AT MERLE PARK. NO. 2.
Has any irascible reader,--any reader who thoroughly enjoys the
pleasure of being in a rage,--encountered suddenly some grievance
which, heavy as it may be, has been more than compensated by the
privilege it has afforded of blowing-up the offender? Such was the
feeling of Sir Thomas as he quickly followed his coachman out of
the room. He had been very proud of his Phoebe mare, who could trot
with him from the station to the house at the rate of twelve miles
an hour. But in his present frame of mind he had liked the mare
less than he disliked his son-in-law. Mr. Traffick had done him
this injury, and he now had Mr. Traffick on the hip. There are some
injuries for which a host cannot abuse his guest. If your best
Venetian decanter be broken at table you are bound to look as though
you liked it. But if a horse be damaged a similar amount of courtesy
is hardly required. The well-nurtured gentleman, even in that case,
will only look unhappy and say not a word. Sir Thomas was hardly to
be called a well nurtured gentleman; and then it must be remembered
that the offender was his son-in-law. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed,
hurrying into the yard. "What is this?"
The mare was standing out on the pavement with three men around her,
of whom one was holding her head, another was down on his knees
washing her wounds, and the third was describing the fatal nature of
the wounds which she had received. Traffick was standing at a little
distance, listening in silence to the implied rebukes of the groom.
"Good heavens, what is this?" repeated Sir Thomas, as he joined the
conclave.
"There are a lot of loose stones on that hill," said Traffick, "and
she tripped on one and came down, all in a lump, before you could
look at her. I'm awfully sorry, but it might have happened to any
one."
Sir Thomas knew how to fix his darts better than by throwing them
direct at his enemy. "She has utterly destroyed herself," said he,
addressing himself to the head-groom, who was busily employed with
the sponge in his hand.
"I'm afraid she has, Sir Thomas. The joint-oil will be sure to run on
both knees; the gashes is so mortal deep."
"I've driven that mare hundreds of times down that hill," said Sir
Thomas, "and I never knew her to trip before."
"Never, Sir Thomas," said the groom.
"She'd have come down with you to-day," said Mr. Traffick, defending
himself.
"It was my own fault, Bunsum. That's all that can be said about it."
Bunsum the groom, kneeling as he was, expressed, by his grimaces, his
complete agreement with this last opinion of his master. "Of course I
ought to have known that he couldn't drive," said Sir Thomas.
"A horse may fall down with anybody," said Mr. Traffick.
"You'd better take her and shoot her," said Sir Thomas, still
addressing the groom. "She was the best thing we had in the stable,
but now she is done for." With that he turned away from the yard
without having as yet addressed a word to his son-in-law.
This was so intolerable that even Mr. Traffick could not bear it in
silence. "I have told you that I am very sorry," said he, following
Sir Thomas closely, "and I don't know what a man can do more."
"Nothing,--unless it be not to borrow a horse again."
"You may be sure I will never do that."
"I'm not sure of it at all. If you wanted another to-morrow you'd ask
for him if you thought you could get him."
"I call that very uncivil, Sir Thomas,--and very unkind."
"Bother!" said Sir Thomas. "It is no good in being kind to a fellow
like you. Did you ever hear what the cabman did who had a sovereign
given to him for driving a mile. He asked the fool who gave it him to
make it a guinea. I am the fool, and, by George, you are the cabman!"
With this Sir Thomas turned into the house by a small door, leaving
his son-in-law to wander round to the front by himself.
"Your father has insulted me horribly," he said to his wife, whom he
found up in her bed-room.
"What is the matter now, Septimus?"
"That little mare of his, which I have no doubt has come down half a
score of times before, fell with me and cut her knees."
"That's Phoebe," said Augusta. "She was his favourite."
"It's a kind of thing that might happen to anyone, and no gentleman
thinks of mentioning it. He said such things to me that upon my word
I don't think I can stop in the house any longer."
"Oh, yes, you will," said the wife.
"Of course, it is a difference coming from one's father-in-law. It's
almost the same as from one's father."
"He didn't mean it, Septimus."
"I suppose not. If he had, I really couldn't have borne it. He does
become very rough sometimes, but I know that at bottom he has a
thorough respect for me. It is only that induces me to bear it." Then
it was settled between husband and wife that they should remain in
their present quarters, and that not a word further should be said
at any rate by them about the Phoebe mare. Nor did Sir Thomas say
another word about the mare, but he added a note to those already
written in the tablets of his memory as to his son-in-law, and
the note declared that no hint, let it be ever so broad, would be
effectual with Mr. Traffick.
The next day was a Sunday, and then another trouble awaited Sir
Thomas. At this time it was not customary with Tom to come often to
Merle Park. He had his own lodgings in London and his own club, and
did not care much for the rural charms of Merle Park. But on this
occasion he had condescended to appear, and on the Sunday afternoon
informed his father that there was a matter which he desired to
discuss with him. "Father," said he, "I am getting confoundedly sick
of all this."
