Arabella

XVI

Upon leaving Somerset House, Mr. Beaumaris got into a hackney, and drove to the Red Lion Inn. What he learned at that hostelry threw abundant light on to Arabella’s conduct. Since he had his own reasons for believing Arabella’s heart to have been won long since, he was not in the least wounded by the discovery that she proposed to marry him as a means of rescuing her brother from debt, but, on the contrary, considerably amused. Having paid Bertram’s bill at the inn, and received his watch back from the landlord, he returned to his own house in yet another hackney.

The same delight in the ridiculous which had made him wear a dandelion in his button-hole for three consecutive days for no better purpose than to enjoy the discomfiture of his misguided friends and copyists made him deeply appreciative of the situation in which he now found himself; and he beguiled the tedium of the drive to Mount Street in wondering when it would cross his absurd love’s mind that the disclosure, following hard upon the wedding-ceremony, that she required a large sum of money from him without a moment’s loss of time, might be productive of a little awkwardness. He could not resist picturing the scene, and was still laughing softly when he reached his house, a circumstance which considerably surprised his butler.

“Send round to the stables for my tilbury, will you, Brough?” he said. “And desire Painswick—oh, you’re there, are you?” he added, as his valet descended the stairs. “I want to hear no more about missing shirts, on which excessively boring subject I can see from your expression you are prepared to discourse at length, but you may tell me this! Where is the letter I gave into your hands to be delivered at the Red Lion, to a Mr. Anstey, and why did you not tell me that it had not been so delivered?”

“You may perhaps recall, sir,” said Painswick reproachfully, “that I mentioned to you while you sat at breakfast that there was a matter which I deemed it my duty to bring to your notice. Upon which, sir, you said, Not now.”

“Did I? I had no idea you could be so easily silenced. Where is the letter?”

“I placed it, sir, on the bottom of the pile that was awaiting you on the table here,” replied Painswick, tacitly disclaiming further responsibility.

“In that case it is in the library. Thank you: that is all.”

Ulysses, who had been lying stretched out in the library, enjoying the sleep of the replete, awoke at Mr. Beaumaris’s entrance, yawned, got up, shook himself, sneezed several times, stretched, and indicated by his cocked ears and wagging tail that he was now ready for any adventure.

“I am glad to see you restored to your usual self,” said Mr. Beaumaris, running through the mass of his neglected correspondence, and picking up his own letter to Bertram. “You know, you should not have dissuaded me from going out again that evening! Just look what has come of it! And yet I don’t know. I would not have missed this morning’s interview for a thousand pounds! I suppose you think that I am behaving very badly? I am, of course, but do me the justice to own that she deserves it for being such an adorable little fool!”

Ulysses wagged his tail. He was not only willing to do Mr. Beaumaris justice, but presently indicated his readiness to accompany him on whatever expedition he had in mind.

“It would be useless to suggest, I suppose, that you are occupying Clayton’s seat?” said Mr. Beaumaris, mounting into his tilbury.

Clayton, grinning, expressed himself as being agreeable to taking the little dog on his knee, but Mr. Beaumaris shook his head.

“No, I fear he would not like it. I shan’t need you,” he said, and drove off, remarking to his alert companion: “We are now faced with the wearing task of tracing down that foolish young man’s inarticulate friend, Felix Scunthorpe. I wonder whether, in the general medley, there is any bloodhound strain in you?”

He drew blank at Mr. Scunthorpe’s lodging, but on being informed that Mr. Scunthorpe had mentioned that he was going to Boodle’s, drove at once to St. James’s Street, and was so fortunate as to catch sight of his quarry, walking up the flagway: He reined in, and called imperatively: “Scunthorpe!”

Mr. Scunthorpe had naturally perceived who was driving a spanking chestnut between the shafts of the tilbury, but as he had no expectation of being recognized by the Nonpareil this summons surprised him very much. He was even a little doubtful, and said cautiously: “Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. Where is young Tallant?” He saw an expression of great wariness descend upon Mr. Scunthorpe’s face, and added impatiently: “Come, don’t be more of a fool than you can help! You don’t suppose I am going to hand him over to the tipstaffs, do you?”

“Well, he’s at the Cock,” disclosed Mr. Scunthorpe reluctantly. “That is to say,” he corrected himself, suddenly recalling his friend’s incognito, “he is, if you mean Mr. Anstey.”

“Have you any brothers?” demanded Mr. Beaumaris.

“No,” said Mr. Scunthorpe, blinking at him. “Only child.”

