SHOWING A CHIVALROUS GENTLEMAN SET IN MOTION
About noon the day following, on board the steam-yacht of the Countess
of Menai, Cecil was very much astonished to see Mr. Romfrey descending
into a boat hard by, from Grancey Lespel’s hired cutter. Steam was up,
and the countess was off for a cruise in the Channel, as it was not a
race-day, but seeing Mr. Romfrey’s hand raised, she spoke to Cecil, and
immediately gave orders to wait for the boat. This lady was a fervent
admirer of the knightly gentleman, and had reason to like him, for he
had once been her champion. Mr. Romfrey mounted the steps, received her
greeting, and beckoned to Cecil. He carried a gold-headed horsewhip
under his arm. Lady Menai would gladly have persuaded him to be one of
her company for the day’s voyage, but he said he had business in
Bevisham, and moving aside with Cecil, put the question to him
abruptly: “What were the words used by Shrapnel?”
“The identical words?” Captain Baskelett asked. He could have tripped
out the words with the fluency of ancient historians relating what
great kings, ambassadors, or Generals may well have uttered on State
occasions, but if you want the identical words, who is to remember them
the day after they have been delivered? He said:
“Well, as for the identical words, I really, and I was tolerably
excited, sir, and upon my honour, the identical words are rather
difficult to....” He glanced at the horsewhip, and pricked by the sight
of it to proceed, thought it good to soften the matter if possible. “I
don’t quite recollect... I wrote off to you rather hastily. I think he
said—but Palmet was there.”
“Shrapnel spoke the words before Lord Palmet?” said Mr. Romfrey
austerely.
Captain Baskelett summoned Palmet to come near, and inquired of him
what he had heard Shrapnel say, suggesting: “He spoke of a handsome
woman for a housekeeper, and all the world knew her character?”
Mr. Romfrey cleared his throat.
“Or knew she had _no_ character,” Cecil pursued in a fit of gratified
spleen, in scorn of the woman. “Don’t you recollect his accent in
pronouncing _housekeeper?_”
The menacing thunder sounded from Mr. Romfrey. He was patient in
appearance, and waited for Cecil’s witness to corroborate the evidence.
It happened (and here we are in one of the circles of small things
producing great consequences, which have inspired diminutive
philosophers with ironical visions of history and the littleness of
man), it happened that Lord Palmet, the humanest of young aristocrats,
well-disposed toward the entire world, especially to women, also to men
in any way related to pretty women, had just lit a cigar, and it was a
cigar that he had been recommended to try the flavour of; and though
he, having his wits about him, was fully aware that shipboard is no
good place for a trial of the delicacy of tobacco in the leaf, he had
begun puffing and sniffing in a critical spirit, and scarcely knew for
the moment what to decide as to this particular cigar. He remembered,
however, Mr. Romfrey’s objection to tobacco. Imagining that he saw the
expression of a profound distaste in that gentleman’s more than usually
serious face, he hesitated between casting the cigar into the water and
retaining it. He decided upon the latter course, and held the cigar
behind his back, bowing to Mr. Romfrey at about a couple of yards
distance, and saying to Cecil, “Housekeeper; yes, I remember hearing
housekeeper. I think so. Housekeeper? yes, oh yes.”
“And handsome housekeepers were doubtful characters,” Captain Baskelett
prompted him.
Palmet laughed out a single “Ha!” that seemed to excuse him for
lounging away to the forepart of the vessel, where he tugged at his
fine specimen of a cigar to rekindle it, and discharged it with a wry
grimace, so delicate is the flavour of that weed, and so adversely ever
is it affected by a breeze and a moist atmosphere. He could then return
undivided in his mind to Mr. Romfrey and Cecil, but the subject was not
resumed in his presence.
The Countess of Menai steamed into Bevisham to land Mr. Romfrey there.
“I can be out in the Channel any day; it is not every day that I see
you,” she said, in support of her proposal to take him over.
They sat together conversing, apart from the rest of the company, until
they sighted Bevisham, when Mr. Romfrey stood up, and a little crowd of
men came round him to enjoy his famous racy talk. Captain Baskelett
offered to land with him. He declined companionship. Dropping her hand
in his, the countess asked him what he had to do in that town, and he
replied, “I have to demand an apology.”
Answering the direct look of his eyes, she said, “Oh, I shall not speak
of it.”
In his younger days, if the rumour was correct, he had done the same on
her account.
He stepped into the boat, and presently they saw him mount the
pier-steps, with the riding-whip under his arm, his head more than
commonly bent, a noticeable point in a man of his tall erect figure.
The ladies and some of the gentlemen thought he was looking
particularly grave, even sorrowful.
Lady Menai inquired of Captain Baskelett whether he knew the nature of
his uncle’s business in Bevisham, the town he despised.
What could Cecil say but no? His uncle had not imparted it to him.
She was flattered in being the sole confidante, and said no more.
The sprightly ingenuity of Captain Baskelett’s mind would have informed
him of the nature of his uncle’s expedition, we may be sure, had he put
it to the trial; for Mr. Romfrey was as plain to read as a rudimentary
sum in arithmetic, and like the tracings of a pedigree-map his
preliminary steps to deeds were seen pointing on their issue in lines
of straight descent. But Cecil could protest that he was not bound to
know, and considering that he was neither bound to know nor to
speculate, he determined to stand on his right. So effectually did he
accomplish the task, that he was frequently surprised during the
evening and the night by the effervescence of a secret exultation
rising imp-like within him, that was, he assured himself, perfectly
unaccountable.