DANIEL THWAITE RECEIVES HIS MONEY.
There was of course much commotion among all circles of society in
London as soon as it was known to have been decided that the Countess
Lovel was the Countess Lovel, and that Lady Anna was the heiress
of the late Earl. Bets were paid,--and bets no doubt were left
unpaid,--to a great amount. Men at the clubs talked more about the
Lovels than they had done even during the month preceding the trial.
The Countess became on a sudden very popular. Exaggerated stories
were told of the romance of her past life,--though it would have been
well nigh impossible to exaggerate her sufferings. Her patience, her
long endurance and persistency were extolled by all. The wealth that
would accrue to her and to her daughter was of course doubled. Had
anybody seen her? Did anybody know her? Even the Murrays began to be
proud of her, and old Lady Jemima Magtaggart, who had been a Murray
before she married General Mag, as he was called, went at once and
called upon the Countess in Keppel Street. Being the first that
did so, before the Countess had suspected any invasion, she was
admitted,--and came away declaring that sorrow must have driven the
Countess mad. The Countess, no doubt, did not receive her distant
relative with any gentle courtesy. She had sworn to herself often,
that come what come might, she would never cross the threshold of a
Murray. Old Lord Swanage, who had married some very distant Lovel,
wrote to her a letter full of very proper feeling. It had been, he
said, quite impossible for him to know the truth before the truth had
come to light, and therefore he made no apology for not having before
this made overtures of friendship to his connection. He now begged to
express his great delight that she who had so well deserved success
had been successful, and to offer her his hand in friendship, should
she be inclined to accept it. The Countess answered him in a strain
which certainly showed that she was not mad. It was not her policy to
quarrel with any Lovel, and her letter was very courteous. She was
greatly obliged to him for his kindness, and had felt as strongly as
he could do that she could have no claim on her husband's relations
till she should succeed in establishing her rights. She accepted his
hand in the spirit in which it had been offered, and hoped that his
Lordship might yet become a friend of her daughter. For herself,--she
feared that all that she had suffered had made her unfit for much
social intercourse. Her strength, she said, had been sufficient to
carry her thus far, but was now failing her.
Then, too, there came to her that great glory of which the lawyer had
given her a hint. She received a letter from the private secretary
of his Majesty the King, telling her that his Majesty had heard her
story with great interest, and now congratulated her heartily on the
re-establishment of her rank and position. She wrote a very curt
note, begging that her thanks might be given to his Majesty,--and
then she burned the private secretary's letter. No congratulations
were anything to her till she should see her daughter freed from the
debasement of her engagement to the tailor.
Speculation was rife as to the kind of life which the Countess would
lead. That she would have wealth sufficient to blaze forth in London
with all the glories of Countess-ship, there was no doubt. Her own
share of the estate was put down as worth at least ten thousand a
year for her life, and this she would enjoy without deductions, and
with no other expenditure than that needed for herself. Her age was
ascertained to a day, and it was known that she was as yet only
forty-five. Was it not probable that some happy man might share
her wealth with her? What an excellent thing it would be for old
Lundy,--the Marquis of Lundy,--who had run through every shilling of
his own property! Before a week was over, the suggestion had been
made to old Lundy. "They say she is mad, but she can't be mad enough
for that," said the Marquis.
The rector hurried home full of indignation, but he had a word or
two with his nephew before he started. "What do you mean to do now,
Frederic?" asked the rector with a very grave demeanour.
"Do? I don't know that I shall do anything."
"You give up the girl, then?"
"My dear uncle; that is a sort of question that I don't think a man
ever likes to be asked."
"But I suppose I may ask how you intend to live?"
"I trust, uncle Charles, that I shall not, at any rate, be a burden
to my relatives."
"Oh; very well; very well. Of course I have nothing more to say. I
think it right, all the same, to express my opinion that you have
been grossly misused by Sir William Patterson. Of course what I say
will have no weight with you; but that is my opinion."
"I do not agree with you, uncle Charles."
"Very well; I have nothing more to say. It is right that I should
let you know that I do not believe that this woman was ever Lord
Lovel's wife. I never did believe it, and I never will believe it.
All that about marrying the girl has been a take in from beginning
to end;--all planned to induce you to do just what you have done. No
word in courtesy should ever have been spoken to either of them."
"I am as sure that she is the Countess as I am that I am the Earl."
"Very well. It costs me nothing, but it costs you thirty thousand a
year. Do you mean to come down to Yoxham this winter?"
"No."
"Are the horses to be kept there?" Now hitherto the rich rector had
kept the poor lord's hunters without charging his nephew ought for
their expense. He was a man so constituted that it would have been
a misery to him that the head of his family should not have horses
to ride. But now he could not but remember all that he had done, all
that he was doing, and the return that was made to him. Nevertheless
he could have bit the tongue out of his mouth for asking the question
as soon as the words were spoken.
"I will have them sold immediately," said the Earl. "They shall come
up to Tattersal's before the week is over."
