Frank uttered a cry of surprise when he opened the studio door to his
friend. It was his favourite complaint that Willy never came to see him.
“At last, at last! This is the second time you have been in the place
since it was finished, faithless friend!”
“My dear fellow, you know it is not my fault. I have been very busy
lately trying to get on with my accounts. There's not a room in the
Manor House where I can work in; my sisters' things are everywhere, and
they must not be interfered with--their ball-dresses, their birds, their
work. My sisters think of nothing but pleasure.”
“Triss, go back, go to your chair, sir; I'll get the whip.”
Showing his fangs, the bull-dog retired; then with a hideous growl
sprang upon his chair, and sat eyeing Willy's calves.
“I cannot think what pleasure it can give you to keep such a brute. Even
if I had my accounts finished, I don't think I should care to come here
much. It isn't safe.”
“You are quite mistaken. There's not a better-tempered dog alive than
Triss; he wouldn't bite any one unless he attacked me. Give me a slap,
and you'll see--I won't let him come near you.”
“Thank you, I'd rather not. But he sometimes growls even at you, and
shows his teeth, too.”
“That's only a way of his, and when he does it I kick him. Come here,
Triss--come here, sir!” The dog approached slowly; he sat down and gave
his paw to his master, but he did not cease to growl. “There! We have
had enough of you, go back to your chair. What will you take--a glass of
Chartreuse--a cigarette?”
“Thanks, both if you will let me. I see you like pretty things,” he
said, admiring the tall legs of the table--early English--and the quaint
glasses into which Frank poured the liqueur. “You've got the place to
look very nice.”
“Very different from what is was when the smith and his boisterous brood
were here,” and as if he intended an apt illustration of his words, he
stretched his leg out on the white fur rug and surveyed his calf and red
silk stocking. “Just look at that dog, isn't he a beauty? I always think
he looks well in that attitude, leaning his head over the rail. I began
a picture of him the other day in a pose somewhat like that. I'll show
it you.” Frank propped his sketch against the leg of the sofa, and
returned to his place on the sofa. “What do you think of it? Your father
said it was very like.”
“It is like him, but I can see no merit in it. I'm afraid of the brute.
I can't help hating him, for he always looks as if he were going for my
legs. What else have you been painting? Any pretty women about? I should
admire them more.”
“I haven't been painting lately,” he said, sighing a little
melodramatically, as was his wont, “I think I have been playing the
piano more than anything else. I have composed something too, I don't
think it bad, I'll play it to you: a dialogue between a gentleman and a
lady. He speaks first, then she answers, then I blend the two motives,
and that is what they both say.”
Willy sat enwrapped in his own thoughts, not having heard a note. Though
he knew that Willy was incapable of judging of music, it disappointed
him that his dialogue had passed unperceived. Then smiling, he struck
a few notes, and Willy awoke. “You haven't been listening,” he said,
reproachfully. “You don't care for any music, except that little tune.”
“Yes, I do; I heard what you played, and I think it very pretty.”
“Willy, I am the most miserable man in the world. Every hour, every
minute of my life is a pain to me. I never knew before what you must
have suffered, but I know now; it is a sickening feeling, it takes you
by the throat, it rises in the throat, and you are almost suffocated.
Last night I lay awake hour after hour thinking. I could see Maggie
as plainly as I can see you--she looked down upon me out of space with
strange, steadfast eyes, and my whole soul went out to her, and I cried
to her that I loved her beyond all things; and we seemed to be so near
each other; it seemed such an intimate and perfect communion of spirit
and sense that I seemed, as it were, lifted out of actual life; I seemed
to myself holier, purer, better than I had ever been before; I seemed to
loose all that is gross and material in me, and to gain in all that
is best and worthiest in man. Did you feel like that when you were in
love?”
“I don't know that I felt exactly like that. But never mind how I felt;
you are too fond of alluding to that subject, it is a very painful one
to me; you will make me regret that I ever told you anything about it.”
“I am sorry I mentioned it. It is strange, but when one suffers one
likes to speak of and to compare with one's own the suffering that
another has endured. Your sister treats me most cruelly. She has
forgiven me that miserable business, but she refuses to hold out any
hope that she will ever be my wife. I don't understand--I am utterly at
sea. I don't believe for a moment that she cares for that horrid brute;
he is gone away. She tells me she never cared for him. If so, I should
like to learn your explanation of her conduct.”
Willy stroked his moustache, apparently declining the responsibility of
apologist; but his manner showed he had something on his mind, and Frank
sought more eagerly than ever to enlist his sympathy and support.
“I have done everything I could to win her. I don't know why she should
be so difficult to please. I am not bad looking, I am at least as good
looking as that damned brute” (here he paused to glance at himself in
the glass and smooth the curls above his forehead). “I am certainly
quite as clever” (here he thought of his painting, and his eye sought
one of his pictures), “and my position--I will not speak of that, it
would be snobbish. Women have cared for me. I have told Maggie hundreds
of times that I never could care for any but her. Fate seems to have
specially marked us for each other. You must admit that there is
something very remarkable in the way we have been brought together over
and over again. I have told her that my life is worthless without her.
