CHAPTER XXXVIII PACING THE ENEMY
“'Sir,' said the Count, with brow exceeding grave,
'Your unexpected presence here will make
It necessary for myself to crave
Its import? But perhaps it's a mistake.
I hope it is so; and at once, to waive
All compliment, I hope so for your sake.
You understand my meaning, or you shall.'”
Beppo.
“IS your master—is Mr. Vernor at home?” inquired I of the grim-visaged old servant, who looked, if possible, taller and more wooden than when I had last seen him.
“Well, I suppose not, sir!” was the somewhat odd reply.
“You suppose!” repeated I; “if you have any doubt, had you not better go and see?”
“That won't be of no manner of use, sir,” was the rejoinder; “I should not be none the wiser.”
It was clear that the old man was a complete original; but his affection for Clara was a virtue which in my eyes would have atoned for any amount of eccentricity; and as I was anxious to stand well in his good graces, I determined to fall in with his humour; accordingly I replied with a smile, “How do you make out that—did you never hear that seeing is believing?”
“Not always, sir,” he answered, “for if I'd a trusted to my eyesight—and it ain't so bad neither for a man that's no great way off sixty—I should have fancied Muster Wernor was a sitting in the liberrary; but he told me he was not at home hisself, and he ought to know best.”
“Tell him I won't detain him long,” returned I, “but that I am come on business of importance.”
“'Tain't of no manner of use, young gentleman,” was the reply; “he told me he wasn't at home, and he said it uncommon cross too, as if he meant it, and if I was to go to him twenty times he'd only say the same thing.” “What's your name, my good friend?” inquired I. “Peter Barnett, at your service, sir,” was the answer. “Well, then, Peter, we must contrive to understand one another a little better. You have known your young mistress from a child, and have a sincere regard for her—is it not so?”
“What, Miss Clara, God bless her!—why, I love her as if she was my own flesh and blood; I should be a brute if I didn't, poor lamb.”
“Well, then, when I tell you that her happiness is very nearly connected with the object of my visit—when I say, that it is to prevent her from being obliged to do something of which she has the greatest abhorrence that I am anxious to meet Mr. Vernor—I am sure you will contrive that I shall see him.”
As I concluded, the old man, muttering to himself, “That's it, is it?” began to examine me from top to toe with a critical glance, as if I had been some animal he was about to purchase; and when he reached my face, gazed at me long and fixedly, as though striving to read my character. Apparently the result of his scrutiny was favourable, for after again saying in a low tone, “Well, I likes the looks of him,” he added, “This way, young gentleman—you shall see him if that's what you want—it ain't a hanging matter, after all”. As he spoke, he threw open the door of the library, saying, “Gentleman says his business is wery partikler, so I thought you'd better see him yourself”.
Mr. Vernor, who was seated at a table writing, rose on my entrance, bowed stiffly to me, and, casting a withering glance on Peter Barnett, signed to him to shut the door. As soon as that worthy had obeyed the command, he resumed his seat, and, addressing me with the same frigid politeness which he had shown on the occasion of my first visit to him, said, “I am somewhat occupied this morning, and must therefore be excused for inquiring at once what very particular business Mr. Fairlegh can have with me”. His tone and manner, as he spoke, were such as to render me fully aware of the pleasant nature of the task before me; namely, to make the most disagreeable communication possible, to the most disagreeable person to whom such a communication could be made. Still, I was regularly in for it; there was nothing left for me but to “go a-head”; and as I thought of Clara and her sorrows, the task seemed to lose half its difficulty. However, it was not without some hesitation that I began:—
“When you learn the object of my visit, sir, you will perceive that I have not intruded upon you without reason”. I paused; but, finding he remained silent, added—“As you are so much occupied this morning, I had better perhaps enter at once upon the business which has brought me here. You are probably aware that I have had the pleasure of spending the last few days in the same house with Miss Saville.” As I mentioned Clara's name, his brow grew dark as night; but he still continued silent, and I proceeded. “It is, I should conceive, impossible for anyone to enjoy the privilege of that young lady's society, without experiencing the warmest feelings of admiration and interest. Towards the termination of her visit, accident led me to the knowledge of her acquaintance with Mr. Cumberland, who I then learned, for the first time, was your nephew. I would not willingly say anything which might distress or annoy you, Mr. Vernor,” continued I, interrupting myself, “but I fear that, in order to make myself intelligible, I must advert to an affair which I would willingly have forgotten.”
