad!"
"He insists upon it, and she is coming. She was here before, and it
now turns out that all the world knew that they were engaged. That
was no secret, for everybody had heard it"
"And where is Mrs. Morton now?" Then Lady Ushant went on with her
story. The sick man had insisted on making his will and had declared
his purpose of leaving the property to his cousin Reginald. As Lady
Ushant said, there was no one else to whom he could leave it with any
propriety;—but this had become matter for bitter contention between
the old woman and her grandson.
"Who did she think should have it?" asked Mary.
"Ah;—that I don't know. That he has never told me. But she has had
the wickedness to say,—oh,—such things of Reginald. I knew all that
before;—-but that she should repeat them now, is terrible. I suppose
she wanted it for some of her own people. But it was so horrible you
know,—when he was so ill! Then he said that he should send for me, so
that what is left of the family might be together. After that she went
away in anger. Mrs. Hopkins says that she did not even see him the
morning she left Bragton."
"She was always high-tempered," said Mary.
"And dictatorial beyond measure. She nearly broke my poor dear
father's heart. And then she left the house because he would not shut
his doors against Reginald's mother. And now I hardly know what I am
to do here, or what I must say to this young lady when she comes
to-morrow."
"Is she coming alone?"
"We don't know. She has a mother, Lady Augustus Trefoil, but
whether Lady Augustus will accompany her daughter we have not heard.
Reginald says certainly not, or they would have told us so. You have
seen Reginald?"
"No, Lady Ushant."
"You must see him. He is here now. Think what a difference it will
make to him."
"But Lady Ushant,—is he so bad?"
"Dr. Fanning almost says that there is no hope. This poor young
woman that is coming;—what am I to say to her? He has made his will.
That was done before I came. I don't know why he shouldn't have sent
for your father, but he had a gentleman down from town. I suppose he
will leave her something; but it is a great thing that Bragton should
remain in the family. Oh dear, oh dear,—if any one but a Morton were
to be here it would break my heart. Reginald is the only one left now
of the old branch. He's getting old and he ought to marry. It is so
serious when there's an old family property."
"I suppose he will—only—"
"Yes; exactly. One can't even think about it while this poor young
man is lying so ill. Mrs. Morton has been almost like his mother, and
has lived upon the Bragton property,—absolutely lived upon it,—and
now she is away from him because he chooses to do what he likes with
his own. Is it not awful? And she would not put her foot in the house
if she knew that Reginald was here. She told Mrs. Hopkins as much, and
she said that she wouldn't so much as write a line to me. Poor fellow;
he wrote it himself. And now he thinks so much about it. When Dr.
Fanning went back to London yesterday I think he took some message to
her."
Mary remained there till lunch was announced but refused to go down
into the parlour, urging that she was expected home for dinner. "And
there is no chance for Mr. Twentyman?" asked Lady Ushant. Mary shook
her head. "Poor man! I do feel sorry for him as everybody speaks so
well of him. Of course, my dear, I have nothing to say about it. I
don't think girls should ever be in a hurry to marry, and if you can't
love him—"
"Dear Lady Ushant, it is quite settled."
"Poor young man! But you must go and see Reginald." Then she was
taken into the library and did see Reginald. Were she to avoid
him,—specially,—she would tell her tale almost as plainly as though
she were to run after him. He greeted her kindly, almost
affectionately, expressing his extreme regret that his visit to
Cheltenham should have been postponed and a hope that she would be
much at Bragton. "The distance is so great, Reginald," said Lady
Ushant.
"I can drive her over. It is a long walk, and I had made up my mind
to get Runciman's little phaeton. I shall order it for to-morrow if
Miss Masters will come." But Miss Masters would not agree to this.
She would walk over again some day as she liked the walk, but no
doubt she would only be in the way if she were to come often.
"I have told her about Miss Trefoil," said Lady Ushant. "You know,
my dear, I look upon you almost as one of ourselves because you lived
here so long. But perhaps you had better postpone coming again till
she has gone."
"Certainly, Lady Ushant"
"It might be difficult to explain. I don't suppose she will stay
long. Perhaps she will go back the same day. I am sure I shan't know
what to say to her. But when anything is fixed I will send you in word
by the postman."
Reginald would have walked back with her across the bridge but that
he had promised to go to his cousin immediately after lunch. As it
was he offered to accompany her a part of the way, but was stopped by
his aunt, greatly to Mary's comfort. He was now more beyond her reach
than ever,—more utterly removed from her. He would probably become
Squire of Bragton, and she, in her earliest days, had heard the late
Squire spoken of as though he were one of the potentates of the earth.
She had never thought it possible; but now it was less possible than
ever. There was something in his manner to her almost protective,
almost fatherly,—as though he had some authority over her. Lady
Ushant had authority once, but he had none. In every tone of his voice
she felt that she heard an expression of interest in her welfare, but
it was the interest which a grown-up person takes in a child, or a
superior in an inferior. Of course he was her superior, but yet the
tone of his voice was distasteful to her. As she walked back to
Dillsborough she told herself that she would not go again to Bragton
without assuring herself that he was not there.
When she reached home many questions were asked of her, but she
told nothing of the secrets of the Morton family which had been so
openly confided to her. She would only say that she was afraid that
Mr. John Morton was very ill.
CHAPTER XXVII. Arabella again at
Bragton
Arabella Trefoil had adhered without flinching to the purpose she
had expressed of going down to Bragton to see the sick man. And yet
at that very time she was in the midst of her contest with Lord
Rufford. She was aware that a correspondence was going on between her
father and the young lord and that her father had demanded an
interview. She was aware also that the matter had been discussed at
the family mansion in Piccadilly, the Duke having come to London for
the purpose, and that the Duke and his brother, who hardly ever spoke
to each other, had absolutely had a conference. And this conference
had had results. The Duke had not himself consented to interfere, but
he had agreed to a compromise proposed by his son. Lord Augustus
should be authorised to ask Lord Rufford to meet him in the library of
the Piccadilly mansion,—so that there should be some savour of the
dukedom in what might be done and said there. Lord Rufford would by
the surroundings be made to feel that in rejecting Arabella he was
rejecting the Duke and all the Mayfair belongings, and that in
accepting her he would be entitled to regard himself as accepting them
all. But by allowing thus much the Duke would not compromise
himself,—nor the Duchess, nor Lord Mistletoe. Lord Mistletoe, with
that prudence which will certainly in future years make him a useful
assistant to some minister of the day, had seen all this, and so it
had been arranged.
But, in spite of these doings, Arabella had insisted on complying
with John Morton's wish that she go down and visit him in his bed at
Bragton. Her mother, who in these days was driven almost to
desperation by her daughter's conduct, tried her best to prevent the
useless journey, but tried in vain. "Then," she said in wrath to
Arabella, "I will tell your father, and I will tell the Duke, and I
will tell Lord Rufford that they need not trouble themselves any
further." "You know, mamma, that you will do nothing of the kind,"
said Arabella. And the poor woman did do nothing of the kind. "What is
it to them whether I see the man or not?" the girl said. "They are not
such fools as to suppose that because Lord Rufford has engaged himself
to me now I was never engaged to any one before. There isn't one of
them doesn't know that you had made up an engagement between us and
had afterwards tried to break it off." When she heard this the
unfortunate mother raved, but she raved in vain. She told her daughter
that she would not supply her with money for the expenses of her
journey, but her daughter replied that she would have no difficulty in
finding her way to a pawn shop. "What is to be got by it?" asked the
unfortunate mother. In reply to this Arabella would say, "Mamma, you
have no heart;— absolutely none. You ought to manoeuvre better, than
you do, for your feelings never stand in your way for a moment" All
this had to be borne, and the old woman was forced at last not only to
yield but to promise that she would accompany her daughter to Bragton.
"I know how all this will end," she said to Arabella. "You will have
to go your way and I must go mine." "Just so," replied the daughter.
"I do not often agree with you, mamma; but I do there altogether."
Lady Augustus was absolutely at a loss to understand what were the
motives and what the ideas which induced her daughter to take the
journey. If the man were to die no good could come of it. If he were
to live then surely that love which had induced him to make so foolish
a petition would suffice to ensure the marriage, if the marriage
should then be thought desirable. But, at the present moment, Arabella
was still hot in pursuit of Lord Rufford; to whom this journey, as
soon as it should be known to him, would give the easiest mode of
escape! How would it be possible that they two should get out at the
Dillsborough Station and be taken to Bragton without all Rufford
knowing it. Of course there would be hymns sung in praise of
Arabella's love and constancy, but such hymns would be absolutely
ruinous to her. It was growing clear to Lady Augustus that her
daughter was giving up the game and becoming frantic as she thought of
her age, her failure, and her future. If so it would be well that they
should separate.
On the day fixed a close carriage awaited them at the Dillsborough
Station. They arrived both dressed in black and both veiled,—and
with but one maid between them, This arrangement had been made with
some vague idea of escaping scrutiny rather than from economy. They
had never hitherto been known to go anywhere without one apiece.
There were no airs on the station now as on that former occasion,—
no loud talking; not even a word spoken. Lady Augustus was asking
herself why,—why she should have been put into so lamentable a
position, and Arabella was endeavouring to think what she would say
to the dying man.
She did think that he was dying. It was not the purport of her
present visit to strengthen her position by making certain of the
man's hand should he live. When she said that she was not as yet
quite so hard-hearted as her mother, she spoke the truth. Something
of regret, something of penitence had at times crept over her in
reference to her conduct to this man. He had been very unlike others
on whom she had played her arts. None of her lovers, or mock lovers,
had been serious and stern and uncomfortable as he. There had been no
other who had ever attempted to earn his bread. To her the butterflies
of the world had been all in all, and the working bees had been a
tribe apart with which she was no more called upon to mix than is my
lady's spaniel with the kennel hounds. But the chance had come. She
had consented to exhibit her allurements before a man of business and
the man of business had at once sat at her feet. She had soon
repented,—as the reader has seen. The alliance had been distasteful
to her. She had found that the man's ways were in no wise like her
ways,—and she had found also that were she to become his wife, he
certainly would not change. She had looked about for a means of
escape,—but as she did so she had recognized the man's truth. No
doubt he had been different from the others, less gay in his attire,
less jocund in his words, less given to flattery and sport and gems
and all the little wickednesses which she had loved. But they, those
others had, one and all, struggled to escape from her. Through all the
gems and mirth and flattery there had been the same purpose. They
liked the softness of her hand, they liked the flutter of her silk,
they liked to have whispered in their ears the bold words of her
practised raillery. Each liked for a month or two to be her special
friend. But then, after that, each had deserted her as had done the
one before; till in each new alliance she felt that such was to be
her destiny, and that she was rolling a stone which would never
settle itself, straining for waters which would never come lip high.
But John Morton, after once saying that he loved her, had never tired,
had never wished to escape. He had been so true to his love, so true
to his word, that he had borne from her usage which would have fully
justified escape had escape been to his taste. But to the last he had
really loved her, and now, on his death bed, he had sent for her to
come to him. She would not be coward enough to refuse his request.
"Should he say anything to you about his will don't refuse to hear
him, because it may be of the greatest importance," Lady Augustus
whispered to her daughter as the carriage was driven up to the front
door.
It was then four o'clock, and it was understood that the two ladies
were to stay that one night at Bragton, a letter having been received
by Lady Ushant that morning informing her that the mother as well as
the daughter was coming. Poor Lady Ushant was almost beside
herself,—not knowing what she would do with the two women, and having
no one in the house to help her. Something she had heard of Lady
Augustus, but chiefly from Mrs. Hopkins who certainly had not admired
her master's future mother-in-law. Nor had Arabella been popular; but
of her Mrs. Hopkins had only dared to say that she was very handsome
and "a little upstartish." How she was to spend the evening with them
Lady Ushant could not conceive,—it having been decided, in accordance
with the doctor's orders, that the interview should not take place
till the next morning. When they were shown in Lady Ushant stood just
within the drawing-room door and muttered a few words as she gave her
hand to each. "How is he?" asked Arabella, throwing up her veil
boldly, as soon as the door was closed. Lady Ushant only shook her
head. "I knew it would be so. It is always so with anything I care
for."
"She is so distressed, Lady Ushant," said the mother, "that she
hardly knows what she does." Arabella shook her head. "It is so, Lady
Ushant"
"Am I to go to him now?" said Arabella. Then the old lady explained
the doctor's orders, and offered to take them to their rooms.
"Perhaps I might say a word to you alone? I will stay here if you
will go with mamma." And she did stay till Lady Ushant came down to
her. "Do you mean to say it is certain," she asked,—certain that he
must—die?"
"No;—I do not say that"
"It is possible that he may recover?"
"Certainly it is possible. What is not possible with God?"
"Ah;—that means that he will die." Then she sat herself down and
almost unconsciously took off her bonnet and laid it aside. Lady
Ushant, then looking into her face for the first time, was at a loss
to understand what she had heard of her beauty. Could it be the same
girl of whom Mrs. Hopkins had spoken and of whose brilliant beauty
Reginald had repeated what he had heard? She was haggard, almost old,
with black lines round her eyes. There was nothing soft or gracious in
the tresses of her hair. When Lady Ushant had been young men had liked
hair such as was that of Mary Masters. Arabella's yellow
locks,—whencesoever they might have come,—were rough and uncombed.
But it was the look of age, and the almost masculine strength of the
lower face which astonished Lady Ushant the most. "Has he spoken to
you about me?" she said.
"Not to me." Then Lady Ushant went on to explain that though she
was there now as the female representative of the family she had
never been so intimate with John Morton as to admit of such
confidence as that suggested.
"I wonder whether he can love me," said the girl.
"Assuredly he does, Miss Trefoil. Why else should he send for you?"
"Because he is an honest man. I hardly think that he can love me
much. He was to have been my husband, but he will escape that. If I
thought that he would live I would tell him that he was free."
"He would not want to be free."
"He ought to want it. I am not fit for him. I have come here, Lady
Ushant, because I want to tell him the truth."
"But you love him?" Arabella made no answer, but sat looking
steadily into Lady Ushant's face. "Surely you do love him."
"I do not know. I don't think I did love him,—though now I may. It
is so horrible that he should die, and die while all this is going
on. That softens one you know. Have you ever heard of Lord Rufford?"
"Lord Rufford;—the young man?"
"Yes;—the young man."
"Never particularly. I knew his father."
"But not this man? Mr. Morton never spoke you of him."
"Not a word."
"I have been engaged to him since I became engaged to your nephew."
"Engaged to Lord Rufford,—to marry him?"
"Yes;—indeed."
"And will you marry him?"
"I cannot say. I tell you this, Lady Ushant, because I must tell
somebody in this house. I have behaved very badly to Mr. Morton, and
Lord Rufford is behaving as badly to me."
"Did John know of this?"
"No;—but I meant to tell him. I determined that I would tell him
had he lived. When he sent for me I swore that I would tell him. If
he is dying,—how can I say it?" Lady Ushant sat bewildered, thinking
over it, understanding nothing of the world in which this girl had
lived, and not knowing now how things could have been as she described
them. It was not as yet three months since, to her knowledge, this
young woman had been staying at Bragton as the affianced bride of the
owner of the house,—staying there with her own mother and his
grandmother,—and now she declared that since that time she had become
engaged to another man and that that other man had already jilted her!
And yet she was here that she might make a deathbed parting with the
man who regarded himself as her affianced husband. "If I were sure
that he were dying, why should I trouble him?" she said again.
