ROBERT MOODY was at this time nearly forty years of age. He was a
shy, quiet, dark person, with a pale, closely-shaven face, agreeably
animated by large black eyes, set deep in their orbits. His mouth was
perhaps his best feature; he had firm, well-shaped lips, which softened
on rare occasions into a particularly winning smile. The whole look of
the man, in spite of his habitual reserve, declared him to be eminently
trustworthy. His position in Lady Lydiard’s household was in no sense
of the menial sort. He acted as her almoner and secretary as well as her
steward--distributed her charities, wrote her letters on business, paid
her bills, engaged her servants, stocked her wine-cellar, was authorized
to borrow books from her library, and was served with his meals in his
own room. His parentage gave him claims to these special favors; he was
by birth entitled to rank as a gentleman. His father had failed at a
time of commercial panic as a country banker, had paid a good dividend,
and had died in exile abroad a broken-hearted man. Robert had tried
to hold his place in the world, but adverse fortune kept him down.
Undeserved disaster followed him from one employment to another, until
he abandoned the struggle, bade a last farewell to the pride of other
days, and accepted the position considerately and delicately offered to
him in Lady Lydiard’s house. He had now no near relations living, and
he had never made many friends. In the intervals of occupation he led a
lonely life in his little room. It was a matter of secret wonder among
the women in the servants’ hall, considering his personal advantages and
the opportunities which must surely have been thrown in his way, that
he had never tempted fortune in the character of a married man. Robert
Moody entered into no explanations on that subject. In his own sad and
quiet way he continued to lead his own sad and quiet life. The women all
failing, from the handsome housekeeper downward, to make the smallest
impression on him, consoled themselves by prophetic visions of his
future relations with the sex, and predicted vindictively that “his time
would come.”
“Well,” said Lady Lydiard, “and what have you done?”
“Your Ladyship seemed to be anxious about the dog,” Moody answered, in
the low tone which was habitual to him. “I went first to the veterinary
surgeon. He had been called away into the country; and--”
Lady Lydiard waved away the conclusion of the sentence with her hand.
“Never mind the surgeon. We must find somebody else. Where did you go
next?”
“To your Ladyship’s lawyer. Mr. Troy wished me to say that he will have
the honor of waiting on you--”
“Pass over the lawyer, Moody. I want to know about the painter’s widow.
Is it true that Mrs. Tollmidge and her family are left in helpless
poverty?”
“Not quite true, my Lady. I have seen the clergyman of the parish, who
takes an interest in the case--”
Lady Lydiard interrupted her steward for the third time. “Did you
mention my name?” she asked sharply.
“Certainly not, my Lady. I followed my instructions, and described you
as a benevolent person in search of cases of real distress. It is quite
true that Mr. Tollmidge has died, leaving nothing to his family. But the
widow has a little income of seventy pounds in her own right.”
“Is that enough to live on, Moody?” her Ladyship asked.
“Enough, in this case, for the widow and her daughter,” Moody answered.
“The difficulty is to pay the few debts left standing, and to start the
two sons in life. They are reported to be steady lads; and the family is
much respected in the neighborhood. The clergyman proposes to get a few
influential names to begin with, and to start a subscription.”
“No subscription!” protested Lady Lydiard. “Mr. Tollmidge was Lord
Lydiard’s cousin; and Mrs. Tollmidge is related to his Lordship by
marriage. It would be degrading to my husband’s memory to have the
begging-box sent round for his relations, no matter how distant they may
be. Cousins!” exclaimed her Ladyship, suddenly descending from the lofty
ranges of sentiment to the low. “I hate the very name of them! A person
who is near enough to me to be my relation and far enough off from me
to be my sweetheart, is a double-faced sort of person that I don’t like.
Let’s get back to the widow and her sons. How much do they want?”
“A subscription of five hundred pounds, my Lady, would provide for
everything--if it could only be collected.”
“It _shall_ be collected, Moody! I will pay the subscription out of my
own purse.” Having asserted herself in those noble terms, she spoilt the
effect of her own outburst of generosity by dropping to the sordid view
of the subject in her next sentence. “Five hundred pounds is a good bit
of money, though; isn’t it, Moody?”
“It is, indeed, my Lady.” Rich and generous as he knew his mistress
to be, her proposal to pay the whole subscription took the steward by
surprise. Lady Lydiard’s quick perception instantly detected what was
passing in his mind.
“You don’t quite understand my position in this matter,” she said. “When
I read the newspaper notice of Mr. Tollmidge’s death, I searched among
his Lordship’s papers to see if they really were related. I discovered
some letters from Mr. Tollmidge, which showed me that he and Lord
Lydiard were cousins. One of those letters contains some very painful
statements, reflecting most untruly and unjustly on my conduct; lies,
in short,” her Ladyship burst out, losing her dignity, as usual. “Lies,
Moody, for which Mr. Tollmidge deserved to be horsewhipped. I would have
done it myself if his Lordship had told me at the time. No matter; it’s
useless to dwell on the thing now,” she continued, ascending again to
the forms of expression which became a lady of rank. “This unhappy man
has done me a gross injustice; my motives may be seriously misjudged, if
I appear personally in communicating with his family. If I relieve them
anonymously in their present trouble, I spare them the exposure of a
public subscription, and I do what I believe his Lordship would have
done himself if he had lived. My desk is on the other table. Bring it
here, Moody; and let me return good for evil, while I’m in the humor for
it!”
Moody obeyed in silence. Lady Lydiard wrote a check.
“Take that to the banker’s, and bring back a five-hundred pound note,”
she said. “I’ll inclose it to the clergyman as coming from ‘an unknown
friend.’ And be quick about it. I am only a fallible mortal, Moody.
Don’t leave me time enough to take the stingy view of five hundred
pounds.”
Moody went out with the check. No delay was to be apprehended in
obtaining the money; the banking-house was hard by, in St. James’s
Street. Left alone, Lady Lydiard decided on occupying her mind in the
generous direction by composing her anonymous letter to the clergyman.
She had just taken a sheet of note-paper from her desk, when a servant
appeared at the door announcing a visitor--
“Mr. Felix Sweetsir!”