TOGETHER AT LAST.
Sundry matters had been taking place concerning Philip Cleeve which
might well have been told previously.
It was on a Wednesday morning, as may be remembered, that Philip
started for London, on business, as Lady Cleeve was led to suppose,
connected with Mr. Tiplady's office. On Thursday evening Lady Cleeve
waited up to welcome her son's return. But Philip did not come.
"He must be staying in town to spend the evening with Mr. Bootle," she
said to herself. "I shall have a letter in the morning."
The morning brought neither letter nor messages from the truant, and
Lady Cleeve sent her breakfast away nearly untasted. "After all," she
thought, "seeing that he will return to-day, he probably hardly
thought it worth while to write."
But when Friday evening passed away and still Philip came not, and
when Saturday morning's post brought her no letter, then Lady Cleeve
became seriously alarmed. Business might, of course, be detaining him,
she knew that; but why did he not write? And Philip, as she believed,
was so ultra-dutiful.
"I will send to Mr. Tiplady, and risk it, she thought. She would have
sent to inquire before, only Philip had so intense a dislike to being,
what he called, looked after. Once, when he had stayed away at Norwich
a day or two beyond the time of coming home, she had gone herself to
the office to ask about him, and Philip was annoyed about it.
"Bridget," she said, calling to the maid who had waited upon her for
many years, and who was as well known in Nullington as Lady Cleeve
herself, "you had better go and inquire at the office when they expect
Mr. Philip home. You can say, if you like, that I am a little uneasy
at not hearing from him."
Away went Bridget, in her warm Scotch plaid shawl and black
coal-scuttle bonnet. Mr. Tiplady was standing at the office-door,
looking up and down the street. Bridget delivered to him her lady's
message.
"Lady Cleeve sent you to me to inquire about the movements of Mr.
Philip," cried the architect, after listening. "I was just going to
send to ask Lady Cleeve the same question."
This famous architect, renowned in more counties than one, was a
kindly, unpretending man, small and slight, and chary of speech in
general. He took off his hat to push back the few scanty grey hairs
left on his head, as he looked at the servant.
"My lady thought, sir, that you must know what was keeping Mr. Philip
so long in London."
"I know nothing about it, Bridget. I don't know why he went. His
absence is causing us some inconvenience."
Bridget, who was much in her mistress's confidence, could not make
this out.
"He went upon business for you, sir, did he not?"
"Not at all. Mr. Best here got a note from him on Wednesday morning,
saying he had to run up to town on a little business, but should be
back the following day. We have heard nothing of him since. Make my
compliments to your lady, and tell her this."
Lady Cleeve became actively alarmed now. All sorts of dire forebodings
filled the mother's heart. London was a place beset with dangers in
many ways: she had heard, and fully believed, that hardly a day passed
but somebody or other was lost in it, and that they were never heard
of again.
Sending out to order a fly, she was set down at the office. Mr.
Tiplady was in his private room then, and handed her to a seat.
"I would be only too glad to tell you what is detaining him, if I
knew," said the little man kindly, in answer to her somewhat
impassioned appeal. "We supposed he had gone up upon some matter for
yourself. Lost?--lost? no, no, dear Lady Cleeve; don't imagine
anything so improbable as that. Philip is quite old enough to take
care of himself."
"But what can he have gone to London for? And why should he have made
a mystery of it?"
"Well, to say the truth, that's what I cannot quite understand. Best
said a word to me this morning--he got it from young Plympton, I
fancy--that Philip had been embarking money in some speculation,
and---- Do you know anything about it?"
"Nothing," said Lady Cleeve, whose face was growing more anxious with
every moment.
"I'll call Best in," said the architect.
But upon going into an adjoining room he found that Mr. Best had
stepped out. So he brought in Richard Plympton. This young man, who
had been placed in the architect's office as an "improver," was
brother to Mr. Kettle's curate, and was a great friend of Philip.