"I didn't mean that."
"I am glad that you thought of it, uncle Charles. They shall be taken
away at once."
"They are quite welcome to remain at Yoxham."
"They shall be removed,--and sold," said the Earl. "Remember me to my
aunts. Good bye." Then the rector went down to Yoxham an angry and a
miserable man.
There were very many who still agreed with the rector in thinking
that the Earl's case had been mismanaged. There was surely enough of
ground for a prolonged fight to have enabled the Lovel party to have
driven their opponents to a compromise. There was a feeling that the
Solicitor-General had been carried away by some romantic idea of
abstract right, and had acted in direct opposition to all the usages
of forensic advocacy as established in England. What was it to him
whether the Countess were or were not a real Countess? It had been
his duty to get what he could for the Earl, his client. There had
been much to get, and with patience no doubt something might have
been got. But he had gotten nothing. Many thought that he had
altogether cut his own throat, and that he would have to take the
first "puny" judgeship vacant. "He is a great man,--a very great man
indeed," said the Attorney-General, in answer to some one who was
abusing Sir William. "There is not one of us can hold a candle to
him. But, then, as I have always said, he ought to have been a poet!"
In discussing the Solicitor-General's conduct men thought more
of Lady Anna than her mother. The truth about Lady Anna and her
engagement was generally known in a misty, hazy, half-truthful
manner. That she was engaged to marry Daniel Thwaite, who was now
becoming famous and the cause of a greatly increased business in
Wigmore Street, was certain. It was certain also that the Earl had
desired to marry her. But as to the condition in which the matter
stood at present there was a very divided opinion. Not a few were
positive that a written engagement had been given to the Earl that
he should have the heiress before the Solicitor-General had made his
speech,--but, according to these, the tailor's hold over the young
lady was so strong, that she now refused to abide by her own compact.
She was in the tailor's hands and the tailor could do what he liked
with her. It was known that Lady Anna was in Bedford Square, and not
a few walked before the Serjeant's house in the hopes of seeing her.
The romance at any rate was not over, and possibly there might even
yet be a compromise. If the Earl could get even five thousand a year
out of the property, it was thought that the Solicitor-General might
hold his own and in due time become at any rate a Chief Baron.
In the mean time Daniel Thwaite remained in moody silence among the
workmen in Wigmore Street, unseen of any of those who rushed there
for new liveries in order that they might catch a glimpse of the
successful hero,--till one morning, about five days after the trial
was over, when he received a letter from Messrs. Goffe and Goffe.
Messrs. Goffe and Goffe had the pleasure of informing him that an
accurate account of all money transactions between Countess Lovel
and his father had been kept by the Countess;--that the Countess on
behalf of herself and Lady Anna Lovel acknowledged a debt due to the
estate of the late Mr. Thomas Thwaite, amounting to £9,109 3_s._
4_d._, and that a cheque to that amount should be at once handed to
him,--Daniel Thwaite the son,--if he would call at the chambers of
Messrs. Goffe and Goffe, with a certified copy of the probate of the
will of Thomas Thwaite the father.
Nine thousand pounds,--and that to be paid to him immediately,--on
that very day if he chose to call for it! The copy of the probate of
the will he had in his pocket at that moment. But he worked out his
day's work without going near Goffe and Goffe. And yet he thought
much of his money; and once, when one of his employers spoke to
him somewhat roughly, he remembered that he was probably a better
man than his master. What should he now do with himself and his
money,--how bestow himself,--how use it so that he might be of
service to the world? He would go no doubt to some country in which
there were no earls and no countesses;--but he could go nowhere till
he should know what might be his fate with the Earl's daughter, who
at present was his destiny. His mind was absolutely divided. In one
hour he would say to himself that the poet was certainly right;--and
in the next he was sure that the poet must have been wrong. As
regarded money, nine thousand pounds was as good to him as any sum
that could be named. He could do with that all that he required that
money should do for him. Could he at this time have had his own way
absolutely, he would have left all the remainder of the wealth behind
him, to be shared as they pleased to share it between the Earl and
the Countess, and he would have gone at once, taking with him the
girl whom he loved. He would have revelled in the pride of thinking
that all of them should say that he had wanted and had won the girl
only,--and not the wealth of the Lovels; that he had taken only what
was his own, and that his wife would be dependent on him, not he on
her. But this was not possible. It was now months since he had heard
the girl's voice, or had received any assurance from her that she
was still true to him. But, in lieu of this, he had the assurance
that she was in possession of enormous wealth, and that she was the
recognised cousin of lords and ladies by the dozen.
When the evening came he saw one of his employers and told the man
that he wished that his place might be filled. Why was he going? Did
he expect to better himself? When was he going? Was he in earnest?
