HIGH DIPLOMACY
Old Lady Crewkerne’s interview with her legal adviser did her no harm.
Indeed she seemed to sleep the more soundly for it. All the same her
condition continued to demand much skill and attention upon the part of
Sir Wotherspoon Ogle. However, the diligence of that eminent physician
did not go without its reward. Whatever might be the actual condition
of the patient’s throat, the vocal cords seemed to grow decidedly
stronger, in spite of the fact that she was rigidly forbidden to use
them.
“On no account, Lady Crewkerne,” said Sir Wotherspoon Ogle, very
gravely indeed, “and upon no consideration must you have recourse to
your voice.”
“Do you suppose I am fool enough to say nothing?” said the old woman,
like a hoarse old raven. “If I did, you would soon have the lid on my
coffin.”
Sir Wotherspoon Ogle was shocked.
Cheriton made three applications for admission to the presence, yet met
with refusal on each occasion. On the other hand, his rival, George
Betterton, continued in high favor. However, on the occasion of the
fourth attempt, a Sunday morning, he obtained the _entrée_.
The occupant of the four-poster, supported by pillows, and embellished
by the head-dress and the famous Indian shawl, looked, in the opinion
of her visitor, quite her old self. The eyes glittered as fiercely and
as shrewdly as of yore; the curve of the nose was just as grim and
hawklike as ever; while as for the resolute jaw and the thin-lipped,
tightly drawn mouth, enough hard sarcasm and unflinching force of
character lurked about it to quell the vast majority of human kind.
Cheriton was a fop and fribble, as all the world knew. Nevertheless,
he belonged to that honorable company that is not abashed easily. He
greeted the formidable occupant of the four-poster with a robustness of
demeanor that served him well. Had he batted so much as an eyelid, or
betrayed the least disposition to flinch, he would have received very
short shrift this morning. For whatever might be Sir Wotherspoon Ogle’s
opinion in regard to that complex mechanism that was buttoned into the
linen band of the old lady’s nightgown, there can be no doubt that,
considered as a whole, the aged frame had gained alarmingly in bodily
vigor by a week’s detention within the precincts of the four-poster.
“How are _you_, Caroline?” said Cheriton, with musical expansiveness.
“Worth a good many dead ones at present,” said the old lady, with no
more music than a raven.
“So I perceive,” said her visitor, with a little sigh.
Upon the counterpane lay “Law’s Serious Call.” Cheriton took it up and
ran his fingers thoughtfully through the leaves. On the flyleaf in
extremely large and decidedly juvenile characters was the inscription,
“To dearest Aunt Caroline, with Fondest Love from her Affectionate
Niece, Araminta.”
“Caroline,” said her visitor, “you are an extremely fortunate woman
to have a niece who takes such a practical interest in your spiritual
well-being, particularly at a time when the state of your health tends
to make the future increasingly speculative.”
The occupant of the four-poster poised her chin in a manner that can
only be described as the incarnation of truculence. The fierce eyes
flashed from under their bushy canopy with all the ruthlessness of
their prime. She said nothing, however. Her silence rendered her the
more formidable.
“In my humble judgment,” said Cheriton, choosing his words delicately,
“your affectionate niece has a charmingly frank, and at the same time a
deeply spiritual nature.”
“Humph!” said Miss Perry’s aunt. “The creature has as much spirituality
as that bedpost.”
“How can you be so obtuse, Caroline?” said Cheriton, achieving a very
respectable note of pathos. “There is a vein of poetic ideality in her
that makes one think of Saint Catherine of Siena.”
“A vein of poetic fiddlestick!” said the old lady. “She has as much
ideality as Ponto has. The only thing that interests either of them is
their meals. In fact, I should say that Ponto has the better soul of
the two. I sometimes suspect Ponto of being an esoteric Buddhist in a
reincarnation.”
“Do you indeed!” said Cheriton. “Well, when Ponto presents his
benefactress with a copy of ‘Amiel’s Journal’ I shall be only too happy
to think you have grounds for your suspicion.”
Cheriton continued to run his fingers fondly through the pages of
“Law’s Serious Call.”
