# Court Royal/Chapter XLVI

CHAPTER XLVI.
E TENEBRIS LUX.
In the evening the General came into Lord Saltcombe’s room. The old man was looking haggard. His grey moustache was not smooth, as usual, but looked like ragged lichen. The spring and strength seemed taken out of him. Lord Saltcombe was pacing the room with arms folded. Lord Ronald put his hand through his nephew’s arm and paced the floor with him, without speaking. After several minutes’ silence, the General said, ‘Your uncle Edward leaves to-morrow. It is of no use ​his remaining. Even he can do nothing now. If it had been possible, he would have managed it. We have been deceiving ourselves. Disenchantment has come. Herbert, we have been a happy and an united family. We will stand to our arms, and go down in the old ship together, as men. The Duke must know all, and resolve to sell the greater part of the estates. Court Royal itself, if need be.’
‘Yes,’ answered the Marquess, ‘I have foreseen this. As you had hopes, I did not press my view. Now you have come round to my opinion. Loddiswell and Alvington must go. Fowelscombe also. Probably Court Royal. We shall never now be able to maintain the place. Better crawl into a smaller house and there die.’
‘Perhaps Court Royal might be kept during the Duke’s life.’
‘No,’ answered Lord Saltcombe. ‘Let us see the worst over. If we live on here we shall be always tempted to keep up the old state.’
‘But remember what Worthivale has said about the Bigbury property. It is worth comparatively little now, but if a company were formed, and a town begun there, it might rival Torquay, and be a golden-egg-laying goose to us, and then the family would flourish again.’
‘There is no time for forming a company and building a town. If this had been tried three or four years ago we might have been saved; but now it is over. If a fortune is to be found there, it will not be by us.’
‘You are right,’ sighed the General.
‘Beavis,’ said the Marquess, ‘calculated on saving a portion of our lands. Let us keep Bigbury—it is possible that some day it may “render,” as the French say; but more than half our property must go.’
‘And dear old Court Royal,’ said the General, with a quivering voice.
‘Yes, Court Royal must go, or it will drain away what remains in the vain attempt to live up to it. If we do not, what wretchedness to be among abandoned conservatories, neglected grounds, ruinous outhouses, empty stables!’
‘Poor Grace!’ sighed Lord Ronald.
‘Grace has more courage than you, uncle, soldier though you are. Grace will leave her flowers without a sigh, and the pretty rooms that have been her nest without a tear. You will see nothing but smiles on her face, and hear only words of cheer from her lips.’
​‘Yes—I suppose so,’ said Lord Ronald. ‘And yet—she will feel the loss more than any of us.’
‘She will have Lucy.’
‘Of course, Lucy will never leave her, good, faithful girl.’
‘Uncle Ronald, you may as well know everything. My notes of hand have all been called up. You know how extravagant I was some years ago, when in the army. Well, the sum, compared with the mortgages, is nothing, but for all that, in our present distress, whence is the money to come?’
‘Pitiful powers,’ cried the General, ‘troubles are raining on us as fire and brimstone out of heaven, and what have we done to deserve it?’ He stood still, put his hand to his forehead, and thrust his fingers through his white hair. ‘My head spins. I cannot think.’
‘The first thing to be done,’ said Lord Saltcombe, ‘is for us to collect our plate and finest pictures, and send them to Christie’s, and have them sold.’
The General withdrew his hand from his face, and stood staring blankly at his nephew. Then two clear drops ran down his furrowed cheeks. He hastily took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, to disguise what he was ashamed to have seen.
‘Yes, uncle—this must be.’
‘The Duke will never consent.’
‘Then it must be done without his consent.’
‘Herbert! not possible.’
The Marquess said no more; he caught his uncle by the arm, and made him continue with him the mechanical walk. He did it to enable the old man to overcome or disguise his emotion.
‘I never was sanguine,’ said Lord Saltcombe. ‘I have felt that a storm was gathering over our heads, and that no conductors would divert the flashes into innocuous channels. You and the Archdeacon were more hopeful, so was Worthivale, who, of all others, had best reason to know how matters stood. But when Beavis spoke out so plainly, and Uncle Edward and you refused to accept his opinion, then I knew that the end was near at hand. For myself, I care nothing. Life has little of interest, and is void of ambitions for me. But if it were possible to do anything to soften the blow to Grace and my father, I would do it. There is, however, nothing—only the sad duty of preparing them for the worst, and that I take upon myself. With Grace it will be easy. With the Duke ​hard, and I may have to call on you to assist me. The mortgagees have a power of sale, and they will exercise it. What will remain to us out of the wreck, I suppose not even Beavis can tell.’
