"I can't help it now," he thought; "the women cannot possibly be kept

out of the business any longer. If she were let to want any thing, and

had not every care taken of her, dear old Geoff would never forgive

any of us; and it could not be hidden from him. I am sure she's dying;

and--I'm glad of it: glad for her sake, poor wretched creature; and

O so glad for his! He will recover her death--he _must_; but I doubt

whether he would recover her life. He would be for ever hankering after

her, for ever remembering the past, and throwing away the remainder of

his life, as he has thrown away too much of it already. No, no, dear

old Geoff, this shall not be, if your William can save you. I know what

a wasted life means; and you shall put yours out at good interest,

Geoff, please God."

Charley was at home; and he received Mr. Bowker's communication with

uncommon gravity, and immediately bestowed his best attention upon

considering what was to be done. He was not in the least offended by

discovering that it had not been his William's intention to tell him

any thing about it. "Quite right too," he observed. "I should have

been of no use, if every thing had not been capsized by her illness;

and I don't like to know any thing I'm not to tell to Til. Not that

she's in the least inquisitive, you know,--don't make any mistake about

that,--but things are in such an infernally mysterious mess; and then

they only know enough to make them want to know more; and I shouldn't

like, under these circumstances--it would seem hypocritical, don't you

see--and every thing must come out sometime, eh?"

"O yes, I see," said Bowker drily; "but I have to tell you _now_,

Charley; for what the devil's to be done? You can't bring her here and

nurse her; and I can't bring her to my place and nurse her,--yet she

must be taken somewhere and nursed; and we must be prepared with a

satisfactory account of every thing we have done, when Geoff gets well;

and what are we to do?"

Mr. Potts did not answer for a few moments, but handed over the beer

in an absent manner to Mr. Bowker; then, starting up from the table on

which he had been sitting, he exclaimed,

"I have it, William. Let's tell the women--Til, I mean, and Miss

Maurice. They'll know all about it, bless you," said Charley, whose

confidence in female resources was unbounded. "It's all nonsense trying

to keep things dark, when theyve got to such a pass as this. If Mrs.

Ludlow's in the state you say, she will not live long; and then Geoff's

difficulty, if not his trouble, will be over. Her illness alters every

thing. Come on, Bowker; let's get on to Elm Lodge; tell Til, and Miss

Maurice, if she's there; and let them make proper arrangements."

"But, Charley," said Bowker, much relieved, in spite of his misgivings,

by the suggestion, "you forget one important point. Miss Maurice is

Brakespere's cousin, and she lives in his father's house. It won't do

to bring her in."

"Never you mind that, William," replied the impetuous Charley. "Til

can't act alone; and old Mrs. Ludlow is nervous, and would not know

what to do, and must not be told; and I am sure Miss Maurice doesn't

care a rap about her cousin--the ruffian--why should she? And I know

she would do any thing in the world, no matter how painful to herself,

and no matter whether he ever came to know it or not, that would serve

or please Geoff."

"Indeed!" said Bowker, in a tone half of inquiry, half of surprise, and

looking very hard at Charley; "and how do you know that, eh, Charley?"

"O, bother," answered that gentleman, "I don't know how I know it;

but I do know it; and I am sure the sooner we act on my knowledge the

better. So come along."

So saying, Mr. Potts made his simple outdoor toilet; and the two

gentlemen went out, and took their way towards the resort of omnibuses,

eagerly discussing the matter in hand as they went, and Mr. Bowker

finding himself unexpectedly transformed from the active into the

passive party.

It was agreed between them that Geoffrey should not be informed of

Bowker's presence in the house, as he would naturally be impatient to

learn the result of the mission with which he had intrusted him; and

that result it was their present object to conceal.

Fortune favoured the wishes of Bowker and Charley. Mrs. Ludlow was

with her son; and in the drawing-room, which was resuming somewhat of

its former orderly and pleasant appearance, they found Miss Maurice

and Til. The two girls were looking sad and weary, and Til was hardly

brightened up by Charley's entrance, for he looked so much more grave

than usual, that she guessed at once he had heard something new and

important. The little party were too vitally interested in Geoffrey

and his fortunes, and the occasion was too solemn for any thing of

ceremony; and when Charley Potts had briefly introduced Bowker to Annie

Maurice, he took Til's hand in his, and said,

"Til, Geoffrey's wife has been found--alone, and very ill--dying, as we

believe!"

"You are quite sure, William?"

