CHAPTER LXI.
A SAMPLE FROM KENT
Of all trite proverbs, no truer there is in the affairs of men (perhaps because in the kingdom of the clouds so untrue) than this venerable saying – “It never rains, but what it pours.” The Chapmans had come, with a storm of cash, to wash away Hilary’s obstructions; and now on that very same day there appeared a smaller, but more kindly cloud, to drop its little fatness.
Just when Sir Roland had managed to get rid (at the expense of poor Alice perhaps) of that tedious half-born Stephen Chapman, the indefatigable Trotman came, with his volatile particles uppermost. “If you plaize, sir,” he said, “I can’t stop un at all. He saith as he will see you.”
“Well, if he will, he must, of course. But who is this man of such resolute mind?”
“If you plaize, sir, I never had seed un from Adam. And I showed un the wrong way, to get a little time.”
“Then go now, and show him the right way, John. I am always ready to see any one.”
Sir Roland knew well that this was not true. He had said it without thinking; and, with his pure love of truth, he began to condemn himself for saying it. He knew that he liked no strangers now, nor even any ordinary friends; and he was always sorry to hear that any one made demand to see him. Before he could repent of his repentance, the door was opened, and in walked a man of moderate stature, sturdy frame, and honest, ruddy, and determined face, well shaven betwixt grey whiskers. Sir Roland had never been wont to take much heed of the human countenance; therefore he was surprised to find himself rushing to a rash conclusion – “an honest man, if ever there was one; also a very kind one.”
The Grower came forward, without any sign of humility, awkwardness, sense of difference, or that which is lowest of all – intense and shallow self-assertion. He knew that he was not of Sir Roland’s rank; and he had no idea of defying it: he was simply a man, come to speak to a man, for the love of those dependent on him, in the largeness of humanity. At the same time, he was a little afraid of going too far with anything. He made a bow (by no means graceful, but of a tidy English sort, when the back always wants to go back again), and then, as true Englishmen generally do, he waited to be spoken to.
“I am very sorry,” Sir Roland said, “that you have had trouble in finding me. We generally manage to get on well; but sometimes things go crooked. Will you come and sit down here, and tell me why you came to see me?”
Martin Lovejoy made another bow, of pattern less like a tenterhook. He had come with a will to be roughly received; and lo, there was nothing but smoothness. Full as he was of his errand, and the largest views of everything, he had made up his mind to say something fierce; and here was no opportunity. For he took it for granted, in his simple way, that Sir Roland knew thoroughly well who he was.
“I am come to see you, Sir Roland Lorraine,” he began, with a slightly quivering voice, after declining the offered chair; “not to press myself upon you, but only for the sake of my daughter.”
“Indeed!” the other answered, beginning to suspect; “are you then the father of that young lady – ”
“I am the father of Mabel Lovejoy. And sorry I should be to be her father, if – if – I mean, sir, if she was anybody else’s daughter. But being as it is, she is my own dear child; and no man has a better one. And if any one says that she threw herself at the feet of your son, for the sake of his name, Sir Roland, that man is a liar.”
“My good sir, I know it. I never supposed that your daughter did anything of the kind. I have heard that the fault was my son’s altogether.”
“Then why have you never said a word to say so? Why did you leave us like so many dogs, to come when you might whistle? Because we are beneath you in the world, is your son to do a great wrong to my daughter, while you sit up here on the top of your hill, as if you had never heard of us? Is this all the honour that comes of high birth? Then I thank the Almighty that we are not high born.”
The Grower struck his ash-stick with disdain upon the rich Turkey carpet, and turned his broad back on Sir Roland Lorraine; not out of rudeness (as the latter thought), but to hide the moisture that came and spoiled the righteous sparkle of his eyes. The baronet perhaps had never felt so small and self-condemned before. He had not been so blind and narrow-minded, as to forget, through the past two years, that every question has two sides. He had often felt that the Kentish homestead had a grievance against the South Down castle; but with his contemplative ease, and hatred of any disturbance, he had left the case mainly to right itself; persuading himself at last that he must have done all that could be expected, in making that promise to Struan Hales. But now all the fallacy of such ideas was scattered by a father’s honest wrath. And he was not a man who would argue down the rights of another; when he saw them.
