ARTHUR CHEERS UP.
The news that John Beacham had carried his wife into the country,
without even allowing that ill-used young woman to return to
Stanwick-street, was communicated on the following morning by Colonel
Norcott to his young friend, to whom he wrote a hurried note as follows:
“Only fancy! John Beacham, after behaving like a bear, carried off
my poor girl, just as she was, to Updown. I had half a mind to
interfere; but the Derby before everything! We shall meet on the
course, I suppose. If not, at the club afterwards. Good luck to
Rough Diamond, and to us! We are in the same boat. Sink or
swim?--with me, at least.
“Yours in haste,
“F. N.”
Many hours sped by after the receipt by Arthur of this note ere the
important telegram arrived which told the world remaining in London
which horse had won “the race.” In spite of his mad love for Honor
Beacham, Arthur Vavasour heard the news with all-absorbing rapture.
There were “take-offs,” it is true, from his joy. He was deprived of the
pleasure of openly revelling in the fact that a horse of his had won the
Derby by a head. Rough Diamond, running in the name of Colonel Norcott,
was generally supposed to be the _bonâ-fide_ property of that fortunate
individual; but although he could not hold his head high as the owner of
a Derby winner, Arthur could, and did, rejoice with exceeding joy over
the result of the race. He was, virtually, free from the debts of honour
which had so long oppressed and disgraced him. The sale of the winner to
the highest bidder would enable him to walk once more with a free step,
and boldly, amongst the young men his fellows. That the heir-apparent of
so fine a property as Gillingham Chace should have been reduced to such
shifts, and have suffered from such pecuniary anxieties as had sometimes
rendered sleepless the luxurious couch of Arthur Vavasour, may seem to
some an abnormal, if not, indeed, an impossible, state of things; but it
must be remembered, in the first place, that the heir to many thousands
per annum had been but for a short period legally “of age;” and in the
next, that the raising of money by that individual would have been at
all times--in consequence of Lady Millicent’s well-known intention to
dispute her father’s will--an affair very difficult of arrangement. Ever
since his purchase of John Beacham’s powerful and, as his former
owner--one of the best judges in England--boldly affirmed, most
promising colt, Arthur had seen, with the confident eye of youth, a
limit to the annoyance which had so long pressed upon his spirits. They
had been very good-natured to him, those sporting friends of his to whom
he owed some fifty, some a hundred, and _one_ more hundreds than it was
pleasant to remember. They had bided their time. Arthur Vavasour had
been such a mere lad when he became their debtor, and the men were,
without an exception, far older, both in years and experience, than Lady
Millicent’s thoughtless son; so, as I said, they had treated the young
man tenderly. No cold shoulders had been turned to him either at the
clubs or on the racecourse; and Arthur, thankful for the indulgence, was
doubly glad of the opportunity which his success afforded him of paying
with grateful thanks those who, somewhat singular to say, had not ceased
to be his friends.
Five minutes had scarcely elapsed after Arthur read the welcome
telegram, when he betook himself to the gratifying business of
preparing for his long-delayed settling-day. His first act was to put
himself in indirect communication with the sporting earl who, as all the
world was well aware, possessed a purse long enough to gratify his
lordship’s desire to become possessor of the Derby winner; and his next
object of interest was the promised visit of Colonel Norcott, who,
although he did not greatly admire his character, had, both as the
nominal owner of Rough Diamond and the father of Honor Beacham, peculiar
claims on his time and attention. Very early on that day, and soon after
receiving Fred Norcott’s billet, he had despatched a note to that
gentleman’s abode, and in that note he had informed his friend of the
interesting domestic reason of his absence on the previous day from
Tattenham Corner on that all-important occasion.
“I will call in Stanwick-street about nine <small>P.M.</small>,” so wrote the
newly-made father, “when I hope to find you at home, and shall be truly
glad if there is good news for us in the interim.” Arthur was well
pleased to escape a meeting at “the club,” _id est_, _his_ club, with
Colonel Norcott. That gentleman was in the habit--a propensity which was
rather annoying to Arthur Vavasour--of showing off, at the Travellers’,
his intimacy with the popular young heir of Gillingham, the former being
well aware that he stood on unsafe ground, and that it behoved him to
make the most of such respectable acquaintances as fade, or rather
conduct, had left him. The indomitable Fred, not content with linking
his arm within that of Arthur Vavasour, when the two chanced to meet in
the haunts of fashionable men and women, would, whenever he could either
seize or make an opportunity for so doing, parade his acquaintanceship
with his young friend in the most unwarrantable manner. It was in order
to prevent a repetition of this inconvenience that Arthur Vavasour (who
would probably have been more careful of hurting the Colonel’s vanity
had Honor Beacham still remained under his protection) indited the
epistle above alluded to, namely, that which appointed Stanwick-street
as a place of rendezvous between himself and the owner of his most
cherished secret. Well aware of the fact that Colonel Norcott, who
belonged to no regular “club,” but only to a sporting _réunion_ of
doubtful respectability, was in the habit of making the best of his
lodging-house dinner at home, Arthur Vavasour entertained but little
doubt of finding his middle-aged friend (whose health, albeit he would
have strenuously denied the fact, was beginning to betray some of the
consequences of an ill-spent life) resting from the excitement of the
day in the bosom, so-called by courtesy, of his family.
