by Grant Allen
“It’s curious he makes you go on paying, and grinding you so hard,” Faith mused meditatively, “when he’s got nobody left on earth now to grind you for.”
“It’s habit!” Paul answered. “Mere ingrained habit. He grinds by instinct. And he likes to feel, too, that I’m able to pay him. He likes to think his money wasn’t wasted or his confidence misplaced. Though he considers me a fool for not marrying an heiress, he considers, too, it proves his own sagacity that he should have known I’d leave no stone unturned till I’d honestly repaid him.”
“It’s a great pity,” Charlie Thistleton interposed, looking out of the window and delivering himself slowly of an abstract opinion apropos of nothing in particular, “that some people are so devilish proud as they are. They’d rather toil and slave and worry themselves for a lifetime, than accept a few paltry unimportant hundreds from their friends and relations.”
“O Charlie! he couldn’t!” Faith cried, flushing up. “He wouldn’t be Paul at all if he did that. I know we’d all love to help him if it was possible. But it isn’t possible. Anybody who knows him knows he’ll never be satisfied till he’s worked it all off and paid it himself. Mr. Solomons knows it; and perhaps that’s why he’s so hard upon him, even. He wants to give him a spur and a stimulus to work, so that he may get it all paid off as soon as possible, and be free to do better things in the end for himself and Nea.”
“My dear child,” Charlie put in, “you’re really too trustful.”
“Well, anyhow, he wants Paul to marry Nea, now,” Faith said, relapsing into her corner.
“Because he thinks I’ll work better when it’s all settled,” Paul retorted, half undecided himself which side to take. “There’s no doubt about it, Faith, he’s grown harder and more money-grubbing than ever, since Lionel Solomons died. He reckons every farthing and grumbles over every delay. I suppose it’s because he’s got nothing else left to live for now. But he certainly grinds me very hard indeed, and wants more every time, as if he was afraid he’d never live to get back his money.”
“Ah, that’s it, you see!” Faith answered. “That’s just the explanation. While that horrid boy was alive, he expected to leave his money to him; and if Mr. Solomons himself didn’t get the return, Lionel would have got it. But now he must have it all repaid in his own lifetime, or it’ll be no use to him. What does it matter to him, after all, whether the Jewish Widows and Orphans have a hundred or a thousand more or less? It’s only the pursuit of money for its own sake that’s left him now. He goes on with that by mere use and custom.
All the way down to Cornwall, in fact, they discussed this important matter, and others of more pressing and immediate interest; and all the way down Faith noticed that Paul was going to his wedding with many grave doubts and misgivings on his mind as to whether or not he was right at all in marrying under such circumstances. It’s hard for a man to start on his honeymoon with a millstone round his neck; and Faith cordially pitied him. Yet, none the less, she was characteristically proud of him for that very feeling. Paul would have been less of a Gascoyne, she felt, if he could have accepted aid or help in such a strait from any man. He had made his own maze, no matter how long since, and now he must puzzle his own way out of it.
At Fowey station a strange surprise awaited them. They got out of their carriage, and saw on the platform a familiar figure which quite took Faith’s breath away.
“Mr. Solomons! “she exclaimed in astonishment. “You here! This is, indeed” — she was just going to say “an unexpected pleasure” — but native truthfulness came to her aid in time, and she substituted instead the very non-committal word “wonderful!”
Mr. Solomons, somewhat bluer in the face than was his wont, drew himself up to his full height of five feet five as he extended his hand to her with a cordial welcome. He had never looked so blooming before since poor Leo’s death. Nor had Faith ever seen him so closely resemble a well-to-do solicitor. He had spared no pains or expense, indeed, on his sartorial get-up. All that the tailor’s art and skill could do had been duly done for him. He was faultlessly attired in positively neat and gentlemanly clothes; for he had put himself implicitly in the hands of a good West End house; and, distrusting his own taste and that of his race, had asked to be dressed from head to foot in a style suitable for a baronet’s wedding party. The result was really and truly surprising. Mr. Solomons, with a flower in his buttonhole and a quiet tie round his neck, looked positively almost like a Jewish gentleman.