"Confounded," said Sir Thomas, "is a stupid foolish word, and it
means nothing."
"There is a sort of comfort in it, Sir," said Tom; "but if it's
objectionable I'll drop it."
"It is objectionable."
"I'll drop it, Sir. But nevertheless I am very sick of it."
"What are you sick of, Tom?"
"All this affair with my cousin."
"Then, if you take my advice, you'll drop that too."
"I couldn't do that, father. A word is all very well. A man can drop
a word; but a girl is a different sort of thing. One can't drop a
girl, even if one tries."
"Have you tried, Tom?"
"Yes, I have. I've done my best to try. I put it out of my mind for
a fortnight and wouldn't think of her. I had a bottle of champagne
every day at dinner and then went to the theatre. But it was all of
no use. I have set my heart on it and I can't give her up. I'll tell
you what I'd like to do. I'd like to give her a diamond necklace."
"It wouldn't be the slightest use," said Sir Thomas, shaking his
head.
"Why not? It's what other men do. I mean it to be something
handsome;--about three hundred pounds."
"That's a large sum of money for a necklace."
"Some of them cost a deal more than that."
"And you'd only throw away your money."
"If she took it, she'd take me too. If she didn't,--why I should
still have the diamonds. I mean to try any way."
"Then it's of no use your coming to me."
"I thought you'd let me have the money. It's no good running into
debt for them. And then if you'd add something of your own,--a
locket, or something of that kind,--I think it would have an effect.
I have seen a necklace at Ricolay's, and if I could pay ready money
for it I could have 20 per cent. off it. The price named is three
hundred guineas. That would make it £254 5_s_. £250 would buy it if
the cheque was offered."
There was a spirit about the son which was not displeasing to the
father. That idea that the gift, if accepted, would be efficacious,
or if not that it would be rejected,--so that Tom would not lose his
hopes and his diamonds together,--seemed to be sound. Sir Thomas,
therefore, promised the money, with the distinct understanding that
if the gift were not accepted by Ayala it should be consigned to
his own hands. But as for any present from himself, he felt that
this would not be the time for it. He had called upon his niece and
solicited her himself, and she had been deaf to his words. After that
he could not condescend to send her gifts. "Should she become my
promised daughter-in-law then I would send her presents," said Sir
Thomas.
The poor man certainly received less pleasure from his wealth than
was credited to him by those who knew his circumstances. Yet he
endeavoured to be good to those around him, and especially good to
his children. There had been present to him ever since the beginning
of his successes,--ever since his marriage,--a fixed resolution that
he would not be a curmudgeon with his money, that he would endeavour
to make those happy who depended on him, and that he would be liberal
in such settlements for his children as might be conducive to their
happiness and fortunes in life. In this way he had been very generous
to Mr. Traffick. The man was a Member of Parliament, the son of a
peer, and laborious. Why should he expect more? Money was wanting,
but he could supply the money. So he had supplied it, and had been
content to think that a good man should be propped up in the world
by his means. What that had come to the reader knows. He thoroughly
detested his son-in-law, and would have given much to have had his
money back again,--so that Mr. Traffick should have had no share in
it.
Then there was his second daughter! What should be done with
Gertrude? The money should be forthcoming for her too if the fitting
man could be found. But he would have nothing further to do with a
penniless lover, let his position in the world of fashion, or even in
the world of politics, be what it might. The man should either have
wealth of his own, or should be satisfied to work for it. Houston had
been unfortunate in the moment of his approaches. Sir Thomas had been
driven by his angry feelings to use hard, sharp words, and now was
forced to act up to his words. He declared roughly that Mr. Houston
should not have a shilling of his money,--as he had certainly
been justified for doing; and his daughter, who had always been
indulged in every kind of luxury, had at once concocted a plot for
running away from her home! As he thought of the plot it seemed
to be wonderful to him that she should be willing to incur such a
danger,--to be ready without a penny to marry a penniless man,--till
he confessed to himself that, were she to do so, she would certainly
have the money sooner or later. He was capable of passion, capable
of flying out and saying a very severe thing to Septimus Traffick or
another when his temper was hot; but he was incapable of sustained
wrath. He was already aware that if Mr. Traffick chose to stay he
would stay;--that if Mr. Houston were brave enough to be persistent
he might have both the money and the girl. As he thought of it all
he was angry with himself, wishing that he were less generous, less
soft, less forgiving.
And now here was Tom,--whom at the present moment he liked the best
of all his children, who of the three was the least inclined to run
counter to him,--ready to break his heart, because he could not get
a little chit of a girl of whom he would probably be tired in twelve
months after he possessed her! Remembering what Tom had been, he was
at a loss to understand how such a lad should be so thoroughly in
love. At the present moment, had Ayala been purchaseable, he would
have been willing to buy her at a great price, because he would fain
have pleased Tom had it been possible. But Ayala, who had not a penny
in the world,--who never would have a penny unless he should give it
her,--would not be purchased, and would have nothing to do with Tom!
