CHAPTER III.
THE VILLAGE DORCAS.
The big room at King's Warren Parsonage was already fairly well filled. Old Mrs. Wurzel and the buxom but not too well-favoured heiress of the house of Grains were at the head of the table. Old Mrs. Wurzel was a personage in her way; she it was who made the annual contract with the local linen-draper; she it was who, as an adept learned in the art, officiated at the awful ceremony of "cutting-out"; she it was who, with infinite trouble, obtained for the school children those antiquated straw bonnets of a forgotten type, which were the despair of the juvenile village beauties. She herself had worn them in her youth, and they were the proper bonnets for "growing girls." But, alas! Nemesis had arrived; the head coverings worn in country places thirty years ago had become once more the fashion, and the little maids from school had been voted by Spunyarn "quite smart people." It was Mrs. Wurzel who with her own fair but energetic hands had, with her famous cutting-out scissors, shorn away the luxuriant but obnoxious fringe which Jemima Ann Blogg, the poacher's daughter, had appeared in at the Confirmation. Jemima Ann had violently resisted, but her struggles were in vain; in this case the sheep had not been dumb when in the hands of the shearer: the daughter of the village Radical had returned to her father's roof weeping, but shorn. It is true that old Mrs. Wurzel had reluctantly paid to Blogg the sum of five pounds, under the threat of a summons for assault, but the honest fellow had honourably kept her secret as he had promised, and Mrs. Wurzel's reputation, as the champion of virtue and respectability, had in no way suffered, though she had paid her five pounds for it.
The vicar's wife, whose principal characteristics were her interest in missionary work and the saliency of her angles, was a mere priestess in the little circle of which old Mrs. Wurzel was the permanent archdruidess. Vicars' wives had come and gone, but all had submitted, some after a brief struggle, to old Mrs. Wurzel's sway. But Mrs. Dodd, the present vicar's wife, retained the precious prerogative of choosing the book to be read at the monthly Dorcas. Mrs. Dodd's choice was invariably the biography of some missionary; and she did her best to carry out the idea that a Dorcas meeting should provide self-mortification for the ladies present, in the shape of coarse work for the fingers and repellent reading for the mind.
The village Dorcas was that happy neutral ground where the various ranks of society met on an equality. Here might be seen the three good-looking and well-educated daughters of the local draper. Nice girls these, but under the baleful shadow, the bitter blight of trade. For country places are very conservative: the squire looks down on the yeoman, the doctor and the lawyer, all three of whom consider themselves considerably taller in social stature than the tenant farmer, who in his turn will eat no bread and drink no water in the houses of those Rechabites, the tradesmen. All these people, however, join in despising the rich stockbroker who has recently purchased the pretentious place which he calls "The Park;" the gates of which are almost celestial, being of bright gilded iron work. The unfortunate inhabitant of "The Park," notwithstanding his well-appointed barouche and his men in livery, is but a pariah. For not a year ago, till the big corner occurred in Mex. Rails in which he made his pile, little Sleek, of Sleek and Dabbler, of Throgmorton Street, had "been to business" every morning. Sleek now passes his time in good works, he takes a great interest in local affairs, and, unless he flings the whole matter up in a rage, he may yet become a justice of the peace. Sleek finds it far harder work than fortune-making; but he pursues his Will-o'-the-Wisp with untiring energy. So do we all. It is for this, that Sleek contributes so liberally to the local charities. It is for this, that the two Misses Sleek, clad in shining raiment of needlework, are seated at the big table, pursuing the unromantic occupation of hemming huckaback towels of a more than Spartan coarseness. But something has been already gained by the monthly martyrdom; Mrs. Dodd and her sister-in-law the ethereal Anastatia address them as "dear," and they have a bowing acquaintance, which they energetically attempt to increase, with, the Misses Warrender.
Within this charmed circle the veterinary surgeon's womankind and the grocer's daughters also dare to tread, but they are there merely on sufferance. The line must be drawn somewhere, and the vicar's wife, as did her predecessor, drew it at that man of blood, the harmless Kubble, the local butcher. He and the rest of those shut out from Paradise sought their enjoyment, and a perhaps more congenial society, at those buttery banquets, the tea meetings of the local Little Bethel. Thus, as in most country places, Dissent was at a premium among the humbler classes, and possibly the continued assertion of their position by the clergy of the State has had a good deal to do with the spread of Dissent in other villages than King's Warren.
There were at least a dozen ladies seated round the big table at the Parsonage. Our friends Lucy and Georgina were among the number, their simple muslins strikingly contrasting with the more elaborate garments of the Misses Sleek. Anastatia Dodd fluttered (it is the only word) round the workers, as they plied their busy needles; she "gave out" the various garments, or portions thereof, of mysterious shape; and as she did so whispered her little word of welcome, her little chirrup of harmless gossip to each. Mrs. Dodd who sat at the bottom of the table as vice-chairmaness, now opened a thick black book in which various markers of coloured paper had been inserted. "I think we are all here," she said, as she put on her spectacles in a determined manner, and ominously cleared her throat. Nobody disputed this proposition; the hum of conversation ceased.
