THE BULL AT LORING.
Gilmore had told his friend that he would do two things,--that he
would start off and travel for four or five years, and that he would
pay a visit to Loring. Fenwick had advised him to do neither, but to
stay at home and dig and say his prayers. But in such emergencies
no man takes his friend's advice; and when Mr. Chamberlaine had
left him, Gilmore had made up his mind that he would at any rate go
to Loring. He went to church on the Sunday morning, and was half
resolved to tell Mrs. Fenwick of his purpose; but chance delayed her
in the church, and he sauntered away home without having mentioned
it. He let half the next week pass by without stirring beyond his
own ground. During those three days he changed his mind half a dozen
times; but at last, on the Thursday, he had his portmanteau packed
and started on his journey. As he was preparing to leave the house
he wrote one line to Fenwick in pencil. "I am this moment off to
Loring.--H. G." This he left in the village as he drove through to
the Westbury station.
He had formed no idea in his own mind of any definite purpose in
going. He did not know what he should do or what say when he got to
Loring. He had told himself a hundred times that any persecution of
the girl on his part would be mean and unworthy of him. And he was
also aware that no condition in which a man could place himself was
more open to contempt than that of a whining, pining, unsuccessful
lover. A man is bound to take a woman's decision against him, bear
it as he may, and say as little against it as possible. He is bound
to do so when he is convinced that a woman's decision is final; and
there can be no stronger proof of such finality than the fact that
she has declared a preference for some other man. All this Gilmore
knew, but he would not divest himself of the idea that there might
still be some turn in the wheel of fortune. He had heard a vague
rumour that Captain Marrable, his rival, was a very dangerous man.
His uncle was quite sure that the Captain's father was thoroughly
bad, and had thrown out hints against the son, which Gilmore in his
anxiety magnified till he felt convinced that the girl whom he loved
with all his heart was going to throw herself into the arms of a
thorough scamp. Could he not do something, if not for his own sake,
then for hers? Might it not be possible for him to deliver her from
her danger? What, if he should discover some great iniquity;--would
she not then in her gratitude be softened towards him? It was on
the cards that this reprobate was married already, and was about
to commit bigamy. It was quite probable that such a man should be
deeply in debt. As for the fortune that had been left to him, Mr.
Chamberlaine had already ascertained that that amounted to nothing.
It had been consumed to the last shilling in paying the joint debts
of the father and son. Men such as Mr. Chamberlaine have sources of
information which are marvellous to the minds of those who are more
secluded, and not the less marvellous because the information is
invariably false. Gilmore in this way almost came to a conviction
that Mary Lowther was about to sacrifice herself to a man utterly
unworthy of her, and he taught himself, not to think,--but to believe
it to be possible that he might save her. Those who knew him would
have said that he was the last man in the world to be carried away
by a romantic notion;--but he had his own idea of romance as plainly
developed in his mind as was ever the case with a knight of old, who
went forth for the relief of a distressed damsel. If he could do
anything towards saving her, he would do it, or try to do it, though
he should be brought to ruin in the attempt. Might it not be that at
last he would have the reward which other knights always attained?
The chance in his favour was doubtless small, but the world was
nothing to him without this chance.
He had never been at Loring before, but he had learned the way. He
went to Chippenham and Swindon, and then by the train to Loring. He
had no very definite plan formed for himself. He rather thought that
he would call at Miss Marrable's house,--call if possible when Mary
Lowther was not there,--and learn from the elder lady something of
the facts of the case. He had been well aware for many weeks past,
from early days in the summer, that old Miss Marrable had been in
favour of his claim. He had heard too that there had been family
quarrels among the Marrables, and a word had been dropped in his
hearing by Mrs. Fenwick, which had implied that Miss Marrable was
by no means pleased with the match which her niece Mary Lowther was
proposing to herself. Everything seemed to show that Captain Marrable
was a most undesirable person.
