During Phœbe’s visit to her old home, Lord Verner called twice. His lordship was particularly gracious, and evidently deeply enamoured of Amy.
When he came Amy was careful to put on her best smiles. It seemed to Phœbe as if she delighted in watching the effect of her little sallies of pleasantry and wit upon the love-sick earl. She humoured and petted him in her conversation, and at the same time triumphed over him. She seemed to give way to all his whims, and yet had her own way.
His lordship had at first been all anxiety that the marriage should be particularly quiet, and Amy had appeared to enter into his plans in this respect; but now he was for all sorts of extravagant demonstration, and Amy led him on so far, that it would be impossible to give up any important points in the general display.
And she looked so fresh, and bright, and happy in his love, and Lord Verner appeared to be so proud of her, that Phœbe almost began to believe that happiness would come of the union.
No one could say that Amy would not fill her high station so far as appearance, and carriage, and manners were concerned. She looked every inch a countess already. And she knew it; for she took all manner of pains to set off her graceful, well defined figure. Dainty robes of well studied colour to throw up her clear, but dark complexion; scarlet bands in her black hair, with a simple diamond star that did not sparkle more brightly than her own bright eyes. Pretty ruffles on her wrists, and about her neck, and dainty shoes upon her feet, that now and then peeped forth from beneath her embroidered petticoat; she had a powerful fascination for Earl Verner. She seemed to be unconscious of her charms, and this made her doubly attractive.
What would his lordship have said if he could have overheard that conversation between his betrothed and her friend with the sweet Miranda face? He would not have been more surprised, we suspect, than Mr. Lionel Hammerton, who was in India all this time, blissfully ignorant of all that was going on at Barton,—blissfully ignorant of the recent changes. If any one had told him that his thorough-going old bachelor brother was engaged to be married, he would have treated it as a good joke. And supposing the gossip had supplemented that statement with a true history of the case, he would have given him considerable credit for imagination, and pooh-poohed the whole thing.
Amy Somerton discovered to be Christopher Tallant’s daughter, and Miss Tallant no other than the bailiff’s daughter!—changed in infancy by the bailiff’s wife! Old Tallant dead, and made Amy his heiress, cut off his son, not even with a shilling. And Earl Verner going to marry the young lady that Lionel had flirted with, and whose likeness was hung outside those mosquito curtains! Of course he would not have believed a word of it. He would more readily have accepted the incidents in the novel he had been reading than these. Besides, who could be expected to believe that those two girls had been changed in their cradles? It was such an old story, that; all very well in a poem or a romance, but it could never occur in the Vale of Avonworth.
Perhaps, chers amis, you, too, may think in this wise. The idea is not a new one, we must confess; but if it is a fact, you will accept it as worthy of record, not for its own sake, but on account of the consequences arising out of Mrs. Somerton’s mistaken ambition. Remember, friends, there is no new thing under the sun. We have this upon the authority of the wisest of all men, and the preacher is verified in ten thousand ways. As far back as the thirteenth century one Friar Bacon, probably writing upon facts and traditions handed down from times long antecedent to his own day, anticipated in his works the railway, the steamship, the hydraulic engine, and the balloon. The Chinese were printers before the ancient Romans discovered Britain, and the Romans made gunpowder when there were naked savages living in the neighbourhood of Barton Hall. The Chinese had discovered gas long before we knew anything about it. Chloroform, photography, the telegraph, and a hundred other “new” inventions, were old things used and forgotten before we heard of them. Have not all the finest thoughts that can enter the brain of scholar or poet been thought before? and does not some classical writer anathematise the great men who had said all the good things before him? All that long race of thinkers and writers, and poets and orators, and tale-tellers and humourists, and playwrights,—what room have they left for a mere story-teller to interest and say something new?
“There is nothing new under the sun.” But there ought to be something new in a novel, nevertheless, most readers seem to think. Critical readers claim something new at the novelist’s hands, and rate him and he dare to walk in beaten tracks. Next to something new comes something true. This shall protect our neck from the sharp edge of the sword that hangs by that Damoclean thread which is so easily severed. We are telling a tale with Truth for its basis, and how can the mere historian help it if there is nothing new in one of the main incidents of his narrative? Human hopes and fears, and sorrows and troubles, and joys and pleasures, are a constant repetition of the same occurrences, and love of money forms the axis upon which this world of trouble revolves.