The day before yesterday, when I was speaking to her, I burst into
tears. That a man should cry, no doubt, seems to you very ridiculous but
if you knew how I suffer you would pity me. I often think I shall commit
suicide.” Frank took the stiletto from his pocket. “I don't mind telling
you, when you knocked at the door I was lying on the sofa thinking it
over. One stab just here and I should be at peace for ever. I told her
so yesterday.”
“I'm not fond of giving advice, as you know--I have quite enough to do
to think about my own affairs--but as you have often spoken to me on
this matter, and as you have asked me for my opinion and my help, I had
better tell you that I differ entirely from you concerning the wisdom of
the course you are pursuing.”
“How's that?” said Frank, at first surprised and then delighted at
Willy's breaking from his reserve.
“What I mean is, that I think you would be more successful if you
would lay aside daggers and revolvers, and try to win her affection by
patience and gentleness. Maggie was talking to me about it no later than
last night, and I could see clearly that you frighten her with bluster.
I am sure there are times when she dreads you; it must be a positive
terror to her to sit with you alone--so it would be to any girl.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maggie is a very delicate and nervous girl, and it wouldn't surprise
me if your threats to commit suicide seriously affected her health; you
come with a revolver and a stiletto, and you ask her to marry you, and
if she doesn't at once say yes, you abuse her, declaring all the time
that you'll stab yourself with the revolver and shoot yourself with the
stiletto--I beg your pardon, I mean--”
“Of course, if you've come here only to turn me into ridicule--”
“I assure you I didn't mean it--a slip of the tongue,” and as their eyes
met at that moment, neither could refrain from laughter.
“Admit that there is something in what I say. If you will behave a
little more quietly--if you will talk to her nicely; leave off assuring
her of your love, she knows all that already; have some patience and
forbearance; you will see if before long she doesn't change towards
you.”
His interest in the matter was a desire that his sister should not miss
this chance of marrying the future Lord Mount Rorke. But Maggie felt
too sure of Frank to resist the temptation to tantalise him; besides
her moods were naturally various, and the first relapse into her former
coldness was answered by a sudden reversion to threats of murder and
suicide, and one summer evening about six o'clock, when Mrs. Horlock
took her dogs out and stood at the corner waiting for Angel, a rumour
was abroad that Mr. Escott had stabbed himself to the heart, and had
fallen weltering in his blood at Miss Brookes's feet.
Dr Dickinson walked across the green, watched with palpitating anxiety
from the corner of the Southdown Road. The General spoke to the farmer,
and the farmer's pupil nudged the general dealer. Mrs. Horlock spoke to
the grocers, and the owners of the baths declared they had just heard
from their servant that the young man was not dead, but mortally
wounded.
There was, therefore, no doubt that Dr Dickinson was going to Mrs.
Heald's, and would not turn to the right and walk to the station for the
quarter-to-seven train; and expectation on this point ceasing, the
group expressed its sympathy for the young man. Poor young man--and
so good-looking too--what will she do if he should die?--and he
must die--there was no doubt of it. Maria had met Mary--that was the
housemaid at the Manor House--it was Mary who had mopped up the blood.
She said there was a great pool right in the middle of the new carpet
under the window--they were sitting there on the ottoman when he said
suddenly, “I have come to ask you to marry me; if you won't I must die.”
Notwithstanding this she continued to play with him--the cruel little
minx! He could stand it no longer, and he pulled out a dagger he had
brought from the East, and stabbed himself twice close to the heart.
What will she do?--she is his murderer--to all intents and purposes she
is his murderer--she will have to go into a convent--she won't go into
a convent--she'll brazen it out. No one thinks much of those girls--the
way Sally carried on with young Meason--it was disgraceful--they say she
used to steal her father's money and give it to him--Dr Dickinson could
tell fine tales.
Then gossip ceased, and they were in doubt if they might intercept the
doctor and obtain news of his patient when he left Mrs. Heald's. Some
strolled about the green, pretending to be taking the air. Mrs. Horlock,
however, had no scruples, and picking up Angel and calling to Rose and
Flora, she walked straight to Mrs. Heald's, and was seen to go in. Some
five minutes after she came out with the doctor. Frank was not dead, nor
mortally wounded, nor even dangerously wounded, but he had had a very
narrow escape.
“I said to him, 'You have had a very narrow escape.' The fact is--(I, of
course, examined the weapon)--a small part of the point had been broken
away; it was this that saved him. The first blow scarcely pierced his
clothes; the second was more effective, it entered the flesh just above
the heart, and I have no doubt if the steel had penetrated a quarter of
an inch deeper that he would have killed himself. But so far as I can
see at present, he will get over it without much difficulty.”
“When did it occur?”
“About an hour ago, at the Manor House. It appears that he has gone
there every day for the last three weeks to ask Miss Brookes to marry
him; she, however, would not give him any definite answer--”
“Horrid girl!”
“I never liked her; most deceitful; no doubt she flirted with him
outrageously.”
“I can't say. I hear that he often threatened to kill himself, and
to-day, to conclude, he pulled out his stiletto.”
“I thought it was a dagger he had brought from the East?”
“No, the weapon they showed me was an Italian stiletto.”
The grocer's daughter shuddered, her mother murmured, “And for that
girl.”
