Court Royal/Chapter XL
CHAPTER XL.
CHEEK SENIOR.
Charles Cheek was on his way to town next day in an express second-class smoking carriage of the Great Western Railway. He would have gone first, but his funds would not allow the extravagance. At the Kingsbridge Road station the door of the carriage was opened, and an elderly gentleman dashed in, drawing after him his portmanteau, then signalling through the window when the train was in motion that he had forgotten his bundle of rugs and umbrella on the platform. A porter picked them up, ran after the train, and thrust them through the window, knocking the cigar out of Charles Cheek’s mouth and inflicting a dent on his hat.
‘Very sorry, upon my word,’ said the owner of the articles. ‘When travelling one is liable to lose one’s goods.’
‘Seeing that you have but your head, portmanteau, and bundle of rugs, the exertion of recollecting them cannot be excessive.’
‘I never travel if I can help it,’ said the other. ‘I had just time to throw a shilling to the porter, but as I was agitated I don’t know where it went and whether he saw it. Perhaps it fell under the rails and is flattened. When I am hot and flurried my sight fails me and my hand shakes. It does not matter. I will give the man another shilling on my return. Lord bless me! I have got into a smoking carriage. Never mind, I do smoke—for once in my life I am lucky. May this be an omen that my journey will be prosperous! Sometimes I have got into a first class when I had a second-class ticket, and then had to pay the difference. Sometimes I have tumbled into a third class when I had paid fare by second, but the company never refunded. Why, bless my heart! Surely I know your face; you are the image of your sainted mother, and have the Worthivale look about your eyes and mouth—more than has my cross boy Beavis. Surely I am speaking to Mr. Charles Cheek?’
‘That is my name, sir, and have I the honour’
‘Of meeting a relative. Your mother was my first cousin. I hear you have been at Plymouth. It is really too bad that you have never been near us. Only a pleasant cruise to Kingsbridge from Plymouth.’
‘You have not invited me, sir. Are you Mr. Worthivale?’
‘The same. Steward to his Grace the Duke of Kingsbridge. We have a nice little place, Court Royal Lodge, and would have been proud to see you in it. I did not invite you? Bless my soul! how careless of me! I have intended to do so, and tied knots in my pocket-handkerchief several times to remind me to write; but when I came to find the knot I always recollected some omissions in my duty to his Grace, and thought the knot was tied in reference to that. You must excuse my neglect. I am so overwhelmed with business that I have no time to think of private affairs. You may be sure that you would always be welcome at the Lodge.’
‘I dare say you have much to occupy you now,’ said Charles Cheek. ‘There is much talk in Plymouth about the break-up in the Duke’s affairs. I hear they are in a very ugly mess.’
‘Mess!’ exclaimed Mr. Worthivale, bridling; ‘mess is not a word that is seemly in such connection. A duke’s affairs may become embroiled, an earl’s involved, an ordinary squire’s may fall into confusion, but only a tradesman’s can get into a mess. There has been agricultural depression felt in the Midlands and in the east of England, where much corn is grown, and some of the great landowners have had to retrench, and the smaller have been reduced to difficulties; but here it is not so. A duke is something very different from a country squire.’
