"She"s gone off with young Farmer Tazlehurst."
"Miss Puffle gone off, and with her father"s tenant"s son!"
"Yes indeed, sir. She and her father have been quarrelling for the last ten years, and now she"s off. She was always riding and roistering about the country with them dogs and them men; and now she"s gone."
"Oh heavens!" exclaimed the squire, thinking of his own escape.
"Yes, indeed, sir. There"s no knowing what any one of them is up to.
Unless they gets married afore they"re thirty, or thirty-five at most, they"re most sure to get such ideas into their head as no one can mostly approve." This had been intended by Matthew as a word of caution to his master, but had really the opposite effect. He resolved at the moment that the latter should not be said of Miss Thoroughbung.
And he turned Matthew out of the room with a flea in his ear. "How dare you speak in that way of your betters? Mr. Puffle, the lady"s father, has for many years been my friend. I am not saying anything of the lady, nor saying that she has done right. Of course, down-stairs, in the servants" hall, you can say what you please; but up here, in my presence, you should not speak in such language of a lady behind whose chair you may be called upon to wait."
"Very well, sir; I won"t no more," said Matthew, retiring with mock humility. But he had shot his bolt, and he supposed successfully. He did not know what had taken place between his master and Miss Thoroughbung; but he did think that his speech might a.s.sist in preventing a repet.i.tion of the offer.
Miss Puffle gone off with the tenant"s son! The news made matrimony doubly dangerous to him, and yet robbed him of the chief reason by which he was to have been driven to send her a letter. He could not, at any rate, now fall back upon Miss Puffle. And he thought that nothing would have induced Miss Thoroughbung to go off with one of the carters from the brewery. Whatever faults she might have, they did not lie in that direction. Champagne and ponies were, as faults, less deleterious.
Miss Puffle gone off with young Tazlehurst,--a lady of fifty, with a young man of twenty-five! and she the reputed heiress of Snickham Manor!
It was a comfort to him as he remembered that Snickham Manor had been bought no longer ago than by the father of the present owner. The Prospers been at Buston ever since the time of George the First. You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow"s ear. He had been ever a.s.suring himself of that fact, which was now more of a fact than ever. And fifty years old! It was quite shocking. With a steady middle-aged man like himself, and with the approval of her family, marriage might have been thought of. But this harum-scarum young tenant"s son, who was in no respect a gentleman, whose only thought was of galloping over hedges and ditches, such an idea showed a state of mind which--well, absolutely disgusted him. Mr. Prosper, because he had grown old himself, could not endure to think that others, at his age, should retain a smack of their youth. There are ladies besides Miss Puffle who like to ride across the country with a young man before them, or perhaps following, and never think much of their fifty years.
But the news certainly brought to him a great change of feelings, so that the letter to which he had devoted the preceding afternoon was put back into the letter-case, and was never finished. And his mind immediately recurred to Miss Thoroughbung, and he bethought himself that the objection which he felt was, perhaps, in part frivolous. At any rate, she was a better woman than Miss Puffle. She certainly would run after no farmer"s son. Though she might be fond of champagne, it was, he thought, chiefly for other people. Though she was ambitious of ponies, the ambition might be checked. At any rate, she could pay for her own ponies, whereas Mr. Puffle was a very hale old man of seventy.
Puffle, he told himself, had married young, and might live for the next ten years, or twenty. To Mr. Prosper, whose imagination did not fly far afield, the world afforded at present but two ladies. These were Miss Puffle and Miss Thoroughbung, and as Miss Puffle had fallen out of the running, there seemed to be a walk-over for Miss Thoroughbung.
He did think, during the two or three days which pa.s.sed without any farther step on his part,--he did think how it might be were he to remain unmarried. As regarded his own comfort, he was greatly tempted. Life would remain so easy to him! But then duty demanded of him that he should marry, and he was a man who, in honest, sober talk, thought much of his duty. He was absurdly credulous, and as obstinate as a mule. But he did wish to do what was right. He had been convinced that Harry Annesley was a false knave, and had been made to swear an oath that Harry should not be his heir. Harry had been draped in the blackest colors, and to each daub of black something darker had been added by his uncle"s memory of those neglected sermons. It was now his first duty in life to beget an heir, and for that purpose a wife must be had.
Putting aside the ponies and the champagne,--and the despatched crab, the sound of which, as coming to him from Miss Tickle"s mouth, was uglier than the other sounds,--he still thought that Miss Thoroughbung would answer his purpose. From her side there would not be making of a silk purse; but then "the boy" would be his boy as well as hers, and would probably take more after the father. He pa.s.sed much of these days with the "Peerage" in his hand, and satisfied himself that the best blood had been maintained frequently by second-rate marriages. Health was a great thing. Health in the mother was everything. Who could be more healthy than Miss Thoroughbung? Then he thought of that warm embrace. Perhaps, after all, it was right that she should embrace him after what he had said to her.
