TAMPERING WITH A LAWYER.
The road to Hunston was a pleasant road. They went through the park
first, which was in all the glory of autumn colouring, the oaks and the
beeches a wonder to see, and even the slim elms all golden standing up
against a blue afternoon sky, in which already there began to appear
faint beginnings of purple and crimson as the sun got westward; and
after that the road ran between other parks, and more and more wealth of
russet or of golden foliage. But Mr. Mountford was not a very
entertaining companion. Heathcote when he was ‘at home’ was in very good
society--in society, that is to say, which was agreeable, where there
was much talk and great freedom of intercourse, and since he had been at
Mount he had found pleasure in the society of the girls, one of whom
amused him, while one interested him. Mr. Mountford, however, did
neither the one nor the other. He indicated the different houses with
his riding-whip as they passed.
‘That’s Newton-Magna. The Newtons once contested the county with us. My
grandfather married a Newton--they are, therefore, connections. This is
where old Lady Prayrey Poule lives. She has just made a ridiculous
marriage, of which everybody is talking. I don’t know who the man is.
There is Meadowlands to the right, and that’s young Lassell’s place,
whom I suppose you have heard of.’
This was the style of his conversation. Sometimes he varied it by giving
his kinsman an account of the value of the livings and the goodness of
the land.
‘It is worth so much an acre on this side of the river, and not half on
the other side. The land up my way is generally good, and the livings
are excellent. In my parish the living has always been held by a younger
son, but naturally there has been no younger son. Ah! you think that
Edward;--well, if I had known more of Edward, I might perhaps--but he is
quite young; there is plenty of time.’
Between the intervals, however, when he was not engaged with these local
details, Mr. Mountford had not much to say. He was not brilliant in
himself, and he was preoccupied. He had all the air of a man who was
going, as his wife said, to tamper with his will. When his companion
spoke to him he gave short answers: his thoughts were somewhere else.
When they approached the town he became still more brief in his
indications.
‘The church is considered fine, I believe, and the High Street is a nice
street. I am going to Loseby’s, who is my lawyer. He has had all the
Mount affairs in his hands since ever I can remember, and much
longer--he and his father before him. He’ll like to make your
acquaintance; but in the meantime I have some business with him. Perhaps
you would like to look about the town a little.’
Heathcote said he would like to look about the town, and Mr. Mountford,
evidently gathering himself up with an effort, buttoned up a button
which had come undone of his coat, and with a very determined air
strode into the lawyer’s office. It was part of a tall red brick house,
which formed an important feature in the scene, a house with many rows
of windows, long and narrow, which twinkled in the setting sun. In
Heathcote’s mind there was a great deal of mingled curiosity and
sympathy. He would have liked to know what was going to happen, to be
behind Mr. Loseby’s curtains, or in some cupboard full of parchments.
There could be no doubt that something affecting Anne’s future was in
the wind. He laughed at himself, after a moment, to think how much
importance, how much gravity he was attaching to it. After all, he said
to himself, as Cosmo had done before, tyrannical fathers are a thing of
the past--nobody cuts off a child now-a-days with a shilling. No doubt
all Mr. Mountford meant was to tie up her money so that no worthless
fellow of a husband could get at it. But, though he felt that this was
the only reasonable interpretation of Mr. Mountford’s mission, yet the
various little scenes he had been a witness to made an impression upon
his mind in spite of himself. Anne standing grave and simple, facing her
father, holding out her hand for her letter, saying, ‘Yes, I keep it
up’--was it undutiful of the girl? and the father’s stern displeasure
and the mother’s (or stepmother was it? all the more credit to her)
excitement and distress. To be sure a family quarrel always threw a
house into agitation, even where no great harm was to be looked for. No
doubt it was undutiful of the girl. After all, if a parent is not to
have influence on that point, where is the use of him? And no doubt she
had chosen a man unworthy of her, or such a fuss never would have been
made. Heathcote was not a parent, but still he had in some respects the
responsibilities of a parent. Edward was delicate--he was not strong
enough to fight his way against the world; but he was not amiable, the
