The Determined Bachelor (2 page)

The butler followed his glance uncertainly.

“Ah, yes, Your Excellency. Things have changed a great
deal in these past years. Her Ladyship was in a great rush to cheer the old place up as soon as your father died, God rest his soul.”

“Well, she certainly has done
something
,” returned the Baronet dryly, “though I do not know if one could call it exactly cheerful. Is this what every English house looks like nowadays? I shudder to think what Iseleigh would have said, had he seen what had become of his handiwork.”

The butler shifted back and forth uncomfortably upon his feet. He held a generally low opinion of the young Lady Hargate, whom he persisted in thinking of as “new,” though she had held the title for eleven years. Happy had been the days when Hargate House had been a bastion of masculine tranquility, but those days were now long past, and Groves would not let his master's brother see a hint of his true feelings.

“Ah, Sir—well, well! Ladies will be ladies, will they not? And I have lived long upon this earth without seeing one of 'em who will rest easy till she has made her mark upon every house she enters.”

Sir Basil met the butler's eyes for a brief instant, and in their gaze was all that comprehension, which only affirmed bachelors can truly savour, of the absurdity of the female brain.

“Very true, very true. You are looking well, Groves.”

The butler, well pleased, made his bow.

“And you, Sir—if I may be so bold—are looking very fit. I trust France has agreed with you?”

“Ah, France! A nation as confounding as the female mind. But we had better not stand about thus.”

And with a quick glance toward the waiting coachman, which the butler instantly followed, Sir Basil drew back to remove a fleck of dust from his traveling cape, pull off his gloves, and run a weary hand across his brow.

“Good Lord, Your Excellency!” cried the astounded Groves. “You have not come all this way in a hired chaise! Come on, then, man!” continued he in an outraged tone to the bewildered coachman, who had only been awaiting his orders. “Come along! Don't stand about like an idiot! Bring in the Ambassador's trunks! No! No—” with a doubtful glance at the recipient of these orders—“you had better stay outside. I shall have a footman fetch 'em.”

And, snapping back to life, the old butler hastened off in search of the requisite servant. Sir Basil's luggage was soon bestowed indoors, the coachman's fee settled, and the
Baronet's outer garments removed. Groves was all agonized apology for having failed to prepare the Ambassador's old apartments.

“I was not told, Sir, that you were expected.”

“Not told? How odd. Well, never mind. Only send my things upstairs and see if a footman will not unpack 'em. I have left my own man in Paris, for I shall not be above a few days in London. And do you, if you will, inform my brother I am here. I trust he is at home?”

Grove looked uncomfortable.

“I believe he is resting, Sir,” replied he, turning to leave, “but I shall fetch him. And shall I have a bottle of port sent into the library? Very good, Sir. Er, Sir—” the old man paused with an unhappy expression in his eyes.

“Yes, Groves?”

“Things—er—things are not what they used to be, Sir, if you take my meaning.”

Sir Basil soon saw what he meant. Passing up the stairs to the library, he glanced into several apartments, so transformed by the industrious Lady Hargate that they were barely recognizable. What had been for most of his youth, and a good deal of his manhood, rooms whose solid aura of masculine serenity had consoled his darkest hours, were now nauseatingly frilled up with every sort of feminine trinket. Scarcely a corner had gone untouched, scarcely an item of furniture unmarred by restless fingers and ambitious upholsterers. Still, he was relieved to see that the library was not much changed. Its commodious leather armchairs were intact, and the vast inlaid desk which had served his father and his father's father before him was still as littered with papers as it had always been in the Baronet's youth. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and the shelves were still laden with books—though covered, as Sir Basil noticed with a smile, with a thick layer of dust. However, it was sufficient to induce him to pull up a chair before the hearth and stretch out his cramped legs to the heat of the blaze. After twelve hours upon the road, such comfort could hardly but induce a pleasant meandering state of mind. Soothed by the wine, the warmth of the fire, and the solid and familiar surroundings, the Baronet allowed his thoughts to wander aimlessly for a few moments.