Lady Ushant found herself utterly unable to give any counsel to
such a condition of circumstances. Why should she be asked? This
young woman had her mother with her. Did her mother know all this,
and nevertheless bring her daughter to the house of a man who had
been so treated! "I really do not know what to say," she replied at
last.
"But I was determined that I would tell some one. I thought that
Mrs. Morton would have been here." Lady Ushant shook her head. "I am
glad she is not, because she was not civil to me when I was here
before. She would have said hard things to me,—though not perhaps
harder than I have deserved. I suppose I may still see him
to-morrow."
"Oh yes; he expects it"
"I shall not tell him now. I could not tell him if I thought he
were dying. If he gets better you must tell him all."
"I don't think I could do that, Miss Trefoil."
"Pray do;—pray do. I call upon you to tell him everything."
"Tell him that you will be married to Lord Rufford?"
"No;—not that. If Mr. Morton were well to-morrow I would have
him,—if he chose after what I have told you."
"You do love him then?"
"At any rate I like no one better."
"Not the young lord?"
"No! why should I like him? He does not love me. I hate him. I
would marry Mr. Morton tomorrow, and go with him to Patagonia, or
anywhere else,—if he would have me after hearing what I have done."
Then she rose from her chair; but before she left the room she said a
word further. "Do not speak a word to my mother about this. Mamma
knows nothing of my purpose. Mamma only wants me to marry Lord
Rufford, and to throw Mr. Morton over. Do not tell anyone else, Lady
Ushant; but if he is ever well enough then you must tell him." After
that she went, leaving Lady Ushant in the room astounded by the story
she had heard.
VOLUME III
CHAPTER I. "I have told him
Everything."
That evening was very long and very sad to the three ladies
assembled in the drawing-room at Bragton Park, but it was probably
more so to Lady Augustus than the other two. She hardly spoke to
either of them; nor did they to her; while a certain amount of
conversation in a low tone was carried on between Lady Ushant and
Miss Trefoil. When Arabella came down to dinner she received a
message from the sick man. He sent his love, and would so willingly
have seen her instantly,—only that the doctor would not allow it.
But he was so glad,—so very glad that she had come! This Lady Ushant
said to her in a whisper, and seemed to say it as though she had heard
nothing of that frightful story which had been told to her not much
more than an hour ago. Arabella did not utter a word in reply, but put
out her hand, secretly as it were, and grasped that of the old lady to
whom she had told the tale of her later intrigues. The dinner did not
keep them long, but it was very grievous to them all. Lady Ushant
might have made some effort to be at least a complaisant hostess to
Lady Augustus had she not heard this story,—had she not been told
that the woman, knowing her daughter to be engaged to John Morton, had
wanted her to marry Lord Rufford. The story having come from the lips
of the girl herself had moved some pity in the old woman's breast in
regard to her; but for Lady Augustus she could feel nothing but
horror.
In the evening Lady Augustus sat alone, not even pretending to open
a book or to employ her fingers. She seated herself on one side of
the fire with a screen in her hand, turning over such thoughts in her
mind as were perhaps customary to her. Would there ever come a period
to her misery, an hour of release in which she might be in comfort ere
she died? Hitherto from one year to another, from one decade to the
following, it had all been struggle and misery, contumely and
contempt. She thought that she had done her duty by her child, and her
child hated and despised her. It was but the other day that Arabella
had openly declared that in the event of her marriage she would not
have her mother as a guest in her own house. There could be no longer
hope for triumph and glory;—but how might she find peace so that she
might no longer be driven hither and thither by this ungrateful tyrant
child? Oh, how hard she had worked in the world, and how little the
world had given her in return!
Lady Ushant and Arabella sat at the other side of the fire, at some
distance from it, on a sofa, and carried on a fitful conversation in
whispers, of which a word would now and then reach the ears of the
wretched mother. It consisted chiefly of a description of the man's
illness, and of the different sayings which had come from the doctors
who had attended him. It was marvellous to Lady Augustus, as she sat
there listening, that her daughter should condescend to take an
interest in such details. What could it be to her now how the fever
had taken him, or why or when? On the very next day, the very morning
on which she would go and sit,—-ah so uselessly,—by the dying man's
bedside, her father was to meet Lord Rufford at the ducal mansion in
Piccadilly to see if anything could be dome in that quarter! It was
impossible that she should really care whether John Morton's lease of
life was to be computed at a week's purchase or at that of a month!
And yet Arabella sat there asking sick-room questions and listening to
sickroom replies as though her very nature had been changed. Lady
Augustus heard her daughter inquire what food the sick man took, and
then Lady Ushant at great length gave the list of his nourishment.
What sickening hypocrisy! thought Lady Augustus.
Lady Augustus must have known her daughter well; and yet if was not
hypocrisy. The girl's nature, which had become thoroughly evil from
the treatment it had received, was not altered. Such sudden changes
do not occur more frequently than other miracles. But zealously as
she had practised her arts she had not as yet practised them long
enough not to be cowed by certain outward circumstances. There were
moments when she still heard in her imagination the sound of that
horse's foot as it struck the skull of the unfortunate fallen
rider;—and now the prospect of the death of this man whom she had
known so intimately and who had behaved so well to her, to whom her
own conduct had been so foully false,—for a time brought her back to
humanity. But Lady Augustus had got beyond that and could not at all
understand it.
By nine they had all retired for the night. It was necessary that
Lady Ushant should again visit her nephew, and the mother and
daughter went to their own rooms. "I cannot in the least make out
what you are doing," said Lady Augustus in her most severe voice.
"I dare say not, mamma."
"I have been brought here, at a terrible sacrifice—"
"Sacrifice! What sacrifice? You are as well here as anywhere else."
"I say I have been brought here at a terrible sacrifice for no
purpose whatever. What use is it to be? And then you pretend to care
what this poor man is eating and drinking and what physic he is taking
when, the last time you were in his company, you wouldn't so much as
look at him for fear you should make another man jealous."
"He was not dying then."
"Psha!"
"Oh yes. I know all that. I do feel a little ashamed of myself when
I am almost crying for him,"
"As if you loved him!"
"Dear mamma, I do own that it is foolish. Having listened to you on
these subjects for a dozen years at least I ought to have got rid of
all that. I don't suppose I do love him. Two or three weeks ago I
almost thought I loved Lord Rufford, and now I am quite sure that I
hate him. But if I heard tomorrow that he had broken his neck out
hunting, I ain't sure but what I should feel something. But he would
not send for me as this man has done."
"It was very impertinent"
"Perhaps it was ill-bred, as he must have suspected something as to
Lord Rufford. However we are here now."
"I will never allow you to drag me anywhere again."
"It will be for yourself to judge of that. If I want to go
anywhere, I shall go. What's the good of quarrelling? You know that I
mean to have my way."
The next morning neither Lady Augustus nor Miss Trefoil came down
to breakfast, but at ten o'clock Arabella was ready, as appointed, to
be taken into the sick man's bedroom. She was still dressed in black
but had taken some trouble with her face and hair. She followed Lady
Ushant in, and silently standing by the bedside put her hand upon that
of John Morton which was laying outside on the bed. "I will leave you
now, John," said Lady Ushant retiring, "and come again in half an
hour,"
"When I ring," he said.
"You mustn't let him talk for more than that," said the old lady to
Arabella as she went.
It was more than an hour afterwards when Arabella crept into her
mother's room, during which time Lady Ushant had twice knocked at her
nephew's door and had twice been sent away. "It is all over, mamma!"
she said.
Lady Augustus looked into her daughter's eyes and saw that she had
really been weeping. "All over!"
"I mean for me,—and you. We have only got to go away."
"Will he die?"
"It will make no matter though he should live for ever. I have told
him everything. I did not mean to do it because I thought that he
would be weak; but he has been strong enough for that"
"What have you told him?"
"Just everything—about you and Lord Rufford and myself,—and what
an escape he had had not to marry me. He understands it all now."
"It is a great deal more than I do."
"He knows that Lord Rufford has been engaged to me." She clung to
this statement so vehemently that she had really taught herself to
believe that it was so.
"Well!"
"And he knows also how his lordship is behaving to me. Of course he
thinks that I have deserved it. Of course I have deserved it. We have
nothing to do now but to go back to London."
"You have brought me here all the way for that"
"Only for that! As the man was dying I thought that I would be
honest just for once. Now. that I have told him I don't believe that
he will die. He does not look to be so very ill."
"And you have thrown away that chance!"
"Altogether. You didn't like Bragton you know, and therefore it
can't matter to you."
"Like it!"
"To be sure you would have got rid of me had I gone to Patagonia.
But he will not go to Patagonia now even if he gets well; and so
there was nothing to be gained. The carriage is to be here at two to
take us to the station and you may as well let Judith come and put the
things up."
Just before they took their departure Lady Ushant came to Arabella
saying that Mr. Morton wanted to speak one other word to her before
she went. So she returned to the room and was again left alone at the
man's bedside. "Arabella," he said, "I thought that I would tell you
that I have forgiven everything."
"How can you have forgiven me? There are things which a man cannot
forgive."
"Give me your hand,"' he said,—and she gave him her hand. "I do
forgive it all. Even should I live it would be impossible that we
should be man and wife."
"Oh yes."
"But nevertheless I love you. Try,—try to be true to some one."
"There is no truth left in me, Mr. Morton. I should not dishonour
my husband if I had one, but still I should be a curse to him. I
shall marry some day I suppose, and I know it will be so. I wish I
could change with you,—and die."
"You are unhappy now."
"Indeed I am. I am always unhappy. I do not think you can tell what
it is to be so wretched. But I am glad that you have forgiven me."
Then she stooped down and kissed his hand. As she did so he touched
her brow with his hot lips, and then she left him again. Lady Ushant
was waiting outside the door. "He knows it all," said Arabella. "You
need not trouble yourself with the message I gave you. The carriage is
at the door. Good-bye. You need not come down. Mamma will not expect
it." Lady Ushant, hardly knowing how she ought to behave, did not go
down. Lady Augustus and her daughter got into Mr. Runciman's carriage
without any farewells, and were driven back from the park to the
Dillsborough Station. To poor Lady Ushant the whole thing had been
very terrible. She sat silent and unoccupied the whole of that evening
wondering at the horror of such a history. This girl had absolutely
dared to tell the dying man all her own disgrace,—and had travelled
down from London to Bragton with the purpose of doing so! When next
she crept into the sick-room she almost expected that her nephew would
speak to her on the subject; but he only asked whether that sound of
wheels which he heard beneath his window had come from the carriage
which had taken them away, and then did not say a further word of
either Lady Augustus or her daughter.
"And what do you mean to do now?" said Lady Augustus as the train
approached the London terminus.
"Nothing."
"You have given up Lord Rufford?"
"Indeed I have not"
"Your journey to Bragton will hardly help you much with him."
"I don't want it to help me at all. What have I done that Lord
Rufford can complain of? I have not abandoned Lord Rufford for the
sake of Mr. Morton. Lord Rufford ought only to be too proud if he
knew it all."
"Of course he could make use of such an escapade as this?"
"Let him try. I have not done with Lord Rufford yet, and so I can
tell him. I shall be at the Duke's in Piccadilly to-morrow morning."
"That will be impossible, Arabella."
"They shall see whether it is impossible. I have got beyond caring
very much what people say now. I know the kind of way papa would be
thrown over if there is no one there to back him. I shall be there
and I will ask Lord Rufford to his face whether we did not become
engaged when we were at Mistletoe."
"They won't let you in."
"I'll find a way to make my way in. I shall never be his wife. I
don't know that I want it. After all what's the good of living with a
man if you hate each other,—or living apart like you and papa?"
"He has income enough for anything!" exclaimed Lady Augustus,
shocked at her daughter's apparent blindness.
"It isn't that I'm thinking of, but I'll have my revenge on him.
Liar! To write and say that I had made a mistake! He had not the
courage to get out of it when we were together; but when he had run
away in the night, like a thief, and got into his own house, then he
could write and say that I had made a mistake! I have sometimes pitied
men when I have seen girls hunting them down, but upon my word they
deserve it!" This renewal of spirit did something to comfort Lady
Augustus. She had begun to fear that her daughter, in her despair,
would abandon altogether the one pursuit of her life;—but it now
seemed that there was still some courage left for the battle.
That night nothing more was said, but Arabella applied all her mind
to the present condition of her circumstances. Should she or should
she not go to the House in Piccadilly on the following morning? At
last she determined that she would not do so, believing that should
her father fail she might make a better opportunity for herself
afterwards. At her uncle's house she would hardly have known where or
how to wait for the proper moment of her appearance. "So you are not
going to Piccadilly," said her mother on the following morning.
"It appears not," said Arabella.
CHAPTER II. "Now what have you got
to say?"
It may be a question whether Lord Augustus Trefoil or Lord Rufford
looked forward to the interview which was to take place at the Duke's
mansion with the greater dismay. The unfortunate father whose only
principle in life had been that of avoiding trouble would have rather
that his daughter should have been jilted a score of times than that
he should have been called upon to interfere once. There was in this
demand upon him a breach of a silent but well-understood compact. His
wife and daughter had been allowed to do just what they pleased and to
be free of his authority, upon an understanding that they were never
to give him any trouble. She might have married Lord Rufford, or Mr.
Morton, or any other man she might have succeeded in catching, and he
would not have troubled her either before or after her marriage. But
it was not fair that he should be called upon to interfere in her
failures. And what was he to say to this young lord? Being fat and old
and plethoric he could not be expected to use a stick and thrash the
young lord. Pistols were gone,—a remembrance of which fact perhaps
afforded some consolation. Nobody now need be afraid of anybody, and
the young lord would not be afraid of him. Arabella declared that
there had been an engagement. The young lord would of course declare
that there had been none. Upon the whole he was inclined to believe it
most probable that his daughter was lying. He did not think it likely
that Lord Rufford should have been such a fool. As for taking Lord
Rufford by the back of his neck and shaking him into matrimony, he
knew that that would be altogether out of his power. And then the hour
was so wretchedly early. It was that little fool Mistletoe who had
named ten o'clock,—a fellow who took Parliamentary papers to bed with
him, and had a blue book brought to him every morning at half-past
seven with a cup of tea. By ten o'clock Lord Augustus would not have
had time to take his first glass of soda and brandy preparatory to the
labour of getting into his clothes. But he was afraid of his wife and
daughter, and absolutely did get into a cab at the door of his
lodgings in Duke Street, St. James', precisely at a quarter past ten.
As the Duke's house was close to the corner of Clarges Street the
journey he had to make was not long.
Lord Rufford would not have agreed to the interview but that it was
forced upon him by his brother-in-law. "What good can it do?" Lord
Rufford had asked. But his brother-in-law had held that that was a
question to be answered by the other side. In such a position Sir
George thought that he was bound to concede as much as this,—in fact
to concede almost anything short of marriage. "He can't do the girl
any good by talking," Lord Rufford had said. Sir George assented to
this, but nevertheless thought that any friend deputed by her should
be allowed to talk, at any rate once. "I don't know what he'll say. Do
you think he'll bring a big stick?" Sir George who knew Lord Augustus
did not imagine that a stick would be brought. "I couldn't hit him,
you know. He's so fat that a blow would kill him." Lord Rufford wanted
his brother-in-law to go with him; but Sir George assured him that
this was impossible. It was a great bore. He had to go up to London
all alone,—in February, when the weather was quite open and hunting
was nearly coming to an end. And for what? Was it likely that such a
man as Lord Augustus should succeed in talking him into marrying any
girl? Nevertheless he went, prepared to be very civil, full of sorrow
at the misunderstanding, but strong in his determination not to yield
an inch. He arrived at the mansion precisely at ten o'clock and was at
once shown into a back room on the ground floor. He saw no one but a
very demure old servant who seemed to look upon him as one who was
sinning against the Trefoil family in general, and who shut the door
upon him, leaving him as it were in prison. He was so accustomed to be
the absolute master of his own minutes and hours that he chafed
greatly as he walked up and down the room for what seemed to him the
greater part of a day. He looked repeatedly at his watch, and at
half-past ten declared to himself that if that fat old fool did not
come within two minutes he would make his escape.
