"My Novel" — Complete

CHAPTER XII

The borough town of Lansmere was situated in the county adjoining that which contained the village of Hazeldean. Late at noon the parson crossed the little stream which divided the two shires, and came to an inn, which was placed at an angle, where the great main road branched off into two directions, the one leading towards Lansmere, the other going more direct to London. At this inn the pad stopped, and put down both ears with the air of a pad who has made up her mind to bait. And the parson himself, feeling very warm and somewhat sore, said to the pad, benignly, “It is just,—thou shalt have corn and water!”

Dismounting, therefore, and finding himself very stiff as soon as he reached terra firma, the parson consigned the pad to the hostler, and walked into the sanded parlour of the inn, to repose himself on a very hard Windsor chair.

He had been alone rather more than half-an-hour, reading a county newspaper which smelled much of tobacco, and trying to keep off the flies that gathered round him in swarms, as if they had never before seen a parson, and were anxious to ascertain how the flesh of him tasted,—when a stagecoach stopped at the inn. A traveller got out with his carpetbag in his hand, and was shown into the sanded parlour.

The parson rose politely, and made a bow.

The traveller touched his hat, without taking it off, looked at Mr. Dale from top to toe, then walked to the window, and whistled a lively, impatient tune, then strode towards the fireplace and rang the bell; then stared again at the parson; and that gentleman having courteously laid down the newspaper, the traveller seized it, threw himself into a chair, flung one of his legs over the table, tossed the other up on the mantelpiece, and began reading the paper, while he tilted the chair on its hind-legs with so daring a disregard to the ordinary position of chairs and their occupants, that the shuddering parson expected every moment to see him come down on the back of his skull.

Moved, therefore, to compassion, Mr. Dale said mildly,—“Those chairs are very treacherous, sir. I’m afraid you’ll be down.”

“Eh,” said the traveller, looking up much astonished. “Eh, down?—oh, you’re satirical, sir.”

“Satirical, sir? upon my word, no!” exclaimed the parson, earnestly.

“I think every freeborn man has a right to sit as he pleases in his own house,” resumed the traveller, with warmth; “and an inn is his own house, I guess, so long as he pays his score. Betty, my dear.”

For the chambermaid had now replied to the bell. “I han’t Betty, sir; do you want she?”

“No, Sally; cold brandy and water—and a biscuit.”

“I han’t Sally, either,” muttered the chambermaid; but the traveller, turning round, showed so smart a neckcloth and so comely a face, that she smiled, coloured, and went her way.

The traveller now rose, and flung down the paper. He took out a penknife, and began paring his nails. Suddenly desisting from this elegant occupation, his eye caught sight of the parson’s shovel-hat, which lay on a chair in the corner.

“You’re a clergyman, I reckon, sir,” said the traveller, with a slight sneer.

Again Mr. Dale bowed,—bowed in part deprecatingly, in part with dignity. It was a bow that said, “No offence, sir, but I am a clergyman, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Going far?” asked the traveller.

PARSON.—“Not very.”

TRAVELLER.—“In a chaise or fly? If so, and we are going the same way, halves.”

PARSON.—“Halves?”

TRAVELLER.—“Yes, I’ll pay half the damage, pikes inclusive.”

PARSON.—“You are very good, sir. But” (spoken with pride) “I am on horseback.”

TRAVELLER.—“On horseback! Well, I should not have guessed that! You don’t look like it. Where did you say you were going?”

“I did not say where I was going, sir,” said the parson, dryly, for he was much offended at that vague and ungrammatical remark applicable to his horsemanship, that “he did not look like it.”

“Close!” said the traveller, laughing; “an old traveller, I reckon.”

The parson made no reply, but he took up his shovel-hat, and, with a bow more majestic than the previous one, walked out to see if his pad had finished her corn.

The animal had indeed finished all the corn afforded to her, which was not much, and in a few minutes more Mr. Dale resumed his journey. He had performed about three miles, when the sound of wheels behind him made him turn his head; and he perceived a chaise driven very fast, while out of the windows thereof dangled strangely a pair of human legs. The pad began to curvet as the post-horses rattled behind, and the parson had only an indistinct vision of a human face supplanting those human legs. The traveller peered out at him as he whirled by,—saw Mr. Dale tossed up and down on the saddle, and cried out, “How’s the leather?”

“Leather!” soliloquized the parson, as the pad recomposed herself, “what does he mean by that? Leather! a very vulgar man. But I got rid of him cleverly.”

