MR. SOMERFORD’S SUGGESTION.
Persons who knew anything about the Rosemont _ménage_—and the persons
who did meant all resident within an area of twenty miles of that place,
and a considerable number outside the area indicated—were aware that as
a rule on those rare occasions when Lady Glendare honoured Ireland with
her presence, the Hon. Mrs. Somerford “availed herself” of so favourable
an opportunity for visiting her friends.
Lady Glendare and her hon. sister-in-law did not in all respects agree
as sisters-in-law should. To state the case fairly, they hated each
other. This undesirable frame of mind is not uncommon even in much lower
circles, but perhaps civilized and decorous and socially polite hatred
never attained a stronger growth than between the countess and her
husband’s brother’s wife.
Lady Glendare was certainly right in stating that they were not
sisters-in-law, since rigidly they could not be called such near
relatives.
“She is the widow of my late brother-in-law,” was the form of speech in
which Lady Glendare liked to describe Mrs. Somerford’s position; “and as
she is fearfully poor, poorer even than the Somerfords’ widows have
usually been (and that is indeed indicating a deeper depth of poverty
than most people can imagine), Lord Glendare allows her to live at
Rosemont with that great boy of hers, who does nothing, literally
nothing. How it will all end I cannot imagine. He has no fortune, no
profession, he has no chance there of marrying. Better have apprenticed
him to some trade,” and at this juncture, her ladyship, who having come
from a noble stock who boasted a longer pedigree and a more encumbered
rent-roll than the Glendares, always made it a rule to speak pityingly
and depreciatingly of her husband and his family, was wont to fold her
white hands and look up to the ceiling with that pathetic and saintlike
expression of countenance which a great painter having beheld, has
perpetuated in a portrait, copies of which are to be seen in
old-fashioned scrap-books and amateur portfolios to this day.
Lord Glendare had married late in life, middle age for him was over when
he led to the hymeneal altar his beautiful, youthful, and accomplished
bride. On the other hand, the Hon. Robert Somerford had married early,
comparatively speaking, and the son he left was many years older than
Lord Trevor, heir-apparent to the Glendare title and estates. Thus Mrs.
Somerford was Lady Glendare’s senior, and though a sensible woman and a
hard, she had been younger, and she would have liked to remain so. As
that was impossible, she could have wished all other wives and daughters
a shade older than herself. As that likewise was impossible, Mrs.
Somerford felt slightly dissatisfied with the arrangements of
Providence, both as regarded the matter of age and other questions.
Further, Lady Glendare had been a celebrated beauty; the traditions of
her beauty would endure, Mrs. Somerford knew, to the last days of her
life. Even yet she was a very lovely woman, possessed of an exquisite
figure, of a gracious and graceful manner, a woman who had but to come,
to see, or rather to be seen, and to conquer. She took the citadels of
men’s hearts by storm; at sound of her voice, at sight of her smile, the
battlements tottered, the walls fell. Virtue, as represented by Mrs.
Somerford, was no doubt an estimable and discreet matron, but virtue
felt its very existence ignored when Lady Glendare, concerning whose
prudence doubts had been expressed, the straightlacedness of whose
morals people more than suspected, sat in the same room with it.
All this, and the facts of her being my lady, of her first-born having
the prospect of inheriting an estate which, encumbered though it might
be, was still an estate, attached to a sufficiently old and well-known
title, proved gall and wormwood to Mrs. Somerford; but, on the other
hand, there were bitter drops in Lady Glendare’s cup poured into it by
Mrs. Somerford.
In the first place, if Lady Glendare were beautiful, Mrs. Somerford was
clever. Without her good looks the countess would have been a nonentity.
Without any good looks to speak of, had Mrs. Somerford’s lot been that
of an earl’s wife, society must have acknowledged her talents. Added to
this, she was, as Lady Glendare put the matter, the widow of a younger
brother, and it is to be questioned whether an angel could under such
circumstances have given entire satisfaction to the women of her
husband’s family.
Mrs. Somerford not being an angel, gave none to the countess.
Again, Mrs. Somerford affected an austere sort of religion, and the
countess had an uneasy feeling that consequently, despite her unpleasant
manner, in this world, her sister-in-law might have a better chance than
herself of happiness in the next.
