The Castle Inn

Chapter 6

A FISH OUT OF WATER

Sir George spent a long day in his own company, and heedless that on the

surgeon's authority he passed abroad for a hard man and a dashed

unfeeling fellow, dined on Lord Lyttelton's 'Life of King Henry the

Second,' which was a new book in those days, and the fashion; and supped

on gloom and good resolutions. He proposed to call and inquire after his

antagonist at a decent hour in the morning, and if the report proved

favourable, to go on to Lord----'s in the afternoon.

But his suspense was curtailed, and his inquiries were converted into a

matter of courtesy, by a visit which he received after breakfast from

Mr. Thomasson. A glance at the tutor's smiling, unctuous face was

enough. Mr. Thomasson also had had his dark hour--since to be mixed up

with, a fashionable fracas was one thing, and to lose a valuable and

influential pupil, the apple of his mother's eye, was another; but it

was past, and he gushed over with gratulations.

'My dear Sir George,' he cried, running forward and extending his hands,

'how can I express my thankfulness for your escape? I am told that the

poor dear fellow fought with a fury perfectly superhuman, and had you

given ground must have ran you through a dozen times. Let us be thankful

that the result was otherwise.' And he cast up his eyes.

'I am,' Sir George said, regarding him rather grimly. 'I do not know

that Mr. Dunborough shares the feeling.'

'The dear man!' the tutor answered, not a whit abashed. 'But he is

better. The surgeon has extracted the ball and pronounces him out

of danger.'

'I am glad to hear it,' Soane answered heartily. 'Then, now I can get

away.'

'_ volont*!' cried Mr. Thomasson in his happiest vein. And then with a

roguish air, which some very young men found captivating, but which his

present companion stomached with difficulty, 'I will not say that you

have come off the better, after all, Sir George,' he continued.

'Ah!'

'No,' said the tutor roguishly. 'Tut-tut. These young men! They will at

a woman by hook or crook.'

'So?' Sir George said coldly. 'And the latest instance?'

'His Chloe--and a very obdurate, disdainful Chloe at that--has come to

nurse him,' the tutor answered, grinning. 'The prettiest high-stepping

piece you ever saw, Sir George--that I will swear!--and would do you no

discredit in London. It would make your mouth water to see her. But he

could never move her; never was such a prude. Two days ago he thought he

had lost her for good and all--there was that accident, you understand.

And now a little blood lost--and she is at his pillow!'

Sir George reddened at a sudden thought he had. 'And her father

unburied!' he cried, rising to his feet. This Macaroni was human,

after all.

Mr. Thomasson stared in astonishment. 'You know?' he said. 'Oh fie, Sir

George, have you been hunting already? Fie! Fie! And all London to

choose from!'

But Sir George simply repeated, 'And her father not buried, man?'

'Yes,' Mr. Thomasson answered with simplicity. 'He was buried this

morning. Oh, that is all right.'

'This morning? And the girl went from that--to Dunborough's bedside?'

Sir George exclaimed in indignation.

'It was a piece of the oddest luck,' Mr. Thomasson answered, smirking,

and not in the least comprehending the other's feeling. 'He was lodged

in Magdalen yesterday; this morning a messenger was despatched to

Pembroke for clothes and such-like for him. The girl's mother has always

nursed in Pembroke, and they sent for her to help. But she was that

minute home from the burial, and would not go. Then up steps the girl

and "I'll go," says she--heaven knows why or what took her, except the

contrariness of woman. However, there she is! D'ye see?' And Mr.

Thomasson winked.

'Tommy,' said Sir George, staring at him, 'I see that you're a d--d

rascal!'

The tutor, easy and smiling, protested. 'Fie, Sir George,' he said.

'What harm is in it? To tend the sick, my dear sir, is a holy office.

And if in this case harm come of it--' and he spread out his hands

and paused.

'As you know it will,' Sir George cried impulsively.

But Mr. Thomasson shrugged his shoulders. 'On the contrary, I know

nothing,' he answered. 'But--if it does, Mr. Dunborough's position is

such that--hem! Well, we are men of the world, Sir George, and the girl

might do worse.'

