Вальтер Скотт
St. Ronan's Well
Lady Penelope, half affronted, but still more frightened by the manners of the old hag, now gladly embraced Lord Etherington's renewed offer to escort her from the hut. He left it not, however, without bestowing an additional gratuity on the old woman, who received it with a whining benediction.
“The Almighty guide your course through the troubles of this wicked warld – and the muckle deevil blaw wind in your sails,” she added, in her natural tone, as the guests vanished from her miserable threshold. “A wheen cork-headed, barmy-brained gowks! that wunna let puir folk sae muckle as die in quiet, wi' their sossings and their soopings.”41
“This poor creature's declaration,” said Lord Etherington to Lady Penelope, “seems to refer to matters which the law has nothing to do with, and which, perhaps, as they seem to implicate the peace of a family of respectability, and the character of a young lady, we ought to enquire no farther after.”
“I differ from your lordship,” said Lady Penelope; “I differ extremely – I suppose you guess whom her discourse touched upon?”
“Indeed, your ladyship does my acuteness too much honour.”
“Did she not mention a Christian name?” said Lady Penelope; “your lordship is strangely dull this morning!”
“A Christian name? – No, none that I heard – yes, she said something about – a Catherine, I think it was.”
“Catherine!” answered the lady; “No, my lord, it was Clara – rather a rare name in this country, and belonging, I think, to a young lady of whom your lordship should know something, unless your evening flirtations with Lady Binks have blotted entirely out of your memory your morning visits to Shaws-Castle. You are a bold man, my lord. I would advise you to include Mrs. Blower among the objects of your attention, and then you will have maid, wife, and widow upon your list.”
“Upon my honour, your ladyship is too severe,” said Lord Etherington; “you surround yourself every evening with all that is clever and accomplished among the people here, and then you ridicule a poor secluded monster, who dare not approach your charmed circle, because he seeks for some amusement elsewhere. This is to tyrannize and not to reign – it is Turkish despotism!”
“Ah! my lord, I know you well, my lord,” said Lady Penelope – “Sorry would your lordship be, had you not power to render yourself welcome to any circle which you may please to approach.”
“That is to say,” answered the lord, “you will pardon me if I intrude on your ladyship's coterie this evening?”
“There is no society which Lord Etherington can think of frequenting, where he will not be a welcome guest.”
“I will plead then at once my pardon and privilege this evening – And now,” (speaking as if he had succeeded in establishing some confidence with her ladyship,) “what do you really think of this blind story?”
“O, I must believe it concerns Miss Mowbray. She was always an odd girl – something about her I could never endure – a sort of effrontery – that is, perhaps, a harsh word, but a kind of assurance – an air of confidence – so that though I kept on a footing with her, because she was an orphan girl of good family, and because I really knew nothing positively bad of her, yet she sometimes absolutely shocked me.”
“Your ladyship, perhaps, would not think it right to give publicity to the story? at least, till you know exactly what it is,” said the Earl, in a tone of suggestion.
“Depend upon it, that it is quite the worst, the very worst – You heard the woman say that she had exposed Clara to ruin – and you know she must have meant Clara Mowbray, because she was so anxious to tell the story to her brother, St. Ronan's.”
“Very true – I did not think of that,” answered Lord Etherington; “still it would be hard on the poor girl if it should get abroad.”
“O, it will never get abroad for me,” said Lady Penelope; “I would not tell the very wind of it. But then I cannot meet Miss Mowbray as formerly – I have a station in life to maintain, my lord – and I am under the necessity of being select in my society – it is a duty I owe the public, if it were even not my own inclination.”
“Certainly, my Lady Penelope,” said Lord Etherington; “but then consider, that, in a place where all eyes are necessarily observant of your ladyship's behaviour, the least coldness on your part to Miss Mowbray – and, after all, we have nothing like assurance of any thing being wrong there – would ruin her with the company here, and with the world at large.”
“Oh! my lord,” answered Lady Penelope, “as for the truth of the story, I have some private reasons of my own for ‘holding the strange tale devoutly true;’ for I had a mysterious hint from a very worthy, but a very singular man, (your lordship knows how I adore originality,) the clergyman of the parish, who made me aware there was something wrong about Miss Clara – something that – your lordship will excuse my speaking more plainly, – Oh, no! – I fear – I fear it is all too true – You know Mr. Cargill, I suppose, my lord?”