“You relieve my mind. Offer my congratulations to your parents!”

Mr. Scunthorpe thought this over, with knit brow, but could make nothing of it. He put Mr. Beaumaris right on one point “Only one parent,” he said. “Father died three months after I was born.”

“Very understandable,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I am astonished that he lingered on for so long. Where is this Cock you speak of?”

“Thing is—not sure I ought to tell you!” said Mr. Scunthorpe.

“Take my word for it, you will be doing your misguided friend an extremely ill-turn if you don’t tell me!”

“Well, it’s at the corner of Duck Lane, Tothill Fields,” confided Mr. Scunthorpe, capitulating.

“Good God!” said Mr. Beaumaris, and drove off.

The Cock inn, however, though a small, squat building, proved to be more respectable than its situation had led Mr. Beaumaris to suppose. Duck Lane might abound in filth of every description, left to rot in the road, but the Cock seemed to be moderately clean, and well-kept. It even boasted an ostler, who emerged from the stable to gape at the tilbury. When he understood that the swell handling the ribbons had not merely stopped to enquire the way, but really did desire him to take charge of his horse and carriage, a vision of enormous largesse danced before his eyes, and he hastened to assure this noble client that he was ready to bestow his undivided attention on the equipage.

Mr. Beaumaris then descended from the tilbury, and walked into the tap of the inn, where his appearance caused a waterman, a jarvey off duty, two bricklayer’s labourers, a scavenger, and the landlord to break off their conversation in mid-sentence to stare at him.

“Good-morning!” said Mr. Beaumaris. “You have a Mr. Anstey putting up here, I think?”

The landlord, recovering from his surprise, came forward, bowing several times. “Yes, your honour! Oh, yes, indeed, your honour!—Chase that cur out of here, Joe!—If your honour will—”

“Do nothing of the sort, Joe!” interrupted Mr. Beaumaris.

“Is he yours, sir?” gasped the landlord.

“Certainly he is mine. A rare specimen: his family tree would surprise you! Is Mr. Anstey in?”

“He’ll be up in his room, sir. Keeps hisself to hisself, in a manner of speaking. If your honour would care to step into the parlour, I’ll run up and fetch him down before the cat can lick her ear.”

“No, take me up to him,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “Ulysses, do stop hunting for rats! We have no time to waste on sport this morning! Come to heel!”

Ulysses, who had found a promising hole in one corner of the tap, and was snuffing at it in a manner calculated to keep its occupant cowering inside it for the next twenty-four hours at least, regretfully obeyed this command, and followed Mr. Beaumaris up a steep, narrow stairway. The landlord scratched on one of the three doors at the top of this stair, a voice bade him come in, and Mr. Beaumaris, nodding dismissal to his guide, walked in, shut the door behind him, and said cheerfully: “How do you do? I hope you don’t object to my dog?”

Bertram, who had been sitting at a small table, trying for the hundredth time to hit upon some method of solving his difficulties, jerked up his head, and sprang to his feet, as white as his shirt. “Sir!” he uttered, grasping the back of his chair with one shaking hand.

Ulysses, misliking his tone, growled at him, but was called to order. “How many more times am I to speak to you about your total lack of polish, Ulysses?” said Mr. Beaumaris severely. “Never try to pick a quarrel with a man under his own roof! Lie down at once!” He drew off his gloves, and tossed them on to the bed. “What a very tiresome young man you are!” he told Bertram amiably.

Bertram, his face now as red as a beetroot, said in a choked voice: “I was coming to your house on Thursday, as you bade me!”

“I’m sure you were. But if you hadn’t been so foolish as to leave the Red Lion so—er—hurriedly, there would not have been the slightest need for this rustication of yours. You would not have worried yourself half-way to Bedlam, and I should not have been obliged to bring Ulysses to a locality you can see he does not care for.”

Bertram glanced in a bewildered way towards Ulysses, who was sitting suggestively by the door, and said: “You don’t understand, sir. I—I was rolled-up! It was that, or—or prison, I suppose!”

“Yes, I rather thought you were,” agreed Mr. Beaumaris. “I sent a hundred pound banknote to you the next morning, together with my assurance that I had no intention of claiming from you the vast sums you lost to me. Of course, I should have done very much better to have told you so at the time—and better still to have ordered you out of the Nonesuch at the outset! But you will agree that the situation was a trifle awkward.”