Sir George had heard the sentiment before, and without debate or

protest. Now it disgusted him. 'Faugh, man!' he said, rising. 'Have

done! You sicken me. Go and bore Lord Almeric--if he has not gone to

Paris to save his ridiculous skin!'

But Mr. Thomasson, who had borne abuse of himself with Christian

meekness, could not hear that unmoved. 'My dear Sir George, my dear

friend,' he urged very seriously, and with a shocked face, 'you should

not say things like that of his lordship. You really should not! My lord

is a most excellent and--'

'Pure ass!' said Soane with irritation. 'And I wish you would go and

divert him instead of boring me.'

'Dear, dear, Sir George!' Mr. Thomasson wailed. 'But you do not mean it?

And I brought you such good news, as I thought. One might--one really

might suppose that you wished our poor friend the worst.'

'I wish him no worse a friend!' Sir George responded sharply; and then,

heedless of his visitor's protestations and excuses and offers of

assistance, would see him to the door.

It was more easy, however, to be rid of him--the fine gentleman of the

time standing on scant ceremony with his inferiors--than of the

annoyance, the smart, the vexation, his news left behind him. Sir George

was not in love. He would have laughed at the notion. The girl was

absolutely and immeasurably below him; a girl of the people. He had seen

her once only. In reason, therefore--and polite good breeding enforced

the demand--he should have viewed Mr. Dunborough's conquest with easy

indifference, and complimented him with a jest founded on the prowess of

Mars and the smiles of Venus.

But the girl's rare beauty had caught Sir George's fancy; the scene in

which he had taken part with her had captivated an imagination not

easily inveigled. On the top of these impressions had come a period of

good resolutions prescribed by imminent danger; and on the top of that

twenty-four hours of solitude--a thing rare in the life he led. Result,

that Sir George, picturing the girl's fate, her proud, passionate face,

and her future, felt a sting at once selfish and unselfish, a pang at

once generous and vicious. Perhaps at the bottom of his irritation lay

the feeling that if she was to be any man's prey she might be his. But

on the whole his feelings were surprisingly honest; they had their root

in a better nature, that, deep sunk under the surface of breeding and

habit, had been wholesomely stirred by the events of the last few days.

Still, the good and the evil in the man were so far in conflict that,

had he been asked as he walked to Magdalen what he proposed to do should

he get speech with the girl, it is probable he would not have known what

to answer. Courtesy, nay, decency required that he should, inquire after

his antagonist. If he saw the girl--and he had a sneaking desire to see

her--well. If he did not see her--still well; there was an end of a

foolish imbroglio, which had occupied him too long already. In an hour

he could be in his post-chaise, and a mile out of town.

As it chanced, the surgeons in attendance on Dunborough had enjoined

quiet, and forbidden visitors. The staircase on which the rooms lay--a

bare, dusty, unfurnished place--was deserted; and the girl herself

opened the door to him, her finger on her lips. He looked for a blush

and a glance of meaning, a little play of conscious eyes and hands, a

something of remembrance and coquetry; and had his hat ready in his hand

and a smile on his lips. But she had neither smile nor blush for him; on

the contrary, when the dim light that entered the dingy staircase

disclosed who awaited her, she drew back a pace with a look of dislike

and embarrassment.

'My good girl,' he said, speaking on the spur of the moment--for the

reception took him aback--'what is it? What is the matter?'

She did not answer, but looked at him with solemn eyes, condemning him.

Even so Sir George was not blind to the whiteness of her throat, to the

heavy coils of her dark hair, and the smooth beauty of her brow. And

suddenly he thought he understood; and a chill ran through him. 'My

G--d!' he said, startled; 'he is not dead?'

She closed the door behind her, and stood, her hand on the latch. 'No,

he is not dead,' she said stiffly, voice and look alike repellent. 'But

he has not you to thank for that.'

'Eh?'

'How can you come here with that face,' she continued with sudden

passion--and he began to find her eyes intolerable--'and ask for him?

