AN EXPEDITION.
Mr. May did not come upstairs that evening. It was not that he was
paralysed as he had been on the previous occasion, when he sat as now
and heard Phoebe go away after her first visit, and when the wind blowing
in from the open door playfully carried to his feet the scribbled note
with Tozer's name. He was not stupefied as then, nor was he miserable.
The threatened withdrawal of Clarence Copperhead was more to him than
the impending ruin meant by that bill which was so nearly due. He was
occupied by that to the exclusion of the other. It would be a most
serious change to him in every way. He had calculated on the continuance
of this additional income for at least a year, and short of the year it
would have done him no good, but had simply plunged him into additional
expense. It was this he was thinking of, and which kept him in his study
after the young people had assembled. Cotsdean had come again while Mr.
May was at dinner, which by some curious unconscious aggravation on his
part was the time he especially chose as most convenient for him; and he
had again sent a dirty note by Bobby, imploring his principal to think
of the impending fate, and not to desert him. Mr. May was angry at this
perpetual appeal. "Why should I desert him, the idiot?" he said to
himself; and moved by the man's persistence, he took out his pocket-book
again, and made out beyond all chance of mistake, that it was the 18th.
Why should the fool insist upon its being the 15th with such perpetual
iteration? There were the figures as plain as possible, 18th April. Mr.
May wrote a peremptory note announcing this fact to Cotsdean, and then
returned to his own thoughts. Sir Robert had asked him to go over that
morning and spend the day at the Hall with the Copperheads, not knowing
of any breach between them. He thought he had better do this. If
Clarence determined to stay, that would be a great thing in his favour,
and he had seen that the young man's dull spirit was roused; and if that
hope failed, there might still be advantage even in this sudden breaking
of the bond. Part of the second quarter was gone, and the father had
offered three months additional pay. These two payments would make up
the hundred and fifty pounds at once, and settle the business. Thus, in
either way, he should be safe, for if Clarence went away the money would
be paid; and if he stayed, Mr. May himself had made up his mind to risk
the bold step of going to the bank and asking an advance on this
inalienable security. All these deliberations made his mind easy about
the bill. It must come right one way or another; he might have chosen
perhaps not to run it quite so close; but after all the 15th was only
to-morrow, and there were still three days. While his mind was full of
these things he did not care to go upstairs. He heard the voices of the
young people, but he was too much engrossed with his own calculations to
care to join them. It was a close thing, he said to himself, a very
close thing; but still he felt that he could do it--surely he could do
it. If Mr. Copperhead settled with him--and he was the sort of man, a
man to whom money was nothing, to do so on the spot if he took it into
his head--then all was right. And if Mr. Copperhead did not do so, the
bank, though his past transactions with it had not been encouraging,
would certainly make all right on account of these Copperhead payments,
which were as certain as any payments could be. He went to bed early,
being engrossed by these thoughts, not even saying good-night to Ursula,
as was his wont; and he made up his mind to take an early breakfast, and
start the first thing in the morning for the Hall. There was an early
train which would suit admirably. He could not afford to drive, as Sir
Robert had done, changing horses half way. He went upstairs to bed,
somewhat heavily, but not discontented, seeing his way. After all, the
great thing in life is to see your way. It does not matter so much
whether that way is great or small, so long as you can see it plain
before you. Mr. May breathed a sigh of anxiety as he ended the day. He
had a great many things on his mind; but still he was not altogether
heavy-hearted or discouraged beyond measure; things, he felt, would
shape themselves better than he had hoped. He was not perhaps going to
be so much better off than of old, as he thought possible when Clarence
Copperhead came. Such delusive prospects do glimmer across a poor man's
path when any apparent expansion of means occurs to him; but in the
majority of cases he has to consent to see the fine fictitious glow die
away. Mr. May was not ignorant of this experience already. A man who is
over fifty is generally more or less prepared for anything that can
happen to him in this kind; but he thought he could "get on;" and after
all that is the sum of life to three parts of mankind.
He was silent at breakfast, but not disagreeable, and Ursula was too
much taken up with her own concerns to pay much attention to him.
