CHAPTER XXII.
SIR BOOTH SPEAKS.
THE idea, perhaps, that sustained Cleve Verney in this move, was thesudden recurrence of his belief that Sir Booth would so clearly see theadvantages of such a connexion as to forget his resentments.
Sir Booth was looking seaward, smoking a cigar, and watching theapproach of the boat, which was still distant. As Cleve drew near, hesaw Sir Booth eye him, he fancied, uneasily; and throwing back his heada little, and withdrawing his cheroot, ever so little from his lips, theBaronet demanded grimly--
"Wish to speak to _me_, sir?"
"Only a word, if you allow me," answered Cleve, approaching.
On ascertaining that he had to deal with a gentleman, Sir Booth wasconfident once more.
"Well, sir, I hear you," said he.
"You don't recognise me, Sir Booth; and I fear when I introduce myself,you will hardly connect my name with anything pleasant or friendly. Ionly ask a patient hearing, and I am sure your own sense of fairnesswill excuse me personally."
"Before you say, more, sir, I should like to know for whom you take me,and why; I don't recollect _you_--I _think_--I can't see very well--noone does in this sort of light; but I rather think, I never saw yourface before, sir--nor you mine, I dare say--your guesses as to who I am,may be anything you please--and quite mistaken--and this is not a usualtime, you know, for talking with strangers about business--and, in fact,I've come here for quiet and my health, and I can't undertake to discussother people's affairs--I find my own as much as my health and leisurewill allow me to attend to."
"Sir Booth Fanshawe, you must excuse me for saying I know you perfectly.I am also well aware that you seek a little repose and privacy here, andyou may rely implicitly upon my mentioning your name to no one; in fact,I have been for some weeks aware of your residing at Malory, and never_have_ mentioned it to any one."
"Ha! you're _very_ kind, indeed--taking _great_ care of me, sir; you arevery obliging," said Sir Booth, sarcastically, "I'm sure; ha, ha! Iought to be very grateful. And to whom, may I ask, do I owe all thisattention to my--my _interests_ and comforts?"
"I am connected, Sir Booth, with a house that has unfortunately been agood deal opposed, in politics, to yours. There are reasons which makethis particularly painful to me, although I have been by the directionof others, whom I had no choice but to obey, more in evidence in thesemiserable contests than I could wish; I've really been little more thana passive instrument in the hands of others, absolutely without power,or even influence of my own in the matter. You don't recognise me, butyou have seen me elsewhere. My name is Cleve Verney."
Sir Booth had not expected this name, as his countenance showed. With akind of jerk, he removed his cigar from his lips, sending a shower ofred sparks away on the breeze, and gazing on the young man with eyeslike balls of stone, ready to leap from their sockets. I dare say he wasvery near exploding in that sort of language which, on occasion, he didnot spare. But he controlled himself, and said merely, clearing hisvoice first,--
"That will do, sir, the name's enough; I can't be supposed to wish toconverse with any one of that name, sir--no more I do."
"What I have to say, Sir Booth, affects _you_, it interests you very_nearly_," answered Cleve.
"But, sir, I am going out in that boat--I wish to smoke my cigar--I'vecome down here to live to myself, and to be alone when I choose it,"said Sir Booth, with suppressed exasperation.
"One word, I beg--you'll not regret it, Sir Booth," pleaded Cleve.
"Well, sir, come--I _will_ hear it; but I tell you beforehand, I havepretty strong views as to how I have been used, and it is not likely tolead to much," said Sir Booth, with one of those sudden changes ofpurpose to which fiery men are liable.
So, as briefly and as persuasively as he could, Cleve Verney disclosedhis own feelings, giving to the date of his attachment, skilfully, aretrospective character, and guarding the ladies of Malory from theunreasonable temper of this violent old man; and, in fact, from Cleve'sstatement you would have gathered that he was not even conscious thatthe ladies were now residing at Malory. He closed his little confessionwith a formal proposal.
Was there something--ever so little--in the tone of this latter part ofhis brief speech, that reflected something of the confidence to which Ihave alluded, and stung the angry pride of this ruined man? He keptsmoking his cigar a little faster, and looked steadily at the distantboat that was slowly approaching against the tide.
When Cleve concluded, the old man lowered his cigar and laughed shortlyand scornfully.
"You do us a great deal of honour, Mr. Verney--too much honour, by--,"scoffed the Baronet.
"Be so good at all events as to answer me this one question frankly--yesor no. Is your uncle, Kiffyn Verney, aware of your speaking to me onthis subject?"
"_No_, Sir Booth, he is not," said Cleve; "he knows nothing of it. Iought, perhaps, to have mentioned that at first."
"So you ought," said Sir Booth, brusquely.
"And I beg that you won't mention the subject to him."
"You may be very sure I shan't, sir," said the Baronet, fiercely. "Why,d--n it, sir, what do you mean? Do you know what you're saying? You comehere, and you make a proposal for my daughter, and you think I should beso charmed, that rather than risk your alliance I should practise anymeanness you think fit. D--n you, sir, how dare you suppose I couldfancy your aspiring to my daughter a thing to hide like a_mesalliance_?"
