MR. AMPTHILL'S WILL.
The acquaintance between Margaret and Annie, which commenced so
auspiciously, scarcely ripened into intimacy. When Lady Beauport's
neuralgia passed away,--and her convalescence was much hurried by the
near approach of a specially-grand entertainment given in honour of
certain Serene Transparencies then visiting London,--she found that she
could not spare Miss Maurice to go so long a distance, to be absent
from her and her work for such a length of time. As to calling at Elm
Lodge in person, Lady Beauport never gave the project another thought.
With the neuralgia had passed away her desire to see that "pretty young
person," Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow; and in sending her card by Annie, Lady
Beauport thought she had more than fulfilled any promises and vows of
politeness which might have been made by her son in her name.
Lord Caterham had driven out once to Elm Lodge with Annie, and had been
introduced to Margaret, whom he admired very much, but about whom he
shook his head alarmingly when he and Annie were driving towards home.
"That's an unhappy woman!" he said; "an unhappy woman, with something
on her mind--something which she does not give way to and groan about,
but against which she frets and fights and struggles with as with a
chain. When she's not spoken to, when she's not supposed to be _en
evidence_ there's a strange, half-weary, half-savage gleam in those
wondrous eyes, such as I have noticed only once before, and then among
the patients of a lunatic asylum. There's evidently something strange
in the history of that marriage. Did you notice Ludlow's devotion to
her, how he watched her every movement? Did you see what hard work
it was for her to keep up with the conversation, not from want of
power,--for, from one or two things she said, I should imagine her to
be a naturally clever as well as an educated woman,--but from want of
will? How utterly worn and wearied and _distraite_ she looked, standing
by us in Ludlow's studio, while we talked about his pictures, and
how she only seemed to rouse into life when I compared that Brighton
Esplanade with the Drive in the Park, and talked about some of the
frequenters of each. She listened to all the fashionable nonsense as
eagerly as any country miss, and yet--She's a strange study, that
woman, Annie. I shall take an early opportunity of driving out to see
her again; but I'm glad that the distance will prevent her being very
intimate with you."
The opportunity of repeating his visit did not, however, speedily
occur. The fierce neuralgic headaches from which Lord Caterham suffered
had become much more frequent of late, and worse in their effect. After
hours of actual torture, unable to raise his head or scarcely to lift
his eyes, he would fall into a state of prostration, which lasted two
or three days. In this state he would be dressed by his servant and
carried to his sofa, where he would lie with half-closed eyes dreaming
the time away,-comparatively happy in being free from pain, quite
happy if; as frequently happened, on looking up he saw Annie Maurice
moving noiselessly about the room dusting his books, arranging his
desk, bringing fresh flowers for his glasses. Looking round at him from
time to time, and finding he had noticed her presence, she would lay
her finger on her lip enjoining silence, and then refresh his burning
forehead and hands with eau-de-cologne, turn and smooth his pillows,
and wheel his sofa to a cooler position. On the second day after an
attack she would read to him for hours in her clear musical voice from
his favourite authors; or, if she found him able to bear it, would
sit down at the cabinet-piano, which he had bought expressly for her,
and sing to him the songs he loved so well--quiet English ballads,
sparkling little French _chansons_, and some of the most pathetic music
of the Italian operas; but every thing for his taste must be soft and
low: all roulades and execution, all the fireworks of music, he held in
utter detestation.
Then Annie would be called away to write notes for Lady Beauport, or
to go out with her or for her, and Caterham would be left alone again.
Pleasanter his thoughts now: there were the flowers she had gathered
and placed close by him, the books she had read from, the ivory keys
which her dear fingers had so recently touched! Her cheerful voice
still rung in his ear, the touch of her hand seemed yet to linger on
his forehead. O angel of light and almost of hope to this wretched
frame, O sole realisation of womanly love and tenderness and sweet
sympathy to this crushed spirit, wilt thou ever know it all? Yes, he
felt that there would come a time, and that without long delay, when he
should be able to tell her all the secret longings of his soul, to tell
her in a few short words, and then--ay, then!