“Go on, sir,” was the reply, in a cold sarcastic tone of voice—“pray finish your account without reference to my feelings; I am not likely to alarm your sensibility by any affecting display of them.”
As the most sceptical could not have doubted for a moment the truth of this assertion, I resumed: “From my previous knowledge of Mr. Cumberland's character, I could not but consider him an unfit acquaintance for a young lady; and, on hinting this, and endeavouring to ascertain the extent of Miss Saville's intimacy with him, I was equally shocked and surprised to learn that she was actually engaged to him, and that you not only sanctioned the engagement, but were even desirous that the match should take place. Feeling sure that this could only proceed from your being ignorant of the character of the class of persons with whom your nephew associates, and the more than questionable reputation he has thereby acquired, I considered it my duty to afford you such information as may enable you to ascertain for yourself the truth of the reports which have reached my ear.”
“Exceedingly conscientious and praiseworthy: I ought to feel infinitely indebted to you, young gentleman,” interrupted Mr. Vernor sarcastically; “of course you made the young lady acquainted with your disinterested and meritorious intentions '?”
“I certainly thought it right to inform Miss Saville of the facts I have mentioned, and to obtain her permission, ere I ventured to interfere in her behalf.”
As I spoke, the gloom on Mr. Vernor's brow grew darker, and I expected an outburst of rage, but his self-control was stronger than 1 had imagined, for it was in the same cold ironical manner that he replied, “And may I ask, supposing this iniquitous engagement to have been broken off by your exertions, is Virtue to be its own reward? will you sit down content with having done your duty? or have you not some snug little scheme in petto, to console the disconsolate damsel for her loss? If I am not mistaken, you were professing warm feelings of admiration for my ward a few minutes since.”
“Had you waited till I had finished speaking, you would have perceived, sir, that your taunt was undeserved. I have no wish to conceal anything from you—on the contrary, one of my chief objects in seeking this interview was to inform you of the deep and sincere affection I entertain for Miss Saville, and of my intention of coming forward to seek her hand, as soon as my professional prospects shall enable me to support a wife.”
“And have you succeeded in inducing the lady to promise, that, in the event of my allowing her to break off her present engagement, she will wait for the somewhat remote and visionary contingency you have hinted at?”
“I have never made the attempt, sir,” replied I, drawing myself up proudly, for I began to think that I was carrying forbearance too far, in submitting thus tamely to his repeated insults; “my only desire is to convince you of the necessity of breaking off this preposterous engagement, which is alike unsuitable in itself, and distasteful to Miss Saville; for the rest, I must trust to time, and to the unshaken constancy of my own affection (with which it is only fair to tell you the young lady is acquainted), for the accomplishment of my hopes. Had I the power to fetter your ward by a promise which she might afterwards be led to repent, nothing should induce me to make use of it.”
“Really, your moderation is quite unparalleled,” exclaimed Mr. Vernor; “such generosity now might be almost calculated to induce a romantic girl to persuade her guardian to allow her to marry at once, and devote her fortune to the purpose of defraying the household expenses, till such time as the professional expectations you mention should be realised; and Clara Saville is just the girl who might do it, for I am afraid I must distress your magnanimity by informing you of a circumstance, of which, of course, you have not the slightest idea at present, namely, that if Miss Saville should marry with her guardian's consent, she will become the possessor of a very considerable fortune: what think you of such a plan?”
“Mr. Vernor,” replied I, “I was aware that the communication I had to make to you was calculated to pain and annoy you, and that circumstances obliged me to urge my suit at a moment most disadvantageous to its success; I did not therefore imagine that our interview was likely to be a very agreeable one; but I own I did expect to have credit given me for honourable motives, and to be treated with the consideration due from one gentleman to another.”
