"AND IN SUCH CHOICE SHALL STAND MY WEALTH AND WOE."
Herrick went back to London that evening. Lavendale was in Bloomsbury
Square, and would have had his familiar friend and companion to live
with him there if Herrick would have consented; but Herrick was sternly
resolved upon a life of hard work and almost Spartan plainness. He was
filled with ambition, with that keen desire of success for the sake of a
loved object, with that same generous unselfishness which made Steele so
happy, when he had earned a handful of guineas, to cast them into the
lap of his "dearest Prue." So he refused to leave his two-pair lodging
in the alley near Button's; and he worked on with an honest purpose
which made success a foregone conclusion. But in spite of the close
occupation of his parliamentary duties and his work as a journalist,
Mr. Durnford found time to travel by heavy coach to Winchester, whence a
hired horse conveyed him to the mansion of Sir John Chumleigh, a county
magnate, and chief representative of an ancient Tory and High Church
family, a gentleman whose grandfather had bled and died for the King in
the Civil War, and whose father had held himself sullenly aloof from the
Dutch usurper, and had lived and died on his own estate. The present Sir
John Chumleigh was a sportsman and an agriculturist; lived only for
farming and fox-hunting, and despised all the other interests and
ambitions of mankind. He had married the daughter of a needy nobleman, a
fine lady who had been slowly fretting herself to death amidst the rude
plenty of a rural establishment for the last twenty years, and was a
wonder to all her neighbours inasmuch as she was still alive.
To this gentleman Mr. Durnford presented himself one sunny afternoon.
He found the Baronet in a panelled parlour, seated at a table covered
with documents of a business character. Sir John was big and burly, wore
leather breeches and top-boots in winter and summer, and had all his
clothes cut in a style which suggested the hunting-field rather than the
drawing-room. He was a man who would start in the winter starlight,
before the first ray of dawn had begun to glimmer in the eastern sky, in
order to ride fifteen miles to a meet. He had a couple of packs, a
magnificent stud of hunters, hunted four times a week, and considered
every guinea squandered which was not spent upon kennel or stable. He
was prouder of being master of hounds than he would have been of being
Prime Minister. Herrick glanced at the whip-racks, the rows of spurs,
the vizards and brushes, which adorned the walls, and at once understood
the kind of man with whom he had to deal, and he was prepared to
encounter a frank off-hand incivility rather than hypocritical courtesy.
He stated his business briefly.
"I have a very particular reason, sir, for being interested in the
history of a member of your family who fell upon evil fortunes, and died
young, leaving a motherless infant behind him."
"My good sir, my family tree has spread deuced wide since the
Chumleighs--an old Norman race--first took root in the land; and if you
expect me to give information about every beggarly twig that has
withered upon it within the last half-century--"
"This gentleman I take to have been a somewhat near relation, Sir John,
since it was to you he turned in the hour of his direst necessities."
"Yes, sir, they all do that: they go to a well-to-do relative as
naturally as an old dog-fox goes to ground."
"Do you remember a cousin who came to you in the year nine--'twas in the
autumn, shortly after Malplaquet--with a little girl, a mere baby--"
"I'm not likely to forget the fact, sir. What, a trumpery third or
fourth cousin to come to my house, with a squaller of eighteen months
old, expecting to be housed and fed for an indefinite period; since,
having once found comfortable quarters, that kind of vagrant would not
be inclined to resume his march in a hurry! It was as much as I could do
to be barely civil to that idle vagabond; but I mastered my indignation
so far as to offer him a substantial meal, which he refused, and a
guinea, which he flung to the footman who showed him the way out--"
"Preferring to tramp back towards London with an empty stomach rather
than to feed on your charity," said Durnford; "a false pride, no doubt,
sir, but there are men who would die rather than accept a reluctant
favour. Your hospitable offer was the last chance of a meal your kinsman
had, for he died of starvation on the road to London, and his orphan was
adopted by one Squire Bosworth, a landed gentleman at Fairmile in
Surrey."
"How do you know that he died of want, sir?" asked Sir John, somewhat
dashed in his spirits.
