Dawn: Chapter 27
Chapter 27
George's recovery, when the doctors had given up all hope, was
sufficiently marvellous to suggest the idea that a certain power had
determined--on the hangman's principle, perhaps--to give him the
longest of ropes; but it could in reality be traced to a more
terrestrial influence--namely, Lady Bellamy's nursing. Had it not been
for this nursing, it is very certain that her patient would have
joined his forefathers in the Bratham churchyard. For whole days and
nights she watched and tended him, scarcely closing her own eyes, and
quite heedless of the danger of infection; till in the end she
conquered the fever, and snatched him from the jaws of the grave. How
often has not a woman's devotion been successful in such a struggle!
On the Monday following the events narrated in the last chapter,
George, now in an advanced stage of convalescence, though forbidden to
go abroad for another fortnight, was sitting downstairs enjoying the
warm sunshine, and the sensation of returning life and vigour that was
creeping into his veins, when Lady Bellamy came into the room,
bringing with her some medicine.
"Here is your tonic, George; it is the last dose that I can give you,
as I am going back to my disconsolate husband at luncheon-time."
"I can't have you go away yet; I am not well enough."
"I must go, George; people will begin to talk if I stop here any
longer."
"Well, if you must, I suppose you must," he answered, sulkily. "But I
must say I think that you show a great want of consideration for my
comfort. Who is to look after me, I should like to know? I am far from
well yet--far from well."
"Believe me," she said, softly, "I am very sorry to leave you, and am
glad to have been of help to you, though you have never thought much
about it."
"Oh, I am sure I am much obliged, but it is not likely that you would
leave me to rot of fever without coming to look after me."
She sighed as she answered,
"You would not do as much for me."
"Oh, bother, Anne, don't get sentimental. Before you go, I must speak
to you about that girl Angela. Have you taken any steps?"
Lady Bellamy started.
"What, are you still bent upon that project?"
"Of course I am. It seemed to me that all my illness was one long
dream of her. I am more bent upon it than ever."
"And do you still insist upon my playing the part you had marked out
for me? Do you know, George, that there were times in your illness
when, if I had relaxed my care for a single five minutes, it would
have turned the scale against you, and that once I did not close my
eyes for five nights? Look at me, how thin and worn I am: it is from
nursing you. I have saved your life. Surely you will not now force me
to do this unnatural thing."
"If, my dear Anne, you had saved my life fifty times, I would still
force you to do it. Ah! it is no use your looking at that safe. I have
no doubt that you got my keys and searched it whilst I was ill, but I
was too sharp for you. I had the letters moved when I heard that you
were coming to nurse me. They are back there now, though. How
disappointed you must have been!" And he chuckled.
"I should have done better to let you die, monster of wickedness and
ingratitude that you are!" she said, stamping her foot upon the floor,
and the tears of vexation standing in her eyes.
"The letters, my dear Anne; remember that you have got to earn your
letters. I am very much obliged to you for your nursing, but business
is business."
She was silent for a moment, and then spoke in her ordinary tone.
"By the way, talking of letters, there was one came for you this
morning in your cousin Philip's handwriting, and with a London
postmark. Will you read it?"
"Read it--yes; anything from the father of my inamorata will be
welcome."
She fetched the letter and gave it him. He read it aloud. After a page
of congratulations on his convalescence, it ended,
"And now I want to make a proposal to you--viz., to buy back the
Isleworth lands from you. I know that the place is distasteful to you,
and will probably be doubly so after your severe illness; but, if you
care to keep the house and grounds, I am not particularly anxious to
acquire them. I am prepared to offer a good price," &c. &c.
"I'll see him hanged first," was George's comment. "How did he get the
money?"
"Saved it and made it, I suppose."
"Well, at any rate, he shall not buy me out with it. No, no, Master
Philip; I am not fond enough of you to do you that turn."
"It does not strike you," she said, coldly, "that you hold in your
hands a lever that may roll all your difficulties about this girl out
of the way."
"By Jove, you are right, Anne. Trust a woman's brain. But I don't want
to sell the estates unless I am forced to."
