he will not last ten years' time, die; and then you will be rich and independent—the lady of ashpound."
"don't mention it, sir, unless you mean to tempt me to commit murder next."
the speakers in the old drawing-room of newton-le-moor, in the south country, thirty years ago, were mr. baring and his daughter diana. he was a worn and dissipated-looking man, with a half-arrogant, half-base air—implying a whole old man of the world of a bad day gone by. he was flawless in his carving, his card-dealing, his frock-coat and tie: corrupt to the core in almost everything else. she was a tall, full-formed woman, in her flower and prime, with a fine carriage and gait, which rendered it a matter of indifference that she wore as plain and simple a muslin gown as a lady could wear. her hair was of the pale, delicate, neutral tint which the french call blond-cendré, a little too ashen-hued for most complexions. it was not wavy hair, but very soft and pure, [page 303]as if no atmosphere of turmoil and taint had ruffled or soiled it. it made miss baring's fresh, clear complexion a shade too bright in the carmine, which took off the greyness of the flaxen hue and relieved the cold and steel-like gleam in her grey-blue eyes. the features of the face were fine and regular, like mr. baring's; but instead of the handsome, aristocratic, relentless aquiline nose, which was the most striking feature in the gentleman's face, the lady's was a modified greek nose, broad enough at the base slightly to spoil its beauty but largely to increase its intellectual significance.
the "he" of the conversation, who was not to last ten years, was gervase norgate of ashpound—a poor, impulsive, weak-willed, fast-living young neighbouring squire. unluckily for himself, he had been early left his own master, and had ridden post-haste to the dogs ever since. suddenly he had taken it into his muddled head to pull up in his career, and, if need be, to chain and padlock, hedge and barricade himself with a wife and family, before ashpound should be swallowed up by hungry creditors, and he had hurried himself into a forlorn grave.
mr. baring was willing to let him off as a pigeon to be plucked, and to use him instead as an unconscious decoy-duck in getting rid of die; not that mr. baring had an unnatural aversion to his daughter, but that she was a drag upon him both for the present and the future. but die, after one night's reflection, accepted gervase norgate to escape worse evil, having neither brother nor sister nor friend who would aid her. what die did on that night; whether she merely "slept on the proposal," like a wise, [page 304]well-in-hand, self-controlled woman; whether she outwatched the moon, plying herself with arguments, forcing herself to overcome her deadly sick loathing at the leap, nobody knows. if die had learned anything worth retaining, in the shifts and shams of her life, it was perfect reticence. the result was that gervase norgate was coming to woo as an accepted wooer at newton-le-moor on the evening of the summer day when mr. baring confidentially assured the bride that the bridegroom would not last ten years.
newton-le-moor was what its name suggested, an estate won from the southern moors by other and worthier adventurers than john fitzwilliam baring. in his hands the place was drifting back to the original moorland. everything, except the stables and kennels, had been suffered to go to wreck. the house was of weather-streaked white stone, in part staring and pretentious, in part prodigal and vagabondish. the drawing-room of newton-le-moor, like most drawing-rooms, was a commentary—more or less complete—on the life and character of its owner. if it did not represent all his practices and pursuits—his repudiation of just claims and obligations; his sleeping till noon and waking till morning, and faring sumptuously at his neighbours' expense; his fleecing of every victim who crossed his false door by borrowing, bill-discounting, horse-dealing, betting, billiards, long and short whist, and brandy-drinking—at least it painted one little peculiarity of john fitzwilliam baring very fairly. not one accessory which could contribute to his comfort and enjoyment was wanting, from the exceedingly easy chair for his back, [page 305]to the alabaster lamp for his eyes, and the silver pastile-burner for his nose. on the other hand, there was scarcely an article that had no special reference to john fitzwilliam baring which was not in the last stages of decay.
on this evening, before gervase norgate came up with her father from the dining-room, where he might sit too long, considering who was waiting him, diana had her tea-table arranged, and sat down behind it as if to do its honours. she showed no symptoms of discomposure, unless that her rose-colour flickered and flushed in a manner that was not natural to it; yet she had so entrenched herself, that when gervase norgate entered, with an irregular, unsteady step, although as nearly sober as he ever was, she could not be touched except at arm's length, and by the tips of the fingers, over which he bowed.
mr. norgate was not in his flower and prime. he was not above a year or two miss baring's senior; but his whole being had suffered eclipse before it reached maturity, though he still showed some remains of what might have been worth preserving. his physique had been what no word interprets so fitly as the scotch word "braw,"—not huge and unwieldy in size and strength, but manly and comely. his shoulders were still broad, though they slouched. his hand and arm were still a model, somewhat wasted and shaken, of what in muscular power and lightness a hand and arm should be. his dark brown hair, dry and scanty at five-and-twenty, still fell in waves. his eyes, dulled and dimmed, were still the kindly, magnanimous, forgiving blue eyes. his mouth had always been a [page 306]heavy mouth (better at all events than a mean mouth); it was coarse now, but with strange lines of gentleness breaking in upon its tendency to violence. but his carriage, though he was pre-eminently a well-made man, was the attribute most spoilt about him. he had the blustering yet shuffling bearing of a man who is fully convinced that he has gone to the dogs, and it did not alter its expression that he was making an effort to quit his canine associates. perhaps the effort required to be confirmed before its effects could be seen; perhaps he was not setting about the right way of redeeming himself, after all.
mr. baring was pompous in his high breeding—the first gentleman in europe was pompous also. mr. baring brought forward his intended son-in-law as his young friend, and alluded pointedly to the summer evening and its event as an "auspicious occasion." but he was cut short by a frosty glance from die, and a brief remark that she was not sure that this evening and its party were more auspicious than usual.