“We didn't know him. The Brookes never allow their friends to know any
one in Southwick, but I have heard that he is an exceedingly nice--”
“He will be Lord Mount Rorke, if his uncle doesn't marry again.”
“He must have been desperately in love; no one ever heard of such a
thing before. It sounds like the Middle Ages--a stiletto!”
“But what could he see in her? That's what I can't make out; can you?”
“Ah! there I can't assist you. I hope to be able to cure him of the
stiletto wound, but Cupid's arrows are beyond me. They did not fly
so thickly or strike so hard in my time.” And, laughing, the doctor
withdrew.
“I suppose that after this she will marry him; she never intended to
let him slip through her fingers. I can see her face when she heard that
another quarter of an inch and her chance of being Lady Mount Rorke was
gone for ever.”
“I daresay he won't marry her now. It would serve her right. I should be
so glad.”
And so pouring their gall out upon the unfortunate Maggie, the
tradespeople returned to their homes. The stiletto was so utterly
unprecedented, and so complete a reversal of all conception of
the chances of life at Southwick, that every one felt puzzled and
dissatisfied, even when gossip had brought to light every circumstantial
detail of the romantic story. Had the deed been done with a knife, with
anything but a stiletto; had he hanged himself, or cut his throat with
a razor, or shot himself with his revolver, the wonder of the
Southwickians would not have been so excited. But a stiletto! And for
a week an Italy of brigands and bravoes, and stealthy surprises haunted
shadows of picturesque archways, an Italy of chromo-lithographed skies
and draperies in the Southdown Road. Maggie was spoken of with alternate
fear and hate; her wickedness seemed more than natural, and had the
Southdown Road known anything of Italian opera, there is little doubt
that Miss Brookes would have been compared to Lucretia Borgia. The young
women looked out of their windows at night, and wondered how they'd feel
if a troubadour were suddenly to sing to them from behind the privet
hedges. The young men were even more impressed than their womenfolk;
they cursed their place of birth and habitation, knowing that it
incapacitated them from knowing her; they wasted their mothers' candles
sitting up till two in the morning writing odes to cruel women with
raven hair; and all gazed sadly on the old ship in the harbour, and the
Spanish main seemed nearer, and those gallant days more realisable than
they had ever been before.
The direct cause of this revival of romance lived, however, unconscious
of it. She was genuinely frightened. She said her prayers with great
fervour, begging God that He might save Frank, and that she might not
be a murderess. She made him soups, she sent him wine, she brought him
books, and she sat with him for hours. She thought he had never looked
so nice as now--so pale, so aristocratic, so elegantly weak, his head
laid upon a cushion, which she had brought him, and when he took her
hand and said, “Will you, darling?” and she murmured, “Yes,” then it
seemed that the happiness of his life was upon his face.
Three days after Frank was sitting at his table writing to Mount Rorke,
and on the following Sunday he walked to the Manor House to tell Mr.
Brookes that he was engaged to his daughter, and to ask his consent. He
did not think of his folly, he was too happy; he seemed like one in a
quiet dulcet dream; he walked slowly, leaning from time to time against
the wooden paling, for he wished to prolong this meditative moment; he
saw everything vaguely, and loved all with a quiet fulness of heart;
he took in the sense of this village and its life as he had never done
before. He compared it with Ireland; Mount Rorke, with its towers, and
lakes, and woods arose, and he was grateful that Maggie was going there,
yet he was sure that he could not live without sometimes seeing this
village where he had found so much happiness.
His wound had sucked away his strength, the sunlight dazzled him, and
feeling a little overcome, and not equal, without pause, to the long
interview that awaited him, he stayed awhile in a shady laurel corner,
and leaning against a piece of iron railing, watched Mr. Brookes and
Mr. Berkins as they paced the tennis lawn to and fro. The old gentleman
frequently stopped in his walk to point at the glass houses.
“My dear Berkins, I wish you would try to get Willy some appointment;
he would, I am sure, take anything over two hundred and fifty a year. He
would do marvellously well in an office--he loves it. I assure you his
eyes twinkle when one speaks of how books are kept, or alludes in any
way to the routine of office work. You should see his accounts and his
letter books, they would make the best clerk you ever had feel ashamed
of himself; but left to himself I am afraid he will do no good; he has
all the method, but nothing else. He lost money in Bond Street; I am
afraid to tell you how much he dropped on the Stock Exchange, but that
was not entirely his fault--the firm went bankrupt; nobody could have
foreseen it, it was quite unheard of.”
“I have always noticed that successful men do not buy partnerships in
firms that go bankrupt.”
“Very true, Berkins; I wish I had asked your advice on the subject.”
“I wish you had, Mr. Brookes. You are no doubt a very clever man, but on
one or two points you are liable to make mistakes; you are, if I may so
speak, a little weak. You should come and live with me for a few months,
I would put you right.”
“This is really too much,” thought Mr. Brookes; and had it not been for
the certain knowledge that Berkins had lately increased his income by
a couple of thousands a year, he would have answered him tartly enough;
but as this fact admitted of no doubt he bridled his anger and said: “If
you could put my boy right it would be more to the point. He has all
the method of the best clerk in London; he loves the work, he would do
honour to any office, but on his own hook I am afraid he will never do
anything but lose his money.”
