I WILL TAKE YOUR WORD FOR NOTHING.
On the Saturday, Daniel was at the Serjeant's chambers early in the
morning,--long before the hour at which the Serjeant himself was wont
to attend. No time had in fact been named, and the tailor had chosen
to suppose that as he had been desired to be early in Bedford Square,
so had it also been intended that he should be early in the Temple.
For two hours he walked about the passages and the courts, thinking
ill of the lawyer for being so late at his business, and endeavouring
to determine what he would do with himself. He had not a friend in
the world, unless Lady Anna were a friend;--hardly an acquaintance.
And yet, remembering what his father had done, what he himself had
helped to do, he thought that he ought to have had many friends.
Those very persons who were now his bitterest enemies, the Countess
and all they who had supported her, should have been bound to him by
close ties. Yet he knew that it was impossible that they should not
hate him. He could understand their feelings with reference to their
own rank, though to him that rank was contemptible. Of course he was
alone. Of course he would fail. He was almost prepared to acknowledge
as much to the Serjeant. He had heard of a certain vessel that would
start in three days for the rising colony called New South Wales, and
he almost wished that he had taken his passage in her.
At ten o'clock he had been desired to call at eleven, and as the
clock struck eleven he knocked at the Serjeant's door. "Serjeant
Bluestone is not here yet," said the clerk, who was disposed to be
annoyed by the man's pertinacity.
"He told me to come early in the morning, and this is not early."
"He is not here yet, sir."
"You told me to come at eleven, and it is past eleven."
"It is one minute past, and you can sit down and wait for him if you
please." Daniel refused to wait, and was again about to depart in
his wrath, when the Serjeant appeared upon the stairs. He introduced
himself, and expressed regret that he should have found his visitor
there before him. Daniel, muttering something, followed the lawyer
into his room, and then the door was closed. He stood till he was
invited to sit, and was determined to make himself disagreeable. This
man was one of his enemies,--was one who no doubt thought little
of him because he was a tailor, who suspected his motives, and was
anxious to rob him of his bride. The Serjeant retired for a moment
to an inner room, while the tailor girded up his loins and prepared
himself for battle.
"Mr. Thwaite," said the Serjeant, as he re-entered the room, "you
probably know that I have been counsel for Lady Lovel and her
daughter in the late trial." Daniel assented by a nod of his head.
"My connection with the Countess would naturally have been then
closed. We have gained our cause, and there would be an end of it.
But as things have turned out it has been otherwise. Lady Anna Lovel
has been staying with Mrs. Bluestone."
"In Bedford Square?"
"Yes, at my house."
"I did not know. The Countess told me she was not in Keppel Street,
but refused to inform me where she was staying. I should not have
interfered with her ladyship's plans, had she been less secret with
me."
"Surely it was unnecessary that she should tell you."
"Quite unnecessary;--but hardly unnatural after all that has
occurred. As the Countess is with you only a friend of late date, you
are probably unaware of the former friendship which existed between
us. There was a time in which I certainly did not think that Lady
Lovel would ever decline to speak to me about her daughter. But all
this is nothing to you, Serjeant Bluestone."
"It is something to me, Mr. Thwaite, as her friend. Is there no
reason why she should have treated you thus? Ask your own
conscience."
"My conscience is clear in the matter."
"I have sent for you here, Mr. Thwaite, to ask you whether you cannot
yourself understand that this which you have proposed to do must
make you an enemy to the Countess, and annul and set aside all that
kindness which you have shown her? I put it to your own reason. Do
you think it possible that the Countess should be otherwise than
outraged at the proposition you have made to her?"
"I have made no proposition to her ladyship."
"Have you made none to her daughter?"
"Certainly I have. I have asked her to be my wife."
"Come, Mr. Thwaite, do not palter with me."
"Palter with you! Who dares to say that I palter? I have never
paltered. Paltering is--lying, as I take it. Let the Countess be my
enemy. I have not said that she should not be so. She might have
answered my letter, I think, when the old man died. In our rank of
life we should have done so. It may be different with lords and
titled ladies. Let it pass, however. I did not mean to make any
complaint. I came here because you sent for me."
"Yes;--I did send for you," said the Serjeant, wishing with all his
heart that he had never been persuaded to take a step which imposed
upon him so great a difficulty. "I did send for you. Lady Anna Lovel
has expressed a wish to see you, before she leaves London."
"I will wait upon Lady Anna Lovel."
"I need hardly tell you that her wish has been opposed by her
friends."
"No doubt it was."
"But she has said with so much earnestness that she cannot consider
herself to be absolved from the promise which she made to you when
she was a child--"
"She was no child when she made it."
