LOOKING OUT ON THE TAUNUS.
It was a beautiful day in the early autumn, and though "all the world"
had not yet mustered at Homburg von der Höhe, though the hotel of
"Quarter Sessions" had not yet a tithe of the illustrious names for
contribution to the visitors' list which it was destined to have, the
scene presented by the little white town in its setting of green--a
green nearer to emerald than any between itself and the shores of
Dublin Bay--was gay, striking, pleasant, and varied. Groups of
fluttering dresses, whose wearers were further adorned with perfect
boots and exquisite hats, and could, for the most part, boast of the
attractions of youth and prettiness, were abroad in the alleys, under
the shade of the slim, graceful trees. The sounds of distant music
from the bands dispersed about for the delectation of the visitors,
and those of glad, careless voices in such leisure talk as suited the
scene and the season, mingled themselves, and came floating in on the
warm air at the open windows to regale the ears of such as had not
gone out to share in the busy idleness of the majority of the
sojourners at the Baths.
At one of these open windows, which looked out upon a pretty prim
little garden, bordered on the confines of the broad shady alley down
to which it stretched by some trees nobler and more rich in foliage
than their fellows, the strollers in the alley might have observed
three gentlemen in earnest and protracted conversation. One was
seated in a large arm-chair, which occupied one of the sides of the
bay-window; a second leaned against the open frame of the central
compartment; and the third, a shorter and slighter man than either of
his companions, stood upright between them, and as he spoke turned his
head and his keen eyes from one to the other with an animated and
characteristic gesture. The gentleman seated in the arm-chair was a
tall, frostily gray, scrupulously dressed, laboriously polite elderly
man, who constantly twirled a heavy gold eye-glass in very white and
bony hands. He seemed agitated--indeed, so much so, that some of his
acquaintances in the far-off English district which had the honour of
being his home would have found some difficulty in recognizing him. He
was hardly pompous as he sat this fine morning looking out on the
Taunus, and taking note of neither mountain, nor valley, nor forest;
his manner was actually that of a man seeking and welcoming sympathy;
it really seemed possible that an observer of the scene might have
ventured on taking the liberty of feeling sorry for Mr. Carruthers of
Poynings.
The smaller, slighter man, who formed the centre figure of the group,
was of somewhat remarkable aspect. Very wiry and alert of frame, well
knit and upright, his figure had a certain youthfulness about it which
was contradicted by his face--that of a man who had passed the
confines of middle age. His face was handsome, thoughtful, and bore
the impress of heavy trouble, and in the dark eyes, and generally in
the straight and refined features, it presented a strong resemblance
to that of Mrs. Carruthers.
Not unnaturally, for the gentleman in question was Mark Felton, Mrs.
Carruthers's brother.
The third component of the group, a young man, who leant against the
frame of the open window and looked out, his face turned away from the
speaker and the "other listener," his tall loosely-built figure
distinctly visible from the road, was George Dallas.
"Under these circumstances, and seeing that waiting was inevitable,
and that I could do nothing in that matter actively," Mark Felton was
saying, "I determined to come on here at once. All I heard at
Poynings--"
"I hope you were properly entertained there?" said Mr. Carruthers, in
the old "of Poynings" manner.
"Perfectly, my dear sir--perfectly. As I was saying, all I heard at
Poynings, and what George told me"--he cast a quick glance at his
nephew here, in which there was already hearty liking--"made me more
than ever anxious to see Laura. Besides, I was exceedingly anxious to
make your acquaintance without any further delay."
"A wish which I reciprocated, I assure you, Mr. Felton."
"In bringing George with me, I acted on my own judgment, and on a
conviction that you would regard the matter as I do. I believed you
would consider him entitled to see his mother, and would be glad to
learn from me that his prospects in life are as much improved as his
inclination and determination to do them honour are genuine and
strong."
"You are quite right, Mr. Felton," said the honourable old gentleman,
who had begun to feel himself somehow beaten by fate, and was,
secretly, immensely relieved that his stepson had made his appearance
without having been sent for, and in such unexceptionable company. "It
is necessary now that Mr. Dallas--that--that George" (he got out the
word with an immense effort, and it meant everything) "should be near
his mother. I am glad to know he has found a friend in you."
"And I am still more glad to believe," said Mr. Felton, not precisely
interrupting Mr. Carruthers, but taking advantage of a slight pause to
speak--"I am glad to know that he found me just when he was learning
to do without any one."
