RUMOURS OF WARS.
Harding Knowles had never been a hard-working man. Very little more
reading would have turned a good Second in classics into an easy First,
and this was so well known at Oxford that he might have had as many
pupils as he liked during the year that he resided there after taking
his degree. He would only take two or three--"just to have something to
do in the morning," he said; and these were all of the Clydesdale
stamp--men whose connexion was worth a good deal, while their
preparation cost no sort of head-work or anxiety. He had been called to
the bar since then, but had never pretended to follow up the
profession. There was not a trace of business about his chambers in the
Temple; no face of clerk or client ever looked out at the chrysanthemums
through those pleasant windows, the sills of which were framed and
buried in flowers. He could write a clever article, or a sharp sarcastic
critique, when the fit seized him, and made a hundred or so every year
thus in an easy desultory way: the Rector's allowance was liberal, so
that Harding had more than enough to satisfy all his tastes, which were
by no means extravagant; in fact, he saved money. But he was avaricious
to the heart's core, and could be painstaking and patient enough when
the stake was really worth his while to win. He did not tarry long at
Dene after Clydesdale's departure--long enough, though, to have another
incentive to exertion in the latter's cause. Personal pique was added
now to the mere greed of gain. The merest trifle brought this about, and
you would hardly understand it without appreciating some anomalies in
Knowles's character.
There never was a more thorough-going democrat. From his birth his
sympathies and instincts had all taken the same direction, and these had
been strengthened and embittered by his mother's evil training. He
disliked the patrician order intensely; but their society seemed to have
a strange fascination for him, judging from the pertinacity he displayed
in endeavouring to gain and confirm a footing there. He would intrigue
for certain invitations in the season as eagerly as a French deputy
seeking the red ribbon of honour. Yet he was always uncomfortable when
his point was gained, and he found himself half way up the much-desired
staircase. The mistress of the mansion greeted him probably with the
self-same smile that she vouchsafed to nine-tenths of the five hundred
guests who crowded her rooms; but Knowles would torment himself with the
fancy that there was something compassionate or satirical in the fair
dame's look, as if she penetrated a truth, of which he was himself
conscious--that he had no business to be there. He felt that, if he got
a fair start, he could talk better than the majority of the men around
him; but he felt, too, that he had no chance against the most listless
or languid of them all. They were on their own ground, and the intruder
did not care to match himself against them there; his position was far
too constrained, his footing too insecure. How he hated them, for the
indolent _nonchalance_ and serene indifference that he would have given
five years of life to be able to assume! A wolfish ferocity would rise
within him as he watched a beardless Coldstreamer dropping his words
slowly, as if each were worth money and not lightly to be parted with,
into the delicate ear of a haughty beauty from whom Knowles scarcely
dared to hope for a recognising bow. The innocent object of his wrath
was probably only sacrificing himself to the necessities of the
position, while his thoughts reverted with a tender longing to the
smoking room of his club, or anticipated the succulent chop that Pratt's
was bound to provide for him before the dawning.
In all other respects, Harding was as little sensitive as the most
obstinate of pachyderms. He did not know what shame meant, and an
implied insult that would have roused another savagely would scarcely
attract his notice. You have seen one instance of this already. But he
was nervously and morbidly alive to the minutest point affecting his
position in society. After assisting at one of those assemblies of the
_haute volee_, he would review in his memory every incident of the
evening, and would be miserable for weeks afterwards if he thought he
had made himself ridiculous by any awkwardness of manner or any
incongruity of word or deed. If the choice had been forced upon him, he
would have committed a forgery any day, sooner than a _gaucherie_.
I suppose everybody is sensitive somewhere, and it is only a question
whether the shaft hits a joint in the harness, and so some go on for
years, or for ever, without a scratch or a wound. Sometimes the weak
point is found out very oddly and unexpectedly.
