Philip arrived home about one o’clock on the Monday, and, after their
nursery dinner, Arthur made his way to the study, and soon found
himself in the dread presence—for what presence is more dread (most
people would rather face a chief-justice with the gout)—of the man
whose daughter he was about to ask in marriage.
Philip, whom he found seated by a tray, the contents of which he seemed
in no humour to touch, received him with his customary politeness,
saying, with a smile, that he hoped he had not come to tell him that he
was sick of the place and its inhabitants, and was going away.
“Far from it, Mr. Caresfoot, I come to speak to you on a very different
subject.”
Philip glanced up with a quick look of expectant curiosity, but said
nothing.
“In short,” said Arthur, desperately, “I come to ask you to sanction my
engagement to Angela.”
A pause—a very awkward pause—ensued.
“You are, then, engaged to my daughter?”
“Subject to your consent, I am.”
Then came another pause.
“You will understand me, Heigham, when I say that you take me rather by
surprise in this business. Your acquaintance with her has been short.”
“That is true, but I have seen a great deal of her.”
“Perhaps; but she knows absolutely nothing of the world, and her
preference for you—for, as you say you are engaged to her, I presume
she has shown a preference—may be a mistake, merely a young girl’s
romantic idea.”
Arthur thought of his conversation of the previous day with Angela, and
could not help smiling as he answered,
“I think if you ask her that, she will tell you that is not the case.”
“Heigham, I will be frank with you. I like you, and you have, I
believe, sufficient means. Of course, you know that my daughter will
have nothing—at any rate, till I am dead,” he added, quickly.
“I never thought about the matter, but I shall be only too glad to
marry her with nothing but herself.”
“Very good. I was going to say that, notwithstanding this, marriage is
an important matter; and I must have time to think over it before I
give you a decided answer, say a week. I shall not, however, expect you
to leave here unless you wish to do so, nor shall I seek to place any
restrictions on your intercourse with Angela, since it would appear
that the mischief is already done. I am flattered by your proposal; but
I must have time, and you must understand that in this instance
hesitation does not necessarily mean consent.”
In affairs of this nature a man is satisfied with small mercies, and
willing to put up with inconveniences that appear trifling in
comparison with the disasters that might have overtaken him. Arthur was
no exception to the general rule. Indeed, he was profuse in his thanks,
and, buoyed up with all the confidence of youth, felt sure in his heart
that he would soon find a way to extinguish any objections that might
still linger in Philip’s mind.
His would-be father-in-law contented himself with acknowledging his
remarks with courtesy, and the interview came to an end.
Arthur gone, however, his host lost all his calmness of demeanour, and,
rising from his untasted meal, paced up and down the room in thought.
Everything had, he reflected, fallen out as he wished. Young Heigham
wished to marry his daughter, and he could not wish for a better
husband. Save for the fatality which had sent that woman to him on her
fiend’s errand, he would have given his consent at once, and been glad
to give it. Not that he meant to refuse it—he had no such idea. And
then he began to think what, supposing that Lady Bellamy’s embassy had
been of a nature that he could entertain, which it was not, it would
mean to him. It would mean the realization of the work and aspirations
of twenty years; it would mean his re-entry into the property and
position from which he had, according to his own view, been unjustly
ousted; it would mean, last but not least, triumph over George. And now
chance, mighty chance (as fools call Providence), had at last thrown
into his hands a lever with which it would be easy to topple over every
stumbling-block that lay in his path to triumph; more, he might even be
able to spoil that Egyptian George, giving him less than his due.
Oh, how he hungered for the broad acres of his birthright! longing for
them as a lover longs for his lost bride. The opportunity would never
come again; why should he throw it away? To do so would be to turn his
cousin into an open and implacable foe. Why should he allow this girl,
whose birth had bereft him of the only creature he had ever loved,
whose sex had alienated the family estates, and for whose company he
cared nothing, to come as a destruction on his plans? She would be
well-off; the man loved her. As for her being engaged to this young
Heigham, women soon got over those things. After all, now that he came
to think of the matter calmly, what valid cause was there why the thing
should not be?
And as he paced to and fro, and thought thus, an answer came into his
mind. For there rose up before him a vision of his dying wife, and
there sounded in his ears the murmur of her half-forgotten voice, that,
for all its broken softness, had, with its last accents, called down
God’s winged vengeance and His everlasting doom on him who would harm
her unprotected child. And, feeling that if he did this thing, on him
would be the vengeance and the doom, he thought of the shadows of the
night, and grew afraid.
