Are these things then necessities?
Then let us meet them like necessities.
--SHAKESPEARE: _Henry IV_.
See now the virtue living in a word!
Hobson will think of swearing it was noon
When he saw Dobson at the May-day fair,
To prove poor Dobson did not rob the mail.
'Tis neighborly to save a neighbor's neck:
What harm in lying when you mean no harm?
But say 'tis perjury, then Hobson quakes--
He'll none of perjury.
Thus words embalm
The conscience of mankind: and Roman laws
Bring still a conscience to poor Hobson's aid.
Few men would have felt otherwise than Harold Transome felt, if, having
a reversion tantamount to possession of a fine estate, carrying an
association with an old name and considerable social importance, they
were suddenly informed that there was a person who had a legal right to
deprive them of these advantages; that person's right having never been
contemplated by any one as more than a chance, and being quite unknown
to himself. In ordinary cases a shorter possession than Harold's family
had enjoyed was allowed by the law to constitute an indefeasible right;
and if in rare and peculiar instances the law left the possessor of a
long inheritance exposed to deprivation as the consequence of old
obscure transactions, the moral reasons for giving legal validity to the
title of long occupancy were not the less strong. Nobody would have said
that Harold was bound to hunt out this alleged remainder-man and urge
his rights upon him; on the contrary, all the world would have laughed
at such conduct, and he would have been thought an interesting patient
for a mad-doctor. The unconscious remainder-man was probably much better
off, left in his original station: Harold would not have been called
upon to consider his existence, if it had not been presented to him in
the shape of a threat from one who had power to execute the threat.
In fact, what he would have done had the circumstances been different,
was much clearer than what he should choose to do or feel himself
compelled to do in the actual crisis. He would not have been disgraced
if, on a valid claim being urged, he had got his lawyers to fight it out
for him on the chance of eluding the claim by some adroit technical
management. Nobody off the stage could be sentimental about these
things, or pretend to shed tears of joy because an estate was handed
over from a gentleman to a mendicant sailor with a wooden leg. And this
chance remainder-man was perhaps some such specimen of inheritance as
the drunken fellow killed in the riot. All the world would think the
actual Transomes in the right to contest any adverse claim to the
utmost. But then--it was not certain that they would win in the contest;
and not winning, they would incur other losses besides that of the
estate. There had been a little too much of such loss already.
But why, if it were not wrong to contest the claim, should he feel the
most uncomfortable scruples about robbing the claim of its sting by
getting rid of its evidence? It was a mortal disappointment--it was a
sacrifice of indemnification--to abstain from punishing Jermyn. But even
if he brought his mind to contemplate that as the wiser course, he still
shrank from what looked like complicity with Jermyn; he still shrank
from the secret nullification of a just legal claim. If he had only
known the details, if he had known who this alleged heir was, he might
have seen his way to some course that would not have grated on his sense
of honor and dignity. But Jermyn had been too acute to let Harold know
this: he had even carefully kept to the masculine pronoun. And he
believed that there was no one besides himself who would or could make
Harold any wiser. He went home persuaded that between this interview and
the next which they would have together, Harold would be left to an
inward debate, founded entirely on the information he himself had given.
And he had not much doubt that the result would be what he desired.
Harold was no fool: there were many good things he liked better in life
than an irrational vindictiveness.
And it did happen that, after writing to London in fulfillment of his
pledge, Harold spent many hours over that inward debate, which was not
very different from what Jermyn imagined. He took it everywhere with him
on foot and on horseback, and it was his companion through a great deal
of the night. His nature was not of a kind given to internal conflict,
and he had never before been long undecided and puzzled. This
unaccustomed state of mind was so painfully irksome to him--he rebelled
so impatiently against the oppression of circumstances in which his
quick temperament and habitual decision could not help him--that it
added tenfold to his hatred of Jermyn, who was the cause of it. And
thus, as the temptation to avoid all risk of losing the estate grew and
grew till scruples looked minute by the side of it, the difficulty of
bringing himself to make a compact with Jermyn seemed more and more
insurmountable.
But we have seen that the attorney was much too confident in his
calculations. And while Harold was being gulled by his subjection to
Jermyn's knowledge, independent information was on its way to him. The
messenger was Christian, who, after as complete a survey of
probabilities as he was capable of, had come to the conclusion that the
most profitable investment he could make of his peculiar experience and
testimony in relation to Bycliffe and Bycliffe's daughter, was to place
them at the disposal of Harold Transome. He was afraid of Jermyn; he
utterly distrusted Johnson; but he thought he was secure in relying on
Harold Transome's care for his own interest; and he preferred above all
issues the prospect of forthwith leaving the country with a sum that at
least for a good while would put him at his ease.
