OPENING HIS EYES.
WHILE Bella had been indulging in archery, dinner-giving, riding, and
other expensive amusements, her husband’s old friend and servant,
Samuel Chumney, had returned from his fortnight’s holiday, and had
taken his place among those insignificant and unvalued guests whom
the mistress of the Park regarded rather as lookers on, or as a kind
of human furniture, than as actual participators in her gaieties and
pleasures.
On her Thursday afternoons Mrs. Piper tolerated Chumney, as a necessary
evil. His old-fashioned shirt-collars were ridiculous, but harmless.
He was quiet, and was therefore much less vulgar than the prosperous
Porkman or the millionaire Timperley. So, as it pleased Mr. Piper to
have him there, Bella endured his presence without further complaint.
‘As long as you don’t invite him to my best dinners I don’t mind,’ she
told Mr. Piper, which was certainly a great concession from a young
lady who, a year or so before, had not always been sure of having any
dinner at all.
Mr. Chumney looked on at Bella’s career, and had his own opinion about
her, and said nothing. Miss Coyle said a great deal to him, and he let
her talk, but he never committed himself by any more direct expression
of opinion than was to be gleaned from a grave nod, or a significant
shake of the head. This dumb show of his, and the general reticence
of his manners, possessed a wonderful fascination for Miss Coyle. She
opened her mind to him freely, and felt herself in the presence of
supreme worldly wisdom.
‘If poor Mr. Piper were only like you, that foolish young woman would
not venture upon such conduct,’ said Miss Coyle, whereupon Mr. Chumney
lifted his dark eyebrows, and thrust his fingers into his waistcoat
pockets, and breathed a gentle sigh.
‘Spending all her mornings riding about with that Captain Standish, a
man of notoriously dissipated character,’ said Miss Coyle, who knew as
much about the captain as she did about the inhabitants of the moon.
‘Ha!’ groaned Mr. Chumney, as if in assent to a general proposition
which he could not confute.
‘And making a bosom friend of that flashy Miss Porkman, while she
neglects her own sisters. Birds of a feather----’
‘Flock together,’ concluded Mr. Chumney, venturing to commit himself so
far.
‘How it is that Mr. Piper doesn’t see what is going on under his very
nose is more than I can imagine.’
‘Piper is a man in a thousand, madam,’ said Mr. Chumney.
‘But so foolishly confiding. Ah, Mr. Chumney, it is trying to see the
present state of things, after having had the privilege of knowing the
first Mrs. Piper.’
‘True,’ sighed Chumney.
‘How different her habits were! She was a woman of real piety, equally
anxious about this world and the next.’
‘She never could keep her cook,’ said Chumney, doubtfully. ‘I have
seen worse cooking at Piper’s table than ever I saw in my own humble
lodging.’
‘Poor Mrs. Piper was not fortunate with her servants,’ assented Miss
Coyle, ‘but then she was such a good manager. No waste or riot in
her time. How self-denying she was! To my own knowledge she rarely
discarded a silk gown till it had been turned twice.’
Miss Coyle knew very little and talked a great deal. Mr. Chumney knew a
great deal and held his peace, waiting, with masterly patience, until
the time should come for him to speak. For the last three months he
had taken upon himself the office of a private inquirer, without fee
or reward. He had made it his business to find out all that was to be
known about Captain Standish. He had gone into all manner of company in
order to make these discoveries, but his informants had been chiefly of
the back-stairs--grooms, valets, tailors, boot-makers, horse dealers,
people of all grades, who had been honoured with the captain’s custom
or patronage.
The result of his inquiries showed that Captain Standish was an
unscrupulous, unprincipled man--a man who paid his way, simply because
he had plenty of money wherewith to gratify his desires, but who
did not shrink from a dishonourable act, or hesitate at a baseness,
where dishonourable, or base, dealing could further his aims. He had
contrived in a brief career to do as much mischief as would have earned
for a young nobleman a handsome reputation, in the days when men wore
powder and patches, and considered iniquity a distinction. Another man
in Samuel Chumney’s position might have made an immediate use of his
knowledge, and let his friend know the kind of person he had admitted
to his house; but Mr. Chumney preferred to wait for some crushing proof
of the captain’s unworthiness, and he was not disinclined to let Bella
proceed far enough in her folly to disenchant her husband.