It is possible that a good deal of Mr. Carruthers's trouble--and he
had suffered severely since he had left England--had had its origin
in a conviction, which had stolen upon him at first, and latterly had
threatened to overwhelm him, that he had not been faultless in his
conduct towards his wife and his treatment of her son. He had found
out very shortly after they had left Poynings--for in the deadening of
her faculties, forgetfulness of her fear of him had come--how mistaken
he had been in supposing that he had suppressed her love for George,
her constant remembrance of him, or had supplied by all he had given
her for the boon he had withheld. In her placid way, when she would
sit for hours talking softly to herself, his wife had administered
some very telling lessons to Mr. Carruthers. It was with an uneasy
surprise that he came to feel how very dear she was to him, how
indispensable to his life, how strangely the things which had held the
first places in his estimation, behind which he had ranked her, and
she had been content humbly to follow, fell away into complete
insignificance. He actually forgot Poynings at times, and was not
worried by fears that the lawn was not properly mown and smoothly
rolled, or by visions of fallen leaves lying about in the sacred
places. His "business papers" were duly forwarded to him, but they did
not interest him much; his mind dwelt almost entirely on his wife's
state, and he was rapidly passing, as might be expected from a man
whose moral perceptions had been suddenly awakened and enlarged, from
the recognition of his true share of blame in the calamity which had
befallen them, to an exaggeration of that share, which rendered him
almost oblivious of the provocation he had received. Had George Dallas
suddenly appeared before his stepfather at Poynings, he might not have
been well received; the influences of old habits, and associations, in
the sense of the promulgation of the old edict of banishment, might
have successfully overpowered the new influences striving with pride
and obstinacy in the by no means bad heart of Mr. Carruthers. But the
occasion had been most auspicious. Here, in a foreign place, where Mr.
Carruthers was positively oppressed with a sense of strangeness, and
where no one was present to know anything about the concession he was
making, he had but trifling difficulties to overcome, and the meeting
between the three gentlemen had been kindly, unreserved, and cordial.
The report of his wife's condition, which Mr. Carruthers had made to
her son and brother, was not very reassuring, and was doubly
distressing to George, in consequence of the stress which his
stepfather laid upon the good effect to be anticipated by his
restoration to her. Had Mr. Carruthers been in a less charitable frame
of mind, he might have taken the silence and sadness with which George
received his assurances on this point for sullenness; but he did not,
he was actually learning to make allowance for the temperaments and
the feelings of other people.
Mr. Felton and his nephew had arrived at Homburg on the preceding
evening, and Mr. Felton had communicated by letter with Mr.
Carruthers, who had named an early hour on the following day for
receiving his unknown brother-in-law and his little-known stepson.
Their interview had lasted some time, when Mr. Carruthers expressed
his belief that good might result to his mother from seeing George.
The young man turned his face from the speaker, and made no answer.
"It will be necessary, of course, to have her physician's advice and
permission in the first instance," said Mr. Felton, "before either
George or I can see her. I suppose she is in good hands here?"
"In the best possible," replied Mr. Carruthers. "Dr. Merle is famous
in the treatment of these strange mental maladies; indeed, it was in
order to consult him that I changed my plan, and came here instead of
going to the south of France, as I had intended."
"So Miss Carruthers told me," said Mr. Felton; which simple
observation caused George Dallas to start perceptibly, and to turn
abnormally red in the face.
"Indeed," said Mr. Carruthers. "I did not know you had seen my niece."
"No?" said Mr. Felton. "I suppose she left it to me to tell you of her
prompt politeness to an intruder. When I had seen your housekeeper and
learned all she could tell me, especially that my sister had not
received my letters, and knew nothing of my return to England, I
quickly made up my mind to join you abroad. Miss Carruthers being in
correspondence with you, and therefore able to give me all the
information I wanted, was clearly the person I ought to see, so I
started for the Sycamores, saw her--and a very beautiful and charming
girl she is--heard from her all she had to tell me, and then went up
to town to make acquaintance with my nephew."
Mr. Carruthers felt and looked rather conscious and uneasy while Mr.
Felton was making this explanation. Clare had a considerable
involuntary share in the self-reproach and regret he was experiencing.
