A DISPUTE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
But as I rode, this warning I had received swelled in importance; it
became magnified to a menace, and my desire to speak changed into an
overmastering regret that I had not spoken. I had kept my word loyally
to--well, to Ashlock, since so I still must term him, even in my
thoughts--nay, was still keeping it the while he played false with me.
That he trusted me to keep it I was assured by the memory of his words
and looks on that night when he had talked of my picture in the hall.
Why, then, should he play false? There was but one man who might be
able to enlighten me upon the point--Lord Derwentwater--and to that
one man my lips were closed, I was, moreover, disturbed too by the
knowledge that I had planned to travel to Grasmere on the following
day, and be absent there until the night, thus leaving Rookley a free
hand. It was late when I turned out of Borrowdale, but I noticed that
there was a light still burning in the steward's office. I rode into
the courtyard of the stables, and, leaving my horse there, walked to
the front of the house. One or two of the attic windows still showed
bright, and the ground floor was dimly lit. But somehow the house
smote on me as strangely desolate and dark.
Luke Blacket was waiting to let me in, and whether it was that my
strained fancies tricked me into discovering a mute hostility upon his
face, but it broke in upon me with a full significance that all the
servants, down to the lowest scullion, must be in the secret, and were
leagued against me. I saw myself entering a trap, and so piercing a
sense of loneliness invaded me, that I plumbed to the very bottom of
despondency. I stood in the doorway gazing across the valley. The
hills stood sentinel leaguering me about, the voices of innumerable
freshets sounded chilly in my ears, as though their laughter had
something of a heedless cruelty; my whole nature cried out for a
companion, and with so urgent a demand that I bethought me of the
light shining in the steward's office. It would be Aron without a
doubt, sitting late over the books. I went down the passage and opened
the door.
Aron rose hastily to his feet, and began some apology.
"Mr. Ashlock," he said, "requested me----" But I cut him short, weary
for one honest word of truth.
"That will do, Aron. I have no wish to disturb you;" and I threw
myself on to a couch which was ranged against the wall. "I am very
tired," said I, and lay with my eyes closed.
Aron's pen stopped scratching. He sat for a second without moving.
Then he came over to the couch, and, or ever I was aware of it, began
pulling off my boots.
I opened my eyes and started up. In his old, worn face there was a
look of friendliness which at that moment cheered me inexpressibly.
"Nay," said I, "you are too old a servant, Aron, to offer help of that
kind, and I too young a master to accept it. Let it be!"
He straightened his back, and the friendliness increased upon his
face. He glanced quickly about the room, and stepped softly to my
side.
"Master Lawrence," he began, in much the tone a nurse may use to a
child, and then, "sir, I mean, I beg your pardon." In a trice he was
the formal, precise servant again.
"Nay," said I, "I know not but what I like the first title the
better."
"It was a liberty," said he, with his face grown rigid.
"And the privilege of an old servant," I replied. "But that is just
the point. You are not my servant, except in name," and I turned my
head petulantly away.
The next moment his mouth was at my ear.
"Master Lawrence," he said, in a voice which was very low, "Master
Lawrence, were I you, I would not ride again to Keswick."
I started up. Aron flushed so that the bald top of his head grew red,
hopped back to his table, bit his pen, and set to writing at an
indescribable rate, as though he was sensible he had said too much.
I leaned upon my elbow and looked at him. So I had a friend in the
household, after all! I hugged the thought close to me. Had he any
precise knowledge which prompted the advice? I wondered. But I could
not ask him, and for this reason amongst others--I was too grateful
for this proof of his goodwill to provoke him to a further
indiscretion. But as I looked at him, I recalled something which I had
noticed whilst riding about the estate. I suppose it was his
scribbling at the papers put it into my head, but once it had come
there, I thought vaguely that it might be of relevance.
"Aron," I said, "this plumbago? It is a valuable product?"
He looked at me startled.
"Yes," said he.
"The mine is opened once in five years?"
"Yes."
"And on that side of the mountain which faces Borrowdale?"
"Yes."
And with each assent his uneasiness increased.
"But there's a ravine runs back by the flank of the mountain, and on
the mountain-side there I saw a small lateral shaft."
"It is closed now, and has been for long," he interrupted eagerly.
"But it was open once," I persisted. "The place is secret. Who opened
it?"
"It was opened during Sir John Rookley's life," he answered, evading
the question.
"No doubt; but by whom?"
He shuffled his feet beneath the table.
I repeated the question.
