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CHAPTER XXVII
A WHIPPING BOY

I had won all along the line. But I wasn't exhilarated. Fighting's fun; and in a certain kind of row I'm happiest. I can lay my hand on my heart and say I believe that I was born a fighting man. A forlorn hope and a smile to my mind go together. And it's when I'm facing fearful odds, not for the ashes of my fathers and the temples of my gods, but for amusement only, that I'm surest I'm alive.

Yet when those gentlemen retired one after the other, leaving me in possession of the field, I couldn't have bet sixpence that a glass of brandy wouldn't have acted as a pick-me-up. And when a man's reduced to alcoholic bracers there's something ails him somewhere.

The scrap with Acrodato was good business, and the capture of his lordship's pen-slip was an unmitigated joy. Bluff; all bluff. An apt example of how conscience can knock out the toughest subjects. I had had reason to suspect the worst in that business down at Birmingham, but I had never got beyond suspicion. The accessories were invention-pure invention. If he had compelled me to produce that statement, or the other trifles of which I had so boldly boasted, I should have had to plead that a thief had broken in to steal; or that they had got themselves mislaid.

Therefore the capture of that bill was a pure delight.

What worried me was the character of the man whose shoes I occupied. In San Francisco I realised that he was trash, but only in the halls of his fathers did it come home to me what trash he was. He couldn't have been long in the world when he concluded to travel, but he had been long enough to make his name, even after the lapse of fifteen years, stink in men's nostrils. Yes; and women's. It was hard that that man's reputation should be mine. It was because he was that kind of man that people-including my own brother-were so ready to conclude that I was Mr. Babbacombe-perceiving that the trick he had played was quite in keeping with his lordship's character. Figuring as the Marquis of Twickenham wasn't the soft snap I had hoped.

I felt that there wasn't a man or woman in the house, from old Gayer downward, who didn't despise me; who couldn't tell some pretty tale to my discredit. Foster regarded me as a mixture of clumsy rogue and cowardly fool. When I gave him to understand that that was not a point of view which I appreciated, although he gave no outward and visible smile, I knew that at the bottom of his heart he smiled. I could have kicked the man. But then if I had once started I should have had to kick so many.

As the days went on the Twickenham romance was in all the papers. Some of them made it quite a feature. I wished to goodness they wouldn't. They showed how the Marquis had returned-after his family had supposed that he was dead, and had actually buried some one else instead of him. I'm not thin-skinned, but some of their comments made me squirm. The Head of the House of Twickenham could not occupy his proper place in the public eye, while the papers were suffered to print such things of him.

One morning I took a bundle of them down to Foster.

'Have you seen these papers?' I inquired.

'I've seen some of them.'

'Isn't it nice reading?'

'If I were your lordship I should pay no attention to what appears in the public prints.'

'Not when they leave me without a shred of character?'

'Your lordship's return is still a novelty. They may continue to make copy of it for a time. Presently they will cease to speak of you at all.'

'You have a pleasant way of putting things! Then, until they do choose to treat me with silent contempt, I'm to allow them to say that I cheat at cards, that I don't pay my debts, that I'm an evil liver of the lowest type, and, in fact, an all-round beast and blackguard.'

Foster eyed me with a curiosity which was distinctly the reverse of flattering.

'Your lordship will permit me to speak with that frankness which alone can be of service?'

'My good man, be as frank as you choose.'

'Your lordship has surely not forgotten that there were incidents in your youthful career which did not redound to the credit of your character.'

'But when it comes to stating that I was kicked-literally kicked! – down the steps of a club for cheating at cards!'

'It is not a savoury subject, but is that not what happened? I am not aware that your lordship offered any contradiction at the time, although a signed statement of what occurred was posted on the notice board of the club in question. If your lordship will take my very serious advice, you will endeavour to live down the recollection of these things, and not, by legal or other action, drag them into the public eye.'

