SIR GILBERT’S DECISION
Luigi, as he turned the handle of the library door, felt that he would
have given something to know what had passed between Lisle and his
grandfather overnight. Had the former succeeded in convincing Sir
Gilbert that his absence from home was due to a sudden attack of
illness, or had he allowed his grandfather to become acquainted with
the real facts of the case? His uncertainty on the point was dispelled
by Sir Gilbert’s first words.
“So, sir, you have recovered sufficiently from your last night’s
debauch to allow of your coming to see me,” he said, taking him in
through his contracted lids from head to foot.
Luigi’s eyes fell and his knees trembled under him. As he said of
himself afterwards, he felt “like a washed-out scarecrow.” He tried to
moisten his lips, but his tongue was as dry as they. His first thought
was: “That scoundrel, Lisle, _did_ sell me, after all! Not a bit of use
now pretending I was ill.”
Clearing his voice, he said: “I am very sorry, sir, that I was not able
to get home yesterday in time for dinner. That I took more wine than
was good for me I frankly admit. So little am I used to it that a very
small quantity tells upon me. I don’t know whether you are aware of it,
sir, but the occasion was a birthday wine party to drink the health of
young Jack Derrick.”
“Jack whom did you say?” demanded Sir Gilbert, adding, _sotto voce_:
“If the fellow would only stand up and face me like a man and not look
so confoundedly cringing and obsequious, I could forgive him almost
anything.”
“Jack Derrick, sir, son of Colonel Derrick, he who has lately come to
reside at Stanbrooke Grange.”
Luigi had calculated that his lie was a tolerably safe one. He knew
that the Colonel and Sir Gilbert had never met and that, in view of the
secluded habits of the latter, there was little likelihood of their
doing so. Besides, it was quite true that young Derrick, with whom,
however, he was merely on nodding terms, had just come of age, but the
rest of his statement was a pure invention. It was the health of Miss
Jennings that had been drunk in creaming bumpers.
“Humph!” said Sir Gilbert, as he gave a tug at the lobe of his right
ear. Then he took a turn across the room and back again, for he had
been standing by the chimney-piece on Luigi’s entry. “After all, then,”
he remarked to himself, “the boy was in better company than I gave him
credit for. Still, he deserves a sound wigging and he shall have it.”
But his frown had lightened perceptibly, a fact which Luigi’s furtively
glancing eyes did not fail to note.
“Even granting what you say, sir, that is no excuse for allowing
yourself to become inebriated as, by your own admission, you were last
evening. Be careful not to let it happen again, or you will find that I
shall deal with it much more severely. But I have not done with you
yet. I have been very much grieved and annoyed to find that on two or
three afternoons a week you have taken to frequenting a certain
billiard-saloon in the town, and there consorting with a number of
young men whose society can be neither creditable nor beneficial to you
in any way. I am willing to believe that, in some measure, you have
erred through ignorance, through lack of a clear conception of what is
due to your position as my grandson. Still, even that excuse can
scarcely avail you in the case of Snell, the groom, whom I discharged a
few days ago. That you should steal out of the house when you were
supposed to be abed and go to the fellow’s room and there sit smoking
and drinking with him, making him thereby your equal for the time
being, seems to me nothing less than disgraceful; indeed, I can
scarcely trust myself to say what I think of it. After this warning,
however, there will be no excuse for you—none whatever, if you do not
keep strictly within the lines of conduct laid down for you. Snell has
gone; and as regards the billiard-room, I must ask you to give me your
word not to enter it again, nor, indeed, any other, without having
obtained my sanction beforehand. Are you prepared to give me the
promise I ask?”
“Certainly, sir—most fully and willingly. I give you my word to have no
more to do with public billiards after to-day, and I shall be very
careful about the class of people I mix with in time to come.” Nothing
came easier to Luigi than to make promises; the difficulty with him, as
with so many of us, lay in the keeping of them. “This is another
specimen of Lisle’s dirty work,” he reflected. “He’s been playing the
double part of spy and informer. But a day of reckoning will come for
him.”
“Keep to your promise and you will find yourself no loser by it in the
long run,” resumed Sir Gilbert. “And now you may go for the present,”
he said after a minute or two. “But I cannot conceal that I am
grievously disappointed in you.”
Luigi needed no second bidding. He had “pulled through” the scrape far
better than he had expected, and was now inclined to be jubilant.
“Grievously disappointed in me, is he?” he said with a short laugh.
“What did the old fool expect? A grandson made to pattern, I suppose.
Well, Granddad will just have to put up with me and make the best of me
as I am.”
After a few minutes spent in half-bitter, half-sorrowful rumination,
Sir Gilbert said aloud: “I’ll go and have a talk with Louisa. She’s
very clear-headed for one of her sex, and her opinions are nearly
always worth listening to.”
