"He will not last ten years' time, Die; and then you will be rich and
independent--the lady of Ashpound."
"Don't mention it, sir, unless you mean to tempt me to commit murder
next."
The speakers in the old drawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, in the south
country, thirty years ago, were Mr. Baring and his daughter Diana. He
was a worn and dissipated-looking man, with a half-arrogant, half-base
air--implying a whole old man of the world of a bad day gone by. He was
flawless in his carving, his card-dealing, his frock-coat and tie:
corrupt to the core in almost everything else. She was a tall,
full-formed woman, in her flower and prime, with a fine carriage and
gait, which rendered it a matter of indifference that she wore as plain
and simple a muslin gown as a lady could wear. Her hair was of the pale,
delicate, neutral tint which the French call _blond-cendré_, a little
too ashen-hued for most complexions. It was not wavy hair, but very soft
and pure, as if no atmosphere of turmoil and taint had ruffled or
soiled it. It made Miss Baring's fresh, clear complexion a shade too
bright in the carmine, which took off the greyness of the flaxen hue and
relieved the cold and steel-like gleam in her grey-blue eyes. The
features of the face were fine and regular, like Mr. Baring's; but
instead of the handsome, aristocratic, relentless aquiline nose, which
was the most striking feature in the gentleman's face, the lady's was a
modified Greek nose, broad enough at the base slightly to spoil its
beauty but largely to increase its intellectual significance.
The "he" of the conversation, who was not to last ten years, was Gervase
Norgate of Ashpound--a poor, impulsive, weak-willed, fast-living young
neighbouring squire. Unluckily for himself, he had been early left his
own master, and had ridden post-haste to the dogs ever since. Suddenly
he had taken it into his muddled head to pull up in his career, and, if
need be, to chain and padlock, hedge and barricade himself with a wife
and family, before Ashpound should be swallowed up by hungry creditors,
and he had hurried himself into a forlorn grave.
Mr. Baring was willing to let him off as a pigeon to be plucked, and to
use him instead as an unconscious decoy-duck in getting rid of Die; not
that Mr. Baring had an unnatural aversion to his daughter, but that she
was a drag upon him both for the present and the future. But Die, after
one night's reflection, accepted Gervase Norgate to escape worse evil,
having neither brother nor sister nor friend who would aid her. What Die
did on that night; whether she merely "slept on the proposal," like a
wise, well-in-hand, self-controlled woman; whether she outwatched the
moon, plying herself with arguments, forcing herself to overcome her
deadly sick loathing at the leap, nobody knows. If Die had learned
anything worth retaining, in the shifts and shams of her life, it was
perfect reticence. The result was that Gervase Norgate was coming to woo
as an accepted wooer at Newton-le-Moor on the evening of the summer day
when Mr. Baring confidentially assured the bride that the bridegroom
would not last ten years.
Newton-le-Moor was what its name suggested, an estate won from the
southern moors by other and worthier adventurers than John Fitzwilliam
Baring. In his hands the place was drifting back to the original
moorland. Everything, except the stables and kennels, had been suffered
to go to wreck. The house was of weather-streaked white stone, in part
staring and pretentious, in part prodigal and vagabondish. The
drawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, like most drawing-rooms, was a
commentary--more or less complete--on the life and character of its
owner. If it did not represent all his practices and pursuits--his
repudiation of just claims and obligations; his sleeping till noon and
waking till morning, and faring sumptuously at his neighbours' expense;
his fleecing of every victim who crossed his false door by borrowing,
bill-discounting, horse-dealing, betting, billiards, long and short
whist, and brandy-drinking--at least it painted one little peculiarity
of John Fitzwilliam Baring very fairly. Not one accessory which could
contribute to his comfort and enjoyment was wanting, from the
exceedingly easy chair for his back, to the alabaster lamp for his
eyes, and the silver pastile-burner for his nose. On the other hand,
there was scarcely an article that had no special reference to John
Fitzwilliam Baring which was not in the last stages of decay.
