THE LITTLE BILL.
Lucy, during those last fifteen minutes of her sojourn in the Framley
Court drawing-room, somewhat modified the very strong opinion she
had before formed as to her unfitness for such society. It was very
pleasant sitting there in that easy chair, while Lord Lufton stood at
the back of it saying nice, soft, good-natured words to her. She was
sure that in a little time she could feel a true friendship for him,
and that she could do so without any risk of falling in love with
him. But then she had a glimmering of an idea that such a friendship
would be open to all manner of remarks, and would hardly be
compatible with the world’s ordinary ways. At any rate it would be
pleasant to be at Framley Court, if he would come and occasionally
notice her. But she did not admit to herself that such a visit would
be intolerable if his whole time were devoted to Griselda Grantly.
She neither admitted it, nor thought it; but nevertheless, in a
strange unconscious way, such a feeling did find entrance in her
bosom.
And then the Christmas holidays passed away. How much of this
enjoyment fell to her share, and how much of this suffering she
endured, we will not attempt accurately to describe. Miss Grantly
remained at Framley Court up to Twelfth Night, and the Robartses
also spent most of the season at the house. Lady Lufton, no doubt,
had hoped that everything might have been arranged on this occasion
in accordance with her wishes, but such had not been the case. Lord
Lufton had evidently admired Miss Grantly very much; indeed, he
had said so to his mother half-a-dozen times; but it may almost be
questioned whether the pleasure Lady Lufton derived from this was not
more than neutralized by an opinion he once put forward that Griselda
Grantly wanted some of the fire of Lucy Robarts.
“Surely, Ludovic, you would never compare the two girls,” said Lady
Lufton.
“Of course not. They are the very antipodes to each other. Miss
Grantly would probably be more to my taste; but then I am wise enough
to know that it is so because my taste is a bad taste.”
“I know no man with a more accurate or refined taste in such
matters,” said Lady Lufton. Beyond this she did not dare to go. She
knew very well that her strategy would be vain should her son once
learn that she had a strategy. To tell the truth, Lady Lufton was
becoming somewhat indifferent to Lucy Robarts. She had been very kind
to the little girl; but the little girl seemed hardly to appreciate
the kindness as she should do—and then Lord Lufton would talk to
Lucy, “which was so unnecessary, you know;” and Lucy had got into
a way of talking quite freely with Lord Lufton, having completely
dropped that short, spasmodic, ugly exclamation of “my lord.”
And so the Christmas festivities were at an end, and January wore
itself away. During the greater part of this month Lord Lufton did
not remain at Framley, but was nevertheless in the county, hunting
with the hounds of both divisions, and staying at various houses. Two
or three nights he spent at Chaldicotes; and one—let it only be told
in an under voice—at Gatherum Castle! Of this he said nothing to
Lady Lufton. “Why make her unhappy?” as he said to Mark. But Lady
Lufton knew it, though she said not a word to him—knew it, and was
unhappy. “If he would only marry Griselda, there would be an end of
that danger,” she said to herself.
But now we must go back for a while to the vicar and his little bill.
It will be remembered, that his first idea with reference to that
trouble, after the reading of his father’s will, was to borrow the
money from his brother John. John was down at Exeter at the time, and
was to stay one night at the parsonage on his way to London. Mark
would broach the matter to him on the journey, painful though it
would be to him to tell the story of his own folly to a brother
so much younger than himself, and who had always looked up to him,
clergyman and full-blown vicar as he was, with a deference greater
than that which such difference in age required.
The story was told, however; but was told all in vain, as Mark found
out before he reached Framley. His brother John immediately declared
that he would lend him the money, of course—eight hundred, if
his brother wanted it. He, John, confessed that, as regarded the
remaining two, he should like to feel the pleasure of immediate
possession. As for interest, he would not take any—take interest
from a brother! of course not. Well, if Mark made such a fuss about
it, he supposed he must take it; but would rather not. Mark should
have his own way, and do just what he liked.
This was all very well, and Mark had fully made up his mind that his
brother should not be kept long out of his money. But then arose the
question, how was that money to be reached? He, Mark, was executor,
or one of the executors under his father’s will, and, therefore, no
doubt, could put his hand upon it; but his brother wanted five months
of being of age, and could not therefore as yet be put legally in
possession of the legacy.
“That’s a bore,” said the assistant private secretary to the Lord
Petty Bag, thinking, perhaps, as much of his own immediate wish for
ready cash as he did of his brother’s necessities. Mark felt that it
was a bore, but there was nothing more to be done in that direction.
He must now find out how far the bankers could assist him.
Some week or two after his return to Framley he went over to
Barchester, and called there on a certain Mr. Forrest, the manager
of one of the banks, with whom he was acquainted; and with many
injunctions as to secrecy told this manager the whole of his story.
At first he concealed the name of his friend Sowerby, but it soon
appeared that no such concealment was of any avail. “That’s Sowerby,
of course,” said Mr. Forrest. “I know you are intimate with him; and
all his friends go through that, sooner or later.”
