The Twickenham Peerage

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!'

'And is the presence of such an one incompatible with your ideas of freedom? My son, you'll be on your knees calling for me within a week.'

'At least-at least wait until I call.'

'In that case, take care lest you call in vain. Remember five years ago. If you become again what you were then, it will be for ever, and ever, and ever! You'll be but a voice perpetually calling out of hell.'

'My father, I-I am stronger than I was then.'

'We will hope it. Though I seem to hear the devil laughing. Now, my son, go!'

'Bless me, my father, before I go.'

'Yes, I will bless you. But be careful, O my son, lest, as Aaron's rod was transformed into a serpent, by your own action my blessing becomes a curse.'

His lordship knelt. The Prior blessed him. Then his lordship went to bed, though the straw pallet on which he cast himself could hardly, on that occasion at any rate, be described as a bed of rest.

CHAPTER XXX

THE ONE MAN-AND THE OTHER

There were peas in his lordship's shoes: unboiled.

For some time he had been arriving at the conclusion that he had no so whole-hearted a leaning towards the religious life as he had once imagined. The scrap of paper was the top brick; it crowned the edifice of his discontent. More, it supplied him with the necessary courage to confess his backsliding to his superior; that keen-sighted religious being perhaps better prepared for the confession than the penitent imagined. It is even possible that some expectation of the kind had always been part and parcel of the Prior's plans. The Marquis of Twickenham, who is at once a millionaire and a backboneless scamp, is not the kind of bird which often drops into the monastic draw-net, whether at home or abroad. When caught, he may be even more useful at the end of a piece of string than in a cell.

Which explains the ease with which his lordship regained what he fondly hoped would be his liberty. The truth being that persons of his type are never free; owing to their habit of mistaking licence for liberty placing them in continual bondage to some one or something.

There were peas in his lordship's shoes: unboiled. It is a fact that on the homeward way he proposed to treat himself, in Paris, to what he called a little amusement. Those peas spoilt all his pleasure. At the Moulin Rouge, while the ladies whirled their skirts and leered, and the music blared, the shadow of his monastic vigils obscured it all. Wherever he turned he saw the white Figure on the huge black cross, which had so often loomed down at him in the midnight darkness from over the altar in the chapel; against which, as the Prior said, in his frenzied fervour he had longed to dash his head. When, like a guilty thing, he stole from the unfestive revels he saw a priest standing on the pavement without; the sight of whom filled him with such unreasoning terror that he took to his heels and ran.

Luck had always been against him. Not all the evil he had done had been brought to light, but he was convinced that a most unfair proportion had been dragged into the noontide glare. The majority of men go with even their trivial peccadilloes undiscovered to the grave. In his case seven dirty things out of every ten he did were sure to get him into trouble. Did a man promise him a thrashing, dodge though he might, he was sure to light upon that man at the very moment when he least desired his presence. An instance of which aggravating species of misfortune occurred upon his homeward way.

Hardly had the boat left Boulogne harbour than he ran against a man to whom he had lost a bet-or two-which he had never paid. A bookmaker. There were three or four items outstanding against him in that particular book when the Viscount Sherrington-as his lordship then was-encountered its owner in the ring at Doncaster, and expressed a desire to once more back his fancy. The bookmaker would have none of him until the Viscount protested, with many oaths, that if he lost he would not only pay that particular bet, but all else he owed. But although he lost he did not pay. Whereupon the bookmaker took an early opportunity to inform him that wherever and whenever he met him he would favour him with his candid opinion of his character.

The average declaration of the kind is merely a figure of speech-or many gentlemen, who are now of the elect, would have to peep round every corner before they turned into a street. It was more than fifteen years since they had met, and during five of those years his lordship had been a penitent of quite exceptional strength. In the case of any other man there would probably have been a stare, a muttering beneath the breath, and then an end. But his lordship was not like any other man; his luck was his own. That bookmaker had a most aggressive memory, and he had been drinking. So when he perceived who it was who had all but trodden on his toe he addressed him much above a whisper.

'What, yer? Slippery?'

'Slippery' was the nickname by which his lordship had been known in certain circles once upon a time, but was not a style of address at all suited to a person of pronounced piety who had just emerged from prolonged cloistral seclusion.

Then and there, in the presence of quite a number of persons, that bookmaker gave utterance to his loud-voiced opinion of the man who had made that bet with him more than fifteen years before.

The Marquis set foot on his native soil with a distinct feeling of depression. If he was going, to have many encounters of that kind, better, after all, the religious life. In the cloister self-respect is an offence, and self-abasement the order of the day. It is different in the world. There men dislike to be kicked in public, nor do they even wish to have people informed that they deserve a kicking. In that respect, if in no other, his lordship was one of the crowd.

So, to raise his spirits, when he reached town he had a good dinner, and a large quantity of wine. The result, again, was neither what he expected nor desired. Seeking that feeling of conviviality which should follow a feast, he got indigestion instead. As he paid the reckoning he was painfully conscious that if the waiter would only include a couple of liver pills with the change he would do him a genuine service.

Hence he was hardly in a mood to make a triumphal return to the home of his fathers, particularly as that return was attended with circumstances which might be described as delicate. He had decided to put in an appearance at St. James's Square that very night. When he found himself in the street his resolution wavered. The glare and tumult bewildered him. He was more than half afraid of the kaleidoscopic crowd. When a man, who has crucified himself during a period extending over years, drops off his cross, he is hardly in a mood to appreciate at once London as it is at night. Besides, the place was strange. He saw changes on every hand; and when he had at last concluded to try and play the man, he had to ask his way to his own home. And then he lost himself upon the road.

