CHAPTER XLVII. A PROPOSAL IN FORM.
When Sir Marcus Cluff was introduced into L'Estrange's study, his first care was to divest himself of his various “wraps,” a process not very unlike that of the Hamlet gravedigger. At length, he arrived at a suit of entire chamois-leather, in which he stood forth like an enormous frog, and sorely pushed the parson's gravity in consequence.
“This is what Hazeldean calls the 'chest-sufferer's true cuticle,' Nothing like leather, my dear sir, in pulmonic affections. If I 'd have known it earlier in life, I 'd have saved half of my left lung, which is now hopelessly hepatized.”
L'Estrange looked compassionate, though not very well knowing what it was he had pity for.
“Not,” added the invalid, hastily, “that even this constitutes a grave constitutional defect. Davies says, in his second volume, that among the robust men of England you would not find one in twenty without some lungular derangement. He percussed me all over, and was some time before he found out the blot.” The air of triumph in which this was said showed L'Estrange that he too might afford to look joyful.
“So that, with this reservation, sir, I do consider I have a right to regard myself, as Boreas pronounced me, sound as a roach.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
“You see, sir, I mean to be frank with you. I descend to no concealments.”
It was not very easy for L'Estrange to understand this speech, or divine what especial necessity there was for his own satisfaction as to the condition of Sir Marcus Cluff's viscera; he, however, assented in general terms to the high esteem he felt for candor and openness.
“No, my dear Mr. L'Estrange,” resumed he, “without this firm conviction—a sentiment based on faith and the stethoscope together—you had not seen me here this day.”
“The weather is certainly trying,” said L'Estrange.
“I do not allude to the weather, sir; the weather is, for the season, remarkably fine weather; there was a mean temperature of 68° Fahrenheit during the last twenty-four hours. I spoke of my pulmonary condition, because I am aware people are in the habit of calling me consumptive. It is the indiscriminating way ignorance treats a very complex question; and when I assured you that without an honest conviction that organic mischief had not proceeded far, I really meant what I said when I told you you would not have seen me here this day.”
Again was the parson mystified, but he only bowed.
“Ah, sir,” sighed the other, “why will not people be always candid and sincere? And when shall we arrive at the practice of what will compel—actually compel sincerity? I tell you, for instance, I have an estate worth so much—house property here, and shares in this or that company—but there are mortgages, I don't say how much against me; I have no need to say it. You drive down to the Registration Office and you learn to a shilling to what extent I am liable. Why not have the same system for physical condition, sir? Why can't you call on the College of Physicians, or whatever the body be, and say, 'How is Sir Marcus Cluff? I'd like to know about that right auricle of his heart. What about his pancreas?' Don't you perceive the inestimable advantage of what I advise?”
“I protest, sir, I scarcely follow you. I do not exactly see how I have the right, or to what extent I am interested, to make this inquiry.”
“You amaze—you actually amaze me!” and Sir Marcus sat for some seconds contemplating the object of his astonishment. “I come here, sir, to make an offer for your sister's hand—”
“Pardon my interrupting, but I learn this intention only now.”
“Then you didn't read my note. You didn't read the 'turn-over.'”
“I 'm afraid not. I only saw what referred to the Church.”
“Then, sir, you missed the most important; had you taken the trouble to turn the page, you would have seen that I ask your permission to pay my formal attentions to Miss L'Estrange. It was with intention I first discussed and dismissed a matter of business; I then proceeded to a question of sentiment, premising that I held myself bound to satisfy you regarding my property, and my pulmonary condition. Mind, body, and estate, sir, are not coupled together ignorantly, nor inharmoniously; as you know far better than me—mind, body, and estate,” repeated he slowly. “I am here to satisfy you on each of them.”
“Don't you think, Sir Marcus, that there are questions which should possibly precede these?”
“Do you mean Miss L'Estrange's sentiments, sir?” George bowed, and Sir Marcus continued: “I am vain enough to suppose I can make out a good case for myself. I look more, but I'm only forty-eight, forty-eight on the twelfth September. I have twenty-seven thousand pounds in bank stock—stock, mind you—and three thousand four hundred a year in land, Norfolk property. I have a share—we 'll not speak of it now—in a city house; and what 's better than all, sir, not sixpence of debt in the world. I am aware your sister can have no fortune, but I can afford myself, what the French call a caprice, though this ain't a caprice, for I have thought well over the matter, and I see she would suit me perfectly. She has nice gentle ways, she can be soothing without depression, and calm without discouragement. Ah, that is the secret of secrets! She gave me my drops last evening with a tenderness, a graceful sympathy, that went to my heart. I want that, sir—I need it, I yearn for it. Simpson said to me years ago, 'Marry, Sir Marcus, marry! yours is a temperament that requires study and intelligent care. A really clever woman gets to know a pulse to perfection; they have a finer sensibility, a higher organization, too, in the touch.' Simpson laid great stress on that; but I have looked out in vain, sir. I employed agents: I sent people abroad; I advertised in the 'Times'—M. C. was in the second column—for above two years; and with a correspondence that took two clerks to read through and minute. All to no end! All in vain! They tell me that the really competent people never do reply to an advertisement; that one must look out for them oneself, make private personal inquiry. Well, sir, I did that, and I got into some unpleasant scrapes with it, and two actions for breach of promise; two thousand, pounds the last cost me, though I got my verdict, sir; the Chief Baron very needlessly recommending me, for the future, to be cautious in forming the acquaintance of ladies, and to avoid widows as a general rule. These are the pleasantries of the Bench, and doubtless they amuse the junior bar. I declare to you, sir, in all seriousness, I 'd rather that a man should give me a fillip on the nose than take the liberty of a joke with me. It is the one insufferable thing in life.” This sally had so far excited him that it was some minutes ere he recovered his self-possession. “Now, Mr. L'Estrange,” said he, at last, “I bind you in no degree—I pledge you to nothing; I simply ask leave to address myself to your sister. It is what lawyers call a 'motion to show cause why.'”