Late in the evening, Worthivale arrived. He was in such a condition of confused misery, that he could not collect his thoughts sufficiently to advise what should be done. He produced his books, but in his bewildered state of mind could make nothing out of them.
‘The disgrace!’ moaned the General. ‘The humiliation to our proud name.’
‘You are a soldier,’ said Lord Saltcombe.
‘There are some things past the endurance even of a soldier,’ answered Lord Ronald.
‘Where is the Archdeacon?’ asked the steward. ‘His opinion would be invaluable now.’
‘He has gone to bed,’ answered the General. ‘He is not feeling well. He is much dispirited by the events of to-day. To-morrow he must return to Sleepy Hollow.’
Then the steward and Lord Ronald began to spin cobwebs—cobwebs that needed but the breath of common-sense to blow them away.
Lord Norwich was the brother of the late Duchess. He was getting old and infirm, and he had not been down to visit the Duke lately in Devon. Lord Ronald thought of him. He was wealthy. Why should not he come to the rescue? The Marquess and Grace were his sister’s children. Lord Saltcombe reminded them that his son, the Hon. Norfolk Broad, was not likely to consent; he had spent a great deal on the turf, and would probably run through the property when his father died.
Then Worthivale suggested the taking in hand of the oil-shale works. Oil had not been extracted from them before in sufficient quantities to be remunerative, because the wrong sort of crushers had been employed. The Marquess replied that if the crushers squeezed out gold, then it would be worth while getting them, not otherwise.
‘Perhaps the Archdeacon will think of something; he is an eminently practical man,’ said the General. ‘I dare say he has gone to bed early to consider the matter between the sheets, and he will be ripe with a proposal to-morrow.’
Thus sat the three the greater part of the night; the Marquess was the only one who kept his head clear. At three ​o’clock the steward and Lord Ronald left, and then he flung himself on the sofa, and fell asleep.
That same evening Lady Grace had been in conference with Lucy in her own bedroom, as she prepared to go to rest. She was in a pretty blue dressing-gown, her hair falling about her shoulders loosely. The lady’s maid had been dismissed, and Lucy and she were alone together.
‘Tell me truly, Lucy. The meeting has led to no good results?’
‘No, dear. I hear that half the amount of two of the mortgages must be paid forthwith, and the rest in two instalments within a twelvemonth. But that is not all. Two more mortgages held by Jews are called in, and so—— Worst of all is the terrible one on Loddiswell.’
‘And the money is nowhere forthcoming?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘Then what will be done?’
‘A great deal of the property will be sold.’
‘And Court Royal—must that go?’
‘Beavis thinks so. Land sells very badly now.’
‘I shall not have to part with you, Lucy?’
‘No’—and Lucy nestled into her friend’s side—‘never, never. Oh, my darling!’
‘For myself I do not care. If I cannot have my greenhouses and gardens, no one can deprive me of the green lanes and flowery coombs. I can be happy anywhere with you and papa, and Uncle Ronald and my brother. But I do not know how the others will bear it. Dear papa—I fear it will kill him. Uncle Ronald and Saltcombe are looking miserable. Did you observe Uncle Edward last night? I never saw his face so drawn and colourless. He was very bent and feeble. I asked him what ailed him. He smiled sadly and said, “Only a general break-up.” He takes this to heart, and he is not a strong man like the General. I suppose the dreadful truth must be told papa shortly. I must manage to be present so as to soothe him. He will be fearfully excited. If I can but hold his hands I may be of some good in keeping him cool. What is to be done about Mrs. Probus? Dear, good creature, she is bound up with us and cannot live away from us; and I do not think papa would be happy if he thought she were not in the house; she understands his little fancies. Then old Mr. Rowley, the coachman, with his red face. Oh, Lucy! he has been so comfortable here with us, just driving papa out ​every afternoon. What will become of him? He is too aged to take another situation, and I hear that gentlemen are putting down their carriages everywhere. Then there is Mr. MacCabe, the head-gardener. He has been so civil. I have been afraid of him sometimes. I feared he would scold when I swept the houses of flowers. But he only smiled, though the loss of the cherished blossoms went to his heart, I know. And Jonathan—he has always shown himself so eager to oblige. Lucy! what trouble he took over that rock work for my Alpine garden, and in piling it up he crushed one of his fingers and lost the nail. And Jane, my maid! I give her so much trouble; I am untidy with my things. There, there—I must cry—but it is not for myself; it is only because we shall have to part with all these nice, kind servants, and because papa will be miserable anywhere else, and Uncle Ronald without plenty of room for his lathe, and Saltcombe without his yacht, and his fishing and shooting. He cares for nothing else, and these will be taken from him. He will have Beavis.’
