CHAPTER VII.
A DISPUTE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
But as I rode, this warning I had received swelled in importance; itbecame magnified to a menace, and my desire to speak changed into anovermastering regret that I had not spoken. I had kept my word loyallyto--well, to Ashlock, since so I still must term him, even in mythoughts--nay, was still keeping it the while he played false with me.That he trusted me to keep it I was assured by the memory of his wordsand looks on that night when he had talked of my picture in the hall.Why, then, should he play false? There was but one man who might beable to enlighten me upon the point--Lord Derwentwater--and to thatone man my lips were closed, I was, moreover, disturbed too by theknowledge that I had planned to travel to Grasmere on the followingday, and be absent there until the night, thus leaving Rookley a freehand. It was late when I turned out of Borrowdale, but I noticed thatthere was a light still burning in the steward's office. I rode intothe courtyard of the stables, and, leaving my horse there, walked tothe front of the house. One or two of the attic windows still showedbright, and the ground floor was dimly lit. But somehow the housesmote on me as strangely desolate and dark.
Luke Blacket was waiting to let me in, and whether it was that mystrained fancies tricked me into discovering a mute hostility upon hisface, but it broke in upon me with a full significance that all theservants, down to the lowest scullion, must be in the secret, and wereleagued against me. I saw myself entering a trap, and so piercing asense of loneliness invaded me, that I plumbed to the very bottom ofdespondency. I stood in the doorway gazing across the valley. Thehills stood sentinel leaguering me about, the voices of innumerablefreshets sounded chilly in my ears, as though their laughter hadsomething of a heedless cruelty; my whole nature cried out for acompanion, and with so urgent a demand that I bethought me of thelight shining in the steward's office. It would be Aron without adoubt, sitting late over the books. I went down the passage and openedthe door.
Aron rose hastily to his feet, and began some apology.
"Mr. Ashlock," he said, "requested me----" But I cut him short, wearyfor one honest word of truth.
"That will do, Aron. I have no wish to disturb you;" and I threwmyself on to a couch which was ranged against the wall. "I am verytired," said I, and lay with my eyes closed.
Aron's pen stopped scratching. He sat for a second without moving.Then he came over to the couch, and, or ever I was aware of it, beganpulling off my boots.
I opened my eyes and started up. In his old, worn face there was alook of friendliness which at that moment cheered me inexpressibly.
"Nay," said I, "you are too old a servant, Aron, to offer help of thatkind, and I too young a master to accept it. Let it be!"
He straightened his back, and the friendliness increased upon hisface. He glanced quickly about the room, and stepped softly to myside.
"Master Lawrence," he began, in much the tone a nurse may use to achild, and then, "sir, I mean, I beg your pardon." In a trice he wasthe formal, precise servant again.
"Nay," said I, "I know not but what I like the first title thebetter."
"It was a liberty," said he, with his face grown rigid.
"And the privilege of an old servant," I replied. "But that is justthe point. You are not my servant, except in name," and I turned myhead petulantly away.
The next moment his mouth was at my ear.
"Master Lawrence," he said, in a voice which was very low, "MasterLawrence, were I you, I would not ride again to Keswick."
I started up. Aron flushed so that the bald top of his head grew red,hopped back to his table, bit his pen, and set to writing at anindescribable rate, as though he was sensible he had said too much.
I leaned upon my elbow and looked at him. So I had a friend in thehousehold, after all! I hugged the thought close to me. Had he anyprecise knowledge which prompted the advice? I wondered. But I couldnot ask him, and for this reason amongst others--I was too gratefulfor this proof of his goodwill to provoke him to a furtherindiscretion. But as I looked at him, I recalled something which I hadnoticed whilst riding about the estate. I suppose it was hisscribbling at the papers put it into my head, but once it had comethere, I thought vaguely that it might be of relevance.
"Aron," I said, "this plumbago? It is a valuable product?"
He looked at me startled.
"Yes," said he.
"The mine is opened once in five years?"
"Yes."
"And on that side of the mountain which faces Borrowdale?"
"Yes."
And with each assent his uneasiness increased.
"But there's a ravine runs back by the flank of the mountain, and onthe mountain-side there I saw a small lateral shaft."
"It is closed now, and has been for long," he interrupted eagerly.
"But it was open once," I persisted. "The place is secret. Who openedit?"
"It was opened during Sir John Rookley's life," he answered, evadingthe question.
"No doubt; but by whom?"
He shuffled his feet beneath the table.
I repeated the question.
