The Bramleighs of Bishop's Folly

Jack had always been his favorite brother: his joyous nature, his sailor-like frankness, his spirit, and his willingness to oblige, contrasted very favorably with Temple’s sedate, cautious manner, and the traces of a selfishness that never forgot itself. Had Jack been the second son instead of the youngest, Augustus would have abdicated in his favor at once, but he could not make such a sacrifice for Temple. All the less that the very astute diplomatist continually harped on the sort of qualities which were required to dispense an ample fortune, and more than insinuated how much such a position would become himself, while another might only regard it as a burden and a worry. It was certainly a great shock to him to learn that there was a claimant to his family fortune and estate: the terrible feeling that they were to appear before the world as impostors – holding a station and dispensing a wealth to which they had no right – almost overcame him. The disgrace of a public exposure, the notoriety it would evoke, were about the most poignant sufferings such a man could be brought to endure. He to whom a newspaper comment, a mere passing notice of his name, was a source of pain and annoyance, – that he should figure in a great trial, and his downfall be made the theme of moral reflections in a leading article! How was this to be borne? What could break the fall from a position of affluence and power to a condition of penury and insignificance? Nothing, – if not the spirit which, by meeting disaster half-way, seemed at least to accept the inevitable with courage, and so carry a high heart in the last moments of defeat.

Augustus well knew what a mistaken estimate the world had ever formed of his timid, bashful nature, and this had given his manner a semblance of pride and hauteur which made the keynote of his character. It was all in vain that he tried to persuade people that he had not an immeasurable self-conceit. They saw it in his every word and gesture, in his coolness when they approached him, in his almost ungraciousness when they were courteous to him. “Many will doubtless declare,” said he, “that this reverse of fortune is but a natural justice on one who plumed himself too much on his prosperity, and who arrogated too far on the accident of his wealth. If so, I can but say they will not judge me fairly. They will know nothing of where my real suffering lies. It is less the loss of fortune I deplore, than the world’s judgment on having so long usurped that we had no right to.”

From the day he read Sedley’s letter and held that conversation with the lawyer, in which he heard that the claimant’s case seemed a very strong one, and that perhaps the Bramleighs had nothing to oppose to it of so much weight as the great fact of possession, – from that hour he took a despairing view of the case. There are men who at the first reverse of fortune throw down their cards and confess themselves beaten. There are men who can accept defeat itself better than meet the vacillating events of a changeful destiny; who have no persistence in their courage, nor any resources to meet the coming incidents of life. Augustus Bramleigh possessed a great share of this temperament. It is true that Sedley, after much persuasion, induced him to entertain the idea of a compromise, carefully avoiding the use of that unhappy word, and substituting for it the less obnoxious expression “arrangement.” Now this same arrangement, as Mr. Sedley put it, was a matter which concerned the Bramleighs collectively, – seeing that if the family estates were to be taken away, nothing would remain to furnish a provision for younger children. “You must ascertain what your brothers will do,” wrote Sedley; “you must inquire how far Lord Culduff – who through his marriage has a rent-charge on the estate – will be willing to contribute to an ‘arrangement.’”

Nothing could be less encouraging than the answer this appeal called forth. Lord Culduff wrote back in the tone of an injured man, all but declaring that he had been regularly taken in; indeed, he did not scruple to aver that it had never been his intention to embark in a ship that was sure to founder, and he threw out something like a rebuke on the indelicacy of asking him to add to the sacrifice he had already made for the honor of being allied to them.