Expressed heterodoxy even amongst men was rare in those days. People did
not perhaps think so much about religion as they do now; but when they
thought about it at all they believed—ay, even people like the
Glendares—that there was something in it; something they would have to
face certainly, and arrange if they could, once the evil days came, when
doctor and lawyers and clergymen would be the only society they could
possibly entertain.
To Lady Glendare the idea of that last sleep in Ballyknock Abbey was
inexpressibly revolting. Hating Ireland as she did, the thought of a
certain village church, black with age, in a vault beneath which dozens
of her progenitors lay, seemed a desirable resting-place by comparison;
but even that was a possibility my lady shivered to contemplate.
Then if it were true, as Mrs. Somerford asserted, that it mattered not
to her where her mortal remains were laid, what an immeasurable
advantage the widow possessed! A woman to whose lips the verse of a hymn
or an appropriate text occurred whenever her eyes opened, could never
feel afraid of awaking in the night. She might be disagreeable, but she
could have no sins to repent of. Mrs. Somerford’s manner always seemed
to imply that, though she spoke of herself generally as a miserable
sinner, she merely did so out of a feeling of delicacy towards others.
She was not as the Glendares, every action of her life seemed to assert;
and she made Lady Glendare, who, if a sinner, was also a very weak
woman, feel her moral and mental deficiencies at every turn.
For all these reasons, and for many more, which it would require much
time to specify, Mrs. Somerford found it, as a rule, convenient to visit
her friends when Lord and Lady Glendare visited Ireland.
Every rule has its exception, however, and at the particular time when
the reader is first requested to visit Rosemont, it was intimated to
Mrs. Somerford that if she and her son could make it convenient to
remain at “home,” so Lady Glendare civilly phrased it, she and the earl
would consider it as a personal favour.
“They want me and Robert,” decided the widow, with a proud smile. “They
want _us_ to help them with the voters.”
And the widow was right. Her brother-in-law was anxious on the subject
of the impending election, and his agent had ventured to hint that Mr.
Somerford was very popular, and that his presence and request might
possibly be the means of influencing many votes.
Nay, he went farther; he insinuated that eventually, perhaps, his
lordship might find it expedient to put forward his nephew in the
Liberal interest, and suggested that it would be therefore prudent to
keep Mr. Somerford well before the constituents, and remind them how
close were the ties that bound him at once to them and the noble house
of Glendare.
To the earl the southern part of the county, for which a Glendare
nominee had sat for seven successive Parliaments, and with few
exceptions, for Parliaments almost countless before that, was the only
thing in Ireland for which he cared.
Had any person except the Marquis of Ardmorne offered him a large sum, a
liberal amount for Rosemont and the other residences he owned in
Ireland, together with the Glendare lands, the Glendare tenantry, the
Glendare rights of wood, moor, and game, and mineral, to say nothing of
shore rights and manorial rights, and rights appertaining to fisheries,
Lord Glendare would—had cutting off the entail been possible—have sold
them all, Ballyknock Abbey and the remains of his ancestors included.
But he would not have sold his interest in the county. Every man has his
toy, if we could only discover where he hides away the plaything; and it
was not possible for one to be long in Lord Glendare’s company without
guessing that the family seat was to him the only one thing besides
money and his children for which he really cared.
He was very fond of all his children excepting Lord Trevor, but it is
problematical whether in the event having been necessary of a choice
between his family seat and his parental feelings, he would not have
sacrificed them to that Moloch in whose fires had been already consumed
money, friendship, reputation, honour, happiness, self-respect.
A pack of hounds could have been kept for a portion of the money that
seat had cost. Even the Jews might have uplifted their grasping hands in
amazement had the sum the return of a Glendare nominee meant been
presented to them in round figures.
Agents had groaned over, tenants had sunk under it, not an agent on the
property for scores of years who did not curse each election as it took
place with a vehemence of denunciation in comparison to which all the
comminations hurled at the heads of Israelitish and Christian creditors
faded into mere commonplace ejaculations of impiety.
One agent, indeed—the gentleman who had the direction of Lord Glendare’s
affairs, and management of his property at the period when Kingslough
was introduced at high noon—had ventured, soon after the earl’s
accession, to remark that in his opinion the seat was more trouble than
it was worth, whereupon his patron turned upon him like a demon and
saluted his ears with such a storm of vehement invective and vile
insinuations, that the agent left the house, vowing one day or other he
would have his revenge on the passionate nobleman.