‘It will give Piper the whip-hand over her for the rest of his days,’
he thought, ‘if he finds her out in a compromising flirtation with this
fellow Standish.’
This was the condition of affairs up to the evening before the foxhunt,
when Mr. Chumney, through one of his horsey informants, became
acquainted with the history of Captain Standish’s purchase of the black
called Erebus. This piece of information he considered it his duty to
impart to Mr. Piper, without loss of time, so he walked over to Little
Yafford next morning for that purpose.
It was the last day of October, and a lovely morning. The wind was in
the south, a wind so balmy and gentle, that it only caressed the red
and golden foliage, and hardly scattered the leaves. Here and there a
withered leaf dropped lazily down from the dark brown branches, wet and
shining with autumnal dew. The grass beside the road glistened in the
morning light. A veil of vapour shrouded the hills, and gave a look
of mystery to the distant landscape. Now and then a gleam of sunshine
pierced the mist, brightening and warming all things, and then all was
gray again.
‘A fine morning for the hounds,’ said a passing rustic by way of
salutation, but Samuel Chumney responded only with a sulky nod. He did
not care for the hounds. He looked upon all field sports as waste and
foolishness, and considered it man’s proper avocation all over the
world to sit upon a high stool in a counting-house and add up columns
of figures. He felt a half-scornful tolerance for soldiers and sailors,
as needed to protect commerce, and defend the rights of the men who sat
in counting-houses. But for all other grades of humanity he had only
contempt.
Even for Mr. Chumney’s long legs it was a two hours’ walk from the
town to the village, so, although he had started directly after his
breakfast, it was nearly eleven o’clock when he arrived at the Park.
Mr. Piper was walking up and down the lawn in front of his drawing-room
windows, smoking his morning cigar.
‘Holloa, Chum,’ he exclaimed, ‘what wind blows you this way? Come over
to have a look at the farm, have you? The pigs are doing beautifully. I
feel pretty sure of a prize for some of ’em. It’s as much as they can
do to stand already. Take anything after your walk? No? Well, I know
what a sober old file you are. Come round and have a look at the pigs.’
Mr. Piper put his arm through Chumney’s, and led him towards the farm,
which was shut off from the park and gardens by shrubberies and a fir
plantation.
‘Hang your pigs!’ cried Chumney. ‘To my eye a prize pig is the most
hideous object in creation. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Animals ought to interfere. They’re down upon a costermonger for
over-driving his donkey, but they don’t say a word against a nobleman
for making an animal’s existence a slow martyrdom, by gorging it with
oil-cake until its legs refuse to carry the weight of its overfed
carcass.’
Mr. Piper, elated with the anticipation of a prize at the Christmas
Cattle Show, was in no humour to give ear to the voice of humanity on
the lips of his old cashier.
‘Come and have a look at the pigs, Chum, and don’t you take to
preaching sermons in your old age. It ain’t oil-cake either, old boy.
It’s milk and meal, and the pork will eat as tender as a chicken and
as mellow as a William pear. Do you suppose the animals are unhappy?
Not a bit of it. They’re no more unhappy than an alderman who over-eats
himself with turtle and venison. And as to their not being able to
stand, why, I’ve seen Porkman and Timperley many a time after dinner
when they’ve not been able to stand, and they were as happy as lords.’
They had arrived at the pigsties by this time, and Mr. Chumney was
regaled with the sight of various mountains of pinky flesh, out of
whose tremulous bulk issued smothered gruntings as a sole indication of
life. Here and there something like an ear was to be seen pendent from
a hillock of bristly pinkness, but Mr. Chumney looked in vain for an
eye. The organs of sight had disappeared under pendulous ridges of fat.
