The Twickenham Peerage

CHAPTER XXXI

AN INTERIOR

Mr. Merrett gently opened the door, then stood listening, the handle in his hand. The sound of voices reached his ear. He stepped into the passage. The door of the room upon his left was open; he peeped through. A woman was sitting at a table with a pile of photographs in front of her. Two children were standing at her knee; a boy and girl. They regarded the photograph on which the woman's eyes were fixed.

'Shall I be like father when I grow up?' inquired the boy. 'I hope you will; as like him as you can. O Jimmy, I would be proud if you were like your father.'

'Will I be like him too?' This was the little girl. The boy derided her. 'Girls aren't never like their fathers-never!'

The woman, stopping, put her arm about the young person's neck, and said: 'You be your mother, Pollie; and love him with all your heart and soul. Father'll like that just as well.'

'Father'll like it better!' observed Mr. Merrett, standing at the door.

Mother and children started. They turned to see who it was had spoken. The woman, dropping the photograph she held, ran towards the door, uttering an exclamation that was like a long-drawn sigh.

'James!'

She threw her arms about his neck, he put his about her waist, and they were still-until the children claimed their share of notice.

'To think that you should come home to-day!'

She spoke as if the day were sanctified by his coming. She was a woman whose beauty was rare both in type and in degree. Small, there was that about her which caused the defect, if defect it was, to go unnoticed. She moved with a grace and freedom which dignified her every gesture. The eye followed her with continual joy. Every change of attitude was a fresh delight. Whether in movement or repose she suggested the physical side of life at its highest and its best; she seemed charged, to the finger-tips, with so delicious a vitality. The thing about her face which struck one most was its expression of perfect innocence. One wondered if such a being ever could grow old. One felt sure that she would face whatever fortune fate might send her with the same quaint illuminating smile, and that nothing would ever shake her faith in the good that was to be.

Mr. Merrett had a child on either knee. His wife was kneeling beside his chair, regarding him with a rapturous affection which it was curious to contemplate. A man's capacity to win and retain a woman's love is by no means necessarily dependent on his moral qualities. Which is fortunate for some of us.

'James,' she whispered, from the post of vantage her head occupied upon his shoulder, 'when you come home the whole world seems somehow different.'

Her tongue betrayed her. Her speech was hardly that of an educated woman, and yet her voice was such a sweet one, and her manner so naturally refined, that one could not doubt that it needed but little to make her command over the King's English greater than it was.

'Seems different, doesn't it? Now that's strange. Do you think, having come, if I stayed it would keep on seeming different?'

'O James, if you would stay-a week.'

One could not but perceive that her sentence had changed between its beginning and its end. He chose to construe the alteration in a fashion of his own.

'A week! You don't think it would keep on seeming different if I stayed longer than that?'

'If you-if you'd only try.'

Her voice dropped; as if alarmed at her own daring. This was one of those foolish women who are fearful of saying anything which may be contrary to the wishes of the man they love.

'I'm going to try; if try's the word which adequately expresses the situation. I'm going to stay more than a week. I'm going to stay for ever.'

She looked up at him with an expression of singular amazement.

'James, do you mean-that you've come-to stay with us-for good?'

'That's it; for good. I like your word better than mine. Then we'll see how long the world will keep on seeming different.'

'It will keep on seeming different for ever. Stay with us always? James, you-you don't know what that means.'

Back went her head upon his shoulder, and she was still. He put up his hand to stroke her hair.

'It's in this way. After prolonged and arduous toil-'

He cleared his throat; as if the words stuck a little. She mistook the cause of his hesitation.

'I'm sure you've worked too much.'

'I have worked hard-at times.' There was a grimness in his tone which it is to be hoped she did not detect. 'As a result of my-labours, I have amassed a small fortune which will relieve me, in the future, from the necessity of making more money, and will enable me to devote the whole of my attention to the claims of my wife and family.'

'Do you mean that you are rich?'

'Rich is a relative term, I hope that I have enough to provide us all with bread and cheese for the remainder of our days.'

'Without working any more?'

'Without working any more.'

'James, shan't we be happy?'

I think we shall. It's about my idea of happiness to have you always close at hand.'

'James!'

'My idea is to leave this part of the world behind us; and-what do you say to a little travel?'

