PROGRESS.
Before Frank returned to his quarters, he had received his mother’s
promise that she would call at Richmont. ‘I have given up all that sort
of thing on my own account,’ Mrs. Renton had said. ‘I will never go into
society again. All that is over for me; and I hope your friends
understand so. I can’t entertain people, you know; but anything that is
for my boy’s interests,’ the mother said, magnanimously, sitting up
among her pillows,--that was quite a different matter. Fifty thousand
pounds going a-begging, so to speak, when such a small affair as her own
card, or, at the worst, ten minutes’ talk, might determine the house to
which it should come! There could be no doubt about a mother’s duty in
such circumstances. Laurie, it was true, was out of the way; but there
was no reason why Frank should not take advantage of such a windfall.
Mrs. Renton’s mind was not troubled by any of the scruples that moved
Mary Westbury. Perhaps,--it was so long since it had come in her
way,--love had lost its importance in her eyes. Perhaps she had never
felt its necessity in any very urgent way. Mr. Renton had been the best
of husbands, but yet it could not be said that there had been much
sentiment, not to say passion, in their union. But Mrs. Renton, like
every other sensible woman, understood the value of fifty thousand
pounds. She had already made a calculation in her own mind as to the
income it would produce. ‘It can’t possibly be at less interest than
five per cent,--with a father to manage it who knows all about money,’
she said. ‘Five per cent on fifty thousand makes twenty-five hundred.
They might take Cookesley Lodge and live very comfortably on that; and I
should have them always near me.’ This reflection made Mrs. Renton not
only willing, but anxious, to pay the promised visit. She questioned her
son a great deal about Nelly before he left her. What she was like, and
the colour of her hair, and her height, and a hundred other details. ‘If
she is pretty it is so much the better,’ she said, with maternal
indulgence for a young man’s weakness. ‘I do not say anything, Frank,’
she told him, as she bade him good-bye, ‘for I see you are turning it
over in your mind. And you know I am not mercenary, nor given to think
about money. Alas! there are many things that money cannot do! It can’t
buy health when one has lost it. But it has always been my opinion that
to marry young was the very best thing for a man. And, my dear boy, if
it is in your power to secure your own happiness, and other things as
well, I hope you will be guided for the best.’ She meant that she hoped
he would be guided to the fifty thousand pounds. And Frank understood
what she meant as well as if she had said it. Mrs. Renton had never been
poor in her life, and yet she appreciated money; whereas Mary Westbury,
who had been brought up in a very limited household, and by a very
prudent mother, felt in this present instance a scorn for it which no
words could express. When she went out to the door in the starlight to
see her cousin off, her mind was full of thoughts half contemptuous,
half bitter. There was no moon, but a soft visionary light in the skies,
partly of the stars, partly that lingering reflection of light which
makes a summer evening so beautiful. Mary stood in the dark shadow of
the doorway and watched Frank getting into the dog-cart. She said her
good-night with a certain plaintive tone. ‘Good-night! but you don’t say
good luck, Mary,’ cried Frank, as he lighted his cigar. She came out
upon the steps, and looked up wistfully at him as he spoke. The shadows
of the trees hung dark all round, swallowing up in gloom the road by
which he was going; and in the opening, out of the shadow, Mary looked
at him, and thought he looked half-defiant, half-deprecating, as he
struck a light, which made his form visible for a moment. The horse was
fresh, and stood with impatience waiting the signal to start.