On this evening, before Gervase Norgate came up with her father from the
dining-room, where he might sit too long, considering who was waiting
him, Diana had her tea-table arranged, and sat down behind it as if to
do its honours. She showed no symptoms of discomposure, unless that her
rose-colour flickered and flushed in a manner that was not natural to
it; yet she had so entrenched herself, that when Gervase Norgate
entered, with an irregular, unsteady step, although as nearly sober as
he ever was, she could not be touched except at arm's length, and by the
tips of the fingers, over which he bowed.
Mr. Norgate was not in his flower and prime. He was not above a year or
two Miss Baring's senior; but his whole being had suffered eclipse
before it reached maturity, though he still showed some remains of what
might have been worth preserving. His physique had been what no word
interprets so fitly as the Scotch word "braw,"--not huge and unwieldy in
size and strength, but manly and comely. His shoulders were still broad,
though they slouched. His hand and arm were still a model, somewhat
wasted and shaken, of what in muscular power and lightness a hand and
arm should be. His dark brown hair, dry and scanty at five-and-twenty,
still fell in waves. His eyes, dulled and dimmed, were still the kindly,
magnanimous, forgiving blue eyes. His mouth had always been a heavy
mouth (better at all events than a mean mouth); it was coarse now, but
with strange lines of gentleness breaking in upon its tendency to
violence. But his carriage, though he was pre-eminently a well-made man,
was the attribute most spoilt about him. He had the blustering yet
shuffling bearing of a man who is fully convinced that he has gone to
the dogs, and it did not alter its expression that he was making an
effort to quit his canine associates. Perhaps the effort required to be
confirmed before its effects could be seen; perhaps he was not setting
about the right way of redeeming himself, after all.
Mr. Baring was pompous in his high breeding--the first gentleman in
Europe was pompous also. Mr. Baring brought forward his intended
son-in-law as his young friend, and alluded pointedly to the summer
evening and its event as an "auspicious occasion." But he was cut short
by a frosty glance from Die, and a brief remark that she was not sure
that this evening and its party were more auspicious than usual.
Although Miss Baring was a person of very little consequence in her
father's house, she acted on Mr. Baring as a drag. Her cold looks
inadvertently damped him; and she had a way, which he could not account
for in his daughter, of making blunt speeches, like that on the
auspicious occasion and on her being left a rich young widow, if Gervase
Norgate did for himself smartly. This was discomfiting even to a man who
piqued himself on his resources in conversation. Die had uttered twice
as many of these abrupt, unamiable, unanswerable rejoinders within
these twenty-four hours, since she had accepted Gervase Norgate's hand.
Whatever Mr. Baring thought of the rebuff, he was above exhibiting any
sign of his feelings, and no one could have refused him the tribute of
consideration for the position of his companions, as he blandly
announced that he had the day's 'Chronicle' to read, and begged to be
excused for accomplishing the task before post-time. He retired to sip
his tea and disappear behind the folds of his newspaper. It was the
first evening for a dozen years that he had not handled cue or
fingered cards.
Gervase Norgate, assuming his character of a man about to amend his
ways, marry, and settle, sat by Die Baring. He noted and summed up the
girl's good points, as no man in love ever yet did. She was a
finer-looking woman than he had supposed,--one to be proud of as he
presented her to his friends as his wife; pity that he had so few
creditable friends left now! He could think of none at that moment
except his strong-minded old Aunt Tabby, who had some sneaking kindness
for him in the middle of her scorn, and his old man, Miles. Die Baring
would not tolerate his boon companions--not that he wanted her to
tolerate them; she would not suit for his mistress and manager if she
did; though where she got her niceness--seeing what her father was up to
in cool, barefaced scampishness, in horse-flesh, bones, and
pasteboard--he could not tell.--She was a capable woman he was certain,
if she got a fair field for her capability. She was clever: anybody with
half an eye or an ear might recognize that. And she would want all her
cleverness--ay, and her will and temper--for what she would have to do.