True, next day, Lord Glendare sent for and actually apologized to him,
and a hollow truce was concluded; and employer and employed, to the
outer world, seemed better friends than ever, but Mr. Dillwyn did not
forget, neither did the earl quite forgive.
So far as a man of his temperament and habits could keep a watch on his
agent, Lord Glendare kept one on Mr. Dillwyn, and Mr. Dillwyn, who had
his own very good reasons for imagining that Mrs. Somerford acted on
emergency as spy for the absent earl—devoted his energies to outwitting
that clever lady, and, all things considered, succeeded tolerably well
in his endeavour.
A master-stroke of genius, however, was that letter to the earl
containing the suggestion mentioned previously. It did not, perhaps,
make the widow believe in him, but it caused her to reflect that perhaps
her interests and his might not be so antagonistic as she at one time
supposed. She had her hopes and her projects, and both centred in
Robert. Besides, her vanity was flattered. Mr. Dillwyn had at last
recognized her presence as a power.
And she was a power, if a disagreeable one. A woman competent to advise,
direct, and assist a beautiful fool like her sister-in-law.
“I shall be somebody yet amongst the Glendares,” thought she,
triumphantly, “and Robert very soon shall be a great somebody.” And all
the time Mr. Dillwyn was weaving his webs, laying his plans, arranging
his plots.
When the Glendare shipwreck came, as come he knew it would, he had no
intention of finding himself on a barren rock, scarce of provisions.
He meant to stand by the vessel to the last. It is more easy, if people
could only believe the fact, to do well for oneself pecuniarily by
apparent loyalty than by open treason; but when the crash came, and the
rotten timbers floated away over the ocean of men’s memories, he
proposed to be found high and safe; high above the waters, safe from
their fury.
It was an understood thing that when my lord and my lady took up their
temporary residence in Ireland, the rules which governed their English
life should be completely reversed; in other words, whatever they did in
London, they left undone in Ireland; whatever they left undone in
London, they were scrupulous to perform in the Blessed Isle.
For instance, in London, they rose in the afternoon and went to bed in
the morning; and in Ireland they were called betimes, and retired to
rest at hours which would, Lady Glendare vainly hoped, restore the once
exquisite beauty of her complexion.
In England they never addressed an inferior save to issue a command, and
in Ireland they entered into conversation with all sorts and conditions
of men, the poorer and raggeder the better; in England they never
walked, in Ireland the use of their limbs was restored to them as if by
a miracle; in England they were always spending, in Ireland it was a
fact that my lady often omitted to carry a purse, while my lord gave
away pence and halfpence, but rarely had occasion to change a note.
In England my lord and my lady beheld each other rarely, in Ireland they
saw a great deal more of each other than either considered essential to
happiness. In England they associated with none save their equals; in
Ireland the hearts of very middle-class people, indeed, were made glad
by invitations to Rosemont, where they instituted mental comparisons
between their own modest homes and an earl’s establishment, which caused
them not to think the ways and modes of life “amongst gentlefolks poor
or rich,” so different after all.
Only it troubled simple gentlefolks to understand where the money went,
as well it might. Some put it down to English extravagance, wherein I
think an injustice was put upon England. Even residents in Ireland have
been known to run through incomes and estates with surprising rapidity;
but then, open house was kept by them, and half a county ate, drank,
lodged at their expense. Certainly open house was not kept at Rosemont.
Half the rooms were usually shut up, even when my lord and lady visited
the ancestral seat.
As for Mrs. Somerford, she and her son contented themselves with a mere
corner of the earl’s great mansion. They dined in the library and sat in
the music-room.
It would not have suited the widow’s purse to maintain an establishment
such as even one-half of Rosemont required to keep in order, so the
shutters of the principal rooms were generally closed; the gilt chairs
with their pale blue coverings were shrouded in brown holland. The
mirrors and the chandeliers were enveloped in wraps, the tassels of the
bellpulls were hid away in bags, as were also those of the
curtain-holders. The statuettes were dressed in muslins. There were some
good pictures on the walls, but no one cared to look at them. Some day,
it might be, a new earl should come to his own, who would put life into
all these sleeping apartments, people them—let in the sunlight—sweep off
the dust; but so far, for generations past, the Glendares had cared
nought for the place, which a former earl had when the title was still
new built large enough to lodge a monarch and his suite, as was the
fashion formerly in Ireland, where once every person who happened to be
anybody, found himself over-housed and under-incomed.
