DINNER AT THE CLEEVE

Lady Mason on her return from London found a note from Mrs. Orme asking both her and her son to dine at The Cleeve on the following day.  As it had been already settled between her and Sir Peregrine that Lucius should dine there in order that he might be talked to respecting his mania for guano, the invitation could not be refused; but, as for Lady Mason herself, she would much have preferred to remain at home.

Indeed, her uneasiness on that guano matter had been so outweighed by worse uneasiness from another source, that she had become, if not indifferent, at any rate tranquil on the subject.  It might be well that Sir Peregrine should preach his sermon, and well that Lucius should hear it; but for herself it would, she thought, have been more comfortable for her to eat her dinner alone.  She felt, however, that she could not do so.  Any amount of tedium would be better than the danger of offering a slight to Sir Peregrine, and therefore she wrote a pretty little note to say that both of them would be at The Cleeve at seven.

“Lucius, my dear, I want you to do me a great favour,” she said as she sat by her son in the Hamworth fly.

“A great favour, mother! of course I will do anything for you that I can.”

“It is that you will bear with Sir Peregrine to-night.”

“Bear with him!  I do not know exactly what you mean.  Of course I will remember that he is an old man, and not answer him as I would one of my own age.”

“I am sure of that, Lucius, because you are a gentleman.  As much forbearance as that a young man, if he be a gentleman, will always show to an old man.  But what I ask is something more than that.  Sir Peregrine has been farming all his life.”

“Yes; and see what are the results!  He has three or four hundred acres of uncultivated land on his estate, all of which would grow wheat.”

“I know nothing about that,” said Lady Mason.

“Ah, but that’s the question.  My trade is to be that of a farmer, and you are sending me to school.  Then comes the question, Of what sort is the schoolmaster?”

“I am not talking about farming now, Lucius.”

“But he will talk of it.”

“And cannot you listen to him without contradicting him ­for my sake?  It is of the greatest consequence to me, ­of the very greatest, Lucius, that I should have the benefit of Sir Peregrine’s friendship.”

“If he would quarrel with you because I chanced to disagree with him about the management of land, his friendship would not be worth having.”

“I do not say that he will do so; but I am sure you can understand that an old man may be tender on such points.  At any rate I ask it from you as a favour.  You cannot guess how important it is to me to be on good terms with such a neighbour.”

“It is always so in England,” said Lucius, after pausing for a while.  “Sir Peregrine is a man of family, and a baronet; of course all the world, the world of Hamworth that is, should bow down at his feet.  And I too must worship the golden image which Nebuchadnezzar, the King of Fashion, has set up!”

“Lucius, you are unkind to me.”

“No, mother, not unkind; but like all men, I would fain act in such matters as my own judgment may direct me.”

“My friendship with Sir Peregrine Orme has nothing to do with his rank; but it is of importance to me that both you and I should stand well in his sight.”  There was nothing more said on the matter; and then they got down at the front door, and were ushered through the low wide hall into the drawing-room.

The three generations of the family were there, ­Sir Peregrine, his daughter-in-law, and the heir.  Lucius Mason had been at The Cleeve two or three times since his return from Germany, and on going there had always declared to himself that it was the same to him as though he were going into the house of Mrs. Arkwright, the doctor’s widow at Hamworth, ­or even into the kitchen of Farmer Greenwood.  He rejoiced to call himself a democrat, and would boast that rank could have no effect on him.  But his boast was an untrue boast, and he could not carry himself at The Cleeve as he would have done and did in Mrs. Arkwright’s little drawing-room.  There was a majesty in the manner of Sir Peregrine which did awe him; there were tokens of birth and a certain grace of manner about Mrs. Orme which kept down his assumption; and even with young Peregrine he found that though he might be equal he could by no means be more than equal.  He had learned more than Peregrine Orme, had ten times more knowledge in his head, had read books of which Peregrine did not even know the names and probably never would know them; but on his side also young Orme possessed something which the other wanted.  What that something might be Lucius Mason did not at all understand.

Mrs. Orme got up from her corner on the sofa to greet her friend, and with a soft smile and two or three all but whispered words led her forward to the fire.  Mrs. Orme was not a woman given to much speech or endowed with outward warmth of manners, but she could make her few words go very far; and then the pressure of her hand, when it was given, told more than a whole embrace from some other women.  There are ladies who always kiss their female friends, and always call them “dear.”  In such cases one cannot but pity her who is so bekissed.  Mrs. Orme did not kiss Lady Mason, nor did she call her dear; but she smiled sweetly as she uttered her greeting, and looked kindness out of her marvellously blue eyes; and Lucius Mason, looking on over his mother’s shoulders, thought that he would like to have her for his friend in spite of her rank.  If Mrs. Orme would give him a lecture on farming it might be possible to listen to it without contradiction; but there was no chance for him in that respect.  Mrs. Orme never gave lectures to any one on any subject.

