The Palliser Novels (235 page)

“I didn’t know that gentlemen wanted ponies for shooting.”

“I wonder what you do know? Of course there must be a pony.”

“I suppose you’ll want two?”

“No, I sha’n’t. You don’t suppose that men always go riding about. But I want one. What had I better do?” Miss Macnulty suggested that Gowran should be consulted. Now, Gowran was the steward and bailiff and manager and factotum about the place, who bought a cow or sold one if occasion required, and saw that nobody stole anything, and who knew the boundaries of the farms, and all about the tenants, and looked after the pipes when frost came, and was an honest, domineering, hard-working, intelligent Scotchman, who had been brought up to love the Eustaces, and who hated his present mistress with all his heart. He did not leave her service, having an idea in his mind that it was now the great duty of his life to save Portray from her ravages. Lizzie fully returned the compliment of the hatred, and was determined to rid herself of Andy Gowran’s services as soon as possible. He had been called Andy by the late Sir Florian, and, though every one else about the place called him Mr. Gowran, Lady Eustace thought it became her, as the man’s mistress, to treat him as he had been treated by the late master. So she called him Andy. But she was resolved to get rid of him, — as soon as she should dare. There were things which it was essential that somebody about the place should know, and no one knew them but Mr. Gowran. Every servant in the castle might rob her, were it not for the protection afforded by Mr. Gowran. In that affair of the garden it was Mr. Gowran who had enabled her to conquer the horticultural Leviathan who had oppressed her, and who, in point of wages, had been a much bigger man than Mr. Gowran himself. She trusted Mr. Gowran, and hated him, — whereas Mr. Gowran hated her, and did not trust her. “I believe you think that nothing can be done at Portray except by that man,” said Lady Eustace.

“He’ll know how much you ought to pay for the pony.”

“Yes, — and get some brute not fit for my cousin to ride, on purpose, perhaps, to break his neck.”

“Then I should ask Mr. Macallum, the postmaster of Troon, for I have seen three or four very quiet-looking ponies standing in the carts at his door.”

“Macnulty, if there ever was an idiot you are one!” said Lady Eustace, throwing up her hands. “To think that I should get a pony for my cousin Frank out of one of the mail carts.”

“I daresay I am an idiot,” said Miss Macnulty, resuming her novel.

Lady Eustace was, of course, obliged to have recourse to Gowran, to whom she applied on the Monday morning. Not even Lizzie Eustace, on behalf of her cousin Frank, would have dared to disturb Mr. Gowran with considerations respecting a pony on the Sabbath. On the Monday morning she found Mr. Gowran superintending four boys and three old women, who were making a bit of her ladyship’s hay on the ground above the castle. The ground about the castle was poor and exposed, and her ladyship’s hay was apt to be late. “Andy,” she said, “I shall want to get a pony for the gentlemen who are coming to the Cottage. It must be there by Tuesday evening.”

“A pownie, my leddie?”

“Yes; — a pony. I suppose a pony may be purchased in Ayrshire, — though of all places in the world it seems to have the fewest of the comforts of life.”

“Them as find it like that, my leddie, needn’t bide there.”

“Never mind. You will have the kindness to have a pony purchased and put into the stables of the Cottage on Tuesday afternoon. There are stables, no doubt.”

“Oh, ay, — there’s shelter, nae doot, for mair pownies than they’ll ride. When the Cottage was biggit, my leddie, there was nae cause for sparing nowt.” Andy Gowran was continually throwing her comparative poverty in poor Lizzie’s teeth, and there was nothing he could do which displeased her more.

“And I needn’t spare my cousin the use of a pony,” she said grandiloquently, but feeling as she did so that she was exposing herself before the man. “You’ll have the goodness to procure one for him on Tuesday.”

“But there ain’t aits nor yet fother, nor nowt for bedding down. And wha’s to tent the pownie? There’s mair in keeping a pownie than your leddyship thinks. It’ll be a matter of auchteen and saxpence a week, — will a pownie.” Mr. Gowran, as he expressed his prudential scruples, put a very strong emphasis indeed on the sixpence.

“Very well. Let it be so.”

“And there’ll be the beastie to buy, my leddie. He’ll be a lump of money, my leddie. Pownies ain’t to be had for nowt in Ayrshire, as was ance, my leddie.”

“Of course I must pay for him.”

“He’ll be a matter of ten pound, my leddie.”

“Very well.”