“I perceive that,” broke in L'Estrange; “but even that much I ought not to concede without consulting my sister and obtaining her consent. You will allow me therefore time.”
“Time, sir! My nerves must not be agitated. There can be no delays. It was not without a great demand on my courage, and a strong dose of chlorodine—Japps's preparation—that I made this effort now. Don't imagine I can sustain it much longer. No, sir, I cannot give time.”
“After all, Sir Marcus, you can scarcely suppose that my sister is prepared for such a proposition.”
“Sir, they are always prepared for it. It never takes them unawares. I have made them my study for years, and I do think I have some knowledge of their way of thinking and acting. I 'll lay my life on it, if you will go and say, 'Maria'—”
“My sister's name is Julia,” said the other, dryly.
“It may be, sir—I said 'Maria' generically, and I repeat it—'Maria, there is in my study at this moment a gentleman, of irreproachable morals and unblemished constitution, whose fortune is sufficiently ample to secure many comforts and all absolute necessaries, who desires to make you his wife;' her first exclamation will be, 'It is Sir Marcus Cluff.'”
“It is not impossible,” said L'Estrange, gravely.
“The rest, sir, is not with you, nor even with me. Do me, then, the great favor to bear my message.”
Although seeing the absurdity of the situation, and vaguely forecasting the way Julia might possibly hear the proposition, L'Estrange was always so much disposed to yield to the earnestness of any one who persisted in a demand, that he bowed and left the room.
“Well, George, he has proposed?” cried Julia, as her brother entered the room, where she sat with Nelly Bramleigh.
He nodded only, and the two girls burst out into a merry laugh.
“Come, come, Julia,” said he, reprovingly. “Absurd as it may seem, the man is in earnest, and must be treated with consideration.”
“But tell us the whole scene. Let us have it all as it occurred.”
“I 'll do nothing of the kind. It 's quite enough to say that he declares he has a good fortune, and wishes to share it with you; and I think the expression of that wish should secure him a certain deference and respect.”
“But who refuses, who thinks of refusing him all the deference and respect he could ask for? Not I, certainly. Come now, like a dear good boy, let us hear all he said, and what you replied. I suspect there never was a better bit of real-life comedy. I only wish I could have had a part in it.”
“Not too late yet, perhaps,” said Nelly, with a dry humor. “The fifth act is only beginning.”
“That is precisely what I am meditating. George will not tell me accurately what took place in his interview, and I think I could not do better than go and learn Sir Marcus' sentiments for myself.”
She arose and appeared about to leave the room, when L'Estrange sprang towards the door, and stood with his back against it.
“You 're not serious, Ju?” cried he, in amazement.
“I should say very serious. If Sir Marcus only makes out his case, as favorably as you, with all your bungling, can't help representing it, why—all things considered, eh, Nelly? you, I know, agree with me—I rather suspect the proposition might be entertained.”
“Oh, this is too monstrous. It is beyond all belief,” cried L'Estrange.
And he rushed from the room in a torrent of passion, while Julia sank back in a chair, and laughed till her eyes ran over with tears of merriment.
“How could you, Julia! Oh, how could you!” said Nelly, as she leaned over her and tried to look reproachful.
“If you mean, how could I help quizzing him, I can understand you; but I could not—no, Nelly, I could not help it! It is my habit to seize on the absurd side of any embarrassment; and you may be sure there is always one if you only look for it; and you 've no idea how much pleasanter—ay, and easier, too—it is to laugh oneself out of difficulties than to grieve over them. You 'll see George, now, will be spirited up, out of pure fright, to do what he ought; to tell this man that his proposal is an absurdity, and that young women, even as destitute of fortune as myself, do not marry as nursetenders. There! I declare that is Sir Marcus driving away already. Only think with what equanimity I can see wealth and title taking leave of me. Never say after that that I have not courage.”
CHAPTER XLVII. “A TELEGRAM”
“This is a very eventful day for me, George,” said Augustus, as they strolled through the garden after breakfast. “The trial was fixed for the 13th, and to-day is the 14th; I suppose the verdict will be given to-day.”
