The Quiet Gentleman

Chapter 7

A bright day succeeded the storm, with a fresh wind blowing, but the sun shining, and great cumulus clouds riding high in a blue sky. Some of the havoc wrought from the night’s tornado could be observed from the windows of the breakfast-parlour; and when Martin strode in presently, he reported that at least one tree had been struck in the Home Wood, and that shattered tiles from the roof of the Castle littered the courts.

“I trust your lordship’s rest was not too much disturbed?” Mr. Clowne said solicitously. “It was indeed a tempestuous night!”

“His lordship will tell you, sir,” said Theo, “that, having bivouacked in Spain, an English thunderstorm has no power to disturb his rest. He was boasting of it to me last night. I daresay you never enjoyed a quieter sleep, eh, Gervase?”

“Did I boast? Then I am deservedly set-down, for I must own that my rest was not quite undisturbed.” He met his brother’s wary, kindling glance across the table, and added, meeting those dark eyes smilingly, but with irony in his own lazy gaze: “By the by, Martin, I fancy this must be yours!”

Martin caught the handkerchief tossed to him, and inspected it casually. “Yes, it is. Did you find it amongst your own?”

“No,” said Gervase. “You dropped it.”

Martin looked up quickly, suspicion in his face. “Oh! I daresay I might have: it can easily happen, after all!” He turned away, and began to tell his cousin about the damage caused by the storm which had so far been reported.

“Then, as I really mean to ride towards Hatherfield this morning,” observed the Earl, “I shall no doubt be besieged with demands for new roofs and chimney-stacks. What shall I say to my importunate tenants, Theo?”

“Why, that they must carry their complaints to your agent! Do you indeed mean to go there? I had abandoned hope of bringing you to a sense of your obligations! Mind, now, that you don’t deny old Yelden the gratification of receiving a visit from you! He has been asking me for ever when he may hope to see you. You have no more devoted a pensioner, I daresay! He swears it was he who taught you to climb your first tree!”

“So he did, indeed! I will certainly visit him,” Gervase promised.

Martin, who had become engaged in conversation with the Chaplain, seemed not to be paying any heed to this interchange; nor, unless some direct enquiry obliged him to do so, did he again address his brother while the meal lasted. He strolled away, when the party rose from the table; and, upon Mr. Clowne’s excusing himself, Theo looked shrewdly at his cousin, and said: “Now what’s amiss?”

The Earl raised his brows. “Why do you ask me that? Do I seem to you to be out of humour?”

“No, but it’s easy to see that Martin has taken one of his pets.”

“Oh, must there be a reason for his pets? I had not thought of it! Are you very busy today? Go with me to Hatherfield!”

“Willingly. I shall be glad to see what damage may have been done to the saplings in the new plantation, Cheringham way. I daresay we may meet Hayle there, and I must have a word with him about fencing. You might care to talk to him yourself!”

“Pray hold me excused! I know nothing of fencing, and should infallibly betray my ignorance. It will not do for my bailiff to hold me cheap!”

His cousin laughed, but shook his head at him. He went off to transact some trifling matter of business, but in less than twenty minutes he rejoined the Earl, and they set forward on their ride.

The most direct route to the village of Hatherfield lay through the Home Park and across a stream to Cheringham Spinney. The ground on either side of the stream was marshy, and a long wooden bridge had been thrown across it by the Earl’s grandfather. No more than a footbridge, it was not wide enough to permit of two horsemen riding abreast of it. After the storm, the stream was a miniature torrent, with evidences of the night’s havoc swirling on its churned-up flood. The nervous chestnut Gervase was riding jibbed at the bridge, but, after a little tussle with his rider, stepped delicately on to the wooden planks. “You would not do for a campaign, my friend!” Gervase chided him gently, patting his sweating neck. “Courage, now!”

“Take care, Gervase!” Theo ejaculated, hard on his heels, but reining back. “Gervase, stop!”

“Why, what is it?” Gervase said, obediently halting, and looking over his shoulder.