"By whom?"
"By Mr. Jervas," he answered reluctantly.
"With Sir John's knowledge and consent?"
Aron glanced at me with an almost piteous expression.
"Sir John knew of it."
"But before it was opened, or afterwards?"
The answer was slow in coming, but it came at last.
"Afterwards."
"Then I take it," I resumed, "that Mr. Jervas Rookley robbed his
father?"
I spoke in a loud tone, and Aron started from his seat, his eyes drawn
towards the door. I rose from the sofa and opened it; there was no one
in the passage, but I left the door open. When I turned back again I
saw that Aron was looking at me in some perplexity, as if he wondered
whether I _knew_.
"But his father forgave him," he said gently.
"Very true," said I, fixing my eyes steadily upon him; "and besides,
it is hardly fair to rake up the misdeeds of a man who is so very far
away."
I spoke the words very slowly one by one. Aron's mouth dropped; a
paper which he had been holding in his hand fluttered to the floor.
The perplexity in his eyes changed into a blank bewilderment, and from
bewilderment to fear.
"You know, sir?" he whispered, nodding his head once or twice in a way
that was grotesque. "Then you know?"
"I know this, Aron," I interrupted hastily. "I hold the estate of
Blackladies upon this condition: that I do not knowingly part with a
farthing of its revenue to Mr. Jervas Rookley. You know that? You know
that if I fail to fulfil that condition the estate goes to the Crown?"
Aron nodded.
"But this you do not know," I continued. "When Ashlock came to me in
Paris, and told me that Mr. Jervas was disinherited because he was a
Jacobite, I refused to supplant him, being a Jacobite myself. It was
my steward who persuaded me, and by this argument: that when King
James came to his throne, the will might easily be set aside. I
accepted Blackladies upon those terms--as a trust for Mr. Jervas. But
to keep that trust I must fulfil the conditions of the will. I must
not knowingly do aught for Mr. Rookley. The condition should be easy,
for I have never been presented to Mr. Jervas. I have not so much as
seen a portrait of him"--and at this Aron started a little; "he might
be living in my house as one of my servants. I might even suspect
which was he; but I should have no proof. I should not know."
Aron gazed at me with wondering eyes.
"You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?" he asked, and I
gathered from the tone of the question that my steward had thought fit
to keep that knowledge to himself.
"And hope to do so until it can be restored to him. But," I urged, "I
am in no great favour with the Whigs in these parts, and if they could
prove I knowingly supported Mr. Jervas, they would not, I fancy, miss
the occasion. My attorney, for instance, is a Whig and the attorney of
Whigs, and they tell me strangely enough that Mr. Jervas Rookley has
been seen in Keswick."
Aron, however, seemed to be thinking of something totally apart. He
said again, and with the same wonderment--
"You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?"
"That is so," said I, "but it need not keep us out of bed." And I
walked into the passage.
Aron lifted up the lamp and very politely led the way to my door.
There he stopped and came into the room with me.
"Sir," said he, setting down the lamp, "you will pardon me one more
question?"
"It is another privilege of the old servant," I answered with a yawn.
"You were poor when Mr. Ashlock came to you in Paris?"
"Penniless," said I, and I began kicking off my boots lazily.
"Then God knows," he cried, "I would you were Sir John Rookley's son;"
and with that he plumped down on his knees and drew off my boots. And
this time I suffered him to do it.
I had not done with him, however, even for that night. For an hour or
so later, when I was asleep in bed, some one shook me by the shoulder.
I looked with blinking eyes at the flame of a candle held an inch from
my nose. Behind the candle was Aron, with a coat buttoned up to his
chin as though he had thrown it over his nightgear.
"Aron," I said plaintively, "the question will keep till to-morrow."
"It is no question, sir, and to-morrow I shall be in Newlands," he
said gravely. "I know nothing--only, were I you, I would not ride
again to Keswick."
"Well, I shall not ride there to-morrow, at all events," I said,
"since to-morrow I leave for Grasmere."
But on the morrow I did ride thither after all. For I woke up the next
morning with one thought fixed in my mind, as though it had taken
definite shape there the while I lay asleep. I must discover Rookley's
business with Anthony Herbert. The matter was too urgent for delay. My
resolve to sit no more for my portrait, my journey to Grasmere I set
on one side; and while I was yet at breakfast I ordered a horse to be
saddled. The fellow hurried off upon the errand, and I seemed to
detect, not merely in his bearing but in the bearing of all who had
attended me that morning, a new deference and alertness in their
service; and I wondered whether Aron had shared with them his recent
knowledge of my purpose.