He found Lady Pell in the morning-room, busy with her crewel work and
alone. She had sent Ethel for that after-breakfast ramble which she
believed to be so conducive to the girl’s health and good looks. Sir
Gilbert sat down and proceeded to give her an account of his interview
with Luigi. “What to do with him, I know not,” he ended by saying. “I
am sadly afraid that he will never be a credit to the house of Clare.
He seems to have contracted a number of low tastes and reprehensible
habits before he and I had ever set eyes on each other, and whether I
shall ever succeed in eradicating them seems more than doubtful. It is
a sad thing to say, but there are times when I feel almost driven to
wish that I had remained ignorant of his existence and he of mine.”
“My dear Gilbert, you really should not allow such notions to get into
your head. Things are not yet come to that for the poor young man, and
remembering that, you ought to regard his shortcomings with the utmost
leniency.”
“That is what I try to do, Louisa. It is a bitter reflection, but one
which often haunts me, that if I had treated this boy’s father less
hardly, my old age might have been a very different one from what it is
to-day.”
“You have translated Lewis to an altogether different kind of life from
that which he has been used to, and allowances must be made for the
fact. Patience and tact will often effect wonders. I would not be in
too great a hurry, if I were you. Old habits and ways can’t be got rid
of in a hurry. If you believe the young man himself is doing his best
to second your efforts, why then——”
“But that is just where I’m in doubt.”
“Then give him the benefit of the doubt; it will only be generous on
your part to do so. I think, if I were you, I would let him travel
awhile. Nothing tends more to expand a person’s mind—providing,” she
drily added, “that one has a mind capable of expansion, and in Lewis’s
case the converse has yet to be proved.”
After luncheon he had a further talk with Lady Pell, one result of
which was that he asked Luigi for the address of Captain Verinder, and
having obtained it, he proceeded to write to that gentleman, asking
him, if it would be convenient for him to do so, to call upon the
writer between eleven and twelve o’clock on the day but one following.
As has already been stated, Sir Gilbert had conceived a distaste for
the Captain at their first interview, and he had afterwards been at the
pains to snub him most unmercifully. Had he been questioned as to the
cause of his dislike, he could only have replied, that it was one of
those unreasoning and unreasonable antipathies which nobody cares to
formulate in words, even if it were not next to impossible to do so. In
point of fact, it was merely an instance the more of “I do not love
thee, Doctor Fell.”
Now, however, that he had decided to carry out Lady Pell’s suggestion,
and send Luigi abroad for a time, it seemed to him that the boy’s
uncle, provided he were willing to undertake the charge, was the proper
person into whose hands to entrust him while away from home. He knew
nothing whatever to the Captain’s detriment, and he told himself that,
as a man of sense, he ought not to allow a foolish prejudice to stand
in the way of any project which was likely to prove in the slightest
degree beneficial to his grandson. Hence his note to the Captain.
It was not without sundry misgivings and in a far from comfortable
frame of mind, that next day Captain Verinder journeyed down to
Mapleford. A cab conveyed him from the station to the Chase, where he
discharged the vehicle, not knowing whether he might be detained
half-an-hour, or half-a-day. In any case, a walk back to the station
would do him no harm.
He had evidently been expected, and was at once shown into the room
which was already so familiar to him, where he was presently joined by
Sir Gilbert, who, for the first time, welcomed him with an outstretched
hand.
Augustus Verinder breathed a deep inward sigh of relief.
It is not needful to describe in detail the interview that followed.
Sir Gilbert at once entered frankly into the affair, explaining to the
Captain exactly why he had sent for him and the task which he was
desirous that the latter should undertake. September was still young,
and another month of fine weather might almost be depended upon. It was
his wish that his grandson should spend that month in foreign travel,
chiefly in Switzerland, with, perhaps, a glance at the Italian lakes
_en passant_. Would it fall in with Captain Verinder’s arrangements to
fill the part of Mentor to this latter-day Telemachus during the tour
in question? To which the Captain replied, that nothing would afford
him greater happiness; and, indeed, his heart leapt for joy at the
thought of being able to spend a month on the Continent without being
called upon to disburse a shilling of his own.
Various matters having been discussed and settled, Sir Gilbert produced
his cheque-book, and after having filled up and signed one of the
forms, handed it to the Captain. A glance at it showed the latter that
it represented a sum of one hundred and seventy pounds.
“For your expenses,” said Sir Gilbert; “but I have included in it
twenty pounds for Lewis’s outfit, which, seeing that he will be but a
month away, ought, I think, to be sufficient.”
“Amply sufficient, Sir Gilbert,” assented the Captain as he pocketed
the cheque.
“I should like Lewis to drop me a line every four or five days, so as
to keep me _au courant_ with your movements. I am desirous that you
should avoid all large towns, such as Paris and Brussels, either in
going or returning. It will be best that you should make your way to
Bâle as speedily as possible and decide on your future course after you
reach there.”
“Your wishes are my commands, Sir Gilbert.”