But she had undertaken the task, and it was not much to the purpose that
if she had not been the daughter of a disreputable spendthrift she would
doubtless as lief have touched live coals as have submitted to be his
wife. Ah, well, it was his luck in his last toss-up, and he had never
been lucky before; yet he had never felt so great a reluctance to
conclude his engagement of twenty-four hours, and clinch his repentance,
as he did at this moment. It was good for him that he stood committed.
But why had he not sought out some humble, meek lass, who would still
have looked up to him and reckoned him not quite such a reprobate, but
believed that there was some good left in him, and liked him a little
for himself--not married him to suit her own book and save him for her
own sake, if it were possible? Why had he not chosen a simple pet lamb,
in place of a proud heifer who scarcely took the trouble to conceal from
him how it galled her neck to put it into his yoke? Psha! he would break
any poor heart with his incorrigible wildness and beastly sottishness in
a month's time. A woman without a heart; a good, hard-mouthed,
strong-pulling, well-wearing woman,--honest, and a lady; a handsome,
superior woman, and far beyond his deserts, was the wife for him.
Gervase pursued this line of thought; but he spoke to Miss Baring,
after a little introductory flourish about the weather, his ride
from Ashpound, and the embroidery which she had taken up, in a
different strain.
"You have shown a great, I must say an unmerited, trust in me, Miss
Baring--Diana: but I mean--I swear I mean to do the best I can for you
and myself. I have thought better of the life I have been leading; I
shall turn over a new leaf, and be another man if you will help me."
The confession was fatally facile, like most confessions, but it was
sincere, and not without its touching element, which, however, did not
reach her.
She replied, without being greatly moved, and corrected what might be a
slight misconception on his part: "I am quite aware, Mr. Norgate, that
you have been rather wild; but since you mean to do better, I am willing
to try you and to be your wife."
Diana's candid acquiescence had the same disconcerting influence upon
Gervase that her speeches had on her father, unlike as the men were: it
struck him dumb when he should have overwhelmed her with thanks. After a
while he recovered himself, took heart of grace, and blundered out that
he was grateful,--a happy man; would she not say Gervase, when she was
having him altogether?
"I suppose I may," acceded Diana, with a hard smile. "There, Gervase--it
is not hard to say," as if she were humouring him.
He did not ask for any more favours or rights, but maundered a little on
nobody calling him Gervase for many a day except his aunt Tabby, and she
contracted it to Jarvie, which had a stage-coach flavour.
"Tell me something about your aunt Tabby. Do you know, I have not
visited an aunt since I was a little girl of ten?" This afforded him an
opening more naturally and pleasantly, and the two went off on Aunt
Tabby instead of accomplishing more courtship, and got on a little
better. Diverging from Aunt Tabby to her place, and from her place to
Ashpound, they went on with mention of Gervase's factotum, Miles, and
discussed capabilities and future arrangements with wonderful common
sense.
Mr. Baring swallowed his last gape over his 'Chronicle,' concluded
that the couple had surely had their swing of private conversation for
one night, and resolved to curtail the courtship to the shortest
decorous bounds. So Mr. Baring looked at his watch, and said quite
lovingly to Gervase: "My boy, when I do act the family man, I do the
thing thoroughly, by supping in my dressing-room at eleven. What! you
are off? A pleasant ride to you. You will receive your orders from
Die, I fancy, when to report yourself in attendance. To-morrow is it,
or next day? Make yourself at home, my dear fellow. Happy to think
that you are going to be one of us--a son for me to be proud of.
Good-night. God bless you."
Thus the preliminaries to the alliance ended with Gervase bowing again
over the tips of Die's fingers. He had not the smallest inclination to
raise them to his lips.
"I will do my duty by him," said Diana to herself, when she was in the
sanctuary of her own bare room. And what a poor sanctuary it had been!
"It may be bad in me to have him, but what can I do? and what can he do,
for that matter? If I do my duty by him, surely some good will come of
it." Perhaps her imagination was haunted by a garbled version of the
text about him who turns a sinner from the error of his ways and covers
a multitude of sin.