CHAPTER IV.
WALLS END CASTLE.
Walls End Castle was the seat of John, Earl of Pit Town. It had comeinto the family through the marriage of a former earl with the heiressof the great Chudleigh family. It was one of England's show places. Thegreat park which surrounded it was one of the most celebrated in allEngland, celebrated alike for its size and its beauty. The entry to thepark was never denied to artists; and they, their easels, and theirumbrellas, might be seen at the various well-known "bits" all throughthe summer and autumn. The boys of the Elizabethan Grammar School hadalso the privilege of roaming in the park; and time had been when thepeople of the neighbouring town and the public generally were admitted;but excursionists had arrived in crowds, they had destroyed the poetryof the place with pieces of greasy newspaper, broken bottles, ham bones,and the remains of their Homeric banquets. They had shouted and whistledin the great picture galleries, they had written their names upon thewindow panes, they had committed all the innumerable offences that suchpeople do commit; but the final straw which determined the present earlto exclude them, was their having played at the game ofKiss-in-the-ring, one Whit-Monday, directly under the windows of thenoble owner. After that memorable day, Lord Pit Town kept his castle andhis park to himself.
His lordship during the earlier part of his reign never came near WallsEnd Castle. The widowed earl travelled continuously in Southern Europe.He travelled, and he collected pictures, statuary, gems, plate,china--nothing came amiss to him. But John, Earl of Pit Town, was wisein his generation; he remembered that "if you sup with the devil, it isbest to use a long spoon." He never purchased without an expert's aid;consequently the immense collection he had gradually accumulated wasfree from rubbish. Nothing doubtful or "reputed" ever arrived in thehuge packing-cases consigned to Walls End Castle. For years his lordshipwas seldom seen in London, the great house in Grosvenor Square was neveropened. When Lord Pit Town was in England, he stayed at Long's Hotel.Friends he had none; his doctor and his courier were the people who sawmost of him. But as years rolled on his lordship grew tired of travel,his well-known figure, in the short blue cloak and velvet collar, wasseen no more in the great picture galleries of Europe. Lord Pit Town nowcommenced the work of his life, the building of the new galleries atWalls End Castle. Winter and summer the little old man, for he was oversixty now, might be seen in the blue cloak, inspecting the growth of thevast galleries with a critical eye. Emilius Wolff, his German architect,was his constant companion. The great Mr. Buskin paid him a yearlyvisit; on these occasions Dr. Wolff (for Wolff was a doctor ofphilosophy) joined his lordship and the great art-critic at dinner. Atlength the great Pit Town collection was housed as it deserved to be.Its principal feature was the picture gallery. This was a vast buildingof classical design, resembling a Grecian temple. Dr. Wolff was aBerliner, and the tradition of Berlin is that a picture gallery shouldresemble a Greek temple. The vast galleries were probably among the bestin Europe. They were lighted and heated to perfection. But the greatgalleries had one peculiarity; at irregular intervals along the wallwere blank spaces of varying size; in the centre of each space was alabel in his lordship's own writing: on these labels were inscribed thenames of various great painters. It was now the only business of theEarl of Pit Town to gradually fill these spaces, each with arepresentative masterpiece of the artist indicated. Possibly John, Earlof Pit Town, notwithstanding his boundless wealth, could hardly hope tocomplete such a work in his own lifetime. The great Mr. Abrahams had anunlimited commission to secure at any price, a long list of great works.There was but one condition attached, any purchase must be abovesuspicion. But even the great Mr. Abrahams, on one notable occasion atleast, had been deceived. A new acquisition, purchased from thecollection of a wealthy amateur in the Rue Drouot, had arrived at WallsEnd Castle. A furious controversy concerning this picture had arisenamong art critics. Herr Vandenbossche had defended the authenticity ofthe work, but old Mr. Creeps had demolished him in an exhaustive articlein the _Friday Review_. Old Mr. Creeps was considerably astonished atreceiving an almost affectionate letter from Lord Pit Town. His lordshipthanked him for the article, and requested what he termed "the exceedinggreat pleasure of receiving you here;" the letter was dated from WallsEnd Castle. Old Mr. Creeps accepted the invitation for a couple of days.On his arrival at the local railway station he was met by his lordshipin person. Lord Pit Town, one of the proudest and most exclusive of men,treated old Mr. Creeps with marked deference. At dinner, at which JohnBuskin and Dr. Wolff were present, conversation ran purely upon artmatters. Old Mr. Creeps, the critic, had never enjoyed himself so much;the sitting was prolonged till the small hours. Next day, at noon, thecouncil of four sat in solemn conclave upon Lord Pit Town's latestpurchase. Old Mr. Creeps triumphantly proved his case. Lord Pit Townlooked at Mr. Buskin. Mr. Buskin nodded. "Well, Wolff?" remarked hislordship.
