"Have you heard the news, captain?" exclaimed Mr. Slattery, coming abruptly to the real point, as he perceived the other was going to run again.
"No, what news?" asked Moreton, pausing.
"Why that Miss Slingsby is going to be married immediately to Mr. Beauchamp, who has been staying down here so long," answered Mr. Slattery; and then added, "as soon as young Wittingham's out of all danger, they say."
"Is she, by G--d!" exclaimed the captain. "Well, doctor, I shall take the short cut through that gate--good night; and do not say to any one you saw me here. I know you can be trusted with a secret."
"To be sure!" said Mr. Slattery; and while Captain Moreton vaulted over the gate, the surgeon pursued his way towards Tarningham.
Sir John Slingsby returned to Tarningham Park at about the hour of "dark midnight;" but he found both daughter and niece still up to receive him. That Sir John Slingsby had imbibed a portion of wine more abundant than most men could carry discreetly was evident from the increased depth of the rose in his complexion, and from a certain watery lustre in his eyes; but it must not thence be inferred that the baronet was even in the least degree drank. How many he had left drunk behind him matters not to this history; but he himself, though gay as usual, was perfectly sober, quite gentlemanly and at his ease; for he had not even arrived at that pitch where a consciousness of wine makes one careful of not showing its effects.
"Well, young ladies," he said, seating himself in his armchair for a moment, and sticking his thumb into his white waistcoat, "you have passed a dull night, I dare say, with the old gentleman out, and the two young gentlemen Lord knows where. Well, how are we to wear away to-morrow?"
"I shall wear away the morning, my dear uncle," said Mary Clifford, who had held long councils with her cousin, "in going to Tarningham; and I will ask you to lend me the carriage for an hour at eight o'clock."
"Certainly, dear Mary," said the baronet; "but Tarningham? what takes your pretty little self to Tarningham?"
"Why the truth is I want some money," answered Miss Clifford, "I think the bank opens at half-past eight."
"Money in the bank!" cried Sir John Slingsby, "was there ever such a girl? She has money in the bank! Well! take the carriage, Mary, when you like, and be back to breakfast at half-past nine, otherwise you shall have cold tea, and not a bit of pasty. Now to bed, to bed; for if people have to go to Tarningham early in the morning, they must go to bed at night."
The breakfast-table was laid, as usual, by nine o'clock in the morning; but before that hour Isabella Slingsby had been down and had wandered about in the drawing-room and in the library with a nervous sort of unsettledness in her manner, which struck even the servants, who happened to pass. She looked out of almost every window in the house which was accessible to her; she gazed down every road that wound through the park; she scanned every moving figure, that was within the range of sight; and she felt every moment a terror of what the next would bring, which she had never experienced in life before. She wished that Mary had not left her, that they had sent some one for the money; and she conjured up difficulties and distresses, obstacles that she would not know how to meet, questions of law and form of which she was unaware, to trouble herself and agitate her mind still more. At length, with a bold resolution, she rang the bell, and ordered the servant, who appeared, to go down to Doctor Miles's, with her compliments, and say she would be glad to see him. The moment after her father entered the room as gay, as bustling, as jovial as ever; his face resplendent with small red veins; his eyes sparkling like the wine of the night before; his ample stomach rolling unrepressed under an easy waistcoat; and his stout legs and neat foot carrying him about with the light step of one-and-twenty. To have looked at him one would have thought that there was not such a thing as care or sorrow in the while world, much less in his own house.
"Ah, Bella!" he cried, kissing her, "how have you slept, my love?--Where's Mary?--not come back? How's your aunt?--pining, pining, eh?--see what comes of a melancholy constitution, too much bile and twenty years' trial of a puritanical husband! Well, what's o'clock?--five-and-twenty minutes after nine--come along, we'll have breakfast. Mary shall have a fresh jot of tea when she comes," and in went Sir John Slingsby to the breakfast-room, ringing the bell as if he would have pulled it down the moment he got it.
"Breakfast," he exclaimed, when the butler appeared; "has not the postbag come?"
"No, Sir John," replied the man.
"Very late," said the baronet; and, marching to the window, he looked out upon the sunshiny park, with his hands behind him, for want of better occupation.
To poor Isabella Slingsby her father's lively unconsciousness was terrible; and it was with trembling hands that she made the tea and poured out the coffee, giving a sharp look round every time the door opened, as if in expectation of some grim bailiff's face appearing. Such, indeed, would have been the case, had it not been, that good Mr. Bacon had contrived to delay what he could not prevent; and at length, much to the joy and satisfaction of Isabella, the grating sound of carriage-wheels was heard from the park. That sound was still distant and indistinct, however, when the butler came in with a very peculiar and significant expression of countenance, saying, "Please, Sir John, there's a man wants to speak with you."
"Well, he must wait," said Sir John Slingsby. "Tell him I am at breakfast--has not the postbag come yet?"
"Please, Sir John, the man says he must speak with you directly."
"Tell him to go to the devil," said Sir John Slingsby, "and speak with him;" but the words were scarcely out of his mouth, when the door opened behind the butler, and not one man, but two appeared.
Isabella's face had been very pale from the first announcement made by the servant; but Sir John had remained perfectly unconscious till he saw those two strange faces. They were any thing but pleasant faces in the abstract, for though well washed and shaved there was a ruffianly dirt of expression, which no soap could get rid of. There are certain professions which stamp themselves upon the outer man in indelible lines. The bailiff--the man who makes his bread or his fortune by inflicting the most poignant misery the law knows upon his fellow-creature--the step in society still lower than the hangman--is never to be mistaken; and Sir John Slingsby recognised at once tie errand of his intrusive visitors in their aspect. His face became very pale, the red veins turned blue; and he sat at the table without uttering a word. He well knew that these men's appearance, though bad enough in itself, was but the commencement of evils: that the long-delayed hour was come: that the thin worn line which upheld his whole fortunes had snapped, and that he was now to fall into the gulf of ruin which had so long yawned beneath him. Arrested and carried from his house, every creditor would pour in with his claims, every debt be swelled by law expenses, till nought would be left for him and for his child, but a prison and a life of labour.
His careless heart sank with the weight suddenly cast upon it; and his brain was overpowered with the multitude of thoughts it had resisted too long.
But Isabella stepped in like an angel of comfort; her heart rose as his fell. The moment of terror passed away, and as the foremost of the two men laid his hand lightly upon Sir John's shoulder, she whispered in his ear, "Do not alarm yourself, my dear father. Mary has gone to Tarningham for the money. We heard of all this last night, and are quite prepared. She will be here in a moment--I hear the carriage coming up now."
"At whose suit and for what amount?" demanded Sir John Slingsby, turning to the bailiff. He could say no more, for some moments were required to collect his thoughts.
"At Mr. Wittingham's, Sir John," replied the man, "for five thousand three hundred and forty-two pounds seven and fourpence."
"Then you may tell Mr. Wittingham for me," said Sir John Slingsby, "that he is a d--d shabby, sneaking scoundrel, to do such a thing as this without giving me some notice."
"Come, come, Sir John," rejoined the bailiff, "you know it is no use talking--you must come along, you know."