When my lady visited Rosemont, she affected a certain west wing called
the “garden side” by those employed about the place, and it was so far
the garden side of the mansion, that the windows commanded a view of an
old-fashioned parterre, and a glass door opened into a piece of
pleasure-ground which might have delighted the heart of Mr. Disraeli’s
Lady Corisande herself.
There were to be found those old-fashioned flowers one longs for
nowadays and never finds. There were the plants a false civilization, a
perfect subjugation of individual taste to the dictum of interested
tradesmen, have banished beyond our ken. That garden was the only thing
connected with Rosemont my lady loved. There was somewhat of romance
about the place—something which reminded her—so my lady said, to her
London listeners—of the sweet peace of a convent garden, in that bit of
pleasure-ground at Rosemont, enclosed as it was with thick low hedges of
privet, amongst which grew roses and passionflowers, and sweet briar and
honeysuckle.
Assuredly it was a lovely little nook, where, in the earliest spring,
crocuses and snowdrops sprang to life, and following fast in their wake
came “pale primroses” and hepaticas, pink and blue, and the many-faced
polyanthus and daffodil, a flower whose praises Herrick has not
disdained to sing.
But it was later on in the golden summer time, that the garden side of
Rosemont decked itself in the most gorgeous apparel, not merely in
scarlet, and yellow, and blue, as is now the fashion, fleeting we may
hope, but in every rich and tender colour the Creator of all things
beautiful has made to render our earth lovely.
There shone—humbly self-asserting—the gentianella in her dark blue robe
of velvet. There were beds where fairy lilies of the valley made melody
amongst their luxuriant foliage; there grew soft harebells, pale blue,
transparent white; there were flaunting tulips, and showy anemones and
ranunculus, the colours of which dazzled the sight; there were sweet
auriculas and climbing honeysuckle, and a perfect wealth of roses—roses
that have had their day and disappeared before the great, scentless,
coarse, overgrown monstrosities that demand care and admiration from
their lovers in the present generation.
Against the walls of the house were trained myrtles, lemon verbenas,
alpine roses, and the mysterious passion-flower both white and purple.
That garden side of Rosemont was certainly, as my lady said, “beautiful
exceedingly.”
Not that the fact of its being beautiful exceedingly would have
recommended it to any one of the Glendares except in an abstract and
conversational manner. They had none of that passionate love of scenery,
that almost savage fondness for hill and dale, for the wide sea and the
foaming rivulet, for snow-crowned mountains and rock-bound coasts, which
has served to stipple in a background full of romance and sorrow and
pathos to the figure of many a reckless, extravagant, wickedly
improvident Irishman.
But the Glendares were not Irish. They owned the soil, but they were not
of it, they had not even that indefinite sort of attachment for the land
which property usually developes.
They were aliens, every one, not excepting Mr. Robert Somerford, who,
though he had managed to secure for himself so much good-will, cared
really no more for any blade of grass in the emerald isle than he would
have done for roses of Sharon.
He was as adaptable as other members of his family had proved themselves
under various vicissitudes of fortune, but he was also as false.
Unknown to himself, perhaps, but still, certainly his whole life was a
lie—an assumption of qualities he did not possess—of abilities with
which nature had not endowed him, of affections forgotten at his birth.
It was what they believed him to be, and not what he was, that the lower
classes loved. And as regards Grace Moffat? Well, perhaps she too, like
her friend Nettie, had admired a handsome face too easily; perhaps the
accomplishments, unusual at that period, Mr. Somerford had cultivated,
caught her fancy; perhaps—and this is of the three the more likely
solution of the enigma—his close relationship to an earl affected the
imagination of a girl born in a land the inhabitants of which believe in
a lord as implicitly as any Republican who ever breathed.
He was as near the roses as any man could well be who chanced not
actually to be among them. He had been born in the purple, though he
happened not to be clad in it. He had lived much in Dublin and amongst
the gentry of the South of Ireland, and his accent was softer than that
which was obtained in the North—softer, tenderer. It conveyed much
whilst saying little.
On the whole, perhaps, Mr. Robert Somerford was not a safe companion for
a young lady whom her friends might desire to keep heart-whole; but as
regards Grace Moffat, the evil had been wrought. For her earth held no
hero like Lord Glendare’s nephew, for her nature presented no desirable
type of man, save one, and that one assumed the shape of Mr. Robert
Somerford, who, seated in the room which commanded a view of the garden
previously mentioned, was trying, not without success, to win golden
opinions from his uncle’s wife.