“It won’t hold! Back!” Theo said, backing his own horse off the bridge. He dismounted quickly, thrust his bridle into the Earl’s hand, and went squelching through the boggy ground to the edge of the swollen stream. “I thought as much!” he called. “One of the supports is scarcely standing! Good God, what a merciful thing that Hayle was speaking to me about the supports only five days ago, and I recalled it in time! One of those great branches must have been hurled against it: it is cracked almost right through!”

“No wonder, then, that Orthes refused to face it!” said Gervase. “Poor fellow, I maligned you, didn’t I? You are wiser by far than your master, and would have spared him an ignominious wetting!”

“A wetting!” Theo exclaimed, coming back to dry ground. “You might think yourself fortunate to escape with no worse than that! There are boulders in the streambed: if you had ridden this way alone, and been stunned perhaps — ! I blame myself: I should have had this bridge attended to when Hayle first spoke to me of it! My dear Gervase, it is very well to laugh, but you might have sustained an ugly injury — if not a fatal injury! Now what are we to do?”

“Ford the stream, of course. Orthes won’t like it, so this well-mannered roan of yours shall give him a lead.”

Theo took the bridle from him again, and remounted. “Very well, but take care how you go! The water has risen so much that you can’t perceive the rocks — and, I assure you, there are several!”

Though the muddied water did indeed hide the rocks, it was not very deep, scarcely rising above the horses’ knees. Gervase was obliged to acknowledge, however, that a fall from the bridge might have resulted in a broken limb or a concussion, for the boulders were numerous, making it necessary for them to pick their way very slowly across the stream. Once Orthes stumbled, but his master held him together, and the passage was accomplished in safety. “An adventurous ride!” remarked Gervase merrily. “I am glad you were with me, Theo. A tumble into this dirty water would not have suited me at all. And what my poor Turvey will have to say to my boots when he sees them I shudder to think of! Ah, now, behold the guardian of the bridge — a trifle late, but you can see how zealous!”

He pointed with his riding-whip down the rough track that lay before them to where a ruddy-cheeked urchin in a smock and frieze breeches was striding importantly towards them with a red handkerchief attached to a hazel-wand carried in the manner of a standard before him.

“Well, Ensign, and who may you be?” the Earl enquired, smiling down at the boy. “Horatius, I fancy!”

“That’s Parson,” disclaimed the urchin. “I’m nobbut Tom Scrooby, come to mind the bridge, and see no one don’t come acrost, your honour, because it’s clean busted.” His round eyes, having thoroughly taken in the Earl, travelled to Theo. He pulled his sandy forelock. “Mr. Martin said as how he would tell Mr. Hayle, sir, and Father said when he come home that I could mind the bridge till Mr. Hayle come down to see it.”

“Mr. Martin — !” Theo checked himself. “Very well! See you mind it carefully, Tom! Mr. Hayle will be here presently.”

The Earl flicked a shilling to Master Scrooby, and set his horse in motion down the ride. Orthes was encouraged to break into an easy canter, but in a moment or two the roan caught up with him. Theo said in his quiet way: “You had better tell me what it is that troubles you, Gervase. If you are thinking that Martin should have warned you, I daresay he might not have heard you say that you would ride to Hatherfield this morning.”

“Is that what you think?”

“No,” said Theo bluntly.

“Nor do I think it. Do you know, I am becoming a little tired of Martin? Perhaps he would be happier at Studham after all. Or, at any rate, I should be.”

His cousin rode on beside him in silence, frowning slightly. After a pause, the Earl said: “You don’t agree?”

“That he would be happier there? No. That doesn’t signify, however. If you wish him to leave Stanyon, so be it! It will mean a breach, for he will not leave without making a deal of noise. Lady St. Erth, too, will not be silent, nor will she remain at Stanyon. What reason will you give for banishing Martin when he and she publish their wrongs to the rest of our relations?”

The Earl let Orthes drop to a walk. “Must I give any?”

