“It is proper that I should tell you that he has disgraced himself.”
“Never! I will not admit it. You do not know the circumstances,” exclaimed Florence.
“It is most impertinent in you to pretend that you know them better than I do,” said her mother, indignantly.
“The story was told to me by himself.”
“Yes; and therefore told untruly.”
“I grieve that you should think so of him, mamma; but I cannot help it. Where you have got your information I cannot tell. But that mine has been accurately told to me I feel certain.”
“At any rate, my duty is to look after you and to keep you from harm. I can only do my duty to the best of my ability. Mr. Annesley is, to my thinking, a most objectionable young man, and he will, I believe, be in the hands of the police before long. Evidence will have to be given, in which your name will, unfortunately, be mentioned.”
“Why my name?”
“It is not probable that he will keep it a secret, when cross-questioned, as to his having divulged the story to some one. He will declare that he has told it to you. When that time shall come it will be well that we should be out of the country. I propose to start from here on this day week.”
“Uncle Magnus will not be able to have us then.”
“We must loiter away our time on the road. I look upon it as quite imperative that we shall both be out of England within eight days’ time of this.”
“But where will you go?”
“Never mind. I do not know that I have as yet quite made up my mind. But you may understand that we shall start from Cheltenham this day week. Baker will go with us, and I shall leave the other two servants in charge of the house. I cannot tell you anything farther as yet,–except that I will never consent to your marriage with Mr. Henry Annesley. You had better know that for certain, and then there will be less cause for unhappiness between us.” So saying, the angry ghost with the night-cap on stalked out of the room.
It need hardly be explained that Mrs. Mountjoy’s information respecting the scene in London had come to her from Augustus Scarborough. When he told her that Annesley had been the last in London to see his brother Mountjoy, and had described the nature of the scene that had occurred between them, he had no doubt forgotten that he himself had subsequently seen his brother. In the story, as he had told it, there was no need to mention himself,–no necessity for such a character in making up the tragedy of that night. No doubt, according to his idea, the two had been alone together. Harry had struck the blow by which his brother had been injured, and had then left him in the street. Mountjoy had subsequently disappeared, and Harry had told to no one that such an encounter had taken place. This had been the meaning of Augustus Scarborough when he informed his aunt that Harry had been the last who had seen Mountjoy before his disappearance. To Mrs. Mountjoy the fact had been most injurious to Harry’s character. Harry had wilfully kept the secret while all the world was at work looking for Mountjoy Scarborough; and, as far as Mrs. Mountjoy could understand, it might well be that Harry had struck the fatal blow that had sent her nephew to his long account. All the impossibilities in the case had not dawned upon her. It had not occurred to her that Mountjoy could not have been killed and his body made away with without some great effort, in the performance of which the “scamp” would hardly have risked his life or his character. But the scamp was certainly a scamp, even though he might not be a murderer, or he would have revealed the secret. In fact, Mrs. Mountjoy believed in the matter exactly what Augustus had intended, and, so believing, had resolved that her daughter should suffer any purgatory rather than become Harry’s wife.
But her daughter made her resolutions exactly in the contrary direction. She in truth did know what had been done on that night, while her mother was in ignorance. The extent of her mother’s ignorance she understood, but she did not at all know where her mother had got her information. She felt that Harry’s secret was in hands other than he had intended, and that some one must have spoken of the scene. It occurred to Florence at the moment that this must have come from Mountjoy himself, whom she believed,–and rightly believed,–to have been the only second person present on the occasion. And if he had told it to any one, then must that “any one” know where and how he had disappeared. And the information must have been given to her mother solely with the view of damaging Harry’s character, and of preventing Harry’s marriage.
Thinking of all this, Florence felt that a premeditated and foul attempt,–for, as she turned it in her mind, the attempt seemed to be very foul,–was being made to injure Harry. A false accusation was brought against him, and was grounded on a misrepresentation of the truth in such a manner as to subvert it altogether to Harry’s injury. It should have no effect upon her. To this determination she came at once, and declared to herself solemnly that she would be true to it. An attempt was made to undermine him in her estimation; but they who made it had not known her character. She was sure of herself now, within her own bosom, that she was bound in a peculiar way to be more than ordinarily true to Harry Annesley. In such an emergency she ought to do for Harry Annesley more than a girl in common circumstances would be justified in doing for her lover. Harry was maligned, ill-used, and slandered. Her mother had been induced to call him a scamp, and to give as her reason for doing so an account of a transaction which was altogether false, though she no doubt had believed it to be true.
As she thought of all this she resolved that it was her duty to write to her lover, and tell him the story as she had heard it. It might be most necessary that he should know the truth. She would write her letter and post it,–so that it should be altogether beyond her mother’s control,–and then would tell her mother that she had written it. She at first thought that she would keep a copy of the letter and show it to her mother. But when it was written,–those first words intended for a lover’s eyes which had ever been produced by her pen,–she found that she could not subject those very words to her mother’s hard judgment.
Her letter was as follows:
“DEAR HARRY,–You will be much surprised at receiving a letter from me so soon after our meeting last night. But I warn you that you must not take it amiss. I should not write now were it not that I think it may be for your interest that I should do so. I do not write to say a word about my love, of which I think you may be assured without any letter. I told mamma last night what had occurred between us, and she of course was very angry. You will understand that, knowing how anxious she has been on behalf of my cousin Mountjoy. She has always taken his part, and I think it does mamma great honor not to throw him over now that he is in trouble. I should never have thrown him over in his trouble, had I ever cared for him in that way. I tell you that fairly, Master Harry.
“But mamma, in speaking against you, which she was bound to do in supporting poor Mountjoy, declared that you were the last person who had seen my cousin before his disappearance, and she knew that there had been some violent struggle between you. Indeed, she knew all the truth as to that night, except that the attack had been made by Mountjoy on you. She turned the story all round, declaring that you had attacked him,–which, as you perceive, gives a totally different appearance to the whole matter. Somebody has told her,–though who it may have been I cannot guess,–but somebody has been endeavoring to do you all the mischief he can in the matter, and has made mamma think evil of you. She says that after attacking him, and brutally ill-using him, you had left him in the street, and had subsequently denied all knowledge of having seen him. You will perceive that somebody has been at work inventing a story to do you a mischief, and I think it right that I should tell you.
“But you must never believe that I shall believe anything to your discredit. It would be to my discredit now. I know that you are good, and true, and noble, and that you would not do anything so foul as this. It is because I know this that I have loved you, and shall always love you. Let mamma and others say what they will, you are now to me all the world. Oh, Harry, Harry, when I think of it, how serious it seems to me, and yet how joyful! I exult in you, and will do so, let them say what they may against you. You will be sure of that always. Will you not be sure of it?
“But you must not write a line in answer, not even to give me your assurance. That must come when we shall meet at length,–say after a dozen years or so. I shall tell mamma of this letter, which circumstances seem to demand, and shall assure her that you will write no answer to it.
“Oh, Harry, you will understand all that I might say of my feelings in regard to you.
“Your own, FLORENCE.”
This letter, when she had written it and copied it fair and posted the copy in the pillar-box close by, she found that she could not in any way show absolutely to her mother. In spite of all her efforts it had become a love-letter. And what genuine love-letter can a girl show even to her mother? But she at once told her of what she had done. “Mamma, I have written a letter to Harry Annesley.”
“You have?”
“Yes, mamma; I have thought it right to tell him what you had heard about that night.”
“And you have done this without my permission,–without even telling me what you were going to do?”
“If I had asked you, you would have told me not.”
“Of course I should have told you not. Good gracious! has it come to this, that you correspond with a young gentleman without my leave, and when you know that I would not have given it?”
“Mamma, in this instance it was necessary.”
“Who was to judge of that?”
“If he is to be my husband–“
“But he is not to be your husband. You are never to speak to him again. You shall never be allowed to meet him; you shall be taken abroad, and there you shall remain, and he shall hear nothing about you. If he attempts to correspond with you–“
“He will not.”
“How do you know?”
“I have told him not to write.”
“Told him, indeed! Much he will mind such telling! I shall give your Uncle Magnus a full account of it all and ask for his advice. He is a man in a high position, and perhaps you may think fit to obey him, although you utterly refuse to be guided in any way by your mother.” Then the conversation for the moment came to an end. But Florence, as she left her mother, assured herself that she could not promise any close obedience in any such matters to Sir Magnus.
CHAPTER XIV.
THEY ARRIVE IN BRUSSELS.
For some weeks after the party at Mrs. Armitage’s house, and the subsequent explanations with her mother, Florence was made to suffer many things. First came the one week before they started, which was perhaps the worst of all. This was specially embittered by the fact that Mrs. Mountjoy absolutely refused to divulge her plans as they were made. There was still a fortnight before she could be received at Brussels, and as to that fortnight she would tell nothing.
Her knowledge of human nature probably went so far as to teach her that she could thus most torment her daughter. It was not that she wished to torment her in a revengeful spirit. She was quite sure within her own bosom that she did all in love. She was devoted to her daughter. But she was thwarted; and therefore told herself that she could best farther the girl’s interests by tormenting her. It was not meditated revenge, but that revenge which springs up without any meditation, and is often therefore the most bitter. “I must bring her nose to the grindstone,” was the manner in which she would have probably expressed her thoughts to herself. Consequently Florence’s nose was brought to the grindstone, and the operation made her miserable. She would not, however, complain when she had discovered what her mother was doing. She asked such questions as appeared to be natural, and put up with replies which purposely withheld all information. “Mamma, have you not settled on what day we shall start?” “No, my dear.” “Mamma, where are we going?” “I cannot tell you as yet; I am by no means sure myself.” “I shall be glad to know, mamma, what I am to pack up for use on the journey.” “Just the same as you would do on any journey.” Then Florence held her tongue, and consoled herself with thinking of Harry Annesley.
At last the day came, and she knew that she was to be taken to Boulogne. Before this time she had received one letter from Harry, full of love, full of thanks,–just what a lover’s letter ought to have been;–but yet she was disturbed by it. It had been delivered to herself in the usual way, and she might have concealed the receipt of it from her mother, because the servants in the house were all on her side. But this would not be in accordance with the conduct which she had arranged for herself, and she told her mother. “It is just an acknowledgment of mine to him. It was to have been expected, but I regret it.”
“I do not ask to see it,” said Mrs. Mountjoy, angrily.
“I could not show it you, mamma, though I think it right to tell you of it.”