His wife had been, to a certain extent, sacrificed to her, and the
remembrance disconcerted him. As for George, where was all his
resentment against his stepfather now? Where was all his exultation
that he and destiny united had outwitted the proud and pompous old
tyrant, as he had called him in his thoughts, and brought about a
meeting, which his inner consciousness told him had had no trifling
result for either, between him and the jealously-guarded heiress? It
augured well for George's future that he felt deeply sorry at the
moment the girl's name was mentioned that his stepfather had sustained
this unintentional and unknown wrong at his hands. As things were
going now, he and Clare might have met, in all probability, openly and
blamelessly; and George felt, in his altered mood, that he would
willingly part with the romance and mystery which now attended their
acquaintance to escape from the sense that he had been uncandid, that
he had misled the girl by her ardent fancy, and under the temptation
of resentment against his stepfather. It was too late now, as George
felt bitterly, for such regret; the future would enable him only so
far to retrieve the past as the most scrupulous abstinence from
availing himself of the opportunity whose occurrence he now regretted
might retrieve it. Clare would probably know him in his true character
soon; for he saw at once that Mr. Carruthers, having taken the
generous resolution, had taken it thoroughly; and she would despise
him for the deceit he had practised towards her, forgetting, in his
hot-headed resentment against her uncle, and infatuation with herself,
that such knowledge must come, and such contempt come with it. Heavily
the punishment of the past was falling upon George Dallas, even in
this hour of reconciliation, or rehabilitation, of absolute good
fortune. His uncle had been impressed in his favour beyond his
expectations; he had learned not to expect much from young men and
only sons; and George had been perfectly candid with him, so that the
elder man had gained an insight into his character, full of
encouragement and hope. Mr. Felton had told him that he should make
his future safe, so far as pecuniary independence could secure it; and
though George had suffered severely from want of money, and knew well
from how much evil he might have been preserved by its possession, he
did not over-estimate the extent of that security; so that the tide of
fortune had indeed turned for the prodigal son. But the husks were
still between his teeth, and bitter in his mouth. There were two women
in the world infinitely dear to him, and he had injured them both:
the one, probably, mortally; the other basely, as he now knew and
felt--how severely, time alone could tell. The fortune with which his
uncle would endow him could not purchase the reversal of these facts;
the respectability with which he could cover the past could not efface
that stain.
"As a man soweth, so shall he reap;" and harvest-time was heavy for
George.
Thus thinking, George's attention had wandered from the conversation
between the others, and was only recalled by Mr. Felton's addressing
him directly.
"Your mother was always in possession of your address, George, was she
not?"
"Certainly," replied George, "until lately--until her illness. I left
London for Amsterdam just before it commenced, and did not hear from
or write to her, beyond a few lines, until I got your letter, sir,"
turning to Mr. Carruthers.
"That decides it, you see," continued Mr. Felton, in pursuance of the
remarks which George had not heard. "My sister evidently never
received any letter or message from Arthur, or, as you suggest, she
would have put George in communication with him. I can only conclude
that he left England again to return to some of his continental
haunts--they were not too reputable," said Mr. Felton bitterly--"and
has not yet returned. I must only wait, and for every reason I had
better wait here."
"Certainly," said Mr. Carruthers. "I am very sorry you should have
anything to distress you, in addition to my wife's illness, in coming
to England, especially in connection with your son."
A footman--one of the "suite" who had attended Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers
of Poynings on their departure from that deserted locality--now
entered, and announced that Dr. Merle had arrived. As it had been
previously arranged that Mr. Carruthers should consult that high
authority in their absence, the uncle and nephew took their hats and
went out into the prim little garden, whence they reached the shady
road. There they paced up and down, passing and passed by the groups
of loungers, some of whom were attracted by the preoccupied and
serious air with which the two gentlemen conversed.
"If I did not know that he had sufficient money to last for a longer
time than I have been without news of him, and also that he has a
happy knack of making money wherever he may be, in some way or other,
I should at once communicate with the police," Mr. Felton was saying.
"Yes," said George; "but the worst of it is, we don't know what police
to communicate with, whether English or foreign. If he had not taken
his money out of the Liverpool bank, we might suppose him to be in
England; but that looks conclusive, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," said Mr. Felton. "The only clue I have is the
fact that he did draw the money, and wrote me the line I told you
of"--he opened his pocket-book mechanically as he spoke, glanced
at a letter placed within the leaves, replaced the book in his
breast-pocket, and went on--"promising further particulars. It is
almost incredible that he should be in England, and not have written
again. My letters to him, addressed to the Liverpool bank, have not
been sent for. He got one when he drew the money."
"Yes, I know," said George. They had talked the matter over many
times, and never drew nearer a conclusion. It was evident to George,
on the present occasion, that the character of his uncle's
apprehensions was undergoing a change. At first, he had treated his
son's silence as only one additional example of the utter callousness
and indifference to which the father was only too well accustomed.