"Nothing of the kind, Sir Booth."
"_Every_thing of the kind, sir. Do you know who you are, sir? You havenot a farthing on earth, sir, but what you get from your uncle."
"I beg your pardon--allow me, Sir Booth--I've six hundred a-year of myown. I know it's very little; but I've been thought to have someenergies; I know I have some friends. I have still my seat in the House,and this Parliament may last two or three years. It is quite possiblethat I may quarrel with my uncle; I can't help it; I'm quite willing totake my chance of that; and I entreat, Sir Booth, that you won't makethis a matter of personal feeling, and attribute to me the leastsympathy with the miserable doings of my uncle."
Sir Booth listened to him, looking over the sea as before, as if simplyobserving the approach of the boat, but he spoke this time in amitigated tone.
"You're no young man," said he, "if you don't owe money. I never knewone with a rich old fellow at his back who didn't."
He paused, and Cleve looked down.
"In fact, you don't know how much you owe. If you were called on to bookup, d'ye see, there might remain very little to show for your sixhundred a-year. You're just your uncle's nephew, sir, and nothing more.When you quarrel with him you're a ruined man."
"I don't see _that_--" began Cleve.
"But I do. If he quarrels with you, he'll never rest till he ruins you.That's his character. It might be very different if you had a_gentleman_ to deal with; but you must look the thing in the face. Youmay never succeed to the title. We old fellows have our palsies andapoplexies; and you, young fellows, your fevers and inflammations. Hereyou are quite well, and a fever comes, and turns you off like a gaslightthe day after; and, besides, if you quarrel he'll marry, and, where areyou _then_? And I tell you frankly, if Mr. Kiffyn Verney has objectionsto me, I've stronger to him. There's no brother of mine disgraced. Why,his elder brother--it's contamination to a gentleman to name him."
"He's dead, sir; Arthur Verney is dead," said Cleve, who was morepatient under Sir Booth's bitter language than under any othercircumstances he would have been.
"Oh! Well, that does not very much matter," said Sir Booth. "But this isthe upshot: I'll have nothing underhand--all above board, sir--and ifMr. Kiffyn Verney writes a proper apology--by----, he owes me one--andputs a stop to the fiendish persecutions he has been directing againstme, and himself submits the proposal you have--yes--done me the honourto make, and undertakes to make suitable settlements, I shan't stand inthe way; I shan't object to your speaking to my daughter, though I can'tthe least tell how she'll take
it! and I tell you from myself _I_ don'tlike it--I _don't_, by----, I don't _like_ it. He's a bad fellow--anasty dog, sir, as any in England--but _that's_ what I say, sir, and Ishan't alter; and you'll please never to mention the subject to me againexcept on these conditions. Except from him I decline to _hear_ ofit--not a word--and--and, sir, you'll please to regard my name as asecret; it has been hitherto; my liberty depends on it. Your uncle can'tpossibly know I'm here?" he added, sharply.
"When last I saw him--a very short time since--he thought you were inFrance. You, of course, rely upon my honour, Sir Booth, that no oneliving shall hear from me one syllable affecting your safety."
"Very good, sir. I never supposed you would; but I mean _every_one--these boatmen, and the people here. No one is to know who I am; andwhat I've said is my _ultimatum_, sir. And I'll have no correspondence,sir--no attempt to visit _any_ where. You understand. By----, if you do,I'll let your uncle, Mr. Kiffyn Verney, know the moment I learn it. Beso good as to _leave_ me."
"Good night, sir," said Cleve.
Sir Booth nodded slightly.
The tall old man went stalking and stumbling over the shingle, towardthe water's edge, still watching the boat, his cigar making a red starin the dusk, by which Christmass Owen might have steered; and theboatmen that night heard their mysterious steersman from Malory, as hesat with his hand on the tiller, talking more than usual to himself, nowand then d---- ing unknown persons, and backing his desultory babble tothe waves, with oaths that startled those sober-tongued Dissenters.
Cleve walked slowly up that wide belt of rounded gray stones, that haverattled and rolled for centuries there, in every returning andretreating treating tide, and turned at last and looked toward the tall,stately figure of the old man now taking his place in the boat. Standingin the shadow, he watched it receding as the moonlight came out over thelandscape. His thoughts began to clear, and he was able to estimate,according to his own gauges and rashness, the value and effect of hisinterview with the angry and embittered man.
He wondered at the patience with which he had borne this old man'simpertinence--unparalleled impertinence; yet even now he could notresent it. He was the father of that beautiful Margaret. The interviewwas a mistake--a very mortifying ordeal it had proved--and its resultwas to block his path with new difficulties.
Not to approach except through the mediation of his Uncle Kiffyn! Heshould like to see how his uncle would receive a proposal to mediate inthis matter. Not to visit--not to write--neither to see nor to hear ofher! Submission to such conditions was not to be dreamed of. He trampledon them, and defied all consequences.
Cleve stood on the gray shingle looking after the boat, now runningswiftly with the tide. A patch of seaweed, like an outstretched hand,lay at his feet, and in the fitful breeze lifted a warning finger,again, and again, and again.