You who--fie, sir! Go home! Go home and thank God that you have not his

blood upon your hands--you--who might to-day be Cain!'

He gasped. 'Good Lord!' he said unaffectedly. And then, 'Why, you are

the girl who yesterday would have me kill him!' he cried with

indignation; 'who came out of town to meet me, brought me in, and would

have matched me with him as coolly as ever sportsman set c**k in pit!

Ay, you! And now you blame me! My girl, blame yourself! Call yourself

Cain, if you please!'

'I do,' she said unblenching. 'But I have my excuse. God forgive me none

the less!' Her eyes filled as she said it. 'I had and have my excuse.

But you--a gentleman! What part had you in this? Who were you to kill

your fellow-creature--at the word of a distraught girl?'

Sir George saw his opening and jumped for it viciously. 'I fear you

honour me too much,' he said, in the tone of elaborate politeness, which

was most likely to embarrass a woman in her position. 'Most certainly

you do, if you are really under the impression that I fought Mr.

Dunborough on your account, my girl!'

'Did you not?' she stammered; and the new-born doubt in her eyes

betrayed her trouble.

'Mr. Dunborough struck me, because I would not let him fire on the

crowd,' Sir George explained, blandly raising his quizzing glass, but

not using it. 'That was why I fought him. And that is my excuse. You

see, my dear,' he continued familiarly, 'we have each an excuse. But I

am not a hypocrite.'

'Why do you call me that?' she exclaimed; distress and shame at the

mistake she had made contending with her anger.

'Because, my pretty Methodist,' he answered coolly, 'your hate and your

love are too near neighbours. Cursing and nursing, killing and billing,

come not so nigh one another in my vocabulary. But with women--some

women--it is different.'

Her cheeks burned with shame, but her eyes flashed passion. 'If I were a

lady,' she cried, her voice low but intense, 'you would not dare to

insult me.'

'If you were a lady,' he retorted with easy insolence, 'I would kiss you

and make you my wife, my dear. In the meantime, and as you are not--give

up nursing young sparks and go home to your mother. Don't roam the roads

at night, and avoid travelling-chariots as you would the devil. Or the

next knight-errant you light upon may prove something ruder

than--Captain Berkeley!'

'You are not Captain Berkeley?'

'No.'

She stared at him, breathing hard. Then, 'I was a fool, and I pay for it

in insult,' she said.

'Be a fool no longer then,' he retorted, his good-humour restored by the

success of his badinage; 'and no man will have the right to insult you,

_ma belle_.'

'I will never give _you_ the right!' she cried with intention.

'It is rather a question of Mr. Dunborough,' he answered, smiling

superior, and flirting his spy-glass to and fro with his fingers. 'Say

the same to him, and--but are you going, my queen? What, without

ceremony?'

'I am not a lady, and _noblesse oblige_ does not apply to me,' she

cried. And she closed the door in his face--sharply, yet without noise.

He went down the stairs a step at a time--thinking. 'Now, I wonder where

she got that!' he muttered. '_Noblesse oblige_! And well applied too!'

Again, 'Lord, what beasts we men are!' he thought. 'Insult? I suppose I

did insult her; but I had to do that or kiss her. And she earned it, the

little firebrand!' Then standing and looking along the High--he had

reached the College gates--'D--n Dunborough! She is too good for him!

For a very little--it would be mean, it would be low, it would be cursed

low--but for two pence I would speak to her mother and cheat him. She is

too good to be ruined by that coarse-tongued boaster! Though I suppose

she fancies him. I suppose he is an Adonis to her! Faugh! Tommy, my

lord, and Dunborough! What a crew!'

The good and evil, spleen and patience, which he had displayed in his

interview with the girl rode him still; for at the door of the Mitre he

paused, went in, came out, and paused again. He seemed to be unable to

decide what he would do; but in the end he pursued his way along the

street with a clouded brow, and in five minutes found himself at the

door of the mean house in the court, whence the porter of Pembroke had

gone out night and morning. Here he knocked, and stood. In a moment the

door was opened, but to his astonishment by Mr. Fishwick.

