CHAPTER XXXVII
A HANDSOME ALLOWANCE
The physician might not have deemed his friend so sensible--or soinsensible--had he known that the young man proposed to make the offerof that allowance in person. Nor to Sir George Soane himself, when healighted five days later before The George Inn at Wallingford, did theoffer seem the light and easy thing,
'Of smiles and tears compact,'
it had appeared at Marlborough. He recalled old clashes of wit, and hereand there a spark struck out between them, that, alighting on the flesh,had burned him. Meanwhile the arrival of so fine a gentleman, travellingin a post-chaise and four, drew a crowd about the inn. To give theidlers time to disperse, as well as to remove the stains of the road, heentered the house, and, having bespoken dinner and the best rooms,inquired the way to Mr. Fishwick the attorney's. By this time hisservant had blabbed his name; and the story of the duel at Oxford beingknown, with some faint savour of his fashion, the landlord was his mostobedient, and would fain have guided his honour to the place capin hand.
Rid of him, and informed that the house he sought was neighbour on thefarther side, of the Three Tuns, near the bridge, Sir George strolleddown the long clean street that leads past Blackstone's Church, then inthe building, to the river; Sinodun Hill and the Berkshire Downs,speaking evening peace, behind him. He paused before a dozen neat houseswith brass knockers and painted shutters, and took each in turn for thelawyer's. But when he came to the real Mr. Fishwick's, and found it amere cottage, white and decent, but no more than a cottage, he thoughtthat he was mistaken. Then the name of 'Mr. Peter Fishwick,Attorney-at-Law,' not in the glory of brass, but painted in whiteletters on the green door, undeceived him; and, opening the wicket ofthe tiny garden, he knocked with the head of his cane on the door.
The appearance of a stately gentleman in a laced coat and a sword,waiting outside Fishwick's, opened half the doors in the street; but notthat one at which Sir George stood. He had to knock again and againbefore he heard voices whispering inside. At last a step came tappingdown the bricked passage, a bolt was withdrawn, and an old woman, in acoarse brown dress and a starched mob, looked out. She betrayed nosurprise on seeing so grand a gentleman, but told his honour, before hecould speak, that the lawyer was not at home.
'It is not Mr. Fishwick I want to see,' Sir George answered civilly.Through the brick passage he had a glimpse, as through a funnel, ofgreen leaves climbing on a tiny treillage, and of a broken urn on ascrap of sward. 'You have a young lady staying here?' he continued.
The old woman's stiff grey eyebrows grew together. 'No!' she saidsharply. 'Nothing of the kind!'
'A Miss Masterson.'
'No' she snapped, her face more and more forbidding. 'We have no Misseshere, and no baggages for fine gentlemen! You have come to the wronghouse!' And she tried to shut the door in his face.
He was puzzled and a little affronted; but he set his foot between thedoor and the post, and balked her. 'One moment, my good woman,' hesaid. 'This is Mr. Fishwick's, is it not?'
'Ay, 'tis,' she answered, breathing hard with indignation. 'But if it ishim your honour wants to see, you must come when he is at home. He isnot at home to-day.'
'I don't want to see him,' Sir George said. 'I want to speak to theyoung lady who is staying here.'
'And I tell you that there is no young lady staying here!' she retortedwrathfully. 'There is no soul in the house but me and my serving girl,and she's at the wash-tub. It is more like the Three Tuns you want!There's a flaunting gipsy-girl there if you like--but the less saidabout her the better.'
Sir George stood and stared at the woman. At last, on a suddensuspicion, 'Is your servant from Oxford?' he said.
She seemed to consider him before she answered. 'Well, if she is?' shesaid grudgingly. 'What then?'
'Is her name Masterson?'
Again she seemed to hesitate. At last, 'May be and may be not!' shesnapped, with a sniff of contempt.
He saw that it was, and for an instant the hesitation was on his side.Then, 'Let me come in!' he said abruptly. 'You are doing your son'sclient little good by this!' And when she had slowly and grudgingly madeway for him to enter, and the door was shut behind him, 'Where is she?'he asked almost savagely. 'Take me to her!'
