The third of May passed away, and, beyond the hanging up in the window
of the card with “Lodgings to Let” written on it, nothing new had
happened in the house at Hammersmith. But the exhibition of that card
had been to Mrs. Lockhart an event of such momentous and tragic
importance, that she did not know whether she were most astonished,
relieved, or disappointed that it had produced no perceptible effect
upon the outer universe.
“It seems to be of no use,” she said to her daughter, while the latter
was assisting her in her morning toilet. “Had we not better take down
the card, and try to think of something else. Couldn’t we keep
half-a-dozen fowls, and sell the eggs?”
“How faint-hearted you are, mother!”
“Besides, even if somebody were to pass here who wanted lodgings, they
could never think of looking through the gate; and if they did, I doubt
whether they could see the card.”
“I have thought of that; and when I got up this morning I tied the card
to the gate itself. Nobody can fail to see it there.”
“Oh, Marion! It is almost as if we were setting up a shop.”
“Everybody is more or less a shopkeeper,” replied Marion
philosophically. “Some people sell rank, others beauty, others
cleverness, others their souls to the devil: we might do worse than sell
house-room to those who want it.”
“Oh, my dear!”
“Bless your dear heart! you’ll think nothing of it, once the lodgers are
in the house,” rejoined the girl, kissing her mother’s cheek.
They went down to breakfast: it was a pleasant morning; the sky was a
tender blue, and the eastern sunshine shot through the dark limbs of the
cedar of Lebanon, and fell in cheerful patches on the floor of the
dining-room, and sent a golden shaft across the white breakfast cloth,
and sparkled on the silver teapot--the same teapot in which Fanny Pell
had once made tea for handsome Tom Grantley in the year 1768. Marion was
in high spirits: at all events, she adopted a lightsome tone, in
contrast to her usual somewhat grave preoccupation. She was determined
to make her mother smile.
“This is our last solitary breakfast,” she declared. “To-morrow morning
we shall sit down four to table. There will be a fine old gentleman for
me, and a handsome young man for you; for anybody would take you to be
the younger of us two. The old gentleman will be impressed with my
masculine understanding and knowledge of the world; we shall talk
philosophy, and history, and politics; he will finally confess to a more
than friendly interest in me; but I shall stop him there, and remind him
that, for persons of our age, it is most prudent not to marry. He will
allow himself to be persuaded on that point; but he has a vast fortune,
and he will secretly make his will in my favor. Your young gentleman
will be of gentle blood, a sentimentalist and an artist; his father will
have been in love with you; the son will have the good taste to inherit
the passion; he will entreat you to let him paint your portrait; but, if
he becomes too pressing in his attentions, I shall feel it my duty to
take him aside, and admonish him like a mother. He will be so mortally
afraid of me, that I shall have no difficulty in managing him. In the
course of a year or two--”
“Is not that somebody? I’m sure I heard--”
“La, mother, don’t look so scared!” cried Marion, laughing, but coloring
vividly: “it can’t be anything worse than an executioner with a warrant
for our arrest.” She turned in her chair, and looked through the window
and across the grass-plot to the gate.
“There is somebody--two gentlemen--just as I said: one old and the other
young.”
“Are you serious, Marion?” said the widow, interlacing her fingers
across her breast, while her lips trembled.
“They are reading the card: the old one is holding a pair of gold-rimmed
eye-glasses across his nose. Now they are looking through the gate at
the house: the young one is saying something, and the other is smiling
and taking snuff. The young one has a small head, but his eyes are big,
and he has broad shoulders: he looks like an artist, just as I said. The
old one stoops a little and is ugly; but I like his face--it’s honest.
He doesn’t seem to be very rich, though; his coat is very old-fashioned.
Oh, they are going away!”
“Oh, I am so glad!” exclaimed Mrs. Lockhart fervently.
“No, they are coming back--they are coming in: the young one is opening
the gate. Here they come: that young fellow is certainly very handsome.
There!”
A double knock sounded through the house.
“Say we are not at home--oh, they must not come in! Tell them to call
another day. Perhaps they may not have called about the lodgings,”
faltered the widow, in agitation.
Marion said nothing; being, to tell the truth, engaged in screwing her
own courage to the sticking-point. After a pause of a few moments she
marched to the door, with a step so measured and deliberate as to
suggest stern desperation rather than easy indifference. Passing into
the hall, and closing the door behind her, she threw open the outer door
and faced the two intruders.
The elder gentleman stood forward as spokesman. “Good morning to you,”
he said, glancing observantly at the young woman’s erect figure. “You
have lodgings to let, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“This gentleman and I are in search of lodgings. Is the accommodation
sufficient for two? We should require separate apartments.”
“You can come in and see.” She made way for them to enter, and conducted
them into the sitting-room on the left.
“You had better speak to your mistress, my dear, or to your master, if
he is at home, and say we would like to speak to him.” This was said by
the younger man.