Three days only had pa.s.sed by, and he was still thinking what ought to be his next step, when there came to him a letter from Messrs. Soames & Simpson, attorneys in Buntingford. He had heard of Messrs. Soames & Simpson, had been familiar with their names for the last twenty years, but had never dreamed that his own private affairs should become a matter of consultation in their office. Messrs. Grey & Barry, of Lincoln"s Inn, were his lawyers, who were quite gentlemen. He knew nothing against Messrs. Soames & Simpson, but he thought that their work consisted generally in the recovery of local debts. Messrs. Soames & Simpson now wrote to him with full details as to his future life. Their client Miss Thoroughbung, had communicated to them his offer of marriage. They were acquainted with all the lady"s circ.u.mstances, and she had asked them for their advice. They had proposed to her that the use of her own income should be by deed left to herself. Some proportion of it should go into the house, and might be made matter of agreement.
They suggested that an annuity of a thousand pounds a year, in shape of dower, should be secured to their client in the event of her outliving Mr. Prosper. The estate should, of course, be settled on the eldest child. The mother"s property should be equally divided among the other children. Buston Hall should be the residence of the widow till the eldest son should be twenty-four, after which Mr. Prosper would no doubt feel that their client would have to provide a home for herself. Messrs.
Soames & Simpson did not think that there was anything in this to which Mr. Prosper would object, and if this were so, they would immediately prepare the settlement. "That woman didn"t say against it, after all,"
said Matthew to himself as he gave the letter from the lawyers to his master.
The letter made Mr. Prosper very angry. It did, in truth, contain nothing more than a repet.i.tion of the very terms which the lady had herself suggested; but coming to him through these local lawyers it was doubly distasteful. What was he to do? He felt it to be out of the question to accede at once. Indeed, he had a strong repugnance to putting himself into communication with the Buntingford lawyers. Had the matter been other than it was, he would have gone to the rector for advice. The rector generally advised him.
But that was out of the question now. He had seen his sister once since his visit to Buntingford, but had said nothing to her about it. Indeed, he had been anything but communicative, so that Mrs. Annesley had been forced to leave him with a feeling almost of offense. There was no help to be had in that quarter, and he could only write to Mr. Grey, and ask that gentleman to a.s.sist him in his difficulties.
He did write to Mr. Grey, begging for his immediate attention. "There is that fool Prosper going to marry a brewer"s daughter down at Buntingford," said Mr. Grey to his daughter.
"He"s sixty years old."
"No, my love. He looks it, but he"s only fifty. A man at fifty is supposed to be young enough to marry. There"s a nephew who has been brought up as his heir; that"s the hard part of it. And the nephew is mixed up in some way with the Scarboroughs."
"Is it he who is to marry that young lady?"
"I think it is. And now there"s some devil"s play going on. I"ve got nothing to do with it."
"But you will have."
"Not a turn. Mr. Prosper can marry if he likes it. They have sent him most abominable proposals as to the lady"s money; and as to her jointure, I must stop that if I can, though I suppose he is not such a fool as to give way."
"Is he soft?"
"Well, not exactly. He likes his own money. But he"s a gentleman, and wants nothing but what is or ought to be his own."
"There are but few like that now."
"It"s true of him. But then he does not know what is his own, or what ought to be. He"s almost the biggest fool I have ever known, and will do an injustice to that boy simply from ignorance." Then he drafted his letter to Mr. Prosper, and gave it to Dolly to read. "That"s what I shall propose. The clerk can put it into proper language. He must offer less than he means to give."
"Is that honest, father?"
"It"s honest on my part, knowing the people with whom I have to deal. If I were to lay down the strict minimum which he should grant, he would add other things which would cause him to act not in accordance with my advice. I have to make allowance for his folly,--a sort of windage, which is not dishonest. Had he referred her lawyers to me I could have been as hard and honest as you please." All which did not quite satisfy Dolly"s strict ideas of integrity.
But the terms proposed were that the lady"s means should be divided so that one-half should go to herself for her own personal expenses, and the other half to her husband for the use of the house; that the lady should put up with a jointure of two hundred and fifty pounds, which ought to suffice when joined to her own property, and that the settlement among the children should be as recommended by Messrs. Soames & Simpson.
"And if there are not any children, papa?"
"Then each will receive his or her own property."
"Because it may be so."
"Certainly, my dear; very probably."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MR. HARKAWAY.