quality which ought to belong to all delicate and weakly persons, and
which makes up for so many deficiencies. He had strong passions in his
weak body. He had already got into various scrapes, out of which his
brother had been called upon to draw him. Heathcote had a letter in his
pocket now which had given him a great deal of thought. It had drawn him
back to his former conviction that Edward’s affairs were the most
important in the world. It was not in his power by himself to do all
that Edward wanted, to secure the boy’s comfort, so far as that was
possible. He must speak to Mr. Mountford on the ride home. It was not a
thing to be neglected any longer. This was the chief thing in his mind
as he walked about Hunston, looking into the old church and surveying
all the shops. He ‘made acquaintance,’ as his kinsman had bidden him,
with the quiet little county town, with a curious mingling of ideas in
his mind. In the first place, he could not but think how many
generations of Mountfords had trodden this pavement--ladies in
farthingales and men in periwigs, bucks of the Regency, sober
politicians of the period of Reform; and by-and-by it would be his own
turn--he too in his day would ride in on a steady-going old cob, like
St. John Mountford, or drive in the family coach to see his lawyer and
his banker and do his business. But no--he contradicted himself with a
little confusion--no, this was just what he was not to do. For the
moment he had forgotten his own purpose, the object that brought him to
the old home of the race--which was to sever himself from it. No, after
all, he said to himself with a smile, there was not very much to give
up; the pleasure of riding into the county town and receiving the
respectful salutations of all the shopkeepers: that was not much. The
Albany was a better place to live in, Piccadilly was a little more
entertaining than the High Street. Nevertheless, it was certain that
Heathcote felt a pinch of regret when he remembered that the glories of
Mount and the greetings of Hunston were not to be his. He laughed, but
he did not like it. All the more was it essential that this step should
be taken without delay.
Heathcote examined everything there was to see in the place, and walked
three or four times from one end to another of the High Street,
awakening the greatest curiosity in the bosoms of all the shopkeepers,
and a flutter of futile hope and expectation behind the bonnets in the
milliner’s windows, where Miss Trimmin’s niece took this novel
apparition for the hero of her last romance. That a gentleman should see
a face at a window, and walk up and down High Street for an hour for the
chance of another glimpse of it, was not at all an out-of-the-way event
for the readers of the ‘Family Herald’--much more likely than that he
should be waiting for Mr. Mountford. When, however, the master of Mount
appeared at last, he bore all the outward signs of a prolonged combat.
His hair was rubbed up off his forehead, so that his hat rested upon the
ends of it, not upon his head. His eyes were agitated and rolling. Mr.
Loseby, a little stout old gentleman, with a large watchchain and seals,
came out after him with similar signs of commotion. The family lawyer
was red and breathless, while his companion was choked and pale. They
came out together with that air of formal politeness which follows a
quarrel, to the door.
‘Heathcote,’ Mr. Mountford called, holding up his hand; ‘this is Mr.
Loseby, whose name must be known to you as the man of business of my
family for several generations. We have always had the utmost confidence
in them, as they have always done their best for us.’
‘After such an introduction,’ said Mr. Loseby, ‘I ought to make a bow
and hope for the continuance of custom and favour, which my best efforts
will be exerted to deserve.’
And then there was a forced laugh, in which some of the resentment of
the two elder men fortunately blew off. They stood together in a circle
at the door of the Queen Anne Mansion. Mr. Loseby only wore no hat. He
was bald and round and shining all over, a man to whom genial
good-humour was evidently more natural than the air of heat and
irritation which was upon him now.
‘I hope we are to see something of Mr. Heathcote Mountford in the county
after this. I hope you mean to make acquaintance with your neighbours,
and feel yourself at home. The name of Mountford is a passport here.’
(‘Though I don’t know why it should be--obstinate asses! pig-headed
fools!’ the puffing little lawyer said to himself.)
‘I am here on false pretences,’ Heathcote said. ‘I fear I have been
taking in my cousin and his family and all their excellent friends. I
may as well tell it at last. My real object in coming was rather to
sever myself from the county than to draw the bond tighter----’
‘What do you mean?’ said Mr. Mountford, abruptly.
