CHAPTER XV.

LADY BEAUPORT'S PLOT COLLAPSES.

Although the flame of life, at its best a feeble flicker, now

brightened by a little gust of hope, now deadened by an access of

despair,--had begun steadily to lessen in Lord Caterham's breast,

and he felt, with that consciousness which never betrays, that his

interest in this world, small as it had been, was daily growing less,

he had determined to prevent the execution of one act which he knew

would be terribly antagonistic to the welfare of her whom his heart

held dearest. We, fighting the daily battle of life, going forth each

morning to the encounter, returning each eve with fresh dints on our

harness, new notches in our swords, and able to reckon up the cost and

the advantages gained by the day's combat, are unable to appreciate the

anxieties and heart-burnings, the longings and the patience of those

whom we leave behind us as a _corps de reserve_, apparently inactive,

but in reality partaking of all the worst of the contest without the

excitement of sharing it. The conflict that was raging amongst the

Beauport family was patent to Caterham; he saw the positions taken

up by the contending parties, had his own shrewd opinion as to their

being tenable or the reverse, calmly criticised the various points of

strategy, and laid his plans accordingly. In this it was an advantage

to him that he was out of the din and the shouting and the turmoil of

the battle; nobody thought of him, any more than any one in the middle

of an action thinks of the minister in his office at home, by whom the

despatches are written, and who in reality pulls the strings by which

the man in scarlet uniform and gold-laced cocked-hat is guided, and to

whom he is responsible. Lord Caterham was physically unfitted for the

conduct of strategic operations, but he was mentally qualified for the

exercise of diplomacy in the highest degree; and diplomacy was required

in the present juncture.

In his solitary hours he had been accustomed to recal his past life in

its apparently insignificant, but to him important ramifications;--the

red south wall is the world to the snail that has never known

other resting-place;--and in these days of illness and languor he

reverted more and more to his old means of passing the time. A dull

retrospect--a weary going over and over again of solitude, depression,

and pain. Thoughts long since forgotten recurred to him as in the

silence of the night he passed in review the petty incidents of his

uneventful career. He recollected the burning shame which had first

possessed him at the knowledge of his own deformity; the half envy,

half wonder, with which he had gazed at other lads of his own age; the

hope that had dawned upon him that his parents and friends might feel

for him something of the special love with which Tiny Tim was regarded

in that heartfullest of all stories, _The Christmas Carol_; how that

wondrous book had charmed him, when, a boy of ten or twelve years old,

he had first read it; how, long before it had been seen by either his

father or mother, he had studied and wept over it; how, prompted by a

feeling which he could not analyse, he had induced Lord Beauport to

read it, how he knew--intuitively, he was never told--that it had been

shown to his mother; and how that Christmastide he had been treated

with consideration and affection never before accorded to him--had

been indeed preferred to Lionel, greatly to that young gentleman's

astonishment and disgust. It did not last long, that halcyon time; the

spells of the romancer held the practical father and the fashionable

mother in no lengthened thrall; and when they were dissipated, there

was merely a crippled, deformed, blighted lad as their eldest hope

and the heir to their honours. Tiny Tim borne aloft on his capering

father's shoulders; Tiny Tim in his grave,--these were images to wring

the heart not unpleasantly, and to fill the eyes with tears of which

one was rather proud, as proof of how easily the heart was wrung: but

for a handsome couple--one known as a _beau garçon_, the other as a

beauty--to have to face the stern fact that their eldest son was a

cripple was any thing but agreeable.

Untrusted--that was it. Never from his earliest days could he recollect

what it was to have trust reposed in him. He knew--he could not help

knowing--how superior he was in ability and common-sense to any in

that household; he knew that his father at least was perfectly aware

of this; and yet that Lord Beauport could not disconnect the idea of

bodily decrepitude and mental weakness; and therefore looked upon his

eldest son as little more than a child in mind. As for Caterham's

mother, the want of any feeling in common between them, the utter

absence of any maternal tenderness, the manifest distaste with which

she regarded him, and the half-wearied, half-contemptuous manner in

which she put aside the attempts he made towards a better understanding

between them, had long since begun to tell upon him. There was a time

when, smarting under her lifelong neglect, and overcome by the utter

sense of desolation weighing him down, he had regarded his mother

with a feeling bordering on aversion; then her presence, occasionally

bestowed upon him--always for her own purposes---awakened in him

something very like disgust. But he had long since conquered that: he

had long since argued himself out of that frame of mind. Self-commune

had done its work; the long, long days and nights of patient reflexion

and self-examination, aided by an inexplicable sense of an overhanging

great change, had softened and subdued all that had been temporarily

hard and harsh in Lord Caterham's nature; and there was no child,

kneeling at its little bedside, whose "God bless dear papa and mamma!"

was more tenderly earnest than the blessing which the crippled man

constantly invoked on his parents.

He loved them in a grave, steady, reverential, dutiful way--loved them

even with greater warmth, with more complete fondness than he had done

for years; but his love never touched his instinct of justice--never

warped his sense of what was right. He remembered how, years before,

he had been present, a mere boy, sitting perched up in his wheelchair,

apparently forgotten, in an obscure corner of his father's study at

Homershams, while Lord Beauport administered a terrific "wigging,"

ending in threats of gaols and magistrates, to an unlucky wretch

accused of poaching by the head-keeper; and he recollected how, when

the man had been dismissed with a severe warning, he had talked to

and argued with his father, first on the offence, and then on Lord

Beauport's administration of justice, with an air of grave and earnest

wisdom which had amused his father exceedingly. He had held the same

sentiments throughout his dreary life--he held them now. He knew that

a plot was formed by his mother to bring his brother Lionel back to

England, with a view to his marriage with Annie Maurice, and he was

determined that that plot should not succeed. Why? He had his reasons,

as they had theirs. To his own heart he confessed that he loved Annie

with all the depth of his soul; but that was not what prompted him in

this matter. He should be far removed from the troubling before that;

but he had his reason, and he should keep it to himself. They had not

trusted in him, though they had been compelled to take allies from the

outside--dear old Algy Barford, for instance--but they had not trusted

him, and he would not reveal his secret. Was Lionel to marry Annie

Maurice, eh? No; that should never be. He might not be there himself

to prevent it; but he would leave behind him instructions with some

one, which would--Ah! he had hit upon the some one at once,--Geoffrey

Ludlow, Annie's oldest and dearest friend, honest as the day, brave

and disinterested; not a clever business man perhaps, but one who,

armed with what he could arm him with, must, with his sheer singleness

of purpose, carry all before him. So far, so good; but there would

be a first step which they would take perhaps before he could bring

that weapon into play. His mother would contrive to get Lionel into

the house, on his return, to live with them, so that he might have

constant opportunities of access to Annie. That was a point in which,

as he gleaned, she placed the greatest confidence. If her Lionel

had not lost all the fascinating qualities which had previously so

distinguished him; if he preserved his looks and his address, this

young girl--so inexperienced in the world's ways, so warm-hearted and

impressible--would have no choice but to succumb.

Caterham would see about that at once. Lionel should never remain

_en permanence_ in that house again. Lady Beauport would object of

course. She had, when she had set her mind upon an object, a steady

perseverance in its accomplishment; but neither her patience nor her

diplomacy were comparable to his, when he was equally resolved, as she

should find. No; on that point at least he was determined. His darling,

his treasure, should not even be compelled to run the gauntlet of such

a sin-stained courtship as his brother Lionel's must necessarily be.

What might be awaiting her in the future, God alone knew: temptations

innumerable; pursuit by fortune-hunters: all those trials which beset

a girl who, besides being pretty and rich, has no blood-relative on

whom to reckon for counsel and aid. He would do his best to remedy

this deficiency; he would leave the fullest instructions, the warmest

adjurations to good Geoffrey Ludlow--ah! what a pity it was that

Ludlow's wife was not more heartful and reliable!--and he would

certainly place a veto upon the notion that Lionel, on his return,

should become an inmate of the house. He knew that this must be done

quickly, and he determined to take the first opportunity that presented

itself. That opportunity was not long in coining; within ten days after

Margaret's fainting-fit, Lady. Beauport paid one of her rare maternal

visits, and Lord Caterham saw that his chance had arrived.

There was an extra glow of geniality in Lady Beauport's manner that

morning, and the frosty peck which she had made at her son's cheek

had perhaps a trifle more warmth in it than usual. She seated herself

instead of standing, as was her wont, and chatted pleasantly.

"What is this I hear about your having a lady fainting in your room,

Arthur?" said she, with one of her shiniest smiles. (What calumny

they spread about enamel! Lady Beauport smiled perpetually, and her

complexion never cracked in the slightest degree.) "You must not bring

down scandal on our extremely proper house. She did faint, didn't she?"

"O, yes, mother, she did faint undoubtedly--went what you call

regularly 'off,' I believe."

"Ah! so Stephens told Timpson. Well, sir, don't you think that is

reprehensible enough? A lady comes to call on a bachelor, and is

discovered fainting! Why? Heaven knows--" and her ladyship gave an

unpleasantly knowing chuckle.

"Well, I must admit that no one knows, or ever will know why, save that

the lady was probably over-fatigued, having only just recovered from a

serious illness. But then, you know, the lady's husband was with her,

so that--"

"O, yes, I heard all about that. You are a most prudent swain,

Caterham! The lady's husband with her, indeed! Most prudent! You always

remind me of the play--I don't know what it's called--something about a

French milliner and a screen--"

"'The School for Scandal,' you mean?"

"Very likely. Ive forgotten the name, but I know I recollect seeing

Farren and Miss Foote and all of them in it. And I so often think of

the two brothers: you so quiet and reserved, like one; and the other

so rackety and buoyant, so full of high spirits and gaiety, like our

Lionel. Ah me!" and Lady Beauport heaved a deep sigh and clasped her

hands sadly in front of her.

Caterham smiled--rather a sad dreary smile--as he said, "Let us trust

that quiet and reserve don't always have the effect which they produced

on the gentleman to whom you are alluding, mother. But I may as well

let you know the real story of Mrs. Ludlow's fainting-fit, which seems

to have become rather warped in its journey. I had asked her husband

to call upon me on a matter of business; and he foolishly brought

her--only just out of her confinement--with him. The consequence

was, that, as we were talking, and she was looking through a book of

photographs, she fainted away."

"Ay! I heard something of that sort. She must be a curious person to be

so easily affected, or it was thoughtless of her husband to bring her

out too soon. He is an odd kind of man though, is he not? Absent, and

that kind of thing?"

"Ye-es; his heart is in his work, and he is generally thinking about

it."

"So I had imagined. What odd people you know, Arthur! Your

acquaintances all seem such strange people--so different from your

father's and mine!"

"Yes, mother," said Caterham, with a repetition of the sad smile;

"perhaps you're right generally. Your friends would scarcely care for

me, and I am sure I do not care for them. But Geoffrey Ludlow became

known to me through his old intimacy with Annie--our Annie."

"Ye-es. I scarcely know why 'our Annie,' though. You see, both your

father and I have many blood-relations, more or less distant, on either

side; and it would not be particularly convenient if the mere fact

of their being blood-relations compelled us to acknowledge them as

'ours.' Not that Ive any thing to say against Miss Maurice, though;

on the contrary, she's a very charming girl. At one time I thought

that--However, let that pass. She holds quite a different position now;

and I think every one will allow that my treatment of her is what it

should be."

"Of course, mother. No one would dream of doubting it."

"Well, perhaps not, Arthur; but you're such a recluse, you know, that

you're scarcely a judge of these things--one does not know what people

won't say. The world is so full of envy and jealousy, and all that, I'm

sure my position in regard to the matter is any thing but an agreeable

one. Here I am, having to act _chaperon_ to this girl, who is known

now as an heiress; and all kinds of men paying her attention, simply

on account of her wealth. What I suffer when we're out together, you

can't conceive. Every night, wherever we may be, there is a certain set

of men always hanging about her, waiting for an introduction--persons

whose acquaintance cannot do her the slightest good, and with whom she

is yet quite as willing to talk or to dance as she is with he most

available _parti_ in London."