There is now living a man whom, till very lately, his friends used to
quote as the ideal of impassibility. Even in his youthful days, when he
was "galloper" occasionally to General Levin, war-worn veterans used to
marvel at and envy the sublime serenity with which he would receive a
point-blank volley of objurgation, double-shotted with the hoarse
expletives for which that irascible commander is world-renowned. I have
seen him myself exposed to the "chaff" of real artists in that line. He
only smiled in complacent security, when "the archers bent their bows
and made them ready," and sat amidst the banter and the satire, unmoved
as is Ailsa Craig by the whistle of the sea-bird's wings. It was
popularly supposed that no sorrow or shame which can befall humanity
would seriously disturb his equanimity, till in an evil hour he plunged
into print. It was a modest little book, relating to a Great War, in
which he had borne no ignoble part; so mild in its comment and so meek
in its suggestions, that the critics might have spared it from very
pity. But unluckily he fell early into the hands of one of the most
truculent of the tribe, and all the others followed suit, so that poor
Courtenay had rather a rough time of it. They questioned his facts and
denied his inferences, accusing him of ignorance and partiality in about
equal degrees, and, what was harder still to bear, they anatomized his
little jokes gravely, and made a mock at his pathetic passages,
stigmatizing the first as "flippancy," the last as "fine writing." Ever
since that time, _le Beau Sabreur_ has been subject to fits of
unutterable gloom and despondency. Only last summer, we were dining with
him at the "Bellona." The banquet was faultless, and the guests in the
best possible form, so that the prospects of the evening were convivial
in the extreme. It chanced that there was One present who had also
written a book or two, and had also been evil entreated by the
reviewers. A peculiarly savage onslaught had just appeared in a weekly
paper, imputing to the author in question every species of literary
profligacy, from atheism down to deliberate immorality. The man who sat
next to him opened fire on the subject. It so happens that this much
maligned individual--as a rule, quite the reverse of good-tempered--is
stolidly impervious to critical praise or blame. This indifference is
just as much a constitutional accident, of course, like exemption from
nausea at sea, but one would think _he_ must find it convenient at
times. He joined in the laugh now quite naturally, and only tried to
turn the subject, because its effect on our host was evident. His kind,
handsome face became overcast with a moody melancholy. The allusion to
his friend's castigation brought back too vividly the recollection of
his own. The cruel stripes were scarcely healed yet, and the flesh
_would_ quiver at the remote sound of the scourge.
Courtenay's fellow-sufferer would fain have cheered him. The first flask
of "Dry" had just been opened (it was _una de multis, face nuptiali
digna_--a wine, in truth, worthy to be consumed at the marriage-feasts
of great and good men), he took the brimming beaker in his hand, before
the bright beads died out of the glorious amber, and spoke thus,
sententiously--
"Oh, my friend, let us not despond overmuch; rather let us imitate
Socrates, the cheery sage, when he drained his last goblet. Do me right.
Lo! I drink to the judge who hath condemned us--[Greek: Touto to kalo
Kritia]."
Courtenay did drink--to do him justice, he will always do _that_--but
his smile was the saddest thing I ever saw; and it was three good hours
before his spirits recovered their tone, or his great golden moustaches,
which were drooping sympathetically their martial curl.
If you realize Harding Knowles's excessive sensitiveness on certain
points, you will understand how Alan Wyverne fell under his ban.
The cousins were starting for their afternoon's ride. Knowles had
lunched at Dene, but was not to accompany them. He chanced to be
standing on the steps when the horses came up, and Miss Vavasour came
out alone. Something detained Alan in the hall for a minute, and when he
appeared, Harding was in the act of assisting Helen to mount. Now that
"mounting" is the simplest of all gymnastics, if you know how to do it,
and if there exists between you and the fair Amazon a certain sympathy
and good understanding; in default of these elements of concord, it is
probable that the whole thing may come to grief. Harding was so
nervously anxious to acquit himself creditably, that it was not likely
he would succeed. He "lifted" at the wrong moment, and too violently,
not calculating on the elasticity of the demoiselle's spring, even
though she was taken unawares. Nothing but great activity and presence
of mind on Helen's part saved a dangerous fall. She said not one word as
she settled herself anew in the saddle; but the culprit caught one
glance from the depths of the brilliant eyes which stopped short his
stammered apology. It was not exactly angry--worse a thousand times than
that; but it stung him like the cut of a whip, and his cheek would flush
when he thought of it years afterwards.
While Knowles was still in his confusion, he felt a light touch on his
shoulder, and, turning, found Wyverne standing there. Nothing chafed
Alan more than an exhibition of awkwardness such as he had just
witnessed; besides this, he had never liked Harding, and was not
inclined to make excuses for him now. The pleasantness had quite
vanished from his face; and when he spoke, almost in a whisper, his lip
was curling haughtily and his brows were bent.