Sophy--the happy, grateful Sophy--watched over by loving eyes, and
surrounded by all the comforts and luxuries that wealth could procure,
was “going on,” as the hall-porter was now officially instructed to say,
“as well as could possibly be expected.” Old Duberly, whose heart, in
spite of the strength of his prejudices, had in it some very soft and
tender spots, had as yet only partially recovered from the state of
almost frantic ecstasy into which the birth of his grandson and the
certainty of his daughter’s safety had thrown him. It is true that he no
longer insisted upon shaking hands (each time that he encountered them
on the stairs or in the passages) with Arthur, the doctor, or maybe the
nurse--anyone and everyone, in short, who could by any possibility
sympathise with his grandpaternal joy. He was less demonstrative, and
more quietly thankful to the God of all mercies for the great blessing
that He had bestowed upon him; but for all that he was more outwardly
composed; the old man’s inward condition--whether sleeping or waking,
alone or in company with his fellow-rejoicer by Sophy’s bedside--was one
of exceeding gratitude and bliss.
“I am thinking of going out for an hour, sir,” Arthur said, suppressing
with some difficulty one of the troublesome and desperate yawns which a
lengthened dialogue with his respected father-in-law was apt to induce.
“Sophy is asleep, the nurse says, and I want to stretch my legs and have
a smoke.”
Mr. Duberly, who as a rule was rather an enemy to the favourite vice of
the day, and who had sometimes felt a little jealous when he had seen
his “girl’s” white fingers busy in Arthur’s tobacco-jar, and pressing
down with her dainty thumb the _weed_ into her husband’s meerschaum, was
at that especial moment in too good a humour not only with Arthur, but
with the world in general, for any idea of opposition to enter his
brain.
“Want a smoke, do you, eh?” he said good-humouredly. “I don’t know what
you young fellows are made of to stand drawing so much poison into your
lungs. And what you’ll all be like when you come to be my age is more
than I can guess. But get along with you, boy--only don’t be long, for
Sophy may wake up and want to say ‘good-night.’ _I_ shall be in the
_boudore_ though, ready, if anything’s wanted.” And so saying, the
doating old man, gathering up his spectacles, and the newspaper which he
was in the habit of digesting with his dinner, a meal which at that
moment sat--if the truth must be told--rather heavily on his stomach,
toddled out of the room, to pass a dozy hour or two within hearing of
his daughter’s gentle voice.
Meanwhile Arthur--his heart, despite of pretty Honor’s absence, lighter
than it had been for months--wended his way with the brisk step which is
so sure a sign of youth and good spirits to not-far-distant
Stanwick-street. As he approached the house he experienced a slight
feeling of depression at the thought that it no longer contained the
lovely woman by whom he fondly believed that his passion was more than
beginning to be reciprocated. It was a melancholy fact, too, that as
matters at present stood between him and John Beacham, there seemed
little hope of resuming those _friendly_ relations with the Paddocks
which had been so fraught with happiness to himself, and, as he hoped,
to the wife of his trusting friend. To the chapter of accidents only
could Arthur--with the sanguine expectations of youth (of youth
especially when backed by good looks and a winning tongue)--look, with
any well-grounded hope, that his luck would in this instance befriend
him, and point the way for further attempts to--what? Why to _ruin_,
soul and body, the still innocent creature, the possession of whose
beauty would soon be to him a worthless toy, and who, but for his
selfish pursuit, might still be a valued wife and a happy woman in the
sphere in which Providence had placed her.
As Arthur Vavasour stood on the doorstep of the house which only a few
short hours before contained the being who possessed the terrible power
of inducing within him the forgetfulness of his most sacred duties, keen
regret for her loss was within his breast a stronger sensation than the
satisfaction with his present lot, as regarded the relief from his
dishonouring obligations which, in some natures, _might_ have superseded
all other and less commonplace considerations.
“He will know nothing more about _her_,” was the thought that most
occupied Arthur Vavasour when the door opened, and Lydia, more off-hand
even and coquettishly dressed than usual, stood before him with the
handle in her hand, barring, as it almost seemed--though _that_ could
hardly be, so intimate was Arthur in that unaspiring lodging-house--his
further passage to the Colonel’s presence.
“There’s a note for you, sir,” the parlour-maid said, in answer to
Arthur’s look of surprised inquiry; “they’ve gone out of town, both of
’em, and the Colonel said I was to give you the letter when you comed.
I’ll run and fetch it if you’ll be so good as wait.” And so saying
Lydia skipped away down the “back stairs” leading to the regions below;
while Arthur, with a vague sense of uneasiness creeping slowly over him,
silently, but not over patiently, awaited her return.