“Unless you wish it to be thought that you have acted from caprice, or — which perhaps might be said by those who do not know you well — from rancour.”

There was a pause. “How very longheaded you are, Theo!” Gervase complained. “You are quite right, of course. But what is the boy about? Does he hope to drive me away from Stanyon? He cannot be so big a clodpole!”

Theo shrugged. “There is no saying what he may hope. But you cannot, I believe, shut your doors to him merely because he fenced once with the button off his foil, and did not warn you that a bridge was unsafe.”

“Ah, there is a little more than that!” Gervase said.

“What more?”

Gervase hesitated. “Why, I did not mean to tell you this, but I woke last night to the conviction that someone was in my room.”

Theo turned his head to stare at him under his brows. “In your room? Martin?”

“I can’t tell that. I have certain reasons for suspecting it may have been he, but by the time I was up, and could pull back my curtain, there was no one there.”

“Good God! Gervase, are you sure of this?”

“No, I am not sure, but I think that someone entered my room through the dressing-room. I heard what sounded to me like the click of a lock.”

“I cannot think it! Why, if — But what reason have you to think it was Martin?”

“I found him on the gallery outside my room.”

“What?”

“He said that he had been out — to Cheringham, a statement which I was disinclined to believe. Miss Morville, however, who was roused by the slamming of a door, considers that he may well have been speaking the truth. She seems to think he went there to see a cockfight.”

“Very likely. But I had no idea of this! I thought he had had the head-ache! And you believe — ”

“No, no, I believe nothing! But I have a strong notion I shall take my pistols to bed with me while I remain at Stanyon! It will be quite like Peninsular days.”

Theo smiled. “You have brought some desperate habits home with you! Only don’t rouse the household by firing at a mouse which is unlucky enough to disturb your rest!”

“Nothing less than a rat, I promise you!” Gervase said gravely.

They proceeded on their way without further mishap. The Earl faithfully visited his old friend, Yelden; his cousin inspected the new plantation; and they returned to Stanyon at noon, by way of the main avenue, which traversed the Home Park from the seventeenth-century lodge, with its wrought-iron gates, to the original Gate-tower of the Castle, still in remarkably good preservation, but no longer guarding a drawbridge. The moat having been filled in, the tower served no particular purpose, but figured in the guidebooks as a fine example of fourteenth-century architecture. Through its vaulted archway the east, and main, entrance to the Castle was reached, which opened on to what had once been the outer bailey, and was now a handsome court, laid out with a broad gravel drive, and formal flower-beds.

As the cousins rode through the archway, a sporting curricle came into sight, drawn up by the steps leading to the front-door. A smart-looking groom was standing at the heads of the wheelers; and the equipage plainly belonged to someone aspiring to the highest crack of fashion, since it was drawn by four horses. This made Theo exclaim that he could not imagine who could have come to visit Stanyon in such a turn-out. He sounded scornful, but Gervase said in mock-reproof that he showed a shocking ignorance. “A curricle-and-four, my dear Theo, is the mark of the Nonesuch, let me tell you! Now, whom have you in Lincolnshire who — Good God! I should know those horses!” He spurred forward as he spoke, and a gentleman in a driving-coat of white drab, and a hat with a high, conical crown and beaver brim, who had been conferring with Abney at the head of the wide stone steps, turned, saw him, and came down the steps again, calling out: “Hallo, there, Ger! Turn out, man! the enemy is upon you!”

“Lucy, by all that’s wonderful!” the Earl ejaculated, sliding from the saddle, and gripping both his friend’s hands. “My dear fellow! Where have you sprung from?”

“Been staying with the Caldbecks, dear old boy,” explained his visitor. “Couldn’t leave the country without seeing you! Now don’t, don’t think yourself bound to invite me to put up here! My man is following me with all my baggage, but I see how it is — you have no room!”

