CHAPTER LIII.
NONE BUT THE BRAVE DESERVE THE FAIR.
Though Mr. Robert Kennedy was lying dead at Loughlinter, and thoughPhineas Finn, a member of Parliament, was in prison, accused ofmurdering another member of Parliament, still the world went on withits old ways, down in the neighbourhood of Harrington Hall and SpoonHall as at other places. The hunting with the Brake hounds was nowover for the season,--had indeed been brought to an auspicious endthree weeks since,--and such gentlemen as Thomas Spooner had time ontheir hands to look about their other concerns. When a man hunts fivedays a week, regardless of distances, and devotes a due proportionof his energies to the necessary circumstances of hunting, thepreservation of foxes, the maintenance of good humour with thefarmers, the proper compensation for poultry really killed byfour-legged favourites, the growth and arrangement of coverts, thelying-in of vixens, and the subsequent guardianship of nurseries, thepersecution of enemies, and the warm protection of friends,--whenhe follows the sport, accomplishing all the concomitant duties of atrue sportsman, he has not much time left for anything. Such a oneas Mr. Spooner of Spoon Hall finds that his off day is occupied frombreakfast to dinner with grooms, keepers, old women with turkeys'heads, and gentlemen in velveteens with information about wires andunknown earths. His letters fall naturally to the Sunday afternoon,and are hardly written before sleep overpowers him. Many a largefortune has been made with less of true devotion to the work than isgiven to hunting by so genuine a sportsman as Mr. Spooner.
Our friend had some inkling of this himself, and felt that many ofthe less important affairs of his life were neglected because hewas so true to the one great object of his existence. He had wiselyendeavoured to prevent wrack and ruin among the affairs of SpoonHall,--and had thoroughly succeeded by joining his cousin Ned withhimself in the administration of his estate,--but there were thingswhich Ned with all his zeal and all his cleverness could not do forhim. He was conscious that had he been as remiss in the matter ofhunting, as that hard-riding but otherwise idle young scamp, GerardMaule, he might have succeeded much better than he had hitherto donewith Adelaide Palliser. "Hanging about and philandering, that's whatthey want," he said to his cousin Ned.
"I suppose it is," said Ned. "I was fond of a girl once myself, andI hung about a good deal. But we hadn't sixpence between us."
"That was Polly Maxwell. I remember. You behaved very badly then."
"Very badly, Tom; about as bad as a man could behave,--and she wasas bad. I loved her with all my heart, and I told her so. And shetold me the same. There never was anything worse. We had just nothingbetween us, and nobody to give us anything."
"It doesn't pay; does it, Ned, that kind of thing?"
"It doesn't pay at all. I wouldn't give her up,--nor she me. She wasabout as pretty a girl as I remember to have seen."
"I suppose you were a decent-looking fellow in those days yourself.They say so, but I never quite believed it."
"There wasn't much in that," said Ned. "Girls don't want a man to begood-looking, but that he should speak up and not be afraid of them.There were lots of fellows came after her. You remember Blinks, ofthe Carabineers. He was full of money, and he asked her three times.She is an old maid to this day, and is living as companion to somecrusty crochetty countess."
"I think you did behave badly, Ned. Why didn't you set her free?"
"Of course, I behaved badly. And why didn't she set me free, if youcome to that? I might have found a female Blinks of my own,--onlyfor her. I wonder whether it will come against us when we die, andwhether we shall be brought up together to receive punishment."
"Not if you repent, I suppose," said Tom Spooner, very seriously.
"I sometimes ask myself whether she has repented. I made her swearthat she'd never give me up. She might have broken her word a scoreof times, and I wish she had."
"I think she was a fool, Ned."
"Of course she was a fool. She knows that now, I dare say. Andperhaps she has repented. Do you mean to try it again with that girlat Harrington Hall?"