George, to whom his cousin was an utter stranger, had accepted his
uncle's view of the matter, at first, unquestioned; but he had become
unsatisfied and uncertain about it of late, and was anxious, without
alarming Mr. Felton, to lead him to take active steps for obtaining
information of the whereabouts of his son.
"I feel satisfied he left England again, and knows nothing of my
movements. He will write out to New York, however; and if he has only
done so now, there will be some delay before he knows I am in Europe."
"Don't you think," asked George, hesitatingly, "he would send to
Liverpool for the letters, if he were in any uncertainty, before
writing to New York? I confess I don't like his leaving them
unclaimed. None of the reasons which may explain his silence reach to
an explanation of that. I don't think you ought to let much more time
go over. If you had a likeness of him--" He hesitated very much here,
and looked aside at his uncle, who turned sharply towards him, and
said:
"Well! What! If I had a likeness--"
"You might have had it copied, and the photographs distributed to the
police; so that, if anything should be wrong--"
"Wrong? In what sense, George? Do you begin to fear that anything has
happened to him? You never said so at first."
"Because I did not think so, uncle: and I am not seriously uneasy
now--not at all; but I think a reasonable time has elapsed, and we
ought now to make active inquiry. When he turns up, and finds out what
trouble and anxiety he has given, he will be more considerate in
future."
"Ah," said Mr. Felton, with a sigh, "I don't think Arthur is open to
any conviction of that kind. What do you think it best to do, now?"
"Well, uncle, you see you have been three weeks in Europe, and those
three weeks make a considerable addition to the time since you heard
from him. If you write by the next mail to New York for a copy of his
photograph-- You are sure you have not one with you?"
"Quite sure. Since I found I had not one in my desk, I have searched
everywhere among my luggage, but I have not one."
"Well, then, if you write by this mail for a copy, and it is sent by
return mail, if he has not turned up in the mean time, and things go
on well here, I think you had better put the matter into the hands of
the police. It is true you do not know whether Arthur is in England
now, or abroad; but the last place in which you know him to have been
is London, and from that information they must work."
"True," said Mr. Felton; and then continued, in a slow reluctant tone,
"I shrink from it, I confess. A matter which is placed in the hands of
the police always implies something disgraceful; and though I don't
expect to find that Arthur has disposed of his time and his money very
creditably, I don't like to make so sure of it as I feel convinced a
close investigation will make me."
Mr. Felton spoke with some agitation, and George thrilled with a
mingled feeling of pity and dread, he did not know of what. But he
said, cheerily:
"Well, sir, let us hope there will be no occasion for making any such
investigation. You can't have an answer for nearly three weeks, and a
great deal may happen in that time. Arthur may be here long before
then, to answer for himself, and laugh at us for our anxiety about
such a citizen of the world, old and new."
"I don't like it," George thought, as he walked on in silence by the
side of his uncle--"I don't like it. And it's very plain I am not the
only black sheep in the family flock, nor, I suspect, the blackest. I
will see that he writes to New York; and I will tell Routh all about
this when he comes, and hear what he says. My uncle will not mind my
telling him now, I dare say."
"When do you expect your friends, George?" asked Mr. Felton, striking
the chord of George's thought, after the fashion which every one knows
and nobody can explain.
"To-morrow, or the day after, sir," replied George. "Routh wrote from
Paris yesterday."
"I am sorry for Mrs. Routh," said Mr. Felton; "she's too secretive and
too cautious, too silent and too cunning, for my fancy; but she is an
interesting woman and a wonderfully good wife, I am sure, though of
the stony order."
"That is come to her lately," said George, in an eager tone, "since
her health has failed so much. You cannot imagine what a different
creature she was only a little while ago. She was as bright as the
sunshine and as gay as a lark. She is, indeed, a wonderful wife--the
most devoted I ever knew; and her usefulness in everything, in all a
woman's ordinary ways and in many quite extraordinary, in all Routh's
business matters, is marvellous. Even her delicate health, though she
has lost her good looks very much, and her spirits quite, has not made
any alteration in that. I cannot conceive what Routh would do without
her."
"H'm! I wonder if he is quite so uncertain," said Mr. Felton drily,
and to George's surprise. "I don't like your friend, and I don't trust
Mm."
"What do you mean?" asked George. "Don't trust him? Do you mean that
you don't trust his feelings or his conduct to Harriet?"
"Precisely so, my dear boy. Mrs. Routh is a devoted wife; but I am
very much mistaken--and remember I have been playing looker-on for a
fortnight or so, and interested in my part, too, considering what you
told me about yourself and these people--if she is not a very unhappy
one. I do not pretend to explain my convictions, but I am quite clear
about them. She loves Routh--that's plain enough--but she is miserable
with him."
