THE FIRST OBSTRUCTION IN A CERTAIN SCHEME
OF AMBITION AND REVENGE.
During Phœbe’s visit to her old home, Lord Verner called twice. His
lordship was particularly gracious, and evidently deeply enamoured of
Amy.
When he came Amy was careful to put on her best smiles. It seemed to
Phœbe as if she delighted in watching the effect of her little sallies
of pleasantry and wit upon the love-sick earl. She humoured and petted
him in her conversation, and at the same time triumphed over him. She
seemed to give way to all his whims, and yet had her own way.
His lordship had at first been all anxiety that the marriage should
be particularly quiet, and Amy had appeared to enter into his
plans in this respect; but now he was for all sorts of extravagant
demonstration, and Amy led him on so far, that it would be impossible
to give up any important points in the general display.
And she looked so fresh, and bright, and happy in his love, and Lord
Verner appeared to be so proud of her, that Phœbe almost began to
believe that happiness would come of the union.
No one could say that Amy would not fill her high station so far as
appearance, and carriage, and manners were concerned. She looked every
inch a countess already. And she knew it; for she took all manner of
pains to set off her graceful, well defined figure. Dainty robes of
well studied colour to throw up her clear, but dark complexion; scarlet
bands in her black hair, with a simple diamond star that did not
sparkle more brightly than her own bright eyes. Pretty ruffles on her
wrists, and about her neck, and dainty shoes upon her feet, that now
and then peeped forth from beneath her embroidered petticoat; she had
a powerful fascination for Earl Verner. She seemed to be unconscious of
her charms, and this made her doubly attractive.
What would his lordship have said if he could have overheard that
conversation between his betrothed and her friend with the sweet
Miranda face? He would not have been more surprised, we suspect, than
Mr. Lionel Hammerton, who was in India all this time, blissfully
ignorant of all that was going on at Barton,--blissfully ignorant of
the recent changes. If any one had told him that his thorough-going old
bachelor brother was engaged to be married, he would have treated it as
a good joke. And supposing the gossip had supplemented that statement
with a true history of the case, he would have given him considerable
credit for imagination, and pooh-poohed the whole thing.
Amy Somerton discovered to be Christopher Tallant’s daughter, and Miss
Tallant no other than the bailiff’s daughter!--changed in infancy by
the bailiff’s wife! Old Tallant dead, and made Amy his heiress, cut off
his son, not even with a shilling. And Earl Verner going to marry the
young lady that Lionel had flirted with, and whose likeness was hung
outside those mosquito curtains! Of course he would not have believed
a word of it. He would more readily have accepted the incidents in the
novel he had been reading than these. Besides, who could be expected to
believe that those two girls had been changed in their cradles? It was
such an old story, that; all very well in a poem or a romance, but it
could never occur in the Vale of Avonworth.
Perhaps, _chers amis_, you, too, may think in this wise. The idea
is not a new one, we must confess; but if it is a fact, you will
accept it as worthy of record, not for its own sake, but on account
of the consequences arising out of Mrs. Somerton’s mistaken ambition.
Remember, friends, there is no new thing under the sun. We have this
upon the authority of the wisest of all men, and the preacher is
verified in ten thousand ways. As far back as the thirteenth century
one Friar Bacon, probably writing upon facts and traditions handed
down from times long antecedent to his own day, anticipated in his
works the railway, the steamship, the hydraulic engine, and the
balloon. The Chinese were printers before the ancient Romans discovered
Britain, and the Romans made gunpowder when there were naked savages
living in the neighbourhood of Barton Hall. The Chinese had discovered
gas long before we knew anything about it. Chloroform, photography, the
telegraph, and a hundred other “new” inventions, were old things used
and forgotten before we heard of them. Have not all the finest thoughts
that can enter the brain of scholar or poet been thought before? and
does not some classical writer anathematise the great men who had
said all the good things before him? All that long race of thinkers
and writers, and poets and orators, and tale-tellers and humourists,
and playwrights,--what room have they left for a mere story-teller to
interest and say something new?
“There is nothing new under the sun.” But there ought to be something
new in a novel, nevertheless, most readers seem to think. Critical
readers claim something new at the novelist’s hands, and rate him and
he dare to walk in beaten tracks. Next to something new comes something
true. This shall protect our neck from the sharp edge of the sword
that hangs by that Damoclean thread which is so easily severed. We are
telling a tale with Truth for its basis, and how can the mere historian
help it if there is nothing new in one of the main incidents of his
narrative? Human hopes and fears, and sorrows and troubles, and joys
and pleasures, are a constant repetition of the same occurrences, and
love of money forms the axis upon which this world of trouble revolves.