"You are somewhat too quick, Sir," said Isabella, interposing, "if you mean to say the debt must be paid, that is very well. It shall be paid."
"Ay, Miss; but it must be paid immediately or Sir John must march," answered the man, screwing his eye at his follower, "gammon is gammon, you know."
"I do not understand what you mean," said Isabella, haughtily, "pray, papa, do not touch him (for Sir John had risen with fury in his countenance). The debt shall be paid immediately, as you say."
"And you shall be ducked in the horse-pond for your insolence," added the baronet, continuing to the butler, "call in all the men."
"Nay, nay--do not, my dear father!" cried Isabella. "Five thousand three hundred and forty pounds, you said?" she continued, addressing the bailiff, "I will bring the money this moment."
"Forty-two, seven, and four," said the man, sullenly, "but there may be detainers, and as the caption is made, I fancy I cannot--"
"Oh, I'll soon settle that," said Sir John Slingsby, "you see, my good fellow, there are several windows to this room as well as doors--I do not resist the law--wouldn't resist the law for the world! but as soon as the money is paid, you go out of either windows or doors as you please; but speedily in either case. Get the money, Bella--call the men here," he added, speaking sharply to the butler, "I see we shall want them."
Isabella hastened out of the room; for the carriage had just drawn up, and as she entered the vestibule she saw Mary stepping lightly out of it with a calm smile. "Have you got it?" cried Isabella, in eager haste, "they are here already."
"Indeed!" said Mary, sadly, "I am sorry for that; but there was some difficulty; for at the bank, as the sum was so large, they wanted proof of Captain Hayward's signature, which they did not well know. I could not tell what to do, and therefore went to Mr. Bacon's who soon settled the matter."
"Why the writ was taken out by him," cried Isabella.
"Yes, I know," answered her cousin, "but he told me how sorry he was to be forced by Mr. Wittingham to do it; and explained that it would be much better to pay the money at once in Tarningham, when he would give me a receipt in full, and an order, or something, to these men, so as to stop any thing unpleasant at once; for he thought I should get back before they arrived. He said there would be a great object gained in paying the money at once, so that the receipt might be dated before what he called thecaption."
"And did you do it?" asked Isabella, eagerly; "did you do it, dearest Mary?"
"Yes," answered her cousin, half alarmed; "I really believe he is a very honest little man, and he seemed truly distressed al Mr. Wittingham's conduct. He gave me the receipt and the order too, and took great pains to date them half-past eight, though it was nearly nine. I hope I have not done wrong, Isabella?"
"Oh, dear, no. I dare say it is all quite right," cried Isabella, joyfully; "give them to me, Mary, and let me run back; for I am afraid of what my father calls 'an affair of posts,' between him and these bailiffs. I left him marvellously pugnacious."
Mary Clifford put into her hand the two papers which she had received in Tarningham; and at the same time drew forth a small bundle of bank-notes, saying, "There is the rest of the twelve thousand pounds--for Heaven's sake, take care of it, Isabella."
Her cousin gazed at the little packet with a gay smile, and then tossing her head with the joy of a light heart relieved from a heavy load, she ran back into the breakfast-room, while Mary went upstairs to lay aside her shawl and bonnet.
At the door of the room where she had left her father, Isabella resumed a calm and composed air; and entering with a stately step, found five or six men-servants arranged across the end of the chamber, while the two bailiffs stood looking somewhat crest-fallen and apprehensive near Sir John, who, for his part, sat beating a tune on the breakfast-table with his fingers, and endeavouring to appear unconcerned. A sharp anxious glance at his daughter's face, however, told that all fear was not at an end; but her confident look re-assured him, and he exclaimed, "Well, Bella, have you brought the money?"
"Yes," replied Miss Slingsby, and approaching the table, she laid down the roll of bank-notes, spread them out and began to count--"One thousand, two thousand, three, four, five, six thousand;" she said aloud, much to the astonishment and admiration of the servants.
"That is more than enough, Madam," said the bailiff, approaching with humbled air and smooth tone.
"I know it is," replied Isabella: "be so good as to keep your hands away, Sir; for you are not going to have one penny of that sum. I was only counting to see that the sum was right. That paper, I think, will be quite enough for you; and that, my dear father, is the receipt for the whole sum and costs to Mr. Wittingham."
"Well, Ma'am, well, I've nothing to say," exclaimed the bailiff, "it is all in order. Howsomever, I have only done my duty; and am very glad the matter is so settled."
"Done your duty, you vagabond," cried Sir John Slingsby, "done only your duty, when you ventured to use the word gammon to my daughter--but it does not matter--it does not matter! Get out of my sight as fast as possible, and tell that fellow Wittingham to keep far off me, for, as sure as I am alive, I will horsewhip him the first time I see him--take care of them, my men, and see them safe off the grounds."
The words certainly did not seem to imply any very formidable menace; but as such the bailiff and his follower seemed to understand them, and made speed towards the door, while the men-servants answered "That we will, Sir John;" but made way for the two unwelcome visitors to effect their exit easily. Isabella remonstrated earnestly with her father; but the jovial baronet only exclaimed, "Pooh! nonsense, Bella; no harm can happen, I must see what goes on; for, with a fair start and a good run, it would be capital fun. Come into the library--come into the library, we shall have the best view there; and after that we will breakfast."
Isabella Slingsby, however, remained alone in the breakfast-room, gazing down upon the notes spread out on the table. The eagerness, the excitement of the moment was gone. The anxious fear for her father's liberty was over. Something smote her heart--even the little display of the money before the eyes of the servants and the bailiffs, she was sorry for. Considerations presented themselves which she had never thought of before; and when her cousin Mary entered the room a few minutes after, Isabella cast her arm round her neck, and bending her head upon her shoulder, said, with a blush on her cheek and tears in her eyes, "Poor Ned Hayward, Mary, I have thought too little of him, and he is not rich, I know."
"Do not be afraid, Isabella," said Mary, in a low tone.
"But I am afraid, Mary," rejoined Isabella, "I know my father is terribly embarrassed--I fear he will never be able to repay this sum."
"Then I will," said Mary Clifford.
We must go back to Stephen Gimlet's cottage and the preceding night. Beauchamp and Captain Hayward stood together by the table, when their two fair visitors had left them, waiting for the return of the gamekeeper, and they both remained silent for several minutes. There are times, when great things just accomplished, of whatever kind, or character, seem to oppress the spirit and keep it down, as it were, under a heavy weight. Nor is it altogether uninteresting to inquire what is the cause of this oppression--the remote, often unseen, even indistinct cause. It is not sorrow, it is not regret; for the weight of thought seems cast upon us as often by a joyful as a sorrowful event; and I speak not at all of the effect of misfortune, but simply of that which is produced upon the mind by a great deed done--great, at least, to the person who has performed it. I am inclined to think, that the sort of load which I speak of, may be traced to the consciousness of all the vast multitude of consequences of which every act is the source. Not the slightest thing we do that does not send a thrill vibrating along the endless chains of cause and effect to the utmost limit of time through the whole grand machine of future existence. Man dies, but not one of his acts ever dies, each perpetuated and prolonged for ever by interminable results, affecting some beings in every age to come--ay, even the slightest. But that which is to follow only becomes a question with man when the deed is to his own cognizance important as affecting himself and those around him. The eye of God sees all; but it is merely when the consequences are visible to our own limited ken, that we feel the strange involution of our destiny with that of others, and, when what we have just done is in its immediate results likely to affect us and those we love profoundly, that we pause to consider all the wide extent of the future which that act implies. Then we feel as if we had plunged headlong into an ocean of endless waves, and the weight of the waters oppresses the heart and spirit. We ask, what next? and then, what will follow? And in the game of chess that we are playing against Fate, look for the next move of our great adversary, and all the consequences of that which we have ourselves just made.