"_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_," he said. "Your classical reading
might have taught you that much, at all events. You want practice in
mounting, decidedly; but I beg that you will select for your next lesson
a fitter subject than Miss Vavasour."
Knowles was ready enough of retort as a rule; but this time, before he
could collect himself sufficiently to find an answer, Wyverne was in the
saddle,
And lightly they rode away.
The animosity was not equally allotted, for Alan engrossed far the
bitterest share of it; but thenceforward both the cousins might fear the
very worst from an enemy capable of much stratagem, recoiling from no
baseness, whose hatred, if it were only for the coldness of its
malignity, might not safely be defied.
For some days after Knowles's departure, everything went on pleasantly
at Dene; and nothing occurred worthy of note, unless it were a slight
passage-of-arms between Bertie Grenvil and Mr. Brabazon. The latter was
so rarely taken at fault, that it deserves to be recorded.
The financier was perfectly aware of the flirtation in progress between
his wife and the Cherub; but he never disquieted himself about such
trifles; and it was simply his "aggravating" instinct which impelled him
one day, after dinner, to select the topic which he guessed would be
most disagreeable to both. A certain Guardsman had just come to great
grief in money matters, and had been forced to betake himself in haste
to some continental Adullam. He was a favourite cousin of Maud's, a
great friend of Grenvil's, and in the same battalion. It was supposed
that the Cherub was to a certain extent involved in his comrade's
embarrassments, having backed the latter almost to the extent of his own
small credit. On the present occasion, Mr. Brabazon was good enough to
volunteer a detailed account of the unlucky spendthrift's difficulties,
which he professed to have received in a letter that morning, adding his
own strictures and comments thereon. No one interrupted him, though Lady
Mildred had the tact to give the departing signal before he had quite
finished. Mr. Brabazon felt that he had the best of the position, and
determined to follow up his triumph. When the men were left alone, his
plump, smooth face became more superciliously sanctimonious, till he
looked like Tartufe intensified.
"There is one subject I would not allude to," he said, "till _they_ had
left us. I have heard it hinted that Captain Pulteney's ruin was
hastened by his disgraceful profligacy. It is said that he lavished
thousands on a notorious person living under his name in a villa in St.
John's Wood. Mr. Grenvil perhaps knows if my information is correct?"
Brabazon wished his words unsaid as Bertie's bright eyes fastened on his
face, glittering with malicious mirth.
"Yes; I know something about it," he replied; "but I don't see that I'm
called upon to reveal poor Dick's domestic secrets to uninterested
parties. You don't hold any of his paper, I suppose? No--you're too
prudent for that. Not quite prudent enough, though. I wouldn't say too
much about St. John's Wood, if I were you. You've heard the proverb
about 'glass houses?' I believe there's a conservatory attached to that
very nice villa in Mastic Road, to which you have the _entree_ at all
hours. Have you got the latch-key in your pocket?"
If Richard Brabazon valued himself on one possession more than another,
it was his immaculate respectability: in fact, an ostentatious piety was
part of his stock-in-trade. For once, he was fairly disconcerted. His
face grew white, and actually convulsed with rage and fear as he
stammered out, quite forgetting his careful elocution--
"I don't pretend to understand you; but I see you wish to insult me."
"Wrong again, and twice over," the other answered, coolly. "I never
insulted anybody since I was born. And you will understand me perfectly,
if you will take the trouble to remember a very warm midnight last
spring, when the cabman could not give you change for a sovereign and
you had to send him out his fare. You were in such a hurry to go in,
that you never saw the humblest of your servants, about fifteen yards
off, lighting his cigar. I don't wonder at your impetuosity. I got a
good look at the _soubrette_ when she came out with the change;
and, if the mistress is as pretty as the maid, your taste is
unimpeachable--whatever your morals may be."
The great drops gathered on Brabazon's forehead as he sat glaring
speechlessly at his tormentor, who at that moment appeared intent on the
selection of some olives, all the while humming audibly to himself, "The
Young May Moon."
"It is an atrocious calumny," he gasped out, "or a horrible mistake. I
wish to believe it is the last."
"You wish _us_ to believe, you mean," the other retorted. "But I won't
'accept the composition,' (that's the correct expression, isn't it?)
There was no mistake about it. I saw you that night, just as plainly as
I did the morning before, going into Exeter Hall to talk about
converting the Pongo Islanders--only you were in your brougham _then_.