"I think we left off at the second appendix, which contained letters from the wife of the lamented subject of the biography. I will now continue.
"'Quashi-Bungo,
"'July 21st, 18—.
"'Dearest Mary,
"'I received your welcome letter and the boxes of stores. You were quite right when you said that I seemed to be launching out in the matter of outfit. But I suddenly find myself (under Providence) a means of civilization to the poor benighted natives. These unfortunate heathen, until our arrival, had no sense of propriety. M'Bongo, the great chief of this neighbourhood, paid a ceremonial visit to my husband. Of course we understood that he would wear the court costume of the Kukulokos. I seized the opportunity to watch what I supposed would be a most interesting interview, from behind a curtain. Oh Mary, what was my indignation when I saw the nasty savage enter our dear little morning room! His great shock head of woolly hair was dyed a bright yellow with quicklime, in his ears were a pair of huge ear-rings of massive gold that made my mouth water. (William told me afterwards that they were worth at least fifty pounds). On his head was the second-hand hat of some parvenu's coachman, gold lace, cockade and all. Fancy my horror, dear Mary, my terror, indignation and astonishment, when I perceived that the rest of his costume merely consisted of a thick layer of palm oil, with which the wretch had covered his disgusting body. I saw no more; I need not say I fainted from the mingled effects of terror, indignation, and astonishment. On coming to, William told me that the courtiers, some twenty in number, wore precisely the same costume, minus the hat and ear-rings.
"'Such, dear Mary, was the degraded condition of M'Bongo and his court on our arrival; but it has been my happy lot (under Providence) to change all this, and my endeavours have not been without even an earthly reward. Only think, Mary, M'Bongo's ear-rings are now my own, my very own. They will reach you by the hands of Mr. Mackenzie, a worldly-minded Scotch merchant, but honest as to earthly things. On no account, dear Mary, in disposing of these priceless treasures, have anything to do with the jewellers, who I am told are extremely dishonest persons. You had better try to sell them to the South Kensington Museum as curios, or at some fashionable bazaar; or failing these, to some wealthy but unworldly person, who takes an interest in our working in Africa. Do not forget to mention that they are royal ear-rings.'"
Here one of the Miss Sleeks coughed, but the broad grin on her face subsided instantly under the severe look which Mrs. Dodd gave her over her spectacles. After a short pause and a snort of indignation, the vicar's wife continued:
"'I have been the blessed instrument, dear Mary, of a great work in this country. M'Bongo and his whole court are now clothed, I am happy to say, at least to a certain extent. The greater portion of the royal garments have been obtained from me; unfortunately I have been compelled to take payment in cattle and grain. You remember my scarlet rep underskirt, the one I wore so much during our last winter in dear old England; with a little alteration at the waist, to which I have added a green velvet collar, and an additional placket hole (through which the royal arms are thrust), and wearing my galoshes, M'Bongo attended service here yesterday for the first time. Both garment and galoshes were quite useless to me in this hot country. William was unable to persuade him to remove the cockaded hat, which he, in his benighted way, looks upon as a royal crown; but as my husband's is the only other hat in the country, this does not perhaps much matter. William has thus been happily able to report to the society the approaching conversion of M'Bongo and his imminent civilization. The poor king, however, complains much of the heat, and I am sorry to say only wears these robes on ceremonial occasions. Still it has been a great, great comfort to us both.
"'Yours lovingly,
"'Amelia Rees.'
"Many such interesting letters were received from our self-sacrificing countrywoman up to the death of her husband and fellow-worker. The sad end of the mission to King M'Bongo has been narrated in the body of this work. But Mrs. Rees was loth to leave her sphere in Africa, and is now happily married to Alonzo P. Jones, an energetic coloured Baptist minister, of Cape Coast Castle."
There was a universal sigh of relief.
"I wonder whether she wears the ear-rings?" remarked the elder Miss Sleek pertly.
"Perhaps they were the attraction to Alonzo P. Jones," suggested her sister, as she triumphantly folded and smoothed her second completed towel.
"It's always the way with them," sighed Miss Grains, who suffered from a complication of romantic tendency and very tight stays. "It's the money that attracts them, and possibly Mrs. Rees might have been Mrs. Rees to the end of the chapter, if it hadn't been for the ear-rings and the sale of her old clothes for countless flocks and herds."
"Doubtless Miss Grains speaks from painful experience, my dears," retorted Mrs. Dodd, with a severe look at her victim; "but you may be quite certain that the acquisition of the ear-rings and the sale of the clothes were but the blessed means to an end, a mere spoiling of the Egyptians, that the work might progress."
