CHAPTER XLV.
RETRIBUTION.
Next morning Mr. Cheek was silent at breakfast. Charles was not in his usual lively mood. His father had told him in his room, the night before, of his plan, on their return from the Court. He had told him also that Mr. Worthivale had refused to entertain it. Charles was startled and gratified at the prospect; startled, because he had not dared to wish it, startled also, because he was not sure that he did wish it; gratified, because he saw open to him the means of taking a place in society that had been hitherto inaccessible. He was silent because, thoughtless though he was, the conjuncture of affairs was one that forced him to think.
Worthivale was nervous and agitated at breakfast. Drops stood on his brow, and he was unable to pour out the coffee, his hand shook so, and he was forced to pass over the duty to Beavis. Something had occurred, more than the proposal of old Cheek, to unnerve him.
After breakfast Mr. Cheek drew the steward aside. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘with morning come cool counsels. Shall we deal?’
‘How can you speak in such terms?’ asked the steward. ‘Do you not perceive that it is impossible for the daughter of such an illustrious house to accept Stuff! as well propose an alliance between an eagle and a crocodile! Preposterous! simply preposterous!’
Mr. Cheek stretched his arms, then drew his finger over his lips. ‘There is nothing preposterous in it,’ he said. ‘Worse matches have been made. One likes apples, t’other likes onions. To my mind, I am the more respectable party of the two. I have lifted myself out of nothing, by my industry, into affluence. They have degraded themselves, by wastefulness, out of wealth into bankruptcy.’
‘Will you not help the family, without conditions?
‘Do you take me for a fool? What are they to me?
‘Surely—surely, to obtain their esteem, to deserve the regard of the Duke, the respect of Lord Edward and Lord Ronald, the gratitude of the Marquess—that is something.’
‘Not worth a farthing to me,’ answered Mr. Cheek, roughly, ‘Put it up to auction; who will bid?’ ‘Besides, you would not be giving your money, only investing it most safely,’
‘I have made my proposals,’ said the elder Cheek. ‘To them I stick as cobbler’s wax.’
‘I cannot listen to you!’ exclaimed the steward. ‘You might as well sue for the moon.’ He paced the room, swinging his arms; he was hot with indignation.
‘I do not want the moon. I want that young woman’—Worthivale shivered—‘for my son. She’ll make a tidy daughter-in-law. As for those old codgers’—Worthivale’s blood curdled (their lordships—codgers!)—‘they are like turkey-cocks in a barn-yard, ruffling feathers and gobbling at the little fowl. She’s other. Wouldn’t give herself high and mighty airs.’
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ cried the steward, putting his hands to his ears, ‘have done, or I will leave the room.’
‘Needn’t go,’ said Mr. Cheek. ‘I’m off, next coach. Time valuable. Can’t afford to waste it like a parcel of gorgeous good-for-noughts.’
‘Going!’ exclaimed the steward, aghast, and standing still. ‘You are not going to-day. To-day is the twenty-third: I invited you to be here when we meet Crudge, the solicitor for Mr. Emmanuel.’
‘Can’t waste my time. Sheer waste. Made my proposal—refused. Enough; I go.’
‘But the investment is so good.’
‘Know of a score better.’
‘But—but you led me to expect’
‘Nothing. Never committed myself. Too old a bird for that. Said I would come and look about me. Have done so, taken stock, and made a bid.’
‘Which I refuse.’
‘It has not been submitted to the proper parties.’
‘If by proper parties you mean the Duke and Lady Grace, I absolutely refuse to mention it to them. They—I mean the Duke—would kick me out of the house. She—Lady Grace—I would not dare to look her in the face again.’
‘As you like,’ said Mr, Cheek, washing his hands in the air. ‘Don’t take amiss. When dry will brush off. I leave by next coach. One thing, however, I do ask. Allow Charles to remain. Don’t want him to be back in Plymouth yet. Understand?’
‘Let him stay here, by all means.’ ‘Right. Hope you’ll enjoy yourself with the mortgagees. Cheerful company. Pleasant ways, eh? If in distress, and you change your mind, wire. Let the young female give her word of honour that she will take my Charlie, and I am ready with my two hundred thousand. She’s not one to go from her word. Now—portmantle.’
‘Was there ever such a fool—such a confounded fool!’ cried Mr. Worthivale, when Cheek had left the room, as he ran about, holding his head. ‘That I should have lived to hear him talk!’
Half an hour later, the great Cheek of the Monokeros was gone, and the hope that had hung on him had fallen and lay broken with many another shattered hope.
‘Well!’ said the General, entering the dining-room about the hour when the meeting was to take place, ‘what says your kinsman to the mortgages? Will he take them?’
‘He is a fool, an abject, drivelling fool!’ answered the steward. Lord Ronald sighed. He had buoyed himself on the expectation which Worthivale had confided to him, that relief was certain from this quarter.
‘That is not the worst,’ said Worthivale, in a low tone, and he trembled and became white and moist.
‘What now?’
‘By this post,’ gasped the steward, ‘the—the Insurance Company have given notice’
‘My God! not the Loddiswell mortgage for four hundred thousand?’
