Rufus Black’s heart grew heavier still, and his sense of dread
deepened, as he steamed down to Canterbury in the express train. He
had a seat by a window in a second-class compartment in which were
four other passengers, but he was as much alone as if he had had the
compartment to himself. His travelling companions chatted and laughed
and jested among themselves, while he looked from his window upon
hop-gardens, green fields, and clustering hamlets, with sad, unseeing
eyes, and thought of his poverty, his friendlessness, and the slow
starvation that lay before him and his young wife.
“I could bear it for myself,” he thought bitterly. “But it is hard to
see Lally suffer, and I know she does suffer, although she seems so
light-hearted and brave. My poor little wife! Ah, what place have I in
the world of gay idlers and strong workers? I am neither the one nor
the other. What is to be the end of it all?”
He looked enviously at the workers in a brick-yard the train was
passing at that moment. There were men there, coarse and ignorant, but
brawny of limb and broad of chest; and there were children too, boys
and girls of tender years, working steadily for scanty pay; but they
were all workers, and they looked stolidly contented with their lot.
“With all my university education,” thought the boy artist bitterly,
“I am less capable of self-support than those ignorant brick-makers.
Why did my father bring me up with expensive tastes and like the heir
of fine estates, only to cast me off to starve at the first moment
I displeased him? What is the empty name of gentleman worth, if one
cannot keep it and be a worker? If he had put me to some trade, I
should not have been half so miserable to-day. I am only twenty years
old, and my life is a failure at the outset.”
The train swept on through new scenes, and the course of the young
man’s musings was changed, but their bitterness remained in full
strength.
“I wonder what my father can want of me,” he said to himself presently.
“How can he put me in the way of a fortune? He promised that I should
study law, but he has forgotten the promise. With a profession to
depend upon, I know I could win a competence. Perhaps it is to speak of
this he has sent for me this morning. He surely cannot mean for me,”
and the young man’s brow darkened, “to become a gambler, as he has
been? I shall refuse, if he proposes it. For my innocent Lally’s sake,
I will keep myself pure of his vices.”
This resolution was strong within him when he alighted from the train
at Canterbury and took a hansom cab to Wyndham village. The drive of
several miles was occupied with speculations as to what his father
wanted of him, and with thoughts of his young wife in her dingy
lodgings at New Brompton, and he did not even notice the houses, farms
and villas they passed, nor any feature of the scenery, until the horse
slackened his speed to a walk, and the driver opened his small trap in
the roof, and said:
“The house yonder on the ridge, sir, is Hawkhurst, the seat of the
Wynde family. Sir Harold Wynde died in India a year ago, you know, sir,
and the property belongs to his only child, a daughter. A mile or so
beyond is Wyndham village.”
Rufus Black turned his gaze upon the fair domain of the Wyndes. It lay
on both sides of the highway, stretching as far as his eye could reach.
The grand old mansion of gray stone, with outlying houses of glass
glittering in the summer sunshine like immense jewels, the great lawns,
the gardens, the park, the cool woods, all these made up one of the
fairest pictures the eyes of Rufus Black had ever rested upon.
“How glorious!” he said involuntarily. “And it all belongs to a lady!”
“Yes, sir, a mere girl,” replied the cabman. “She is at school in
France. It’s a great place, is Hawkhurst.”
He dropped the trap and urged on his horse, but Rufus continued to look
upon the house and estate with great, envious eyes. Why should all this
belong to one, and that one a mere girl, while he wanted for bread? His
soul was convulsed with bitterness and repining, and the shadow of his
trouble rested upon his face.
A few minutes of brisk driving brought them to Wyndham village, which
consisted merely of one long straggling street, lined with houses and
gardens. In the very centre of the street, upon four corners formed
by the intersection of a country road, was gathered the business
portion of the hamlet. Upon the corner was the village smithy, from
whose open door came the ringing sound of hammer upon anvil. A group
of countrymen were gathered about the door of the smithy, and a few
carts stood before it on the paved street. Upon a second corner was a
general shop and postoffice in one. Upon a third corner was a rival
establishment, of the same description, but without the advantage and
prestige of the postoffice, and on the fourth corner stood the Wyndham
Inn, with its swinging sign, ample court-yard and hospitable look.