“Yes – no – I – I think I have seen him,” said Lord Etherington. “But how came the lady to make the parson her father-confessor? – they have no auricular confession in the Kirk – it must have been with the purpose of marriage, I presume – let us hope that it took place – perhaps it really was so – did he, Cargill – the minister, I mean – say any thing of such a matter?”
“Not a word – not a word – I see where you are, my lord; you would put a good face on't. —
‘They call'd it marriage, by that specious name
To veil the crime, and sanctify the shame.’
Queen Dido for that. How the clergyman came into the secret I cannot tell – he is a very close man. But I know he will not hear of Miss Mowbray being married to any one, unquestionably because he knows that, in doing so, she would introduce disgrace into some honest family – and, truly, I am much of his mind, my lord.”
“Perhaps Mr. Cargill may know the lady is privately married already,” said the Earl; “I think that is the more natural inference, begging your ladyship's pardon for presuming to differ in opinion.”
Lady Penelope seemed determined not to take this view of the case.
“No, no – no, I tell you,” she replied; “she cannot be married, for if she were married, how could the poor wretch say that she was ruined? – You know there is a difference betwixt ruin and marriage.”
“Some people are said to have found them synonymous, Lady Penelope,” answered the Earl.
“You are smart on me, my lord; but still, in common parlance, when we say a woman is ruined, we mean quite the contrary of her being married – it is impossible for me to be more explicit upon such a topic, my lord.”
“I defer to your ladyship's better judgment,” said Lord Etherington. “I only entreat you to observe a little caution in this business – I will make the strictest enquiries of this woman, and acquaint you with the result; and I hope, out of regard to the respectable family of St. Ronan's, your ladyship will be in no hurry to intimate any thing to Miss Mowbray's prejudice.”
“I certainly am no person to spread scandal, my lord,” answered the lady, drawing herself up; “at the same time, I must say, the Mowbrays have little claim on me for forbearance. I am sure I was the first person to bring this Spa into fashion, which has been a matter of such consequence to their estate; and yet Mr. Mowbray set himself against me, my lord, in every possible sort of way, and encouraged the under-bred people about him to behave very strangely. – There was the business of building the Belvidere, which he would not permit to be done out of the stock-purse of the company, because I had given the workmen the plan and the orders – and then, about the tea-room – and the hour for beginning dancing – and about the subscription for Mr. Rymour's new Tale of Chivalry – in short, I owe no consideration to Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's.”
“But the poor young lady?” said Lord Etherington.
“Oh! the poor young lady? – the poor young lady can be as saucy as a rich young lady, I promise you. – There was a business in which she used me scandalously, Lord Etherington – it was about a very trifling matter – a shawl. Nobody minds dress less than I do, my lord; I thank Heaven my thoughts turn upon very different topics – but it is in trifles that disrespect and unkindness are shown; and I have had a full share of both from Miss Clara, besides a good deal of impertinence from her brother upon the same subject.”
“There is but one way remains,” thought the Earl, as they approached the Spa, “and that is to work on the fears of this d – d vindictive blue-stocking'd wild-cat. – Your ladyship,” he said aloud, “is aware what severe damages have been awarded in late cases where something approaching to scandal has been traced to ladies of consideration – the privileges of the tea-table have been found insufficient to protect some fair critics against the consequences of too frank and liberal animadversion upon the characters of their friends. So pray, remember, that as yet we know very little on this subject.”
Lady Penelope loved money, and feared the law; and this hint, fortified by her acquaintance with Mowbray's love of his sister, and his irritable and revengeful disposition, brought her in a moment much nearer the temper in which Lord Etherington wished to leave her. She protested, that no one could be more tender than she of the fame of the unfortunate, even supposing their guilt was fully proved – promised caution on the subject of the pauper's declaration, and hoped Lord Etherington would join her tea-party early in the evening, as she wished to make him acquainted with one or two of her protegés, whom, she was sure, his lordship would find deserving of his advice and countenance. Being by this time at the door of her own apartment, her ladyship took leave of the Earl with a most gracious smile.
CHAPTER XIV.
