Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (333 page)

“Polly,” Mr. Bettesworth said, and catching her hand he sought to draw her towards him, “you know this lady that I do not, but—”

She laughed, and drew her hand, without any petulance, from his.

“Cousin,” she said, “be sure the goods are on the market before you seek to buy. Sir John still lives.”

“But give me hope,” he answered.

“Oh, hope!” she laughed; “that is a cheap gift. Yet if Sir John have proved a very poor husband to me, it is all the more reason that I practise wifely virtues towards him. In short, I would have you go, that Trott may finish dressing me, and that I may go see that the nurse have not given Sir John sour milk in place of sherry whey and Scotch ale in lieu of tar water.”

Outside the large door that opened on to the; landing, Mr. Bettesworth had his shoulder touched by Maria Trefusis. “Mr. Bettesworth,” she whispered languishingly, “if my aunt have not told you who was the original of ‘Celia in her Arbour’ I will tell you, so you will but be grateful to me.”

“Child,” Mr. Bettesworth answered, “that is a matter between your guardian and myself. I do not desire the information.” Her eyes followed him despairingly as he went down the broad stone staircase, whose tall walls were decorated with frescoes by Sir Thomas Thornhill. Tall, shiny, and in colours like brown soup and the coppery red of a dim sun seen through a fog, they represented on the one hand Bacchus and Ariadne on a large sofa, and, upon the other, Ariadne deserted and with her hair unbound, waiting, to the strains of the conch, held by a supremely ugly Triton with a long beard.

CHAPTER VII
.

BETTESWORTH HOUSE was the largest possessed by any commoner in London. It stood in Golden Square, and had been built by Mr. Bettesworth’s uncle in the reign of James II. Most of the rooms were very tall and light, but the largest and tallest of the rooms was the banqueting hall, a vast piece whose roof was supported by Ionic marble columns, and whose walls were decorated by marble busts, for the most part purely imaginary, of Bettesworth’s ancestors. Thus the Bettesworth who was a judge in the days of Elizabeth bore in his effigy long curls such as had enhanced the beauty of Charles II.

Except on days when there was banqueting, and when long, temporary tables were set up, the floor of this room was bare and tiled; and it was here that Mr. Bettesworth deemed proper to receive the Duke of Norfolk, Sir Francis Dashwood, Mr. Simon Harcourt, and the gentleman in the red coat. This last, it appeared, was a Major Penruddock of the west, who, having served with distinction under King William the Third in the Low Countries, had lately succeeded his elder brother in very considerable estates.

The company arrived in the order that has been

named, the Duke bringing a Mr. Robert Howard; Sir Francis Dashwood, a Mr. Cecil Dashwood; and the two others, two gentlemen whose names did not occur in the course of the proceedings. Mr. Bettesworth was supported by Mr. Jack Williamson, whilst his brother, Mr. Roland, sat at a table to write down the minutes. The others disposed themselves rather stiffly upon high-backed chairs that were placed across the hall. The voices echoed in solemn whispers round the walls, and when one of them moved his chair so that its legs squeaked upon the marble tiling, the high sound was repeated hollowly from several points in the room.

His Grace of Norfolk made them a formal speech. He said that they were met upon an occasion that was probably unparalleled in the chronicles of their ancestors. In the first place, the wager was very high; in the second, it was to be doubted if so many gentlemen of high birth had ever taken part together in such an enterprise, — at any rate since the Dark Ages, when, as fables told them, the Knights of King Arthur’s Round Table had set out upon the quest of the mythical and barbarous Holy Grail. It had, therefore, been thought convenient and proper that they should meet together that day to discuss of the terms upon which they would set out upon their search, and the conditions which they would observe.

Conscious that he would speak before a critical audience, the Duke had prepared his speech with great care. He had an agreeable voice; his manner was composed, and he made graceful gestures with his right hand, his left being supported by a tall Malacca cane with a great knob of amber for the head.

The undertakings of the various contestants, he said, were well known: Mr. Penruddock had undertaken to find the lady who had served for model to the painter of “Celia in her Arbour”; Mr. Simon Harcourt had wagered that he would fetch her to the dinner of the Dilettante Society; he himself had wagered that he would house and maintain her; Sir Francis Dashwood had wagered that he would marry her if she were of chaste life and good reputation; Mr. Bettesworth had wagered them twenty thousand pounds between them that he would do all these four things in spite of them all, subject, of course, to Sir Francis Dashwood’s proviso concerning the marriageability of the lady.