When, only three mornings after the interview with Jermyn, Dominic
opened the door of Harold's sitting-room, and said that "Meester
Chreestian," Mr. Philip Debarry's courier and an acquaintance of his own
at Naples, requested to be admitted on business of importance, Harold's
immediate thought was that the business referred to the so-called
political affairs which were just now his chief association with the
name of Debarry, though it seemed an oddness requiring explanation, that
a servant should be personally an intermediary. He assented, expecting
something rather disagreeable than otherwise.
Christian wore this morning those perfect manners of a subordinate who
is not servile, which he always adopted toward his unquestionable
superiors. Mr. Debarry, who preferred having some one about him with as
little resemblance as possible to a regular servant, had a singular
liking for the adroit, quiet-mannered Christian, and would have been
amazed to see the insolent assumption he was capable of in the presence
of people like Mr. Lyon, who were of no account in society. Christian
had that sort of cleverness which is said to "know the world"--that is
to say, he knew the price-current of most things.
Aware that he was looked at as a messenger while he remained standing
near the door with his hat in his hand, he said, with respectful ease--
"You will probably be surprised, sir, at my coming to speak to you on my
own account; and, in fact, I could not have thought of doing so if my
business did not happen to be something of more importance to you than
to any one else."
"You don't come from Mr. Debarry, then?" said Harold, with some
surprise.
"No, sir. My business is a secret; and, if you please, must remain so."
"Is it a pledge you are demanding from me?" said Harold, rather
suspiciously, having no ground for confidence in a man of Christian's
position.
"Yes, sir; I am obliged to ask no less than that you will pledge
yourself not to take Mr. Jermyn into confidence concerning what passes
between us."
"With all my heart," said Harold, something like a gleam passing over
his face. His circulation had become more rapid. "But what have you had
to do with Jermyn?"
"He has not mentioned me to you then--has he, sir?"
"No; certainly not--never."
Christian thought, "Aha, Mr. Jermyn! you are keeping the secret well,
are you?" He said, aloud--
"Then Mr. Jermyn has never mentioned to you, sir, what I believe he is
aware of--that there is danger of a new suit being raised against you on
the part of a Bycliffe, to get the estate?"
"Ah!" said Harold, starting up, and placing himself with his back
against the mantelpiece. He was electrified by surprise at the quarter
from which this information was coming. Any fresh alarm was counteracted
by the flashing thought that he might be enabled to act independently of
Jermyn; and in the rush of feelings he could utter no more than an
interjection. Christian concluded that Harold had no previous hint.
"It is this fact, that I came to tell you of."
"From some other motive than kindness to me, I presume," said Harold,
with a slight approach to a smile.
"Certainly," said Christian, as quietly as if he had been stating
yesterday's weather. "I should not have the folly to use any affectation
with you, Mr. Transome. I lost considerable property early in life, and
am now in the receipt of a salary simply. In the affair I have just
mentioned to you I can give evidence which will turn the scale against
you. I have no wish to do so, if you will make it worth my while to
leave the country."
Harold listened as if he had been a legendary hero, selected for
peculiar solicitation by the Evil One. Here was temptation in a more
alluring form than before, because it was sweetened by the prospect of
eluding Jermyn. But the desire to gain time served all the purposes of
caution and resistance, and his indifference to the speaker in this case
helped him to preserve perfect self-command.
"You are aware," he said, coolly, "that silence is not a commodity worth
purchasing unless it is loaded. There are many persons, I dare say, who
would like me to pay their travelling expenses for them. But they might
hardly be able to show me that it was worth my while."
"You wish me to state what I know?"
"Well, that is a necessary preliminary to any further conversation."
"I think you will see, Mr. Transome, that, as a matter of justice, the
knowledge I can give is worth something, quite apart from my future
appearance or non-appearance as a witness. I must take care of my own
interest, and if anything should hinder you from choosing to satisfy me
for taking an essential witness out of the way, I must at least be paid
for bringing you the information."
"Can you tell me who and where this Bycliffe is?"
"I can."
"-----And give me a notion of the whole affair?"
"Yes; I have talked to a lawyer--not Jermyn--who is at the bottom of the
law in the affair."
"You must not count on any wish of mine to suppress evidence or remove a
witness. But name your price for the information."
"In that case I must be paid the higher for my information. Say, two
thousand pounds."