Meanwhile it was pleasant to lie in a half-dreamy state, thinking of
her, picturing her to his fancy. He would lie on that sofa, his poor
warped useless limbs stretched out before him, but hidden from his
sight by a light silk _couvrette_ of Annie's embroidering, his eyes
closed, his whole frame n a state of repose. Through the double windows
came deadened sounds of the world outside--the roll of carriages, the
clanging of knockers, the busy hum of life. From the Square-garden
came the glad voices of children, and now and then--solitary fragment
of rusticity--the sound of the Square-gardener whetting his scythe.
And Caterham lay day by day dreaming through it all, unroused even by
the repetition of Czerny's pianoforte-exercises by the children in the
next house; dreaming of his past, his present, and his future. Dreaming
of the old farmhouse where they had sent him when a child to try and
get strength--the quaint red-faced old house with its gable ends and
mullioned windows, and its eternal and omnipresent smell of apples; of
the sluggish black pool where the cattle stood knee-deep; the names of
the fields--the home-croft, and the lea pasture, and the forty acres;
the harvest-home, and the songs that they sung then, and to which he
had listened in wonder sitting on the farmer's knee. He had not thought
of all this from that day forth; but he remembered it vividly now, and
could almost hear the loud ticking of the farmer's silver watch which
fitted so tightly into his fob. The lodgings at Brighton, where he
went with some old lady, never recollected but in connection with that
one occasion, and called Miss Macraw,--the little lodgings with the
bow-windowed room looking sideways over the sea; the happiness of that
time, when the old lady perpetually talked to and amused him, when he
was not left alone as he was at home, and when he had such delicious
tea-cakes which he toasted for himself. The doctors who came to see him
there; one a tall white-haired old man in a long black coat reaching
to his heels, and another a jolly bald-headed man, who, they said, was
surgeon to the King. The King--ay, he had seen him too, a red-faced
man in a blue coat, walking in the Pavilion Gardens. Dreaming of the
private tutor, a master at Charter House, who came on Wednesday and
Saturday afternoons, and who struggled so hard and with such little
success to conceal his hatred to Homer, Virgil, and the other classic
poets, and his longing to be in the cricket-field, on the river, any
where, to shake off that horrible conventional toil of tutorship, and
to be a man and not a teaching-machine. Other recollections he had, of
Lionel's pony and Lionel's Eton school-fellows, who came to see him in
the holidays, and who stared in mute wonder at his wheelchair and his
poor crippled limbs. Recollections of his father and mother passing
down the staircase in full dress on their way to some court-ball, and
of his hearing the servants say what a noble-looking man his father
was, and what a pity that Master Lionel had not been the eldest son.
Recollections of the utter blankness of his life until she came--ah,
until she came! The past faded away, and the present dawned. She was
there, his star, his hope, his love! He was still a cripple, maimed and
blighted; still worse than an invalid, the prey of acute and torturing
disease; but he would be content--content to remain even as he was so
that he could have her near him, could see her, hear her voice, touch
her hand. But that could not be. She would marry, would leave him, and
then--ah then!--Let that future which he believed to be close upon him
come at once. Until he had known hope, his life, though blank enough,
had been supportable; now hope had fled; "the sooner it's over the
sooner to sleep." Let there be an end of it!
There were but few days that Algy Barford did not come; bright, airy,
and cheerful, bringing sunshine into the sick-room; never noisy or
obtrusive, always taking a cheery view of affairs, and never failing
to tell the invalid that he looked infinitely better than the last
time he had seen him, and that this illness was "evidently a kind
of clearing-up shower before the storm, dear old boy," and was the
precursor of such excellent health as he had never had before. Lord
Caterham, of course, never believed any of this; he had an internal
monitor which told him very different truths; but he knew the feelings
which prompted Algy Barford's hopeful predictions, and no man's visits
were so agreeable to Caterham as were Algy's.
One day he came in earlier than usual, and looking less serenely happy
than his wont. Lord Caterham, lying on his sofa, observed this, but
said nothing, waiting until Algy should allude to it, as he was certain
to do, for he had not the smallest power of reticence.