Mr. Dale arrived without further adventure at Lansmere. He put up at the principal inn, refreshed himself by a general ablution, and sat down with good appetite to his beefsteak and pint of port.

The parson was a better judge of the physiognomy of man than that of the horse; and after a satisfactory glance at the civil smirking landlord, who removed the cover and set on the wine, he ventured on an attempt at conversation. “Is my Lord at the Park?”

LANDLORD (still more civilly than before).—“No, sir, his Lordship and my Lady have gone to town to meet Lord L’Estrange!”

“Lord L’Estrange! He is in England, then?”

“Why, so I heard,” replied the landlord, “but we never see him here now. I remember him a very pretty young man. Every one was fond of him and proud of him. But what pranks be did play when he was a lad! We hoped he would come in for our boro’ some of these days, but he has taken to foren parts,—more ‘s the pity. I am a reg’lar Blue, sir, as I ought to be. The Blue candidate always does me the honour to come to the Lansmere Arms. ‘T is only the low party puts up with the Boar,” added the landlord, with a look of ineffable disgust. “I hope you like the wine, sir?”

“Very good, and seems old.”

“Bottled these eighteen years, sir. I had in the cask for the great election of Dashmore and Egerton. I have little left of it, and I never give it but to old friends like,—for, I think, Sir, though you be grown stout, and look more grand, I may say that I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

“That’s true, I dare say, though I fear I was never a very good customer.”

“Ah, it is Mr. Dale, then! I thought so when you came into the hall. I hope your lady is quite well, and the squire too; fine pleasant-spoken gentleman; no fault of his if Mr. Egerton went wrong. Well, we have never seen him—I mean Mr. Egerton—since that time. I don’t wonder he stays away; but my Lord’s son, who was brought up here, it an’t nat’ral like that he should turn his back on us!”

Mr. Dale made no reply, and the landlord was about to retire, when the parson, pouring out another glass of the port, said, “There must be great changes in the parish. Is Mr. Morgan, the medical man, still here?”

“No, indeed! he took out his ‘ploma after you left, and became a real doctor; and a pretty practice he had too, when he took, all of a sudden, to some new-fangled way of physicking,—I think they calls it homy-something.”

“Homoeopathy?”

“That’s it; something against all reason: and so he lost his practice here and went up to Lunnun. I’ve not heard of him since.”

“Do the Avenels still reside in their old house?”

“Oh, yes!—and are pretty well off, I hear say. John is always poorly, though he still goes now and then to the Odd Fellows, and takes his glass; but his wife comes and fetches him away before he can do himself any harm.”

“Mrs. Avenel is the same as ever?”

“She holds her head higher, I think,” said the landlord, smiling. “She was always—not exactly proud like, but what I calls Bumptious.”

“I never heard that word before,” said the parson, laying down his knife and fork. “Bumptious indeed, though I believe it is not in the dictionary, has crept into familiar parlance, especially amongst young folks at school and college.”

“Bumptious is bumptious, and gumptious is Bumptious,” said the landlord, delighted to puzzle a parson. “Now the town beadle is bumptious, and Mrs. Avenel is Bumptious.”

“She is a very respectable woman,” said Mr. Dale, somewhat rebukingly.

“In course, sir, all gumptious folks are; they value themselves on their respectability, and looks down on their neighbours.”

PARSON (still philologically occupied).—“Gumptious—gumptious. I think I remember the substantive at school,—not that my master taught it to me. ‘Gumption’—it means cleverness.”

LANDLORD (doggedly).—“There’s gumption and Bumptious! Gumption is knowing; but when I say that sum ‘un is gumptious, I mean—though that’s more vulgar like—sum ‘un who does not think small beer of hisself. You take me, sir?”

“I think I do,” said the parson, half smiling. “I believe the Avenels have only two of their children alive still,—their daughter who married Mark Fairfield, and a son who went off to America?”

“Ah, but he made his fortune there and has come back.”

“Indeed! I’m very glad to hear it. He has settled at Lansmere?”

“No, Sir. I hear as he’s bought a property a long way off. But he comes to see his parents pretty often—so John tells me—but I can’t say that I ever see him. I fancy Dick does n’t like to be seen by folks who remember him playing in the kennel.”

“Not unnatural,” said the parson, indulgently; “but he visits his parents; he is a good son at all events, then?”