The old dame muttered something unintelligible. Then, 'She's in the backpart,' she said, 'but she'll not wish to see you. Don't blame me if shepins a clout to your skirts.'
Yet she moved aside, and the way lay open--down the brick passage. Itmust be confessed that for an instant, just one instant, Sir Georgewavered, his face hot; for the third part of a second the dread of theridiculous, the temptation to turn and go as he had come were on him.Nor need he, for this, forfeit our sympathies, or cease to be a hero. Itwas the age, be it remembered, of the artificial. Nature, swathed inperukes and ruffles, powder and patches, and stifled under a hundredstudied airs and grimaces, had much ado to breathe. Yet it did breathe;and Sir George, after that brief hesitation, did go on. Three stepscarried him down the passage. Another, and the broken urn and tinytreillage brought him up short, but on the greensward, in the sunlight,with the air of heaven fanning his brow. The garden was a veryduodecimo; a single glance showed him its whole extent--and Julia.
She was not at the wash-tub, as the old lady had said; but on her knees,scouring a step that led to a side-door, her drugget gown pinned upabout her. She raised her head as he appeared, and met his gazedefiantly, her face flushing red with shame or some kindred feeling. Hewas struck by a strange likeness between her hard look and the frownwith which the old woman at the door had received him; and this, orsomething in the misfit of her gown, or the glimpse he had of a stockinggrotesquely fine in comparison of the stuff from which it peeped--orperhaps the cleanliness of the step she was scouring, since he seemed toinstant, just one instant, Sir George wavered, his face hot; for thethird part of a second the dread of the ridiculous, the temptation toturn and go as he had come were on him. Nor need he, for this, forfeitour sympathies, or cease to be a hero. It was the age, be it remembered,of the artificial. Nature, swathed in perukes and ruffles, powder andpatches, and stifled under a hundred studied airs and grimaces, had muchado to breathe. Yet it did breathe; and Sir George, after that briefhesitation, did go on. Three steps carried him down the passage.Another, and the broken urn and tiny treillage brought him up short, buton the greensward, in the sunlight, with the air of heaven fanning hisbrow. The garden was a very duodecimo; a single glance showed him itswhole extent--and Julia.
She was not at the wash-tub, as the old lady had said; but on her knees,scouring a step that led to a side-door, her drugget gown pinned upabout her. She raised her head as he appeared, and met his gazedefiantly, her face flushing red with shame or some kindred feeling. Hewas struck by a strange likeness between her hard look and the frownwith which the old woman at the door had received him; and this, orsomething in the misfit of her gown, or the glimpse he had of a stockinggrotesquely fine in comparison of the stuff from which it peeped--orperhaps the cleanliness of the step she was scouring, since he seemed tosee everything without looking at it--put an idea into his head. Hechecked the exclamation that sprang to his lips; and as she rose to herfeet he saluted her with an easy smile. 'I have found you, child,' hesaid. 'Did you think you had hidden yourself?'
She met his gaze sullenly. 'You have found me to no purpose,' she said.Her tone matched her look.
The look and the words together awoke an odd pang in his heart. He hadseen her arch, pitiful, wrathful, contemptuous, even kind; but neversullen. The new mood gave him the measure of her heart; but his tonelost nothing of its airiness. 'I hope not,' he said, 'for we think youhave behaved vastly well in the matter, child. Remarkably well! Andthat, let me tell you, is not only my own sentiment, but the opinion ofmy friends who perfectly approve of the arrangement I have come topropose. You may accept it, therefore, without the least scruple.'
'Arrangement?' she muttered. Her cheeks, darkly red a moment before,began to fade.
Her eyelids quivered under the cruel stroke. But her only answer was,'They are.' Yet she wondered how and why; for if she had thought herselfan heiress, he had not--then.
'You admit it, I am sure?' he persisted.
'Yes,' she answered resolutely.