Young Plympton, after shaking hands with Lady Cleeve, told what he
knew, thinking it right under present circumstances to do so: that
Philip had bought some shares in a rich silver-mining company, the
Hermandad, and that he had gone up to town to see if he could not sell
out again.
"Oh," said Mr. Tiplady, "embarked money in that, has he? I heard that
same mine spoken of yesterday--quite incidentally."
"It is a very rich mine, is it not, sir?" cried young Plympton with
enthusiasm.
"Very," drily responded the architect.
"Captain Lennox got him the shares, sir. He is one of the directors,
and has gone in for it himself largely."
"Sorry for him," cried Mr. Tiplady. "The mine has come to grief."
"No!" exclaimed the young man, opening his eyes widely. "You don't
mean that, sir! Then"--a thought striking him--"it must be that which
has been keeping Lennox so much in town lately."
"Ay, no doubt. That will do, Mr. Plympton. I wonder whether Philip has
risked much upon this worthless thing?" added the architect to Lady
Cleeve, as his clerk withdrew.
"It is sad news for me," she sighed, wiping her pale face. "We can
soon ascertain, by inquiring at the bank how much money he has drawn
out. Of course, anything is better than that he should be lost."
"Of course," smiled Mr. Tiplady. "Still I don't myself see why this
matter should be keeping Philip in London. It has been known to the
public some days now. Shall I make the inquiry at the bank for you,
Lady Cleeve?"
"If you will take the trouble. I shall be very much obliged to you."
"I may want your authority before they'll answer me. I'm not quite
sure, though; they know me for Philip's good friend."
It was arranged that he should get into the fly now with Lady Cleeve.
The driver was directed to stop at the bank. Mr. Tiplady went in, and
came out with a serious face.
"Will they not answer you?" cried Lady Cleeve.
"Oh yes; they made no difficulty about that."
"Well! How much has he drawn out?"
"Nearly every pound he had there."
So poor Lady Cleeve had to go home with her anxiety augmented, instead
of lessened. Suppose Philip, in his dismay at the loss of all his
money, should--should have done something rash!
Saturday wore itself away. The look on the mother's face was pitiful
to see. She sat at the window which faced the entrance-gate, looking
for one that did not appear. And when dusk had closed in she still sat
on in the same spot, listening in the dark with straining eyes for the
well-known footfall that was so long in coming.
Sunday morning came and with it the postman, for there was an early
postal delivery on that day at Nullington. But there was no letter
from Philip. Dr. Spreckley was in the act of brushing his hat
preparatory to setting out for church, when in rushed Bridget. Her
lady had suddenly been taken with one of her old attacks, and the
Doctor must hasten to her.
Dr. Spreckley had another patient on his hands at that time--the
Reverend Francis Kettle; he was laid up with gout. When Dr. Spreckley
called there after church, he mentioned Lady Cleeve's illness to
Maria.
"She had been getting on so well lately," he lamented. "Anxiety of
mind has brought on this attack; nothing else."
"Anxiety of mind?" repeated Maria.
"Yes; all about that harum-scarum son of hers. He went to London on
Wednesday last, and has never been heard of since. She is in a fine
quandary, I can tell you, fancying some dreadful harm has come to
him."
"But why should harm come to him?" asked Maria, her heart beating
wildly.
"Why, indeed! He does harm enough to himself without its coming to him
gratuitously. Been and spent all his money; made ducks and drakes of
it."
"Oh!" gasped Maria. "_How?_"
"How!" returned the Doctor. "Well"--looking at Maria's tale-telling
countenance--"been embarking a lot of it in some precious mining
scheme, and the mine has burst up."
Maria went to Lady Cleeve's that afternoon. She found her very ill.
Maria hid her own fears and forebodings, and spoke cheerfully and
hopefully; although every now and then a blinding rush of tears would
come into her eyes when she thought that perhaps in very truth she
should never see Philip more on this side the grave. More than ever
before, she seemed to realise how dear he was to her heart.