“But you have really no doubt of the result? I mean, no more than anxiety on so momentous a matter must suggest?”
“Pardon me. I have grave doubts. There was such a marriage, as is alleged, formed by my grandfather; a marriage in every respect legal. They may not have the same means of proving that which we have; but we know it. There was a son born to that marriage. We have the letter of old Lami, asking my grandfather to come over to Bruges for the christening, and we have the receipt of Hodges and Smart, the jewellers, for a silver gilt ewer and cup which were engraved with the Bramleigh crest and cypher, and despatched to Belgium as a present; for my grandfather did not go himself, pretexting something or other, which evidently gave offence; for Lami's next letter declares that the present has been returned, and expresses a haughty indignation at my grandfather's conduct I can vouch for all this. It was a sad morning when I first saw those papers; but I did see them, George, and they exist still. That son of my grandfather's they declare to have married, and his son is this Pracontal. There is the whole story, and if the latter part of the narrative be only as truthful as I believe the first to be, he, and not I, is the rightful owner of Castello.”
L'Estrange made no reply; he was slowly going over in his mind the chain of connection, and examining, link by link, how it held together.
“But why,” asked he at length, “was not this claim preferred before? Why did a whole generation suffer it to lie dormant?”
“That is easily—too easily explained. Lami was compromised in almost every country in Europe; and his son succeeded him in his love of plot and conspiracy. Letters occasionally reached my father from this latter; some of them demanding money in a tone of actual menace. A confidential clerk, who knew all my father's secrets, and whom he trusted most implicitly, became one day a defaulter, and absconded, carrying with him a quantity of private papers, some of which were letters written by my father, and containing remittances which Montague Lami,—or Louis Langrange, or whatever other name he bore,—of course, never received, and indignantly declared he believed had never been despatched. This clerk, whose name was Hesketh, made Lami's acquaintance in South America, and evidently encouraged him to prefer his claim with greater assurance, and led him to suppose that any terms he preferred must certainly be complied with! But I cannot go on, George; the thought of my poor father struggling through life in this dark conflict rises up before me, and now I estimate the terrible alternation of hope and fear in which he must have lived, and how despairingly he must have thought of a future, when this deep game should be left to such weak hands as mine. I thought they were cruel words once, in which he spoke of my unfitness to meet a great emergency—but now I read them very differently.”
“Then do you really think he regarded this claim as rightful and just?”
“I cannot tell that; at moments I have leaned to this impression; but many things dispose me to believe that he saw or suspected some flaw that invalidated the claim, but still induced him to silence the pretension by hush money.”
“And you yourself—”
“Don't ask me, my dear friend; do not ask me the question I see is on your lips. I have no courage to confess, even to you, through how many moods I pass every day I live. At moments I hope and firmly believe I rise above every low and interested sentiment, and determine I will do as I would be done by; I will go through this trial as though it were a matter apart from me, and in which truth and justice were my only objects. There are hours in which I feel equal to any sacrifice, and could say to this man:—There! take it; take all we have in the world. We have no right to be here; we are beggars and outcasts. And then—I can't tell how or why—it actually seems as if there was a real Tempter in one's nature, lying in wait for the moment of doubt and hesitation; but suddenly, quick as a flash of lightning, a thought would dart across my mind, and I would begin to canvass this and question that; not fairly, not honestly, mark you, but casuistically and cunningly; and worse, far worse than all this—actually hoping, no matter on which side lay the right, that we should come out victorious.”
“But have you not prejudiced your case by precipitancy? They tell me that you have given the others immense advantage by your openly declared doubts as to your title.”
“That is possible. I will not deny that I may have acted imprudently. The compromise to which I at first agreed struck me, on reflection, as so ignoble and dishonorable, that I rushed just as rashly into the opposite extreme. I felt, in fact, George, as though I owed this man a reparation for having ever thought of stifling his claim; and I carried this sentiment so far that Sedley asked me one day, in a scornful tone, what ill my family had done me, I was so bent on ruining them? Oh, my dear friend, if it be a great relief to me to open my heart to you, it is with shame I confess that I cannot tell you truthfully how weak and unable I often feel to keep straight in the path I have assigned myself. How, when some doubt of this man's right shoots across me, I hail the hesitation like a blessing from heaven. What I would do, what I would endure that he could not show his claim to be true, I dare not own. I have tried to reverse our positions in my own mind, and imagine I was he; but I cannot pursue the thought, for whenever the dread final rises before me, and I picture to myself our ruin and destitution, I can but think of him, as a deadly implacable enemy. This sacrifice, then, that I purpose to make with a pure spirit and a high honor, is too much for me. I have not courage for that I am doing; but I'll do it still!”
L'Estrange did his utmost to rally him out of his depression, assuring him that, as the world went, few men would have attempted to do what he had determined on, and frankly owning, that in talking over the matter with Julia, they were both disposed to regard his conduct as verging on Quixotism.
“And that is exactly the best thing people will say of it. I am lucky if they will even speak so favorably.”