Daniel told the truth at once as far as the payment of the money was
concerned. He was to receive on the following day a sum of money
which had been due to his father, and, when that should have been
paid him, it would not suit him to work longer for weekly wages. The
tailor grumbled, but there was nothing else to be said. Thwaite might
leave them to-morrow if he wished. Thwaite took him at his word and
never returned to the shop in Wigmore Street after that night.
On reaching his lodgings he found another letter,--from Serjeant
Bluestone. The Countess had so far given way as to accede to the
proposition that there should be a meeting between her daughter and
the tailor, and then there had arisen the question as to the manner
in which this meeting should be arranged. The Countess would not
write herself, nor would she allow her daughter to do so. It was
desirable, she thought, that as few people should know of the meeting
as possible, and at last, most unwillingly, the Serjeant undertook
the task of arranging it. He wrote therefore as follows;--
Mr. Serjeant Bluestone presents his compliments to Mr.
Daniel Thwaite. Mr. Thwaite has no doubt heard of the
result of the trial by which the Countess Lovel and her
daughter have succeeded in obtaining the recognition of
their rank. It is in contemplation with the Countess and
Lady Anna Lovel to go abroad, but Lady Anna is desirous
before she goes of seeing the son of the man who was her
mother's staunch friend during many years of suffering.
Lady Anna will be at home, at No. ---- Keppel Street, at
eleven o'clock on Monday, 23rd instant, if Mr. Thwaite can
make it convenient to call then and there.
Bedford Square,
17th November, 18--.
If Mr. Thwaite could call on the Serjeant before that
date, either early in the morning at his house, or on
Saturday at his chambers, ---- ----, Inner Temple, it
might perhaps be serviceable.
The postscript had not been added without much consideration. What
would the tailor think of this invitation? Would he not be disposed
to take it as encouragement in his pernicious suit? Would he not
go to Keppel Street with a determination to insist upon the girl's
promise? The Serjeant had thought that it would be best to let the
thing take its chance. But the Serjeant's wife, and the Serjeant's
daughters, and the Countess, too, had all agreed that something if
possible should be said to disabuse him of this idea. He was to have
nine thousand pounds paid to him. Surely that might be sufficient.
But, if he was greedy and wanted more money, more money should be
given to him. Only he must be made to understand that the marriage
was out of the question. So the Serjeant again gave way, and proposed
the interview. Daniel sent back his compliments to the Serjeant
and begged to say he would do as he was bid. He would call at the
Serjeant's chambers on the Saturday, and in Keppel Street on the
following Monday, at the hours named.
On the next morning,--the first morning of his freedom from the
servitude of Wigmore Street,--he went to Messrs. Goffe and Goffe. He
got up late and breakfasted late, in order that he might feel what it
was to be an idle man. "I might now be as idle as the young Earl,"
he said to himself; "but were I to attempt it, what should I do with
myself? How should I make the hours pass by?" He felt that he was
lauding himself as the idea passed through his mind, and struggled to
quench his own pride. "And yet," said he in his thoughts, "is it not
fit that I should know myself to be better than he is? If I have no
self-confidence, how can I be bold to persevere? The man that works
is to him that is idle, as light is to darkness."
He was admitted at once to Mr. Goffe's private room, and was received
with a smiling welcome, and an outstretched hand. "I am delighted,
Mr. Thwaite, to be able to settle your claim on Lady Lovel with so
little delay. I hope you are satisfied with her ladyship's statement
of the account."
"Much more than satisfied with the amount. It appeared to me that I
had no legal claim for more than a few hundred pounds."
"We knew better than that, Mr. Thwaite. We should have seen that no
great injury was done. But luckily the Countess has been careful, and
has put down each sum advanced, item by item. Full interest has been
allowed at five per cent., as is quite proper. The Countess is an
excellent woman of business."
"No doubt, Mr. Goffe. I could have wished that she would have
condescended to honour me with a line;--but that is a matter of
feeling."
"Oh, Mr. Thwaite; there are reasons;--you must know that there are
reasons."
"There may be good reasons or bad reasons."
"And there may be good judgment in such matters and bad judgment.
But, however,--. You will like to have this money by a cheque, no
doubt. There it is, £9,109 3_s._ 4_d._ It is not often that we write
one cheque for a bigger sum than that, Mr. Thwaite. Shall I cross it
on your bankers? No bankers! With such a sum as that let me recommend
you to open an account at once." And Mr. Goffe absolutely walked down
to Fleet Street with Daniel Thwaite the tailor, and introduced him at
his own bank. The business was soon transacted, and Daniel Thwaite
went away westward, a capitalist, with a cheque book in his pocket.
What was he to do with himself? He walked east again before the day
was over, and made inquiries at various offices as to vessels sailing
for Boston, New York, Baltimore, and Quebec. Or how would it be with
him if he should be minded to go east instead of west? So he supplied
himself also with information as to vessels for Sydney. And what
should he do when he got to the new country? He did not mean to be a
tailor. He was astonished to find how little he had as yet realised
in his mind the details of the exodus which he had proposed to
himself.