When Arthur and his host met, according to their custom, that evening,
no allusion was made on either side to their conversation of the
afternoon, nor did her father even speak a word to Angela on the
subject. Life, to all appearance, went on in the old house precisely as
though nothing had happened. Philip did not attempt to put the smallest
restraint on Arthur and his daughter, and studiously shut his eyes to
the pretty obvious signs of their mutual affection. For them, the long
June days were golden, but all too short. Every morning found their
mutual love more perfect, but when the flakes of crimson light faded
from the skies, and night dropped her veil over the tall trees and
peaceful lake, by some miracle it had grown deeper and more perfect
still. Day by day, Arthur discovered new charms in Angela; here some
hidden knowledge, there an unsuspected grace, and everywhere an
all-embracing charity and love. Day by day he gazed deeper into the
depths of her mind, and still there were more to plumb. For it was a
storehouse of noble thoughts and high ambitions—ambitions, many of
which could only find fulfilment in another world than this. And, the
more he saw of her, the prouder he was to think that such a perfect
creature should so dearly love himself; and with the greater joy did he
look forward to that supreme and happy hour when he should call her
his. And so day added itself to day, and found them happy.
Indeed, the aspect of their fortunes seemed as smooth and smiling as
the summer surface of the lake. About Philip’s final consent to their
engagement they did not trouble themselves, judging, not unnaturally,
that his conduct was in itself a guarantee of approval. If he meant to
raise any serious objections, he would surely have done so before,
Arthur would urge, and Angela would quite agree with him, and wonder
what parent could find it in his heart to object to her bonnie-eyed
lover.
What a merciful provision of Providence it is that throws a veil over
the future, only to be pierced by the keenest-eyed of Scotchmen! Where
should we find a flavour in those unfrequent cups that the shyest of
the gods, Joy, holds to our yearning lips, could we know of the bitter
that lurks in the tinselled bowl? Surely we have much to be thankful
for, but for nothing should we be so grateful as for this blessed
impotence of foresight!
But, as it is often on the bluest days that the mercury begins to sink
beneath the breath of far-off hurricane, so there is a warning spirit
implanted in sensitive minds that makes them mistrustful of too great
happiness. We feel that, for most of us, the wheel of our fortunes
revolves too quickly to allow of a long continuance of unbroken joy.
“Arthur,” said Angela, one morning, when eight days had passed since
her father’s return from town, “we are too happy. We should throw
something into the lake.”
“I have not got a ring, except the one you gave me,” he answered; for
his signet was on her finger. “So, unless we sacrifice Aleck or the
ravens, I don’t know what it is to be.”
“Don’t joke, Arthur. I tell you we are too happy.”
Could Arthur have seen through an acre or so of undergrowth as Angela
uttered these words, he would have perceived a very smart page-boy with
the Bellamy crest on his buttons delivering a letter to Philip. It is
true that there was nothing particularly alarming about that, but its
contents might have given a point to Angela’s forebodings. It ran thus:
“Rewtham House, Monday.
“My dear Mr. Caresfoot,
“With reference to our conversation last week about your daughter and
G., can you come over and have a quiet chat with me this afternoon?
“Sincerely yours, “Anne Bellamy.”
Philip read this note, and then re-read it, knowing in his heart that
now was his opportunity to act up to his convictions, and put an end to
the whole transaction in a few decisive words. But a man who has for so
many years given place to the devil of avarice, even though it be
avarice with a legitimate object, cannot shake himself free from his
clothes in a moment; even when, as in Philip’s case, honour and right,
to say nothing of a still more powerful factor, superstition, speak so
loudly in his ears. Surely, he thought, there would be no harm in
hearing what she had to say. He could explain his reasons for having
nothing to do with the matter so much better in person. Such mental
struggles have only one end. Presently the smart page-boy bore back
this note:
“Dear Lady Bellamy,
“I will be with you at half-past three.
“P.C.”
It was with very curious sensations that Philip was that afternoon
shown into a richly furnished boudoir in Rewtham House. He had not been
in that room since he had talked to Maria Lee, sitting on that very
sofa now occupied by Lady Bellamy’s still beautiful form, and he could
not but feel that it was a place of evil omen for him.