An airy gesture indicated the sprawling pile behind the speaker; a pair of bright eyes quizzed the Earl, who laughed, and retorted: “An attic — we will find room for you in an attic! Theo, can we house this fellow, do you think? My cousin, Lucy — Theo, this is Captain Lucius Austell — oh, no! I beg pardon! It is Lord Ulverston! When did you sell out, Lucy?”

“Not so long after you,” replied Ulverston, exchanging a cordial handshake with Theo. “M’father felt, when m’grandfather died, that he couldn’t have the three of us serving, so it fell to me to sell out. I told him I might as easily be killed in the streets of London as on any military service — never saw such a rabble of traffic in my life! Lisbon’s nothing to it, dear boy! — but nothing would do for him but to have me in England!”

By this time, Theo had grasped that his cousin’s friend was the heir to the Earl of Wrexham, who had lately succeeded to his father’s dignities. He enquired civilly after his youngest brother, Cornelius, whom he had once met in the house of a common acquaintance, and the Viscount replied, with the insouciance which characterized him: “Haven’t a notion how he is! Think he’s on the West Indian station, but these naval fellows, you know, jaunter about the world so that there’s no keeping up with them at all! Corney means to be a Rear or a Vice, or some such thing, but with the Frogs rompe’d, and poor old Boney sent off to some curst island or another, devil a bit of promotion will there be! Said so to Freddy, when I sold out, but he’s just got his company, and thinks he’ll command the regiment in a brace of shakes. D’you know my brother Freddy? No? Very dull dog: ought to have been the eldest! Often thought so!”

The Earl, who had been inspecting the horses, interrupted, saying over his shoulder: “How do you like ‘em, Lucy?”

“Why, you old horse-chaunter, didn’t you sell ‘em to me with a warranty they were sixteen-mile-an-hour tits? Not a second above fifteen-and-a-half — word of a gentleman! Now, Ger, why did you sell ‘em to me? Four good ‘uns — complete to a shade!”

“Oh, my cousin preached economy to me! You may say they are my breakdowns!”

“Economy!” exclaimed Theo. “Pray, what did you give for your grays?”

“Grays?” said the Viscount. “Ger, not Bingham’s grays? Well, by God, if I had known he had a mind to sell them — !”

His cloak-bag having been unstrapped from the back of the curricle, and borne into the house, the Viscount waved dismissal to his henchman, saying: “Take ‘em away, Clarence! take ‘em away!” and tucked a hand in the Earl’s arm. “Well, old fellow, how does it suit you after all? You look pretty stout!”

Theo took his bridle from Gervase, saying that he must go to the stables, and would lead Orthes. Gervase smiled his thanks, and led the Viscount into the Castle.

“I hope you mean to stay at Stanyon for several weeks, Lucy,” he said. “I warn you, however, that it is a dreadful place! I daresay my stepmother will dislike it excessively that you have come to visit me — and in such a rig!”

“Ger! The Four-Horse Club!” protested the Viscount, shocked.

“I am aware. She will think you a coxcomb, and you will leave Stanyon tomorrow, routed by her Roman nose!”

“Parrot-faced, is she?” said the Viscount, interested. “Lay you a monkey she don’t peck me! Dear boy, did you ever see my aunts? Three of ‘em, all parrot-faced, and all hot at hand! Father’s frightened of ‘em — m’mother’s frightened of ‘em — Freddy won’t face ‘em! Only person who can handle ‘em’s me! No bamming — true as I stand here! Ask anyone!”

