Dr. Addington took advantage of the pause. 'Watkins,' he said in an awful voice, 'what is the meaning of this unmannerly intrusion? And who is this person?'
'He persisted that he must see his lordship,' the servant, a sleek, respectable man in black, answered. 'And rather than have words about it at his lordship's door--which I would not for twice the likes of him!' he added with a malevolent glance at the attorney--'I brought him here. I believe he is mad. I told him it was out of the question, if he was the king of England or my lord duke. But he would have it that he had an appointment.'
'So I have!' cried Mr. Fishwick with heat and an excited gesture. 'I have an appointment with Lord Chatham. I should have been with his lordship at nine o'clock.'
'An appointment? At this time of night?' Dr. Addington returned with a freezing mien. 'With Lord Chatham? And who may you please to be, sir, who claim this privilege?'
'My name is Fishwick, sir, and I am an attorney,' our friend replied.
'A mad attorney?' Dr. Addington answered, affecting to hear him amiss.
'No more mad, sir, than you are!' Mr. Fishwick retorted, kindling at the insinuation. 'Do you comprehend me, sir? I come by appointment. My lord has been so good as to send for me, and I defy any one to close his door on me!'
'Are you aware, sir,' said the doctor, frowning under his wig with the port of an indignant Jupiter, 'what hour it is? It is ten o'clock.'
'It may be ten o'clock or it may be eleven o'clock,' the attorney answered doggedly. 'But his lordship has honoured me with a summons, and see him I must. I insist on seeing him.'
'You may insist or not as you please,' said Dr. Addington contemptuously. 'You will not see him. Watkins,' he continued, 'what is this cock-and-bull story of a summons? Has his lordship sent for any one?'
'About nine o'clock he said that he would see Sir George Soane if he was in the house,' Watkins answered. 'I did not know that Sir George was here, and I sent the message to his apartments by one of the men.'
'Well,' said Dr. Addington in his coldest manner, 'what has that to do with this gentleman?'
'I think I can tell you,' Sir George said, intervening with a smile. 'His party have the rooms that were reserved for me. And doubtless by an error the message which was intended for me was delivered to him.'
'Ah!' said Dr. Addington gruffly. 'I understand.'
Alas! poor Mr. Fishwick understood too; and his face, as the truth dawned on him, was one of the most comical sights ever seen. A nervous, sanguine man, the attorney had been immensely elated by the honour paid to him; he had thought his cause won and his fortune made. The downfall was proportionate: in a second his pomp and importance were gone, and he stood before them timidly rubbing one hand on another. Yet even in the ridiculous position in which the mistake placed him--in the wrong and with all his heroics wasted--he retained a sort of manliness. 'Dear me, dear me,' he said, his jaw fallen, 'I--Your most humble servant, sir! I offer a thousand apologies for the intrusion! But having business with his lordship, and receiving the message,' he continued in a tone of pathetic regret, 'it was natural I should think it was intended for me. I can say no more than that I humbly crave pardon for intruding on you, honourable gentlemen, over your wine.'
Dr. Addington bowed stiffly; he was not the man to forgive a liberty. But Sir George had a kindly impulse. In spite of himself, he could not refrain from liking the little man who so strangely haunted his steps. There was a spare glass on the table. He pushed it and the bottle towards Mr. Fishwick.
'There is no harm done,' he said kindly. 'A glass of wine with you, sir.'
Mr. Fishwick in his surprise and nervousness, dropped his hat, picked it up, and dropped it again; finally he let it lie while he filled his glass. His hand shook; he was unaccountably agitated. But he managed to acquit himself fairly, and with a 'Greatly honoured, Sir George. Good-night, gentlemen,' he disappeared.
'What is his business with Lord Chatham?' Dr. Addington asked rather coldly. It was plain that he did not approve of Sir George's condescension.
'I have no notion,' Soane answered, yawning. 'But he has got a very pretty girl with him. Whether she is laying traps for Dunborough--'
'The viscountess's son?'
'Just so--I cannot say. But that is the old harridan's account of it.'
'Is she here too?'
'Lord, yes; and they had no end of a quarrel downstairs. There is a story about the girl and Dunborough. I'll tell it you some time.'
'I began to think--he was here on your business,' said the doctor.
'He? Oh, no,' Sir George answered without suspicion, and turned to look for his candlestick. 'I suppose that he is in the case I am in--wants something and comes to the fountain of honour to get it.'
And bidding the other good-night, he went to bed; not to sleep, but to lie awake and reckon and calculate, and add a charge here to interest there, and set both against income, and find nothing remain.
He had sneered at the old home because it had been in his family only so many generations. But there is this of evil in an old house--it is bad to live in, but worse to part from. Sir George, straining his eyes in the darkness, saw the long avenue of elms and the rooks' nests, and the startled birds circling overhead; and at the end of the vista the wide doorway, _aed. temp._ Jac. 1--saw it all more lucidly than he had seen it since the September morning when he traversed it, a boy of fourteen, with his first gun on his arm. Well, it was gone; but he was Sir George, macaroni and fashionable, arbiter of elections at White's, and great at Almack's, more powerful in his sphere than a belted earl! But, then, that was gone too, with the money--and--and what was left? Sir George groaned and turned on his pillow and thought of Bland and Fanny Braddock. He wondered if any one had ever left the Castle by the suicide door, and, to escape his thoughts, lit a candle and read 'La Belle Hlose,' which he had in his mail.
CHAPTER XII
JULIA
It is certain that if Sir George Soane had borne any other name, the girl, after the conversation which had taken place between them on the dingy staircase at Oxford, must have hated him. There is a kind of condescension from man to woman, in which the man says, 'My good girl, not for me--but do take care of yourself,' which a woman of the least pride finds to be of all modes of treatment the most shameful and the most humiliating. The masterful overtures of such a lover as Dunborough, who would take all by storm, are still natural, though they lack respect; a woman would be courted, and sometimes would be courted in the old rough fashion. But, for the other mode of treatment, she may be a Grizel, or as patient--a short course of that will sharpen not only her tongue, but her fingernails.
Yet this, or something like it, Julia, who was far from being the most patient woman in the world, had suffered at Sir George's hands; believing at the time that he was some one else, or, rather, being ignorant then and for just an hour afterwards that such a person as Sir George Soane existed. Enlightened on this point and on some others connected with it (which a sagacious reader may divine for himself) the girl's first feeling in face of the astonishing future opening before her had been one of spiteful exultation. She hated him, and he would suffer. She hated him with all her heart and strength, and he would suffer. There were balm and sweet satisfaction in the thought.
But presently, dwelling on the matter, she began to relent. The very completeness of the revenge which she had in prospect robbed her of her satisfaction. The man was so dependent on her, so deeply indebted to her, must suffer so much by reason of her, that