How pleasant it was, in truth, to be back in England! His thoughts had been too full of his present troubles during all the journey from Southampton to allow much attention to the
passing scenery. And yet the gentle hills and softly inscribed farmlands had done their work upon him. Even in the customary fog of this time of year, it had all seemed lovelier to him than anything in France. Indeed, he had nearly forgotten what a charming countryside it was, and when the carriage had rumbled over Westminster Bridge, allowing him his first glimpse of this fair city, what a pang had been in his heart! How much more splendid and civilized was this to anything in Paris! His first view of Regent's Terrace, and some other of the improvements which had been worked since his departure, had filled him with pride. Say what you would, there was nothing to equal English ingenuity. The French could boast as much as they liked, but their greatest architects could not hold a candle to the best of the British master builders. And, for all their legendary elegance, they were incapable of making a man as comfortable as he was at this moment. What a pity he could not stay longer! But duty called. No, no—he would not stay above a fortnight. Only let him dispatch his present business with success and he would be on his way back across the Channel.

These musings were cut short by the sound of a heavy footstep in the corridor. Recognizing at once his brother's tred, Sir Basil started up. The wide, welcoming smile which he had carefully arranged upon his features was destined to fall almost instantly, however.

“By Jove!” cried he, rising from his chair as the door swung open to admit Lord Hargate. That gentleman being constructed along very solid lines, his figure nearly filled the doorway. Lord Hargate was not so tall as his younger brother, but nearly twice as broad. Across his vast paunch was stretched a waistcoat of a very brilliant shade of blue, threaded through with silver and crimson. His collar points nearly brushed his ears, his cravat was knotted about a dozen times, and his scrawny calves, which seemed every moment in danger of collapsing beneath the immense weight of his frame, were done up in scarlet hose. Hargate had not inherited the same dignity of feature as had his sibling, and across the whole of his wide and almost feminine countenance was spread an idiotic grin.

“By Jove!” cried Sir Basil again, a little more restrained this time, for he had been taken aback by the increased proportion of his brother's figure, and suspected, from the bright flush on that gentleman's cheeks, that he had already imbibed
a good deal of wine that day. “How good to see you, Hargate, after all these years!”

“ 'Mensely good, 'mensely good!” agreed the elder heartily, staggering a little in his progress toward the Baronet. There were such embraces exchanged as Sir Basil could tolerate, considering the strength of spirits on his brother's breath, and then His Lordship collapsed into the nearest armchair.

“ 'Mensely good!” he repeated, beaming foolishly. “And t' what my dear brother, do we owe this honour? I thought you were in France. Paris, ain't it?”

Sir Basil managed to suppress his amazement at this marked indication of his brother's information, or perhaps memory.

“Paris—yes. I have been His Highness's envoy to the French court these last four years.”

Lord Hargate looked only half enlightened.

“But did you not receive my letter?” inquired the Baronet, beginning to feel that he was moving in a dream.

“Letter? No, no, I do not recollect anything about a letter. Was there one?”

Sir Basil sighed. Evidently, marriage had done little to improve the powers of his brother's mind.

“I sent a message some days before I left to warn you of my visit. I have been called home on pressing business and hoped I might impose upon you and my sister-in-law for a day or two.”

“Ah!” No greater reaction seemed forthcoming, and Sir Basil pressed on:

“Well! You seem very well. I have not seen you since the old man's death. Four years ago, that was.”

Lord Hargate's expression suddenly brightened.

“Four years ago! Good Heavens! It don't seem that long! Have you really been away four years? Well, well! I suppose you have.”

And as if something in his brain had been given a brisk shake, Lord Hargate suddenly snapped to life. With the keenest interest he demanded:

“What do they feed you in France, eh? I hear the cuisine is dashed good there. But you look slender as a knife, if you don't mind my saying so. Ought to feed yourself properly, you know, old boy. Don't want to waste away to nothing.”