“I’ve nothing to say against him. Dick was a wild chap before he took himself off. I never thought he would make his fortune; but the Avenels are a clever set. Do you remember poor Nora—the Rose of Lansmere, as they called her? Ah, no, I think she went up to Lunnun afore your time, sir.”

“Humph!” said the parson, dryly. “Well, I think you may take away now. It will be dark soon, and I’ll just stroll out and look about me.”

“There’s a nice tart coming, sir.”

“Thank you, I’ve dined.”

The parson put on his hat and sallied forth into the streets. He eyed the houses on either hand with that melancholy and wistful interest with which, in middle life, men revisit scenes familiar to them in youth,—surprised to find either so little change or so much, and recalling, by fits and snatches, old associations and past emotions. The long High Street which he threaded now began to change its bustling character, and slide, as it were gradually, into the high road of a suburb. On the left, the houses gave way to the moss-grown pales of Lansmere Park; to the right, though houses still remained, they were separated from each other by gardens, and took the pleasing appearance of villas,—such villas as retired tradesmen or their widows, old maids, and half-pay officers select for the evening of their days.

Mr. Dale looked at these villas with the deliberate attention of a man awakening his power of memory, and at last stopped before one, almost the last on the road, and which faced the broad patch of sward that lay before the lodge of Lansmere Park. An old pollard-oak stood near it, and from the oak there came a low discordant sound; it was the hungry cry of young ravens, awaiting the belated return of the parent bird! Mr. Dale put his hand to his brow, paused a moment, and then, with a hurried step, passed through the little garden, and knocked at the door. A light was burning in the parlour, and Mr. Dale’s eye caught through the window a vague outline of three forms. There was an evident bustle within at the sound of the knock. One of the forms rose and disappeared. A very prim, neat, middle-aged maid-servant now appeared at the threshold, and austerely inquired the visitor’s business.

“I want to see Mr. or Mrs. Avenel. Say that I have come many miles to see them; and take in this card.”

The maid-servant took the card, and half closed the door. At least three minutes elapsed before she reappeared.

“Missis says it’s late, sir; but walk in.”

The parson accepted the not very gracious invitation, stepped across the little hall, and entered the parlour.

Old John Avenel, a mild-looking man, who seemed slightly paralytic, rose slowly from his armchair. Mrs. Avenel, in an awfully stiff, clean, Calvinistical cap, and a gray dress, every fold of which bespoke respectability and staid repute, stood erect on the floor, and fixing on the parson a cold and cautious eye, said,—

“You do the like of us great honour, Mr. Dale; take a chair. You call upon business?”

“Of which I apprised Mr. Avenel by letter.”

“My husband is very poorly.”

“A poor creature!” said John, feebly, and as if in compassion of himself. “I can’t get about as I used to do. But it ben’t near election time, be it, sir?”

“No, John,” said Mrs. Avenel, placing her husband’s arm within her own. “You must lie down a bit, while I talk to the gentleman.”

“I’m a real good Blue,” said poor John; “but I ain’t quite the man I was;” and leaning heavily on his wife, he left the room, turning round at the threshold, and saying, with great urbanity, “Anything to oblige, sir!”

Mr. Dale was much touched. He had remembered John Avenel the comeliest, the most active, and the most cheerful man in Lansmere; great at glee club and cricket (though then somewhat stricken in years), greater in vestries; reputed greatest in elections.

“Last scene of all,” murmured the parson; “and oh, well, turning from the poet, may we cry with the disbelieving philosopher, ‘Poor, poor humanity!’”

In a few minutes Mrs. Avenel returned. She took a chair at some distance from the parson’s, and resting one hand on the elbow of the chair, while with the other she stiffly smoothed the stiff gown, she said,—

“Now, sir.”

That “Now, sir,” had in its sound something sinister and warlike. This the shrewd parson recognized with his usual tact. He edged his chair nearer to Mrs. Avenel, and placing his hand on hers,—

“Yes, now then, and as friend to friend.”

CHAPTER XIII

Mr. Dale had been more than a quarter of an hour conversing with Mrs. Avenel, and had seemingly made little progress in the object of his diplomatic mission, for now, slowly drawing on his gloves, he said,—

“I grieve to think, Mrs. Avenel, that you should have so hardened your heart—yes, you must pardon me,—it is my vocation to speak stern truths. You cannot say that I have not kept faith with you, but I must now invite you to remember that I specially reserved to myself the right of exercising a discretion to act as I judged best for the child’s interest on any future occasion; and it was upon this understanding that you gave me the promise, which you would now evade, of providing for him when he came to manhood.”