"In fact, a robbing of Peter to pay Paul," suggested Lucy Warrender, but without raising her eyes from her work.
The needle of the archdruidress broke, as she shook her head viciously at the scoffer. "Ah, my dear, you shouldn't laugh at sacred things," said the elder lady.
"But I don't look upon Mrs. Rees as a sacred thing," cried Lucy, not to be intimidated.
"A person no one would wish to know," chimed in Miss Sleek.
"Ah, but think how she loved the blacks, and gave herself up to them," cooed the vicaress, in a tone intended at the same time to convey instruction and reproof.
"Nasty thing," retorted Lucy, with biting sarcasm. "I suppose it was because she loved the blacks and gave herself up to them, that she married the energetic negro ranter with the dreadful name."
This proved too much for Mrs. Dodd. "I am surprised and ashamed, Lucy Warrender, at your attempt to depreciate the noble self-immolation of dear Mrs. Jones. Of course it is a great privilege to be married to a clergyman, a very precious privilege, but when he is a negro and a Baptist—hum—I suppose I must say clergyman, then a woman's life must be indeed a martyrdom."
"I suppose he beats her?" asked one of the draper's daughters of the experienced Mrs. Wurzel.
"I sincerely trust he does," broke in the irreverent Lucy.
Just at this moment the door was hurriedly opened, and the Reverend John Dodd entered the room. He was a stout man, his principal characteristics being an intense pleasure in ladies' society, and an obliviousness of the fact that he was no longer the pale slim young curate of earlier days. A life of almost absolute inactivity, which was forced upon him by his wife's jealousy of the rest of the sex, had rendered the muscular young Dodd of Oriel a perfect Daniel Lambert. Little irreverent boys from the village corners were in the habit of shouting "Jumbo" at the poor vicar. He was accustomed to pursue them, but in vain; a stern chase is proverbially a long chase, and poor Mr. Dodd's futile efforts to capture his persecutors had become a bye-word. But the Reverend John Dodd's weak point, the red rag to the bull, the bee in his bonnet, was his devotion to the fair sex. Handsome Jack Dodd, as he had been once called, in his undergraduate and curate days, had been accustomed to find his attentions very highly appreciated. The habit grew on him, love-sick maidens sighed, and love-sick maidens wept, but all in vain. Handsome Jack Dodd, a very clerical butterfly, flitted from flower to flower. His admiration was freely, openly, ardently expressed for every variety of female beauty. Was Jack Dodd a flirt? Not a bit of it; he was merely a fancier, just as there are pigeon fanciers and poultry fanciers; so Handsome Jack Dodd was a fancier, an admirer, a worshipper of the entire female sex: that is to say, the select specimens of it. What he could have seen in Canon Drivel's daughter who can say? though, when he married Cecilia Drivel, she was a well-known light of London. She it was who, in the severity of her classic and rather imperial beauty, had posed to Mahlstick, R.A., for his well-known picture of Judith with the head of Holofernes. Alas! for poor Jack Dodd, he had assisted at the numerous sittings. He it was who had had the honour of sitting (that is to say lying prone on a bedstead of the period) for the headless trunk of Holofernes. To lie prone on a bedstead of any period, and have nothing to do for two mortal hours but gaze on the classic proportions of any lady—for Mahlstick was a strict disciplinarian and discouraged conversation—is enough to seal the fate of any man, even if he were of a less inflammable type than Handsome Jack. Miss Drivel was her father's only daughter, and ambitious; but four seasons, during which she was much admired, but never once received a serious offer, had warned the waning beauty not to neglect her opportunities. Miss Drivel was a lady of no imagination and strong will; the interest of her father, a notorious pluralist, was very great: Cecilia Drivel was determined to marry Dodd. She did so, and her victim became her obedient slave, and was duly inducted to the fat living of King's Warren. In all things Jack Dodd, as the weaker vessel, yielded to his wife. He had but one drawback in her eyes, he retained his passion, his innocent passion, for the fair sex. At the shrine of beauty he remained a constant and ecstatic worshipper. This was Mrs. Dodd's cross, and she had to bear it. An idle life at King's Warren Parsonage, and frequent dinner parties, for the Reverend John Dodd was a popular man, had caused Handsome Jack to expand into a very Falstaff. Alas, anxiety had had precisely the reverse effect upon the vicar's wife. The once statuesque "Judith" had disappeared, and Mrs. Dodd's characteristics were now high principle and bone.
"Busy as usual, my dear," said the vicar to his wife, as he proceeded to welcome each member of the female bevy in turn, devoting perhaps a little more time than was necessary to handsome Miss Warrender and her cousin.
Mrs. Dodd closed the thick black book with a slap. "I suppose work is over now for the day; you really should not intrude on our Dorcas, John," she said in a severe tone.
"My dear, it is my duty to encourage my parishioners in good works, nay, it is my pleasure," replied the parson.