He found himself, however, when he entered the sombre purlieus of St. James's Square. That was familiar ground. Wherever he had gone he had carried a picture of it in his brain. So far as he could see, for the place was more in shadow than in light, it was unchanged. He walked right round. As he went, a backwater from the past rushed over him, bearing him on its current to the days that were. He seemed to see himself once more a lad. With uncomfortable clarity of vision, he saw what kind of lad he was. He shuddered; and, as he neared his father's house, drew back ashamed. It was almost as if an invisible barrier had prevented his close approach. Round the square he went again. As, coming from the other direction, he approached Twickenham House a second time, he saw a man come through the door; a man who stood upon the pavement for a moment to shake his fist at the building which he had just quitted. Then, wheeling round upon his heels, he came smartly forward. As his lordship observed the approaching figure he was conscious of an odd sensation of amazement-of shock-as if he were staring at something which was not to be explained by the ordinary definitions which we use in our everyday experience, and which he more than half suspected was a trick played him by his eyes.

When they came close together the two men stopped short. Each regarded the other with surprise which, for a moment or two, was speechless. Then the newcomer spoke.

'You're me. What price San Francisco? How goes it, my Lord Marquis?'

There was an interval before the answer came. This took the form of an inquiry.

'What are you doing here?'

'Relinquishing the title. And you?'

'I'm returning home.'

Mr. Merrett whistled.

'Seems as if I might have known you were coming back from the husks and swine, my dropping on to you like this. Anyhow, you're welcome. You come along with me; I'll post you up to date.'

Mr. Merrett, slipping his hand through the other's arm, wheeled him right round. His lordship offered no remonstrance. Not even when, having entered a hansom which Mr. Merrett had hailed, that gentleman directed the cabman to drive to an address in the Euston Road. Scarcely a word was exchanged by the strange companions on the road. Possibly each found his attention fully occupied by a mental revision of this latest phase in the situation. The peer asked a single question as the vehicle stopped.

'What place is this?'

'This is Parkinson's Private Hotel; strictly temperance, and respectable to a fault.'

Mr. Merrett seemed well known in the establishment. He merely stopped to greet a matronly female who met them in the hall, then, leading the way upstairs, entered a spacious apartment on the first floor, which was furnished as a bed- and sitting-room. The gas was lighted; a bright fire burned in the grate. Mr. Merrett, locking the door, drew a heavy curtain in front of it.

'Now, my dear Double, you and I will have a little pleasant conversation.'

Their likeness to each other, as they stood face to face in the well-lighted room, was an illustration of what nature can do when she is in a freakish mood. In height, build, even in feature, there was so close a resemblance that it was not difficult to understand the ease with which either might be mistaken for the other. And yet in carriage and expression there was so marked a difference that, when seen together, it was the unlikeness rather than the likeness which struck one most. Ease of bearing, strength, decision, boldness, were as striking characteristics of the one man as they were wholly lacking in the other. Quickness, resource, courage, were unmistakably attributes of Mr. Merrett, just as plainly as hesitation, doubt, pliancy, were the distinguishing marks of the prodigal peer.

Mr. Merrett's quick eye summed up his lordship in a trice.

'You haven't changed. Those developments haven't taken place in your character which I've announced. It's a pity; so it is.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's to tell you what I mean that I've brought you here.'

Mr. Merrett told. As first one spoke, then the other, the same peculiarity was noticeable in their voices as in their persons. The unlikeness, with the likeness. The tone was the same; so that frequently any one, standing outside the door, for instance, would not have been able to say which of the twain was speaking. But Merrett spoke with an odd clearness, looking the person whom he addressed straight in the face; he had a trick of making his words convey their full natural meaning and more. The peer's utterance, on the other hand, was apt to be both rapid and indistinct; his glance continually wandered; one suspected, as one listened, that words coming from his mouth were both meaningless and valueless.

'And do you mean to tell me that you've been playing at being Marquis of Twickenham in my place?'

'I do. It hasn't been much of a game, but, as Marquis, I'm worth about a hundred and fifty thousand of you. That's the cold truth.'

'You don't lack assurance.'

'I do not. All I ask is to agree with you.'

'And you have the-the impudence to tell me that you've been making free with my money?'

'Free's the word. And the amount's been named. It might have been larger. But I'm a modest man. It will serve.'

'You are aware of the consequences to which you have made yourself liable?'

Mr. Merrett took out, from a pocket-book, a slip of blue paper; which, unfolding, he held out in front of him.

'See that? That's the bill on which you forged your father's name. Now, sir, for a man who takes a liberty of that kind with his own father I have no use. But a prison has. You've had a run for your money-a fifteen years' run. Now that run's over. In a nice warm cell in a police station you'll find your billet for to-night, and then from one of His Majesty's jails you'll have no chance of running for probably the next fifteen years.'

'Why do you talk to me like that? Do you-do you think you frighten me?'

'I'm quite sure I frighten you. It can't be nice to come back to find the danger staring you in the face from which you ran. A man finds prison less cheerful at your time of life than when he was younger.'

'What do you want for the bill?'

'Nothing. It's not for sale. All I want is an understanding. We can't be friends-I never could be friends with a man who forged his father's name-but we can be on terms of common agreement.'