Whatever his success might have been in captivating his aunts, it seemed, for the first few minutes after his presentation to the Dowager, as though she must be reckoned amongst his failures. He had shed his driving-coat, a preposterous garment of inordinate length and a superfluity of shoulder-capes, but whatever might have been gained by this was lost, Gervase informed him, by the consequent revelation of a single-breasted coat with a long waist, a kerseymere waistcoat of blue and yellow stripes, white corduroy small-clothes, and short boots with immensely long tops. A black-spotted muslin cravat, and a Stanhope Crop to his brown locks added the final touches to his appearance, and did nothing to recommend him to his hostess. Her instinct led her to eye with revulsion any friend of her stepson, and her consequence was offended by his having awaited no invitation to visit Stanyon. On the other hand, his rank could not but make him acceptable to her; and it very soon transpired that she had once stood up for two dances at a Harrogate Assembly with his Uncle Lucius. By the time she had discovered, by a series of exhaustive questions and recollections, that a connection of hers, whom she traced through several marriages, had actually married the Viscount’s cousin Amelia, the enormities of his dress and his lack of ceremony were alike forgiven, and she was ready to declare him to be a very pretty-behaved young man, and one whom she was glad to welcome to Stanyon. His man arriving at Stanyon during the course of the afternoon, in a hired post-chaise piled high with his baggage, he was able, before dinner, to change the insignia of the Four-Horse Club for the propriety of knee-breeches and a dark coat, and thus to confirm himself in her good graces. She hoped he might be persuaded to remain at Stanyon for the ball. He was all compliance and good-nature; led her in to dinner, sat on her right hand at the table, and regaled her with the details, with which she had long desired to be furnished, of the extraordinary circumstances leading to his Aunt Agatha’s second marriage. Since his conversation was freely embellished with such cant terms as never failed to incur rebuke from her when they passed the lips of her son and her stepson, these gentlemen had nothing to do, according to their separate dispositions, but to admire the address which could carry off such unconventionalities, or to wonder at the unpredictability of elderly ladies.

Martin, who had sustained a painful interview with his cousin, sat down to dinner in a mood of offended hauteur. The table having been rearranged to accommodate the unexpected guest, he was seated on his half-brother’s left hand; and he took advantage of an animated discussion on the rival merits of Brighton and Scarborough as watering-places to say to Gervase in an angry undervoice: “I collect that you rode to Hatherfield this morning, and found the bridge unsafe! I daresay you may have said that you had that intention, but I was not attending! In any event, I had warned Hayle already that the bridge had been damaged!”

“In fact,” said Gervase, “had I broken my neck you would have been inconsolable.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” said Martin bluntly. “But to say that I tried to contrive that you should is the outside of enough! Break your neck indeed! In that paltry stream!”

“Don’t lie to me, but own that you did hear me say I would ride to Hatherfield, and hoped that I might tumble into a very muddy river!”

“Oh, well — !” Martin said, reddening, but grinning in spite of himself. He found that Gervase was regarding him thoughtfully, and added, in a defensive tone: “It’s no concern of mine where you choose to ride! Of course, if you had asked me — ! However, you did not, and as for there being the least danger of your being drowned — pooh!” He appeared to find some awkwardness in continuing the discussion, and said: “You won’t have forgot that we are to go to Whissenhurst this evening. I have ordered the carriage; for Drusilla goes too. Do you care to accompany me, or shall you drive yourself?”

“No, I don’t go. Present my compliments and my excuses to Lady Bolderwood, if you please!” Gervase turned from him, as he spoke, to address some remark to Miss Morville, who, never having visited Scarborough, had retired from the argument still being carried on by the other persons seated at the table.

When the ladies presently withdrew, Martin also left the table, saying that he must not keep Miss Morville waiting. Theo, suggesting that his cousin might wish to be alone with Lord Ulverston, engaged himself to keep the Dowager tolerably well amused with a few rubbers of piquet. This good-natured scheme for the Earl’s relief was rendered abortive, however, by her having previously extorted a promise from the Viscount to join her presently for a game of whist. This was kept up for some time after the appearance of the tea-table, the Dowager declaring that she scarcely knew how to tear herself away from the cards. “Twenty minutes to eleven!” she said, consulting the clock on the mantelshelf. “I shall be worn-out with dissipation. In general, you must know, I do not care to play after ten o’clock: it does not suit me; but this evening I have so much enjoyed the rubbers that I am not conscious of the hour. You play a very creditable game, Ulverston. I am no flatterer, so you may believe me when I say that I have been very well entertained. My dear father was a notable cardplayer, and I believe I have inherited his aptitude. Dear me, it will be wonderful if I am asleep before midnight! I shall not wait for Miss Morville to return, for if they are engaged in dancing, or speculation, at Whissenhurst, you know, there is no saying when she and Martin will come back. We will go to prayers immediately.”