"It is onhappy, most onhappy," replied the doctor of philosophy, "but Ifear it is drue, too drue."
"What will your lordship do with it?" said old Mr. Creeps.
"You shall see," replied that eminent collector with a smile, as headvanced to the easel on which the doubtful picture stood. His lordshipopened his penknife, carefully and quietly he cut the canvas out of theframe, he folded it in half; again he cut it, as though he were cuttingup a sheet of brown paper; he repeated the process several times, then,handing the pieces to the German, he merely remarked, "Oblige me byburning these, Wolff."
"They shall make a vamous blaze," said the philosopher, as he left theroom to carry out the sentence.
"Would that all collectors could afford to do the same, Lord Pit Town,"remarked John Buskin with a sigh.
"Your lordship has done a noble act," cheerfully cried old Mr. Creeps,as he rubbed his hands. "Of course you will trounce Abrahams. When theartistic world hears of this morning's work, Lord Pit Town, it will knowwhat it owes to England's most distinguished amateur."
"No, no, Mr. Creeps. I must ask you to keep this business a secret; nocheap popularity for me," replied the old lord.
"Cheap!" echoed the critic, as he raised his eyes to the skylight. "Goodheavens! he calls it cheap," whispered the old man to John Buskin.
"His lordship is right," was the oracle's oracular reply.
Men said that Lord Pit Town was eccentric. Gossips said that he was mad.Perhaps after all he was only honest according to his lights. Next daythe handsome frame, carefully packed, was returned to Mr. Abrahams; itwas duly deducted from his account. But he got his cheque for the priceof the picture, and his very liberal commission.
In vain did the artists who frequented Walls End Park attempt to stalkthe old nobleman in his lonely walks. They never succeeded in sellinghim a picture from the easel. "Capital, capital," his lordship wouldremark with great alacrity, when there was no other way of escape. Theeldest Miss Solomonson, the most talented member of that clever Hebrewfamily--she is great at animals--tried to shoot the wary old lord withher well-known picture of "The Timid Fawn," but she ignominiouslyfailed.
"The old wretch called me 'my dear,' and said he liked my sky, when Ihadn't even indicated the sky," she indignantly remarked to her amusedfather.
Miss Solomonson's masses of jetty hair, and the fire from the glances ofher oriental eyes, were said to have melted the stony hearts even ofdealers who were her co-religionists. But with all her advantages MissSolomonson failed with the old lord, and she abuses him to this day. Shehad her revenge, however, for in her well-known Academy picture of thefollowing year, "Balaam and his Ass," the angel was represented by aglorified portrait of Miss Solomonson herself, who glared down in anindignant manner upon the terrified and kneeling Balaam. Old Mr. Creepsand the other art-critics chuckled as they recognized the angelicportrait; but they chuckled still more, when they saw that the terrifiedBalaam was but an ill-natured caricature of John, Earl of Pit Town.
"I'd have done him as the ass, you know, only he was too ugly. I hopehe'll like the figures better than the sky this time," snorted theindig
nant Hebrew maiden.
The curse of the Earl of Pit Town's life was the so-called gallery ofold masters in Walls End Castle. He couldn't sell them; he couldn't burnthem; he was even compelled to insure them, to his intense disgust. Forwhen a former lord had inherited Walls End Castle from the Chudleighs,old masters had been the fashion; and the purchaser, delighted with histoy, had made the pictures heirlooms. But the present lord had shut upwhat to him was a mere chamber of horrors. He and Dr. Wolff had actuallycomposed a catalogue _raisonne_ of the entire collection, in which thefictitious nature of the claims to respect of each monstrous daub wastriumphantly demonstrated. The sprawling Rubenses were shown to be butinferior copies, the Paul Veronese was proved a transparent sham, whilethe great Vandyck, representing the Martyr-King seated on a giganticgrey horse, was demonstrated to be but a wretched replica of a miserableoriginal. There they hung, the old Pit Town heirlooms, grimy with dirt;for as the old lord used to say, "To have cleaned them would have beenonly to make their natural hideousness still more apparent." Eachpicture bore a label, giving a true description of the once-honouredgem. Alas! these veracious tablets cruelly contrasted with theflourishes of the old housekeeper's descriptions.