Caterham smiled again. "You forget, mother, that she's not accustomed

to the kind of life--"

"No; I don't forget anything of the kind, Arthur. It is her not being

accustomed to it that is my greatest trouble. She is as raw as a child

of seventeen Aft her first drawing-room. If she had any _savoir faire_,

any knowledge of society, I should be perfectly at ease. A girl of any

appreciation would know how to treat these people in an instant. Why,

I know myself, that when I was far younger than Miss Maurice, I should

have felt a kind of instinctive warning against two-thirds of the men

with whom Annie Maurice is as talkative and as pleasant as though they

were really persons whose acquaintance it was most desirable that she

should make."

"And yet Annie is decidedly a clever girl."

"So much the worse, Arthur,--so much the worse. The more reason that

she is utterly unlikely to possess or to be able readily to acquire the

peculiar knowledge which would fit her to act under the circumstances

of which I am speaking. Your clever people--such at least as are called

clever by you and those whom you cultivate--are precisely the people

who act idiotically in worldly affairs, who either know nothing or who

set at defiance the _convenances_ of society, and of whom nothing can

be made. That man--no, let me give you an example--that man who dined

here last Thursday on your invitation--Professor Somebody, wasn't

he?--Ive heard of him at that place where they give the scientific

lectures in Albemarle Street--was any thing ever seen like his cravat,

or his shoes, or the way in which he ate his soup?--he trod on my dress

twice in going down to dinner, and I heard perfectly plainly what Lady

Clanronald said to that odious Mr. Beauchamp Hogg about him."

"My father spoke to me in the highest terms about--"

"Of course he did; that's just it. Your father knows nothing about this

sort of thing. It all falls upon me. If Annie Maurice were to make a

_mésalliance_, or, without going so far as that, were to permit herself

to be engaged to some penniless fortune-hunter, and were to refuse--as

she very likely would, for she has an amount of obstinacy in her

composition, I am inclined to think, which one very seldom finds--to

listen to the remonstrances of those whose opinion ought to have weight

with her, it is I, not your father, who would be blamed by the world."

"Your troubles certainly seem greater, mother, than I, in my bachelor

ignorance, could have imagined."

"They are not comprehensible, even after my explanation, Arthur, by

those who have not to undergo them. There is scarcely any thing in my

married life which has given me such pleasure as the thought that,

having no daughters, I should be relieved of all duties of chaperonage;

that I should not be compelled to go to certain places unless I wished;

and that I should be able to leave others at what hours I liked. And

now I find this very duty incumbent upon me."

"Well, but, my dear mother, surely Annie is the very last girl in the

world for whom it is necessary to make any such sacrifices. She does

not care about going out; and when out, she seems, from all she says to

me, to have only one anxiety, and that is--to get home again as soon as

possible."

"Ay, from all she says to you, Arthur; but then you know, as Ive

said before, you are a regular old bachelor, without the power of

comprehending these things, and to whom a girl certainly would not be

likely to show her real feelings. No; there's only one way to relieve

me from my responsibility."

"And that is--"

"And that is by getting her married."

"A-ah!" Caterham drew a long breath--it was coming now.

"Married," continued Lady Beauport, "to some one whom we know, and in

whom we could trust; some one who would keep her near us, so that we

could still keep up an interest in her; and you--for I know how very

much attached you are to her, Arthur--could see her constantly, without

trouble to yourself. That is the only manner in which I can see a

conclusion to my anxiety on Annie's account."

Lady Beauport endeavoured to speak in the same tone in which she had

commenced the conversation; but there was a quiver in her voice and a

tremulous motion in her hands which showed Caterham plainly that she

was ill at ease.

"And do you think that such a husband would be easily found for Annie,

mother?" said he, looking up at her with one of his steady piercing

glances from under his eyebrows.

"Not easily, of course; but still to be found, Arthur."

"From your manner, you seem to have already given the subject some

attention. May I ask if you have any one in prospect who would fulfil

all the conditions you have laid down in the first place, and in the

second would be likely to be acceptable to Annie?"

"How very singular you are, Arthur! You speak in a solemn tone, as if

this were the most important matter in the world."

"It is sufficiently important to Annie at least. Would you mind

answering me?"

Lady Beauport saw that it was useless fighting off the explanation

any further. Her project must be disclosed now, however it might be

received by her eldest son; and she determined to bring her stateliest

and most dignified manner to its disclosure: so she composed her face

to its usual cold statuesque calmness, folded her wandering hands

before her, and in a voice in which there was neither break nor tremor,

said:

"No: I will answer you quite straightforwardly. I think that it would

be an admirable thing for all parties if a marriage could be arranged

between Annie Maurice and your brother Lionel. Lionel has position,

and is a distinguished-looking man, of whom any woman might be proud;

and the fortune which Mr. Ampthill so oddly left to Miss Maurice will

enable him to hold his own before the world, and--how strangely you

look, Caterham!--what is the matter?--what were you about to say?"

"Only one thing, mother--that marriage must never be."

"Must never be!"

"Never. Hear me out. I have kept accurate account of all you have said,

and will judge you in the first place simply out of your own mouth.

Your first point was that Miss Maurice should be married to some one

whom we knew, and whom we could trust. Could we trust Lionel? Could we

trust the man whose father's head was bowed to the dust, whose mother's

eyes were filled with tears at the mere recital of his deeds of sin

and shame? Could we trust the man who was false to his friend, and

who dragged down into the dirt not merely himself, but all who bore

his name? You spoke of his position--what is that, may I ask? Are we

to plume ourselves on our relationship with an outcast? or are we to

hold out as an inducement to the heiress the fact that her intended

husband's liberty is at the mercy of those whom he has swindled and

defrauded?"

"Caterham! Arthur! you are mad--you--"

"No, mother, I am simply speaking the truth. I should not even have

insisted on that in all its bitterness, had I not been goaded to it by

your words. You talk of devoting the fortune which Annie Maurice has

inherited to setting Lionel right before the world, and you expect me

to sit quietly by! Why, the merest instincts of justice would have made

me cry out against such a monstrous proposition, even if Lionel had not

long since forfeited, as Annie has long since won, all my love."

"A-h!" said Lady Beauport, suddenly pausing in her tears, and looking

up at him,--"long since won all your love, eh? I have often suspected

that, Caterham; and now you have betrayed yourself. It is jealousy

then,--mere personal jealousy,--by which all your hatred of your

younger brother is actuated!"

Once more the dreary smile came over Lord Caterham's face. "No,

mother," said he, "it is not that. I love Annie Maurice as I love the

sun, as I love health, as I love rest from pain and weariness; and with

about as much hope of winning either. You could confer on me no greater

happiness than by showing me the man deserving of her love; and the

thought that her future would have a chance of being a happy one would

relieve my life of its heaviest anxiety. But marry Lionel she shall

not; nay, more, she shall not be exposed to the chance of communication

with him, so long as I can prevent it."

"You forget yourself, Lord Caterham! You forget not merely whose house

you are in, but to whom you are speaking."

"I trust not, mother. I trust I shall never--certainly not now, at

this time--forget my duty to you and to my father; but I know more

than I can ever divulge even to you. Take for granted what I tell you;

let what you know of Lionel's ways and conduct suffice to prove that

a marriage between him and Annie is impossible,--that you would be

culpable in lending yourselves to such a scheme."

"I have not the least idea of what you are talking about, Arthur," said

Lady Beauport after a minute's pause. "You appear to have conceived

some ridiculous idea about your brother Lionel, into the discussion

of which you must really excuse my following you. Besides, even if

you had good grounds for all you say, you are too late in making the

remonstrance. Lionel arrived in England the day before yesterday."

Lord Caterham started, and by the help of his stick raised himself for

a moment.

"Lionel returned! Lionel in England, mother! After all his promises,

after the strict conditions on which my father purchased for him

immunity from the penalties of his crime! How is this? Does Lord

Beauport know it?"

Lady Beauport hesitated. She had been betrayed by her vexation into

saying more than she had intended, and had placed Lionel in his

brother's power. Lord Caterham, she had hoped, would have received

her confidence in a different spirit,--perhaps she had calculated

on his being flattered by its novelty,--and would assist her in

breaking the fact of the prodigal's return to his father, and winning

him over to her way of thinking. She had by no means forgotten the

painful solemnity with which the Earl had renounced Lionel, and the

formal sentence of exclusion which had been passed against him; but

Lady Beauport understood her husband well, and had managed him with

tolerable success for many years. He had forbidden all mention of their

son to her, as to every other member of the family; but Lady Beauport

had been in the habit of insinuating an occasional mention of him for

some time past; and it had not been badly received. Perhaps neither

the father nor the mother would have acknowledged to themselves or

to each other the share in this change of feeling which belonged to

the unmistakable daily decline of Lord Caterham's health. They never

alluded to the future, but they saw it, and it influenced them both.

Lady Beauport had not looked for Lionel's return so soon; she had

expected more patience--it might have been appropriately called more

decency--from him; she had thought her difficulties would be much

lessened before his return; but he had neglected her injunctions,

and forestalled her instructions: he had arrived,--there was no

help for it; she must meet the difficulty now. She had been meeting

difficulties, originating from the same source, for many years; and

though Caterham's manner annoyed her deeply, she kept her courage up.

Her first instinct was to evade her son's last question, by assuming an

injured tone in reference to his first. So she said,

"O, it's all very well to talk about his promises, Arthur; but, really,

how you could expect Lionel to remain in Australia I cannot understand."

"I did not, and I do not, form any expectations whatever concerning

Lionel, mother," her son replied, in a steady voice, and without

releasing her from his gaze; "that is beside the question. Lionel has

broken his pledged word to my father by returning here,--you know he

has,--and he has not given any career a fair trial. I can guess the

expectations with which he has returned," he continued in a bitter

tone; "and God knows I trust they are not unfounded. But my place is

not vacant _yet_; and he has forfeited his own. You cannot restore it

to him. Why has he returned?"

Lady Beauport did not dare to say, "Because I wrote to him, and told

him to come home, and marry Annie Maurice, and buy the world's fickle

favour over again with her money, while waiting for yours;" but her

silence said it for her; and Caterham let his eyes drop from her face

in disgust, as he coldly said,

"Once more, madam, I ask you, is my father aware that Lionel is in

London?"

"No," she replied boldly, seeing things were at the worst; "he is

not. I tell you, Caterham, if you tell him, before I have time and

opportunity to break it to him, and set your father against him, and on

keeping his word just as a point of pride, I will never forgive you.

What good could it do you? What harm has Lionel done you? How could he

stay in that horrid place? He's not a tradesman, I should think; and

what could he _do_ there? nor an Irishman, I hope; so what could he

_be_ there? The poor boy was perfectly miserable; and when I told him

to come lit, me, I thought you'd help me, Arthur,--I did indeed."

A grave sad smile passed over Lord Caterham's worn face. Here was his

proud mother trying to cajole him for the sake of the profligate son

who had never felt either affection or respect for her. Had a less

object been at stake he might have yielded to the weakness which he

rather pitied than despised; yielded all the more readily that it would

not be for long. But Annie's peace, Annie's welfare was in danger, and

his mother's weakness could meet with no toleration at his hands.

"Listen to me, mother," he said; "and let this be no more mentioned

between us. I am much exhausted to-day, and have little strength at

any time; but my resolve is unshaken. I will not inform my father of

Lionel's return, if you think you can manage to tell him, and to induce

him to take it without anger more successfully than I can. But while I

live Lionel Brakespere shall never live in the same house with Annie

Maurice; and whether I am living or dead, I will prevent his ever

making her his wife. This is her proper home; and I will do my best

to secure her remaining in it; but how long do you suppose she would

stay, if she heard the plans you have formed?" Lady Beauport attempted

to speak, but he stopped her. "One moment more, mother," he said,

"and I have done. Let me advise you to deceive my father no more for

Lionel. He is easily managed, I have no doubt, by those whom he loves

and admires; but he is impatient of deceit, being very loyal himself.