“I do not ask to see it, I tell you. I never wish to hear his name again from your tongue. But I knew how it would be;–of course. I cannot allow this kind of thing to go on. It must be prevented.”
“It will not go on, mamma.”
“But it has gone on. You tell me that he has already written. Do you think it proper that you should correspond with a young man of whom I do not approve?” Florence endeavored to reflect whether she did think it proper or not. She thought it quite proper that she should love Harry Annesley with all her heart, but was not quite sure as to the correspondence. “At any rate, you must understand,” continued Mrs. Mountjoy, “that I will not permit it. All letters, while we are abroad, must be brought to me; and if any come from him they shall be sent back to him. I do not wish to open his letters, but you cannot be allowed to receive them. When we are at Brussels I shall consult your uncle upon the subject. I am very sorry, Florence, that there should be this cause of quarrel between us; but it is your doing.”
“Oh, mamma, why should you be so hard?”
“I am hard, because I will not allow you to accept a young man who has, I believe, behaved very badly, and who has got nothing of his own.”
“He is his uncle’s heir.”
“We know what that may come to. Mountjoy was his father’s heir; and nothing could be entailed more strictly than Tretton. We know what entails have come to there. Mr. Prosper will find some way of escaping from it. Entails go for nothing now; and I hear that he thinks so badly of his nephew that he has already quarrelled with him. And he is quite a young man himself. I cannot think how you can be so foolish,–you, who declared that you are throwing your cousin over because he is no longer to have all his father’s property.”
“Oh, mamma, that is not true.”
“Very well, my dear.”
“I never allowed it to be said in my name that I was engaged to my cousin Mountjoy.”
“Very well, I will never allow it to be said in my name that with my consent you are engaged to Mr. Henry Annesley.”
Six or seven days after this they were settled together most uncomfortably in a hotel at Boulogne. Mrs. Mountjoy had gone there because there was no other retreat to which she could take her daughter, and because she had resolved to remove her from beyond the sphere of Harry Annesley’s presence. She had at first thought of Ostend; but it had seemed to her that Ostend was within the kingdom reigned over by Sir Magnus and that there would be some impropriety in removing from thence to the capital in which Sir Magnus was reigning. It was as though you were to sojourn for three days at the park-gates before you were entertained at the mansion. Therefore they stayed at Boulogne, and Mrs. Mountjoy tried the bathing, cold as the water was with equinoctial gales, in order that there might be the appearance of a reason for her being at Boulogne. And for company’s sake, in the hope of maintaining some fellowship with her mother, Florence bathed also. “Mamma, he has not written again,” said Florence, coming up one day from the stand.
“I suppose that you are impatient.”
“Why should there be a quarrel between us? I am not impatient. If you would only believe me, it would be so much more happy for both of us. You always used to believe me.”
“That was before you knew Mr. Harry Annesley.”
There was something in this very aggravating,–something specially intended to excite angry feelings. But Florence determined to forbear. “I think you may believe me, mamma. I am your own daughter, and I shall not deceive you. I do consider myself engaged to Mr. Annesley.”
“You need not tell me that.”
“But while I am living with you I will promise not to receive letters from him without your leave. If one should come I will bring it to you, unopened, so that you may deal with it as though it had been delivered to yourself. I care nothing about my uncle as to this affair. What he may say cannot affect me, but what you say does affect me very much. I will promise neither to write nor to hear from Mr. Annesley for three months. Will not that satisfy you?” Mrs. Mountjoy would not say that it did satisfy her; but she somewhat mitigated her treatment of her daughter till they arrived together at Sir Magnus’s mansion.
They were shown through the great hall by three lackeys into an inner vestibule, where they encountered the great man himself. He was just then preparing to be put on to his horse, and Lady Mountjoy had already gone forth in her carriage for her daily airing, with the object, in truth, of avoiding the new-comers. “My dear Sarah,” said Sir Magnus, “I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you and my niece very well. Let me see, your name is–“
“My name is Florence,” said the young lady so interrogated.
“Ah yes; to be sure. I shall forget my own name soon. If any one was to call me Magnus without the ‘Sir,’ I shouldn’t know whom they meant.” Then he looked his niece in the face, and it occurred to him that Anderson might not improbably desire to flirt with her. Anderson was the riding attache, who always accompanied him on horseback, and of whom Lady Mountjoy had predicted that he would be sure to flirt with the minister’s niece. At that moment Anderson himself came in, and some ceremony of introduction took place. Anderson was a fair-haired, good-looking young man, with that thorough look of self-satisfaction and conceit which attaches are much more wont to exhibit than to deserve. For the work of an attache at Brussels is not of a nature to bring forth the highest order of intellect; but the occupations are of a nature to make a young man feel that he is not like other young men.
“I am so sorry that Lady Mountjoy has just gone out. She did not expect you till the later train. You have been staying at Boulogne. What on earth made you stay at Boulogne?”
“Bathing,” said Mrs. Mountjoy, in a low voice.
“Ah, yes; I suppose so. Why did you not come to Ostend? There is better bathing there, and I could have done something for you. What! The horses ready, are they? I must go out and show myself, or otherwise they’ll all think that I am dead. If I were absent from the boulevard at this time of day I should be put into the newspapers. Where is Mrs. Richards?” Then the two guests, with their own special Baker, were made over to the ministerial house-keeper, and Sir Magnus went forth upon his ride.
“She’s a pretty girl, that niece of mine,” said Sir Magnus.
“Uncommonly pretty,” said the attache.
“But I believe she is engaged to some one. I quite forget who; but I know there is some aspirant. Therefore you had better keep your toe in your pump, young man.”
“I don’t know that I shall keep my toe in my pump because there is another aspirant,” said Anderson. “You rather whet my ardor, sir, to new exploits. In such circumstances one is inclined to think that the aspirant must look after himself. Not that I conceive for a moment that Miss Mountjoy should ever look after me.”
When Mrs. Mountjoy came down to the drawing-room there seemed to be quite “a party” collected to enjoy the hospitality of Sir Magnus, but there were not, in truth, many more than the usual number at the board. There were Lady Mountjoy, and Miss Abbot, and Mr. Anderson, with Mr. Montgomery Arbuthnot, the two attaches. Mr. Montgomery Arbuthnot was especially proud of his name, but was otherwise rather a humble young man as an attache, having as yet been only three months with Sir Magnus, and desirous of perfecting himself in Foreign Office manners under the tuition of Mr. Anderson. Mr. Blow, Secretary of Legation, was not there. He was a married man of austere manners, who, to tell the truth, looked down from a considerable height, as regarded Foreign Office knowledge, upon his chief.
It was Mr. Blow who did the “grinding” on behalf of the Belgian Legation, and who sometimes did not hesitate to let it be known that such was the fact. Neither he nor Mrs. Blow was popular at the Embassy; or it may, perhaps, be said with more truth that the Embassy was not popular with Mr. and Mrs. Blow. It may be stated, also, that there was a clerk attached to the establishment, Mr. Bunderdown, who had been there for some years, and who was good-naturedly regarded by the English inhabitants as a third attache. Mr. Montgomery Arbuthnot did his best to let it be understood that this was a mistake. In the small affairs of the legation, which no doubt did not go beyond the legation, Mr. Bunderdown generally sided with Mr. Blow. Mr. Montgomery Arbuthnot was recognized as a second mounted attache, though his attendance on the boulevard was not as constant as that of Mr. Anderson, in consequence, probably, of the fact that he had not a horse of his own. But there were others also present. There were Sir Thomas Tresham, with his wife, who had been sent over to inquire into the iron trade of Belgium. He was a learned free-trader who could not be got to agree with the old familiar views of Sir Magnus,–who thought that the more iron that was produced in Belgium the less would be forthcoming from England. But Sir Thomas knew better, and as Sir Magnus was quite unable to hold his own with the political economist, he gave him many dinners and was civil to his wife. Sir Thomas, no doubt, felt that in doing so Sir Magnus did all that could be expected from him. Lady Tresham was a quiet little woman, who could endure to be patronized by Lady Mountjoy without annoyance. And there was M. Grascour, from the Belgian Foreign Office, who spoke English so much better than the other gentlemen present that a stranger might have supposed him to be a school-master whose mission it was to instruct the English Embassy in their own language.
“Oh, Mrs Mountjoy, I am so ashamed of myself!” said Lady Mountjoy, as she waddled into the room two minutes after the guests had been assembled. She had a way of waddling that was quite her own, and which they who knew her best declared that she had adopted in lieu of other graces of manner. She puffed a little also, and did contrive to attract peculiar attention. “But I have to be in my carriage every day at the same hour. I don’t know what would be thought of us if we were absent.” Then she turned, with a puff and a waddle, to Miss Abbot. “Dear Lady Tresham was with us.” Mrs. Mountjoy murmured something as to her satisfaction at not having delayed the carriage-party, and bethought herself how exactly similar had been the excuse made by Sir Magnus himself. Then Lady Mountjoy gave another little puff, and assured Florence that she hoped she would find Brussels sufficiently gay,–“not that we pretend at all to equal Paris.”
“We live at Cheltenham,” said Florence, “and that is not at all like Paris. Indeed, I never slept but two nights at Paris in my life.”
“Then we shall do very well at Brussels.” After this she waddled off again, and was stopped in her waddling by Sir Magnus, who sternly desired her to prepare for the august ceremony of going in to dinner. The one period of real importance at the English Embassy was, no doubt, the daily dinner-hour.
Florence found herself seated between Mr. Anderson, who had taken her in, and M. Grascour, who had performed the same ceremony for her ladyship. “I am sure you will like this little capital very much,” said M. Grascour. “It is as much nicer than Paris as it is smaller and less pretentious.” Florence could only assent. “You will soon be able to learn something of us; but in Paris you must be to the manner born, or half a lifetime will not suffice.”
“We’ll put you up to the time of day,” said Mr. Anderson, who did not choose, as he said afterward, that this tidbit should be taken out of his mouth.
“I dare say that all that I shall want will come naturally without any putting up.”
“You won’t find it amiss to know a little of what’s what. You have not got a riding-horse here?”
“Oh no,” said Florence.
“I was going on to say that I can manage to secure one for you. Billibong has got an excellent horse that carried the Princess of Styria last year.” Mr. Anderson was supposed to be peculiarly up to everything concerning horses.
“But I have not got a habit. That is a much more serious affair.”
“Well, yes. Billibong does not keep habits: I wish he did. But we can manage that too. There does live a habit-maker in Brussels.”
