CHAPTER XXIHIGH DIPLOMACY
OLD Lady Crewkerne’s interview with her legal adviser did her no harm. Indeed she seemed to sleep the more soundly for it. All the same her condition continued to demand much skill and attention upon the part of Sir Wotherspoon Ogle. However, the diligence of that eminent physician did not go without its reward. Whatever might be the actual condition of the patient’s throat, the vocal cords seemed to grow decidedly stronger, in spite of the fact that she was rigidly forbidden to use them.
“On no account, Lady Crewkerne,” said Sir Wotherspoon Ogle, very gravely indeed, “and upon no consideration must you have recourse to your voice.”
“Do you suppose I am fool enough to say nothing?” said the old woman, like a hoarse old raven. “If I did, you would soon have the lid on my coffin.”
Sir Wotherspoon Ogle was shocked.
Cheriton made three applications for admission to the presence, yet met with refusal on each occasion. On the other hand, his rival, George Betterton, continued in high favor. However, on the occasion of the fourth attempt, a Sunday morning, he obtained theentrée.
The occupant of the four-poster, supported by pillows, and embellished by the head-dress and the famous Indian shawl, looked, in the opinion of her visitor, quite her old self. The eyes glittered as fiercely and as shrewdly as of yore; the curve of the nose was just as grim and hawklike as ever; while as for the resolute jaw and the thin-lipped, tightly drawn mouth, enough hard sarcasm and unflinching force of character lurked about it to quell the vast majority of human kind.
Cheriton was a fop and fribble, as all the world knew. Nevertheless, he belonged to that honorable company that is not abashed easily. He greeted the formidable occupant of the four-poster with a robustness of demeanor that served him well. Had he batted so much as an eyelid, or betrayed the least disposition to flinch, he would have received very short shrift this morning. For whatever might be Sir Wotherspoon Ogle’s opinion in regard to that complex mechanism that was buttoned into the linen band of the old lady’s nightgown, there can be no doubt that, considered as a whole, the aged frame had gained alarmingly in bodily vigor by a week’s detention within the precincts of the four-poster.
“How areyou, Caroline?” said Cheriton, with musical expansiveness.
“Worth a good many dead ones at present,” said the old lady, with no more music than a raven.
“So I perceive,” said her visitor, with a little sigh.
Upon the counterpane lay “Law’s Serious Call.” Cheriton took it up and ran his fingers thoughtfullythrough the leaves. On the flyleaf in extremely large and decidedly juvenile characters was the inscription, “To dearest Aunt Caroline, with Fondest Love from her Affectionate Niece, Araminta.”
“Caroline,” said her visitor, “you are an extremely fortunate woman to have a niece who takes such a practical interest in your spiritual well-being, particularly at a time when the state of your health tends to make the future increasingly speculative.”
The occupant of the four-poster poised her chin in a manner that can only be described as the incarnation of truculence. The fierce eyes flashed from under their bushy canopy with all the ruthlessness of their prime. She said nothing, however. Her silence rendered her the more formidable.
“In my humble judgment,” said Cheriton, choosing his words delicately, “your affectionate niece has a charmingly frank, and at the same time a deeply spiritual nature.”
“Humph!” said Miss Perry’s aunt. “The creature has as much spirituality as that bedpost.”
“How can you be so obtuse, Caroline?” said Cheriton, achieving a very respectable note of pathos. “There is a vein of poetic ideality in her that makes one think of Saint Catherine of Siena.”
“A vein of poetic fiddlestick!” said the old lady. “She has as much ideality as Ponto has. The only thing that interests either of them is their meals. In fact, I should say that Ponto has the better soul of the two. I sometimes suspect Ponto of being an esoteric Buddhist in a reincarnation.”
“Do you indeed!” said Cheriton. “Well, when Ponto presents his benefactress with a copy of ‘Amiel’s Journal’ I shall be only too happy to think you have grounds for your suspicion.”
Cheriton continued to run his fingers fondly through the pages of “Law’s Serious Call.”