‘Forgive me for saying nothing about it before. This is a good
opportunity now, when we have Mr. Loseby’s assistance. I came with the
express intention of making a proposal to you, St. John, about the
entail.’
Mr. Loseby looked first at the speaker and then at his client, forming
his lips into a round, as if he would have said, ‘Whew-w!’ This was
something altogether new.
Mr. Mountford took no notice of his look; he said, still more abruptly
than before, ‘What about the entail?’
‘Pardon me if I say it,’ said Heathcote. ‘Mount is quite new to me; it
does not attract me’ (what a fib that was, he felt in his heart). ‘I
shall never marry. I have suffered the time for forming new connections
to pass, and my brother has indifferent health and no liking for country
life. On the other hand, it is natural that my cousin should prefer to
be succeeded by his own family. What I have to say is that I am very
willing, if you like it, to join with you in breaking the entail.’
‘In breaking the entail!’ Mr. Loseby’s mouth grew rounder and rounder:
he seemed to be forming one whistle after another, which came to
nothing. But he did not take time to express his own surprise or his own
opinion, so much was he occupied in watching the effect of this
announcement upon Mr. Mountford. The latter was dumbfoundered; he stood
and stared at the speaker with blank dismay and consternation. But it
did not apparently produce any livelier or happier impression upon his
mind. He was not eager to snatch at the opportunity of putting his own
child in his place.
‘You must be cracked,’ he said; ‘do you know how long the Mountfords
have been at Mount?--the oldest house in the county, and, if not the
richest or the largest, in some ways by far the most interesting.
Heathcote, there must be something under this. If you are pressed for
money, if there is anything you want to do, I dare say Loseby will
manage it for you.’
‘I will do anything that is in reason,’ Mr. Loseby said, not without a
little emphasis which brought a tinge of red on his client’s
countenance. They could not yet give up their duel with each other,
however important the other communication might be.
‘Heathcote Mountford will not ask you to do anything out of reason,’
cried the other; ‘and in case he should exceed that limit, here am I
ready to be his security. No, we must not hear anything more about
breaking the entail.’
‘I am afraid you must consent to hear something more,’ said Heathcote,
half pleased, half angry; ‘it is not a sudden fancy. I have considered
it thoroughly; there are numberless advantages, and, so far as I can
see, nothing of substantial weight to be brought forward on the other
side.’
‘Oh, come, this is too much!’ cried the lawyer, moved to professional
interest; ‘nothing on the other side! But this is not a place to discuss
so serious a subject. Step into my office, and let us have it out.’
‘I have had enough of your office for one day,’ said Mr. Mountford (at
which the lawyer barely restrained a chuckle); ‘I have had quite enough
of your office, I’ll go and see about the horses. If there is anything
wrong, Heathcote, have it out, as he says, with Loseby. He’ll make it
all right for you. He may not always be satisfactory to deal with for
those who prefer to judge for themselves sometimes; but if it is
anything you want, he’ll give you trustworthy advice.’
‘Thank you for your good word, squire,’ said the lawyer, laughing and
putting his hand to his forehead with the duck of a country bumpkin.
‘Now take a seat,’ he added, as he led the stranger into a trim
wainscoted room with cupboards hid behind half the panels, and the
secrets of half the families of the county in them, ‘and let us talk
this over. I cannot understand why Mountford does not jump at it (yes, I
do; I _can_ understand, now), but why you should wish to do it! Pardon
me, if I say on your side it is mere madness. What good can it do you?
If you want money, as your cousin says, I can get you as much money as
you like--at least,’ he said, pausing to survey him with dubious looks,
as if with a momentary apprehension that his new acquaintance might turn
out a sporting man in difficulties or something of that disreputable
kind, ‘almost as much as you like.’
‘I do want money,’ Heathcote said, ‘but I do not want it unless I give a
fair equivalent. The entail is of no advantage to me. I live in London.
I do not want to keep up the faded glories of a place in the country.’
‘Faded glories! We thought, on the contrary, everything was as fine as
in the Queen’s palace, and all new,’ cried Mr. Loseby, with his
favourite restrained whistle of comic surprise.