"The fat old fool" when he reached the house asked for his nephew
and endeavoured to persuade Lord Mistletoe to go with him to the
interview. But Lord Mistletoe was as firm in refusing as had been Sir
George Penwether. "You are quite wrong," said the young man with
well-informed sententious gravity. "I could do nothing to help you.
You are Arabella's father and no one can plead her cause but
yourself." Lord Augustus dropped his eyebrows over his eyes as this
was said. They who knew him well and had seen the same thing done
when his partner would not answer his call at whist or had led up to
his discard were aware that the motion was tantamount to a very strong
expression of disgust. He did not, however, argue the matter any
further, but allowed himself to be led away slowly by the same solemn
servant. Lord Rufford had taken up his hat preparatory to his
departure when Lord Augustus was announced just five minutes after the
half hour.
When the elder man entered the room the younger one put down his
hat and bowed. Lord Augustus also bowed and then stood for a few
moments silent with his fat hands extended on the round table in the
middle of the room. "This is a very disagreeable kind of thing, my
Lord," he said.
"Very disagreeable, and one that I lament above all things,"
answered Lord Rufford:
"That's all very well;—very well indeed;—but, damme, what's the
meaning of it all? That's what I want to ask. What's the meaning of
it all?" Then he paused as though he had completed the first part of
his business,—and might now wait awhile till the necessary
explanation had been given. But Lord Rufford did not seem disposed to
give any immediate answer. He shrugged his shoulders, and, taking up
his hat, passed his hand once or twice round the nap. Lord Augustus
opened his eyes very wide as he waited and looked at the other man;
but it seemed that the other man had nothing to say for himself. "You
don't mean to tell me, I suppose, that what my daughter says isn't
true."
"Some unfortunate mistake, Lord Augustus;—most unfortunate."
"Mistake be—." He stopped himself before the sentence was
completed, remembering that such an interview should be conducted on
the part of him, as father, with something of dignity. "I don't
understand anything about mistakes. Ladies don't make mistakes of
that kind. I won't hear of mistakes." Lord Rufford again shrugged his
shoulders. "You have engaged my daughter's affections."
"I have the greatest regard for Miss Trefoil."
"Regard be—." Then again he remembered himself. "Lord Rufford,
you've got to marry her. That's the long and the short of it"
"I'm sure I ought to be proud."
"So you ought"
"But—"
"I don't know the meaning of but, my Lord. I want to know what you
mean to do."
"Marriage isn't in my line at all"
"Then what the d— business have you to go about and talk to a girl
like that? Marriage not in your line? Who cares for your line? I
never heard such impudence in all my life. You get yourself engaged
to a young lady of high rank and position and then you say that—
marriage isn't in your line." Upon that he opened his eyes still
wider, and glared upon the offender wrathfully.
"I can't admit that I was ever engaged to Miss Trefoil."
"Didn't you make love to her?"
The poor victim paused a moment before he answered this question,
thereby confessing his guilt before he denied it. "No, my Lord; I
don't think I ever did."
"You don't think! You don't know whether you asked my daughter to
marry you or not! You don't think you made love to her!"
"I am sure I didn't ask her to marry me."
"I am sure you did. And now what have you got to say?" Here there
was another shrug of the shoulders. "I suppose you think because you
are a rich man that you may do whatever you please. But you'll have to
learn the difference. You must be exposed, Sir."
"I hope for the lady's sake that as little as possible may be said
of it."
"D— the—!" Lord Augustus in his assumed wrath was about to be
very severe on his daughter, but he checked himself again. "I'm not
going to stop here talking all day," he said. "I want to hear your
explanation and then I shall know how to act." Up to this time he had
been standing, which was unusual with him. Now he flung himself into
an armchair.
"Really, Lord Augustus, I don't know what I've got to say. I admire
your daughter exceedingly. I was very much honoured when she and her
mother came to my house at Rufford. I was delighted to be able to show
her a little sport. It gave me the greatest satisfaction when I met
her again at your brother's house. Coming home from hunting we
happened to be thrown together. It's a kind of thing that will occur,
you know. The Duchess seemed to think a great deal of it; but what can
one do? We could have had two post chaises, of course,—only one
doesn't generally send a young lady alone. She was very tired and
fainted with the fatigue. That I think is about all."
"But,—damme, Sir, what did you say to her?" Lord Rufford again
rubbed the nap of his hat. "What did you say to her first of all, at
your own house?"
"A poor fellow was killed out hunting and everybody was talking
about that. Your daughter saw it herself."
"Excuse me, Lord Rufford, if I say that that's what we used to call
shuffling, at school. Because a man broke his neck out hunting—"
"It was a kick on the head, Lord Augustus."
"I don't care where he was kicked. What has that to do with your
asking my daughter to be your wife?"
"But I didn't"
"I say you did,—over and over again." Here Lord Augustus got out
of his chair, and made a little attempt to reach the recreant
lover;—but he failed and fell back again into his armchair. "It was
first at Rufford, and then you made an appointment to meet her at
Mistletoe. How do you explain that?"
"Miss Trefoil is very fond of hunting."
"I don't believe she ever went out hunting in her life before she
saw you. You mounted her,—and gave her a horse,—and took her
out,—and brought her home. Everybody at Mistletoe knew all about it.
My brother and the Duchess were told of it. It was one of those things
that are plain to everybody as the nose on your face. What did you say
to her when you were coming home in that post chaise?"
"She was fainting."
"What has that to do with it? I don't care whether she fainted or
not. I don't believe she fainted at all. When she got into that
carriage she was engaged to you, and when she got out of it she was
engaged ever so much more. The Duchess knew all about it. Now what
have you got to say?" Lord Rufford felt that he had nothing to say.
"I insist upon having an answer."
"It's one of the most unfortunate mistakes that ever were made."
"By G—!" exclaimed Lord Augustus, turning his eyes up against the
wall, and appealing to some dark ancestor who hung there. "I never
heard of such a thing in all my life; never!"
"I suppose I might as well go now," said Lord Rufford after a
pause.
"You may go to the D—, Sir,—for the present" Then Lord Rufford
took his departure leaving the injured parent panting with his
exertions. As Lord Rufford went away he felt that that difficulty had
been overcome with much more ease than he had expected. He hardly knew
what it was that he had dreaded, but he had feared something much
worse than that. Had an appeal been made to his affections he would
hardly have known how to answer. He remembered well that he had
assured the lady that he loved her, and had a direct question been
asked him on that subject he would not have lied. He must have
confessed that such a declaration had been made by him. But he had
escaped that. He was quite sure that he had never uttered a hint in
regard to marriage, and he came away from the Duke's house almost with
an assurance that he had done nothing that was worthy of much blame.
Lord Augustus looked at his watch, rang the bell, and ordered a
cab. He must now go and see his daughter, and then he would have done
with the matter—for ever. But as he was passing through the hall his
nephew caught hold of him and took him back into the room. "What does
he say for himself?" asked Lord Mistletoe.
"I don't know what he says. Of course he swears that he never spoke
a word to her."
"My mother saw him paying her the closest attention."
"How can I help that? What can I do? Why didn't your mother pin him
then and there? Women can always do that kind of thing if they
choose."
"It is all over, then?"
"I can't make a man marry if he won't. He ought to be thrashed
within an inch of his life. But if one does that kind of thing the
police are down upon one. All the same, I think the Duchess might
have managed it if she had chosen." After that he went to the
lodgings in Orchard Street, and there repeated his story. "I have
done all I can," he said, "and I don't mean to interfere any further.
Arabella should know how to manage her own affairs."
"And you don't mean to punish him?" asked the mother.
"Punish him! How am I to punish him? If I were to throw a decanter
at his head, what good would that do?"
"And you mean to say that she must put up with it?" Arabella was
sitting by as these questions were asked.
"He says that he never said a word to her. Whom am I to believe?"
"You did believe him, papa?"
"Who said so, Miss? But I don't see why his word isn't as good as
yours. There was nobody to hear it, I suppose. Why didn't you get it
in writing, or make your uncle fix him at once? If you mismanage your
own affairs I can't put them right for you."
"Thank you, papa. I am so much obliged to you. You come back and
tell me that every word he says is to be taken for gospel, and that
you don't believe a word I have spoken. That is so kind of you! I
suppose he and you will be the best friends in the world now. But I
don't mean to let him off in that way. As you won't help me, I must
help myself."
"What did you expect me to do?"
"Never to leave him till you had forced him to keep his word. I
should have thought that you would have taken him by the throat in
such a cause. Any other father would have done so."
"You are an impudent, wicked girl, and I don't believe he was ever
engaged to you at all," said Lord Augustus as he took his leave.
"Now you have made your father your enemy," said the mother.
"Everybody is my enemy," said Arabella. "There are no such things
as love and friendship. Papa pretends that he does not believe me,
just because he wants to shirk the trouble. I suppose you'll say you
don't believe me next."
CHAPTER III. Mrs. Morton returns
A few days after that on which Lady Augustus and her daughter left
Bragton old Mrs. Morton returned to that place. She had gone away in
very bitterness of spirit against her grandson in the early days of
his illness. For some period antecedent to that there had been causes
for quarrelling. John Morton had told her that he had been to
Reginald's house, and she, in her wrath, replied that he had disgraced
himself by doing so. When those harsh words had been forgotten, or at
any rate forgiven, other causes of anger had sprung up. She had
endeavoured to drive him to repudiate Arabella Trefoil, and in order
that she might do so effectually had contrived to find out something
of Arabella's doings at Rufford and at Mistletoe. Her efforts in this
direction had had an effect directly contrary to that which she had
intended. There had been moments in which Morton had been willing
enough to rid himself of that burden. He had felt the lady's conduct
in his own house, and had seen it at Rufford. He, too, had heard
something of Mistletoe. But the spirit within him was aroused at the
idea of dictation, and he had been prompted to contradict the old
woman's accusation against his intended bride, by the very fact that
they were made by her. And then she threatened him. If he did these
things,—if he would consort with an outcast from the family such as
Reginald Morton, and take to himself such a bride as Arabella Trefoil,
he could never more be to her as her child. This of course was
tantamount to saying that she would leave her money to some one
else,—money which, as he well knew, had all been collected from the
Bragton property. He had ever been to her as her son, and yet he was
aware of a propensity on her part to enrich her own noble relatives
with her hoards,—a desire from gratifying which she had hitherto been
restrained by conscience. Morton had been anxious enough for his
grandmother's money, but, even in the hope of receiving it, would not
bear indignity beyond a certain point. He had therefore declared it to
be his purpose to marry Arabella Trefoil, and because he had so
declared he had almost brought himself to forgive that young lady's
sins against him. Then, as his illness became serious, there arose the
question of disposing of the property in the event of his death. Mrs.
Morton was herself very old, and was near her grave. She was apt to
speak of herself as one who had but a few days left to her in this
world. But, to her, property was more important than life or
death;—and rank probably more important than either. She was a brave,
fierce, evil-minded, but conscientious old woman,—one, we may say,
with very bad lights indeed, but who was steadfastly minded to walk by
those lights, such as they were. She did not scruple to tell her
grandson that it was his duty to leave the property away from his
cousin Reginald, nor to allege as a reason for his doing so that in
all probability Reginald Morton was not the legitimate heir of his
great-grandfather, Sir Reginald. For such an assertion John Morton
knew there was not a shadow of ground. No one but this old woman had
ever suspected that the Canadian girl whom Reginald's father had
brought with him to Bragton had been other than his honest wife;—and
her suspicions had only come from vague assertions, made by herself in
blind anger till at last she had learned to believe them. Then, when
in addition to this, he asserted his purpose of asking Arabella
Trefoil to come to him at Bragton, the cup of her wrath was
overflowing, and she withdrew from the house altogether. It might be
that he was dying. She did in truth believe that he was dying. But
there were things more serious to her than life or death. Should she
allow him to trample upon all her feelings because he was on his
death-bed,—when perhaps in very truth he might not be on his
death-bed at all? She, at any rate, was near her death,—and she would
do her duty. So she packed up her things—to the last black skirt of
an old gown, so that every one at Bragton might know that it was her
purpose to come back no more. And she went away.
Then Lady Ushant came to take her place, and with Lady Ushant came
Reginald Morton. The one lived in the house and the other visited it
daily. And, as the reader knows, Lady Augustus came with her daughter.
Mrs. Morton, though she had gone,—for ever,—took care to know of the
comings and goings at Bragton. Mrs. Hopkins was enjoined to write to
her and tell her everything; and though Mrs. Hopkins with all her
heart took the side of Lady Ushant and Reginald, she had never been
well inclined to Miss Trefoil. Presents too were given and promises
were made; and Mrs. Hopkins, not without some little treachery, did
from time to time send to the old lady a record of what took place at
Bragton. Arabella came and went, and Mrs. Hopkins thought that her
coming had not led to much. Lady Ushant was always with Mr.
John,—such was the account given by Mrs. Hopkins;—and the general
opinion was that the squire's days were numbered.
Then the old woman's jealousy was aroused, and, perhaps, her heart
was softened. It was still hard black winter, and she was living
alone in lodgings in London. The noble cousin, a man nearly as old as
herself whose children she was desirous to enrich, took but little
notice of her, nor would she have been Nappy had she lived with him.
Her life had been usually solitary,—with little breaks to its
loneliness occasioned by the visits to England of him whom she had
called her child. That this child should die before her, should die in
his youth, did not shock her much. Her husband had done so, and her
own son, and sundry of her noble brothers and sisters. She was
hardened against death. Life to her had never been joyous, though the
trappings of life were so great in her eyes. But it broke her heart
that her child should die in the arms of another old woman who had
always been to her as an enemy. Lady Ushant, in days now long gone by
but still remembered as though they were yesterday, had counselled the
reception of the Canadian female. And Lady Ushant, when the Canadian
female and her husband were dead, had been a mother to the boy whom
she, Mrs. Morton, would so fain have repudiated altogether. Lady
Ushant had always been "on the other side;" and now Lady Ushant was
paramount at Bragton.
And doubtless there was some tenderness, though Mrs. Morton was
unwilling to own even to herself that she was moved by any such
feeling. If she had done her duty in counselling him to reject both
Reginald Morton and Arabella Trefoil,—as to which she admitted no
doubt in her own mind;—and if duty had required her to absent
herself when her counsel was spurned, then would she be weak and
unmindful of duty should she allow any softness of heart to lure her
back again. It was so she reasoned. But still some softness was there;
and when she heard that Miss Trefoil had gone, and that her visit had
not, in Mrs. Hopkins's opinion, "led to much," she wrote to say that
she would return. She made no request and clothed her suggestion in no
words of tenderness; but simply told her grandson that she would come
back—as the Trefoils had left him.