“To my thinking,” said he, “it was a singularly frank yet
spiritually-minded nature that conceived the idea of presenting her
aunt with a work of this character.”
“The creature is as spiritually-minded as a dog ferret,” croaked the
occupant of the four-poster.
“A vigorous figure,” said Cheriton, “yet not very happily applied. But
I don’t wonder, Caroline, that you are a little topsy-turvy, and that
your standard of things in general has gone awry.”
“Why don’t you?”
Cheriton permitted himself a highly dramatic gesture. “That man,” he
said tragically.
“To whom do you refer?”
“I refer,” said Cheriton, “to the most dangerous man in London. The
turkey-faced ruffian! He would undermine the moral code of Augustine
himself.”
“Happily,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “I am not Augustine.
As far as George is concerned, I stand where I was. Yet, mark one
thing, Cheriton--mark one thing fully”--the quiescent lioness paused to
unfurl as it were the ominous jowl from the band of her nightgown--the
figure is not a pretty one to describe a peeress of mature years,
but it seems to be the only one that can in anywise do justice to the
slowly kindling flame of sarcasm that was revealing itself in the thin
lips and the fierce eyes--“I have a greater respect for George at this
moment than I have ever had before.”
“Have you, Caroline?” said her old friend, meditatively.
He was a cool hand, but he was a little uneasy. The occupant of the
four-poster marked down the suspicion of disquietude, whereas a less
virile observer would not have noticed it at all.
“Yes, Cheriton,” said the raven’s voice. “Whatever George may be or
whatever he may not be, in my opinion he is a practical man.”
“Practical enough, I grant you, where his passions are concerned.”
“In my judgment,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “it is
precisely where his passions are concerned that a man ought to be
practical.”
Cheriton agreed with reluctance.
“But there are people,” said he, with an air of refinement, “to
whom the practical pursuit of passion must always seem a repulsive
undertaking.”
“There are many humbugs in the world,” said Caroline Crewkerne.
“Personally I agree with George that passion ought to be placed upon a
business basis.”
Cheriton threw up his hands with a gesture of well simulated horror.
“No, Caroline,” said he; “you have no soul. And yet Ogle tells me that
during the past week you have been literally walking in the Valley of
the Shadow.”
“Ogle is a liar,” said the occupant of the four-poster. “He is thinking
of his fee.”
“For shame, Caroline,” said Cheriton. “Out upon you and your
sentiments. And you who have been so near the Abyss!”
The occupant of the four-poster gave the great head-dress a tilt. The
gaze that was directed from under the bushy eyebrows was that of a
sibyl.
“Cheriton,” she said, “some two months ago I gave you advice in regard
to your appearance. I have observed with pleasure that you have had the
good sense to follow it.”
It was not quite clear, to judge by Cheriton’s demeanor, whether he
felt that this was a legitimate cause for gratification.
“I am glad, Caroline, you find the result agreeable,” said he.
“My advice was given for a particular reason, you will remember.”
“Yes, Caroline, it was.”
Cheriton began to speculate as to which card his old friend was going
to play.
“Do you feel that you can congratulate yourself?”
“Upon what, Caroline?” said her old friend, blandly.
“You don’t need to be told,” said Caroline, magisterially. “All London
is looking at you.”
“Is it?” said Cheriton, with superb innocence. “And pray, what does it
see?”
“It sees, as I do, that your behavior is of doubtful propriety.”
“Does it indeed!”
“I have reason to believe that is George’s opinion.”
“George!” exclaimed Cheriton, with impassioned dignity. “George’s
opinion! I’ll thank George to refrain from expressing an opinion about
me or about my affairs.”
“George is a man of the world, at any rate. I should call George a
practical man.”
“George is a presumptuous fellow,” said Cheriton, with heat. “I should
recommend him to refrain from meddling with my personal affairs. Let
him attend to his own.”
“George is quite competent to do that,” said Caroline, with a suavity
that her old friend felt to be decidedly dangerous. “In fact, I may say
that George has already placed his affairs upon a business basis.”