Not a trace of a blush appeared on the steward’s face as he told this lie. He was a man of scrupulous integrity, but to save the honour of the house he served he was ready to say anything—who can tell?—even do anything. Mr. Worthivale, who told this falsehood, was actually on his way to town to see the father of Charles Cheek, the wealthy tradesman, and to try to inveigle him into lending money to relieve the distress of the family, he had written to Crudge, as agent for Mr. Emmanuel, requesting him to call at his house on a certain day. He had written to the other mortgagees, who were anxious and troublesome, to pacify them with words if possible. And the words he had used to them were not strictly true. He was not satisfied that Emmanuel, and Emmanuel alone, would be satisfied with only promises. He had tortured his brains for many nights with schemes for raising money without a sale of property. All at once a brilliant idea flashed into his mind. He recollected Mr. Cheek, of the monokeratic system, who had married his pretty and sweet cousin, a Worthivale. He had not met Cheek since the funeral of Mrs. Cheek, but he knew about him and his son from the correspondence of relatives. He had not taken a liking to Mr. Cheek, who was a man of modern ideas, without patience with Conservatives and Churchmen, and held advanced ideas about the land laws and the extension of the franchise, and cried out for Disestablishment and the abolition of the House of Lords. Mr. Worthivale had heard also of young Charles, a careless, extravagant dog, who gave his father much trouble. Mr. Cheek had wished his son to enter the business, and had forced him, when he left school, to occupy a stool in the office, but Charles in an hour threw the accounts into such confusion that it took his father days to unravel them; and although he was tried in various departments of the establishment, he proved such a failure in all that his father was fain to let him go his own way. Charles had desired to enter the army, but Mr. Cheek would not hear of this, and battled against his son’s inclination till the young man was past the age at which he could obtain a commission. Then only did he admit to himself that he had made a mistake. In the army Charles would have had a profession and something to occupy him, and he seemed fit for no other profession, and to care for no other occupation. The father proposed that he should read for the Bar, but the disinclination of Charles for legal studies soon manifested itself. For medicine he was too thoughtless, and Mr. Cheek was forced to let him live as an idler. The father had been so accustomed to work, and to associate work with the first duty of man, even though that work was to throw dust in the eyes of the public, that it was with the utmost reluctance that he consented to find Charles an income of four hundred a year, and to let him live as he liked, associating with officers, losing money to them, entertaining them, and being laughed at by them behind his back. Charles had got into trouble several times, and his father had paid his debts, each time with angry reproaches and threats of disinheritance.
Worthivale had heard that the elder Cheek had amassed a large fortune, which his son’s extravagance might impair but could not exhaust. He had taken it into his head that nothing would be easier for him than to persuade old Mr. Cheek to lend the necessary thousands for the saving of the Duke. This was the new web of fancy spun by his hopes, attached to no probabilities, floating in his brain like the gossamer of autumn; and in this vain hope he was on his way to town.
‘I am going to drop in on your father,’ said Mr. Worthivale. ‘I cannot think of going to town without looking him up. It is many years since we met, and when we get old we cling to old acquaintances. Are you going directly home? If so, tell him I shall turn up.’
‘Oh no! I shall put up at an hotel. I am not so keen after the shelter of the paternal wing.’
‘I rather want to see your father this evening. I have so much business to occupy my day that I can ill spare other time. Am I likely to find him at home of an evening?’
‘Sure to catch him. He never goes to the theatre or concerts. You could not wring five words out of him during business hours. I shall not drop in on him to-morrow till after the Monokeros has drawn in his horn.’
‘If that be so,’ said the steward, ‘I will take a cab after I have had my dinner and go to him. It is as well that we should not be there together; he and I will like to have a chat over old times—times before you were born.’
Accordingly, on reaching town, Mr. Worthivale drove to his inn, ordered a simple dinner, and when he had done, took a hansom to his destination.
Mr. Cheek had just dined, and was lingering over his glass of wine when the steward was announced. He told the servant to show Mr. Worthivale in to him in the dining-room. This was a large apartment with a red flock paper on the walls, and a Turkey carpet on the floor. The furniture was of heavy mahogany, polished, his chairs covered with red leather. The window-curtains were of red rep. Against the walls hung some large engravings—Landseer’s dog looking out of a kennel, the Newfoundlander lying on a quay, Bolton Abbey in the olden time—pictures every one has seen and knows as he knows the airs of ‘Trovatore’ and the taste of peppermint.
Over the fireplace was a looking-glass; on the table were oranges, almonds, raisins, and mixed biscuits. Everything was in the room that was to be expected; nothing there that was unexpected. Tottenham Court Road had furnished it. A man’s room reflects his mind. Everything there was solid, sound, and commonplace.
Mr. Worthivale had no time to look round him. He ran forward and effusively shook hands with Mr. Cheek, who rose ceremoniously, and received his greeting without great cordiality, but with civility.