Worthivale put his hand to his mouth to cover a groan.
Then they heard a carriage drive up to the garden gate, followed by a ring at the bell. A moment after, the maid announced, ‘Mr. Crudge, solicitor,’ and the lawyer entered, followed by Lazarus, dressed respectably.
‘Good afternoon, my lord. Good afternoon, Mr. Worthivale,’ said Crudge, with freshness and confidence. ‘Allow me to introduce Mr. Emmanuel.’ He presented Lazarus; the General bowed stiffly, Worthivale shook hands. They seated themselves, Lazarus with his back to the light, in the window, behind Mr. Crudge. Presently the Marquess arrived, with Lord Edward. They bowed to Crudge and Lazarus, and took chairs by the fire, offered them by the steward. With them entered Beavis.
Conversation began on the weather. Crudge talked of the crops—as is correct, to those living in the country—and on land. Lazarus said nothing. So passed ten minutes.
‘Let us proceed to business,’ said the soliciter, looking at his watch. ‘By the way, I bear a note for you, sir, from Messrs. Levi and Moses, who hold the seventeen thousand pound mortgage on Alvington; and also the second, on the same estate, for twenty thousand. I am instructed to act for them. Both must be met in three months from date.’
A silence ensued, broken only by a little, quickly subdued chuckle in the window.
Then Beavis opened proceedings, by stating that the sudden calling up of mortgages at a time when rents had had to be reduced twenty to twenty-five per cent, all round, and when some rents were in arrear for two and three years, at a time, moreover, when land was at an unprecedentedly low value, was very inconvenient to the Duke, and that he desired the mortgagees to reconsider their demand, and allow time for the recovery of the farmers, when, in the event of his not being able to transfer the mortgages, or himself find the amount, land would have to be sold.
The solicitor replied that he was acting both for Mr. Emmanuel and for Messrs. Levi and Moses, and he could say that his clients were not disposed to be harsh, but to accord every reasonable indulgence. They, however, did not participate in the sanguine view entertained by his Grace. They believed that rents would fall still lower, that the golden day of British agriculture was set, and the whole industry menaced with extinction. Holding this, they were anxious with promptitude to release their money, that they might invest it elsewhere.
‘But, if you proceed to extremities, you will be selling land when it hardly reaches twenty-five years’ purchase.’
‘Better that than sell when it will not fetch twenty years’ purchase. I have heard of desirable properties in North Devon in the market, and not a bid made for them at fifteen.’
‘But this is in South Devon.’
Mr. Grudge shrugged his shoulders,
‘What, then, do you propose, or demand?’ asked the General.
‘We are ready to meet your convenience as far as possible. I am instructed to yield so far as this—half the total at the expiration of three months from date of notice, the rest in two equal portions, at intervals of three months.’ Again a sound like a chuckle from the window. The Marquess looked sharply round, but Lazarus, who sat there, was quiet, his face in shadow and illegible.
‘Small charities!’ said the General. ‘Better the sword Miséricorde which ends the torture with a thrust.’
Silence ensued. Lord Edward and the General looked down; the eyes of the Marquess were on the fire.’
Lazarus watched them eagerly with malicious delight.
‘You will go no further?’ asked Mr. Worthivale.
‘This is the limit imposed on me by my clients. You will understand, I am but the intermediary; I am obliged to act as directed.’
Worthivale bowed.
Ten minutes of painful silence ensued.
‘I see no necessity for prolonging the meeting,’ said the Marquess, rising.
‘None at all, as far as I am concerned,’ answered the solicitor.
‘Sorry the matter should be ventilated with such freedom in the papers. There was something about it a little while ago, and now the Society papers are still more explicit. There is no mistaking the allusions. If worth while, prosecutions might be begun. Hah!’ said Crudge, ‘I have them in my pocket. Really, these periodicals are offensive and insulting.’
The colour rushed into the General’s face. Lord Edward turned pale, and held the jamb of the chimney-piece to prevent himself from falling; a mist formed before his eyes. Lord Saltcombe compressed his lips and clenched his hands. As Grudge offered him the papers with coarse civility, he brushed them aside.
‘You want me no further?’ he said to Mr. Worthivale.
‘No, my lord, there is nothing to be done.’
‘Very well; I will consult my uncles at home. I wish you all a good afternoon.’
‘A very pleasant afternoon to you, my lord,’ said Lazarus, also rising, and bowing deeply.
Lord Saltcombe slightly bent his head, and left the room.
Almost immediately after, Lazarus followed; Crudge was detained but a few minutes. When he also was gone, Lord Ronald looked at his brother.
‘Hopelessly ruined—that is the plain English,’ he said.
‘And satyrs dance and scoff over our grave,’ said Lord Edward, pointing to the papers. The Marquess was walking slowly through the park to Court Royal, when he heard rapid steps behind him. He did not turn to see who followed; then he heard a voice,
‘Heigh! Lord Saltcombe! Most noble Marquess, a word with you.’
He arrested his walk, and waited patiently till he was caught up, but without turning his head.