"No one doubts it, Mr. Dodd," said the vicaress in an icy manner.
But Mrs. Dodd was evidently in a minority. The ladies crowded round their popular vicar. It is easy to spoil a man, and the Reverend John Dodd had been much spoilt by his parishioners, and seemed to like the process.
And now a whispered conference took place between the Misses Sleek. With smiles and conscious blushes, the elder sister addressed the vicar. "Oh, dear Mr. Dodd, we do so want you to do us a favour," she faltered.
"Granted, my dear young lady, granted before it is asked."
Mrs. Dodd vainly sought to fix her husband with a freezing look, and gazed appealingly at old Mrs. Wurzel, but that experienced matron had been present at many similar scenes, and was rather amused than otherwise, to watch the discomfiture of the vicar's imperious wife. Mrs. Wurzel's eagle eye detected the little parcel which the younger Miss Sleek hesitatingly attempted to hold towards the vicar. "It is our own work, dear Mr. Dodd," she said, "and we hope, we do hope, we do so hope that you will accept them."
"And wear them too," chimed in her sister.
In an elaborate box, from which Miss Sleek rapidly tore the paper in which it was wrapped, and hurriedly opened, lay a dozen bands of the latest ecclesiastical fashion.
"Oh ladies, dear ladies, so you equip your faithful knight for the fray; accept my grateful thanks, my very grateful thanks," sighed the vicar.
"So pleased you like them, dear Mr. Dodd," chorused the stockbroker's daughters.
The triumphs of decorative millinery were passed from hand to hand.
"They never made these," muttered old Mrs. Wurzel to herself, as she critically held one up to the light. "The minxes," she inwardly added. Mrs. Wurzel was quite right; they had been supplied, regardless of cost, from Messrs. Rochet and Stole's well-known establishment.
"Ah," purred Lucy Warrender, "the ladies used to arm their knights with their own fair hands in the days of chivalry."
The parson laughed. "And have the days of chivalry departed, ladies?" he said, protruding his head, much as the unconscious aldermanic turtle is said to protrude his, when awaiting the fatal stroke.
Conny Sleek, the younger and bolder of the two, looked at her sister; the elder girl nodded maliciously.
Conny stepped smilingly forward, and proceeded to affix the band around the vicar's massive throat.
Fat Jack Dodd was in his glory; "Jumbo" was in the seventh heaven of bliss. A smile of beatitude spread over his enormous countenance during the process. But it suddenly disappeared, as a sharp slam of the door announced the sudden departure of his indignant wife, the outraged Cecilia. Will it ever dawn on Mrs. Dodd's mind, that parsons, even married parsons, are but men?
CHAPTER IV.
WALLS END CASTLE.
Walls End Castle was the seat of John, Earl of Pit Town. It had come into the family through the marriage of a former earl with the heiress of the great Chudleigh family. It was one of England's show places. The great park which surrounded it was one of the most celebrated in all England, celebrated alike for its size and its beauty. The entry to the park was never denied to artists; and they, their easels, and their umbrellas, might be seen at the various well-known "bits" all through the summer and autumn. The boys of the Elizabethan Grammar School had also the privilege of roaming in the park; and time had been when the people of the neighbouring town and the public generally were admitted; but excursionists had arrived in crowds, they had destroyed the poetry of the place with pieces of greasy newspaper, broken bottles, ham bones, and the remains of their Homeric banquets. They had shouted and whistled in the great picture galleries, they had written their names upon the window panes, they had committed all the innumerable offences that such people do commit; but the final straw which determined the present earl to exclude them, was their having played at the game of Kiss-in-the-ring, one Whit-Monday, directly under the windows of the noble owner. After that memorable day, Lord Pit Town kept his castle and his park to himself.