“It grieves me to have disappointed such moderate and reasonable expectations,” was the reply; “but, unfortunately, I have acquired a habit of judging men rather by their actions than their words, and forming my opinion accordingly; and by the opinion thus formed I regulate my conduct towards them.”
“May I inquire what opinion you can possibly have formed of me, which would justify your treating me otherwise than as a gentleman?” asked I, as calmly as I was able, for I was most anxious not to allow him to perceive the degree to which his taunts irritated me.
“Certainly; only remember, if it is not exactly what you approve, that I mention it in compliance with your own express request—but first, for I am unwilling to do you injustice, let me be sure that I understand you clearly:—you state that you are unable to marry till you shall have realised by your profession an income sufficient to support a wife; therefore, I presume that your patrimony is somewhat limited.”
“You are right, sir; my poor father was too liberal a man to die rich; my present income is somewhat less than a hundred pounds per annum.”
“And your profession?”
“It is my intention to begin reading for the bar almost immediately.”
“A profession usually more honourable than lucrative for the first ten years or so. Well, young gentleman, the case seems to stand very much as I imagined, nor do I perceive any reason for altering my opinion of your conduct. Chance throws in your way a young lady, possessing great beauty, who is prospective heiress to a very valuable property, and it naturally enough occurs to you, that making love is likely to be more agreeable, and in the present instance more profitable also, than reading law; accordingly, you commence operations, and for some time all goes on swimmingly, Miss Saville, like any other girl in her situation, having no objection to vary the monotony of a long engagement by a little innocent flirtation; affairs of this kind, however, seldom run smoothly long together, and at some moment, when you were rather more pressing than usual, the young lady thinks it advisable to inform you, that in accordance with her father's dying wish, and of her own free will, she has engaged herself to the nephew of her guardian, who strangely enough happens to be an old schoolfellow of yours, against whom you have always nourished a strong and unaccountable feeling of dislike. Here, then, was a famous opportunity to display those talents for plotting and manoeuvring which distinguished Mr. Fairlegh even in his boyish days; accordingly, a master-scheme is invented, whereby the guardian shall be cajoled and brow-beaten into giving his consent, enmity satisfied by the rival's discomfiture and overthrow, and talent rewarded by obtaining possession of the young lady and her fortune. As a first step you take advantage of a lover's quarrel to persuade Miss Saville that she is averse to the projected alliance, and trump up an old tale of some boyish scrape to induce her to believe Cumberland unworthy of her preference, ending, doubtless, by modestly proposing yourself as a substitute. Inexperience, and the natural capriciousness of woman, stand your friend; the young lady appears for the moment gained over, and, flushed with success, the bold step of this morning is resolved upon. Such, sir, is my opinion of your conduct. It only remains for me to inform you that 1 have not the slightest intention of breaking off the engagement in consequence of your disinterested representations, nor, under any circumstances, would I allow my ward to throw herself away upon a needy fortune-hunter. There can be nothing more to say, I think; and as I have some important papers to look over this morning, I dare say you will excuse my ringing the bell.”
“One moment, sir,” replied I warmly, “although your age prevents my taking notice of the unprovoked insults you have seen fit to heap upon me——”
“Really,” interposed Mr. Vernor, in a deprecating tone, “you must pardon me; I have not time for all this sort of thing to-day.”
“You shall hear me!” exclaimed I passionately; “I have listened in silence to accusations calculated to make the blood of any man, worthy to be so called, boil in his veins—accusations which, at the very moment you utter them, you know to be entirely false: you know well Miss Saville's just and deeply rooted aversion to this match, and you know that it existed before she and I had ever met; you know the creditable nature of what you term the 'boyish scrape,' in which your nephew was engaged—a scrape which, but for the generous forbearance of others, might have ended in his transportation as a convicted felon; and this knowledge (even if you are ignorant of the dishonourable and vicious course of life he now leads) should be enough to prevent your sanctioning such a marriage. I pass over your insinuations respecting myself in silence; should I again prefer my suit for Miss Saville's hand to you, it will be as no needy fortune-hunter that I shall do so; but once more let me implore you to pause—reconsider the matter—inquire for yourself into your nephew's pursuits—ascertain the character of his associates, and then judge whether he is a fit person to be entrusted with the happiness of such a being as Clara Saville.”