When the first Monday in November came Harry was still living at the rectory. Indeed, what other home had he in which to live? Other friends had become shy of him besides his uncle. He had been accustomed to receive many invitations. Young men who are the heirs to properties, and are supposed to be rich because they are idle, do get themselves asked about here and there, and think a great deal of themselves in consequence. "There"s young Jones. He is fairly good-looking, but hasn"t a word to say for himself. He will do to pair off with Miss Smith, who"ll talk for a dozen. He can"t hit a hay-stack, but he"s none the worse for that. We haven"t got too many pheasants. He"ll be sure to come when you ask him,--and he"ll be sure to go."
So Jones is asked, and considers himself to be the most popular man in London. I will not say that Harry"s invitations had been of exactly that description; but he too had considered himself to be popular, and now greatly felt the withdrawal of such marks of friendship. He had received one "put off"--from the Ingoldsbys of Kent. Early in June he had promised to be there in November. The youngest Miss Ingoldsby was very pretty, and he, no doubt, had been gracious. She knew that he had meant nothing,--could have meant nothing. But he might come to mean something, and had been most pressingly asked. In September there came a letter to him to say that the room intended for him at Ingoldsby had been burnt down. Mrs. Ingoldsby was so extremely sorry, and so were the "girls!"
Harry could trace it all up. The Ingoldsbys knew the Greens, and Mrs.
Green was Sister to Septimus Jones, who was absolutely the slave,--the slave, as Harry said, repeating the word to himself with emphasis,--of Augustus Scarborough. He was very unhappy, not that he cared in the least for any Miss Ingoldsby, but that he began to be conscious that he was to be dropped.
He was to be taken up, on the other hand, by Joshua Thoroughbung. Alas!
alas! though he smiled and resolved to accept his brother-in-law with a good heart, this did not in the least salve the wound. His own county was to him less than other counties, and his own neighborhood less than other neighborhoods. Buntingford was full of Thoroughbungs, the best people in the world, but not quite up to what he believed to be his mark. Mr. Prosper himself was the stupidest a.s.s! At Welwyn people smelled of the City. At Stevenage the parsons" set began. Baldock was a _caput mortuum_ of dulness. Royston was alive only on market-days. Of his own father"s house, and even of his mother and sisters, he entertained ideas that savored a little of depreciation. But, to redeem him from this fault,--a fault which would have led to the absolute ruin of his character had it not been redeemed and at last cured,--there was a consciousness of his own vanity and weakness. "My father is worth a dozen of them, and my mother and sisters two dozen," he would say of the Ingoldsbys when he went to bed in the room that was to be burnt down in preparation for his exile. And he believed it. They were honest; they were unselfish; they were unpretending. His sister Molly was not above owning that her young brewer was all the world to her; a fine, honest, bouncing girl, who said her prayers with a meaning, thanked the Lord for giving her Joshua, and laughed so loud that you could hear her out of the rectory garden half across the park. Harry knew that they were good,--did in his heart know that where the parsons begin the good things were likely to begin also.
He was in this state of mind, the hand of good pulling one way and the devil"s pride the other, when young Thoroughbung called for him one morning to carry him on to c.u.mberlow Green. c.u.mberlow Green was a popular meet in that county, where meets have not much to make them popular except the good-humor of those who form the hunt. It is not a county either pleasant or easy to ride over, and a Puckeridge fox is surely the most ill-mannered of foxes. But the Puckeridge men are gracious to strangers, and fairly so among themselves. It is more than can be said of Leicestershire, where sportsmen ride in brilliant boots and breeches, but with their noses turned supernaturally into the air.
"Come along; we"ve four miles to do, and twenty minutes to do it in.
Halloo, Molly, how d"ye do? Come up on to the step and give us a kiss."
"Go away!" said Molly, rushing back into the house. "Did you ever hear anything like his impudence?"
"Why shouldn"t you?" said Kate. "All the world knows it." Then the gig, with the two sportsmen, was driven on. "Don"t you think he looks handsome in his pink coat?" whispered Molly, afterward, to her elder sister. "Only think; I have never seen him in a red coat since he was my own. Last April, when the hunting was over, he hadn"t spoken out; and this is the first day he has worn pink this year."
Harry, when he reached the meet, looked about him to watch how he was received. There are not many more painful things in life than when an honest, gallant young fellow has to look about him in such a frame of mind. It might have been worse had he deserved to be dropped, some one will say. Not at all. A different condition of mind exists then, and a struggle is made to overcome the judgment of men which is not in itself painful. It is part of the natural battle of life, which does not hurt one at all,--unless, indeed, the man hate himself for that which has brought upon him the hatred of others. Repentance is always an agony,--and should be so. Without the agony there can be no repentance.
But even then it is hardly so sharp as that feeling of injustice which accompanies the unmeaning look, and dumb faces, and pretended indifference of those who have condemned.