CHAPTER XLVII.
LEIGH.
The Archdeacon left without giving advice. He had no advice that he could give. He looked ill. When Micah had his idols stolen by thievish men of Dan, he beat his breast, and tore his beard, and cried, ‘Ye have taken away my gods which I made, and what have I more?’ The belief in his family stability had been the deepest fibre in his soul, and now that conviction was torn up, his mind was in collapse. He had regarded himself as able to assist in every emergency, if not with money, yet with counsel, and now he found himself powerless to avert the impending ruin either with money or with counsel.
The General wrote letters all day, which he tore up and rewrote. He looked greyer and older than before, and was silent at meals. Lord Saltcombe placed no reliance on his sister’s promise of relief. Whence could it come? He knew of no quarter. She had given him no reason for encouragement. He attributed her hopes to a natural disposition to look for the best. He deferred breaking the news to the Duke, from his habitual procrastination, of putting off doing what was unpleasant.
Charles Cheek was still at the Lodge. He could not disobey his father, who had insisted on his remaining there, but he was getting mortally weary of the life. Lady Grace exercised over him the same spell, but the country life, the want of daily variety, the lack of genial companions of his own age, made him wish himself back in Plymouth. He had no resources in himself, and a man without such resources is only happy in a crowd.
‘Beavis, old boy,’ he said one day, ‘I shall give a dinner at the “Duke’s Head,” and break this frightful monotony. Young Sheepwash and I play at billiards when we do not hunt, and there are one or two other fellows at the club, who are not bad, but stupefied by living out of the world. I feel like a comet getting further and further into outer space. This Kingsbridge is one of life’s backwaters where only sticks assemble. I shall give a dinner. I’ll ask the Vicar’s son. He is a good fellow enough. His father wants him to go into the Church, because the Duke can dispose of some livings, but he wants to go on the stage, which is absurd; he has no looks and no memory. Can I invite Saltcombe?’
‘You can call him, but will he come? I think not; he is much engaged over unpleasant business, which has put him out of tune.’
‘Out of tune! I should think so; there is no tune in him at all.’
‘You must excuse him. He has heavy anxieties.’
‘I know that—about money. That is no excuse for moping. I am always in trouble about money, but it never spoils my pitch. Beavis! you have not heard of my last escapade, and how I got out of it. I lost a hundred pounds on a snail to Captain Finch. I hadn’t a hundred pence in my pocket, and he was under orders for India. A girl got me out of my hobble. Little monkey! It fills me with laughter whenever I think of her. Beavis! His Grace the Duke of Kingsbridge could not do better than cross the palm of that little witch with silver. She’ll help him, if help be possible.’
‘How did you—or she manage it?’
‘She is a queer piece of goods, very respectable. Not a word against her character. I have had many a joke with her now and then. Well!—will you believe me?—she appealed to my father, and threatened breach of promise.’
‘Had you given her occasion? Did you like her?’
‘Like her! Couldn’t help liking her. Such a rogue! Enough to make one laugh all day. You never knew where to have her. Well, my father was in a tearing rage, and went down to Plymouth to see her, and bought her off with a hundred pounds.’
‘What has that to do with your debt?’
‘Everything. She enclosed the note by next post, with my compliments to Captain Finch, who was surprised and delighted to get the money so expeditiously.’
‘She kept none of the money?’
‘Not a farthing.’
‘Is she well off?’
‘Has not a sixpence.’
‘Why did she do this?’
‘To help me. Because I christened my snail after her. I wish I could go to Plymouth, and see her again to thank her. It seems shabby not to do so, don’t it?’
‘Your father was quite right in insisting that you should stay here.’
‘I cannot stand it much longer, Beavis. The country was not created for me. Glad I wasn’t born in prehistoric periods before towns were. Your father is most kind and good to receive me, and the people at the Court are very hospitable, but I get tired of the same faces, same scenes, same subjects of conversation, day after day. I do not know how I should live without the club and the billiard-table.’