“Ladies’ habits certainly are made in Brussels,” said M. Grascour. “But if Miss Mountjoy does not choose to trust a Belgian tailor there is the railway open to her. An English habit can be sent.”
“Dear Lady Centaur had one sent to her only last year, when she was staying here,” said Lady Mountjoy across her neighbor, with two little puffs.
“I shall not at all want the habit,” said Florence, “not having the horse, and indeed, never being accustomed to ride at all.”
“Do tell me what it is that you do do,” said Mr. Anderson, with a convenient whisper, when he found that M. Grascour had fallen into conversation with her ladyship. “Lawn-tennis?”
“I do play at lawn-tennis, though I am not wedded to it.”
“Billiards? I know you play billiards.”
“I never struck a ball in my life.”
“Goodness gracious, how odd! Don’t you ever amuse yourself at all? Are they so very devotional down at Cheltenham?”
“I suppose we are stupid. I don’t know that I ever do especially amuse myself.”
“We must teach you;–we really must teach you. I think I may boast of myself that I am a good instructor in that line. Will you promise to put yourself into my hands?”
“You will find me a most unpromising pupil.”
“Not in the least. I will undertake that when you leave this you shall be _au fait_ at everything. Leap frog is not too heavy for me and spillikins not too light. I am up to them all, from backgammon to a cotillon,–not but what I prefer the cotillon for my own taste.”
“Or leap-frog, perhaps,” suggested Florence.
“Well, yes; leap-frog used to be a good game at Gother School, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t have it back again. Ladies, of course, must have a costume on purpose. But I am fond of anything that requires a costume. Don’t you like everything out of the common way? I do.” Florence assured him that their tastes were wholly dissimilar, as she liked everything in the common way. “That’s what I call an uncommonly pretty girl,” he said afterward to M. Grascour, while Sir Magnus was talking to Sir Thomas. “What an eye!”
“Yes, indeed; she is very lovely.”
“My word, you may say that! And such a turn of the shoulders! I don’t say which are the best-looking, as a rule, English or Belgians, but there are very few of either to come up to her.”
“Anderson, can you tell us how many tons of steel rails they turn out at Liege every week? Sir Thomas asks me, just as though it were the simplest question in the world.”
“Forty million,” said Anderson,–“more or less.”
“Twenty thousand would, perhaps, be nearer the mark,” said M. Grascour; “but I will send him the exact amount to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XV.
MR. ANDERSON’S LOVE.
Lady Mountjoy had certainly prophesied the truth when she said that Mr. Anderson would devote himself to Florence. The first week in Brussels passed by quietly enough. A young man can hardly declare his passion within a week, and Mr. Anderson’s ways in that particular were well known. A certain amount of license was usually given to him, both by Sir Magnus and Lady Mountjoy, and when he would become remarkable by the rapidity of his changes the only adverse criticism would come generally from Mr. Blow. “Another peerless Bird of Paradise,” Mr. Blow would say. “If the birds were less numerous, Anderson might, perhaps, do something.” But at the end of the week, on this occasion, even Sir Magnus perceived that Anderson was about to make himself peculiar.
“By George!” he said one morning, when Sir Magnus had just left the outer office, which he had entered with the object of giving some instruction as to the day’s ride, “take her altogether, I never saw a girl so fit as Miss Mountjoy.” There was something very remarkable in this speech, as, according to his usual habit of life, Anderson would certainly have called her Florence, whereas his present appellation showed an unwonted respect.
“What do you mean when you say that a young lady is fit?” said Mr. Blow.
“I mean that she is right all round, which is a great deal more than can be said of most of them.”
“The divine Florence–” began Mr. Montgomery Arbuthnot, struggling to say something funny.
“Young man, you had better hold your tongue, and not talk of young ladies in that language.”
“I do believe that he is going to fall in love,” said Mr. Blow.
“I say that Miss Mountjoy is the fittest girl I have seen for many a day; and when a young puppy calls her the divine Florence, he does not know what he is about.”
“Why didn’t you blow Mr. Blow up when he called her a Bird of Paradise?” said Montgomery Arbuthnot. “Divine Florence is not half so disrespectful of a young lady as Bird of Paradise. Divine Florence means divine Florence, but Bird of Paradise is chaff.”
“Mr. Blow, as a married man,” said Anderson, “has a certain freedom allowed him. If he uses it in bad taste, the evil falls back upon his own head. Now, if you please, we’ll change the conversation.” From this it will be seen that Mr. Anderson had really fallen in love with Miss Mountjoy.
But though the week had passed in a harmless way to Sir Magnus and Lady Mountjoy,–in a harmless way to them as regarded their niece and their attache,–a certain amount of annoyance had, no doubt, been felt by Florence herself. Though Mr. Anderson’s expressions of admiration had been more subdued than usual, though he had endeavored to whisper his love rather than to talk it out loud, still the admiration had been both visible and audible, and especially so to Florence herself. It was nothing to Sir Magnus with whom his attache flirted. Anderson was the younger son of a baronet who had a sickly elder brother, and some fortune of his own. If he chose to marry the girl, that would be well for her; and if not, it would be quite well that the young people should amuse themselves. He expected Anderson to help to put him on his horse, and to ride with him at the appointed hour. He, in return, gave Anderson his dinner and as much wine as he chose to drink. They were both satisfied with each other, and Sir Magnus did not choose to interfere with the young man’s amusements. But Florence did not like being the subject of a young man’s love-making, and complained to her mother.
Now, it had come to pass that not a word had been said as to Harry Annesley since the mother and daughter had reached Brussels. Mrs. Mountjoy had declared that she would consult her brother-in-law in that difficulty, but no such consultation had as yet taken place. Indeed, Florence would not have found her sojourn at Brussels to be unpleasant were it not for Mr. Anderson’s unpalatable little whispers. She had taken them as jokes as long as she had been able to do so, but was now at last driven to perceive that other people would not do so. “Mamma,” she said, “don’t you think that that Mr. Anderson is an odious young man?”
“No, my dear, by no means. What is there odious about him? He is very lively; he is the second son of Sir Gregory Anderson, and has very comfortable means of his own.”
“Oh, mamma, what does that signify?”
“Well, my dear, it does signify. In the first place, he is a gentleman, and in the next, has a right to make himself attentive to any young lady in your position. I don’t say anything more. I am not particularly wedded to Mr. Anderson. If he were to come to me and ask for my permission to address you, I should simply refer him to yourself, by which I should mean to imply that if he could contrive to recommend himself to you I should not refuse my sanction.”
Then the subject for that moment dropped, but Florence was astonished to find that her mother could talk about it, not only without reference to Harry Annesley, but also without an apparent thought of Mountjoy Scarborough; and it was distressing to her to think that her mother should pretend to feel that she, her own daughter, should be free to receive the advances of another suitor. As she reflected it came across her mind that Harry was so odious that her mother would have been willing to accept on her behalf any suitor who presented himself, even though her daughter, in accepting him, should have proved herself to be heartless. Any alternative would have been better to her mother than that choice to which Florence had determined to devote her whole life.
“Mamma,” she said, going back to the subject on the next day, “if I am to stay here for three weeks longer–“
“Yes, my dear, you are to stay here for three weeks longer.”
“Then somebody must say something to Mr. Anderson.”
“I do not see who can say it but you yourself. As far as I can see, he has not misbehaved.”
“I wish you would speak to my uncle.”
“What am I to tell him?”
“That I am engaged.”
“He would ask me to whom, and I cannot tell him. I should then be driven to put the whole case in his hands, and to ask his advice. You do not suppose that I am going to say that you are engaged to marry that odious young man? All the world knows how atrociously badly he has behaved to your own cousin. He left him lying for dead in the street by a blow from his own hand; and though from that day to this nothing has been heard of Mountjoy, nothing is known to the police of what may have been his fate;–even stranger, he may have perished under the usage which he received, yet Mr. Annesley has not thought it right to say a word of what had occurred. He has not dared even to tell an inspector of police the events of that night. And the young man was your own cousin, to whom you were known to have been promised for the last two years.”
“No, no!” said Florence.
“I say that it was so. You were promised to your cousin, Mountjoy Scarborough.”
“Not with my own consent.”
“All your friends,–your natural friends,–knew that it was to be so. And now you expect me to take by the hand this young man who has almost been his murderer!”
“No, mamma, it is not true. You do not know the circumstances, and you assert things which are directly at variance with the truth.”
“From whom do you get your information? From the young man himself. Is that likely to be true? What would Sir Magnus say as to that were I to tell him?”
“I do not know what he would say, but I do know what is the truth. And can you think it possible that I should now be willing to accept this foolish young man in order thus to put an end to my embarrassments?”
Then she left her mother’s room, and, retreating to her own, sat for a couple of hours thinking, partly in anger and partly in grief, of the troubles of her situation. Her mother had now, in truth, frightened her as to Harry’s position. She did begin to see what men might say of him, and the way in which they might speak of his silence, though she was resolved to be as true to him in her faith as ever. Some exertion of spirit would, indeed, be necessary. She was beginning to understand in what way the outside world might talk of Harry Annesley, of the man to whom she had given herself and her whole heart. Then her mother was right. And as she thought of it she began to justify her mother. It was natural that her mother should believe the story which had been told to her, let it have come from where it might. There was in her mind some suspicion of the truth. She acknowledged a great animosity to her cousin Augustus, and regarded him as one of the causes of her unhappiness. But she knew nothing of the real facts; she did not even suspect that Augustus had seen his brother after Harry had dealt with him, or that he was responsible for his brother’s absence. But she knew that she disliked him, and in some way she connected his name with Harry’s misfortune.
Of one thing she was certain: let them,–the Mountjoys, and Prospers, and the rest of the world,–think and say what they would of Harry, she would be true to him. She could understand that his character might be made to suffer, but it should not suffer in her estimation. Or rather, let it suffer ever so, that should not affect her love and her truth. She did not say this to herself. By saying it even to herself she would have committed some default of truth. She did not whisper it even to her own heart. But within her heart there was a feeling that, let Harry be right or wrong in what he had done, even let it be proved, to the satisfaction of all the world, that he had sinned grievously when he had left the man stunned and bleeding on the pavement,–for to such details her mother’s story had gone,–still, to her he should be braver, more noble, more manly, more worthy of being loved, than was any other man. She, perceiving the difficulties that were in store for her, and looking forward to the misfortune under which Harry might be placed, declared to herself that he should at least have one friend who would be true to him.