His lordship during the earlier part of his reign never came near Walls End Castle. The widowed earl travelled continuously in Southern Europe. He travelled, and he collected pictures, statuary, gems, plate, china—nothing came amiss to him . But John, Earl of Pit Town, was wise in his generation; he remembered that "if you sup with the devil, it is best to use a long spoon." He never purchased without an expert's aid; consequently the immense collection he had gradually accumulated was free from rubbish. Nothing doubtful or "reputed" ever arrived in the huge packing-cases consigned to Walls End Castle. For years his lordship was seldom seen in London, the great house in Grosvenor Square was never opened. When Lord Pit Town was in England, he stayed at Long's Hotel. Friends he had none; his doctor and his courier were the people who saw most of him. But as years rolled on his lordship grew tired of travel, his well-known figure, in the short blue cloak and velvet collar, was seen no more in the great picture galleries of Europe. Lord Pit Town now commenced the work of his life, the building of the new galleries at Walls End Castle. Winter and summer the little old man, for he was over sixty now, might be seen in the blue cloak, inspecting the growth of the vast galleries with a critical eye. Emilius Wolff, his German architect, was his constant companion. The great Mr. Buskin paid him a yearly visit; on these occasions Dr. Wolff (for Wolff was a doctor of philosophy) joined his lordship and the great art-critic at dinner. At length the great Pit Town collection was housed as it deserved to be. Its principal feature was the picture gallery. This was a vast building of classical design, resembling a Grecian temple. Dr. Wolff was a Berliner, and the tradition of Berlin is that a picture gallery should resemble a Greek temple. The vast galleries were probably among the best in Europe. They were lighted and heated to perfection. But the great galleries had one peculiarity; at irregular intervals along the wall were blank spaces of varying size; in the centre of each space was a label in his lordship's own writing: on these labels were inscribed the names of various great painters. It was now the only business of the Earl of Pit Town to gradually fill these spaces, each with a representative masterpiece of the artist indicated. Possibly John, Earl of Pit Town, notwithstanding his boundless wealth, could hardly hope to complete such a work in his own lifetime. The great Mr. Abrahams had an unlimited commission to secure at any price, a long list of great works. There was but one condition attached, any purchase must be above suspicion. But even the great Mr. Abrahams, on one notable occasion at least, had been deceived. A new acquisition, purchased from the collection of a wealthy amateur in the Rue Drouot, had arrived at Walls End Castle. A furious controversy concerning this picture had arisen among art critics. Herr Vandenbossche had defended the authenticity of the work, but old Mr. Creeps had demolished him in an exhaustive article in the Friday Review. Old Mr. Creeps was considerably astonished at receiving an almost affectionate letter from Lord Pit Town. His lordship thanked him for the article, and requested what he termed "the exceeding great pleasure of receiving you here;" the letter was dated from Walls End Castle. Old Mr. Creeps accepted the invitation for a couple of days. On his arrival at the local railway station he was met by his lordship in person. Lord Pit Town, one of the proudest and most exclusive of men, treated old Mr. Creeps with marked deference. At dinner, at which John Buskin and Dr. Wolff were present, conversation ran purely upon art matters. Old Mr. Creeps, the critic, had never enjoyed himself so much; the sitting was prolonged till the small hours. Next day, at noon, the council of four sat in solemn conclave upon Lord Pit Town's latest purchase. Old Mr. Creeps triumphantly proved his case. Lord Pit Town looked at Mr. Buskin. Mr. Buskin nodded. "Well, Wolff?" remarked his lordship.
"It is onhappy, most onhappy," replied the doctor of philosophy, "but I fear it is drue, too drue."
"What will your lordship do with it?" said old Mr. Creeps.
"You shall see," replied that eminent collector with a smile, as he advanced to the easel on which the doubtful picture stood. His lordship opened his penknife, carefully and quietly he cut the canvas out of the frame, he folded it in half; again he cut it, as though he were cutting up a sheet of brown paper; he repeated the process several times, then, handing the pieces to the German, he merely remarked, "Oblige me by burning these, Wolff."
"They shall make a vamous blaze," said the philosopher, as he left the room to carry out the sentence.
"Would that all collectors could afford to do the same, Lord Pit Town," remarked John Buskin with a sigh.
"Your lordship has done a noble act," cheerfully cried old Mr. Creeps, as he rubbed his hands. "Of course you will trounce Abrahams. When the artistic world hears of this morning's work, Lord Pit Town, it will know what it owes to England's most distinguished amateur."
"No, no, Mr. Creeps. I must ask you to keep this business a secret; no cheap popularity for me," replied the old lord.
"Cheap!" echoed the critic, as he raised his eyes to the skylight. "Good heavens! he calls it cheap," whispered the old man to John Buskin.
"His lordship is right," was the oracle's oracular reply.
Men said that Lord Pit Town was eccentric. Gossips said that he was mad. Perhaps after all he was only honest according to his lights. Next day the handsome frame, carefully packed, was returned to Mr. Abrahams; it was duly deducted from his account. But he got his cheque for the price of the picture, and his very liberal commission.
In vain did the artists who frequented Walls End Park attempt to stalk the old nobleman in his lonely walks. They never succeeded in selling him a picture from the easel. "Capital, capital," his lordship would remark with great alacrity, when there was no other way of escape. The eldest Miss Solomonson, the most talented member of that clever Hebrew family—she is great at animals—tried to shoot the wary old lord with her well-known picture of "The Timid Fawn," but she ignominiously failed.
"The old wretch called me 'my dear,' and said he liked my sky, when I hadn't even indicated the sky," she indignantly remarked to her amused father.
Miss Solomonson's masses of jetty hair, and the fire from the glances of her oriental eyes, were said to have melted the stony hearts even of dealers who were her co-religionists. But with all her advantages Miss Solomonson failed with the old lord, and she abuses him to this day. She had her revenge, however, for in her well-known Academy picture of the following year, "Balaam and his Ass," the angel was represented by a glorified portrait of Miss Solomonson herself, who glared down in an indignant manner upon the terrified and kneeling Balaam. Old Mr. Creeps and the other art-critics chuckled as they recognized the angelic portrait; but they chuckled still more, when they saw that the terrified Balaam was but an ill-natured caricature of John, Earl of Pit Town.