"O sir, the fact is notorious;" and then Durnford related those two
chapters of Chumleigh's story which he had heard from Mr. Ludderly and
the nurse at Chelsea, and from Mrs. Bridget and others at Fairmile.
"Well, sir, 'tis a pitiful tale," said the Baronet, "but there is hardly
a man in England rich enough to provide for all his poor relations. The
lean kine would eat up all the fat kine, sir, if mistaken benevolence
were to attempt the task, and the kingdom would be reduced to a dead
level of poverty. Gad's curse, sir! everybody would be paupers. There
would be no green spot in the desert. 'Tis sounder wisdom and truer
benevolence in the rich to keep their estates together, to maintain a
good household, feed their dependents, and uphold trade. However, I am
sorry this misguided young man came to a scurvy end."
"Dare I ask why you call him misguided, sir?"
"Because he made the vast mistake of trying to live by his wits, instead
of by some steady and honest industry--because he thought to make his
living by hanging about London, sitting idle in coffee-houses, and
picking up stray notions from the town wits--Dryden, Congreve,
Wycherley, Addison, Steele, and the rest of 'em--to retail secondhand in
the newspapers at a penny a line. Better to have carried a musket or
swept a crossing. And then when he was bear-leader and earning handsome
wages, with the run of his teeth at the best inns on the Continent, and
a coach-and-six to carry him all over Europe--an education which should
have made him as good a writer as that Mr. Addison whom people thought
so much of--he must needs spoil all his chances by running off with a
girl out of an Italian convent, and causing a fine hubbub among the
priests."
"Was the lady a cloistered nun?" asked Durnford eagerly.
"Why no; 'twas said she was but a boarder or pupil in the convent,
handsomely paid for by a wealthy father, who kept so much in the dark as
to his daughter that she may be said to have been nameless, and 'twas
shrewdly guessed she was the offspring of some low intrigue whom the
father was glad to hide within convent-walls, in the hope she would take
the veil and rid him of all trouble about her."
"Since you heard so much, Sir John, you must have heard the father's
name?"
"There you are out in your reckoning, sir. My only information came by a
sort of explanatory letter which my foolish cousin sent me--having a
kind of deference for me as the head of the family--soon after his
marriage."
"Would you oblige me so far as to let me see that letter, sir, which I
make no doubt you have preserved?" asked Durnford.
"Nay, young sir, you go somewhat fast. Will you do me the favour to
explain by what right you would grope in the mystery of Chumleigh's life
and marriage? What interest can my dead kinsman have for you, a
stranger, that I should let you pry into the scandals of his mistaken
youth?"
"I will be plain with you, Sir John. My interest in Mr. Chumleigh arises
indirectly. His orphan daughter, who died of a fever at the age of five,
was the beloved playfellow of a young lady whom I hope to make my wife.
It is for her sake I am curious about your kinsman's history."
"'Tis a roundabout sentimental kind of interest, sir, which, were you
less of a gentleman, I should feel devilishly indisposed to gratify,"
said Sir John. "Pray may I ask, sir, who and what you are? for your
name, though it has a respectable sound, gives me no information on that
point."
"To begin with, then, Sir John, I belong to that fraternity of
scribblers to which you object. Without being exactly a haunter of
coffee-houses, I have a profound reverence for the shades of Dryden and
Addison, whose bodily presence was once familiar at Wills's and at
Button's--indeed 'twas Mr. Addison who gave the vogue to the latter
house, which is kept by an old servant of Lady Warwick's; and as for
wits in the flesh, I have ever hung with delight upon the discourse of
Congreve and Swift, Pope and Gay. Yes, Sir John, I too am that low
thing, a man who lives by his brains; but I have another profession
besides that of scribbler."
"May I know your secondary occupation, sir?"
"I have the honour to represent the borough of Bossiney in his Majesty's
Parliament."
"Indeed, sir! You are in the House, are you? And I'll warrant you are an
arrant Whig."
"I hope, Sir John, that will not prejudice you against me."