‘Beavis, you may be sure, will cling to him to the last.’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Grace, and she patted her friend’s hand, which she held between her own, and looked thoughtfully before her, ‘and your father will always be with mine! Oh, what a blessing it is to have dear, faithful friends. Let everything else go. These precious, golden hearts are above all that the world can give.’ After a silence she said reverently, ‘And they are God’s gift, to comfort us.’ Both were affected, and said nothing for several minutes, but Lucy stooped and kissed Lady Grace’s hand.
‘Lucy,’ said the latter after awhile, ‘I thought you told me that Mr. Cheek was going to help us.’
‘We thought he would, but when it came to the point he drew back, and made ridiculous conditions.’
‘Surely he had all but promised, had he not?’
‘I cannot say that. My dear father was very sanguine when he returned from town. He told us that he had managed everything beautifully, and that we had no more occasion for anxiety, as our relative, who was a millionaire, would come to the rescue. Dear papa’s ducks are all swans, and he is hopeful on the smallest grounds. When Mr. Cheek came here, he did not even go over the estates, he simply came and went again. He did not even attend the meeting.’
‘But you say he made some sort of offer.’
Lucy coloured.
​‘I ought not to have said that. Papa mentioned it to me as a secret. He had not told Beavis, as it would have made Beavis furious—and he might not have been civil to Charles any more.’
‘Of course if you are bound not to tell, I will not press you. Otherwise, I would be glad to know the conditions.’
‘They were too outrageous to be mentioned,’ said Lucy, partly laughing, partly crying. ‘It makes me very angry, and yet disposed to laugh, whenever they recur to me.’
‘You very angry! you, Lucy! that would be a new experience to me to see my little friend in a passion; and Beavis furious—who looks so gentle and collected.’
‘Enough to make us. If you heard, you would be angry also.’
‘Tell me, and prove me.’
‘I am ashamed. Promise me not to say a word to Lord Saltcombe, or Lord Ronald, or the Duke—not to anyone.’
‘No—I will not repeat what you tell me.’
‘Then you shall hear. That stupid old man, Mr. Cheek, saw how agreeable his son made himself at dinner, and being a blunderhead, he supposed that there was more in his attentions to you than ordinary civility. Well! the dull fellow went home, and told papa he would give two hundred thousand towards clearing the mortgages the day he heard that Charles was accepted by you. Did you ever dream of such audacity? My father had to exercise great self-restraint to keep from knocking the man down. Some minds are not properly balanced.’
The blood rushed through Lady Grace’s veins, crimsoning her pure face and neck and bosom. Next moment she was as white as a snowdrop.
‘I must not keep you up any later, Lucy,’ she said. ‘It is time for both of us to go to bed.’
Lucy looked at her friend with surprise. Not an allusion to what had been said passed her lips. Lucy noticed her paleness, and misinterpreted it. ‘I have offended you, by telling you of this piece of vulgar presumption. Let the remembrance of it die. I am sorry that I allowed myself to blab the impertinent secret.’
‘Not at all,’ answered Lady Grace. ‘I thank you for telling me. Kiss me, and go to bed. I want to be alone.’
Next morning early. Lady Grace entered her brother’s room. He was still asleep on the sofa. The shutters were ​shut, and the curtains drawn. The servants had looked in, but had not liked to disturb him.
His sister partially opened one of the shutters, so that a ray of light entered. Then she drew a chair beside the sofa, and sat down by her brother’s head.
Presently he woke. Her gentle, pitiful, loving eyes, resting on his worn face, had disturbed him. He looked round and sat up.
‘Grace!’ he said, and brushed his hands over his brow to collect his senses.
‘Yes, dear, I am here.’
‘I thought I was visited by an angel.’
She was in a light print morning gown, her face was pale, and in the dimness of the room might well have been thus mistaken.
‘Uncle Ronald, Worthivale, and I have been keeping up quite a revel,’ he said.
She looked round; there were no glasses on the table, but plenty of papers scribbled over with calculations.
‘This looks sadly dissipated,’ he said; ‘I am sorry you see me and my room in such a condition, Grace.’
‘Oh, Herbert! do not think to deceive me. I know well what it means. All hope gone. Everything lost. Is it not so?’
He did not answer.
‘Yes, brother, I know the worst, and I am glad that I do. I have not slept at all. I was sure you and the dear uncles were restless through trouble. I have come to you thus early to set your mind at ease. The house need not be sold, the servants need not receive notice. All is not lost. E tenebris lux.’
‘I see no light.’
‘It is coming.’
‘Who will bring it?’
‘I daresay I shall.’
‘You, dear sister?’ said Lord Saltcombe with a laugh. ‘Do you remember the little snipe that supposed it could stay up the heavens with its feet, when the thunder rolled, and it thought they were falling? It said, “I, even I, will uphold the skies.”’