“You are right, Mr. Lovejoy,” he said at last; “I have not behaved at all well to you. I will make no excuses, but tell you fairly that I am sorry for my conduct now that you put it so plainly. And whatever I can do shall be done, to make amends to your daughter.”
“Amends means money, from one rank to another. Would you dare to offer me money, sir?”
“Certainly not; it is the very last thing I ever should dream of doing. Not to mention the scarcity of cash just now. In such a case, money is an insult.”
“I should think so – I should think so. What money would ever pay for our Mabel? If you had only seen her once, you could never have been angry with your son. Although I was; although I was – until I heard how ill he is. But bless you, sir, they will do these things – and there is no stopping them. It puts one into a passion with them until one begins to remember. But now, sir, I have heard all sorts of things. Is it true that Master Hilary lies very ill abed, for want of money?”
“You put it very shortly; but it comes to that. He has lost a large sum of the public money, and we cannot very well replace it.”
“Then you should a’ come to me. I’ll cure all that trouble in a jiffy,” said the Grower, tugging heavily at something well inside his waistcoat. “There, that’s a very tidy lump of money; and no call to be ashamed of it, in the way you high folk look at things – because us never made it. Not a farden of it ever saw Covent Garden; all came straight without any trade whatever! He can’t a’ lost all that, anyhow.”
Martin Lovejoy, with broad-tipped fingers, and nails not altogether exempt from chewing, was working away, as he spoke, at a bag such as wheat is sampled in, and tied with whipcord round the neck. Sir Roland Lorraine, without saying a word, looked on, and smiled softly with quiet surprise.
“No patience – I haven’t no patience with counting, since I broke my finger, sir, – seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, no – well, it must be right, and I’ve reckoned amiss; our Mab reckoned every penny – no longer than yesterday morning – twenty thousand pounds it must be, according to the ticket. There is one lot a-missing; oh, here it is, in among my fingers, I do believe! What slippery rubbish this bank stuff is! Will you please now to score them all up, Sir Roland?”
“Mr. Lovejoy, why should I do that? It cannot matter what the quantity is. The meaning is what I am thinking of.”
“Well sir, and the meaning is just this. My daughter Mabel hath had a fortune left her by her godfather, the famous banker Lightgold, over to the town of Tonbridge. No doubt you have heard of him, Sir Roland, and of his death six months agone. Well no, I forget; it is so far away. I be so used to home, that I always speak as if I was at home. And they made me trustee for her – that they did; showing confidence in my nature almost, on the part of the laiyers, sir, do you think? At least I took it in that way.”
“It was kind of you, so to take it. They have no confidence in anybody’s nature, whenever they can help it.”
“So I have heard, sir. I have heard that same, and in my small way proved it. But will you be pleased just to count the money?”
“I must be worse than the lawyers if I did. Your daughter Mabel must be the best, and kindest-hearted, and most loving – ”
“Of course, of course,” cried the Grower, as if that point wanted no establishing; “but business is business, Sir Roland Lorraine. I am my daughter’s trustee, do you see, and bound to be sure that her money goes right. And it is a good bit of money, mind you; more than I could earn in all my life.”
“Will you tell me exactly what she said? I should like to hear her very words. I beg you to sit down. Are you afraid that I shall run off with the trust-funds?”
“You are like your son. I’ll be dashed if you aren’t. Excuse me, Sir Roland, for making so free – but that was just his way of turning things; a sort of a something in a funny manner, that won the heart of my poor maid. None of our people know how to do it; except of course our Mabel. Mabel can do it, answer for answer, with any that come provoking her. But she hathn’t shown the spirit for it, now ever since – the Lord knows what was the name of the town Master Hilary took. That signifies nothing, neither here nor there; only it showeth how they do take on.”
“Yes, Mr. Lovejoy, I see all that. But what was it your good daughter said?”