Both Beauchamp and Hayward had done an important thing that night. The latter had stripped himself for a friend's benefit of the treasured resource of after-life. Never rich, he had left himself but a scanty pittance which was not likely to be increased by any means but his own personal exertions. From that moment, he felt that his course of life must be changed, that his views, his feelings, his habits, must undergo a severe scrutiny, and be subjected to a hard discipline; that the careless ease, the light-hearted indifference to the morrow was at an end; that the small cares he had never yet known, the looking to shillings and to pence, and all the sordid minutia; of difficult economy were to be his companions for life, as inseparable from his footsteps as his shadow. Honest poverty may be a very fine thing in contemplation, but let its admirers understand that it is a difficult thing in practice; for honesty and poverty are like Adam and the devil in the garden, ill-suited tenants of one house, the latter of whom is always laying out snares to reduce his companion to his own level. If such be the case where the circumstances of birth have made the evils of poverty habitual, and given its temptations no factitious advantages, how much more is it so, when a knowledge of, a taste for, and a long education in ease and comfort, have both engendered a habit of expense, and rendered the restraints of poverty privations. It is then that honesty has to struggle with a host of foes, and too often a murder and suicide are committed: honesty killing itself after an attempt to get rid of its comrade.
But Ned Hayward was a very honest man, and his first thought was how to bear his poverty rightly. He gave not one thought to the money he had just given away--for so he believed it to be--he would have performed the same act over and over again a dozen times if he had had the means and the motives to do so; and would each time have done it willingly; but that did not prevent his feeling the painful situation in which he had left himself; and he contemplated with deep thought and stern resolution all that was to issue from the deed he had done.
With Beauchamp, the feelings might be different, but the sources from which they sprang were the same. He, too, had taken a step, which was to influence the whole of his future life. He had said words to Isabella Slingsby, of which he felt all the import at the moment they were spoken--which he spoke purposely, that there might be no doubt or hesitation on her mind in regard to his sensations or purposes, and yet which, as soon as they were uttered, filled him with a vague feeling of apprehension. Yet Beauchamp was a resolute man in character; and had performed acts of persisting resolution, which few men would have had the determination to carry through. He loved Isabella too dearly; and had the whole world been subject to his choice would have selected her. He was anxious, likewise, to call her his own, for he was not without the fire of passion, and was very different from those idle triflers, in whom love is a vanity lighted up by the coldignis fatuusof a volatile and fugitive desire. But his previous history furnished materials for doubt and alarm; and when he paused to contemplate all the innumerable consequences of the few words he had spoken, there was a mist over one part of that sea of many waves, and he asked himself, with awe, "What is beneath?" The thought, however, that he was loved in return, was consolation and courage; and though, for his part, Ned Hayward did not venture to indulge in any such sweet dream, yet the image of Mary Clifford, like that of the Virgin in the old legend, shed a light which dispelled the darkness along one bright path, through the obscure future, for him also.
The contemplations of both gentlemen, however, were speedily broken through by the return of Ste Gimlet, who, turning to Mr. Beauchamp, inquired,
"Please, Sir, what shall we do with the man locked up in the vestry?"
"Oh, have him out," cried Ned Hayward, "and hand him over to a constable."
Beauchamp did not reply so quickly; but at length he said, "There may be difficulty, Hayward, in finding a constable at this time of night; and not only difficulty, but also danger to ourselves, if we take any part in the business. Is the place where the man is confined secure?" he continued, addressing the gamekeeper.
"Pretty well, Sir, I think," answered Gimlet; "there are bars to the windows, and the door is locked tight enough. Then we can lock the church-door too."
"I locked it, Stephen," said Mrs. Lamb; "there hangs the key."
"Then let him stay there the night," rejoined Beauchamp, "I will not interfere to screen him; and Gimlet can get a constable early to-morrow morning, without our taking any part in the affair."
This proposal was agreed to by Ned Hayward, though the expression which his friend used, in regard to screening the offender, struck him as somewhat strange. It is wonderful, however, how often in life we do what is vulgarly termed, reckon without our host. The two gentlemen retired to rest in the rooms above, which had been prepared and furnished for them in haste, since the duel with young Wittingham; and Stephen Gimlet and Widow Lamb also sought repose. Early the next morning, however, the gamekeeper rose to seek a constable; but first he thought it expedient to look at the temporary prison in which he had confined Captain Moreton. The doors, both of church and vestry, were still closed and locked; but passing round, towards his own cottage again, by a little grass-grown path, that ran under the church walls Ste Gimlet was surprised and confounded to perceive that three of the bars covering the window of the vestry, had been forced out of the old mortar in which they had been socketed; and, jumping up on a tombstone to look in, he soon saw that the bird, as he expected, had taken wing from its cage.
Stephen Gimlet, notwithstanding this discovery, did not return to his cottage at once, to communicate the intelligence to those within. He paused and thought; but, to say truth, it was not of the event which he had just ascertained that he meditated. That was done and over: the man was gone, and might never be caught again; but the words which Beauchamp had spoken the night before had made a deeper impression upon his mind than they had upon Ned Hayward's, and naturally, for the young officer had never remarked or heard any thing before, which could lead his fancy to perceive any connexion between his friend and Captain Moreton. Stephen Gimlet, on the contrary, had observed much that excited his imagination, and it was one of a very active character. He remembered the interest which Beauchamp had displayed in the monuments of the Moreton family; he remembered all the inquiries he had made regarding their former property; and he did not forget either his mother-in-law's ancient connexion with one of the members of that house, or the somewhat mysterious expressions she had used in regard to Beauchamp himself. It was a tangled skein, difficult to unravel, but yet he resolved to unravel it; not exactly from curiosity, though curiosity might have some share therein, but rather because, in his wild fancy, he dreamed that the knowledge which Goody Lamb possessed of his guest's previous history, might afford him some means of serving a man he looked upon as his benefactor. He was peculiarly susceptible of kindness or unkindness, of gratitude or its reverse, resentment, and he thought that it would be a happy day for him if he could ever return to Mr. Beauchamp, even in a small degree, the kindness he had received. He pondered upon these things for full five minutes, and then returned to his cottage, where he found the old lady in the inner room, making the little boy repeat a short prayer at his bedside, after having washed and dressed him. It was a sweet and wholesome sight to the father. He contrasted it with former days, and he felt the balmy influence of honest peace pour over his heart. One of the first rewards of a return to virtue from any of man's many deviations, is an appreciation of its excellence. He stood and gazed, and listened, well satisfied, while the words of holy prayer rose up from the sweet tongue of his own child; and if the boy had prayed for his father's confirmation in his return to right, the petition could not have been more fully granted.