Tell him without delay what you have done; but do not, if even he takes

it better than you hope, and that you think such a suggestion would

be safe,--do not suggest that Lionel should come here. Let me, for my

little time, be kept from any collision with my father. I ask this

of you, mother." O, how the feeble voice softened, and the light in

the eyes deepened! "And my requests are neither frequent nor hard to

fulfil, I think."

He had completely fathomed her purpose; he had seen the projects she

had formed, even while he was speaking the first sentences; and had

defeated them. By a violent effort she controlled her temper,--perhaps

she had never made so violent an effort, even for Lionel, before,--and

answered,--

"I hardly understand you, Arthur; but perhaps you are right. At all

events, you agree to say nothing to your father,--to leave it to me?"

"Certainly," said Caterham. He had won the day; but his mother's manner

had no sign of defeat about it, no more than it had sign of softening.

She rose, and bade him goodmorning. He held her hand for a moment, and

his eyes followed her wistfully, as she went out of his room.

As she passed through the passage, just outside her son's door she saw

a stout keen-looking man sitting on the bench, who rose and bowed as

she passed.

When Stephens answered the bell, he found his master lying back,

bloodless and almost fainting. After he had administered the usual

restoratives, and when life seemed flowing back again, the valet said,

"Inspector Blackett, my lord, outside."

Lord Caterham made a sign with his hand, and the stout man entered.

"The usual story, Blackett, I suppose?"

"Sorry to say so, my lord. No news. Two of my men tried Maidstone again

yesterday, and Canterbury, thinking they were on the scent there; but

no signs of her."

"Very good, Blackett," said Caterham faintly; "don't give in yet."

Then, as the door closed behind the inspector, the poor sufferer looked

up heavenward and muttered, "O Lord, how long--how long?"

Book the Third.

CHAPTER I.

THE WHOLE TRUTH.

No one who knew Geoffrey Ludlow would have recognised him in the

round-shouldered man with the prone head, the earth-seeking eyes, the

hands plunged deeply in his pockets, plodding home on that day on which

he had determined that Margaret should give him an explanation of her

conduct towards him. Although Geoff had never been a roisterer, had

never enlisted in that army of artists whose members hear "the chimes

o'midnight," had always been considered more or less slow and steady,

and was looked upon as one of the most respectable representatives of

the community, yet his happy disposition had rendered him a general

favourite even amongst those ribalds, and his equable temper and kindly

geniality were proverbial among all the brethren of the brush. Ah, that

equable temper, that kindly geniality,--where were they now? Those

expanded nostrils, those closed lips, spoke of very different feelings;

that long steady stride was very different from the joyous step which

had provoked the cynicism of the City-bound clerks; that puckered

brow, those haggard cheeks, could not be recognised as the facial

presentments of the Geoffrey Ludlow of a few short months since.

In good sooth he was very much altered. The mental worrying so long

striven against in silence had begun to tell upon his appearance; the

big broad shoulders had become rounded; the gait had lost its springy

elasticity, the face was lined, and the dark-brown hair round the

temples and the long full beard were dashed with streaks of silver.

These changes troubled him but little. Never, save perhaps during the

brief period of his courtship of Margaret, had he given the smallest

thought to his personal appearance; yellow soap and cold water had

been his cosmetics, and his greatest sacrifice to vanity had been to

place himself at rare intervals under the hairdresser's scissors.

But there were other changes to which, try as he might, he could not

blind himself. He knew that the very source and fount of his delight

was troubled, if not sullied; he knew that all his happiness, so long

wished for, so lately attained, was trembling in the balance; he felt

that indefinable, indescribable sensation of something impending,

something which would shatter his roof-tree and break up that home

so recently established. As he plunged onward through the seething

streets, looking neither to the right nor to the left, he thought

vaguely of the events of the last few months of his life--thought of

them, regarding them as a dream. How long was it since he was so happy

at home with his old mother and with Til? when the monthly meeting

of the Titians caused his greatest excitement, and when his hopes of

fame were yet visionary and indistinct? How long was it since he had

met _her_ that fearful night, and had drunk of the beauty and the

witchery which had had such results? He was a man now before the world

with a name which people knew and respected, with a wife whose beauty

people admired; but, ah! where was the quietude, the calm unpretending

happiness of those old days?

What could it mean? Had she a wish ungratified? He taxed his mind to

run through all the expressions of her idle fancy, but could think of

none with which he had not complied. Was she ill? He had made that

excuse for her before her baby was born; but now, not merely the

medical testimony, but his own anxious scrutiny told him that she

was in the finest possible health. There was an odd something about

her sometimes which he could not make out--an odd way of listening

vacantly, and not replying to direct questions, which he had noticed

lately, and only lately; but that might be a part of her idiosyncrasy.

Her appetite too was scarcely as good as it used to be; but in all

other respects she seemed perfectly well. There might have been some

difficulty with his mother and sister, he had at first imagined; but

the old lady had been wonderfully complaisant; and Til and Margaret,

when they met, seemed to get on excellently together. To be sure

his mother had assumed the reins of government during Margaret's

confinement, and held them until the last moment compatible with

decency; but her _régime_ had been over long since; and Margaret was

the last person to struggle for power so long as all trouble was taken

off her hands. Had the neighbours slighted her, she might have had

some cause for complaint; but the neighbours were every thing that was

polite, and indeed at the time of her illness had shown her attention

meriting a warmer term. What could it mean? Was there-- No; he crushed

out the idea as soon as it arose in his mind. There could not be any

question about--any one else--preying on her spirits? The man, her

destroyer--who had abandoned and deserted her--was far away; and she

was much too practical a woman not to estimate all his conduct at its

proper worth. No amount of girlish romance could survive the cruel

schooling which his villany had subjected her to; and there was no

one else whom she had seen who could have had any influence over her.

Besides, at the first, when he had made his humble proffer of love, she

had only to have told him that it could not be, and he would have taken

care that her future was provided for--if not as it had been, at all

events far beyond the reach of want. O, no, that could not be.

So argued Geoff with himself--brave, honest, simple old Geoff, with

the heart of a man and the guilelessness of a child. So he argued,

determining at the same time that he would pluck out the heart of the

mystery at once, whatever might be at its root; any thing would be

better than this suspense preying on him daily, preventing him from

doing his work, and rendering him moody and miserable.

But before he reached his home his resolution failed, and his heart

sunk within him. What if Margaret were silent and preoccupied? what

if the occasional gloom upon her face became more and more permanent?

Had not her life been full of sorrow? and was it wonderful that the

remembrance of it from time to time came over her? She had fearlessly

confided her whole story to him; she had given him time to reflect

on it before committing himself to her; and would it be generous,

would it be even just, to call her to account now for freaks of

behaviour engendered doubtless in the memory of that bygone time?

After all, what was the accusation against her? None. Had there been

the smallest trace of levity in her conduct, how many eyebrows were

there ready to be lifted--how many shoulders waiting to be shrugged!

But there was nothing of the kind; all that could be said about her

was that,--all that could be said about her--now he thought it over,

nothing was said about her; all that was hinted was that her manner

was cold and impassable; that she took no interest in what was going

on around her, and that therefore there must be something wrong.

There is always something to be complained of. If her manner had been

light and easy, they would have called her a flirt, and pitied him

for having married a woman so utterly ill-suited to his staid habits.

He knew so little of her when he married her, that he ran every kind

of risk as to what she might really prove to be; and on reflection

he thought he had been exceedingly lucky. She might have been giddy,

vulgar, loud, presuming, extravagant; whereas she was simply reserved

and undemonstrative,--nothing more. He had been a fool in thinking

of her as he had done during the last few weeks; he had,--without

her intending it doubtless, for she was an excellent woman,--he had

taken his tone in this matter from his mother, with whom Margaret was

evidently no favourite, and--there, never mind--it was at an end now.

She was his own darling wife, his lovely companion, merely to sit and

look at whom was rapturous delight to a man of his keen appreciation of

the beauty of form and colour; and as to her coldness and reserve, it

was but a temporary mannerism, which would soon pass away.

So argued Geoffrey Ludlow with himself,--brave, honest, simple old

Geoff, with the heart of a man, and the guilelessness of a child.

So happy was he under the influence of his last thought, that he longed

to take Margaret to his heart at once, and without delay to make trial

of his scheme for dissipating her gloom; but when he reached home,

the servant told him that her mistress had gone out very soon after

he himself had left that morning, and had not yet returned. So he

went through into the studio, intending to work at his picture; but

when he got there he sunk down into a chair, staring vacantly at the

lay-figure, arranged as usual in a preposterous attitude, and thinking

about Margaret. Rousing himself, he found his palette, and commenced

to set it; but while in the midst of this task, he suddenly fell

a-thinking again, and stood there mooning, until the hope of doing any

work was past, and the evening shadows were falling on the landscape.

Then he put up his palette and his brushes, and went into the

dining-room. He walked to the window, but had scarcely reached it, when

he saw a cab drive up. The man opened the door, and Margaret descended,

said a few hasty words to the driver, who touched his hat and fastened

on his horse's nosebag, and approached the house with rapid steps.

From his position in the window, he had noticed a strange light in her

eyes which he had never before seen there, a bright hectic flush on

her cheek, a tight compression of her lips. When she entered the room

he saw that in his first hasty glance he had not been deceived; that

the whole expression of her face had changed from its usual state of

statuesque repose, and was now stern, hard, and defiant.

He was standing in the shadow of the window-curtain, and she did not

see him at first; but throwing her parasol on the table, commenced

pacing the room. The lamp was as yet unlit, and the flickering

firelight--now glowing a deep dull red, now leaping into yellow

flame--gave an additional weirdness to the set intensity of her

beautiful face. Gazing at her mechanically walking to and fro, her head

supported by one hand, her eyes gleaming, her hair pushed back off her

face, Geoffrey again felt that indescribable sinking at his heart; and

there was something of terror in the tone in which, stepping forward,

he uttered her name--"Margaret!"

In an instant she stopped in her walk, and turning towards the place

whence the voice came, said, "You there, Geoffrey?"

"Yes, darling,--who else? I was standing at the window when the cab

drove up, and saw you get out. By the way, you've not sent away the cab,

love; is he paid?"

"No, not yet,--he will--let him stay a little."

"Well, but why keep him up here, my child, where there is no chance of

his getting a return-fare? Better pay him and let him go. I'll go and

pay him!" and he was leaving the room.

"Let him stay, please," said Margaret in her coldest tones; and

Geoffrey turned back at once. But as he turned he saw a thrill run

through her, and marked the manner in which she steadied her hand on

the mantelpiece on which she was leaning. In an instant he was by her

side.

"You are ill, my darling?" he exclaimed. "You have done too much again,

and are over-fatigued----"

"I am perfectly well," she said; "it was nothing--or whatever it was,

it has passed. I did not know you had returned. I was going to write to

you."

"To write to me!" said Geoff in a hollow voice,--"to write to me!"

"To write to you. I had something to tell you--and--and I did not know

whether I should ever see you again!"

For an instant the table against which Geoffrey Ludlow stood seemed

to spin away under his touch, and the whole room reeled. A deadly

faintness crept over him, but he shook it off with one great effort,

and said in a very low tone, "I scarcely understand you--please

explain."

She must have had the nature of a fiend to look upon that large-souled

loving fellow, stricken down by her words as by a sudden blow, and with

his heart all bleeding, waiting to hear the rest of her sentence. She

had the nature of a fiend, for through her set teeth she said calmly

and deliberately:

"I say I did not know whether I should ever see you again. That cab is

detained by me to take me away from this house, to which I ought never

to have come--which I shall never enter again."