although miss baring was a person of very little consequence in her father's house, she acted on mr. baring as a drag. her cold looks inadvertently damped him; and she had a way, which he could not account for in his daughter, of making blunt speeches, like that on the auspicious occasion and on her being left a rich young widow, if gervase norgate did for himself smartly. this was discomfiting even to a man who piqued himself on his resources in conversation. die had uttered twice as many of these abrupt, unamiable, unanswerable rejoinders within [page 307]these twenty-four hours, since she had accepted gervase norgate's hand.
whatever mr. baring thought of the rebuff, he was above exhibiting any sign of his feelings, and no one could have refused him the tribute of consideration for the position of his companions, as he blandly announced that he had the day's 'chronicle' to read, and begged to be excused for accomplishing the task before post-time. he retired to sip his tea and disappear behind the folds of his newspaper. it was the first evening for a dozen years that he had not handled cue or fingered cards.
gervase norgate, assuming his character of a man about to amend his ways, marry, and settle, sat by die baring. he noted and summed up the girl's good points, as no man in love ever yet did. she was a finer-looking woman than he had supposed,—one to be proud of as he presented her to his friends as his wife; pity that he had so few creditable friends left now! he could think of none at that moment except his strong-minded old aunt tabby, who had some sneaking kindness for him in the middle of her scorn, and his old man, miles. die baring would not tolerate his boon companions—not that he wanted her to tolerate them; she would not suit for his mistress and manager if she did; though where she got her niceness—seeing what her father was up to in cool, barefaced scampishness, in horse-flesh, bones, and pasteboard—he could not tell.—she was a capable woman he was certain, if she got a fair field for her capability. she was clever: anybody with half an eye or an ear might recognize that. and she would want all her cleverness—ay, and her will and tem[page 308]per—for what she would have to do. but she had undertaken the task, and it was not much to the purpose that if she had not been the daughter of a disreputable spendthrift she would doubtless as lief have touched live coals as have submitted to be his wife. ah, well, it was his luck in his last toss-up, and he had never been lucky before; yet he had never felt so great a reluctance to conclude his engagement of twenty-four hours, and clinch his repentance, as he did at this moment. it was good for him that he stood committed. but why had he not sought out some humble, meek lass, who would still have looked up to him and reckoned him not quite such a reprobate, but believed that there was some good left in him, and liked him a little for himself—not married him to suit her own book and save him for her own sake, if it were possible? why had he not chosen a simple pet lamb, in place of a proud heifer who scarcely took the trouble to conceal from him how it galled her neck to put it into his yoke? psha! he would break any poor heart with his incorrigible wildness and beastly sottishness in a month's time. a woman without a heart; a good, hard-mouthed, strong-pulling, well-wearing woman,—honest, and a lady; a handsome, superior woman, and far beyond his deserts, was the wife for him.
gervase pursued this line of thought; but he spoke to miss baring, after a little introductory flourish about the weather, his ride from ashpound, and the embroidery which she had taken up, in a different strain.
"you have shown a great, i must say an unmerited, trust in me, miss baring—diana: but i mean—i swear i [page 309]mean to do the best i can for you and myself. i have thought better of the life i have been leading; i shall turn over a new leaf, and be another man if you will help me."
the confession was fatally facile, like most confessions, but it was sincere, and not without its touching element, which, however, did not reach her.
she replied, without being greatly moved, and corrected what might be a slight misconception on his part: "i am quite aware, mr. norgate, that you have been rather wild; but since you mean to do better, i am willing to try you and to be your wife."
diana's candid acquiescence had the same disconcerting influence upon gervase that her speeches had on her father, unlike as the men were: it struck him dumb when he should have overwhelmed her with thanks. after a while he recovered himself, took heart of grace, and blundered out that he was grateful,—a happy man; would she not say gervase, when she was having him altogether?
"i suppose i may," acceded diana, with a hard smile. "there, gervase—it is not hard to say," as if she were humouring him.
he did not ask for any more favours or rights, but maundered a little on nobody calling him gervase for many a day except his aunt tabby, and she contracted it to jarvie, which had a stage-coach flavour.
"tell me something about your aunt tabby. do you know, i have not visited an aunt since i was a little girl of ten?" this afforded him an opening more naturally and pleasantly, and the two went off on aunt tabby in[page 310]stead of accomplishing more courtship, and got on a little better. diverging from aunt tabby to her place, and from her place to ashpound, they went on with mention of gervase's factotum, miles, and discussed capabilities and future arrangements with wonderful common sense.
mr. baring swallowed his last gape over his 'chronicle,' concluded that the couple had surely had their swing of private conversation for one night, and resolved to curtail the courtship to the shortest decorous bounds. so mr. baring looked at his watch, and said quite lovingly to gervase: "my boy, when i do act the family man, i do the thing thoroughly, by supping in my dressing-room at eleven. what! you are off? a pleasant ride to you. you will receive your orders from die, i fancy, when to report yourself in attendance. to-morrow is it, or next day? make yourself at home, my dear fellow. happy to think that you are going to be one of us—a son for me to be proud of. good-night. god bless you."
thus the preliminaries to the alliance ended with gervase bowing again over the tips of die's fingers. he had not the smallest inclination to raise them to his lips.
"i will do my duty by him," said diana to herself, when she was in the sanctuary of her own bare room. and what a poor sanctuary it had been! "it may be bad in me to have him, but what can i do? and what can he do, for that matter? if i do my duty by him, surely some good will come of it." perhaps her imagination was haunted by a garbled version of the text about him who turns a sinner from the error of his ways and covers a multitude of sin.