“To my thinking,” said he, “it was a singularly frank yet spiritually-minded nature that conceived the idea of presenting her aunt with a work of this character.”
“The creature is as spiritually-minded as a dog ferret,” croaked the occupant of the four-poster.
“A vigorous figure,” said Cheriton, “yet not very happily applied. But I don’t wonder, Caroline, that you are a little topsy-turvy, and that your standard of things in general has gone awry.”
“Why don’t you?”
Cheriton permitted himself a highly dramatic gesture. “That man,” he said tragically.
“To whom do you refer?”
“I refer,” said Cheriton, “to the most dangerous man in London. The turkey-faced ruffian! He would undermine the moral code of Augustine himself.”
“Happily,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “I am not Augustine. As far as George is concerned, I stand where I was. Yet, mark one thing, Cheriton—mark one thing fully”—the quiescent lioness paused to unfurl as it were the ominous jowl from the band of her nightgown—the figure is not apretty one to describe a peeress of mature years, but it seems to be the only one that can in anywise do justice to the slowly kindling flame of sarcasm that was revealing itself in the thin lips and the fierce eyes—“I have a greater respect for George at this moment than I have ever had before.”
“Have you, Caroline?” said her old friend, meditatively.
He was a cool hand, but he was a little uneasy. The occupant of the four-poster marked down the suspicion of disquietude, whereas a less virile observer would not have noticed it at all.
“Yes, Cheriton,” said the raven’s voice. “Whatever George may be or whatever he may not be, in my opinion he is a practical man.”
“Practical enough, I grant you, where his passions are concerned.”
“In my judgment,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “it is precisely where his passions are concerned that a man ought to be practical.”
Cheriton agreed with reluctance.
“But there are people,” said he, with an air of refinement, “to whom the practical pursuit of passion must always seem a repulsive undertaking.”
“There are many humbugs in the world,” said Caroline Crewkerne. “Personally I agree with George that passion ought to be placed upon a business basis.”
Cheriton threw up his hands with a gesture of well simulated horror.
“No, Caroline,” said he; “you have no soul. Andyet Ogle tells me that during the past week you have been literally walking in the Valley of the Shadow.”
“Ogle is a liar,” said the occupant of the four-poster. “He is thinking of his fee.”
“For shame, Caroline,” said Cheriton. “Out upon you and your sentiments. And you who have been so near the Abyss!”
The occupant of the four-poster gave the great head-dress a tilt. The gaze that was directed from under the bushy eyebrows was that of a sibyl.
“Cheriton,” she said, “some two months ago I gave you advice in regard to your appearance. I have observed with pleasure that you have had the good sense to follow it.”
It was not quite clear, to judge by Cheriton’s demeanor, whether he felt that this was a legitimate cause for gratification.
“I am glad, Caroline, you find the result agreeable,” said he.
“My advice was given for a particular reason, you will remember.”
“Yes, Caroline, it was.”
Cheriton began to speculate as to which card his old friend was going to play.
“Do you feel that you can congratulate yourself?”
“Upon what, Caroline?” said her old friend, blandly.
“You don’t need to be told,” said Caroline, magisterially. “All London is looking at you.”
“Is it?” said Cheriton, with superb innocence. “And pray, what does it see?”
“It sees, as I do, that your behavior is of doubtful propriety.”
“Does it indeed!”
“I have reason to believe that is George’s opinion.”
“George!” exclaimed Cheriton, with impassioned dignity. “George’s opinion! I’ll thank George to refrain from expressing an opinion about me or about my affairs.”
“George is a man of the world, at any rate. I should call George a practical man.”
“George is a presumptuous fellow,” said Cheriton, with heat. “I should recommend him to refrain from meddling with my personal affairs. Let him attend to his own.”
“George is quite competent to do that,” said Caroline, with a suavity that her old friend felt to be decidedly dangerous. “In fact, I may say that George has already placed his affairs upon a business basis.”
“What do you mean, Caroline?”