“How soon will it be convenient for you to start?”
“In thirty-six hours from now I shall be at your disposal.”
“Trust you old soldiers for knowing the value of time. And now that we
have settled everything so far, you must oblige me by staying to
luncheon,” said Sir Gilbert with a heartiness that was more assumed
than real. Do what he would, he could not like this man. And yet he had
nothing valid, nothing tangible to urge against him. “I am a prejudiced
old fool,” he said to himself, “and the older I get the worse I
become.”
At luncheon the Captain was fortunate enough to give Lady Pell a
distinctly favourable impression of himself, which went to prove that
Lady Pell’s professed ability to read character at first sight was
sometimes at fault. “I agree with you that the man is not _quite_ a
gentleman,” she remarked later to Sir Gilbert; “but in that respect he
only resembles the great majority of his sex. In these matters, my dear
cousin, one can’t pick and choose. It seems to me that Captain
Verinder, as the boy’s uncle, is the proper person to entrust him to.”
Next morning after breakfast, Luigi said to Lady Pell when no one was
by: “Can you spare me five minutes in private, Lady Pell?”
“Certainly, my dear boy,” was the cordial response. “Come with me to my
sitting-room.” There was much about Luigi that she did not like, but it
seemed to her that in some respects he was deserving of pity.
“And now——?” she said, looking questioningly at him as she took her
usual chair by the window and motioned him to another. The room, which
had been specially assigned her, had been the late Lady Clare’s
boudoir.
Luigi cleared his voice and then, a whimsical smile overspreading his
features, said: “Lady Pell, last night I saw the Grey Brother.”
Lady Pell pricked up her ears and became at once interested. “Gracious
me!” she exclaimed. “You do indeed surprise me. When and where did it
happen? You must give me all particulars.”
“It was late—between eleven and twelve o’clock—I had stolen out of the
house by way of the conservatory on purpose to have a smoke.” Here Lady
Pell shook a monitory finger at him. “The fact is, I’ve never been used
to the early hours of the Chase, and I can’t sleep if I go to bed
before midnight. Well, having let myself out, I made my way to the
little wood, or spinny, which reaches from the back premises of the
Chase nearly as far as the old tower where Martin Rigg, the former
keeper, and his daughter have their quarters. It was not the first time
I had gone there for a smoke after dark. In the middle of it is a tiny
glade, or open space, and there I seated myself on the twisted root of
a tree. A young moon was half way up the sky, and the stars were very
bright. I had smoked one pipe out and thought I would have another
before turning in, but on feeling for my tobacco-pouch, which I had
laid down beside me, I could not find it. Slipping off my seat, I
stooped to search for it among the grass, found it and stood up again.
On turning to resume my seat I found myself confronted by a tall robed
and cowled figure, which might have sprung out of the ground for
anything I could have told to the contrary. Certainly I had heard no
faintest sound of footsteps. That I was considerably flabbergasted,
your ladyship will readily believe.”
“Such an apparition would be enough to flabbergast anybody, as you term
it. But what was it like as regards its features?”
“Its face was nearly hidden by its cowl, and all I can call to mind is
that it had a long grizzled beard and two eyes that seemed to look
through me.”
“Well, and what did you do next?”
“I simply bolted—and I’m not ashamed to confess it.”
“Oh!” was her ladyship’s sole comment, but to herself she said: “You
coward!”
“You won’t catch me going there again after dark.”
“I suppose not after such a startling experience. But tell me this: did
the apparition, if such I may term it, project any shadow of itself in
the moonlight?”
Luigi opened his eyes. “Upon my word, I don’t know, Lady Pell. I was
too confused to notice. But why do you ask?”
“Because I believe it is an understood thing that ghosts have no
shadows—what, indeed, are they themselves but shadows? You evidently
missed an interesting point there. But why have you chosen to make me
your confidant, Lewis?”
“Because after what you said to me the other night when that girl made
such a bobbery on the terrace, I thought I would ask your advice before
saying a word to anybody else.”
“That was very sensible on your part. My advice is, that you keep your
singular experience strictly to yourself. The whole affair is
inexplicable, and no good can come of talking about it. Your
grandfather would be greatly annoyed were he to discover that any such
report had emanated from you.”
Luigi could scarcely credit his good fortune. That he should not merely
be done with Latin declensions and those hateful riding-lessons, but be
at liberty to ramble about the Continent for the ensuing month,
visiting places he had never seen before, seemed almost too delightful
to be true. He could not help saying to himself with a chuckle:
“Perhaps if I hadn’t drunk Miss J.’s health quite so often the other
night, this bit of luck would never have happened to me.” It was a
relief to him on another account to get away from Mapleford for a time.
It would effectually separate him from the aforesaid Miss J., who would
be sure to hear of his departure. He trusted that by the time he should
return she would have forgotten all about that ridiculous question he
had put to her on a certain occasion, her answer to which had quite
escaped his memory.