“She is always saying something, sir – something or other; except now and then; when her mind perhaps is too much for it. But about this money-bag she said – is that what you ask, Sir Roland? Well, sir, what she said was this. They had told me a deal, you must understand, about investing in good securities, meaning their own blessed pockets, no doubt. But they found me too old a bird for that. ‘Down with the money!’ says I, the same as John Shorne might in the market. They wouldn’t; they wouldn’t. Not a bit of it, till I put another laiyer at them – my own son, sir, if you please, a counsellor on our circuit; and he brought them to book in no time, and he laid down the law to me pretty strong about my being answerable. So as soon as I got it, I said to her, ‘Mabel, how am I to lodge it for you, to fetch proper interest, until you come of age?’ But the young silly burst out crying, and she said – ‘What good can it ever be to me? Take it all, father, take every penny, and see if it will do any good to him.’ And no peace could I have, till at last I set off. And there it is, Sir Roland. But I am thinking that, the money in no way belonging to me, I am bound to ask you to make a receipt, or give me your note of hand for it, or something as you think proper, just to disappoint the laiyers.”
“You shall have my receipt,” said Sir Roland Lorraine, with his eyes beginning to glisten. “Meanwhile place all the money in the bag, and tie it up securely.”
The Grower fetched a quiet little sigh, and allowed the corners of his mouth to drop, as he did what he was told to do. It had cost him many a hard fight with Mabel, and many a sulky puff of pipe, to be sent on such an errand. Money is money; and a man who makes it with so much anxiety, chance of season, and cheating from the middlemen, as a fruit-grower has to struggle through, – such a man wants to know the reason why he should let it go all of a heap. However, Martin Lovejoy was one of the “noblest works of God,” an honest man – though an honest woman is even yet more noble, if value goes by rarity – and he knew that the money was his daughter’s own, to do what she pleased with, in a twelvemonth’s time, when she would be a spinster of majority.
“I have written my receipt,” said Sir Roland, breaking in on Master Lovejoy’s sad retrospect at the bag of money. “Read it, and tell me if I have been too cold.”
It is a thing quite unaccountable, haply (and yet there must be some cause for it), that some men who allow no tone of voice, no pressure of hand, to betray emotion, yet cannot take pen without doing it, and letting the fount of heart break open from the sealed reserve of eye. No other explanation can be offered for this note of hand from Sir Roland Lorraine. The Grower put on his specs.; and then he took them off, and wiped them; and then, as the shadow of the hill came over, he found it hard to read anything. The truth was that he had read every word, but had no idea of being overcome. And the note, so hard to read, was as follows: —
“Mabel,
“I have done you much injustice. And I hope that I may live long enough to show what now I think of you. Your perfect faith and love are more than any one can have deserved of you, and least of all my son, who has fallen into all his sad distress by wandering away from you. Your money, of course, I cannot accept; but your goodwill I value more than I have power to tell you. If you would come and see Hilary, I think it would do him more good than a hundred doctors. Sometimes he seems pretty well; and again he is fit for little or nothing. I know that he longs to see you, Mabel; and having so wronged you, I ask you humbly to come and let us do you justice.
“Roland Lorraine.”
CHAPTER LXII.
A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT
It did not occur to Sir Roland Lorraine (as he shook Martin Lovejoy’s hand, and showed him forth on his way to meet the Reigate coach at Pyecombe) that Mabel’s rich legacy might be supposed to have changed his own views concerning her. Whether her portion was to be twenty thousand pounds or twenty pence, made very little difference to him; but what made all the difference was the greatness of her faith and love.
The Grower was a man who judged a man very much by eyesight. He had found out so many rogues, by means of that “keen Kentish look,” for which the Sidneys, and some other old families, were famous. And having well applied this to Sir Roland, he had no longer any doubt of him. And yet, with his shrewd common-sense, he was not sorry to button up his coat with the money once more inside it, in the sample-bag, which had sampled so much love, and trust, and loyalty. Money is not so light to come by as great landlords might suppose; and for a girl to be known to have it is the best of all strings to her bow. So Master Lovejoy grasped his staff; and it would have been a hard job for even the famous Black Robin, the highwayman of the time, to have wrested the trust-fund from him.
Covering the ground at an active pace, and crossing the Woeburn by a tree-bridge (rudely set up where the old one had been) he strode through West Lorraine and Steyning, and over the hills to Pyecombe corner, where he took the Reigate coach; and he slept that night at Reigate.
Meanwhile the Chapmans gathered their forces for perfect conquest of Alice. Father and son had quite agreed that the final stroke of victory might best be made by occupying the commanding fortress Valeria. They knew that this stronghold was only too ready, for the sake of the land below it to surrender at discretion; and the guns thereof being turned on the castle, the whole must lie at their mercy.