'And that to--to resume, in fact, the old terms would be--impossible,'
'Quite impossible.' Her tone was as hard as his was easy.
'I thought so,' Sir George continued complacently. 'Still, I could not,of course, leave you here, child. As I have said, my friends think thatsomething should be done for you; and I am only too happy to do it. Ihave consulted them, and we have talked the matter over. By the way,'with a look round, 'perhaps your mother should be here--Mrs. Masterson,I mean? Is she in the house?'
'No,' she answered, her face flaming scarlet; for pride had conqueredpain. She hated him. Oh, how she hated him and the hideous dress whichin her foolish dream--when, hearing him at the door, she had looked forsomething very different--she had hurriedly put on; and the loose tangleof hair which she had dragged with trembling fingers from its club sothat it now hung sluttishly over her ear. She longed, as she had neverlonged before, to confront him in all her beauty; to be able to say tohim, 'Choose where you will, can you buy form or face like this?'Instead she stood before him, prisoned in this shapeless dress, aslattern, a drab, a thing whereat to curl the lip.
'Well, I am sorry she is not here,' he resumed. 'It would have givena--a kind of legality to the offer,' he continued with an easy laugh.'To tell you the truth, the amount was not fixed by me, but by myfriend, Dr. Addington, who interested himself in your behalf. He thoughtthat an allowance of a hundred guineas a year, child, properly secured,would place you in comfort, and--and obviate all this,' with a negligentwave of the hand that took in the garden and the half-scoured stone, 'atthe same time,' he added, 'that it would not be unworthy of the donor.'And he bowed, smiling.
'A hundred guineas?' she said slowly. 'A year?'
'Yes.'
'Properly secured?'
'To be sure, child.'
'On your word?' with a sudden glance at him. 'Of course, I could not askbetter security! Surely, sir, there's but one thing to be said. 'Tis toogenerous, too handsome!'
'Tut-tut!' he answered, wondering at her way of taking it.
'Far too handsome--seeing that I have no claim on you, Sir George, andhave only put you to great expense.'
'Pooh! Pooh!'
'And--trouble. A vast deal of trouble,' she repeated in an odd tone ofraillery, while her eyes, grown hard and mocking, raked him mercilessly.'So much for so little! I could not--I could not accept it. A hundredguineas a year, Sir George, from one in your position to one in mine,would only lay me open to the tongue of slander. You had bettersay--fifty.'
'Oh, no!'
'Or--thirty, I am sure thirty were ample! Say thirty guineas a year,dear sir; and leave me my character.'
'Nonsense,' he answered, a trifle discomfited. Strange, she was seizingher old position. The weapon he had wrought for her punishment was beingturned against himself.
'Or, I don't know that thirty is not too much!' she continued, her eyesunnaturally bright, her voice keen as a razor.' 'Twould have been enoughif offered through your lawyers. But at your own mouth, Sir George, tenshillings a week should do, and handsomely! Which reminds me--it was akind thought to come yourself to see me; I wonder why you did.'
'Well,' he said, 'to be frank, it was Dr. Addington--'
'Oh, Dr. Addington--Dr. Addington suggested it! Because I fancied--itcould not give you pleasure to see me like this?' she continued with aflashing eye, her passion for a brief moment breaking forth. 'Or to goback a month or two and call me child? Or to speak to me as to yourchambermaid? Or even to give me ten shillings a week?'
'No,' he said gravely; 'perhaps not, my dear.'
She winced and her eyes flashed; but she controlled herself. 'Still, Ishall take your ten shillings a week,' she said. 'And--and is that all?Or is there anything else?'
'Only this,' he said firmly. 'You'll please to remember that the tenshillings a week is of your own choosing. You'll do me that justice atleast. A hundred guineas a year was the allowance I proposed. And--I beta guinea you ask for it, my dear, before the year is out!'