“Miss Mountjoy, I have come to you with a message from your aunt.” This was said, three or four days after the conversation between Florence and her mother, by Mr. Anderson, who had contrived to follow the young lady into a small drawing-room after luncheon. What was the nature of the message it is not necessary for us to know. We may be sure that it had been manufactured by Mr. Anderson for the occasion. He had looked about and spied, and had discovered that Miss Mountjoy was alone in the little room. And in thus spying we consider him to have been perfectly justified. His business at the moment was that of making love, a business which is allowed to override all other considerations. Even the making an office copy of a report made by Mr. Blow for the signature of Sir Magnus might, according to our view of life, have been properly laid aside for such a purpose. When a young man has it in him to make love to a young lady, and is earnest in his intention, no duty, however paramount, should be held as a restraint. Such was Mr. Anderson’s intention at the present moment; and therefore we think that he was justified in concocting a message from Lady Mountjoy. The business of love-making warrants any concoction to which the lover may resort. “But oh, Miss Mountjoy, I am so glad to have a moment in which I can find you alone!” It must be understood that the amorous young gentleman had not yet been acquainted with the young lady for quite a fortnight.
“I was just about to go up-stairs to my mother,” said Florence, rising to leave the room.
“Oh, bother your mother! I beg her pardon and yours;–I really didn’t mean it. There is such a lot of chaff going on in that outer room, that a fellow falls into the way of it whether he likes it or no.”
“My mother won’t mind it at all; but I really must go.”
“Oh no. I am sure you can wait for five minutes. I don’t want to keep you for more than five minutes. But it is so hard for a fellow to get an opportunity to say a few words.”
“What words can you want to say to me, Mr. Anderson?” This she said with a look of great surprise, as though utterly unable to imagine what was to follow.
“Well, I did hope that you might have some idea of what my feelings are.”
“Not in the least.”
“Haven’t you, now? I suppose I am bound to believe you, though I doubt whether I quite do. Pray excuse me for saying this, but it is best to be open.” Florence felt that he ought to be excused for doubting her, as she did know very well what was coming. “I–I–Come, then; I love you! If I were to go on beating about the bush for twelve months I could only come to the same conclusion.”
“Perhaps you might then have considered it better.”
“Not in the least. Fancy considering such a thing as that for twelve months before you speak of it! I couldn’t do it,–not for twelve days.”
“So I perceive, Mr. Anderson.”
“Well, isn’t it best to speak the truth when you’re quite sure of it? If I were to remain dumb for three months, how should I know but what some one else might come in the way?”
“But you can’t expect that I should be so sudden?”
“That’s just where it is. Of course I don’t. And yet girls have to be sudden too.”
“Have they?”
“They’re expected to be ready with their answer as soon as they’re asked. I don’t say this by way of impertinence, but merely to show that I have some justification. Of course, if you like to say that you must take a week to think of it, I am prepared for that. Only let me tell my own story first.”
“You shall tell your own story, Mr. Anderson; but I am afraid that it can be to no purpose.”
“Don’t say that,–pray, don’t say that,–but do let me tell it.” Then he paused; but, as she remained silent, after a moment he resumed the eloquence of his appeal. “By George! Miss Mountjoy, I have been so struck of a heap that I do not know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. You have knocked me so completely off my pins that I am not at all like the same person. Sir Magnus himself says that he never saw such a difference. I only say that to show that I am quite in earnest. Now I am not quite like a fellow that has no business to fall in love with a girl. I have four hundred a year besides my place in the Foreign Office. And then, of course, there are chances.” In this he alluded to his brother’s failing health, of which he could not explain the details to Miss Mountjoy on the present occasion. “I don’t mean to say that this is very splendid, or that it is half what I should like to lay at your feet. But a competence is comfortable.”
“Money has nothing to do with it, Mr. Anderson.”
“What, then? Perhaps it is that you don’t like a fellow. What girls generally do like is devotion, and, by George, you’d have that. The very ground that you tread upon is sweet to me. For beauty,–I don’t know how it is, but to my taste there is no one I ever saw at all like you. You fit me–well, as though you were made for me. I know that another fellow might say it a deal better, but no one more truly. Miss Mountjoy, I love you with all my heart, and I want you to be my wife. Now you’ve got it!”
He had not pleaded his cause badly, and so Florence felt. That he had pleaded it hopelessly was a matter of course. But he had given rise to feelings of gentle regard rather than of anger. He had been honest, and had contrived to make her believe him. He did not come up to her ideal of what a lover should be, but he was nearer to it than Mountjoy Scarborough. He had touched her so closely that she determined at once to tell him the truth, thinking that she might best in this way put an end to his passion forever. “Mr. Anderson,” she said, “though I have known it to be vain, I have thought it best to listen to you, because you asked it.”
“I am sure I am awfully obliged to you.”
“And I ought to thank you for the kind feeling you have expressed to me. Indeed, I do thank you. I believe every word you have said. It is better to show my confidence in your truth than to pretend to the humility of thinking you untrue.”
“It is true; it is true,–every word of it.”
“But I am engaged.” Then it was sad to see the thorough change which came over the young man’s face. “Of course a girl does not talk of her own little affairs to strangers, or I would let you have known this before, so as to have prevented it. But, in truth, I am engaged.”
“Does Sir Magnus know it, or Lady Mountjoy?”
“I should think not.”
“Does your mother?”
“Now you are taking advantage of my confidence, and pressing your questions too closely. But my mother does know of it. I will tell you more;–she does not approve of it. But it is fixed in Heaven itself. It may well be that I shall never be able to marry the gentleman to whom I allude, but most certainly I shall marry no one else. I have told you this because it seems to be necessary to your welfare, so that you may get over this passing feeling.”
“It is no passing feeling,” said Anderson, with some tragic grandeur.
“At any rate, you have now my story, and remember that it is trusted to you as a gentleman. I have told it you for a purpose.” Then she walked out of the room, leaving the poor young man in temporary despair.
CHAPTER XVI.
MR. AND MISS GREY.
It was now the middle of October, and it may be said that from the time in which old Mr. Scarborough had declared his intention of showing that the elder of his sons had no right to the property, Mr. Grey, the lawyer, had been so occupied with the Scarborough affairs as to have had left him hardly a moment for other considerations.
He had a partner, who during these four months had, in fact, carried on the business. One difficulty had grown out of another till Mr. Grey’s whole time had been occupied; and all his thoughts had been filled with Mr. Scarborough, which is a matter of much greater moment to a man than the loss of his time. The question of Mountjoy Scarborough’s position had been first submitted to him in June. October had now been reached and Mr. Grey had been out of town only for a fortnight, during which fortnight he had been occupied entirely in unravelling the mystery. He had at first refused altogether to have anything to do with the unravelling, and had desired that some other lawyer might be employed. But it had gradually come to pass that he had entered heart and soul into the case, and, with many execrations on his own part against Mr. Scarborough, could find a real interest in nothing else. He had begun his investigations with a thorough wish to discover that Mountjoy Scarborough was, in truth, the heir. Though he had never loved the young man, and, as he went on with his investigations, became aware that the whole property would go to the creditors should he succeed in proving that Mountjoy was the heir, yet for the sake of abstract honesty he was most anxious that it should be so. And he could not bear to think that he and other lawyers had been taken in by the wily craft of such a man as the Squire of Tretton. It went thoroughly against the grain with him to have to acknowledge that the estate would become the property of Augustus. But it was so, and he did acknowledge it. It was proved to him that, in spite of all the evidence which he had hitherto seen in the matter, the squire had not married his wife until after the birth of his eldest son. He did acknowledge it, and he said bravely that it must be so. Then there came down upon him a crowd of enemies in the guise of baffled creditors, all of whom believed, or professed to believe, that he, Mr. Grey, was in league with the squire to rob them of their rights.
If it could be proved that Mountjoy had no claim to the property, then would it go nominally to Augustus, who according to their showing was also one of the confederates, and the property could thus, they said, be divided. Very shortly the squire would be dead, and then the confederates would get everything, to the utter exclusion of poor Mr. Tyrrwhit, and poor Mr. Samuel Hart, and all the other poor creditors, who would thus be denuded, defrauded, and robbed by a lawyer’s trick. It was in this spirit that Mr. Grey was attacked by Mr. Tyrrwhit and the others; and Mr. Grey found it very hard to bear.
And then there was another matter which was also very grievous to him. If it were as he now stated,–if the squire had been guilty of this fraud,–to what punishment would he be subjected? Mountjoy was declared to have been innocent. Mr. Tyrrwhit, as he put the case to his own lawyers, laughed bitterly as he made this suggestion. And Augustus was, of course, innocent. Then there was renewed laughter. And Mr. Grey! Mr. Grey had, of course, been innocent. Then the laughter was very loud. Was it to be believed that anybody could be taken in by such a story as this? There was he, Mr. Tyrrwhit: he had ever been known as a sharp fellow; and Mr. Samuel Hart, who was now away on his travels, and the others;–they were all of them sharp fellows. Was it to be believed that such a set of gentlemen, so keenly alive to their own interest, should be made the victims of such a trick as this? Not if they knew it! Not if Mr. Tyrrwhit knew it!
It was in this shape that the matter reached Mr. Grey’s ears; and then it was asked, if it were so, what would be the punishment to which they would be subjected who had defrauded Mr. Tyrrwhit of his just claim. Mr. Tyrrwhit, who on one occasion made his way into Mr, Grey’s presence, wished to get an answer to that question from Mr. Grey. “The man is dying,” said Mr. Grey, solemnly.
“Dying! He is not more likely to die than you are, from all I hear.” At this time rumors of Mr. Scarborough’s improved health had reached the creditors in London. Mr. Tyrrwhit had begun to believe that Mr. Scarborough’s dangerous condition had been part of the hoax; that there had been no surgeon’s knives, no terrible operations, no moment of almost certain death. “I don’t believe he’s been ill at all,” said Mr. Tyrrwhit.
“I cannot help your belief,” said Mr. Grey.
“But because a man doesn’t die and recovers, is he on that account to be allowed to cheat people, as he has cheated me, with impunity?”
“I am not going to defend Mr. Scarborough; but he has not, in fact, cheated you.”
“Who has? Come; do you mean to tell me that if this goes on I shall not have been defrauded of a hundred thousand pounds?”
“Did you ever see Mr. Scarborough on the matter?”
“No; it was not necessary.”
“Or have you got his writing to any document? Have you anything to show that he knew what his son was doing when he borrowed money of you? Is it not perfectly clear that he knew nothing about it?”