Lady Bellamy rose to greet him with her most fascinating smile.
“This is very kind,” she said, as she motioned him to a seat, which
Philip afterwards discovered had been carefully arranged so as to put
his features in the full light, whilst, sitting on the sofa, her own
were concealed. “Well, Mr. Caresfoot,” she began, after a little pause,
“I suppose I had better come to the point at once. First of all, I
presume that, as you anticipated would be the case, there exists some
sort of understanding between Mr. Heigham and your daughter.”
Philip nodded.
“Well, your cousin is as determined as ever about the matter. Indeed,
he is simply infatuated or bewitched, I really don’t know which.”
“I am sorry for it, Lady Bellamy, as I cannot——”
“One moment, Mr. Caresfoot; first let me tell you his offer, then we
can talk it over. He offers, conditionally on his marriage with your
daughter, to sell you the Isleworth estates at a fair valuation
hereafter to be agreed upon, and to make a large settlement.”
“And what part does he wish me to play in the matter?”
“This. First, you must get rid of young Heigham, and prevent him from
holding _any_ communication, either with Angela herself, or with any
other person connected with this place, for one year from the date of
his departure. Secondly, you must throw no obstacle in George’s path.
Thirdly, if required, you must dismiss her old nurse, Pigott.”
“It cannot be, Lady Bellamy. I came here to tell you so. I dare not
force my daughter into such a marriage for all the estates in England.”
Lady Bellamy laughed.
“It is amusing,” she said, “to see a father afraid of his own daughter;
but you are over-hasty, Mr. Caresfoot. Who asked you to force her? All
you are asked to do is not to interfere, and leave the rest to myself
and George. You will have nothing to do with it one way or the other,
nor will any responsibility rest with you. Besides, it is very probable
that your cousin will live down his fancy, or some other obstacle will
arise to put an end to the thing, in which case Mr. Heigham will come
back at the end of his year’s probation, and events will take their
natural course. It is only wise and right that you should try the
constancy of these young lovers, instead of letting them marry out of
hand. If, on the other hand, Angela should in the course of the year
declare a preference for her cousin, surely that will be no affair of
yours.”
“I don’t understand what your interest is in this matter, Lady
Bellamy.”
“My dear Mr. Caresfoot, what does my interest matter to you? Perhaps I
have one, perhaps I have not; all women love match-making, you know;
what really is important is your decision,” and she shot a glance at
him from the heavy-lidded eyes, only to recognize that he was not
convinced by her arguments, or, if convinced, obstinate. “By the way,”
she went on, slowly, “George asked me to make a payment to you on his
account, money that has, he says, been long owing, but which it has not
hitherto been convenient to repay.”
“What is the sum?” asked Philip, abstractedly.
“A large one; a thousand pounds.”
It did not require the peculiar intonation she threw into her voice to
make the matter clear to him. He was well aware that no such sum was
owing.
“Here is the cheque,” she went on; and, taking from her purse a signed
and crossed cheque upon a London banker, she unfolded it and threw it
upon the table, watching him the while.
Philip gazed at the money with the eyes of a hungry wolf. A thousand
pounds! That might be his for the asking, nay, for the taking. It would
bind him to nothing. The miser’s greed took possession of him as he
looked. Slowly he raised his hand, twitching with excitement, and
stretched it out towards the cheque, but, before his fingers touched
it, Lady Bellamy, as though by accident, dropped her white palm upon
the precious paper.
“I suppose that Mr. Heigham will leave to-morrow on the understanding
we mentioned?” she said carelessly, but in a significant tone.
Philip nodded.
The hand was withdrawn as carelessly as it had come, leaving the
cheque, blushing in all its naked beauty, upon the table. Philip took
it as deliberately as he could, and put it in his pocket. Then, rising,
he said good-bye, adding, as he passed through the door:
“Remember, I have no responsibility in the matter. I wash my hands of
it, and wish to hear nothing about it.”
“The thousand pounds has done it,” reflected Lady Bellamy. “I told
George that he would rise greedily at money. I have not watched him for
twenty years for nothing. Fancy selling an only daughter’s happiness in
life for a thousand pounds, and such a daughter too! I wonder how much
he would take to murder her, if he were certain that he would not be
found out. Upon my word, my work grows quite interesting. That cur,
Philip, is as good as a play,” and she laughed her own peculiar laugh.