"It does not signify. She cannot be absolved from the promise which I
suppose she did make--"
"She certainly made it, Serjeant Bluestone."
"Will you allow me to continue my statement? It will not occupy you
long. She assures her mother that she cannot consider herself to be
absolved from that promise without your sanction. She has been living
in my house for some weeks, and I do not myself doubt in the least
that were she thus freed an alliance would soon be arranged between
her and her cousin."
"I have heard of that--alliance."
"It would be in every respect a most satisfactory and happy marriage.
The young Earl has behaved with great consideration and forbearance
in abstaining from pushing his claims."
"In abstaining from asking for that which he did not believe to be
his own."
"You had better hear me to the end, Mr. Thwaite. All the friends of
the two young people desire it. The Earl himself is warmly attached
to his cousin."
"So am I,--and have been for many years."
"We all believe that she loves him."
"Let her say so to me, Serjeant Bluestone, and there shall be an end
of it all. It seems to me that Lord Lovel and I have different ideas
about a woman. I would not take the hand of a girl who told me that
she loved another man, even though she was as dear to me, as,--as
Lady Anna is dear to me now. And as for what she might have in
her hand, it would go for naught with me, though I might have to
face beggary without her. It seems to me that Lord Lovel is less
particular in this matter."
"I do not see that you and I have anything to do with that," replied
the Serjeant, hardly knowing what to say.
"I have nothing to do with Lord Lovel, certainly,--nor has he with
me. As to his cousin,--it is for her to choose."
"We think,--I am only telling you what we think;--but we think, Mr.
Thwaite, that the young lady's affections are fixed on her cousin. It
is natural that they should be so; and watching her as closely as we
can, we believe such to be the case. I will be quite on the square
with you, Mr. Thwaite."
"With me and with everybody else, I hope, Serjeant Bluestone."
"I hope so," said the Serjeant, laughing; "but at any rate I will
be so with you now. We have been unable to get from Lady Anna any
certain reply,--any assurance of her own wishes. She has told her
mother that she cannot accept Lord Lovel's addresses till she has
seen you." The Serjeant in this was not quite on the square, as Lady
Anna had never said so. "We believe that she considers it necessary,
to her conscience, to be made free by your permission, before she can
follow her own inclinations and accede to those of all her friends."
"She shall have my permission in a moment,--if she will ask for it."
"Could you not be more generous even than that?"
"How more generous, Serjeant Bluestone?"
"Offer it to her unasked. You have already said that you would
not accept her hand if you did not believe that you had her heart
also,--and the sentiment did you honour. Think of her condition, and
be generous to her."
"Generous to her! You mean generous to Lady Lovel,--generous to Lord
Lovel,--generous to all the Lovels except her. It seems to me that
all the generosity is to be on one side."
"By no means. We can be generous too."
"If that be generosity, I will be generous. I will offer her that
permission. I will not wait till she asks for it. I will beg her to
tell me if it be true that she loves this cousin, and if she can say
that it is true, she shall want no permission from me to be free. She
shall be free."
"It is not a question, you see, between yourself and Lord Lovel. It
is quite out of the question that she should in any event become your
wife. Even had she power to do it--"
"She has the power."
"Practically she has no such power, Mr. Thwaite. A young person such
as Lady Anna Lovel is and must be under the control of her natural
guardian. She is so altogether. Her mother could not,--and would
not,--constrain her to any marriage; but has quite sufficient power
over her to prevent any marriage. Lady Anna has never for a moment
supposed that she could become your wife since she learned what were
the feelings of her mother and her family." The Serjeant certainly
did not keep his promise of being "on the square." "But your
generosity is necessary to enable Lady Lovel to bring to a happy
termination all those sufferings with which her life has been
afflicted."
"I do not owe much to the Countess; but if it be generous to do as I
have said I would do,--I will be generous. I will tell her daughter,
without any question asked from her, that she is free to marry her
cousin if she wishes."
So far the Serjeant, though he had not been altogether as truthful
as he had promised, had been discreet. He had said nothing to set
the tailor vehemently against the Lovel interest, and had succeeded
in obtaining a useful pledge. But, in his next attempt, he was less
wise. "I think, you know, Mr. Thwaite, that the Countess also has
been generous."
"As how?"
"You have received £9,000 already, I believe."
"I have received what I presume to be my own. If I have had more it
shall be refunded."
"No;--no; by no means. Taking a liberal view of the matter, as the
Countess was bound to do in honour, she was, I think, right in paying
you what she has paid."
"I want nothing from her in what you call honour. I want nothing
liberal. If the money be not mine in common honesty she shall have it
back again. I want nothing but my own."
"I think you are a little high flown, Mr. Thwaite."
"I dare say I may be,--to the thinking of a lawyer."