"Two thousand devils!" burst out Harold, throwing himself into his chair
again, and turning his shoulder toward Christian. New thoughts crowded
upon him. "This fellow may want to decamp for some reason or other," he
said to himself. "More people besides Jermyn know about his evidence, it
seems. The whole thing may look black for me if it comes out. I shall be
believed to have bribed him to run away, whether or not." Thus the
outside conscience came in aid of the inner.
"I will not give you one sixpence for your information," he said,
resolutely, "until time has made it clear that you do not intend to
decamp, but will be forthcoming when you are called for. On those terms
I have no objection to give you a note, specifying that after the
fulfilment of that condition--that is, after the occurrence of a suit,
or the understanding that no suit is to occur--I will pay you a certain
sum in consideration of the information you now give me!"
Christian felt himself caught in a vise. In the first instance he had
counted confidently on Harold's ready seizure of his offer to disappear,
and after some words had seemed to cast a doubt on this presupposition
he had inwardly determined to go away, whether Harold wished it or not,
if he could get a sufficient sum. He did not reply immediately, and
Harold waited in silence, inwardly anxious to know what Christian could
tell, but with a vision at present so far cleared that he was determined
not to risk incurring the imputation of having anything to do with
scoundrelism. We are very much indebted to such a linking of events as
makes a doubtful action look wrong.
Christian was reflecting that if he stayed and faced some possible
inconveniences of being known publicly as Henry Scaddon for the sake of
what he might get from Esther, it would at least be wise to be certain
of some money from Harold Transome, since he turned out to be of so
peculiar a disposition as to insist on a punctilious honesty to his own
disadvantage. Did he think of making a bargain with the other side? If
so, he might be content to wait for the knowledge till it came in some
other way. Christian was beginning to be afraid lest he should get
nothing by this clever move of coming to Transome Court. At last he
said--
"I think, sir, two thousand would not be an unreasonable sum, on those
conditions."
"I will not give two thousand."
"Allow me to say, sir, you must consider that there is no one whose
interest it is to tell you as much as I shall, even if they could; since
Mr. Jermyn, who knows it, has not thought fit to tell you. There may be
use you don't think of in getting the information at once."
"Well?"
"I think a gentleman should act liberally under such circumstances."
"So I will."
"I could not take less than a thousand pounds. It really would not be
worth my while. If Mr. Jermyn knew I gave you the information, he would
endeavor to injure me."
"I will give you a thousand," said Harold, immediately, for Christian
had unconsciously touched a sure spring. "At least, I'll give you a note
to the effect I spoke of."
He wrote as he had promised, and gave the paper to Christian.
"Now, don't be circuitous," said Harold. "You seem to have a
business-like gift of speech. Who and where is this Bycliffe?"
"You will be surprised to hear, sir, that she is supposed to be the
daughter of the old preacher, Lyon, in Malthouse Yard."
"Good God! How can that be?" said Harold. At once, the first occasion on
which he had seen Esther rose in his memory--the little dark parlor--the
graceful girl in blue, with the surprisingly distinguished manners and
appearance.
"In this way. Old Lyon, by some strange means or other, married
Bycliffe's widow when this girl was a baby. And the preacher didn't want
the girl to know that he was not her real father: he told me that
himself. But she is the image of Bycliffe, whom I knew well--an
uncommonly fine woman--steps like a queen."
"I have seen her," said Harold, more than ever glad to have purchased
this knowledge. "But now, go on."
Christian proceeded to tell all he knew, including his conversation with
Jermyn, except so far as it had an unpleasant relation to himself.
"Then," said Harold, as the details seemed to have come to a close, "you
believe that Miss Lyon and her supposed father are at present unaware of
the claims that might be urged for her on the strength of her birth?"
"I believe so. But I need not tell you that where the lawyers are on
the scent you can never be sure of anything long together. I must remind
you, sir, that you have promised to protect me from Mr. Jermyn by
keeping my confidence."
"Never fear. Depend upon it, I shall betray nothing to Mr. Jermyn."
Christian was dismissed with a "good-morning"; and while he cultivated
some friendly reminiscences with Dominic, Harold sat chewing the cud of
his new knowledge, and finding it not altogether so bitter as he had
expected.
From the first, after his interview with Jermyn, the recoil of Harold's
mind from the idea of strangling a legal right threw him on the
alternative of attempting a compromise. Some middle course might be
possible, which would be a less evil than a costly lawsuit, or than the
total renunciation of the estates. And now he had learned that the new
claimant was a woman--a young woman, brought up under circumstances that
would make the fourth of the Transome property seem to her an immense
fortune. Both the sex and the social condition were of the sort that
lies open to many softening influences. And having seen Esther, it was
inevitable that, amongst the various issues, agreeable and disagreeable,
depicted by Harold's imagination, there should present itself a
possibility that would unite the two claims--his own, which he felt to
be the rational, and Esther's, which apparently was the legal claim.