‘Good-night,’ Mary repeated; ‘I don’t know about the good luck:’ and
then he was suddenly whirled away into the darkness. The dog-cart was
audible going down the long line of avenue to the gate which opened on
the highroad, and now and then appeared for a moment out of the shadow
where the trees separated. She felt melancholy to see the boy thus
dashing forth, doubting and unguided, into the world. She was very
little older than he was, and yet Mary kindly felt the insufficiency of
Frank’s youth to keep him in the straight way, much more keenly than he
felt it himself. He was going, and nobody could tell what he was going
to. And there was nobody to stand in his way and advise him. Thus Frank
went out of sight, and the two ladies stopped behind with their
different thoughts. Mary was not alone in her knowledge of his
intentions; the entire household was soon pervaded by a sense of the
coming event. Mrs. Renton, as she took her arrowroot, could not but give
a hint of what she supposed to be going on to her confidential maid, and
that trusted creature was not reticent. ‘Mr. Frank’s going to marry a
lady as has made a terrible fuss about him,’ the butler said, ‘as
rich,--as rich----! I hope, when he comes into his fortune, he’ll have
something done to keep us a-going here. It’s hawful is this quiet,--and
us as always had so much visiting.’ ‘He’ll beat the old ones all to
sticks,’ said the cook; ‘but I always said Mr. Frank was the one.’ Thus
it will be seen that he left a universal excitement behind him, and
that of a favourable character. A wedding in prospect is always pleasant
to everybody, and the servants’ hall was as much impressed by the duty
of marrying money as was their mistress. Only Mary in her heart, and one
small housemaid, were sensible of the other side of the question. From
Mrs. Renton, down to the boy who blacked the shoes, the feeling, with
these two exceptions, was general. To have married for any other reason
might have produced as many criticisms as congratulations. Frank would
have been set down as too young,--a foolish boy; but to marry money was
a thing so reasonable, that nobody could but applaud.
And Frank himself felt all its reasonableness as he returned to his
quarters. He took the train at Cookesley Station for Royalborough; and
when he had to change carriages at Slowley junction, stood and kicked
his heels on the platform, so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not
leisure to be impatient. In every way it was the most reasonable, the
most natural, the most feasible thing. He cast his eye round the county,
as it were, as he stood waiting for the down-train. For a man who was
going to settle down, no county could be better than Berks. It was his
own county, in the first place, where his family were known and
considered,----and then it had a hundred advantages. It was so near
town that a man could run up for a day as often as it pleased him; a
good hunting county, with pleasant society, and the garrison at
Royalborough, in which there are always sure to be some of his regiment,
within reach. He cast his eye metaphorically over the district, and
recollected that Cookesley Lodge was to let, and also that pretty house
near St. Leonard’s. Either of them, he thought, would do very well for a
small establishment. So far as this his thoughts had advanced. He
settled a great many things as he stood on the platform at the Slowley
junction, and paced up and down with echoing feet, neither fuming nor
fretting, absorbed in his own thoughts. The station-master kept out of
Frank’s way, in fear of being called to account for the lateness of the
train; but he was too much occupied even to think of the train. To be
sure, he could afford a good hunter or two without interfering with the
other needs of the _ménage_ in respect of horses. He thought of
everything,--from the little brougham and the pony-carriage, and the
cart for his private use, down even to the dogs which should bark about
the place, and hail him when he came home. He thought of everything,
except of the central figure who would bring all these luxuries in her
hand. Certainly, he did not think of her. A chorus of barking terriers,
pointers, mastiffs,--I know not how many kinds of dogs,--seemed already
in his thoughts to bid him welcome as he drew near the imaginary house.
But there was no representation in his mind of any sweeter welcome. He
imagined the terriers, but not the wife running to the door to meet
him. That he left out, and he was not even aware of the omission. On the
whole, it grew pleasant to the eye,--this imaginary house. A Renton was
sure of a good reception in the county which had known the family for
hundreds of years; and if he wanted occupation, there was the Manor
estate, left in the lawyer’s hands only during the seven years’
interregnum, which he could always keep an eye on; and his mother’s
interests, and her own property, which she would be so glad to have him
at hand to see after. Cookesley, on the whole, would be the best. It was
near the Manor, and not quite so near Richmont; and then there would be
the river for the amusement of idle hours. It was a pleasant prospect
enough. Youth, health, a good hunter, a pretty house, a
pleasantly-assured position, and,--say at the least,--two thousand five
hundred pounds a-year! A man should have no call to mope who had all
these good things. Something, it is true, he left out from the
calculation, but there was enough to fill any man with very comfortable
sensations in what remained.
Thus it happened that he had almost made up his mind when he got back to
Royalborough. He had weighed all the arguments in favour of such a step,
and had found them unanswerable. The arguments against,--what were they?
It is, indeed, impossible to formalise them or set such weak pleas
against the solid, sturdy weight of reason which lay on the other side.