"Would you rather part with the land, or give up your project of
marrying Angela Caresfoot?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because you will have to choose between the two."
"Then I had rather sell."
"You had better give it up, George. I am not superstitious, but I have
knowledge in things that you do not understand, and I foresee nothing
but disaster in this plan."
"Once and for all, Anne, I will not give it up whilst I have any
breath left in my body, and I take my oath that unless you help me,
and help me honestly, I will expose you."
"Oh! I am your very humble servant; you may count on me. The galley-
slave pulls well when the lash hangs over his shoulders," and she
laughed coldly.
Just then a servant announced that Mr. Caresfoot was at the door, and
anxious to speak to his cousin. He was ordered to show him into the
drawing-room. As soon as he had gone on his errand, George said,
"I will not see him; say I am too unwell. But do you go, and see that
you make the most of your chance."
Lady Bellamy nodded, and left the room. She found Philip in the
drawing-room.
"Ah! how do you do, Mr. Caresfoot? I come from your cousin to say that
he cannot see you to-day; he has scarcely recovered sufficiently from
the illness through which I have been nursing him; but of course you
know all about that."
"Oh! yes, Lady Bellamy, I have heard all about it, including your own
brave behaviour, to which, the doctor tells me, George owes his life.
I am sorry that he cannot see me, though. I have just come down from
town, and called in on my way from Roxham. I had some rather important
business that I wanted to speak about."
"About your offer to repurchase the Isleworth lands?" she asked.
"Ah! you know of the affair. Yes, that was it."
"Then I am commissioned to give you a reply."
Philip listened anxiously.
"Your cousin absolutely refuses to sell any part of the lands."
"Will nothing chance his determination? I am ready to give a good
price, and pay a separate valuation for the timber."
"Nothing; he does not intend to sell."
A deep depression spread itself over her hearer's face.
"Then there go the hopes of twenty years," he said. "For twenty long
years, ever since my misfortune, I have toiled and schemed to get
these lands back, and now it is all for nothing. Well, there is
nothing more to be said," and he turned to go.
"Stop a minute, Mr. Caresfoot. Do you know, you interest me very
much."
"I am proud to interest so charming a lady," he answered, a touch of
depressed gallantry.
"That is as it should be; but you interest me because you are an
instance of the truth of the saying that every man has some ruling
passion, if only one could discover it. Why do you want these
particular lands? Your money will buy others just as good."
"Why does a Swiss get home-sick? Why does a man defrauded of his own
wish to recover it?"
Lady Bellamy mused a little.
"What would you say if I showed you an easy way to get them?"
Philip turned sharply round with a new look of hope upon his face.
"You would earn my eternal gratitude--a gratitude that I should be
glad to put into a practical shape."
She laughed.
"Oh! you must speak to Sir John about that. Now listen; I am going to
surprise you. Your cousin wants to get married."
"Get married! George wants to get married!"
"Exactly so; and now I have a further surprise in store for you--he
wants to marry your daughter Angela."
This time Philip said nothing, but he started in evident and
uncomfortable astonishment. If Lady Bellamy wished to surprise him,
she had certainly succeeded.
"Surely you are joking!" he said.
"I never was further from joking in my life; he is desperately in love
with her, and wild to marry her."
"Well?"
"Well, don't you now see a way to force your cousin to sell the
lands?"
"At the price of Angela's hand?"
"Precisely."
Philip walked up and down the room in thought. Though, as the reader
may remember, he had himself, but a month before, been base enough to
suggest that his daughter should use her eyes to forward his projects,
he had never, in justice to him be it said, dreamt of forcing her into
a marriage in every way little less than unnatural. His idea of
responsibility towards his daughter was, as regards sins of omission,
extremely lax, but there were some of commission that he did not care
to face. Certain fears and memories oppressed him too much to allow of
it.
"Lady Bellamy," he said, presently, "you have known my cousin George
intimately for many years, and are probably sufficiently acquainted
with his habits of life to know that such a marriage would be an
infamy."
"Many a man who has been wild in his youth makes a good husband," she
answered, quietly.