“So, Master Lucius, you have been to Liverpool, I hear,” said Sir Peregrine.

“Yes, sir ­I returned yesterday.”

“And what is the world doing at Liverpool?”

“The world is wide awake there, sir.”

“Oh, no doubt; when the world has to make money it is always wide awake.  But men sometimes may be wide awake and yet make no money; ­may be wide awake, or at any rate think that they are so.”

“Better that, Sir Peregrine, than wilfully go to sleep when there is so much work to be done.”

“A man when he’s asleep does no harm,” said Sir Peregrine.

“What a comfortable doctrine to think of when the servant comes with the hot water at eight o’clock in the morning!” said his grandson.

“It is one that you study very constantly, I fear,” said the old man, who at this time was on excellent terms with his heir.  There had been no apparent hankering after rats since that last compact had been made, and Peregrine had been doing great things with the H. H.; winning golden opinions from all sorts of sportsmen, and earning a great reputation for a certain young mare which had been bred by Sir Peregrine himself.  Foxes are vermin as well as rats, as Perry in his wickedness had remarked; but a young man who can break an old one’s heart by a predilection for rat-catching may win it as absolutely and irretrievably by prowess after a fox.  Sir Peregrine had told to four different neighbours how a fox had been run into, in the open, near Alston, after twelve desperate miles, and how on that occasion Peregrine had been in at the death with the huntsman and only one other.  “And the mare, you know, is only four years old and hardly half trained,” said Sir Peregrine, with great exultation.  “The young scamp, to have ridden her in that way!” It may be doubted whether he would have been a prouder man or said more about it if his grandson had taken honours.

And then the gong sounded, and, Sir Peregrine led Lady Mason into the dining-room.  Lucius, who as we know thought no more of the Ormes than of the Joneses and Smiths, paused in his awe before he gave his arm to Mrs. Orme; and when he did so he led her away in perfect silence, though he would have given anything to be able to talk to her as he went.  But he bethought himself that unfortunately he could find nothing to say.  And when he sat down it was not much better.  He had not dined at The Cleeve before, and I am not sure whether the butler in plain clothes and the two men in livery did not help to create his confusion, ­in spite of his well-digested democratic ideas.

The conversation during dinner was not very bright.  Sir Peregrine said a few words now and again to Lady Mason, and she replied with a few others.  On subjects which did not absolutely appertain to the dinner, she perhaps was the greatest talker; but even she did not say much.  Mrs. Orme as a rule never spoke unless she were spoken to in any company consisting of more than herself and one other; and young Peregrine seemed to imagine that carving at the top of the table, asking people if they would take stewed beef, and eating his own dinner, were occupations quite sufficient for his energies.  “Have a bit more beef, Mason; do.  If you will, I will.”  So far he went in conversation, but no farther while his work was still before him.

When the servants were gone it was a little better, but not much.  “Mason, do you mean to hunt this season?” Peregrine asked.

“No,” said the other.

“Well, I would if I were you.  You will never know the fellows about here unless you do.”

“In the first place I can’t afford the time,” said Lucius, “and in the next place I can’t afford the money.”  This was plucky on his part, and it was felt to be so by everybody in the room; but perhaps had he spoken all the truth, he would have said also that he was not accustomed to horsemanship.

“To a fellow who has a place of his own as you have, it costs nothing,” said Peregrine.

“Oh, does it not?” said the baronet; “I used to think differently.”

“Well; not so much, I mean, as if you had everything to buy.  Besides, I look upon Mason as a sort of Croesus.  What on earth has he got to do with his money?  And then as to time; ­upon my word I don’t understand what a man means when he says he has not got time for hunting.”

“Lucius intends to be a farmer,” said his mother.

“So do I,” said Peregrine.  “By Jove, I should think so.  If I had two hundred acres of land in my own hand I should not want anything else in the world, and would never ask any one for a shilling.”

“If that be so, I might make the best bargain at once that ever a man made,” said the baronet.  “If I might take you at your word, Master Perry .”

“Pray don’t talk of it, sir,” said Mrs. Orme.

“You may be quite sure of this, my dear ­that I shall not do more than talk of it.”  Then Sir Peregrine asked Lady Mason if she would take any more wine; after which the ladies withdrew, and the lecture commenced.

