Love and Money (7 page)

“How goes it at Bellomont then, Simon?” asked Thomas.

“Ah, we have fine goings-on there, fine goings-on indeed,” said Simon mournfully. “Nowt but gleek all night and half the day.”

“Gleek?”

“ 'Tis a game of cards. And Mistress Brownwood——”

“Oh? She is still at Bellomont?”

“Aye, she and her brat. She encourages him to play. Now Mistress Joanna always tried to keep him from it. But this one plays herself, and having nothing of her own, of course she comes on Sir Richard to pay her debts.”

“And Sir John Resmond—does he come often to Bellomont?” enquired Thomas drily.

“A sight too often for my liking,” replied the old man. “Why do you not come to see your uncle, Master Thomas?”

“How would he receive me?”

The old man paused. “He sent you the mare,” he said in a grumbling tone.

Accordingly next day Thomas rode back with Simon to Bellomont.

It was just on dusk when they reached the house. No lights were visible in the windows as they approached. Thomas wished to see his new mare stabled himself, and went
round with Simon to the courtyard. Here there were lanterns and talk, for though none of Sir Richard's grooms seemed to be about, a couple of men in the Resmond livery were saddling three horses. In reply to Thomas's question one of the men told him civilly enough that Sir John Resmond had been a-visiting Sir Richard and was just leaving. The man then fell to admiring Thomas's fine mare. For a moment or two this seemed natural enough to Thomas, but then the fellow's transports struck him as a trifle excessive, and the way they were renewed when Thomas made to leave showed that their aim was to detain him. He turned at once to the stable door.

“There's no need to hurry,” cried one of the Resmond men. “Black Dick's out paying his debts.”

“Of whom do you speak?” said Thomas stiffly.

“Master Thomas here is Sir Richard's nephew,” mumbled Simon.

“Oh! Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure,” said the man. “I intended no wrong. Black Dick's just a name, like, we give to your uncle, because of his black hair.”

The other Resmond man turned away to hide a snigger.

“His hair and his deeds,” he muttered.

“Simon, where are my uncle's serving-men?” demanded Thomas haughtily.

“They're sleeping it off, sir,” put in the sniggering man of the Resmond pair.

“Sleeping what off?”

“Last night's entertainment, sir,” said the man. “Oh, there was hot work here last night, I warrant you.”

His insolent air, old Simon's silence and embarrassed look, told Thomas that the man only spoke the truth. He quitted the stable abruptly and entered the house by a side door.

Here all was quiet and dark save for a distant sibilant hiss which Thomas presently defined as voices whispering. He made his way towards the sound, quietly opening a door here and there as he passed. One room held all too clear traces of last night's “entertainment”; cards thrown down on the table face upwards, glasses overturned, a heavy smell of
wine, a chair lying sideways on the floor. Thomas frowned and passed on. A dim light now appeared to shine feebly from his left; he turned a corner, and saw Sir John Resmond and Mistress Brownwood sitting together in a little closet under the stairs, a small table and a single candle between them.. Gold pieces lay on the table; it seemed as if they were striking some bargain of which the terms did not as yet satisfy the lady, for her left hand was stretched towards Sir John palm upwards, and on her face was a more impudent smile, a more naked look of greed, than Thomas could have thought possible.

“He bribes her to make uncle Richard play cards, so that he may get his land,” thought Thomas in a flash.

He stepped forward into the circle of light, bowed very low, smiled very coldly and said: “Madam! Sir John!” in a very stiff voice.

He was pleased to see that they were startled. Mistress Brownwood
⁵
s huge sleeves rustled sharply—she was wearing a fortune of good new carnation satin on her back, Thomas saw with anger, and the jewels in her rings were real enough now—while Sir John gave his thumb-nails an emphatic flip.

“Ah! Sir Richard's heir!” said he in his bland drawl.

It was an utterance neatly contrived to vex both his hearers—Thomas by suggesting that he had come to Bellomont only from interest in his inheritance, and Mistress Brownwood by reminding her that she was not Sir Richard's wife. Sir John Resmond's utterances were usually contrived to vex someone, decided Thomas, and he kept his smile fixed on his face so as to conceal his vexation as far as he might.

“You are unfortunate in the time of your visit; your uncle has but just gone out,” said Sir John smoothly.