When it was done, Ste Gimlet kissed the child and sent him out to play in the little garden. Then, shaking hands with Widow Lamb, he said,
"I wanted to ask you a question or two, goody. Do you know who the man is that I locked into the vestry last night?"
"To be sure I do," answered the widow; "do you think, Stephen, I could forget one I have seen in such times and known in such acts as that man? No, no; I shall remember him to my dying day."
"Well, then," replied her son-in-law, "I want you to tell me, goody, what there is between him and Mr. Beauchamp; for the man has got out and is off, and I have great doubts that he is Mr. Beauchamp's friend."
"I had better hold my tongue, Stephen," said the old woman; "I had better hold my tongue, at least till I see and understand more. One thing at least I may say, and say truly, that the bitterest enemy ever Mr. Beauchamp had was that Captain Moreton."
"Do you think, Widow Lamb," asked the gamekeeper, in a low, stern tone, "that he has any cause to wish Mr. Beauchamp dead?"
The old woman started, and gazed at him, demanding,
"What makes you ask that?"
"I'll tell you, widow," replied the man. "Have you not heard of a shot fired into Sir John Slingsby's dining-room? Well, that shot went within a few inches of Mr. Beauchamp's head, and that is the man who fired it."
The old woman sank down on the stool by the bedside, and clasped her hands together, exclaiming,
"Is it come to that! Ay, I thought it would, sooner or later. He could not stop--no, no, he could not stop!"
She paused for a moment, and rocked herself backwards and forwards upon the seat, with a pained and bewildered look.
"I see how it is, goody," said Gimlet; "and now I'll tell you. That fellow shan't get off. I'll never give it up till I've caught him. I'll track him, like a hare, to his form, and he shall be punished. Mr. Beauchamp has been kind to me--one of the first that ever were; and I'll not forget kindness, though I'll try to forget unkindness."
"Take care what you are about, Stephen," answered his mother-in-law, "or you may do harm instead of good. Watch him, if you will, to prevent mischief; and above all, let me know every thing that you see and hear. I will talk with Mr. Beauchamp, as you call him, this very day. I wonder if the woman is living!"
"There was one woman with him, at all events," answered Stephen Gimlet, "when he was down here last."
"Ah! what was she like?" inquired Widow Lamb, eagerly; "what was she like?"
"I only saw her for a minute," replied the gamekeeper, "but she seemed a fine handsome lady as one could wish to see--somewhat reddish in the face; but with fine, dark eyes, and mighty gaily dressed. She was tall, too, for a woman."
"Yes, her eyes were dark enough," said Widow Lamb, "and she was always fond of fine clothes--that was her ruin; but red in the face!--that is strange; she had the finest and the fairest skin I ever saw."
"Well, the redness might come from drink," said Ste Gimlet, "for she seemed to me half drunk then. He called her Charlotte, I recollect."
"Ay, that's her name," exclaimed the widow; "and so they have come together again? It is for no good, I will answer; for two bolder or worse spirits never met to plot mischief."
"You had better tell me all about it, goody," said Stephen Gimlet; "do something to that fellow I will, and it's bad to work in the dark."
"Not till I have spoken to the gentleman upstairs," said the old woman. "Watch the man, Stephen: find out where he is, what he is doing, all about him, and about her too; but do not meddle with him yet. Hark! they are coming down. You go away, and I will talk with him this very day."
"I must tell them he has got out, before I go," answered the gamekeeper, going into the other room, and bolting the outer door, to guard against intrusion while the two lodgers were below.
No one, however, appeared but Beauchamp, whose first words were,
"I wish, Stephen, you would send some one down to Tarningham, to tell Mr. Slattery to come up. Captain Hayward is not so well this morning, and says he has not slept all night."
"I will go myself, Sir," said Gimlet; "but I just wanted to tell you that Captain Moreton has got out during the night. He has wrenched out three of the bars of the window, and is off."
Beauchamp mused.
"Well, it does not much matter," he said, at length; "but you had better inform Doctor Miles of what you saw in the church, and let him take whatever steps he may think necessary to insure that no fraud has been committed. I can have nothing to do with the affair. Bring up Mr. Slattery as soon as you can, for I am somewhat anxious about Captain Hayward's state this morning."
Gimlet did not reply. He uttered no expression of sorrow or of sympathy; but yet he felt as much grieved and alarmed as if Ned Hayward had been his brother; and his countenance showed it though his words did not.
As soon as he was gone, Mr. Beauchamp was turning to go upstairs again; but Widow Lamb at the moment came out of the inner room, and stopped him, saying,
"I wish to speak a word or two to you, Sir."
"Well, my good lady," answered Beauchamp, with a smile; "can I do any thing to serve you?"
"No, Sir," replied the old woman, "it is not that. But I see you do not recollect me--and, indeed, how should you! It is a long time since we first met."
Beauchamp gazed at her for a moment in silence, and then said,
"I think I do remember having seen you somewhere before I met you here. Your face struck me as familiar to my recollection when first I saw you; but I cannot remember where I saw it long ago. Were you ever in India?"
"Oh! no, my lord, it was not there," answered Widow Lamb; "when first I saw you, you were quite a young gentleman; the Honourable Charles St. Leger, they called you; and you had come down with Captain Moreton, your cousin, to shoot on the grounds of his great-aunt, Miss Moreton."
Beauchamp's face turned somewhat pale, and his fine broad brow contracted; but he did not speak, and the old woman continued,
"Do you not recollect, my lord, Davie Lamb the grieve, as they called him, and your coming down with a gay party to the grieve's house, one day? It was the eleventh of August, twelve years ago this summer; and the lady was with you, Miss Charlotte Hay, as they called her--"
"Hush! hush!" cried Beauchamp, almost fiercely; "do not mention her name in my hearing. You do not know--you do not know, good woman--"
"Oh yes, my lord, I do," answered Widow Lamb; "I know more than you think--more than you know, perhaps, yourself. I can tell you many things about her."
"Tell me nothing," said Beauchamp, sternly; "you can say nothing of her conduct, infamous and bad, that I do not know or do not guess. I wish never to hear her name again;" and he turned once more towards the stairs.
"Well, I beg your pardon, my lord," said Widow Lamb, with a disappointed look, "I did not mean to vex you, but if ever you should wish to hear more, I can tell you better than any one; for there is nobody now living knows so much as I do, and I think--"
The conclusion of her sentence was wanting, for some one opened the cottage door, which had not been bolted since Stephen Gimlet had gone out. The next moment, the head of Mr. Slattery appeared, and entering with an insinuating smile, the worthy surgeon saluted Beauchamp reverentially, saying,
"I met my good friend Wolf, Mr. Beauchamp, and was sorry to hear that Captain Hayward is not so well. But I have got good news for him, and you too. No more need of playing at bo-peep. I found Mr. Wittingham so much better this morning, that I have ventured publicly to pronounce him out of danger."
"Thank God for that!" said Beauchamp; "but we had better go up and see Hayward, who seems to me somewhat feverish."