She was like a tigress outraged; she writhed under the insult. And yet,because to give vent to her rage were also to bare her heart to hiseyes, she had to restrain herself, and endure even this with a scarletcheek. She had thought to shame him by accepting the money he offered;by accepting it in the barest form. The shame was hers; it did not seemto touch him a whit. At last, 'You are mistaken,' she answered, in avoice she strove to render steady. 'I shall not! And now, if there isnothing more, sir--'
'There is,' he said. 'Are you sufficiently punished?'
She looked at him wildly--suddenly, irresistibly compelled to do so by anew tone in his voice. 'Punished!' she stammered, almost inaudibly.'For what?'
'Do you not know?'
'No,' she muttered, her heart fluttering strangely.
'For this travesty,' he answered; and coolly, as he stood before her, hetwitched the sleeve of her shapeless gown, looking masterfully down ather the while, so that her eyes fell before his. 'Did you think it kindto me or fair to me,' he continued, almost sternly, 'to make thatdifficult, Julia, which my honour required, and which you knew that myhonour required? Which, if I had not come to do, you would have despisedme in your heart, and presently with your lips? Did you think it fairto widen the distance between us by this--this piece of play-acting?Give me your hand.'
She obeyed, trembling, tongue-tied. He held it an instant, looked at it,and dropped it almost contemptuously. 'It has not cleaned that stepbefore,' he said. 'Now put up your hair.'
She did so with shaking fingers, her cheeks pale, tears oozing fromunder her lowered eyelashes. He devoured her with his gaze.
'Now go to your room,' he said. 'Take off that rag and come to meproperly dressed.'
'How?' she whispered.
'As my wife.'
'It is impossible,' she cried with a gesture of despair; 'It isimpossible.'
'Is that the answer you would have given me at Manton Corner?'
'Oh no, no!' she cried. 'But everything is changed.'
'Nothing is changed.'
'You said so,' she retorted feverishly. 'You said that it was changed!'
'And have you, too, told the whole truth?' he retorted. 'Go, sillychild! If you are determined to play Pamela to the end, at least youshall play it in other guise than this. 'Tis impossible to touch you!And yet, if you stand long and tempt me, I vow, sweet, I shall fall!'
To his astonishment she burst into hysterical laughter. 'I thought menwooed--with promises!' she cried. 'Why don't you tell me I shall have myjewels; and my box at the Opera and the King's House? And go to Vauxhalland the Masquerades? And have my frolic in the pit with the best? Andkeep my own woman as ugly as I please? He did; and I said Yes to him!Why don't you say the same?'
Sir George was prepared for almost anything, but not for that. His facegrew dark. 'He did? Who did?' he asked grimly, his eyes on her face.
'Lord Almeric! And I said Yes to him--for three hours.'
'Lord Almeric?'
'Yes! For three hours,' she answered with a laugh, half hysterical, halfdespairing. 'If you must know, I thought you had carried me off to--toget rid of my claim--and me! I thought--I thought you had only beenplaying with me,' she continued, involuntarily betraying by her tone howdeep had been her misery. 'I was only Pamela, and 'twas cheaper, Ithought, to send me to the Plantations than to marry me.'
'And Lord
Almeric offered you marriage?'
'I might have been my lady,' she cried in bitter abasement. 'Yes.'
'And you accepted him?'
'Yes! Yes, I accepted him.'
'And then--'Pon honour, ma'am, you are good at surprises. I fear I don'tfollow the course of events,' Sir George said icily.
'Then I changed my mind--the same day,' she replied. She was shaking onher feet with emotion; but in his jealousy he had no pity on herweakness. 'You know, a woman may change her mind once, Sir George,' sheadded with a feeble smile.
'I find that I don't know as much about women--as I thought I did,' SirGeorge answered grimly. 'You seem, ma'am, to be much sought after. Oneman can hardly hope to own you. Pray have you any other affairsto confess?'
'I have told you--all,' she said.
His face dark, he hung a moment between love and anger; looking at her.Then, 'Did he kiss you?' he said between his teeth. 'No!' shecried fiercely.
'You swear it?'
She flashed a look at him.