“Of course he knew nothing about it then,–at that time. It was afterward that his fraud began. When he found that the estate was in jeopardy, then the falsehood was concocted.”
“Ah, there, Mr. Tyrrwhit, I can only say, that I disagree with you. I must express my opinion that if you endeavor to recover your money on that plea you will be beaten. If you can prove fraud of that kind, no doubt you can punish those who have been guilty of it,–me among the number.”
“I say nothing of that,” said Mr. Tyrrwhit.
“But if you have been led into your present difficulty by an illegal attempt on the part of my client to prove an illegitimate son to have been legitimate, and then to have changed his mind for certain purposes, I do not see how you are to punish him. The act will have been attempted and not completed. And it will have been an act concerning his son and not concerning you.”
“Not concerning me!” shrieked Mr. Tyrrwhit.
“Certainly not, legally. You are not in a position to prove that he knew that his son was borrowing money from you on the credit of the estate. As a fact he certainly did not know it.”
“We shall see about that,” said Mr. Tyrrwhit.
“Then you must see about it, but not with my aid. As a fact I am telling you all that I know about it. If I could I would prove Mountjoy Scarborough to be his father’s heir to-morrow. Indeed, I am altogether on your side in the matter,–if you would believe it.” Here Mr. Tyrrwhit again laughed. “But you will not believe it, and I do not ask you to do so. As it is we must be opposed to each other.”
“Where is the young man?” asked Mr. Tyrrwhit.
“Ah, that is a question I am not bound to answer, even if I knew. It is a matter on which I say nothing. You have lent him money, at an exorbitant rate of interest.”
“It is not true.”
“At any rate it seems so to me; and it is out of the question that I should assist you in recovering it. You did it at your own peril, and not on my advice. Good-morning, Mr. Tyrrwhit.” Then Mr. Tyrrwhit went his way, not without sundry threats as to the whole Scarborough family.
It was very hard upon Mr. Grey, because he certainly was an honest man and had taken up the matter simply with a view of learning the truth. It had been whispered to him within the last day or two that Mountjoy Scarborough had lately been seen alive, and gambling with reckless prodigality, at Monte Carlo. It had only been told to him as probably true, but he certainly believed it. But he knew nothing of the details of his disappearance, and had not been much surprised, as he had never believed that the young man had been murdered or had made away with himself. But he had heard before that of the quarrel in the street between him and Harry Annesley; and the story had been told to him so as to fall with great discredit on Harry Annesley’s head.
According to that story Harry Annesley had struck his foe during the night and had left him for dead upon the pavement. Then Mountjoy Scarborough had been missing, and Harry Annesley had told no one of the quarrel. There had been some girl in question. So much and no more Mr. Grey had heard, and was, of course, inclined to think that Harry Annesley must have behaved very badly. But of the mode of Mountjoy’s subsequent escape he had heard nothing.
Mr. Grey at this time was living down at Fulham, in a small, old-fashioned house which over-looked the river, and was called the Manor-house. He would have said that it was his custom to go home every day by an omnibus, but he did, in truth, almost always remain at his office so late as to make it necessary that he should return by a cab. He was a man fairly well to do in the world, as he had no one depending on him but one daughter,–no one, that is to say, whom he was obliged to support. But he had a married sister with a scapegrace husband and six daughters whom, in fact, he did support. Mrs. Carroll, with the kindest intentions in the world, had come and lived near him. She had taken a genteel house in Bolsover Terrace,–a genteel new house on the Fulham Road, about a quarter of a mile from her brother. Mr. Grey lived in the old Manor-house, a small, uncomfortable place, which had a nook of its own, close upon the water, and with a lovely little lawn. It was certainly most uncomfortable as a gentleman’s residence, but no consideration would induce Mr. Grey to sell it. There were but two sitting-rooms in it, and one was for the most part uninhabited. The up-stairs drawing-room was furnished, but any one with half an eye could see that it was never used. A “stray” caller might be shown up there, but callers of that class were very uncommon in Mr. Grey’s establishment.
With his own domestic arrangements Mr. Grey would have been quite contented, had it not been for Mrs. Carroll. It was now some years since he had declared that though Mr. Carroll,–or Captain Carroll, as he had then been called,–was an improvident, worthless, drunken Irishman, he would never see his sister want. The consequence was that Carroll had come with his wife and six daughters and taken a house close to him. There are such “whips and scorns” in the world to which a man shall be so subject as to have the whole tenor of his life changed by them. The hero bears them heroically, making no complaints to those around him. The common man shrinks, and squeals, and cringes, so that he is known to those around him as one especially persecuted. In this respect Mr. Grey was a grand hero. When he spoke to his friends of Mrs. Carroll his friends were taught to believe that his outside arrangements with his sister were perfectly comfortable. No doubt there did creep out among those who were most intimate with him a knowledge that Mr. Carroll,–for the captain had, in truth, never been more than a lieutenant, and had now long since sold out,–was impecunious, and a trouble rather than otherwise. But I doubt whether there was a single inhabitant of the neighborhood of Fulham who was aware that Mrs. Carroll and the Miss Carrolls cost Mr. Grey on an average above six hundred a year.
There was one in Mr. Grey’s family to whom he was so attached that he would, to oblige her, have thrown over the whole Carroll family; but of this that one person would not hear. She hated the whole Carroll family with an almost unholy hatred, of which she herself was endeavoring to repent daily, but in vain. She could not do other than hate them, but she could do other than allow her father to withdraw his fostering protection; for this one person was Mr. Grey’s only daughter and his one close domestic associate. Miss Dorothy Grey was known well to all the neighborhood, and was both feared and revered. As we shall have much to do with her in the telling of our story, it may be well to make her stand plainly before the reader’s eyes.
In the first place, it must be understood that she was motherless, brotherless and sisterless. She had been Mr. Grey’s only child, and her mother had been dead for fifteen or sixteen years. She was now about thirty years of age, but was generally regarded as ranging somewhere between forty and fifty. “If she isn’t nearer fifty than forty I’ll eat my old shoes,” said a lady in the neighborhood to a gentleman. “I’ve known her these twenty years, and she’s not altered in the least.” As Dolly Grey had been only ten twenty years ago, the lady must have been wrong. But it is singular how a person’s memory of things may be created out of their present appearances. Dorothy herself had apparently no desire to set right this erroneous opinion which the neighborhood entertained respecting her. She did not seem to care whether she was supposed to be thirty, or forty, or fifty. Of youth, as a means of getting lovers, she entertained a profound contempt. That no lover would ever come she was assured, and would not at all have known what to do with one had he come. The only man for whom she had ever felt the slightest regard was her father. For some women about she did entertain a passionless, well-regulated affection, but they were generally the poor, the afflicted, or the aged. It was, however, always necessary that the person so signalized should be submissive. Now, Mrs. Carroll, Mr. Grey’s sister, had long since shown that she was not submissive enough, nor were the girls, the eldest of whom was a pert, ugly, well-grown minx, now about eighteen years old. The second sister, who was seventeen, was supposed to be a beauty, but which of the two was the more odious in the eyes of their cousin it would be impossible to say.
Miss Dorothy Grey was Dolly only to her father. Had any one else so ventured to call her she would have started up at once, the outraged aged female of fifty. Even her aunt, who was trouble enough to her, felt that it could not be so. Her uncle tried it once, and she declined to come into his presence for a month, letting it be fully understood that she had been insulted.
And yet she was not, according to my idea, by any means an ill-favored young woman. It is true that she wore spectacles; and, as she always desired to have her eyes about with her, she never put them off when out of bed. But how many German girls do the like, and are not accounted for that reason to be plain? She was tall and well-made, we may almost say robust. She had the full use of all her limbs, and was never ashamed of using them. I think she was wrong when she would be seen to wheel the barrow about the garden, and that her hands must have suffered in her attempts to live down the conventional absurdities of the world. It is true that she did wear gloves during her gardening, but she wore them only in obedience to her father’s request. She had bright eyes, somewhat far apart, and well-made, wholesome, regular features. Her nose was large, and her mouth was large, but they were singularly intelligent, and full of humor when she was pleased in conversation. As to her hair, she was too indifferent to enable one to say that it was attractive; but it was smoothed twice a day, was very copious, and always very clean. Indeed, for cleanliness from head to foot she was a model. “She is very clean, but then it’s second to nothing to her,” had said a sarcastic old lady, who had meant to imply that Miss Dorothy Grey was not constant at church. But the sarcastic old lady had known nothing about it. Dorothy Grey never stayed away from morning church unless her presence was desired by her father, and for once or twice that she might do so she would take her father with her three or four times,–against the grain with him, it must be acknowledged.
But the most singular attribute of the lady’s appearance has still to be mentioned. She always wore a slouch hat, which from motives of propriety she called her bonnet, which gave her a singular appearance, as though it had been put on to thatch her entirely from the weather. It was made generally of black straw, and was round, equal at all points of the circle, and was fastened with broad brown ribbons. It was supposed in the neighborhood to be completely weather-tight.
The unimaginative nature of Fulham did not allow the Fulham mind to gather in the fact that, at the same time, she might possess two or three such hats. But they were undoubtedly precisely similar, and she would wear them in London with exactly the same indifference as in the comparatively rural neighborhood of her own residence. She would, in truth, go up and down in the omnibus, and would do so alone, without the slightest regard to the opinion of any of her neighbors. The Carroll girls would laugh at her behind her back, but no Carroll girl had been seen ever to smile before her face, instigated to do so by their cousin’s vagaries.
But I have not yet mentioned that attribute of Miss Grey’s which is, perhaps, the most essential in her character. It is necessary, at any rate, that they should know it who wish to understand her nature. When it had once been brought home to her that duty required her to do this thing or the other, or to say this word or another, the thing would be done or the word said, let the result be what it might. Even to the displeasure of her father the word was said or the thing was done. Such a one was Dolly Grey.
CHAPTER XVII.
MR. GREY DINES AT HOME.
Mr. Grey returned home in a cab on the day of Mr. Tyrrwhit’s visit, not in the happiest humor. Though he had got the best of Mr. Tyrrwhit in the conversation, still, the meeting, which had been protracted, had annoyed him. Mr. Tyrrwhit had made accusations against himself personally which he knew to be false, but which, having been covered up, and not expressed exactly, he had been unable to refute. A man shall tell you you are a thief and a scoundrel in such a manner as to make it impossible for you to take him by the throat. “You, of course, are not a thief and a scoundrel,” he shall say to you, but shall say it in such a tone of voice as to make you understand that he conceives you to be both. We all know the parliamentary mode of giving an opponent the lie so as to make it impossible that the Speaker shall interfere.