Two only of his heirlooms had stood the crucial inspections of Lord PitTown and his experts. These were the great Raphael, and the celebratedportrait of Barbara Chudleigh, the well-known beauty of Charles theSecond's time, by Sir Peter Lely. Wicked Bab Chudleigh, as a wood nymph,simpered upon the walls of the new gallery in which the ChudleighRaphael occupied the post of honour.
We have seen what manner of man John, Earl of Pit Town, was. We haveseen how his heirlooms troubled him not a little. We have seen how hepassed his life with the faithful Wolff at Walls End Castle, patientlywaiting to fill the numerous blanks on the walls of the new galleries,in fact to accomplish his destiny. For if ever there was a borncollector, a real collector, to whom the actual intrinsic value of apainting was absolutely of no importance, it was John, Earl of Pit Town.And this indifference to the value at the hammer of their acquisitions,marks the distinction between the genuine collector or connoisseur andthe ruck of the people who buy pictures; the bulk of whom are after allbut amateur dealers. When the successful stock-jobber leaves off dealingin shares and takes to art, he merely deals in another more or lessintangible security of very fluctuating value. With childlike confidencehe follows the advice of some more or less honest dealer. He buys fromthe easel with a hope of a "rapid rise." Works are knocked down to himat Christie's simply because they are apparently cheap, and he iscarrying out the old axiom of his trade, "always buy rubbish." In thesame way he is perpetually buying and selling pictures upon the timehonoured maxim of Capel Court, "nail your profit, and cut your loss." Hewill even go so far as to develop a taste for a particular master inthe hope that he may succeed ultimately in making a "corner" in thatspecial security. And the sole dream of such a man is the result inpounds, shillings and pence of the auction that will inevitably takeplace at his death. The possession of a certain number of valuable worksof art confers an amount of distinction upon their proprietor, andBrown, who as Brown is a nobody, becomes a somebody as the owner of theBrown collection. Of this fact Manchester "men" and Liverpool"gentlemen" are well aware. But, as has been seen, a deep gulf dividedthese amateur dealers from John, Earl of Pit Town.
The old earl's property, the source of his wealth, as from his title thereader will have shrewdly guessed, was in collieries. With themanagement of these, however, the Earl of Pit Town did not troublehimself. His various agents paid yearly increasing sums into thataristocratic bank in the Strand, which never allows interest ondeposits, which never advises any investment except Consols, and whoseclerks from time immemorial have worn white chokers.
For many years it had been the old lord's habit to entertain thosemembers of his family, never exceeding four in number, who were nearestto the title. Twice a year the formal invitation was sent out by the oldnobleman to his only son, and to his two nephews. Once in the height ofthe summer and once at Christmas these invitations were issued. Theywere never refused, for their recipients looked upon them much in thelight of a royal command.
Lord Hetton, the earl's only son, and his heir, was always one of theguests on these occasions; to him it was an exceedingly unpleasant time;for father and son had quarrelled years ago, the old lord having sternlydeclined to increase his son's very liberal allowance of five thousand ayear. A man can do a great deal on five thousand a year, but not muchis left for the annuitant when he is possessed by the idea that, someday or other, it will be his good fortune to win the Derby. In all otherthings but race-horses, Hetton was a man of frugal mind. For the sake ofhis stud he had remained a bachelor; for he felt that were he to marry,yet another obstacle would be raised to the attainment of his ambition.Ever since his majority Lord Hetton had annually entered a colt in thegreat race. His nominations had on two occasions even run into places.Four years ago Hetton's horse had been first favourite, but it wasignominiously beaten. This very year, that rank outsider, Dark Despair,who, starting at sixty to one, had just been beaten on the post, was theproperty of his persevering, but unlucky, lordship. Twice a year didLord Hetton present himself at Walls End Castle. He used to walk throughthe park, and note with pleasure the care that his father bestowed onthe gigantic property. It pleased him to see how well kept waseverything about the place. It gratified him to find his opinionsdeferentially listened to by the steward, and to perceive that year byyear the family solicitors treated him with a still greaterobsequiousness. But in his heart, he cursed what he called his father'sfolly, as he looked at the new galleries; and he would have liked tostamp and swear, as at every visit he dutifully admired each new andcostly acquisition of the old earl's. He would walk discontentedly upand down the old picture gallery where hung the worthless heirloomsthat, in the ordinary course of nature, must one day be his own: and hewondered whether he should ever possess the Golconda contained in thenew galleries. Perhaps it was only human nature that caused him towatch, and watch in vain, for any apparent sign of increasing infirmityin the old earl. But he never quarrelled with his father, for on themorning of his departure from the paternal roof, he was accustomed toreceive a very considerable _solatium_ to his wounded feelings, in theshape of a heavy cheque on the bank in the Strand. The amount of thischeque was invariable; it kept Hetton on his good behaviour, and he hadlearned to look upon it as part of his allowance. On one memorableoccasion he had presumed to remonstrate with his father on the enormouscost of his last artistic acquisitions; the earl had merely shrugged hisshoulders. That visit had been indignantly remembered by Lord Hetton,for when the venerable connoisseur bade his lordship good-bye, there hadbeen no cheque, though there was no change in his lordship's mannertowards his son.
Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, a faultlessly-dressed gentleman, whoseprincipal characteristic was his brilliant whist, which it was saidbrought him in a certain but variable income, was the next heir indirect succession; he was the nephew of his lordship, and a childlessbachelor. His presence, also, always graced Walls End Castle at theregulation periods.
Mr. John Haggard, of Ash Priory, the father of big Reginald, was alwaysthe third guest. John Haggard, the second nephew of Lord Pit Town, was aJ.P. for his county, of the Shakespearian type. He was fond of goodliving, his eye was severe, and his beard of sober cut. He embodied thelaw, in his own immediate neighbourhood, to the intense terror of localdelinquents. He had meted out stern justice to his own son, when he hadbanished big Reginald to South America; but he had his virtues. He livedwithin his means, he entertained his neighbours at rather heavy dinners,he gave his wife and daughters a fortnight in town during the season,and he habitually took the first prize at the county show for blackpigs. He never forgot that he was third in succession to the title. Henever doubted his capacity, should he ever be called to occupy theposition of a hereditary legislator; and now that his son had returned aconsiderably wealthier man than he himself was, he chuckled, when in hismind'
s eye he thought of him as some day bearing the courtesy title ofLord Hetton.
The earl and the doctor of philosophy sat at breakfast in a little oakwainscoted room whose windows commanded a full view of the newgalleries. In this little room the galleries had been designed; thewindows had looked upon the commencement of the great work. An army ofnavvies had dug out the earth for the gigantic foundations. Then arose avery forest of scaffold-poles. Two huge steam engines had snorted andpuffed for three whole years. A colossal steam "traveller" hadceaselessly carried great blocks of stone and long steel girders frompoint to point. The clink of the stone-masons' chisels had resoundedyear after year from morning till night. Then came the carpenters, andthe noise of their busy hammers had been deafening. When not actuallyon the works, Lord Pit Town had viewed them from the window of hisfavourite room. But scaffold poles, steam engines and labourers haddisappeared; the rubbish had been cleared away, and the huge white blockstood out in the clear air; dominating the grey weather-stained gablesof Walls End Castle much as Aladdin's palace is said to have dominatedthe more ancient but less magnificent residence of his father-in-law theEmperor of China. There was an air of spick-and-spanness about the wholething that annoyed the earl. The new galleries had been finished fourwhole years, but they still looked painfully fresh.
"I hear that I am to have the pleasure of welcoming another of yourlordship's relatives this year," said the doctor of philosophy to theearl.
"Yes; Wolff 'where the carcase is there shall the eagles be gatheredtogether.' I have kept them waiting for some years, and I don't feel abit like dying, Wolff. Though I confess I dread Hetton's criticalexamination. He always looks me over in his stud-groom sort of way. ButI suppose, as he is my nearest relative, it is but natural he should beanxious about my health. As for the young fellow, I have never even seenhim. My nephew wished to bring him, and he is about to marry. In fact heand his father will be the only married men among my direct heirs."
"And does the young man love art?"
"No. I think his talents are confined to spending money and getting intotrouble. But my nephew tells me that he is now going to forswear sackand live cleanly."
"That is what I cannot understand, my lord. I had a cold the other day,a most severe cold. I tell the young man to bring me a cup of sack; hesends to me the butler. I say to him, 'Give me the sack.' He replied tome, 'I cannot do that, sir, it's only his lordship can do that.' Whatis, then, this precious drink I read of in my Shakespeare--so precious,that your lordship will not trust him to his butler? And now you tell methat your nephew will drink him no more. I never see your lordship drinkhim. Has, then, your lordship forsworn him too?"
His lordship laughed as he finished his coffee. "No one drinks sacknow-a-days, Wolff, and the quotation was merely figurative; while theother sack the butler talked about was but a vulgarism used by hisclass. You will never get that either, in my lifetime at least."