Temple’s note ran thus: —

Dear Gusty, – If your annoyances have not affected your brain, I am at a loss for an explanation of your last letter. How, I would ask you, is a poor secretary of legation to subsist on the beggarly pittance F. O. affords him? Four hundred and fifty per annum is to supply rent, clothes, club expenses, a stall at the opera, and one’s little charities in perhaps one of the dearest capitals in Europe. So far from expecting the demands you have made upon me, I actually, at the moment of receiving yours, had a half-finished note on my writing-table asking you to increase my poor allowance. When I left Castello, I think you had sixteen horses. Can you possibly want more than two for the carriage and one for your own riding? As to your garden and greenhouse expenses, I ‘ll lay ten to one your first peas cost you a guinea a quart, and you never saw a pine at your table under five-and-twenty pounds; and now that I am on the theme of reduction, I would ask what do you want with a chef at two hundred and fifty a year? Do you, or does Ellen, ever eat of anything but the simplest diet at table? Don’t you send away the entrées every day, wait for the roast gigot, or the turkey, or the woodcocks, and in consequence, does not Monsieur Grégoire leave the cookery to be done by one of his “aides,” and betake himself to the healthful pursuit of snipe-shooting, and the evening delight of Mrs. Somebody’s tea at Portshandon? Why not add this useless extravagance to the condemned list of the vineries, the stables, and the score of other extraordinaires, which an energetic hand would reduce in half an hour?

I ‘m sure you ‘ll not take it in ill part that I bring these things under your notice. Whether out of the balance in hand you will give me five hundred a year, or only three, I shall ever remain Your affectionate brother,

Temple Edgerton Bramleigh.

“Read that, Nelly,” said Augustus, as he threw it across the table. “I ‘m almost afraid to say what I think of it.”

This was said as they sat in their little lodgings in the Rue des Moines; for the letter had been sent through an embassy bag, and consequently had been weeks on the road, besides lying a month on a tray in the Foreign Office till some idle lounger had taken the caprice to forward it.

“Her Majesty’s Legation at Naples. Lord Culduff is there special, and Temple is acting as secretary to him.”

“And does Marion send no message?”

“Oh, yes. She wants all the trunks and carriage-boxes which she left at Castello to be forwarded to town for transmission abroad. I don’t think she remembers us much further. She hopes I will not have her old mare sold, but make arrangements for her having a free paddock for the rest of her life; and she adds that you ought to take the pattern of the slipper on her side-saddle, for if it should happen that you ever ride again, you ‘ll find it better than any they make now.”

“Considerate, at all events. They tell us that love alone remembers trifles. Is n’t this a proof of it, Gusty?”

“Read Temple now, and try to put me in better temper with him than I feel at this moment.”

“I could n’t feel angry with Temple,” said she, quietly. “All he does and all he says so palpably springs from consideration of self, that it would be unjust to resent in him what one would not endure from another. In fact, he means no harm to any one, and a great deal of good to Temple Bramleigh.”

“And you think that commendable?”

“I have not said so; but it certainly would not irritate me.”

She opened the letter after this and read it over leisurely.

“Well, and what do you say now, Nelly?” asked he.

“That it’s Temple all over; he does not know why in this shipwreck every one is not helping to make a lifeboat for him. It seems such an obvious and natural thing to do that he regards the omission as scarcely credible.”

“Does he not see – does he not care for the ruin that has overtaken us?”

“Yes, he sees it, and is very sorry for it; but he opines, at the same time, that the smallest amount of the disaster should fall to his share. Here’s something very different,” said she, taking a letter from her pocket. “This is from Julia. She writes from her little villa at Albano, and asks us to come and stay with them.”

“How thoroughly kind and good-natured!”

“Was it not, Gusty? She goes over how we are to be lodged, and is full of little plans of pleasure and enjoyment; she adds, too, what a benefit you would be to poor George, who is driven half wild with the meddlesome interference of the Church magnates. They dictate to him in everything, and a Mrs. Trumpler actually sends him the texts on which she desires him to hold forth; while Lady Augusta persecutes him with projects in which theological discussion, as she understands it, is to be carried on in rides over the Campagna, and picnics to the hills behind Albano. Julia says that he will not be able to bear it without the comfort and companionship of some kind friend, to whom he can have recourse in his moments of difficulty.”

“It would be delightful to go there, Nelly; but it is impossible.”

“I know it is,” said she, gravely.

“We could not remove so far from England while this affair is yet undetermined. We must remain where we can communicate easily with Sedley.”

“There are scores of reasons against the project,” said she, in the same grave tone. “Let us not speak of it more.”

Augustus looked at her, but she turned away her face, and he could only mark that her cheeks and throat were covered with a deep blush.