DISAPPOINTMENT
On the lee-beam lies the land, boys,
See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys,
Though the weather should be worse.
The Storm.
“It darkens round me like a tempest,” thought Lord Etherington, as, with slow step, folded arms, and his white hat slouched over his brows, he traversed the short interval of space betwixt his own apartments and those of the Lady Penelope. In a buck of the old school, one of Congreve's men of wit and pleasure about town, this would have been a departure from character; but the present fine man does not derogate from his quality, even by exhibiting all the moody and gentlemanlike solemnity of Master Stephen.42 So, Lord Etherington was at liberty to carry on his reflections, without attracting observation. – “I have put a stopper into the mouth of that old vinegar-cruet of quality, but the acidity of her temper will soon dissolve the charm – And what to do?”
As he looked round him, he saw his trusty valet Solmes, who, touching his hat with due respect, said, as he passed him, “Your lordship's letters are in your private dispatch-box.”
Simple as these words were, and indifferent the tone in which they were spoken, their import made Lord Etherington's heart bound as if his fate had depended on the accents. He intimated no farther interest in the communication, however, than to desire Solmes to be below, in case he should ring; and with these words entered his apartment, and barred and bolted the door, even before he looked on the table where his dispatch-box was placed.
Lord Etherington had, as is usual, one key to the box which held his letters, his confidential servant being intrusted with the other; so that, under the protection of a patent lock, his dispatches escaped all risk of being tampered with, – a precaution not altogether unnecessary on the part of those who frequent hotels and lodging-houses.
“By your leave, Mr. Bramah,” said the Earl, as he applied the key, jesting, as it were, with his own agitation, as he would have done with that of a third party. The lid was raised, and displayed the packet, the appearance and superscription of which had attracted his observation but a short while before in the post-office. Then he would have given much to be possessed of the opportunity which was now in his power; but many pause on the brink of a crime, who have contemplated it at a distance without scruple. Lord Etherington's first impulse had led him to poke the fire; and he held in his hand the letter which he was more than half tempted to commit, without even breaking the seal, to the fiery element. But, though sufficiently familiarized with guilt, he was not as yet acquainted with it in its basest shapes – he had not yet acted with meanness, or at least with what the world terms such. He had been a duellist, the manners of the age authorized it – a libertine, the world excused it to his youth and condition – a bold and successful gambler, for that quality he was admired and envied; and a thousand other inaccuracies, to which these practices and habits lead, were easily slurred over in a man of quality, with fortune and spirit to support his rank. But his present meditated act was of a different kind. Tell it not in Bond Street, whisper it not on St. James's pavement! – it amounted to an act of petty larceny, for which the code of honour would admit of no composition.
Lord Etherington, under the influence of these recollections, stood for a few minutes suspended – But the devil always finds logic to convince his followers. He recollected the wrong done to his mother, and to himself, her offspring, to whom his father had, in the face of the whole world, imparted the hereditary rights, of which he was now, by a posthumous deed, endeavouring to deprive the memory of the one and the expectations of the other. Surely, the right being his own, he had a full title, by the most effectual means, whatever such means might be, to repel all attacks on that right, and even destroy, if necessary, the documents by which his enemies were prosecuting their unjust plans against his honour and interest.
This reasoning prevailed, and Lord Etherington again held the devoted packet above the flames; when it occurred to him, that, his resolution being taken, he ought to carry it into execution as effectually as possible; and to do so, it was necessary to know, that the packet actually contained the papers which he was desirous to destroy.
Never did a doubt arise in juster time; for no sooner had the seal burst, and the envelope rustled under his fingers, than he perceived, to his utter consternation, that he held in his hand only the copies of the deeds for which Francis Tyrrel had written, the originals of which he had too sanguinely concluded would be forwarded according to his requisition. A letter from a partner of the house with which they were deposited, stated, that they had not felt themselves at liberty, in the absence of the head of their firm, to whom these papers had been committed, to part with them even to Mr. Tyrrel, though they had proceeded so far as to open the parcel, and now transmitted to him formal copies of the papers contained in it, which, they presumed, would serve Mr. Tyrrel's purpose for consulting counsel, or the like. They themselves, in a case of so much delicacy, and in the absence of their principal partner, were determined to retain the originals, unless called to produce them in a court of justice.