How I writhed when I left my counsellor's presence. This was indeed to be a whipping boy. Also this was the result of not being a student of the British peerage. If I had known what kind of an ornament to it his lordship really was, I rather fancy the Marquis would have stayed away. That I am a sinner, the saints know well. I'll not say that I'd be aught else if I had the choice. But this man appeared to have committed all the sins for which I've no stomach. He was, before all else, an unmanly man. Nothing mean, it seemed, he had left undone. In none of his misdoings had he shown a spark of courage. Nor, so far as I could learn, had he once remained to face the music. He had lied and cheated, in all sorts of dirty fashions, blubbered and run away.

That was a nice character for a man who ever from his youth upward had been a fighter to find himself possessed of. I did wish he had been a sinner on some other lines. There are offences which a man, having committed, may, as Foster suggested, live down. But none of them seemed to have come his lordship's way. He had done the unforgivable, and unforgettable, things-the things whose memory load a man with ignominy long after he has rotted in his grave. One might as well talk of flying as of living them down. Even though he attained to the years of Methuselah, to the last hour of his life he'd be a pariah. Perhaps, after all, his lordship had done the wisest thing in going away. It was I who had been a fool in coming back.

The Marquis of Twickenham was a frost. The accidents of his position only made that fact the more notorious. Though he had a million in ready money, so huge a rent roll, lands and houses, decent folks would have none of him. It was not necessary for me to have become such a mangy knave if I desired to hobnob with the other sort. Not a clean-smelling soul came near. But I had visits from various representatives of the scum of the earth, who thought, even after fifteen years, that they had a pull on me. Lord! how I enlightened them. They all, with one accord, were struck by certain developments in his lordship's character.

But I hadn't done this thing to convert the riff-raff, nor with any intention of conveying to their benighted intelligence the elementary fact that there's no fool like a certain kind of knave. I wasn't happy.

Better Mary, and the kids, and Little Olive Street, a hundred thousand times than this. The joke was when Foster, who saw how the shoe pinched, suggested I should marry. I thanked him kindly, and asked him, since he had gone so far, if he'd go a little further and name a lady.

'For instance, have you a daughter of your own?'

'My lord, I remain a bachelor.'

'Then who has a daughter, or a sister, who you think would suit?'

'Undoubtedly there are many such.'

'Of my own degree?'

'There are good women of all degrees.'

'Meaning that the good women of my own degree would probably decline.'

'My lord, if you will allow me to say so, I think you take too pessimistic a view of your own position. At first I thought your point of view too optimistic. Now you appear to have gone to the other extreme.'

'I didn't know then what I know now.'

'I don't understand.'

'Possibly not. You think me too pessimistic. Go on.'

'For one who has lived such a youth as your lordship it seems to me that one very desirable course is open.'

'Suicide?'

'No, my lord, not suicide.'

'Murder? To be of the slightest service it would have to be on a wholesale scale.'

'The course I would advise would be a new environment.'

'Meaning?'

'Let the past be past. Treat it as a closed book not to be reopened. Cut it adrift. And let your lordship seek fresh acquaintances, and fresh associations.'

'Without, I presume, making any reference to the contents of that Bluebeard's Chamber, and hoping to goodness that no one else will either.'

'There are, I am thankful to know, a large number of excellent people-excellent in every sense-who, whatever your past may have been, perceiving that it is your present intention to become a worthy member of society-'

'Who says it is?'

'I am not so dull as not to perceive that such is your intention; and I do so with the most heart-felt satisfaction.'

'You flatter me.'

'I intend to do no such thing. I say that there are many excellent people who, recognising your intention, will be content, and proud, to take you for what you are in the present, and intend in the future to be.'

'Where are those persons to be found?'

'Wherever men and women are gathered together.'

'Let us come to the concrete. Would you suggest, for instance, that I should go to a residential hotel at one of our English watering-places, where sociability is made a feature of the prospectus, and where respectable mothers are to be found with respectable daughters?'

'Your lordship might do worse.'

'You think that at a place of the kind no questions would be asked, and I should be made welcome.'

'I recognise the bitterness of your lordship's humour, but am convinced that under such circumstances you might find more happiness than you may be disposed to believe.'

'Suppose they find me out?'

'Let me tell you one thing, old bachelor though I am. If you win a woman's love she'll forgive you much, especially those things you did before you knew her. It should not be difficult for your lordship to win such love as that.'