“Your money, you mean.”
“Well, my money if you like. You are very provoking, Berkins. I don't
know if you do it with the express purpose of annoying me. I was saying,
when you interrupted me, that Nature had evidently intended my son for
a clerk rather than for a speculator. I fear he is doing very badly
with his shop in Brighton. The rents are very high in East Street, and I
don't think he sells anything. He takes enough away from here, though. I
don't remember if I ever told you that I was foolish enough to agree
to his taking away, buying from me at the market price he calls it, the
surplus produce of my garden and greenhouses. I dare say I shall get
the money one of these days, but at present I see no sign of it. He is
always making up the accounts, and, so far as we have gone, the result
of this arrangement is that, when I complain that there is neither fruit
nor vegetables on my table, I am told that everything went to Brighton.
I am forced, I assure you, to send my carriage and my horses, that I
paid two hundred guineas for, to fetch potatoes, and he, too, uses my
carriage to take his vegetables to the shop. He gets his sisters to
bring them when they go out driving, nor can I even buy my fruit and
vegetables off him at cost price; he says that would interfere with his
book-keeping, and so I am obliged to buy everything from Hutton, and you
know what his prices are. I assure you, it is most annoying.”
“Mr. Brookes, your fortune will not bear this constant drain; you must
remember that we are living in very bad times--times that are not what
they were. I have heard that your distillery--”
“Yes, times are very bad. I have never known them worse, and no doubt
you find them so too. They ought to affect you even more than they do
me. My income is, as you know, all invested money, whereas yours is all
in your business.”
“Of course, I am affected by the times; had they remained what they
were, even what they were towards the end of the seventies, I should be
making now something over ten thousand pounds a year. But, thank God! I
have not to complain. Next year I hope to invest another five thousand
pounds. The worst of it is, that there is no price for money in
legitimate securities.”
“Everything is very bad; you never will invest your money as I did mine
ten years ago. My business is not, of course, what it used to be, but I
don't complain; if it weren't for troubles nearer home I should get on
very well.”
“I hope that Sally has commenced no new flirtation in the Southdown
Road. I thought she had promised you--since she gave up Meason--that she
would for the future know no one that lived there.”
“I was thinking for the moment of Willy, not of Sally; she has not been
so troublesome lately. But no sooner are we out of one trouble than we
are in another. It is, of course, very regrettable that young Escott
should have stabbed himself, and in my garden too. I, who hate scandals,
seem always plunged in one. I hear they are talking of it in the clubs
in Brighton. I hope Lord Mount Rorke will not hear of it; if he did, do
you think it would prejudice him against the match?”
“Then you're prepared to give your consent?”
“Why not? Surely! I really don't see--Lord Mount Rorke is a very rich
man.”
“Possibly, but Irish peers are not always as rich as they would like us
to believe they are. The connection is, of course, desirable, but I hope
your anxiety to secure it will not lead you into making foolish, I will
say reprehensible, monetary concessions. What I mean is this. I am a
straightforward man, Mr. Brookes, brought up in a hard school, and I
always come straight to the point. You are a rich man, Mr. Brookes--you
have the reputation of being a richer man than you are--and it is
possible, I don't say it is probable, that Lord Mount Rorke will expect
you to make a large settlement. He will possibly--mind you, I do not say
probably--taking the coronet into consideration--those people think as
much of their titles as we do of our money--ask you to settle a thousand
a year, may be fifteen hundred a year, upon your daughter.”
“Settle a thousand--maybe fifteen hundred--a year on my daughter!” cried
the horror-stricken Brookes.
“He may even ask for two thousand a year. Remember, you are a
distiller--he is a peer of the realm. And now I say,” continued Berkins,
growing more emphatic as he reached the close of his declamation, “that
in my wife's interest I will oppose any and all attempts to purchase a
coronet for Maggie at her sister's expense.”
Mr. Brookes stood for a moment stupefied--as if some great calamity
had befallen him. The housekeeping bills, the loss of his fruit and
vegetables, even the Southdown Road seemed as nothing in the face of
this new misfortune. Troublesome as his daughters were, he preferred
an occasional recrudescence of flirtation in his garden to settling the
money that he had made himself and letting them go; no pen can describe
the anguish that the surrendering of the ten thousand pounds which
he had settled on Grace had caused him; but to be told now that the
alliance with a lord which he so greedily coveted, and which had been so
agreeably tickling him for the last few days, would cost him perhaps two
thousand a year, was more than he could bear. He had avoided as much
as possible even thinking of the money question. One hundred--two
hundred--the shadow of three hundred had fallen for a moment on his
mind, but he had successfully chastened these unpleasantnesses by
thoughts of the liberality, the generosity of the aristocracy, and
he had encouraged a hope that Mount Rorke would let him off with a
statement of how much Maggie would have at his death. And now to hear
these terrible prognostications, and from his own son-in-law, too. It
was too bad--it was too cruel. “You don't know what you are talking
about, Berkins. If it were business I would listen to you, but really
when it comes to discussing the aristocracy it is more than I can stand.