“What's this,—a telegram?” cried L'Estrange, as the servant handed him one of those square-shaped missives, so charged with destiny that one really does not know whether to bless or curse the invention, which, annihilating space, brings us so quickly face to face with fortune.
“Read it, George; I cannot,” muttered Bramleigh, as he stood against a tree for support.
“Ten o'clock. Court-house, Navan. Jury just come out—cannot agree to verdict—discharged. New trial. I write post.
“Sedley.”
“Thank heaven, there is at least a respite,” said Bramleigh; and he fell on the other's shoulder, and hid his face.
“Bear up, my poor fellow. You see that, at all events, nothing has happened up to this. Here are the girls coming. Let them not see you in such emotion.”
“Come away, then; come away. I can't meet them now; or do you go and tell Nelly what this news is—she has seen the messenger, I 'm sure.”
L'Estrange met Nelly and Julia in the walk, while Augustus hastened away in another direction. “There has been no verdict. Sedley sends his message from the court-house this morning, and says the jury cannot agree, and there will be another trial.”
“Is that bad or good news?” asked Nelly, eagerly.
“I'd say good,” replied he; “at least, when I compare it with your brother's desponding tone this morning. I never saw him so low.”
“Oh, he is almost always so of late. The coming here and the pleasure of meeting you rallied him for a moment, but I foresaw his depression would return. I believe it is the uncertainty, the never-ceasing terror of what next, is breaking him down; and if the blow fell at once, you would see him behave courageously and nobly.”
“He ought to get away from this as soon as possible,” said L'Estrange. “He met several acquaintances yesterday in Rome, and they teased him to come to them, and worried him to tell where he was stopping. In his present humor he could not go into society, but he is ashamed to his own heart to admit it.”
“Then why don't we go at once?” cried Julia.
“There's nothing to detain us here,” said L'Estrange, sorrowfully.
“Unless you mean to wait for my marriage,” said Julia, laughing, “though, possibly, Sir Marcus may not give me another chance.”
“Oh, Julia!”
“'Oh, Julia!' Well, dearest, I do say shocking things, there 's no doubt of it; but when I 've said them, I feel the subject off my conscience, and revert to it no more.”
“At all events,” said L'Estrange, after a moment of thought, “let us behave when we meet him as though this news was not bad. I know he will try to read in our faces what we think of it, and on every account it is better not to let him sink into depression.”
The day passed over in that discomfort which a false position so inevitably imposes. The apparent calm was a torture, and the efforts at gayety were but moments of actual pain. The sense of something impending was so poignant that at every stir—the opening of a door or the sound of a bell—there came over each a look of anxiety the most intense and eager. All their attempts at conversation were attended with a fear lest some unhappy expression, some ill-timed allusion might suggest the very thought they were struggling to suppress; and it was with a feeling of relief they parted and said good-night, where, at other times, there had been only regret at separating.
Day after day passed in the same forced and false tranquillity, the preparations for the approaching journey being the only relief to the intense anxiety that weighed like a load on each. At length, on the fifth morning, there came a letter to Augustus in the well-known hand of Sedley, and he hastened to his room to read it. Some sharp passages there had been between them of late on the subject of the compromise, and Bramleigh, in a moment of forgetfulness and anger, even went so far as to threaten that he would have recourse to the law to determine whether his agent had or had not overstepped the bounds of his authority, and engaged in arrangements at total variance to all his wishes and instructions. A calm but somewhat indignant reply from Sedley, however, recalled Bramleigh to reconsider his words, and even ask pardon for them, and since that day their intercourse had been more cordial and frank than ever. The present letter was very long, and quite plainly written, with a strong sense of the nature of him it was addressed to. For Sedley well knew the temper of the man,—his moods of high resolve and his moments of discouragement,—his desire to be equal to a great effort, and his terrible consciousness that his courage could not be relied on. The letter began thus:—
My dear Sir,—If I cannot, as I hoped, announce a victory, I am able at least to say that we have not been defeated. The case was fairly and dispassionately stated, and probably an issue of like importance was never discussed with less of acrimony, or less of that captious and overreaching spirit which is too common in legal contests. This was so remarkable as to induce the judge to comment on it in his charge, and declare that in all his experience on the bench, he had never before witnessed anything so gratifying or so creditable alike to plaintiff and defendant.
Lawson led for the other side, and, I will own, made one of the best openings I ever listened to, disclaiming at once any wish to appeal to sympathies or excite feeling of pity for misfortunes carried on through three generations of blameless sufferers; he simply directed the jury to follow him in the details of a brief and not very complicated story, every step of which he would confirm and establish by evidence.
The studious simplicity of his narrative was immense art, and though he carefully avoided even a word that could be called high-flown, he made the story of Montague Bramleigh's courtship of the beautiful Italian girl one of the most touching episodes I ever listened to.