‘I have a place of my own,’ said Heathcote, ‘a poor one, I allow, but
enough for my requirements. I am not a marrying man, and very likely,
God knows, to be the last of my family; what do I want with an entailed
estate?’
‘But that is so easily remedied,’ said the lawyer. ‘Marry--marry, my
dear sir! and you will no longer be the last of your family, and will
very soon learn to appreciate an entailed estate. By----!’ cried Mr.
Loseby, rubbing his hands. He would not say ‘By Jove!’ or even ‘By
George!’ or anything of the sort, which would have been unbecoming his
years and dignity; but when things were too many for him, he swore
‘By----!’ and was refreshed. ‘I could tell you a thing to do,’ cried the
lawyer, with a chuckle, ‘that would save the family from a great deal of
trouble. What do you think that obstinate--I beg your pardon, Mr.
Heathcote, he and I are old friends, we say what we please to each
other?--what do you suppose he has been doing here?--trying to force me,
against all the teachings of reason, to alter his will--to cut off that
fine girl, that delightful creature, Anne.’
‘Mr. Loseby, I don’t suppose this is a thing which I am intended to
know.’
‘You will know, sooner or later, if he carries it out,’ cried the
lawyer; ‘but you are right, I have no business to betray my client’s
affairs. But, look here now,’ he said, bending across the table, leaning
on both his elbows to look insinuatingly, coaxingly in Heathcote’s face,
‘look here now! I never saw you before, Mr. Heathcote, but your name is
as familiar to me as my a, b, c, and I am a very old family friend, as I
may say, as well as their man of business. Look here now. You are a very
personable man, and not a bit too old for her, and a most suitable match
in every way. Why shouldn’t you make up to Anne? Hear me out, and don’t
flare up. Bless you, I am not a stranger, nor a mere impudent country
attorney, as perhaps you are thinking. I knew them all before they were
born. Anne is perhaps a little serious, you will think, a little
highfaluting. But nobody knows till they _do_ know her what a fine
creature she is. Anne Mountford is a wife for a king. And here she’s got
entangled with some fellow whom nobody knows, and Mountford of course
refuses his consent. But she is not the girl to be bullied or treated
with severity. Why couldn’t you go in now and try for Anne? You are not
to be supposed to know anything about it; it would all be innocence in
you; and who knows that she mightn’t be glad of the chance of slipping
out of the other, though she won’t give in to threats. Won’t you think
of it? Won’t you think of it? I don’t know the man, if he were a prince,
that might not be proud of Anne.’
All this Heathcote listened to with very strange sensations. He was
angry, amused, touched by the enthusiasm of the little round shining man
who thus entreated him, with every kind of eloquence he was capable of,
his eyes and hands and his whole frame twisting into gestures of
persuasion. Heathcote was disposed to laugh, but he was still more
disposed to resent this familiar employment of his cousin’s name.
‘Are you aware that I have no right to be brought into the family
secrets, to have their affairs thus revealed to me?’ he said. ‘Stop--nor
to hear the name of a young lady for whom I have so much respect treated
so. Allowing that I need not resent it as a liberty, since you are an
older friend than I am, still you must see that between you and me,
strangers to each other----’
‘Yes, yes, I see,’ said Mr. Loseby, ‘you are quite right. I see. I
thought perhaps exceptional circumstances might warrant--but never mind.
I am wrong; I see it. Well, then, about this entail business. Don’t you
see this is why our friend does not jump at it? Little Rose could never
be Mountford of Mount. Anne would make a noble squire, but it is out of
the question for her sister. Keep to your entail, Mr. Heathcote, and if
I can be of use to you, I will do my best. If it’s a money difficulty
we’ll tide it over for you. Let me know all the circumstances, and I
will do my best.’
‘I cannot give up my project all at once,’ Heathcote said, hesitating.
‘I would if I were you. It would harm yourself and do good to nobody. I
certainly would if I were you,’ said the lawyer, getting up and
accompanying him to the door.
‘I must exercise my own judgment on that point, Mr. Loseby.’
