Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  He hid his humiliation, he had still the strength to do that. But he felt it acutely. He was proud and, in his arrogance, sensitive; he imagined what his neighbours were saying of him, and the nuisance began to obsess him, as a beggar ever seated at his doorstep, ever on the watch for him, might have done. He foresaw the day when the trouble would overcome and unnerve him, and he would fear to go abroad at all. By the time that Christmas came, to free himself from the odious presence, to expel the Blighs from Beremouth had become with him an engrossing purpose, the haunting subject of his daily and hourly thoughts.

  He might bribe them to go — that of course. He might settle an income on Peggy on condition that the family removed to a distance — out of Devonshire, out of the West Country. That was a possible course, and he could afford to take it. It was the plan that nine out of ten men would have adopted. By it he might at once protect himself, ease his conscience — for there were hours when his conscience plagued him — and secure his child’s comfort.

  But he was a stubborn as well as a proud man, and he could not bring himself to do this. Though his daughter had deceived him and humiliated him, more love for her than he avowed survived in him, and in time might have pleaded for her and won the pardon that his common sense approved. But her husband? Was he to be rewarded for his presumption? Was he to see his cunning bear fruit and to enjoy in ease and comfort the prize at which he, smiling, insolent reprobate that he was, had aimed? Never, the Rector vowed in his passion, never! Whatever fell out, whatever of mockery he might have to bear, he would not stoop to that point, he would not fall so far below his duty, or give that man’s impudence the victory.

  It remained to drive him out. And failing Budgen, and his pride did not now permit him to use Budgen to that end, there was only Sir Albery who could help him, and Sir Albery was an uncertain quantity. The Rector had given him one hint already, but Wyke had refused to move, and though that had since happened which, were he a man of flesh and blood, should have determined him, he seemed to be insensible to his wrongs.

  This puzzled the Rector. He felt that, if he had been injured as Wyke had been injured, he would have sent the Captain packing within twenty-four hours; and he could only attribute the man’s inaction to a foolish delicacy or to sheer lack of feeling. The latter he thought; and he was inclined to fancy that if the matter were put clearly before him, Wyke must see his duty. Yet he hesitated; he owned that his neighbour was something of a mystery to him, and he was not quite sure how to deal with him.

  Meanwhile there was another at the Rectory who also found in Wyke a teasing problem. Augusta’s views of life were distorted by no excess of feeling; she approved and thoroughly approved of the line that her father had taken. That she would have clung to her sister, had she thought him wrong, is doubtful, but as it was the path of right showed clear before her, and she was not to be diverted from it by the fact that inclination also trod it. Nor did duty lose its virtue for her because it saved her from the discomfort of stooping to an intimacy that might lower her in the eyes of her world.

  She had no doubt, therefore, that she was choosing the better part, and she believed that others must commend her for it. Nor was she disappointed. “Poor dear Augusta!” one matron said with unction. “So trying for her!” And “What a comfort her father has in her!” agreed another. “I do not know what he would do without her!”

  “I admire that girl immensely,” chimed in a third — a mother. “So much propriety! It is not everyone who would know how to act in such a case. No fuss, no nonsense, but you can see how she feels it!” One or two spoke openly to her, and were confirmed in their views by the pensive dignity with which she accepted their pity. With the most intimate she permitted a single unobtrusive tear, quickly wiped away. In a word, Augusta earned golden opinions. Her value, it was agreed, was not lessened and her share of the Rectory property would doubtless be increased.

  But the person whom she was most anxious to please and whom her conduct, as she saw it, seemed calculated to please, remained a mystery. She had no doubt that there had been a time when Wyke had preferred her to her sister, and she had allowed herself to imagine with reason that baulked in his choice he would return to his first love. She still thought this probable, but Wyke did not evince the taste for consolation that she expected. He continued to drop in at the Rectory, though with less frequency, but he did not pour out his sorrows in her ear, nor seek the sympathy that she was ready to give. He must approve of her conduct — for must he not resent her sister’s treatment of him? But he did not say so.