Yet there were two points which these besiegers had not the perception to value duly and seize to their own advantage. One was the character of Sir Roland; the other was the English courage and Norman spirit of Alice. “It is all at our mercy now,” they thought; “we have only to hammer away; and the hammer of gold is too heavy for anything.” They did not put it so clearly as that – for people of that sort do not put their views to themselves very clearly; still, if they had looked inside their ideas, they would have found them so.
“Steenie, let me see him first,” said Sir Remnant, meeting his son, by appointment, at the sun-dial in the eastern walk, which for half the year possessed a sinecure office, and a easy berth even through the other half. “Steenie, you will make a muddle; you have been at your flask again.”
“Well, what can I do? That girl is enough to roll anybody over. I wish I had never seen her – oh, I wish I had never seen her! She dis-dis-dis – ”
“Dislikes you, Steenie! She can never do that. Of all I have settled with, none have said it. They are only too fond of you, Steenie; just as they were of your father before you. And now you are straight, and going on so well! After all you have done for the women, Steenie, no girl can dislike you.”
“That is the very thing I try to think. And I know that it ought to be so, if only from proper jealousy. But she never seems to care when I talk of girls; and she looks at me so that I scarcely dare speak. And it scarcely makes any difference at all what girls have been in love with me!”
“Have you had the sense to tell her of any of the royal family?”
“Of course I did. I mentioned two or three, with good foundation. But she never inquired who they were, and nothing seems to touch her. I think I must give it up, after all. I never cared for any girl before. And it does seem so hard, after more than a score of them, when one is in downright earnest at last, not to be able to get a chance of the only one I ever lov-lov-loved!”
“Steenie, you are a mere ass,” said Sir Remnant; “you always are, when you get too much – which you ought to keep for dinner-time. I have settled everything for you upstairs, so that it must come right, if only you can hold your tongue and wait. I have them all under my thumb; and nothing but your rotten fuss about the young maid can make us one day later. Her time is fixed. And whether she dislikes – ”
“Dis-dis-dis – what I meant to say was – despises.”
“Pish, and tush, fiddlemaree! A young girl to despise a man! I had better marry her myself, I trow, if that is all you are fit for. Now just go away; go down the hill; go and see old Hales; go anywhere for a couple of hours, while I see Lorraine. Only first give me your honour for this, that you will not touch one more drop of drink until you come back for the dinner-time.”
“You are always talking at me about that now. And I have had almost less than nothing. And even that drop I should not have had, if Alice had not upset me so.”
“Well, you may have needed it. I will say no more. We will upset her pretty well, by-and-by, the obstinate, haughty fagot! But, Steenie, you will give me your honour – not another drop, except water. You always keep your honour, Steenie.”
“Yes, sir, I do; and I will give it. But I must not go near either Alice or Hales. She does so upset me that I must have a drop. And I defy anybody to call upon Hales without having two or three good glasses. Oh, I know what I’ll do; and I need not cross that infernal black water to do it. I’ll call upon the boy at the bottom of the hill, and play at pitch guineas with him. They say that he rolls every night in money.”
“Then, Steenie, go and take a lesson from him. All you do with the money is to roll it away – ducks and drakes, and dipping yourself. I would not have stuck to this matter so much, except that I know it for your last chance. Your last chance, Steenie, is to have a wife, with sense and power to steer you. It is worth all the money we are going to pay; even if it never come back again; which I will take deuced good care it does. You know you are my son, my boy.”
“Well, I suppose I can’t be anybody’s else; you carried on very much as I do.”
“And when my time is over, Steenie – if you haven’t drunk yourself to death before me – you will say that you had a good kind father, who would go to the devil to save you.”
“Really, sir, you were down upon me for having had a sentimental drop. But, I think, I may return the compliment.”
“Go down the hill, Steenie – go down the hill. It seems to be all that you are fit for. And do try to put your neckcloth tidy before you come back to dinner.”