With a solemn imprecation on the formality and absurdity of the writer, Lord Etherington let the letter of advice drop from his hand into the fire, and throwing himself into a chair, passed his hand across his eyes, as if their very power of sight had been blighted by what he had read. His title, and his paternal fortune, which he thought but an instant before might be rendered unchallengeable by a single movement of his hand, seemed now on the verge of being lost for ever. His rapid recollection failed not to remind him of what was less known to the world, that his early and profuse expenditure had greatly dilapidated his maternal fortune; and that the estate of Nettlewood, which five minutes ago he only coveted as a wealthy man desires increase of his store, must now be acquired, if he would avoid being a poor and embarrassed spendthrift. To impede his possessing himself of this property, fate had restored to the scene the penitent of the morning, who, as he had too much reason to believe, was returned to this neighbourhood, to do justice to Clara Mowbray, and who was not unlikely to put the whole story of the marriage on its right footing. She, however, might be got rid of; and it might still be possible to hurry Miss Mowbray, by working on her fears, or through the agency of her brother, into a union with him while he still preserved the title of Lord Etherington. This, therefore, he resolved to secure, if effort or if intrigue could carry the point; nor was it the least consideration, that, should he succeed, he would obtain over Tyrrel, his successful rival, such a triumph, as would be sufficient to embitter the tranquillity of his whole life.
In a few minutes, his rapid and contriving invention had formed a plan for securing the sole advantage which seemed to remain open for him; and conscious that he had no time to lose, he entered immediately upon the execution.
The bell summoned Solmes to his lordship's apartment, when the Earl, as coolly as if he had hoped to dupe his experienced valet by such an assertion, said, “You have brought me a packet designed for some man at the Aultoun – let it be sent to him – Stay, – I will re-seal it first.”
He accordingly re-sealed the packet, containing all the writings, excepting the letter of advice, (which he had burnt,) and gave it to the valet, with the caution, “I wish you would not make such blunders in future.”
“I beg your lordship's pardon – I will take better care again – thought it was addressed to your lordship.”
So answered Solmes, too knowing to give the least look of intelligence, far less to remind the Earl that his own directions had occasioned the mistake of which he complained.
“Solmes,” continued the Earl, “you need not mention your blunder at the post-office; it would only occasion tattle in this idle place – but be sure that the gentleman has his letter. – And, Solmes, I see Mr. Mowbray walk across – ask him to dine with me to-day at five. I have a headache, and cannot face the clamour of the savages who feed at the public table. – And let me see – make my compliments to Lady Penelope Penfeather – I will certainly have the honour of waiting on her ladyship this evening to tea, agreeably to her very boring invitation received – write her a proper card, and word it your own way. Bespeak dinner for two, and see you have some of that batch of Burgundy.” The servant was retiring, when his master added, “Stay a moment – I have a more important business than I have yet mentioned. – Solmes, you have managed devilish ill about the woman Irwin!”
“I, my lord?” answered Solmes.
“Yes, you, sir – did you not tell me she had gone to the West Indies with a friend of yours, and did not I give them a couple of hundred pounds for passage-money?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied the valet.
“Ay, but now it proves no, my lord,” said Lord Etherington; “for she has found her way back to this country in miserable plight – half-starved, and, no doubt, willing to do or say any thing for a livelihood – How has this happened?”
“Biddulph must have taken her cash, and turned her loose, my lord,” answered Solmes, as if he had been speaking of the most commonplace transaction in the world; “but I know the woman's nature so well, and am so much master of her history, that I can carry her off the country in twenty-four hours, and place her where she will never think of returning, provided your lordship can spare me so long.”
“About it directly – but I can tell you, that you will find the woman in a very penitential humour, and very ill in health to boot.”
“I am sure of my game,” answered Solmes; “with submission to your lordship, I think if death and her good angel had hold of one of that woman's arms, the devil and I could make a shift to lead her away by the other.”
“Away and about it, then,” said Etherington. “But, hark ye, Solmes, be kind to her, and see all her wants relieved. I have done her mischief enough – though nature and the devil had done half the work to my hand.”
Solmes at length was permitted to withdraw to execute his various commissions, with an assurance that his services would not be wanted for the next twenty-four hours.