"I'd have done him as the ass, you know, only he was too ugly. I hope he'll like the figures better than the sky this time," snorted the indignant Hebrew maiden.
The curse of the Earl of Pit Town's life was the so-called gallery of old masters in Walls End Castle. He couldn't sell them; he couldn't burn them; he was even compelled to insure them, to his intense disgust. For when a former lord had inherited Walls End Castle from the Chudleighs, old masters had been the fashion; and the purchaser, delighted with his toy, had made the pictures heirlooms. But the present lord had shut up what to him was a mere chamber of horrors. He and Dr. Wolff had actually composed a catalogue raisonné of the entire collection, in which the fictitious nature of the claims to respect of each monstrous daub was triumphantly demonstrated. The sprawling Rubenses were shown to be but inferior copies, the Paul Veronese was proved a transparent sham, while the great Vandyck, representing the Martyr-King seated on a gigantic grey horse, was demonstrated to be but a wretched replica of a miserable original. There they hung, the old Pit Town heirlooms, grimy with dirt; for as the old lord used to say, "To have cleaned them would have been only to make their natural hideousness still more apparent." Each picture bore a label, giving a true description of the once-honoured gem. Alas! these veracious tablets cruelly contrasted with the flourishes of the old housekeeper's descriptions.
Two only of his heirlooms had stood the crucial inspections of Lord Pit Town and his experts. These were the great Raphael, and the celebrated portrait of Barbara Chudleigh, the well-known beauty of Charles the Second's time, by Sir Peter Lely. Wicked Bab Chudleigh, as a wood nymph, simpered upon the walls of the new gallery in which the Chudleigh Raphael occupied the post of honour.
We have seen what manner of man John, Earl of Pit Town, was. We have seen how his heirlooms troubled him not a little. We have seen how he passed his life with the faithful Wolff at Walls End Castle, patiently waiting to fill the numerous blanks on the walls of the new galleries, in fact to accomplish his destiny. For if ever there was a born collector, a real collector, to whom the actual intrinsic value of a painting was absolutely of no importance, it was John, Earl of Pit Town. And this indifference to the value at the hammer of their acquisitions, marks the distinction between the genuine collector or connoisseur and the ruck of the people who buy pictures; the bulk of whom are after all but amateur dealers. When the successful stock-jobber leaves off dealing in shares and takes to art, he merely deals in another more or less intangible security of very fluctuating value. With childlike confidence he follows the advice of some more or less honest dealer. He buys from the easel with a hope of a "rapid rise." Works are knocked down to him at Christie's simply because they are apparently cheap, and he is carrying out the old axiom of his trade, "always buy rubbish." In the same way he is perpetually buying and selling pictures upon the time honoured maxim of Capel Court, "nail your profit, and cut your loss." He will even go so far as to develop a taste for a particular master in the hope that he may succeed ultimately in making a "corner" in that special security. And the sole dream of such a man is the result in pounds, shillings and pence of the auction that will inevitably take place at his death. The possession of a certain number of valuable works of art confers an amount of distinction upon their proprietor, and Brown, who as Brown is a nobody, becomes a somebody as the owner of the Brown collection. Of this fact Manchester "men" and Liverpool "gentlemen" are well aware. But, as has been seen, a deep gulf divided these amateur dealers from John, Earl of Pit Town.
The old earl's property, the source of his wealth, as from his title the reader will have shrewdly guessed, was in collieries. With the management of these, however, the Earl of Pit Town did not trouble himself. His various agents paid yearly increasing sums into that aristocratic bank in the Strand, which never allows interest on deposits, which never advises any investment except Consols, and whose clerks from time immemorial have worn white chokers.
For many years it had been the old lord's habit to entertain those members of his family, never exceeding four in number, who were nearest to the title. Twice a year the formal invitation was sent out by the old nobleman to his only son, and to his two nephews. Once in the height of the summer and once at Christmas these invitations were issued. They were never refused, for their recipients looked upon them much in the light of a royal command.
