SIR SIMON GORE
Avarice, according to Byron, is a gentlemanly vice appertaining to old
age. It certainly acted like Aaron's rod with Sir Simon, as it swallowed
up all his more youthful sins. During the early part of the Victorian
epoch, the old man had been a spendthrift and a rake. Now, he never
looked agreeably upon a woman, and the prettier they were the more he
frowned upon them. As he was close upon eighty, it was not to be
wondered at that his blood ran thin and cold; still, he might have
retained the courtesy for which he was famous in his hot youth. But he
eschewed female society in the main, and was barely civil to his pretty,
fascinating niece, who attended to him and bore with his ill-humors.
Only Mrs. Gilroy succeeded in extorting civil words from him, but then
Mrs. Gilroy was necessary to his comfort, being a capital nurse and as
quiet as a cat about the house. Where his own pleasure was concerned Sir
Simon could be artful.
Long ago he had given up luxury. He never put liquor to his withered
lips, he ate only the plainest food, and surrounded himself with merely
the bare necessities of life. All his aims were to gather money, to see
it increase, to buy land, to screw the last penny out of unwilling
tenants, and to pick up a farthing, in whatever mud it might be lying.
He never helped the poor, he grudged repairs to the property, he kept
Lucy on short commons, and expressed such violent opinions concerning
the rector's tithes that the poor man was afraid to come near him. As
Sir Simon, like a godless old pagan, never went to church, the absence
of the clerical element at the Hall troubled him little. He was a
typical miser in looks, being bent, withered and dry. As a young man he
had bought, in his spendthrift days, a great number of suits, and these
he was wearing out in his old age. The garments, once fashionable,
looked queer in the eyes of a younger generation; but Sir Simon minded
no one. He was always scrupulously dressed in his antique garb, and
looked, as the saying goes, as neat as a new pin. His health was
tolerable, although he suffered from rheumatism and a constant cough.
Owing to his total abstinence, he was free from gout, but could not have
been worse tempered had he indeed suffered, as he assuredly deserved to.
With his withered skin, his thin, high nose, his pinched features and
his bent form he looked anything but agreeable. When walking he
supported himself with an ebony cane, and had been known on occasions to
use it on the backs of underlings. From this practice, however, he had
desisted, since the underlings, forgetful of the feudal system, brought
actions for assault, which resulted in Sir Simon losing money. As the
old Baronet said, radical opinions were ruining the country; for why
should the lower orders not submit to the stick?
It was rarely that this agreeable old gentleman came to town. He lived
at the Hall in Essex in savage seclusion, and there ruled over a
diminished household with a rod of iron. Mrs. Gilroy, who had been with
him for many years, was--outwardly--as penurious as her master, so he
trusted her as much as he trusted anyone. What between the grim old man
and the silent housekeeper, poor Lucy Randolph, who was only a
connection, had a dreary time. But then, as the daughter of Sir Simon's
niece, she was regarded as an interloper, and the old man grumbled at
having to support poor relations. Bernard he had tolerated as his heir,
Lucy he frankly disliked as a caterpillar. Often would he call her this
name.
As usual, Sir Simon came to town with the least expense to himself,
since it agonized him to spend a penny. But an old friend of his, more
open-handed than the baronet, had lent him his town house. This was a
small residence in a quiet Kensington square, by no means fashionable.
The central gardens, surrounded by rusty iron railings, were devoid of
flowers and filled with ragged elms and sycamores, suffered to grow
amidst rank grass untrimmed and unattended. The roads around were green
with weeds, and the houses appeared to be deserted. Indeed, many of them
were, as few people cared to live in so dull a neighborhood; but others
were occupied by elderly folk, who loved the quietness and retirement.
Crimea square--its name hinted at its age--was a kind of backwater into
which drifted human derelicts. A few yards away the main thoroughfare
roared with life and pulsed with vitality, but the dwellers in the
square lived as in the enchanted wood of the sleeping beauty.