"Nay, Mr. Durnford, I have ceased to be a partisan. There was a time
when I was a red-hot Jacobite, and looked to Harley and St. John to open
the Queen's eyes to her duty as a daughter and a sister, and so, without
violence or damage to the country, to bring in King James III. so soon
as the throne should be vacant. But when I saw how easily Harley and
St. John were beaten, and how quietly the country knuckled under to a
middle-aged foreigner who could not speak a word of our language; and
when that miserable flash in the pan of the year fifteen showed me how
feeble a crew were the Jacobites of England and Scotland--faith, sir,
the best man among them was Winifred Countess of Nithisdale--I began to
think that I had better stay at home, and hunt my hounds and keep clear
of politics. Neither party has ever benefited me; and I say with the
gentleman in the play which the Winchester Mummers acted last Easter, 'A
plague on both your houses!' So Whig or Tory is all as one to me, Mr.
Durnford. And now will you crack a bottle of Burgundy, or will you drink
a glass or two of Malaga, after your long ride?"
Sir John had talked himself into a good temper, and Herrick thought that
he might drink himself into a still more gracious humour, so frankly
accepted his offer of a bottle; whereupon the butler brought a massive
silver tray with decanters of Burgundy and Malaga, and a dish of crisp
biscuits, made after a particular recipe which had been in the family
from the time of Queen Bess, who had lain at Chumleigh Manor in one of
her innumerable peregrinations, whereby she had laid upon the family the
burden of for ever preserving the antique furniture and cut velvet
hangings of the room in which her royal person had reposed. Charles II.
had been a more frequent visitor, putting up at Chumleigh on several
occasions when his Court was quartered at Winchester for the hunting in
the New Forest, and when he and his favourites had hunted with the
Chumleigh foxhounds. Sir John prattled of those glorious days as he
sipped his Malaga, which was a fine heady wine.
He sipped and prosed, describing those great days in which royalty had
hunted with his father's foxhounds and drunk of his father's wines, and
finally talked himself into such an expansive temper that he pressed
Herrick to put up at Chumleigh Manor for the night, and leave Winchester
by the coach which started at eight next morning. This offer Mr.
Durnford thought it wise to accept, as it might afford the opportunity
for getting better acquainted with the history of the Chumleigh family,
and that Philip Chumleigh in whose fate he was so keenly interested.
It was dusk by this time. The Baronet had dined at three, and he was in
for an evening's good-fellowship.
"Her ladyship will take it ill if we do not go to the drawing-room for a
dish of tea," he said; "but we can come back to my study afterwards, and
I'll show you my kinsman's letter, and as many memorials of the house of
Chumleigh as you may care to look at. Our pedigree is more interesting
than that of most county families, for the Chumleighs have married into
several noble houses. We are an historical race, sir."
The drawing-room was on the other side of a large hall, paved with black
and white marble, and with a lantern roof, after Inigo Jones. It was a
spacious and handsome apartment, hung with old Italian pictures of
manifest worthlessness, interspersed with portraits of the house of
Chumleigh by Holbein, Vandyke, Lely, and Kneller. The present owner and
his wife had been painted by this last artist, and their half-length
portraits occupied places of honour on either side of the high
chimney-piece, which was an elaborate structure in white and coloured
marble, with the armorial bearings of the Chumleighs carved in high
relief on the central panel.
Beside the fireplace sat a faded, little woman, who rose with a languid
air when her husband presented the stranger, and sank almost to the
carpet in a kind of swooning curtsy.
"Indeed, sir, it is a privilege to see any one at Chumleigh who has seen
the town within twelve months," she said to Herrick, in acknowledgment
of her husband's half-apologetic introduction of the stranger. "We live
here in the wilds, and our most intellectual company are huntsmen and
feeders. There is scarcely an hour of the day when I am free from the
intrusion of a great hulking fellow redolent of kennel or stable."
"My dear, I must see my servants, and unless you and I are to live in
separate houses I know not how you are to escape an occasional whiff of
the stable," grumbled Sir John.