Geoff had sunk into a chair, and clutching the corner of the table with

both hands, was looking up at her with a helpless gaze.

"You don't speak!" she continued; "and I can understand why you are

silent. This decision has come upon you unexpectedly, and you can

scarcely realise its meaning or its origin. I am prepared to explain

both to you. I had intended doing so in a letter, which I should have

left behind me; but since you are here, it is better that I should

speak."

The table was laid for dinner, and there was a small decanter of sherry

close by Geoff's hand. He filled a glass from it and drank it eagerly.

Apparently involuntarily, Margaret extended her hand towards the

decanter; but she instantly withdrew it, and resumed:

"You know well, Geoffrey Ludlow, that when you asked me to become your

wife, I declined to give you any answer until you had heard the story

of my former life. When I noticed your growing interest in me--and

I noticed it from its very first germ--I determined that before you

pledged yourself to me--for my wits had been sharpened in the school

of adversity, and I read plainly enough that love from such a man as

you had but one meaning and one result,--I determined that before you

pledged yourself to me you should learn as much as it was necessary

for you to know of my previous history. Although my early life had

been spent in places far away from London, and among persons whom it

was almost certain I should never see again, it was, I thought, due to

you to explain all to you, lest the gossiping fools of the world might

some day vex your generous heart with stories of your wife's previous

career, which she had kept from you. Do you follow me?"

Geoffrey bowed his head, but did not speak.

"In that story I told you plainly that I had been deceived by a

man under promise of marriage; that I had lived with him as his

wife for many months; that he had basely deserted me and left me to

starve,--left me to die--as I should have died had you not rescued me.

You follow me still?"

She could not see his face now,--it was buried in his hands; but there

was a motion of his head, and she proceeded:

"That man betrayed me when I trusted him, used me while I amused him,

deserted me when I palled upon him. He ruined, you restored me; he

left me to die, you brought me back to life; he strove to drag me to

perdition, you to raise me to repute. I respected, I honoured you; but

I loved him! yes, from first to last I loved him; infatuated, mad as I

knew it to be, I loved him throughout! Had I died in those streets from

which you rescued me, I should have found strength to bless him with my

last breath. When I recovered consciousness, my first unspoken thought

was of him. It was that I would live, that I would make every exertion

to hold on to life, that I might have the chance of seeing him again.

Then dimly, and as in a dream, I saw you and heard your voice, and

knew that you were to be a portion of my fate. Ever since, the image

of that man has been always present before me; his soft words of love

have been always ringing in my ears; his gracious presence has been

always at my side. I have striven and striven against the infatuation.

Before Heaven I swear to you that I have prayed night after night that

I might not be led into that awful temptation of retrospect which beset

me; that I might be strengthened to love you as you should be loved, to

do my duty towards you as it should be done. All in vain, all in vain!

That one fatal passion has sapped my being, and rendered me utterly

incapable of any other love in any other shape. I know what you have

done for me--more than that, I know what you have suffered for me. You

have said nothing; but do you think I have not seen how my weariness,

my coldness, the impossibility of my taking interest in all the little

schemes you have laid for my diversion, have irked and pained you? Do

you think I do not know what it is for a full heart to beat itself into

quiet against a stone? I know it all; and if I could have spared you

one pang, I swear I would have done so. But I loved this man; ah, how

I loved him! He was but a memory to me then; but that memory was far,

far dearer than all reality! He is more than a memory to me now; for he

lives, and he is in London and I have seen him!"

Out Of Geoffrey Ludlow's hands came, raised up suddenly, a dead

white face with puckered lips, knit brows, and odd red streaks and

indentations round the eyes.

"Yes, Geoffrey Ludlow," she continued, not heeding the apparition,

"I have seen him,--now, within this hour,--seen him, bright, well,

and handsome--O, so handsome!--as when I saw him first; and that has

determined me. While I thought of him as perhaps dead; while I knew

him to be thousands of miles away, I could bear to sit here, to drone

out the dull monotonous life, striving to condone the vagrancy of

my thoughts by the propriety of my conduct,--heart-sick, weary, and

remorseful. Yes, remorseful, so far as you are concerned; for you are

a true and noble man, Geoffrey. But now that he is here, close to me,

I could not rest another hour,--I must go to him at once. Do you hear,

Geoffrey,--at once?"

He tried to speak, but his lips were parched and dry, and he only made

an inarticulate sound. There was no mistaking the flash of his eyes,

however. In them Margaret had never seen such baleful light; so that

she was scarcely astonished when, his voice returning, he hissed out "I

know him!"

"You know him?"

"Yes; just come back from Australia--Lord Caterham's brother! I had a

letter from Lord Caterham to-day,--his brother--Lionel Brakespere!"

"Well," she exclaimed, "what then? Suppose it be Lionel Brakespere,

what then, I ask--what then?"

"Then!" said Geoffrey, poising his big sinewy arm--"then, let him look

to himself; for, by the Lord, I'll kill him!"

"What!" and in an instant she had left her position against the

mantelpiece, and was leaning over the table at the corner where he

sat, her face close to his, her eyes on his eyes, her hot breath

on his cheeks--"You dare to talk of killing him, of doing him the

slightest injury! You dare to lift your hand against my Lionel! Look

here, Geoffrey Ludlow: you have been good and kind and generous to

me,--have loved me, in your fashion--deeply, I know; and I would let us

part friends; but I swear that if you attempt to wreak your vengeance

on Lionel Brakespere, who has done you no harm--how has he injured

you?--I will be revenged on you in a manner of which you little dream,

but which shall break your heart and spirit, and humble your pride to

the dust. Think of all this, Geoffrey Ludlow--think of it. Do nothing

rashly, take no step that will madden me, and drive me to do something

that will prevent your ever thinking of me with regret, when I am far

away."

There was a softness in her voice which touched a chord in Geoffrey

Ludlow's breast. The fire faded out of his eyes; his hands, which had

been tight-clenched, relaxed, and spread out before him in entreaty;

he looked up at Margaret through blinding tears, and in a broken voice

said,

"When you are far away! O, my darling, my darling, you are not going to

leave me? It cannot be,--it is some horrible dream. To leave me, who

live but for you, whose existence is bound up in yours! It cannot be.

What have I done?--what can you charge me with? Want of affection, of

devotion to you? O God, it is hard that I should have to suffer in this

way! But you won't go, Margaret darling? Tell me that--only tell me

that."

She shrank farther away from him, and seemed for a moment to cower

before the vehemence and anguish of his appeal; but the next her face

darkened and hardened, and as she answered him, the passion in her

voice was dashed with a tone of contempt.

"Yes, I will leave you," she said,--"of course I will leave you. Do you

not hear me? Do you not understand me? I have seen him, I tell you, and

every thing which is not him has faded out of my life. What should I do

here, or any where, where he is not? The mere idea is absurd. I have

only half lived since I lost him, and I could not live at all now that

I have seen him again. Stay here! not leave _you!_ stay _here!_" She

looked round the room with a glance of aversion and avoidance, and went

on with increasing rapidity: "You have never understood me. How should

you? But the time has come now when you must try to understand me, for

your own sake; for mine it does no matter--nothing matters now."

She was standing within arm's-length of him, and her face was turned

full upon him: but she did not seem to see him. She went on as though

reckoning with herself, and Geoffrey gazed upon her in stupefied

amazement; his momentary rage quenched in the bewilderment of his

anguish.

"I don't deny your goodness--I don't dispute it--I don't think about it

at all; it is all done with, all past and gone; and I have no thought

for it or you, beyond these moments in which I am speaking to you for

the last time. I have suffered in this house torments which your slow

nature could neither suffer nor comprehend--torments wholly impossible

to endure longer. I have raged and rebelled against the dainty life of

dulness and dawdling, the narrow hopes and the tame pleasures which

have sufficed for you. I must have so raged and rebelled under any

circumstances; but I might have gone on conquering the revolts, if I

had not seen him. Now, I tell you, it is no longer possible, and I

break with it at once and for ever. Let me go quietly, and in such

peace as may be possible: for go I must and I will. You could as soon

hold a hurricane by force or a wave of the sea by entreaty."

Geoffrey Ludlow covered his face with his hands, and groaned. Once

again she looked at him--this time as if she saw him--and went on:

"Let me speak to you, while I can, of yourself--while I can, I say,

for his face is rising between me and all the world beside, and I can

hardly force myself to remember any thing, to calculate any thing, to

realise any thing which is not him. You ask me not to leave you; you

would have me stay! Are you mad, Geoffrey Ludlow? Have you lived among

your canvases and your colours until you have ceased to understand

what men and women are, and to see facts? Do you know that I love

him, though he left me to what you saved me from, so that all that

you have done for me and given me has been burdensome and hateful to

me, because these things had no connection with him, but marked the

interval in which he was lost to me? Do you know that I love him so,

that I have sickened and pined in this house, even as I sickened and

pined for hunger in the streets you took me from, for the most careless

word he ever spoke and the coldest look he ever gave me? Do you know

the agonised longing which has been mine, the frantic weariness, the

unspeakable loathing of every thing that set my life apart from the

time when my life was his? No, you don't know these things! Again I

say, how should you? Well, I tell them to you now, and I ask you, are

you mad that you say, 'Don't leave me'? Would you have me stay with

_you_ to think of _him_ all the weary hours of the day, all the wakeful

hours of the night? Would you have me stay with you to feel, and make

you know that I feel, the tie between us an intolerable and hideous

bondage, and that with every pang of love for him came a throb of

loathing for you? No, no! you are nothing to me now,--nothing, nothing!

My thoughts hurry away from you while I speak; but if any thing so

preposterous as my staying with you could be possible, you would be the

most hateful object on this earth to me."

"My God!" gasped Geoffrey. That was all The utter, unspeakable horror

with which her words, poured out in a hard ringing voice, which

never faltered, filled him overpowered all remonstrance. A strange

feeling, which was akin to fear of this beautiful unmasked demon, came

over him. It was Margaret, his wife, who spoke thus! The knowledge

and its fullest agony were in his heart; and yet a sense of utter

strangeness and impossibility were there too. The whirl within him

was not to be correctly termed thought; but there was in it something

of the past, a puzzled remembrance of her strange quietude, her

listlessness, her acquiescent, graceful, wearied, compliant ways; and

this was she,--this woman whose eyes burned with flames of passion and

desperate purpose--on those ordinarily pale cheeks two spots of crimson

glowed,--whose lithe frame trembled with the intense fervour of the

love which she was declaring for another man! Yes, this was she! It

seemed impossible; but it was true.

"I waste words," she said; "I am talking of things beside the question,

and I don't want to lie to you. Why should I? There has been nothing in

my life worth having but him, nothing bearable since I lost him, and

there is nothing else since I have found him again. I say, I must leave

you for your sake, and it is true; but I would leave you just the same

if it was not true. There is nothing henceforth in my life but him."

She moved towards the door as she spoke, and the action seemed to rouse

Geoffrey from the stupefaction which had fallen upon him. She had her

hand upon the door-handle though, before he spoke.

"You are surely mad!" he said "I think so.--I hope so; but even mad

women remember that they are mothers. Have you forgotten your child,

that you rave thus of leaving your home?"

She took her hand from the door and leaned back against it--her head

held up, and her eyes turned upon him, the dark eyebrows shadowing them

with a stern frown.

"I am not mad," she said; "but I don't wonder you think me so. Continue

to think so, if you needs must remember me at all. Love is madness to

such as you; but it is life, and sense, and wisdom, and wealth to such

as I and the man I love. At all events it is all the sanity I ask for

or want. As for the child--" she paused for one moment, and waved her

hand impatiently.