When he reached the station at Loring it was incumbent on him to go
somewhither at once. He must provide for himself for the night. He
found two omnibuses at the station, and two inn servants competing
with great ardour for his carpet bag. There were the Dragon and the
Bull fighting for him. The Bull in the Lowtown was commercial and
prosperous. The Dragon at Uphill was aristocratic, devoted to county
purposes, and rather hard set to keep its jaws open and its tail
flying. Prosperity is always becoming more prosperous, and the
allurements of the Bull prevailed. "Are you a going to rob the gent
of his walise?" said the indignant Boots of the Bull as he rescued
Mr. Gilmore's property from the hands of his natural enemy, as soon
as he had secured the entrance of Mr. Gilmore into his own vehicle.
Had Mr. Gilmore known that the Dragon was next door but one to Miss
Marrable's house, and that the Bull was nearly equally contiguous
to that in which Captain Marrable was residing, his choice probably
would not have been altered. In such cases, the knight who is to be
the deliverer desires above all things that he may be near to his
enemy.
He was shown up to a bedroom, and then ushered into the commercial
room of the house. Loring, though it does a very pretty trade as a
small town, and now has for some years been regarded as a thriving
place in its degree, is not of such importance in the way of business
as to support a commercial inn of the first class. At such houses the
commercial room is as much closed against the uninitiated as is a
first-class club in London. In such rooms a non-commercial man would
be almost as much astray as is a non-broker in Capel Court, or an
attorney in a bar mess-room. At the Bull things were a little mixed.
The very fact that the words "Commercial Room" were painted on the
door proved to those who understood such matters that there was a
doubt in the case. They had no coffee room at the Bull, and strangers
who came that way were of necessity shown into that in which the
gentlemen of the road were wont to relax themselves. Certain
commercial laws are maintained in such apartments. Cigars are not
allowed before nine o'clock, except upon some distinct arrangement
with the waiter. There is not, as a rule, a regular daily commercial
repast; but when three or more gentlemen dine together at five
o'clock, the dinner becomes a commercial dinner, and the commercial
laws as to wine, &c., are enforced, with more or less restriction as
circumstances may seem to demand. At the present time there was but
one occupant of the chamber to greet Mr. Gilmore when he entered,
and this greeting was made with all the full honours of commercial
courtesy. The commercial gentleman is of his nature gregarious, and
although he be exclusive to a strong degree, more so probably than
almost any other man in regard to the sacred hour of dinner, when
in the full glory of his confraternity, he will condescend, when
the circumstances of his profession have separated him from his
professional brethren, to be festive with almost any gentleman whom
chance may throw in his way. Mr. Cockey had been alone for a whole
day when Gilmore arrived, having reached Loring just twenty-four
hours in advance of our friend, and was contemplating the sadly
diminished joys of a second solitary dinner at the Bull, when fortune
threw this stranger in his way. The waiter, looking at the matter in
a somewhat similar light, and aware that a combined meal would be for
the advantage of all parties, very soon assisted Mr. Cockey in making
his arrangements for the evening. Mr. Gilmore would no doubt want to
dine. Dinner would be served at five o'clock. Mr. Cockey was going to
dine, and Mr. Gilmore, the waiter thought, would probably be glad to
join him. Mr. Cockey expressed himself as delighted, and would only
be too happy. Now men in love, let their case be ever so bad, must
dine or die. So much no doubt is not admitted by the chroniclers
of the old knights who went forth after their ladies; but the
old chroniclers, if they soared somewhat higher than do those
of the present day, are admitted to have been on the whole less
circumstantially truthful. Our knight was very sad at heart, and
would have done according to his prowess as much as any Orlando of
them all for the lady whom he loved,--but nevertheless he was an
hungered; the mention of dinner was pleasant to him, and he accepted
the joint courtesies of Mr. Cockey and the waiter with gratitude.