"I am quite sure, Geoffrey. Do you think I would deceive you, or take

any thing for granted myself, without seeing and hearing what is so

important to you? She is well cared for in every respect. Your own

care, when she needed it before, was not more tender or more effective.

Be satisfied, dear old Geoff; be content."

"You saw her--you really saw her; and she spoke kindly of me?" asked

Geoffrey with a pitiable eagerness which pained Bowker to witness.

"I did. Yes, have I not told you again and again--" Then there was

a moment's silence and Bowker thought, if she were not dying, how

terrible this tenderness towards her would be, how inexplicable to all

the world but him, how ruinous to Geoffrey; but as it was, it did not

matter: it would soon be only the tenderness of memory, the pardon of

the grave.

Geoffrey was sitting in an arm-chair by the bedroom window which

overlooked the pretty flower-garden and the lawn. He was very weak

still, but health was returning, and with it the power of acute mental

suffering, which severe bodily illness mercifully deadens. This had

been a dreadful day to him. When he was able to sit up and look around

the room from which all the graceful suggestive traces of a woman's

presence had been carefully removed; when he saw the old home look

upon every thing before his eyes (for whom the idea of home was for

ever desecrated and destroyed), the truth presented itself to him as

it had never before done, in equal horror and intensity, since the day

the woman he loved had struck him a blow by her words which had nearly

proved mortal. Would it had been so! he thought, as his large brown

eyes gazed wearily out upon the lawn and the flower-beds, and then

were turned upon the familiar objects in the chamber, and closed with

a shudder. His large frame look gaunt and worn, and his hands rested

listlessly upon the sides of his chair. He had requested them to leave

him alone for a little, that he might rest previous to seeing Bowker.

From the window at which Geoffrey sat he could see the nurse walking

monotonously up and down the gravel-walk which bounded his little

demesne with the child in her arms. Sometimes she stopped to pluck a

flower and give it to the baby, who would laugh with delight and then

throw it from him. Geoffrey watched the pair for a little, and then

turned his head wearily away and put his question to Bowker, who was

seated beside him, and who looked at him furtively with glances of the

deepest concern.

"You shall hear how she is, Geoff,--how circumstanced, how cared for,

and by whom, from one who can tell you the story better than I can.

Your confidence has not been misplaced." Geoffrey turned upon him the

nervous anxious gaze which is so touching to see in the eyes of one who

has lately neared the grave, and still seems to hover about its brink.

William Bowker proceeded: "You have not asked for Miss Maurice lately.

I daresay you felt too much oppressed by the information in Lord

Caterham's letter, too uncertain of the future, too completely unable

to make up your mind what was to be done about her, to care or wish

to see her. She has been here as usual, making herself as useful as

possible, and helping your mother and sister in every conceivable way.

But she has done more for you than that, Geoff; and if you are able to

see her now, I think you had better hear it all from herself."

With these words Bowker hurried out of the room; and in a few minutes

Annie Maurice, pale, quiet, and self-possessed, came in, and took her

seat beside Geoffrey.

What had she come to tell him? What had she been doing for the help

and service of her early friend,--she, this young girl so unskilled in

the world's ways, so lonely, so dependent hitherto,--who now looked so

womanly and sedate,--in whose brown eyes he saw such serious thought,

such infinite sweetness and pity,--whose deep mourning dress clothed

her slender figure with a sombre dignity new to it, and on whom a

nameless change had passed, which Geoffrey had eyes to see now, and

recognised even in that moment of painful emotion with wonder.

Calmly, carefully subduing every trace of embarrassment for his sake,

and in a business-like tone which precluded the necessity for any

preliminary explanation, Annie told Geoffrey Ludlow that she had been

made aware of the circumstances which had preceded and caused his

illness. She touched lightly upon her sorrow and her sympathy, but

passed on to the subject of Caterham's letter. Geoffrey listened to her

in silence, his head turned away and his eyes covered with his hand.

Annie went on:

"I little thought, Geoffrey, when I was so glad to find that you

were well enough to read Arthur's letter, and when I only thought

of fulfilling so urgent a request as soon as I could, and perhaps

diverting your mind into thoughts of our dear dead friend, that I was

to be the means of making all this misery plain and intelligible.

But it was so, Geoffrey; and I now see that it was well. Why Arthur

should have selected you to take up the search after his death I

cannot tell,--I suppose he knew instinctively your fidelity and

trueheartedness; but the accident was very fortunate, for it identified

your interests and mine, it made the fulfilment of his trust a sacred

duty to me, and enabled me to do with propriety what no one else could

have done, and what she--what Margaret--would not have accepted from

another."