And she did come. When the news were first told to Lady Ushant by
the sick man himself, that Lady proposed that she should at once go
back to Cheltenham. But when she was asked whether her animosity to
Mrs. Morton was so great that she could not consent to remain under
the same roof, she at once declared that she had no animosity
whatsoever. The idea of animosity running over nearly half a century
was horrible to her; and therefore, though she did in her heart of
hearts dread the other old woman, she consented to stay. "And what
shall Reginald do?" she asked. John Morton had thought about this too,
and expressed a wish that Reginald should come regularly,—as he had
come during the last week or two.
It was just a week from the day on which the Trefoils had gone that
Mrs. Morton was driven up to the door in Mr. Runciman's fly. This was
at four in the afternoon, and had the old woman looked out of the fly
window she might have seen Reginald making his way by the little path
to the bridge which led back to Dillsborough. It was at this hour that
he went daily, and he had not now thought it worth his while to remain
to welcome Mrs. Morton. And she might also have seen, had she looked
out, that with him was walking a young woman. She would not have known
Mary Masters; but had she seen them both, and had she known the young
woman, she would have declared in her pride that they were fit
associates. But she saw nothing of this, sitting there behind her
veil, thinking whether she might still do anything, and if so; what
she might do to avert the present evil destination of the Bragton
estate. There was an honourable nephew of her own,—or rather a
great-nephew,—who might easily take the name, who would so willingly
take the name! Or if this were impracticable, there was a distant
Morton, very distant, whom she had never seen and certainly did not
love, but who was clearly a Morton, and who would certainly be
preferable to that enemy of forty years' standing. Might there not be
some bargain made? Would not her dying grandson be alive to the
evident duty of enriching the property and leaving behind him a
wealthy heir? She could enrich the property and make the heir wealthy
by her money.
"How is he?" That of course was the first question when Mrs.
Hopkins met her in the hall. Mrs. Hopkins only shook her head and
said that perhaps he had taken his food that day a little better than
on the last. Then there was a whisper, to which Mrs. Hopkins whispered
back her answer. Yes,—Lady Ushant was in the house,—was at this
moment in the sick man's room. Mr. Reginald was not staying
there,—had never stayed there,—but came every day. He had only just
left. "And is he to come still?" asked Mrs. Morton with wrath in her
eyes. Mrs. Hopkins did not know but was disposed to think that Mr.
Reginald would come every day. Then Mrs. Morton went up to her own
room,—and while she prepared herself for her visit to the sick room
Lady Ushant retired. She had a cup of tea, refusing all other
refreshment, and then, walking erect as though she had been forty
instead of seventy-five, she entered her grandson's chamber and took
her old place at his bedside.
Nothing was then said about Arabella, nor, indeed, at any future
time was her name mentioned between them;—nor was anything then said
about the future fate of the estate. She did not dare to bring up the
subject at once, though, on the journey down from London, she had
determined that she would do so. But she was awed by his appearance
and by the increased appanages of his sick-bed. He spoke, indeed, of
the property, and expressed his anxiety that Chowton Farm should be
bought, if it came into market. He thought that the old acres should
be redeemed, if the opportunity arose,— and if the money could be
found. "Chowton Farm!" exclaimed the old woman, who remembered well
the agony which had attended the alienation of that portion of the
Morton lands.
"It may be that it will be sold."
"Lawrence Twentyman sell Chowton Farm! I thought he was well off."
Little as she had been at Bragton she knew all about Chowton
Farm,—except that its owner was so wounded by vain love as to be
like a hurt deer. Her grandson did not tell her all the story, but
explained to her that Lawrence Twentyman, though not poor, had other
plans of life and thought of leaving the neighbourhood. She, of
course, had the money; and as she believed that land was the one
proper possession for an English gentleman of ancient family, she
doubtless would have been willing to buy it had she approved of the
hands into which it would fall. It seemed to him that it was her duty
to do as much for the estate with which all her fortune had been
concerned. "Yes," she said; "it should be bought,—if other things
suited. We will talk of it to-morrow, John." Then he spoke of his
mission to Patagonia and of his regret that it should be abandoned.
Even were he ever to be well again his strength would return to him
too late for this purpose. He had already made known to the Foreign
Office his inability to undertake that service. But she could perceive
that he had not in truth abandoned his hopes of living, for he spoke
much of his ambition as to the public service. The more he thought of
it, he said, the more certain he became that it would suit him better
to go on with his profession than to live the life of a country squire
in England. And yet she could see the change which had taken place
since she was last there and was aware that he was fading away from
day to day.
It was not till they were summoned to dine together that she saw
Lady Ushant. Very many years had passed since last they were
together, and yet neither seemed to the other to be much changed.
Lady Ushant was still soft, retiring, and almost timid; whereas Mrs.
Morton showed her inclination to domineer even in the way in which she
helped herself to salt. While the servant was with them very little
was said on either side. There was a word or two from Mrs. Morton to
show that she considered herself the mistress there,—and a word from
the other lady proclaiming that she had no pretensions of that kind.
But after dinner in the little drawing-room they were more
communicative. Something of course was said as to the health of the
invalid. Lady Ushant was not the woman to give a pronounced opinion on
such a subject. She used doubtful, hesitating words, and would in one
minute almost contradict what she had said in the former. But Mrs.
Morton was clever enough to perceive that Lady Ushant was almost
without hope. Then she made a little speech with a fixed purpose. "It
must be a great trouble to you, Lady Ushant, to be so long away from
home."
"Not at all," said Lady Ushant in perfect innocence. "I have
nothing to bind me anywhere."
"I shall think it my duty to remain here now,—till the end."
"I suppose so. He has always been almost the same to you as your
own."
"Quite so; quite the same. He is my own." And yet,—she left him in
his illness! She, too, had heard something from Mrs. Hopkins of the
temper in which Mrs. Morton had last left Bragton. "But you are not
bound to him in that way."
"Not in that way certainly."
"In no way, I may say. It was very kind of you to come when
business made it imperative on me to go to town, but I do not think
we can call upon you for further sacrifice."
"It is no sacrifice, Mrs. Morton." Lady Ushant was as meek as a
worm, but a worm will turn. And though innocent, she was quick enough
to perceive that at this, their first meeting, the other old woman was
endeavouring to turn her out of the house.
"I mean that it can hardly be necessary to call upon you to give up
your time."
"What has an old woman to do with her time, Mrs. Morton?"
Hitherto Mrs. Morton had smiled. The smile indeed had been grim,
but it had been intended to betoken outward civility. Now there came
a frown upon her brow which was more grim and by no means civil. "The
truth is that at such a time one who is almost a stranger—"
"I am no stranger," said Lady Ushant.
"You had not seen him since he was an infant"
"My name was Morton as is his, and my dear father was the owner of
this house. Your husband, Mrs. Morton, was his grandfather and my
brother. I will allow no one to tell me that I am a stranger at
Bragton. I have lived here many more years than you."
"A stranger to him, I meant. And now that he is ill—"
"I shall stay with him—till he desires me to go away. He asked me
to stay and that is quite enough." Then she got up and left the room
with more dignity;—as also she had spoken with more
earnestness,—than Mrs. Morton had given her credit for possessing.
After that the two ladies did not meet again till the next day.
CHAPTER IV. The two old Ladies
On the next morning Mrs. Morton did not come down to breakfast, but
sat alone upstairs nursing her wrath. During the night she had made
up her mind to one or two things. She would never enter her
grandson's chambers when Lady Ushant was there. She would not speak
to Reginald Morton, and should he come into her presence while she
was at Bragton she would leave the room. She would do her best to
make the house, in common parlance, "too hot" to hold that other
woman. And she would make use of those words which John had spoken
concerning Chowton Farm as a peg on which she might hang her
discourse in reference to his will. If in doing all this she should
receive that dutiful assistance which she thought that he owed
her,—then she should stand by his bed-side, and be tender to him,
and nurse him to the last as a mother would nurse a child. But if, as
she feared, he were headstrong in disobeying, then she would remember
that her duty to her family, if done with a firm purpose, would have
lasting results, while his life might probably be an affair of a few
weeks,—or even days.
At about eleven Lady Ushant was with her patient when a message was
brought by Mrs. Hopkins. Mrs. Morton wished to see her grandson and
desired to know whether it would suit him that she should come now.
"Why not?" said the sick man, who was sitting up in his bed. Then
Lady Ushant collected her knitting and was about to depart. "Must you
go because she is coming?" Morton asked. Lady Ushant, shocked at the
necessity of explaining to him the ill feeling that existed, said that
perhaps it would be best. "Why should it be best?" Lady Ushant shook
her head, and smiled, and put her hand upon the counterpane,—and
retired. As she passed the door of her rival's room she could see the
black silk dress moving behind the partly open door, and as she
entered her own she heard Mrs. Morton's steps upon the corridor. The
place was already almost "too hot" for her. Anything would be better
than scenes like this in the house of a dying man.
"Need my aunt have gone away?" he asked after the first greeting.
"I did not say so."
"She seemed to think that she was not to stay."
"Can I help what she thinks, John?" Of course she feels that she
is—"
"Is what?"
"An interloper—if I must say it"
"But I have sent for her, and I have begged her to stay."
"Of course she can stay if she wishes. But, dear John, there must
be much to be said between you and me which,—which cannot interest
her; or which, at least, she ought not to hear." He did not
contradict this in words, feeling himself to be too weak, for
contest; but within his own mind he declared that it was not so. The
things which interested him now were as likely to interest his
great-aunt as his grandmother, and to be as fit for the ears of the
one as for those of the other.
An hour had passed after this during which she tended him, giving
him food and medicine, and he had slept before she ventured to allude
to the subject which was nearest to her heart. "John," she said at
last, "I have been thinking about Chowton Farm."
"Well."
"It certainly should be bought"
"If the man resolves on selling it."
"Of course; I mean that. How much would it be?" Then he mentioned
the sum which Twentyman had named, saying that he had inquired and
had been told that the price was reasonable. "It is a large sum of
money, John."
"There might be a mortgage for part of it"
"I don't like mortgages. The property would not be yours at all if
it were mortgaged, as soon as bought. You would pay 5 per cent. for
the money and only get 3 per cent from the land." The old lady
understood all about it.
"I could pay it off in two years," said the sick man.
"There need be no paying off, and no mortgage, if I did it I almost
believe I have got enough to do it." He knew very well that she had
much more than enough. "I think more of this property than of
anything in the world, my dear."
"Chowton Farm could be yours, you know."
"What should I do with Chowton Farm? I shall probably be in my
grave before the slow lawyer would have executed the deeds." And I in
mine, thought he to himself, before the present owner has quite made
up his mind to part with his land. "What would a little place like
that do for me? But in my father-in-law's time it was part of the
Bragton property. He sold it to pay the debts of a younger son,
forgetting, as I thought, what he owed to the estate;—"It had in
truth been sold on behalf of the husband of this old woman who was
now complaining. "And if it can be recovered it is our duty to get it
back again. A property like this should never be lessened. It is in
that way that the country is given over to shopkeepers and speculators
and is made to be like France or Italy. I quite think that Chowton
Farm should be bought. And though I might die before it was done, I
would find the money."
"I knew what your feeling would be."
"Yes, John. You could not but know it well. But—" Then she paused
a moment, looking into his face. "But I should wish to know what
would become of it—eventually."
"If it were yours you could do what you pleased with it."
"But it would be yours."
"Then it would go with the rest of the property."
"To whom would it go? We have all to die, my dear, and who can say
whom it may please the Almighty to take first?"
"In this house, ma'am, every one can give a shrewd guess. I know my
own condition. If I die without children of my own every acre I
possess will go to the proper heir. Thinking as you do, you ought to
agree with me in that."
"But who is the proper heir?"
"My cousin Reginald. Do not let us contest it, ma'am. As certainly
as I lie here he will have Bragton when I am gone."
"Will you not listen to me, John?"
"Not about that. How could I die in peace were I to rob him?"
"It is all your own,—to do as you like with."
"It is all my own, but not to do as I like with. With your
feelings, with your ideas, how can you urge me to such an injustice?"
"Do I want it for myself? I do not even want it for any one
belonging to me. There is your cousin Peter."
"If he were the heir he should have it,—though I know nothing of
him and believe him to be but a poor creature and very unfit to have
the custody of a family property."
"But he is his father's son."
"I will believe nothing of that," said the sick man raising himself
in his bed. "It is a slander; it is based on no evidence whatsoever.
No one even thought of it but you."
"John, is that the way to speak to me?"
"It is the way to speak of an assertion so injurious." Then he fell
back again on his pillows and she sat by his bedside for a full half
hour speechless, thinking of it all. At the end of that time she had
resolved that she would not yet give it up. Should he regain his
health and strength,—and she would pray fervently night and day that
God would be so good to him,—then everything would be well. Then he
would marry and have children, and Bragton would descend in the right
line. But were it to be ordained otherwise, should it be God's will
that he must die, then, as he grew weaker, he would become more
plastic in her hands, and she might still prevail. At present he was
stubborn with the old stubbornness, and would not see with her eyes.
She would bide her time and be careful to have a lawyer ready. She
turned it all over in her mind, as she sat there watching him in his
sleep. She knew of no one but Mr. Masters whom she distrusted as being
connected with the other side of the family,—whose father had made
that will by which the property in Dillsborough had been dissevered
from Bragton. But Mr. Masters would probably obey instructions if they
were given to him definitely.
She thought of it all and then went down to lunch. She did not dare
to refuse altogether to meet the other woman lest such resolve on her
part might teach those in the house to think that Lady Ushant was the
mistress. She took her place at the head of the table and interchanged
a few words with her grandson's guest,—which of course had reference
to his health. Lady Ushant was very ill able to carry on a battle of
any sort and was willing to show her submission in everything,—unless
she were desired to leave the house. While they were still sitting at
table, Reginald Morton walked into the room. It had been his habit to
do so regularly for the last week. A daily visitor does not wait to
have himself announced. Reginald had considered the matter and had
determined that he would follow his practice just as though Mrs.
Morton were not there. If she were civil to him then would he be very
courteous to her. It had never occurred to him to expect conduct such
as that with which she greeted him. The old woman got up and looked at
him sternly. "My nephew, Reginald," said Lady Ushant, supposing that
some introduction might be necessary. Mrs. Morton gathered the folds
of her dress together and without a word stalked out of the room. And
yet she believed,—she could not but believe,—that her grandson was
on his deathbed in the room, above!
"O Reginald, what are we to?" said Lady Ushant.
"Is she like that to you?"
"She told me last night that I was a stranger, and that I ought to
leave the house."
"And what did you say?"
"I told her I should stay while he wished me to stay. But it is all
so terrible, that I think I had better go."
"I would not stir a step—on her account."
"But why should she be so bitter? I have done nothing to offend
her. It is more than half of even my long lifetime since I saw her.
She is nothing; but I have to think of his comfort. I suppose she is
good to him; and though he may bid me stay such scenes as this in the
house must be a trouble to him." Nevertheless Reginald was strong in
opinion that Lady Ushant ought not to allow herself to be driven away,
and declared his own purpose of coming daily as had of late been his
wont.
Soon after this Reginald was summoned to go upstairs and he again
met the angry woman in the passage, passing her of course without a
word. And then Mary came to see her friend, and she also encountered
Mrs. Morton, who was determined that no one should come into that
house without her knowledge. "Who is that young woman?" said Mrs.