"O, I must forgive you your servants," replied his wife, "since your
friends are but a shade better--men who have but two subjects of
discourse: the last horse they have bought, or the last run in which
they were thrown out, or in which they were first at the death. They
seem almost as proud of one circumstance as of the other. But pray,
sir," turning to Herrick, and exposing a scornful and somewhat scraggy
shoulder to her husband, "tell me the last news in town. Is Lady Mary
Hervey as great a toast as ever? I for my part never thought her a
beauty, though she has some good points. And is her husband still a
valetudinarian?"
"Yes, madam, Lord Hervey is always complaining, but as he contrives to
perform all his Court duties, which are onerous, I take it he is more
robust than the world thinks him, or than he thinks himself."
"And Mrs. Howard? Has she finished her new house at Twit'nam?"
"Marble Hill? Yes, madam, 'tis just finished, and is the prettiest thing
for its size I ever saw."
"And is she still the first favourite with his Majesty?"
"That, madam, she has never been, and never will be. The Queen is the
reigning sultana at Kensington and at Richmond, whatever illicit loves
may beguile his Majesty's sojourn at Hanover, where one would think his
heart was fixed, so eager is he ever to get there."
"Indeed, sir! Then it is Vashti and not Esther who reigns. I am glad of
that, for the sake of honour and honesty. Why does not the King send
Mrs. Howard about her business?"
"O madam, such an idea is furthest from his thoughts. He must have
somewhere to spend his evenings. The Queen is his mentor, his chief
counsellor, and he knows it, though he affects to think otherwise: he
must have an amiable stupid woman to talk to by way of relaxation. No
one could endure the perpetual company of the goddess Minerva. Be
assured, madam, Venus was as empty-headed as she was pretty, and that's
why she had so many adorers."
"You give a very bad notion of your own sex, sir," retorted the lady,
busying herself with the tea-tray, which had been brought in during the
discussion. "But as for beauty, I never thought Mrs. Howard could claim
dominion upon that account. She has fine hair and a good complexion;
but how many a milkmaid can boast as much!"
"Doubtless, madam; and a milkmaid would be just as pleasing to King
George, if she were a little deaf and very complacent."
"For shame, sir! Let us talk no more of this odious subject. Pray
enlighten me about the theatres. Is Drury Lane or Lincoln's Inn most
fashionable? I have not seen a play for a century. Sir John has always
an excuse for not taking me to London."
"The best in the world, my love, an empty purse," answered the Baronet
cheerily.
"No wonder your purse is empty when you squander hundreds upon your
kennels," complained the lady, who was fond of airing her grievances
before a third person.
"Squander, my lady? squander, did you say? To maintain a pack of
foxhounds is to perform a public duty; it is to be the chief benefactor
of one's neighbourhood. When I can no longer pay for my kennels and
support my church may I lie in my grave under the shadow of the tower,
where the music of my hounds can no longer gladden my ear. No, madam,
the maintenance of an historic pack is no selfish extravagance. It is
the highest form of philanthropy. It gives sport to the wealthy and
employment to the poor; it affords pleasure to gentle and simple, old
and young. If you could sit a horse, Maria, you would not talk such
foolish cant as to call my kennel an extravagance."
This question of horsemanship was always a sore point with Lady
Chumleigh, and no less savage beast than a husband would have been
brutal enough to touch upon it.
"Had I health and strength for such rough work as hunting, I make no
doubt I could ride as well as my neighbours," replied the lady, with a
semi-hysterical sniffling sound which alarmed her spouse, as it was
often the forerunner of shrill screams, and shriller laughter, tapping
of red-heeled shoes on the carpet, cutting of laces, burning of
feathers, and spilling of essences, with all the troublesome rites of
the Goddess Hysteria.
"And so indeed you could, my dearest love," he cried, eager to avert the
storm; "you have the neatest figure for the saddle on this side
Winchester, and would be the prettiest little hussy in the hunting-field
if you had but the courage to ride my bay Kitty, than which no sheep was
ever tamer."
"It is not courage I want, Sir John, but stamina," murmured the dame,
appeased and smiling.
"I hope you like this bohea, Mr. Durnford," she said blandly; "it is the
same as the Duchess drinks at Canons."
Herrick declared it was the best tea he had tasted for an age. Sir John
informed his wife that the stranger would sup with them, and stay the
night; and then the two gentlemen went back to the library, where Mr.