The codfish and beefsteak, though somewhat woolly and tough, were
wholesome; and the pint of sherry which at Mr. Cockey's suggestion
was supplied to them, if not of itself wholesome, was innocent
by reason of its dimensions. Mr. Cockey himself was pleasant and
communicative, and told Mr. Gilmore a good deal about Loring. Our
friend was afraid to ask any leading questions as to the persons in
the place who interested himself, feeling conscious that his own
subject was one which would not bear touch from a rough hand. He did
at last venture to make inquiry about the clergyman of the parish.
Mr. Cockey, with some merriment at his own wit, declared that the
church was a house of business at which he did not often call for
orders. Though he had been coming to Loring now for four years, he
had never heard anything of the clergyman; but the waiter no doubt
would tell them. Gilmore rather hesitated, and protested that he
cared little for the matter; but the waiter was called in and
questioned, and was soon full of stories about old Mr. Marrable. He
was a good sort of man in his way, the waiter thought, but not much
of a preacher. The people liked him because he never interfered with
them. "He don't go poking his nose into people's 'ouses like some
of 'em," said the waiter, who then began to tell of the pertinacity
in that respect of a younger clergyman at Uphill. Yes; Parson
Marrable had a relation living at Uphill; an old lady. "No; not
his grandmother." This was in answer to a joke on the part of Mr.
Cockey. Nor yet a daughter. The waiter thought she was some kind of
a cousin, though he did not know what kind. A very grand lady was
Miss Marrable, according to his showing, and much thought of by the
quality. There was a young lady living with her, though the waiter
did not know the young lady's name.
"Does the Rev. Mr. Marrable live alone?" asked Gilmore. "Well, yes;
for the most part quite alone. But just at present he had a visitor."
Then the waiter told all that he knew about the Captain. The most
material part of this was that the Captain had returned from London
that very evening;--had come in by the Express while the two "gents"
were at dinner, and had been taken to the Lowtown parsonage by the
Bull 'bus. "Quite the gentleman," was the Captain, according to the
waiter, and one of the "handsomest gents as ever he'd set his eyes
upon." "D---- him," said poor Harry Gilmore to himself. Then he
ventured upon another question. Did the waiter know anything of
Captain Marrable's father? The waiter only knew that the Captain's
father was "a military gent, and was high up in the army." From all
which the only information which Gilmore received was the fact that
the match between Marrable and Mary Lowther had not as yet become the
talk of the town. After dinner Mr. Cockey proposed a glass of toddy
and a cigar, remarking that he would move a bill for dispensing
with the smoking rule for that night only, and to this also Gilmore
assented. Now that he was at Loring he did not know what to do with
himself better than drinking toddy with Mr. Cockey. Mr. Cockey
declared the bill to be carried nem. con., and the cigars and toddy
were produced. Mr. Cockey remarked that he had heard of Sir Gregory
Marrable, of Dunripple Park. He travelled in Warwickshire, and was in
the habit, as he said, of fishing up little facts. Sir Gregory wasn't
much of a man, according to his account. The estate was small and,
as Mr. Cockey fancied, a little out at elbows. Mr. Cockey thought it
all very well to be a country gentleman and a "barrow knight," as he
called it, as long as you had an estate to follow; but he thought
very little of a title without plenty of stuff. Commerce, according
to his notions, was the back bone of the nation;--and that the corps
of travelling commercial gentlemen was the back bone of trade, every
child knew. Mr. Cockey became warm and friendly as he drank his
toddy. "Now, I don't know what you are, sir," said he.
"I'm not very much of anything," said Gilmore.
"Perhaps not, sir. Let that be as it may. But a man, sir, that feels
that he's one of the supports of the commercial supremacy of this
nation ain't got much reason to be ashamed of himself."
"Not on that account, certainly."
"Nor yet on no other account, as long as he's true to his employers.
Now you talk of country gentlemen."
"I didn't talk of them," said Gilmore.