‘You may call that an improving exhibition,’ protested Chumney. ‘I
don’t. And now if you will withdraw your mind from your pigs for five
or ten minutes, I’ve got something serious to say to you.’
‘Serious?’ exclaimed Mr. Piper. ‘Another failure in the wool trade, I
suppose. Well, thank goodness, they can’t touch me. My money is safe.’
‘I’m not going to talk about your money. Where’s Mrs. Piper?’
‘Gone for a ride with Vanessa Porkman.’
‘And Captain Standish, I suppose.’
‘Yes, the captain was with them. He keeps a couple of horses at the
“Crown,” so as to be handy for the hunting. They’re going to see the
hounds throw off at Milvey Bridge. I think the captain’s sweet upon
Vanessa. It would be a very good match for him, and I know the Porkmans
would jump at it. But my little woman says no. The Porkmans aren’t good
enough for him.’
They had turned out of the farmyard into the plantation, a pleasant
place for a morning walk and a friendly chat. The ground was carpeted
with fir needles, and Mr. Piper had trodden for himself a narrow track
under the trees, while he smoked his after-breakfast cigar.
‘Now, old Chum,’ he said. ‘Nobody can overhear us here. Say your say.
It’s something about yourself, I suppose?’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s something about you. Now, I think you know that
I’ve always looked up to you and honoured you, that I’d go through fire
and water for you--real fire, and real water.’
‘Yes, I know that. Go on.’
‘Now I don’t like to see the man I honour putting himself in a
false position, as you are doing every day you tolerate this fellow
Standish’s attentions to your wife.’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ cried Mr. Piper, angrily. ‘Do you suppose I don’t
know how to take care of my wife? She likes to have Standish here,
because he’s the fashion, and everybody runs after him. I like her to
have him here for the same reason. The Porkmans and the Timperleys
would give their eyes to be as intimate with Captain Standish as we
are; but they haven’t the knack of making their houses pleasant to a
man of his stamp. Bella has. She’s spent my money pretty fast, but I
don’t begrudge it to her, for she’s given me a position in society
that I never had in Moggie’s time, and I’m not too proud to own it.
Don’t you come here to insinuate anything against my wife, Chumney, or
you and me will cease to know each other,’ concluded Mr. Piper, with
dignity.
He was incensed with Chumney, but he was not in the slightest degree
moved by what Chumney had said. His faith in Bella was rooted deeply.
It was intertwined with his faith in himself, and that was invincible.
‘I couldn’t be jealous if I tried,’ he said. ‘My self-respect wouldn’t
allow me.’
‘I don’t want you to be jealous, but I want you to respect yourself,’
answered Chumney. ‘I might have spoken sooner, perhaps, but I waited
till I had good grounds for speaking. First and foremost, I’ve found
out all about Captain Standish. He’s a bad lot.’
‘He’s received everywhere in the highest society.’
‘There are a good many bad lots going about in high society, without
any brand upon ’em either. He’s not a man I’d receive in my house, if I
had a house.’
‘But you haven’t, you see,’ said Piper, testily. ‘That makes all the
difference. Perhaps if you had a big house like this, and wanted to
fill it with pleasant people, you’d lower your standard of morality
a bit. It’s all very well for Diogenes to be particular about what
company he keeps. He’s only got his tub to fill, and he can fill that
himself.’
‘Don’t let’s beat about the bush, Piper. Would you like your wife
to receive a present--something to the tune of a couple of hundred
pounds--from such a man as Captain Standish?’
‘I wouldn’t let her receive such a present from any man alive, and she
knows it. Her own sense must tell her,’ exclaimed Piper, getting warm.
‘You can’t always trust to a woman’s sense, particularly when she’s
young and pretty,’ said the cynical Chumney. ‘I say your wife has
received such a present--though I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt,
and say she doesn’t know anything about it,--and by so doing has made
you and herself the talk of the Great Yafford club.’