It seemed to Mark as though Mr. Forrest made very light of the whole
transaction.
“I cannot possibly pay the bill when it falls due,” said Mark.
“Oh, no, of course not,” said Mr. Forrest. “It’s never very
convenient to hand out four hundred pounds at a blow. Nobody will
expect you to pay it!”
“But I suppose I shall have to do it sooner or later?”
“Well, that’s as may be. It will depend partly on how you manage with
Sowerby, and partly on the hands it gets into. As the bill has your
name on it, they’ll have patience as long as the interest is paid,
and the commissions on renewal. But no doubt it will have to be met
some day by somebody.”
Mr. Forrest said that he was sure that the bill was not in
Barchester; Mr. Sowerby would not, he thought, have brought it to a
Barchester bank. The bill was probably in London, but doubtless would
be sent to Barchester for collection. “If it comes in my way,” said
Mr. Forrest, “I will give you plenty of time, so that you may manage
about the renewal with Sowerby. I suppose he’ll pay the expense of
doing that.”
Mark’s heart was somewhat lighter as he left the bank. Mr. Forrest
had made so little of the whole transaction that he felt himself
justified in making little of it also. “It may be as well,” said he
to himself, as he drove home, “not to tell Fanny anything about it
till the three months have run round. I must make some arrangement
then.” And in this way his mind was easier during the last of those
three months than it had been during the two former. That feeling
of over-due bills, of bills coming due, of accounts overdrawn, of
tradesmen unpaid, of general money cares, is very dreadful at first;
but it is astonishing how soon men get used to it. A load which would
crush a man at first becomes, by habit, not only endurable, but
easy and comfortable to the bearer. The habitual debtor goes along
jaunty and with elastic step, almost enjoying the excitement of his
embarrassments. There was Mr. Sowerby himself; who ever saw a cloud
on his brow? It made one almost in love with ruin to be in his
company. And even now, already, Mark Robarts was thinking to himself
quite comfortably about this bill;—how very pleasantly those bankers
managed these things. Pay it! No; no one will be so unreasonable
as to expect you to do that! And then Mr. Sowerby certainly was a
pleasant fellow, and gave a man something in return for his money. It
was still a question with Mark whether Lord Lufton had not been too
hard on Sowerby. Had that gentleman fallen across his clerical friend
at the present moment, he might no doubt have gotten from him an
acceptance for another four hundred pounds.
One is almost inclined to believe that there is something pleasurable
in the excitement of such embarrassments, as there is also in the
excitement of drink. But then, at last, the time does come when the
excitement is over, and when nothing but the misery is left. If there
be an existence of wretchedness on earth it must be that of the
elderly, worn-out _roué_, who has run this race of debt and bills
of accommodation and acceptances,—of what, if we were not in these
days somewhat afraid of good broad English, we might call lying and
swindling, falsehood and fraud—and who, having ruined all whom he
should have loved, having burnt up every one who would trust him
much, and scorched all who would trust him a little, is at last
left to finish his life with such bread and water as these men get,
without one honest thought to strengthen his sinking heart, or one
honest friend to hold his shivering hand! If a man could only think
of that, as he puts his name to the first little bill, as to which he
is so good-naturedly assured that it can easily be renewed!
When the three months had nearly run out, it so happened that Robarts
met his friend Sowerby. Mark had once or twice ridden with Lord
Lufton as far as the meet of the hounds, and may, perhaps, have gone
a field or two farther on some occasions. The reader must not think
that he had taken to hunting, as some parsons do; and it is singular
enough that whenever they do so they always show a special aptitude
for the pursuit, as though hunting were an employment peculiarly
congenial with a cure of souls in the country. Such a thought would
do our vicar injustice. But when Lord Lufton would ask him what on
earth could be the harm of riding along the roads to look at the
hounds, he hardly knew what sensible answer to give his lordship. It
would be absurd to say that his time would be better employed at home
in clerical matters, for it was notorious that he had not clerical
pursuits for the employment of half his time. In this way, therefore,
he had got into a habit of looking at the hounds, and keeping up his
acquaintance in the county, meeting Lord Dumbello, Mr. Green Walker,
Harold Smith, and other such like sinners; and on one such occasion,
as the three months were nearly closing, he did meet Mr. Sowerby.
“Look here, Sowerby; I want to speak to you for half a moment. What
are you doing about that bill?”
“Bill—bill! what bill?—which bill? The whole bill, and nothing but
the bill. That seems to be the conversation now-a-days of all men,
morning, noon, and night.”
“Don’t you know the bill I signed for you for four hundred pounds?”
“Did you, though? Was not that rather green of you?”
This did seem strange to Mark. Could it really be the fact that
Mr. Sowerby had so many bills flying about that he had absolutely
forgotten that occurrence in the Gatherum Castle bedroom? And then to
be called green by the very man whom he had obliged!