“Soh!” said the Earl, as his agent withdrew, “there is a spring put in motion, which, well oiled, will move the whole machine – And here, in lucky time, comes Harry Jekyl – I hear his whistle on the stairs. – There is a silly lightness of heart about that fellow, which I envy, while I despise it; but he is welcome now, for I want him.”
Jekyl entered accordingly, and broke out with “I am glad to see one of your fellows laying a cloth for two in your parlour, Etherington – I was afraid you were going down among these confounded bores again to-day.”
“You are not to be one of the two, Hal,” answered Lord Etherington.
“No? – then I may be a third, I hope, if not second?”
“Neither first, second, nor third, Captain. – The truth is, I want a tête-à-tête with Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's,” replied the Earl; “and, besides, I have to beg the very particular favour of you to go again to that fellow Martigny. It is time that he should produce his papers, if he has any – of which, for one, I do not believe a word. He has had ample time to hear from London; and I think I have delayed long enough in an important matter upon his bare assertion.”
“I cannot blame your impatience,” said Jekyl, “and I will go on your errand instantly. As you waited on my advice, I am bound to find an end to your suspense. – At the same time, if the man is not possessed of such papers as he spoke of, I must own he is happy in a command of consummate assurance, which might set up the whole roll of attorneys.”
“You will be soon able to judge of that,” said Lord Etherington; “and now, off with you – Why do you look at me so anxiously?”
“I cannot tell – I have strange forebodings about this tête-à-tête with Mowbray. You should spare him, Etherington – he is not your match – wants both judgment and temper.”
“Tell him so, Jekyl,” answered the Earl, “and his proud Scotch stomach will be up in an instant, and he will pay you with a shot for your pains. – Why, he thinks himself cock of the walk, this strutting bantam, notwithstanding the lesson I gave him before – And what do you think? – He has the impudence to talk about my attentions to Lady Binks as inconsistent with the prosecution of my suit to his sister! Yes, Hal – this awkward Scotch laird, that has scarce tact enough to make love to a ewe-milker, or, at best, to some daggletailed soubrette, has the assurance to start himself as my rival!”
“Then, good-night to St. Ronan's! – this will be a fatal dinner to him. – Etherington, I know by that laugh you are bent on mischief – I have a great mind to give him a hint.”
“I wish you would,” answered the Earl; “it would all turn to my account.”
“Do you defy me? – Well, if I meet him, I will put him on his guard.”
The friends parted; and it was not long ere Jekyl encountered Mowbray on one of the public walks.
“You dine with Etherington to-day?” said the Captain – “Forgive me, Mr. Mowbray, if I say one single word – Beware.”
“Of what should I beware, Captain Jekyl,” answered Mowbray, “when I dine with a friend of your own, and a man of honour?”
“Certainly Lord Etherington is both, Mr. Mowbray; but he loves play, and is too hard for most people.”
“I thank you for your hint, Captain Jekyl – I am a raw Scotchman, it is true; but yet I know a thing or two. Fair play is always presumed amongst gentlemen; and that taken for granted, I have the vanity to think I need no one's caution on the subject, not even Captain Jekyl's, though his experience must needs be so much superior to mine.”
“In that case, sir,” said Jekyl, bowing coldly, “I have no more to say, and I hope there is no harm done. – Conceited coxcomb!” he added, mentally, as they parted, “how truly did Etherington judge of him, and what an ass was I to intermeddle! – I hope Etherington will strip him of every feather!”
He pursued his walk in quest of Tyrrel, and Mowbray proceeded to the apartments of the Earl, in a temper of mind well suited to the purposes of the latter, who judged of his disposition accurately when he permitted Jekyl to give his well-meant warning. To be supposed, by a man of acknowledged fashion, so decidedly inferior to his antagonist – to be considered as an object of compassion, and made the subject of a good-boy warning, was gall and bitterness to his proud spirit, which, the more that he felt a conscious inferiority in the arts which they all cultivated, struggled the more to preserve the footing of at least apparent equality.
