MR ARMSTRONG VISITS GREY ABBEY ON A DELICATE MISSION
Lord Cashel certainly felt a considerable degree of relief when his
daughter told him that Lord Kilcullen had left the house, and was on
his way to Dublin, though he had been forced to pay so dearly for the
satisfaction, had had to falsify his solemn assurance that he would not
give his son another penny, and to break through his resolution of
acting the Roman father [50]. He consoled himself with the idea that
he had been actuated by affection for his profligate son; but such had
not been the case. Could he have handed him over to the sheriff’s
officer silently and secretly, he would have done so; but his pride
could not endure the reflection that all the world should know that
bailiffs had forced an entry into Grey Abbey.
He closely questioned Lady Selina, with regard to all that had passed
between her and her brother.
“Did he say anything?” at last he said—“did he say anything about—about
Fanny?”
“Not much, papa; but what he did say, he said with kindness and
affection,” replied her ladyship, glad to repeat anything in favour of
her brother.
“Affection—pooh!” said the earl. “He has no affection; no affection for
any one; he has no affection even for me.—What did he say about her,
Selina?”
“He seemed to wish she should marry Lord Ballindine.”
“She may marry whom she pleases, now,” said the earl. “I wash my hands
of her. I have done my best to prevent what I thought a disgraceful
match for her—”
“It would not have been disgraceful, papa, had she married him six
months ago.”
“A gambler and a roué!” said the earl, forgetting, it is to be
supposed, for the moment, his own son’s character. “She’ll marry him
now, I suppose, and repent at her leisure. I’ll give myself no further
trouble about it.”
The earl thought upon the subject, however, a good deal; and before Mr
Armstrong’s arrival he had all but made up his mind that he must again
swallow his word, and ask his ward’s lover back to his house. He had at
any rate become assured that if he did not do so, some one else would
do it for him.
Mr Armstrong was, happily, possessed of a considerable stock of
self-confidence, and during his first day’s journey, felt no want of it
with regard to the delicate mission with which he was entrusted. But
when he had deposited his carpet-bag at the little hotel at Kilcullen
bridge, and found himself seated on a hack car, and proceeding to Grey
Abbey, he began to feel that he had rather a difficult part to play;
and by the time that the house was in sight, he felt himself completely
puzzled as to the manner in which he should open his negotiation.
He had, however, desired the man to drive to the house, and he could
not well stop the car in the middle of the demesne, to mature his
plans; and when he was at the door he could not stay there without
applying for admission. So he got his card-case in his hand, and rang
the bell. After a due interval, which to the parson did not seem a bit
too long, the heavy-looking, powdered footman appeared, and announced
that Lord Cashel was at home; and, in another minute Mr Armstrong found
himself in the book-room.
It was the morning after Lord Kilcullen’s departure, and Lord Cashel
was still anything but comfortable. Her ladyship had been bothering him
about the poor boy, as she called her son, now that she learned he was
in distress; and had been beseeching him to increase his allowance. The
earl had not told his wife the extent of their son’s pecuniary
delinquencies, and consequently she was greatly dismayed when her
husband very solemnly said,
“My lady, Lord Kilcullen has no longer any allowance from me.”
“Good gracious!” screamed her ladyship; “no allowance?—how is the poor
boy to live?”
“That I really cannot tell. I cannot even guess; but, let him live how
he may, I will not absolutely ruin myself for his sake.”
The interview was not a comfortable one, either to the father or
mother. Lady Cashel cried a great deal, and was very strongly of
opinion that her son would die of cold and starvation: “How could he
get shelter or food, any more than a common person, if he had no
allowance? Mightn’t he, at any rate, come back, and live at Grey
Abbey?—That wouldn’t cost his father anything.” And then the countess
remembered how she had praised her son to Mrs Ellison, and the bishop’s
wife; and she cried worse than ever, and was obliged to be left to
Griffiths and her drops.
This happened on the evening of Lord Kilcullen’s departure, and on the
next morning her ladyship did not appear at breakfast. She was weak and
nervous, and had her tea in her own sitting-room. There was no one
sitting at breakfast but the earl, Fanny, and Lady Selina, and they
were all alike, stiff, cold, and silent. The earl felt as if he were
not at home even in his own breakfast-parlour; he felt afraid of his
ward, as though he were conscious that she knew how he had intended to
injure her: and, as soon as he had swallowed his eggs, he muttered
something which was inaudible to both the girls, and retreated to his
private den.
He had not been there long before the servant brought in our friend’s
name. “The Rev. George Armstrong”, written on a plain card. The parson
had not put the name of his parish, fearing that the earl, knowing from
whence he came, might guess his business, and decline seeing him. As it
was, no difficulty was made, and the parson soon found himself
_tête-à-tête_ with the earl.