Morton to the old housekeeper.
"That is Miss Masters, my Lady."
"And who is Miss Masters,—and why does she come here at such a
time as this?"
"She is the daughter of Attorney Masters, my Lady. It was she as
was brought up here by Lady Ushant"
"Oh,—that young person."
"She's come here generally of a day now to see her ladyship."
"And is she taken up to my grandson?"
"Oh dear, no, my Lady. She sits with Lady Ushant for an hour or so
and then goes back with Mr. Reginald."
"Oh—that is it, is it? The house is made use of for such purposes
as that!"
"I don't think there is an purposes, my Lady," said Mrs. Hopkins,
almost roused to indignation, although she was talking to the
acknowledged mistress of the house whom she always called "my lady."
Lady Ushant told the whole story to her young friend, bitterly
bewailing her position. "Reginald tells me not to go, but I do not
think that I can stand it. I should not mind the quarrel so much,—
only that he is so ill."
"She must be a very evil-minded person."
"She was always arrogant and always hard. I can remember her just
the same; but that was so many years ago. She left Bragton then
because she could not banish his mother from the house. But to bear
it all in her heart so long is not like a human being;—let alone a
woman. What did he say to you going home yesterday?"
"Nothing, Lady Ushant"
"Does he know that it will all be his if that poor young man should
die? He never speaks to me as if he thought of it"
"He would certainly not speak to me about it. I do not think he
thinks of it. He is not like that."
"Men do consider such things. And they are only cousins; and they
have never known each other! Oh, Mary!"
"What are you thinking of, Lady Ushant?"
"Men ought not to care for money or position, but they do. If he
comes here, all that I have will be yours."
"Oh, Lady Ushant!"
"It is not much but it will be enough."
"I do not want to hear about such things now."
"But you ought to be told. Ah, dear;—if it could be as I wish!"
The imprudent, weak-minded, loving old woman longed to hear a tale of
mutual love,—longed to do something which should cause such a tale to
be true on both sides. And yet she could not quite bring herself to
express her wish either to the man or to the woman.
Poor Mary almost understood it, but was not quite sure of her
friend's meaning. She was, however, quite sure that if such were the
wish of Lady Ushant's heart, Lady Ushant was wishing in vain. She had
twice walked back to Dillsborough with Reginald Morton, and he had
been more sedate, more middle-aged, less like a lover than ever. She
knew now that she might safely walk with him, being sure that he was
no more likely to talk of love than would have been old Dr. Nupper had
she accepted the offer which he had made her of a cast in his gig. And
now that Reginald would probably become Squire of Bragton it was more
impossible than ever. As Squire of Bragton he would seek some highly
born bride, quite out of her way, whom she could never know. And then
she would see neither him—nor Bragton any more. Would it not have
been better that she should have married Larry Twentyman and put an
end to so many troubles beside her own?
Again. she walked back with him to Dillsborough, passing as they
always did across the little bridge. He seemed to be very silent as
he went, more so than usual,—and as was her wont with him she only
spoke to him when he addressed her. It was only when he got out on
the road that he told her what was on his mind. "Mary," he said, "how
will it be with me if that poor fellow dies?"
"In what way, Mr. Morton?"
"All that place will be mine. He told me so just now."
"But that would be of course."
"Not at all. He might give it to you if he pleased. He could not
have an heir who would care for it less. But it is right that it
should be so. Whether it would suit my taste or not to live as Squire
of Bragton,—and I do not think it would suit my taste well,—it ought
to be so. I am the next, and it will be my duty."
"I am sure you do not want him to die."
"No, indeed. If I could save him by my right hand,—if I could save
him by my life, I would do it."
"But of all lives it must surely be the best."
"Do you think so? What is such a one likely to do? But then what do
I do, as it is? It is the sort of life you would like,—if you were a
man."
"Yes,—if I were a man," said Mary. Then he again relapsed into
silence and hardly spoke again till he left her at her father's door.
CHAPTER V. The Last Effort
When Mary reached her home she was at once met by her stepmother in
the passage with tidings of importance. "He is up-stairs in the
drawing-room," said Mrs. Masters. Mary whose mind was laden with
thoughts of Reginald Morton asked who was the he. "Lawrence
Twentyman," said Mrs. Masters. "And now, my dear, do, do think of it
before you go to him." There was no anger now in her stepmother's
face, but entreaty and almost love. She had not called Mary "my dear"
for many weeks past,—not since that journey to Cheltenham. Now she
grasped the girl's hand as she went on with her prayer. "He is so good
and so true! And what better can there be for you? With your
advantages, and Lady Ushant, and all that, you would be quite the lady
at Chowton. Think of your father and sisters; what a good you could do
them! And think of the respect they all have for him, dining with Lord
Rufford the other day and all the other gentlemen. It isn't only that
he has got plenty to live on, but he knows how to keep it as a man
ought. He's sure to hold up his head and be as good a squire as any of
'em." This was a very different tale;—a note altogether changed! It
must not be said that the difference of the tale and the change of the
note affected Mary's heart; but her stepmother's manner to her did
soften her. And then why should she regard herself or her own
feelings? Like others she had thought much of her own happiness, had
made herself the centre of her own circle, had, in her imagination,
built castles in the air and filled them according to her fancy. But
her fancies had been all shattered into fragments; not a stone of her
castles was standing; she had told herself unconsciously that there
was no longer a circle and no need for a centre. That last half-hour
which she had passed with Reginald Morton on the road home had made
quite sure that which had been sure enough before. He was not
altogether out of her reach, thinking only of the new duties which
were coming to him. She would never walk with him again; never put
herself in the way of indulging some fragment of an illusory hope. She
was nothing now, nothing even to herself. Why should she not give
herself and her services to this young man if the young man chose to
take her as she was? It would be well that she should do something in
the world. Why should she not look after his house, and mend his
shirts, and reign over his poultry yard? In this way she would be
useful, and respected by all,—unless perhaps by the man she loved.
"Mary, say that you will think of it once more," pleaded Mrs.
Masters.
"I may go up-stairs,—to my own room?"
"Certainly; do;—go up and smooth your hair. I will tell him that
you are coming to him. He will wait. But he is so much in earnest
now,—and so sad,—that I know he will not come again."
Then Mary went up-stairs, determined to think of it. She began at
once, woman-like, to smooth her hair as her stepmother had
recommended, and to remove the dust of the road from her face and
dress. But not the less was she thinking of it the while. Could she
do it, how much pain would be spared even to herself! How much that
was now bitter as gall in her mouth would become,—not sweet,—but
tasteless. There are times in one's life in which the absence of all
savour seems to be sufficient for life in this world. Were she to do
this thing she thought that she would have strength to banish that
other man from her mind,—and at last from her heart. He would be
there, close to her, but of a different kind and leading a different
life. Mrs. Masters had told her that Larry would be as good a squire
as the best of them; but it should be her care to keep him and herself
in their proper position, to teach him the vanity of such aspirations.
And the real squire opposite, who would despise her,—for had he not
told her that she would be despicable if she married this man,—would
not trouble her then. They might meet on the roads, and there would be
a cold question or two as to each other's welfare, and a vain shaking
of hands,—but they would know nothing and care for nothing as to each
other's thoughts. And there would come some stately dame who hearing
how things had been many years ago, would perhaps—. But no;—the
stately dame should be received with courtesy, but there should be no
patronising. Even in these few minutes up-stairs she thought much of
the stately dame and was quite sure that she would endure no patronage
from Bragton.
She almost thought that she could do it. There were hideous ideas
afflicting her soul dreadfully, but which she strove to banish. Of
course she could not love him,—not at first. But all those who
wished her to marry him, including himself, knew that;—and still
they wished her to marry him. How could that be disgraceful which all
her friends desired? Her father, to whom she was, as she knew well,
the very apple of his eye, wished her to marry this man;—and yet her
father knew that her heart was elsewhere. Had not women done it by
hundreds, by thousands, and had afterwards performed their duties well
as mothers and wives. In other countries, as she had read, girls took
the husbands found for them by their parents as a matter of course. As
she left the room, and slowly crept down-stairs, she almost thought
she would do it. She almost thought;—but yet, when her hand was on
the lock, she could not bring herself to say that it should be so.
He was not dressed as usual. In the first place, there was a round
hat on the table, such as men wear in cities. She had never before
seen such a hat with him except on a Sunday. And he wore a black cloth
coat, and dark brown pantaloons, and a black silk handkerchief. She
observed it all, and thought that he had not changed for the better.
As she looked into his face, it seemed to her more common,—meaner
than before. No doubt he was good-looking,—but his good-looks were
almost repulsive to her. He had altogether lost his little
swagger;—but he had borne that little swagger well, and in her
presence it had never been offensive. Now he seemed as though he had
thrown aside all the old habits of his life, and was pining to death
from the loss of them. "Mary," he said, "I have come to you,—for the
last time. I thought I would give myself one more chance, and your
father told me that I might have it" He paused, as though expecting an
answer. But she had not yet quite made up her mind. Had she known her
mind, she would have answered him frankly. She was quite resolved as
to that. If she could once bring herself to give him her hand, she
would not coy it for a moment. "I will be your wife, Larry." That was
the form on which she had determined, should she find herself able to
yield. But she had not brought herself to it as yet. "If you can take
me, Mary, you will,—well,—save me from lifelong misery, and make the
man who loves you the best-contented and the happiest man in England."
"But, Larry, I do not love you"
"I will make you love me. Good usage will make a wife love her
husband. Don't you think you can trust me?"
"I do believe that I can trust you for everything good."
"Is that nothing?"
"It is a great deal, Larry, but not enough;—not enough to bring
together a man and woman as husband and wife. I would sooner marry a
man I loved, though I knew he would ill-use me."
"Would you?"
"To marry either would be wrong."
"I sometimes think, dearest, that if I could talk better I should
be better able to persuade you."
"I sometimes think you talk so well that I ought to be persuaded;—
but I can't. It is not lack of talking."
"What is it, then?"
"Just this;—my heart does not turn itself that way. It is the same
chance that has made you—partial to me."
"Partial! Why, I love the very air you breathe. When I am near you,
everything smells sweet. There isn't anything that belongs to you but
I think I should know it, though I found it a hundred miles away. To
have you in the room with me would be like heaven,—if I only knew
that you were thinking kindly of me."
"I always think kindly of you, Larry."
"Then say that you will be my wife." She paused, and became red up
to the roots of her hair. She seated herself on a chair, and then
rose again,—and again sat down. The struggle was going on within
her, and he perceived something of the truth. "Say the word once,
Mary;—say it but once." And as he prayed to her he came forward and
went down upon his knees.
"I cannot do it," she replied at last, speaking very hoarsely, not
looking at him, not even addressing herself to him.
"Mary!"
"Larry, I cannot do it. I have tried, but I cannot do it. O Larry,
dear Larry, do not ask me again. Larry, I have no heart to give.
Another man has it all."
"Is it so?" She bowed her head in token of assent. "Is it that
young parson," exclaimed Larry, in anger.
"It is not. But, Larry, you must ask no questions now. I have told
you my secret that all this might be set at rest. But if you are
generous, as I know you are, you will keep my secret, and will ask no
questions. And, Larry, if you are unhappy, so am I. If your heart is
sore, so is mine. He knows nothing of my love, and cares nothing for
me."
"Then throw him aside."
She smiled and shook her head. "Do you think I would not if I
could? Why do you not throw me aside?"
"Oh, Mary!"
"Cannot I love as well as you? You are a man, and have the liberty
to speak of it. Though I cannot return it, I can be proud of your
love and feel grateful to you. I cannot tell mine. I cannot think of
it without blushing. But I can feel it, and know it, and be as sure
that it has trodden me down and got the better of me as you can. But
you can go out into the world and teach yourself to forget"
"I must go away from here then."
"You have your business and your pleasures, your horses and your
fields and your friends. I have nothing,—but to remain here and know
that I have disobliged all those that love me. Do you think, Larry, I
would not go and be your wife if I could? I have told you all, Larry,
and now do not ask me again."
"Is it so?"
"Yes;—it is so."
"Then I shall cut it all. I shall sell Chowton and go away. You
tell me I have my horses and my pleasures! What pleasures? I know
nothing of my horses,—not whether they are lame or sound. I could
not tell you of one of them whether he is fit to go to-morrow.
Business! The place may farm itself for me, for I can't stay there.
Everything sickens me to look at it. Pleasures indeed!"
"Is that manly, Larry?"
"How can a man be manly when the manliness is knocked out of him? A
man's courage lies in his heart; but if his heart is broken where
will his courage be then? I couldn't hold up my head up here any
more,—and I shall go."
"You must not do that," she said, getting up and laying hold of his
arm.
"But I must do it"
"For my sake you must stay here, Larry;—so that I may not have to
think that I have injured you so deeply. Larry, though I cannot be
your wife I think I could die of sorrow if you were always unhappy.
What is a poor girl that you should grieve for her in that way? I
think if I were a man I would master my love better than that." He
shook his head and faintly strove to drag his arm from out of her
grasp. "Promise me that you will take a year to think of it before
you go."
"Will you take a year to think of me?" said he, rising again to
sudden hope.
"No, Larry, no. I should deceive you were I to say so. I deceived
you before when I put it off for two months. But you can promise me
without deceit. For my sake, Larry?" And she almost embraced him as
she begged for his promise. "I know you would wish to spare me pain.
Think what will be my sufferings if I hear that you have really gone
from Chowton. You will promise me, Larry?"
"Promise what?"
"That the farm shall not be sold for twelve months"
"Oh yes;—I'll promise. I don't care for the farm."
"And stay there if you can. Don't leave the place to strangers. And
go about your business,—and hunt,—and be a man. I shall always be
thinking of what you do. I shall always watch you. I shall always
love you,—always,—always,—always. I always have loved you;—
because you are so good. But it is a different love. And now, Larry,
good-bye." So saying, she raised her face to look into his eyes. Then
he suddenly put his arm round her waist, kissed her forehead, and left
the room without another word.
Mrs. Masters saw him as he went, and must have known from his gait
what was the nature of the answer he had received. But yet she went
quickly upstairs to inquire. The matter was one of too much
consequence for a mere inference. Mary had gone from the
sitting-room, but her stepmother followed her upstairs to her
bed-chamber. "Mamma," she said, "I couldn't do it;—I couldn't do it.
I did try. Pray do not scold me. I did try, but I could not do it"
Then she threw herself into the arms of the unsympathetic woman, who,
however, was now somewhat less unsympathetic than she had hitherto
been.
Mrs. Masters did not understand it at all; but she did perceive
that there was something which she did not understand. What did the
girl mean by saying that she had tried and could not do it? Try to do
it! If she tried why could she not tell the man that she would have
him? There was surely some shamefacedness in this, some overstrained
modesty which she, Mrs. Masters, could not comprehend. How could she
have tried to accept a man who was so anxious to marry her, and have
failed in the effort? "Scolding I suppose will be no good now," she
said.
"Oh no!"
"But—. Well; I suppose we must put up with it. Everything on earth
that a girl could possibly wish for! He was that in love that it's my
belief he'd have settled it all on you if you'd only asked him."
"Let it go, mamma."
"Let it go! It's gone I suppose. Well—I ain't going to say any
more about it. But as for not sorrowing, how is a woman not to sorrow
when so much has been lost? It's your poor father I'm thinking of,
Mary." This was so much better than she had expected that poor Mary
almost felt that her heart was lightened.