"Do you really think so? She is dreadfully changed, I know, but I
thought it might be only in consequence of her ill health. Miserable
with him! At all events, he is not unkind to her. I know he is very
anxious about her health; for he has left London, at much
inconvenience and great risk of loss, to bring her here for the
waters."
"And for a turn at the gaming-tables for himself, I fancy. Routh has
to me the air of a man who has been constrained into temporary
respectability, and is heartily tired of it."
"I am sorry you have so bad an opinion of him, sir," said George, who
could not resist an uneasy impression that his uncle was right, and
that the experiment of a renewed intimacy with Routh was not likely to
be brilliantly successful, "for I was thinking of consulting him about
the best way of finding out Arthur's whereabouts."
"No, no," said Mr. Felton, quickly and emphatically; "say nothing to
him about any business of mine; give the man no pretext to fasten an
intimacy upon me. We want no cleverness of his kind in our work."
"Very well, sir," said George. He was discontented with his uncle,
because he had formed what the young man knew in his heart was a just
opinion of Routh, and discontented with himself because he could not
combat it. "Of course I will speak of your affairs to no one without
your permission. But one thing I must say for Routh, I do think he
loves his wife."
"And I think he hates her," said Mr. Felton.
They had turned in their walk, and were close by the little garden
gate as he uttered these words. At that moment it opened, and a
servant appeared. He told the two gentlemen that Mr. Carruthers wished
to see them, and they followed him silently into the house.
* * * * *
"I am quite clear that the experiment may be tried with safety and
advantage," said Dr. Merle, at the close of a long conversation with
Mr. Felton and George Dallas. Dr. Merle was an elderly gentleman, with
a bald head, a thin face, and eyes as piercing, as strong, and as
resolute as those of an eagle; a sort of man to be "quite clear" about
his ideas and decisions in general. "I have felt persuaded all along
that the state of Mrs. Carruthers's nervous system was produced by a
shock, though Mr. Carruthers had no knowledge of the fact, and could
supply me with no particulars."
Here was a pretty state of things; Mr. Carruthers of Poynings obliged
to listen to a stranger informing him that his own wife had received a
shock on his own premises without his knowledge, confirming the
opinions of two other presuming individuals, and totally indifferent
to the effect upon his feelings. But Mr. Carruthers of Poynings bore
it wonderfully well. He actually nodded acquiescence towards the
presumptuous doctor, and did not feel in the least angry.
"Yes," repeated Dr. Merle, emphatically, "there has been a shock, no
doubt about it. The nerves are still very weak, very much shaken, but
the general health so much re-established, that I do not anticipate
anything but the best results from the attempt to communicate a
pleasant and happy impression to Mrs. Carruthers, though, owing to her
distressing state just now, that impression must necessarily take the
form of a shock also. But"--and Dr. Merle smiled, and looked at each
of his hearers in turn--"I think you will agree with me, gentlemen,
that there is little, if any, reliable evidence that any one was ever
killed or hurt by an agreeable surprise. Mr. Carruthers has been so
good as to convey to me that it would be an agreeable surprise to
my patient to see him and her son together, and I am quite clear that
the sooner the experiment is tried, and that Mrs. Carruthers knows
there is also another pleasure in store for her"--with a bow to Mr.
Felton--"the better."
George stood up, and followed his stepfather mechanically. His
conviction, from the first moment he had heard of his mother's state,
had been strong that she would be roused to recollection by the sight
of him, and restored to a condition which would permit him to
dissipate the delusion which had so terribly affected her. He only
knew the secret--he only could undo the ill. Should this fail, he
would reveal all to Mr. Felton and to his stepfather, whose altered
conduct to him had removed the danger of any ill results to his mother
from such a revelation.
Mr. Carruthers preceded George across a wide corridor to a large and
airy room, where the windows were wide open--where white curtains
fluttered in the air, scented by the breath of flowers. Just inside
the door he motioned to George to remain there, and then approached a
large chair, whose high back hid its occupant from George's sight. He
stooped over the chair, and said, in a softer voice than the Poynings
household had been accustomed to hear:
"Laura, I have brought some one to see you this morning."
George could not see from where he stood, but he concluded there was a
sign of assent, for Mr. Carruthers beckoned him rapidly forward, and
the next instant he was by his side, and had seen his mother's face.
Another, and his mother had started up, and, with a piercing cry of
"George! My son! my son!" had fallen senseless into his arms.