‘Take a chair, Worthivale; glad to see you. Have port or sherry? If you prefer claret I will have some decanted. Don’t drink it myself. Take an orange or—raisins. I will ring and have some more almonds brought in. I have eaten most. Take some biscuits; you will find a ratafia here and there under the others. I have eaten those on the top. I hope you are well. I have not seen you for twelve years and a half.’
‘So much as that? You do not say so!’
‘You have not visited me since my wife’s death.’
‘I may retort on you. I live in the country. You Londoners need a holiday. Why have you not fled the fogs and smoke, and come to me for sea air and the landscape of South Devon?’
‘I never take a holiday. Can’t afford it. Work always goes on, and always needs my presence. When the Londoners leave town, the country folk come up, and purchase for the ensuing year.’
Mr. Cheek was a heavily built man, with a long head and face, the latter flat, with a nose sticking out of it, much as the Peak of Teneriffe pokes out of the sea—led up to by no subsidiary elevations, abrupt, an afterthought. His eyebrows were black, but his hair was grey, and disposed to retreat from the temples, which were highly polished. He wore a grey thick Newgate collar, a black frock coat, black trousers, black waistcoat relieved by a heavy gold chain, a good deal of white shirt front, turned-down collars, necessitated by the Newgate fringe, and a black tie. He always smelt of black dye, for his cloth clothes were always new and glossy and uncreased. He had a trick of stretching his arms with a jerk forward at intervals, exposing much cuff, acquired from wearing new coats that were not easy under the arm. His eyes were dark and penetrating, his lips firm. From his nostrils two very dark creases descended to the corners of his mouth, like gashes in which lay black blood. The old man seemed very lonely in his dining-room, without a companion with whom to exchange ideas, and only a choice between almonds and raisins, ratafias, and macaroons, but he did not seem to feel it; as he ate and drank he schemed fresh plans for making money, and that was his delight. A companion would have discussed less profitable and interesting topics.
Worthivale spent an hour with old Cheek, telling him about himself, his position at Court Royal, the splendour of the Kingsbridge family, the virtues of the Duke, and Lord Ronald and the Marquess, and the unapproachable charms of Lady Grace.
The steward went on to talk about the estates, the prospect of making a second Torquay out of Bigbury Bay, of the chance of converting the creek of Kingsbridge into a harbour, of the building stone on the estates, of the shale from which petroleum might be extracted, of the slate quarries that only needed opening out and connecting with the sea by a line to supply and roof in the whole south coast of England.
Mr. Cheek had listened with indifference to the enumeration of the merits of the members of the noble house, but when the steward touched on speculative ventures his interest was excited. He ate all the almonds off the raisin dish as fast as he could chew them, and then rang to have the dish replenished.
Mr. Worthivale hinted that his Grace was in need of temporary accommodation, owing to the extravagance of his ancestors and the calling up of some of the mortgages, and he suggested that a better and safer investment for floating capital could not be found.
Mr. Cheek listened with close attention, but said nothing. Such investments apparently possessed no attraction for him. The steward, with all his eloquence, had made no way.
Nevertheless, Worthivale did not abandon hope. The wealthy tradesman had not disputed the feasibility of his schemes, had not said, in so many words, that he would have nothing to do with the mortgages.
Then the conversation drifted to young Charles. Mr. Worthivale said that he had come to town with him.
‘I know what he wants—money,’ said the father, with imperturbable countenance. ‘Never made a penny himself.’
‘I am afraid he gives you a good deal of trouble,’ said the steward.
‘Fine fellow,’ answered old Cheek. ‘Good looks. Ready address. A figure. No Devonshire twang. Can’t get the R’s and the U’s right myself. Never shall. Grāss is long grāss with me, never cropped grăss.’
‘Charles is a very pleasant-looking fellow,’ said Mr. Worthivale, ‘the image of his dear mother.’
‘Mentally, morally, physically,’ acquiesced the trader; ‘can’t expect every man to take to business.’
‘No,’ said Mr. Worthivale; ‘it is born in some, not in others, like an ear for music, a taste for sport, and a hand for carving a goose.’
‘Suppose so,’ said Mr. Cheek.
