CHAPTER XLIV.
A STARTLING PROPOSAL.
The serenity of security was gone from Court Royal. Though all went on there unaltered to the eye of the casual visitor, a change had passed over the house, like the touch of the first October frost on the park trees. And as the trees show their sensibility of coming winter in various tints, the maple turning crimson and the beech gold, the oak russet and the sycamore brown, so did the threat of impending ruin affect the various members of the household variously. Hitherto the house of Kingsbridge had been regarded as unbreakable as the Bank of England, as unassailable as the British Constitution. Now the faith had received a shock so rude that it could never recover its child-like simplicity. The windows of heaven were open, the fountains of the great deep were broken up, and in the deluge what would survive? The ark had sprung a leak, and all the household were aware of it and restless. On every face a shadow had fallen. The members of the family talked each other into momentary encouragement, and then parted to fall back into despondency. The Duke was the least affected. After he had recovered the agitation into which he had been thrown by the paragraph in the Society paper, he put the whole matter from him. He had known all his life that the estates were encumbered, he had known also all his life that this had not precluded him from spending money. Hitherto, when he needed it, money had been raised, it could be raised again. There was always water in the well. The pump worked badly. The fault lay in Worthivale; he was old, and creaky, and clumsy.
Lord Ronald, on the other hand, worried himself with schemes for raising money. He came into his nephew’s room every day with a new suggestion as impracticable as the last, and when Saltcombe threw cold water over it he visited the Archdeacon, in hopes of gaining encouragement from him. At table, before company and the servants, the General was cheerful, told his old stories, abused the new army regulations, wondered what the service was coming to, when the first necessity for advancement was to gain the favour of the newspaper reporters. He was less sanguine in his views than heretofore, that was the only evidence he gave in public that his mind was troubled.
Lord Edward remained at Court Royal, in spite of peremptory recalls from Lady Elizabeth, who insisted on his return to Sleepy Hollow, where cracks had appeared in the walls, and water was percolating through the roof, and the lamb-like curate was beginning to kick like a calf. Lord Edward saw that a crisis had arrived in the fate of the family, and he saw that his duty—the paramount duty—called him to remain at Court Royal. Where duties clashed the superior must be obeyed, and his duty to the family stood above all others.
The Marquess was altered since his return from Plymouth. The alteration was not in appearance only, it was also in manner. He had been hitherto agreeable in society, he was now silent. Nothing roused him out of his depression. Before he had been apathetic, now he was dispirited. He accepted the impending ruin as inevitable, and made no efforts to arrest it.
Beavis noticed the change and regretted it. The change was not for the better, but for the worse.
Only Lady Grace remained herself—cheerful, loving, trustful. She devoted herself more than ever to her brother, and, without appearing to observe his melancholy, combated it with all the weapons of her woman’s wit. She forced him out of himself; she called her uncles and Lucy to her aid. Only when she was alone did the tears come into her eyes, and her brightness fade. Her brother was now her first concern, though she did not understand the occasion of his mood. She attributed it to despair of saving the family, consequent on the failure of his engagement to Dulcina Rigsby. Although she thought chiefly of him, she did not think exclusively of him. She did not even know the main cause of trouble. She had resolved that some of the property must be sold, and that the establishment must be reduced. She dared to broach the subject to her father, in hopes of persuading him to realise the gravity of the occasion, but he refused to listen to her. ‘My dear Grace,’ he said, ‘talk of what you understand. If you want any more gardenias—and the new sorts are very fine—order them. Tell Messrs. Veitch to send you a Lapageria alba; we have only the rosea in the greenhouse. But, my dear, not another word about matters concerning which you know nothing.’
Somehow—it is impossible to say how—the knowledge that the existing order was menaced had reached the servants’ hall, and the greatest consternation prevailed. Mr. Blomfield and Mrs. Probus, the senior footmen, the coachman, and the lady’s maid of Lady Grace put their heads together, and concluded that the true remedy lay in a reduction of the establishment. Lord Ronald must go. Lord Edward must not be there so much, and he must not bring that ‘drefful Lady Elizabeth, as is so mean, and pokes her nose into everything.’
‘Far be it from me to suggest,’ said Mr. Blomfield, ‘that Lady Grace is not heartily welcome to all we have, and to the best of everything; still, her ladyship can’t be kept on nothing. She really ought to be married and go. The Marquess is different. We must put up with him; he is the heir, and will be Dook some day.’
‘But if you send away Lady Grace, I must go too,’ argued the lady’s-maid.