  In a word, things were not moving quite as Augusta wished, nor as quickly; and she was at a loss to guess what was in the man’s mind. She was confident, gazing into her mirror, that in all the country round she had no counterpart, and could have no rival. The swan-like turn of her neck and the swell of her figure were as perfect, and her smile as sweet as ever; and bearing in mind the vulgar saying that hearts are never so easily caught as on the rebound, she wondered what was wrong. Yet something was wrong, it was clear.

  She was turning this over in her mind when one January morning Wyke dropped in. He had walked into town, he was aglow with exercise, and in his rough shooting-coat he made a fine figure of a man. Augusta’s temperament was not warm, but she was a woman, and the grace with which she received his apologies — his boots were muddy — was not lessened by his good looks.

  “The truth is, I came in to see your father,” he said when the first greetings were over, “and I am told that he will be free in a few minutes. However, I am not sorry to find you alone, for I want your good word.”

  This was better, and Augusta smiled, well pleased, “With him?” she asked.

  “That’s it.” He settled himself in his chair. “One of my tenants is in trouble. You know him, no doubt. John Oliver of Lower Dene?”

  “Little John?”

  Wyke nodded. “That’s the man. He holds some land of your father, and some of me, Miss Portnal. He’s a thriftless fellow and always behind-hand. Well — mind, I’m finding no fault with your father — but he is distraining.”

  Augusta’s eyes met his. “Oh, dear, dear!” she said. “Poor Little John! But a word from you, and I am sure my father will do as you wish.”

  “I could pay the money, of course,” Wyke explained. “But if I do there will he no end to it. The man’s an idle, improvident fellow and the Rector will say it is his fault, and he’ll be right. But he’s an old tenant, and I’m concerned for him. The land he holds of me won’t keep him, and if he loses your father’s bit, he’s done.”

  “I am sorry!” Augusta said. “And how good of you, Sir Albery!”

  “Well,” Wyke answered ruefully, “he’s one of my people, and I must keep a roof over his head. But I know what the Rector will say, and in another case I should say the same!”

  Augusta smiled. “He shall not say it!” she assured him, her face fighting up. “We will attack him together, and I’m sure that it will be a poor case that we cannot make good between us.”

  Wyke thought that he had not for a long time liked her so well. “You’re a trump!” he said. “I am sure that if you say he shall not go—”

  “He shall not!” she affirmed, nodding confidently. “He has three or four flaxen-haired children? Yes, dear little things, I know them! Well, you may depend upon it, Sir Albery, they shall not be homeless if I can help it!” The sympathy in her fine eyes was the one touch needed by features a trifle statuesque.

  Wyke was thinking that he had done her injustice when the Rector came in, and the visitor’s errand was detailed. But the Rector shook his head, a Jupiter benevolent, but wise. “No,” he said. “Do you be guided by me. You are too easy, Wyke. The man has been good for nothing for years past. You may prop him but you can’t save him. Take my advice and get rid of him, or, believe me, it is not one rent you will have to forgive, but one after another until you are tired. Get rid of him before it is too late.”

  “Well, you see, his fath
er was my father’s butler,” Wyke explained. “That’s where it is. And if he loses your twenty acres, what he holds of mine isn’t enough to keep him, and he’ll be on the parish in two twos.”

  But the Rector, strong in experience, was firm. “As well first as last,” he said. “It’s no good propping a falling tree. He’ll cost you more than he’s worth, he’ll ruin your land, and the end the same. Let him go, Wyke! That’s my advice.”

  “Father!” Augusta spoke without raising her eyes from her work.

  “Well, my dear?” he answered good-humouredly. “What do you want to say?”

  “I want you to do this — to please me,” she said. “ There are three or four little children.” She looked up and met Sir Albery’s eyes. “And his wife is not strong.”

  “No, she is a delicate woman,” Wyke agreed.

  “Just to please me, sir,” Augusta pleaded. She let her work fall in to her lap and looked at her father.