“This part of Julia’s letter is very curious,” said she, turning to the last page. “They were stopping at a little inn, one night, where Pracontal and Longworth arrived, and George, by a mere accident, heard Pracontal declare that he would have given anything to have known you personally; that he desired, above everything, to be received by you on terms of friendship, and even of kindred; that the whole of this unhappy business could have been settled amicably, and, in fact, he never ceased to blame himself for the line into which his lawyer’s advice had led him, while all his wishes tended to an opposite direction.”

“But Sedley says he has accepted the arrangement, and abandoned all claim in future.”

“So he has, and it is for that he blames himself. He says it debars him from the noble part he desired to take.”

“I was no part to this compromise, Nelly; remember that. I yielded to reiterated entreaty a most unwilling assent, declaring, always, that the law must decide the case between us, and the rightful owner have his own. Let not Mr. Pracontal imagine that all the high-principled action is on his side; from the very first, I declared that I would not enjoy for an hour what I did not regard undisputably as my own. You can bear witness to this, Nelly. I simply assented to the arrangement, as they called it, to avoid unnecessary scandal. What the law shall decide between us, need call forth no evil passions or ill-will. If the fortune we had believed our own belongs to another, let him have it.”

The tone of high excitement in which he spoke plainly revealed how far a nervous temperament and a susceptible nature had to do with his present resolve. Nelly had seen this before, but never so fully revealed as now. She knew well the springs which could move him to acts of self-sacrifice and devotion, but she had not thoroughly realized to herself that it was in a paroxysm of honorable emotion he had determined to accept the reverse of fortune, which would leave him penniless in the world.

“No, Nelly!” said he, as he arose and walked the room, with head erect, and a firm step. “We shall not suffer these people who talk slightingly of the newly risen gentry to have their scoff unchallenged! It is the cant of the day to talk of mercantile honor and City notions of what is high-minded and right, and I shall show them that we– ‘Lombard Street people,’ as some newspaper scribe called us the other day – that we can do things the proudest earl in the peerage would shrink back from as from a sacrifice he could not dare to face. There can be no sneer at a class that can produce men who accept beggary rather than dishonor. As that Frenchman said, these habits of luxury and splendor were things he had never known, – the want of them would leave no blank in his existence. Whereas to us they were the daily accidents of life; they entered into our ways and habits, and made part of our very natures; giving them up was like giving up ourselves, – surrendering an actual identity. You saw our distinguished connection, Lord Culduff, how he replied to my letter, – a letter, by the way, I should never have stooped to write; but Sedley had my ear at the time, and influenced me against my own convictions. The noble Viscount, however, was free from all extraneous pressure, and he told us as plainly as words could tell it, that he had paid heavily enough already for the honor of being connected with us, and had no intention to contribute another sacrifice. As for Temple, – I won’t speak of him; poor Jack, how differently he would have behaved in such a crisis.”

Happy at the opportunity to draw her brother away, even passingly, from a theme that seemed to press upon him unceasingly, she drew from the drawer of a little work-table a small photograph, and handed it to him, saying, “Is it not like?”

“Jack!” cried he. “In a sailor’s jacket, too! What is this?”

“He goes out as a mate to China,” said she, calmly. “He wrote me but half a dozen lines, but they were full of hope and cheerfulness. He said that he had every prospect of getting a ship, when he was once out; that an old messmate had written to his father – a great merchant at Shanghai – about him, and that he had not the slightest fears for his future.”

“Would any one believe in a reverse so complete as this?” cried Augustus, as he clasped his hands before him. “Who ever heard of such ruin in so short a time?”

“Jack certainly takes no despairing view of life,” said she, quietly.

“What! does he pretend to say it is nothing to descend from his rank as an officer of the navy, with a brilliant prospect before him, and an affluent connection at his back, to be a common sailor, or, at best, one grade removed from a common sailor, and his whole family beggared? Is this the picture he can afford to look on with pleasure or with hope? The man who sees in his downfall no sacrifice or no degradation, has no sympathy of mine. To tell me that he is stout-hearted is absurd; he is simply unfeeling.”

Nelly’s face and even her neck became crimson, and her eyes flashed indignantly; but she repressed the passionate words that were almost on her lips, and taking the photograph from him, replaced it in the drawer, and turned the key.