‘Under those circumstances,’ said the butler, ‘we will make an effort, and keep her,’
Upstairs, at the same time. Lady Grace was with Lucy going over the list of servants.
‘Dear Lucy, it is very painful. I can’t bear to send one away, they are all so nice, and good, and obliging. It is not that I care for myself, but that I fear they will never get another place where they will all be so happy and comfortable together.’
Owing to the tension of spirits at the Court, Beavis and Charles Cheek were there a great deal. Charles had been introduced as the cousin of Beavis and Lucy, and as his manners were gentlemanly, and his conversation pleasant, and his spirits unflagging, he was a welcome guest. Neither he nor Mr. Worthivale had thought it necessary to mention his relations to the monokeratic system, of which possibly the ducal family had never heard. Even if they had, Charles would have been received with perfect readiness as the kinsman of Lucy and her father. Lady Grace herself urged Beavis to bring his cousin whenever he could, to cheer the Marquess, and draw the minds of her uncles from the absorbing care.
Charles Cheek was very amusing; he was full of good stories, and had the tact to be agreeable without forcing himself into prominence. Indeed, he appeared at his best in this society. He knew what good manners were, and no one who saw him suspected the effort it was to him to maintain himself at ease among them. He was like a tight-rope dancer, who seems to be composed and assured on his cord aloft, but who knows himself to be safest and happiest when he is on the solid ground.
He showed sufficient deference to the rank and age of his Grace, and the General and the Archdeacon, to conciliate their favour. With the Marquess he was freer, though always respectful, and Lord Saltcombe said once or twice to Beavis that he liked his cousin, and hoped to see a good deal of him. He invited him to come in the shooting season, and placed his horses at his disposal for hunting. He was asked to take frequent strolls with Lady Grace, and Lucy and the Marquess, when Lord Saltcombe naturally fell to Lucy, and Charles to be companion to Lady Grace. These walks were delightful to Lucy, as her sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks testified. Lady Grace enjoyed them, for Charles was always amusing, sometimes interesting. He was a man with a good deal of shrewd observation of men and manners, which he used to good effect in conversation. Lady Grace had a sweet voice, thoroughly schooled, and as Charles sang well, with a mellow tenor, and knew his notes fairly, they practised duets together partly to please themselves, chiefly to give pleasure to the Duke.
The young man was sensible of the charms of Lady Grace; he had never before been in the society of a perfect English lady, and a perfect English lady is the noblest and most admirable of the products of centuries of refinement. The culture of the English lady is a culture of the entire woman, mind and soul, as well as of body, perfect refinement and exquisite delicacy in manner, in movement, in intonation, in thought, and in expression. No man can escape the attractions of such a woman; it seizes him, it raises him, it humbles him. It raises him by inspiring him with the desire to be worthy to associate with such nobility; it humbles him by making him conscious of his own shortcomings.
Charles Cheek had been so little in the society of ladies of any sort, and was so ignorant of the ladies of the best English society, that this association with Lady Grace exercised over him quite irresistible fascination. He was uneasy when a day passed without his seeing her, and when out of her presence the recollection of her words, and the pleasant way in which she spoke them, formed his great delight. It can hardly be said that he loved her, it was certain that he worshipped her.
‘Grace dear,’ said Lucy one day to her friend, ‘take care what you are about.’
‘What do you mean, Lucy?’
‘You are throwing your imperceptible threads round that simple young man, and binding him in bonds he will be powerless to rive away.’
‘What young man?’
‘My cousin Charles.’
‘Nonsense, Lucy!’ said Lady Grace, colouring slightly and looking vexed.
‘You cannot help yourself. You bewitch every one, down to old Jonathan the gardener, and Tom the stable boy. You cannot help it. You have thrown your glamour over my cousin. I can see it. When he leaves this place he will feel like the Swiss exiled from the Alpine air and roses to be pastrycook in Amsterdam. You remember that queer girl we had at the Lodge, and who ran away. You did the same with her, and she sent you a necklace in token of undying devotion. Now you are playing tricks with Charles. Take care that you do not encourage him to do something equally absurd. As for my father and Beavis, you know very well they would let themselves be cut to pieces in your service.’
On the twenty-second of the month, Mr. Cheek senior arrived, and was invited to dine at the Court, along with his son and the Worthivales. The old trader was highly gratified. He was struck with the grand staircase, the well-lighted magnificent rooms, rich with gilding, pictures, and silk curtains, with the livery servants, and the general ease and luxury. He was courteously received, somewhat ceremoniously, and he had a few words with the Duke, who made himself agreeable, as he could when he chose, by touching on a subject likely to delight the old man.