The Duke looked at Mr. Bettesworth, who, in his capacity of host, sat facing the row of chairs, very stately, his hand supported by a cane even longer than the Duke’s, his chestnut wig falling upon his shoulders. As to Mr. Roland Bettesworth, his curls fell on to the paper upon which he wrote down with difficulty as much as he could of the Duke’s speech. He was, in the ordinary way, no great penman, and holding his head on one side and low down to the paper, his lips followed carefully each motion of the pen as it scratched forward.

“Mr. Bettesworth,” the Duke said, with a sort of formal deference, “we may take it that should the lady not prove eligible for marriage — either because of irregularities in her former life or because of the fact that she is already married — we may take it that although that part of the wager is null and void the fact shall not of necessity void the other portions of the wager?”

“I fail, your Grace,” Mr. Bettesworth said, “to see how the occasion could arise. Before the lady could be married she must be at first, at the very least, found and fetched, and if I fail in either of these particulars I shall have failed in the whole wager. Whereas if I succeed in them, the marriage coming at the last, it shall be open to me either to marry her, or, in the event of my deeming her not marriageable, I shall be content to lay the matter before this company to decide whether my aversion from her be warrantable under the terms of the wager.”

“You are aware, Mr. Bettesworth,” the Duke asked, “that if you ask this company to decide in your favour you will be asking us to declare that we shall lose each this wager and a large sum of money?”

“I am aware of it,” Mr. Bettesworth said, “and am content to rely upon your honourable decisions.”

The Duke turned his curls round to look at the assembly. He uttered a dubious “Hum!” and Mr. Roland Bettesworth tittered above his writing.

“The terms of this wager are very singular,” the Duke continued contemplatively. “Thus Mr. Penruddock,” and he bowed ceremoniously to the composed man in the red coat, who wore his own red hair powdered and tied in a knot behind,—”Mr. Penruddock has wagered Mr. Simon Harcourt a thousand pounds that he will find this lady. Now, if he loses, he will lose this thousand pounds to Mr. Penruddock. But if Mr. Bettesworth fail in any one particular, Mr. Penruddock, though he have failed to find the lady, will nevertheless win five thousand pounds of Mr. Bettesworth, and thus be four thousand pounds in pocket. Mr. Simon Harcourt, on the other hand, has betted myself two thousand pounds that he will fetch the lady. If he fail in this he will have lost two thousand pounds to me. But supposing Mr. Penruddock to have found the lady, Mr. Bettesworth must therefore of necessity have failed; thus Mr. Harcourt will have lost three thousand pounds to myself and Mr. Penruddock, whilst he will win five thousand pounds from Mr. Bettesworth, being thus—”

The Duke was musing on very agreeably to himself when Sir Francis Dashwood said —

“My Lord Duke, there are many questions to be asked, and I think most of us is scholar enough to make these calculations for himself, or if he cannot the results themselves will enlighten him.”

The Duke ceased his musings with some dignity.

“What questions does Sir Francis desire to ask?” he said.

“In the first place,” Sir Francis answered, with his devious and ironic smile, “touching the article of fetching the lady. How are we to understand that this is to be carried out?”

Mr. Bettesworth answered that he would fetch the lady from the place where he should find her and let her sit in the chair next the President where the painter had sat — subject to the proviso that the Society should be willing to receive her.

Mr. Simon Harcourt said: “Agreed to that; that the lady’s assent to sitting at the dinner shall be deemed equivalent to her sitting there, for I think the rules of the Society will not permit of petticoats at the board.”

“And next,” Mr. Penruddock said, from the farthest seat in the hall, “as to the term to be set upon this adventure?”

“Oh, it shall not be a very long space,” the Duke of Norfolk said languidly. “For my part, I would not have it be a term in years, for it would not be to my taste to have — if I succeed — the housing of a toothless hag.”

“And touching the word ‘housing,’ Mr. Bettesworth?” Sir Francis asked. The delicate fringes on his eyelids quivered, for he was about to utter an impertinence. “Are we to take it that this lady must be your mistress before you marry her?” Mr. Bettesworth flushed hotly but did not speak.

