TOUCHING ANOTHER PROPOSAL.
Mr. Beresford meanwhile had strolled round to the stables, ascertained
that, with the exception of the loss of a little hair from her
off-hock, Gulnare seemed none the worse for her journey (horses never
travel by rail without a something), ordered his groom to bring her
round in half an hour's time, and made a cursory inspection of the
other horses while finishing his cigar. At the time appointed he
mounted and rode away into Brighton, starting at first over the Downs
in a brisk canter, but gradually subsiding into a checked walk, which
ill suited Gulnare's fiery disposition, and made her rider break the
current of his thoughts by several behests of "Steady now!" "Quiet,
old lady;" and such like. Indeed, Mr. Beresford had quite enough
subject-matter for reflection. He, too, had been turning over in his
mind the expediency of proposing to Miss Townshend, and had almost
determined upon its being the right thing to do. The objection which
he had urged in his discussion with Kate Mellon, that money and
ugliness generally went together, would not hold good here. Miss
Townshend was pretty and presentable; she was not clever, certainly;
but so long as she was able to talk about Shakespeare and the musical
glasses, that was all which the world would require of her in the way
of conversation, and that sort of jargon would be easily picked up.
She knew passably sufficient of the accomplishments of society, and
was, as times went, in a very good set. Her people belonged to the
plutocracy; but Beresford liked that rather than otherwise,
recollecting how far pleasanter than the sham state and starveling
magnificence of some of his aristocratic friends were the town-houses
and country places of City magnates and merchant princes, where every
thing, from the sleek porter in the hall to the new and massive
salt-spoons on the table, spoke of wealth. To ascertain whether his
venture was a safe one was the object of Beresford's visit to
Brighton. He had known so many mushroom magnates, who, after a couple
of seasons of full-blown pride, had collapsed and tumbled into the mud
from which they sprung, that he took no man's monetary position on
hearsay. He had met Mr. Townshend at capital houses, and had seen his
name in many apparently excellent City ventures; but, then, had he not
met at the Duke of Banffshire's Mr. Poyntz, the great railway
contractor, who two months afterwards smashed for a million and a
half? and did not half the peerage welcome as a friend and respect as
a banker the great Mr. Shoddy, who was at that moment engaged in
oakum-picking in expiation of his fraudulent practices? There must be
no mistake on this head; it would be a pretty thing if he, Charles
Beresford, were not merely to find himself after a year or two with a
penniless wife upon his hands, but were also to have the world talking
about his _mésalliance_. As to the idea of rejection, that had
scarcely entered his head. He was generally liked by women, and
thought Miss Townshend no exception to the rule. Her father perhaps
might look for money, and then he should have to square him as best he
could. But Beresford argued to himself: these _nouveaux riches_
generally look for position; and if they cannot get rank for their
girls, they like a good official connexion. Did not Petter marry the
daughter of old Dunkel, the West-India merchant (by the by, she was a
little woolly, though), simply through his being Secretary to
the Lakes and Fisheries Department? And a Commissioner at the
Tin-Tax ranked higher than that. Walbrook delighted to talk of
"my son-in-law's connexion with the Government;" and Dowgate Hill
rejoiced in seeing a fourth-rate Cabinet Minister or occasional
Secretaries of Foreign Legations, much beribboned, at his daughter's
drums. As to whether he cared for the girl, it scarcely entered into
his mind to inquire; they would get on well enough; he would let her
have her own way, so long as she did not interfere with him; he should
keep up his hunting, but cut play of every kind; and if he got at all
bored, why then he would go into Parliament. Fortunately, he thought,
he was not like most men: he could get married without its interfering
with any body; there was no "establishment" to break up; no inhabitant
of a Brompton villa to tear her hair and use strong language until a
liberal settlement was made; no jealous girls to upbraid and-- As the
thought of Kate Mellon and the recollection of his last interview with
her flashed into Beresford's mind, he started involuntarily, and
touched the mare with his spur. Gulnare jumped into the air, and
started off like an arrow. By the time he pulled her up, he was at the
top of St. James's Street, Brighton; and as he leisurely rode down the
hill, he revolved in his mind the means of arriving at an immediate
knowledge of his intended father-in-law's stability.