"I understand it not. But your grand-nephew, the young man, it pleasesyou that he shall marry?"
"It is indifferent to me, Wolff; if I can only live to fill the vacantwall spaces in the new galleries, I can seriously say, _apres moi ledeluge_. But here comes the first arrival."
One of his lordship's close carriages was coming up the great chestnutavenue; Lord Hetton was its sole occupant. As the old butler receivedhim in the hall, with the deference due to his master's son, thesporting nobleman laughingly commiserated him.
"We have neither of us any luck, Russell, as usual," he said. "I thoughtI had a real good thing this time. As usual, I put you on for a fiver,Russell; as usual, it didn't come off." Lord Hetton was of a frugalmind. He was continually presenting innumerable imaginary fivers tolittle people. He was always putting them on for them at tremendousodds, but the good things never came off, and the recipients of hisfavours were never informed of his munificence _till after the event_.
"I most humbly thank your lordship," replied the butler with an air ofprofound gratitude, as he chuckled in his sleeve. For the old man toowas of a sporting turn. He knew all about Dark Despair, and annually hehad carefully laid the odds against Lord Hetton's nomination for thegreat race.
"The same rooms, I suppose, Russell?"
"Always the same rooms, your lordship."
Lord Hetton mechanically proceeded to his quarters.
On joining the earl, father and son met as if they had parted only theprevious day. The pursuits of neither interested the other. Art andhorse-flesh were subjects tabooed by mutual consent. A desultoryconversation on politics, in which neither took the slightest interest,was a safe neutral ground. It was with a feeling of relief on both sidesthat the arrival of Mr. Haggard, of the Home Office, was announced. Hislordship retired shortly to his study, Hetton and Mr. Haggard betookthemselves to the billiard-room.
At dinner the family party was increased by the presence of John Haggardand his son, both of whom were well received by the earl, who now sawhis grand-nephew for the first time. Big Reginald's magnificentphysique made its due impression; his father was evidently proud of him,and the old lord congratulated the young man on his approachingmarriage.
Reginald Haggard was not diffident, he truckled to no one. He franklyavowed to his grand uncle that he knew nothing of art. When his lordshipretired early, as was his custom, the other men adjourned once more tothe billiard-room. Big Reginald took their lives at pool, and pocketedtheir half-crowns in an easy genial way, which almost made losing apleasure.
During the fortnight in which Lord Pit Town entertained his relatives,nothing occurred to mar the harmony of the meeting. During thatfortnight Big Reginald got on friendly terms with everybody.
Nothing seemed to overawe or intimidate the ingenuous youth. He saw withevident pleasure the outward and visible signs of the old earl's immensewealth. As he looked round upon the priceless collection in the newgalleries, as he thought of the old nobleman's huge estates, heremembered that the investment that Mr. Hyam Hyams had made in his owncontingent post obits was probably a good one; he prudently determinedto pay off the Jew as soon as he should realize his American properties.In his own mind he determined already that, should he ever be hisgreat-uncle's successor, he would distribute the great Pit Towncollection to the four winds of heaven. But he made one mentalreservation, as he stood before Sir Peter Lely's masterpiece, and gazedon the lovely features and roving eye of "Wicked Bab Chudleigh:" "Amonstrous fine girl. Yes, I should stick to her." If Reginald Haggarddid come into the estates after all, and did "stick to her," she wouldbe the first one of her sex he had ever stuck to.
Walls End Castle, when the party broke up, returned to its normal state.The earl and the philosopher continued the even tenour of their ways.Lord Hetton took away his big cheque, which was duly honoured at theold-fashioned bank in the Strand. A cheque for a like amount had beengiven to Reginald Haggard by the earl. "Buy something for your wifethat-is-to-be," he said to his grand-nephew, as he handed him the foldedpaper. "Warrender was one of my friends years ago, when I had friends,"said the old nobleman with a sigh "They are good old-fashioned peoplethe Warrenders, and honest. Don't thank me," he said, as he shook handswith the young fellow. "Of course you will come here with your father inthe winter. I shall hope to see the new Mrs. Haggard too," he added."Good-bye. I shall send you a formal invitation."
When big Reginald told his father of this interview, as they weredriving to the station, Justice Haggard did not conceal hissatisfaction. "He will outlive all of _us_, my boy, Hetton into thebargain. Who knows but _you_ may be one day Earl of Pit Town? Keep inwith the old man if you can. His place, as you have seen, is perfect,all but the piggeries. He doesn't go in for pigs though, he goes in forpictures--every man to his taste. I prefer pigs."