Mr. Thomas Spooner did mean to try it again with the girl atHarrington Hall. He had never quite trusted the note which he hadgot from his friend Chiltern, and had made up his mind that, to saythe least of it, there had been very little friendship shown in theletter. Had Chiltern meant to have stood to him "like a brick," as heought to have stood by his right hand man in the Brake country, atany rate a fair chance might have been given him. "Where the devilwould he be in such a country as this without me,"--Tom had saidto his cousin,--"not knowing a soul, and with all the shooting menagainst him? I might have had the hounds myself,--and might have 'emnow if I cared to take them. It's not standing by a fellow as heought to do. He writes to me, by George, just as he might do to somefellow who never had a fox about his place."
"I suppose he didn't put the two things together," said Ned Spooner.
"I hate a fellow that can't put two things together. If I stand toyou you've a right to stand to me. That's what you mean by puttingtwo things together. I mean to have another shy at her. She hasquarrelled with that fellow Maule altogether. I've learned that fromthe gardener's girl at Harrington."
Yes,--he would make another attempt. All history, all romance, allpoetry and all prose, taught him that perseverance in love wasgenerally crowned with success,--that true love rarely was crownedwith success except by perseverance. Such a simple little tale ofboy's passion as that told him by his cousin had no attraction forhim. A wife would hardly be worth having, and worth keeping, so won.And all proverbs were on his side. "None but the brave deserve thefair," said his cousin. "I shall stick to it," said Tom Spooner."Labor omnia vincit," said his cousin. But what should be his nextstep? Gerard Maule had been sent away with a flea in his ear,--so, atleast, Mr. Spooner asserted, and expressed an undoubting opinion thatthis imperative dismissal had come from the fact that Gerard Maule,when "put through his facings" about income was not able to "show themoney." "She's not one of your Polly Maxwells, Ned." Ned said that hesupposed she was not one of that sort. "Heaven knows I couldn't showthe money," said Ned, "but that didn't make her any wiser." Then Tomgave it as his opinion that Miss Palliser was one of those youngwomen who won't go anywhere without having everything about them."She could have her own carriage with me, and her own horses, and herown maid, and everything."
"Her own way into the bargain," said Ned. Whereupon Tom Spoonerwinked, and suggested that that might be as things turned out afterthe marriage. He was quite willing to run his chance for that.
But how was he to get at her to prosecute his suit? As to writing toher direct,--he didn't much believe in that. "It looks as though onewere afraid of her, you know;--which I ain't the least. I stood up toher before, and I wasn't a bit more nervous than I am at this moment.Were you nervous in that affair with Miss Maxwell?"
"Ah;--it's a long time ago. There wasn't much nervousness there."
"A sort of milkmaid affair?"
"Just that."
"That is different, you know. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll justdrive slap over to Harrington and chance it. I'll take the two baysin the phaeton. Who's afraid?"
"There's nothing to be afraid of," said Ned.
"Old Chiltern is such a d---- cantankerous fellow, and perhaps LadyC. may say that I oughtn't to have taken advantage of her absence.But, what's the odds? If she takes me there'll be an end of it. Ifshe don't, they can't eat me."
"The only thing is whether they'll let you in."
"I'll try at any rate," said Tom, "and you shall go over with me.You won't mind trotting about the grounds while I'm carrying on thewar inside? I'll take the two bays, and Dick Farren behind, and Idon't think there's a prettier got-up trap in the county. We'll goto-morrow."
And on the morrow they did start, having heard on that very morningof the arrest of Phineas Finn. "By George, don't it feel odd," saidTom just as they started,--"a fellow that we used to know down here,having him out hunting and all that, and now he's--a murderer! Isn'tit a coinc
idence?"
"It startles one," said Ned.
"That's what I mean. It's such a strange thing that it should be theman we know ourselves. These things always are happening to me. Doyou remember when poor Fred Fellows got his bad fall and died thenext year? You weren't here then."
"I've heard you speak of it."
"I was in the very same field, and should have been the man to pickhim up, only the hounds had just turned to the left. It's very oddthat these coincidences always are happening to some men and never dohappen to others. It makes one feel that he's marked out, you know."