It was the wisest thing the old gentleman had said. It made me think.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE GOING: AND THE COMING

I may mention, incidentally, that I had resolved to act on Foster's advice before he offered it. Only, with a difference. I contemplated seeking a new environment, in a sense which he had not suggested. The Marquis of Twickenham was going on another little excursion, which might endure for another fifteen years, or perhaps for ever.

To be plain, the game was hardly good enough. I was unable, even after mature consideration, to explain to myself exactly what it was I proposed to gain by assuming brevet rank, with the attendant collaterals, but whatever it was I hadn't got it. That was a dead-sure thing. I hadn't even got the fun of the fair. The joke fell flat. About the business there wasn't even a flavour of adventure. No spice at all. I had walked into the house as through my own front door, and from the first moment no one had said me nay. The excitement wasn't worth a tinker's curse.

All I had gained was a blackguard's name and his unspeakable reputation, a property which no decent creature would approach while I was near, and a shipload of money for which, under existing circumstances, I had no use whatever. As it happens, my tastes are simple. I like plain food, well cooked, and sound whisky. Those things don't cost much. In the matter of personal adornment I'm not taking anything. I'm not a tailor's block, and as for jewellery, I never wore even a finger ring or a scarf pin-and never will. I've a respectful admiration for the gentleman who plasters his money on his person, but as a general rule I find that I prefer to look at him from the other side of the room. I like a horse, and I'd always have good cattle. But riding alone's no fun, and from driving with a groom for constant company, the Lord preserve us! I've a pretty straight eye along the barrel of a gun: but who wants to go shooting in one's own society? I've a taste for the sea, but a yacht with only the crew aboard is dull o'nights. There's no one round who's fonder of a gamble, but I do bar sitting down with a job lot of men all with their eyes skinned to notice when you first begin to cheat.

No; if I was to do these things I'd do them as the Marquis of Twickenham should, or not at all. I'd be courted: I'd not court. I'd not descend into the gutter to be hail-fellow-well-met with those to whom my rank and fortune were everything, and who'd be willing, to my face-I'd never dare to turn it away for fear of what they'd say behind my back-to excuse my character on their account. My peers or nothing; and they, at least, on equal ground. My Lord of Twickenham was a great man; if he wasn't, he was nothing. As for living things down, I hadn't the time to spare. I'd be dead before I was a hundred years older; and, anyhow, it wasn't good enough.

It got borne in on me more and more, as I continued to reside in that atmosphere of undignified dignity, that there was something that was good enough, and that was just across the road. Mary and the kids. I had only seen her that once, and I was starving for another sight. I wasn't surrounded by trusting friends; and slipping from Twickenham House to Little Olive Street and back again was a trick which might be played once too often. If it was, Mary would find me out. And then- I'd be a Marquis of Twickenham to her. The Lord forbid!

I had thought of a better way. The Marquis of Twickenham had placed where he knew he'd always be able to find it a nice little sum of money. I don't want to overload this part with details, so I won't say just how much. It was enough. The interest would enable Mr. and Mrs. Merrett to live the rest of their lives in something more than comfort. Mary would think herself rich beyond the dreams of avarice. God bless the girl!

The Marquis of Twickenham would just go out one morning, and Mr. James Merrett would come home. This time for good. He'd announce that he had had enough of leaving wife and children, and that he had therefore resolved in future, wherever he went, to take them with him. I guessed that Mary would be pleased. So Little Olive Street would soon be a thing of the past, and presently a united family would be found in quite another quarter.

It was a pretty programme, and I was bent on carrying it out. Foster's notion of a new environment wasn't bad, but I was vain enough to think that mine was better. I was going to learn from the best of all teachers, experience, what being married to the woman you're in love with really means. I didn't unduly hurry, but I lost no time. I made all the arrangements I could think of; then I looked at them once or twice all round, to see that they were made. It seemed to me they were.