“Has Marion written to you?” asked he, after a pause.

“Only a few lines. I ‘m afraid she ‘s not very happy in her exalted condition, after all, for she concluded with these words: ‘It is a cruel blow that has befallen you, but don’t fancy that there are not miseries as hard to bear in life as those which display themselves in public and flaunt their sufferings before the world.’”

“That old fop’s temper, perhaps, is hard to bear with,” said he, carelessly.

“You must write to George L’Estrange, Gusty,” said she, coaxingly. “There are no letters he likes so much as yours. He says you are the only one who ever knew how to advise without taking that tone of superiority that is so offensive, and he needs advice just now, – he is driven half wild with dictation and interference.”

She talked on in this strain for some time, till he grew gradually calmer; and his features, losing their look of intensity and eagerness, regained their ordinary expression of gentleness and quiet.

“Do you know what was passing through my mind just now?” said he, smiling half sadly. “I was wishing it was George had been Marion’s husband instead of Lord Culduff. We ‘d have been so united, the very narrowness of our fortunes would have banded us more closely together, and I believe, firmly believe, we might have been happier in these days of humble condition than ever we were in our palmy ones; do you agree with me, Nelly?”

Her face was now crimson; and if Augustus had not been the least observant of men, he must have seen how his words had agitated her. She merely said, with affected indifference, “Who can tell how these things would turn out? There ‘s a nice gleam of sunlight, Gusty. Let us have a walk. I’ll go for my hat.”

She fled from the room before he had time to reply, and the heavy clap of a door soon told that she had reached her chamber.

CHAPTER XXXIV. AT LOUVAIN

There are few delusions more common with well-to-do people than the belief that if “put to it” they could earn their own livelihood in a variety of ways. Almost every man has some two or three or more accomplishments which he fancies would be quite adequate to his support; and remembering with what success the exercise of these gifts has ever been hailed in the society of his friends, he has a sort of generous dislike to be obliged to eclipse some poor drudge of a professional, who, of course, will be consigned to utter oblivion after his own performance.

Augustus Bramleigh was certainly not a conceited or a vain man, and yet he had often, in his palmy days, imagined how easy it would be for him to provide for his own support; he was something of a musician, he sang pleasingly, he drew a little, he knew something of three or four modern languages, he had that sort of smattering acquaintance with questions of religion, politics, and literature which the world calls being “well-informed;” and yet nothing short of grave Necessity revealed to him that, towards the object of securing a livelihood, a cobbler in his bulk was out and out his master.

The world has no need of the man of small acquirements, and would rather have its shoes mended by the veriest botch of a professional than by the cleverest amateur that ever studied a Greek sandal.

“Is it not strange, Nelly, that Brydges and Bowes won’t take those songs of mine?” said he, one morning, as the post brought him several letters. “They say they are very pretty, and the accompaniments full of taste, but so evidently wanting in originality – such palpable imitations of Gordigiani and Mariani – they would meet no success. I ask you, Nelly, am I the man to pilfer from any one? Is it likely I would trade on another man’s intellect?”

“That you certainly are not, Gusty! but remember who it is that utters this criticism. The man who has no other test of goodness but a ready sale, and he sees in this case little hope of such.”

“Rankin, too, refuses my ‘Ghost Story;’ he calls it too German, whatever that may mean.”

“It means simply that he wants to say something, and is not very clear what it ought to be. And your water-color sketch, – the ‘Street in Bruges’?”

“Worst of all,” cried he, interrupting. “Dinetti, with whom I have squandered hundreds for prints and drawings, sends it back with these words in red chalk on the back: ‘No distance; no transparency; general muddiness – a bad imitation of Prout’s worst manner.’”

“How unmannerly, how coarse!”

“Yes; these purveyors to the world’s taste don’t mince matters with their journeymen. They remind them pretty plainly of their shortcomings; but considering how much of pure opinion must enter into these things, they might have uttered their judgments with more diffidence.”

“They may not always know what is best, Gusty; but I take it, they can guess very correctly as to what the public will think best.”