“Well, yes, Mrs. Thistleton,” the old money-lender said, with a deep-blue blush. “I fancied you’d be rather taken aback when you saw me. It isn’t every day that I get an invitation to a wedding in high life; but Miss Blair was kind enough to send me a card; and I thought, as I was one of Sir Paul’s oldest and earliest friends, I could hardly let the occasion pass without properly honoring it. So I’ve taken rooms by telegraph at the hotel in the town; and I hope to see you all by and by at the church on Thursday.”
The apparition was hardly a pleasant one for Paul. If the truth must be confessed, he would have liked, if possible, on that one day in his life, if never before or after, to be free from the very shadow of Mr. Solomons’ presence. But Nea had no doubt good reasons of her own for asking him — Nea was always right — and so Paul grasped his old visitor’s hand as warmly as he could, as he muttered in a somewhat choky and dubious voice a half inarticulate “Thank you.”
CHAPTER XLVIII.
MR. SOLOMONS COMES OUT.
THE wedding-day came, and the gathering of the clans at Lanhydran church was indeed conspicuous. Mrs. Douglas was there from Oxford (with the Accadian Professor well in tow) discoursing amicably to Faith of the transcendent merits of blue blood, and of how perfectly certain she was that, sooner or later, Paul would take his proper place in Parliament, and astonish the world with some magnificent scheme for Imperial Federation, or for the Total Abolition of Poverty and Crime in Great Britain and Ireland. The Thistletons senior were there looking bland and impressive, with the consciousness of having given the bride as handsome a present as anybody else in all the wedding party was likely to bestow upon her. Half a dozen of Paul’s undergraduate friends or London acquaintances had come down to grace the ceremony by their august presence, or to make copy for society papers out of the two young people’s domestic felicity. The county of Cornwall was there in full force to see a pretty Cornish girl recruit the ranks of metropolitan aristocracy. And Mr. Solomons was there, with hardly a trace of that cold, hard manner left upon his face, and his fingers finding their way with a fumbling twitch every now and again to his right coat-tail pocket, which evidently contained some unknown object to whose continued safety Mr. Solomons attached immense, and, indeed, overwhelming importance.
As for Nea, she looked as charming as ever — as charming, Paul thought, as on that very first day when he had seen her and fallen in love with her on the promenade at Mentone. And when at last in the vestry, after all was over, he was able to print one kiss on her smooth white forehead, and to say “my wife” in real earnest, he forgot for the moment all other thoughts in the joy of that name, and felt as though Mr. Solomons and his hapless claims had never existed.
Mr. Solomons himself, however, was by no means disposed to let the opportunity pass by so easily. As soon as everybody had signed the book and claimed their customary kiss from the bride, Mr. Solomons too pressed forward with a certain manifest eagerness on his impulsive countenance. He took Nea’s two hands in his own with a fatherly air, and clasped them tight for a moment, quite tremulous with emotion. Nea held up her blushing cheek timidly. Mr. Solomons drew back. A maiden fear oppressed his soul. This was too much honor. He had never expected it. “Dare I, my lady?” he asked in a faltering voice. He was the first who had called her so. Nea replied with a smile and a deeper blush. Mr. Solomons leant forward with instinctive courtesy, and bending his head, just touched with the tips of his pursed-up lips that dainty small hand of hers. It was the greatest triumph of his lif
e — a reward for that doubtful and dangerous long investment. That he should live to kiss with his own two lips the hand of the lady of an English baronet.
As he rose again, blushing bluer in the face than ever, he drew from his pocket a large morocco case, and taking out of it a necklet of diamonds set in gold, he hung them gracefully enough round Nea’s neck with an unobtrusive movement. A chorus of admiring “Ohs!” went up all round from the circling group of women. Mr. Solomons had loosed his little bolt neatly. He had chosen the exact right moment for presenting his wedding gift. Even old Mr. Thistleton, complacent and urbane, was taken aback by the shimmering glitter of the pretty baubles, and reflected with some chagrin that his own set of massive silver dessert-dishes was thrown quite into the shade now by Mr. Solomons’ diamonds.