Then one evening his lordship stepped out of Twickenham House into St. James's Square, bent on taking another excursion of some length. I had said nothing to any one in the house. The servants did not even know that I was going out. My goings and comings had nothing to do with them. My notion was that I would send Foster, say, from Paris, a letter containing no address. In it I would inform him that I was about to act upon his hint, and seek a fresh environment. How long the search would continue I could not say. Therefore I should be obliged if he would see that during my absence certain arrangements, which I would name, were carried out, so that my affectionate brother might not think it necessary to have me buried by proxy a second time.

I was conscious as I left the house that it was a clear and pleasant evening, and that the sky was peopled with many stars. At the foot of the steps I paused and looked about me. It was not my intention to go straight to Little Olive Street, but to spend that night, and probably the following day, in transacting certain little business matters of my own. As I stood there, my feelings were those of the boy who quits, for ever, a hated school. A whimsical mood came over me. Wheeling round, I shook my fist at the door, which had just been closed.

'I hope I'll never come through you again. The Marquis slips his skin!'

Turning, I moved along the pavement. I hadn't gone a dozen yards when I came upon a man who advanced from the direction in which I was going. At sight, each, on the instant, recognised the other. We both stopped dead.

It was my double-the man with a tongue whom I had seem at M'Croskay's in San Francisco. His lordship's very own self. Simon Pure.

BOOK IV. – THE SINNER
THE AUTHOR THROWS LIGHT UPON AN
INTERESTING SITUATION

CHAPTER XXIX
BACK TO THE WORLD

The monks were working in the garden. A little apart, a man, whose costume suggested that he had not yet taken the full monastic vows, was going over a patch of ground with a rake. The patch was on a slope. Here and there were currant-bushes. The rake loosened the soil which was between them. Presently the man came to a piece of printed paper, which apparently had been carried by the wind till it found lodgment against a bush. He picked it up. It was part of a page of an English newspaper, left, probably, by some sight-seeing Englishman, who, mindful of the things which in that part of the world one ought to do, had tasted of the monastic hospitality. The finder, glancing at what he held, was about to crumple it up and throw it from him, when his eye was caught by the heading of a paragraph-'Death of the Marquis of Twickenham.'

When he perceived the words, for a moment his purpose was postponed. He stared as if they conveyed to his mind something which filled him with amazement. Then, remembering where he was, and looking about him to see if he was observed, he crushed the piece of paper into a pellet, which he placed within his cassock. Then he continued to rake as if nothing had happened.

Presently the workers retired to their cells to prepare for vespers; the monks first, the man with the rake at a respectful distance in the rear. As soon as he was in his cell, and had closed the door, out came the scrap of paper. He scanned what followed the heading which had caught his eye with a show of eagerness which was distinctly uncanonical. It was a brief statement to the effect that Leonard, third Marquis of Twickenham, had died of congenital disease of the heart on the preceding afternoon, at Cortin's Hotel, in the presence of various members of his family; and was apparently going on to give further particulars when the paper stopped short. It had been torn in such a way that only the first three or four lines of that particular paragraph remained. These the man read over and over again, as if desirous of extracting from them the last shred of their significance.

'Died! – died! – died! – What does it mean?' He turned the piece of paper over and over in his hands. 'There's nothing to show from what journal it comes, but-I think-it's from one of the dailies. And nothing to show the date. It isn't new. It's come from England; and looks as if out in the garden there it had been buffeted by wind and rain. I wonder how old it is; and what it means by saying that I died in the presence of members of my family.'

He went down with the monks to vespers, occupied his usual place below the board at supper, joined the fraternity in saying compline, then retraced his steps towards the straw pallet on which he was supposed to rest.

A few minutes afterwards he was standing in the presence of the Father Superior. Without a word of introduction he laid upon the table at which the Prior sat the scrap of paper which he had found beneath the currant-bush. The monk glanced from it to his visitor.

'What is this, my son?'

'If you will look at that paper, father, you will see.'

They had spoken in French; but that the Prior understood English was made clear by the evident ease with which he read the printed extract. As his visitor had done, he gave it a second and a third perusal. Looking down, he drummed with his fingertips upon the board. Then, glancing up at the Englishman, he addressed him in his own language.

'Where did you get this?'

Its finder explained.

'What does it mean?'

'That is what I seek to know.'

'Nothing, probably-a canard.'