Geoffrey started, let his hand fall from his face, and caught hers. "Is

it you, then, Annie?"

"Yes, yes," she said, "it is I, Geoffrey; do not agitate yourself, but

listen to me. When Mr. Bowker found Margaret, as you know he did, she

was very ill, and--she had no protector and no money. What could he do?

He did the best thing; he told me, to whom Arthur's wishes were sacred,

who would have done the same had you never existed--you know I am rich

and free; and I made all the needful arrangements for her at once. When

all was ready for her reception--it is a pretty house at Sydenham,

Geoffrey, and she is as well cared for as any one can be--I went to

her, and told her I was come to take her home."

"And she--Margaret--did she consent? Did she think it was I who--"

"Who sent me?" interrupted Annie. "No,--she would not have consented;

for her feeling is that she has so wronged you that she must owe

nothing to you any more. In this I know she is quite wrong; for to

know that she was in any want or suffering would be still worse grief

to you,--but that can never be,--and I did not need to contradict

her. I told her I came to her in a double character that of her own

friend--though she had not had much friendship for me, Geoffrey; but

that is beside the question--and--and--" here she hesitated for a

moment, but then took courage and went on, "that of her husband's

cousin." Geoffrey ground his teeth, but said never a word. She

continued, with deepening light in her eyes and growing tenderness

in her voice, "I told her how Arthur, whom I loved, had sought for

her,--how a strange fatality had brought them in contact, neither

knowing how near an interest each had in the other. She knew it the day

she fainted in his room, but he died without knowing it, and so dying

left her, as I told her I felt she was, a legacy to me. She softened

then, Geoffrey, and she came with me."

Here Annie paused, as if expecting he would speak, but he did not. She

glanced at him, but his face was set and rigid, and his eyes were fixed

upon the walk, where the nurse and child still were.

"She is very ill, Geoffrey," Annie went on; "very weak and worn, and

weary of life. I am constantly with her, but sometimes she is unable or

unwilling to speak to me. She is gloomy and reserved, and suffers as

much in mind as in body, I am sure."

Geoffrey said slowly, "Does she ever speak to you of me?"

Annie replied, "Not often. When she does, it is always with the

greatest sorrow for your sorrow, and the deepest sense of the injury

she has done you. I am going to her to-day, Geoffrey, and I should like

to take to her an assurance of your forgiveness. May I tell Margaret

that you forgive her?"

He turned hastily, and said with a great gasp, "O Annie, tell her that

I love her!"

"I will tell her that," the girl said gently and sadly, and an

expression of pain crossed her face. She thought of the love that had

been wasted, and the life that had been blighted.

"What is she going to do?" asked Geoffrey; "how is it to be in the

future?" This was a difficult question for Annie to answer: she knew

well what lay in the future; but she dreaded to tell Geoffrey, even

while she felt that the wisest, the easiest, the best, and the most

merciful solution of the terrible dilemma in which a woman's ungoverned

passion had placed so many innocent persons was surely and not slowly

approaching.

"I don't know, Geoffrey," she said; "I cannot tell you. Nothing can be

decided upon until she is better, and you are well enough to advise and

direct us. Try and rest satisfied for the present. She is safe, no harm

can come to her; and I am able and willing to befriend her now as you

did before. Take comfort, Geoffrey; it is all dreadful; but if we had

not found her, how much worse it would have been!"

At this moment the nurse carried her charge out of their sight, as she

came towards the house, and Annie, thinking of the more than motherless

child, wondered at the no-meaning of her own words, and how any thing

could have been worse than what had occurred.

She and Geoffrey had spoken very calmly to each other, and there had

been no demonstration of gratitude to her on his part; but it would be

impossible to tell the thankfulness which filled his heart. It was a

feeling of respite which possessed him. The dreadful misfortune which

had fallen upon him was as real and as great as ever; but he could

rest from the thought of it, from its constant torture, now that he

knew that she was safe from actual physical harm; now that no awful

vision of a repetition of the destitution and misery from which he had

once rescued her, could come to appal him. Like a man who, knowing

that the morrow will bring him a laborious task to do, straining his

powers to the utmost, inexorable and inevitable in its claims, covets

the deep rest of the hours which intervene between the present and the

hour which must summon him to his toil, Geoffrey, in the lassitude of

recent illness, in the weakness of early convalescence, rested from

the contemplation of his misery. He had taken Annie's communication

very quietly; he had a sort of feeling that it ought to surprise him

very much, that the circumstances were extraordinary, that the chain

of events was a strangely-wrought one--but he felt little surprise; it

was lurking somewhere in his mind, he would feel it all by and by, no

doubt; but nothing beyond relief was very evident to him in his present

state. He wondered, indeed, how it was with Annie herself; how the

brave, devoted, and unselfish girl had been able, trammelled as she

was by the rules and restrictions of a great house, to carry out her

benevolent designs, and dispose of her own time after her own fashion.