To Mr. Robert Somerford, Lady Glendare could afford to be gracious,
amiable, kindly-mannered,—in a word, herself. There were many points in
his favour, the chief perhaps being that there was not the slightest
chance of his ever succeeding to the title and rent-roll of the
Glendares. Between him and the earldom stood the young lords, and an
elder brother of his father, the Honourable Cecil Somerford, who lived
abroad, and was known by the family generally to have formed some
undesirable attachment which rendered a residence in England impossible.
Mr. Robert had thus been preserved from waiting for dead men’s shoes.
Eventually he hoped Lord or Lady Glendare, or the Honourable Cecil, or
some other friend or member of the noble family to which he belonged,
would get him an appointment; meanwhile, it was clearly his interest to
make himself as agreeable and useful to his uncle and his uncle’s wife,
and accordingly he entered heart and soul into the business of
canvassing and bribing voters which had brought the earl to Ireland just
at the time when, as Lady Glendare pathetically put it, “that dear
London was pleasanter even than usual.”
But every one knew the opposition was likely to be bitter as usual, and
more formidable than on previous occasions.
Lord Ardmorne had, of recent years, been purchasing land largely. Farms
and estates Lord Glendare would have bought, had he only possessed
enough money, passed into the hands of his wealthier neighbour. To the
north of Glenwellan lay properties and town-lands, hitherto owned by a
non-resident Englishman, sinfully indifferent to Whigs and Tories alike,
and to how his tenants voted; but he having departed to that very far
country where we may humbly hope politics are forgotten, his heirs
decided to sell his Irish estates, and Lord Ardmorne became their
possessor. This threw a weight into the Tory scale which the Glendare
party could not fail to regard with anxiety, and further there was no
question but that of late years, Kingslough, their own especial
stronghold, had been developing proclivities as unpleasant as they were
unsuspected. It was doubtful on how many votes the Whigs could certainly
reckon even at Kingslough. Already the Glendare star was waning. My lord
had been absent while his rival was present.
Lord Ardmorne was bringing capital into the county, Lord Glendare was
draining it away; Lord Ardmorne spent part of every year in Ireland,
sometimes for years together Ireland never beheld the face of Glendare.
In a word, any one could see the course was not going to be walked over,
and Mrs. Somerford had not hesitated to express her opinion to this
effect, with a certain triumphant bitterness which increased Lady
Glendare’s dislike for her. Not that Mrs. Somerford had ever done
anything to strengthen the family influence, on the contrary; but then
she had, so she modestly put it, no position.
In Lady Glendare’s shoes she could have marched triumphantly to success;
this her tone and manner implied, to the intense disgust of the
countess.
Hours, so it seemed to her ladyship, had passed since breakfast, as she
sat in a low chair near one of the windows, eating strawberries, an
operation which displayed to advantage her beautiful hands. Mr. Robert
Somerford admired his aunt intensely. She might be _passée_, but no one
could deny she was still a very lovely woman, and to a man of his dreamy
sensuous nature, there was something marvellously attractive in the
easy, almost indolent grace of her slightest movement, in the way in
which she made even the eating of strawberries a sight pleasant to
behold.
At a short distance from Lady Glendare, Mrs. Somerford had taken up her
position, severely industrious. She was one of those dreadful people who
never seem happy unless engaged upon some elaborate piece of work.
Making imitation lace chanced to be Mrs. Somerford’s speciality, and as
those were the days of veils, long, wide, and white, she was engaged in
fabricating one.
To Lady Glendare, who could scarcely have specified the difference
between the point and the eye of a needle, this industry appeared
singularly wearisome and aggravating, but her husband felt secretly
envious of his sister-in-law’s resources.
It is not given to every one to do nothing with an exquisite grace; and
clad in the snuff-coloured trousers and dark blue frock-coat which it
always, for some inscrutable reason, pleased him to don when he came to
Rosemont, his lordship drumming an irritable tattoo on the table, was
perhaps conscious that he did not form by any means so pleasing a
feature in the tableau as his wife.
“Ardmorne has given three picnics and two balls,” Mr. Somerford was
remarking.
“What a pity we could not have gone to them,” said her ladyship, whilst
Lord Glendare muttered audibly a commination service over his neighbour,
consisting of two monosyllables.