'I cannot say.'

'I'll have inquiries made, and you shall be acquainted with the result.' The Englishman was still. 'Well, won't that content you?'

The reply was hardly to the question.

'I thank you, my father, for having forbidden me to take the vows.'

'You thank me-now? It's not so long ago since you were in despair, being fearful lest by my refusal I had slammed the gates of heaven in your face. How often have you besought me to let you enter on the holy life? How long is it since you lay three nights upon the chapel stones, broken-hearted, because I advised you still to meditate upon its threshold? Answer me, my son.'

'I was wrong. You were right, my father-as you always are.'

'As I always am? Our Lady and the Blessed Saints know better. In only one thing was I right-alas! that I should have to say it-I knew you better than you did yourself. How long have you been with us?'

'Nearly five years.'

'So long? Are we so much nearer to the Day of Judgment? What were you when you came?'

'A thing to mock at.'

'Ay, indeed, a thing to mock at; a thing to make the angels weep. And, like many another, you desired to beat your head against the Cross, hoping by a little agony to atone for a life of sin. And have you raised yourself a little from the ditch?'

'Else were I a wretch indeed.'

'That are we all-miserable wretches! It has been my constant grief, in your particular case, that it was written that the first-fruits of your mother's womb should be unstable as water; that he should not excel. May my grief be turned to joy! So you have been beneath this holy roof five years? And now-what now?'

'I seek to leave you.'

'To leave us? You propose to join a fraternity in which the ordinance is more severe?'

'I wish to go back into the world again.'

The Prior raised his hands with a show of surprise which was possibly more feigned than real.

'To go back into the world again? You poor fool, you know not what you say. My son, in reading what is on this piece of paper you were guilty of offence. Punishment has followed fast. Already your eyes have been shut out from the contemplation of heavenly things. Return to your cell. Meditate. In a month, if you wish it, I will speak to you again.'

'In a month? But, my father, I cannot wait so long.'

'What word is this-you cannot?'

'I am under no vow of obedience. You yourself refused to let me take it. I am free to go or stay.'

'You are under no vow of obedience? And you have been here five years? What fashion of speech is this?'

'It is true-I am under no vow. And I have to thank you, my father, for my freedom.'

'My son, return to your cell.'

'If you desire it-'

'Desire!'

'But I came to tell you that I should leave you in the morning.'

'Leave us-in the morning! Are you mad, that you speak to me like this?'

'What this house has been to me, and what I owe to you who have given me so much more than shelter, is known only to God and to myself. Don't let us part in anger, or my last state will be worse than my first; but, father, I must go.'

'Must?'

'Yes, my father, must. Speed me on my way with some of those words of help and comfort which you can speak so well; give me your blessing before I go.'

The Prior put up his hand as if to screen his face from the other's too keen observation.

'What is the meaning of this-I will not say unruly spirit-but sudden, strange necessity?'

'That piece of paper.'

'But I have already told you that that may mean nothing; that I will have inquiries made, with the result of which you shall be acquainted.'

The Englishman continued silent for some moments, clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him; plainly torn by a conflict of emotions, to which he was struggling to give articulate utterance.

'My father, I believe that I see in that piece of paper the finger of Heaven.'

'Men have supposed themselves to see the finger of Heaven in some strange places; your obliquity of vision is not original, my son.'

'But, my father, don't you understand? It shows that my duty lies outside these walls.'

'In supposing it to lie along the broad road, you have again had predecessors.'

'My presence here may be the occasion of actual sin; indeed, if I construe what is written there aright, it already is. If that statement is correct, it points to fraud-to crime. Advantage has been taken of my continued absence-my silence. An impostor has arisen. Have I done right in allowing those who have charge of my possessions to remain in ignorance? Have I not put temptation in their path, and so sinned?'

'All this may be remedied by half-a-dozen lines upon a sheet of paper.'

'My father, I must go. Without, I shall be as much your son as I am within.'

'You think it.'

'I swear it.'