'Travel? I've always wanted to travel, – and with you! But it costs so much.'

'I'll see that it doesn't cost more than I can afford, Then, when we've had enough of travelling, we'll decide which of the places we have seen we like best, and there we'll take up our abode.'

'James, how good God is to us!'

Mr. Merrett said nothing, His lips were wrinkled by a peculiar smile, which it was perhaps as well for her peace of mind that she did not see; and he smoothed the lady's lovely hair.

While the silence still remained unbroken the door opened-manners in Little Olive Street are primitive-and Mr. Augustus FitzHoward stood looking in.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE LAST JOURNEY TO TWICKENHAM HOUSE

The scene which met his eyes appeared to fill Mr. FitzHoward with an access of amazement to which it was altogether beyond his power to give adequate expression. Mr. Merrett, on the other hand, greeted him with a smile of the heartiest kind.

'What you, Fitz! How goes it, my old pal?'

The fashion of the greeting seemed to render Mr. FitzHoward's amazement greater. On a sudden words came tumbling from his lips.

'So you have come home. Well, I'm a Dutchman if this doesn't beat anything!'

'Who says you're a Dutchman? You give me his name and address and I'll pay him a call. Yes, Fitz, I have come home; and I hope you're as glad to see me as I am to see you.'

'You weren't glad to see me a little while ago.'

'I should have been if I'd had the luck. But we don't always have the luck. I hope, old man, that my presence hasn't caused you any inconvenience?'

Mr. FitzHoward had his hands in his trousers' pockets; his agitation was such that it caused him to agitate those garments in a way which was peculiar.

'I don't know what kind of a fool you take me for. I know I'm a bit of one, but I'm not the altogether you seem to think.'

'What's the matter with you, Fitz? Perhaps it's because I haven't seen you for so long, but your manner appears to me to be a trifle odd.'

'I suppose you're not the Marquis of Twickenham now?'

'Not who? I say, have you-been beginning early?'

'I suppose you never were the Marquis of Twickenham? I suppose I'm not to believe the evidence of my senses? Oh, dear no! If you tell me that you're Jones to-day, and Brown to-morrow, and Robinson the day after, and God knows who next week, I'm never to cast doubt upon your word by suggesting that I ever knew you as anybody else. Is that the kind of man you think I ought to be? Because, if so, although you mayn't like it, I can only tell you that I'm not. I always have said that you were the marvel of the age, but I'm only just beginning to realise what a marvel you really are.'

'Mary, what does the fellow mean?'

She said something which was audible to him alone, When she had finished, Mr. Merrett, lifting the children from off his knees, rose to his feet.

'Mary, when I was here last you spoke of somebody who you seemed to think had been masquerading as me. Fitz, your remarks apparently point in the same direction. What does this person call himself?'

'He calls himself the Marquis of Twickenham-when he's not James Merrett.'

'Is that meant to be funny? Because, if so, take my advice, and don't try to be humorous in a wrong key. Where does he live?'

'His address is Twickenham House, St. James's Square-when it's not Little Olive Street.'

'More humour? Pretty soon I'll give you leave to get in all the laughter you have handy. You come right away along with yours truly, and we'll interview the gentleman who's pretending to be me.'

'He's not pretending to be you; he's pretending that he isn't you.'

'That so? We'll investigate his pretensions anyhow. You just come right along.'

Mr. FitzHoward stared.

'What new caper's this?'

'It's a caper that's going to show you just where the laugh comes in, if you're ready.'

'James, you're not going to leave us?'

'You have tea upon that table at five o'clock; a good tea, mind; and I'll be back for it; back for good. There seems to be some little game going on over in St. James's Square which I'm going to take a hand at. You remember my telling you about a man Jones saw who might have sat for me? Looks as if he had come to life again, and was making trouble. Now trouble of that kind is a thing I don't mean to have come into the life which, from this time forward, you and I are going to live together. So I'm going along with Fitz till tea-time to see that it don't.'

As the two men went side by side along the pavement, Mr. FitzHoward kept glancing at his companion as if he found something about him which was not only strange but altogether beyond his comprehension. Presently he asked a question.

'Well! What's the game now?'

'The game?' Mr. Merrett regarded the other with a glance of innocent inquiry. 'That's what I'm after; that's what I'm going to find out-what the game is.'