‘What present?’ asked Piper, pale with rage.
‘The horse she rides.’
‘That’s the biggest lie that’s been told at the club for a long time,
though I’ve known ’em to tell some jolly big ones there. The horse
my wife rides was given to her by me. I wrote a cheque for a hundred
pounds, and put it in her hand. All Standish did was to choose the
horse at Tattersall’s.’
‘Do you think such a horse as that is to be bought for a hundred
pounds? Your friends at the club know all about the horse. It was the
gem of Sir Lionel Hawtree’s stud, and sold for three hundred and thirty
guineas. The difference between your cheque and the auction price was
a gift from Captain Standish to your wife. You have boasted of getting
Erebus for a hundred pounds, and have been laughed at by men who know
all about the horse. I had heard some queer things said, but I only
learned the real state of the case last night.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ exclaimed Piper. ‘Why should Captain Standish
spend his money on a horse for my wife?’
‘I don’t know why, but I know he has done it,’ returned Chumney. ‘Read
that!’
He handed Mr. Piper a cutting from _Bell’s Life_.
‘That’s from a paper two Sundays old,’ he said, ‘but I only got it last
night.’
It was the description of a sale of hunters at Tattersall’s. The
following paragraph was marked at the side in red ink:--
‘One of the gems of the stud was Erebus, a lady’s hack, fifteen two,
rising six, black, without a white hair about him, and perfect in
every point. This horse was knocked down to Captain Standish, at three
hundred and thirty guineas, after a lively competition.’
‘How do I know it is the same horse he bought for my wife?’ asked Mr.
Piper, when he had read the paragraph.
‘I don’t see much room for doubt. It’s neither a common name nor a
common colour. Of course there may be no particular harm in a man
spending his money to eke out your gift to your wife, but I think it
puts you in a false position.’
‘Think!’ roared Mr. Piper. ‘It puts me in a position that will oblige
me to kick Captain Standish out of my house; and if I thought my wife
knew it--knew that she was riding a horse bought with that man’s
money--I would shut my doors upon her as readily as upon him. I may
be a fool about Bella, but I’m only a fool within certain limits.
There are bounds, Chumney--bounds that I shan’t overstep. But I don’t
believe she knows it--no, she could not be so ungrateful--she could
not be so base as to degrade me in any man’s eyes--after my lavishing
my money upon her--picking her out of the gutter to make a duchess
of her--giving her an honest man’s love into the bargain. No, I can
believe anything of that fellow’s audacity, but nothing against her.
Don’t ask me to think ill of her.’
‘I don’t,’ said Chumney; ‘but I think it’s high time this philandering
with Captain Standish should be put a stop to, and I fancy I’ve shown
you a good reason for stopping it. I hope you don’t think I’ve gone
beyond my duty as a friend.’
‘No, Chumney, no; you have done your duty, and I shall do mine. The
horse shall go back to Standish’s stable this afternoon, and Standish
shall never cross my threshold again. But if you hear men talk of this
at the club, be sure you tell them that my wife knew nothing about it.
She has been the victim of a fop’s impertinence--that’s all.’
‘I will, Mr. Piper. You may be sure of that.’
‘And now you’d better make yourself scarce, Chumney. I’d rather be
alone when my wife comes home from her ride.’
‘You won’t be violent!’ urged Mr. Chumney.
‘No, Chumney, I am too angry to be violent. If I laid my little finger
upon Standish it would mean murder. I feel it in me to do something
dreadful. Don’t you be frightened, Chum. I shall treat him with the
utmost civility. I shall only let him understand that his little game
is found out. Good-bye.’
Mr. Chumney would have preferred to remain. He had an idea that his
friend wanted him, in this crisis of his domestic life; but Mr. Piper
thought otherwise, and was too resolute a man to allow himself to be
overruled. So Chumney went away, unrefreshed and disheartened. He did
not go back to Great Yafford immediately, but stopped at the “Crown” to
regale himself with a temperate luncheon of bread and cheese and ale.