"Caterham, my dear old boy, how goes it this morning? I am seedy,
my friend! The sage counsel given by the convivial bagman, that the
evening's diversion should bear the morning's reflection, has not been
followed by me. Does the cognac live in its usual corner, and is there
yet soda-water in the land?"
"You'll find both in the sideboard, Algy. What were you doing last
night to render them necessary?"
"Last night, my dear Caterham, I did what England expected me to do--my
duty, and a most horrible nuisance that doing one's duty is. I dined
with an old fellow named Huskisson, a friend of my governor's, who
nearly poisoned me with bad wine. The wine, sir, was simply infamous;
but it was a very hot night, and I was dreadfully thirsty, so what
could I do but drink a great deal of it? I had some very fiery sherry
with my soup, and some hock. Yes; 'nor did my drooping memory shun the
foaming grape of eastern France;' only this was the foaming gooseberry
of Fulham Fields. And old Huskisson, with great pomp, told his butler
to bring 'the Hermitage.' What an awful swindle!"
"What was it like?"
"Well, dear old boy, minds innocent and quiet may take that for a
Hermitage if they like; but I, who have drunk as much wine, good and
bad, as most men, immediately recognised the familiar Beaujolais which
we get at the club for a shilling a pint. So that altogether I'm very
nearly poisoned; and I think I shouldn't have come out if I had not
wanted to see you particularly."
"What is it, Algy? Some of that tremendously important business which
always takes up so much of your time?"
"No, no; now you're chaffing, Caterham. 'Pon my word I really do a
great deal in the course of the day, walking about, and talking to
fellows, and that sort of thing: there are very few fellows who think
what a lot I get through; but I know myself."
"Do you? then you've learned a great thing--'know thyself' one of the
great secrets of life;" and Caterham sighed.
"Yes, dear old boy," said Algy "'know thyself, but never introduce
a friend;' that I believe to be sterling philosophy. This is a
confoundedly back-slapping age; every body is a deuced sight too fond
of every body else; there is an amount of philanthropy about which is
quite terrible."
"Yes, and you're about the largest-hearted and most genial
philanthropist in the world; you know you are."
"I, dear old boy? I am Richard Crookback; I am the uncle of the Babes
in the Wood; I am Timon the Tartar of Athens, or whatever his name was;
I am a ruthless hater of all my species, when I have the _vin triste_,
as I have this morning. O, that reminds me--the business I came to see
you about. What a fellow you are, Caterham! always putting things out
of fellows' heads!"
"Well, what is it now?"
"Why, old Ampthill is dead at last. Died last night; his man told my
man this morning."
"Well, what then?"
"What then? Why, don't you recollect what we talked about? about his
leaving his money to dear old Lionel?"
"Yes," said Caterham, looking grave, "I recollect that."
"I wonder whether any good came of it? It would be a tremendously jolly
thing to get dear old Lionel back, with plenty of money, and in his old
position, wouldn't it?"
"Look here, my dear Algy," said Lord Caterham; "let us understand
each other once for all on this point. You and I are of course likely
to differ materially on such a subject. You are a man of the world,
going constantly into the world, with your own admirable good sense
influenced by and impressed with the opinions of society. Society, as
you tell me, is pleased to think my brother's--well, crime--there's no
other word!--my brother's crime a venial one, and will be content to
receive him back again, and to instal him in his former position if he
comes back prepared to sacrifice to Society by spending his time and
money on it!"
"Pardon me, my dear old Caterham,--just two words!" interrupted Algy.
"Society--people, you know, I mean--would shake their heads at poor old
Lionel, and wouldn't have him back perhaps, and all that sort of thing,
if they knew exactly what he'd done. But they don't. It's been kept
wonderfully quiet, poor dear old fellow."