  He grasped the situation, but for appearance’s sake he would not at once give way. “You are not judge of such matters, my dear,” he said. “And Wyke is wrong. That the father was a good butler, does not make the son a good farmer. It is only adding loss to loss.”

  “For the sake of his wife and children?” Augusta urged.

  The Rector shook his head, but genially. “Well, I think you are wrong,” he said, “but it is no great matter. Have it your own way, my dear, if you must. But don’t blame me, Wyke. I’ll withdraw the distress and give him another chance — though I know it will be no good.”

  “Thank you, Rector,” Wyke replied. “I could pay you out, of course. But I don’t want to do that. Oliver will be the better with this hanging over him, and I shall speak to his wife. Of course I will see that you are no loser in the end.”

  The Rector waved that aside. “Not my judgment but my child consents,” he said indulgently. He gave a moment to consideration, and during that moment he succumbed to a temptation — the opportunity seemed to be heaven-sent. In the tone of one to whom something had just occurred, “That is soon settled,” he continued. “But I’ll tell you what you can do for me. It’s not much — but it is much to me, for it touches my comfort.”

  Wyke met him readily. “If there is anything I can do, Rector, you may be quite sure—”

  “It’s about Captain Bligh. Wyke, get rid of that man — to oblige me. I’ll be quite open with you,” the Rector continued, so set upon his purpose that he was blind to Augusta’s warning glance. “My younger daughter’s stay in this place is a running sore to me — I make no secret of that with such a friend as you. It is a great and a growing annoyance. I am fearful with every hour that some exhibition of that old man’s dreadful propensity may — may involve us still further in their disgrace.”

  Wyke had seldom looked more uncomfortable. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I see that, to be sure, Rector.

  To be sure. And it is awkward for you. But I hear, and I hope it is true, that they have turned over a new leaf. Both, I am told.”

  “Who told you?” The Rector had opened the matter with the fullest intention of being conciliatory, but his feelings would out. “Who told you that?” he repeated, his tone sharp.

  “Well, to be frank, Miss Bicester.”

  “And you believe it?”

  “I am assured that the old man has not broken out for — well, for a good many months.”

  “And you think that the dog will not return to its vileness !” The Rector spoke with imprudent warmth. “You, a man of the world, Wyke? I wish I could think so! I wish I could think so. But I cannot. The chains of a lifetime are not so easily broken, and the debauch will be only the more disgraceful when it comes! The leopard does not change its spots.”

  “Still, for the present, don’t you think we may wait—”

  “Wait! You have me wait?” The Rector in spite of himself was waxing hot. “Please to consider, my friend, what that means — to me. Am I to wait until that crapulous old man is picked up in the gutter! Am I to wait until Beremouth rings once more with his shame — the shame of those with whom my girl’s folly has connected us? No, I cannot wait! She has touched pitch and I cannot save her from defilement. I cannot save her,” the Rector repeated, his feelings blinding him to the change from doubt to impatience that his words wrought in his hearer’s looks. “But I have still a daughter, and I must think of her, and of myself and of my position. For the sake of all of us and the sake of my people, these men ought to go.”

  “Still” — Wyke was feeling very uncomfortable indeed now—” he is a good officer, Rector, and you — you see I have to think of the Service.”

  Augusta forestalled her father’s reply: she knew that he had no very high opinion of the Fencibles and she dreaded what he might say. “It is so sad,” she murmured softly. “So very sad for us all, Sir Albery!”

  But the Rector would not take the hint. “Sad!” he repeated warmly. “It is more than sad! It is a scandal! Think, man, of my position and my duty. How can I maintain the one or perform the other with ease of mind? While this incubus, this horror — for it is no less — weighs upon me every hour?”

  Augusta sighed. “I am sure that Sir Albery sees that, father,” she said. “And he will help us if he can.” She looked at Wyke with eyes that would have melted most men.

  If the Rector had only left it there! But he could not. The patience and conduct that had once been characteristic of him were no longer his.

  “Then if he sees that,” he said curtly, “let him get rid of Bligh! He can do it with a word. And that is the way and the only way to help us.”