"I am afraid there is a bit of the wadding, or the coat, or something still in the wound," said Mr. Slattery, following upstairs, "but there is no cause for alarm. It may produce inconvenience and some inflammation; but nature, my dear Sir, by the very same process which produces pain and irritation to the patient, often expels any extraneous substance, which, if it remained, might cause more serious results."
Mr. Slattery remained at least an hour and a half; and to say the truth, during that time he put our good friend Ned Hayward to some torture, but in the end, he succeeded in extracting from the wound which that gentleman had received, a portion of his waistcoat, which had been carried in by the ball in its passage. Some hemorrhage followed, which was stopped with difficulty; but at length the good surgeon took his leave, and descended with Beauchamp to the lower room.
Widow Lamb, however, met them at the foot of the stairs, saying, in a low tone,
"There is a servant on horseback, from the Park, Sir, just now before the door. He has got a note, which he will give to no one but you; and I did not know what to do."
"There is no necessity for any further concealment," said Beauchamp, advancing to the door; "you have got a note for me," he continued, speaking to the servant, who touched his hat, and delivered a small billet.
Beauchamp tore it open, and read, while good Mr. Slattery paused beside him, in the hope of hearing some news; for, as we have shown, he was not without a laudable portion of curiosity.
"I must go over directly," said Beauchamp, for that note placed before his eyes a very unpleasant state of affairs at Tarningham Park--a mortgage foreclosed, an execution placed in the house, and Sir John Slingsby himself arrested on a heavy bond debt, for long arrears of interest, and interest upon interest, and lawyers' costs. Isabella wrote in a tone of despair; and yet there was a something shining through all her gloomy words--a trust, a confidence in him to whom those words were written, which were very pleasing to him.
"Can I drive you over in my gig, Mr. Beauchamp?" said Mr. Slattery.
"No, I thank you," replied the other; "I dare say, my good fellow, you will not object to let me mount your horse?" he continued, addressing the servant, "I must get over to the Park as speedily as possible."
Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, the man might have objected; but the events which had just happened at his master's house, were, by the time he set out, known from the housekeeper's room to the pigsty, and had excited amongst the servants too strong a feeling of dismay and distress, for him to hesitate when there was a chance of affording aid, or even consolation, to Sir John Slingsby and his daughter. He instantly acceded, then, and lengthened the stirrups. Beauchamp only stayed to get his hat and speak a few words to Ned Hayward, then sprang into the saddle, and the next moment was going straight across the country towards Tarningham Park.
All was dismay and confusion in the house of Sir John Slingsby, when, after having galloped across the park, without heeding bridle-paths or carriage-roads, Beauchamp drew hit rein at the door. No servant came to take the horse, for all were busy within, though, busy with what, would have been difficult to say. The only thing they had to be busy with was their own consternation; for there was no packing up for departure, no inventories, no arrangements in progress; and yet not an attendant appeared, except through the double glass-doors, where a knot was to be seen assembled in the inner vestibule, who never turned a look towards the terrace before the house. One excuse, perhaps, might be that there were so many people arriving, that a new comer could attract no attention. It seemed as if a general call had been made upon Tarningham, to attend and witness the disgrace and discomfort of the family. A number of tradesmen were gathered before the doors, conversing together in low tones, and with gloomy faces; and there was a post-chaise, besides a gig, a saddle-horse, and a tax-cart or two. Beauchamp thought the spectacle somewhat odd; for it seemed to him, notwithstanding all he knew of the gossiping propensities of small places, that the news of Sir John Slingsby's misfortunes must have spread with marvellous rapidity. But he knew not Mr. Wharton, nor could conceive the policy which should induce a man, who had chosen his moment for consummating a long prepared scheme for stripping another of all his worldly wealth, to complicate his difficulties by every means, so as to render the bonds he had cast round him indissoluble.
"Here, take my horse," he said, addressing the sullen-looking postillion who stood behind the chaise; and when the man obeyed, civilly enough, Beauchamp approached a hale-looking man, like a grazier, and inquired, "What is all this?"
"Why, Sir," replied the man, who had often seen his interrogator in Tarningham, "Mr. Wharton's clerk told me that there was an execution going to be put in, so I came up to see if I could get my bill. But the lawyer was beforehand with us; and the matter is not so much, only forty pound or so, and I did not think it worth while, when I found how matters are going, to trouble the hearty old gentleman, who has spent a deal o' money with us all in his day."
"You seem a very respectable man," said Beauchamp, calmly, but still somewhat moved, "and you shall not lose by your conduct. You, Sir," and he turned to another, "I think you are the stationer at Tarningham--is yours the same errand, and on the same information?"
"Yes, Sir," answered the person he addressed, "one of Mr. Wharton's young men came down and told me; but I think, with my neighbour Groves, that we should behave handsome."
"I see the whole matter," said Beauchamp, speaking rather to himself than those around. "You can wait a little, gentlemen? I think Sir John can pay you all without inconvenience, though he is a careless man, and his affairs may not be quite in order."
"They say Mr. Wharton has arrested him, Sir," said a little man, with a thin, small voice.
"I will go in and see," replied Beauchamp, with a smile. "If any of you could contrive to go or send down to Tarningham, and say to Mr. Bacon, the attorney, that Lord Lenham would be glad to see him here immediately, you would oblige me. Tell him to lose not a moment."
"I'll go, in a jiffey," cried the stout man, jumping into a tax-cart. "Who did you say, my lord?"
"Lord Lenham," answered Beauchamp; "he will know who you mean;" and turning round, he walked into the house.
The servants grouped themselves differently at his appearance, and bowed low, the butler venturing to say,
"I am glad you have come, Sir."
"Where is your master?" asked Beauchamp.
"In the library, Sir," replied the man, "with a number of them. It is a sad time, Sir, 'specially for my poor young lady."
The man walked on before, and opened the library door; Beauchamp followed quickly; and certainly the sight which that room presented was a painful one. Mrs. Clifford sat near one of the windows, the picture of despair; Isabella was seated near the table, with her eyes buried in her hands, and the rich curls of her beautiful hair falling over her face. Mary was bending down to speak to her; grief in her lovely face, but yet as calm and composed as usual. Old Sir John was a little in advance, with two bailiffs standing near--not the same who had been there earlier in the morning--and his valet behind him, helping him to put on his great coat, while Mr. Wharton stood at the other side of the large library-table, with a smile upon his lip, a frown upon his brow, a sparkling black eye, and a double degree of red in one of the cheeks, though the other looked somewhat pale. Two or three men, whose business there and ordinary functions were not apparent at the moment, made up the rest of the company.
Sir John Slingsby had one arm in the sleeve of his great coat, and was thrusting angrily and ineffectually at the garment, to get the other in also, speaking all the time in a furious tone, with his face turned to Mr. Wharton.
"I tell you, Wharton, you are a d--d scoundrel," he said, "an ungentlemanlike blackguard. You have swindled me out of thousands, and you know it; and now, without giving me a hint, you come upon me in this way."