When you tell your favourite little stories after dinner--incidents
in your own life--you don’t think there is nothing new under the sun
then--eh? “New or not, they are true,” you say. Very well, sir, and
so is this history; and if there is one part of it more truthful than
another, it is that quiet but important bit of exchange performed in
those early days of those charming young women, who used to live like
sisters at Barton Hall. Ask old Dibble if this is not a true story;
ask Arthur Phillips and his wife; ask the Right Hon. the Countess of
Verner; go down to Avonworth, and visit Barton Hall.
Lionel Hammerton would not have believed it, nevertheless, and he will
return from India utterly ignorant of all the changes that have taken
place up to this period of our story; for those two letters written
by a certain painter, and the one sealed with a coronet, are destined
to pass their owner on the high seas, both travelling in different
directions.
If Lord Verner would have been very much surprised could he have heard
that conversation between the two ladies at Barton Hall, what would he
have thought of the following dialogue, which was spoken a few days
afterwards.
“I must confess I am a little surprised,” said Miss Tallant, “that you
should not have given me notice of your visit.”
“It did not occur to me that such a measure was needful from a brother
to his sister,” said Mr. Richard Tallant, coolly throwing himself into
an easy chair.
“Brother and sister, truly,” said Miss Tallant, with dignity, “but
hitherto somewhat divided in feeling and opinion, and latterly by a
law-suit.”
“Yes, these things will occur; but you possess rather more than your
share, my sister, of our father’s goods. Would it have been otherwise
than fair to have given the son and heir half the property?”
“Would it not have been brotherly to give the sister an opportunity
at least to consider what course she should take before loading her
with threats, and commencing an action against her in Chancery?” said
Miss Tallant. “The wishes of the dead are entitled to respect, and
especially with regard to property left behind for others; but the
recipient of a fortune such as that which I have inherited could have
afforded to be generous, and would have endeavoured, no doubt, to give
effect to the impulses of her own heart, even in the interest of one
who did not deserve compassion.”
“Indeed!” said Richard; “you are quite eloquent, I declare. You fill
your high station magnificently. May I ring for luncheon?”
“Perhaps it would be a little more courteous in the first place to
explain your business, and in the next to leave the ordering of
luncheon to the mistress of the house.”
“As you please,” said Mr. Tallant--“as you please. I want you to
instruct Twyzell and Kits, your lawyers, to pay four thousand pounds to
my credit to-morrow.”
“Indeed!” said Miss Tallant.
“Yes, I will be frank with you. Certain important securities which I
hold have suddenly fallen in value, and a banking friend of mine who
holds them is anxious that the sum which they did represent should be
made up in cash; I am very desirous of obliging my friend, and I knew
you would oblige me.”
“Indeed,” repeated Miss Tallant, “I fear I must refer you to the
gentlemen whom you have mentioned; your legal process has quite removed
the affair beyond the pale of my consideration, whatever my feelings
with regard to it might be.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Richard Tallant, altogether uninfluenced by the
quiet, sarcastic smile which played round Miss Tallant’s mouth, and
ignoring altogether the evident annoyance which his effrontery excited,
and which Amy struggled unsuccessfully to hide.
“Is this your reply? Will you not _lend_ the money to your brother?”
“It may not be mine to lend; you have threatened to upset your father’s
will, and your lawyer professes to be certain that you can succeed
in doing so. I must refer you to Mr. Twyzell; and now I will order
luncheon for you,” said Amy, advancing towards the bell.
“Stay one moment,” said Richard, stroking his beard, in which already
there were many grey hairs; “it is useless to refer me to Twyzell; you
must write a note requesting him to let me have the money to-morrow. He
may lend it me without prejudice, as the lawyers say, so that it will
in nowise influence any legal proceedings that are pending. You must
do this, or I shall be compelled to say something very unpleasant. I
cannot possibly do without the money, and it is most convenient that
you should be the lender.”
“What does this mean?” said Amy. “You know that I have no other course
but to refer you to the lawyers, and it is idle to say more about it.”
“Very well; it is hard to force a gentleman and your brother, in
difficulties, to appear ungentlemanly and unbrotherly; but if he has no
other resource, he must use means which he would otherwise reject with
contempt. You are to be married to the Right Hon. the Earl Verner, of
Montem Castle; it is a great match.”
“Well,” said Miss Tallant, impatiently.
“Do you remember a confession you once made--it is a long time ago
now--to the young lady who was Miss Tallant then and your patroness.”
The questioner looked up to his sister to note the effect of his
interrogation; but there was no change in Amy’s face, though she began
to suspect why her visitor had exercised so much assumption of power
and authority in this unexpected interview.
“You were sitting together in the summer-house yonder on a spring
morning not unlike the present, and you entered into some very
interesting details with regard to myself, and also concerning your
love, or fancy, or liking, or whatever it is called, for Earl Verner’s
brother.”