Mr. Tyrrwhit had treated Mr. Grey in the same fashion; and as Mr. Grey was irritable, thin-skinned, and irascible, and as he would brood over things of which it was quite unnecessary that a lawyer should take any cognizance, he went back home an unhappy man. Indeed, the whole Scarborough affair had been from first to last a great trouble to him. The work which he was now performing could not, he imagined, be put into his bill. To that he was supremely indifferent; but his younger partner thought it a little hard that all the other work of the firm should be thrown on his shoulders during the period which naturally would have been his holidays, and he did make his feelings intelligible to Mr. Grey. Mr. Grey, who was essentially a just man, saw that his partner was right, and made offers, but he would not accede to the only proposition which his partner made. “Let him go and look for a lawyer elsewhere,” said his partner. They both of them knew that Mr. Scarborough had been thoroughly dishonest, but he had been an old client. His father before him had been a client of Mr. Grey’s father. It was not in accordance with Mr. Grey’s theory to treat the old man after this fashion. And he had taken intense interest in the matter. He had, first of all, been quite sure that Mountjoy Scarborough was the heir; and though Mountjoy Scarborough was not at all to his taste, he had been prepared to fight for him. He had now assured himself, after most laborious inquiry, that Augustus Scarborough was the heir; and although, in the course of the business, he had come to hate the cautious, money-loving Augustus twice worse than the gambling spendthrift Mountjoy, still, in the cause of honesty and truth and justice, he fought for Augustus against the world at large, and against the band of creditors, till the world at large and the band of creditors began to think that he was leagued with Augustus,–so as to be one of those who would make large sums of money out of the irregularity of the affair. This made him cross, and put him into a very bad humor as he went back to Fulham.
One thing must be told of Mr. Grey which was very much to his discredit, and which, if generally known, would have caused his clients to think him to be unfit to be the recipient of their family secrets;–he told all the secrets to Dolly. He was a man who could not possibly be induced to leave his business behind him at his office. It made the chief subject of conversation when he was at home. He would even call Dolly into his bedroom late at night, bringing her out of bed for the occasion, to discuss with her some point of legal strategy,–of legal but still honest strategy,–which had just occurred to him. Maybe he had not quite seen his way as to the honesty, and wanted Dolly’s opinion on the subject. Dolly would come in in her dressing-gown, and, sitting on his bed, would discuss the matter with him as advocate against the devil. Sometimes she would be convinced; more frequently she would hold her own. But the points which were discussed in that way, and the strength of argumentation which was used on either side, would have surprised the clients, and the partner, and the clerks, and the eloquent barrister who was occasionally employed to support this side or the other. The eloquent barrister, or it might be the client himself, startled sometimes at the amount of enthusiasm which Mr. Grey would throw into his argument, would little dream that the very words had come from the young lady in her dressing-gown. To tell the truth, Miss Grey thoroughly liked these discussions, whether held on the lawn, or in the dining-room arm-chairs, or during the silent hours of the night. They formed, indeed, the very salt of her life. She felt herself to be the Conscience of the firm. Her father was the Reason. And the partner, in her own phraseology, was the–Devil. For it must be understood that Dolly Grey had a spice of fun about her, of which her father had the full advantage. She would not have called her father’s partner the “Devil” to any other ear but her father’s. And that her father knew, understanding also the spirit in which the sobriquet had been applied. He did not think that his partner was worse than another man, nor did he think that his daughter so thought. The partner, whose name was Barry, was a man of average honesty, who would occasionally be surprised at the searching justness with which Mr. Grey would look into a matter after it had been already debated for a day or two in the office. But Mr. Barry, though he had the pleasure of Miss Grey’s acquaintance, had no idea of the nature of the duties which she performed in the firm.
“I’m nearly broken-hearted about this abominable business,” said Mr. Grey, as he went upstairs to his dressing room. The normal hour for dinner was half-past six. He had arrived on this occasion at half-past seven, and had paid a shilling extra to the cabman to drive him quick. The man, having a lame horse, had come very slowly, fidgeting Mr. Grey into additional temporary discomfort. He had got his additional shilling, and Mr. Grey had only additional discomfort. “I declare I think he is the wickedest old man the world ever produced.” This he said as Dolly followed him upstairs; but Dolly, wiser than her father, would say nothing about the wicked old man in the servants’ hearing.
In five minutes Mr. Grey came down “dressed,”–by the use of which word was implied the fact that he had shaken his neckcloth, washed his hands and face, and put on his slippers. It was understood in the household that, though half-past six was the hour named for dinner, half-past seven was a much more probable time. Mr. Grey pertinaciously refused to have it changed.
“Stare super vias antiquas,” he had stoutly said when the proposition had been made to him; by which he had intended to imply that, as during the last twenty years he had been compelled to dine at half-past six instead of six, he did not mean to be driven any farther in the same direction. Consequently his cook was compelled to prepare his dinner in such a manner that it might be eaten at one hour or the other, as chance would have it.
The dinner passed without much conversation other than incidental to Mr. Grey’s wants and comforts. His daughter knew that he had been at the office for eight hours, and knew also that he was not a young man. Every kind of little cosseting was, therefore, applied to him. There was a pheasant for dinner, and it was essentially necessary, in Dolly’s opinion, that he should have first the wing, quite hot, and then the leg, also hot, and that the bread-sauce should be quite hot on the two occasions. For herself, if she had had an old crow for dinner it would have been the same thing. Tea and bread-and-butter were her luxuries, and her tea and bread-and-butter had been enjoyed three hours ago. “I declare I think that, after all, the leg is the better joint of the two.”
“Then why don’t you have the two legs?”
“There would be a savor of greediness in that, though I know that the leg will go down,–and I shouldn’t then be able to draw the comparison. I like to have them both, and I like always to be able to assert my opinion that the leg is the better joint. Now, how about the apple-pudding? You said I should have an apple-pudding.” From which it appeared that Mr. Grey was not superior to having the dinner discussed in his presence at the breakfast-table. The apple-pudding came, and was apparently enjoyed. A large portion of it was put between two plates. “That’s for Mrs. Grimes,” suggested Mr. Grey. “I am not quite sure that Mrs. Grimes is worthy of it.” “If you knew what it was to be left without a shilling of your husband’s wages you’d think yourself worthy.” When the conversation about the pudding was over Mr. Grey ate his cheese, and then sat quite still in his arm-chair over the fire while the things were being taken away. “I declare I think he is the wickedest man the world has ever produced,” said Mr. Grey as soon as the door was shut, thus showing by the repetition of the words he had before used that his mind had been intent on Mr. Scarborough rather than on the pheasant.
“Why don’t you have done with them?”
“That’s all very well; but you wouldn’t have done with them if you had known them all your life.”
“I wouldn’t spend my time and energies in white-washing any rascal,” said Dolly, with vigor.
“You don’t know what you’d do. And a man isn’t to be left in the lurch altogether because he’s a rascal. Would you have a murderer hanged without some one to stand up for him?”
“Yes, I would,” said Dolly, thoughtlessly.
“And he mightn’t have been a murderer after all; or not legally so, which as far as the law goes is the same thing.”
But this special question had been often discussed between them, and Mr. Grey and Dolly did not intend to be carried away by it on the present occasion. “I know all about that,” she said; “but this isn’t a case of life and death. The old man is only anxious to save his property, and throws upon you all the burden of doing it. He never agrees with you as to anything you say.”
“As to legal points he does.”
“But he keeps you always in hot water, and puts forward so much villany that I would have nothing farther to do with him. He has been so crafty that you hardly know now which is, in truth, the heir.”
“Oh yes, I do,” said the lawyer. “I know very well, and am very sorry that it should be so. And I cannot but feel for the rascal because the dishonest effort was made on behalf of his own son.”
“Why was it necessary?” said Dolly, with sparks flying from her eye. “Throughout from the beginning he has been bad. Why was the woman not his wife?”
“Ah! why, indeed. But had his sin consisted only in that, I should not have dreamed of refusing my assistance as a family lawyer. All that would have gone for nothing then.”
“When evil creeps in,” said Dolly, sententiously, “you cannot put it right afterward.”
“Never mind about that. We shall never get to the end if you go back to Adam and Eve.”
“People don’t go back often enough.”
“Bother!” said Mr. Grey, finishing his second and last glass of port-wine. “Do keep yourself in some degree to the question in dispute. In advising an attorney of to-day as to how he is to treat a client you can’t do any good by going back to Adam and Eve. Augustus is the heir, and I am bound to protect the property for him from these money-lending harpies. The moment the breath is out of the old man’s body they will settle down upon it if we leave them an inch of ground on which to stand. Every detail of his marriage must be made as clear as daylight; and that must be done in the teeth of former false statements.”
“As far as I can see, the money-lending harpies are the honestest lot of people concerned.”
“The law is not on their side. They have got no right. The estate, as a fact, will belong to Augustus the moment his father dies. Mr. Scarborough endeavored to do what he could for him whom he regarded as his eldest son. It was very wicked. He was adding a second and a worse crime to the first. He was flying in the face of the laws of his country. But he was successful; and he threw dust into my eyes, because he wanted to save the property for the boy. And he endeavored to make it up to his second son by saving for him a second property. He was not selfish; and I cannot but feel for him.”
“But you say he is the wickedest man the world ever produced.”
“Because he boasts of it all, and cannot be got in any way to repent. He gives me my instructions as though from first to last he had been a highly honorable man, and only laughs at me when I object. And yet he must know that he may die any day. He only wishes to have this matter set straight so that he may die. I could forgive him altogether if he would but once say that he was sorry for what he’d done. But he has completely the air of the fine old head of a family who thinks he is to be put into marble the moment the breath is out of his body, and that he richly deserves the marble he is to be put into.”
“That is a question between him and his God,” said Dolly.
“He hasn’t got a God. He believes only in his own reason,–and is content to do so, lying there on the very brink of eternity. He is quite content with himself, because he thinks that he has not been selfish. He cares nothing that he has robbed every one all round. He has no reverence for property and the laws which govern it. He was born only with the life-interest, and he has determined to treat it as though the fee-simple had belonged to him. It is his utter disregard for law, for what the law has decided, which makes me declare him to have been the wickedest man the world ever produced.”
“It is his disregard for truth which makes you think so.”