"That may or may not be; at all events, such are Society's views, are
they not?" Barford inclined his head. "Now, you see, mine are entirely
different. This sofa, the bed in the next room, that wheelchair, form
my world; and these," pointing to his bookshelves, "my society. There
is no one else on earth to whom I would say this; but you know that
what I say is true. Lionel Brakespere never was a brother to me never
had the slightest affection or regard for me, never had the slightest
patience with me. As a boy, he used to mock at my deformity; as a man,
he has perseveringly scorned me, and scarcely troubled himself to hide
his anxiety for my death, that he might be Lord Beauport's heir--"
"Caterham! I say, my dear, dear old boy Arthur--" and Algy Barford put
one hand on the back of Lord Caterham's chair, and rubbed his own eyes
very hard with the other.
"You know it, Algy, old friend. He did all this; and God knows I tried
to love him through it all, and think I succeeded. All his scorn, all
his insult, all his want of affection, I forgave. When he committed the
forgery which forced him to fly the country, I tried to intercede with
my father; for I knew the awful strait to which Lionel must have been
reduced before he committed such an act: but when I read his letter,
which you brought me, and the contents of which it said you knew, I
recognised at last that Lionel was a thoroughly heartless scoundrel,
and I thanked God that there was no chance of his further disgracing
our name in a place where it had been known and respected. So you now
see, Algy, why I am not enchanted at the idea of his coming back to us."
"Of course, of course, I understand you, dear fellow;
and--hem!--confoundedly husky; that filthy wine of old Huskisson's!
better in a minute--there!" and Algy cleared his throat and rubbed his
eyes again. "About that letter, dear old boy! I was going to speak to
you two or three times about that. Most mysterious circumstance, by
Jove, sir! The fact is that--"
He was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of
Stephens, Lord Caterham's servant, who said that Lady Beauport would be
glad to know if his master could receive her.
It was a bad day for Caterham to receive any one except his most
intimate friends, and assuredly his mother was not included in that
category. He was any thing but well bodily, and the conversation about
Lionel had thoroughly unstrung his nerves; so that he was just about to
say he must ask for a postponement of the visit, when Stephens said,
"Her ladyship asked me if Mr. Barford wasn't here, my lord, and seemed
particularly anxious to see him." Lord Caterham felt the colour flush
in his cheeks as the cause of his mother's visit was thus innocently
explained by Stephens; but the moment after he smiled, and sent to beg
that she would come whenever she pleased.
In a very few minutes Lady Beauport sailed into the room, and, after
shaking hands with Algy Barford in, for her, quite a cordial manner,
she touched her son's forehead with her lips and dropped into the chair
which Stephens had placed for her near the sofa.
"How are you, Arthur, to day?" she commenced. "You are looking quite
rosy and well, I declare. I am always obliged to come myself when I
want to know about your health; for they bring me the most preposterous
reports. That man of yours is a dreadful kill-joy, and seems to have
inoculated the whole household with his melancholy, where you are
concerned. Even Miss Maurice, who is really quite a cheerful person,
and quite pleasant to have about one,--equable spirits, and that sort
of thing, you know, Mr. Barford; so much more agreeable than those
moping creatures who are always thinking about their families and their
fortunes, you know,--even Miss Maurice can scarcely be trusted for what
I call a reliable report of Caterham."
"It's the interest we take in him, dear Lady Beauport, that keeps us
constantly on the _qui vive_. He's such a tremendously lovable old
fellow, that we're all specially careful about him;" and Algy's hand
went round to the back of Caterham's sofa and his eyes glistened as
before.
"Of course," said Lady Beauport, still in her hard dry voice.
"With care, every thing may be done. There's Alice Wentworth, Lady
Broughton's grand-daughter, was sent away in the autumn to Torquay, and
they all declared she could not live. And I saw her last night at the
French embassy, well and strong, and dancing away as hard as any girl
in the room. It's a great pity you couldn't have gone to the embassy
last night, Arthur; you'd have enjoyed it very much."
"Do you think so, mother?" said Caterham with a sad smile. "I scarcely
think it would have amused me, or that they would have cared much to
have me there."
"O, I don't know; the Duchess de St. Lazare asked after you very
kindly, and so did the Viscomte, who is--" and Lady Beauport stopped
short.
"Yes, I know--who is a cripple also," said Caterham quietly. "But he
is only lame; he can get about by himself. But if I had gone, I should
have wanted Algy here to carry me on his back."