No. 32 was the house occupied by Sir Simon, and it was distinguished
from its neighbors by a coat of white paint. Its spurious, smart air was
quite out of keeping with the neighborhood, and Sir Simon made ironical
remarks when he saw its attempt at being up-to-date. But the house was
small, and, although furnished in a gimcrack way, was good enough for a
month's residence. Moreover, since he paid no rent, this enhanced its
value in his avaricious eyes. It may be mentioned that the servants of
the owner--a cook, a housemaid and a pageboy--had stopped on to oblige
Sir Simon, and were ruled over by Mrs. Gilroy, much to their disgust.
The housekeeper was by no means a pleasant mistress, and turned their
intended holiday into a time of particularly hard work.
It was about the servants that Mrs. Gilroy spoke to her master one
morning shortly after the occupation of the house. Sir Simon, accurately
dressed as usual, and looking like a character out of Dickens as
delineated by Phiz, was seated beside a comfortable fire supping a cup
of plasmon cocoa, as containing the most nutriment in the least
expensive form. While enjoying it, he mentally calculated various sums
owing from various tenants about which he had come to see his lawyers.
The room was of no great size, on the ground floor, and had but two
windows, which looked out on the dreary, untidy gardens. Like the
exterior of the house, it had been newly painted and decorated, and was
also furnished in a cheap way with chairs and tables, sofas and cabinets
attractive to the uneducated eye, but detestable to anyone who could
appreciate art. The scheme of color was garish, and, but that the blinds
were pulled half-way down, so as to exclude too searching a light, would
have jarred on Sir Simon's nerves. Lucy Randolph, who sat reading near
the window, shuddered at the newness and veneer of her surroundings and
thought regretfully of the lovely, mellow old Hall, where everything was
in keeping and hallowed by antiquity. All the same, this too
brilliantly-cheap room was cosy and comfortable, bright and cheery, and
a pleasing contrast to the foggy, gray, damp weather. Perhaps it was
this contrast which its decorator had desired to secure.
Mrs. Gilroy, with folded hands, stood at her master's elbow, a tall,
thin, silent, demure woman with downcast eyes. Plainly dressed in black
silk, somewhat worn, and with carefully-mended lace, she looked like a
lady who had seen better days. Her hair, and eyes, and skin, and lips,
were all of a drab color, by no means pleasing, and she moved with the
stealthy step of a cat. Indeed, the servants openly expressed their
opinion that she was one, and she certainly had a somewhat feline look.
But, with all her softness and nun-like meekness, an occasional glance
from her light eyes showed that she could scratch when necessary. No one
knew who she was or where she came from, but she looked like a woman
with a history. What that was only she and Sir Simon knew, and neither
was communicative. Lucy Randolph hated her, and indeed no love was lost
between the two. Mrs. Gilroy looked on Lucy as a pauper living on Sir
Simon's charity, and Miss Randolph regarded the silent housekeeper as a
spy. Each annoyed the other on every occasion in that skilful way known
to the sex. But the war was carried on out of the old man's sight. That
autocrat would speedily have put an end to it had they dared to skirmish
in his presence.
"Well! well! well!" snapped Sir Simon, who talked something like George
III. in reiterating his words. "What's the matter? What?"
"I have to complain of the housemaid Jane, sir."
"Then don't. I pay you to keep the servants quiet, not to bother me with
their goings-on. Well! well! well!" somewhat inconsistently, "what's
Jane been doing?"
"Receiving a follower--a soldier--one of those new young men who are
going to the war."
"An Imperial Yeoman?" put in Miss Randolph, looking up with interest.
"Yes, Miss," responded Mrs. Gilroy, not looking round. "Cook tells me
the young man comes nearly every evening, and makes love to Jane!"
"What! what!" said the baronet, setting down his cup irritably. "Tell
the hussy to go at once. Love?" This in a tone of scorn. "As though I've
not had enough worry over that with Bernard. Tell her to go."
Mrs. Gilroy shook her head. "We can't dismiss her, sir. She belongs to
the house, and Mr. Jeffrey"--
"I'll see him about it later. If he knew he certainly would not allow
such things. A soldier--eh--what? Turn him out, Gilroy, turn him out!
Won't have it, won't have him! There! you can go."
"Will you be out to-day, sir?"