“He cares nothing for truth. He scorns it and laughs at it. And yet about the little things of the world he expects his word to be taken as certainly as that of any other gentleman.”
“I would not take it.”
“Yes, you would, and would be right too. If he would say he’d pay me a hundred pounds to-morrow, or a thousand, I would have his word as soon as any other man’s bound. And yet he has utterly got the better of me, and made me believe that a marriage took place, when there was no marriage. I think I’ll have a cup of tea.”
“You won’t go to sleep, papa?”
“Oh yes, I shall. When I’ve been so troubled as that I must have a cup of tea.” Mr. Grey was often troubled, and as a consequence Dolly was called up for consultations in the middle of the night.
At about one o’clock there came the well-known knock at Dolly’s door and the usual invitation. Would she come into her father’s room for a few minutes? Then her father trotted back to his bed, and Dolly, of course, followed him as soon as she had clothed herself decently.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought I had made up my mind not to go; or I thought rather that I should be able to make up my mind not to go. But it is possible that down there I may have some effect for good.”
“What does he want of you?”
“There is a long question about raising money with which Augustus desires to buy the silence of the creditors.”
“Could he get the money?” asked Dolly.
“Yes, I think he could. The property at present is altogether unembarrassed. To give Mr. Scarborough his due, he has never put his name to a scrap of paper; nor has he had occasion to do so. The Tretton pottery people want more land, or rather more water, and a large sum of money will be forthcoming. But he doesn’t see the necessity of giving Mr. Tyrrwhit a penny-piece, or certainly Mr. Hart. He would send them away howling without a scruple. Now, Augustus is anxious to settle with them, for some reason which I do not clearly understand. But he wishes to do so without any interference on his father’s part. In fact, he and his father have very different ideas as to the property. The squire regards it as his, but Augustus thinks that any day may make it his own. In fact, they are on the very verge of quarrelling.” Then, after a long debate, Dolly consented that her father should go down to Tretton, and act, if possible, the part of peace-maker.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CARROLL FAMILY.
“Aunt Carroll is coming to dinner to-day,” said Dolly the next day, with a serious face.
“I know she is. Have a nice dinner for her. I don’t think she ever has a nice dinner at home.”
“And the three eldest girls are coming.”
“Three!”
“You asked them yourself on Sunday.”
“Very well. They said their papa would be away on business.” It was understood that Mr. Carroll was never asked to the Manor-house.
“Business! There is a club he belongs to where he dines and gets drunk once a month. It’s the only thing he does regularly.”
“They must have their dinner, at any rate,” said Mr. Grey. “I don’t think they should suffer because he drinks.” This had been a subject much discussed between them, but on the present occasion Miss Grey would not renew it. She despatched her father in a cab, the cab having been procured because he was supposed to be a quarter of an hour late, and then went to work to order her dinner.
It has been said that Miss Grey hated the Carrolls; but she hated the daughters worse than the mother, and of all the people she hated in the world she hated Amelia Carroll the worst. Amelia, the eldest, entertained an idea that she was more of a personage in the world’s eyes than her cousin,–that she went to more parties, which certainly was true if she went to any,–that she wore finer clothes, which was also true, and that she had a lover, whereas Dolly Grey,–as she called her cousin behind her back,–had none. This lover had something to do with horses, and had only been heard of, had never been seen, at the Manor-house. Sophy was a good deal hated also, being a forward, flirting, tricky girl of seventeen, who had just left the school at which Uncle John had paid for her education. Georgina, the third, was still at school under similar circumstances, and was pardoned her egregious noisiness and romping propensities under the score of youth. She was sixteen, and was possessed of terrible vitality. “I am sure they take after their father altogether,” Mr. Grey had once said when the three left the Manor-house together. At half-past six punctually they came. Dolly heard a great clatter of four people leaving their clogs and cloaks in the hall, and would not move out of the unused drawing-room, in which for the moment she was seated. Betsey had to prepare the dinner-table down-stairs, and would have been sadly discomfited had she been driven to do it in the presence of three Carroll girls. For it must be understood that Betsey had no greater respect for the Carroll girls than her mistress. “Well, Aunt Carroll, how does the world use you?”
“Very badly. You haven’t been up to see me for ten days.”
“I haven’t counted; but when I do come I don’t often do any good. How are Minna, and Brenda, and Potsey?”
“Poor Potsey has got a nasty boil under her arm.”
“It comes from eating too much toffy,” said Georgina. “I told her it would.”
“How very nasty you are!” said Miss Carroll. “Do leave the child and her ailments alone!”
“Poor papa isn’t very well, either,” said Sophy, who was supposed to be her father’s pet.
“I hope his state of health will not debar him from dining with his friends to-night,” said Miss Grey.
“You have always something ill-natured to say about papa,” said Sophy.
“Nothing will ever keep him back when conviviality demands his presence.” This came from his afflicted wife, who, in spite of all his misfortunes, would ever speak with some respect of her husband’s employments. “He wasn’t at all in a fit state to go to-night, but he had promised, and that was enough.”
When they had waited three-quarters of an hour Amelia began to complain,–certainly not without reason. “I wonder why Uncle John always keeps us waiting in this way?”
“Papa has, unfortunately, something to do with his time, which is not altogether his own.” There was not much in these words, but the tone in which they were uttered would have crushed any one more susceptible than Amelia Carroll. But at that moment the cab arrived, and Dolly went down to meet her father.
“Have they come?” he asked.
“Come,” she answered, taking his gloves and comforter from him, and giving him a kiss as she did so. “That girl up-stairs is nearly famished.”
“I won’t be half a moment,” said the repentant father, hastening up-stairs to go through his ordinary dressing arrangement.
“I wouldn’t hurry for her,” said Dolly; “but of course you’ll hurry. You always do, don’t you, papa?” Then they sat down to dinner.
“Well, girls, what is your news?”
“We were out to-day on the Brompton Road,” said the eldest, “and there came up Prince Chitakov’s drag with four roans.”
“Prince Chitakov! I didn’t know there was such a prince.”
“Oh, dear, yes; with very stiff mustaches, turned up high at the corners, and pink cheeks, and a very sharp, nobby-looking hat, with a light-colored grey coat, and light gloves. You must know the prince.”
“Upon my word, I never heard of him, my dear. What did the prince do?”
“He was tooling his own drag, and he had a lady with him on the box. I never saw anything more tasty than her dress,–dark red silk, with little fluffy fur ornaments all over it. I wonder who she was?”
“Mrs. Chitakov, probably,” said the attorney.
“I don’t think the prince is a married man,” said Sophy.
“They never are, for the most part,” said Amelia; “and she wouldn’t be Mrs. Chitakov, Uncle John.”
“Wouldn’t she, now? What would she be? Can either of you tell me what the wife of a Prince of Chitakov would call herself?”
“Princess of Chitakov, of course,” said Sophy. “It’s the Princess of Wales.”
“But it isn’t the Princess of Christian, nor yet the Princess of Teck, nor the Princess of England. I don’t see why the lady shouldn’t be Mrs. Chitakov, if there is such a lady.”
“Papa, don’t bamboozle her,” said his daughter.
“But,” continued the attorney, “why shouldn’t the lady have been his wife? Don’t married ladies wear little fluffy fur ornaments?”
“I wish, John, you wouldn’t talk to the girls in that strain,” said their mother. “It really isn’t becoming.”
“To suggest that the lady was the gentleman’s wife?”
“But I was going to say,” continued Amelia, “that as the prince drove by he kissed his hand–he did, indeed. And Sophy and I were walking along as demurely as possible. I never was so knocked of a heap in all my life.”
“He did,” said Sophy. “It’s the most impertinent thing I ever heard. If my father had seen it he’d have had the prince off the box of the coach in no time.”
“Then, my dear,” said the attorney, “I am very glad that your father did not see it.” Poor Dolly, during this conversation about the prince, sat angry and silent, thinking to herself in despair of what extremes of vulgarity even a first cousin of her own could be guilty. That she should be sitting at table with a girl who could boast that a reprobate foreigner had kissed his hand to her from the box of a fashionable four-horsed coach! For it was in that light that Miss Grey regarded it. “And did you have any farther adventures besides this memorable encounter with the prince?”
“Nothing nearly so interesting,” said Sophy.
“That was hardly to be expected,” said the attorney. “Jane, you will have a glass of port-wine? Girls, you must have a glass of port-wine to support you after your disappointment with the prince.”
“We were not disappointed in the least,” said Amelia.
“Pray, pray, let the subject drop,” said Dolly.
“That is because the prince did not kiss his hand to you,” said Sophy. Then Miss Grey sunk again into silence, crushed beneath this last blow.
In the evening, when the dinner-things had been taken away, a matter of business came up, and took the place of the prince and his mustaches. Mrs. Carroll was most anxious to know whether her brother could “lend” her a small sum of twenty pounds. It came out in conversation that the small sum was needed to satisfy some imperious demand made upon Mr. Carroll by a tailor. “He must have clothes, you know,” said the poor woman, wailing. “He doesn’t have many, but he must have some.” There had been other appeals on the same subject made not very long since, and, to tell the truth, Mr. Grey did require to have the subject argued, in fear of the subsequent remarks which would be made to him afterward by his daughter if he gave the money too easily. The loan had to be arranged in full conclave, as otherwise Mrs. Carroll would have found it difficult to obtain access to her brother’s ear. But the one auditor whom she feared was her niece. On the present occasion Miss Grey simply took up her book to show that the subject was one which had no interest for her; but she did undoubtedly listen to all that was said on the subject. “There was never anything settled about poor Patrick’s clothes,” said Mrs. Carroll, in a half-whisper. She did not care how much her own children heard, and she knew how vain it was to attempt so to speak that Dolly should not hear.
“I dare say something ought to be done at some time,” said Mr. Grey, who knew that he would be told, when the evening was over, that he would give away all his substance to that man if he were asked.
“Papa has not had a new pair of trousers this year,” said Sophy.
“Except those green ones he wore at the races,” said Georgina.
“Hold your tongue, miss!” said her mother. “That was a pair I made up for him and sent them to the man to get pressed.”
“When the hundred a year was arranged for all our dresses,” said Amelia, “not a word was said about papa. Of course, papa is a trouble.”
“I don’t see that he is more of a trouble than any one else,” said Sophy. “Uncle John would not like not to have any clothes.”
“No, I should not, my dear.”