There was another part of the subject which Geoffrey did not approach

even in his thoughts. Bowker had not told him of Margaret's entreaties

that she might see Lionel Brakespere; he had not told him that the

young man had returned to his father's house; and he made no reference

to him in his consideration of Annie's position. He had no notion that

the circumstances in which Lord Caterham had entreated his protection

for Annie had already arisen.

"How is it that you can do all this unquestioned, Annie?" he asked;

"how can you be so much away from home?"

She answered him with some embarrassment. "It was difficult--a

little--but I knew I was right, and I did not suffer interference. When

you are quite well, Geoffrey, I want your advice for myself. I have

none else, you know, since Arthur died."

"He knew that, Annie; and the purport of the letter which told me such

a terrible story was to ask me in all things to protect and guide you.

He little knew that he had the most effectual safeguard in his own

hands; for, Annie, the danger he most dreaded for you was association

with his brother."

"That can never be," she said vehemently. "No matter what your future

course of action may be, Geoffrey, whether you expose him or not--in

which, of course, you will consider Margaret only--I will never live

under the same roof with him. I must find another home, Geoffrey, let

what will come of it, and let them say what they will."

"Caterham would have been much easier in his mind, Annie," said

Geoffrey, with a sad smile, "if he had known how baseless were his

fears that his brother would one day win your heart."

"There never could have been any danger of that, Geoffrey," said Annie,

with a crimson blush, which had not subsided when she took her leave of

him.

CHAPTER IX.

CLOSING IN.

The porter at Lord Beauport's mansion in St. Barnabas Square became

so familiarised with Mr. Bowker's frequent visits as at length to

express no surprise at the sight of the "hold cove," who daily arrived

to inquire whether any tidings of Lord Caterham had been received.

Although the porter's experience of life had been confined to London,

his knowledge of the ways of men was great; and he was perfectly

certain that this pertinacious inquirer was no dun, no tradesman with

an overdue account, no begging letter-writer or imposter of any kind.

What he was the porter could not tell; mentioned, in casual chat with

the footman waiting for the carriage to come round, that he could not

"put a name" to him, but thought from his "rum get-up" that he was

either in the picture-selling or the money-lending line.

Undeterred by, because ignorant of, the curiosity which his presence

excited--and indeed it may be assumed that, had he been aware of it,

his actions would have been very little influenced thereby--old William

Bowker attended regularly every day at the St. Barnabas-Square mansion,

and having asked his question and received his answer, adjourned to

the nearest tavern for his lunch of bread-and-cheese and beer, and

then puffing a big meerschaum pipe, scaled the omnibus which conveyed

him to London Bridge, whence he took the train for the little house

at Sydenham. They were always glad to see him there, even though he

brought no news; and old Mrs. Ludlow especially found the greatest

comfort in pouring into his open ears the details of the latest

experience of her "cross." William Bowker to such recitals was a

splendid listener; that is to say, he could nod his head and throw in

an "Indeed!" or a "Really!" exactly at the proper moment, while all the

time his thoughts were far away, occupied with some important matter.

He saw Til occasionally, and sometimes had flying snatches of talk with

Annie Maurice in the intervals of her attendance on the invalid. Bowker

did not meet Charley Potts very frequently, although that gentleman

was a regular visitor at Sydenham whenever Mrs. Ludlow and Til were

there; but it was not until the evening that Mr. Potts came, for he

was diligently working away at his commissions and growing into great

favour with Mr. Caniche; and besides, he had no particular interest

in Miss Maurice; and so long as he arrived in time to escort Miss Til

and her mother back to London Bridge and to put them into the Lowbar

omnibus, he was content, and was especially grateful for the refreshing

sleep which always came upon old Mrs. Ludlow in the train.

