THE AMERICAN SENATOR
By
Anthony Trollope
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER
III The Masters Family
CHAPTER
IV The Dillsborough Club
CHAPTER
VIII The Paragon's Party at Bragton
CHAPTER
XI From Impington Gorse
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
XXV The last Morning at Rufford Hall
CHAPTER
XXVI Give me six Months
CHAPTER
XXVII "Wonderful Bird!"
CHAPTER
II The Senator's Letter
CHAPTER
IV The Rufford Correspondence
CHAPTER
VI The Beginning of persecution
CHAPTER
VIII Chowton Farm for Sale.
CHAPTER
X How Things were arranged
CHAPTER
XI "You are so severe"
CHAPTER
XIII Lord Rufford wants to see a Horse.
CHAPTER
XIV The Senator is badly treated
CHAPTER
XV Mr. Mainwaring's little Dinner
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
CHAPTER
I "I have told him Everything."
CHAPTER
II "Now what have you got to say?"
CHAPTER
III Mrs. Morton returns
CHAPTER
VII The Success of Lady Augustus
CHAPTER
VIII "We shall kill each other"
CHAPTER
XIV Lord Rufford's Model Farm
CHAPTER
XVII "My own, own Husband"
CHAPTER
XVIII "Bid him be a Man"
CHAPTER
XXI Arabella's Success
CHAPTER
XXIII The Senator's Lecture.--No. I
CHAPTER
XXIV The Senator's Lecture.--No. II
CHAPTER
XXV The Last Days of Mary Masters
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
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
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
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
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
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
Such, at the time of our story, was the little town of
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
The
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
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
"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.
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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
"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
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
"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."
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.
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
"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
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
"There certainly are a couple of hundred fools in
"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
"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.
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
"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
"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.
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
"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
"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
"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
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
"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."
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
From
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
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
"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."
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
"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
"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
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
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.
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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
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.
"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
"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.
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
"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
"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
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
"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!
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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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.
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
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
"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
"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
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.
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
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
"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
"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.
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
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
"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
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
"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.
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
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
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
"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
"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.
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
"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
"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
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."
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
"But must we stop there?"
"That's as the fox may choose to behave. We shan't stop
unless he does." Then young
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
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.
A closer intimacy will occasionally be created by some
accident, some fortuitous circumstance, than weeks of ordinary intercourse will
produce. Walk down
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
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
"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.
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
"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
"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
"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.
"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
"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
"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
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;
"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.
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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
"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
"So Peter Boyd is to go to
"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
"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
"Then he has more sense about him than I gave him credit for," said Archibald Currie.
"Why should a man like Morton go to
"
"That depends on whether a man has got money of his own.
When I heard about the Paragon and Bell Trefoil at
"I think she's the handsomest girl in
"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
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
"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
"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
"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.
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
"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
Bush Inn, Dillsborough,
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
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
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
Believe me to be, Dear Sir, With much sincerity, Yours
truly, Elias Gotobed. The Honble. Josiah Scroome, 25,
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
"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.
The month at
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
"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
"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
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
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
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.
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
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.
My Dear Lord Rufford,
As we are passing through
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--
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
"
"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
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.
"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
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
"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
"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.
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
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."
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
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
"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.
When Arabella Trefoil started from
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
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
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
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."
"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
"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
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
"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.
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
"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
"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
"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."
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
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
"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.
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
"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
"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
"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.
When these great efforts were being made by Arabella Trefoil
at Mistletoe, John Morton was vacillating in an unhappy mood between
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
"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.
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
"I don't know that he ever did," said Morton.
"Dear, dear, how tipsy he was once driving back to
"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
"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
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
"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
"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."
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
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.
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
"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
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
In
"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
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:
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.
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
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
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
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
"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
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
"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
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"
"
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
"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
"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
"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
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
"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
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?
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
"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
"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
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
"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
"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
"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
"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
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.
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
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
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
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
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.
"There's been strychnine put down in the Brake
too," said
"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
"Good night, Mr. Runciman," said Larry as he made his way down-stairs to the yard. "We've had an uncommon pleasant eveni