"Yes, I go to see my lawyers. Do you think I come to town to waste time,
Gilroy? Go away."
But the housekeeper did not seem eager to go. She cast a look on Lucy
eloquent of a desire to be alone with Sir Simon. That look Lucy took no
notice of, although she understood it plainly. She suspected Mrs. Gilroy
of hating Julius Beryl and of favoring Bernard. Consequently, all the
influence of Mrs. Gilroy would be put forth to help the exiled heir.
Lucy was fond of Bernard, but she was engaged to Julius, and, dragged
both ways by liking and duty, she was forced to a great extent to remain
neutral. But she did not intend to let Mrs. Gilroy have the honor and
glory of bringing Bernard back to the Hall. Therefore she kept her seat
by the window and her eyes on her book. Mrs. Gilroy tightened her thin
lips and accepted defeat, for the moment. A ring at the door gave her an
excuse to go.
"It's Julius," said Lucy, peeping out.
"What does he want?" asked Sir Simon, crossly. "Tell him to wait,
Gilroy. I can't see him at once. Lucy, stop here, I want to speak."
The housekeeper left the room to detain Mr. Beryl, and Lucy obediently
resumed her seat. She was a handsome, dark girl, with rather a high
color and a temper to match. But she knew when she was well off and kept
her temper in check for fear of Sir Simon turning her adrift. He would
have done so without scruple had it suited him. Lucy was therefore
astute and assumed a meekness she was far from possessing. Mrs. Gilroy
saw through her, but Lucy--as the saying goes--pulled the wool over the
old man's eyes.
Sir Simon took a turn up and down the room. "What about Bernard?" he
asked, abruptly stopping before her.
Lucy looked up with an innocent smile. "Dear Bernard!" she said.
"Do you know where he is?" asked the baronet, taking no notice of the
sweet smile and sweet speech.
"No, he has not written to me."
"But he has to that girl. You know her?"
"Alice! yes, but Alice doesn't like me. She refuses to speak to me about
Bernard. You see," said Lucy, pensively, "I am engaged to Julius, and as
you have sent Bernard away--"
"Julius comes in for my money, is that it?"
"Not in my opinion," said Miss Randolph, frankly, "but Alice Malleson
thinks so."
"Then she thinks rightly." Lucy started at this and colored with
surprise at the outspoken speech. "Since Bernard has behaved so badly,
Julius shall be my heir. The one can have the title, the other the
money. All the same I don't want Bernard to starve. I daresay Julius
knows where he is, Lucy. Find out, and then I can send the boy something
to go on with."
"Oh!" said Lucy, starting to her feet and clasping her hands, "the Red
Window,--I mean."
"I should very much like to know what you _do_ mean," said Sir Simon,
eyeing her. "The Red Window! Are you thinking of that ridiculous old
legend of Sir Aymas and the ghost?"
"Yes," assented Miss Randolph, "and of Bernard also."
"What has he to do with the matter?"
"He asked me, if you showed any signs of relenting, to put a light in
the Red Window at the Hall. Then he would come back."
"Oh!" Sir Simon did not seem to be displeased. "Then you can put the
light in the window when we go back in three weeks."
"You will forgive him?"
"I don't say that. But I want to see him settled in some reputable way.
After all," added the old man, sitting down, "I have been hard on the
boy. He is young, and, like all fools, has fallen in love with a pretty
face. This Miss Malleson--if she has any right to a name at all--is not
the bride I should have chosen for Bernard. Now you, my dear Lucy--"
"I am engaged to Julius," she interposed quickly, and came towards the
fire. "I love Julius."
"Hum! there's no accounting for tastes. I think Bernard is the better of
the two."
"Bernard has always been a trouble," said Lucy, "and Julius has never
given you a moment's uneasiness."
"Hum," said Sir Simon again, his eyes fixed on the fire. "I don't
believe Julius is so good as you make him out to be. Now Bernard--"
"Uncle," said Lucy, who had long ago been instructed to call her
relative by this name, "why don't you make it up with Bernard? I assure
you Julius is so good, he doesn't want to have the money."
"And you?" The old man looked at her sharply.