“Mr. Beaumaris,” said Bertram, with considerable difficulty, “I c-can’t redeem my vowels now, but I pledge you my word that I will redeem them! I was coming to see you on Thursday, to tell you the whole, and—and to beg your indulgence!”

“Very improper,” approved Mr. Beaumaris. “But it is not my practice to win large sums of money from schoolboys, and you cannot expect me to change my habits only to accommodate your conscience, you know. Shall we sit down, or don’t you trust the chairs here?”

“Oh, I beg pardon!” Bertram stammered, flushing vividly. “Of course! I don’t know what I was thinking about! Pray, will you take this chair, sir? But it will not do! I must and I will—Oh, can I offer you any refreshment? They haven’t anything much here, except beer and porter, and gin, but if you would care for some gin—”

“Certainly not, and if that is how you have been spending your time since last I saw you I am not surprised that you are looking burned to the socket.”

“I haven’t been—at least, I did at first, only it was brandy—but not—not lately,” Bertram muttered, very shamefaced.

“If you drank the brandy sold in this district, you must have a constitution of iron to be still alive,” remarked Mr. Beaumaris. “What’s the sum total of your debts? Or don’t you know?”

“Yes, but—You are not going to pay my debts, sir!” A dreadful thought occurred to him; he stared very hard at his visitor, and demanded: “Who told you where I was?”

“Your amiable but cork-brained friend, of course.”

“Scunthorpe?” Bertram said incredulously. “It was not—it was not someone else?”

“No, it was not someone else. I have not so far discussed the matter with your sister, if that is what you mean.”

“How do you know she is my sister?” Bertram said, staring at him harder than ever. “Do you say that Scunthorpe told you that too?”

“No, I guessed it from the start. Have you kept your bills? Let me have them!”

“Nothing would induce me to!” cried Bertram hotly. “I mean, I am very much obliged to you, sir, and it’s curst good of you, but you must see that I couldn’t accept such generosity! Why, we are almost strangers! I cannot conceive why you should think of doing such a thing for me!”

“Ah, but we are not destined to remain strangers!” explained Mr. Beaumaris, “I am going to marry your sister.”

“Going to marry Bella?” Bertram said.

“Certainly. You perceive that that puts the whole matter on quite a different footing. You can hardly expect me either to win money from my wife’s brother at faro, or to bear the odium of having a relative in the Fleet. You really must consider my position a little, my dear boy.”

Bertram’s lip quivered. “I see what it is! She did go to you, and that is why—But if you think, sir, that I have sunk so low I would let Bella sacrifice herself only to save me from disgrace—”

Ulysses, taking instant exception to the raised voice, sprang to Mr. Beaumaris’s side, and barked a challenge at Bertram. Mr. Beaumaris dropped a hand on his head. “Yes, very rude, Ulysses,” he agreed. “But never mind! Bear in mind that it is not everyone who holds me in such high esteem as you do!”

Much confused, Bertram stammered. “I didn’t mean—I beg your pardon! I only meant—She never said a word of this to me!”

“Didn’t she? How secretive females are, to be sure! Perhaps she felt that her parents should be the first persons to learn the news.”

“Well, I suppose she might,” Bertram said doubtfully. “But considering she said she couldn’t marry anyone, because she made ’em all think she was an heiress—”

“She didn’t make me think anything of the sort,” said Mr. Beaumaris.

“Oh, I see!” said Bertram, his brow clearing. “Well, I must say, sir, I’m dashed glad, because I had a notion she liked you more than all the rest! I—I wish you very happy! And, of course, I do see that it makes a difference to my debt to you, only I don’t think I should let you pay the other debts, because it is not in the least your affair, and—”

“Now, don’t let us go into all that again!” begged Mr. Beaumaris. “Just tell me what you propose to do if I don’t pay your debts!”

“I thought of enlisting in a cavalry regiment, if they would take me,” confessed Bertram. “Under an assumed name, of course!”

“I should think that a cavalry regiment would suit you very well,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “But it will be very much more comfortable for you, and for all of us, if you join it under your own name, and as a cornet. What do you want? a Hussar regiment?”

These incredible words made Bertram turn first red, and then while, swallow convulsively, and finally blurt out: “You c-couldn’t mean that! After this! I—Oh, sir, do you mean it?”

“Yes, of course, but give me your bills!”

“I don’t deserve anyone should do anything for me!” Bertram said, overcome.

“The bills!”