“Or may be twal; just as likely.” And Mr. Gowran shook his head at his mistress in a most uncomfortable way. It was not surprising that she should hate him.

“You must give the proper price, — of course.”

“There ain’t no proper prices for pownies, — as there is for jew’ls and sich like.” If this was intended for sarcasm upon Lady Eustace in regard to her diamonds, Mr. Gowran ought to have been dismissed on the spot. In such a case no English jury would have given him his current wages. “And he’ll be to sell again, my leddie?”

“We shall see about that afterwards.”

“Ye’ll never let him eat his head off there a’ the winter! He’ll be to sell. And the gentles’ll ride him, may be, ance across the hillside, out and back. As to the grouse, they can’t cotch them with the pownie, for there ain’t none to cotch.” There had been two keepers on the mountains, — men who were paid five or six shillings a week to look after the game in addition to their other callings, and one of these had been sent away, actually in obedience to Gowran’s advice; — so that this blow was cruel and unmanly. He made it, too, as severe as he could by another shake of his head.

“Do you mean to tell me that my cousin cannot be supplied with an animal to ride upon?”

“My leddie, I’ve said nowt o’ the kind. There ain’t no useful animal as I kens the name and nature of as he can’t have in Ayrshire, — for paying for it, my leddie; — horse, pownie, or ass, just whichever you please, my leddie. But there’ll be a
seddle — “

“A what?”

There can be no doubt that Gowran purposely slurred the word so that his mistress should not understand him. “Seddles don’t come for nowt, my leddie, though it be Ayrshire.”

“I don’t understand what it is that you say, Andy.”

“A seddle, my leddie,” — said he, shouting the word at her at the top of his voice, — “and a briddle. I suppose as your leddyship’s cousin don’t ride bare-back up in Lunnon?”

“Of course there must be the necessary horse-furniture,” said Lady Eustace, retiring to the castle. Andy Gowran had certainly ill-used her, and she swore that she would have revenge. Nor when she was informed on the Tuesday that an adequate pony had been hired for eighteen pence a day, saddle, bridle, groom, and all included, was her heart at all softened towards Mr. Gowran.

Had Frank Greystock known all that his cousin endured for his comfort, would he have been grateful? Women, when they are fond of men, do think much of men’s comfort in small matters, and men are apt to take the good things provided almost as a matter of course. When Frank Greystock and Herriot reached the cottage about nine o’clock in the morning, having left London over night by the limited mail train, the pony at once presented itself to them. It was a little shaggy, black beast, with a boy almost as shaggy as itself, but they were both good of their kind. “Oh, you’re the laddie with the pownie, are you?” said Frank, in answer to an announcement made to him by the boy. He did at once perceive that Lizzie had taken notice of the word in his note, in which he had suggested that some means of getting over to Portray would be needed, and he learned from the fact that she was thinking of him and anxious to see him.

His friend was a man a couple of years younger than himself, who had hitherto achieved no success at the Bar, but who was nevertheless a clever, diligent, well-instructed man. He was what the world calls penniless, having an income from his father just sufficient to keep him like a gentleman. He was not much known as a sportsman, his opportunities for shooting not having been great; but he dearly loved the hills and fresh air, and the few grouse which were, — or were not, — on Lady Eustace’s mountains would go as far with him as they would with any man. Before he had consented to come with Frank, he had especially inquired whether there was a game-keeper, and it was not till he had been assured that there was no officer attached to the estate worthy of such a name, that he had consented to come upon his present expedition. “I don’t clearly know what a gillie is,” he said, in answer to one of Frank’s explanations. “If a gillie means a lad without any breeches on, I don’t mind; but I couldn’t stand a severe man got up in well-made velveteens, who would see through my ignorance in a moment, and make known by comment the fact that he had done so.” Greystock had promised that there should be no severity, and Herriot had come. Greystock brought with him two guns, two fishing-rods, a man-servant, and a huge hamper from Fortnum and Mason’s. Arthur Herriot, whom the attorneys had not yet loved, brought some very thick boots, a pair of knickerbockers, together with Stone and Toddy’s “Digest of the Common Law.” The best of the legal profession consists in this; — that when you get fairly at work you may give over working. An aspirant must learn everything; but a man may make his fortune at it, and know almost nothing. He may examine a witness with judgment, see through a case with precision, address a jury with eloquence, — and yet be altogether ignorant of law. But he must be believed to be a very pundit before he will get a chance of exercising his judgment, his precision, or his eloquence. The men whose names are always in the newspapers never look at their Stone and Toddy, — care for it not at all, — have their Stone and Toddy got up for them by their juniors when cases require that reference shall be made to precedents. But till that blessed time has come, a barrister who means success should carry his Stone and Toddy with him everywhere. Greystock never thought of the law now, unless he had some special case in hand; but Herriot could not afford to go out on his holiday without two volumes of Stone and Toddy’s Digest in his portmanteau.

