CHAPTER XLVI. A STROLL AND A GOSSIP
As well to have a long talk together as to enjoy the glorious beauty and freshness of the Campagna, the two young men set out the next morning for a walk to Rome. It was one of those still cold days of winter, with a deep blue sky above, and an atmosphere clear as crystal as they started.
There was not in the fortunes of either of them much to cheer the spirits or encourage hope, and yet they felt—they knew not why—a sense of buoyancy and light-heartedness they had not known for many a day back.
“How is it, George,” asked Augustus, “can you explain it that when the world went well with me, when I could stroll out into my own woods, and walk for hours over my own broad acres, I never felt so cheery as I do to-day?”
“It was the same spirit made you yesterday declare you enjoyed our humble dinner with a heartier zest than those grand banquets that were daily served up at Castello.”
“Just so. But that does not solve the riddle for me. I want to know the why of all this. It is no high sustaining consciousness of doing the right thing; no grand sense of self-approval: for, in the first place, I never had a doubt that we were not the rightful owners of the estate, nor am I now supported by the idea that I am certainly and indubitably on the right road, because nearly all my friends think the very reverse.” L'Estrange made no answer. Bramleigh went on: “You yourself are so minded, George. Out with it, man; say at once you think me wrong.”
“I have too little faith in my own judgment to go that far.”
“Well, will you say that you would have acted differently yourself? Come, I think you can answer that question.”
“No, I cannot.”
“You can't say whether you would have done as I have, or something quite different?”
“No; there is only one thing I know I should have done—I'd have consulted Julia.”
If Bramleigh laughed at this avowal, the other joined him, and for a while nothing was said on either side. At last, Bramleigh said, “I, too, have a confession to make. I thought that if I were to resist this man's claim by the power of superior wealth I should be acting as dishonorably as though I had fought an unarmed man with a revolver. I told Sedley my scruples, but though he treated them with little deference, there they were, and I could not dismiss them. It was this weakness—Sedley would give it no other name than weakness—of mine that made him incline to settle the matter by a compromise. For a while I yielded to the notion; I 'm afraid that I yielded even too far—at least Cutbill opines that one of my letters actually gives a distinct consent, but I don't think so. I know that my meaning was to say to my lawyer, 'This man's claim may push me to publicity and much unpleasantness, without any benefit to him. He may make me a nine-days wonder in the newspapers and a town talk, and never reap the least advantage from it. To avoid such exposure I would pay, and pay handsomely; but if you really opined that I was merely stifling a just demand, such a compromise would only bring me lasting misery.' Perhaps I could not exactly define what I meant; perhaps I expressed myself imperfectly and ill; but Sedley always replied to me by something that seemed to refute my reasonings. At the same time Lord Culduff and Temple treated my scruples with an open contempt. I grew irritable, and possibly less reasonable, and I wrote long letters to Sedley to justify myself and sustain the position I had taken. Of these, indeed of none of my letters, have I copies; and I am told now that they contain admissions which will show that I yielded to the plan of a compromise. Knowing, however, what I felt—what I still feel on the matter—I will not believe this. At all events, the world shall see now that I leave the law to take its course. If Pracontal can establish his right, let him take what he owns. I only bargain for one thing, which is, not to be expelled ignominiously from the house in which I was never the rightful owner. It is the act of abdication, George—the moment of dethronement, that I could not face. It is an avowal of great weakness, I know; but I struggle against it in vain. Every morning when I awoke the same thought met me, am I a mere pretender here? and by some horrible perversity, which I cannot explain, the place, the house, the grounds, the gardens, the shrubberies, the deer-park, grew inexpressibly more dear to me than ever I had felt them. There was not an old ash on the lawn that I did not love; the shady walks through which I had often passed without a thought upon them grew now to have a hold upon and attraction for me that I cannot describe. What shall I be without these dear familiar spots; what will become of me when I shall no longer have these deep glades, these silent woods, to wander in? This became at last so strong upon me that I felt there was but one course to take—I must leave the place at once, and never return to it till I knew that it was my own beyond dispute. I could do that now, while the issue was still undetermined, which would have broken my heart if driven to do on compulsion. Of course this was a matter between me and my own conscience; I had not courage to speak of it to a lawyer, nor did I. Sedley, however, was vexed that I should take any steps without consulting him. He wrote me a letter—almost an angry letter—and he threatened—for it really amounted to a threat, to say that, to a client so decidedly bent on guiding his own case, he certainly felt his services could scarcely be advantageously contributed. I rejoined, perhaps not without irritation; and I am now expecting by each post either his submission to my views, or to hear that he has thrown up the direction of my cause.”