CHAPTER VI. Again at Mistletoe
The reader will have been aware that Arabella Trefoil was not a
favourite at Mistletoe. She was so much disliked by the Duchess that
there had almost been words about her between her Grace and the Duke
since her departure. The Duchess always submitted, and it was the rule
of her life to submit with so good a grace that her husband, never
fearing rebellion, should never be driven to assume the tyrant. But on
this occasion the Duke had objected to the term "thoroughly bad girl"
which had been applied by his wife to his niece. He had said that
"thoroughly bad girl" was strong language, and when the Duchess
defended the phrase he had expressed his opinion that Arabella was
only a bad girl and not a thoroughly bad girl. The Duchess had said
that it was the same thing. "Then," said the Duke, "why use a
redundant expletive against your own relative?" The Duchess, when she
was accused of strong language, had not minded it much; but her
feelings were hurt when a redundant expletive was attributed to her.
The effect of all this had been that the Duke in a mild way had taken
up Arabella's part, and that the Duchess, following her husband at
last, had been brought round to own that Arabella, though bad, had
been badly treated. She had disbelieved, and then believed, and had
again disbelieved Arabella's own statement as to the offer of
marriage. But the girl had certainly been in earnest when she had
begged her aunt to ask her uncle to speak to Lord Rufford. Surely when
she did she must have thought that an offer had been made to her. Such
offer, if made, had no doubt been produced by very hard pressure; but
still an offer of marriage is an offer, and a girl, if she can obtain
it, has a right to use such an offer as so much property. Then came
Lord Mistletoe's report after his meeting with Arabella up in London.
He had been unable to give his cousin any satisfaction, but he was
clearly of opinion that she had been ill-used. He did not venture to
suggest any steps, but did think that Lord Rufford was bound as a
gentleman to marry the young lady. After that Lord Augustus saw her
mother up in town and said that it was a d— shame. He in truth had
believed nothing and would have been delighted to allow the matter to
drop. But as this was not permitted, he thought easier to take his
daughter's part than to encounter family enmity by entering the lists
against her. So it came to pass that down at Mistletoe there grew an
opinion that Lord Rufford ought to marry Arabella Trefoil.
But what should be done? The Duke was alive to the feeling that as
the girl was certainly his niece and as she was not to be regarded as
a thoroughly bad girl, some assistance was due to her from the family.
Lord Mistletoe volunteered to write to Lord Rufford; Lord Augustus
thought that his brother should have a personal interview with his
young brother peer and bring his strawberry leaves to bear. The Duke
himself suggested that the Duchess should see Lady Penwether,—a
scheme to which her Grace objected strongly, knowing something of Lady
Penwether and being sure that her strawberry leaves would have no
effect whatever on the baronet's wife. At last it was decided that a
family meeting should be held, and Lord Augustus was absolutely
summoned to meet Lord Mistletoe at the paternal mansion.
It was now some years since Lord Augustus had been at Mistletoe. As
he had never been separated,—that is formally separated,—from his
wife he and she had been always invited there together. Year after
year she had accepted the invitation,—and it had been declined on
his behalf, because it did not suit him and his wife to meet each
other. But now he was obliged to go there, just at the time of the
year when whist at his club was most attractive. To meet the
convenience of Lord Mistletoe,—and the House of Commons—a Saturday
afternoon was named for the conference, which made it worse for Lord
Augustus as he was one of a little party which had private gatherings
for whist on Sunday afternoons. But he went to the conference,
travelling down by the same train with his nephew; but not in the same
compartment, as he solaced with tobacco the time which Lord Mistletoe
devoted to parliamentary erudition.
The four met in her Grace's boudoir, and the Duke began by
declaring that all this was very sad. Lord Augustus shook his head
and put his hands in his trousers pockets,—which was as much as to
say that his feelings as a British parent were almost too strong for
him. "Your mother and I think, that something ought to be done," said
the Duke turning to his son.
"Something ought to be done," said Lord Mistletoe.
"They won't let a fellow go out with a fellow now," said Lord
Augustus.
"Heaven forbid!" said the Duchess, raising both her hands.
"I was thinking, Mistletoe, that your mother might have met Lady
Penwether."
"What could I do with Lady Penwether, Duke? Or what could she do
with him? A man won't care for what his sister says to him. And I
don't suppose she'd undertake to speak to Lord Rufford on the
subject"
"Lady Penwether is an honourable and an accomplished woman."
"I dare say;—though she gives herself abominable airs."
"Of course, if you don't like it, my dear, it shan't be pressed."
"I thought, perhaps, you'd see him yourself," said Lord Augustus,
turning to his brother. "You'd carry more weight than anybody."
"Of course I will if it be necessary; but it would be
disagreeable,—very disagreeable. The appeal should be made to his
feelings, and that I think would better come through female
influence. As far as I know the world a man is always more prone to
be led in such matters by a woman than by another man."
"If you mean me," said the Duchess, "I don't think I could see him.
Of course, Augustus, I don't wish to say anything hard of Arabella.
The fact that we have all met here to take her part will prove that,
I think. But I didn't quite approve of all that was done here."
Lord Augustus stroked his beard and looked out of the window. "I
don't think, my dear, we need go into that just now," said the Duke.
"Not at all," said the Duchess, "and I don't intend to say a word.
Only if I were to meet Lord Rufford he might refer to things
which,—which,—which—. In point of fact I had rather not"
"I might see him," suggested Lord Mistletoe.
"No doubt that might be done with advantage," said the Duke.
"Only that, as he is my senior in age, what I might say to him
would lack that weight which any observations which might be made on
such a matter should carry with them."
"He didn't care a straw for me," said Lord Augustus.
"And then," continued Lord Mistletoe, "I so completely agree with
what my father says as to the advantage of female influence! With a
man of Lord Rufford's temperament female influence is everything. If
my aunt were to try it?" Lord Augustus blew the breath out of his
mouth and raised his eyebrows.
Knowing what he did of his wife, or thinking that he knew what he
did, he did not conceive it possible that a worse messenger should be
chosen. He had known himself to be a very bad one, but he did honestly
believe her to be even less fitted for the task than he himself. But
he said nothing,—simply wishing that he had not left his whist for
such a purpose as this.
"Perhaps Lady Augustus had better see him," said the Duke. The
Duchess, who did not love hypocrisy, would not actually assent to
this, but she said nothing. "I suppose my sister-in-law would not
object, Augustus?"
"G— Almighty only knows," said the younger brother. The Duchess,
grievously offended by the impropriety of this language, drew herself
up haughtily.
"Perhaps you would not mind suggesting it to her, sir," said Lord
Mistletoe.
"I could do that by letter," said the Duke.
"And when she has assented, as of course she will, then perhaps you
wouldn't mind writing a line to him to make an appointment. If you
were to do so he could not refuse." To this proposition the Duke
returned no immediate answer; but looked at it round and round
carefully. At last, however, he acceded to this also, and so the
matter was arranged. All these influential members of the ducal
family met together at the ducal mansion on Arabella's behalf, and
settled their difficulty by deputing the work of bearding the lion,
of tying the bell on the cat, to an absent lady whom they all
despised and disliked.
That afternoon the Duke, with the assistance of his son, who was a
great writer of letters, prepared an epistle to his sister-in-law and
another to Lord Rufford, which was to be sent as soon as Lady Augusta
had agreed to the arrangement. In the former letter a good deal was
said as to a mother's solicitude for her daughter. It had been felt,
the letter said, that no one could speak for a daughter so well as a
mother;—that no other's words would so surely reach the heart of a
man who was not all evil but who was tempted by the surroundings of
the world to do evil in this particular case. The letter began "My
dear sister-in-law," and ended "Your affectionate brother-in-law,
Mayfair," and was in fact the first letter that the Duke had ever
written to his brother's wife. The other letter was more difficult,
but it was accomplished at last, and confined itself to a request that
Lord Rufford would meet Lady Augustus Trefoil at a place and at a
time, both of which were for the present left blank.
On the Monday Lord Augustus and Lord Mistletoe were driven to the
station in the same carriage, and on this occasion the uncle said a
few strong words to his nephew on the subject. Lord Augustus, though
perhaps a coward in the presence of his brother, was not so with other
members of the family. "It may be very well you know, but it's all d—
nonsense."
"I'm sorry that you should think so, uncle."
"What do you suppose her mother can do?—a thoroughly vulgar woman.
I never could live with her. As far as I can see wherever she goes
everybody hates her."
"My dear uncle!"
"Rufford will only laugh at her. If Mayfair would have gone
himself, it is just possible that he might have done something."
"My father is so unwilling to mix himself up in these things."
"Of course he is. Everybody knows that. What the deuce was the good
then of our going down here? I couldn't do anything, and I knew he
wouldn't. The truth is, Mistletoe, a man now-a-days may do just what
he pleases. You ain't in that line and it won't do you any good
knowing it, but since we did away with pistols everybody may do just
what he likes."
"I don't like brute force," said Lord Mistletoe. "You may call it
what you please:—but I don't know that it was so brutal after all."
At the station they separated again, as Lord Augustus was panting for
tobacco and Lord Mistletoe for parliamentary erudition.
CHAPTER VII. The Success of Lady
Augustus
Lady Augustus was still staying with the Connop Greens in Hampshire
when she received the Duke's letter and Arabella was with her. The
story of Lord Rufford's infidelity had been told to Mrs. Connop
Green,—and of course through her to Mr. Connop Green. Both the
mother and daughter affected to despise the Connop Greens;—but it is
so hard to restrain oneself from confidences when difficulties arise!
Arabella had by this time quite persuaded herself that there had been
an absolute engagement, and did in truth believe that she had been
most cruelly ill-used. She was headstrong, fickle, and beyond measure
insolent to her mother. She had, as we know, at one time gone down to
the house of her former lover, thereby indicating that she had
abandoned all hope of catching Lord Rufford. But still the Connop
Greens either felt or pretended to feel great sympathy with her, and
she would still declare from time to time that Lord Rufford had not
heard the last of her. It was now more than a month since she had seen
that perjured lord at Mistletoe, and more than a week since her father
had brought him so uselessly up to London. Though determined that Lord
Rufford should hear more of her, she hardly knew how to go to work,
and on these days spent most of her time in idle denunciations of her
false lover. Then came her uncle's letter, which was of course shown
to her.
She was quite of opinion that they must do as the Duke directed. It
was so great a thing to have the Duke interesting himself in the
matter, that she would have assented to anything proposed by him. The
suggestion even inspired some temporary respect, or at any rate
observance, towards her mother. Hitherto her mother had been nobody
to her in the matter, a person belonging to her whom she had to
regard simply as a burden. She could not at all understand how the
Duke had been guided in making such a choice of a new emissary;— but
there it was under his own hand, and she must now in some measure
submit herself to her mother unless she were prepared to repudiate
altogether the Duke's assistance. As to Lady Augustus herself, the
suggestion gave to her quite a new life. She had no clear conception
what she should say to Lord Rufford if the meeting were arranged, but
it was gratifying to her to find herself brought back into authority
over her daughter. She read the Duke's letter to Mrs. Connop Green,
with certain very slight additions,—or innuendos as to
additions,—and was pleased to find that the letter was taken by Mrs.
Connop Green as positive proof of the existence of the engagement. She
wrote begging the Duke to allow her to have the meeting at the family
house in Piccadilly, and to this prayer the Duke was obliged to
assent. "It would," she said, "give her so much assistance in speaking
to Lord Rufford!" She named a day also, and then spent her time in
preparing herself for the interview by counsel with Mrs. Green and by
exacting explanations from her daughter.
This was a very bad time for Arabella,—so bad, that had she known
to what she would be driven, she would probably have repudiated the
Duke and her mother altogether. "Now, my dear," she began, "you must
tell me everything that occurred first at Rufford and then at
Mistletoe."
"You know very well what occurred, mamma."
"I know nothing about it, and unless everything is told me I will
not undertake this mission. Your uncle evidently thinks that by my
interference the thing may be arranged. I have had the same idea all
through myself, but as you have been so obstinate I have not liked to
say so. Now, Arabella, begin from the beginning. When was it that he
first suggested to you the idea of marriage?"
"Good heavens, mamma!"
"I must have it from the beginning to the end. Did he speak of
marriage at Rufford? I suppose he did because you told me that you
were engaged to him when you went to Mistletoe."
"So I was."
"What had he said?"
"What nonsense! How am I to remember what he said? As if a girl
ever knows what a man says to her."
"Did he kiss you?"
"Yes."
"At Rufford?"
"I cannot stand this, mamma. If you like to go you may go. My uncle
seems to think it is the best thing, and so I suppose it ought to be
done. But I won't answer such questions as you are asking for Lord
Rufford and all that he possesses."
"What am I to say then? How am I to call back to his recollection
the fact that he committed himself, unless you will tell me how and
when he did so?"
"Ask him if he did not assure me of his love when we were in the
carriage together."
"What carriage?"
"Coming home from hunting."
"Was that at Mistletoe or Rufford?"
"At Mistletoe, mamma," replied Arabella, stamping her foot.
"But you must let me know how it was that you became engaged to him
at Rufford."
"Mamma, you mean to drive me mad," exclaimed Arabella as she
bounced out of the room.
There was very much more of this, till at last Arabella found
herself compelled to invent facts. Lord Rufford, she said, had
assured her of his ever lasting affection in the little room at
Rufford, and had absolutely asked her to be his wife coming home in
the carriage with her to Stamford. She told herself that though this
was not strictly true, it was as good as true,—as that which was
actually done and said by Lord Rufford on those occasions could have
had no other meaning. But before her mother had completed her
investigation, Arabella had become so sick of the matter that she
shut herself up in her room and declared that nothing on earth should
induce her to open her mouth on the subject again.
When Lord Rufford received the letter he was aghast with new
disgust. He had begun to flatter himself that his interview with Lord
Augustus would be the end of the affair. Looking at it by degrees with
coolness he had allowed himself to think that nothing very terrible
could be done to him. Some few people, particularly interested in the
Mistletoe family, might give him a cold shoulder, or perhaps cut him
directly; but such people would not belong to his own peculiar circle,
and the annoyance would not be great. But if all the family, one after
another, were to demand interviews with him up in London, he did not
see when the end of it would be. There would be the Duke himself, and
the Duchess, and Mistletoe. And the affair would in this way become
gossip for the whole town. He was almost minded to write to the Duke
saying that such an interview could do no good; but at last he thought
it best to submit the matter to his mentor, Sir George Penwether. Sir
George was clearly of opinion that it was Lord Rufford's duty to see
Lady Augustus. "Yes, you must have interviews with all of them, if
they ask it," said Sir George. "You must show that you are not afraid
to hear what her friends have got to say. When a man gets wrong he
can't put himself right without some little annoyance."
"Since the world began," said Lord Rufford, "I don't think that
there was ever a man born so well adapted for preaching sermons as
you are." Nevertheless he did as he was bid, and consented to meet
Lady Augustus in Piccadilly on the day named by her. On that very day
the hounds met at Impington and Lord Rufford began to feel his
punishment. He assented to the proposal made and went up to London,
leaving the members of the U.R.U. to have the run of the season from
the Impington coverts.