“It is not a question of what I mean,” said the cryptical Caroline. “The question is, what do you mean, Cheriton?”
Cheriton allowed “Law’s Serious Call” to fall upon the counterpane.
“I wish you wouldn’t indulge in riddles,” said he.
“There is no mystery,” said Caroline. “I am going to say one thing to you quite plainly.”
“You have always been inclined to err on the side of plainness, Caroline, in my opinion.”
“George thinks, and I think with him, that the time is ripe for you to make a declaration of your intentions.”
“My intentions!”
“Your intentions, Cheriton, in regard to my niece Miss Perry. As she has been intrusted to my care I feel that I have a right to make this demand.”
During the pause which ensued the occupant of the four-poster adjusted her head-dress in much the same manner that a Lord Chief Justice might be expected to adjust his wig. Cheriton on his part assumed a port of dignified composure.
“I have no need to assure you, Caroline,” said he, impressively, “that my intentions, as far as your niece Miss Perry is concerned, are honorable—in the highest degree.”
“I am pleased to have your assurance, Cheriton, that that is so,” said Caroline, coolly. “George appeared to take a rather pessimistic view of them.”
“I will thank you, Caroline, not to quote that man to me.”
“I have a greater respect for George than I have ever had before. That is why I quote him. He has recently shown himself in the light of an uncommonly astute fellow.”
“Bah!” said Cheriton. “I have never disguised from myself that George would have been more successful as the proprietor of a bucket-shop than as an English gentleman.”
“George is a practical man, and in my judgment, Cheriton, that is where he has the advantage of you. For in my judgment you have never been that.”
“Thank you, Caroline. That is an advantage I am only too glad to concede to anybody.”
“If you will take my advice, Cheriton, you won’t be too ready to concede it. There is one question I intend to put to you.” The occupant of the four-poster leant forward a little from under her canopy with an aspect of the most resolute sarcasm that ever adorned the human countenance. “Do you intend to marry the girl?”
The question was fired point-blank in all its ruthless directness. Cheriton had long cherished the opinion that the venerable occupant of the four-poster was the most consummate vulgarian of her time. In this he was doubtless correct, for the frank contempt which she cherished for anything “finicking” was apt to lead her into extreme courses. But even he, with all his cynicism, was not prepared for anything quite so straight from the shoulder. Therefore he gave ground a little. He was inclined to hum and haw.
“I am afraid, my dear Caroline,” he said, “the answer to that question must remain entirely my affair.”
“Answer me, Cheriton,” said Caroline Crewkerne, her wrinkled old lips curling with sarcasm. “Do you intend to marry my niece?”
Cheriton abated his glance. He took the glass fromhis eye and examined it critically. He shifted his feet a little. He then replaced the glass carefully and stuck his hands under his frock-coat.
“Yes, Caroline, I do,” he said, with admirable composure.
“Very good, Cheriton,” said the occupant of the four-poster, with ominous pleasantness. “I feel it to be my duty to inform you that George does also.”
The blow was planted with all the skill of which the occupant of the four-poster was capable. Cheriton, however, had had time to foresee it. Therefore, although unable to evade the force of it, he received it staunchly.
“But that is impossible, Caroline,” he said, with a superb assumption of indifference.
“Why impossible?” said the occupant of the four-poster, with the amiability of one who holds the whole game in her hand.
“The most ill-assorted pair in England,” said Cheriton, gravely. “The incongruity of their tastes, the dissimilarity of their appearance, their disparity in years.”
“Don’t be a coxcomb, Cheriton.”
“It is far from coxcombry, I assure you, Caroline,” said Cheriton, plaintively. “A ravishing creature like that to marry a mere simulacrum like George. I shudder. The idea is horrible. It revolts me.”
“Don’t behave like a coxcomb, Cheriton. George is quite as eligible as you are. In my estimation he is the more eligible of the two.”
“Upon my word, Caroline.”
“Socially, of course, George is the more important.”
“I take leave to doubt it.”
“Do be practical, Cheriton.”