How many days of this terrible anxiety went on, neither of them cared
to number. The vicar was getting better now, though still confined to
a sofa in his room, and Maria spent much of her time at Homedale. One
morning there arrived a telegram addressed to Lady Cleeve. The poor
mother's face turned paler still, and her hands trembled so much that
she could not open it. She signed to Maria to take the paper.
"No. 6, Maxwell Terrace, Wandsworth, London.
"_From_ Phillip Cleeve,
"I have met with a slight accident, which will detain me in London for
a few days yet. It is nothing serious, so do not be alarmed. Another
message to-morrow."
"Thank heaven! my boy still lives," said Lady Cleeve. Tears of
thankfulness stood in Maria's eyes: for she also had been fearing the
worst. "And yet it is strange why he has not written," mused Lady
Cleeve, stretching out her hand for the paper. "He says, 'Another
message to-morrow!' Why send a telegram when, if he were to post a
letter this evening, it would reach me in the morning? He must be
worse than he wishes me to know of; he must be so ill that he cannot
write. He may be dying. And I cannot go to him!"
"I will go to him, dear Lady Cleeve!" said Maria, with a lovely flush
on her cheeks.
"You, my dear!"
"Yes, I. I can go: papa is almost well now."
"But, my dear child, will it do for _you_ to go? You----"
"I am his promised wife, and who has more right to be by his side, at
such a time as this, than I have?" She flung herself into Lady
Cleeve's arms, and the two wept together.
Maria lost no time. Before the astonished vicar could say yes or no,
before he quite understood what the matter was, she was on her way to
the railway-station.
A cab stopped that same evening at the door of No. 6, Maxwell Terrace.
Miss Kettle alighted, knocked, and inquired for Mr. Cleeve.
Before the servant had time to reply, a white-haired, ruddy-faced
gentleman came out of a side-room. "Come inside, come inside," he
said, as he peered at Maria through his spectacles. "Yes, Mr. Cleeve
is under this roof. He is my guest, you know; and you, I presume, are
some relation of his?" he added, as he led the way into the parlour.
"Perhaps his sister?"
"No, not his sister," faltered Maria, the difficulties of her position
suddenly presenting themselves to her. "I am not related to him."
"Not related to him!" repeated the old gentleman, gazing at her. But,
there was something so benevolent in the ruddy face, so kindly in the
honest eyes, that Maria took heart and courage.
"I am his promised wife, sir," she said simply. "There was nobody but
me to come."
"His promised wife, now! Bless my heart, but that's very nice, do you
know! I never had a promised wife; I often wish that I had. My name's
Marjoram, my dear--Josiah Marjoram, late of Bucklersbury, City; now
retired, with nothing to do--nothing to do. It's hard work, though,
sometimes."
"But about Philip--about Mr. Cleeve, sir?" said Maria, earnestly. "Is
he very ill? I was to send a telegram to his mother if I got here in
time. How was he hurt?"
"Sit down, my dear, and I will tell you all about it. It was as
gallant a thing as ever I saw. I was standing at my drawing-room
window one afternoon, whistling to myself, and thinking about nothing
in particular, when all at once a hansom cab came dashing round the
corner at a most furious rate. A little child was running across the
road: it stumbled and fell: upon which a young man, who happened to
be passing, and whom I had not noticed before, dashed into the road
and seized the child in his arms. But he was too late; the cab was
over him. The child escaped with a few bruises, but the young man
was--well, let us put it, rather badly hurt. 'Take him to the
hospital,' called out the people, running up. 'The only hospital he
shall go to is my house,' I said to them: and into it he was carried.
We found a name on some cards in his pocket-book, 'Mr. Cleeve,' but no
address, so that I was unable to communicate with his friends."
"And he was too much injured to give you the address!" exclaimed
Maria.
"Just so; he was not sufficiently sensible. But he is getting better
now; oh, very much better," added the old gentleman, briskly. "As a
proof of it, it was he who dictated the telegram to Lady Cleeve this
morning. My doctor and the one from London both say that with care we
shall soon have him on his legs again now."