But we will in the first place accompany the ladies into the drawing-room for a few minutes.  It was hinted in one of the first chapters of this story that Lady Mason might have become more intimate than she had done with Mrs. Orme, had she so pleased it; and by this it will of course be presumed that she had not so pleased.  All this is perfectly true.  Mrs. Orme had now been living at The Cleeve the greater portion of her life, and had never while there made one really well-loved friend.  She had a sister of her own, and dear old friends of her childhood, who lived far away from her in the northern counties.  Occasionally she did see them, and was then very happy; but this was not frequent with her.  Her sister, who was married to a peer, might stay at The Cleeve for a fortnight, perhaps once in the year; but Mrs. Orme herself seldom left her own home.  She thought, and certainly not without cause, that Sir Peregrine was not happy in her absence, and therefore she never left him.  Then, living there so much alone, was it not natural that her heart should desire a friend?

But Lady Mason had been living much more alone.  She had no sister to come to her, even though it were but once a year.  She had no intimate female friend, none to whom she could really speak with the full freedom of friendship, and it would have been delightful to have bound to her by ties of love so sweet a creature as Mrs. Orme, a widow like herself, ­and like herself a widow with one only son.  But she, warily picking her steps through life, had learned the necessity of being cautious in all things.  The countenance of Sir Peregrine had been invaluable to her, and might it not be possible that she should lose that countenance?  A word or two spoken now and then again, a look not intended to be noticed, an altered tone, or perhaps a change in the pressure of the old man’s hand, had taught Lady Mason to think that he might disapprove such intimacy.  Probably at the moment she was right, for she was quick at reading such small signs.  It behoved her to be very careful, and to indulge in no pleasure which might be costly; and therefore she had denied herself in this matter, ­as in so many others.

But now it had occurred to her that it might be well to change her conduct.  Either she felt that Sir Peregrine’s friendship for her was too confirmed to be shaken, or perhaps she fancied that she might strengthen it by means of his daughter-in-law.  At any rate she resolved to accept the offer which had once been tacitly made to her, if it were still open to her to do so.

“How little changed your boy is!” she said, when they were seated near to each other, with their coffee-cups between them.

“No; he does not change quickly; and, as you say, he is a boy still in many things.  I do not know whether it may not be better that it should be so.”

“I did not mean to call him a boy in that sense,” said Lady Mason.

“But you might; now your son is quite a man.”

“Poor Lucius! yes; in his position it is necessary.  His little bit of property is already his own; and then he has no one like Sir Peregrine to look out for him.  Necessity makes him manly.”

“He will be marrying soon, I dare say,” suggested Mrs. Orme.

“Oh, I hope not.  Do you think that early marriages are good for young men?”

“Yes, I think so.  Why not?” said Mrs. Orme, thinking of her own year of married happiness.  “Would you not wish to see Lucius marry?”

“I fancy not.  I should be afraid lest I should become as nothing to him.  And yet I would not have you think that I am selfish.”

“I am sure that you are not that.  I am sure that you love him better than all the world besides.  I can feel what that is myself.”

“But you are not alone with your boy as I am.  If he were to send me from him, there would be nothing left for me in this world.”

“Send you from him!  Ah, because Orley Farm belongs to him.  But he would not do that; I am sure he would not.”

“He would do nothing unkind; but how could he help it if his wife wished it?  But nevertheless I would not keep him single for that reason; ­no, nor for any reason if I knew that he wished to marry.  But it would be a blow to me.”

“I sincerely trust that Peregrine may marry early,” said Mrs. Orme, perhaps thinking that babies were preferable either to rats or foxes.

“Yes, it would be well I am sure, because you have ample means, and the house is large; and you would have his wife to love.”

“If she were nice it would be so sweet to have her for a daughter.  I also am very much alone, though perhaps not so much as you are, Lady Mason.”

“I hope not ­for I am sometimes very lonely.”

“I have often thought that.”

“But I should be wicked beyond everything if I were to complain, seeing that Providence has given me so much that I had no right to expect.  What should I have done in my loneliness if Sir Peregrine’s hand and door had never been opened to me?” And then for the next half-hour the two ladies held sweet converse together, during which we will go back to the gentlemen over their wine.

“Are you drinking claret?” said Sir Peregrine, arranging himself and his bottles in the way that was usual to him.  He had ever been a moderate man himself, but nevertheless he had a business-like way of going to work after dinner, as though there was a good deal to be done before the drawing-room could be visited.