“And his own income is all given up to the house uses.” Here Sophy touched imprudently on a sore subject. His “own” income consisted of what had been saved out of his wife’s fortune, and was thus named as in opposition to the larger sum paid to Mrs. Carroll by Mr. Grey. There was one hundred and fifty pounds a year coming from settled property, which had been preserved by the lawyer’s care, and which was regarded in the family as “papa’s own.”
It certainly is essential for respectability that something should be set apart from a man’s income for his wearing apparel; and though the money was, perhaps, improperly so designated, Dolly would not have objected had she not thought that it had already gone to the race-course,–in company with the green trousers. She had her own means of obtaining information as to the Carroll family. It was very necessary that she should do so, if the family was to be kept on its legs at all. “I don’t think any good can come from discussing what my uncle does with the money.” This was Dolly’s first speech. “If he is to have it, let him have it, but let him have as little as possible.”
“I never heard anybody so cross as you always are to papa,” said Sophy.
“Your cousin Dorothy is very fortunate,” said Mrs. Carroll. “She does not know what it is to want for anything.”
“She never spends anything–on herself,” said her father. “It is Dolly’s only fault that she won’t.”
“Because she has it all done for her,” said Amelia.
Dolly had gone back to her book, and disdained to make any farther reply. Her father felt that quite enough had been said about it, and was prepared to give the twenty pounds, under the idea that he might be thought to have made a stout fight upon the subject. “He does want them very badly–for decency’s sake,” said the poor wife, thus winding up her plea. Then Mr. Grey got out his check-book and wrote the check for twenty pounds. But he made it payable, not to Mr. but to Mrs. Carroll.
“I suppose, papa, nothing can be done about Mr. Carroll.” This was said by Dolly as soon as the family had withdrawn.
“In what way ‘done,’ my dear?”
“As to settling some farther sum for himself.”
“He’d only spend it, my dear.”
“That would be intended,” said Dolly.
“And then he would come back just the same.”
“But in that case he should have nothing more. Though they were to declare that he hadn’t a pair of trousers in which to appear at a race-course, he shouldn’t have it.”
“My dear,” said Mr. Grey, “you cannot get rid of the gnats of the world. They will buzz and sting and be a nuisance. Poor Jane suffers worse from this gnat than you or I. Put up with it; and understand in your own mind that when he comes for another twenty pounds he must have it. You needn’t tell him, but so it must be.”
“If I had my way,” said Dolly, after ten minutes’ silence, “I would punish him. He is an evil thing, and should be made to reap the proper reward. It is not that I wish to avoid my share of the world’s burdens, but that justice should be done. I don’t know which I hate the worst,–Uncle Carroll or Mr. Scarborough.”
The next day was Sunday, and Dolly was very anxious before breakfast to induce her father to say that he would go to church with her; but he was inclined to be obstinate, and fell back upon his usual excuse, saying that there were Scarborough papers which it would be necessary that he should read before he started for Tretton on the following day.
“Papa, I think it would do you good if you came.”
“Well, yes; I suppose it would. That is the intention; but somehow it fails with me sometimes.”
“Do you think that you hate people when you go to church as much as when you don’t?”
“I am not sure that I hate anybody very much.”
“I do.”
“That seems an argument for your going.”
“But if you don’t hate them it is because you won’t take the trouble, and that again is not right. If you would come to church you would be better for it all round. You’d hate Uncle Carroll’s idleness and abominable self-indulgence worse than you do.”
“I don’t love him, as it is, my dear.”
“And I should hate him less. I felt last night as though I could rise from my bed and go and murder him.”
“Then you certainly ought to go to church.”
“And you had passed him off just as though he were a gnat from which you were to receive as little annoyance as possible, forgetting the influence he must have on those six unfortunate children. Don’t you know that you gave her that twenty pounds simply to be rid of a disagreeable subject?”
“I should have given it ever so much sooner, only that you were looking at me.”
“I know you would, you dear, sweet, kind-hearted, but most un-Christian, father. You must come to church, in order that some idea of what Christianity demands of you may make its way into your heart. It is not what the clergyman may say of you, but that your mind will get away for two hours from that other reptile and his concerns.” Then Mr. Grey, with a loud, long sigh, allowed his boots, and his gloves, and his church-going hat, and his church-going umbrella to be brought to him. It was, in fact, his aversion to these articles that Dolly had to encounter.
It may be doubted whether the church services of that day did Mr. Grey much good; but they seemed to have had some effect upon his daughter, from the fact that in the afternoon she wrote a letter in kindly words to her aunt: “Papa is going to Tretton, and I will come up to you on Tuesday. I have got a frock which I will bring with me as a present for Potsey; and I will make her sew on the buttons for herself. Tell Minna I will lend her that book I spoke of. About those boots–I will go with Georgina to the boot-maker.” But as to Amelia and Sophy she could not bring herself to say a good-natured word, so deep in her heart had sunk that sin of which they had been guilty with reference to Prince Chitakov.
On that night she had a long discussion with her father respecting the affairs of the Scarborough family. The discussion was held in the dining-room, and may, therefore, be supposed to have been premeditated. Those at night in Mr. Grey’s own bedroom were generally the result of sudden thought. “I should lay down the law to him–” began Dolly.
“The law is the law,” said her father.
“I don’t mean the law in that sense. I should tell him firmly what I advised, and should then make him understand that if he did not follow my advice I must withdraw. If his son is willing to pay these money-lenders what sums they have actually advanced, and if by any effort on his part the money can be raised, let it be done. There seems to be some justice in repaying out of the property that which was lent to the property when by Mr. Scarborough’s own doing the property was supposed to go into the eldest son’s hands. Though the eldest son and the money-lenders be spendthrifts and profligates alike, there will in that be something of fairness. Go there prepared with your opinion. But if either father or son will not accept it, then depart, and shake the dust from your feet.”
“You propose it all as though it were the easiest thing in the world.”
“Easy or difficult. I would not discuss anything of which the justice may hereafter be disputed.”
What was the result of the consultation on Mr. Grey’s mind he did not declare, but he resolved to take his daughter’s advice in all that she said to him.
CHAPTER XIX.
MR. GREY GOES TO TRETTON.
Mr. Grey went down to Tretton with a great bag of papers. In fact, though he told his daughter that he had to examine them all before he started, and had taken them to Fulham for that purpose, he had not looked at them. And, as another fact, the bag was not opened till he got home again. They had been read;–at any rate, what was necessary. He knew his subject. The old squire knew it well.
Mr. Grey was going down to Tretton, not to convey facts or to explain the law, but in order that he might take the side either of the father or of the son. Mr. Scarborough had sent for the lawyer to support his view of the case; and the son had consented to meet him in order that he might the more easily get the better of his father.
Mr. Grey had of late learned one thing which had before been dark to him,–had seen one phase of this complicated farrago of dishonesty which had not before been visible to him. Augustus suspected his father of some farther treachery. That he should be angry at having been debarred from his birthright so long,–debarred from the knowledge of his birthright,–was, Mr. Grey thought, natural. A great wrong had been, at least, intended; and that such a man should resent it was to have been expected. But of late Mr. Grey had discovered that it was not in that way that the son’s mind worked. It was not anger but suspicion that he showed; and he used his father’s former treatment of him as a justification for the condemnation implied in his thoughts. There is no knowing what an old man may do who has already acted as he had done. It was thus that he expressed himself both by his words and deeds, and did so openly in his father’s presence, Mr. Grey had not seen them together, but knew from the letters of both of them that such was the case. Old Mr. Scarborough scorned his son’s suspicions, and disregarded altogether any words that might be said as to his own past conduct. He was willing, or half willing, that Mountjoy’s debts should be, not paid, but settled. But he was willing to do nothing toward such a step except in his own way. While the breath was in his body the property was his, and he chose to be treated as its only master. If Augustus desired to do anything by “post-obits,” let him ruin himself after his own fashion. “It is not very likely that Augustus can raise money by post obits, circumstanced as the property is,” he had written to Mr. Grey, with a conveyed sneer and chuckle as to the success of his own villany. It was as though he had declared that the money-lenders had been too well instructed as to what tricks Mr. Scarborough could play with his property to risk a second venture.
Augustus had, in truth, been awaiting his father’s death with great impatience. It was unreasonable that a man should live who had acted in such a way and who had been so cut about by the doctors. His father’s demise had, in truth, been promised to him, and to all the world. It was an understood thing, in all circles which knew anything, that old Mr. Scarborough could not live another month. It had been understood some time, and was understood at the present moment; and yet Mr. Scarborough went on living,–no doubt, as an invalid in the last stage of probable dissolution, but still with the full command of his intellect and mental powers for mischief. Augustus, suspecting him as he did, had begun to fear that he might live too long. His brother had disappeared, and he was the heir. If his father would die,–such had been his first thought,–he could settle with the creditors immediately, before any tidings should be heard of his brother. But tidings had come. His brother had been seen by Mr. Hart at Monte Carlo; and though Mr. Hart had not yet sent home the news to the other creditors, the news had been sent at once to Augustus Scarborough by his own paid attendant upon his brother. Of Mr. Hart’s “little game” he did not yet know the particulars; but he was confident that there was some game.
Augustus by no means gave his mother credit for the disgraceful conduct imputed to her in the story as now told by her surviving husband. It was not that he believed in the honesty of his mother, whom he had never known, and for whose memory he cared little, but that he believed so fully in the dishonesty of his father. His father, when he had thoroughly understood that Mountjoy had enveloped the property in debt, so that nothing but a skeleton would remain when the bonds were paid, had set to work, and by the ingenuity of his brain had resolved to redeem, as far as the Scarboroughs were concerned, their estate from its unfortunate position.
It was so that Augustus believed; this was the theory existing in his mind. That his father should have been so clever, and Mr. Grey so blind, and even Mr. Hart and Mr. Tyrrwhit so easily hoodwinked, was remarkable. But so it was,–or might probably be so. He felt no assurance, but there was ever present to him the feeling of great danger. But the state of things as arranged by his father might be established by himself. If he could get these creditors to give up their bonds while his father’s falsehood was still believed, it would be a great thing. He had learned by degrees how small a proportion of the money claimed had, in fact, been advanced to Mountjoy, and had resolved to confine himself to paying that. That might now probably be accepted with gratitude. The increasing value of the estate might bear that without being crushed. But it should be done at once, while Mountjoy was still absent and before Mr. Tyrrwhit at any rate knew that Mountjoy had not been killed. Then had happened that accidental meeting with Mr. Hart at Monte Carlo. That idiot of a keeper of his had been unable to keep Mountjoy from the gambling-house.