"I should like to see him, sir, if you please," said Maria, faintly.
"So you shall, my dear: so you shall, when I have spoken to the nurse.
Meanwhile, my housekeeper, Mrs. Wale, a good, motherly old soul, shall
show you to your room, to take your bonnet off. We prepared it for his
mother, thinking she might come."
The old housekeeper came in curtseying. She supposed Maria to be Lady
Cleeve's daughter. Maria took off her travelling things, and was then
ready to see Philip. Mr. Marjoram opened the chamber-door for her. She
caught sight of a white face on the pillow, and two preternaturally
large eyes, that stared at her as if she were a visitor from the dead.
She bent her face to his.
"Oh, my dear one!" she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I have found you at
last!" And Maria made up her mind that she would not leave him again.
The doctors said that very much would depend on good nursing. Maria
felt that no one could nurse him as she could; at least, she would
help to do it. The old gentleman approved of this so much that he
clapped his hands in applause; he told Maria he wished she could be
converted by some good fairy into his real daughter, and never go away
from his house.
On the morning after Philip's first wretched night in London, when he
was somewhat restored to common sense, he resolved to return to
Nullington and confess all his weakness and folly to his mother and to
Mr. Tiplady. There was no help for it. But the thought struck him that
he ought once more to go to the Hermandad office in the City, and to
ascertain, if possible, whether the silver-mining prospect was
absolutely hopeless.
The place was still shut up, and Philip could hear nothing. In coming
away he met a gentleman whom he had seen at The Lilacs, an
acquaintance of Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie. This gentleman had also
put some money into the mine, and had come down to the City on the
same errand as Philip.
"Lennox? No, I can't tell you where he is; I've not seen him here
lately," he said, in answer to Philip's question. "Lennox is as hard
hit as we are, I expect; worse, in fact. He may be staying with those
friends he has at Wandsworth; he is there sometimes."
"Can you give me their address?
"Why, yes, I can. I spent an evening or two there with Lennox in the
summer."
Philip took the address, and went to Wandsworth. He found the people,
but could not hear anything of Captain Lennox; they supposed him to be
at Nullington. It was after leaving their house that Philip met with
the accident. It is probable that his previous night's vigil, and the
troubled state his mind was in, rendered him less quick and agile than
he might otherwise have been.
When Philip had gained sufficient strength, he poured into Maria
Kettle's ear all the story of his folly and ruin, the latter
culminating with these dreadful mines. He was yet so weak and ill that
when he had done he cried like a child. Maria pressed his hand to her
soft, warm cheek, and soothed and comforted him.
"I think sometimes, Maria, that if you had not cast me off as you did
all this would not have happened," he continued; "and yet how weak and
foolish I have been all through, no one knows better than myself."
"I will never leave you again," she murmured, with scarlet cheeks: and
they sealed the promise with a kiss.
"I shall always say, Maria, your father was harder to me than he need
have been."
"Yes. But the truth is, Philip, he has had more on his mind than he
would speak of," she returned. "It was about----"
"About, what?" queried Philip, as she stopped.
"I am almost ashamed to mention it."
"I shall never rest now, till you have told me."
"Papa took up a notion that you were somehow concerned in those
robberies which took place: his own purse, you know--and the Doctor's
snuff-box--and the jewels."
Philip's large eyes grew larger as he stared at Maria.
"Not that I stole them? You can't mean that!"
"I fear that he was afraid you did. Dr. Downes was also."
Philip lay without speaking, lost in astonishment. Presently he burst
into the strongest laugh his feeble state allowed.
"What a joke, Maria! They could not believe such a thing of me. I am
Philip Cleeve."
The words imparted their own assurance. Though Maria had never needed
to be assured.
"Did _you_ think this?"
"Oh, Philip! Don't you know me better than that?"
"My dear, yes. Forgive the question. You say you will never leave me
again, Maria: I bless you for that. If we could but be married here,
and now, so that no adverse fate might ever more part us! Here and
now!"