"The Countess, who is in truth your friend,--and will always be your
friend if you will only be amenable to reason,--has been delighted
to think that you are now in possession of a sum of money which will
place you above want."
"The Countess is very kind."
"And I can say more than that. She and all her friends are aware how
much is due to your father's son. If you will only aid us in our
present project, if you will enable Lady Anna to become the wife of
her cousin the Earl, much more shall be done than the mere payment
of the debt which was due to you. It has been proposed to settle on
you for life an annuity of four hundred pounds a year. To this the
Countess, Earl Lovel, and Lady Anna will all agree."
"Has the consent of Lady Anna been asked?" demanded the tailor, in a
voice which was low, but which the Serjeant felt at the moment to be
dangerous.
"You may take my word that it shall be forthcoming," said the
Serjeant.
"I will take your word for nothing, Serjeant Bluestone. I do not
think that among you all, you would dare to make such a proposition
to Lady Anna Lovel, and I wonder that you should dare to make it to
me. What have you seen in me to lead you to suppose that I would sell
myself for a bribe? And how can you have been so unwise as to offer
it after I have told you that she shall be free,--if she chooses to
be free? But it is all one. You deal in subterfuges till you think it
impossible that a man should be honest. You mine underground, till
your eyes see nothing in the open daylight. You walk crookedly, till
a straight path is an abomination to you. Four hundred a year is
nothing to me for such a purpose as this,--would have been nothing
to me even though no penny had been paid to me of the money which
is my own. I can easily understand what it is that makes the Earl
so devoted a lover. His devotion began when he had been told that
the money was hers and not his,--and that in no other way could he
get it. Mine began when no one believed that she would ever have
a shilling for her fortune,--when all who bore her name and her
mother's ridiculed their claim. Mine was growing when my father first
asked me whether I grudged that he should spend all that he had in
their behalf. Mine came from giving. His springs from the desire to
get. Make the four hundred, four thousand;--make it eight thousand,
Serjeant Bluestone, and offer it to him. I also will agree. With him
you may succeed. Good morning, Serjeant Bluestone. On Monday next I
will not be worse than my word,--even though you have offered me a
bribe."
The Serjeant let the tailor go without a word further,--not, indeed,
having a word to say. He had been insulted in his own chambers,--told
that his word was worthless, and his honesty questionable. But he
had been so told, that at the moment he had been unable to stop the
speaker. He had sat, and smiled, and stroked his chin, and looked
at the tailor as though he had been endeavouring to comfort himself
with the idea that the man addressing him was merely an ignorant,
half-mad, enthusiastic tailor, from whom decent conduct could not be
expected. He was still smiling when Daniel Thwaite closed the door,
and he almost laughed as he asked his clerk whether that energetic
gentleman had taken himself down-stairs. "Oh, yes, sir; he glared
at me when I opened the door, and rushed down four steps at a time."
But, on the whole, the Serjeant was contented with the interview. It
would, no doubt, have been better had he said nothing of the four
hundred a year. But in the offering of bribes there is always that
danger. One can never be sure who will swallow his douceur at an easy
gulp, so as hardly to betray an effort, and who will refuse even to
open his lips. And then the latter man has the briber so much at
advantage. When the luscious morsel has been refused, it is so easy
to be indignant, so pleasant to be enthusiastically virtuous! The
bribe had been refused, and so far the Serjeant had failed;--but the
desired promise had been made, and the Serjeant felt certain that it
would be kept. He did not doubt but that Daniel Thwaite would himself
offer the girl her freedom. But there was something in the man,
though he was a tailor. He had an eye and a voice, and it might be
that freedom offered, as he could offer it, would not be accepted.
Daniel, as he went out into the court from the lawyer's presence, was
less satisfied than the lawyer. He had told the lawyer that his word
was worth nothing, and yet he had believed much that the lawyer had
said to him. The lawyer had told him that the girl loved her cousin,
and only wanted his permission to be free that she might give her
hand and her heart together to the young lord. Was it not natural
that she should wish to do so? Within each hour, almost within
each minute, he regarded the matter in lights that were perfectly
antagonistic to each other. It was natural that she should wish to be
a Countess, and that she should love a young lord who was gentle and
beautiful;--and she should have his permission accorded freely. But
then, again, it was most unnatural, bestial, and almost monstrous,
that a girl should change her love for a man, going from one man to
another, simply because the latter man was gilt with gold, and decked
with jewels, and sweet with perfume from a hairdresser's. The poet
must have been wrong there. If love be anything but a dream, surely
it must adhere to the person, and not be liable to change at every
offered vantage of name or birth, of rank or wealth.
But she should have the offer. She should certainly have the offer.