The world was running counter to him, so that he had no pleasure in
his home, no pleasure in his money, no pleasure in his children. The
little back-parlour in Lombard Street was sweeter to him than Merle
Park, with all its charms. His daughter Gertrude wanted to run away
from him, while by no inducement could he get Mr. Traffick to leave
the house.
While he was in this humour he met his niece Lucy roaming about the
garden. He knew the whole story of Lucy's love, and had been induced
by his wife to acknowledge that her marriage with the sculptor was
not to be sanctioned. He had merely expressed his scorn when the
unfortunate circumstances of Hamel's birth had been explained to him
again and again. He had ridiculed the horror felt by his wife at the
equally ill-born brothers and sisters in Rome. He had merely shaken
his head when he was told that Hamel's father never went inside of
any place of worship. But when it was explained to him that the
young man had, so to say, no income at all, then he was forced to
acknowledge that the young man ought not to be allowed to marry his
niece.
To Lucy herself he had as yet said nothing on the subject since he
had asked the lover in to lunch at Glenbogie. He heard bad accounts
of her. He had been told by his wife, on different occasions,--not
in the mere way of conversation, but with a premeditated energy of
fault-finding,--that Lucy was a disobedient girl. She was worse than
Ayala. She persisted in saying that she would marry the penniless
artist as soon as he should profess himself to be ready. It had been
different, she had tried to explain to her aunt, before she had been
engaged to him. Now she considered herself to be altogether at his
disposal. This had been her plea, but her plea had been altogether
unacceptable to Aunt Emmeline. "She can do as she pleases, of
course," Sir Thomas had said. That might be all very well; but Aunt
Emmeline was strongly of opinion that an adopted daughter of Queen's
Gate, of Glenbogie, and Merle Park, ought not to be allowed to do as
she pleased with herself. A girl ought not to be allowed to have the
luxuries of palatial residences, and the luxuries of free liberty of
choice at the same time. More than once it had occurred to Sir Thomas
that he would put an end to all these miseries by a mere scratch of
his pen. It need not be £120,000, or £100,000, as with a daughter.
A few modest thousands would do it. And then this man Hamel, though
the circumstances of his birth had been unfortunate, was not an idler
like Frank Houston. As far as Sir Thomas could learn, the man did
work, and was willing to work. The present small income earned would
gradually become more. He had a kindly feeling towards Lucy, although
he had been inclined to own that her marriage with Hamel was out of
the question. "My dear," he said to her, "why are you walking about
alone?" She did not like to say that she was walking alone because
she had no one to walk with her,--no such companion as Isadore would
be if Isadore were allowed to come to Merle Park; so she simply
smiled, and went on by her uncle's side. "Do you like this place as
well as Glenbogie?" he asked.
"Oh; yes."
"Perhaps you will be glad to get back to London again?"
"Oh; no."
"Which do you like best, then?"
"They are all so nice, if--"
"If what, Lucy?"
"Cælum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt," Lucy might have
said, had she known the passage. As it was she put the same feeling
into simpler words, "I should like one as well as the other, Uncle
Tom, if things went comfortably."
"There's a great deal in that," he said. "I suppose the meaning is,
that you do not get on well with your aunt?"
"I am afraid she is angry with me, Uncle Tom."
"Why do you make her angry, Lucy? When she tells you what is your
duty, why do you not endeavour to do it?"
"I cannot do what she tells me," said Lucy; "and, as I cannot, I
think I ought not to be here."
"Have you anywhere else to go to?" To this she made no reply, but
walked on in silence. "When you say you ought not to be here, what
idea have you formed in your own mind as to the future?"
"That I shall marry Mr. Hamel, some day."
"Do you think it would be well to marry any man without an income
to live upon? Would it be a comfort to him seeing that he had just
enough to maintain himself, and no more?" These were terrible
questions to her,--questions which she could not answer, but yet as
to which her mind entertained an easy answer. A little help from him,
who was willing to indulge her with so many luxuries while she was
under his roof, would enable her to be an assistance rather than a
burden to her lover. But of this she could not utter a word. "Love
is all very well," continued Sir Thomas, in his gruffest voice;
"but love should be regulated by good sense. It is a crime when
two beggars think of marrying each other,--two beggars who are not
prepared to live as beggars do."
"He is not a beggar," said Lucy, indignantly. "He has begged nothing;
nor have I."
"Pshaw!" said Sir Thomas; "I was laying down a general rule. I did
not mean to call anybody a beggar. You shouldn't take me up like
that."
"I beg your pardon, Uncle Tom," she said piteously.
"Very well; very well; that will do." But still he went on walking
with her, and she felt she could not leave him till he gave her some
signal that she was to go. They continued in this way till they
had come nearly round the large garden; when he stopped, as he
was walking, and addressed her again. "I suppose you write to him
sometimes."
"Yes," said Lucy, boldly.
"Write to him at once, and tell him to come and see me in Lombard
Street on Tuesday, at two o'clock. Give me the letter, and I will
take care it is sent to him directly I get to town. Now you had
better go in, for it is getting very cold."