“And he was your father's adviser for years!” said L'Estrange, with a tone almost despondent.
“But for which he never would have assumed the tone of dictation he has used towards me. Lord Culduff, I remember, said, 'The first duty of a man on coming to his property is to change his agent, and his next to get rid of the old servants.' I do not like the theory, George; but from a certain point of view it is not without reason.”
“I suspect that neither you nor I want to look at life from that point of view,” said L'Estrange, with some emotion.
“Not till we can't help, I 'm sure; but these crafty men of the world say that we all arrive at their modus operandi in the end; that however generously, however trustfully and romantically, we start on the morning of life, before evening we come to see that in this game we call the world it is only the clever player that escapes ruin.”
“I don't—that is, I won't believe that.”
“Quite right, George. The theory would tell terribly against fellows like us; for, let us do our very best, we must be bunglers at the game. What a clever pair of hacks are those yonder! that gray the lady is on has very showy action.”
“Look at the liver chestnut the groom is riding—there's the horse for my money—so long and so low—a regular turnspit, and equal to any weight. I declare, that's Lady Augusta, and that's Pracontal with her. See how the Frenchman charges the ox-fences; he 'll come to grief if he rides at speed against timber.”
The party on horseback passed in a little dip of the ground near them at a smart canter, and soon were out of sight again.
“What a strange intimacy for her, is it not?”
“Julia says, the dash of indiscretion in it was the temptation she could n't resist, and I suspect she's right. She said to me herself one day, 'I love skating, but I never care for it except the ice is so thin that I hear it giving way on every side as I go.'”
“She gave you her whole character in that one trait. The pleasure that was n't linked to a peril had no charm for her. She ought, however, to see that the world will regard this intimacy as a breach of decency.”
“So she does; she's dying to be attacked about it; at least, so Julia says.”
“The man, too, if he be an artful fellow, will learn many family details about us, that may disserve us. If it went no further than to know in what spirit we treat his claim—whether we attach importance to his pretensions or not—these are all things he need not, should not be informed upon.”
“Cutbill, who somehow hears everything, told us t'other morning, that Pracontal is 'posted up'—that was his phrase—as to the temper and nature of every member of your family, and knows to a nicety how to deal with each.”
“Then I don't see why we should meet.”
“Julia says it is precisely for that very reason; people are always disparaged by these biographical notices, their caprices are assumed to be tastes, and their mere humors are taken for traits of character; and she declares that it will be a good service to the truth that bringing you together. Don't take my version, however, of her reasons, but ask her to give them to you herself.”
“Isn't that the wall of the city? I declare we are quite close to Rome already. Now then, first to leave my name for Lady Augusta—not sorry to know I shall not find her at home, for I never understood her, George. I never do understand certain people, whether their levity means that it is the real nature, or simply a humor put on to get rid of you; as though to say, rather than let you impose any solemnity upon me, or talk seriously, I 'll have a game at shuttlecock!”
“She always puzzled me,” said L'Estrange, “but that wasn't hard to do.”
“I suspect, George, that neither you nor I know much about women.”
“For my part, I know nothing at all about them.”
“And I not much.”
After this frank confession on either side, they walked along, each seemingly deep in his own thought, and said little till they reached the city. Leaving them, then, on their way to Lady Augusta's house, where Bramleigh desired to drop his card, we turn for a moment to the little villa at Albano, in front of which a smart groom was leading a lady's horse, while in the distance a solitary rider was slowly walking his horse, and frequently turning his looks towards the gate of the villa.