At length, when many weary days had worn themselves away, and Geoffrey

was beginning to feel his old strength returning to him, and with it

the aching void which he had experienced on regaining consciousness

daily increasing in intensity, and when Margaret's hold on life had

grown very weak indeed, old William Bowker, making his daily inquiry of

Lord Beauport's porter, was informed that Lord Caterham had returned

the previous afternoon, and was at that moment at breakfast. Then, with

great deliberation, Mr. Bowker unbuttoned his coat and from an inner

breast-pocket produced an old leather pocket-book, from which, among

bits of sketches and old envelopes, he took a card, and pencilling his

name thereon, requested the porter to give it to Lord Caterham.

The porter looked at the card, and then said jocosely, "You ain't wrote

your business on it, then? 'Spose you couldn't do that, eh? Well, you

are a plucked 'un, you are, and I like you for it, never givin' in

and comin' so reg'lar; and I'll let him have your card just for that

reason." He disappeared as he said these words, but came back speedily,

remarking, "He'll see you, he says, though he don't know the name. Do

you know the way? Same rooms which his brother used to have,--straight

afore you. Here, I'll show you."

The friendly porter, preceding Mr. Bowker down the passage, opened the

door of what had been poor Arthur's sitting-room, and ushered in the

visitor. The bookcases, the desk, the pictures and nicnacks, were all

as they had been in the old days; but there was a table in the middle

of the room, at which was seated the new Lord Caterham finishing late

breakfast. Bowker had never seen the Lionel Brakespere of former days;

if he had, he would have noticed the change in the man before him,--the

boldness of bearing, the calm unflinching regard, the steadiness of

voice, the assurance of manner,--all of which, though characteristic

of Lionel Brakespere in his earliest days, had deserted him, only to

reappear with his title.

"You wished to see me, Mr. ----. I don't know your name," said Lionel,

stiffly returning the stiff bow which Bowker gave him on entering.

"You have my card, my lord," said old Bowker quietly.

"Ah, yes, by the way, I have your card," said Lionel, taking it up.

"Mr. Bowker--Mr.--Bowker! Now that does not convey to me any idea

whatever?"

"I daresay not. You never heard it before--you never saw me before; and

you would not see me now, if I did not come on business of the greatest

importance."

"Business of the greatest importance! Dear me, that's what they all

come on. Of the greatest importance to yourself, of course?"

"Of the greatest importance to you. Except in a very minor degree, Ive

nothing to do in the matter."

"Of the greatest importance to me! O, of course--else it would not have

been worth while your coming, would it? Now, as my time is valuable, be

good enough to let me know what this business is."

"You shall know in as few words as I can tell you. I come to you from a

woman--"

Lionel interrupted him with a cynical laugh.

"The deuce you do!" he said. "From a woman? Well, I thought it was

cigars, or a blue diamond, or a portrait of some old swell whom you had

made out to be an ancestor of mine, or--"

"I would advise you not to be funny on the subject until you've heard it

explained, Lord Caterham," said Mr. Bowker grimly. "I scarcely imagine

you'll find it so humorous before I'm done."

"Sha'n't I? Well, at all events, give me the chance of hearing," said

Lionel. He was in a splendid temper. He had come back, after a pleasant

run with Algy Barford, to enjoy all the advantages of his new position.

On the previous night he and his mother had had a long talk about Miss

Maurice--this heiress whom he was to captivate so easily. The world lay

straight and bright before him, and he could spare a few minutes to

this old fellow--who was either a lunatic or a swindler--for his own

amusement.

"I come to you Lord Caterham, from a woman who claims to be your wife."

In an instant the colour died out of Lionel's face; his brows were

knit, and his mouth set and rigid. "O, ho!" said he through his

clenched teeth, after a moment's pause; "you do, do you? You come to me

from _that_ woman? That's your line of country, is it? O yes--I guessed

wrong about you, certainly--you don't look a bit like a bully!"

"A bully!" echoed William Bowker, looking very white.

"A bully!" repeated Lionel--"the woman's father, brother, former

husband--any thing that will give you a claim to put in an appearance

for her. And now look here. This game won't do with me--I'm up to it;

so you had better drop it at once, and get out."

Old Bowker waited for a minute with set teeth and clenched fists, all

the gray hair round his mouth bristling with fury. Only for a minute.

Then he resumed the seat which he had quitted, and said,

"I'm not quite so certain of myself nowadays, as Ive been a long time

out of practice; but it strikes me that during your long career of

gentlemanly vice, my Lord Caterham, you never were nearer getting

a sound drubbing than you have been within the last five minutes.

However, let that pass. You have been good enough to accuse me of

being a bully, by which term I imagine you mean a man sent here by the

unfortunate lady of whom we have spoken to assert her rights. I may as

well start by telling you that she is utterly ignorant of my intention

to call on you."