"The more I think of it," went on Philip, excitedly, after the fashion
of one who would lash himself into a passion, "the more I see the
utter impossibility of any such thing, and I must say that I wonder at
your having undertaken such an errand. On the one hand, there is a
young girl who, though I do not, from force of circumstances, see much
of myself, is, I believe, as good as she is handsome----"
"And on the other," broke in Lady Bellamy, ironically, "are the
Isleworth estates."
"And on the other," went on Philip, without paying heed to her remark
--"I am going to speak plainly, Lady Bellamy--is a man utterly devoid
of the foundations of moral character, whose appearance is certainly
against him, who I have got reason to know is not to be trusted, and
who is old enough to be her father, and her cousin to boot--and you
ask me to forward such a marriage as this! I will have nothing to do
with it; my responsibilities as a father forbid it. It would be the
wickedest thing I have ever done to put the girl into the power of
such a man."
Lady Bellamy burst into a low peal of laughter; she never laughed
aloud. She thought that it was now time to throw him a little off his
balance.
"Forgive me," she said, with her sweetest smile, "but you must admit
that there is something rather ludicrous in hearing the hero of the
great Maria Lee scandal talking about moral character, and the father
who detests his daughter so much that he fears to look her in the
face, and whose sole object is to rid himself of an encumbrance,
prating of his paternal responsibilities."
Philip started visibly at her words.
"Ah! Mr. Caresfoot," she went on, "I surprise you by my knowledge, but
we women are sad spies, and it is my little amusement to find out
other people's secrets, a very useful little amusement. I could tell
you many things----"
"I was about to say," broke in Philip, who had naturally no desire to
see more of the secrets of his life unveiled by Lady Bellamy, "that,
even if I did wish to get rid of Angela, I should have little
difficulty in doing so, as young Heigham, who has been stopping at the
Abbey House for a fortnight or so, is head over ears in love with her;
indeed, I should think it highly probable that they are at this moment
engaged."
It was Lady Bellamy's turn to start now.
"Ah!" she said, "I did not know that; that complicates matters." And
then, with a sudden change of tone--"Mr. Caresfoot, as a friend, let
me beg of you not to throw away such a chance in a hurry for the sake
of a few nonsensical ideas abut a girl. What is she, after all, that
she should stand in the way of such grave interests as you have in
hand? I tell you that he is perfectly mad about her. You can make your
own terms and fix your own price."
"Price! ay, that is what it would be--a price for her body and soul."
"Well, and what of it? The thing is done every day, only one does not
talk of it in that way."
"Who taught you, who were once a young girl yourself, to plead such a
cause as this?"
"Nonsense, it is a very good cause--a cause that will benefit
everybody, especially your daughter. George will get what he wants;
you, with the recovery of the estates, will also recover your lost
position and reputation, both to a great extent an affair of landed
property. Mr. Heigham will gain a little experience, whilst she will
bloom into a great lady, and, like any other girl in the same
circumstances, learn to adore her husband in a few months."
"And what will _you_ get, Lady Bellamy?"
"I!" she replied, with a gay laugh. "Oh! you know, virtue is its own
reward. I shall be quite satisfied in seeing everybody else made
happy. Come, I do not want to press you about the matter at present.
Think it over at your leisure. I only beg you not to give a decided
answer to young Heigham, should he ask you for Angela, till I have
seen you again--say, in a week's time. Then, if you don't like it, you
can leave it alone, and nobody will be a penny the worse."
"As you like; but I tell you that I can never consent;" and Philip
took his leave.
"Your cousin entirely refuses his consent, and Angela is by this time
probably engaged to your ex-ward, Arthur Heigham," was Lady Bellamy's
not very promising report to the interesting invalid in the dining-
room.
After relieving his feelings at this intelligence in language more
forcible than polite, George remarked that, under these circumstances,
matters looked very bad.
"Not at all; they look very well. I shall see your cousin again in a
week's time, when I shall have a different tale to tell."
"Why wait a week with that young blackguard making the running on the
spot?"
"Because I have put poison into Philip's mind, and the surest poison
always works slow. Besides, the mischief has been done. Good-by. I
will come and see you in a day or two, when I have made my plans. You
see I mean to earn my letters."