It was an old stone building, with a wide portico in front, on which
were tables and chairs. Rufus Black was driven into the court, and
sprang out of the cab, at the same moment that the portly, rubicund
landlord came out to receive him. The young man inquired for his
father, and was informed that he was in his rooms at the inn. Rufus
paid and dismissed the cabman, and followed the landlord into the inn.
He was conducted up a flight of uncarpeted stairs, and the landlord
pointed out to him the door of a front chamber as the one at which he
was to knock. Rufus quietly lifted the latch and ushered himself into
the room, closing the door behind him.
The room was a pleasant little country parlor, with three casement
windows, a faded carpet on the floor, cane-seated furniture, and a
jug of flowers on the mantel-shelf. The sunlight streamed in, but its
heat was tempered by the delicious breeze. The Honorable Craven Black
was not in the room, but there were vestiges of his occupancy on every
side. Upon a small table stood his massive dressing case with mirror
and brushes mounted in exquisitely carved ivory, and with boxes and
bottle-stoppers of finely chased and solid gold. All the appointments
of the large case were luxurious in the extreme, and Rufus thought
bitterly that the sum which that Sybaritic affair had cost would be a
fortune to him in his own present destitution.
A beautiful inlaid writing case, a tobacco jar of the finest Sevres
porcelain, a Turkish pipe mounted in gold and amber, a liqueur case,
and various other costly trifles, were scattered lavishly about. The
Honorable Craven Black had never denied himself a luxury in his life,
and these things he carried with him wherever he went, as necessary to
his comfort and happiness.
Rufus Black’s lips curled as he looked on these luxuries and mentally
calculated their cost. He was in the midst of his calculation when the
door of the adjoining bedroom was opened from within, and his father
came out, habited in slippers and dressing-gown, and with an Indian
embroidered cap of scarlet and gold poised lightly on his fair head.
His light eyes opened a little wider than usual as he beheld his son,
and his usual cynical smile showed itself disagreeably around his white
teeth.
“So you’ve come at last, have you?” he exclaimed. “I expected you
yesterday.”
“I received your letter this morning, soon after breakfast, sir,”
answered Rufus, “and I came on at once in the express train. I have
changed my lodgings from the one you knew, and the letter was sent on
from my old to my new address.”
Mr. Black eyed his son critically, his cynical smile deepening.
“You have a general out-at-the-elbows look,” he observed. “You’ve gone
down hill since I threw you over. You look hungry and desperate!”
“I am both,” was the reply, in a reckless tone. “And I have reason to
be. I am starving!”
Mr. Black flung himself into the only easy chair the room afforded, and
made a gesture to his son to be seated upon the couch. Rufus obeyed.
“You are in the mood I hoped to find you,” declared the father, with
a disagreeable laugh. “Desperate--starving! That is better than I
expected. What has become of all your fine anticipations of wealth and
fortune achieved with your brush? You do not find it easy to paint
famous pictures?”
“I mistook my desires for ability,” cried Rufus, his eyes darkening
with the pain of his confession. “I have a liking for painting, and
I fancied that liking was genius. I find myself crippled by not
knowing how to do anything well. My pictures bring me in fifteen
shillings apiece, and cost me three days’ work. I could earn more at
brick-making--if I only knew how to make bricks. When you sent me to
the university, father, you said I should study a profession. I demand
of you the fulfilment of that promise. I want some way to earn my
living!”
“Better get a living without work,” said Mr. Black coolly. “I don’t
like work, and I don’t believe you do. You want to study law, but your
talents are not transcendent, my son--you will never sit upon the
woolsack.”
“If I can earn two hundred pounds a year, I will ask nothing more,”
said Rufus bitterly. “I have discovered for myself that my abilities
are mediocre. I shall never be great as anything--unless as a failure!