'Swear not at all. Oaths in your mouth are apt to be but vain repetitions. What have you not sworn within the last five years? How much more would you have sworn if I had sanctioned it?' The Englishman was still. 'My son, I ask myself if you are an unconscious hypocrite. Men say that hypocrisy is, in a peculiar sense, your national vice. When I consider you, I wonder. I believe-I will give you so much credit-I believe that you mean what you say; although I know, if you don't, that you mean something altogether different.'

'I swear at least this much, that within a week of my reaching England fifty thousand pounds shall be paid to your credit.'

'Fifty thousand pounds? It is a large sum of money. I know that your family has riches, and that you are a great man in your own land. Your country should be proud of you.'

'My father!'

'My son, you are so poor a creature that I know not how to speak to you. You are like a sponge, quickly sodden, easily squeezed. These five years I have been hoping against hope that I might pluck you as a brand from the burning; at the least little flame, back you fall again.'

'I am not what I was when I came.'

'No. Your physical health is better.'

'My father!'

'My son, is it not true? What guarantee have I that you will endow Holy Church, and this her house, with the sum of which you speak?'

'I will give you my written bond.'

'Will that be a legal instrument in England?'

'Certainly. But do you think that in such a matter my word may not be trusted? – that it will be necessary for you to invoke the law? If so, I must indeed stand low in your eyes.'

'I have heard you vow, with tears of blood, using all the protestations of which you were master, that you would never forsake the shelter of this holy house. Do I understand that you propose that your withdrawal shall be final.'

'I cannot say.'

'Nor I. I think it possible that you may return, when the devil has fast hold of you again.' The Englishman put his hands up to his face and shuddered. 'He always has his finger-tips upon your shoulder; you only have to turn your head to see his face. I admit that in a sense-your sense-you are free. Had you vowed a hundred vows, in your sense you would still be free. It was because I knew it I desired to save your soul from blasphemy. If you will suffer me I will make you a suggestion, to which I beg that you will give serious consideration.'

'I am in your hands, my father.'

'Words, my son; words-words! I desire that you shall have as travelling companion a discreet priest, whom I will recommend, and who will attend to your spiritual welfare.' The other's silence sufficiently hinted that the proposition did not commend itself to him. 'In quitting these precincts your offence is grave. I presume you do not wish to make it greater.'

'I will give you the fifty thousand pounds.'

'Is that so? You are indeed good. If you English crucified Christ afresh, I imagine you would consider the Holy Father sufficiently appeased by a pecuniary compensation. In your country you are the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'I am.'

'You have been guilty of offences so rank, and so notorious, that you fled your father's anger, and hid your face from your kith and kin.'

'I have suffered for my sin.'

'You have suffered? Wait for the wrath to come.

'My father!'

'Your family is Protestant?'

'Alas!'

'You are entitled, from your spiritual elevation, to pity heretics, especially those of your own flesh and blood. Here are pens, ink, and paper. Sit down and write the bond of which you have spoken.' His lordship did as he was told. 'So far, so good. But do not imagine that this is a quittance for the debt which you owe Holy Church. As you are entrusted with this world's goods, so the Church demands from you her tithes. On your property you will provide a sufficient religious establishment. You will build churches and endow them. And in all your affairs you will be advised by Holy Church. As you are seated, write that also.'

'My father!'

'Obey. Or I will summon the fraternity, and in their presence I will call down on you the curse of the Church and of the Holy Ghost, and will chase you from the fold out into the darkness of the night, that night which for you shall be unending. Do not think that because you leave us, we leave you. The arm of the Church is long, and, as you have learned from experience, the fires of hell burn from afar. Write as I have said.' His lordship wrote. 'Do not imagine that this bond which you have given me is but an empty form, any more than is your promise to pay the fifty thousand pounds. You are of the Church, if you are not in it, a leaf, if not a branch; and she will demand from you exact and prompt payment of every jot and tittle which is her due. Above all, do not neglect your religious duties, not for a single hour of a single day.'

'But, my father, I cannot be a monk out in the world.'

'You will neglect them at your proper peril. Do not suppose I shall not know. You will be in error.'

'Do you intend to have me spied upon?'

'We intend to have you kept in sight. You had better do as I advised, and have a discreet priest as your companion.'

'But I am entitled to my freedom!'