Indeed, there was nothing that could be called an argument,--certain
wandering notes of music that now and then stole with a bewildering
effect upon his ear,--faint, momentary visions of a face which was not
Nelly’s. But what then? To be fond of music is no reproach to a man,
even if the future partner of his bosom does not play; and as for the
face, why any face may spring up in your memory, and glance at you now
and then by times without any blame of yours. Some people, as is well
known, are haunted for days by a face in a picture; and what did it
matter to anybody if Frank’s imagination, too, were momentarily haunted
by the picture which he had made of a certain sweet countenance?
He felt that he had quite made up his mind when he went to bed; but the
morning brought back a certain uncertainty. What a pity that Laurie
could not have been got to do it,--Laurie, for whom it would have been
so completely suitable! leaving Frank free to go to India! He could not
but feel that this was indeed a spite of fortune. Laurie, poor fellow!
could not go to India,--he never would make his own way anywhere,--he
would only moon about the world and make himself of use to other people;
and, so far as his own interests were concerned, would end just where he
began. Whereas Frank felt confident that he himself could have made his
way. And Laurie wanted somebody to take care of him, to give a practical
turn to his dreamings, to keep him comfortable in his wanderings to and
fro. If he could only be sent for from Italy even yet! What could have
tempted him to go to Italy at this time of the year, which everybody
knew was the very worst time,--bad for health, and impossible for work?
Frank shook his head in his youthful prudence at the vagaries of those
artist-folk. They never could be relied upon one way or another. They
were continually doing things which nobody else did,--going away when
they were wanted at home,--staying when they should go away. It must
have been some demon which had put it into Laurie’s head to take himself
off at this particular moment, leaving to his conscientious brother the
task of dealing with that fifty thousand pounds. Indeed, the morning
light brought home to Frank more and more clearly the sense that this
step he was contemplating was duty. The evening had had certain
softening effects. The pretty little house, and the hunters, and the
terriers, and all the pleasant country-gentleman occupations to which
the young man had been born, came clearly before him at that pleasant
hour. But, by daylight, it was the duty involved which was most apparent
to Frank. He had no right to allow such an opportunity to slip through
his fingers. If he did so, he might never have such a chance again. To
neglect it was foolish,--wrong,--even sinful. He gave a little
half-suppressed sigh as he sat down to breakfast, feeling strongly that
high principle involved some inevitable pangs. But should he be the man
to turn his back upon an evident duty because it cost him something? No!
Ben might take the bit in his teeth and go out to America to make his
fortune, like the head-strong fellow he was; and Laurie might prefer his
own foolish devices to every substantial advantage under heaven; but
Frank was not the man to run away. He could see what the exigencies of
his position demanded, and he was not one to shirk his duty. And then,
poor boy! he rounded his deliberations by humming very dolefully a bar
or two of a certain plaintive melody, and ended all by a sigh.
‘Sighing like a furnace,’ said Edgbaston, who came in unceremoniously,
followed by Frank’s servant with the kidneys,--for his thoughts did not
much affect his appetite,--and his letters. ‘My dear fellow, that’s
serious. Ah, I see you have a card for the grand fête. We are all
invited, I think.’
‘What grand fête?’ said Frank.
‘There it is,’ said his friend, turning over the letters, and producing
an enormous square envelope ornamented with a prodigious coat-of-arms in
crimson and gold. ‘These are something like armorial bearings, you know.
By Jove! people ought to pay double who go in for heraldry to that
extent. Mine is not as big as a threepenny bit. It’s a case of swindling
the Exchequer. The arms of the great house of Rich, my boy. Don’t you
know?’
‘There are Riches who are as good gentlefolks as we are,’ said Frank,
already feeling that this scoff affected his own credit.
‘Oh, better,’ cried Edgbaston. ‘We are only Brummagem,--I confess
it,--with a pinchbeck coronet. But I doubt if our friends are of the old
stock. Open and read, Frank; this day fortnight. Archery
fête,--everything that is most alluring,--croquet, good luncheon, dance
to wind up with. We’re all going. Hallo! there’s a note enclosed for
you!’
‘And why shouldn’t there be a note enclosed?’ said Frank, colouring
high, and thrusting the small epistle under his other letters. ‘I
suppose all of you had the same?’