The marriage was, of course, the foundation of the whole claim, and he arrayed all his proofs of it with great skill. The recognition in your grandfather's letters, and the tone of affection in which they were written, his continual reference to her in his life, left little if any doubt on the minds of the jury, even though there was nothing formal or official to show that the ceremony of marriage had passed; he reminded the jury that the defence would rely greatly on this fact, but the fact of a missing registry-book was neither so new nor so rare in this country as to create any astonishment, and when he offered proof that the church and the vestry-room had been sacked by the rebels in '98, the evidence seemed almost superfluous. The birth and baptism of the child he established thoroughly; and here he stood on strong grounds, for the infant was christened at Brussels by the Protestant chaplain of the Legation at the Hague, and he produced a copy of the act of registry, stating the child to be son of Montague Bramleigh, of Cossenden Manor, and Grosvenor Square, London, and of Enrichetta his wife. Indeed, as Lawson declared, if these unhappy foreigners had ever even a glimmering suspicion that the just rights of this poor child were to be assailed and his inheritance denied him, they could not have taken more careful and cautious steps to secure his succession than the simple but excellent precautions they had adopted.
The indignation of Lami at what he deemed the unfeeling and heartless conduct of Montague Bramleigh—his cold reception of the news of his son's birth, and the careless tone in which he excused himself from going over to the christening—rose to such a pitch that he swore the boy should never bear his father's name, nor ever in any way be beholden to him, and “this rash oath it was that has carried misery down to another generation, and involved in misfortune others not more blameless nor more truly to be pitied than he who now seeks redress at your hands.” This was the last sentence he uttered after speaking three hours, and obtaining a slight pause to recruit his strength.
Issue of Montague Bramleigh being proved, issue of that issue was also established, and your father's letters were given in evidence to show how he had treated with these claimants and given largely in money to suppress or silence their demands. Thos. Bolton, of the house of Parker and Bolton, bankers, Naples, proved the receipt of various sums from Montague Bramleigh in favor of A. B. C, for so the claimant was designated, private confidential letters to Bolton showing that these initials were used to indicate one who went under many aliases, and needed every precaution to escape the police. Bolton proved the journal of Giacomo Lami, which he had often had in his own possession. In fact this witness damaged us more than all the rest; his station and position in life, and the mode in which he behaved under examination, having great effect on the jury, and affording Lawson a favorable opportunity of showing what confidence was felt in the claimant's pretensions by a man of wealth and character, even when the complications of political conspiracy had served to exhibit him as a dangerous adventurer.
Waller's reply was able, but not equal to his best efforts. It is but fair to him, however, to state that he complained of our instructions, and declared that your determination not to urge anything on a point of law, nor tender opposition on grounds merely technical, left him almost powerless in the case. He devoted his attention almost entirely to disprove the first marriage, that of Mr. B. with Enrichetta Lami; he declared that, the relative rank of the parties considered, the situation in which they were placed towards each other, and all the probabilities of the case duly weighed, there was every reason to believe the connection was illicit. This view was greatly strengthened by Mr. B.'s subsequent conduct; his refusal to go over to the christening, and the utter indifference he displayed to the almost menacing tone of old Lami's letters; and when he indignantly asked the jury “if a man were likely to treat in this manner his wife and the mother of his first-born, the heir to his vast fortune and estates,” there was a subdued murmur in the court that showed how strongly this point had told.
He argued that when a case broke down at its very outset, it would be a mere trifling with the time of the court to go further to disprove circumstances based on a fallacy. As to the christening and the registration of baptism, what easier than for a woman to declare whatever she pleased as to the paternity of her child? It was true he was written son of Montague Bramleigh: but when we once agree that there was no marriage, this declaration has no value. He barely touched on the correspondence and the transmission of money abroad, which he explained as the natural effort of a man of high station and character to suppress the notoriety of a youthful indiscretion. Political animosity had, at that period, taken a most injurious turn, and scandal was ransacked to afford means of attack on the reputations of public men.
I barely give you the outline of his argument, but I will send you the printed account of the trial as soon as the shorthand writer shall have completed it for press. Baron Jocelyn's charge was, I must say, less in our favor than I had expected; and when he told the jury that the expressions of attachment and affection in Mr. B.'s letters, and the reiterated use of the phrase “my dear, dear wife,” demanded their serious consideration as to whether such words would have fallen from a man hampered by an illicit connection, and already speculating how to be free of it; all this, put with great force and clearness, and a certain appeal to their sense of humanity, did us much disservice. The length of time he dwelt on this part of the case was so remarkable, that I overheard a Q. C. say he had not known till then that his Lordship was retained for the plaintiff.
When he came to that part where allusion was made to the fact of the claimant being a foreigner, he made an eloquent and effective appeal to the character of English justice, which elicited a burst of applause in the court that took some seconds to repress; but this, I am told, was more owing to the popular sympathy with the politics of old Lami, and his connection with the rebellion of '98, than with any enthusiasm for his Lordship's oratory.
The jury were three hours in deliberation. I am confidentially informed that we had but five with, and seven against us; the verdict, as you know, was not agreed on. We shall go to trial in spring, I hope with Holmes to lead for us, for I am fully persuaded the flaw lies in the history subsequent to the marriage of Mr. B., and that it was a mistake to let the issue turn on the event which had already enlisted the sympathies of the jury in its favor.