"You are angry, Sir John, you are angry," said Mr. Wharton, in a sweet tone. "It is as unpleasant to me as to you, I can assure you; but when I heard that Mr. Wittingham had issued process, I was compelled, however unwillingly, to take care of myself and my clients. You know I told you a month ago it could not go on any longer; so you cannot say you had not notice."
The old baronet was about to pour upon him a new volley of objurgations, thrusting manfully at the sleeve of his coat all the time, when suddenly his eye rested upon Beauchamp and he stopped, turning a little pale, for the presence of that gentleman at such a moment both surprised and pained him. Mary whispered a word to her cousin, however, and Isabella starting up with the tears in her eyes, and a glow upon her cheeks, held out her hand to him exclaiming, "Oh, thank you, thank you! Dr. Miles was not to be found," she added, in a whisper, "or I would not have sent."
Beauchamp smiled and shook his head half reproachfully, and Sir John recovering himself took his hand saying, "Ah, Beauchamp, you have come at an awkward time. Can't ask you to dinner to-day, my dear Sir, for the house is in the hands of the myrmidons of the law, and I must away, they tell me. It's a bad job, I am afraid."
"Nevertheless I intend to dine with you here, Sir John," answered Beauchamp, laughing and shaking the baronet's hand warmly, "so you had better take off your great coat."
"I beg your pardon, Sir," said Mr. Wharton, taking a step forward, "but I am afraid Sir John Slingsby cannot remain with you at present. Business has been too long delayed already by the folly of the officer who thought fit--"
"To act like a man of some consideration and feeling I suppose, Sir," said Beauchamp, eyeing him from head to foot with a calm, cold, withering look. "You are Mr. Wharton the attorney I imagine, of whom I have heard so much in regard to several transactions soon to be inquired into."
"My name is Wharton, Sir; yes, my name is Wharton," answered the solicitor in a sharp, fierce tone, "and I insist that you do not interrupt the operation of the law."
"The operation of the law I shall not interrupt," replied Beauchamp, "but the operations of the lawyer I certainly shall."
"He's a nabob," said Sir John Slingsby to his niece in a low, laughing voice, "yes, you are quite right, Beauchamp, this is Mr. Wharton, the attorney, calling himself esquire, and a greater scoundrel does not live between the four seas. He has cheated me through thick and thin, and now wants by coming upon me all in a moment to get possession of my property as he has done with others before now."
"If such are his intentions he will find himself mistaken," answered Beauchamp; "but now, Sir John, take off your coat again, and we will to business. I think the ladies may as well leave us, however.--Be satisfied, my dear Madam," he continued, speaking to Mrs. Clifford, who had risen and come a little forward, "be satisfied, Miss Slingsby--all this matter will be easily arranged, and Sir John and I will join you in the drawing-room in an hour."
While Beauchamp had been speaking these few words, Mr. Wharton had been conversing with rapid utterance, but in a low voice, with one of the men present, who seemed to be the superior sheriff's officer, and as soon as the gentleman ceased he exclaimed. "Well, Sir, as you think the whole matter can be so easily arranged I shall leave you to arrange it."
"Excuse me, Mr. Wharton," said Beauchamp, coolly, "you will be good enough to stay. We shall want you for certain receipts, and, perhaps," he added with a smile, "for some good legal advice till my own solicitor comes, whom I expect in about half an hour."
"My receipts can be soon given," said Mr. Wharton, a good deal staggered and alarmed by Mr. Beauchamp's calm tone, and his allusion to his solicitor; "but I can tell you that if you think that is all you will have to do you are mistaken. The house is filled with creditors."
"Gathered together by Mr. Wharton, the attorney, for the purpose of overwhelming a gentleman whom he sought to ruin," answered Beauchamp. "I am aware of all that, Sir. Your proceedings have been watched, and I am informed of almost every step you have taken for the last month. I dare say, however, we shall find means of satisfying all who have any just claims."
Isabella had lingered at the door after her aunt and cousin had passed out, and now hastily turning back, she placed a little packet she had held tight in her hand, in that of Beauchamp, saying, in a low voice, "Here is more than six thousand pounds, left from what kind, good, Ned Hayward gave last night. The other debts are not large, but this man's claim is frightful."
She spoke in a tone of alarm, but Beauchamp hastened to relieve her, replying, "Never fear, never fear! The claim must be investigated, but all that is just shall be paid. Leave us, and make your mind easy, dear Miss Slingsby."
"I really cannot waste my time here," said Mr. Wharton, as the young lady left the room, "I have important business to attend to and the magistrates to meet at eleven, Mr. What's-your-name."
"My name, Sir, is Charles Beauchamp St. Leger, Viscount Lenham," answered Beauchamp, "and I am afraid the magistrates must dispense with your company to-day, Mr. Wharton. You cannot carry this business through, Sir, in the same manner that you did that of my poor uncle, Mr. St. Leger Moreton. So now make up your mind at once, Sir, to remain here till the whole of this unpleasant business which you have stirred up against Sir John Slingsby be brought to a conclusion, for depend upon it I will not let you go till such is the case."
Mr. Wharton's face had turned paler and paler, till the carbuncles, of which it did not possess a few, remained alone in their glory; but he was an irritable and fiery man up to a certain point, and he replied in a bold tone, "Oh ho, my lord! Do you think because you happen to be a peer who has been skulking about the country under an alias, that you can come down and brow-beat us country gentlemen at your pleasure?"
"I never attempt to brow-beat a gentleman," replied Beauchamp, laying a particular emphasis on the last word, which called up a very unpleasant grin upon the faces of two or three of the men present, "nor do I brow-beat you, Mr. Wharton; but I simply insist upon your staying till the business which brought you here is concluded. You have no right to put Sir John Slingby in an unpleasant position, and then leave him there when your presence is wanted to relieve him from it."
"He has a ducking in the horse-pond, too, to go through," cried Sir John Slingsby, "such as we gave the other bailiff he sent up this morning. He must wait, he must wait for all the honours," and turning round with a laugh the worthy baronet whispered a word or two to his valet, who remained in the room.
"I will take care, Sir John," said the man, and was moving towards the door; but Beauchamp interposed, saying,
"No, no, we must have no violence. Only order the servants not to let this man pass out till I have done with him;--and now to business. Sir John, if you will take the end of the table I will sit here. Mr. Wharton will place himself there, and the matter will soon be arranged. Ring that bell, Sir."
The bailiff to whom he spoke obeyed in an instant; Sir John Slingsby took a chair at the head of the table, and Mr. Wharton seeing no help for it, seated himself where Beauchamp had pointed, turning his face to the window with an indifferent air, as if the business about to take place was no concern of his.
"Now, Sir, what is it you want here?" asked Beauchamp, addressing one of the officers.
"I hold a writ against Sir John Slingsby for twenty-two thousand three hundred pounds," said the man, "at the suit of Joseph Wharton, Esq."
"Well, Sir, stand back," said Beauchamp, "we will deal with you presently.--And you, Sir?" he continued, speaking to another stout broad-set, black-faced man.
This proved to be an officer put in execution upon a second bond for a sum of seven thousand pounds at the suit of the same person. He also was directed to stand back, Beauchamp saying, "Upon these actions we will give bail, as they must be tried.--You, Sir, there at the end of the table, what do you want?"