“How humiliating it makes labor when one has to work to please a popular taste! I always had fancied that the author or the painter or the musician stood on a sort of pedestal, to the foot of which came the publisher, entreating that he might be permitted to catch the utterings of genius, and become the channel through which they should flow into an expectant world; and now I see it is the music-seller or the print-seller is on the pedestal, and the man of genius kneels at his feet and prays to be patronized.”

“I am sure, Gusty,” said she, drawing her arm within his, as he stood at the window, – “I am sure we must have friends who would find you some employment in the public service that you would not dislike, and you would even take interest in. Let us see first what we could ask for.”

“No; first let us think of whom we could ask for it.”

“Well, be it so. There is Sir Francis Deighton; isn’t he a Cabinet Minister?”

“Yes. My father gave him his first rise in life; but I ‘m not sure they kept up much intimacy later on.”

“I’ll write to him, Gusty; he has all the Colonial patronage, and could easily make you governor of something tomorrow. Say ‘yes;’ tell me I may write to him.”

“It’s not a pleasant task to assign you, dear Nelly,” said he, with a sad smile; “and yet I feel you will do it better than I should.”

“I shall write,” said she, boldly, “with the full assurance that Sir Francis will be well pleased to have an opportunity to serve the son of an old friend and benefactor.”

“Perhaps it is that my late defeats have made me cowardly – but I own, Nelly, I am less than hopeful of success.”

“And I am full of confidence. Shall I show you my letter when I have written it?”

“Better not, Nelly. I might begin to question the prudence of this, or the taste of that, and end by asking you to suppress it all. Do what you like, then, and in your own way.”

Nelly was not sorry to obtain permission to act free of all trammels, and went off to her room to write her letter. It was not till after many attempts that she succeeded in framing an epistle to her satisfaction. She did not wish – while reminding Sir Francis of whom it was she was speaking – to recall to him any unpleasant sentiment of an old obligation; she simply adverted to her father’s long friendship for him, but dropped no hint of his once patronage. She spoke of their reverse in fortune with dignity, and in the spirit of one who could declare proudly that their decline in station involved no loss of honor, and she asked that some employment might be bestowed on her brother, as upon one well deserving of such a charge.

“I hope there is nothing of the suppliant in all this? I hope it is such a note as Gusty would have approved of, and that my eagerness to succeed has involved me in no undue humility.” Again and again she read it over; revising this, and changing that, till at length grown impatient, she folded it up and addressed it, saying aloud, “There! it is in the chance humor of him who reads, not in the skill of the writer, lies the luck of such epistles.”

“You forgot to call him Right Honorable, Nelly,” said Augustus, as he looked at the superscription.

“I ‘m afraid I ‘ve forgotten more than that, Gusty; but let us hope for the best.”

“What did you ask for?”

“Anything – whatever he can give you, and is disposed to give, I ‘ve said. We are in that category where the proverb says – there is no choice.”

“I ‘d not have said that, Nelly.”

“I know that, and it is precisely on that account that I said it for you. Remember, Gusty, you changed our last fifty pounds in the world yesterday.”

“That’s true,” said he, sitting down near the table, and covering his face with both hands.

“There’s a gentleman below stairs, madam, wishes to know if he could see Mr. Bramleigh,” said the landlady, entering the room.

“Do you know his name?” said Nelly, seeing that as her brother paid no attention to the announcement, it might be as well not to admit a visitor.

“This is his card, madam.”

“Mr. Cutbill!” said Nelly, reading aloud. “Gusty,” added she, bending over him, and whispering in his ear, “would you see Mr. Cutbill?”

“I don’t care to see him,” muttered he, and then rising, he added, “Well, let him come up; but mind, Nelly, we must on no account ask him to stay and dine with us.”

She nodded assent, and the landlady retired to introduce the stranger.

CHAPTER XXXV. MR. CUTBILL’S VISIT

“If you knew the work I had to find you,” said Mr. Cutbill, entering the room, and throwing his hat carelessly on a table. “I had the whole police at work to look you up, and only succeeded at last by the half-hint that you were a great political offender, and Lord Palmerston would never forgive the authorities if they concealed you.”