‘What a very nice fellow your son is, Mr. Cheek! He has enlivened our rather dull society of late. I do not know what we should have done without him. Beavis is our usual pièce de résistance, but Beavis has been out of sorts lately. We feel under a debt to you for having spared him so long.’
Mr. Cheek held up his head. ‘Your Grace is too complimentary.’
‘Not at all. I always speak my mind.’
The General came up. ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, sir,’ said Lord Ronald; ‘though I owe you a grudge, and I do not know that I shall ever be Christian enough to forgive you. Your boy ought to have been in the army.’
‘My fault, my lord. Bitterly regret it now—when too late. A mistake.’
‘It was a mistake. He is a daring fellow. He was hunting the other day, and took the hedges splendidly. No end of pluck in him. Sad pity he is not in the army.’
The delighted father watched his son all the evening. He did not talk much himself, and Lord Edward and the General found him difficult to get on with. The reason was that his attention was taken up in contemplating his son with admiration and wonder. He could not have been more astonished had he assisted at a miracle. Charles was at ease in this society. Charles could talk, and make the great people listen to him. After dinner Charles played and sang a solo, talked to Lucy Worthivale, and sent her into a fit of laughter, stood in the window in familiar discussion with the Marquess, then went to the Duke, conversed with him, then at his request sang a duet with Lady Grace. After that Charles was on an ottoman with the lady, talking to her in an animated way, expressing himself with his hands like a Frenchman, whilst her colour came and she smiled. She coloured because she remembered the words of Lucy.
Mr. Cheek was struck with her; her delicate beauty and purity impressed him. He was not afraid of her, but he had not the courage to get up from his place and walk across the room to speak to her. Presently she came over to him, and talked, and the old man felt as though a light shone round him, and a sense of reverence and holy love came upon him. He did not remember afterwards what she said, or what he answered, but thought that he had been in a dream. Afterwards, when she was at the piano again, he watched her, and shook his head, and smiled. Then he looked at Charles turning the pages of her music for her, and he said to himself, ‘Charles is a genius! It is not in me. The Duke and that old soldier chap didn’t pile it on too much. He is all they said, and more. Worthivale was right. This is the element in which he must swim.’
Mr. Cheek and the steward walked home together, Charles and Beavis went on before.
‘Are they not charming people? Is not the house quite perfect?’ asked Mr. Worthivale.
‘This the style of daily life?’ asked Mr. Cheek.
‘Always the same—of course.’
‘And the income, the debts, the mortgages, the outs always the same?’ said Mr. Cheek. ‘Nothing for it but a smash-up. Seen the accounts. Balance bad. I—even I—with the Monokeros on my back, couldn’t afford it.’
‘You have never seen this sort of life before,’ said the steward, reproachfully, ‘and so—it rather surprises you. Splendid, is it not? and so homely and genial too.’
‘Won’t go on,’ said the man of business. ‘Can’t do it on the balance. Col-lapse.’
‘I hope not—I trust not.’
‘I can help them. I can save them.’
‘I knew it, I was sure of it,’ exclaimed the delighted steward.
‘I see they like Charlie, and Charlie likes to be on this shelf. I don’t. I ain’t suited to it. Set me on end on the floor. Don’t roll me up and chuck me aloft on a top shelf. Charlie can take that place, and he shall. I like to see him there.’
‘He conducts himself very well, but what has he to do with the present emergency?’
‘Everything. Charlie shall make Lady Grace his missus. Then he’ll belong to the aristocracy, whatever I may be.’
‘What!’ Mr. Worthivale sprang back, and his hat fell off.
‘Charlie shall make his proposals to Lady Grace, and I’ll find two hundred thousand pounds to clear off such of the mortgages as are now troublesome. The Monokeros is still alive, and bringing in money for Charlie and his deary. If this ain’t a handsome offer, show me one that is. If you don’t like my shop, go to another.’
‘Are you mad? You must be mad!’ exclaimed the steward, too amazed to be indignant. ‘Your son and SHE! What are you thinking of?’
‘What am I thinking of? Mutual accommodation. As you said to me, I want blood and they want money. Is it a deal?’
Mr. Worthivale stared at his guest, and remained rooted to the spot.
‘Madman!’ he gasped. ‘Is nothing sacred with you?’
‘As you like,’ said the trader, indifferently. ‘Take my offer or reject it. I can do without better than you.’
‘Not a word of this raving nonsense to a soul,’ said Mr. Worthivale, grasping his arm. ‘Lord! I wouldn’t have any one hear of this for all I am worth.’
‘As you like,’ said Mr. Cheek, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘Those are my terms.’