“What do you mean, Caroline?”
“It is not a question of what I mean,” said the cryptical Caroline.
“The question is, what do you mean, Cheriton?”
Cheriton allowed “Law’s Serious Call” to fall upon the counterpane.
“I wish you wouldn’t indulge in riddles,” said he.
“There is no mystery,” said Caroline. “I am going to say one thing to
you quite plainly.”
“You have always been inclined to err on the side of plainness,
Caroline, in my opinion.”
“George thinks, and I think with him, that the time is ripe for you to
make a declaration of your intentions.”
“My intentions!”
“Your intentions, Cheriton, in regard to my niece Miss Perry. As she
has been intrusted to my care I feel that I have a right to make this
demand.”
During the pause which ensued the occupant of the four-poster adjusted
her head-dress in much the same manner that a Lord Chief Justice might
be expected to adjust his wig. Cheriton on his part assumed a port of
dignified composure.
“I have no need to assure you, Caroline,” said he, impressively, “that
my intentions, as far as your niece Miss Perry is concerned, are
honorable--in the highest degree.”
“I am pleased to have your assurance, Cheriton, that that is so,” said
Caroline, coolly. “George appeared to take a rather pessimistic view of
them.”
“I will thank you, Caroline, not to quote that man to me.”
“I have a greater respect for George than I have ever had before. That
is why I quote him. He has recently shown himself in the light of an
uncommonly astute fellow.”
“Bah!” said Cheriton. “I have never disguised from myself that George
would have been more successful as the proprietor of a bucket-shop than
as an English gentleman.”
“George is a practical man, and in my judgment, Cheriton, that is where
he has the advantage of you. For in my judgment you have never been
that.”
“Thank you, Caroline. That is an advantage I am only too glad to
concede to anybody.”
“If you will take my advice, Cheriton, you won’t be too ready to
concede it. There is one question I intend to put to you.” The occupant
of the four-poster leant forward a little from under her canopy with
an aspect of the most resolute sarcasm that ever adorned the human
countenance. “Do you intend to marry the girl?”
The question was fired point-blank in all its ruthless directness.
Cheriton had long cherished the opinion that the venerable occupant of
the four-poster was the most consummate vulgarian of her time. In this
he was doubtless correct, for the frank contempt which she cherished
for anything “finicking” was apt to lead her into extreme courses. But
even he, with all his cynicism, was not prepared for anything quite so
straight from the shoulder. Therefore he gave ground a little. He was
inclined to hum and haw.
“I am afraid, my dear Caroline,” he said, “the answer to that question
must remain entirely my affair.”
“Answer me, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, her wrinkled old lips
curling with sarcasm. “Do you intend to marry my niece?”
Cheriton abated his glance. He took the glass from his eye and
examined it critically. He shifted his feet a little. He then replaced
the glass carefully and stuck his hands under his frock-coat.
“Yes, Caroline, I do,” he said, with admirable composure.
“Very good, Cheriton,” said the occupant of the four-poster, with
ominous pleasantness. “I feel it to be my duty to inform you that
George does also.”
The blow was planted with all the skill of which the occupant of the
four-poster was capable. Cheriton, however, had had time to foresee it.
Therefore, although unable to evade the force of it, he received it
staunchly.
“But that is impossible, Caroline,” he said, with a superb assumption
of indifference.
“Why impossible?” said the occupant of the four-poster, with the
amiability of one who holds the whole game in her hand.
“The most ill-assorted pair in England,” said Cheriton, gravely. “The
incongruity of their tastes, the dissimilarity of their appearance,
their disparity in years.”
“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton.”
“It is far from coxcombry, I assure you, Caroline,” said Cheriton,
plaintively. “A ravishing creature like that to marry a mere simulacrum
like George. I shudder. The idea is horrible. It revolts me.”
“Don’t behave like a coxcomb, Cheriton. George is quite as eligible as
you are. In my estimation he is the more eligible of the two.”
“Upon my word, Caroline.”
“Socially, of course, George is the more important.”
“I take leave to doubt it.”
“Do be practical, Cheriton.”