What do you know about the aristocracy--not that,” cried Mr. Brookes,
snapping his fingers. “You were brought up in an office--what should you
know? You were a clerk once at thirty shillings a week--what should
you know? Lord Mount Rorke would never think of making such ridiculous
proposals to me. You judge him by yourself, Berkins, that's it, that's
it! I dare say he has heard of me in the City--many of your great lords
do business in the City. I dare say he has heard of me, and if he has
he'll not try any nonsense with me. Twist him round my finger, twist him
round my finger.”
Berkins liked a lord, but Berkins liked lords without thinking himself
one jot their inferior, and he was sure that his horse and his dog and
his house and everything belonging to him were better than theirs; and
secure in the fact that his grandfather had been a field officer, he did
not think it amiss to brag that he had begun life with thirty shillings
a week, so he only smiled at his father-in-law's wrath, feeling now
easy in his mind that Grace's future fortune would not be prejudiced for
Maggie's glorification.
The discussion had fallen, and Mr. Brookes went to meet the young man
whom he caught sight of coming across the sward.
“Most imprudent of you to come out to-day,” he said, scanning the white
face.
“Oh, I am very well now, thanks. The sun is a little overpowering, that
is all. I want to speak to you, Mr. Brookes.”
“Speak to me? Yes. Will you go into the billiard-room, my boy? I can see
the heat has upset you. Take my arm.”
Frank took the offered arm. He was feeling very faint, but the cool and
dim colour of the billiard-room revived him, and when he had had some
claret and water, he said that he felt quite strong, and listened
patiently to Mr. Brookes.
“Well, I never! No, I never heard of such a thing. A stiletto, too. You
brought it from Italy? It makes me feel quite young again. Ah! 'tis hard
to say what we won't do for a girl when Miss Right comes along. I was
just the same--pretty keen on it, I can tell you, when I was your age;
and I don't know, even now,--but a man with grown-up daughters must be
careful. Still when I see a little waist, high heels, plump--you know,
that's the way I used to like them when I used to go to the oyster
shops; there was one at the top of the Haymarket. Ah! I was young then,
young as you are; I was keen on it--Aunt Mary will tell you that--there
was nothing I wouldn't do; I never went as far as stabbing--walking
about at night, tears, torments as much as you like, but I never went so
far as stabbing. Wonderful what love will make a man do! Supposing you
had killed yourself; in my garden, too--awful! What would people say? I
hear they are talking of it in the clubs--hope it won't go any further.
Should Mount Rorke hear of it! Eh? Might set him against us; might not
give his consent--eh? We should be up a tree, then.”
“I don't think there is much danger of that. I came to-day, Mr. Brookes,
to ask for your consent; am I to understand that you give it?”
“Well, my dear Frank, I don't see why I should refuse it; I have known
you since you were quite a small boy. I don't want to flatter you. I
don't know that I care much about young men as a rule, but you, I
have always found you--well, just what you should be. Of course the
connection is very flattering. You will one day be Lord Mount Rorke, and
to see my darling Maggie sharing your honours will be--that is to say if
I live to see it--a great, a very gre--great hon--our.”
Feeling much embarrassed Frank begged of him not to mention it. “I shall
be writing to-morrow or next day to my uncle; shall I say that you have
given your consent to my marriage with your daughter? I may say that I
have already written to him on the subject.”
“By all means, my dear boy. I think I can say you have my consent--that
is to say, you have my consent if the money's all right. All is, of
course, subject to that. Now you are for love in a cottage, bread and
cheese romance; a man who will use a stiletto can't be expected to know
much about money, but I am a father, my stiletto days are over, and
I couldn't give my daughter without a settlement. You will, no doubt,
be--of course you will be--Lord Mount Rorke one of these days; but in
the meantime there must be a proper settlement. My daughter must be
properly provided for; it is my duty to look after her interests, so you
may as well tell your uncle that I shall be pleased to meet him and talk
the matter over with him. I will meet him in London, when it suits his
convenience; I need hardly say that if he should choose to come down
here that I shall be pleased to see him. And now tell me--of course
he will be prepared to act handsomely; I have no doubt he will, the
aristocracy always do act handsomely, no one is so liberal as your
aristocrat. I hope he will settle a good round sum on my daughter--money
invested in first-class securities, not what Berkins would call
first-class, but what I should call first-class securities; and should
your uncle prove the liberal man that I have no doubt he is, I don't say
that I won't behave handsomely. Of course you know that my dear children
will have all my money at my death. I shall never marry again, that is
a settled thing; but in the meantime I will do something. When Grace
was married I behaved very generously--too generously--a lot of
money--mustn't do it again, times are not what they were. But at my
death I shall make no difference, all three will share and share alike.”
Frank hoped when Brookes and Mount Rorke met, that the former would
modify his demands, and what was still more important, his mode of
expressing them. But why should Mr. Brookes appear to him in such a
sudden glow of vulgarity? He had never thought of him as a refined and
cultivated gentleman, but was unprepared for this latest manifestation.