"I hope you'll be marked out by victory to-day."
"Well;--yes. That's more important just now than Mr. Bonteen'smurder. Do you know, I wish you'd drive. These horses are pulling,and I don't want to be all in a flurry when I get to Harrington."Now it was a fact very well known to all concerned with Spoon Hall,that there was nothing as to which the Squire was so jealous asthe driving of his own horses. He would never trust the reins to afriend, and even Ned had hardly ever been allowed the honour of thewhip when sitting with his cousin. "I'm apt to get red in the facewhen I'm overheated," said Tom as he made himself comfortable andeasy in the left hand seat.
There were not many more words spoken during the journey. The loverwas probably justified in feeling some trepidation. He had been quitecorrect in suggesting that the matter between him and Miss Palliserbore no resemblance at all to that old affair between his cousin Nedand Polly Maxwell. There had been as little trepidation as money inthat case,--simply love and kisses, parting, despair, and a brokenheart. Here things were more august. There was plenty of money, and,let affairs go as they might, there would be no broken heart. Butthat perseverance in love of which Mr. Spooner intended to makehimself so bright an example does require some courage. The AdelaidePallisers of the world have a way of making themselves uncommonlyunpleasant to a man when they refuse him for the third or fourthtime. They allow themselves sometimes to express a contempt which isalmost akin to disgust, and to speak to a lover as though he were nobetter than a footman. And then the lover is bound to bear it all,and when he has borne it, finds it so very difficult to get out ofthe room. Mr. Spooner had some idea of all this as his cousin drovehim up to the door, at what he then thought a very fast pace. "D----it all," he said, "you needn't have brought them up so confoundedlyhot." But it was not of the horses that he was really thinking, butof the colour of his own nose. There was something working withinhim which had flurried him, in spite of the tranquillity of his idleseat.
Not the less did he spring out of the phaeton with a quite youthfuljump. It was well that every one about Harrington Hall should knowhow alert he was on his legs; a little weather-beaten about the facehe might be; but he could get in and out of his saddle as quicklyas Gerard Maule even yet; and for a short distance would run GerardMaule for a ten-pound note. He dashed briskly up to the door, andrang the bell as though he feared neither Adelaide nor Lord Chilternany more than he did his own servants at Spoon Hall. "Was MissPalliser at home?" The maid-servant who opened the door told him thatMiss Palliser was at home, with a celerity which he certainly hadnot expected. The male members of the establishment were probablydisporting themselves in the absence of their master and mistress,and Adelaide Palliser was thus left to the insufficient guardianshipof young women who were altogether without discretion. "Yes, sir;Miss Palliser is at home." So said the indiscreet female, and Mr.Spooner was for the moment confounded by his own success. He hadhardly told himself what reception he had expected, or whether, inthe event of the servant informing him at the front door that theyoung lady was not at home he would make any further immediate effortto prolong the siege so as to force an entry; but now, when he hadcarried the very fortress by surprise, his heart almost misgave him.He certainly had not thought, when he descended from his chariot likea young Bacchus in quest of his Ariadne, that he should so soon beenabled to repeat the tale of his love. But there he was, confrontedwith Ariadne before he had had a moment to shake his godlike locks orarrange the divinity of his thoughts. "Mr. Spooner," said the maid,opening the door.
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ariadne, feeling the vainness of her wish to flyfrom the god. "You know, Mary, that Lady Chiltern is up in London."
"But he didn't ask for Lady Chiltern, Miss." Then there was a pause,during which the maid-servant managed to shut the door and to escape.
"Lord Chiltern is up in London," said Miss Palliser, rising from herchair, "and Lady Chiltern is with him. They will be at home, I think,to-morrow, but I am not quite sure." She looked at him rather asDiana might have looked at poor Orion than as any Ariadne at anyBacchus; and for a moment Mr. Spooner felt that the pale chillness ofthe moon was entering in upon his very heart and freezing the bloodin his veins.