“Hu—sh!” Mrs. Somerford entreated, holding up her finger.
“It is all very well to say ‘hush,’” retorted her brother-in-law, “but
when a fellow like that, wallowing in money as if it were dirt, shows
fight on our very doorstep, as I may say, it is enough to make any man
swear.”
“I don’t see how swearing can mend the matter,” observed Mrs. Somerford.
Lady Glendare tranquilly conveyed another strawberry to her lips; the
tattoo grew ominously loud; Mrs. Somerford thought it expedient to
devote her attention to a particular stitch she was executing; Robert
Somerford began once more,—
“The question is, with what weapons we can fight him.”
“That is practical, Robert,” said his aunt. “That is precisely the
observation I have been hoping some one would make. Here am I, exiled to
this picturesque but barbarous land, willing to do anything if I am only
told what is required of me. I have canvassed before, I am ready to
canvass again. I will beg, buy, borrow, or steal votes. I can give
balls, I can arrange picnics, though they are a form of entertainment I
detest.”
“If you could only tell one where to get some money,” interrupted the
earl.
“Ah! now you ask me something quite beyond my power,” was the calm
reply. “Had I ever possessed any inventive genius of that kind, it would
have been exhausted years since.”
“There is one way in which you might propitiate the Kingslough worthies,
however, that would not involve any pecuniary outlay,” said Mr.
Somerford, hastily cutting across the retort his uncle was about to
make.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Glendare, raising her eyes and looking at the
speaker with a certain languid interest. “How can such a desirable
object be compassed in so desirable a manner?”
“If you would honour Kingslough by bathing there, I think we might
safely set Ardmorne at defiance,” answered Mr. Somerford, with the
lightest touch of mock deference in his voice.
“Do you mean bathe in the sea?” asked her ladyship, still toying with
the rich, ripe fruit. “I am afraid it would be impossible for me to
‘honour’ Kingslough to that extent. How should you propose my setting
about it? I do not see how I could run across the shingle after the
fashion which prevails in this charming country, with no clothing except
a bathing-dress, cloak, and a pair of slippers, and after a few plunges
return in like manner. No doubt the spectacle might prove amusing to the
bystanders, but it certainly would be anything but agreeable to the
performer.”
“My dear aunt, do you think I should for one moment have asked you, even
in jest, to attempt anything of that kind? No I have been considering
the matter seriously, and mean precisely what I say, namely, that if you
would honour Kingslough so far as to try the effect of sea-bathing on
your health, we might calculate on carrying the town and neighbourhood
by storm. Any of the inhabitants whose houses are close on the shore, I
mean who have back entrances to the sea, would be only too happy to
place them at your service, or, what would be a still better plan, make
use of Miss Moffat’s bathing-box. It is like a little castle built out
on the Lonely Rock. There is always deep water at that point, and the
place is fitted up perfectly, my mother says.”
“Yes, Mr. Moffat has spared no expense,” Mrs. Somerford agreed.
“And who is this Miss Moffat?” asked Lady Glendare.
“She is the only daughter of a gentleman who, although he has the
misfortune to care very little about politics, still has the good
fortune, so far as he does care about politics, to be of our way of
thinking.”
“Dillwyn said he was breaking a horse for her,” observed the earl at
this juncture.
“Dillwyn only told you that to account for his having so valuable an
animal in his possession,” answered Mr. Somerford with sudden heat.
“Do you mean to imply he said that which was perfectly untrue?” asked
his uncle.
“Certainly.”
“Now, Robert,” entreated Mrs. Somerford.
“There can be no doubt Mr. Dillwyn would like extremely to get hold of
Miss Moffat’s fortune, but—”
“I must listen to this,” exclaimed Lady Glendare. “The conversation is
becoming quite interesting. Pray proceed, Robert. Do not be influenced
by Mrs. Somerford’s signs of wisdom. Mr. Dillwyn is a dishonest steward.
According to popular belief there has never been an honest one on the
property, so that is nothing new; but it is new to have an agent in
love. Do tell me all about it.”
“I was speaking of Miss Moffat’s fortune,” said Mr. Somerford with an
impatient emphasis on the last word.
“Is it large, and is she nice? Why not marry her yourself?” asked her
ladyship.
“I trust my son will never marry for money,” said Mrs. Somerford, in
accents of dignified rebuke.
“Your son will be a much greater simpleton than I fancy, if he ever
marry without it,” remarked Lord Glendare.