In conclusion, I ought to say, that the plaintiff's friends regard the result as a victory, and the national press is strong in asserting that, if the Orange element had been eliminated from the jury-box, there is little doubt that Count Bramleigh—as they call him—would at that hour be dispensing the splendid hospitalities of a princely house to his county neighbors, and the still more gratifying benefits of a wide charity to the poor around him. Writing rapidly, as I do, I make no pretension to anything like an accurate history of the case. There are a vast variety of things to which I mean to direct your attention when a more favorable moment will permit. I will only now add, that your presence in England is urgently required, and that your return to Castello, to resume there the style of living that alike becomes the proprietor and the place, is, in the opinion of all your friends, much to be desired.
Mr. Waller does not hesitate to say that your absence decided the case against you, and was heard to declare openly that “he for one had no fancy to defend a cause for a man who voluntarily gave himself up as beaten.”
May I entreat, then, you will make it your convenience to return here? I cannot exaggerate the ill effects of your absence, nor to what extent your enemies are enabled to use the circumstance to your discredit. Jurors are, after all, but men, taken from the common mass of those who read and talk over the public scandals of the hour, and all the cautions of the Bench never yet succeeded in making men forget, within the court-house, what they had for weeks before been discussing outside of it.
At all events, do not dismiss my suggestion without some thought over it, or better still, without consulting some friends in whose sense and intelligence you have confidence. I am, with many apologies for the liberty I have thus taken,
Most faithfully your servant,
T. Sedley.
When Bramleigh had read this letter carefully over, he proceeded to Nelly's room, to let her hear its contents.
“It's not very cheery news,” said he, “but it might be worse. Shall I read it for you, or will you read it yourself?”
“Read it, Gusty; I would rather hear it from you,” said she, as she sat down with her face to the window, and partially averted from him as he sat.
Not a word dropped from her while he read; and though once or twice he paused as if to invite a remark or a question, she never spoke, nor by a look or a gesture denoted how the tidings affected her.
“Well,” asked he at last, “what do you say to it all?”
“It's worse—I mean worse for us—than I had ever suspected! Surely, Gusty, you had no conception that their case had such apparent strength and solidity?”
“I have thought so for many a day,” said he, gloomily.
“Thought that they, and not we—” she could not go on.
“Just so, dearest,” said he, drawing his chair to her side, and laying his hand affectionately on her shoulder.
“And do you believe that poor papa thought so?” said she, and her eyes now swam in tears.
A scarcely perceptible nod was all his answer.
“Oh, Gusty, this is more misery than I was prepared for!” cried she, throwing herself on his shoulder. “To think that all the time we were—what many called—outraging the world with display; exhibiting our wealth in every ostentatious way; to think that it was not ours, that we were mere pretenders, with a mock rank, a mock station.”
“My father did not go thus far, Nelly,” said he, gravely. “That he did not despise these pretensions I firmly believe; but that they ever gave him serious reason to suppose his right could be successfully disputed, this I do not believe. His fear was, that when the claim came to be resisted by one like myself, the battle would be ill fought. It was in this spirit he said, 'Would that Marion had been a boy! '”
“And what will you do, Gusty?”
“I 'll tell you what I will not do, Nelly,” said he, firmly. “I will not, as this letter counsels me, go back to live where it is possible I have no right to live, nor spend money to which the law may to-morrow declare I have no claim. I will abide by what that law shall declare, without one effort to bias it in my favor. I have a higher pride in submitting myself to this trial than ever I had in being the owner of Castello. It may be that I shall not prove equal to what I propose to myself. I have no over-confidence in my own strength, but I like to think, that if I come well through the ordeal, I shall have done what will dignify a life, humble even as mine, and give me a self-respect without which existence is valueless to me. Will you stand by me, Nelly, in this struggle—I shall need you much?”
“To the last,” said she, giving him both her hands, which he grasped within his, and pressed affectionately.
“Write, then, one line from me to Sedley, to say that I entrust the case entirely to his guidance; that I will not mix myself with it in any way, nor will I return to England till it be decided; and say, if you can, that you agree with me in this determination. And then, if the L'Estranges are ready, let us start at once.”
“They only wait for us; Julia said so this morning.”
“Then we shall set out to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XLIX. A LONG TÊTE-À-TÊTE
“Scant courtesy, I must say,” exclaimed Lady Augusta, as, after rapidly running her eyes over a note, she flung it across the table towards Pracontal.
They were seated tête-à-tête in that small drawing-room which looked out upon the garden and the grounds of the Borghese Palace.
“Am I to read it?” asked he.
“Yes, if you like. It is from Augustus Bramleigh, a person you feel some interest in.”
Pracontal took up the note, and seemed to go very carefully over its contents.
“So then,” said he, as he finished, “he thinks it better not to meet—not to know me.”
“Which is no reason on earth for being wanting in a proper attention to me,” said she, angrily. “To leave Rome without calling here, without consulting my wishes, and learning my intentions for the future, is a gross forgetfulness of proper respect.”