“Lord Mount Rorke allows me a certain annual income, he will no doubt
double this income upon my marriage; I daresay he would--since he has
recognised me as his heir--make this income legally mine by deed, I
could then settle a certain sum on Maggie, in case of my death; but then
further settlements would be required when I succeed to the title and
the property. I had thought--and indeed I think still--that if my uncle
makes me a sufficient allowance, that we might avoid touching on this
matter at all. Lord Mount Rorke is an irritable man, and I am sure that
if you were to speak to him as you--”
“Pooh! pooh! Nonsense! nonsense! You don't suppose I am going to give
my daughter to a man unless he can settle a sufficient sum of money upon
her? Berkins wouldn't hear of it. He was only telling me just now--”
“But I don't think you understand me, Mr. Brookes. I do not propose that
you should give me any money with your daughter. Let what you give her
be settled upon her, and let it be tied up as strictly as the law can
tie it.”
“Pooh! pooh! the man that marries my daughter must settle a sum of money
at least equal to what I settle upon her; and it must be money invested
in first-class security, otherwise I couldn't think of giving her one
penny.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Brookes, that you are so determined on this point.
These matters generally arrange themselves if people incline to meet
each other half way, and I am sure that my uncle will resent it if you
insist on pounds, shillings, and pence as you propose doing. He is not
accustomed to strict business--marriages in our family were never made
on such principles; my happiness is bound up in Maggie. I hope you will
consider what you are risking.”
“I would do more for you than any one else, Frank, but business is
business, and the man who has my daughter must settle a sum of money
equivalent to what I settle.”
“I am afraid I have talked too much, I am not very strong, yet with
your permission we will adjourn this discussion to another day--in the
meantime I will write to my uncle.”
Mr. Brookes did not offer the assistance of his arm, and had he, Frank
would certainly not have accepted it. Holding the door, the old man
waited for his visitor to pass out. “Southdown Road or the heir to a
peerage: it is all the same, my money is what is wanted--the money I had
made myself,” thought Mr. Brookes. “Dreadful old man, he would sell his
daughter for a settlement of a few hundred pounds a year. I never knew
he was so bad, my eyes are opened,” thought Frank. Both were equally
angry, and without secrecy or subterfuge they sought consolation in
different parts of the garden. Mr. Brookes resumed his walk on the
tennis ground with Berkins, and stopping frequently to point to his
glass-houses, he described his misfortunes with profuse waves of his
stick. Frank had found Maggie, and they now walked together in the shade
and silence of the sycamores--he, vehement and despairing of the future;
she, subtle and strangely confident that things would happen as she
wished them.
Having once yielded and felt the pang of possession she was wholly his,
in all ramifications of spirit and flesh, both in her brain and blood,
and the utmost ends of her sense mingled with him. But to him, she was
the symbol of the desire of which he was enamoured, the desire which
held together his nature and gave it individuality--love of _the_ young
girl.
“Oh! my darling, if he should speak so to Mount Rorke, we should be
parted for ever--no, that could never be--nothing in heaven or earth
would induce me to give you up, be true to me and I will be true to you;
but our happiness--no, not our happiness, that is in ourselves--but all
our prospects in life will be wrecked if he will not give way. Should he
and Mount Rorke meet--”
“But they won't meet; have patience--I know how to manage father. He
doesn't like to part with his money, and I can understand it, he made it
all himself; but he will get used to the idea in time, leave him to me;
put your trust in me.”
She extended her hand, he took it, pressed it to his lips; he took her
in his arms and kissed her, and the leaves of the sycamores were filled
with the sunset.
“DEAR SIR,--I received a letter this morning from my nephew, apprising
me of his engagement to your daughter. He has apparently obtained your
consent, and he asks for mine, and he also asks from me not only an
increase of income to meet the requirements of altered circumstances,
but he tells me that you will expect me to settle some seven, eight, or
ten thousand pounds upon your daughter.
“I do not propose to discuss the reasonableness of his or your demands,
but it seems that a statement of his prospects is owing to you.
“Having never married when I was a young man, many have assumed--I among
the number--that I never would marry; and I admit that I have allowed my
nephew to grow up in the belief that he is my heir and the successor to
the title of Mount Rorke; but beyond a general assumption existing in my
mind, his mind, and the minds of those who know us, there is no reason
to suppose that I shall not marry, or that I shall leave him a single
sixpence, and I willingly make use of this opportunity to say that I
have no faintest intention of entering intoany engagement either verbal
or written with him upon this matter.--Yours very truly, MOUNT RORKE.”
“MY DEAR FRANK,--The enclosed is a copy of the letter which I send by
this post to Mr. Brookes. And I make no disguise of the fact that it
was written with the full intention of rendering your marriage an
impossibility. It will no doubt appear to you a harsh and cruel letter;
it will no doubt grieve you, madden you--in your rage you may call me
a brute. The epithet will be unjust; but knowing very well indeed what
love is at twenty-five, I will forgive it. And now to the point. I know
something about old Brookes, and I remember the lean boy you used
to bring here, and judging from some slight traces that Eton had not
succeeded in effacing, I think I can guess what the rest of the family
is like; indeed, the old gentleman's preposterous demand that I should
settle ten thousand pounds on his daughter throws a sufficient light on
his character, and in some measure reveals what sort of manner of man he
is. But let all this be waived. I admit that with some show of reason,
you may say it is unjust, nay more, it is ridiculous, to pronounce
judgment on people I have never seen, and it is cruelty worthy of a
Roman Emperor to wreck the lifelong happiness of two young people for
the sake of a prejudice that the trouble of a journey to Brighton will
most certainly extinguish. I will not irritate you by assuring you that
the world is full of desirable women-women that will appeal to you two
years hence precisely as Miss Brookes appeals to you now. Were I to
whisper that it is unwise to give up all women for one woman, you could
not fail, in your present mood, to see in my philosophy only the nasty
wisdom of a cynical old reprobate. Therefore I will not weary you with
advice--what I have said must be considered not as advice, but rather
as an expression of personal experience in the love passion, serving as
illustration of the attitude of my mind towards you. I will limit myself
to merely asking you--no, not to think again of Miss Brookes--that would
be impossible, but to leave Southwick for London or Paris, the latter
for preference. I will give you a letter of introduction to a charming
lady (ah! were I thirty years younger). Put yourself in her hands, and I
have no doubt in the world but that she will send you back cured in six
months, as my bank-book will abundantly prove.