Ursula's concerns were developing with a rapidity altogether
extraordinary. In the mind of a girl of twenty, unforestalled by any
previous experience, the process that goes on between the moment when
the surprising, overwhelming discovery rushes upon her that some one
loves her in the old way of romance, until the corresponding moment when
she finds out that her own heart too has been invaded by this wonderful
sentiment, which is like nothing that was ever known before, is of a
very rapid description. It is like the bursting of a flower, which a
day's sunshine brings to the blooming point like a miracle, though it is
in reality the simplest result of nature. Already there began to glow a
haze of brightness about those three months past in which everything had
begun. When or how it began she could not now tell. The glow of it was
in her eyes and dazzled her. She heard the voices of the others sounding
vaguely through this bright mist in which she herself was isolated; when
she was obliged to reply, she called herself back with an effort, and
did so--but of her own will she seldom spoke. How Janey chattered, how
the children maundered on about their little concerns, which were of
consequence to nobody! Papa was the person whom Ursula really respected
this morning, for he had more sense than to talk. How could people talk,
as if there was pleasure in that? But papa had more sense, he had things
to think of--too. So the girl approved her father, and thought more
highly of him, and never inquired what it might be that occupied his
mind, and kept him from noticing even when the children were unruly. And
it would be giving the reader an unfair idea of the children, if we
attempted to conceal that they did take advantage of their
opportunities, and were as unruly as well-conditioned children in the
circumstances were likely to be. Mr. May took no notice; he took his
coffee hurriedly and went off to the station.
"If I don't return this evening you need not be alarmed. I shall come
back at the latest to-morrow morning," he said.
The children all rushed to the window to see him go away; even Ursula
looking out dreamily remarked him too, as she seldom did; and Mrs. Sam
Hurst at her window, wondering where her neighbour could be going,
heaved a deep sigh of admiration, which though she was not "in love," as
the girls thought, with Mr. May, was a passing tribute to his good looks
and training. He looked a gentleman every inch of him--an English
gentleman, spotless in linen, speckless in broadcloth, though his dress
was far from new; the freshness of sound health and a clear conscience
on his handsome face, though he was no longer young. His abundant hair,
steel-grey, slightly crisped under his hat, not curling exactly, but
with a becoming twist in it--clerical, yet not too clerical, a man given
to no extremes, decorously churchmanlike, yet liberal and tolerant of
the world. Though she was too wise to compromise her own comfort by
marrying him, Mrs. Hurst felt that there was a great pleasure in making
his daughters anxious about her "intentions," and that even to be said
to be in love with such a man was no shame, but rather the reverse.
He went away accordingly, taking a short cut to the railway, and thus
missing Cotsdean, who came breathless ten minutes after he was gone, and
followed him to the train; but too late.
"Well, well," Cotsdean said to himself, wiping his forehead, "Old Tozer
has plenty, it ain't nothing to him to pay. They can settle it between
'em."
Cotsdean himself was easier in his mind than he had ever been before on
such an occasion. His clergyman, though personally an awful and
respect-inspiring personage, was so far as money went a man of straw, as
he well knew, and his name on a bill was very little worth; but Tozer
was a man who could pay his way. A hundred and fifty pounds, or even ten
times that, would not ruin the old shopkeeper. Cotsdean's sense of
commercial honour was not so very keen that the dishonouring of his bill
in the circumstances should give him a very serious pang. He would not
be sold up, or have an execution put into his shop when the other party
to the bill was so substantial a person. Of course Tozer, when he signed
it, must have been told all about it, and Cotsdean did not see how with
two such allies against ruin, anything very serious could befall him. He
was uneasy indeed, but his uneasiness had no such force in it as before.
He went back to his shop and his business prepared to take the matter as
calmly as possible. He was but passive in it. It could not harm him much
in the eyes of his banker, who knew his affairs too well to be much
astonished at any such incident, and Tozer and Mr. May must settle it
between them. It was their affair.
Meanwhile Mr. May rattled along in the railway towards the Hall. He got
a dog-cart at the little inn at the station to take him over, though
generally when he went to see the Dorsets it was his custom to walk.
"But what were a few shillings?" he said to himself, the prodigality of
desperation having seized upon him. In any case he could pay that, and
if he was to be ruined, what did a few shillings more or less matter?