Chumleigh's letter was produced from an iron box containing family
documents.
Herrick read it slowly and meditatively, trying to get the most he could
out of a very brief statement.
* * * * *
"Montpellier, October 20, 1706.
"MY DEAR SIR JOHN,--As you may happen to hear of my marriage, and
perhaps from those who may not be friendly to me, I think it my duty to
furnish you with some particulars of that event which so nearly concerns
the happiness and honour of two people, my wife and myself.
"Imprimis, you will be told perhaps that I stole my wife from a convent.
Well, so I did, but she was under no vow, had taken no veil: was only a
young lady placed there by her guardian as pupil and boarder; and from
what I know I believe she might have been left to languish there in a
dismal confinement within the four high walls of an ancient Italian
garden, if love and I had not rescued her. It is needless to make a long
story of how we met by chance in the convent chapel, and afterwards by
contrivance, and how we soon discovered that Providence had designed us
each for the other. I never had a dishonourable feeling in regard to my
charmer, and my crime in carrying her off from that sanctimonious
prison-house was no more than if I had run away with a young lady from a
fashionable seminary at Bath or Tunbridge. She brought me no fortune,
and may never bring me a shilling, though I have reason to believe her
father is inordinately rich. You will think it strange when I tell you
that his daughter does not even know his name, and has no recollection
of his person, or having ever seen him since her infancy. The only
person connected with her who ever visited the convent was a steward,
who came twice a year to pay her pension, and who always brought her
valuable presents. I can but think that my dearest girl must have been
the offspring of an illicit love, and that her parent must be one of
that race of travelling Englishmen who affect the Continent most because
of its wider scope for dissolute habits.
"She was treated with much respect and consideration by the nuns, but
they never told her anything about her own history. To her natural
questions on this subject she received one unalterable reply: 'You will
know all in good time.'
"That time, by my act, may never come; for my wife knows not how or
where to address her mysterious parent. It may be that I have cut her
off from the inheritance of a splendid fortune, and that thought gives
me some uneasiness, as I see her smiling upon me while I write these
lines in our humble lodging. But we are both so happy that I can scarce
doubt we have done wisely in obeying the sweet impulsion that united our
lives, as I have an honest intention of working hard to win
independence, and trust the day may come when we shall afford to scorn
the wealth of a profligate who was ashamed to acknowledge his lovely and
innocent child.
"I hope, sir, when I go to London with my wife next summer, with the
intention of entering my name at the Temple, you will honour us both
with your countenance, and that in the mean time you will be assured I
have done nothing to forfeit your goodwill as the head of our family.--I
have the honour to remain, my dear sir, your very affectionate and
dutiful servant,
"PHILIP CHUMLEIGH."
* * * * *
This was all, and gave but little precise information.
"You have no other letters of your kinsman's bearing upon his marriage,
sir?" inquired Herrick.
"None."
"And did he tell you nothing more when he called upon you afterwards
with his child?"
"Nothing. To tell you the truth, sir," said the Baronet, who, warmed by
a second bottle, now glowed with a generous candour, "I was in a mighty
ill mood for receiving an out-at-elbows relation upon the particular
afternoon this gentleman came here; for I had just brought home the
finest hunter in my stud dead lame from a stumble into a blind ditch. I
could have turned upon my own mother, sir; and then comes this third
cousin of mine with a puling brat, and tells me he has not a penny in
the world, and asks me to give him hospitality till his fortunes
mend--whereas there was no more hope of his fortunes mending than of my
poor Brown Bess getting a new leg--and I daresay I may have answered him
somewhat uncivilly; and so we parted, as I told you, in a rage. But I am
sorry for it, now you tell me he died of hunger. 'Tis hard for a
gentleman to sink so low."
"Will you allow me to take a copy of that letter, Sir John?"
"A dozen, sir, if you please. There are pens on that standish, and paper
somewhere on the table. I'll go and smoke my pipe in the saddle-room
while you act scribe, and I daresay when you've finished it will be
supper-time, and we shall both be in appetite for a chine and a venison
pasty. We keep country hours."