Troy Chimneys

by Margaret Kennedy

  He greeted me with another melancholy flap and told the servant to ‘bring something’ for me, leaving the interpretation of this command to the poor fellow’s native wit. Nothing annoys him more than to be forced to explain his vague orders, for that obliges him to remember what time of day it is, and if one has come far, and how long it will be until dinner-time. The man departed and found out, from my postillions I suppose, that I had been travelling since an early hour, for he returned with a luncheon of cold meat and wine.

  ‘You need not put those things up after all,’ Ludovic told him, ‘for I shall not be going today.’

  When we were alone he said:

  ‘I had intended going to the Isle of Wight, but, since you are come I shall stay, because I must take you to see Troy Chimneys. It is a house, some ten miles from here, and it would be just the house for you.’

  ‘But I don’t want a house.’

  ‘I shall call you out if you don’t want this one. It is the very thing for you, – not quite a manor-house and yet not quite a farm. I believe that it must have been built by a man who intended to be happy in it; and there are very few houses of which one could say that.’

  ‘But what a nonsensical name!’

  ‘I grant that. One does not imagine chimneys upon the topless towers of Ilium. But you may change the name, you know, when you have got it.’

  ‘My dear Ludovic, I have no intention, at this stage—’

  ‘Oh, I know! I know! But it is to be sold and you might not have the chance again. You may buy it and let it for a while.’

  I did not argue with him, for the prospect of showing me this house had clearly dispersed his fit of melancholy. As I swallowed my meal he rapturously described this latest dote, which lay, so he said, upon the banks of the Avon, a little to the north of Laycock. Although very secluded it was not difficult of access, since three lanes met there, one of which led, in less than a quarter of a mile, to the Bath road. I might, at small expense, improve and widen this lane, so that all my friends could visit me at their ease.

  ‘If you have finished eating,’ he said, ‘we will go there now.’

  I asked if we could get there and back before dinner, which I knew to be at four o’clock. This is the sort of question which always irritates him, for he hates to think of time and distance. He gave an impatient groan and tugged at the bell rope.

  ‘What does it signify?’ said he. ‘We may dine upon the road. Oh Mason! Tell them to have horses ready for Mr. Lufton and myself immediately, and unpack my riding-boots.’

  I returned to Lady Sophia and reported that I had got Ludovic out of his chamber but that I doubted if I could produce him for dinner. She was delighted, and declared that our presence at dinner was not of the least consequence, – we might dine where we chose. I changed my dress and we set out.

  We had not ridden very far before Ludovic asked if the cliffs at Dawlish were not of a very strange red colour. The question startled me. I asked what had put Dawlish into his head.

  ‘Because you have come from there, have you not?’

  ‘I was there lately. But how could you know?’

  ‘Somebody or other at Colesworth said that you had been there. I have forgotten who it was.’

  Greatly disconcerted, I questioned him, but he declared that he could not remember. He can at times be very malicious, and is not near so unobservant as he pretends to be. I was dismayed at the thought of my Dawlish adventure getting out. To have been involved in a party of that kind would do my reputation no good; I had already heard it reported that all the worst rakes in Devonshire had been present when Hyde was found to be dead. I feared that Wortley had not been too fuddled to remember having seen me, and that the story must have been spread by him. But I could not imagine him as a guest at Colesworth.

  ‘Who is staying at Colesworth?’ I demanded.

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘And who besides?’

  ‘Don’t pester me like this. You will find out soon enough. I have not seen any of them except Spencer Perceval.’

  ‘WHAT?’ CRIED I. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He has been, and still is, I believe. But I think he goes off tomorrow.’

  Pronto, roused to sudden and violent life, gave a cry of anguish. To be staying for a night in the same house with the Tory leader and to miss him at dinner was a crushing mishap. Pronto’s acquaintance with Perceval was not near so close as he could have wished; here was an opportunity for improving it clean thrown away!

  ‘I wonder your sister should say it was of no consequence if we were away for dinner!’ cried I.

