‘After all, it does not cost much,’ the squire said to Roger one day. ‘Choose how he does it, he does it cheaply; he used to come and ask me for twenty, where now he does it for five. But he and I have lost each other’s language, that’s what we have! and my dictionary’ (only he called it ‘dixonary’) ‘has all got wrong because of those confounded debts—which he will never explain to me, or talk about—he always holds me off at arm’s length when I begin upon it—he does, Roger—me, his old dad, as was his primest favourite of all, when he was a little bit of a chap!’
The squire dwelt so much upon Osborne’s reserved behaviour to himself, that brooding over this one subject perpetually he became more morose and gloomy than ever in his manner to his son, resenting the want of the confidence and affection that he thus repelled. So much so that Roger, who desired to avoid being made the receptacle of his father’s complaints against Osborne—and Roger’s passive listening was the sedative his father always sought—had often to have recourse to the discussion of the drainage works as a counter-irritant. The squire had felt Mr. Preston’s speech about the dismissal of his work-people very keenly; it fell in with the reproaches of his own conscience, though, as he would repeat to Roger over and over again,—‘I could not help it—how could I?—I was drained dry of ready money—I wish the land was drained as dry as I am,’ said he, with a touch of humour that came out before he was aware, and at which he smiled sadly enough. ‘What was I to do, I ask you, Roger? I know I was in a rage—I’ve had a deal to make me so—and maybe I did not think as much about consequences as I should have done, when I gave orders for ’em to be sent off; but I couldn’t have done otherwise if I’d ha’ thought for a twelvemonth in cool blood. Consequences! I hate consequences; they’ve always been against me; they have. I’m so tied up I can’t cut down a stick more, and that’s a “consequence” of having the property so deucedly well settled; I wish I’d never had any ancestors. Aye, laugh, lad! it does me good to see thee laugh a bit, after Osborne’s long face, which always grows longer at sight o’ me!’
‘Look here, father!’ said Roger suddenly, ‘I’ll manage somehow about the money for the works. You trust to me; give me two months to turn myself in, and you shall have some money, at any rate, to begin with.’
The squire looked at him, and his face brightened as a child’s does at the promise of a pleasure made to him by some one on whom he can rely. He became a little graver, however, as he said,—‘But how will you get it? It’s hard enough work.’
‘Never mind; I’ll get it—a hundred or so at first—I don’t yet know how—but remember, father, I’m a senior wrangler, and a “very promising young writer,” as that review called me. Oh, you don’t know what a fine fellow you’ve got for a son. You should have read that review to know all my wonderful merits.’
‘I did, Roger. I heard Gibson speaking of it, and I made him get it for me. I should have understood it better if they could have called the animals by their English names, and not put so much of their French jingo into it.’
‘But it was an answer to an article by a French writer,’ pleaded Roger.
‘I’d ha’ let him alone!’ said the squire, earnestly. ‘We had to beat ’em, and we did it at Waterloo; but I’d not demean myself by answering any of their lies, if I was you. But I got through the review, for all their Latin and French; I did, and if you doubt me, you just look at the end of the great ledger, turn it upside down, and you’ll find I’ve copied out all the fine words they said of you: “careful observer,” “strong nervous English,” “rising philosopher.” Oh! I can nearly say it all off by heart, for many a time when I am frabbed by bad debts, or Osborne’s bills, or moidered with accounts, I turn the ledger wrong way up, and smoke a pipe over it, while I read those pieces out of the review which speak about you, lad!’
CHAPTER 32
Coming Events
Roger had turned over many plans in his mind, by which he thought that he could obtain sufficient money for the purpose he desired to accomplish. His careful grandfather, who had been a merchant in the city, had so tied up the few thousands he had left to his daughter, that although, in case of her death before her husband’s, the latter might enjoy the life-interest thereof, yet, in case of both their deaths, their second son did not succeed to the property till he was five-and-twenty; and if he died before that age, the money that would then have been his went to one of his cousins on the maternal side. In short, the old merchant had taken as many precautions about his legacy as if it had been for tens, instead of units of thousands. Of course Roger might have slipped through all these meshes by insuring his life until the specified age; and probably if he had consulted any lawyer this course would have been suggested to him. But he disliked taking any one into his confidence on the subject of his father’s want of ready money. He had obtained a copy of his grandfather’s will at Doctors’ Commons,cz and he imagined that all the contingencies involved in it would be patent to the light of nature and common sense. He was a little mistaken in this, but not the less resolved that money in some way he would have in order to fulfil his promise to his father, and for the ulterior purpose of giving the squire some daily interest to distract his thoughts from the regrets and cares that were almost weakening his mind. It was ‘Roger Hamley, senior wrangler and fellow of Trinity to the highest bidder, no matter what honest employment,’ and presently it came down to ‘any bidder at all.’
Another perplexity and distress at this time weighed upon Roger. Osborne, heir to the estate, was going to have a child. The Hamley property was entailed on ‘heirs-male born in lawful wedlock.’ Was the ‘wedlock’ lawful? Osborne never seemed to doubt that it was—never seemed, in fact, to think twice about it. And if he, the husband, did not, how much less did Aimee, the trustful wife. Yet who could tell how much misery any shadows of illegality might cast into the future? One evening Roger, sitting by the languid, careless, dilettante Osborne, began to question him as to the details of the marriage. Osborne knew instinctively at what Roger was aiming. It was not that he did not desire perfect legality in justice to his wife; it was that he was so indisposed at the time that he hated to be bothered. It was something like the refrain of Gray’s Scandinavian Prophetess: ‘Leave me, leave me to repose.’
‘But do try and tell me how you managed it.’
‘How tiresome you are, Roger!’ put in Osborne.
‘Well, I dare say I am. Go on!’
‘I’ve told you Morrison married us. You remember old Morrison at Trinity?’
‘Yes; as good and blunder-headed a fellow as ever lived.’
‘Well, he’s taken orders; and the examination for priest’s orders fatigued him so much that he got his father to give him a hundred or two for a tour on the Continent. He meant to get to Rome, because he heard that there were such pleasant winters there. So he turned up at Metz in August.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘No more did he. He never was great in geography, you know; and somehow he thought that Metz, pronounced French fashion, must be on the road to Rome. Some one had told him so in fun. However, it was very well for me that I met with him there, for I was determined to be married, and that without loss of time.’
‘But Aimée is a Catholic?’
‘That’s true! but you see I am not. You don’t suppose I would do her any wrong, Roger?’ asked Osborne, sitting up in his lounging-chair, and speaking rather indignantly to Roger, his face suddenly flushing red.