"I don't either. Julius has his own little income, and earns enough as
an architect to live very comfortably. Let me marry Julius, dear uncle,
and we will be happy. Then you can take back Bernard and let him marry
dear, sweet Alice."
"I doubt one woman when she praises another," said Sir Simon, dryly.
"Alice may be very agreeable."
"She is beautiful and clever."
The baronet looked keenly at Lucy's flushed face, trying to fathom her
reason for praising the other woman. He failed, for Miss Randolph's face
was as innocent as that of a child. "She is no doubt a paragon, my
dear," he said; "but I won't have her marry Bernard. By this time the
young fool must have come to his senses. Find out from Julius where he
is, and--"
"Julius may not know!"
"If Julius wants my money he will keep an eye on Bernard."
"So as to keep Bernard away," said Lucy, impetuously. "Ah, uncle, how
can you? Julius doesn't want the money--"
"You don't know that."
"Ask him yourself then."
"I will." Sir Simon rang the bell to intimate to Mrs. Gilroy that Julius
could be shown up. "If he doesn't want it, of course I can leave it to
someone else."
"To Bernard."
"Perhaps. And yet I don't know," fumed Sir Simon. "The rascal defied me!
He offered to pitch me out of the window if I said a word against that
Alice of his. I want Bernard to marry you--"
"I am engaged to Julius."
"So you said before," snapped the other. "Well, then, Miss Perry. She is
an heiress."
"And as plain as Alice is handsome."
"What does that matter? She is good-tempered. However, it doesn't
matter. I won't be friends with Bernard unless he does what I tell him.
He must give up Alice and marry Miss Perry. Try the Red Window scheme
when you go back to the Hall, Lucy. It will bring Bernard to see me, as
you say."
"It will," said Lucy, but by no means willingly. "Bernard comes down at
times to the Hall to watch for the light. But I can make a Red Window
here."
"Bernard doesn't know the house."
"I am sure he does," said Lucy. "He has to go to the lawyers for what
little money he inherits from his father, and Mr. Durham may have told
him you are here. Then if I put the light behind a red piece of paper or
chintz, Bernard will come here."
"It is all romantic rubbish," grumbled the old man, warming his hands.
"But do what you like, child. I want to give Bernard a last chance."
At this moment Julius appeared. He was a slim young man with a mild
face, rather expressionless. His hair and eyes were brown. He was
irreproachably dressed, and did not appear to have much brain power.
Also, from the expression of his eyes he was of a sly nature. Finally,
Mr. Beryl was guarded in his speech, being quite of the opinion that
speech was given to hide thoughts. He saluted his uncle affectionately,
kissed Lucy's cheek in a cold way, and sat down to observe what a damp,
dull day it was and how bad for Sir Simon's rheumatism. A more
colorless, timid, meek young saint it would have been hard to find in
the whole of London.
"I have brought you some special snuff," he said, extending a packet to
his host. "It comes from Taberley's."
"Ah, thank you. I know the shop. A very good one! Do you get your cigars
there, Julius?"
"I never smoke," corrected the good young man, coldly.
Sir Simon sneered. "You never do anything manly," he said
contemptuously. "Well, why are you here?"
"I wish, with your permission, to take Lucy to the theatre on Friday,"
said Mr. Beryl. "Mrs. Webber is going with me, and she can act as
chaperon."
"I should think she needed one herself. A nasty, flirting little cat of
a woman," said Sir Simon, rudely. "Would you like to go, Lucy?"
"If you don't mind, uncle."
"Bah!" said the old man with a snarl. "How good you two are. Where is
the theatre, Julius?"
"Near at hand. The Curtain Theatre."
"Ah! That's only two streets away. What is the play?"
"_As You Like It_, by--"
"By Chaucer, I suppose," snapped the old man. "Don't you think I know my
Shakespeare? What time will you call for Lucy?"
"At half-past seven in the carriage with Mrs. Webber."
"Your own carriage?"
"I am not rich enough to afford one," said Julius, smiling. "Mrs.
Webber's carriage, uncle. We will call for Lucy and bring her back
safely at eleven or thereabouts."