‘You enjoy your walks with the ladies.’
‘I get a certain distance with Lady Grace, but no further.’
‘Pray how much further do you want to go? Pretty well for you to be received into such a house with courtesy.’
‘Oh, don’t you know? My father and I have settled that she is to become Mrs. Charles—I mean, Lady Grace Cheek.’
‘What an honour!’ exclaimed Beavis, sarcastically. ‘Pray are the Duke and the lady informed of your intentions?’
‘No, I have not had sufficient encouragement.’
‘Then let me advise you to refrain from communicating the flattering proposal to either, till you have received the requisite encouragement.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said the unabashed Charles. ‘My governor is set on it. I should like it well enough. When I am with her, I am over head and ears; when I am away, I am not so sure that she will suit me.’
‘Have done!’ exclaimed Beavis. ‘This is intolerable.’
‘Did you ever hear the story of the North Country collier and his son, who were breeding a dog for fighting? The son went under the table and barked, and the dog flew at him and bit his nose, and held on as a stoat to a rabbit. The lad screamed to his father to call off the dog; but the old fellow said, “Let him bite, lad, let him bite, it’ll be the making o’ the pup.” I think my governor is urging me on in this affair for the same reason. “It’ll be the making of the pup,” he says.’
Beavis’s face flushed. He turned his back and walked away. Charles Cheek ran after him. ‘There, old fellow, don’t take amiss what I have said; it is only a joke.’
‘Then joke on some other subject. Lady Grace Eveleigh is sacred.’
‘By all means,’ said young Cheek, ‘we’ll change the topic. Are you going to the Plymouth ball?’
‘No, I think not.’
‘Nor Lord Saltcombe, nor her ladyship?’
‘They never attend.’
‘Well!—I am off to the Court. We have planned a walk to-day to Leigh Priory, which they say is pretty; and we shall pick primroses and wood anemones on the way. Will you come?’
‘No, I have business.’
‘Thou there will be only three of us—tricolor. Lady Grace, Cousin Lucy, and myself. Saltcombe has something to detain him.’
Beavis nodded. He was ruffled by what Charles had said, and the swell in his temper would not allay itself at once. Charles walked through the park and joined the ladies.
Leigh is an old priory converted into a farmhouse; it is almost as left by the monks when expelled three hundred years ago, with scarce an alteration save the destruction of the church. It stands in a wooded valley, with rich green meadows occupying the bottom. A sweet, sheltered nook, basking in the sun—a place in which to dream life away.
The walk was pleasant, the air soft, the sun bright, the buds of the honeysuckle had burst into leaf, an occasional white butterfly flickered in the way. The woods were speckled with starry wind-flowers, and the edges full of yellow primroses. Here and there the blue periwinkle was spread as a mat. It had escaped originally from the priory garden, as had the snowdrops, and had become wild, like the virtues—simple virtues—of the old monks, which lingered on in the congenial soil of the simple rustic souls of that part of Devon.
‘I wonder whether there is truth in Sir Henry Spelman’s doctrine that Church property carries with it a curse that consumes the lay impropriators,’ said Lady Grace, partly to Lucy, partly to herself. ‘Leigh has belonged to the Eveleighs since the dissolution.’
‘No, Lady Grace,’ answered Charles; ‘the cause of decay is generally to be found nearer at hand than in a theft of three centuries.’
‘Yes,’ she answered, with a sad smile, ‘no doubt you are right. We throw back the blame on our remote forefathers, that we may shut our eyes to our own faults. We Eveleighs have but our own improvidence to look to as the cause of our fall. We have not taken warning in time. We let occasion slip, till occasion came no more.’
‘There is no immediate anxiety, I hope,’ said the young man.
‘Yes, before the year is out, our doom will be sealed, our ruin published to the whole world.’
Lucy looked at her friend with surprise. Hitherto she had not spoken on this subject to a stranger, and now she was courting conversation thereon.
‘Let us hope for the best,’ said Charles.