“In my humble judgment, Caroline, a first-rate earl is of more account
than a second-rate duke.”
“A matter of opinion, Cheriton,” said the occupant of the four-poster,
“in more senses than one. Then, again, I am glad to be able to state
that George has already put the matter upon a business basis.”
“Revolting.”
“Coxcombry.”
“What do you mean precisely by a business basis?”
“I am happy to be able to state that George has made a definite offer.”
“To the girl?”
“Certainly not, Cheriton. Have you no sense of decency? And I may say
that as far as it goes the offer is a tolerably good one.”
“Marriage? You are quite sure that George means marriage?”
“Yes, Cheriton, he means marriage,” said the occupant of the
four-poster, with her “hanging-judge” demeanor.
“I can only say,” said Cheriton, “that such conduct is very unlike him.
I yield to none, Caroline, in whole-hearted admiration of your niece,
Miss Perry, considered æsthetically and as a work of nature, but you
must not forget that she has not a sou, and she is of no particular
family.”
The occupant of the four-poster breathed blood and fire.
“She is a Wargrave,” said she.
“On the distaff side.”
“It is more than good enough for either of you.”
“Matter of opinion, Caroline, matter of opinion,” said Cheriton,
musically.
“Your patent dates from a land-jobbing lawyer in the days of George the
Second,” said the occupant of the four-poster, whose head-dress was
performing surprising feats. “As for the Bettertons--who, pray, are the
Bettertons?”
“A truce to family pride,” said Cheriton, mellifluously. “Let us get
on with the business. I should be glad to know precisely what that
sordid-minded ruffian has offered.”
“A settlement is, of course, a _sine quâ non_.”
“I fail to understand why it should be, seeing that the girl herself
has not a penny.”
“There are always two points of view, Cheriton. And in my judgment
the creature’s destitute condition renders a settlement the more
imperative.”
“But one may suppose you are prepared to do something, Caroline!”
said Cheriton, with a severely businesslike air that was not quite in
harmony with his former altruistic bearing. “You are dooced rich, you
know; you have not a soul to leave your money to; and you can’t take it
with you.”
“As far as aspirants to my niece’s hand are concerned,” said Caroline
Crewkerne, “my intentions in regard to her do not enter into the
case. It is their intentions that are important. George has made a
_bona-fide_ offer. Do you propose to better it?”
“What is George’s offer?”
“George is prepared,” said Caroline Crewkerne, who, in spite of her
“laryngitis,” spoke with wonderful clearness, “to make an ante-nuptial
settlement upon my niece, Miss Perry, of five thousand a year and the
dower house at Godalming.”
Cheriton appeared to yield a little.
“Have you that in writing, Caroline?” said he.
“I have. It is in the hands of my lawyer.”
“If I may, I should like very much to see it.”
“You will see nothing, Cheriton. The question, as far as it affects
you, is, are you prepared to better George’s offer?”
“It is so unlike George,” said the incredulous Cheriton, “that one can
hardly bring one’s self to believe that he made it. He has treated none
of his other women in that way.”
“Doubtless they had nobody who knew how to handle him,” said the
occupant of the four-poster, with a chuckle of grim satisfaction.
“Yes, Caroline, you have a good head,” sighed my lord. “A dooced good
head.”
“Are you prepared, Cheriton, to better George’s offer?”
“It wants thinking over,” said that idealist, thoughtfully.
The old woman’s upper lip took its famous and terrible double curl,
while her head-dress seemed to erect itself into a veritable panoply of
grim derision.
“Yes, Cheriton,” said she, “think it over. I will give you a week.”
“Say a fortnight.”
“A week. A fortnight would not be fair to George.”
Mr. Marchbanks entered on tip-toe.
“Sir Wotherspoon Ogle, my lady.”
The negotiations were curtailed by the entrance of the eminent
physician.
“How pleasant it is to see you looking so much improved,” said Sir
Wotherspoon. “Complete rest of mind and body have done wonders for you.”
“Humph!” said the occupant of the four-poster, ungraciously.
“‘Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,’” Cheriton
reflected as he took his leave.