‘Certainly, certainly, certainly, Mr. Heathcote Mountford! You will all
exercise your judgment, you will all do what seems good in your own
eyes. I know what the Mountfords are from generation to generation. If
it had not been that St. John Mountford had the luck to take a fancy to
a rich woman for his first wife, what would the place have been by this
time? But that is a chance that doesn’t happen once in a century. And
now, when here is another--the finest chance! with openings for such a
settlement! But never mind; never mind; of course you will all take your
own way.’
‘I hope you have brought him to reason, Loseby,’ said Mr. Mountford,
from the back of his cob, as they emerged again into the street.
‘All arrangements about property which are against nature are against
reason,’ said the little lawyer, sententiously. ‘Good afternoon,
gentlemen. When you go in for these fancy arrangements, it is some sort
of a poetical personage you want, and not a lawyer. I wish you a
pleasant ride.’
‘He is a character,’ said Mr. Mountford, with a short laugh, as they
rode away. But that laugh was the only sound of the lighter sort that
broke the gravity of their silent companionship, as their horses’ hoofs
clattered over the stones of the little town, and came out upon the long
silence of the country road now falling rapidly into twilight. ‘We are a
little late,’ Mr. Mountford said, half-an-hour after. As for Heathcote,
he did not feel, any more than his kinsman, in a humour for talk. What
he had heard, though he had protested against hearing it, dwelt in his
mind, and the somewhat morose gravity of the other infected him in spite
of himself. What had St. John Mountford, who was in reality a
commonplace, good enough sort of man, been doing to warrant so gloomy an
aspect? Had he been turning the fortunes of the family upside down and
spoiling the life of the daughter he loved best? or was it a mere
exhibition of sulkiness consequent upon the quarrel with the lawyer and
the opposition he had encountered? Heathcote had known nothing about
these Mountfords a week ago, and now how closely he felt himself knitted
up in their affairs, whether he continued to be formally connected with
them or not! As he rode along in silence by his kinsman’s side, he could
not help thinking of the catastrophe which might be coming; that ‘fine
creature’ Anne--the little old bald shining lawyer had grown eloquent
when he spoke of her. And though she seemed a little severe to
Heathcote, he could not but acknowledge to himself that she had always
interested him. Rose? oh, Rose was a pretty little thing, a child, a
nobody; it did not matter very much what happened to her; but if it
should happen that Anne’s life was being changed, the brightness taken
out of it, and all those advantages which seem so natural and becoming
transferred from her to the profit of Rose? Heathcote felt that this
would be a wrong to move heaven and earth; but it was not a subject in
which he, a stranger, had any right to interfere. As he looked at the
dark muffled figure of her father by his side against the faint crimson
which still lingered in the west, he could scarcely help chafing at the
thought that, though he was their nearest relation, he was still a
stranger, and must not, dared not say a word. And what kind of fellow,
he said to himself, in natural indignation, could it be who was wilfully
leading Anne into the wilderness, accepting her sacrifice of that which
was the very foundation of her life? Perhaps had he himself been the man
who loved Anne he would have seen things in a different light; but from
his present point of view his mind was full of angry wrath and contempt
for the unknown who could let a girl inexperienced in the world give up
so much for him. He was a nobody, they said. He must be a poor sort of
creature, Heathcote, on these very insufficient grounds, decided in his
heart.
It was a beautiful clear October night, with frost in the air, the stars
shining every minute more and more brightly, the crimson disappearing,
even the last golden afterglow fading into palest yellow in the west,
and all the great vault of sky darkening to perfect night. The horses’
hoofs beat upon the long, safe, well-kept road, bordered by long
monotonous walls and clouds of trees, from which darkness had stolen
their colour--a perfectly safe, tranquil country road, with a peaceful
house at the end, already lighting all its windows, preparing its table
for the wayfarers. Yet there was something of the gloom of a tragedy in
the dark figure wrapped in silence, pondering one could not tell what
plans of mischief, and wrathful gloomy intentions, which rode by
Heathcote’s side, without a word, along all those miles of darkling way.