"Yes," repeated Geoffrey hoarsely,--"the child!"

"I will tell you then, Geoffrey Ludlow," she said, in a more deliberate

tone than she had yet commanded,--"I care nothing for the child! Ay,

look at me with abhorrence now; so much the better for _you_, and not

a jot the worse for me. What is your abhorrence to me?--what was your

love? There are women to whom their children are all in all. I am not

of their number; I never could have been. They are not women who love

as I love. Where a child has power to sway and fill a woman's heart,

to shake her resolution, and determine her life, love is not supreme.

There is a proper and virtuous resemblance to it, no doubt, but not

love--no, no, not love. I tell you I care nothing for the child.

Geoffrey Ludlow, if I had loved you, I should have cared for him almost

as little; if the man I love had been his father, I should have cared

for him no more, if I know any thing of myself. The child does not need

me. I suppose I am not without the brute instinct which would lead me

to shelter and feed and clothe him, if he did; but what has he ever

needed from me? If I could say without a lie that any thought of him

weighs with me--but I cannot--I would say to you, for the child's sake,

if for no other reason, I must go. The child is the last and feeblest

argument you can use with me--with whom indeed there are none strong or

availing."

She turned abruptly, and once more laid her hand upon the door-handle.

Her last words had roused Geoffrey from the inaction caused by his

amazement. As she coldly and deliberately avowed her indifference

to the child, furious anger once more awoke within him. He strode

hastily towards her and sternly grasped her by the left arm. She made

a momentary effort to shake off his hold; but he held her firmly at

arm's-length from him, and said through his closed teeth:

"You are a base and unnatural woman--more base and unnatural than I

believed any woman could be. As for me, I can keep silence on your

conduct to myself; perhaps I deserved it, seeing where and how I

found you." She started and winced. "As for the child, he is better

motherless than with such a mother; but I took you from shame and

sin, when I found you in the street, and married you; and you shall

not return to them if any effort of mine can prevent it. You have no

feeling, you have no conscience, you have no pride; you glory in a

passion for a man who flung you away to starve! Woman, have you no

sense of decency left, that you can talk of resuming your life of

infamy and shame?"

The husband and wife formed a group which would have been awful to

look upon, had there been any one to witness that terrible interview,

as they stood confronting one another, while Geoffrey spoke. As his

words came slowly forth, a storm of passion shook Margaret's frame.

Every gleam of colour forsook her face; she was transformed into a

fixed image of unspeakable wrath. A moment she stood silent, breathing

quickly, her white lips dry and parted. Then, as a faint movement,

something like a ghastly smile, crept over her face, she said:

"You are mistaken, Geoffrey Ludlow; I leave my life of infamy and shame

in leaving _you!_"

"In leaving me! Again you are mad!"

"Again I speak the words of sanity and truth. If what I am going to

tell you fills you with horror, I would have spared you; you have

yourself to thank. I intended to have spared you this final blow,--I

intended to have left you in happy ignorance of the fact--which you

blindly urge me to declare by your taunts. What did I say at the

commencement of this interview? That I wanted us to part friends. But

you will not have that. You reproach me with ingratitude; you taunt me

with being an unnatural mother; finally, you fling at me my life of

infamy and shame; I repeat that no infamy, no shame could attach to me

until I became--your mistress!"

The bolt had shot home at last. Geoffrey leapt to his feet, and stood

erect before her; but his strength must have failed him in that

instant; for he could only gasp, "My mistress!"

"Your mistress. That is all I have been to you, so help me Heaven!"

"My wife! my own--married--lawful wife!"

"No, Geoffrey Ludlow, no! In that wretched lodging to which you had

me conveyed, and where you pleaded your love, I told you--the truth

indeed, but not the whole truth. Had you known me better then,--had you

known me as you--as you know me now, you might have guessed that I was

not one of those trusting creatures who are betrayed and ruined by fair

words and beaming glances, come they from ever so handsome a man. One

fact I concealed from you, thinking, as my Lionel had deserted me, and

would probably never be seen again, that its revelation would prevent

me from accepting the position which you were about to offer me; but

the day that I fled from my home at Tenby I was married to Lionel

Brakespere; and at this moment I am his wife, not merely in the sight

of God, but by the laws of man!"

For some instants he did not speak, he did not move from the chair into

which he had again fallen heavily during her speech: he sat gazing at

her, his breathing thickened, impeded, gasping. At length he said:

"You're--you're speaking truth?"

"I am speaking gospel-truth, Geoffrey Ludlow. You brought it upon

yourself: I would have saved you from the knowledge of it if I could,

but you brought it upon yourself."

"Yes--as you say--on myself;" still sitting gazing vacantly before him,

muttering to himself rather than addressing her. Suddenly, with a wild

shriek, "The child! O God, the child!"

"For the child's sake, no less than for your own, you will hold your

tongue on this matter," said Margaret, in her calm, cold, never-varying

tone. "In this instance at least you will have sense enough to perceive

the course you ought to take. What I have told you is known to none but

you and me, and one other--who can be left with me to deal with. Let it

be your care that the secret remains with us."

"But the child is a----"

"Silence, man!" she exclaimed, seizing his arm,--"silence now,--for

a few moments at all events. When I am gone, proclaim your child's

illegitimacy and your own position if you will, but wait till then. Now

I can remain here no longer. Such things as I absolutely require I will

send for. Goodbye, Geoffrey Ludlow."

She gathered her shawl around her, and moved towards the door. In an

instant his lethargy left him; he sprang up, rushed before her, and

stood erect and defiant.

"You don't leave me in this way, Margaret. You shall not leave me thus.

I swear you shall not pass!"

She looked at him for a moment with a half-compassionate,

half-interested face. This assumption of spirit and authority she had

never seen in him before, and it pleased her momentarily. Then she said

quietly:

"O yes, I shall. I am sure, Mr. Ludlow, you will not prevent my going

to my husband!"

When the servant, after waiting more than an hour for dinner to be rung

for, came into the room to see what was the cause of the protracted

delay, she found her master prostrate on the hearth-rug, tossing and

raving incoherently. The frightened girl summoned assistance; and when

Dr. Brandram arrived, he announced Mr. Ludlow to be in the incipient

stage of a very sharp attack of brain-fever.

CHAPTER II.

THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL.

It was one of those cheerless days not unfrequent at the end of

September, which first tell us that such fine weather as we have had

has taken its departure, and that the long dreary winter is close at

hand. The air was moist and "muggy;" there was no freshening wind to

blow away the heavy dun clouds which lay banked up thick, and had

seemed almost motionless for days; there was a dead faint depression

over all things, which weighed heavily on the spirits, impeded the

respiration, and relaxed the muscles. It was weather which dashed and

cowed even the lightest-hearted, and caused the careworn and the broken

to think self-destruction less extraordinary than they had hitherto

considered it.

About noon a man was looking out of one of the upper-windows of

Long's Hotel on the dreary desert of Bond Street. He was a tall man;

who with straight-cut features, shapely beard, curling light hair,

and clear complexion, would have been generally considered more than

good-looking, notwithstanding that his eyes were comparatively small

and his mouth was decidedly sensual. That he was a man of breeding

and society one could have told in an instant--could have told it by

the colour and shape of his hands, by his bearing, by the very manner

in which he, leaving the window from time to time, lounged round the

room, his hands plunged in his pockets or pulling at his tawny beard.

You could have told it despite of his dress, the like of which had

surely never been seen before on any visitor to that select hostelry;

for he wore a thick jacket and trousers of blue pilot-cloth, a blue

flannel-shirt, with a red-silk handkerchief knotted round the collar,

and ankle jack-boots. When he jumped out of the cab at the door on

the previous day, he had on a round tarpaulin-hat, and carried over

his arm an enormous pea-jacket with horn buttons; and as he brought

no luggage with him save a small valise, and had altogether the

appearance of the bold smugglers who surreptitiously vend cigars and

silk-handkerchiefs, the hall-porter at first refused him admittance;

and it was not until the proprietor had been summoned, and after a

close scrutiny and a whispered name had recognised his old customer,

that the strange-looking visitor was ushered upstairs. He would have a

private room, he said; and he did not want it known that he was back

just yet--did Jubber understand? If any body called, that was another

matter: he expected his mother and one or two others; but he did not

want it put in the papers, or any thing of that kind. Jubber did

understand, and left Captain Lionel Brakespere to himself.

Captain Lionel Brakespere, just at that time, could have had no worse

company. He had been bored to death by the terrible monotony of a

long sea-voyage, and had found on landing in England that his boredom

was by no means at an end. He had heard from his mother that "that

awkward business had all been squared," as he phrased it; and that it

was desirable he should return home at once, where there was a chance

of a marriage by which "a big something was to be pulled off," as he

phrased it again. So he had come back, and there he was at Long's; but

as yet he was by no means happy. He was doubtful as to his position in

society, as to how much of his escapade was known, as to whether he

would be all right with his former set, or whether he would get the

cold shoulder, and perhaps be cut. He could only learn this by seeing

Algy Barford, or some other fellow of the _clique_; and every fellow

was of course out of town at that infernal time of year. He must wait,

at all events, until he had seen his mother, to whom he had sent word

of his arrival. He might be able to learn something of all this from

her. Meantime he had taken a private room; not that there was much

chance of his meeting any one in the coffee-room, but some fellow

might perhaps stop there for the night on his way through town; and he

had sent for the tailor, and the hair-cutter fellow, and that sort of

thing, and was going to be made like a Christian again--not like the

cad he'd looked like in that infernal place out there.

He lounged round the room, and pulled his beard and yawned as he

looked out of the window; pulling himself together afterwards by

stretching out his hands and arms, and shrugging his shoulders and

shaking himself, as if endeavouring to shake off depression. He _was_

depressed; there was no doubt about it. Out there it was well enough.

He had been out there just long enough to have begun to settle down

into his new life, to have forgotten old ties and old feelings; but

here every thing jarred upon him. He was back in England certainly, but

back in England in a condition which he had never known before. In the

old days, at this time of year, he would have been staying down at some

country-house, or away in some fellow's yacht, enjoying himself to the

utmost; thoroughly appreciated and highly thought of,--a king among

men and a favourite among women. Now he was cooped up in this deserted

beastly place, which every one decent had fled from, not daring even

to go out and see whether some old comrade, haply retained in town by

duty, were not to be picked up, from whom he could learn the news, with

whom he might have a game of billiards, or something to get through the

infernally dragging wearisome time. He expected his mother. She was

his truest and stanchest friend, after all, and had behaved splendidly

to him all through this terrible business. It was better that she

should come down there, and let him know exactly how the land lay. He

would have gone home, but he did not know what sort of a reception

he might have met with from the governor; and from all he could make

out from his mother's letters, it was very likely that Caterham might

cut up rough, and say or do something confoundedly unpleasant. It

was an infernal shame of Caterham, and just like his straightlaced

nonsense--that it was. Was not he the eldest son, and what did he want

more? It was all deuced well for him to preach and moralise, and all

that sort of thing; but his position had kept him out of temptation,

else he might not be any better than other poor beggars, who had fallen

through and come to grief.

So he reasoned with himself as he lounged round and round the room; and

at last began to consider that he was a remarkably ill-used person.

He began to hate the room and its furniture, altered the position of

the light and elegant little couch, flung himself into the arm-chair,

drumming his heels upon the floor, and rose from itleaving the chintz

covering all tumbled, and the antimacassar all awry, drummed upon

the window, stared at the prints already inspected--the "Hero and

his Horse," which led him into reminiscences of seeing the old Duke

with his white duck trousers and his white cravat, with the silver

buckle gleaming at the back of his bowed head, at Eton on Montem

days--glanced with stupid wonderment at Ward's "Dr. Johnson reading

the Manuscript of the _Vicar of Wakefield_," which conveyed to him

no idea whatsoever--looked at a proof of "Hogarth painting the Muse

of Comedy," and wondered "who was the old cock with the fat legs,

drawing." He watched the few people passing through the streets, the

very few hansom-cabs with drivers listlessly creeping up and down, as

though conscious that the chances of their being hired were dismally

remote, the occasional four-wheelers with perambulators and sand-spades

on the top, and bronzed children leaning out of the windows, talking of

the brief holiday over and the work-a-day life about to recommence--he

watched all this, and, watching, worked himself up to such a pitch

of desperation that he had almost determined to brave all chances of

recognition, and sally forth into the streets, when the door opened and

a waiter entering, told him that a lady was waiting to speak with him.