“I have taken the liberty of calling on you, Lord Cashel,” said Mr
Armstrong, having accepted the offer of a chair, “on a rather delicate
mission.”
The earl bowed, and rubbed his hands, and felt more comfortable than he
had done for the last week. He liked delicate missions coming to him,
for he flattered himself that he knew how to receive them in a delicate
manner; he liked, also, displaying his dignity to strangers, for he
felt that strangers stood rather in awe of him: he also felt, though he
did not own it to himself, that his manner was not so effective with
people who had known him some time.
“I may say, a very delicate mission,” said the parson; “and one I would
not have undertaken had I not known your lordship’s character for
candour and honesty.”
Lord Cashel again bowed and rubbed his hands.
“I am, my lord, a friend of Lord Ballindine; and as such I have taken
the liberty of calling on your lordship.”
“A friend of Lord Ballindine?” said the earl, arching his eyebrows, and
assuming a look of great surprise.
“A very old friend, my lord; the clergyman of his parish, and for many
years an intimate friend of his father. I have known Lord Ballindine
since he was a child.”
“Lord Ballindine is lucky in having such a friend: few young men now, I
am sorry to say, care much for their father’s friends. Is there
anything, Mr Armstrong, in which I can assist either you or his
lordship?”
“My lord,” said the parson, “I need not tell you that before I took the
perhaps unwarrantable liberty of troubling you, I was made acquainted
with Lord Ballindine’s engagement with your ward, and with the manner
in which that engagement was broken off.”
“And your object is, Mr Armstrong—?”
“My object is to remove, if possible, the unfortunate misunderstanding
between your lordship and my friend.”
“Misunderstanding, Mr Armstrong?—There was no misunderstanding between
us. I really think we perfectly understood each other. Lord Ballindine
was engaged to my ward; his engagement, however, being contingent on
his adoption of a certain line of conduct. This line of conduct his
lordship did not adopt; perhaps, he used a wise discretion; however, I
thought not. I thought the mode of life which he pursued—”
“But—”
“Pardon me a moment, Mr Armstrong, and I shall have said all which
appears to me to be necessary on the occasion; perhaps more than is
necessary; more probably than I should have allowed myself to say, had
not Lord Ballindine sent as his ambassador the clergyman of his parish
and the friend of his father,” and Lord Cashel again bowed and rubbed
his hands. “I thought, Mr Armstrong, that your young friend appeared
wedded to a style of life quite incompatible with his income—with his
own income as a single man, and the income which he would have
possessed had he married my ward. I thought that their marriage would
only lead to poverty and distress, and I felt that I was only doing my
duty to my ward in expressing this opinion to her. I found that she was
herself of the same opinion; that she feared a union with Lord
Ballindine would not ensure happiness either to him or to herself. His
habits were too evidently those of extravagance, and hers had not been
such as to render a life of privation anything but a life of misery.”
“I had thought—”
“One moment more, Mr Armstrong, and I shall have done. After mature
consideration, Miss Wyndham commissioned me to express her
sentiments,—and I must say they fully coincided with my own,—to Lord
Ballindine, and to explain to him, that she found herself obliged
to—to—to retrace the steps which she had taken in the matter. I did
this in a manner as little painful to Lord Ballindine as I was able. It
is difficult, Mr Armstrong, to make a disagreeable communication
palatable; it is very difficult to persuade a young man who is in love,
to give up the object of his idolatry; but I trust Lord Ballindine will
do me the justice to own that, on the occasion alluded to, I said
nothing unnecessarily harsh—nothing calculated to harass his feelings.
I appreciate and esteem Lord Ballindine’s good qualities, and I much
regretted that prudence forbad me to sanction the near alliance he was
anxious to do me the honour of making with me.”
Lord Cashel finished his harangue, and felt once more on good terms
with himself. He by no means intended offering any further vehement
resistance to his ward’s marriage. He was, indeed, rejoiced to have an
opportunity of giving way decently. But he could not resist the
temptation of explaining his conduct, and making a speech.
“My lord,” said the parson, “what you tell me is only a repetition of
what I heard from my young friend.”
“I am glad to hear it. I trust, then, I may have the pleasure of
feeling that Lord Ballindine attributes to me no personal unkindness?”
“Not in the least, Lord Cashel; very far from it. Though Lord
Ballindine may not be—may not hitherto have been, free from the follies
of his age, he has had quite sense enough to appreciate your lordship’s
conduct.”
“I endeavoured, at any rate, that it should be such as to render me
liable to no just imputation of fickleness or cruelty.”