"Why, please you my lord, it's only my bill for a hundred and seventeen pounds or thereabouts, for repairs to the stables and offices. If it had not been Mr. Wharton told me I should not get my money if I did not apply at once, I should never have thought of troubling Sir John."
Beauchamp's eye fixed sternly upon the attorney, who exclaimed with a quivering lip, "Did you not consult me, Sir? Was I not bound to give you a just opinion?"
"I never said a word to nobody," replied the man, "till I met you in the street, and you told me Mr. Wittingham was going to arrest Sir John."
"Really, my lord, this is trifling," said Mr. Wharton. "I ask is Sir John Slingsby ready to discharge his heavy debt to me? If he is, let him do it and I go. If not he must, I fear, go to prison."
"He is quite ready, Sir, to discharge every just debt this instant," replied Beauchamp, "but we doubt that your's is just, Sir, and therefore we will deal first with those that are certainly honest. Sir John," he continued pointing to a servant who had come in, "will you order Dr. Miles to be sent for.--Now, my good man, you shall have a cheque for your money," and taking out his cheque-book he wrote an order for the amount, taking the builder's name and statement from his own lips.
Another man was then called forward, and the same course pursued, Beauchamp proceeding quietly, although he saw Mr. Wharton rise and enter into eager consultation with the bailiffs.
He was not allowed to go on long without interruption, for after what seemed some urgent remonstrances on the part of Mr. Wharton, and a good deal of resistance on the part of the sheriff's officer, the latter stepped forward, saying, "I really, my lord, cannot wait any longer, and I do not see any good of it; for Sir John being in my custody, and not knowing what detainers may be lodged against him, a bail bond cannot be drawn till we see."
The man spoke civilly, and with an evident respect for rank, and Beauchamp answered calmly, "Your observation is a very just one, my good friend. I have only to answer however that I am ready to give bail to any amount which you may think necessary to secure the sheriff, in which Dr. Miles will join me I am sure as soon as he arrives."
"It is a heavy sum, Sir," said the bailiff, doubtfully.
"True," answered Beauchamp, "and moreover you do not know, except from my own word, who I am, nor that I am in a position to give an available bond. It is for that very reason that I wish you to delay till my solicitor and Dr. Miles arrive, when I assure you, upon my word of honour, that you shall have every satisfaction. The sum required would be more than met by money of mine in the Tarningham bank, as you will see by that receipt, if I thought fit to pay the debt claimed by Mr. Wharton at once, which I do not. The bond on which the writ has been taken out is, you tell me, for twenty-two thousand three hundred pounds. Here you see are sixty-five thousand pounds paid on my account into the Tarningham bank."
"But there is another bond for seven thousand five hundred pounds on which execution has issued," said Mr. Wharton.
"Exactly so," said Beauchamp, whose thoughts were very rapid, "and the way I intend to deal with that matter is as follows: We will pay the amount of that bond under protest as a matter of account, reserving this other claim for twenty-three thousand pounds to try the questions that may arise, such as consideration, usury, &c."
Mr. Wharton bit his lip. He saw that he had made one mistake. He feared that he might have made more; for knowing that Sir John Slingsby had little acquaintance with law, and an invincible objection to lawyers, excepting when he wanted to borrow money, he had gone on with somewhat rash confidence in his own powers of over-reaching. However he put a bold face upon the matter, saying, "That won't do, Sir, that won't do, my Lord. You seem to have a smattering of the law, but you will find that all accounts have been examined and passed. No court in Christendom will open that question again."
"We will see," replied Beauchamp, quietly.
"Then there is the mortgage," said Mr. Wharton.
"That will be dealt with as we shall be advised," rejoined the young nobleman; "the matter of the mortgage has nothing to do with the business before us; and moreover, Mr. Wharton, I will beg you not to interfere here till you are called upon. Though a lawyer you are exactly in the same position as any other creditor, and in taking out this writ, you have given all power into other hands. If I satisfy the sheriff that he has sufficient security according to law, for the appearance of Sir John Slingsby, that is all that is necessary; and I will tell you, Sir, that sooner than see a course, which is certainly unhandsome, and which I suspect to be villanous, successful against my friend, even so far as to remove him from his own house for an hour, I would pay the amount of all claims upon him to the sheriff under protest. I have the means of doing so at command this moment, and therefore be very sure that your arts will avail you nothing--Sir, I understand you," he added sternly, "the property upon which you have advanced a pitiful sum of fifty thousand pounds, and by accumulating interest upon interest, and costs upon costs, have raised the debt to nearly eighty thousand, is worth, at least, two hundred. The bait was tempting, Sir; but beware that in snapping at it too eagerly, you have not got the hook in your jaws. There is such a thing, Sir, as striking fraudulent attorneys off the roll, and, at all events be sure, that however pleasant it might be to possess this estate, you will never have it."
"I do not want it, Sir," cried Mr. Wharton, half mad with rage and vexation, "I would not have it if you would give it to me."
Beauchamp laughed, and Sir John Slingsby shouted; while all the other persons in the room, not excepting bailiffs, tittered, without disguise, to the lawyer's sad discomfort.
"Ah! here comes Miles," exclaimed Sir John, "and Mr. Undersheriff too, by Jove. That is lucky; the matter will soon be settled now.--How are you doctor, how are you Mr. Sheriff? you are the very man we wanted."
"I am very sorry for all this business, Sir John," said a tall gentlemanlike person, whom he had addressed; "but having business at Tarningham, and hearing of the unfortunate occurrence by the way, I thought it better to come up myself, as I felt sure the action could be bailed."
"And so it can," cried Sir John Slingsby, "here stands bail ready in the person of my friend, Lord Lenham; but that pitiful little snivelling rogue, Wharton, objects."
"Ah! good day, Wharton," said the sheriff, drily, "why do you object?"
"No, I do not object," replied the attorney, "the men here, Bulstrode and the rest, thought there might be detainers, and the process having--"
"No, no!" cried the officer, "we thought nothing about it, till you told us to refuse the bail till we had searched the office. I've a shrewd guess, Mr. Wharton, that you have got up all the creditors here who could lodge detainers and his lordship offers to pay all honest debts at once, and to put in bail against yours."
"What do you mean by that?" exclaimed Wharton, furiously; but the sheriff interfered, and at the same time Doctor Miles and Beauchamp, who had been speaking together, turned round, and the clergyman introduced his young friend to the officer of the county by the title of Viscount Lenham.
"This matter, I think, can be settled with you, Sir, in a few words," said Beauchamp, "I do not choose to see my friend, Sir John Slingsby, wronged. It so happens, that intending to buy an estate in this neighbourhood, I have had a considerable sum paid lately into Tarningham Bank. I am ready to give a bail bond for any sum you may think necessary to your own security, that Sir John appears to the action of Mr. Wharton, or anyone else; or to pay into your hands any sum claimed, under protest. I think, in these circumstances, there can be no need of removing Sir John from his own house."
"Not in the least," said the sheriff, "bail will be quite sufficient, and can be given here quite as well as ten miles hence."
"But, my dear Sir," exclaimed Mr. Wharton, "there may be detainers for aught you know, and to a large amount."