He was not long in arriving at his determination. Of all the men he
knew, Simnel, the secretary at the Tin-Tax Office, was the most
knowing; and he and Beresford were on the most intimate terms. Had
Beresford been in town, he would have consulted Simnel personally
about this marriage business; as it was, he thought that the secretary
was the likeliest man to get for him the information he required. This
information must be had at once; as, once satisfied, he would not give
another evening's chance to Lyster or that man Churchill, in whose
wheel he had put so neat a spoke, but would commence immediately to
clear the course on which he hoped to win. So he turned into the Old
Steine, and leisurely dismounting at the door of the telegraph-office,
resigned Gulnare into the hands of a passing boy, to whom he was so
intent on giving instructions as to walking her gently up and down,
that he did not observe "that man Churchill" pass him in an open fly,
the driver of which must have been stimulated by the prospect of a
large reward, as his horse was proceeding at a pace very rarely
undertaken by Brighton fly-cattle. But perfectly ignorant of the
propinquity of the gentleman with whose family history he had recently
manifested so intimate an acquaintance, Mr. Beresford entered the
telegraph-office, and taking up one of the printed slips, wrote the
following message:
"_C. B., Brighton to Robert Simnel, Tin-Tax Office,
Rutland House, London_.
"_Non olet pecunia_. Whether a round game with Townshend of Queensbury
Gardens would repay the necessary illumination. Reply; figures, if
possible."
The clerk counted the words and grinned. When Beresford, after saying
that he would call for the answer, paid and walked out, the clerk
carried the paper into the inner room where the manipulator was busy
with his ever-clicking needles, and read the message out to him,
grinning again; whereupon they both expressed opinion that it was a
"rum start," and another of those "games" which supplied the
interesting youths employed by the Electric Telegraph Company with so
many topics of conversation.
Mr. Beresford put up his horse at a livery-stable, and then walked
down towards the sea to while away the time until the answer should
arrive. He knew Brighton thoroughly. He was a regular visitor from
Saturday till Tuesday during November and December, when he stayed at
the Bedford, and generally dined at the cavalry mess; but he had never
seen the place in its autumnal aspect. Those who only know Brighton in
the winter would scarcely recognise her in September, when she has
more the aspect of Ramsgate or Margate. In place of the dashing
carriages, flys at half-a-crown an hour crawl up and down the King's
Road, the horses, perfectly accustomed to the dreary job, ambling
along at their own sleepy pace; the riding-masters are still to the
fore, but for pupils, instead of the brilliant _écuyères_, they have
heavy, clumsy girls in hired habits and hideous hats. All the officers
of the cavalry regiment who can get leave, take it; and those who
cannot, devote themselves to tobacco in the solitude of their
barrack-rooms. The Esplanade is thronged with fat people from the
metropolitan suburbs, gorgeous Hebrews with their families from the
Minories, and lawyers' clerks with a week's holiday. The beach is
covered with children stone-digging and feet-wetting; with girls who
have just bathed, with their hair down their backs, and girls who are
waiting for machines; with men selling shell-toys, and women imploring
purchase of crochet-dolls; with hilarious men throwing sticks for
their dogs to swim after; with contemplative men reading books, and
gazing off them vacantly across the sea; with drowsy men, supine, with
their hats shading their faces from the sun. The whole place is
changed; the rich hotel and shopkeepers have gone inland (Tunbridge
Wells is a favourite place of theirs) for relaxation, and their
substitutes, goaded into madness by the unchanging blue sky and
burning brick pavement, are bearish and morose; men wear plaid
shooting-coats of vivid patterns in the afternoon, and women, in
flapping hats with draggled feathers, promenade in the Pavilion;
Brill's swimming-bath shuts up for painting and decoration; and there
are people seen walking on the Chain Pier.
In this abnormal state of affairs Mr. Beresford found himself any
thing but happy. He went to Mutton's and had some soup, and to
Folthorp's and read the papers; he strolled down the King's Road, and
inspected the evolutions of various young ladies who were disporting
in the waves, and indulging the passers-by with the gambols of
Bloomsbury-super-Mare. Then he put his legs up on a bench on the
Esplanade, and smoked a cigar, and stared at the passers-by; and
then, after the lapse of a couple of hours, he walked back to the
telegraph-office, where he found a reply waiting for him. It was from
Mr. Simnel, and merely said:
"_Olet_. Three stars in Leadenhall Street and Director of L. B. and S.
C. meaning ten thou. Plated heavily. If with good hand, play game."