His mother had come at last, then? Let her be shown up directly.

Of all things Lionel Brakespere abhorred a "scene;" and this was likely

to be an uncommonly unpleasant meeting. The Mater was full of feeling

and that sort of thing, and would probably fling herself into his arms

as soon as the waiter was gone, and cry, and sob, and all that sort of

thing, and moan over him--make a fellow look so confoundedly foolish

and absurd, by Jove! Must get that over as soon as possible--all

the hugging and that--and then find out how matters really stood.

So he took up his position close to the door; and as the footsteps

approached, was a little astonished to hear his heart thumping so

loudly.

The door opened, and passing the bowing waiter, who closed it behind

her, a lady entered. Though her veil was down, Lionel saw instantly

that it was not his mother. A taller, younger woman, with step graceful

though hurried, an eager air, a strange nervous manner. As the door

closed, she threw up her veil and stood revealed--Margaret!

He fell back a pace or two, and the blood rushed to his heart, leaving

his face as pale as hers. Then, recovering himself, he caught hold of

the table, and glaring at her, said hoarsely, "You here!"

There was something in his tone which jarred upon her instantly. She

made a step forward, and held out her hand appealingly--"Lionel," she

said, quite softly, "Lionel, you know me?"

"Know you?" he repeated. "O yes--I--I have that honour. I know you fast

enough--though what you do here I _don't_ know. What do you do here?"

"I came to see you."

"Devilish polite, I'm sure. But--now you have seen me--" he hesitated

and smiled. Not a pleasant smile by any means: one of those smiles in

which the teeth are never shown. A very grim smile, which slightly

wrinkled the lips, but left the eyes hard and defiant; a smile which

Margaret knew of old, the sight of which recalled the commencement of

scenes of violent passion and bitter upbraiding in the old times; a

smile at sight of which Margaret's heart sank within her, only leaving

her strength enough to say: "Well!"

"Well!" he repeated--"having seen me--having fulfilled the intention of

your visit--had you not better--go?"

"Go!" she exclaimed--"leave you at once, without a look, without a

word! Go! after all the long weary waiting, this hungering to see and

speak with you to pillow my head on your breast, and twine my arms

round you as I used to do in the dear old days! Go! in the moment

when I am repaid for O such misery as you, Lionel, I am sure, cannot

imagine I have endured--the misery of absence from you; the misery of

not knowing how or where you were--whether even you were dead or alive;

misery made all the keener by recollection of joy which I had known and

shared with you. Go! Lionel, dearest Lionel, you cannot mean it! Don't

try me now, Lionel; the delight at seeing you again has made me weak

and faint. I am not so strong as I used to be. Lionel, dearest, don't

try me too much."

Never had she looked more beautiful than now. Her arms were stretched

out in entreaty, the rich tones of her voice were broken, tears stood

in her deep-violet eyes, and the dead-gold hair was pushed off the

dead-white brow. Her whole frame quivered with emotion--emotion which

she made no attempt to conceal.

Lionel Brakespere had seated himself on the corner of the table, and

was looking at her with curiosity. He comprehended the beauty of the

picture before him, but he regarded it as a picture. On most other men

in his position such an appeal from such a woman would have caused at

least a temporary rekindling of the old passion; on him it had not the

slightest effect, beyond giving him a kind of idea that the situation

was somewhat ridiculous and slightly annoying. After a minute's

interval he said, with his hands in his pockets, and his legs swinging

to and fro:

"It's deuced kind of you to say such civil things about me, and I

appreciate them--appreciate them, I assure you. But, you see the fact

of the matter is, that I'm expecting my mother every minute, and if she

were to find you here, I should be rather awkwardly situated."

"O," cried Margaret, "you don't think I would compromise you, Lionel?

You know me too well for that. You know too well how I always submitted

to be kept in the background--only too happy to live on your smiles, to

know that you were feted and made much of."

"O, yes," said Lionel, simply; "you were always a deuced sensible

little woman."

"And I sha'n't be in the way, and I sha'n't bore you. They need know

nothing of my existence, if you don't wish it, any more than they used.

And we shall lead again the dear old life--eh, Lionel?"

"Eh!" repeated he in rather a high key,--"the dear old life!"

"Ah, how happy I was!" said Margaret. "You, whose intervening time has

been passed in action, can scarcely imagine how I have looked back on

those days,--how eagerly I have longed for the time to come when I

might have them again."

"Gad!" said he, "I don't exactly know about my time being passed

in action. It's been horribly ghastly and melancholy, and deuced

unpleasant, if you mean that."

"Then we will both console ourselves for it now, Lionel, We will forget

all the misery we have suffered, and--"

"Y-es!" said he, interrupting her, swinging his leg a little more

slowly, and looking quietly up into her face; "I don't exactly follow

you in all this."

"You don't follow me?"

"N-no! I scarcely think we can be on the same tack, somehow."

"In what way?"

"In all this about leading again the old life, and living the days over

again, and consoling ourselves, and that kind of thing."

"You don't understand it?"

"Well, I don't know about understanding it. All I mean to say is, I'm

not going to have it."

But for something in his tone, Margaret might not have entirely

comprehended what he sought to convey in his words, so enraptured was

she at seeing him again. But in his voice, in his look, there was a

bravado that was unmistakable. She clasped her hands together in front

of her; and her voice was very low and tremulous, as she said,

"Lionel, what do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Well, it's a devilish awkward thing to say--I can't

conceive how it came about--all through your coming here, and that sort

of thing; but it appears to me that, as I said before, you're on the

wrong tack. You don't seem to see the position."

"I don't indeed. For God's sake speak out!"

"There, you see!--that's just it; like all women, taking the thing so

much in earnest, and--"

"So much in earnest? Is what would influence one's whole life a thing

to be lightly discussed or laughed over? Is--"

"There you are again! That's exactly what I complain of. What have I to

do with influencing your life?"

"All--every thing!"

"I did not know it, then, by Jove,--that's all Ive got to say. You're

best out of it, let me tell you. My influence is a deuced bad one, at

least for myself."

Once again the tone, reckless and defiant, struck harshly on her ear.

He continued, "I was saying you did not seem to see the position. You

and I were very good friends once upon a time, and got on very well

together; but that would never do now."

She turned faint, sick, and closed her eyes; but remained silent.

"Wouldn't do a bit," he continued. "You know Ive been a tremendous

cropper--must have thought deuced badly of me for cutting off in that

way; but it was my only chance, by Jove; and now Ive come back to try

and make all square. But I must keep deuced quiet and mind my p's and

q's, or I shall go to grief again, like a bird."

She waited for a moment, and then she said faintly and slowly, "I

understand you thoroughly now. You mean that it would be better for us

to remain apart for some time yet?"

"For some time?--yes. Confound it all, Margaret!--you won't take a

hint, and you make a fellow speak out and seem cruel and unkind, and

all that kind of thing, that he does not want to. Look here. You ought

never to have come here at all. It's impossible we can ever meet again."

She started convulsively; but even then she seemed unable to grasp

the truth. Her earnestness brought the colour flying to her cheeks as

she said hurriedly, "Why impossible, Lionel,--why impossible? If you

are in trouble, who has such a right to be near you as I? If you want

assistance and solace, who should give it you before me? That is the

mistake you made, Lionel. When you were in your last trouble you should

have confided in me: my woman's wit might have helped you through it;

or at the worst, my woman's love would have consoled you in it."

She was creeping closer to him, but stopped as she saw his face darken

and his arms clasp themselves across his breast.

"D--n it all!" said he petulantly; "you won't understand, I think. This

sort of thing is impossible. Any sort of love, or friendship, or trust

is impossible. Ive come back to set myself straight, and to pull out of

all the infernal scrapes I got myself into before I left; and there's

only one way to do it."

"And that is--"

"Well, if you will have it, you must. And that is--by making a good

marriage."

She uttered a short sharp cry, followed by a prolonged wail, such as a

stricken hare gives. Lionel Brakespere looked up at her; but his face

never relaxed, and his arms still remained tightly folded across his

breast. Then she spoke, very quietly and very sadly:

"By making a good marriage! Ah! then I see it all. That is why you are

annoyed at my having come to you. That is why you dread the sight of

me, because it reminds you that I am in the way; reminds you of the

existence of the clog round your neck that prevents your taking up

this position for which you long; because it reminds you that you once

sacrificed self to sentiment, and permitted yourself to be guided by

love instead of ambition. That is what you mean?"

His face was darker than ever as he said, "No such d--d nonsense. I

don't know what you're talking about; no more do you I should think, by

the way in which you are going on. What _are_ you talking about?"

He spoke very fiercely; but she was not cowed or dashed one whit. In

the same quiet voice she said: "I am talking about myself--your wife!"

Lionel Brakespere sprung from the corner of the table on which he had

been sitting, and stood upright, confronting her.

"O, that's it, is it?" in a hard low voice. "That's your game, eh? I

thought it was coming to that. Now, look here," shaking his fist at

her,--"drop that for good and all; drop it, I tell you, or it will be

the worse for you. Let me hear of your saying a word about your being

my wife, and, so help me God, I'll be the death of you! That's plain,

isn't it? You understand that?"

She never winced; she never moved. She sat quietly under the storm of

his rage; and when he had finished speaking, she said:

"You can kill me, if you like,--you very nearly did, just before you

left me,--but so long as I am alive I shall be your wife!"

"Will you, by George?--not if there's law in the land, I can tell

you. What have you been doing all this time? How have you been living

since Ive been away? How do you come here, dressed like a swell as you

are, when I left you without money? I shall want to know all that;

and I'll find out, you may take your oath. There are heaps of ways of

discovering those things now, and places where a fellow has only to pay

for it, and he may know any thing that goes on about any body. I don't

think you would particularly care to have those inquiries made about

_you_, eh?"

She was silent. He waited a minute; then, thinking from her silence

that he had made a point, went on:

"You understand me at last, don't you? You see pretty plainly, I should

think, that being quiet and holding your tongue is your best plan

don't you? If you're wise you'll do it; and then, when I'm settled, I

may make you some allowance--if you want it, that's to say,--if your

friends whove been so kind to you while Ive been away don't do it. But

if you open your mouth on this matter, if you once hint that you've any

claim on me, or send to me, or write to me, or annoy me at all, I'll

go right in at once, find out all you've been doing, and then see what

they'll say to you in the Divorce Court. You hear?"

Still she sat perfectly silent. He was apparently pleased with his

eloquence and its effect, for he proceeded:

"This is all your pretended love for me, is it? This is what you call

gratitude to a fellow, and all that kind of thing? Turning up exactly

when you're not wanted, and coolly declaring that you're going in to

spoil the only game that can put me right and bring me home! And this

is the woman who used to declare in the old days that she'd die for me,

and all that! I declare I didn't think it of you, Madge!"

"Don't call me by that name!" she screamed, roused at last;

"don't allude to the old days, in God's name, or I shall go mad!

The recollection of them, the hope of their renewal, has been my

consolation in all sorts of misery and pain. I thought that to hear

them spoken of by you would have been sufficient recompense for all my

troubles: now to hear them mentioned by your lips agonises and maddens

me; I--"

"This is the old story," he interrupted; "you haven't forgotten that

business, I see. This is what you used to do before, when you got into

one of these states. It frightened me at first, but I got used to it;

and Ive seen a great deal too much of such things to care for it now, I

can tell you. If you make this row, I'll ring the bell--upon my soul I

will!"