“No one would for a moment accuse your lordship of either. It is my
knowledge of your lordship’s character in this particular which has
induced me to undertake the task of begging you to reconsider the
subject. Lord Ballindine has, you are aware, sold his race-horses.”
“I had heard so, Mr Armstrong; though, perhaps, not on good authority.”
“He has; and is now living among his own tenantry and friends at
Kelly’s Court. He is passionately, devotedly attached to your ward,
Lord Cashel; and with a young man’s vanity he still thinks that she may
not be quite indifferent to him.”
“It was at her own instance, Mr Armstrong, that his suit was rejected.”
“I am well aware of that, my lord. But ladies, you know, do sometimes
mistake their own feelings. Miss Wyndham must have been attached to my
friend, or she would not have received him as her lover. Will you, my
lord, allow me to see Miss Wyndham? If she still expresses indifference
to Lord Ballindine, I will assure her that she shall be no further
persecuted by his suit. If such be not the case, surely prudence need
not further interfere to prevent a marriage desired by both the persons
most concerned. Lord Ballindine is not now a spendthrift, whatever he
may formerly have been; and Miss Wyndham’s princely fortune, though it
alone would never have induced my friend to seek her hand, will make
the match all that it should be. You will not object, my lord, to my
seeing Miss Wyndham?”
“Mr Armstrong—really—you must be aware such a request is rather
unusual.”
“So are the circumstances,” replied the parson. “They also are unusual.
I do not doubt Miss Wyndham’s wisdom in rejecting Lord Ballindine,
when, as you say, he appeared to be wedded to a life of extravagance. I
have no doubt she put a violent restraint on her own feelings;
exercised, in fact, a self-denial which shows a very high tone of
character, and should elicit nothing but admiration; but circumstances
are much altered.”
Lord Cashel continued to raise objections to the parson’s request,
though it was, throughout the interview, his intention to accede to it.
At last, he gave up the point, with much grace, and in such a manner as
he thought should entitle him to the eternal gratitude of his ward,
Lord Ballindine, and the parson. He consequently rang the bell, and
desired the servant to give his compliments to Miss Wyndham and tell
her that the Rev. Mr Armstrong wished to see her, alone, upon business
of importance.
Mr Armstrong felt that his success was much greater than he had had any
reason to expect, from Lord Ballindine’s description of his last visit
at Grey Abbey. He had, in fact, overcome the only difficulty. If Miss
Wyndham really disliked his friend, and objected to the marriage, Mr
Armstrong was well aware that he had only to return, and tell his
friend so in the best way he could. If, however, she still had a true
regard for him, if she were the Fanny Wyndham Ballindine had described
her to be, if she had ever really been devoted to him, if she had at
all a wish in her heart to see him again at her feet, the parson felt
that he would have good news to send back to Kelly’s Court; and that he
would have done the lovers a service which they never could forget.
“At any rate, Mr Armstrong,” said Lord Cashel, as the parson was bowing
himself backwards out of the room, “you will join our family circle
while you are in the neighbourhood. Whatever may be the success of your
mission—and I assure you I hope it may be such as will be gratifying to
you, I am happy to make the acquaintance of any friend of Lord
Ballindine’s, when Lord Ballindine chooses his friends so well.” (This
was meant as a slap at Dot Blake.) “You will give me leave to send down
to the town for your luggage.” Mr Armstrong made no objection to this
proposal, and the luggage was sent for.
The powder-haired servant again took him in tow, and ushered him out of
the book-room, across the hall through the billiard-room, and into the
library; gave him a chair, and then brought him a newspaper, giving him
to understand that Miss Wyndham would soon be with him.
The parson took the paper in his hands, but he did not trouble himself
much with the contents of it. What was he to say to Miss Wyndham?—how
was he to commence? He had never gone love-making for another in his
life; and now, at his advanced age, it really did come rather strange
to him. And then he began to think whether she were short or tall, dark
or fair, stout or slender. It certainly was very odd, but, in all their
conversations on the subject, Lord Ballindine had never given him any
description of his inamorata. Mr Armstrong, however, had not much time
to make up his mind on any of these points, for the door opened, and
Miss Wyndham entered.
She was dressed in black, for she was, of course, still in mourning for
her brother; but, in spite of her sable habiliments, she startled the
parson by the brilliance of her beauty. There was a quiet dignity of
demeanour natural to Fanny Wyndham; a well-balanced pose, and a grace
of motion, which saved her from ever looking awkward or confused. She
never appeared to lose her self-possession. Though never arrogant, she
seemed always to know what was due to herself. No insignificant puppy
could ever have attempted to flirt with her.