But if I can only glide along in the great stream of mediocre people,
and be nothing above or below them, I shall be content!”
“And you say this at twenty years old?” cried his father mockingly.
“You talk like one of double your years. Where have your hopefulness,
your bright dreams, your glowing anticipations, gone? You must have had
a hard experience in the last three months, to be willing to settle
down into a hard-working drudge!”
“My experience _has_ been hard.”
“I believe you. You look beaten out, worn out, discouraged. Now,
Rufus, I have sent for you that I may make your fortune as well as
mine. There is a grand prospect opening before you, and you can be one
of the richest men in England, if you choose to be sensible. But you
must obey my orders.”
“I cannot promise that before knowing what you demand,” said the son,
his face clouding. “I have no sympathy with your manner of life,
father. If you had not the advantage of titled connections, and did not
bear the title of ‘Honorable,’ you would be called an adventurer. You
know you would. I want nothing to do with your ways of life. I will not
be a gambler--not for all the wealth in England!”
“Don’t refuse till you are asked,” said Mr. Black harshly. “Don’t
imagine that I want to corrupt your fine principles by making a gambler
of you. I am no gamester, even though I play at cards. I play only as
gentlemen play. The game I have in hand for you is easily played, if
you have but ordinary skill. I can make you master of one of the finest
estates in England, if you but say the word!”
“Honorably? Can you do it honorably?” cried Rufus eagerly.
“Certainly. I would not propose anything dishonorable to one of your
nice sense of honor,” said Mr. Black, with sarcastic emphasis.
“What is it you would have me do?”
“You are young, enthusiastic, well looking and well educated,” said
Mr. Black, without paying heed to his son’s questions. “In short, you
are fitted to the business I have in hand. I intended to give you a
professional education, but if you obey me you won’t want it, and if
you do not obey me you may go to the dogs. I suppose your poverty has
driven that little low-born music teacher out of your head?”
“What has she to do with this business?”
“Nothing whatever. I want to make sure that you are well rid of her,
but perhaps it would be as well to leave her name out of the question.
You say you are starving. Now, if you will solemnly promise to obey me,
I will advance you fifty pounds to-day, with which you can fit up your
wardrobe and gratify any luxurious desires you may have.”
Rufus Black’s eyes sparkled.
“Speak,” he said impatiently. “I am desperately poor. I would do almost
anything for fifty pounds. What do you want done?”
Again Craven Black laughed softly, well pleased with his son’s mood.
“Did you see Hawkhurst as you came?” he asked, with seeming
irrelevancy. “It’s one of the grandest places in Kent.”
“I saw it. The driver pointed it out to me.”
“How did it look to you?”
“Like heaven.”
“How would you like to be master of that heaven?”
Rufus stared at his father with wide, incredulous eyes.
“You are chaffing me,” said the young man, his countenance falling.
“I am in serious earnest. The owner of Hawkhurst is a young girl, who
is expected home from school to-day. She has lived the life of a nun in
her French school, and does not know one young man from another. She
will be beset with suitors immediately, and the one who comes first
stands the best chance of winning her. I want you to make love to her
and marry her.”
Rufus Black’s face paled. The suggestion nearly overcame him. The
project looked stupendous, chimerical.
“I wondered that you should be down here at Wyndham, father,” he said,
“and I suppose you are here because you had formed some design upon
this young heiress. Do you know her?”
“No, but I know her step-mother, who is her personal guardian,”
explained Craven Black. “Do you remember the handsome widow, Mrs.
Hathaway, whom you saw once at the theatre in my charge? She
married Sir Harold Wynde. He died in India last year, leaving her
well-jointured. I came down to see her the other day, and it seems she
remembers me with her old affection. In short, Rufus, I am engaged to
marry Lady Wynde, and the wedding is to take place in October. She
is her step-daughter’s guardian, as I said, and will have unbounded
influence to back up your suit. The field is clear before you. Go in
and win!”