"By whom?"
"By Mr. Jervas," he answered reluctantly.
"With Sir John's knowledge and consent?"
Aron glanced at me with an almost piteous expression.
"Sir John knew of it"
"But before it was opened, or afterwards?"
The answer was slow in coming, but it came at last.
"Afterwards."
"Then I take it," I resumed, "that Mr. Jervas Rookley robbed hisfather?"
I spoke in a loud tone, and Aron started from his seat, his eyes drawntowards the door. I rose from the sofa and opened it; there was no onein the passage, but I left the door open. When I turned back again Isaw that Aron was looking at me in some perplexity, as if he wonderedwhether I _knew_.
"But his father forgave him," he said gently.
"Very true," said I, fixing my eyes steadily upon him; "and besides,it is hardly fair to rake up the misdeeds of a man who is so very faraway."
I spoke the words very slowly one by one. Aron's mouth dropped; apaper which he had been holding in his hand fluttered to the floor.The perplexity in his eyes changed into a blank bewilderment, and frombewilderment to fear.
"You know, sir?" he whispered, nodding his head once or twice in a waythat was grotesque. "Then you know?"
"I know this, Aron," I interrupted hastily. "I hold the estate ofBlackladies upon this condition: that I do not knowingly part with afarthing of its revenue to Mr. Jervas Rookley. You know that? You knowthat if I fail to fulfil that condition the estate goes to the Crown?"
Aron nodded.
"But this you do not know," I continued. "When Ashlock came to me inParis, and told me that Mr. Jervas was disinherited because he was aJacobite, I refused to supplant him, being a Jacobite myself. It wasmy steward who persuaded me, and by this argument: that when KingJames came to his throne, the will might easily be set aside. Iaccepted Blackladies upon those terms--as a trust for Mr. Jervas. Butto keep that trust I must fulfil the conditions of the will. I mustnot knowingly do aught for Mr. Rookley. The condition should be easy,for I have never been presented to Mr. Jervas. I have not so much asseen a portrait of him"--and at this Aron started a little; "he mightbe living in my house as one of my servants. I might even suspectwhich was he; but I should have no proof. I should not know."
Aron gazed at me with wondering eyes.
"You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?" he asked, and Igathered from the tone of the question that my steward had thought fitto keep that knowledge to himself.
"And hope to do so until it can be restored to him. But," I urged, "Iam in no great favour with the Whigs in these parts, and if they couldprove I knowingly supported Mr. Jervas, they would not, I fancy, missthe occasion. My attorney, for instance, is a Whig and the attorney ofWhigs, and they tell me strangely enough that Mr. Jervas Rookley hasbeen seen in Keswick."
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Aron, however, seemed to be thinking of something totally apart. Hesaid again, and with the same wonderment--
"You hold Blackladies in trust for Mr. Jervas?"
"That is so," said I, "but it need not keep us out of bed." And Iwalked into the passage.
Aron lifted up the lamp and very politely led the way to my door.There he stopped and came into the room with me.
"Sir," said he, setting down the lamp, "you will pardon me one morequestion?"
"It is another privilege of the old servant," I answered with a yawn.
"You were poor when Mr. Ashlock came to you in Paris?"
"Penniless," said I, and I began kicking off my boots lazily.
"Then God knows," he cried, "I would you were Sir John Rookley's son;"and with that he plumped down on his knees and drew off my boots. Andthis time I suffered him to do it.
I had not done with him, however, even for that night. For an hour orso later, when I was asleep in bed, some one shook me by the shoulder.I looked with blinking eyes at the flame of a candle held an inch frommy nose. Behind the candle was Aron, with a coat buttoned up to hischin as though he had thrown it over his nightgear.
"Aron," I said plaintively, "the question will keep till to-morrow."
"It is no question, sir, and to-morrow I shall be in Newlands," hesaid gravely. "I know nothing--only, were I you, I would not rideagain to Keswick."
"Well, I shall not ride there to-morrow, at all events," I said,"since to-morrow I leave for Grasmere."
But on the morrow I did ride thither after all. For I woke up the nextmorning with one thought fixed in my mind, as though it had takendefinite shape there the while I lay asleep. I must discover Rookley'sbusiness with Anthony Herbert. The matter was too urgent for delay. Myresolve to sit no more for my portrait, my journey to Grasmere I seton one side; and while I was yet at breakfast I ordered a horse to besaddled. The fellow hurried off upon the errand, and I seemed todetect, not merely in his bearing but in the bearing of all who hadattended me that morning, a new deference and alertness in theirservice; and I wondered whether Aron had shared with them his recentknowledge of my purpose.