"Miss Palliser--" he began.
But Adelaide was for the moment an unmitigated Diana. "Mr. Spooner,"she said, "I cannot for an instant suppose that you wish to sayanything to me."
"But I do," said he, laying his hand upon his heart.
"Then I must declare that--that--that you ought not to. And I hopeyou won't. Lady Chiltern is not in the house, and I think that--thatyou ought to go away. I do, indeed."
But Mr. Spooner, though the interview had been commenced withunexpected and almost painful suddenness, was too much a man to bedriven off by the first angry word. He remembered that this Diana wasbut mortal; and he remembered, too, that though he had entered inupon her privacy he had done so in a manner recognised by the worldas lawful. There was no reason why he should allow himself to becongealed,--or even banished out of the grotto of the nymph,--withoutspeaking a word on his own behalf. Were he to fly now, he mustfly for ever; whereas, if he fought now,--fought well, even thoughnot successfully at the moment,--he might fight again. While MissPalliser was scowling at him he resolved upon fighting. "MissPalliser," he said, "I did not come to see Lady Chiltern; I came tosee you. And now that I have been happy enough to find you I hope youwill listen to me for a minute. I shan't do you any harm."
"I'm not afraid of any harm, but I cannot think that you haveanything to say that can do anybody any good." She sat down, however,and so far yielded. "Of course I cannot make you go away, Mr.Spooner; but I should have thought, when I asked you--"
Mr. Spooner also seated himself, and uttered a sigh. Making love toa sweet, soft, blushing, willing, though silent girl is a pleasantemployment; but the task of declaring love to a stony-hearted,obdurate, ill-conditioned Diana is very disagreeable for anygentleman. And it is the more so when the gentleman really loves,--orthinks that he loves,--his Diana. Mr. Spooner did believe himselfto be verily in love. Having sighed, he began: "Miss Palliser, thisopportunity of declaring to you the state of my heart is too valuableto allow me to give it up without--without using it."
"It can't be of any use."
"Oh, Miss Palliser,--if you knew my feelings!"
"But I know my own."
"They may change, Miss Palliser."
"No, they can't."
"Don't say that, Miss Palliser."
"But I do say it. I say it over and over again. I don't know what anygentleman can gain by persecuting a lady. You oughtn't to have beenshown up here at all."
Mr. Spooner knew well that women have been won even at the tenth timeof asking, and this with him was only the third. "I think if you knewmy heart--" he commenced.
"I don't want to know your heart."
"You might listen to a man, at any rate."
"I don't want to listen. It can't do any good. I only want you toleave me alone, and go away."
"I don't know what you take me for," said Mr. Spooner, beginning towax angry.
"I haven't taken you for anything at all. This is very disagreeableand very foolish. A lady has a right to know her own mind, and shehas a right not to be persecuted." She would have referred to LordChiltern's letter had not all the hopes of her heart been so terriblycrushed since that letter had been written. In it he had openlydeclared that she was already engaged to be ma
rried to Mr. Maule,thinking that he would thus put an end to Mr. Spooner's littleadventure. But since the writing of Lord Chiltern's letter thatunfortunate reference had been made to Boulogne, and every particleof her happiness had been destroyed. She was a miserable, blightedyoung woman, who had quarrelled irretrievably with her lover, feelinggreatly angry with herself because she had made the quarrel, and yetconscious that her own self-respect had demanded the quarrel. She wasfull of regret, declaring to herself from morning to night that, inspite of all his manifest wickedness in having talked of Boulogne,she never could care at all for any other man. And now there was thisaggravation to her misery,--this horrid suitor, who disgraced her bymaking those around her suppose it to be possible that she shouldever accept him; who had probably heard of her quarrel, and had beenmean enough to suppose that therefore there might be a chance forhimself! She did despise him, and wanted him to understand that shedespised him.
"I believe I am in a condition to offer my hand and fortune to anyyoung lady without impropriety," said Mr. Spooner.
"I don't know anything about your condition."