“No more wine for me, sir,” said Lucius.

“No wine!” said Sir Peregrine the elder.

“Why, Mason, you’ll never get on if that’s the way with you,” said Peregrine the younger.

“I’ll try at any rate,” said the other.

“Water-drinker, moody thinker,” and Peregrine sang a word or two from an old drinking-song.

“I am not quite sure of that.  We Englishmen I suppose are the moodiest thinkers in all the world, and yet we are not so much given to water-drinking as our lively neighbours across the Channel.”

Sir Peregrine said nothing more on the subject, but he probably thought that his young friend would not be a very comfortable neighbour.  His present task, however, was by no means that of teaching him to drink, and he struck off at once upon the business he had undertaken.  “So your mother tells me that you are going to devote all your energies to farming.”

“Hardly that, I hope.  There is the land, and I mean to see what I can do with it.  It is not much, and I intend to combine some other occupation with it.”

“You will find that two hundred acres of land will give you a good deal to do; ­that is if you mean to make money by it.”

“I certainly hope to do that, ­in the long run.”

“It seems to me the easiest thing in the world,” said Peregrine.

“You’ll find out your mistake some day; but with Lucius Mason it is very important that he should make no mistake at the commencement.  For a country gentleman I know no prettier amusement than experimental farming; ­but then a man must give up all idea of making his rent out of the land.”

“I can’t afford that,” said Lucius.

“No; and that is why I take the liberty of speaking to you.  I hope that the great friendship which I feel for your mother will be allowed to stand as my excuse.”

“I am very much obliged by your kindness, sir; I am indeed.”

“The truth is, I think you are beginning wrong.  You have now been to Liverpool, to buy guano, I believe.”

“Yes, that and some few other things.  There is a man there who has taken out a patent ­”

“My dear fellow, if you lay out your money in that way, you will never see it back again.  Have you considered in the first place what your journey to Liverpool has cost you?”

“Exactly nine and sixpence per cent. on the money that I laid out there.  Now that is not much more than a penny in the pound on the sum expended, and is not for a moment to be taken into consideration in comparison with the advantage of an improved market.”

There was more in this than Sir Peregrine had expected to encounter.  He did not for a moment doubt the truth of his own experience or the folly and the danger of the young man’s proceedings; but he did doubt his own power of proving either the one or the other to one who so accurately computed his expenses by percentages on his outlay.  Peregrine opened his eyes and sat by, wondering in silence.  What on earth did Mason mean by an improved market?

“I am afraid then,” said the baronet, “that you must have laid out a large sum of money.”

“A man can’t do any good, Sir Peregrine, by hoarding his capital.  I don’t think very much of capital myself ­”

“Don’t you?”

“Not of the theory of capital; ­not so much as some people do; but if a man has got it, of course it should be expended on the trade to which it is to be applied.”

“But some little knowledge ­some experience is perhaps desirable before any great outlay is made.”

“Yes; some little knowledge is necessary, ­and some great knowledge would be desirable if it were accessible; ­but it is not, as I take it.”

“Long years, perhaps, devoted to such pursuits ­”

“Yes, Sir Peregrine; I know what you are going to say.  Experience no doubt will teach something.  A man who has walked thirty miles a day for thirty years will probably know what sort of shoes will best suit his feet, and perhaps also the kind of food that will best support him through such exertion; but there is very little chance of his inventing any quicker mode of travelling.”

“But he will have earned his wages honestly,” said Sir Peregrine, almost angrily.  In his heart he was very angry, for he did not love to be interrupted.

“Oh, yes; and if that were sufficient we might all walk our thirty miles a day.  But some of us must earn wages for other people, or the world will make no progress.  Civilization, as I take it, consists in efforts made not for oneself but for others.”

“If you won’t take any more wine we will join the ladies,” said the baronet.

“He has not taken any at all,” said Peregrine, filling his own glass for the last time and emptying it.

“That young man is the most conceited puppy it was ever my misfortune to meet,” said Sir Peregrine to Mrs. Orme, when she came to kiss him and take his blessing as she always did before leaving him for the night.

“I am sorry for that,” said she, “for I like his mother so much.”

“I also like her,” said Sir Peregrine; “but I cannot say that I shall ever be very fond of her son.”

“I’ll tell you what, mamma,” said young Peregrine, the same evening in his mother’s dressing-room.  “Lucius Mason was too many for the governor this evening.”

“I hope he did not tease your grandfather.”

“He talked him down regularly, and it was plain that the governor did not like it.”

And then the day was over.