"Gad, dear old boy, if carrying you on my back would do you any good,
or help you to get about to any place you wanted to go to, I'd do it
fast enough; give you a regular Derby canter over any course you like
to name."
"I know you would, Algy, old friend. You see every one is very kind,
and I am doing very well indeed, though I'm scarcely in condition for
a ball at the French embassy.--By the way, mother, did you not want to
speak to Barford about something?"
"I did, indeed," said Lady Beauport. "I have heard just now, Mr.
Barford, that old Mr. Ampthill died last night?"
"Perfectly true, Lady Beauport. I myself had the same information."
"But you heard nothing further?"
"Nothing at all, except that the poor old gentleman, after a curious
eccentric life, made a quiet commonplace end, dying peacefully and
happily."
"Yes, yes; but you heard nothing about the way in which his property is
left, I suppose?"
"Not one syllable. He was very wealthy, was he not?"
"My husband says that the Boxwood property was worth from twelve
to fifteen thousand a-year; but I imagine this is rather an
under-estimate. I wonder whether there is any chance for--what I talked
to you about the other day."
"Impossible to say, dear Lady Beauport," said Algy, with an awkward
glance at Caterham, which Lady Beauport observed.
"O, you needn't mind Caterham one bit, Mr. Barford. Any thing which
would do good to poor Lionel I'm sure you'd be glad of wouldn't you,
Arthur?"
"Any thing that would do him good, yes."
"Of course; and to be Mr. Ampthill's heir would do him a great deal
of good. It is that Mr. Barford and I are discussing. Mr. Barford was
good enough to speak to me some time ago, when it was first expected
that Mr. Ampthill's illness would prove dangerous, and to suggest that,
as poor Lionel had always been a favourite with the old gentleman,
something might be done for him, perhaps, there being so few relations.
I spoke to your father, who called two or three times in Curzon Street,
and always found Mr. Ampthill very civil and polite, but he never
mentioned Lionel's name.
"That did not look particularly satisfactory, did it?" asked Algy.
"Well, it would have looked bad in any one else; but with such an
extremely eccentric person as Mr. Ampthill, I really cannot say I
think so. He was just one of those oddities who would carefully
refrain from mentioning the person about whom their thoughts were most
occupied.--I cannot talk to your father about this matter, Arthur; he
is so dreadfully set against poor Lionel, that he will not listen to
a word.--But I need not tell you, Mr. Barford, I myself am horribly
anxious."
Perfectly appreciating Lord Beauport's anger; conscious that it was
fully shared by Caterham; with tender recollections of Lionel, whom he
had known from childhood; and with a desire to say something pleasant
to Lady Beauport, all Algy Barford could ejaculate was, "Of course, of
course."
"I hear that old Mr. Trivett the lawyer was with him two or three times
about a month ago, which looks as if he had been making his will. I met
Mr. Trivett at the Dunsinanes in the autumn, and at Beauport's request
was civil to him. I would not mind asking him to dine here one day this
week, if I thought it would be of any use."
Caterham looked very grave; but Algy Barford gave a great laugh, and
seemed immensely amused. "How do you mean 'of any use,' Lady Beauport?
You don't think you would get any information out of old Trivett, do
you? He's the deadest hand at a secret in the world. He never lets
out any thing. If you ask him what it is o'clock, you have to dig the
information out of him with a ripping-chisel. O, no; it's not the
smallest use trying to learn anything from Mr. Trivett."
"Is there, then, no means of finding out what the will contains?"
"No, mother," interrupted Caterham; "none at all. You must wait until
the will is read, after the funeral; or perhaps till you see a _résumé_
of it in the illustrated papers."
"You are very odd, Arthur," said Lady Beauport; "really sometimes you
would seem to have forgotten the usages of society.--I appeal to you,
Mr. Barford. Is what Lord Caterham says correct? Is there no other way
of learning what I want to know?"
"Dear Lady Beauport, I fear there is none."
"Very well, then; I must be patient and wait. But there's no harm in
speculating how the money could be left. Who did Mr. Ampthill know now?