Rufus grew yet paler, and his voice was hoarse as he asked:
“And this is your scheme for making me rich?”
“It is. The girl has a clear income of seventy thousand pounds a year.
As her husband, you will be a man of consequence. She owns a house in
town, a hunting box in the Scottish Highlands, and other houses in
England. You will have horses and hounds; a yacht, if you wish it,
at your marine villa, and a bottomless purse. You can paint wretched
pictures, and hear the fashionable world praise them as divine. You can
become a member of Parliament. All careers are open to the fortunate
suitor of Neva Wynde.”
The picture was dazzling enough to the half-starved and desperate
boy. He liked all these things his father enumerated--the houses, the
horses, the luxuries, the money, and the luxurious ease and the honors.
He had found it hard to work, and harder to dispose of his work. All
the bitterness and hardness of his lot arose before him in black
contrast with the brightness and beauty that would mark the destiny of
the favored lover of young Neva Wynde.
He arose and walked the floor with an impetuous tread, an expression
of keen anguish and keener longing in his eyes. His father watched him
with a furtive gaze, as a cat watches a mouse. It was necessary to his
plans that his son should marry Neva Wynde, and he was sanguine that he
would be able to bring about the match.
“Well?” he said, tiring of the quick, impetuous walk of his son. “What
do you say?”
“It is impossible!” returned Rufus abruptly. “Utterly impossible.”
“And why, if I may be allowed to ask?” inquired Mr. Black blandly,
although a scowl began to gather on his fair forehead.
“Because--because--the young lady may have other designs for herself--I
can’t marry her for her money--I can’t give up Lally!”
“The--the young person who taught music? I understood you to say that
she was a corn-chandler’s daughter. And you prefer a low-born, low-bred
creature to a wealthy young lady like Miss Wynde? For a young man
educated as you have been, your good taste is remarkable. You have a
predilection for high-class society, I must say. What is the charm of
this not-to-be-given-up ‘Lally?’ Is she beautiful?”
“She is beautiful to me.”
“Which means that she is beautiful to no one else. The beauty which
requires love’s spectacles to distinguish, is ugliness to every one but
the lover. Low-born and low-bred,” repeated Mr. Black, dwelling upon
the words as if they pleased him, “with a pack of poor and ignorant
relations tacked to her skirts, ugly by your own confession, what a
brilliant match she would be for the son of the Honorable Craven Black!”
“She has no poor relations,” said Rufus hotly. “She has no relations
except a great-aunt, whose name she does not know, and who very likely
does not dream of her existence. It is true that Lally’s father was a
corn-chandler, but he was an honest one, and more than that, he was
an intelligent, upright gentlemen. You arch your brows, as if a man
could not be a tradesman and a gentleman. If the word gentleman has any
meaning, he was a gentleman.”
“I do not care to discuss the subtle meaning of words; I am willing to
accept them at the valuation society puts upon them. The pedigree of
‘Lally’ is of no interest to me. I merely want to know if you mean to
marry Neva Wynde and be rich, or marry your ‘Lally’ and starve. And if
you are willing to starve yourself, are you willing to have ‘Lally’
starve also? With your fine ideas of honor, I wonder you can wish to
drag that girl into a marriage that will be to her but a slow death.”
A groan burst from the youth’s lips. He wrung his hands weakly, while
the secret of his marriage trembled on his tongue. But he dared not
tell it. He was afraid of his father with a deadly fear, and more than
that, he had yet some hope of receiving assistance from his parent.
“I cannot give her up, father,” he said hoarsely. “I beg you to help
me in some way, and let me go. You are not rich, I know, but you have
influence. You could get me a situation under government, in the Home
office, Somerset House, or as secretary to some nobleman. If you will
do this for me, I will bless you while I live. Oh, father, be merciful
to me. Give me a little help, and let me go my ways.”
“By Heaven, I will not. If you cling to that girl, you shall have not
one penny from me, not one word of recommendation. You can drift to the
hospital, or the alms-house, and I will not raise a finger to help you!