“If you cannot do this--if so drastic a remedy should be too repugnant
to your present feelings, I would remember, were I in your place, that
my uncle had never refused me anything; that I could draw upon him for
what money I liked--that is to say, for all pleasures and satisfaction
save one. I would remember that at his death I was to inherit ten
thousand a year and a title; and I would weigh (first examining each
weight carefully, to see if it were true weight) all these present and
future advantages against the gratification of possessing a woman I
loved when I was twenty-five for a period of time extending perhaps
over half a century; I would think--at least I think and hope I should
hesitate--before I refused to obey one of whose affection I was sure,
and I feel certain it would go hard with me before I refused to gratify
the whim--call it a whim if you like--of one who had often given but
never asked before.
“Somehow I think you owe me this sacrifice; I have done much for you and
am prepared to do more, and to speak quite candidly, I want something in
return; I do not mean that I am desirous of striking a bargain with you,
but we all expect to receive--of course not directly, but in some remote
way--something for what we give, and I confess that I look forward to
your companionship to assist me through the last course of life. I do
not want you now--for the next few years I want you to see the world, to
educate yourself; I want you to improve your taste in art and letters,
and later on, if possible, to turn yourself to some public account.
Besides other work, I am now working at my memoirs; they are to be
published after my death, as I have arranged, under your supervision.
I regard these memoirs as being of the first importance, and it is
advisable that you should be in full possession of all my intentions
respecting them. Hitherto I have always looked after everything myself,
but the time will come when I shall not be able to do this, and shall
require you to relieve me of the burden of business. Then I wish you to
live here, so that you may learn to love Mount Rorke. I am very busy now
with improvements, and I would wish you to be with me so that you might
adequately enter into my views and ideas. To conclude, I do not marry
for your sake; do you not marry for mine, at least do not marry for
the present. I do not say that if I knew and liked the girl of your
choice--if she were in your own set--that I could not be won over, but
on the whole I would sooner you didn't marry. But I could not really
endure a lot of new acquaintances--people who had never dined in a
lord's house, and would all want to be asked--no, I could not endure it.
I am an old man, and now I want to enjoy myself in my own way, and my
desire is to get through the last years of my life with you.
“You can do what you please, ask here whomever you please, give me a
few hours of your time when I am particularly busy with my memoirs, and,
above all, let us be alone sometimes after dinner, so that we can turn
our chairs round to the fire and talk at our ease.--Your affectionate
uncle, MOUNT RORKE.”
“So he won't pay for a secretary, and wants me to do the work; that's
about the meaning of that letter.” Frank re-read the letter sentence for
sentence, and as he read new sneers and new expressions of scorn rose
in his brain in tremulous ebullition. There was scarcely a plan for
the chastisement of his uncle that he did not for some fleeting moment
entertain, and one most ironical letter he committed to paper; but
Maggie would not hear of its being sent, and he was surprised and glad
to see that she was not depressed and disheartened at the turn affairs
had taken.
“I can do what I like with father; Sally can't, but I can. You leave it
me.”
“What's the good of that? You can't get round Mount Rorke.”
“Never mind; we don't want to get married yet awhile. We'll be
engaged, it is nearly the same thing. We shall be able to go anywhere
together--up to town, if we only come back the same day. Write a nice
letter to your uncle, saying you'll do nothing without his consent; that
it is true your affections are very much engaged, but that your first
thought is of him--”
“Oh! but my darling, I want to make you mine.”
“So you shall--we shall be engaged; father won't consent to our being
married, but he can't prevent us being engaged. You'll see, I'll get
round father sooner or later; he'll give in.”
“But you won't get round Mount Rorke; if he would only come here and see
you.”
“He won't do that; but one of these days he'll be in London. I suppose
he goes to the Park sometimes; we'll go too, you'll introduce me--a
little impromptu, and I'll see if I can't get him to like me.”
“How clever you are!”
“I understand father.”
Still it required all Maggie's adroitness to even partially reconcile
Mr. Brookes to Lord Mount Rorke's letter. She accepted without argument
that marriage in the present circumstances was out of the question. She
even went so far as to cordially assent that a man would be a fool to
give his daughter to a man who could not settle a substantial sum
of money upon her, and she only ventured to suggest that it would be
foolish not to give Lord Mount Rorke the opportunity of changing his
mind. She spoke of his immense fortune, and exaggerated it until she
made even Berkins seem a paltry creature in the old man's eyes.