“He has ridden to Annotsfield and God knows when he will come back,” said the lady.

“I will await his return,” said Thomas, smiling harder than before.

A look passed between Sir John and Mistress Brownwood, then the lady rose, shook out her skirts, put on a smile as
hard as Thomas's own, and said with an attempt at gracious-ness:

“But you are very welcome, Thomas. I will call the servants and bid them see to your comfort.”

“There is no need—Simon will attend me,” said Thomas calmly.

This was extremely rude on his part and he knew it, for it denied her position as mistress of the house. The pale blue eyes gleamed with malice as she stepped past him and called for Simon—in a loud nagging tone which Thomas felt was often heard in Bellomont nowadays. Simon, who had followed Thomas into the house, came up slowly and received her instructions with a good deal of bowing and nodding which cloaked, Thomas thought, a real indifference —the state of the house, which everywhere had a look of dust and tarnish, showed that Rosamond had not the gift of commanding genuine obedience in those who waited on her.

“Simon,” said Thomas when the old servant had led him

to the bedchamber he had occupied before: “Where is——”

He stumbled, then brought out in a rush: “the little Isabella?”

“Isabella?” exclaimed the old man. “Why, she is here.”

“I wish to see her,” said Thomas stolidly.

Simon appeared astonished, but wagging his head and muttering to himself as if in contempt of the inexplicable whims of the gentry, he nevertheless led the way to the room where Thomas had seen Joanna and her child before. A cradle lay in front of the fire; a plump slatternly maid rocked it with one foot, doubtless in the attempt to hush the thin wail which rose from its occupant.

“But ” began Thomas.

“He wants to see the child,” said Simon. “Take her up.”

The maid, with a pert smile up to Thomas, threw back some heavy dirty bedclothes from the cradle. To his horror a kind of steam seemed to rise from the child, which was a long thin pale infant lying slack and ailing and giving forth a persistent fretful mew.

“But—” began Thomas again.

“And what do you want with my daughter, Master Thomas?” cried Mistress Brownwood suddenly in his ear at the top of her voice.

“Nothing, madam,” said Thomas, bowing. “There is some mistake. It was the little Isabella I sought to see.”

“This is the only Isabella at Bellomont,” said Rosamond in a voice of triumph.

“Why did you call your daughter Isabella, madam?” enquired Thomas. “It seems to me two Isabellas in one house might cause confusion.”

The smile which spread over Rosamond's face was so cruel and so triumphant that Thomas knew at once confusion was her aim. She meant her Isabella to blot out all remembrance in Sir Richard's mind of the earlier Isabella, so that any benefits which might have accrued to his elder daughter should fall to the younger, her own. It was a clever trick.

“But what an ascendancy she hath gained upon him!” thought Thomas with horror. “And where are Joanna and her child?”

“ 'Tis a strange chance, Tom, that you seem always to come here when I have sold part of Annotsfield,” said Sir Richard.

“I came to thank you for the mare,” said Thomas quietly. “You have aged a good deal, Tom, since we robbed a coach together,” said Sir Richard, giving him a shrewd look. “Yes,” said Thomas.

He might have retorted that his uncle had aged a good deal too, for this was very evident. Sir Richard, though his person was slender and well-shaped as ever, had a haggard and restless look; his fine eyes were bloodshot, his wiry black hair showed threads of grey, a deep frown down the centre of his forehead, a twist of his full lips, marked how an impatient and angry temper grew upon him. He ate very little, drank very much; when his steward brought him papers to sign and he wished for explanations, his pointing forefinger
with the heavy emerald ring quite trembled with exasperation. He had returned very late the night before and slept very late this morning; now in a handsome gown of purple brocade edged with fur he lounged by the fire, sipping mulled wine and snapping irritably at all who came near him.

“Well, Tom,” he said at length—his voice, once so genial and full of fun, had now a perpetual note of bitterness: “Since you are grown into such a solid figure of a man, with so much dignity of speech and carriage, perhaps you will do an errand for me on your way home. Eh? Wilt thou?”

“I hope it will speed better than the last errand you sent me on,” said Thomas drily.

“Why, so do I indeed,” said Sir Richard. “I seem to remember that on your last errand I forestalled you.”

“Yes,” said Thomas.