"Well,--no,--you didn't; but they do, you know. What does a country
gentleman know, and what does he do? What's the country the better of
him? He 'unts, and he shoots, and he goes to bed with his skin full
of wine, and then he gets up and he 'unts and he shoots again, and
'as his skin full once more. That's about all."
"Sometimes he's a magistrate."
"Yes, justices' justice! we know all about that. Put an old man in
prison for a week because he looks into his 'ay-field on a Sunday; or
send a young one to the treadmill for two months because he knocks
over a 'are! All them cases ought to be tried in the towns, and there
should be beaks paid as there is in London. I don't see the good of a
country gentleman. Buying and selling;--that's what the world has to
go by."
"They buy and sell land."
"No; they don't. They buy a bit now and then when they're screws, and
they sell a bit now and then when the eating and drinking has gone
too fast. But as for capital and investment, they know nothing about
it. After all, they ain't getting above two-and-a-half per cent. for
their money. We all know what that must come to."
Mr. Cockey had been so mild before the pint of sherry and the glass
of toddy, that Mr. Gilmore was somewhat dismayed by the change. Mr.
Cockey, however, in his altered aspect seemed to be so much the less
gracious, that Gilmore left him and strolled out into the town. He
climbed up the hill and walked round the church and looked up at the
windows of Miss Marrable's house, of which he had learned the site;
but he had no adventure, saw nothing that interested him, and at
half-past nine took himself wearily to bed.
That same day Captain Marrable had run down from London to Loring
laden with terrible news. The money on which he had counted was all
gone! "What do you mean?" said his uncle; "have the lawyers been
deceiving you all through?"
"What is it to me?" said the ruined man. "It is all gone. They have
satisfied me that nothing more can be done." Parson John whistled
with a long-drawn note of wonder. "The people they were dealing with
would be willing enough to give up the money, but it's all gone. It's
spent, and there's no trace of it."
"Poor fellow!"
[Illustration: Parson John and Walter Marrable.]
"I've seen my father, uncle John."
"And what passed?"
"I told him that he was a scoundrel, and then I left him. I didn't
strike him."
"I should hope not that, Walter."
"I kept my hands off him; but when a man has ruined you as he has
me, it doesn't much matter who he is. Your father and any other man
are much the same to you then. He was worn, and old, and pale, or I
should have felled him to the ground."
"And what will you do now?"
"Just go to that hell upon earth on the other side of the globe.
There's nothing else to be done. I've applied for extension of leave,
and told them why."
Nothing more was said that night between the uncle and nephew, and
no word had been spoken about Mary Lowther. On the next morning the
breakfast at the parsonage passed by in silence. Parson John had been
thinking a good deal of Mary, but had resolved that it was best that
he should hold his tongue for the present. From the moment in which
he had first heard of the engagement, he had made up his mind that
his nephew and Mary Lowther would never be married. Seeing what
his nephew was--or rather seeing that which he fancied his nephew
to be,--he was sure that he would not sacrifice himself by such a
marriage. There was always a way out of things, and Walter Marrable
would be sure to find it. The way out of it had been found now with
a vengeance. Immediately after breakfast the Captain took his hat
without a word, and walked steadily up the hill to Uphill Lane. As
he passed the door of the Bull he saw, but took no notice of, a
gentleman who was standing under the covered entrance to the inn, and
who had watched him coming out from the parsonage gate; but Gilmore,
the moment that his eyes fell upon the Captain, declared to himself
that that was his rival. Captain Marrable walked straight up the
hill and knocked at Miss Marrable's door. Was Miss Lowther at home?
Of course Miss Lowther was at home at such an hour. The girl said
that Miss Mary was alone in the breakfast parlour. Miss Marrable had
already gone down to the kitchen. Without waiting for another word,
he walked into the little back room, and there he found his love.
"Walter," she said, jumping up and running to him; "how good of you
to come so soon! We didn't expect you these two days." She had thrown
herself into his arms, but, though he embraced her, he did not kiss
her. "There is something the matter!" she said. "What is it?" As she
spoke she drew away from him and looked up into his face. He smiled
and shook his head, still holding her by the waist. "Tell me, Walter;
I know there is something wrong."