Harold, as he had constantly said to his mother, was "not a marrying
man"; he did not contemplate bringing a wife to Transome Court for many
years to come, if at all. Having little Harry as an heir, he preferred
freedom. Western women were not to his taste; they showed a transition
from the feebly animal to the thinking being, which was simply
troublesome. Harold preferred a slow-witted large-eyed woman, silent and
affectionate, with a load of black hair weighing much more heavily than
her brains. He had seen no such woman in England, except one which he
had brought with him from the East.
Therefore Harold did not care to be married until or unless some
surprising chance presented itself; and now that such a chance had
occurred to suggest marriage to him, he would not admit to himself that
he contemplated marrying Esther as a plan; he was only obliged to see
that such an issue was not inconceivable. He was not going to take any
step expressly directed toward that end: what he had made up his mind
to, as the course most satisfactory to his nature under present
urgencies, was to behave to Esther with a frank gentle manliness, which
must win her good will, and incline her to save his family interest as
much as possible. He was helped to this determination by the pleasure of
frustrating Jermyn's contrivance to shield himself from punishment, and
his most distinct and cheering prospect was that within a very short
space of time he should not only have effected a satisfactory compromise
with Esther, but should have made Jermyn aware by a very disagreeable
form of announcement, that Harold Transome was no longer afraid of him.
Jermyn should bite the dust.
At the end of these meditations he felt satisfied with himself and
light-hearted. He had rejected two dishonest propositions, and he was
going to do something that seemed eminently graceful. But he needed his
mother's assistance, and it was necessary that he should both confide in
her and persuade her.
Within two hours after Christian left him, Harold begged his mother to
come into his private room, and there he told her the strange and
startling story, omitting, however, any particulars which would involve
the identification of Christian as his informant. Harold felt that his
engagement demanded his reticence; and he told his mother that he was
bound to conceal the source of that knowledge which he had got
independently of Jermyn.
Mrs. Transome said little in the course of the story: she made no
exclamations, but she listened with close attention, and asked a few
questions so much to the point as to surprise Harold. When he showed her
the copy of the legal opinion which Jermyn had left with him, she said
she knew it very well; she had a copy herself. The particulars of that
last lawsuit were too well engraven on her mind: it happened at a time
when there was no one to supersede her, and she was the virtual head of
the family affairs. She was prepared to understand how the estate might
be in danger; but nothing had prepared her for the strange details--for
the way in which the new claimant had been reared and brought within the
range of converging motives that had led to this revelation, least of
all for the part Jermyn had come to play in the revelation. Mrs.
Transome saw these things through the medium of certain dominant
emotions that made them seem like a long-ripening retribution. Harold
perceived that she was painfully agitated, that she trembled, and that
her white lips would not readily lend themselves to speech. And this
was hardly more than he expected. He had not liked the revelation
himself when it had first come to him.
But he did not guess what it was in his narrative which had most pierced
his mother. It was something that made the threat about the estate only
a secondary alarm. Now, for the first time, she heard of the intended
proceedings against Jermyn. Harold had not chosen to speak of them
before; but having at last called his mother into consultation, there
was nothing in his mind to hinder him from speaking without reserve of
his determination to visit on the attorney his shameful
maladministration of the family affairs.
Harold went through the whole narrative--of what he called Jermyn's
scheme to catch him in a vise, and his power of triumphantly frustrating
that scheme--in his usual rapid way, speaking with a final decisiveness
of tone; and his mother felt that if she urged any counter-consideration
at all, she could only do so when he had no more to say.
"Now, what I want you to do, mother, if you can see this matter as I see
it," Harold said in conclusion, "is to go with me to call on this girl
in Malthouse Yard. I will open the affair to her; it appears she is not
likely to have been informed yet; and you will invite her to visit you
here at once, that all scandal, all hatching of law-mischief, may be
avoided, and the thing may be brought to an amicable conclusion."
"It seems almost incredible--extraordinary--a girl in her position,"
said Mrs. Transome, with difficulty. It would have seemed the bitterest,
humiliating penance if another sort of suffering had left any room in
her heart.
"I assure you she is a lady; I saw her when I was canvassing, and was
amazed at the time. You will be quite struck with her. It is no
indignity for you to invite her."