When you tell your favourite little stories after dinner—incidents in your own life—you don’t think there is nothing new under the sun then—eh? “New or not, they are true,” you say. Very well, sir, and so is this history; and if there is one part of it more truthful than another, it is that quiet but important bit of exchange performed in those early days of those charming young women, who used to live like sisters at Barton Hall. Ask old Dibble if this is not a true story; ask Arthur Phillips and his wife; ask the Right Hon. the Countess of Verner; go down to Avonworth, and visit Barton Hall.
Lionel Hammerton would not have believed it, nevertheless, and he will return from India utterly ignorant of all the changes that have taken place up to this period of our story; for those two letters written by a certain painter, and the one sealed with a coronet, are destined to pass their owner on the high seas, both travelling in different directions.
If Lord Verner would have been very much surprised could he have heard that conversation between the two ladies at Barton Hall, what would he have thought of the following dialogue, which was spoken a few days afterwards.
“I must confess I am a little surprised,” said Miss Tallant, “that you should not have given me notice of your visit.”
“It did not occur to me that such a measure was needful from a brother to his sister,” said Mr. Richard Tallant, coolly throwing himself into an easy chair.
“Brother and sister, truly,” said Miss Tallant, with dignity, “but hitherto somewhat divided in feeling and opinion, and latterly by a law-suit.”
“Yes, these things will occur; but you possess rather more than your share, my sister, of our father’s goods. Would it have been otherwise than fair to have given the son and heir half the property?”
“Would it not have been brotherly to give the sister an opportunity at least to consider what course she should take before loading her with threats, and commencing an action against her in Chancery?” said Miss Tallant. “The wishes of the dead are entitled to respect, and especially with regard to property left behind for others; but the recipient of a fortune such as that which I have inherited could have afforded to be generous, and would have endeavoured, no doubt, to give effect to the impulses of her own heart, even in the interest of one who did not deserve compassion.”
“Indeed!” said Richard; “you are quite eloquent, I declare. You fill your high station magnificently. May I ring for luncheon?”
“Perhaps it would be a little more courteous in the first place to explain your business, and in the next to leave the ordering of luncheon to the mistress of the house.”
“As you please,” said Mr. Tallant—“as you please. I want you to instruct Twyzell and Kits, your lawyers, to pay four thousand pounds to my credit to-morrow.”
“Indeed!” said Miss Tallant.
“Yes, I will be frank with you. Certain important securities which I hold have suddenly fallen in value, and a banking friend of mine who holds them is anxious that the sum which they did represent should be made up in cash; I am very desirous of obliging my friend, and I knew you would oblige me.”
“Indeed,” repeated Miss Tallant, “I fear I must refer you to the gentlemen whom you have mentioned; your legal process has quite removed the affair beyond the pale of my consideration, whatever my feelings with regard to it might be.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Richard Tallant, altogether uninfluenced by the quiet, sarcastic smile which played round Miss Tallant’s mouth, and ignoring altogether the evident annoyance which his effrontery excited, and which Amy struggled unsuccessfully to hide.
“Is this your reply? Will you not lend the money to your brother?”
“It may not be mine to lend; you have threatened to upset your father’s will, and your lawyer professes to be certain that you can succeed in doing so. I must refer you to Mr. Twyzell; and now I will order luncheon for you,” said Amy, advancing towards the bell.
“Stay one moment,” said Richard, stroking his beard, in which already there were many grey hairs; “it is useless to refer me to Twyzell; you must write a note requesting him to let me have the money to-morrow. He may lend it me without prejudice, as the lawyers say, so that it will in nowise influence any legal proceedings that are pending. You must do this, or I shall be compelled to say something very unpleasant. I cannot possibly do without the money, and it is most convenient that you should be the lender.”
“What does this mean?” said Amy. “You know that I have no other course but to refer you to the lawyers, and it is idle to say more about it.”
“Very well; it is hard to force a gentleman and your brother, in difficulties, to appear ungentlemanly and unbrotherly; but if he has no other resource, he must use means which he would otherwise reject with contempt. You are to be married to the Right Hon. the Earl Verner, of Montem Castle; it is a great match.”
“Well,” said Miss Tallant, impatiently.
“Do you remember a confession you once made—it is a long time ago now—to the young lady who was Miss Tallant then and your patroness.”
The questioner looked up to his sister to note the effect of his interrogation; but there was no change in Amy’s face, though she began to suspect why her visitor had exercised so much assumption of power and authority in this unexpected interview.
“You were sitting together in the summer-house yonder on a spring morning not unlike the present, and you entered into some very interesting details with regard to myself, and also concerning your love, or fancy, or liking, or whatever it is called, for Earl Verner’s brother.”