Bertram, already floating in some beatific dream, started, and said: “The bills? Oh! Oh, yes, I have them all here—only you will be very much shocked to see how much I have spent, and—”

“Nothing, ever shocks me,” replied Mr. Beaumaris, holding out a hand. He stuffed the sheaf of crumpled papers into the pocket of his driving-coat, and said: “I will settle all these so that none of your creditors will know that it was not you who paid them. Do you owe anything in this neighbourhood beyond your shot here?”

Bertram shook his head. “No, for Bella gave me all the money she had, when she came to see me. I am afraid you would not have liked her doing so, sir, and nor did I, but Felix brought her, like the saphead he is! It—it was a horrid place, and I think I ought to tell you that it was all my fault that she ever went to such a back-slum!”

“You fill me with dismay,” said Mr. Beaumaris. “I do trust she did not set eyes on any destitute person whom she may feel it to be her duty to befriend?”

“Well, I don’t think she did,” Bertram replied. “Felix did say that she told a woman they all call Quartern Sue not to give her baby gin to drink, and gave her a shilling to buy it some milk. And I am excessively sorry, sir, and I would not have had it happen for the world, but Felix says that they walked smash into Leaky Peg, who—who took me to the place when I was so castaway I didn’t know even where I was, or how I came there. She—she was very good to me, in her way, you know, and Bella got it into her head she owed her a debt of gratitude for looking after me! But that’s all right, because I gave Peg five pounds out of the money Bella left for me!”

“Heaven help me!” said Mr. Beaumaris. “She will undoubtedly expect me to house this doxy! Leaky Peg, did you say? Good God!”

“No, no, sir, of course she won’t!” exclaimed Bertram. “Why should she?”

“Because that is her invariable practice,” said Mr. Beaumaris bitterly. “You don’t suppose, do you, that I voluntarily adopted that animal over there?”

“You don’t mean Bella gave him to you? Well, that’s a great deal too bad of her! I must say, I thought it was a queer sort of a dog for you to have, sir!”

“The whole of London thinks it is a queer sort of a dog for me to have. Even the landlord of this tavern tried to chase him from the taproom!” He drew out his pocket-book, and extracted from it several banknotes, and pushed them across the table. “There you are: pay your shot here, redeem whatever lies in pawn, and book yourself the box-seat on the first stage to Harrowgate. I believe the northern-bound coaches leave at some godless hour of the morning, so you had better spend tonight at whatever inn they set out from. A few days in the fresh air will, I trust, repair the ravages of all the brandy you imbibed, and make it possible for you to meet your father without arousing suspicion.”

Bertram tried to speak, failed, tried once more, and managed to say in a very gruff voice: “I c-can’t thank you as I should, and of course I know it is for Bella’s sake! But I can do one thing, and I will! I shall confess the whole to my father, sir, and—and if he says I may not join a Hussar regiment, after behaving so badly, well—well it will serve me right!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Beaumaris, “that is very noble of you, of course, but I have always found it to be an excellent plan, before one indulges in an orgy of expiation, to consider whether the recipient of the sort of confession you have in mind may not be made to suffer a great deal of quite unnecessary pain.”

Bertram was silent for a moment, as this sank into his brain. “You don’t think I should tell my father, sir?”

“I not only don’t think you should: I utterly forbid you to mention the matter to him.”

“I don’t quite like to deceive him,” Bertram said shyly. “You see—”

“I am sure you don’t, so if your mind is set on doing penance, that will serve your turn excellently. You have been staying in Berkshire with Scunthorpe. Just bear that in mind, and forget that you have ever been within ten miles of London!” He rose, and held out his hand. “Now I must go. Don’t harrow yourself with thinking that you have broken all the ten commandments! You have only done what four out of five young fools do, if set loose upon the town. Incidentally, you have acquired a deal of valuable experience, and when next you come to London you will do much better.”

“I shall never be able to show my face in London again, sir,’ said Bertram wistfully. “But thank you!”

“Nonsense! A few years’ service, and you will become a dashing Captain, I daresay, with a fine pair of military whiskers. No one will recognize you. By the way, don’t call to take leave of your sister: she is very much occupied today. I will tell her that you are safely despatched to Yorkshire. Ulysses, stop scratching! Do try to be a little more worthy of me! Yes, we are now going, but it is quite unnecessary, and, indeed, extremely uncivil, to caper about in that joyful fashion!” He picked up his gloves, shook hands, and walked to the door, but bethought him of something, and put a hand into his inner pocket. “Association with that hound—the boon companion of every prig in town, I have not a shadow of doubt—is fast undermining my morals. Your watch, Bertram!”