June 16th. -- I have a few lines more to add to this day's entry before I go to bed tonight.
About two hours after Sir Percival rose from the luncheon-table to receive his solicitor, Mr Merriman, in the library, I left my room alone to take a walk in the plantations. Just as I was at the end of the landing the library door opened and the two gentlemen came out. Thinking it best not to disturb them by appearing on the stairs, I resolved to defer going down till they lad crossed the hall. Although they spoke to each other in guarded tones, their words were pronounced with sufficient distinctness of utterance to reach my ears.
‘Make your mind easy, Sir Percival,' I heard the lawyer say; ‘it all rests with Lady Glyde.'
I had turned to go back to my own room for a minute or two, but the sound of Laura's name on the lips of a stranger stopped me instantly. I daresay it was very wrong and very discreditable to listen, but where is the woman, in the whole range of our ***, who can regulate her actions by the abstract principles of honour, when those principles point one way, and when her affections, and the interests which grow out of them, point the other?
I listened -- and under similar circumstances I would listen again -- yes! with my ear at the keyhole, if I could not possibly manage it in any other way.
‘You quite understand, Sir Percival,' the lawyer went on. ‘Lady Glyde is to sign her name in the presence of a witness -- or of two witnesses, if you wish to be particularly careful -- and is then to put her finger on the seal and say, ‘‘I deliver this as my act and deed.'' If that is done in a week's time the arrangement will be perfectly successful, and the anxiety will be all over. If not --'
‘What do you mean by ‘‘if not''?' asked Sir Percival angrily. ‘If the thing must be done it shall be done. I promise you that, Merriman-'
‘Just so, Sir Percival -- just so; but there are two alternatives in all transactions, and we lawyers like to look both of them in the face boldly. If through any extraordinary circumstance the arrangement should not be made, I think I may be able to get the parties to accept bills at three months. But how the money is to be raised when the bills fall due --'
‘Damn the bills! The money is only to be got in one way, and in that way, I tell you again, it shall be got. Take a glass of wine, Merriman, before you go.'
‘Much obliged, Sir Percival, I have not a moment to lose if l am to catch the up-train. You will let me know as soon as the arrangement is complete? and you will not forget the caution I recommended --'
‘Of course I won't. There's the dog-cart at the door for you. My groom will get you to the station in no time. Benjamin, drive like mad! Jump in. If Mr Merriman misses the train you lose your place. Hold fast, Merriman, and if you are upset trust to the devil to save his own.' With that parting benediction the baronet turned about and walked back to the library.
I had not heard much, but the little that had reached my ears was enough to make me feel uneasy. The ‘something' that ‘had happened' was but too Plainly a serious money embarrassment, and Sir Percival's relief from it depended upon Laura. The prospect of seeing her involved in her husband's secret difficulties filled me with dismay, exaggerated, no doubt, by my ignorance of business and my settled distrust of Sir Percival. Instead of going out, as I proposed, I went back immediately to Laura's room to tell her what I had heard.
She received my bad news so composedly as to surprise me. She evidently knows more of her husband's character and her husband's embarrassments than I have suspected up to this time.
‘I feared as much,' she said, ‘when I heard of that strange gentleman who called, and declined to leave his name.'
‘Who do you think the gentleman was, then?' I asked.
‘Some person who has heavy claims on Sir Percival,' she answered, ‘and who has been the cause of Mr Merriman's visit here today.'
‘Do you know anything about those claims?'
‘No, I know no particulars.'
‘You will sign nothing, Laura, without first looking at it?'
‘Certainly not, Marian. Whatever I can harmlessly and honestly do to help him I will do -- for the sake of ****** your life and mine, love, as easy and as happy as possible. But I will do nothing ignorantly, which we might, one day, have reason to feel ashamed of. Let us say no more about it now. You have got your hat on -- suppose we go and dream away the afternoon in the grounds?'
On leaving the house we directed our steps to the nearest shade.
As we passed an open space among the trees in front of the house, there was Count Fosco, slowly walking backwards and forwards on the grass, sunning himself in the full blaze of the hot June afternoon. He had a broad straw hat on, with a violet-coloured ribbon round it. A blue blouse, with profuse white fancy-work over the bosom, covered his prodigious body, and was girt about the place where his waist might once have been with a broad scarlet leather belt. Nankeen trousers, displaying more white fancy-work over the ankles, and purple morocco slippers, adorned his lower extremities. He was singing Figaro's famous song in the Barber of Seville. with that crisply fluent vocalisation which is never heard from any other than an Italian throat, accompanying himself on the concertina, which he played with ecstatic throwings-up of his arms, and graceful twistings and turnings of his head, like a fat St Cecilia masquerading in male attire. ‘Figaro qua! Figaro la! Figaro su! Figaro giu!' sang the Count, jauntily tossing up the concertina at arm's length, and bowing to us, on one side of the instrument, with the airy grace and elegance of Figaro himself at twenty vicars of age.
‘Take my word for it, Laura, that man knows something of Sir Percival's embarrassments,' I said, as we returned the Count's salutation from a safe distance.
‘What makes you think that?' she asked.