But he had no mercy. 'Why not?' he persisted, moving a step nearer her.'You were betrothed to him. You engaged yourself to him, ma'am.Why not?'
'Because--I did not love him,' she answered so faintly he scarcelyheard.
He drew a deep breath. 'May I kiss you?' he said.
She looked long at him, her face quivering between tears and smiles, agreat joy dawning in the depths of her eyes. 'If my lord wills,' shesaid at last, 'when I have done his bidding and--and changed--anddressed as--'
But he did not wait.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE CLERK OF THE LEASES
When Sir George left the house, an hour later, it happened that thefirst person he met in the street was Mr. Fishwick. For a day or twoafter the conference at the Castle Inn the attorney had gone about, hisears on the stretch to catch the coming footstep. The air round himquivered with expectation. Something would happen. Sir George would dosomething. But with each day that passed eventless, the hope andexpectation grew weaker; the care with which the attorney avoided hisguest's eyes, more marked; until by noon of this day he had made up hismind that if Sir George came at all, it would be as the wolf and not asthe sheep-dog. While Julia, proud and mute, was resolving that if herlover came she would save him from himself by showing him how far he hadto stoop, the attorney in the sourness of defeat and a barrenprospect--for he scarcely knew which way to turn for a guinea--wasresolving that the ewe-lamb must be guarded and all precautions takento that end.
When he saw the gentleman issue from his door therefore, still more whenSir George with a kindly smile held out his hand, a condescension whichthe attorney could not remember that he had ever extended to him before,Mr. Fishwick's prudence took fright. 'Too much honoured, Sir George,' hesaid, bowing low. Then stiffly, and looking from his visitor to thehouse and back again, 'But, pardon me, sir, if there is any matter ofbusiness, any offer to be made to my client, it were well, I think--ifit were made through me.'
I thank you,' Sir George answered. 'I do not think that there isanything more to be done. I have made my offer.'
'Oh!' the lawyer cried.
'And it has been accepted,' Soane continued, smiling at his dismay. 'Ibelieve that you have been a good friend to your client, Mr. Fishwick. Ishall be obliged if you will allow her to remain under your roof untilto-morrow, when she has consented to honour me by becoming my wife.'
'Your wife?' Mr. Fishwick ejaculated, his face a picture of surprise.'To-morrow?'
'I brought a licence with me,' Sir George answered. 'I am now on my wayto secure the services of a clergyman.'
The tears stood in Mr. Fishwick's eyes, and his voice shook. 'Ifelicitate you, sir,' he said, taking off his hat. 'God bless you, sir.Sir George, you are a very noble gentleman!' And then, rememberinghimself, he hastened to beg the gentleman's pardon for the liberty hehad taken.
Sir George nodded kindly. 'There is a letter for you in the house, Mr.Fishwick,' he said, 'which I was asked to convey to you. For thepresent, good-day.'
Mr. Fishwick stood and watched him go with eyes wide with astonishment;nor was it until he had passed from sight that the lawyer turned andwent into his house. On a bench in the passage he found a letter. It wasformally directed after the fashion of those days 'To Mr. PeterFishwick, Attorney at Law, at Wallingford in Berkshire, by favour of SirGeorge Soane of Estcombe, Baronet.'
'Lord save us, 'tis an honour,' the attorney muttered. 'What is it?' andwith shaking hands he cut the thread that confined the packet. Theletter, penned by Dr. Addington, was to this effect:
'Sir,--I am directed by the Right Honourable the Earl of Chatham, LordKeeper of His Majesty's Privy Seal, to convey to you his lordship'sapprobation of the conduct displayed by you in a late transaction. Hislordship, acknowledging no higher claim to employment than probity, norany more important duty in the disposition of patronage than the rewardof integrity, desires me to intimate that the office of Clerk of theLeases in the Forest of Dean, which is vacant and has been placed at hiscommand, is open for your acceptance. He is informed that the emolumentsof the office arising from fees amount in good years to five hundredpounds, and in bad years seldom fall below four hundred.