but the discomfort of walking over those muddy roads, and arriving with
dirty boots and a worn-out aspect, mattered a great deal. He reached the
Hall at a propitious moment, when Mr. Copperhead was in the highest
good-humour. He had been taken over the place, from one end to another,
over the stables, the farm-buildings, the farm itself from end to end,
the preserves, the shrubberies, the greenhouses, everything; all of
which details he examined with an unfailing curiosity which would have
been highly flattering to the possessors if it had not been neutralized
by a strain of comment which was much less satisfactory. When Mr. May
went in, he found him in the dining-room, with Sir Robert and his
daughters standing by, clapping his wings and crowing loudly over a
picture which the Dorsets prized much. It represented a bit of vague
Italian scenery, mellow and tranquil, and was a true "Wilson," bought by
an uncle of Sir Robert's, who had been a connoisseur, from the Master
himself, in the very country where it was painted; and all these details
pleased the imagination of the family, who, though probably they would
have been but mildly delighted had they possessed the acquaintance of
the best of contemporary painters, were proud that Uncle Charles had
known Italian Wilson, and had bought a picture out of his studio. A
Hobbema or a Poussin would scarcely have pleased them as much, for the
worst of an old Master is that your friends look suspiciously upon it as
a copy; whereas Wilson is scarcely old enough or precious enough to be
copied. They were showing their picture and telling the story to the
millionnaire with an agreeable sense that, though they were not so rich,
they must, at least, have the advantage of him in this way.
"Ha!" said Mr. Copperhead, "you should see my Turner. Didn't I show you
my Turner? I don't venture to tell you, Sir Robert, what that picture
cost me. It's a sin, it is, to keep that amount of capital hanging
useless upon a bit of wall. The Wilson may be all very well. I ain't a
judge of art, and I can't give my opinion on that point, though it's a
common sort of a name, and there don't seem to be much in it; but
everybody knows what a Turner means. Here's May; he'll be able to tell
you as well as another. It means a few cool thousands, take my word for
it. It means, I believe, that heaps of people would give you your own
price. I don't call it a profitable investment, for it brings in no
interest; but they tell me it's a thing that grows in value every year.
And there it is, Sir, hanging up useless on my wall in Portland Place,
costing a fortune, and bringing in not a penny. But I like it; I like
it, for I can afford it, by George! Here's May; he knows what that sort
of thing is; he'll tell you that a Turner is worth its weight in gold."
"Thank you, I don't think I need any information on that subject," said
Sir Robert. "Besides, I saw your Turner. It is a pretty picture--if it
is authentic; but Wilson, you know--"
"Wasn't a big-enough swell not to be authentic, eh?" said Mr.
Copperhead. "Common name enough, and I don't know that I ever heard of
him in the way of painting; but I don't pretend to be a judge. Here's
May; now, I dare say he knows all about it. Buying's one thing,
knowing's another. Your knowing ones, when they've got any money, they
have the advantage over us, Sir Robert; they can pick up a thing that's
good, when it happens to come their way, dirt cheap; but fortunately for
us, it isn't often they've got any money," he added, with a laugh,
slapping Mr. May on the shoulder in a way which made him totter. But the
clergyman's good-humour was equal even to this assault. It is wonderful
how patient and tolerant we can all be when the motive is strong enough.
"That is true," he said; "but I fear I have not even the compensation of
knowledge. I know enough, however, to feel that the possessor of a
Turner is a public personage, and may be a public benefactor if he
pleases."
"How that? If you think I am one to go lending my pictures about, or
leaving them to the nation when I'm done for, that's not my sort. No, I
keep them to myself. If I consent to have all that money useless, it is
for myself, you may depend, and not for other people. And I'll leave it
to my boy Clarence, if he behaves himself. He's a curiosity, too, and
has a deal of money laid out on him that brings no interest, him and his
mother. I'll leave it to Clar, if he doesn't make a low marriage, or any
folly of that kind."
"You should make it an heir-loom," said Sir Robert, with sarcasm too
fine for his antagonist; "leave it from father to son of your
descendants, like our family diamonds and plate."
Anne and Sophy looked at each other and smiled, the one sadly, the other
satirically. The Dorset family jewels were rose-diamonds of small value,
and the plate was but moderate in quantity, and not very great in
quality. Poor Sir Robert liked to blow his little trumpet too, but it
was not so blatant as that of his visitor, whose rude senses did not
even see the intended malice.
"By George! I think I will," he said. "I'm told it's as safe as the
bank, and worth more and more every year, and if it don't bring in
anything, it don't eat anything; eh, May? Look here; perhaps I was
hasty the other day," he said, pushing the clergyman a little apart from
the group with a large hand on his shoulder. "Clarence tells me you're
the best coach he ever saw, and that he's getting on like a house on
fire."
"He does make progress, I think," answered the tutor, thus gracefully
complimented.
"But all the same, you know, I had a right to be annoyed. Now a man of
your sense--for you seem a man of sense, though you're a parson, and
know what side your bread's buttered on--ought to see that it's an
aggravating thing when a young fellow has been sent to a coach for his
instruction, and to keep him out of harm's way, to find him cheek by
jowl with a nice-looking young woman. That's not what a father has a
right to expect."