‘It takes two generations to make a gentleman,’ reasoned Mr. Worthivale, ‘and even then—there always remains lurking in the system a je-ne-sais-quoi.’
‘A what?’ exclaimed Mr. Cheek, looking frightened. ‘Is it in the skin?’
‘Only a French expression,’ exclaimed the steward.
‘Never understood other than one foreign word, and that—monokeratic, for which I paid five guineas,’ said Mr. Cheek. ‘I wanted a suitable word, I went to an Oxford scholar, and said, find me the word, and I’ll find you a five-pound note and five shillings. That’s how I came by it.’
Neither spoke. The steward was peeling an orange. Presently Mr. Cheek began to move uneasily in his chair, to swell and puff. Then out came a confidence. ‘Charles is a trouble to me. I fill the barrel, and when I’m gone he’ll turn the tap and let it run. No fortune can stand a running tap. I wish I knew how to cure him. This consciousness takes the taste out of my profits. It is like eating bread from which the salt is omitted in the making.’
‘Take my advice,’ said Worthivale; ‘mix him in good society. He hangs about a garrison town for the sake of the officers, but he never associates with the better class of officers, only with those who like his dinners, and bleed him at billiards. He never sees the ladies, and it is ladies who humanise, civilise, and refine.’
‘Can’t do it. I’m not in society myself. Shop stands in the way.’
‘I wish I could persuade him to come to Court Royal Lodge, and pay me a long visit. I could introduce him to people of the first quality, and show him something better than gambling officers and fast ladies. You will never do anything with him, Cheek, till you have put him in a situation where his better qualities may be drawn out, and he may learn to blush at his weaknesses.’
‘If he were up here in town,’ said the father, scratching his nose meditatively with a stalk of raisins, ‘it might be done—by paying. Some quality people do come to my shop. They don’t put on their best bonnets and come in their own carriages when they do, but I know ’em. A long bill might be forgiven some lady of rank and fashion if she would invite Charles to dinner or a dance—such things are done—just to give him the chance of putting his foot into high society. If he were once in, Charlie could maintain himself there. Society would want him when it had seen him. I wouldn’t mind paying, but it can’t be done. Charlie cares only for officers, and is either at Portsmouth or Plymouth, befooled by them out of his—my money.’
‘Send him to me.’
‘I don’t suppose he would care for the country. Nothing to be done there.’
‘He can see the magnificent grounds. He can boat. He can shoot.’
‘Grounds anywhere. Mount Edgcumbe open to public on Wednesdays. Boating to be had at Plymouth. This is not the time of year for shooting.’
‘True. Let him come to me in the shooting season.’
‘Many months to that. Meantime he may have gone to the bad.’
‘I invited him to-day to visit me, and he did not decline.’
‘Too much of a gent for that,’ said the father. ‘Mischief is he can’t say Nay. He will promise you a call, and never go. I know him. He promises reform every time he comes for money, but never reforms.’
‘He is entangled in a social stratum—a sort of Bohemianism, that will not allow him to reform. Get him out of that, and he will be another man. My Beavis never gives me an hour’s concern, because he associates with the family at Court Royal. The Marquess loves him as a brother. Beavis would do your boy an infinity of good. Beavis is a fine, strong-willed, honourable fellow, with a tender heart and a true conscience.’
‘Charlie, also, is a fine fellow,’ said old Cheek, who could not endure to have another young man contrasted favourably with his own son. ‘The mischief is, I was too busy all my days, and could not see enough of him. Only wants his chance now.’
‘Well,’ said Worthivale, standing up, ‘I must be off now. Good-bye, Cheek. It is a real pleasure to me to meet you again.’
‘Dine with me the day after to-morrow. Seven punctually.’
‘I shall be delighted.’
He left the old man sitting looking before him at the dish of biscuits from which he had exterminated the ratafias. Every now and then he turned over the biscuits with his finger, but his mind was not on the ratafias. He shook his long head at intervals, and said, ‘If that were to happen—if Charlie were to be so weak as that—and he can’t say No—least of all to a woman—he would be done for irretrievably.’