Frank was anxious to propitiate Sally. He returned from London with
presents for her, and he always spoke to her, looking at her admiringly.
He showed much anxiety, and, fearing that she found it dull at his
studio, when the sisters came to tea he begged her to give him Meason's
address. Sally tossed her head; she had had enough of Meason, and her
manner left no doubt as to her sincerity. But happening to meet Meason
a few days after in the train, Frank slipped easily into asking him
to come and see him; and in the easy atmosphere of the studio the
acquaintanceship soon ripened into intimacy, and after a preliminary
ruffling of plumage, Sally restored her old sweetheart to all the rights
of wrong. Life went well amid incessant secrets, letter-writing, and tea
parties. Grace came to the studio to lunch sometimes, and she had been
betrayed into a promise not to say a word about Meason. It was never
ascertained whether, in the indiscretion of the marital night, she had
betrayed this trust, or whether some jealous enemy had spoken or written
to Mr. Brookes on the subject; but certain it is that one joyful day
when Meason, Sally, and Maggie were eating oysters, and Frank was
twisting the corkscrew into a bottle of Chablis, there came an ominous
ringing at the door.
“I wonder who that can be. Shut up, Triss.”
“Perhaps it is father.”
“He is in London.”
“I'm not so sure about that.”
“No matter--we don't want to see them.”
“Rather not! They wouldn't have known we were here had it not been for
that dog.”
“I must go and see who it is. Come here, sir; come here, you brute.”
“Supposing it is father?”
“Get behind that piece of tapestry. I'll say that Meason and I were
having some oysters.”
“Come here, sir. I'd better tie up that dog--I wonder who it is?”
“Open the door.”
“Oh! Mr. Brookes, quite an unexpected pleasure.”
“I have come, sir, for my daughters.”
“Your daughters? Your daughters are not here. Mr. Brookes.”
“I have reason to know they are here, and I will not leave without
them.”
“You will do well to let us in, Mr. Escott; we are determined--”
“Who are you? What business is it of yours?”
“Should you refuse us admission we are resolved to wait here till
evening, till midnight if necessary!” exclaimed Berkins. “I say again
you will do well to admit us, and so avoid a scandal on the green.”
“You can come in if you like.”
“Will you kindly chain up that dog of yours?”
“Well, this is coming it too strong; this is a little too 'steep.' If
Mr. Brookes refuses to believe my word that his daughters are not here
he may come in and look for them, and to facilitate his search I will
tie up the dog--(the dog is tied up). But you, what brings you here?
What the devil, I should like to know, brings you here, poking your nose
into other people's business?”
“Mr. Brookes, will you answer him?”
“I must decline your offer to admit me unaccompanied by my son-in-law.
We shall not stay long.”
“All this seems to me very extraordinary, but since you wish it, Mr.
Brookes, pray enter.”
“Is that dog tied up quite securely?”
“Quite. I think you know Mr. Meason?”
“Mr. Meason knows very well that I do not wish to know him.”
“If you only come here to insult my guest, the sooner you go out the
better. Had I known that you intended to behave in this fashion I should
have left you standing outside till morning. I'll not have--”
“Never mind, Escott; I'm off. Mr. Brookes and I are no longer on
speaking terms, that's all! I'll see you later on.”
“Don't go, pray.”
“I think I must.”
“I am surprised, Frank,” said Mr. Brookes, when Meason was gone, “that
you should seek your friends among the enemies of my family.”
“We will not discuss that question now. I never heard of such
conduct--you force your way into my studio, and apparently for no
purpose but to insult my guest. You see your daughters are not here.”
“I am by no means satisfied with that,” said Berkins, opening a door. “I
must see behind that piece of tapestry.”
“No, you shall not. I have had just about enough of this. How dare you?
God's truth--” and as Berkins seemed determined to continue his search,
Frank caught him by the collar.
But Berkins was tall and strong, and showed no intention of allowing
himself to be thrown out. His long legs were soon extended here and
there; his body was sometimes bent back by Frank's weight, once he had
succeeded in nearly throwing Frank over on the sofa. Mr. Brookes had
fled to the door, which, in his excitement, he failed to open, and
the struggle was continued until at last, maddened by a most tight and
tempting aspect of Berkin's thigh, Triss broke his collar, and in a
couple of bounds, reached and fixed his teeth deep in the flesh.
“Triss, you brute, leave go.” But Triss clung to the long-desired thigh.
“I'll twist his tail, it will make him leave go.”
With a savage yelp of pain the dog turned on his master and was hauled
instantly off Berkins's thigh.
“I need hardly say that so far as the dog is concerned, I regret, and I
am truly sorry for what has occurred.”
“Sir, do you not see what a state I am in; do not stand there making
excuses, but lend me your handkerchief. I shall bleed to death if you
don't.”
“Shall I tie it up for you?”
“If those girls there would only fetch a doctor.”
Mr. Brookes could not refrain from foolish laughter, and in a moment of
wretched despair he declared that it would be all the same in a hundred
years time--a remark which would not have failed to irritate Berkins if
he had not fainted.