They went some little distance before Mr. FitzHoward ventured on another remark.

'You have a face!'

'I hope so. I hope you have one too-even if it's not such an ornament as mine.'

'Ornament!'

Mr. FitzHoward emitted a sigh which might have been intended to mark the interjection. Mr. Merrett hailed a passing cab.

'Drive us to Twickenham House, St. James's Square. Now, Fitz, in you jump.'

That gentleman appeared to hesitate:

'Look here. I don't know what your game is, you're beyond me altogether, but don't you go kicking me out when we get there.'

'Kicking you? Out of what? The cab?'

'No, my Lord Marquis; out of your palatial abode. Because, if you do, this time there'll be trouble.'

'Fitz, would you do me the favour to step into that cab, and don't talk as if you had been let out of a lunatic asylum before your time?'

Thus adjured, Mr. FitzHoward did as he was requested. As the cab bowled along he continued to regard his companion with glances which were brimful of curiosity. But nothing was said. The cab reached Twickenham House. When Mr. Merrett got out he looked the building up and down.

'This the place?'

'Oh, yes, this is the place.'

'Don't look extra lively, does it? As if they kept a funeral on the premises. Nodding plumes out of every window would give a finishing touch. A bit too much in the big bow-wow style to suit me.'

'It does take a big man to properly fill it, as perhaps you found.'

'I found? Fitz, you're a fair treat. You'd better take something for it before it goes too far.'

Mr. Merrett sounded a salute on the knocker and the bell. The door flew open. A powdered footman stood within.

'Marquis of Twickenham at home?'

'His lordship is-' the footman began, then stopped to stare. 'I beg pardon, I-' The man stopped again.

'Well? Get it out! You thought what! For pains in the back try Jujah!'

'I beg your lordship's pardon. I thought your lordship was engaged. I wasn't aware your lordship was out.'

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE TWINKLE IN THE FATHER'S EYES

Mr. Merrett looked the man very straight in the face; as if he suspected him of an intention to be humorous.

'Not so much "your lordship" about it, if you please. Is it the old complaint? Try a bushel of pills before breakfast and a scuttleful at lunch. A young man with a pair of legs like yours ought to have more sense. He did really. For goodness gracious sake don't be a fool just because you look it. Try to behave as if you'd left your face at home. Did you hear me ask if the Marquis of Twickenham is at home, or are you deaf both back and front?'

The footman plainly did not know what to make of the position.

'Your lordship-'

Mr. Merrett sprang up the steps. 'Look here, you perambulating cauliflower, if you give me any more of "your lordship" I'll dot you upon the frontispiece. Are you the only fool about the place? Or isn't there any one who can give a civil answer to a civil question?'

Another footman advanced. Behind him the venerable Mr. Gayer. Both stared with unmistakable surprise at Mr. Merrett. He returned them stare for stare.

'Well? The charge for this entertainment is generally one shilling, but really good-looking men are admitted free. Do you both of you want a pass, upon your faces?'

He put his hand up to his mouth, and bawled:

'Is the Marquis of Twickenham at home? Sorry I didn't bring a foghorn out with me, but perhaps that's loud enough for somebody to hear.'

'What name?'

'What's yours?'

'My name is Gayer.'

'Mine's Merrett; James Merrett, Esquire. Glad to meet you. We're getting on nicely, Mr. Gayer, you and I. It's always a privilege to meet a man who's got sense, even if you can't think where he keeps it. Might I ask you if the Marquis of Twickenham is at home? My top notes are a little rusty; I didn't know I should have had to do so much shouting, or I'd have had them oiled before I came.'

'His lordship is engaged. He gave special instructions that he was not to be disturbed.'

'Oh, he did, did he? Then his instructions are going to be disturbed-and so I tell you. I'm going to see his lordship right now. There's some game going on here which it's my intention to see the bottom of. That fairy-like flower of the flock with the lily-white hair has kept calling me his "lordship" more than I quite care for; so I'm going to see what his lordship's like, for a lord's the very last thing I wish to be. Now, Fitz, I'm going to call on the Marquis. You come along and see me through.'

Mr. Gayer had placed himself in Mr. Merrett's way.

'Excuse me, sir!'

'Excuse me, my dear Mr. Gayer, but would you mind removing yourself to a more convenient distance, unless you wish me to demonstrate that my fighting weight is greater than you might think?'