The explanation of all this was, that Lady Augusta had taken the opportunity of being near the L'Estranges to pay a visit to the Bramleighs, leaving Pracontal to wait for her till she came out.
“This visit is for you, Nelly,” said Julia, as she read the card; “and I 'll make my escape.”
She had but time to get out of the room when Lady Augusta entered.
“My dear child,” said she, rushing into Nelly's arms, and kissing her with rapturous affection. “My dear child, what a happiness to see you again, and how well you are looking; you 're handsomer, I declare, than Marion. Yes, darling—don't blush; it's perfectly true. Where's Augustus? has he come with you?”
“He has gone in to Rome to see you,” said Nelly, whose face was still crimson, and who felt flurried and agitated by the flighty impetuosity of the other.
“I hope it was to say that you are both coming to me? Yes, dearest, I 'll take no excuse. It would be a town-talk if you stopped anywhere else; and I have such a nice little villa—a mere baby-house; but quite large enough to hold you; and my brother-in-law will take Augustus about, and show him Rome, and I shall have you all to myself. We have much to talk of, haven't we?”
Nelly murmured an assent, and the other continued,—
“It's all so sudden, and so dreadful—one doesn't realize it; at least, I don't. And it usually takes me an hour or two of a morning to convince me that we are all ruined; and then I set to work thinking how I 'm to live on—I forget exactly what—how much is it, darling? Shall I be able to keep my dear horses? I 'd rather die than part with Ben Azir; one of the Sultan's own breeding; an Arab of blue blood, Nelly, think of that! I've refused fabulous sums for him; but he is such a love, and follows me everywhere, and rears up when I scold him—and all to be swept away as if it was a dream. What do you mean to do, dearest? Marry, of course. I know that—but in the mean while?”
“We are going to Cattaro. Augustus has been named consul there.”
“Darling child, you don't know what you are saying. Is n't a consul a horrid creature that lives in a seaport, and worries merchant seamen, and imprisons people who have no passports?”
“I declare I have n't a notion of his duties,” said Nelly, laughing.
“Oh, I know them perfectly. Papa always wrote to the consul about getting heavy baggage through the customhouse; and when our servants quarrelled with the porters, or the hotel people, it was the consul sent some of them to jail; but are you aware, darling, he is n't a creature one knows. They are simply impossible, dear, impossible.” And as she spoke she lay back in her chair, and fanned herself as though actually overcome by the violence of her emotion.
“I must hope Augustus will not be impossible;” and Nelly said this with a dry mixture of humor and vexation.
“He can't help it, dearest. It will be from no fault of his own. Let a man be what he may, once he derogates there's an end of him. It sounds beautifully, I know, to say that he will remain gentleman and man of station through all the accidents of life; so he might, darling, so long as he did nothing—absolutely nothing. The moment, however, he touches an emploi it's all over; from that hour he becomes the Customs creature, or the consul, or the factor, or whatever it be, irrevocably. Do you know that is the only way to keep men of family out of small official life? We should see them keeping lighthouses if it were not for the obloquy.”
“And it would be still better than dependence.”
“Yes, dearest, in a novel—in a three-volume thing from Mudie—so it would; but real life is not half so accommodating. I 'll talk to Gusty about this myself. And now, do tell me about yourself. Is there no engagement? no fatal attachment that all this change of fortune has blighted? Who is he, dearest? tell me all! You don't know what a wonderful creature I am for expedients. There never was the like of me for resources. I could always pull any one through a difficulty but myself.”
“I am sorry I have no web to offer you for disentanglement.”
“So then he has behaved well; he has not deserted you in your change of fortune?”
“There is really no one in the case,” said Nelly, laughing. “No one to be either faithful or unworthy.”
“Worse again, dearest. There is nothing so good at your age as an unhappy attachment. A girl without a grievance always mopes; and,” added she, with a marked acuteness of look, “moping ages one quicker than downright grief. The eyes get a heavy expression, and the mouth drags at the corners, and the chin—isn't it funny, now, such a stolid feature as the chin should take on to worry us?—but the chin widens and becomes square, like those Egyptian horrors in the Museum.”
“I must look to that,” said Nelly, gravely. “I'd be shocked to find my chin betraying me.”
