“I should hardly think that,” said his son.
“You read his letter. Mr. Boothby, will you be so good as to show Lord St. George the letter? You never read such a production. Impudent scoundrel! Of course he knew it all the time.”
Lord St. George read the letter. “He is very impudent, whether he be a scoundrel or not.”
“Impudent is no word for it.”
“Perhaps he has had some provocation, my lord.”
“Not from me, St. George;—not from me. I have done nothing to him. Of course the chapel must be—removed.”
“Don’t you think the question might stand over for a while?” suggested Mr. Boothby. “Matters would become smoother in a month or two.”
“Not for an hour,” said the Marquis.
Lord St. George walked about the room with the letter in his hand, meditating. “The truth is,” he said, at last, “we have made a mistake, and we must get out of it as best we can. I think my father is a little wrong about this clergyman’s character.”
“St. George! Have you read his letter? Is that a proper letter to come from a clergyman of the Church of England to—to—to—” the Marquis longed to say to the Marquis of Trowbridge; but he did not dare so to express himself before his son—“to the landlord of his parish?”
“A redbrick chapel, just close to your lodge, isn’t nice, you know.”
“He has got no lodge,” said the Marquis.
“And so we thought we’d build him one. Let me manage this. I’ll see him, and I’ll see the minister, and I’ll endeavour to throw some oil upon the waters.”
“I don’t want to throw oil upon the waters.”
“Lord St. George is in the right, my lord,” said the attorney; “he really is. It is a case in which we must throw a little oil upon the waters. We’ve made a mistake, and when we’ve done that we should always throw oil upon the waters. I’ve no doubt Lord St. George will find a way out of it.” Then the father and the son went away together, and before they had reached the Houses of Parliament Lord St. George had persuaded his father to place the matter of the Bullhampton chapel in his hands. “And as for the letter,” said St. George, “do not you notice it.”
“I have not the slightest intention of noticing it,” said the Marquis, haughtily.
LVIII
Edith Brownlow’s Dream
“My dear, sit down; I want to speak to you. Do you know I should like to see you—married.” This speech was made at Dunripple to Edith Brownlow by her uncle, Sir Gregory, one morning in July, as she was attending him with his breakfast. His breakfast consisted always of a cup of chocolate, made after a peculiar fashion, and Edith was in the habit of standing by the old man’s bedside while he took it. She would never sit down, because she knew that were she to do so she would be pretty nearly hidden out of sight in the old armchair that stood at the bed-head; but now she was specially invited to do so, and that in a manner which almost made her think that it would be well that she should hide herself for a space. But she did not sit down. There was the empty cup to be taken from Sir Gregory’s hands, and, after the first moment of surprise, Edith was not quite sure that it would be good that she should hide herself. She took the cup and put it on the table, and then returned, without making any reply. “I should like very much to see you married, my dear,” said Sir Gregory, in the mildest of voices.
“Do you want to get rid of me, uncle?”
“No, my dear; that is just what I don’t want. Of course you’ll marry somebody.”
“I don’t see any of course, Uncle Gregory.”
“But why shouldn’t you? I suppose you have thought about it.”
“Only in a general way, Uncle Gregory.”
Sir Gregory Marrable was not a wise man. His folly was of an order very different from that of Lord Trowbridge—very much less likely to do harm to himself or others, much more innocent, and, folly though it was, a great deal more compatible with certain intellectual gifts. Lord Trowbridge, not to put too fine a point upon it, was a fool all round. He was much too great a fool to have an idea of his own folly. Now Sir Gregory distrusted himself in everything, conceived himself to be a poor creature, would submit himself to a child on any question of literature, and had no opinion of his own on any matter outside his own property—and even as to that his opinion was no more than lukewarm. Yet he read a great deal, had much information stored away somewhere in his memory, and had learned at any rate to know how small a fly he was himself on the wheel of the world. But, alas, when he did meddle with anything he was apt to make a mess of it. There had been some conversation between him and his sister-in-law, Edith’s mother, about Walter Marrable; some also between him and his son, and between him and Miss Marrable, his cousin. But as yet no one had spoken to Edith, and as Captain Marrable himself had not spoken, it would have been as well, perhaps, if Sir Gregory had held his tongue. After Edith’s last answer the old man was silent for awhile, and then he returned to the subject with a downright question—
“How did you like Walter when he was here?”
“Captain Marrable?”
“Yes—Captain Marrable.”
“I liked him well enough—in a way, Uncle Gregory.”
“Nothing would please me so much, Edith, as that you should become his wife. You know that Dunripple will belong to him some day.”
“If Gregory does not marry.” Edith had hardly known whether to say this or to leave it unsaid. She was well aware that her cousin Gregory would never marry—that he was a confirmed invalid, a