Before this programme could be enforced on the company, the door opened to admit the two absentees. Their early return was explained, composedly by Miss Morville, and with great discontent by Martin. They had arrived at Whissenhurst to find Sir Thomas indisposed; and although his lady apprehended no cause for serious anxiety, he had gone to bed with a sore throat and a feverish pulse, and she had sent a message to Dr. Malpas, desiring him to call at the Grange in the morning. Her fear was that Sir Thomas had contracted influenza; and in these circumstances Miss Morville had not thought it proper to remain after tea had been drunk.

“If only Marianne does not take it from him!” Martin exclaimed. “One would have thought he need not have chosen this moment of all others to be ill! He might have caught influenza last month, and welcome — and, to be sure, I don’t know why he could not have done so, when half the countryside was abed with it! But no! Nothing will do but for him to be ill just when we are to hold our ball! I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the Bolderwoods do not come! It is all of a piece!”

“Shabby fellow!” said Ulverston, looking amused. “But so it is always with these crusty old men! They delight in plaguing the rest of us!”

“Oh, well, as to that, I would not call him crusty!”Martin owned.

“Ah, now you are being over-generous, I feel!”

“Sir Thomas is a very respectable man,” pronounced the Dowager. “We will send to enquire at Whissenhurst tomorrow, and I have no doubt that we shall receive a comfortable account of him. He would be very sorry not to be able to come to Stanyon, I daresay.”

“What,” demanded the Viscount, a little later, when Gervase had borne him away to the library on the entrance floor of the Castle, “is the peculiar virtue of Sir Thomas, which makes his presence indispensable to the success of your ball?”

Gervase laughed. “A daughter!”

“A daughter! Very well! I don’t need to ask, Is she beautiful?”

“Very beautiful, very engaging!”

“What a shocking thing it would be, then, for Sir Thomas to cry off! I shall certainly remain with you for a long visit, Ger!”

“Nothing could please me more, but take care you don’t tread upon Martin’s corns!”

“How can you, after watching my conciliatory manners this night, think such an event possible? What is the matter with that halfling?”

“Indulgence!”

The Viscount stretched out his hand for the glass of wine Gervase had poured for him. “I see. And is he in love with Sir Thomas’s daughter?”

“Calf-love. He is ready to murder me for — ” Gervase stopped, his hand arrested in the act of pouring a second glass of wine. “For flirting with her,” he ended lightly.

The Viscount’s countenance was cherubic, but his eyes held a good deal of shrewdness. He said: “I perceive, of course, that he is ready to murder you, my Tulip. Tell me about the damaged bridge!”

“Oh, so you heard that, did you? I had thought you absorbed in the attractions of the Steyne!”

“Very sharp ears, dear boy!” apologized the Viscount.

“There is nothing to tell. The storm last night cracked one of the supports to a wooden bridge thrown over a stream here, and Martin neglected to warn me of it. He is jealous of me, you see, and I think he felt it would do me good to be ducked in muddy water.”

“But what a delightful young man!” commented the Viscount. “Were you ducked?”

“No, my cousin was with me, and had some apprehension that the bridge might not be safe. In justice to Martin, he had already given instructions that the bridge should be barred. A schoolboy trick: no more.”

“Your cousin gave him a fine dressing for it: I heard him,” said Ulverston, sipping his wine.

“Did he? A pity! It was not worth making a noise about it.”

“Well, he seemed to think there was more to it than a schoolboy’s trick. Is there?”

“Of course there is not! Now, Lucy, what’s all this?”

“Beg pardon! It’s these ancestral walls of yours,” explained the Viscount. “Too dashed mediaeval, dear boy! They put the oddest notions into my head!”