Since the first memorable party at piquet, Mowbray had never hazarded his luck with Lord Etherington, except for trifling stakes; but his conceit led him to suppose that he now fully understood his play, and, agreeably to the practice of those who have habituated themselves to gambling, he had every now and then felt a yearning to try for his revenge. He wished also to be out of Lord Etherington's debt, feeling galled under a sense of pecuniary obligation, which hindered his speaking his mind to him fully upon the subject of his flirtation with Lady Binks, which he justly considered as an insult to his family, considering the footing on which the Earl seemed desirous to stand with Clara Mowbray. From these obligations a favourable evening might free him, and Mowbray was, in fact, indulging in a waking dream to this purpose, when Jekyl interrupted him. His untimely warning only excited a spirit of contradiction, and a determination to show the adviser how little he was qualified to judge of his talents; and in this humour, his ruin, which was the consequence of that afternoon, was far from seeming to be the premeditated, or even the voluntary work of the Earl of Etherington.
On the contrary, the victim himself was the first to propose play – deep play – double stakes; while Lord Etherington, on the other hand, often proposed to diminish their game, or to break off entirely; but it was always with an affectation of superiority which only stimulated Mowbray to farther and more desperate risks; and, at last, when Mowbray became his debtor to an overwhelming amount, (his circumstances considered,) the Earl threw down the cards, and declared he should be too late for Lady Penelope's tea-party, to which he was positively engaged.
“Will you not give me my revenge?” said Mowbray, taking up the cards, and shuffling them with fierce anxiety.
“Not now, Mowbray; we have played too long already – you have lost too much – more than perhaps is convenient for you to pay.”
Mowbray gnashed his teeth, in spite of his resolution to maintain an exterior, at least, of firmness.
“You can take your time, you know,” said the Earl; “a note of hand will suit me as well as the money.”
“No, by G – !” answered Mowbray, “I will not be so taken in a second time – I had better have sold myself to the devil than to your lordship – I have never been my own man since.”
“These are not very kind expressions, Mowbray,” said the Earl; “you would play, and they that will play must expect sometimes to lose” —
“And they who win will expect to be paid,” said Mowbray, breaking in. “I know that as well as you, my lord, and you shall be paid – I will pay you – I will pay you, by G – ! Do you make any doubt that I will pay you, my lord?”
“You look as if you thought of paying me in sharp coin,” said Lord Etherington; “and I think that would scarce be consistent with the terms we stand upon towards each other.”
“By my soul, my lord,” said Mowbray, “I cannot tell what these terms are; and to be at my wit's end at once, I should be glad to know. You set out upon paying addresses to my sister, and with your visits and opportunities at Shaws-Castle, I cannot find the matter makes the least progress – it keeps moving without advancing, like a child's rocking-horse. Perhaps you think that you have curbed me up so tightly, that I dare not stir in the matter; but you will find it otherwise. – Your lordship may keep a haram if you will, but my sister shall not enter it.”
“You are angry, and therefore you are unjust,” said Etherington; “you know well enough it is your sister's fault that there is any delay. I am most willing – most desirous – to call her Lady Etherington – nothing but her unlucky prejudices against me have retarded a union which I have so many reasons for desiring.”
“Well,” replied Mowbray, “that shall be my business. I know no reason she can pretend to decline a marriage so honourable to her house, and which is approved of by me, that house's head. That matter shall be arranged in twenty-four hours.”
“It will do me the most sensible pleasure,” said Lord Etherington; “you shall soon see how sincerely I desire your alliance; and as for the trifle you have lost” —
“It is no trifle to me, my lord – it is my ruin – but it shall be paid – and let me tell your lordship, you may thank your good luck for it more than your good play.”
“We will say no more of it at present, if you please,” said Lord Etherington, “to-morrow is a new day; and if you will take my advice, you will not be too harsh with your sister. A little firmness is seldom amiss with young women, but severity” —
“I will pray your lordship to spare me your advice on this subject. However valuable it may be in other respects, I can, I take it, speak to my own sister in my own way.”
“Since you are so caustically-disposed, Mowbray,” answered the Earl, “I presume you will not honour her ladyship's tea-table to-night, though I believe it will be the last of the season?”
“And why should you think so, my lord?” answered Mowbray, whose losses had rendered him testy and contradictory upon every subject that was started. “Why should not I pay my respects to Lady Penelope, or any other tabby of quality? I have no title, indeed; but I suppose that my family” —