“I take it, the news of the trial was too much for him. Longworth said it would, and that the comments of the press would be insupportable besides.”
“But what have I to do with that, sir? Mr. Bramleigh's first duty was to come here. I should have been thought of. I was the first person this family should have remembered in their hour of difficulty.”
“There was no intentional want of respect in it, I 'll be bound,” cried Pracontal. “It was just a bashful man's dread of an awkward moment—that English terror of what you call a 'scene'—that sent him off.”
“It is generous of you, sir, to become his apologist. I only wonder—” Here she stopped and seemed confused.
“Go on, my Lady. Pray finish what you began.”
“No, sir. It is as well unsaid.”
“But it was understood, my Lady, just as well as if it had been uttered. Your Ladyship wondered who was to apologize for me.”
She grew crimson as he spoke; but a faint smile seemed to say how thoroughly she relished that southern keenness that could divine a half-uttered thought.
“How quick you are!” said she, without a trace of irritation.
“Say, rather, how quick he ought to be who attempts to parry you at fence. And, after all,” said he, in a lighter tone, “is it not as well that he has spared us all an embarrassment? I could not surely have been able to condole with him, and how could he have congratulated me?”
“Pardon me, Count, but the matter, so far as I learn, is precisely as it was before. There is neither subject for condolence nor gratulation.”
“So far as the verdict of the jury went, my Lady, you are quite right; but what do you say to that larger, wider verdict pronounced by the press, and repeated in a thousand forms by the public? May I read you one passage, only one, from my lawyer Mr. Kelson's letter?”
“Is it short?”
“Very short.”
“And intelligible?”
“Most intelligible.”
“Read it, then.”
“Here it is,” said he, opening a letter, and turning to the last page. “'Were I to sum up what is the popular opinion of the result, I could not do it better than repeat what a City capitalist said to me this morning: “I'd rather lend Count Pracontal twenty thousand pounds to-day, than take Mr. Bramleigh's mortgage for ten.”'”
“Let me read that. I shall comprehend his meaning better than by hearing it. This means evidently,” said she, after reading the passage, “that your chances are better than his.”
“Kelson tells me success is certain.”
“And your cautious friend Mr.———; I always forget that man's name?”
“Longworth?”
“Yes, Longworth. What does he say?”
“He is already in treaty with me to let him have a small farm which adjoins his grounds, and which he would like to throw into his lawn.”
“Seriously?”
“No, not a bit seriously; but we pass the whole morning building these sort of castles in Spain, and the grave way that he entertains such projects ends by making me believe I am actually the owner of Castello and all its belongings.”
“Tell me some of your plans,” said she, with a livelier interest than she had yet shown.
“First of all, reconciliation, if that be its proper name, with all that calls itself Bramleigh. I don't want to be deemed a usurper, but a legitimate monarch. It is to be a restoration.”
“Then you ought to marry Nelly. I declare, that never struck me before.”
“Nor has it yet occurred to me, my Lady,” said he, with a faint show of irritation.
“And why not, sir? Is it that you look higher?”
“I look higher,” said he; and there was a solemn intensity in his air and manner as he spoke.
“I declare, Monsieur de Pracontal, it is scarcely delicate to say this to me.”
“Your Ladyship insists on my being candid, even at the hazard of my courtesy.”
“I do not complain of your candor, sir. It is your—your—”
“My pretension?”
“Well, yes, pretension will do.”
“Well, my Lady, I will not quarrel with the phrase. I do 'pretend,' as we say in French. In fact, I have been little other than a pretender these last few years.”
“And what is it you pretend to? May I ask the question?”
“I do not know if I may dare to answer it,” said he, slowly.... “I will explain what I mean,” added he, after a brief silence, and drawing his chair somewhat nearer to where she sat. “I will explain. If, in one of my imaginative gossipries with a friend, I were to put forward some claim—some ambition—which would sound absurd coming from me now, but which, were I the owner of a great estate, would neither be extravagant nor ridiculous, the memory of that unlucky pretension would live against me ever after, and the laugh that my vanity excited would ring in my ears long after I had ceased to regard the sentiment as vanity at all. Do you follow me?”
“Yes, I believe I do. I would only have you remember that I am not Mr. Longworth.”
“A reason the more for my caution.”
“Could n't we converse without riddles, Count Pracontal?”
“I protest, I should like to do so.”
“And as I make no objection—”
“Then to begin. You asked me what I should do if I were to gain my suit; and my answer is, if I were not morally certain to gain it, I 'd never exhibit myself in the absurd position of planning a life I was never to arrive at.”
“You are too much a Frenchman for that.”
“Precisely, madame. I am too much a Frenchman for that. The exquisite sensibility to ridicule puts a very fine edge on national character, though your countrymen will not admit it.”
“It makes very tetchy acquaintances,” said she, with a malicious laugh.
“And develops charming generosity in those who forgive us!”