As I rode down the drive I chanced to look back to the house, and Isaw Aron on the steps, shaking his head dolefully, but I kept on myway.
Mr. Herbert received me with the air of a man that seeks to master anexcitement. He worked fitfully, with fitful intervals of talk, and Iremarked a deep-seated fire in his eyes, and a tremulous wavering ofthe lips. His manner kept me watchful, but never a hint did he drop ofany design between my steward and himself. On the contrary, hisconversation was all in praise of his wife, and the great store andreliance he set on her. I listened to it for some while, deeming itnot altogether extravagant; but after a little I began again to fallback upon my old question, "What end could my steward serve by playingme false?" and again, "In what respect could Herbert help him?"
In the midst of these speculations, an incident occurred which struckthem clean out of my mind. I was attracted first of all by somethingwhich Herbert was saying.
"It is out of the fashion," he said, with a sneer, "for a man to carefor his wife, and ludicrous to own to it. But it is one of the fewprivileges of an artist, however poor he be, that he need take nostock of fashions; and for my part, Mr. Clavering, I love my wife."
I replied carelessly enough that the profession was very creditable tohim, for in truth I had seen him behave towards her with so cruel aninconsistency of temper that I was disinclined to rate hisprotestations very high.
"And so greatly, Mr. Clavering," he went on--"so greatly do I loveher, that"--and here he threw down his pencils and took a step or twountil he reached the window--"that if aught happened amiss to her I donot think I should live long after it, If she deceived me, I do notthink that I should care to live. I do not think I should even hold itworth while to exact a retribution from the man who helped in thedeceit."
And I saw his wife in the open doorway. She must have caught everyword. I saw a flush as of anger overspread her face, and the flushgive place to pallor.
"Mr. Ashlock, my steward, was with you last night, Mr. Herbert. Was itupon this subject that you talked?"
Herbert flung round upon his heel
"You take a tone I do not understand," he said, after a pause. "Youmay have a right to pry into the conversations of your servants, Mr.Clavering, but I am not one of them"--and of a sudden he caught sightof his wife in the doorway. "You here?" he asked with a start.
"It is only fair," she answered, "that I should be present when youdiscuss my frailties with your patrons. But it seems," and her voicehardened audibly, "you do me the kindness to discuss them with yourpatrons' servants too."
She stood before him superb in pride; every line of her body seemed todemand an answer.
"It is because I love you," he answered feebly; and at that herquietude gave way.
She flung up her arms above her head.
"Because you love me!" she cried "Was ever woman so insulted, and onso mean a plea?" And she sank down at the table in a passion of tears.
Herbert stepped over to her, and laid a hand upon her shoulder.
She shook his hand off, and rising of a sudden, confronted me with ablazing face.
"And you!" she cried bitterly--"you could listen to such talk--ay,like your servant!" And she swept out of the room before either herhusband or myself could find a word to say.
Indeed, though I had not thought of the matter in that light before, Iconsidered her accusation of the justest, and the sound of her sobbingremained in my ears, tingling me to pity of the woman and a soreindignation against the husband. It was for myself I should havefelt that indignation I knew well, but I am relating what occurred,and--well, maybe I paid for the offence heavily enough.
"Mr. Herbert," said I, rising, with as much calmness as I couldcommand, "I will not trouble you to continue the work."
"But the portrait!" he exclaimed, almost in alarm. "It is my bestwork!" And he stood a little aloof gazing at it.
"The portrait!" I cried, in a fury at his insensibility--"the portraitmay go hang!"
"On the walls of Blackladies?" he asked, with a quick sneer.
"Oh," said I slowly, "you gossiped to some purpose with my steward, itappears."
He stood confused and silent I went into the room where it was myhabit to change my dress, and left him. But when I came out I foundhim standing in the passage with a lighted candle in his hand, thoughit was broad noonday. Doubtless I looked my surprise at him.
"An ill-lighted staircase, Mr. Clavering, is the devil," he remarked;and with a sardonic deference he preceded me to the street.
"It will rain, I think," he said, looking op at the sky.
"The air is very heavy," said I.
He stretched out the candlestick to the full length of his arm, andthe flame barely wavered.
"Yes, no doubt it will rain," he repeated.
I noticed that one or two people who were passing up the streetstopped, as well they might, and stared at us. I bent forward and blewout the candle.
"You will pardon me," I said.