Sir Basil smiled dryly. Here was the brother he knew.

“No fear of that, Hargate. I am fed perfectly well.”

“Ah! Well, your coat is exceptionally handsome. Did you
have it tailored there? Bit plain for my taste, but a nice bit of cloth, you know. I hear the Frenchies are pretty well with lady's finery, but when it comes to men, they cannot hold a candle to our old Hingham on Bond Street.”

Sir Basil responded with a smile that he had never heard the French tailors condemned, and then endeavoured to steer the conversation in another direction. But his brother would not leave off interrogating him about the life at Court, and whether the ladies were very pretty, and what sort of neck cloth was in fashion, and whether the wine was better on the other side of the Channel. Though seeming to have very little curiosity about any more serious matter, these points were of infinite interest to him. Sir Basil would have liked to have got straight to the point—his own point, at any rate—but saw at once that he must humour his brother's curiosity, and providing as many anecdotes as he could muster about life at the Tuileries, he strove to do just that. Having passed nearly half an hour in this fashion, he ventured on to another topic.

“But enough about my own life, Hargate! You must tell me about yourself. You seem prosperous enough, and, I take it, happy?”

Lord Hargate's smile faded. “Prosperous, old chap? Oh, nothing like! I wish I could say I was. But everything is so dashed expensive these days. It is all I can do to keep my poor Louisa properly clad, and the carriages in decent style. Why, it seems to me that Father was never so hard-up as I always feel! Just at the moment, by the nonce, I am particularly out of pocket. Louisa had just done redecorating the house again, and the other evening at White's I was unlucky enough to lose fifty thousand pounds to that cad Marlborough. I cannot fathom how he manages it, but he never fails to rob me, and he is twice as rich as I, at least!”

“Fifty thousand pounds!” Sir Basil could not help crying out, “You lost
fifty thousand pounds
in one evening? Good God, man, you ought not to be allowed in a card room!”
Especially not
, he added to himself,
since you have about as much wit at baccarat as you have at conversation. I cannot blame Marlborough for robbing you, as it is so easy
.

“Ah, but you must not blame me, Basil,” Lord Hargate was saying with a whimper, “for I am ever in hopes of making up what I have lost. I have a horse entered at Ascot for the Winter races which I am sure shall more than compensate me for my losses at cards. And in the meantime,” he added,
brightening, I suppose
you
could not advance me thirty or forty thousand until the next quarter?”

Sir Basil stared back in amazement. Could he believe his own ears? He had not crossed the Channel and traveled in a springless coach all day in order to sign over his fortune to his profligate brother. Quite the contrary. He had come in hopes of being granted a rather generous favour himself. Remembering this suddenly, he managed to turn his shocked expression into a kinder one.

“Oh, if only I could, my dear brother, you may be sure that I would. But if you remember correctly, I received only a pittance of your inheritance from our father's settlement, and have, besides that, a mere nothing from the Crown to compensate me for my labours on the Regent's behalf. A mere thirty or forty thousand pounds must last me all year.” This sounding too brusque a dismissal, Sir Basil added hastily, “However, I shall be glad to help you in any other way I can. Marlborough owes me one or two little favours himself, and I believe I may be able to persuade him to forestall his payment for a while, till it suits you to pay.”

Lord Hargate looked a little mollified at this. Indeed, his prompt expressions of gratitude were so vociferous and extravagant that they might have repelled his brother still further had not that gentleman a very real desire to make Hargate aware of his indebtedness.

“And your lovely bride?” he quickly interrupted. “I trust she is as bright and gay as ever?”

“Ah, Louisa!” exclaimed Lord Hargate after a moment, for he had not recognized at first this depiction of Lady Hargate. “Yes, yes, she is very well, thank you, although she complains daily of migraines, and tells me she had not felt well this last year. I believe it is the children, you know. She is such a delicate creature, and cannot abide their noisy playing.”