When Lady Augustus was sitting in the back room of the mansion
waiting for Lord Rufford she was very much puzzled to think what she
would say to him when he came. With all her investigation she had
received no clear idea of the circumstances as they occurred. That her
daughter had told her a fib in saying that she was engaged when she
went to Mistletoe, she was all but certain. That something had
occurred in the carriage which might be taken for an offer she thought
possible. She therefore determined to harp upon the carriage as much
as possible and to say as little as might be as to the doings at
Rufford. Then as she was trying to arrange her countenance and her
dress and her voice, so that they might tell on his feelings, Lord
Rufford was announced. "Lady Augustus," said he at once, beginning the
lesson which he had taught himself, "I hope I see you quite well. I
have come here because you have asked me, but I really don't know that
I have anything to say."
"Lord Rufford, you must hear me."
"Oh yes; I will hear you certainly, only this kind of thing is so
painful to all parties, and I don't see the use of it."
"Are you aware that you have plunged me and my daughter into a
state of misery too deep to be fathomed?"
"I should be sorry to think that"
"How can it be otherwise? When you assure a girl in her position in
life that you love her—a lady whose rank is quite as high as your
own—"
"Quite so,—quite so."
"And when in return for that assurance you have received vows of
love from her,—what is she to think, and what are her friends to
think?" Lord Rufford had always kept in his mind a clear remembrance
of the transaction in the carriage, and was well aware that the young
lady's mother had inverted the circumstances, or, as he expressed it
to himself, had put the cart before the horse. He had assured the
young lady that he loved her, and he had also been assured of her
love; but her assurance had come first. He felt that this made all the
difference in the world; so much difference that no one cognisant in
such matters would hold that his assurance, obtained after such a
fashion, meant anything at all. But how was he to explain this to the
lady's mother? "You will admit that such assurances were given?"
continued Lady Augustus.
"Upon my word I don't know. There was a little foolish talk, but it
meant nothing."
"My lord!"
"What am I to say? I don't want to give offence, and I am heartily
sorry that you and your daughter should be under any misapprehension.
But as I sit here there was no engagement between us;—nor, if I must
speak out, Lady Augustus, could your daughter have thought that there
was an engagement."
"Did you not—embrace her?"
"I did. That's the truth."
"And after that you mean to say—"
"After that I mean to say that nothing more was intended." There
was a certain meanness of appearance about the mother which
emboldened him.
"What a declaration to make to the mother of a young lady, and that
young lady the niece of the Duke of Mayfair!"
"It's not the first time such a thing has been done, Lady
Augustus."
"I know nothing about that,—nothing. I don't know whom you may
have lived with. It never was done to her before."
"If I understand right she was engaged to marry Mr. Morton when she
came to Rufford."
"It was all at an end before that."
"At any rate you both came from his house."
"Where he had been staying with Mrs. Morton."
"And where she has been since,—without Mrs. Morton."
"Lady Ushant was there, Lord Rufford."
"But she has been staying at the house of this gentleman to whom
you admit that she was engaged a short time before she came to us."
"He is on his death-bed, and he thought that he had behaved badly
to her. She did go to Bragton the other day, at his request,— merely
that she might say that she forgave him."
"I only hope that she will forgive me too. There is really nothing
else to be said. If there were anything I could do to atone to her
for this—trouble."
"If you only could know the brightness of the hopes you have
shattered,—and the purity of that girl's affection for yourself!"
It was then that an idea—a low-minded idea occurred to Lord
Rufford. While all this was going on he had of course made various
inquiries about this branch of the Trefoil family and had learned
that Arabella was altogether portionless. He was told too that Lady
Augustus was much harassed by impecuniosity. Might it be possible to
offer a recompense? "If I could do anything else, Lady Augustus; but
really I am not a marrying man." Then Lady Augustus wept bitterly; but
while she was weeping, a low-minded idea occurred to her also. It was
clear to her that there could be no marriage. She had never expected
that there would be a marriage. But if this man who was rolling in
wealth should offer some sum of money to her daughter,—something so
considerable as to divest the transaction of the meanness which would
be attached to a small bribe,— something which might be really useful
throughout life, would it not be her duty, on behalf of her dear
child, to accept such an offer? But the beginnings of such dealings
are always difficult. "Couldn't my lawyer see yours, Lady Augustus?"
said Lord Rufford.
"I don't want the family lawyer to know anything about it," said
Lady Augustus. Then there was silence between them for a few moments.
"You don't know what we have to bear, Lord Rufford. My husband has
spent all my fortune,—which was considerable; and the Duke does
nothing for us." Then he took a bit of paper and, writing on it the
figures "6,000l." pushed it across the table. She gazed at the scrap
for a minute, and then, borrowing his pencil without a word, scratched
out his Lordship's figures and wrote "8,000l." beneath them; and then
added, "No one to know it." After that he held the scrap for two or
three minutes in his hands, and then wrote beneath the figures, "Very
well. To be settled on your daughter. No one shall know it." She bowed
her head, but kept the scrap of paper in her possession. "Shall I ring
for your carriage?" he asked. The bell was rung, and Lady Augustus was
taken back to the lodgings in Orchard Street in the hired brougham. As
she went she told herself that if everything else failed, 400 pounds a
year would support her daughter, or that in the event of any further
matrimonial attempt such a fortune would be a great assistance. She
had been sure that there could be no marriage, and was disposed to
think that she had done a good morning's work on behalf of her
unnatural child.
CHAPTER VIII. "We shall kill each
other"
Lady Augustus as she was driven back to Orchard Street and as she
remained alone during the rest of that day and the next in London,
became a little afraid of what she had done. She began to think how
she should communicate her tidings to her daughter, and thinking of
it grew to be nervous and ill at ease. How would it be with her
should Arabella still cling to the hope of marrying the lord? That
any such hope would be altogether illusory Lady Augustus was now
sure. She had been quite certain that there was no ground for such
hope when she had spoken to the man of her own poverty. She was
almost certain that there had never been an offer of marriage made.
In the first place Lord Rufford's word went further with her than
Arabella's,—and then his story had been consistent and probable,
whereas hers had been inconsistent and improbable. At any rate ropes
and horses would not bring Lord Rufford to the hymeneal altar. That
being so was it not natural that she should then have considered what
result would be next best to a marriage? She was very poor, having
saved only some few hundreds a year from the wreck of her own fortune.
Independently of her daughter had nothing. And in spite of this
poverty Arabella was very extravagant, running up bills for finery
without remorse wherever credit could be found, and excusing herself
by saying that on this or that occasion such expenditure was justified
by the matrimonial prospects which it opened out to her. And now, of
late, Arabella had been talking of living separately from her mother.
Lady Augustus, who was thoroughly tired of her daughter's company, was
not at all averse to such a scheme; but any such scheme was
impracticable without money. By a happy accident the money would now
be forthcoming. There would be 400 pounds a year for ever and nobody
would know whence it came. She was confident that they might trust to
the lord's honour for secrecy. As far as her own opinion went the
result of the transaction would be most happy. But still she feared
Arabella. She felt that she would not know how to tell her story when
she got back to Marygold Place. "My dear, he won't marry you; but he
is to give you 8,000 pounds." That was what she would have to say, but
she doubted her own courage to put her story into words so curt and
explanatory. Even at thirty 400 pounds a year has not the charms which
accompany it to eyes which have seen sixty years. She remained in town
that night and the next day, and went down by train to Basingstoke on
the following morning with her heart not altogether free from
trepidation.
Lord Rufford, the very moment that the interview was over, started
off to his lawyer. Considering how very little had been given to him
the sum he was to pay was prodigious. In his desire to get rid of the
bore of these appeals, he had allowed himself to be foolishly
generous. He certainly never would kiss a young lady in a carriage
again,—nor even lend a horse to a young lady till he was better
acquainted with her ambition and character. But the word had gone from
him and he must be as good as his word. The girl must have her 8,000
pounds and must have it instantly. He would put the matter into such a
position that if any more interviews were suggested, he might with
perfect safety refer the suggester back to Miss Trefoil. There was to
be secrecy, and he would be secret as the grave. But in such matters
one's lawyer is the grave. He had proposed that two lawyers should
arrange it. Objection had been made to this, because Lady Augustus had
no lawyer ready;—but on his side some one must be employed. So he
went to his own solicitor and begged that the thing might be done
quite at once. He was very definite in his instructions, and would
listen to no doubts. Would the lawyer write to Miss Trefoil on that
very day;—-or rather not on that very day but the next. As he
suggested this he thought it well that Lady Augustus should have an
opportunity of explaining the transaction to her daughter before the
lawyer's letter should be received. He had, he said, his own reason
for such haste. Consequently the lawyer did prepare the letter to Miss
Trefoil at once, drafting it in his noble client's presence. In what
way should the money be disposed so as best to suit her convenience?
The letter was very short with an intimation that Lady Augustus would
no doubt have explained the details of the arrangement.
When Lady Augustus reached Marygold the family were at lunch, and
as strangers were present nothing was said as to the great mission.
The mother had already bethought herself how she must tell this and
that lie to the Connop Greens, explaining that Lord Rufford had
confessed his iniquity but had disclosed that, for certain mysterious
reasons, he could not marry Arabella,—though he loved her better than
all the world. Arabella asked some questions about her mother's
shopping and general business in town, and did not leave the room till
she could do so without the slightest appearance of anxiety. Mrs.
Connop Green marvelled at her coolness knowing how much must depend on
the answer which her mother had brought back from London, and knowing
nothing of the contents of the letter which Arabella had received that
morning from the lawyer. In a moment or two Lady Augustus followed her
daughter upstairs, and on going into her own room found the damsel
standing in the middle of it with an open paper in her hand. "Mamma,"
she said, "shut the door." Then the door was closed. "What is the
meaning of this?" and she held out the lawyer's letter.
"The meaning of what?" said Lady Augustus, trembling.
"I have no doubt you know, but you had better read it"
Lady Augustus read the letter and attempted to smile. "He has been
very quick," she said. "I thought I should have been the first to
tell you."
"What is the meaning of it? Why is the man to give me all that
money?"
"Is it not a good escape from so great a trouble? Think what 8,000
pounds will do. It will enable you to live in comfort wherever you
may please to go."
"I am to understand then you have sold me,—sold all my hopes and
my very name and character, for 8,000 pounds!"
"Your name and character will not be touched, my dear. As for his
marrying you I soon found that that was absolutely out of the
question."
"This is what has come of sending you to see him! Of course I shall
tell my uncle everything."
"You will do no such thing. Arabella, do not make a fool of
yourself. Do you know what 8,000 pounds will do for you? It is to be
your own,—absolutely beyond my reach or your father's."
"I would sooner go into the Thames off Waterloo Bridge than touch a
farthing of his money," said Arabella with a spirit which the other
woman did not at all understand. Hitherto in all these little dirty
ways they had run with equal steps. The pretences, the subterfuges,
the lies of the one had always been open to the other. Arabella,
earnest in supplying herself with gloves from the pockets of her male
acquaintances, had endured her mother's tricks with complacency. She
had condescended when living in humble lodgings to date her letters
from a well-known hotel, and had not feared to declare that she had
done so in their family conversations. Together they had fished in
turbid waters for marital nibbles and had told mutual falsehoods to
unbelieving tradesmen. And yet the younger woman, when tempted with a
bribe worth lies and tricks as deep and as black as Acheron, now stood
on her dignity and her purity and stamped her foot with honest
indignation!
"I don't think you can understand it," said Lady Augustus.
"I can understand this,—that you have betrayed me; and that I
shall tell him so in the plainest words that I can use. To get his
lawyer to write and offer me money!"
"He should not have gone to his lawyer. I do think he was wrong
there."
"But you settled it with him; you, my mother;—a price at which he
should buy himself off! Would he have offered me money if he did not
know that he had bound himself to me?"
"Nothing on earth would make him marry you. I would not for a
moment have allowed him to allude to money if that had not been quite
certain."
"Who proposed the money first?"
Lady Augustus considered a moment before she answered. "Upon my
word, my dear, I can't say. He wrote the figures on a bit of paper;
that was the way." Then she produced the scrap. "He wrote the figures
first,—and then I altered them, just as you see. The proposition came
first from him, of course."
"And you did not spit at him!" She tore the scrap into fragments.
"Arabella," said the mother, "it is clear that you do not look into
the future. How do you mean to live? You are getting old."
"Old!"
"Yes, my love,—old. Of course I am willing to do everything for
you, as I always have done,—for so many years, but there isn't a man
in London who does not know how long you have been about it."
"Hold your tongue, mamma" said Arabella jumping up.
"That is all very well, but the truth has to be spoken. You and I
cannot go on as we have been doing."
"Certainly not. I would sooner be in a work-house."
"And here there is provided for you an income on which you can
live. Not a soul will know anything about it. Even your own father
need not be told. As for the lawyer, that is nothing. They never talk
of things. It would make a man comparatively poor quite a fit match.
Or, if you do not marry, it would enable you to live where you pleased
independently of me. You had better think twice of it before you
refuse it."
"I will not think of it at all. As sure as I am living here I will
write to Rufford this very evening and tell him in what light I
regard both him and you."
"And what will you do then?"
"Hang myself."
"That is all very well, Arabella, but hanging yourself and jumping
off Waterloo Bridge do not mean anything. You must live, and you must
pay your debts" I can't pay them for you. You go into your own room,
and think of it all, and be thankful for what Providence has sent
you."
"You may as well understand that I am in earnest," the daughter
said as she left the room. "I shall write to Lord Rufford to-day and
tell him what I think of him and his money. You need not trouble
yourself as to what shall be done with it; for I certainly shall not
take it."
And she did write to Lord Rufford as follows:
My Lord,
I have been much astonished by a letter I have received from a
gentleman in London, Mr. Shaw, who I presume is your lawyer. When I
received it I had not as yet seen mamma. I now understand that you
and she between you have determined that I should be compensated by a
sum of money for the injury you have done me! I scorn your money. I
cannot think where you found the audacity to make such a proposal, or
how you have taught yourself to imagine that I should listen to it. As
to mamma, she was not commissioned to act for me, and I have nothing
to do with anything she may have said. I can hardly believe that she
should have agreed to such a proposal. It was very little like a
gentleman in you to offer it.
Why did you offer it? You would not have proposed to give me a
large sum of money like that without some reason. I have been shocked
to hear that you have denied that you ever engaged yourself to me. You
know that you were engaged to me. It would have been more honest and
more manly if you had declared at once that you repented of your
engagement. But the truth is that till I see you myself and hear what
you have to say out of your own mouth I cannot believe what other
people tell me. I must ask you to name some place where we can meet.
As for this offer of money, it goes for nothing. You must have known
that I would not take it.
Arabella.
It was now just the end of February, and the visit of the Trefoil
ladies to the Connop Greens had to come to an end. They had already
overstaid the time at first arranged, and Lady Augustus, when she
hinted that another week at Marygold,—"just till this painful affair
was finally settled,"—would be beneficial to her, was informed that
the Connop Greens themselves were about to leave home. Lady Augustus
had reported to Mrs. Connop Green that Lord Rufford was behaving very
badly, but that the matter was still in a "transition state." Mrs.
Connop Green was very sorry, but—. So Lady Augustus and Arabella
betook themselves to Orchard Street, being at that moment unable to
enter in upon better quarters.