Amy did not lose her self-control even at this point of the
conversation; but she remembered the time to which he alluded, and
remembered it vividly, for she had always believed that Richard Tallant
had overheard all she and Phœbe said on that particular occasion.
“When you pressed your ear against the keyhole?” she said, with a
scornful look.
“No, that was not necessary,” said Mr. Tallant; “the door was open a
little way, and two voices forced themselves upon my attention--that is
the courteous way of putting it.”
“Well, you have something more to say? Better say all you desire.”
“It occurred to me that you might spare me the pain of proceeding
further, and that you would write to Twyzell and Kits at once.”
“Since the subject is becoming interesting at last, I have no desire to
put an end to it now,” said Amy, who had some little time previously
sat down, with the table between herself and her visitor.
“Earl Verner would hardly like to hear that you were passionately in
love with his brother, and that his brother had jilted the woman he
is about to marry; besides, he is a generous fellow--he might give
the lady up to her first love, and particularly as he is invalided
sometimes and fond of a quiet life. I have business with his lordship
and thought of riding over this afternoon, if you could lend me a
horse.”
It was a desperate struggle for Amy to sit still and endure this; the
colour came and went in her cheeks, and her heart beat at a fever rate,
and then seemed to stop altogether; but still she sat in her chair,
and gave but slight indication of the sharpness of the poisoned shafts
which made such a sensible impression upon her. The humiliation of
bargaining for the maintenance of a secret from her husband--a secret
that might possibly break off an alliance which she had done so much to
encompass. But he would not believe it? And if he did, she could tell
him that all that silly passion was at an end. These thoughts passed
through her mind much more rapidly than the printer’s type has conveyed
them to the reader; but she made no sign.
“Shall I ride over to Montem, or return to town? If I go to town you
will hear no more from me, at all events until the marriage is over,
unless you would like me to give you away.”
This was another sting; it reminded Amy of her helpless and forlorn
position, and as she glanced at the fine manly form of her brother,
a pang of honest regret that they were so fearfully sundered, shot
through her heart, and almost brought the tears into her eyes.
“I think we understand each other,” said Mr. Tallant, as though this
suspense made him uncomfortable.
“Yes,” said Miss Tallant. “I am sorry to feel that I understand you,
Richard Tallant.”
It required no considerable effort for Amy to maintain her calmness,
though she had lately set up in her own way for a very clever actress;
but she did not break down. She rang the bell, ordered luncheon for Mr.
Richard Tallant, and desiring that gentleman to give her half an hour
to consider his request, withdrew and sought her own room.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Richard Tallant when she had gone, “a devilish
good fight she made of it: there’s no mistake about her parentage; if
anything had been wanting to prove our relationship, this interview
would clinch it.”
Mr. Tallant thereupon walked up to the mantel-piece, contemplated
himself, stroked his beard, and apostrophised his counterfeit.
“You must be an infernal blackguard, Richard Tallant, Esq., to work
such an infernal scheme as this against a woman! Upon my soul I believe
you are a bad fellow, a deuced bad fellow. How is it, my friend, you
are such a rascal? You had a fine opportunity once. I believe that
thief Gibbs ruined you, eh? Perhaps; perhaps not. But you have been
put to some tightish shifts, have you not, my friend, none tighter
than this? When a fellow can see his way out of certain ruin by a bit
of meanness, or whatever you like to call it, the temptation is very
great--is it not? Ha, well, it’s a wicked world, a wicked world. You
ought to have been the proprietor of this place, my friend: well, never
mind; you must manage to do with a part of it, eh? Yes, with a part of
it: half a loaf, you know.”
“Half a loaf did you say?” asked the quick-eared servant who had just
entered with a tray. “Yes, sir--white or brown?”
“Both,” said Mr. Tallant.
“Yes, sir; what wine will you take, sir?”
“Sherry,” said Mr. Tallant.
“Yes, sir.”
And the son of the dead merchant commenced his luncheon. Before he had
finished, the same servant brought him a note from Miss Tallant, which
enclosed a letter to Twyzell and Kits.
“That’s all right,” he said to himself; “give my love to Miss Tallant,
say I am greatly obliged to her, and that she need not give herself any
further trouble in the matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Poor Amy! She had not counted upon this new feature of difficulty in
her scheme of ambition and revenge. But she was resolved that nothing
should frustrate the accomplishment of the whole scheme which she had
planned out. She was betrothed to Lord Verner, and she would marry him
at any sacrifice, ay, even to standing at the altar with Mr. Richard
Tallant in the paternal and brotherly position he had mentioned. It was
rather singular that Richard Tallant as he returned to town that day
should have thought so much about this same contingency.
“Why should I not be one of the wedding guests?” he said, as he smoked
and waited for the next train at Orford Junction. “Why should I not
give her away?”