One Of Them. Lever Charles James
industry – ”
“Oh, what a rhyme” laughed in Mrs. Morris.
“Oh, let her go on,” cried Sir William. “Go on, Clara.”
“And as for the bee,
And his industry,
I distrust his toilsome hours,
For he roves up and down,
Like a ‘man upon town,’
With a natural taste for flowers.
There, mamma, no more, – not another the whole day long, I promise you,” cried she, as she threw her arms around her neck and kissed her affectionately.
“Oh, these doggerel rhymes
Are like nursery chimes,
That sang us to sleep long ago.
I declare I’m forgetting already; so I’ll go and look for Charley, and help him to tie greendrakes, and the rest of them.”
“What a strange child!” said Sir William, as he looked fondly after her as she fled across the lawn.
“I have never seen her so thoroughly happy before,” said Mrs. Morris, with a faint sigh. “This lovely place, these delicious gardens, these charming old woods, the villa itself, so full of objects of interest, have made up a sort of fairy-tale existence for her which is positive enchantment. It is, indeed, high time we should tear ourselves away from fascinations which will leave all life afterwards a very dull affair.”
“Oh, that day is very distant, I should hope,” said he, with sincere cordiality; “indeed, my ward and myself were, this very morning, plotting by what pretext, by what skilful devices, we could induce you to spend your autumn with us.”
Mrs. Morris covered her face, as if to conceal her emotion, but a faint sob was still audible from beneath her handkerchief. “Oh!” cried she, in a faint and broken voice, “if you but knew in what a wounded heart you have poured this balm! – if I could tell – what I cannot tell you – at least, not yet – No, no, Sir William, we must leave this. I have already written to my agent about letters for Alexandria and Cairo. You know,” she added, with a sad smile, “the doctors have sentenced me to Egypt for the winter.”
“These fellows are mere alarmists. Italy is the best climate in the world, or, rather, it has all the climates in the world; besides, I have some wonderful counsel to give you about your bonds. I intend that Miss Clara shall be the great heiress of her day. At all events, you shall settle it with May.” And so, with that dread of a scene, a sort of terror about everything emotional, – not very unnatural in gentlemen of a certain time of life, and with strong sanguineous temperaments, – Sir William hurried away and left her to her own reflections.
Thus alone, Mrs. Morris took a letter from her pocket, and began to read it. Apparently the document had been perused by her before, for she passed hastily over the first page, scarcely skimming the lines with her eye. It was as if to give increased opportunity for judgment on the contents that she muttered the words as she read them. They ran thus: —
“A month or six weeks back our proposal might have been accepted, so at least Collier thinks; but he is now in funds, has money in abundance, and you know what he is at such moments. When Collier went to him at his lodgings in King Street, he found him in high spirits, boasting that he occupied the old quarters of the French Emperor, – that he had even succeeded to his arm-chair and his writing-table. ‘A splendid augury, Tom,’ said he, laughing. ‘Who knows but I, too, shall be “restored” one of these days?’ After some bantering he stopped suddenly, and said, ‘ By the way, what the devil brings you here? Is n’t it something about Loo? They say you want to marry her yourself, Collier, – is that true?’ Not heeding C.‘s denial, given in all solemnity, he went on to show that you could be no possible use to Collier, – that he himself could utilize your abilities, and give your talents a fitting sphere; whereas in Collier’s set you would be utterly lost. C. said it was as good as a play to hear his talk of all the fine things you might have done, and might yet do, in concert. ‘Then there’s Clara, too,’ cried he, again; ‘she ‘ll make the greatest hit of our day. She can come out for a season at the Haymarket, and she can marry whoever she likes.’ Once in this vein, it was very hard to bring him back to anything like a bargain. Indeed, Collier says he would n’t hear of any but immense terms, – ridiculed the notion of your wanting to be free, for mere freedom’s sake, and jocularly said, ‘Tell me frankly, whom does she want to marry? or who wants to marry her! I ‘m not an unreasonable fellow if I ‘m treated on “the square.”’ Collier assured him that you only desired liberty, that you might take your own road in life. ‘Then let her take it, by all means,’ cried he. ‘I am not molesting her, – never have molested her, even when she went so far as to call herself by another name; she need n’t cry out before she’s hurt;’ and so on. C. at last brought him to distinct terms, and he said, ‘She shall cut the painter for five thousand; she’s worth to me every guinea of it, and I’ll not take less.’ Of course, Collier said these were impossible conditions; and then they talked away about other matters. You know his boastful way, and how little reliance can be laid on any statement he makes; but certain it is, Collier came away fully impressed with the flourishing condition of his present fortune, his intimacy with great people, and his actual influence with men in power. That this is not entirely fabulous I have just received a most disagreeable proof. When Collier rose to go away, he said, ‘By the way, you occasionally see Nick Holmes; well, just give him a hint to set his house in order, for they are going to stop payment of that Irish pension of his. It appears, from some correspondence of Lord Cornwallis that has just turned up, Nick’s pension was to be continued for a stated term of years, and that he has been in receipt of it for the last six years without any right whatever. It is very hard on Nick,’ said he, ‘seeing that he sold himself to the devil, not at least to be his own master in this world. I ‘m sorry for the old dog on family grounds, for he is at least one of my father-in-laws.’ I quote his words as Collier gave them, and to-day I have received a Treasury order to forward to the Lords a copy of the letter or warrant under which I received my pension. I mean simply to refer them to my evidence on Shehan’s trial, where my testimony hanged both father and son. If this incident shows nothing else, it demonstrates the amount of information he has of what is doing or to be done in Downing Street. As to the pension, I ‘m not much afraid; my revelations of 1808 would be worse than the cost of me in the budget.
“If I find that nothing can be done with Ludlow, I don’t think I shall remain here longer, and the chances are that I shall take a run as far as Baden, and who says not over the Alps after? Don’t be frightened, dear Loo, we shall meet at the same table d’hôte, drink at the same public spring, bet on the same card at rouge-et-noir, and I will never betray either of us. Of your Heathcotes I can learn next to nothing. There was a baronet of the name who ruined himself by searches after a title – an earldom, I believe – and railroad speculations, but he died, or is supposed to have died, abroad. At all events, your present owners of the name keep a good house, and treat you handsomely, so that there can be no great mistake in knowing them. Sufficient for the day is the evil – as the old saying is; and it is a wise one if we understood how to apply it.
“I have been twice with Hadson and Reames, but there is nothing to be done. They say that the town does not care for a wife’s book against her husband; they have the whole story better told, and on oath, in the Divorce Court. A really slashing volume of a husband against his wife might, however, take; he could say a number of things would amuse the public, and have a large sympathy with him. These are Hadson’s or Reames’s words, I don’t know which, for they always talk together. How odd that you should have thought of the ballet for Clara just as I had suggested it! Of course, till free of Ludlow, it is out of the question. I am sorry to seal and send off such a disagreeable letter, dear Louisa, but who knows the sad exigencies of this weary world better than your affectionate father,
“N. Holmes.
“I accidentally heard yesterday that there was actually a Mrs. Penthony Morris travelling somewhere in Switzerland. Washington Irving, I believe, once chanced upon