Marion looked at him with a certain glow of fierceness. “My father is
not living,” she said. “There is no need to disturb my mother. I can
show you over the house myself.”
“I ask your pardon sincerely. It has always been my foible to speak
before I look. I took it for granted--”
“I don’t suppose you intended any harm, sir,” said Marion coldly. “If we
could have afforded a servant to attend the door, we should not have
been forced to take lodgers.” She turned to the elder man and added: “We
have three vacant rooms on the floor above, and a smaller room on the
top story. You might divide the accommodation to suit yourselves. You
can come up stairs, if you like, and see whether they would suit you.”
The gentlemen assented, and followed Marion over the upper part of the
house. The elder man examined the rooms and the furniture with care; but
the younger kept his regards fixed rather upon the guide than upon what
she showed them. Her gait, the movement of her arms, the carriage of her
head, her tone and manner of speaking, all were subjected to his
scrutiny. He said little, but took care that what he did say should be
of a courteous and conciliatory nature. The elder man asked questions
pleasantly, and seemed pleased with the answers Marion gave him. Within
a short time the crudity and harshness of the first part of the
interview began to vanish, and the relations of the three became more
genial and humane. There was here and there a smile, and once, at least,
a laugh. Marion, who was always quick to recognize the humorous aspect
of a situation, already foresaw herself making her mother merry with an
account of this adventure, when the heroes of it should have gone away.
The party returned to the sitting-room in a very good humor with one
another, therefore.
“For my part, I am more than satisfied,” remarked the elder gentleman,
taking out his snuff-box. “Do you agree with me, Mr. Lancaster?”
Lancaster did not reply. He was gazing with great interest at the oil
portrait that hung on the wall. At length he turned to Marion and said:
“Is that--may I ask who that is?”
“My father.”
“Was he a major in the 97th regiment?”
“Did you know him?”
“I knew Major Lockhart; He--of course you know--fell at Waterloo.”
“We know that he was killed there, but we have no particulars,” said
Marion, her voice faltering, and her eyes full of painful eagerness.
“And you are Miss Lockhart--the Marion he spoke of?”
“Wait a moment,” she said, in a thick voice, and turning pale. She
walked to the window, and pressed her forehead against the glass.
Presently she turned round and said, “I will call my mother, sir. She
must hear what you have to tell us,” and left the room.
“A strange chance this!” remarked the elder man thoughtfully.
“She’s a fine girl, and looks like her father,” said Lancaster.
In a few moments Marion re-entered with her mother. Mrs. Lockhart looked
from one to the other of the two men with wide-open eyes and flushed
cheeks: a slight tremor pervaded the hand with which she mechanically
smoothed the thick braids of gray hair that covered her graceful head.
She moved with an uncertain step to a chair, and said in a voice
scarcely audible, “Will you be seated, gentlemen? My daughter tells me
that you--one of you--”
“The honor belongs to me, madam,” said Lancaster, with deep respect and
with some evidence of emotion, “of having seen your husband the day
before his death. He mentioned both of you; he said no man in the army
had had so happy a life as he--such a wife and such a daughter. I shall
remember other things that he said, by-and-by; but this meeting has come
upon me by surprise, and.... The day after the battle I rode out to the
field and found him. He had fallen most gallantly--I need not tell you
that--at a moment such as all brave soldiers would wish to meet death
in. He was wounded through the heart, and must have died instantly. I
assumed the privilege of bringing his body to Brussels, and of seeing it
buried there.” Here he paused, for both the women were crying, and, in
sympathy with them, his own voice was getting husky. The elder man sat
with his face downcast, and his hands folded between his knees.
“Is the grave marked?” he suddenly asked, looking up at Lancaster.
“Yes; the name, and the regiment, and the date. I brought something from
him,” he went on, addressing Marion, as being the stronger of the two
women; “it was fastened by a gold chain round his neck, and he wore it
underneath his coat. You would have received it long ago if I had known
where to find you.” He held out to her, as he spoke, a small locket with
its chain. Marion took it, and held it pressed between her hands, not
saying anything. After a moment, the two gentlemen exchanged a glance,
and got up. The elder gentleman approached Marion with great gentleness
of manner; and, when she arose and attempted to speak, he put his hand
kindly on her shoulder.
“I had a little girl once, who loved me,” he said. “You must let me go
without ceremony now; to-morrow I shall ask leave to come back and
complete our arrangements. God bless you, my child! Are you going with
me, Mr. Lancaster?”
“Shall you come back to-morrow, too?” said Marion to the latter.
“Indeed I will.”
“Then I won’t try to thank you now,” she replied. But their eyes met for
a moment, and Lancaster did not feel that the recognition of his service
had been postponed.
They were going out without attempting to take leave of Mrs. Lockhart;
but she rose up from her chair and courtseyed to them with a grace and
dignity worthy of Fanny Pell. And then, yielding to an impulse that was
better than the best high breeding, the gentle widow stepped quickly up
to Lancaster, and put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.