"It is only that dirty money. My father has succeeded in getting it
all."
"All, Walter?" said she, again drawing herself away.
"Every shilling," said he, dropping his arm.
"That will be very bad."
"Not a doubt of it. I felt it just as you do."
"And all our pretty plans are gone."
"Yes;--all our pretty plans."
"And what shall you do now?"
"There is only one thing. I shall go to India again. Of course it is
just the same to me as though I were told that sentence of death had
gone against me;--only it will not be so soon over."
"Don't say that, Walter."
"Why not say it, my dear, when I feel it?"
"But you don't feel it. I know it must be bad for you, but it is not
quite that. I will not think that you have nothing left worth living
for."
"I can't ask you to go with me to that happy Paradise."
"But I can ask you to take me," she said;--"though perhaps it will be
better that I should not."
"My darling!--my own darling!" Then she came back to him and laid her
head upon his shoulders, and lifted his hand till it came again round
her waist. And he kissed her forehead, and smoothed her hair. "Swear
to me," she said, "that whatever happens you will not put me away
from you."
"Put you away, dearest! A man doesn't put away the only morsel he has
to keep him from starving. But yet as I came up here this morning I
resolved that I would put you away."
"Walter!"
"And even now I know that they will tell me that I should do so. How
can I take you out there to such a life as that without having the
means of keeping a house over your head?"
"Officers do marry without fortunes."
"Yes;--and what sort of a time do their wives have? Oh, Mary, my own,
my own, my own!--it is very bad! You cannot understand it all at
once, but it is very bad."
"If it be better for you, Walter,--" she said, again drawing herself
away.
"It is not that, and do not say that it is. Let us at any rate trust
each other."
She gave herself a little shake before she answered him. "I will
trust you in everything;--as God is my judge, in everything. What you
tell me to do, I will do. But, Walter, I will say one thing first.
I can look forward to nothing but absolute misery in any life that
will separate me from you. I know the difference between comfort and
discomfort in money matters, but all that is as a feather in the
balance. You are my god upon earth, and to you I must cling. Whether
you be away from me or with me, I must cling to you the same. If I
am to be separated from you for a time, I can do it with hope. If
I am to be separated from you for ever, I shall still do so,--with
despair. And now I will trust you, and I will do whatever you tell
me. If you forbid me to call you mine any longer,--I will obey, and
will never reproach you."
"I will always be yours," he said, taking her again to his heart.
"Then, dearest, you shall not find me wanting for anything you may
ask of me. Of course you can't decide at present."
"I have decided that I must go to India. I have asked for the
exchange."
"Yes;--I understand; but about our marriage. It may be that you
should go out first. I would not be unmaidenly, Walter; but remember
this--the sooner the better, if I can be a comfort to you;--but I can
bear any delay rather than be a clog upon you."
Marrable, as he had walked up the hill,--and during all his thoughts,
indeed, since he had been convinced that the money was gone from
him,--had been disposed to think that his duty to Mary required him
to give her up. He had asked her to be his wife when he believed his
circumstances to be other than they were; and now he knew that the
life he had to offer to her was one of extreme discomfort. He had
endeavoured to shake off any idea that as he must go back to India it
would be more comfortable for himself to return without than with a
wife. He wanted to make the sacrifice of himself, and had determined
that he would do so. Now, at any rate for the moment, all his
resolves were thrown to the wind. His own love was so strong and was
so gratified by her love, that half his misery was carried away in an
enthusiasm of romantic devotion. Let the worst come to the worst, the
man that was so loved by such a woman could not be of all men the
most miserable.
He left the house, giving to her the charge of telling the bad news
to Miss Marrable; and as he went he saw in the street before the
house the man whom he had seen standing an hour before under the
gateway of the inn. And Gilmore saw him too, and well knew where he
had been.