Paul was the only person who failed to appreciate the magnificence of the present. He saw, indeed, with surprise that Mr. Solomons had presented Nea with a very pretty necklet. But beyond that vague feeling he realized nothing. He was too simply a man to attach much importance to those useless gewgaws.
The breakfast followed, with its usual accompaniments of champagne and speeches. The ordinary extraordinary virtues were discovered in the bridegroom, and the invariably exceptional beauty and sweetness of the bride met with their due meed of extravagant praise. Nothing could be more satisfactory than everyone’s opinion of everyone else. All the world had always known that Sir Paul would attain in the end to the highest honors literature could hold out to her ambitious aspirants — perhaps even to the editorship of the Times newspaper. All the world had always considered that Lady Gascoyne — how Nea sat there blushing and tingling with delight as she heard that long-expected title now really and truly at last bestowed upon her — deserved exactly such a paragon of virtue, learning, and talent as the man who had that day led her to the altar. Everybody said very nice things about the bridesmaids and their probable fate in the near future. Everybody was polite, and appreciative, and eulogistic, so that all the world seemed converted for the moment into a sort of private Lanhydran Mutual Admiration Society, Limited, and believed as such, with unblushing confidence.
At last, Mr. Solomons essayed to speak. It was in answer to some wholly unimportant toast; and as he rose he really looked even more like a gentleman, Faith thought to herself, than at the station last evening. He put his hand upon the table to steady himself, and gazed long at Paul. Then he cleared his throat and began nervously, in a low tone that was strangely unfamiliar to him. He said a few words, not without a certain simple dignity of their own, about the immediate subject to which he was supposed to devote his oratorical powers; but in the course of half a minute he had wandered round to the bridegroom, as is the oblique fashion with most amateur speakers on these trying occasions. “I have known Sir Paul Gascoyne,” he said, and Faith, watching him hard, saw with surprise that tears stood in his eyes, “ever since his head wouldn’t have shown above this table.” He paused a second, and glanced once more at Paul. “I’ve always known him,” he continued, in a very shaky voice, “for what he is — a gentleman. There’s no truer man than Sir Paul Gascoyne in all England. Once I had a boy of my own — a nephew — but my own — I loved him dearly.” He paused once more, and struggled with his emotion. “Now, I’ve nobody left me but Sir Paul,” he went on, his eyes swimming, “and I love Sir Paul as I never could have loved any — any — any—”
Faith rose and caught him. Mr. Solomons was bluer in the face now than ever before. He gasped for breath, he staggered as he spoke, and accepted Faith’s arm with a quiet gratitude.
“Dear Mr. Solomons,” Faith said, supporting him, “you’d better sit down now, at once — hadn’t you?”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” Mr. Solomons cried, bursting all of a sudden into hasty tears, more eloquent than his words, and subsiding slowly. “I’ve always said, and I shall always say, that your brother Paul’s the very best young fellow in all England.”
And he sank into his seat.
Have you ever noticed that after all’s over, the bride and bridegroom, becoming suddenly conscious that they’re terribly faint, and have eaten and drunk nothing themselves owing to the tempest and whirlwind of congratulations, invariably retire in the end to the deserted dining room, with three or four intimate friends, for a biscuit and a glass of claret? In that position Paul and Nea found themselves half an hour later, with Faith and Thistleton to keep them company.
“But what does this all mean about Mr. Solomons?” Faith inquired in an undertone. “Did you ever see anything so queer and mysterious as his behavior?”
“Why, I don’t know about that,” Paul answered. “I saw nothing very odd in it. He’s always known me, of course, and he was naturally pleased to see me so well married.”
“Well, but Paul, dear,” Faith exclaimed impressively, “just think of the necklet!”
“The necklet!” Paul answered in a careless tone. “Oh, yes, the necklet was very pretty.”
“But what did he mean by giving it to her?” Faith asked once more in an excited whisper. “I think, myself, it’s awfully symptomatic.”
“Symptomatic?” Paul echoed inquiringly.
“Why, yes,” Faith repeated. “Sympathetic, of course, Such a lovely present as that! What on earth else could he possibly give it to her for?”