‘It is of no avail hoping. We have cast out the anchor, and there is no bottom in which it will bite. A fig tree in our garden has been failing for some years. Last autumn I pointed it out to old Jonathan. “Please, my lady,” he said, “the fig is going home.” This spring the wood is dead, and Jonathan is stubbing up the roots. “He’s gone home, as I said,” was his remark. Well! the old tree of Eveleigh is also going home, and next year we shall be stubbed up out of Court Royal, and gone home altogether.’
Young Cheek did not relish a dismal subject. He tried to brighten the conversation by changing the topic.
‘Do you ever go to the Plymouth balls? They are select and good.’
‘I have not been for some years. At one time, but not since Saltcombe has not cared to attend.’
‘Won’t you come to the next, at Easter?’
Lady Grace paused, looked down, and said, ‘If you wish it.’
Lucy started, glanced at her timidly, and coloured. Even Charles was surprised. He said quickly, ‘Wish it! It will crown the ball with perfection. Oh! Lady Grace, how delightful! Then Lucy also will come, and, no doubt, Lord Saltcombe also. That will be charming indeed! How pleased the Plymouth people will be!’
Charles Cheek found a bank of blue borage and pink crane’s-bill, and some golden celandine—the two former had lingered through the mild winter, untouched by frost. He made two little bouquets, and presented one to each of the ladies. On their way home the conversation reverted to the family troubles. Lucy was puzzled. She did not say much; she left the other two to talk. Her mind was engaged wondering at her friend’s manner, which seemed changed.
‘I wish—oh! how I wish,’ said Lady Grace, ‘that there were some means by which our ruin might be averted. I would do much—I would do anything that lay in my own power—to save my dear father the sorrow, and to give my brother a chance of beginning life again, uncrushed by the consciousness of the impending Götterdämmerung. The knowledge of what was coming has blighted his life, once so bright with promise.’
Charles looked intently in her face,
‘Do you really mean this, Lady Grace?’
‘What I say, I mean,’ she answered, with a slight tremor in her voice.
Lucy, frightened, looked at her, and saw two fiery spots in her cheeks.
‘I have no pride. If it lay with me, I would sacrifice myself, were my sacrifice worth anything to anyone.’
‘Lady Grace!’
No more was said. They were in the park. They saw Lord Ronald walking towards them, without his hat, his white hair raised by the wind. He was looking excited.
‘I want you, Grace. There is a telegram—from Edward. No, I do not mean that—about your Uncle Edward. A telegram from Glastonbury, from Elizabeth; come in. Saltcombe and I must be off immediately. The carriage is being got ready without delay. We must catch the 7.40 up train. That, however, sticks at Exeter, and we shall have to waste over an hour of precious time on the platform. It cannot be helped, though the Duke urges our telegraphing for a special.’
‘What is it?—Oh, uncle!’ exclaimed Lady Grace, with fluttering heart, ‘tell me the worst—is he?’
‘No, not that,’ answered Lord Ronald hastily, but he turned his head aside and wiped his eyes; ‘whilst there is life there is hope. A seizure. How severe, the telegram, that is, Elizabeth, does not say. Saltcombe and I are requested to hurry to Sleepy Hollow. The wording is short. Elizabeth might have been fuller. We have not told the Duke all; only that we are wanted, and that—that Edward is unwell. That has made him uneasy. You must go to him, and pacify him, and in an hour or so show him the telegram. I am afraid, Grace, that this is a serious case. How blows do fall one after another! and Edward the one man of the family on whom one leaned! My God! if we lose him, what shall—what shall we do?’
As Charles parted with them at the door, Lady Grace said to him, in a sad, plaintive voice, ‘I am sorry I cannot keep my promise. You see the reason. I cannot attend the ball.’
That evening, in her room, Lucy said to her, ‘Oh, Grace! what am I to understand? You gave Mr. Cheek such encouragement! After that—he will be daring to ask for your hand.’
‘If he does I will give it him.’