‘The card was thought enough for me,’ said Edgbaston. ‘Well, well, I
don’t repine. But I say, Frank, if you are going in for that in earnest,
I see no use in carrying on about India. And I came to tell you of a
fellow in the 200th who wants to get off going. Montague,--he’s to be
heard of at Cox’s. You can do what you like about it of course, but you
can’t go in for both.’
‘For both?’ said Frank; ‘what do you mean? I don’t know anything else I
am going in for. Did you say Montague of the 200th? Going to Calcutta,
are they? Thanks, Edgbaston. I’ll think it over. Of course one can’t
make one’s mind up all at once.’
‘I advise you to think it well over,’ said his friend; ‘and the other
thing, too. You may look as unconscious as you please, but you can’t
conceal that you are the favourite, Frank. And, by Jove, it shows her
sense. She’s as jolly a little thing as ever I saw, and there’s no end
to the tin. If I were in your place, I’d see India scuttled first. I
don’t know a fellow who might be more comfortable; and I can tell you,
you’ll be an awful fool, my dear boy, if you let her slip through your
hands.’
‘Stuff!’ cried Frank. ‘I wish you’d let a man eat his breakfast in
peace, without all this rubbish. Archery fête, is it? I didn’t know
anybody went in for archery now-a-days; and, as for croquet, I am sick
of it. I don’t think I shall go. What sort of a fellow is Montague? The
best thing would be to run up to town, and have a talk with him at
once.’
‘If that is what you have determined on,’ said Edgbaston; ‘but, Frank,
if I were you, with such a chance----’
‘Oh, confound the chance!’ said Frank; and the rest of the conversation
was based on the idea that his heart was set on the proposed exchange,
on the prospects of the 200th, and his own immediate banishment. He
thought he had done it very cleverly, when at last he got rid of his
comrade. But Edgbaston was not the man to be so easily deceived. He
explained the whole matter confidentially to the first group of men he
encountered. ‘Look here, you fellows,’ he said; ‘mind how you talk of
little Rich to Frank Renton. He has made up his mind to go in for Nelly,
and he’s awfully thin-skinned about it, and sets up all sorts of
pretences. Frank’s the favourite, I always told you; I’ll give you five
to one they are married in six months.’
Thus Frank’s affairs were discussed, though he flattered himself he had
so skilfully blinded his critic. When Edgbaston was gone, he drew the
little note from beneath the other papers. It was from Nelly, as he
thought, and there was not much in it,--but yet,--
‘DEAR MR. RENTON,--Mamma bids me say that she forgot, when you were
here, to tell you of the little party to which the enclosed card is
an invitation. They were all put up on Saturday, before you came,
and we forgot them. And I open your envelope only lest you should
think it strange that we never said anything about it. I hope you
had a pleasant walk to Cookesley. The river must have been lovely.
‘The fête is in my poor little honour, so I hope you will come. It
happens to be my birthday;--not that anybody except my own people
can be supposed to care for that; but you, who are so fond of your
family, will excuse poor papa and mamma for making a fuss. You
know I am the only girl they have; though I am only
‘NELLY.’
‘_Richmont,_
‘_Monday morning._’
Only,--Nelly! It was a tantalising, seductive little note, which tempted
a young fellow to answer, even when he had nothing to say. She must have
written it as soon as he was gone. She must have been thinking of him
quite as much, at least, as he had been thinking of her. Something of
the natural complacency and agreeable excitement which, even when there
is nothing more serious in hand, moves a young man in his correspondence
with a girl, breathed about Frank as he wrote his reply. He told her he
could perfectly understand the fuss that would be made, and that it was
astonishing how many follies other people, who could not claim such a
tender right of relationship, might be tempted to do for the sake of a
little personage who was only,--Nelly. And then he begged pardon on his
knees for the familiarity. Thus it will be seen that things were making
considerable progress in every way. This snatch of letter-writing did
more for the sentimental side of the question than half-a-dozen
interviews. The pretty little note with Nelly’s little cipher on it, the
suggestions of the conclusion, the humility which asserted a subtle
claim on his discrimination as a man fond of his own family,--all this
moved Frank, who was not used to such clever little suggestive
correspondences. For the first time it occurred to him that Nelly was a
sweet little name, and that it would be pleasant to have its little
owner rush to meet him when he went home. For one moment the hunters and
the terriers fell into the background. Thus it will be seen that the
affair made admirable progress in every possible way.