"Of course--O yes, of course. Didn't give you my address, did she?"

"She did not."

"She didn't? O, then you've come on your own hook, being some relation

or friend of hers, to see what you could bounce me out of."

"I am no relation of hers. I have not seen her half a dozen times in

the course of my life."

"Then what the deuce brings you here?"

"I'll tell you as shortly as I can. When you deserted this woman--not

caring what became of her; leaving her to sink or swim as best she

might--she slipped from one point of wretchedness to another, until, at

the bottom of her descent, she was discovered by a very old friend of

mime perishing of cold and hunger--dying in the streets!"

Lionel, whose face when Bowker commenced speaking had been averted,

turned here, and gave a short sharp shudder, fixing his eyes on Bowker

as he proceeded.

"Dying in the streets! My friend rescued her from this fate, had

her nursed and attended, and finally--ignorant of the chief fact of

her life, though she had confided to him a certain portion of her

story--fell so desperately in love with her as to ask her to become his

wife."

"To become his wife!" cried Lionel; "and she consented?"

"She did."

"And they were married?"

"They were. I was present."

"_Bravissimo!_" said Lionel in a low voice. "you've done me a greater

service than you think for, Mr.--what's-your-name. She'll never trouble

me again."

"Only once more, my lord," said old Bowker solemnly.

"What the devil do you mean, sir?"

"Simply this, my lord. I understand your exclamation of delight at

seeing your way legally to rid yourself of this woman, who is now

nothing to you but an incumbrance. But you need not fear; you will not

even have the trouble of consulting your lawyer in the matter. There is

one who breaks up marriage-ties more effectually even than the Divorce

Court, and that one is--Death!"

"Death!"

"Death. The woman of whom we have been speaking lies in the jaws of

death. Her recovery, according to all human experience, is impossible.

Dying,--and knowing herself to be dying,--she wishes to see you."

"To see me!" said Lionel scornfully; "O no, thank you; I won't

interfere in the family party. The gentleman who has married her might

object to my coming."

"The gentleman who married her in all noble trust and honour, she

deserted directly she heard of your return. Overwhelmed by her cruelty,

and by the full details of her story, which he heard from your brother,

the then Lord Caterham, at the same time, he fell, smitten with an

illness from which he is barely recovering. She is in another house far

away from his, and on her deathbed she calls for you."

"She may call," said Lionel, after a moment's pause, frowning,

thrusting his hands into his pockets, and settling himself back into

his chair; "she may call; I shall not go."

"You will not?"

"I will not--why should I?"

"If you can't answer that question for yourself, Lord Caterham, upon

my soul I can't for you," said Bowker gruffly. "If you think you owe

no reparation to the woman, your wife, whom you left to be rescued by

strangers' charity from starvation, I cannot convince you of it: if you

decline to accede to her dying request, I cannot enforce it."

"Why does not the--the gentleman who was so desperately in love with

her, and whom she--she accepted--why does not he go to her?" said

Lionel. He did not care for Margaret himself, but the thought that she

had been something to any one else grated upon his pride.

"Ah, my God," said old Bowker, "how willingly would he; but it is not

for him she asks--it is for you. You boast of your experience of women,

and yet you know so little of them as to expect gratitude of them.

Gratitude from a woman--gratitude--and yet, God knows, I ought not to

say that--I ought not to say that."

"You seem to have had a singular experience, Mr. Bowker," said Lionel,

"and one on which you can scarcely make up your mind. Where is this

lady whom you wish me to see?"

"At Sydenham--within an hour's drive."

Lionel rang the bell. "Tell them to get the brougham round," said he to

the servant who answered it. "Now, look here, Mr. Bowker; I am going

with you thoroughly depending on your having told me the exact truth."

"You may depend on it," said old Bowker simply. And they started

together.