“You won’t mind being left alone for the first morning?” said Frank, as soon as they had finished the contents of one of the pots from Fortnum and Mason.

“Not in the least. Stone and Toddy will carry me through.”

“I’d go on the mountain if I were you, and get into a habit of steady loading.”

“Perhaps I will take a turn, — just to find out how I feel in the knickerbockers. At what time shall I dine if you don’t come back?”

“I shall certainly be here to dinner,” said Frank, “unless the pony fails me or I get lost on the mountain.” Then he started, and Herriot at once went to work on Stone and Toddy, with a pipe in his mouth. He had travelled all night, and it is hardly necessary to say that in five minutes he was fast asleep.

So also had Frank travelled all night, but the pony and the fresh air kept him awake. The boy had offered to go with him, but that he had altogether refused; — and, therefore, to his other cares was added that of finding his way. The sweep of the valleys, however, is long and not abrupt, and he could hardly miss his road if he would only make one judicious turn through a gap in a certain wall which lay half way between the cottage and the castle. He was thinking of the work in hand, and he found the gap without difficulty. When through that he ascended the hill for two miles, and then the sea was before him, and Portray Castle, lying, as it seemed to him at that distance, close upon the sea-shore. “Upon my word, Lizzie has not done badly for herself,” he said almost aloud, as he looked down upon the fair sight beneath him, and round upon the mountains, and remembered that, for her life at least, it was all hers, and after her death would belong to her son. What more does any human being desire of such a property than that?

He rode down to the great doorway, — the mountain track which fell on to the road about half a mile from the castle having been plain enough, and there he gave up the pony into the hands of no less a man than Mr. Gowran himself. Gowran had watched the pony coming down the mountain-side, and had desired to see of what like was “her leddyship’s” cousin. In telling the whole truth of Mr. Gowran, it must be acknowledged that he thought that his late master had made a very great mistake in the matter of his marriage. He could not imagine bad things enough of Lady Eustace, and almost believed that she was not now, and hadn’t been before her marriage, any better than she should be. The name of Admiral Greystock, as having been the father of his mistress, had indeed reached his ears; but Andy Gowran was a suspicious man, and felt no confidence even in an admiral, — in regard to whom he heard nothing of his having, or having had, a wife. “It’s my fer-rm opeenion she’s jist naebody — and waur,” he had said more than once to his own wife, nodding his head with great emphasis at the last word. He was very anxious, therefore, to see “her leddyship’s” cousin. Mr. Gowran thought that he knew a gentleman when he saw one. He thought, also, that he knew a lady, and that he didn’t see one when he was engaged with his mistress. Cousin, indeed! “For the matter o’ that, ony man that comes the way may be ca’ed a coosin.” So Mr. Gowran was on the grand sweep before the garden gate, and took the pony from Frank’s hand. “Is Lady Eustace at home?” Frank asked. Mr. Gowran perceived that Frank was a gentleman, and was disappointed. And Frank didn’t come as a man comes who calls himself by a false name, and pretends to be an honest cousin when in fact he is something, — oh, ever so wicked! Mr. Gowran, who was a stern moralist, was certainly disappointed at Frank’s appearance.

Lizzie was in a little sitting-room, reached by a long passage with steps in the middle, at some corner of the castle which seemed a long way from the great door. It was a cheerful little room, with chintz curtains, and a few shelves laden with brightly-bound books, which had been prepared for Lizzie immediately on her marriage. It looked out upon the sea, and she had almost taught herself to think that here she had sat with her adored Florian, gazing in mutual ecstasy upon the “wide expanse of glittering waves.” She was lying back in a low arm-chair as her cousin entered, and she did not rise to receive him. Of course she was alone, Miss Macnulty having received a suggestion that it would be well that she should do a little gardening in the moat. “Well, Frank?” she said, with her sweetest smile, as she gave him her hand. She felt and understood the extreme intimacy which would be implied by her not rising to receive him. As she could not rush into his arms there was no device by which she could more clearly show to him how close she regarded his friendship.