When summoned by the servant to meet a strange clergyman alone in the
library, at the request of Lord Cashel, she felt that his visit must
have some reference to her lover; indeed, her thoughts for the last few
days had run on little else. She had made up her mind to talk to her
cousin about him; then, her cousin had matured that determination by
making love to her himself: then, she had talked to him of Lord
Ballindine, and he had promised to talk to his father on the same
subject; and she had since been endeavouring to bring herself to make
one other last appeal to her uncle’s feelings. Her mind was therefore,
full of Lord Ballindine, when she walked into the library. But her face
was no tell-tale; her gait and demeanour were as dignified as though
she had no anxious love within her heart—no one grand desire, to
disturb the even current of her blood. She bowed her beautiful head to
Mr Armstrong as she walked into the room, and, sitting down herself,
begged him to take a chair.
The parson had by no means made up his mind as to what he was to say to
the young lady, so he shut his eyes, and rushed at once into the middle
of his subject. “Miss Wyndham,” he said, “I have come a long way to
call on you, at the request of a friend of yours—a very dear and old
friend of mine—at the request of Lord Ballindine.”
Fanny’s countenance became deeply suffused at her lover’s name, but the
parson did not observe it; indeed he hardly ventured to look in her
face. She merely said, in a voice which seemed to him to be anything
but promising, “Well, sir?” The truth was, she did not know what to
say. Had she dared, she would have fallen on her knees before her
lover’s friend, and sworn to him how well she loved him.
“When Lord Ballindine was last at Grey Abbey, Miss Wyndham, he had not
the honour of an interview with you.”
“No, sir,” said Fanny. Her voice, look, and manner were still sedate
and courtly; her heart, however, was beating so violently that she
hardly knew what she said.
“Circumstances, I believe, prevented it,” said the parson. “My friend,
however, received, through Lord Cashel, a message from you,
which—which—which has been very fatal to his happiness.”
Fanny tried to say something, but she was not able.
“The very decided tone in which your uncle then spoke to him, has made
Lord Ballindine feel that any further visit to Grey Abbey on his own
part would be an intrusion.”
“I never—” said Fanny, “I never—”
“You never authorised so harsh a message, you would say. It is not the
harshness of the language, but the certainty of the fact, that has
destroyed my friend’s happiness. If such were to be the case—if it were
absolutely necessary that the engagement between you and Lord
Ballindine should be broken off the more decided the manner in which
it were done, the better. Lord Ballindine now wishes—I am a bad
messenger in such a case as this, Miss Wyndham: it is, perhaps, better
to tell you at once a plain tale. Frank has desired me to tell you that
he loves you well and truly; that he cannot believe you are indifferent
to him; that your vows, to him so precious, are still ringing in his
ears; that he is, as far as his heart is concerned, unchanged; and he
has commissioned me to ascertain from yourself, whether you—have really
changed your mind since he last had the pleasure of seeing you.” The
parson waited a moment for an answer, and then added, “Lord Ballindine
by no means wishes to persecute you on the subject; nor would I do so,
if he did wish it. You have only to tell me that you do not intend to
renew your acquaintance with Lord Ballindine, and I will leave Grey
Abbey.” Fanny still remained silent. “Say the one word ‘go’, Miss
Wyndham, and you need not pain yourself by any further speech. I will
at once be gone.”
Fanny strove hard to keep her composure, and to make some fitting reply
to Mr Armstrong, but she was unable. Her heart was too full; she was
too happy. She had, openly, and in spite of rebuke, avowed her love to
her uncle, her aunt, to Lady Selina, and her cousin. But she could not
bring herself to confess it to Mr Armstrong. At last she said:
“I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Mr Armstrong. Perhaps I
owe it to Lord Ballindine to—to . . . I will ask my uncle, sir, to
write to him.”
“I shall write to Lord Ballindine this evening, Miss Wyndham; will you
intrust me with no message? I came from him, to see you, with no other
purpose. I must give him some news: I must tell him I have seen you.
May I tell him not to despair?”
“Tell him—tell him—” said Fanny,—and she paused to make up her mind as
to the words of her message,—“tell him to come himself.” And, hurrying
from the room, she left the parson alone, to meditate on the singular
success of his mission. He stood for about half an hour, thinking over
what had occurred, and rejoicing greatly in his mind that he had
undertaken the business. “What fools men are about women!” he said at
last, to himself. “They know their nature so well when they are
thinking and speaking of them with reference to others; but as soon as
a man is in love with one himself, he is cowed! He thinks the nature of
one woman is different from that of all others, and he is afraid to act
on his general knowledge. Well; I might as well write to him! for,
thank God, I can send him good news”—and he rang the bell, and asked if
his bag had come. It had, and was in his bed-room. “Could the servant
get him pen, ink, and paper?” The servant did so; and, within two hours
of his entering the doors of Grey Abbey, he was informing his friend of
the success of his mission.