  ‘Nor is it.’

  ‘It might be for me. You seem to forget that I might have reasons for seeking Perceval’s company. I should like to know him better than I do. This is just such an occasion when– ’Tis too bad of you not to tell me before! I am sure that your mother would think it very strange if I did not take the opportunity to– Can you never think of anybody but yourself? Because you don’t care to meet Lowestoft, you take me upon this wild-goose chase.’

  ‘And that is all the thanks I get for saving you from a dinner with Crockett!’

  ‘Is Crockett here, then?’

  ‘To be sure he is. And what’s more, I remember now, – it was he said you had been at Dawlish. Did you not get very drunk at Dawlish and beat a judge to death?’

  ‘Does he say that?’

  ‘Something of the sort, I believe. Sophy said that he had entertained them all at dinner yesterday with some great story about you at Dawlish.’

  ‘Before Perceval! I must return instantly and contradict it. I cannot think how Lady Sophia came not to warn me, why she sent me out of the way! She knows my position.!’

  ‘Your position, so far as she is concerned,’ said Ludovic, ‘is to act dry nurse to me. She does not care a fig for you otherwise.’

  This was perfectly true, and I knew it. But the insolence with which he proclaimed it put me quite beside myself. I turned my horse abruptly and galloped back to Colesworth in such a rage that it was touch and go whether I did not gallop straight on to London and join the Marines. The arrogance of these people was too much. I could endure it no longer. A dry nurse! That was how they thought of me, – a kind of valuable upper servant to be rewarded with tit-bits. My career, my future, was nothing to them in comparison with their own convenience.

  If I had seen Lady Sophia again, and she had scolded me for leaving Ludovic, I really think that Miles might have won the day. But nobody seemed to be about, when I reached the house. I could not go off without a word. A servant told me that her ladyship might be walking down beside the lake. So off I went, and by the lake I encountered, not Lady Sophia, but her mother, who was very composedly feeding some swans. She waved her hand in greeting, smiled her smile, and said:

  ‘What a talent you have for turning up at the right moment! You can carry this basket for me.’

  Pronto bowed and took the basket.

  Miles could not have done less, but he would not have done it with so much alacrity.

  We fed the swans and then sauntered for a while by the lake. Lady Amersham asked if I had yet seen Perceval, and shook her head at me when I said that I had been riding with Ludovic. I excused myself by saying that Lady Sophia had bid me go.

  ‘Oh, Sophy does not understand these things,’ she said. ‘I am particularly anxious that you should talk to him, for we have been speaking of you, and I believe that it may soon be in his power to do something for you.’

  She said nothing of Crockett and I came gradually to believe that Crockett’s great story had done me little damage. He tells too many scandalous stories; his malice defeats itself. Ludovic had been teasing me, and I had been caught, because he teases so seldom.

  Lady Amersham took me more into her confidence, upon this occasion, than she had ever done before. She told me that, in her opinion, Portland might soon resign, that his health was far from good, and that another twelve months might see Perceval at the head of the Gov
ernment. She expected that he would make great efforts to secure a coalition with Grey and Grenville, and that he would not easily give up hope. He would therefore reserve some very good places for their friends, should they consent to come in. These places would not, meanwhile, be given to leading Tories but would be offered to young men like myself, who would later be expected to resign them, if they could be filled by Grenvillites. She prophesied that Croker, for instance, might get astonishing advancement, and mentioned the post of First Secretary to the Admiralty, which that young man eventually did get. And she believed that something equally good might be forthcoming for me, if I put myself in the way of it.

  ‘You may think it is uncertain,’ she said, ‘and not worth while to take a place that must be given up. But I don’t believe that he will succeed with Grenville, and if he does not, you may stay for years. I expect this to be the kind of government which staggers on and on, while all expect it to collapse in a matter of months. My counsel to you is that any offer of this kind would be worth taking, even though some uncertainty is attached to it. I should not expect it before next year, but it might happen sooner, so it is best to be prepared.’