That was a strange ride. At starting Lionel lit a cigar, and puffed

fiercely out of the window; idly looking at the Parliament-houses

and other familiar objects which met his gaze as they drove over

Westminster Bridge, the passing populace, the hoardings blazing with

placards, the ordinary bustle and turmoil of every-day life. He was

angry and savage; savage with Margaret for the annoyance she had

brought upon him, savage with Bowker for having found him out, savage

with himself for having allowed himself, in the impulse of a moment,

to be betrayed into this expedition. Then, as the houses became fewer,

and the open spaces more frequent; as they left behind them the solid

blocks of streets and rows and terraces, dull wretched habitations for

ninth-rate clerks, solemn old two-storied edifices where the shipping

agents and Baltic merchants of a past generation yet lingered in their

retirement, frowsy dirty little shops with a plentiful sprinkling of

dirtier and frowsier taverns, imbued as was the whole neighbourhood

with a not-to-be explained maritime flavour,--as they slipped by these

and came into the broad road fringed by pretty gardens, in which

stood trim villas stuccoed and plate-glassed, with the "coach-house

of gentility" and every other sign of ease and wealth; then leaving

these behind, emerged into country lanes with wide-spreading meadows

on either side, green uplands, swelling valleys, brown shorn fields

whence the harvest had been carried,--as they passed through all these

the cruel thoughts in Lionel's mind softened, and he began to think

of the scene to which he was being hastened, and of his own share in

bringing about that scene. As he flung away the butt-end of his cigar,

there rose in his mind a vision of Margaret as he had first seen her,

walking on the Castle Hill at Tenby with some of her young companions,

and looking over the low parapet at the boiling sea raging round

Catherine's Rock. How lovely she looked, glowing with youth and health!

What a perfectly aristocratic air and _tournure_ she had, visible in

the careless grace of her hat, the sweeping elegance of her shawl, the

fit of her boots and gloves! How completely he had been taken aback by

the apparition! how he had raved about her! had never rested until he

had obtained an introduction, and--ah, he remembered at that moment

distinctly the quivering of her eyelids, the fluttering of her young

bosom under its simple gauze, her half hesitating timid speech. That

was comparatively a short time ago--and now in what condition was he to

find her? He was not all bad, this man--who is?--and the best part of

him was awakened now. He crossed his arms, leaned back in the carriage,

and was nearer repentance than he had been since his childhood.

And old William Bowker, what was he thinking of? Indeed, he had fallen

into his usual day-dream. The comparison between Margaret and his own

lost love, made when he first saw her, had always haunted him; and he

was then turning in his mind how, if such a complication as they were

experiencing at that moment had been possible, it would have affected

her and him. From this his thoughts glided to the impending interview,

and he wondered whether he had done right in bringing it about. He

doubted whether Margaret would have the physical strength to endure

it; and even if she had, whether any good--even so far as the arousing

even a transient good in his companion--would result from it. As he was

pondering upon these things, Lionel turned quietly upon him and said in

a hoarse voice,

"You said she was very ill?"

"Very ill; could hardly be worse--to be alive."

"It's--" and here he seemed to pull himself together, and nerve himself

to hear the worst--"it's consumption, I suppose, caught from--damn it

all, how my lip trembles!--brought on by--want, and that."

"It originated in rheumatic fever, produced by cold and exposure,

resulting in heart-disease and a complication of disorders."

"Has she had proper advice?--the best, I mean, that can be procured?"

"Yes; she has been seen twice by ---- and ----" said Bowker, naming two

celebrated physicians, "and her own doctor sees her every day."

"And their opinions agree?"

"They all agree in saying that--"

"Hush," said Lionel, seizing him by the arm; "your face is quite

enough. I'd rather not hear it again, please." And he plunged his hands

into his pockets, and sunk back shuddering into the corner of the

brougham.

Bowker was silent; and they drove on without interchanging a word until

William stopped the coachman at a small gate in a high garden-wall.

Then Lionel looked up with a strange frightened glance, and asked, "Is

this the place?"

"It is," said Bowker; "she has been here for some little time now. You

had better let me go in first, I think, and prepare for your coming."

And all Lionel answered was, "As you please," as he shrunk back into

his corner again. He was under a totally new experience. For the first

time in his life he found himself suffering under a conscience-pang;

felt disposed to allow that he had acted badly towards this woman now

lying so stricken and so helpless; had a kind of dim hope that she

would recover, in order that he might--vaguely, he knew not how--make

her atonement. He felt uncomfortable and fidgetty. Bowker had gone, and

the sun-blistered damp-stained garden-door had been closed behind him,

and Lionel sat gazing at the door, and wondering what was on the other

side of it, and what kind of a house it was, and where she was, and

who was with her. He never thought he should have felt like this. He

had thought of her--half a dozen times--when he was out there; but he

knew she was a clever girl, and he always had a notion that she would

fall upon her legs, and outgrow that first girlish smite, and settle

down comfortably, and all that kind of thing. And so she would now.