I will not even give one farthing to save you from a pauper’s burial. I
swear it!”
Craven Black uttered the oath in a tone of utter implacability, and
Rufus knew that the heavens would sooner fall than his father would
relent. A despair seized upon him, and again he wrung his hands, as he
cried out recklessly:
“I _must_ cling to her, father. Cast me off if you will, curse me as
you choose--but Lally is my wife!”
Craven Black was stupefied for the moment. An apoplectic redness
suffused his face, and his eyes gleamed dangerously.
“Your wife? Your wife?” he muttered, scarcely knowing that he spoke.
“Yes, she is my wife,” declared Rufus, his voice gathering firmness.
“I married her three months ago. We have been starving together in a
garret at New Brompton. Oh, father--”
“Not one word! Married to that girl? I will not believe it. Have you a
marriage certificate?”
“I have. Here it is,” and Rufus drew from his pocket-book a slender
folded paper. “Read it, and you will see that I tell the truth. Lally
Bird is my wife!”
Craven Black took the paper and perused it with strange deliberation,
the apoplectic redness still suffusing his face. When he had finished,
he deliberately tore the marriage certificate into shreds. Rufus
uttered a cry, and sprang forward to seize the precious document, but
his father waved him back with a gesture of stern command.
“Poor fool!” said the elder man. “The destruction of this paper would
not affect the validity of your marriage, if it were valid. But it is
not valid.”
“Not valid.”
“No; you and the girl are both minors. A marriage of minors without
consent of parents and guardians is not binding. The girl is not your
wife!”
“But she is my wife. We were married in church--”
“That won’t make the marriage binding. You are a minor, and so is she.
She had no one to consult, but you married without my consent, and
that fact will render the marriage null and void. More than this,”
and Mr. Black’s eyes sparkled wickedly, “you have committed perjury.
You obtained your marriage license by declaring yourself of age, and
you will not become of age under some months. Do you know what the
punishment is for perjury. It is imprisonment, disgrace, a striped
suit, and prison fare.”
The young man looked appalled.
“Who would prosecute me?” he asked.
“_I_ would. You have got yourself in a tight box, young man. Your
marriage is null and void, and you have committed perjury. Now I will
offer you your choice between two alternatives. You can make love to
Miss Wynde and marry her, and be somebody. Or, if you refuse, I will
prosecute you for perjury, will have you sent to prison, and will brand
that girl with a name that will fix her social station for life. Take
your choice.”
Craven Black meant every word he said, and Rufus knew that he meant it.
The young fellow shuddered and trembled, and then broke into a wild
appeal for mercy, but his father turned a deaf ear to his anguished cry.
“You have my decision,” he said coldly. “I shall not reconsider it. The
girl is not your wife, and when she knows her position she will fly
from you.”
Rufus groaned in his anguish. He knew well the pure soul of his young
wife, and he felt that she would not remain in any position that
was equivocal, even though to leave him might break her heart. The
disgrace, the terror, the poverty of his lot, nearly crushed him to the
earth.
“What is your answer to be?” demanded Mr. Black.
The poor young fellow sat down and covered his face with his hands. He
was terribly frightened, and the inherent weakness and cowardice of his
character, otherwise full of noble traits, proved fatal to him now. He
gasped out:
“I--I don’t know. I must have time to think. It is all so strange--so
terrible.”
“You can have all day in which to consider the matter. I have engaged
a bedroom for you on the opposite side of the hall. I will show you to
it, and you can think the matter over in solitude.”
Mr. Black arose and conducted his son across the hall to a bedroom
overlooking the street and the four corners, and here, with a last
repetition of the two alternatives offered him, he left him.
Poor Rufus, weak and despairing, locked the door and dropped upon his
knees, sobbing aloud in the extremity of his anguish.
“What shall I do? What can I do?” he moaned. “She is not my wife. My
poor Lally! And I am helpless in my father’s hands. I shall have to
yield--I feel it--I know it. I wish I were dead. Oh, my poor wronged
Lally!”