What a home it was,—and what a journey up to town! Arabella had
told her mother that the letter to Lord Rufford had been written and
posted, and since that hardly a word had passed between them. When
they left Marygold in the Connop Green carriage they smiled, and shook
hands, and kissed their friends in unison, and then sank back into
silence. At the station they walked up and down the platform together
for the sake of appearance, but did not speak. In the train there were
others with them and they both feigned to be asleep. Then they were
driven to their lodgings in a cab, still speechless. It was the mother
who first saw that the horror of this if continued would be too great
to be endured. "Arabella," she said in a hoarse voice, "why don't you
speak?"
"Because I've got nothing to say."
"That's nonsense. There is always something to say."
"You have ruined me, mamma; just ruined me."
"I did for you the very best I could. If you would have been
advised by me, instead of being ruined, you would have had a handsome
fortune. I have slaved for you for the last twelve years. No mother
ever sacrificed herself for her child more than I have done for you,
and now see the return I get. I sometimes think that it will kill me."
"That's nonsense."
"Everything I say is nonsense,—while you tell me one day that you
are going to hang yourself, and another day that you will drown
yourself."
"So I would if I dared. What is it that you have brought me to? Who
will have me in their houses when they hear that you consented to
take Lord Rufford's money?"
"Nobody will hear it unless you tell them."
"I shall tell my uncle and my aunt and Mistletoe, in order that
they may know how it is that Lord Rufford has been allowed to escape.
I say that you have ruined me. If it had not been for your vulgar
bargain with him, he must have been brought to keep his word at last.
Oh, that he should have ever thought it was possible that I was to be
bought off for a sum of money!"
Later on in the evening the mother again implored her daughter to
speak to her. "What's the use, mamma, when you know what we think of
each other. What's the good of pretending? There is nobody here to
hear us." Later on still she herself began. "I don't know how much
you've got, mamma; but whatever it is, we'd better divide it. After
what you did in Piccadilly we shall never get on together again."
"There is not enough to divide," said Lady Augustus.
"If I had not you to go about with me I could get taken in pretty
nearly all the year round."
"Who'd take you?"
"Leave that to me. I would manage it, and you could join with some
other old person."
"We shall kill each other if we stay like this," said Arabella as
she took up her candle.
"You have pretty nearly killed me as it is," said the old woman as
the other shut the door.
CHAPTER IX. Changes at Bragton
Day after day old Mrs. Morton urged her purpose with her grandson
at Bragton, not quite directly as she had done at first, but by
gradual approaches and little soft attempts made in the midst of all
the tenderness which, as a nurse, she was able to display. It soon
came to pass that the intruders were banished from the house, or
almost banished. Mary's daily visits were discontinued immediately
after that last walk home with Reginald Morton which has been
described. Twice in the course of the next week she went over, but on
both occasions she did so early in the day, and returned alone just as
he was reaching the house. And then, before a week was over, early in
March, Lady Ushant told the invalid that she would be better away.
"Mrs. Morton doesn't like me," she said, "and I had better go. But I
shall stay for a while at Hoppet Hall; and come in and see you from
time to time till you get better." John Morton replied that he should
never get better; but though he said so then, there was at times
evidence that he did not yet quite despond as to himself. He could
still talk to Mrs. Morton of buying Chowton Farm, and was very anxious
that he should not be forgotten at the Foreign Office.
Lady Ushant had herself driven to Hoppet Hall, and there took up
her residence with her nephew. Every other day Mr. Runciman's fly
came for her and carried her backwards and forwards to Bragton. On
those occasions she would remain an hour with the invalid, and then
would go back again, never even seeing Mrs. Morton, though always
seen by her. And twice after this banishment Reginald walked over.
But on the second occasion there was a scene. Mrs. Morton to whom he
had never spoken since he was a boy, met him in the hall and told him
that his visits only disturbed his sick cousin. "I certainly will not
disturb him," Reginald had said. "In the condition in which he is now
he should not see many people," rejoined the lady. "If you will ask
Dr. Fanning he will tell you the same." Dr. Fanning was the London
doctor who came down once a week, whom it was improbable that Reginald
should have an opportunity of consulting. But he remembered or thought
that he remembered, that his cousin had been fretful and ill-pleased
during his last visit, and so turned himself round and went home
without another word.
"I am afraid there may be—I don't know what," said Lady Ushant to
him in a whisper the next morning.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know what I mean. Perhaps I ought not to say a word. Only
so much does depend on it!"
"If you are thinking about the property, aunt, wipe it out of your
mind. Let him do what he pleases and don't think about it. No one
should trouble their minds about such things. It is his, to do what
he pleases with it."
"It is not him that I fear, Reginald."
"If he chooses to be guided by her, who shall say that he is wrong?
Get it out of your mind. The very thinking about such things is
dirtiness!" The poor old lady submitted to the rebuke and did not
dare to say another word.
Daily Lady Ushant would send over for Mary Masters, thinking it
cruel that her young friend should leave her alone and yet
understanding in part the reason why Mary did not come to her
constantly at Hoppet Hall. Poor Mary was troubled much by these
messages. Of course she went now and again. She had no alternative
but to go, and yet, feeling that the house was his house, she was
most unwilling to enter it. Then grew within her a feeling, which she
could not analyse, that he had ill-used her. Of course she was not
entitled to his love. She would acknowledge to herself over and over
again that he had never spoken a word to her which could justify her
in expecting his love. But why had he not let her alone? Why had he
striven by his words and his society to make her other than she would
have been had she been left to the atmosphere of her stepmother's
home? Why had he spoken so strongly to her as to that young man's
love? And then she was almost angry with him because, by a turn in the
wheel of fortune, he was about to become, as she thought, Squire of
Bragton. Had he remained simply Mr. Morton of Hoppet Hall it would
still have been impossible. But this exaltation of her idol altogether
out of her reach was an added injustice. She could remember, not the
person, but all the recent memories of the old Squire, the veneration
with which he was named, the masterdom which was attributed to him,
the unequalled nobility of his position in regard to Dillsborough. His
successor would be to her as some one crowned, and removed by his
crown altogether from her world. Then she pictured to herself the
stately dame who would certainly come, and she made fresh resolutions
with a sore heart.
"I don't know why you should be so very little with me," said Lady
Ushant, almost whining. "When I was at Cheltenham you wanted to come
to me."
"There are so many things to be done at home."
"And yet you would have come to Cheltenham."
"We were in great trouble then, Lady Ushant. Of course I would like
to be with you. You ought not to scold me, because you know how I
love you"
"Has the young man gone away altogether now, Mary?"
"Altogether."
"And Mrs. Masters is satisfied?"
"She knows it can never be, and therefore she is quiet about it."
"I was sorry for that young man, because he was so true."
"You couldn't be more sorry than I was, Lady Ushant. I love him as
though he was a brother. But—"
"Mary, dear Mary, I fear you are in trouble."
"I think it is all trouble," said Mary, rushing forward and hiding
her face in her old friend's lap as she knelt on the ground before
her. Lady Ushant longed to ask a question, but she did not dare. And
Mary Masters longed to have one friend to whom she could confide her
secret,—but neither did she dare.
On the next day, very early in the morning, there came a note from
Mrs. Morton to Mr. Masters, the attorney. Could Mr. Masters come out
on that day to Bragton and see Mrs. Morton. The note was very
particular in saying that Mrs. Morton was to be the person seen. The
messenger who waited for an answer, brought back word that Mr. Masters
would be there at noon. The circumstance was one which agitated him
considerably, as he had not been inside the house at Bragton since the
days immediately following the death of the old Squire. As it
happened, Lady Ushant was going to Bragton on the same day, and at the
suggestion of Mr. Runciman, whose horses in the hunting season barely
sufficed for his trade, the old lady and the lawyer went together. Not
a word was said between them as to the cause which took either of them
on their journey, but they spoke much of the days in which they had
known each other, when the old Squire was alive, and Mr. Masters
thanked Lady Ushant for her kindness to his daughter. "I love her
almost as though she were my own," said Lady Ushant. "When I am dead
she will have half of what I have got."
"She will have no right to expect that," said the gratified father.
"She will have half or the whole, just as Reginald may be situated
then. I don't know why I shouldn't tell her father what it is I mean
to do." The attorney knew to a shilling the amount of Lady Ushant's
income and thought that this was the best news he had heard for many a
day.
While Lady Ushant was in the sick man's room, Mrs. Morton was
closeted with the attorney. She had thought much of this step before
she had dared to take it and even now doubted whether it would avail
her anything. As she entered the book-room in which Mr. Masters was
seated she almost repented. But the man was there and she was
compelled to go on with her scheme. "Mr. Masters," she said, "it is I
think a long time since you have been employed by this family."
"A very long time, Madam."
"And I have now sent for you under circumstances of great
difficulty," she answered; but as he said nothing she was forced to
go on. "My grandson made his will the other day up in London, when he
thought that he was going out to Patagonia." Mr. Masters bowed. "It
was done when he was in sound health, and he is now not satisfied with
it" Then there was another bow, but not a word was spoken. "Of course
you know that he is very ill."
"We have all been very much grieved to hear it"
"I am sure you would be, for the sake of old days. When Dr. Fanning
was last here he thought that my grandson was something better. He
held out stronger hopes than before. But still he is very ill. His
mind has never wavered for a moment, Mr. Masters." Again Mr. Masters
bowed. "And now he thinks that some changes should be made;—indeed
that there should be a new will."
"Does he wish me to see him, Mrs. Morton?"
"Not to-day, I think. He is not quite prepared to-day. But I wanted
to ask whether you could come at a moment's notice,—quite at a
moment's notice. I thought it better, so that you should know why we
sent for you if we did send,—so that you might be prepared. It could
be done here, I suppose?"
"It would be possible, Mrs. Morton."
"And you could do it?"
Then there was a long pause. "Altering a will is a very serious
thing, Mrs. Morton. And when it is done on what perhaps may be a
death-bed, it is a very serious thing indeed. Mr. Morton, I believe,
employs a London solicitor. I know the firm and more respectable
gentlemen do not exist. A telegram would bring down one of the firm
from London by the next train."
A frown, a very heavy frown, came across the old woman's brow. She
would have repressed it had it been possible;—but she could not
command herself, and the frown was there. "If that had been
practicable, Mr. Masters," she said, "we should not have sent for
you."
"I was only suggesting, madame, what might be the best course."
"Exactly. And of course I am much obliged. But if we are driven to
call upon you for your assistance, we shall find it?"
"Madame," said the attorney very slowly, "it is of course part of
my business to make wills, and when called upon to do so, I perform
my business to the best of my ability. But in altering a will during
illness great care is necessary. A codicil might be added—"
"A new will would be necessary."
A new will, thought the attorney, could only be necessary for
altering the disposition of the whole estate. He knew enough of the
family circumstances to be aware that the property should go to
Reginald Morton whether with or without a will,—and also enough to
be aware that this old lady was Reginald's bitter enemy. He did not
think that he could bring himself to take instructions from a dying
man,—from the Squire of Bragton on his death-bed,—for an instrument
which should alienate the property from the proper heir. He too had
his strong feelings, perhaps his prejudices, about Bragton. "I would
wish that the task were in other hands, Mrs. Morton."
"Why so?"
"It is hard to measure the capacity of an invalid."
"His mind is as clear as yours"
"It might be so,—and yet I might not be able to satisfy myself
that it was so. I should have to ask long and tedious questions,
which would be offensive. And I should find myself giving advice,—
which would not be called for. For instance, were your grandson to
wish to leave this estate away from the heir—"
"I am not discussing his wishes, Mr. Masters."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morton, for making the suggestion;—but as
I said before, I should prefer that he should employ some one else."
"You refuse then?"
"If Mr. Morton were to send for me, I should go to him instantly.
But I fear I might be slow in taking his instructions;—and it is
possible that I might refuse to act on them." Then she got up from
her chair and bowing to him with stately displeasure left the room.
All this she had done without any authority from her grandson,
simply encouraged in her object by his saying in his weakness, that
he would think of her proposition. So intent was she on her business
that she was resolved to have everything ready if only he could once
be brought to say that Peter Morton should be his heir. Having
abandoned all hopes for her noble cousin she could tell her conscience
that she was instigated simply by an idea of justice. Peter Morton was
at any rate the legitimate son of a well-born father and a wellborn
mother. What had she or any one belonging to her to gain by it? But
forty years since a brat had been born at Bragton in opposition to her
wishes,—by whose means she had been expelled from the place; and now
it seemed to her to be simple justice that he should on this account
be robbed of that which would otherwise be naturally his own. As Mr.
Masters would not serve her turn she must write to the London lawyers.
The thing would be more difficult; but, nevertheless, if the sick man
could once be got to say that Peter should be his heir she thought
that she could keep him to his word. Lady Ushant and Mr. Masters went
back to Dillsborough in Runciman's fly, and it need hardly be said
that the attorney said nothing of the business which had taken him to
Bragton.
This happened on a Wednesday,—Wednesday the 3rd of March. On
Friday morning, at 4 o'clock, during the darkness of the night, John
Morton was lying dead on his bed, and the old woman was at his
bedside. She had done her duty by him as far as she knew how in
tending him, had been assiduous with the diligence of much younger
years; but now as she sat there, having had the fact absolutely
announced to her by Dr. Nupper, her greatest agony arose from the
feeling that the roof which covered her, probably the chair in which
she sat, were the property of Reginald Morton—"Bastard!" she said to
herself between her teeth; but she so said it that neither Dr. Nupper,
who was in the room, nor the woman who was with her should hear it.
Dr. Nupper took the news into Dillsborough, and as the folk sat
down to breakfast they all heard that the Squire of Bragton was dead.
The man had been too little known, had been too short a time in the
neighbourhood, to give occasion for tears. There was certainly more of
interest than of grief in the matter. Mr. Masters said to himself that
the time had been too short for any change in the will, and therefore
felt tolerably certain that Reginald would be the heir. But for some
days this opinion was not general in Dillsborough. Mr. Mainwaring had
heard that Reginald had been sent away from Bragton with a flea in his
ear, and was pretty certain that when the will was read it would be
found that the property was to go to Mrs. Morton's friends. Dr. Nupper
was of the same opinion. There were many in Dillsborough with whom
Reginald was not popular;—and who thought that some man of a
different kind would do better as Squire of Bragton. "He don't know a
fox when he sees 'un," said Tony Tuppett to Larry Twentyman, whom he
had come across the county to call upon and to console.
CHAPTER X. The Will
On that Saturday the club met at Dillsborough,—even though the
Squire of Bragton had died on Friday morning. Through the whole of
that Saturday the town had been much exercised in its belief and
expressions, as to the disposition of the property. The town knew
very well that Mr. Masters, the attorney, had been sent for to
Bragton on the previous Wednesday,—whence the deduction as to a new
will, made of course under the auspices of Mrs. Morton, would have
been quite plain to the town, had not a portion of the town heard that
the attorney had not been for a moment with the dying man during his
visit. This latter piece of information had come through Lady Ushant,
who had been in her nephew's bedroom the whole time;—but Lady Ushant
had not much personal communication with the town generally, and would
probably have said nothing on this subject had not Mr. Runciman walked
up to Hoppet Hall behind the fly, after Mr. Masters had left it; and,
while helping her ladyship out, made inquiry as to the condition of
things at Bragton generally. "I was sorry to hear of their sending for
any lawyer," said Mr. Runciman. Then Lady Ushant protested that the
lawyer had not been sent for by her nephew, and that her nephew had
not even seen him. "Oh, indeed," said Mr. Runciman, who immediately
took a walk round his own paddock with the object of putting two and
two together. Mr. Runciman was a discreet man, and did not allow this
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