As I rode down the drive I chanced to look back to the house, and I
saw Aron on the steps, shaking his head dolefully, but I kept on my
way.
Mr. Herbert received me with the air of a man that seeks to master an
excitement. He worked fitfully, with fitful intervals of talk, and I
remarked a deep-seated fire in his eyes, and a tremulous wavering of
the lips. His manner kept me watchful, but never a hint did he drop of
any design between my steward and himself. On the contrary, his
conversation was all in praise of his wife, and the great store and
reliance he set on her. I listened to it for some while, deeming it
not altogether extravagant; but after a little I began again to fall
back upon my old question, "What end could my steward serve by playing
me false?" and again, "In what respect could Herbert help him?"
In the midst of these speculations, an incident occurred which struck
them clean out of my mind. I was attracted first of all by something
which Herbert was saying.
"It is out of the fashion," he said, with a sneer, "for a man to care
for his wife, and ludicrous to own to it. But it is one of the few
privileges of an artist, however poor he be, that he need take no
stock of fashions; and for my part, Mr. Clavering, I love my wife."
I replied carelessly enough that the profession was very creditable to
him, for in truth I had seen him behave towards her with so cruel an
inconsistency of temper that I was disinclined to rate his
protestations very high.
"And so greatly, Mr. Clavering," he went on--"so greatly do I love
her, that"--and here he threw down his pencils and took a step or two
until he reached the window--"that if aught happened amiss to her I do
not think I should live long after it, If she deceived me, I do not
think that I should care to live. I do not think I should even hold it
worth while to exact a retribution from the man who helped in the
deceit."
And I saw his wife in the open doorway. She must have caught every
word. I saw a flush as of anger overspread her face, and the flush
give place to pallor.
"Mr. Ashlock, my steward, was with you last night, Mr. Herbert. Was it
upon this subject that you talked?"
Herbert flung round upon his heel
"You take a tone I do not understand," he said, after a pause. "You
may have a right to pry into the conversations of your servants, Mr.
Clavering, but I am not one of them"--and of a sudden he caught sight
of his wife in the doorway. "You here?" he asked with a start.
"It is only fair," she answered, "that I should be present when you
discuss my frailties with your patrons. But it seems," and her voice
hardened audibly, "you do me the kindness to discuss them with your
patrons' servants too."
She stood before him superb in pride; every line of her body seemed to
demand an answer.
"It is because I love you," he answered feebly; and at that her
quietude gave way.
She flung up her arms above her head.
"Because you love me!" she cried "Was ever woman so insulted, and on
so mean a plea?" And she sank down at the table in a passion of tears.
Herbert stepped over to her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.
She shook his hand off, and rising of a sudden, confronted me with a
blazing face.
"And you!" she cried bitterly--"you could listen to such talk--ay,
like your servant!" And she swept out of the room before either her
husband or myself could find a word to say.
Indeed, though I had not thought of the matter in that light before, I
considered her accusation of the justest, and the sound of her sobbing
remained in my ears, tingling me to pity of the woman and a sore
indignation against the husband. It was for myself I should have
felt that indignation I knew well, but I am relating what occurred,
and--well, maybe I paid for the offence heavily enough.
"Mr. Herbert," said I, rising, with as much calmness as I could
command, "I will not trouble you to continue the work."
"But the portrait!" he exclaimed, almost in alarm. "It is my best
work!" And he stood a little aloof gazing at it.
"The portrait!" I cried, in a fury at his insensibility--"the portrait
may go hang!"
"On the walls of Blackladies?" he asked, with a quick sneer.
"Oh," said I slowly, "you gossiped to some purpose with my steward, it
appears."
He stood confused and silent I went into the room where it was my
habit to change my dress, and left him. But when I came out I found
him standing in the passage with a lighted candle in his hand, though
it was broad noonday. Doubtless I looked my surprise at him.
"An ill-lighted staircase, Mr. Clavering, is the devil," he remarked;
and with a sardonic deference he preceded me to the street.
"It will rain, I think," he said, looking op at the sky.
"The air is very heavy," said I.
He stretched out the candlestick to the full length of his arm, and
the flame barely wavered.
"Yes, no doubt it will rain," he repeated.
I noticed that one or two people who were passing up the street
stopped, as well they might, and stared at us. I bent forward and blew
out the candle.
"You will pardon me," I said.