“I say I will provide for him. I say that you may ‘prentice him in any distant town, and by and by we will stock a shop for him. What would you have more, sir, from folks like us, who have kept shop ourselves? It ain’t reasonable what you ask, sir.”

“My dear friend,” said the parson, “what I ask of you at present is but to see him, to receive him kindly, to listen to his conversation, to judge for yourselves. We can have but a common object,—that your grandson should succeed in life, and do you credit. Now, I doubt very much whether we can effect this by making him a small shopkeeper.”

“And has Jane Fairfield, who married a common carpenter, brought him up to despise small shopkeepers?” exclaimed Mrs. Avenel, angrily.

“Heaven forbid! Some of the first men in England have been the sons of small shopkeepers. But is it a crime in them, or in their parents, if their talents have lifted them into such rank or renown as the haughtiest duke might envy? England were not England if a man must rest where his father began.”

“Good!” said, or rather grunted, an approving voice, but neither Mrs. Avenel nor the parson heard it.

“All very fine,” said Mrs. Avenel, bluntly. “But to send a boy like that to the University—where’s the money to come from?”

“My dear Mrs. Avenel,” said the parson, coaxingly, “the cost need not be great at a small college at Cambridge; and if you will pay half the expense, I will pay the other half. I have no children of my own, and can afford it.”

“That’s very handsome in you, sir,” said Mrs. Avenel, somewhat touched, yet still not graciously. “But the money is not the only point.”

“Once at Cambridge,” continued Mr. Dale, speaking rapidly, “at Cambridge, where the studies are mathematical,—that is, of a nature for which he has shown so great an aptitude,—and I have no doubt he will distinguish himself; if he does, he will obtain, on leaving, what is called a fellowship,—that is, a collegiate dignity accompanied by an income on which he could maintain himself until he made his way in life. Come, Mrs. Avenel, you are well off; you have no relations nearer to you in want of your aid. Your son, I hear, has been very fortunate.”

“Sir,” said—Mrs. Avenel, interrupting the parson, “it is not because my son Richard is an honour to us, and is a good son, and has made his fortin, that we are to rob him of what we have to leave, and give it to a boy whom we know nothing about, and who, in spite of what you say, can’t bring upon us any credit at all.”

“Why? I don’t see that.”

“Why!” exclaimed Mrs. Avenel, fiercely,—“why! you, know why. No, I don’t want him to rise in life: I don’t want folks to be speiring and asking about him. I think it is a very wicked thing to have put fine notions in his head, and I am sure my daughter Fairfield could not have done it herself. And now, to ask me to rob Richard, and bring out a great boy—who’s been a gardener or ploughman, or suchlike—to disgrace a gentleman who keeps his carriage, as my son Richard does—I would have you to know, sir. No! I won’t do it, and there’s an end of the matter.”

During the last two or three minutes, and just before that approving “good” had responded to the parson’s popular sentiment, a door communicating with an inner room had been gently opened, and stood ajar; but this incident neither party had even noticed. But now the door was thrown boldly open, and the traveller whom the parson had met at the inn walked up to Mr. Dale, and said, “No! that’s not the end of the matter. You say the boy’s a ‘cute, clever lad?”

“Richard, have you been listening?” exclaimed Mrs. Avenel.

“Well, I guess, yes,—the last few minutes.”

“And what have you heard?”

“Why, that this reverend gentleman thinks so highly of my sister Fairfield’s boy that he offers to pay half of his keep at college. Sir, I’m very much obliged to you, and there’s my hand if you’ll take it.”

The parson jumped up, overjoyed, and, with a triumphant glance towards Mrs. Avenel, shook hands heartily with Mr. Richard.

“Now,” said the latter, “just put on your hat, sir, and take a stroll with me, and we’ll discuss the thing businesslike. Women don’t understand business: never talk to women on business.”

With these words, Mr. Richard drew out a cigar-case, selected a cigar, which he applied to the candle, and walked into the hall.

Mrs. Avenel caught hold of the parson. “Sir, you’ll be on your guard with Richard. Remember your promise.”

“He does not know all, then?”

“He? No! And you see he did not overhear more than what he says. I’m sure you’re a gentleman, and won’t go against your word.”

“My word was conditional; but I will promise you never to break the silence without more reason than I think there is here for it. Indeed, Mr. Richard Avenel seems to save all necessity for that.”

“Are you coming, sir?” cried Richard, as he opened the street-door.