"O, Lionel, Lionel!" said Margaret, stretching out her hands in

entreaty towards him--"don't speak so cruelly! You don't know all I

have gone through for you--you don't know how weak and ill I am. But it

is nothing to what I will do. You don't know how I love you, Lionel, my

darling! how I have yearned for you; how I will worship and slave for

you, so that I may only be with you. I don't want to be seen, or heard

of, or known, so long as I am near you. Only try me and trust me, only

let me be your own once more."

"I tell you it's impossible," said he petulantly. "Woman, can't you

understand? I'm ruined, done, shut up, cornered, and the only chance

of my getting through is by my marriage with some rich woman, who will

give me her money in exchange for--There, d--n it all,--it's no use

talking any more about it. If you can't see the position, I can't show

it you any stronger; and there's an end of it. Only, look here!--keep

your mouth shut, or it will be the worse for you. You understand

that?--the worse for you."

"Lionel!" She sprang towards him and clasped her hands round his arm.

He shook her off roughly, and moved towards the door.

"No more foolery," he said in a low deep voice. "Take my warning now,

and go. In a fortnight's time you can write to me at the Club, and say

whether you are prepared to accept the conditions I have named. Now,

go."

He held the door open, and she passed by him and went out. She did

not shrink, or faint, or fall. Somehow, she knew not how, she went

down the stairs and into the street. Not until she had hailed a cab,

and seated herself in it, and was being driven off, did she give way.

Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passionate

fit of weeping, rocking herself to and fro, and exclaiming, "And it

is for this that I have exiled myself from my home, and trampled upon

a loving heart! O my God! my God; if I could only have loved Geoffrey

Ludlow!--O, to love as I do, such a man as this!"

CHAPTER III.

GONE TO HIS REST.

The last-mentioned interview between Lord Caterham and his mother,

though productive of good in a certain way--for Lady Beauport, however

bravely she succeeded in bearing herself at the time, was in reality

not a little frightened at her son's determination--had a visibly bad

effect on Caterham's health. The excitement had been too much for him.

The physician had enjoined perfect rest, and an absence of all mental

effort, in the same way in which they prescribe wine and nourishing

food to the pauper, or Turkish baths to the cripple on the outskirts

of Salisbury Plain. Perfect rest and absence of all mental effort were

utterly impossible to Caterham, whose mind was on the rack, who knew

that he had pitted himself against time for the accomplishment of his

heart's desire, and who felt that he must either fulfil his earnest

intention, or give up it and life simultaneously. Life was so thin and

faint and feeble within him, that he needed all of it he could command

to bear him up merely through "the fever called living,"--to keep him

together sufficiently to get through the ordinary quiet routine of his

ever-dull day. When there was an exceptional occasion--such as the

interview with his mother, for instance, where he had gone through a

vast amount of excitement--it left him exhausted, powerless, incapable

of action or even of thought, to an extent that those accustomed only

to ordinary people could never have imagined.

The next day he was too ill to leave his bed; but that made little

difference to the rest of the household. Lord Beauport was away in

Wales looking after some mines on one of his estates, which had

suddenly promised to be specially productive. Lady Beauport, detained

in town for the due carrying out of her plans with respect to Lionel,

sent down her usual message of inquiry by Timpson, her maid, who

communicated with Stephens, and gave the reply to her mistress. Lady

Beauport repeated the message, "Very unwell indeed, eh?" and adding,

"this weather is so horribly depressing," proceeded with her toilette.

Miss Maurice sent grapes and flowers and some new perfume to the

invalid; and--it revived him more than any thing else--a little hurried

note, bidding him not give way to depression, but rouse sufficiently to

get into his easy-chair by the morrow, and she would spend all the day

with him, and read to him, and play to him whatever he wanted.

He had strength enough to raise that little note to his lips so soon as

he heard the door shut behind the outgoing Stephens; to kiss it over

and over again, and to place it beneath his pillow ere he sunk into

such imitation of rest as was vouchsafed to him. A want of sleep was

one of the worst symptoms of his malady, and the doctors had all agreed

that if they could only superinduce something like natural sleep, it

might aid greatly in repairing the little strength which had been given

to him originally, and which was so gradually and imperceptibly, and

yet so surely, wearing away. But that seemed to be impossible. When he

was first assisted to bed he was in a sufficiently drowsy state, partly

from the fatigue of the day, partly from the effect of the wine, of

which the doctors insisted on his taking a quantity which would have

been nothing to an ordinary man, but was much to one feeble in frame,

and unable to take any exercise to carry off its strength. Then, after

a short slumber--heavy, stertorous, and disturbed--he would wake,

bright and staring, without the smallest sign of sleep in his head or

in his eye. In vain would he toss from side to side, and try all the

known recipes for somnolence--none were of the slightest avail. He

could not sleep, he could not compose himself in the least degree, he

could not empty his mind as it were; and the mind must be, or at all

events must seem, empty before sleep will take possession of it. Lord

Caterham's mind in the dead silence of the night was even more active

than it was in the daytime. Before him rose up all the difficulties

which he had to surmount, the dangers which he had to avoid, the hopes

and fears and triumphs and vexations which made up the sum of his

bitter life. They were not many now,--they never had been diffuse at

any time; so little had Caterham been a citizen of the world, that all

his aspirations had lain within a very small compass, and now they

centred in one person--Annie Maurice. To provide for her safety when

he was not there to look after it in person; to leave such records as

would show what action he had taken in her behalf, and on what grounds

that action had been undertaken; to arm some competent and willing

person so thoroughly to bestir himself at the necessary juncture as

to prevent the chance of the conspiracy against Annie's future being

carried into effect:--these were the night-thoughts which haunted

Caterham's couch, and rendered him sleepless.

Sleeplessness had its usual effect. The following day he was quite

worn out in mind and body,--felt it, knew it, could not deny the fact

when it was suggested to him mildly by Stephens, more firmly by his

doctors,--but yet persevered in his intention of getting up. He was

sure he should be so much better out of bed; he was certain that a

change--were it only to his easy-chair--would do him so much good. He

could be very positive--"obstinate" was the phrase by which the doctors

distinguished it, "arbitrary" was Stephen's phrase--when he chose; and

so they let him have his way, wondering why he preferred to leave the

calm seclusion of his bed. They little knew that the contents of that

little note which the valet had seen protruding from the corner of his

master's pillow when he went in to call him in the morning had worked

that charm; they did not know that she had promised to spend the day

with him and read and play to him. But he did; and had he died for it,

he could not have denied himself that afternoon of delight.

So he was dressed, and wheeled into his sitting-room, and placed by

his desk and among his books. He had twice nearly fainted during the

process and Stephens, who knew his every look, and was as regardful of

his master's health as the just appreciation of a highly-paid place

could make him, had urged Lord Caterham to desist and return to his

bed. But Caterham was obstinate; and the toilette was performed and the

sitting-room gained, and then he desired that Miss Maurice might be

told he was anxious to see her.

She came in an instant. Ah, how radiant and fresh she looked as

she entered the room! Since the end of the season, she had so far

assumed her heiress position as to have a carriage of her own and a

saddle-horse; and instead of accompanying Lady Beauport in her set

round of "airing," Annie had taken long drives into country regions,

where she had alighted and walked in the fresh air, duly followed by

the carriage; or on horseback, and attended by her groom, had galloped

off to Hampstead and Highgate and Willesden and Ealing in the early

morning, long before Lady Beauport had thought of unclosing her eyes.

It was this glorious exercise, this enjoyment of heaven's light and air

and sun, that had given the rose to Annie's cheeks and the brilliance

to her eyes. She was freckled here and there; and there was a bit

of a brown mark on her forehead, showing exactly how much was left

unshaded by her hat. These were things which would have distressed

most well-regulated Belgravian damsels; but they troubled Annie not

one whit; and as she stood close by his chair, with her bright eyes

and her pushed-off brown hair, and the big teeth gleaming in her fresh

wholesome mouth, Caterham thought he had never seen her look more

charming, and felt that the distance between her, brimming over with

health, and him, gradually succumbing to disease, was greater than ever.

Annie Maurice was a little shocked when she first glanced at Caterham.

The few days which had intervened since she had been to his room had

made a great difference in his appearance. His colour had not left

him--on the contrary, it had rather increased--but there was a tight

look about the skin, a dull glassiness in his eyes, and a pinched

appearance in the other features, which were unmistakable. Of course

she took no notice of this: but coming in, greeted him in her usual

affectionate manner. Nor was there any perceptible difference in his

voice as he said:

"You see I have kept you to your word, Annie. You promised, if I were

in my easy-chair, that you would play and read to me; and here I am."

"And here I am to do your bidding, Arthur! and too delighted to do it,

and to see you sufficiently well to be here. You're not trying too

much, are you, Arthur?"

"In what, Annie?"

"In sitting up and coming into this room. Are you strong enough to

leave your bed?"

"Ah, I am so weary and wretched alone, Annie. I long so for

companionship, for--" he checked himself and said, "for some one to

talk, to read, to keep me company in all the long hours of the day. I'm

not very bright just now, and even I have been stronger--which seems

almost ridiculous--but I could keep away no longer, knowing you would

come to lighten my dreariness."

Though his voice was lower and more faint than usual, there was an

impassioned tone in it which she had never heard before, and which

jarred ever so slightly on her ear. So she rose from her seat, and

laughingly saying that she would go at once and perform part of her

engagement, sat down at the piano, and played and sang such favourite

pieces of his as he had often been in the habit of asking for. They

were simple ballads,--some of Moore's melodies, Handel's "Harmonious

Blacksmith," and some of Mendelssohn's _Lieder ohne Wörte_,--all calm,

soft, soothing music, such as Caterham loved; and when Annie had been

playing for some time he said:

"You don't know how I love to hear you, Annie! you're getting tired

now, child."

"Not in the least degree, Arthur. I could go on singing all day, if it

amused you."

"It does more than amuse me, Annie. I cannot describe to you the

feeling that comes over me in listening to your singing; nothing else

has such a calm, holy, sanctifying influence on me. Listening to you,

all the petty annoyances, the carking cares of this world fade away,

and--"

He ceased speaking suddenly; and Annie looking round, saw the tears on

his cheek. She was about to run to him, but he motioned her to keep her

seat, and said: "Annie dear, you recollect a hymn that I heard you sing

one night when you first came here?--one Sunday night when they were

out, and you and I sat alone in the twilight in the drawing-room? Ah, I

scarcely knew you then, but that hymn made a great impression on me."

"You mean--

'Abide with me! fast falls the eventide

The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!'"

"Yes, that is it. How lovely it is!--both words and music, I think."

"Yes, it is lovely. It was written by a Mr. Lyte, when he was--"

She checked herself, but he finished the sentence for her,--"When he

was dying. Yes; I recollect your telling me so that night. Sing it for

me, dear."

She turned to the piano at once, and in an instant the rich deep tones

of her voice were ringing through the room. Annie Maurice sang ballads

sweetly, but she sang hymns magnificently. There was not the slightest

attempt at ornamentation or _bravura_ in her performance, but she threw

her whole soul into her singing; and the result was rich and solemn

melody. As she sang, she seemed to embody the spirit of the composer,

and her voice vibrated and shook with the fervour which animated her.

Half leaning on his stick, half reclining in his chair, Caterham

watched her in rapt delight; then when she had finished, and ere

the thrilling music of her voice had died away, he said: "Thanks,

dear--again a thousand thanks! Now, once more a request, Annie. I shall

not worry you much more, my child."

"Arthur,"--and in an instant she was by his side,--"if you speak like

that, I declare I will not sing to you."