Maria's vivid blush was the only answer.
"But how could we live now that our future is marred?" continued
Philip. "As Tiplady's partner, I could have ensured you a good home;
but the money which was to have secured that position, the twelve
hundred pounds, is gone for ever."
"I have two thousand pounds that I think you have not heard of,
Philip," she said in a low tone, as she hid her face. "Mrs. Page left
it to me. We will pay over some of it to Mr. Tiplady, in place of that
which is lost."
"Maria!"
"Yes," she answered. "I have been intending it ever since I knew you
were getting better. Do not fret after the money, Philip. Captain
Lennox is worse off----"
"Hang Captain Lennox!" interjected Philip. "But for him I should never
have got into trouble of any kind."
"He had embarked, it is said, a great deal in this mine," added Maria.
"People fancy that it is his loss in it which makes him think of
giving up The Lilacs."
Romantic though old Mr. Marjoram showed himself to be, it yet may have
surprised him to be told that the two young people enjoying his
hospitality had determined to get married as soon as possible, while
Philip still lay ill and helpless--if he, the kind old gentleman,
would only help them to accomplish it.
"Oh ho!" said he. "Love's young dream, and all that, eh? Your parents
have destined you for one another from childhood, you tell me."
"That's quite true," said Philip, from his pillow.
"Philip will need careful tending for some time to come, as you know,
sir," spoke Maria, with soft red cheeks and downcast eyes; "and no one
can tend him as a wife can. If you, sir, would be at the trouble of
procuring a special license for us, and--and Philip and I thought if
you would not mind our being married here quietly some morning----"
Tears twinkled on the old gentleman's eyelashes. He drew Maria to him
and pressed her to his heart, and she cried a little on his shoulder
as she might have done on that of her father. Mr. Marjoram wished that
Heaven had given him such a child.
Thus it fell out that a few days later a quiet wedding took place in
the drawing-room of No. 6, Maxwell Terrace. Philip was lifted out of
bed that day for the first time since his accident, and lay on a couch
while the ceremony was performed. He looked desperately white and ill,
poor fellow! but the light of perfect content shone in his eyes, and
the old sweet smile that used to mark the Philip Cleeve of old days
came and went continually on his lips. Mr. Marjoram gave away the
bride, and his sister, a charming maiden lady of fifty, came all the
way from Hertford to countenance the ceremony. And the old state of
things then went on again. Poor helpless Philip lay in bed, and Maria
waited on him.
But he seemed to get rapidly better now. And when sufficiently well to
leave the good old man's hospitable roof, he and Maria went to a quiet
seaside place lying on their way to Norfolk, that Philip might inhale
the refreshing sea-breezes for a few days before returning home. At
present he and his wife would stay with Lady Cleeve.
She, Lady Cleeve, was thankful in her heart for all that had happened,
now that it had led to all this happiness. The Vicar, making up his
mind at first to be very stern and high and mighty, broke down at the
first interview. For one thing, his mind was at rest as to Philip's
fancied participation in the robberies. Too much proof had been found
at The Lilacs by Mr. Detective Meath, to admit of suspicion against
anyone but Captain Lennox.
Dr. Downes's snuff-box had turned up first. It was supposed the
Captain had been afraid to get rid of it for a time. Most of the
jewels lost at Heron Dyke had been found there; and--the fellow
sleeve-link of malachite and gold.
"That we must have a snake-in-the-grass amongst us here, I knew,"
cried Dr. Downes; "but I never suspected Lennox. I was more inclined
to suspect _you_, Master Philip," with a nod at Philip, who was lying
on a sofa, "although you are your father's son and your good mother's.
You are laughing, are you? Well, you can afford to laugh, things
having turned out so: you'd have found it no laughing matter had you
been the black sheep."
"I dare say not, Doctor," answered Philip.
"But it is an awful thought that he, Lennox, whose hand has been
meeting ours in friendship, should have been the murderer of Hubert
Stone."