“Oh, come,” the Duke of Norfolk said, “a gentleman cannot marry his mistress;” and Mr. Penruddock uttered a loud, “No! no!”

Mr. Bettesworth remained perfectly silent. Sir Francis retained the smile about the corners of his lips. Mr. Roland Bettesworth whispered to Mr. Jack Williamson, who was close beside him, “I think my brother will fly at Dashwood’s throat. Get between them.”

Most of the other gentlemen leaned forward, their lips slightly parted, and the Duke of Norfolk toyed with the tassels of his cane. At last Mr. Bettesworth spoke with a cold formality, his eyes remained fixed upon Sir Francis, but he spoke to the rest of the company —

“Gentlemen, if in the course of this adventure there should arise between any two of the parties an occasion for an affair of honour, and one gentleman should slay or seriously injure the other, what shall be the agreement?”

Mr. Roland Bettesworth turned, with his arm over the back of his chair —

“Oh!” he said, “the case of death is provided for. In the customary usage it voids all wagers, but in the case of disablement...”

Mr. Simon Harcourt, a dark-featured, placid man, with cunning eyes, a blue coat without much gold lace, a hooked nose and a rather short wig, leaned back in his chair with his legs crossed. He asked, somewhat as a barrister will ask the opinions of a judge, slightly closing his eyes, and very much at his ease —

“What would Mr. Bettesworth propose in the case of disablement?”

“Oh, in the case of disablement,” Mr. Bettesworth said, with a rather haughty disdain, “we must always undertake to abstain from pursuit for the period that the poor devil shall lie abed, that period of extension to be added to the time allotted to the pursuit.”

Sir Francis whispered to his brother Cecil, “By God! it will come to swords between this man and me.”

“Then,” his brother answered, “you had better give him little occasion for some months to come or I shall step into the title. And do you practise diligently, or take lessons from Stechetti, in the interim, for though this man has been in London scarcely a week, he has already killed Sir John Eshetsford.”

“Eshetsford! Eshetsford!” Sir Francis mused. “By God, Eshetsford!”

“I hear,” his brother continued, “that Mr. Bettesworth run him through the bowels after a furious fight lasting thirty-five minutes, Sir John having taken him
inflagrante
with my lady.”

“Then, by God!” Sir Francis said, “we have lost our twenty thousand pounds to Mr. Bettesworth.”

One of Mr. Bettesworth’s lackeys, in a green suit with a bouquet of white roses at his breast, came deferentially up the hall behind the pillars, bearing under his left arm a square, flat package in green baize, and in his right hand a small note. He approached Mr. Bettesworth from behind, and said that the note was very urgent. Mr. Bettesworth opened it and read —

“
My aunt begs me to write to you that it is not expected Sir John can live another half-hour. As you cannot go on with your assembly after his death, but must prorogue it
,
she bids me send you this
,
that may aid you in your deliberations. It is what we sought for vainly the other night. If you have any
commands for me
,
I am not your odious brother’s but thine
, —

 
——
 
— MARIA”

Mr. Bettesworth slowly withdrew from its green baize coverings the stretched cloth of a picture. It showed the overhanging branch of a tree with leaves rather brown but very umbrageous. Upon a green and mossy bank there sat a maiden in a white flowered gown; her very high waist was tied with broad pink ribbons that fell into her lap. An empty basket lay at her feet, her wide straw hat was slung from her arm by more pink ribbons, her dark brown hair, in a somewhat studied disorder, was loosely coiled in a knot at the crown of her head, and one escaped tress fell down her cheek on to her bosom. But Mr. Bettesworth, at the very moment that he uttered an expression of delight uttered one also of dismay. The outline of the face was a clean, clear oval, but the contents a blank of white canvas. There were no features, there were no pencillings of eyebrows, there were no lips, and the blankness seemed stony and obdurate. The painter, after having made his picture of inanimate objects, must have transferred them into a larger canvas, omitting to limn his sitter’s features, perhaps because she had not much time in which to be at his disposal. Mr. Bettesworth reflected, as was his wont, and then slowly he turned the canvas round to the audience that was before him.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is all of ‘Celia in her Arbour’ that we are like to see. I will give you the equal privilege with myself.”