  Prime Ministers have been known to change their minds after a saunter with Lady Amersham. By the time that we returned to the house Pronto was in an assured ascendancy, for if Croker was to get £4000 p.a., Pronto did not see why he should not do as well.

  At dinner everything fell out capitally for him. Mulgrave was there, and he had also been at Portsmouth, and the conversation took a dockyards direction; Pronto was the only person present who knew anything about razée frigates, and the number of guns carried by American ships of war. Pronto created an excellent impression; only a very serious and hard-working young man could have contrived to learn so much during so short a time.

  Crockett kept very quiet. He would have liked to trip Pronto up, but he had the sense to see that he must hold his fire. He, Lowestoft, and some others, did most of the drinking at one end of the table, whilst serious conversation carried on at the other. They stayed when the rest of us went, – Perceval and Mulgrave to their despatches, Beaumont and Pronto to join the ladies.

  Pronto

  THE WEATHER WAS warm and we all strolled out upon the terrace to admire the sunset, which was remarkably fine. We stared and exclaimed at the splendours of the western sky which cast a deep glow upon the whole front of the house, turned green lawns to bronze, and the women’s white dresses to rose.

  I have said that Miles and Pronto never communicate. That is true in a sense; they have no overt debate. But there is an infernal sort of coalition between them, all the same. It is entirely to Pronto’s advantage. He draws upon Miles’ credit and does nothing in return. His experience and his address are never at his victim’s disposal, as I have shown in the case of William Hawker. But Miles’ talents are unfailingly at his command. The confounded fellow can look like Miles, and talk like Miles, and read Comus as feelingly as though £4000 a year were of no consequence whatever. He never listens to the nightingale, but he can talk as though he did.

  I think that he never showed to better advantage than when he admired this sunset. All the ladies were in a romantic mood. Even Lady Amersham smilingly declared that she could not go indoors just yet, and sent for a warmer shawl. The younger members of the party, braving the dew, wandered down to the temple by the lake, where they might see the sky reflected in the water. They stayed there until the last red was gone, and the trees stood up black against a yellow afterglow. One by one, the few small stars of summer made their appearance.

  ‘I think,’ said Lady Lowestoft, ‘that Pr— that Mr. Lufton should sing to us.’

  There was a murmur of assent. Pronto was quite ready to oblige and chose a ditty of Lyttelton’s which should give point to the conversation that had gone before, since all the company had been laughing at a young lady who complained that she could not fall in love. The air needed a harp, but he managed it pretty well without an accompaniment.

  Say Myra, why is gentle love

  A stranger to that mind

  Which pity and esteem can move,

  Which can be just and kind?

  Is it because you fear to share

  The ills which love molest?

  The jealous doubt, the tender care,

  That rack the amorous breast?

  Alas! by some degree of woe

  We every bliss must gain:

  The heart can ne’er a transport know,

  That never feels a pain.

  Soft voices called applause, which was mingled with laughter, because some swans had swum up close to the shore as if to listen. Lady Sophia accused Pronto of being a second Orpheus. He was pressed for another air but, before he could oblige, there was a halloo! from Lowestoft, who had come from the house with Crockett and was standing a little way off, throwing pebbles at the swans.

  ‘Hey Pronto! Is that the famous song you sung at Dawlish?’

  An awkward silence fell. Pronto perceived that all were looking at him through the dusk; there was, after all, some hidden curiosity concerning his reputed exploits at Dawlish. He replied very calmly:

  ‘No, my lord. It was another song altogether took me to Dawlish. But I shall not sing it when you are here, for I am sure that you would not care for it.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ cried Lady Lowestoft. ‘He hates music. Go away, you horrid creature. Crockett! Pray take him away.’

  Lady Sophia also told them to go away and play billiards. I heard her say in a low voice to Mrs. Madden, a Wiltshire neighbour who was dining there, that if Crockett could not be depended upon to prevent that sort of thing she did not know why one should ask him to the house. It was Crockett’s business to keep drunk men quiet, just as it was Pronto’s business to amuse the ladies. He took the hint and walked off, dragging Lowestoft with him.