“Perhaps I was,” said Mark, in a tone that showed that he was
somewhat piqued. “But all the same I should be glad to know how it
will be taken up.”
“Oh, Mark, what a ruffian you are to spoil my day’s sport in this
way. Any man but a parson would be too good a Christian for such
intense cruelty. But let me see—four hundred pounds? Oh, yes—Tozer
has it.”
“And what will Tozer do with it?”
“Make money of it; whatever way he may go to work he will do that.”
“But will Tozer bring it to me on the 20th?”
“Oh, Lord, no! Upon my word, Mark, you are deliciously green. A cat
would as soon think of killing a mouse directly she got it into her
claws. But, joking apart, you need not trouble yourself. Maybe you
will hear no more about it; or, perhaps, which no doubt is more
probable, I may have to send it to you to be renewed. But you need do
nothing till you hear from me or somebody else.”
“Only do not let any one come down upon me for the money.”
“There is not the slightest fear of that. Tally-ho, old fellow! He’s
away. Tally-ho! right over by Gossetts’ barn. Come along, and never
mind Tozer—‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’” And away
they both went together, parson and member of Parliament.
And then again on that occasion Mark went home with a sort of feeling
that the bill did not matter. Tozer would manage it somehow; and it
was quite clear that it would not do to tell his wife of it just at
present.
On the 21st of that month of February, however, he did receive a
reminder that the bill and all concerning it had not merely been a
farce. This was a letter from Mr. Sowerby, dated from Chaldicotes,
though not bearing the Barchester post-mark, in which that gentleman
suggested a renewal—not exactly of the old bill, but of a new one.
It seemed to Mark that the letter had been posted in London. If I
give it entire, I shall, perhaps, most quickly explain its purport:
Chaldicotes,—20th February, 185—.
MY DEAR MARK,—“Lend not thy name to the money-dealers,
for the same is a destruction and a snare.” If that be
not in the Proverbs, it ought to be. Tozer has given me
certain signs of his being alive and strong this cold
weather. As we can neither of us take up that bill
for £400 at the moment, we must renew it, and pay him
his commission and interest, with all the rest of his
perquisites, and pickings, and stealings—from all which,
I can assure you, Tozer does not keep his hands as he
should do.
To cover this and some other little outstanding trifles,
I have filled in the new bill for £500, making it due
23rd of May next. Before that time, a certain accident
will, I trust, have occurred to your impoverished friend.
By-the-by, I never told you how she went off from Gatherum
Castle, the morning after you left us, with the Greshams.
Cart-ropes would not hold her, even though the duke held
them; which he did, with all the strength of his ducal
hands. She would go to meet some doctor of theirs, and so
I was put off for that time; but I think that the matter
stands in a good train.
Do not lose a post in sending back the bill accepted, as
Tozer may annoy you—nay, undoubtedly will, if the matter
be not in his hand, duly signed by both of us, the day
after to-morrow. He is an ungrateful brute; he has lived
on me for these eight years, and would not let me off a
single squeeze now to save my life. But I am specially
anxious to save you from the annoyance and cost of
lawyers’ letters; and if delayed, it might get into the
papers.
Put it under cover to me, at No. 7, Duke Street, St.
James’s. I shall be in town by that time.
Good-bye, old fellow. That was a decent brush we had the
other day from Cobbold’s Ashes. I wish I could get that
brown horse from you. I would not mind going to a hundred
and thirty.
Yours ever,
N. SOWERBY.
When Mark had read it through he looked down on his table to see
whether the old bill had fallen from the letter; but no, there was
no enclosure, and had been no enclosure but the new bill. And then
he read the letter through again, and found that there was no word
about the old bill,—not a syllable, at least, as to its whereabouts.
Sowerby did not even say that it would remain in his own hands.
Mark did not in truth know much about such things. It might be that
the very fact of his signing this second document would render that
first document null and void; and from Sowerby’s silence on the
subject, it might be argued that this was so well known to be the
case, that he had not thought of explaining it. But yet Mark could
not see how this should be so.
But what was he to do? That threat of cost and lawyers, and specially
of the newspapers, did have its effect upon him—as no doubt it was
intended to do. And then he was utterly dumfounded by Sowerby’s
impudence in drawing on him for £500 instead of £400, “covering,” as
Sowerby so good-humouredly said, “sundry little outstanding trifles.”
But at last he did sign the bill, and sent it off, as Sowerby had
directed. What else was he to do?
Fool that he was. A man always can do right, even though he has done
wrong before. But that previous wrong adds so much difficulty to the
path—a difficulty which increases in tremendous ratio, till a man at
last is choked in his struggling, and is drowned beneath the waters.
And then he put away Sowerby’s letter carefully, locking it up from
his wife’s sight. It was a letter that no parish clergyman should
have received. So much he acknowledged to himself. But nevertheless
it was necessary that he should keep it. And now again for a few
hours this affair made him very miserable.