Lord Hetton, the earl's only son, and his heir, was always one of the guests on these occasions; to him it was an exceedingly unpleasant time; for father and son had quarrelled years ago, the old lord having sternly declined to increase his son's very liberal allowance of five thousand a year. A man can do a great deal on five thousand a year, but not much is left for the annuitant when he is possessed by the idea that, some day or other, it will be his good fortune to win the Derby. In all other things but race-horses, Hetton was a man of frugal mind. For the sake of his stud he had remained a bachelor; for he felt that were he to marry, yet another obstacle would be raised to the attainment of his ambition. Ever since his majority Lord Hetton had annually entered a colt in the great race. His nominations had on two occasions even run into places. Four years ago Hetton's horse had been first favourite, but it was ignominiously beaten. This very year, that rank outsider, Dark Despair, who, starting at sixty to one, had just been beaten on the post, was the property of his persevering, but unlucky, lordship. Twice a year did Lord Hetton present himself at Walls End Castle. He used to walk through the park, and note with pleasure the care that his father bestowed on the gigantic property. It pleased him to see how well kept was everything about the place. It gratified him to find his opinions deferentially listened to by the steward, and to perceive that year by year the family solicitors treated him with a still greater obsequiousness. But in his heart, he cursed what he called his father's folly, as he looked at the new galleries; and he would have liked to stamp and swear, as at every visit he dutifully admired each new and costly acquisition of the old earl's. He would walk discontentedly up and down the old picture gallery where hung the worthless heirlooms that, in the ordinary course of nature, must one day be his own: and he wondered whether he should ever possess the Golconda contained in the new galleries. Perhaps it was only human nature that caused him to watch, and watch in vain, for any apparent sign of increasing infirmity in the old earl. But he never quarrelled with his father, for on the morning of his departure from the paternal roof, he was accustomed to receive a very considerable solatium to his wounded feelings, in the shape of a heavy cheque on the bank in the Strand. The amount of this cheque was invariable; it kept Hetton on his good behaviour, and he had learned to look upon it as part of his allowance. On one memorable occasion he had presumed to remonstrate with his father on the enormous cost of his last artistic acquisitions; the earl had merely shrugged his shoulders. That visit had been indignantly remembered by Lord Hetton, for when the venerable connoisseur bade his lordship good-bye, there had been no cheque, though there was no change in his lordship's manner towards his son.
Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, a faultlessly-dressed gentleman, whose principal characteristic was his brilliant whist, which it was said brought him in a certain but variable income, was the next heir in direct succession; he was the nephew of his lordship, and a childless bachelor. His presence, also, always graced Walls End Castle at the regulation periods.
Mr. John Haggard, of Ash Priory, the father of big Reginald, was always the third guest. John Haggard, the second nephew of Lord Pit Town, was a J.P. for his county, of the Shakespearian type. He was fond of good living, his eye was severe, and his beard of sober cut. He embodied the law, in his own immediate neighbourhood, to the intense terror of local delinquents. He had meted out stern justice to his own son, when he had banished big Reginald to South America; but he had his virtues. He lived within his means, he entertained his neighbours at rather heavy dinners, he gave his wife and daughters a fortnight in town during the season, and he habitually took the first prize at the county show for black pigs. He never forgot that he was third in succession to the title. He never doubted his capacity, should he ever be called to occupy the position of a hereditary legislator; and now that his son had returned a considerably wealthier man than he himself was, he chuckled, when in his mind's eye he thought of him as some day bearing the courtesy title of Lord Hetton.
The earl and the doctor of philosophy sat at breakfast in a little oak wainscoted room whose windows commanded a full view of the new galleries. In this little room the galleries had been designed; the windows had looked upon the commencement of the great work. An army of navvies had dug out the earth for the gigantic foundations. Then arose a very forest of scaffold-poles. Two huge steam engines had snorted and puffed for three whole years. A colossal steam "traveller" had ceaselessly carried great blocks of stone and long steel girders from point to point. The clink of the stone-masons' chisels had resounded year after year from morning till night. Then came the carpenters, and the noise of their busy hammers had been deafening. When not actually on the works, Lord Pit Town had viewed them from the window of his favourite room. But scaffold poles, steam engines and labourers had disappeared; the rubbish had been cleared away, and the huge white block stood out in the clear air; dominating the grey weather-stained gables of Walls End Castle much as Aladdin's palace is said to have dominated the more ancient but less magnificent residence of his father-in-law the Emperor of China. There was an air of spick-and-spanness about the whole thing that annoyed the earl. The new galleries had been finished four whole years, but they still looked painfully fresh.
"I hear that I am to have the pleasure of welcoming another of your lordship's relatives this year," said the doctor of philosophy to the earl.
"Yes; Wolff 'where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gathered together.' I have kept them waiting for some years, and I don't feel a bit like dying, Wolff. Though I confess I dread Hetton's critical examination. He always looks me over in his stud-groom sort of way. But I suppose, as he is my nearest relative, it is but natural he should be anxious about my health. As for the young fellow, I have never even seen him. My nephew wished to bring him, and he is about to marry. In fact he and his father will be the only married men among my direct heirs."
"And does the young man love art?"
"No. I think his talents are confined to spending money and getting into trouble. But my nephew tells me that he is now going to forswear sack and live cleanly."