"I will take my chance of that, Wharton," replied the undersheriff, "there were none when I came away, for I had occasion to examine the books. It is not usual to lodge detainers till caption has been actually effected, I think, my good friend."
"I think your proceeding very rash and irregular, Sir," replied the lawyer, nettled, "and I should certainly object, if--"
"Pooh, pooh!" cried the sheriff, "I am the best judge of my own affairs; and you are meddling with what does not concern you, Mr. Wharton. If I take a sufficient bail for Sir John's appearance to your action, that is all yon have to do with, and perhaps more; so let us have no more of this; for I will not be meddled with in the discharge of my duties. You tried this once before, Sir, and did not find it succeed."
"Well, Sir, take your own way, take your own way!" cried Mr. Wharton, in a sharp tone; "the sum is large; if the bail be not good, you are responsible. A gentleman who goes about the country under one false name, may very well take another. I do not mean to say that it is so; but this gentleman who calls himself Lord Lenham now, and called himself Mr. Beauchamp a few days ago, may be the greatest swindler in England for aught any of us know."
"Swindlers do not usually have large sums at the bankers," said Dr. Miles, drily; "that is to say, Mr. Wharton, not those swindlers whom the law is willing to take hold of, though I have known many rich men who swindled a good deal within the law, especially in your profession. But to set all that at rest, I will join in the bond, if necessary, and I possess means, I trust, sufficient to insure Mr. Under-Sheriff against all risk.--There comes Bacon, trotting up on his little fat horse. Bacon is a very excellent man, considering the temptations of profession and example."
"Well, as my opinion is of no value, my presence can be of no use," said Mr. Wharton; "and I shall therefore go. Good morning, gentlemen--Sir John Slingsby, good morning."
The baronet took a step forward, looking at the lawyer somewhat ominously, while the good stout calf of his leg might be seen to tremble a little, as if agitated by the simultaneous action of antagonist muscles--but then he stopped, saying aloud,
"No, I won't kick him--no, I won't kick any body any more."
"A very prudent resolution, Sir John," said Dr. Miles, "pray adhere to it; and if you include the horsewhip in your renunciations, you will do well."
Mr. Wharton was suffered to retreat, unkicked; the matter of the bail-bond was easily arranged; all the rest of the business passed quietly; the bailiffs and their satellites were withdrawn from the house; the creditors who remained, paid; and the under-sheriff took his leave. Somewhat more time had been expended, indeed, than Beauchamp had expected that the affair would occupy, ere he, Sir John Slingsby, and Doctor Miles, were once more left alone in the library; but then the baronet seized his friend's hand, with an unwonted dew in his eyes, saying,
"How can I ever thank you for your noble conduct. I cannot show my gratitude--but you must be secured. You shall have a mortgage for the whole sum: the estate can well bear it, I am sure, notwithstanding all that fellow Wharton says."
"I am quite convinced it can, Sir John," answered Beauchamp, "and I will accept your offer, because, for reasons of my own, I am exceedingly anxious that you should be under no possible obligation to me; and now let us join the ladies, for they will think we are never coming."
Dr. Miles smiled; for though he had never played at the games of love and matrimony, he had been a looker-on all his life, and understood them well. Sir John Slingsby was totally unconscious, and led the way to the drawing-room, marvelling a little, perhaps--for he was not a vain man--at the fact of his having so completely won Beauchamp's regard, and created such an interest in his bosom, but never attributing to his daughter any share therein. With parents it is ever the story of the philosopher and his cat; and though they can solve very difficult problems regarding things at a distance, yet they do not always readily see that a kitten can go through the same hole in a door which its mother can pass.
"Here, Isabel," cried the old gentleman, as they entered the room where the three ladies were seated, watching the door as if their fate hung upon its hinges, "shake this gentleman by the hand, as the best friend your father ever had."
"I do thank him, from my heart," said Isabella, giving Beauchamp her hand, with tears in her eyes; "but yet, my dear father," she added, frankly, "Mr. Beauchamp would think me ungenerous, if I did not tell you that you have another friend, who has acted in as kind and noble a manner as himself. I mean Captain--no, I will call him by his old name, Ned Hayward; for to him we owed the means of discharging the debt to that man Wittingham."
"The obligation is infinitely greater to him than to me, my dear Miss Slingsby," said Beauchamp; "for I know that Hayward's income is not very large, while, in my case, there is really no obligation at all. This money was lying idle, and it might just as well be invested in one way as another."
"But every one is not so ready to invest money in a friend's relief," said Sir John, "and I shall never forget it. Hang me, my dear girl, if I can tell what he found out in me to like or respect; I never could discover anything of the kind myself."
Isabella coloured to the eyes, but answered at once,
"Mr. Beauchamp consulted only his own noble heart."
"Mr. Beauchamp!" cried Sir John Slingsby, with one of his merry laughs; "Mr. Beauchamp had nothing to do with it, Bella. I am not in the least indebted to Mr. Beauchamp."
Isabella, Mrs. Clifford, and Mary, were all alarmed; for they might well fear that the events of that morning had somewhat affected Sir John Slingsby's brain. But he soon relieved them.
"No, Isabella," he continued, "it is to this gentleman I am indebted--let me introduce him to you. Isabella, Lord Lenham! Lord Lenham, my daughter."
Isabella cast her eyes to the ground, and a shade of deep, and, it seemed to Beauchamp, anxious thought, came over her face; but the next moment she looked up, all bright and sparkling again, and exclaimed,
"So, Lord Lenham has thought fit to come upon us in masquerade! That was hardly fair, my lord."
"Some day when Miss Slingsby will let me tell a long story she shall hear the reasons why," answered Beauchamp, "and may then judge whether it was fair or not. If she decides the cause in my favour, she may tell the pleadings to the whole party, if she thinks I have greatly erred she shall forgive the offender and conceal his crime under the seal of confession."
Again Isabella blushed deeply; and Sir John Slingsby made the matter worse by exclaiming, "Ho, ho! it is to be a private conference, is it? We are all to be kept in the dark, as indeed I have been lately; for all I know is that I have been placed in a very unpleasant and unexpected situation this morning, and as suddenly relieved from it by the affection of two dear girls, and the generosity of our noble friend. I have not thanked you yet, my dear Mary; but pray let me hear how all this has been brought about that I may do so discreetly."
"In the meantime," said Beauchamp, "I, who know the whole, will walk back again to my poor friend Hayward, and tell him how all things have gone."
"You promised to dine, you promised to dine!" cried Sir John Slingsby, "no breach of promise or I will have my action against you."
"I will keep mine to the letter," replied Beauchamp, "and be back in a couple of hours."
"And bring Ned Hayward with you," said the baronet.
Beauchamp explained that such a thing was impossible, saying that his friend had become somewhat worse in health since the preceding night, but without giving any cause for alarm. His eyes turned towards Mary Clifford as he spoke with a momentary glance, which sufficed, by the paleness that spread over her face, to confirm suspicions which he had entertained since the night before. He was too much a gentleman in heart to keep his eyes there more than that one moment for he felt that it would not only be a rudeness but an unkindness.