“There is no chance of that here. This concerns Joanna.”

Thomas set his mouth firm and waited.

“She married her cousin, William Lees, a couple of years ago,” said Sir Richard in a careless tone. “He is a weaver on a hillside 'twixt here and Annotsfield. As canting, psalm-singing, puritanic a fellow as ever entered a conventicle. Now it has come to my knowledge that this Lees means to seek his fortune in the New World.”

“In the Americas?” said Thomas, startled.

“Aye. In New England. There he can worship his God as William Lees and nobody else chooses.”

“There is something to be said for that,” said Thomas thoughtfully.

“Spare me your sermons, Thomas. I have had enough of them from William Lees, I warrant you.” Thomas, vexed, was silent.

“Joanna took the child with her when she married Lees. But she is my child, after all,” said Sir Richard, frowning. “She is now, I make it, rising seven. Shall she be packed off to die on a harsh coast? Shall I part her from her mother and keep her at Bellomont? That might be a harsh coast too. Shall I send money to ease her way?”

“Should you not go to Joanna yourself?” faltered Thomas, alarmed by the magnitude of the task his uncle set him.

“Nay, Tom,” said Sir Richard in a tone of weary irritation: “If I go near William Lees he throws half the Bible at me. That would not trouble me, but I fear he rants and raves at Joanna when I have left. Now do you go to them, Tom, and use your eyes while you are there. Is the child well cared for? What would best be done? Take Simon with you, he knows the way, and send a message back to me with him. Hadst best write it down, for Simon grows old and dull. Everything in the world grows old and dull nowadays, I think, Tom,” concluded Sir Richard, sighing angrily.

Just as Sir Richard had said, the sound of a psalm sung in a man's deep voice rang out from the cottage in the fold of the hill beside the stream, almost drowning the clack of the shuttle. Thomas dismounted, and bidding Simon walk the horses on the few yards of level ground, knocked on the door. The shuttle and the singing did not cease, but Thomas heard footsteps within, and soon the door was quietly opened.

“Master Thomas!” exclaimed Joanna.

She looked quieter and older, but not unhappy, like a woman who had been through much storm but survived into calmer waters. She was very soberly dressed in a dark cloth, with a plain white collar round her throat such as puritans had taken to wearing of late, and her hair was dressed close to her head; the fashion suited her. Her eyes were as kind, her cheek as warm, as ever, but she seemed disinclined to admit him.

“I have come with a message from Sir Richard Bellomont about Isabella,” said Thomas in a calm ordinary tone, as though the matter were of the most everyday occurrence.

Joanna stepped back and admitted him to the single downstairs room of the cottage. Leaving Thomas to find his own way to the fireside, she went to the foot of a wooden ladder which led to the upper storey, and called out:

“William! William!”

A man's voice came in question from above, and Joanna made an answer in which Thomas heard the name of
Bellomont. Not wishing to be privy to their conversation, he turned aside to the hearth, where Joanna's spinning-wheel was just ceasing to revolve. Everything in this cottage, unlike everything at Bellomont, gleamed with cleanliness; but here as at Bellomont stood a cradle. But the cradle too was unlike its counterpart at Bellomont, for it was homemade and unpainted, and the child lying snugly asleep there was a boy, rosy and well. Joanna returned and sat down at her wheel.

“I understand that you married your cousin two years ago, Mistress Joanna,” said Thomas.

“He heard that I was very wretched, and came to fetch me,” said Joanna simply.

“She was betrothed to me before that man of sin set eyes on her,” said a deep voice behind him.

Thomas turned; the weaver was descending the ladder. Notwithstanding the awkwardness of his posture and the homeliness of his clothes—no jacket, leather breeches, a patched shirt with sleeves rolled up beyond the elbows— William Lees made an impression of youth and strength which startled Thomas. He now stood upright at the foot of the ladder, and showed himself to be a man of only middle height, slightly bowed as was often the case with weavers from stooping over their looms, but very broad in the shoulder and with arms knotted with muscle from continual throwing of the shuttle. He had a broad square face, a good colour in his cheeks, thick black hair and eyebrows, and no beard; he stood firm on his feet and gazed at Thomas with a massive contempt. Thomas, who had expected some pale, thin, ugly, frightened man, was taken aback but began his errand as best he could.