"It has served its purpose," said he, and he kicked the door to behindme.
I mounted, and walked my horse slowly homewards. About two miles fromthe town I dismounted, and tethering my horse to a tree, paced aboutthe lake shores, resolved to unpick his sentences word by word until Ihad disentangled from amongst them some reference which would give mean inkling into the steward's designs. He had told Herbert of thattalk we had had together in the hall concerning the hanging of thepicture. Of so much I was assured, and so much I still found myselfabstractedly repeating an hour later. For alas! in spite of myresolve, my thoughts had flown along a very different path. I had avision of the woman, and her alternations from pride to tears, everfixed before my eyes. It was myself who had caused them. One moment Iaccused myself for not undertaking her defence, the next for that Ihad ever entered her lodging; and whatever outcry I made sprang fromthe s
ingle conviction that I was responsible to her for the distresswhich she had shown. Just for that moment there seemed but two peopleupon God's earth--myself and a woman wronged by me.
"Mr. Clavering."
The name was uttered behind me with an involuntary cry, and I knew thevoice. I turned me about, and there was Mrs. Herbert standing in a gapof the trees.
She was dressed as I had seen her an hour ago, with the addition of ahood thrown loosely over her head.
"What can I do?" I cried. "I can think of nothing. It is my fault, allthis. God knows I am sensible of the remorse; I feel it at the verycore of my heart; but that does not help me to the remedy. What can Ido?"
"It is not your fault," she replied gently. "This would have happenedsooner or later. Jealousy is never at a loss to invent an opportunity.No, it is not your fault."
"But it is," I cried. "You know it; you know that the excuse you makefor me is no more than a kindly sophistry. It is my fault. What can Ido?"
She gave me no answer; indeed, it almost seemed as though there wassomething of impatience in her attitude.
I moved a few steps away and sat down upon a boulder by the water'sedge, with my head between my hands.
"There is but one thing that I can do," I said, and I heard her move astep or two nearer. "But it is so small, so poor a thing;" and at thatI think she stopped. "I shall not go back again to Mr. Herbert'slodging."
"Neither shall I."
The words dulled and stupefied me like a blow. I sat staring outacross the lake, and I noticed a ripple that broke and broke in a tinywave, ever at the same spot, some thirty yards from the shore. I fellto counting the waves, I remember, and lost my reckoning and beganafresh; and in a while I commenced to laugh, though it did not soundlike laughter.
"Neither shall I," she repeated, and struck the laugh dead. I startedfrom my seat. She stood patiently before me with folded hands, and toargue against that patience seemed the merest waste of words. Before,however, I could make the effort, her spirit changed. Passion leaptout of her like a flame. "I hate him," she cried, beating her handsone upon the other. "Oh, to be made a common talk for hisacquaintances! The humiliation of it! Servants too, he will debate ofme with them, for them to mock at."
"No!" I answered vehemently. "You do not know that. It was I thatspoke of my steward and I knew nothing. I did but guess idly,heedlessly. It was not he, it was I who spoke of Ashlock." But therewas no sign of assent in her demeanour. "It was I spoke of him," Irepeated, "and before you. Ah, God, it is my doing this, from thebeginning to the end!"
"Think!" she went on, taking no more notice of my interruption. "Theyare making merry over me in your servants' hall. Think, Lancelot!"
She tried to check the name, but it was carried beyond her lips on thestream of her passion. A great silence fell upon us both; I saw thecolour come and go fitfully upon her face, and her bosom rise and fallwith her fitful breath. Then she covered her face with her hands andsank down upon the boulder.
Yes, I thought, it was my fault. They had quarrelled before, but neverfor such a reason; and that reason I had provided. I had gone there ofmy own free will to serve my own objects. But, somehow, as I looked ather seated by my side, the thought of the slatternly room she had beencompelled to live in shot into my mind. I remembered how unfitted toher I had thought it on my first going thither. Of a sudden, while Iwas thus watching her, she lifted her eyes to mine. What babblingincoherencies I spoke, I do not know; I do not think she caught morethan their drift. If they are known at all, it is because they standranged against my name in the Judgment Book. I became like one drunk,his senses reeling, his words the froth of his vilest passions. Ithink that I cried.
"Be it so, then! Since the harm is done, let the name be Lancelot;"but I know that she rode before me on my horse to the gates ofBlackladies, that we dismounted there and walked up to the house; andthat I found the hall-door open, and the house to all seemingdeserted.
Now, this day was the 23rd of August.