  Pronto hoped that the incident was over, and so it might have been had not the young lady who could not fall in love been so inexperienced in atmosphere as to ask, very innocently, what he had sung at Dawlish. This enquiry was maliciously taken up by Lady Lowestoft, who pressed to hear the ditty. He saw that he must either explain Dawlish with some credit to himself or allow it to be for ever a source of scandalous speculation.

  He sighed and told them that Lord Lowestoft had touched upon a tragical little business in which he had recently been concerned. They might have heard of the death of Mr. Justice Hyde? A faint stir among them advised him that they certainly had.

  ‘Upon the night of his death,’ continued Pronto, ‘I called upon him in the hope of saving a friend, a humble friend, from disaster. The business was of the utmost urgency, – I dared not stay till morning. I arrived … too late! His lordship was dead … in circumstances … but I need not go into that—’

  ‘Oh, pray do!’ murmured Lady Lowestoft, but Pronto managed not to hear her, and hurried on:

  ‘Had I reached him but a few hours earlier … but I will, if you please, tell you the whole story, for I think that your kind hearts will feel for poor Mary Hawker.’

  ‘Mary Hawker!’ cried several voices. ‘Was your friend a woman?’

  Women will not listen to a story unless another woman comes into it. By now he had aroused their curiosity. He told his tale very well indeed, heightening all that might appeal to the sensibility of his audience and omitting anything that might offend them. He softened William’s rough pride, emphasised his enthusiasm for poetry, but mentioned no books of a controversial sort. William was pictured as a loyal Briton who had fled from America rather than raise a parricidal hand against his king. That it was William’s father who made this choice, and that William himself did not approve of it, was not allowed to appear, nor was the true story told of William’s independence at the hustings.

  Pronto appeared as the patron rather than the friend; he mentioned that he had stayed a night with this poor couple, but not that he had shared their bed.

  Concerning Mary he was more frank. She needed no touching up.
She made a most pathetic figure as she was, with her sweet singing, her forlorn situation, and her devotion to William. As he told of his frantic efforts on her behalf, and his hopeless return to Gulley’s Cove, many of his fair listeners were in tears.

  ‘’Tis as good as a novel!’ said Lady Lowestoft, wiping her eyes. ‘But pray, what is to become of her?’

  Pronto begged their help in deciding this, and got a thoughtful enquiry from Mrs. Madden as to Mary’s proficiency in the care of poultry.

  ‘For she might,’ said that lady, ‘be the very person for me. I have some rare pheasants, and I have recently begun to breed Muscovy ducks. I am looking for a reliable woman to take care of them. There is a cottage she could have, behind the old stables.’

  Pronto was able sincerely to praise Mary’s skill in poultry-keeping. He declared that nothing could be more delightful, so long as Mary should have some friend at hand who would read William’s letters to her.

  ‘Oh I will do that,’ promised Mrs. Madden, ‘and write hers for her too, if she likes. It will be amusing to hear what such people have to say to one another.’

  This happy sequel to a pathetic story was felt by all to furnish a good end to the evening. If tears had been excited, benevolence now dried them. But Lady Lowestoft was insatiable:

  ‘You have not yet sung your Dawlish song,’ she complained. ‘I suppose it was one of Mary’s songs. Do pray sing it!’

  Pronto objected that it was but a country ballad and not fit for such company. They bore him down, assured him that he should not be criticised, and reminded him that he was not in a drawing-room. A country ballad would just suit the occasion. He was most reluctant and would have sung another, could he have thought of a likely substitute, but his wits deserted him and he was at last obliged to give them the air which Mary had sung so often at Gulley’s Cove. Darkness had quite fallen and he was glad of it. If they smiled he would not see their faces. Never has he exerted himself more than he did then, hoping to sing so sweetly that the faults of the song might be forgotten. In a room, among lights, it would have been impossible; under the faint stars, beside the lake, he had more confidence.