"O yes, you will, Annie dear!---O yes, you will. You know as well

as I do that--Well, then"--obedient to a forefinger uplifted in

warning--"I'll say no more on that point. But I want you now to sing

me the old-fashioned Evening Hymn. Ive a very ancient love for dear

old Bishop Ken, and I don't like to think of his being set aside

for any modern hymnologist,--even for such a specimen as that you

have just sung. Sing me 'Glory to Thee,' Annie,--that is, if you are

old-fashioned enough to know it."

She smiled, and sang. When she ceased, finding that he remained

speechless and motionless, she went up to him, fearing that he had

fainted. He was lying back in his chair perfectly quiet, with his eyes

closed. When she touched him, he opened them dreamily, saying, "'That

I may dread the grave as little as my bed.' Yes, yes!--Ah, Annie dear,

you've finished!--and to think that you, a modern young lady, should be

able to sing old Bishop Ken without book! Where did you learn him?"

"When I was a very little child,--at the Priory, Arthur. Geoffrey

Ludlow--as Ive told you, I think--used to come out to us every Sunday;

and in the evening after dinner, before I went to bed, he used to ask

for his little wife to sing to him. And then poor papa used to tell me

to sit on Geoff's knee, and I used to sing the Evening Hymn."

"Ay," said Caterham in an absent manner, "Geoffrey Ludlow's little

wife! Geoffrey Ludlow's little wife!--ay, ay! 'That so I may, rise

glorious at Thine awful day!' In Thy mercy, in Thy mercy!" and saying

this, he fainted away.

That evening Algy Barford, at Lord Dropmore's in Lincolnshire, on his

return from shooting, found a telegram on his dressing-room table. It

was from Annie Maurice, and begged his immediate return to town.

Lord Caterham was better the next day. Though still very weak,

he insisted on being dressed and wheeled into his sitting-room.

Once there, he had his despatch-box placed before him, and the

writing-materials put ready to his hand. Of late he had occasionally

been in the habit of employing an amanuensis. Annie Maurice had

frequently written from his dictation; and when she had been engaged, a

son of the old housekeeper, who was employed at a law-stationer's, and

who wrote a hand which was almost illegible from its very clearness,

had sometimes been pressed into the service. But now Lord Caterham

preferred writing for himself. Annie had sent to beg him to rest; and

in reply he had scrawled two lines, saying that he was ever so much

better, and that he had something to do which must be done, and which

when done would leave him much happier and easier in mind. So they left

him to himself; and Stephens, looking in from time to time, as was his

wont, reported to the servants'-hall that his master was "at it as hard

as ever--still a-writin'!" They wondered what could thus occupy him,

those curious domestics. They knew exactly the state in which he was,

the feeble hold that he had on life;--what do they not know, those

London servants?--and they thought that he was making his will, and

speculated freely among themselves as to what would be the amount of

Stephens's inheritance; and whether it would be a sum of money "down,"

or an annuity; and whether Stephens would invest it after the usual

fashion of their kind--in a public-house, or whether, from excessive

gentility, he was not "a cut above that." Lord Caterham would not hold

out much longer, they opined; and then Mr. Lionel would come in for

his title; and who Mr. Lionel was--inquired about by the new servants,

and the description of Mr. Lionel by the old servants--and mysterious

hints as to how, in the matter of Mr. Lionel, there had been a "screw

loose" and a "peg out;" how he was a "regular out-and-out fast lot,"

and had had to "cut it;"--all this occasioned plenty of talk in the

servants'-hall, and made the dreary autumn-day pass quite pleasantly.

And still the sick man sat at his desk, plying his pen, with but rare

intervals of rest--intervals during which he would clasp his poor

aching head, and lift his shrivelled attenuated hands in earnest silent

prayer.

The Beauport household was sunk in repose the next morning, when a

sharp ring at the bell, again and again repeated, aroused the young

lady who as kitchen-maid was on her preferment, and whose dreams

of being strangled by the cook for the heaviness of her hand in an

omelette were scared by the shrill clanging of the bell which hung

immediately over her head. The first notion of "fire" had calmed

down into an idea of "sweeps" by the time that she had covered her

night-attire with a dingy calico robe known to her as her "gownd;" and

she was tottering blindly down stairs before she recollected that no

sweeps had been ordered, and thought that it was probably a "runaway."

But lured perhaps by a faint idea that it might be the policeman, she

descended; and after an enormous amount of unbolting and unchaining,

found herself face-to-face with a fresh-coloured, light-bearded, cheery

gentleman, who wore a Glengarry cap, had a travelling-rug in his hand,

was smoking a cigar, and had evidently just alighted from a hansom-cab

which was standing at the door, and the driver of which was just

visible behind a big portmanteau and a gun-case. The fresh-coloured

gentleman was apparently rather startled at the apparition of the

kitchen-maid, and exclaimed, apparently involuntarily, "Gad!" in

a very high key. Recovering himself instantly, he asked how Lord

Caterham was. Utterly taken aback at discovering that the visitor was

not the policeman, the kitchen-maid was floundering about heavily for

an answer, when she was more than ever disconcerted at seeing the

fresh-coloured gentleman tear off his Glengarry-cap and advance up

the steps with outsretched hand. These demonstrations were not made in

honour of kitchen-maid, but of Annie Maurice, who had been aroused from

her usual light sleep by the ring, and who, guessing at the visitor,

had come down in her dressing-gown to see him.

They passed into the dining-room, and then he took her hand and

said: "I only got your telegram at dinner-time last night, my dear

Miss Maurice, and came off just as I was. Dropmore--deuced civil of

him--drove me over to the station himself hard as he could go, by Jove!

just caught mail-train, and came on from King's Cross in a cab. It's

about Caterham, of course. Bad news,--ay, ay, ay! He--poor--I can't

say it--he's in danger, he--" And brave old Algy stopped, his handsome

jolly features all tightened and pinched in his anxiety.

"He is very, very ill, dear Mr. Barford,--very ill; and I wanted you to

see him. I don't know--I can't tell why--but I think he may possibly

have something on his mind--something which he would not like to tell

me, but which he might feel a relief in confiding to some one else; and

as you, I know, are a very dear and valued friend of his, I think we

should all like you to be that some one. That was what made me send for

you."

"I'm--I'm not a very good hand at eloquence, Miss Maurice--might put

pebbles in my mouth and shout at the sea-shore and all that kind of

thing, like the--the celebrated Greek person, you know--and wouldn't

help me in getting out a word; but though I can't explain, I feel very

grateful to you for sending for me, to see--dear old boy!" The knot

which had been rising in Algy Barford's throat during this speech

had grown nearly insurmountable by this time, and there were two big

tears running down his waistcoat. He tried to pull himself together as

he said: "If he has any thing to say, which he would like to say to

me--of course--I shall--any thing that would--God bless him, my dear

old boy!--good, patient, dear darling old boy, God bless him!" The

thought of losing his old friend flashed across him in all its dread

heart-wringing dreariness, and Algy Barford fairly broke down and wept

like a child. Recovering himself after a moment, he seized Annie's

hand, and muttering something to the effect that he would be back as

soon as he had made himself a little less like an Esquimaux, he dashed

into the cab and was whirled away.

You would scarcely have thought that Algy Barford had had what is

called sleep, but what really is a mixture of nightmare and cramp in

a railway-carriage, had you seen him at eleven o'clock, when he next

made his appearance at St. Barnabas Square, so bright and fresh and

radiant was he. He found Annie Maurice awaiting his arrival, and had

with her a short earnest conversation as to Caterham's state. From that

he learned all. The doctors had a very bad opinion of their patient's

state: it was--hum--ha!--Yes--you know!--general depression--a want of

vitality, which--just now--looking at his normal lack of force, of what

we call professionally _vis vita_, might--eh? Yes, no doubt, serious

result. Could not be positively stated whether he would not so far

recover--pull through, as it is called--rally, as we say, as to--remain

with us yet some time; but in these cases there was always--well, yes,

it must be called a risk. This was the decision which the doctors

had given to Annie, and which she, in other words, imparted to Algy

Barford, who, coupling it with his experience of the guarded manner

in which fashionable physicians usually announced their opinions,

felt utterly hopeless, and shook his head mournfully. He tried to

be himself; to resume his old smile and old confident buoyant way;

he told his dear Miss Maurice that she must hope for the best; that

these doctor-fellows, by Jove, generally knew nothing; half of them

died suddenly themselves, without even having anticipated their own

ailments; "physician, heal thyself," and all that sort of thing; that

probably Caterham wanted a little rousing, dear old boy; which rousing

he would go in and give him. But Annie marked the drooping head and the

sad despondent manner in which he shrugged his shoulders and plunged

his hands into his pockets when he thought she had retired--marked also

how he strove to throw elasticity into his step and light into his face

as he approached the door of Caterham's room.

It had been arranged between Algy and Annie Maurice that his was to

have the appearance of a chance visit, so that when Stephens had

announced him, and Lord Caterham had raised his head in wonder, Algy,

who had by this time pulled himself together sufficiently, said: "Ah,

ha Caterham!--dear old boy!--thought you had got rid of us all out of

town, eh?--and were going to have it all to yourself! Not a bit of

it, dear boy! These doctor-fellows tell you one can't get on without

ozone. Don't know what that is--daresay they're right. All I know

is, I can't get on without a certain amount of chimney-pot. Country,

delicious fresh air, turf; heather, peat-bog, stubble, partridge,

snipe, grouse--all deuced good! cows and pigs, and that kind of thing;

get up early, and go to bed and snore; get red face and double-chin

and awful weight--then chimney-pot required. I always know, bless you!

Too much London season, get my liver as big as Strasburg goose's, you

know--_foie gras_ and feet nailed to a board, and that kind of thing;

too much country, tight waistcoat, red face--awfully British, in point

of fact. Then, chimney-pot. I'm in that state now; and Ive come back

to have a week's chimney-pot and blacks and generally cabbage-stalky

street--and then I shall go away much better."

"You keep your spirits, Algy, wherever you are." The thin faint voice

struck on Algy Barford's ear like a knell. He paused a minute and

took a short quick gulp, and then said: "O yes, still the same stock

on hand, Caterham. I could execute country orders, or supply colonial

agencies even, with promptitude and despatch, I think. And you,

Arthur--how goes it with you?"

"Very quietly, Algy,--very, very quietly, thank God! Ive had no return

of my old pain for some time, and the headache seems to have left me."

"Well, that's brave! We shall see you in your chair out on the lawn at

the hunt-breakfast at Homershams again this winter, Arthur. We shall--"

"Well, I scarcely think that. I mean, not perhaps as you interpret me;

but--I scarcely think--However, there's time enough to think of that.

Let's talk of nearer subjects. I'm so glad you chanced to come to town,

Algy--so very glad. Your coming seems predestined; for it was only

yesterday I was wishing I had you here."

"Tremendously glad I came, dear old boy! Chimney-pot attack fell in

handy this time, at all events. What did you want, Arthur, old fellow?

Not got a new leaning towards dogginess, and want me to go up to Bill

George's? Do you recollect that Irish deerhound I got for you?"

"I recollect him well--poor old Connor. No, not a dog now. I want you

to--just raise me a bit, Algy, will you?--a little bit: I am scarcely

strong enough to--that's it. Ah, Algy, old fellow, how often in the

long years that we have been chums have you lifted this poor wretched

frame in your strong arms!"

It was a trial for a man of Algy Barford's big heart; but he made head

against it even then, and said in a voice harder and drier than usual

from the struggle, "How often have I brought my bemuddled old brains

for you to take them out and pick them to pieces and clean them, and

put them back into my head in a state to be of some use to me!--that's

the question, dear old boy. How often have you supplied the match to

light the tow inside my head--Ive got deuced little outside now--and

sent me away with some idea of what I ought to do when I was in a deuce

of a knot! Why, I recollect once when Lionel and I--what is it, dear

old boy?"