Either the attorney shared his surprise, or had another and more serious

cause for emotion; for his perky face turned red, and his manner as he

stood holding the door half-open, and gaping at the visitor, was that of

a man taken in the act, and thoroughly ashamed of himself. Sir George

might have wondered what was afoot, if he had not espied over the

lawyer's shoulder a round wooden table littered with papers, and

guessed that Mr. Fishwick was doing the widow's business--a theory which

Mr. Fishwick's first words, on recovering himself, bore out.

'I am here--on business,' he said, cringing and rubbing his hands. 'I

don't--I don't think that you can object, Sir George.'

'I?' said Soane, staring at him in astonishment and some contempt. 'My

good man, what has it to do with me? You got my letter?'

'And the draft, Sir George!' Mr. Fishwick bowed low. 'Certainly,

certainly, sir. Too much honoured. Which, as I understood, put an end to

any--I mean it not offensively, honoured sir--to any connection

between us?'

Sir George nodded. 'I have my own lawyers in London,' he said stiffly.

'I thought I made it clear that I did not need your services further.'

Mr. Fishwick rubbed his hands. 'I have that from your own lips, Sir

George,' he said. 'Mrs. Masterson, my good woman, you heard that?'

Sir George glowered at him. 'Lord, man?' he said. 'Why so much about

nothing? What on earth has this woman to do with it?'

Mr. Fishwick trembled with excitement. 'Mrs. Masterson, you will not

answer,' he stammered.

Sir George first stared, then cursed his impudence; then, remembering

that after all this was not his business, or that on which he had come,

and being one of those obstinates whom opposition but precipitates to

their ends, 'Hark ye, man, stand aside,' he said. 'I did not come here

to talk to you. And do you, my good woman, attend to me a moment. I have

a word to say about your daughter.'

'Not a word! Mrs. Masterson,' the attorney cried his eyes almost

bursting from his head with excitement.

Sir George was thunderstruck. "Is the man an i***t?" he exclaimed,

staring at him. And then, "I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Fishwick, or

whatever your name is--a little more of this, and I shall lay my cane

across your back."

"I am in my duty," the attorney answered, dancing on his feet.

"Then you will suffer in it!" Sir George retorted. "With better men. So

do not try me too far. I am here to say a word to this woman which I

would rather say alone."

"Never," said the attorney, bubbling, "with my good will!"

Soane lost patience at that. "D--n you!" he cried. "Will you be quiet?"

And made a cut at him with his cane. Fortunately the lawyer evaded it

with nimbleness; and having escaped to a safe distance hastened to cry,

"No malice! I bear you no malice, sir!" with so little breath and so

much good-nature that Sir George recovered his balance. "Confound you,

man!" he continued. "Why am I not to speak? I came here to tell this

good woman that if she has a care for this girl the sooner she takes her

from where she is the better! And you cannot let me put a word in."

"You came for that, sir?"

"For what else, fool?"

"I was wrong," said the attorney humbly. "I did not understand. Allow me

to say, sir, that I am entirely of your opinion. The young lady--I mean

she shall be removed to-morrow. It--the whole arrangement is

improper--highly improper."

"Why, you go as fast now as you went slowly before," Sir George said,

observing him curiously.

Mr. Fishwick smiled after a sickly fashion. "I did not understand, sir,"

he said. "But it is most unsuitable, most unsuitable. She shall return

to-morrow at the latest."

Sir George, who had said what he had to say, nodded, grunted, and went

away; feeling that he had performed an unpleasant--and somewhat

doubtful--duty under most adverse circumstances. He could not in the

least comprehend the attorney's strange behaviour; but after some

contemptuous reflection, of which nothing came, he dismissed it as one

of the low things to which he had exposed himself by venturing out of

the charmed circle in which he lived. He hoped that the painful series

was now at an end, stepped into his post-chaise, amid the reverent

salaams of the Mitre, the landlord holding the door; and in a few

minutes had rattled over Folly Bridge, and left Oxford behind him.