“In my humble judgment, Caroline, a first-rate earl is of more account than a second-rate duke.”
“A matter of opinion, Cheriton,” said the occupant of the four-poster, “in more senses than one. Then, again, I am glad to be able to state that George has already put the matter upon a business basis.”
“Revolting.”
“Coxcombry.”
“What do you mean precisely by a business basis?”
“I am happy to be able to state that George has made a definite offer.”
“To the girl?”
“Certainly not, Cheriton. Have you no sense of decency? And I may say that as far as it goes the offer is a tolerably good one.”
“Marriage? You are quite sure that George means marriage?”
“Yes, Cheriton, he means marriage,” said the occupant of the four-poster, with her “hanging-judge” demeanor.
“I can only say,” said Cheriton, “that such conduct is very unlike him. I yield to none, Caroline, in whole-hearted admiration of your niece, Miss Perry, considered æsthetically and as a work of nature, butyou must not forget that she has not a sou, and she is of no particular family.”
The occupant of the four-poster breathed blood and fire.
“She is a Wargrave,” said she.
“On the distaff side.”
“It is more than good enough for either of you.”
“Matter of opinion, Caroline, matter of opinion,” said Cheriton, musically.
“Your patent dates from a land-jobbing lawyer in the days of George the Second,” said the occupant of the four-poster, whose head-dress was performing surprising feats. “As for the Bettertons—who, pray, are the Bettertons?”
“A truce to family pride,” said Cheriton, mellifluously. “Let us get on with the business. I should be glad to know precisely what that sordid-minded ruffian has offered.”
“A settlement is, of course, asine quâ non.”
“I fail to understand why it should be, seeing that the girl herself has not a penny.”
“There are always two points of view, Cheriton. And in my judgment the creature’s destitute condition renders a settlement the more imperative.”
“But one may suppose you are prepared to do something, Caroline!” said Cheriton, with a severely businesslike air that was not quite in harmony with his former altruistic bearing. “You are dooced rich, you know; you have not a soul to leave your money to; and you can’t take it with you.”
“As far as aspirants to my niece’s hand are concerned,”said Caroline Crewkerne, “my intentions in regard to her do not enter into the case. It is their intentions that are important. George has made abona-fideoffer. Do you propose to better it?”
“What is George’s offer?”
“George is prepared,” said Caroline Crewkerne, who, in spite of her “laryngitis,” spoke with wonderful clearness, “to make an ante-nuptial settlement upon my niece, Miss Perry, of five thousand a year and the dower house at Godalming.”
Cheriton appeared to yield a little.
“Have you that in writing, Caroline?” said he.
“I have. It is in the hands of my lawyer.”
“If I may, I should like very much to see it.”
“You will see nothing, Cheriton. The question, as far as it affects you, is, are you prepared to better George’s offer?”
“It is so unlike George,” said the incredulous Cheriton, “that one can hardly bring one’s self to believe that he made it. He has treated none of his other women in that way.”
“Doubtless they had nobody who knew how to handle him,” said the occupant of the four-poster, with a chuckle of grim satisfaction.
“Yes, Caroline, you have a good head,” sighed my lord. “A dooced good head.”
“Are you prepared, Cheriton, to better George’s offer?”
“It wants thinking over,” said that idealist, thoughtfully.
The old woman’s upper lip took its famous andterrible double curl, while her head-dress seemed to erect itself into a veritable panoply of grim derision.
“Yes, Cheriton,” said she, “think it over. I will give you a week.”
“Say a fortnight.”
“A week. A fortnight would not be fair to George.”
Mr. Marchbanks entered on tip-toe.
“Sir Wotherspoon Ogle, my lady.”
The negotiations were curtailed by the entrance of the eminent physician.
“How pleasant it is to see you looking so much improved,” said Sir Wotherspoon. “Complete rest of mind and body have done wonders for you.”
“Humph!” said the occupant of the four-poster, ungraciously.
“‘Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do,’” Cheriton reflected as he took his leave.