On a sudden Mr. Merrett was across the hall, before Mr. Gayer was prepared for him to make a move. Throwing open a door he looked into the room which it disclosed.

'Hollo!' he exclaimed, 'what have we here?'

Two persons were within. One, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church, was taking his ease in an armchair, the other was kneeling in front of him with his hands held up to his face. At the sound of the opening door this person withdrew his hands, and turned. It was the Marquis of Twickenham.

Mr. Merrett stared at him with every appearance of the most profound amazement. He plucked off his hat.

'I-I-I'm sure I beg pardon, but are you the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'I am.'

'D-d-d-does your lordship know how much you are like me?'

The man on his knees was still. The priest stood up; a fine, steady figure; in striking contrast to the abject creature at his feet. He regarded Mr. Merrett with twinkling eyes.

'There certainly is a resemblance. Is it to that fact that we are indebted for the pleasure of your presence, unannounced?'

'Well, I was told that there was a gentleman here who was so like me that father got taking me for him; and as this was promising to become inconvenient, I thought I'd come and see.'

'And having seen?'

'I beg your pardon for having intruded, and hope I'll be excused.'

'Your name?'

'Merrett-James Merrett. And yours?'

'I am Father Anthony Coppard. Now that I regard you more attentively, I perceive that the resemblance is greater than I at first realised. You interest me, Mr. Merrett. May I ask you to favour me with your address, so that, perhaps, I may have the pleasure of seeing you again.'

'If you'll let me have yours, I'll come and call on you.'

'You prefer it that way? Well, as you please. I am content. Here is my card, Mr. Merrett. Let me know when you are coming; and-be sure you come.'

Father Anthony Coppard bestowed on Mr. Merrett, with his card, a glance which was full of meaning.

As the two visitors were going down the steps, Mr. Merrett put up his hand to smooth his chin. He appeared to be lost in a maze of wonder.

'Well, this beats anything I've ever heard of. If I hadn't seen him with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it-that two men could be so alike. Why, if I hadn't seen him in a looking-glass I might have mistaken him for me.'

'I'm sure I apologise, Mr. Babbacombe, if I seem to have doubted anything you may have said, but as you observed, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Nobody could.'

'I'm not surprised that my wife mistook that man for me; and although it seems to be against nature, upon my word I'm not surprised.'

'It would have been surprising if she hadn't.'

'You've hit it-it would. Mr. FitzHoward, you're a level-headed man, and always have been, so that when you talked to me in the way you did do, it was beyond me altogether. But now I understand what you were driving at; and I find I have to thank you for affording me an opportunity to throw light upon a matter which, had it remained wrapped in mystery, might have been against me all my life-and poisoned it, FitzHoward-poisoned it.'

'I'm sure, Mr. Babbacombe, you're welcome to anything I may have done, and it's very handsome of you to put it in that way.'

'Don't mention it, Fitz, my dear old boy; don't mention it.'

Putting out his hand, Mr. Merrett squeezed Mr. FitzHoward's arm in a way which was eloquent of what he felt. Presently he added another remark:

'I wonder what he was saying to that priest?'

For the first time, perhaps, he spoke the truth. He really did wonder. The twinkle which had been in the father's eyes he did not understand.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE PENITENT

That the Marquis of Twickenham lives a religious life is a matter of public notoriety. His benefactions to the Church whose faith he had adopted are in the mouths of every one. By far the larger portion of his income must, in some form or other, go into priestly hands. His family seat at Cressland is ordered almost as if it were a house of the religious. Priests are everywhere. Both a convent and a monastery have been established in the grounds. His days are ordered as if he himself were one of the brotherhood. Prayer and fasting are his rules of life. Strange stories are told of self-inflicted penances.

Thus he seeks, it would seem, to atone for the sins of his early life. In the opinion of certain persons the penitential spirit came on him with altogether unexpected suddenness. Mr. Stephen Foster, who had charge of the family finances till they were transferred to the custody of Roman Catholic administrators, to this day cannot understand how the alteration came about. He declares that when the truant peer first returned from his prolonged absence, his lordship struck him as being very much more of a scoffer than a bigot. Yet all at once he was in sackcloth and ashes. Mr. Foster cannot make it out at all. He is persuaded that there is something curious somewhere.