"Very good; but no suppers, mind. I don't approve of Mrs. Webber taking
Lucy to the Cecil or the Savoy."
"There is no danger of that, uncle," said Lucy, delighted at gaining
permission.
"I hope not," said the old man ungraciously. "You can go, Lucy. I want
to speak to Julius."
A look, unseen by the baronet, passed between the two, and then Lucy
left the room. When alone, Sir Simon turned to his nephew. "Where is
Bernard?" he asked.
A less clever man than Julius would have fenced and feigned surprise,
but this astute young gentleman answered at once. "He has enlisted in
the Imperial Yeomanry and goes out to the war in a month."
Sir Simon turned pale and rose. "He must not--he must not," he said,
considerably agitated. "He will be killed, and then--"
"What does it matter?" said Julius coolly--"you have disinherited
him--at least, I understand so."
"He defied me," shivered the baronet, warming his hands again and with a
pale face; "but I did not think he would enlist. I won't have him go to
the war. He must be bought out."
"I think he would refuse to be bought out now," said Beryl, dryly. "I
don't fancy Bernard, whatever his faults, is a coward."
"My poor boy!" said Sir Simon, who was less hard than he looked. "It is
your fault that this has happened, Julius."
"Mine, uncle?"
"Yes. You told me about Miss Malleson."
"I knew you would not approve of the match," said Julius, quietly.
"And you wanted me to cut off Bernard with a shilling--"
"Not for my own sake," said Julius, calmly. "You need not leave a penny
to me, Sir Simon."
"Don't you want the money? It's ten thousand a year."
"I should like it very much," assented Beryl, frankly; "but I do not
want it at the price of my self-respect."
The old man looked at him piercingly, but could learn nothing from his
inscrutable countenance. But he did not trust Julius in spite of his
meek looks, and inwardly resolved to meet craft by craft. He bore a
grudge against this young man for having brought about the banishment of
his grandson, and felt inclined to punish him. Yet if Julius did not
want the money, Sir Simon did not know how to wound him. Yet he doubted
if Julius scorned wealth so much as he pretended; therefore he arranged
how to circumvent him.
"Very well," he said, "since Bernard has disobeyed me, you alone can be
my heir. You will have the money without any loss of your self-respect.
Come with me this morning to see Durham."
"I am at your service, uncle," said Julius, quietly, although his eyes
flashed. "But Bernard?"
"We can talk of him later. Come!"
The attentive Beryl helped Sir Simon on with his overcoat and wrapped a
muffler round his throat. Then he went out to select a special
four-wheeler instead of sending the page-boy. When he was absent, Mrs.
Gilroy appeared in the hall where Sir Simon waited, and, seeing he was
alone, came close to him.
"Sir," she said quietly, "this girl Jane has described the young man's
looks who comes to see her."
"Well! well! well!"
"The young man--the soldier," said Mrs. Gilroy, with emphasis--"has come
only since we arrived here. Jane met him a week before our arrival, and
since we have been in the house this soldier has visited her often."
"What has all this to do with me?" asked Sir Simon.
"Because she described the looks of the soldier. Miss Randolph says he
is an Imperial Yeoman."
Sir Simon started. "Has Miss Randolph seen him?" he asked.
"No. She only goes by what I said this morning to you. But the
description, Sir Simon--" Here Mrs. Gilroy sank her voice to a whisper
and looked around--"suits Mr. Gore."
"Bernard! Ah!" Sir Simon caught hold of a chair to steady himself.
"Why--what--yes. Julius said he was an Imperial Yeoman and--"
"And he comes here to see the housemaid," said Mrs. Gilroy, nodding.
"To spy out the land," cried the baronet, in a rage. "Do you think that
my grandson would condescend to housemaids? He comes to learn how I am
disposed--if I am ill. The money--the money--all self--self--self!" He
clenched his hand as the front door opened. "Good-bye, Mrs. Gilroy, if
you see this Imperial Yeoman, say I am making a new will," and with a
sneer Sir Simon went out.
Mrs. Gilroy looked up to heaven and caught sight of Lucy listening on
the stairs.