“I cry off. I can't keep up this game of give and take flatteries. Let us come back to what we were talking of,—that is, if either of us can remember it. Oh, yes, I know it now. You were going to tell me the splendid establishment you 'd keep at Castello. I 'm sure the cook will leave nothing to desire,—but how about the stable? That 'steppere' will not exactly be in his place in an Irish county.”
“Madame, you forget I was a lieutenant of hussars.”
“My dear Count, that does not mean riding.”
“Madame!”
“I should now rise and say 'Monsieur!' and it would be very good comedy after the French pattern; but I prefer the sofa and my ease, and will simply beg you to remember the contract we made the other day,—that each was to be at liberty to say any impertinence to the other, without offence being taken.”
Pracontal laid his hand on his heart, and bowed low and deep.
“There are some half a dozen people in that garden yonder, who have passed and repassed—I can't tell how many times—just to observe us. You 'll see them again in a few minutes, and we shall be town-talk to-morrow, I 'm certain. There are no tête-à-têtes ever permitted in Rome if a cardinal or a monsignore be not one of the performers.”
“Are those they?” cried he, suddenly.
“Yes, and there 's not the least occasion for that flash of the eye and that hot glow of indignation on the cheek: I assure you, monsieur, there is nobody there to couper la gorge with you, or share in any of those social pleasantries which make the 'Bois' famous. The curiously minded individual is a lady,—a Mrs. Trumpler,—and her attendants are a few freshly arrived curates. There, now, sit down again, and look less like a wounded tiger; for all this sort of thing fusses and fevers me. Yes, you may fan me; though if the detectives return it will make the report more highly colored.”
Pracontal was now seated on a low stool beside her sofa, and fanning her assiduously.
“Not but these people are all right,” continued she. “It is quite wrong in me to admit you to my intimacy—wrong to admit you at all. My sister is so angry about it she won't come here—fact, I assure you. Now don't look so delighted and so triumphant, and the rest of it. As your nice little phrase has it, you 'are for nothing' in the matter at all. It is all myself, my own whim, my fancy, my caprice. I saw that the step was just as unadvisable as they said it was. I saw that any commonly discreet person would not have even made your acquaintance, standing as I did; but unfortunately for me, like poor Eve, the only tree whose fruit I covet is the one I 'm told is n't good for me. There go our friends once more. I wish I could tell her who you are, and not keep her in this state of torturing anxiety.”
“Might I ask, my Lady,” said he, gravely, “if you have heard anything to my discredit or disparagement, as a reason for the severe sentence you have just spoken?”
“No, unfortunately not; for in that case my relatives would have forgiven me. They know the wonderful infatuation that attracts me to damaged reputations, and as they have not yet found out any considerable flaw in yours, they are puzzled, out of all measure, to know what it is I see in you.”
“I am overwhelmed by your flattery, madam,” said he, trying to seem amused; but, in spite of himself, showing some irritation.
“Not that,” resumed she, in that quiet manner which showed that her mind had gone off suddenly in another direction,—“not that I owe much deference to the Bramleighs, who, one and all, have treated me with little courtesy. Marion behaved shamefully; that, of course, was to be expected. To marry that odious old creature for a position implied how she would abuse the position when she got it. As I said to Gusty, when a young Oxford man gives five guineas for a mount, he does n't think he has the worth of his money if he does n't smash his collar-bone. There, put down that fan; you are making me feverish. Then the absurdity of playing peeress to me! How ashamed the poor old man was; he reddened through all his rouge. Do you know,” added she, in an excited manner, “that she had the impertinence to compare her marriage with mine, and say that at least rank and title were somewhat nobler ambitions than a mere subsistence and a settlement. But I answered her. I told her, 'You have forgotten one material circumstance. I did not live with your father!' Oh, yes! we exchanged a number of little courtesies of this kind, and I was so sorry when I heard she had gone to Naples. I was only getting into stride when the race was over. As to my settlement, I have not the very vaguest notion who 'll pay it; perhaps it may be you. Oh, of course I know the unutterable bliss; but you must really ask your lawyer, how is my lien to be disposed of. Some one said to me the other day that, besides the estate, you would have a claim for about eighty thousand pounds.”
“It was Longworth said so.”
“I don't like your friend Longworth. Is he a gentleman?”
“Most unquestionably.”
“Well, but I mean a born gentleman? I detest, and I distrust your nature-made gentlemen, who, having money enough to 'get up' the part, deem that quite sufficient. I want the people whose families have given guarantees for character during some generations. Six o'clock! only think, you are here three mortal hours! I declare, sir, this must not occur again; and I have to dress now. I dine at the Prince Cornarini's. Do you go there?”
“I go nowhere, my Lady. I know no one.”
“Well, I can't present you. It would be too compromising. And yet they want men like you, very much, here. The Romans are so dull and stately, and the English who frequent the best houses are so dreary. There, go away now. You want leave to come to-morrow, but I 'll not grant it. I must hear what Mrs. Trumpler says before I admit you again.”
“When, then, may I—”
“I don't know; I have not thought of it. Let it be—let it be when you have gained your lawsuit,” cried she, in a burst of laughter, and hurried out of the room.