“Vastly well, sir! exceedingly dramatic, indeed!” observed Mr. Vernor, with a sneer; “you really have quite a talent for—genteel comedy, I think they call it; you would be perfect in the line of character termed the 'walking gentleman'—have you ever thought of the stage?”
“I perceive,” replied I, “that by remaining here, I shall only subject myself to additional insult: determined to carry out your own bad purpose, you obstinately close your ears to the voice alike of reason and of conscience; and now,” I added, in a stern tone, “hear my resolve: I have promised Miss Saville to save her from Richard Cumberland; as the fairest and most honourable way of doing so, I applied to you, her lawful guardian and protector; I have failed, and you have insulted and defied me. I now tell you, that I will leave NO MEANS untried to defeat your nefarious project, and, if evil or disgrace should befal you or yours in consequence, upon your own head be it. You may smile at my words, and disregard them as idle threats which I am powerless to fulfil, but remember, you have no longer a helpless girl to deal with, but a determined man, who, with right and justice on his side, may yet thwart your cunningly devised schemes;—and so, having given you fair warning, I will leave you.”
“Allow me to mention one fact, young sir,” returned Mr. Vernor, “which demands your serious attention, as it may prevent you from committing a fatal error, and save you all further trouble. Should Clara Saville marry without my consent, she does so penniless, and the fortune devolves upon the next heir; ha!” he exclaimed, as I was unable to repress an exclamation of pleasure, “have I touched you there?”
“You have indeed, sir,” was my reply; “for you have removed the only scruple which stood in my way. No one can now accuse me of interested motives; 'needy fortune-hunters' do not seek to ally themselves to portionless damsels; allow me to offer you my best thanks for your information, and to wish you good-morning, sir.”
So saying, I rose and quitted the room, leaving Mr. Vernor, in a state of ill-suppressed rage, to the enjoyment of his own reflections.
On entering the hall, I found old Peter Barnett awaiting me. As I appeared, his stiff features lighted up with a most sagacious grin of intelligence, and approaching me, he whispered:—
“Did ye give it him strong?” (indicating the person he referred to by an expressive jerk of his thumb towards the library door). “I heard ye blowing of him up—but did ye give it him reg'lar strong?”
“I certainly told Mr. Vernor my opinion with tolerable plainness,” replied I, smiling at the intense delight which was visible in every line of the strange old face beside me.
“No! Did ye?—did ye? That was right,” was the rejoinder. “Lor! how I wish I'd a been there to see; but I heard ye though—I heard ye a giving it to him,” and again he relapsed into a paroxysm of delight.
“Peter,” said I, “I want to have a little private conversation with you—how is that to be managed? Is there any place near where you could meet me?” “You come here from Hillingford, didn't ye, sir?” I nodded assent. He continued:—“Did you notice a hand-post which stands where four roads meet, about a mile and a half from here?”
“I saw it,” returned I, “and even tried to read what was painted on it, but of course, after the manner of all country direction posts, it was totally illegible.”
“Well, when you get there, take the road to the left, and ride on till ye see an ale-house on the right-hand side, and stay there till I come to ye.”
“I will,” replied I, “but don't keep me waiting longer than you can help—there's a good man.”
An understanding grin was his only answer; and mounting my unpleasant horse (who seemed much more willing to proceed quietly when his head was turned in a homeward direction), I rode slowly through the park, my state of mind affording a practical illustration, that Quintus Horatius Flaccus was about right in his conjecture that Care sometimes indulged herself with a little equestrian exercise on a pillion.{1}
1 “Post equitem sedet atra cura.”