Sir Remnant Chapman returned to the house, with a heavy sigh from his withered breast. He had not the goodness in him which is needed to understand the value of a noble maiden, or even of any good girl, taken as against man’s selfishness. But in his little way, he thought of the bonds of matrimony as a check upon his son’s poor rambling life; and he knew that a lady was wanted in his house; and his great ambition was to see, at last, a legitimate grandson. “If he comes of the breed of Lorraine,” he exclaimed, “I will settle £100,000, the very day he is born, on him.”
With this in his head, he came back to try his measures with Sir Roland. He knew that he must not work at all as he had done with Lady Valeria; but put it all strictly as a matter of business, with no obligation on either side; but as if there were “landed security” for the purchase-money of Alice. And he managed all this so well, that Sir Roland, proud and high-minded as he was, saw nothing improper in an arrangement by which Alice would become an incumbent on the Lorraine estates, for the purpose of vindicating the honour of Lorraine, and saving, perhaps, the male heir thereof. Accordingly the matter was referred to the lawyers; who put it in hand, with the understanding that the trustees of the marriage-settlement, receiving an indemnity from Sir Remnant, would waive all defects, and accept as good a mortgage as could be made by deed of even date, to secure the £50,000.
Sir Roland had long been unwilling to give his favourite Alice to such a man as Captain Chapman seemed to be. Although, through his own retiring and rather unsociable habits, he was not aware of the loose unprincipled doings of the fellow, he could not but perceive the want of solid stuff about him, of any power for good, or even respectable powers of evil. But he first tried to think, and then began to believe, that his daughter would cure these defects, and take a new pride and delight in doing so. He knew what a spirited girl she was; and he thought it a likely thing enough, that she would do better with a weak, fond husband, than with one of superior mind, who might fail to be polite to her. And he could not help seeing that Steenie was now entirely devoted to her. Perpetual snubbings or silent contempt made little difference to Steenie. He knew that he must win in the end; and then his turn might come perhaps; and in half an hour after his worst set-down, he was up again, on the arm of Cognac.
Alice Lorraine, with that gift of waiting for destiny, which the best women have, allowed the whole thing to go on, as if she perceived there was no hope for it. She made no touching appeals to her father, nor frantic prayers to her grandmother; she let the time slip on and on, and the people said what they liked to her. She would give her life for her brother’s life, and the honour of the family; but firmly was she resolved never to be the wife of Stephen Chapman.
The more she saw of this man, the more deeply and utterly she despised him. She could not explain to her father, or even herself, why she so loathed him. She did not know that it was the native shrinking of the good from evil, of the lofty from the low, the brave from the coward, the clean from the unclean. All this she was too young to think of, too maidenly to imagine. But she felt perhaps, an unformed thought, an unpronounced suggestion, that death was a fitter husband for a pure girl, than a rake-hell.
Meanwhile Hilary, upon whom she waited with unwearying love and care, was beginning to rally from his sad disorder and threatening decline. The doctors, who had shaken their heads about him, now began to smile, and say that under skilful treatment, youth and good constitution did wonders; that “really they had seldom met with clearer premonitory indications of phthisis pulmonalis, complicated by cardiac and hypochondriac atony, and aggravated by symptomatic congestion of the cerebellum. But proper remedial agents had been instrumental in counteracting all organic cachexy, and now all the principles of sound hygiene imperatively demanded quietude.” In plain English, he was better and must not be worried. Therefore he was not even told of the arrangement about his sister. Alice used to come and sit by his bed, or sofa, or easy-chair, as he grew a little stronger, and talk light nonsense to him, as if her heart was above all cloud and care. If he alluded to any trouble, she turned it at once to ridicule; and when he spoke of his indistinct remembrance of the Woeburn, she made him laugh till his heart grew fat, by her mimicry of Nanny Stilgoe, whom she could do to the very life. “How gay you are, Lallie; I never saw such a girl!” he exclaimed, with the gratitude which arises from liberated levity. “You do her with the stick so well! Do her again with the stick, dear Lallie.” His mind was a little childish now, from long lassitude of indoor life, which is enough to weaken and depress the finest mind that ever came from heaven, and hankers for sight of its birth-place. In a word, Alice Lorraine was bestowing whatever of mirth or fun she had left (in the face of the coming conflict), all the liveliness of her life, and revolt of bright youth against misery, to make her poor brother laugh a little and begin to look like himself again.