“And men are such wretches. There is no amount of fretting they don't exact from us; but if we show any signs of it afterwards—any hard lines about the eyes, or any patchiness of color in the cheek—they cry out, 'Is n't she gone off?' That's their phrase. 'Is n't she gone off?'”
“How well you understand; how well you read them!”
“I should think I do; but after all, dearest, they have very few devices: if it was n't that they can get away, run off to the clubs and their other haunts, they would have no chance with us. See how they fare in country houses, for instance. How many escape there! What a nice stuff your dress is made of!”
“It was very cheap.”
“No matter; it's English. That's the great thing here. Any one can buy a 'gros.' What one really wants is a nameless texture and a neutral tint. You must positively walk with me on the Pincian in that dress. Roman men remark everything. You 'll not be ten minutes on the promenade till every one will know whether you wear two buttons on your gloves or three.”
“How odious!”
“How delightful! Why, my dear child, for whom do we dress? Not for each other: no more than the artists of a theatre act or sing for the rest of the company. Our audience is before us; not always a very enlightened or cultivated one, but always critical. There, do look at that stupid groom; see how he suffers my horse to lag behind: the certain way to have him kicked by the other; and I should die, I mean really die, if anything happened to Ben Azir. By the way, how well our parson rides! I declare I like him better in the saddle than in the pulpit. They rave here about the way he jumps the ox-fences. You must say tant des choses for me, to him and his sister, whom I fear I have treated shamefully. I was to have had her to dinner one day, and I forgot all about it; but she did n't mind, and wrote me the prettiest note in the world. But I always say, it is so easy for people of small means to be good-tempered. They have no jealousies about going here or there; no heartburnings that such a one's lace is Brussels point, and much finer than their own. Don't you agree with me? There, I knew it would come to that. He's got the snaffle out of Ben Azir's mouth, and he's sure to break away.”
“That gentleman apparently has come to the rescue. See, he has dismounted to set all to rights.”
“How polite of him! Do you know him, dear?”
“No. I may have seen him before. I 'm so terribly short-sighted, and this glass does not suit me; but I must be going. I suppose I had better thank that strange man, had n't I? Oh, of course, dearest, you would be too bashful; but I 'm not. My old governess, Madame de Forgeon, used to say that English people never knew how to be bashful; they only looked culpable. And I protest she was right.”
“The gentleman is evidently waiting for your gratitude; he is standing there still.”
“What an observant puss it is!” said Lady Augusta, kissing her. “Tell Gusty to come and see me. Settle some day to come in and dine, and bring the parson: he's a great favorite of mine. Where have I dropped my gauntlet? Oh, here it is. Pretty whip, isn't it? A present, a sort of a love-gift from an old Russian prince, who wanted me to marry him: and I said I was afraid; that I heard Russians knouted their wives. And so he assured me I should have the only whip he ever used, and sent me this. It was neat, or rather, as Dumas says, 'La plaisanterie n'était pas mal pour un Cossaque.' Good-bye, dearest, good-bye.”
So actually exhausted was poor Nelly by the rattling impetuosity of Lady Augusta's manner, her sudden transitions, and abrupt questionings, that, when Julia entered the room, and saw her lying back in a chair, wearied looking and pale, she asked,—
“Are you ill, dear?”
“No; but I am actually tired. Lady Augusta has been an hour here, and she has talked till my head turned.”
“I feel for you sincerely. She gave me one of the worst headaches I ever had, and then made my illness a reason for staying all the evening here to bathe my temples.”
“That was good-natured, however.”
“So I'd have thought, too, but that she made George attend her with the ice and the eau-de-cologne, and thus maintained a little ambulant flirtation with him, that, sick as I was, almost drove me mad.”
“She means nothing, I am certain, by all these levities, or, rather, she does not care what they mean; but here come our brothers, and I am eager for news, if they have any.”
“Where's George?” asked Julia, as Augustus entered alone.
“Sir Marcus something caught him at the gate, and asked to have five minutes with him.”
“That means putting off dinner for an hour at least,” said she, half pettishly. “I must go and warn the cook.”