"Oh," said Mrs. Transome, with low-toned bitterness, "I must put up with
all things as they are determined for me. When shall we go?"
"Well," said Harold, looking at his watch, "it is hardly two yet. We
could really go to-day, when you have lunched. It is better to lose no
time. I'll order the carriage."
"Stay," said Mrs. Transome, with a desperate effort. "There is plenty of
time. I shall not lunch. I have a word to say."
Harold withdrew his hand from the bell, and leaned against the
mantelpiece to listen.
"You see I comply with your wish at once, Harold?"
"Yes, mother, I'm much obliged to you for making no difficulties."
"You ought to listen to me in return."
"Pray go on," said Harold, expecting to be annoyed.
"What is the good of having these Chancery proceedings against Jermyn?"
"Good? This good: that fellow has burdened the estate with annuities and
mortgages to the extent of three thousand a year; and the bulk of them,
I am certain, he holds himself under the name of another man. And the
advances this yearly interest represents, have not been much more than
twenty thousand. Of course, he has hoodwinked you, and my father never
gave attention to these things. He has been up to all sorts of devil's
work with the deeds; he didn't count on my coming back from Smyrna to
fill poor Durfey's place. He shall feel the difference. And the good
will be, that I shall save almost all the annuities for the rest of my
father's life, which may be ten years or more, and I shall get back some
of the money, and I shall punish a scoundrel. That is the good."
"He will be ruined."
"That's what I intend," said Harold, sharply.
"He exerted himself a great deal for us in the old suits: everyone said
he had wonderful zeal and ability," said Mrs. Transome, getting courage
and warmth, as she went on. Her temper was rising.
"What he did, he did for his own sake, you may depend on that," said
Harold, with a scornful laugh.
"There were very painful things in that last suit. You seem anxious
about this young woman, to avoid all further scandal and contests in the
family. Why don't you wish to do it in this case? Jermyn might be
willing to arrange things amicably--to make restitution as far as he
can--if he has done anything wrong."
"I will arrange nothing amicably with him," said Harold, decisively. "If
he has ever done anything scandalous as our agent, let him bear the
infamy. And the right way to throw the infamy on him is to show the
world that he has robbed us, and that I mean to punish him. Why do you
wish to shield such a fellow, mother? It has been chiefly through him
that you have had to lead such a thrifty, miserable life--you who used
to make as brilliant a figure as a woman need wish."
Mrs. Transome's rising temper was turned into a horrible sensation, as
painful as a sudden concussion from something hard and immovable when we
have struck out with our fist, intending to hit something warm, soft,
and breathing like ourselves. Poor Mrs. Transome's strokes were sent
jarring back on her by a hard unalterable past. She did not speak in
answer to Harold, but rose from the chair as if she gave up the debate.
"Women are frightened at everything I know," said Harold, kindly,
feeling that he had been a little harsh after his mother's compliance.
"And you have been used for so many years to think Jermyn a law of
nature. Come, mother," he went on, looking at her gently, and resting
his hands on her shoulders, "look cheerful. We shall get through all
these difficulties. And this girl--I dare say she will be quite an
interesting visitor for you. You have not had any young girl about you
for a long while. Who knows? she may fall deeply in love with me, and I
may be obliged to marry her."
He spoke laughingly, only thinking how he could make his mother smile.
But she looked at him seriously and said, "Do you mean that, Harold?"
"Am I not capable of making a conquest? Not too fat yet--a handsome,
well-rounded youth of thirty-four?"
She was forced to look straight at the beaming face, with its rich dark
color, just bent a little over her. Why could she not be happy in this
son whose future she had once dreamed of, and who had been as fortunate
as she had ever hoped? The tears came, not plenteously, but making her
dark eyes as large and bright as youth had once made them without tears.
"There, there!" said Harold, coaxingly. "Don't be afraid. You shall not
have a daughter-in-law unless she is a pearl. Now we will get ready to
go."
In half an hour from that time Mrs. Transome came down, looking majestic
in sables and velvet, ready to call on "the girl in Malthouse Yard." She
had composed herself to go through this task. She saw there was nothing
better to be done. After the resolutions Harold had taken, some sort of
compromise with this oddly-placed heiress was the result most to be
hoped for; if the compromise turned out to be a marriage--well, she had
no reason to care much: she was already powerless. It remained to be
seen what this girl was.
The carriage was to be driven round the back way, to avoid too much
observation. But the late election affairs might account for Mr. Lyon's
receiving a visit from the unsuccessful Radical candidate.