A moment after he saw at his side the man Emmanuel, whom he had scarce noticed at the meeting. The man was panting. He had run to catch him up. Lord Saltcombe waited till he had gained breath to speak. He did not know Lazarus. If he had seen him in past years, it had been but briefly and rarely, and he did not recall his features; besides, Lazarus was oldened and altered since then.
‘You do not know me, most noble sir?’ said the Jew, in a tone between deference and defiance.
Lord Saltcombe contented himself with a slight shake of the head.
‘I suppose not. Oh, no! of course not! You do not know who Emmanuel is, who holds his grip on your heart? No, I suppose not!’
Lord Saltcombe became impatient; he turned to continue his walk, without speaking.
‘Do you know who holds two of your mortgages, and who has worked and stirred up the other mortgagees against you? Who has your own—your own bills in his hands?’
Lazarus walked beside the Marquess, peering into his face with an expression full of vindictiveness. Lord Saltcombe looked in front of him; he made no reply, but the veins in his temples swelled and darkened.
‘You do not know, I presume, that I, I hold you all in my power—that you are at my mercy? Do you know who I am?’ asked Lazarus starting forward and standing in his way.
‘I know that you are an obstruction, and unless you move yourself at once I shall lay my stick across you.’
‘Oh, my Lord Cock-of-the-Walk!’ exclaimed the Jew. ‘What airs we give ourselves!’
Lord Saltcombe’s eyes lightened. He raised his walking stick, and would have brought it down on Lazarus had not the Jew hastily added: ‘I am Emmanuel Lazarus, of the Barbican, Plymouth!’
Then the stick fell from Lord Saltcombe’s hand. He stood still, and looked keenly at the man before him. The pawn-broker had stooped; his attitude was cringing as he shrank from the menaced blow. His eyes glittered with hate.
Lord Saltcombe drew down his hat and folded his arms. ‘Well,’ he said in a low tone, ‘say what you will, I cannot touch you.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Lazarus, ‘you may well stand still and look down when you encounter me—me, the man whose home you broke up, whose honour you stained, whose happiness you blighted. What was I? Only a Jew usurer. What were you? A great noble. Now I am in the ascendant, and you grovel. Now it is my turn to cast you down, and put my foot on your proud neck. I will hold you there, writhe as you may to be free. It was I who spoiled your fine matrimonial schemes with the coffee-planter’s daughter. It was I who warned off old Cheek from coming to your assistance. It was I who put your affairs into the Society papers, and made you the talk of the town. It was I who stirred up the other mortgagees to foreclose. I have waited long till I could find a way to hurt you. Did I say just now you were at my mercy? It was a wrong word. I have no mercy in my heart for such as you, only retribution.’
Then Lord Saltcombe looked him full in the face. He was deadly pale, but he did not move a muscle, nor did his lips quiver. He spoke with perfect calmness, the calmness of perfect self-control.
‘Mr. Lazarus,’ he said, ‘I would have sought you out years ago, had I thought the interview would lead to good. But though I did not seek you, I have always desired to meet you, that I might express to you my sorrow, my deepest sorrow for the wrong I did you. Perhaps it was weakness and want of resolution which hindered my going direct to you. Providence has now brought us face to face, and I hasten to express my contrition. You can say to me nothing that I have not said, and said daily, almost hourly, to myself. You speak of retribution. She—she—’ his voice vibrated for a moment. ‘She has been overtaken by the hand of God, and has suffered where she sinned. I do not hope, I do not wish to escape the chastisement of heaven. Why should I go free, when she has endured the penalty? If it has pleased the Almighty to touch me in the place where most sensitive, in my pride and love for my family—His will be done. My only regret is that I must draw down with me other, and those very dear heads.’ He was silent for a moment, with his eyes on the ground. For a moment he needed silence, to recover that command over himself which he felt was slipping from him. Lazarus said nothing. His face was perplexed with contending emotions—hate, surprise, disappointment.
‘Mr. Lazarus, take up that stick. It is a sword-cane. I pierced your heart once with the deadliest of thrusts. I will stand here, or anywhere you like, and give you full and free leave to run me through the heart with that needle blade. No one will suspect you. No one will suppose but that I fell by my own hand, unable to endure the humiliation of witnessing the ruin of my house.’
The Jew stooped, picked up the sword-cane, and drew the weapon. It was fine, keen, and sharply pointed. He looked furtively at Lord Saltcombe, who unfolded his arms, and stood before him motionless, beside a tree.
The Jew’s fingers tingled as he held the sword. He turned it, and it flickered in the evening light. In the button-hole by the heart of the Marquess was a red rose. The Jew’s blood bounded at the thought that with a thrust he could bring forth something redder there than that rose. But he re-sheathed the blade and shook his head.
‘That,’ said he, ‘would be insufficient. It would be too quickly over. Take back your sword-cane. I have not done with you yet.’
‘You have refused me a favour, for which I would have thanked you,’ said the Marquess, coldly.
‘Because I knew it would be a favour,’ answered Lazarus venomously, ‘therefore I refused it.’