"But I will tell you everything."
"I don't want to know anything about it."
"I have an estate of--"
"I don't want to know about your estate. I won't hear about yourestate. It can be nothing to me."
"It is generally considered to be a matter of some importance."
"It is of no importance to me, at all, Mr. Spooner; and I won't hearanything about it. If all the parish belonged to you, it would notmake any difference."
"All the parish does belong to me, and nearly all the next," repliedMr. Spooner, with great dignity.
"Then you'd better find some lady who would like to have twoparishes. They haven't any weight with me at all." At that momentshe told herself how much she would prefer even Bou--logne, to Mr.Spooner's two parishes.
"What is it that you find so wrong about me?" asked the unhappysuitor.
Adelaide looked at him, and longed to tell him that his nose was red.And, though she would not quite do that, she could not bring herselfto spare him. What right had he to come to her,--a nasty, red-nosedold man, who knew nothing about anything but foxes and horses,--toher, who had never given him the encouragement of a single smile? Shecould not allude to his nose, but in regard to his other defects shewould not spare him. "Our tastes are not the same, Mr. Spooner."
"You are very fond of hunting."
"And our ages are not the same."
"I always thought that there should be a difference of age," said Mr.Spooner, becoming very red.
"And,--and,--and,--it's altogether quite preposterous. I don'tbelieve that you can really think it yourself."
"But I do."
"Then you must unthink it. And, indeed, Mr. Spooner, since you driveme to say so,--I consider it to be very unmanly of you, after whatLord Chiltern told you in his letter."
"But I believe that is all over."
Then her anger flashed up very high. "And if you do believe it, whata mean man you must be to come to me when you must know how miserableI am, and to think that I should be driven to accept you after losinghim! You never could have been anything to me. If you wanted to getmarried at all, you should have done it before I was born." Thiswas hard upon the man, as at that time he could not have been muchmore than twenty. "But you don't know anything of the difference inpeople if you think that any girl would look at you, after havingbeen--loved by Mr. Maule. Now, as you do not seem inclined to goaway, I shall leave you." So saying, she walked off with statelystep, out of the room, leaving the door open behind her to facilitateher escape.
She had certainly been very rude to him, and had treated him verybadly. Of that he was sure. He had conferred upon her what iscommonly called the highest compliment which a gentleman can payto a lady, and she had insulted him;--had doubly insulted him. Shehad referred to his age, greatly exaggerating his misfortune inthat respect; and she had compared him to that poor beggar Maule inlanguage most offensive. When she left him, he put his hand beneathhis waistcoat, and turned with an air almost majestic towards thewindow. But in an instant he remembered that there was nobody thereto see how he bore his punishment, and he sank down into humannature. "Damnation!" he said, as he put his hands into his trouserspockets.
Slowly he made his way down into the hall, and slowly he opened forhimself the front door, and escaped from the house on to the graveldrive. There he found his cousin Ned still seated in the phaeton, andslowly driving round the circle in front of the hall door. The squiresucceeded in gaining such command over his own gait and countenancethat his cousin divined nothing of the truth as he clambered up intohis seat. But he soon showed his temper. "What the devil have you gotthe reins in this way for?"
"The reins are all right," said Ned.
"No they ain't;--they're all wrong." And then he drove down theavenue to Spoon Hall as quickly as he could make the horses trot.
"Did you see her?" said Ned, as soon as they were beyond the gates.
"See your grandmother."
"Do you mean to say that I'm not to ask?"
"There's nothing I hate so much as a fellow that's always askingquestions," said Tom Spooner. "There are some men so d----dthick-headed that they never know when they ought to hold theirtongue."
For a minute or two Ned bore the reproof in silence, and then hespoke. "If you are unhappy, Tom, I can bear a good deal; but don'toverdo it,--unless you want me to leave you."
"She's the d----t vixen that ever had a tongue in her head," saidTom Spooner, lifting his whip and striking the poor off-horse in hisagony. Then Ned forgave him.