Quite right too. Never take your own carriage out on the war-trail: it
only makes scandal, and costs you a night-horse. I always tried to beat
so much economy into poor Dick Pulteney. If he would have listened to
me, he might have lasted a month or two longer. I assure you I watched
the whole thing with great interest. One doesn't see a _financier en
bonne fortune_ every day; and the habits of all animals are worth
observing at certain seasons. A Frenchman wrote such a pretty treatise
the other day about the 'Loves of the Moles!'"
Many men would have derived much refreshment from the spectacle
presented just then by their ancient enemy. You cannot fancy a more
pitiable picture of helpless exasperation, nor more complete abasement.
Even with his usual crafty reserve, he would scarcely have held his own
against the cool insolence of his opponent--thoroughly confident of his
facts, and mercilessly determined to use them to the uttermost. If the
Squire had been present, the skirmish would not have lasted so long; but
he was presiding at a great agricultural dinner miles away. Max
Vavasour, who sat in his father's place, was not disposed to interrupt
any performance which amused him. Neither he nor any other man present
felt the faintest sympathy with, or compassion for, the victim. Brabazon
appreciated his position acutely. He was only reaping as he had sown;
but some of those same crops are not pleasant to gather or garner. He
rose suddenly, and muttering something about "not staying another
instant to be insulted," made a precipitate retreat, leaving not a shred
of dignity behind. Max Vavasour did rouse himself to say a few pacifying
words of deprecation, but they did not arrest the fugitive, nor did the
speaker seem to expect they would do so.
When the door closed, Wyverne looked at Bertie with an expression which
was meant to be reproachful, but became, involuntarily, admiring.
"What a quiet, cruel little creature it is," he said. "Fancy his keeping
that secret so long, and bringing it out so viciously just at the right
time. Is it not a crowning mercy, though, that the Squire's
'agricultural' came off to-night? He would have stopped sport for once
in his life. I wonder whether Brabazon is a 'bull' or a 'bear' on
'Change? Whichever he is, he was baited thoroughly well here; and, I
think, deserved all the punishment he got. Cherub, I shall look upon you
with more respect henceforth, having seen you appear as the Bold
Avenger."
They soon began to talk of other things. A reputation fostered by years
of caution, outward self-restraint, and conventional observances, had
just been slain before their eyes; but those careless spirits made
little moan over the dead, and seemed to think the obsequies not worth a
funeral oration. Having once accepted his position, Brabazon, to do him
justice, made the best of it. He made no attempt at retaliation, as he
might easily have done, by removing himself and his belongings abruptly
from Dene; indeed, during the remainder of a protracted visit there, he
comported himself in a manner void of offence to man or woman. The
Squire, who knew him well, remarked the change, and congratulated
himself and others thereupon; but they never told him of the somewhat
summary process by which the result had been achieved. It was simple
enough, after all. Some horses will never run kindly till you take your
whip up to them in earnest.
Though Sir Alan Wyverne had no property left worth speaking of, he still
had "affairs" of one sort or another to attend to, from time to time,
and of late it had become still more necessary that these be kept in
order. Before very long, he too was obliged to go up to town on
business. He was only to be absent three or four days; but he seemed
strangely reluctant to leave Dene. In good truth, there was not the
slightest reason for any gloomy presentiment; but Helen remembered in
after years, that during the last hours they spent together then, her
cousin made none of those gay allusions to their future that he was so
fond of indulging in; and that though his words and manner were kind and
loving as ever, there was something sad and subdued in their tenderness.
So far as Alan knew, it was a simple case of business which called him
away; more than once afterwards he thought it would have been better if
he had died that night, with the music of Helen's whisper in his ears,
the print of her ripe scarlet lips on his cheek, the pressure of her
lithe twining fingers still lingering round his own.
Many men, before and since, have thought the same. It is, perhaps, the
most reasonable of all the repinings that are more futile than the
vainest of regrets. Two lifetimes would not unravel some tangles of
sorrow and sin, that are cut asunder, quite simply, by one sheer sudden
stroke of Azraeel's sword. Be sure, the purpose of God's awful messenger
is often benevolent, though his aspect is seldom benign. The legend of
ancient days bears a sad significance still. His arm is "swift to smite
and never to spare;" black as night is the plumage of his vast shadowy
wings; his lineaments are somewhat stern in their severe serenity; but
in all the hierarchy of Heaven--the Rabbins say--is found no more
perfect beauty than in the face of the Angel of Death.