“Pray let Robert finish his romance,” entreated her ladyship. “Mr.
Dillwyn wishes to marry an heiress, and as I understand your tone, the
heiress deserves a better fate, and is conscious of her deserts. Now
tell me about her. It she young?”
“Miss Moffat is young,” said Mrs. Somerford, answering for her son.
“Concerning her appearance opinions are divided. She has a considerable
fortune for a person in her rank of life, and I, for one, think it would
give rise to jealousy and dissatisfaction if Lady Glendare were to
single out for special attention the daughter of a gentleman who is not
particularly popular, and who has herself, as is well known, been
engaged almost from childhood to Mr. John Riley, whose father is an
active supporter of Lord Ardmorne.”
The countess rose, put the plate containing her remaining strawberries
on a table close at hand, and said,—
“Robert, life becomes serious when your mother touches it. I am going
into the park, you can come with me if you like.”
Next moment they were in the old-fashioned garden. A few moments later
they were sauntering slowly along a shaded path which led to the more
pretentious grounds beyond.
“For pity’s sake,” began Lady Glendare, “do not disparage Mr. Dillwyn to
the earl. He may have all the sins in the decalogue, but he has one
virtue,—he refrains from troubling me about the condition of this
interesting peasantry. You want to have the agency and marry Miss
Moffat; Mrs. Somerford wants you to have the agency and not to marry
Miss Moffat. My advice is, marry Miss Moffat, and neither hunger nor
thirst after the agency. You could never give satisfaction, never;
whereas, with this heiress, you might get returned at the next election,
and then almost choose your career. _We_ can do nothing for you, I am
sorry to say. My sons will require all the influence we can bring to
bear to get even a bare living. Who is this unwelcome individual, the
fact of whose existence your mother so triumphantly announced? If you
are wise, do not let him carry off Miss Moffat.”
There is an advantage one has in dealing with selfish people who are not
specially clever. They show what they want almost at the first move of
the game. It may not be in the power of any man to hinder their getting
their way, winning their game, but at all events he is not taken
unawares. Mr. Somerford, who was, perhaps, not one whit cleverer than
her ladyship, though he chanced to be more plausible, understood clearly
what she meant.
She disliked poor relations—she would be glad if he married well—then,
when he had helped himself, she and the earl might, perhaps, lift a
finger to help him on a little farther.
It was not what he had wished—it was not what he had hoped, but he
accepted the position, and answered with an amount of self-depreciation
which, coming from Robert Somerford, would have been really touching,
could any one have believed it in the slightest degree true.
“I should not have the slightest chance of success. Report says the
young lady has already refused Mr. Riley, heir to one of the loveliest
properties in this part of the country, and where he failed it would be
useless for me to try. He had every advantage on his side, whilst I have
nothing in the world to recommend me except the fact of being related to
Lady Glendare.”
“And that fact you wish me to bring to Miss Moffat’s remembrance?”
“No. What I proposed was solely in the interests of our party.”
“And could your own not be served at the same time?” was the shrewd
inquiry.
“No; for once my mother and I are of one mind. I should not care to owe
everything to a wife, however amiable, and I am not quite certain that
Miss Moffat’s nature is all sweetness.”
“Gather me that rose, if you please,” said the countess; and whilst the
young man performed her bidding, she looked at him with a keen, worldly
scrutiny.
That evening she remarked to Lord Glendare, “Robert does not yet know
the precise sum an earl’s nephew is worth in the matrimonial market.”
“I should have thought that a point upon which your ladyship could
afford him important information,” was the bitter reply.
“Young people never believe the words of experience, and for that reason
I maintain a judicious silence,” answered the countess calmly. “My
opinion, however, is, he will only find out how little there is in a
name, even when combined with a brogue and good looks, when he has
outlived the latter.”
Mr. Robert Somerford was certainly not of one mind with her ladyship in
this matter. Months before, he had given the Moffat question his most
serious consideration, and decided that he ought to be able to do
better.
Combined with his romantic and musical tendencies, the young man had a
perfect knowledge of the value of riches. He was, perhaps, as fond of
Grace Moffat as he could be of anything besides himself, but he had no
thought of marrying her—yet.
It might be, it might not be. It was all uncertain as the mystic “He
loves me, he loves me not;” but on the whole Robert Somerford felt
satisfied fate had a higher destiny in store for him than that.