"You couldn't expect me to do away with my daughter because I happened
to take a pupil?" said Mr. May, half-amused; "but I can assure you that
she has no designs upon your son."
"So I hear, so I hear," said the other, with a mixture of pique and
satisfaction. "Won't look at him, Clar tells me; got her eye on some one
else, little fool! She'll never have such a chance again. As for having
no designs, that's bosh, you know; all women have designs. I'm a deal
easier in my mind when I'm told she's got other fish to fry."
"Other fish to fry?" said Mr. May; this time he was wholly amused, and
laughed. "This is news to me. However, we don't want to discuss my
little Ursula; about your son it will be well that I should know, for I
might be forming other engagements. This moment is a time of pecuniary
pressure with me," he added, with the ingratiating smile and
half-pathetic frankness of the would-be borrower. "I have not taken
pupils before, but I want money for the time. My son's settlement in
life, you see, and--but the father of a large family can always find
good reasons for wanting money."
"That's it," said Mr. Copperhead, seriously. "Why are you the father of
a large family? That's what I ask our ministers. It's against all
political economy, that is. According as you've no money to give 'em,
you go and have children--when it should be just the other way."
"That may be very true; but there they are, and can't be done away with;
and I do want money, as it happens, more now than I shall want it a year
hence, or, perhaps, even six months hence."
"Most people do," said Mr. Copperhead, withdrawing his hand from his
pocket, and placing his elbow tightly against the orifice of that very
important part of him. "It's the commonest thing in the world. I want
money myself, for that matter. I've always got a large amount to make up
by a certain date, and a bill to pay. But about Clar, that's the
important matter. As he seems to have set his mind on it, and as you
assure me there's no danger--man-traps, or that sort of thing, eh?"
The colour came to Mr. May's cheek; but it was only for a moment. To
have his own daughter spoken of as a man-trap gave him a momentary
thrill of anger; but, as he would have applied the word quite composedly
to any other man's daughter, the resentment was evanescent. He did not
trust himself to answer, however, but nodded somewhat impatiently, which
made the millionnaire laugh the more.
"Don't like the man-trap?" he said. "Bless you, they're all alike, not
yours more than the rest. But as I was saying, if it's warranted safe I
suppose he'll have to stay. But I don't stand any nonsense, May; and
look here, your music and all that ain't in the agreement. He can have a
master for his music, he's well enough able to pay for it; but I won't
have a mistress, by George, to put folly into his head."
"I am to forbid him the drawing-room, I suppose, and take his fiddle
from him! I have no objections. Between ourselves, as I am not musical,
it would be very agreeable to me; but perhaps he is rather over the age,
don't you think, for treatment of that kind?"
Clarence had come in, and stood watching the conversation, with a look
Mr. Copperhead was not prepared for. Those mild brown eyes, which were
his mother's share in him, were full a-stare with sullen resolution, and
his heavy mouth shut like that of a bull-dog. He lingered at the door,
looking at the conversation which was going on between his father and
his tutor, and they both noticed him at the same moment, and drew the
same conclusion. Mr. May was in possession of the _parole_, as the
French say, and he added instinctively in an undertone,
"Take care; if I were you I would not try him too far."
Mr. Copperhead said nothing; but he stared too, rather aghast at this
new revelation. What! his porcelain, his Dresden figure of a son, his
crowning curiosity, was _he_ going to show a will of his own? The despot
felt a thrill go over him. What kind of a sentiment love was in his mind
it would be hard to tell; but his pride was all set on this heavy boy.
To see him a man of note, in Parliament, his name in the papers, his
speeches printed in the "Times," was the very heaven of his
expectations. "Son of the famous Copperhead, the great contractor." He
did not care about such distinction in his own person; but this had
been his dream ever since Clarence came into being. And now there he
stood gloomy, obdurate. If he had made up his mind to make a low
marriage, could his father hinder him--could anything hinder him? Mr.
Copperhead looked at his son and quailed for the first time in his life.
"May," he said, hurriedly, "do the best you can; he's got all his
mother's d----d obstinacy, you can see, can't you? but I've set my heart
on making a man of him--do the best you can."
Mr. May thought to himself afterwards if he had only had the vigour to
say, "Pay me six months in advance," the thing would have been done. But
the lingering prejudices of breeding clung about him, and he could not
do it. Mr. Copperhead, however, was very friendly all the rest of the
day, and gave him private looks and words aside, to the great admiration
of the Dorsets, to whom the alliance between them appeared remarkable
enough.