"That is what I cannot understand, my lord. I had a cold the other day, a most severe cold. I tell the young man to bring me a cup of sack; he sends to me the butler. I say to him, 'Give me the sack.' He replied to me, 'I cannot do that, sir, it's only his lordship can do that.' What is, then, this precious drink I read of in my Shakespeare—so precious, that your lordship will not trust him to his butler? And now you tell me that your nephew will drink him no more. I never see your lordship drink him. Has, then, your lordship forsworn him too?"
His lordship laughed as he finished his coffee. "No one drinks sack now-a-days, Wolff, and the quotation was merely figurative; while the other sack the butler talked about was but a vulgarism used by his class. You will never get that either, in my lifetime at least."
"I understand it not. But your grand-nephew, the young man, it pleases you that he shall marry?"
"It is indifferent to me, Wolff; if I can only live to fill the vacant wall spaces in the new galleries, I can seriously say, après moi le déluge. But here comes the first arrival."
One of his lordship's close carriages was coming up the great chestnut avenue; Lord Hetton was its sole occupant. As the old butler received him in the hall, with the deference due to his master's son, the sporting nobleman laughingly commiserated him.
"We have neither of us any luck, Russell, as usual," he said. "I thought I had a real good thing this time. As usual, I put you on for a fiver, Russell; as usual, it didn't come off." Lord Hetton was of a frugal mind. He was continually presenting innumerable imaginary fivers to little people. He was always putting them on for them at tremendous odds, but the good things never came off, and the recipients of his favours were never informed of his munificence till after the event.
"I most humbly thank your lordship," replied the butler with an air of profound gratitude, as he chuckled in his sleeve. For the old man too was of a sporting turn. He knew all about Dark Despair, and annually he had carefully laid the odds against Lord Hetton's nomination for the great race.
"The same rooms, I suppose, Russell?"
"Always the same rooms, your lordship."
Lord Hetton mechanically proceeded to his quarters.
On joining the earl, father and son met as if they had parted only the previous day. The pursuits of neither interested the other. Art and horse-flesh were subjects tabooed by mutual consent. A desultory conversation on politics, in which neither took the slightest interest, was a safe neutral ground. It was with a feeling of relief on both sides that the arrival of Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, was announced. His lordship retired shortly to his study, Hetton and Mr. Haggard betook themselves to the billiard-room.
At dinner the family party was increased by the presence of John Haggard and his son, both of whom were well received by the earl, who now saw his grand-nephew for the first time. Big Reginald's magnificent physique made its due impression; his father was evidently proud of him, and the old lord congratulated the young man on his approaching marriage.
Reginald Haggard was not diffident, he truckled to no one. He frankly avowed to his grand uncle that he knew nothing of art. When his lordship retired early, as was his custom, the other men adjourned once more to the billiard-room. Big Reginald took their lives at pool, and pocketed their half-crowns in an easy genial way, which almost made losing a pleasure.
During the fortnight in which Lord Pit Town entertained his relatives, nothing occurred to mar the harmony of the meeting. During that fortnight Big Reginald got on friendly terms with everybody.
Nothing seemed to overawe or intimidate the ingenuous youth. He saw with evident pleasure the outward and visible signs of the old earl's immense wealth. As he looked round upon the priceless collection in the new galleries, as he thought of the old nobleman's huge estates, he remembered that the investment that Mr. Hyam Hyams had made in his own contingent post obits was probably a good one; he prudently determined to pay off the Jew as soon as he should realize his American properties. In his own mind he determined already that, should he ever be his great-uncle's successor, he would distribute the great Pit Town collection to the four winds of heaven. But he made one mental reservation, as he stood before Sir Peter Lely's masterpiece, and gazed on the lovely features and roving eye of "Wicked Bab Chudleigh:" "A monstrous fine girl. Yes, I should stick to her." If Reginald Haggard did come into the estates after all, and did "stick to her," she would be the first one of her sex he had ever stuck to.
Walls End Castle, when the party broke up, returned to its normal state. The earl and the philosopher continued the even tenour of their ways. Lord Hetton took away his big cheque, which was duly honoured at the old-fashioned bank in the Strand. A cheque for a like amount had been given to Reginald Haggard by the earl. "Buy something for your wife that-is-to-be," he said to his grand-nephew, as he handed him the folded paper. "Warrender was one of my friends years ago, when I had friends," said the old nobleman with a sigh "They are good old-fashioned people the Warrenders, and honest. Don't thank me," he said, as he shook hands with the young fellow. "Of course you will come here with your father in the winter. I shall hope to see the new Mrs. Haggard too," he added. "Good-bye. I shall send you a formal invitation."
When big Reginald told his father of this interview, as they were driving to the station, Justice Haggard did not conceal his satisfaction. "He will outlive all of us, my boy, Hetton into the bargain. Who knows but you may be one day Earl of Pit Town? Keep in with the old man if you can. His place, as you have seen, is perfect, all but the piggeries. He doesn't go in for pigs though, he goes in for pictures—every man to his taste. I prefer pigs."