“Everybody who comes to a wedding gives the bride a present, don’t they?” Paul asked, a little mystified. “I always thought, after we met him at Fowey Station, Mr. Solomons would give a present to Nea. He’s the sort of man who likes things done decently and in order.
He’d make a point of giving tithe of mint, anise, and cummin.”
“Mint, anise, and cummin!” Faith retorted contemptuously. “Why, what do you think that necklet would cost, you stupid?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Paul answered: “five pounds I suppose, or something of that sort.”
“Five pounds!” the two women repeated in concert, with a burst of amusement.
“Why, Paul dear,” Nea went on, taking it off and handing it to him, “that necklet must have cost at least three hundred guineas the set — at least three hundred!”
Paul turned it over dubiously, with an awe-struck air.
‘Are you sure, Nea?” he asked incredulously.
“Quite sure, dear,” Nea answered. “And so’s Faith; aren’t you, Faith?”
Faith nodded acquiescence.
“Well, all I can say,” Paul replied, examining the thing closely with astonished eyes, “is — it doesn’t look worth it.”
“Oh, yes,” Faith put in, admiring it, all enthusiasm. “Why, they’re just lovely, Paul. It’s the most beautiful necklet I ever saw anywhere.”
“But what did he do it for?” Paul asked in a maze. It was his turn now to seek in vain for some hidden motive.
“Ah, that’s the question,” Charlie Thistleton continued with a blank stare. “I suppose he thought Lady Gascoyne ought to have jewels worthy of her position.”
“I don’t know,” Paul went on, drawing his hand across his brow with a puzzled air. “If it’s worth what you say, it’s one of the strangest things I ever heard. Three hundred pounds! Why, that’d be a lot of money for anybody to spend upon it.”
To say the truth, he looked at the diamonds a trifle ruefully. In the first flush of surprise he almost wondered whether, when he next called round at the High Street, Hillborough, Mr. Solomons would want him to sign another bond for the three hundred pounds, with interest at twenty per cent, per annum, for jewelry supplied for Lady Gascoyne’s wedding.
At that moment a flutter in the coterie disturbed him. He roused himself from his reverie to see Mr. Solomons gazing in at the open door, and evidently pleased at the attention the party was bestowing upon his treasured diamonds.
Nea looked up at him with that sunny smile of hers.
“We’re all admiring your lovely present, Mr. Solomons,” she said, dangling it once more before him.
Mr. Solomons came in, still
very blue in the face, and took her two hands affectionately in his, as he had done in the vestry.
“My dear,” he said, gazing at her with a certain paternal pride, “when I first knew Sir Paul was going to marry you, or was thinking of marrying you, I won’t pretend to deny that I was very much disappointed. I thought he ought to have looked elsewhere for money — money. I wanted him to marry a woman of wealth. My dear, I was wrong — I was quite wrong. Sir Paul was a great deal wiser in his generation than I was. He knew something that was better far than money.” He drew a deep sigh. “I could wish,” he went on, holding her hands tight, “that all those I loved had been as wise as he is. Since I saw you, my dear. I’ve appreciated his motives. I won’t say I’m not disappointed now — to say merely that would be poor politeness — I’m happy and proud at the choice he’s made — I, who am — perhaps — well, there — your husband’s oldest and nearest friend at Hillborough.”
He gazed across at her once more, tenderly, gently. Paul was surprised to find the old man had so much chivalry left in him still. Then he leaned forward yet a second time and kissed her white little hand with old-fashioned courtesy.
“Good-by, my dear,” he said, pressing it. “Good-by, Sir Paul; I’ve a train to catch, for I’ve business in London — important business in London — and I thought I’d better go up by the train before the one you and Lady Gascoyne have chosen. But I wanted to say good-by to you both quietly in here before I went. My child, this is the proudest day I ever remember. I’ve mixed on equal terms with the gentlefolk of England. I’m not unmindful of all the kindness and sympathy you’ve all extended this morning to an old Jew money-lender. My own have never been to me as you and Paul have been to-day.” He burst into tears again. “From my heart, I thank you, my dear,” he cried out, faltering; “from my poor old, worn-out, broken-down heart, ten thousand times I thank you.”