Amy did not lose her self-control even at this point of the conversation; but she remembered the time to which he alluded, and remembered it vividly, for she had always believed that Richard Tallant had overheard all she and Phœbe said on that particular occasion.
“When you pressed your ear against the keyhole?” she said, with a scornful look.
“No, that was not necessary,” said Mr. Tallant; “the door was open a little way, and two voices forced themselves upon my attention—that is the courteous way of putting it.”
“Well, you have something more to say? Better say all you desire.”
“It occurred to me that you might spare me the pain of proceeding further, and that you would write to Twyzell and Kits at once.”
“Since the subject is becoming interesting at last, I have no desire to put an end to it now,” said Amy, who had some little time previously sat down, with the table between herself and her visitor.
“Earl Verner would hardly like to hear that you were passionately in love with his brother, and that his brother had jilted the woman he is about to marry; besides, he is a generous fellow—he might give the lady up to her first love, and particularly as he is invalided sometimes and fond of a quiet life. I have business with his lordship and thought of riding over this afternoon, if you could lend me a horse.”
It was a desperate struggle for Amy to sit still and endure this; the colour came and went in her cheeks, and her heart beat at a fever rate, and then seemed to stop altogether; but still she sat in her chair, and gave but slight indication of the sharpness of the poisoned shafts which made such a sensible impression upon her. The humiliation of bargaining for the maintenance of a secret from her husband—a secret that might possibly break off an alliance which she had done so much to encompass. But he would not believe it? And if he did, she could tell him that all that silly passion was at an end. These thoughts passed through her mind much more rapidly than the printer’s type has conveyed them to the reader; but she made no sign.
“Shall I ride over to Montem, or return to town? If I go to town you will hear no more from me, at all events until the marriage is over, unless you would like me to give you away.”
This was another sting; it reminded Amy of her helpless and forlorn position, and as she glanced at the fine manly form of her brother, a pang of honest regret that they were so fearfully sundered, shot through her heart, and almost brought the tears into her eyes.
“I think we understand each other,” said Mr. Tallant, as though this suspense made him uncomfortable.
“Yes,” said Miss Tallant. “I am sorry to feel that I understand you, Richard Tallant.”
It required no considerable effort for Amy to maintain her calmness, though she had lately set up in her own way for a very clever actress; but she did not break down. She rang the bell, ordered luncheon for Mr. Richard Tallant, and desiring that gentleman to give her half an hour to consider his request, withdrew and sought her own room.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Richard Tallant when she had gone, “a devilish good fight she made of it: there’s no mistake about her parentage; if anything had been wanting to prove our relationship, this interview would clinch it.”
Mr. Tallant thereupon walked up to the mantel-piece, contemplated himself, stroked his beard, and apostrophised his counterfeit.
“You must be an infernal blackguard, Richard Tallant, Esq., to work such an infernal scheme as this against a woman! Upon my soul I believe you are a bad fellow, a deuced bad fellow. How is it, my friend, you are such a rascal? You had a fine opportunity once. I believe that thief Gibbs ruined you, eh? Perhaps; perhaps not. But you have been put to some tightish shifts, have you not, my friend, none tighter than this? When a fellow can see his way out of certain ruin by a bit of meanness, or whatever you like to call it, the temptation is very great—is it not? Ha, well, it’s a wicked world, a wicked world. You ought to have been the proprietor of this place, my friend: well, never mind; you must manage to do with a part of it, eh? Yes, with a part of it: half a loaf, you know.”
“Half a loaf did you say?” asked the quick-eared servant who had just entered with a tray. “Yes, sir—white or brown?”
“Both,” said Mr. Tallant.
“Yes, sir; what wine will you take, sir?”
“Sherry,” said Mr. Tallant.
“Yes, sir.”
And the son of the dead merchant commenced his luncheon. Before he had finished, the same servant brought him a note from Miss Tallant, which enclosed a letter to Twyzell and Kits.
“That’s all right,” he said to himself; “give my love to Miss Tallant, say I am greatly obliged to her, and that she need not give herself any further trouble in the matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Poor Amy! She had not counted upon this new feature of difficulty in her scheme of ambition and revenge. But she was resolved that nothing should frustrate the accomplishment of the whole scheme which she had planned out. She was betrothed to Lord Verner, and she would marry him at any sacrifice, ay, even to standing at the altar with Mr. Richard Tallant in the paternal and brotherly position he had mentioned. It was rather singular that Richard Tallant as he returned to town that day should have thought so much about this same contingency.
“Why should I not be one of the wedding guests?” he said, as he smoked and waited for the next train at Orford Junction. “Why should I not give her away?”