"It has served its purpose," said he, and he kicked the door to behind
me.
I mounted, and walked my horse slowly homewards. About two miles from
the town I dismounted, and tethering my horse to a tree, paced about
the lake shores, resolved to unpick his sentences word by word until I
had disentangled from amongst them some reference which would give me
an inkling into the steward's designs. He had told Herbert of that
talk we had had together in the hall concerning the hanging of the
picture. Of so much I was assured, and so much I still found myself
abstractedly repeating an hour later. For alas! in spite of my
resolve, my thoughts had flown along a very different path. I had a
vision of the woman, and her alternations from pride to tears, ever
fixed before my eyes. It was myself who had caused them. One moment I
accused myself for not undertaking her defence, the next for that I
had ever entered her lodging; and whatever outcry I made sprang from
the single conviction that I was responsible to her for the distress
which she had shown. Just for that moment there seemed but two people
upon God's earth--myself and a woman wronged by me.
"Mr. Clavering."
The name was uttered behind me with an involuntary cry, and I knew the
voice. I turned me about, and there was Mrs. Herbert standing in a gap
of the trees.
She was dressed as I had seen her an hour ago, with the addition of a
hood thrown loosely over her head.
"What can I do?" I cried. "I can think of nothing. It is my fault, all
this. God knows I am sensible of the remorse; I feel it at the very
core of my heart; but that does not help me to the remedy. What can I
do?"
"It is not your fault," she replied gently. "This would have happened
sooner or later. Jealousy is never at a loss to invent an opportunity.
No, it is not your fault."
"But it is," I cried. "You know it; you know that the excuse you make
for me is no more than a kindly sophistry. It is my fault. What can I
do?"
She gave me no answer; indeed, it almost seemed as though there was
something of impatience in her attitude.
I moved a few steps away and sat down upon a boulder by the water's
edge, with my head between my hands.
"There is but one thing that I can do," I said, and I heard her move a
step or two nearer. "But it is so small, so poor a thing;" and at that
I think she stopped. "I shall not go back again to Mr. Herbert's
lodging."
"Neither shall I."
The words dulled and stupefied me like a blow. I sat staring out
across the lake, and I noticed a ripple that broke and broke in a tiny
wave, ever at the same spot, some thirty yards from the shore. I fell
to counting the waves, I remember, and lost my reckoning and began
afresh; and in a while I commenced to laugh, though it did not sound
like laughter.
"Neither shall I," she repeated, and struck the laugh dead. I started
from my seat. She stood patiently before me with folded hands, and to
argue against that patience seemed the merest waste of words. Before,
however, I could make the effort, her spirit changed. Passion leapt
out of her like a flame. "I hate him," she cried, beating her hands
one upon the other. "Oh, to be made a common talk for his
acquaintances! The humiliation of it! Servants too, he will debate of
me with them, for them to mock at."
"No!" I answered vehemently. "You do not know that. It was I that
spoke of my steward and I knew nothing. I did but guess idly,
heedlessly. It was not he, it was I who spoke of Ashlock." But there
was no sign of assent in her demeanour. "It was I spoke of him," I
repeated, "and before you. Ah, God, it is my doing this, from the
beginning to the end!"
"Think!" she went on, taking no more notice of my interruption. "They
are making merry over me in your servants' hall. Think, Lancelot!"
She tried to check the name, but it was carried beyond her lips on the
stream of her passion. A great silence fell upon us both; I saw the
colour come and go fitfully upon her face, and her bosom rise and fall
with her fitful breath. Then she covered her face with her hands and
sank down upon the boulder.
Yes, I thought, it was my fault. They had quarrelled before, but never
for such a reason; and that reason I had provided. I had gone there of
my own free will to serve my own objects. But, somehow, as I looked at
her seated by my side, the thought of the slatternly room she had been
compelled to live in shot into my mind. I remembered how unfitted to
her I had thought it on my first going thither. Of a sudden, while I
was thus watching her, she lifted her eyes to mine. What babbling
incoherencies I spoke, I do not know; I do not think she caught more
than their drift. If they are known at all, it is because they stand
ranged against my name in the Judgment Book. I became like one drunk,
his senses reeling, his words the froth of his vilest passions. I
think that I cried.
"Be it so, then! Since the harm is done, let the name be Lancelot;"
but I know that she rode before me on my horse to the gates of
Blackladies, that we dismounted there and walked up to the house; and
that I found the hall-door open, and the house to all seeming
deserted.
Now, this day was the 23rd of August.