His lordship has made me the channel of this communication, that I maytake the opportunity of expressing my regret that a misunderstanding atone time arose between us. Accept, sir, this friendly assurance of achange of sentiment, and allow me to
'Have the honour to be, sir, 'Your obedient servant, 'J. Addington.'
'Clerk of the Leases--in the Forest of Dean--have been known in badyears--to fall to four hundred!' Mr. Fishwick ejaculated, his eyes likesaucers. 'Oh, Lord, I am dreaming! I must be dreaming! If I don't get mycravat untied, I shall have a lit! Four hundred in bad years! It'sa--oh, it's incredible! They'll not believe it! I vow they'll notbelieve it!'
But when he turned to seek them, he saw that they had stolen a march onhim, that they knew it already and believed it! Between him and the tinyplot of grass, the urn, and the espalier, which, still caught the lastbeams of the setting sun, he surprised two happy faces spying on hisjoy--the one beaming through a hundred puckers with a mother's tearfulpride; the other, the most beautiful in the world, and now softened andelevated by every happy emotion.
* * * * *
Mr. Dunborough stood his trial at the next Salisbury assizes, and, beingacquitted of the murder of Mr. Pomeroy, was found guilty ofmanslaughter. He pleaded his clergy, went through the formality of beingbranded in the hand with a cold iron, and was discharged on payment ofhis fees. He lived to be the fifth Viscount Dunborough, a man neithermuch worse nor much better than his neighbours; and dying at a moderateage--in his bed, of gout in the stomach--escaped the misfortune whichawaited some of his friends; who, living beyond the common span, foundthemselves shunned by a world which could find no worse to say of themthan that they lived in their age as all men of fashion had lived intheir youth.
Mr. Thomasson was less fortunate. Bully Pomeroy's dying words and theevidence of the man Tamplin were not enough to bring the crime home tohim. But representations were made to his college, and steps were takento compel him to resign his Fellowship. Before these came to an issue,he was arrested for debt, and thrown into the Fleet. There he lingeredfor a time, sinking into a lower and lower state of degradation, andmaking ever more and more piteous appeals to the noble pupils who owedso much of their knowledge of the world to his guidance. Beyond thispoint his career is not to be traced, but it is improbable that it waseither creditable to him or edifying to his friends.
To-day the old Bath road is silent, or echoes only the fierce note ofthe cyclist's bell. The coaches and curricles, wigs and hoops, bolsteredsaddles and carriers' waggons are gone with the beaux and fine ladiesand gentlemen's gentlemen whose environment they were; and the CastleInn is no longer an inn. Under the wide eaves that sheltered the lovepassages of Sir George and Julia, in the panelled halls that echoed thesteps of Dutch Wi
lliam and Duke Chandos, through the noble rooms that aSeymour built that Seymours might be born and die under their frescoedceilings, the voices of boys and tutors now sound. The boys are dividedfrom the men of that day by four generations, the tutors from the man wehave depicted, by a moral gulf infinitely greater. Yet is the change ina sense outward only; for where the heart of youth beats, there, and notbehind fans or masks, the 'Stand!' of the highwayman, or the 'Charge!'of the hero, lurks the high romance.
Nor on the outside is all changed at the Castle Inn. Those who in thisquiet lap of the Wiltshire Downs are busy moulding the life of thefuture are reverent of the past. The old house stands stately,high-roofed, almost unaltered, its great pillared portico before it;hard by are the Druids' Mound, and Preshute Church in the lap of trees.Much water has run under the bridge that spans the Kennet since SirGeorge and Julia sat on the parapet and watched the Salisbury coach comein; the bridge that was of wood is of brick--but there it is, and theKennet still flows under it, watering the lawns and flowering shrubsthat Lady Hertford loved. Still can we trace in fancy the sweet-briarhedge and the border of pinks which she planted by the trim canal; and abowshot from the great school can lose all knowledge of the present inthe crowding memories which the Duelling Green and the Bowling Alley,trodden by the men and women of a past generation, awaken in the mind.
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