  Unfortunately it was not the way to deal with the man before him. “Yes, I see that,” Wyke admitted reluctantly. “But if the old chap is really trying to turn over a new leaf, isn’t it — isn’t it a little hard on him? And if they go, what are they to do?”

  Augusta longed to catch her father’s eye, but he rushed on his fate. “That is their business!” he said.

  Wyke raised his eyebrows. “But your daughter?” he asked.

  The Rector felt the cold douche. It was on the tip of his tongue to reply “That is her business!” but for very shame he could not. And in a lower tone, “That is my business, Wyke,” he said.

  “I’m afraid it is,” Wyke answered dryly. “Still, I will think it over, Rector. Only you see —— —”

  “You see how we are placed, I am sure,” Augusta murmured, aware that in another moment it would be too late to say anything. “How sad and how distressing it is for all of us, Sir Albery. For my sister must suffer more than we do. A hundred things must every day, while she is here, bring the change home to her. She must see that in Beremouth she is in an impossible position, and it is for her sake as much as for ours that my father is anxious to do this. Perhaps — over-anxious,” she added softly.

  This was another view of the matter, and once more Wyke hesitated. He looked as if he might still yield. “There is that,” he said. “To be sure.”

  “There is indeed. And I am sure you will do what you can to help us.”

  If the Rector had held his tongue, he might have had his way. For Augusta saw that Sir Albery wavered. But the Rector’s temper, morose of late, would not let him be silent. “He can do the thing in a moment if he will,” he said testily. “There is no difficulty. No difficulty at all if he wishes to oblige us.”

  On which, human nature being what it is, Wyke went about. “You see, I have to think of the Corps,” he repeated.

  “The Corps be—” so much the Rector said, and then he remembered his cloth and bit off the fatal word. But the evil was done, and though he lowered his tone and said pettishly, “Well, well, you must judge; if you think the Corps so important, there is no more to be said,” the moment had passed.

  For Wyke said no more. The Rector looked at his watch, saw that he had an appointment, and said so.

  Wyke remarked that he must go too, and he rose and making his adieux with as good a grace as he could, he went out, with h
is host. But no more passed between them. They parted coldly at the door. “Ungrateful puppy!” the Rector thought, and he wished with all his heart that he had not given way about the distress.

  What Augusta thought when they had left her may be guessed. She was too dutiful a daughter to scold her father, even had she dared to do so. And she said nothing to him. But it must be owned that when she met him at dinner that afternoon her smile was more cold than it usually was, and that for some days there was a marked absence of his favourite dishes at table.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  WYKE acted for the best, but the result was unfortunate. His attitude put the last touch of asperity on feelings bitter enough before, nor did the Rector take his defeat the less sorely because be saw in a saner hour, that be bad failed through lack of temper. Having so failed a weaker man might have relinquished his purpose, a stronger might have risen above the pettiness that inspired it. But, for good or ill, Dr. Portnal was as much above the one standard as he fell below the other. He could neither resign himself with equanimity to the position forced on him nor had he the strength to despise the mocking eyes, the sneers and gibes, that, exaggerated by his fancy, continually stung his pride and mortified his self-esteem.

  Instead he became only more sternly set on his purpose. The presence of the offending household at the Cottage had been at first but a trouble, vexatious and teasing. But in these days it came to be more; an ulcer, robbing life of ease, spoiling his peace, marring the enjoyment of his existence. It had become a part of him; he could not escape from it. With every hour its presence was forced on his attention. On the market-day that followed his overture to Wyke he met Peggy in the crowded street and, forced to stand and speak with her, forced to mark the distress that her manner betrayed, and her scared face — for she read his thoughts like a book — he fancied himself the target for every eye. Thrice, too, in that week he came face to face with her husband, and passed on his way pricked to fury by the bantering smile that he read in the young man’s eyes. The feeling that he could not move with comfort in his parish, that he walked ill at ease where he had so long reigned, that even to his curate he could not speak with the old assurance — these things embittered him strangely, raised contempt to hatred, inspired his darker moods with rancour.