There was Mrs. Macraw, widow of a dissenting minister, who used to read
to him; and there was his physician, Sir Charles Dumfunk: I shouldn't
wonder if he had a legacy."
"And there was Algernon Barford, commonly known as the Honourable
Algernon Barford, who used to dine with the old gentleman half-a-dozen
times every season, and who had the honour of being called a very good
fellow by him."
"O, Algy, I hope he has left you his fortune," said Caterham warmly.
"There's no one in the world would spend it to better purpose."
"Well," said Lady Beauport, "I will leave you now.--I know I may depend
upon you, Mr. Barford, to give me the very first news on this important
subject."
Algy Barford bowed, rose, and opened the door to let Lady Beauport pass
out. As she walked by him, she gave him a look which made him follow
her and close the door behind him.
"I didn't like to say any thing before Caterham," she said, "who is,
you know, very odd and queer, and seems to have taken quite a singular
view of poor Lionel's conduct. But the fact is, that, after the last
time you spoke to me, I--I thought it best to write to Lionel, to tell
him that--" and she hesitated.
"To tell him what, Lady Beauport?" asked Algy, resolutely determined
not to help her in the least.
"To tell him to come back to us--to me--to his mother!" said Lady
Beauport, with a sudden access of passion. "I cannot live any longer
without my darling son! I have told Beauport this. What does it signify
that he has been unfortunate--wicked if you will! How many others have
been the same! And our influence could get him something somewhere,
even if this inheritance should not be his. O my God! only to see him
again! My darling boy! my own darling handsome boy!"
Ah, how many years since Gertrude, Countess of Beauport, had allowed
real, natural, hot, blinding tears to course down her cheeks! The
society people, who only knew her as the calmest, most collected, most
imperious woman amongst them, would hardly recognise this palpitating
frame, those tear-blurred features. The sight completely finishes
Algy Barford, already very much upset by the news which Lady Beauport
has communicated, and he can only proffer a seat, and suggest that he
should fetch a glass of sherry. Lady Beauport, her burst of passion
over, recovers all her usual dignity, presses Algy's hand, lays her
finger on her lip to enjoin silence, and sails along as unbending
as before. Algy Barford, still dazed by the tidings he has heard,
goes back to Caterham's room, to find his friend lying with his
eyes half-closed, meditating over the recent discussion. Caterham
scarcely seemed to have noticed Algy's absence; for he said, as if in
continuance of the conversation: "And do _you_ think this money will
come to Lionel, Algy?"
"I can scarcely tell, dear old boy. It's on the cards, but the betting
is heavily against it. However, we shall know in a very few days."
In a very few days they did know. The funeral, to which Earl Beauport
and Algy Barford were invited, and which they attended, was over and
Mr. Trivett had requested them to return with him in the mourning-coach
to Curzon Street. There, in the jolly little dining-room, which had so
often enshrined the hospitality of the quaint, eccentric, warm-hearted
old gentleman whose earthly remains they had left behind them at
Kensal Green, after some cake and wine, old Mr. Trivett took from a
blue bag, which had been left there for him by his clerk, the will
of the deceased, and putting on his blue-steel spectacles, commenced
reading it aloud. The executors appointed were George Earl Beauport
and Algernon Barford, and to each of them was bequeathed a legacy of a
thousand pounds. To Algernon Barford, "a good fellow, who, I know, will
spend it like a gentleman," was also left a thousand pounds. There were
legacies of five hundred pounds each "to John Saunders, my faithful
valet, and to Rebecca, his wife, my cook and housekeeper." There was a
legacy of one hundred pounds to the librarian of the Minerva Club, "to
whom I have given much trouble." The library of books, the statues,
pictures, and curios were bequeathed to "my cousin Arthur, Viscount
Caterham, the only member of my family who can appreciate them;" and
"the entire residue of my fortune, my estate at Boxwood, money standing
in the funds and other securities, plate, wines, carriages, horses, and
all my property, to Anna, only daughter of my second cousin, the late
Ralph Ampthill Maurice, Esq., formerly of the Priory, Willesden, whom I
name my residuary legatee."