They were probably a pack of nervous old women about her--like this

fellow who had brought him here--and they exaggerated danger, and made

mountains of mole-hills. She was ill--he had little doubt of that; but

she would get better, and then he'd see what could be done. Gad! it was

a wonderful thing to find any woman caring for a fellow so; he might go

through life without meeting another; and after all, what the deuce did

it matter? He was his own master, wasn't he? and as for money--well,

he should be sure to have plenty some day: things were all altered

now, since poor old Arthur's death; and-- And at that moment the door

opened; and behind William Bowker, who was pale and very grave, Lionel

saw the house with all its blinds drawn down. And then he knew that his

better resolutions had come too late, and that Margaret was dead.

Yes, she was dead; had died early that morning. On the previous day

she had been more than usually restless and uncomfortable, and towards

evening had alarmed the nurse who thought she was asleep, and who

herself was dozing--by breaking out into a shrill cry, followed by a

deep long-drawn lamentation. Annie Maurice at the sound rushed hastily

into the room, and never left it again until all was over. She found

Margaret dreadfully excited. She had had a horrible dream, she said--a

dream in which she went through all the miseries of her days of penury

and starvation, with the added horror of feeling that they were a just

punishment on her for her ingratitude to Geoffrey Ludlow. When she was

a little quieted, she motioned Annie to sit by her; and holding her

hand, asked her news of Geoffrey. Annie started, for this was the first

time that, in her calm senses, Margaret had mentioned him. In her long

ravings of delirium his name was constantly on her lips, always coupled

with some terms of pity and self-scornful compassion; but hitherto,

during her brief intervals of reason, she had talked only of Lionel,

and of her earnest desire to see and speak to him once again. So Annie,

pleased and astonished, said,

"He is getting better, Margaret; much better, we trust."

"Getting better! Has he been ill, then?"

"He has been very ill--so ill that we at one time feared for his life.

But he is out of danger now, thank God."

"Thank God!" repeated Margaret. "I am grateful indeed that his death

is not to be charged to my account; that would have been but a bad

return for his preservation of my life; and if he had died, I know

his death would have been occasioned by my wickedness. Tell me, Miss

Maurice--Annie--tell me, has he ever mentioned my name?"

"Ah, Margaret," said Annie, her eyes filling with tears, "his talk is

only of you."

"Is it?" said Margaret, with flushing cheeks and brightening eyes; "is

it? That's good to hear---O how good! And tell me, Annie--he knows I

shall not trouble him long--has he, has he forgiven me?"

"Not that alone," said Annie quietly. "Only yesterday he said, with

tears in his eyes, how he loved you still."

There was silence for a moment, as Margaret covered her eyes with her

hands. Then, raising her head, in a voice choked with sobs she said,

with a blinding rush of tears, "O Annie, Annie, I can't be _all_ bad,

or I should never have won the love of that brave, true-hearted man."

She spoke but little after this; and Lionel's name never passed her

lips--she seemed to have forgotten all about him and her desire to

see him. From time to time she mentioned Geoffrey--no longer, as in

her delirium, with pity, but with a kind of reverential fondness, as

one speaks of the dead. As the night deepened, she became restless

again, tossing to and fro, and muttering to herself; and bending down,

Annie heard her, as she had often heard her before, engaged in deep

and fervent prayer. Then she slept; and, worn out with watching, Annie

slept also.

It was about four o'clock in the morning when Annie felt her arm

touched; and at once unclosing her eyes, saw Margaret striving to raise

herself on her elbow. There was a bright weird look in her face that

was unmistakable.

"It's coming, Annie," she said, in short thick gasps; "it's coming,

dear--the rest, the peace, the home! I don't fear it, Annie. Ive--Ive

had that one line running in my brain, 'What though my lamp was lighted

late, there's One will let me in.' I trust in His mercy, Annie, who

pardoned Magdalen; and--God bless you, dear; God in His goodness

reward you for all your love and care of me; and say to Geoffrey that

I blessed him too, and that I thanked him for all his--your hand,

Annie--so bless you both!--lighted late, there's One will--"

And the wanderer was at rest.

CHAPTER X.

AFTER THE WRECK.

They looked to Bowker to break the news to Geoffrey; at least so

Charley Potts said, after a hurried conference with Til and her mother,

at which Annie Maurice, overwhelmed by the reaction from excessive

excitement, had not been present. They looked to Bowker to perform this

sad duty--to tell Geoffrey Ludlow that the prize which had been so long

in coming, and which he had held in his arms for so short a time, was

snatched from him for ever. "For ever," said old William: "that's it.

He bore up wonderfully, so long as he thought there was any chance of

seeing her again. He hoped against hope, and strove against what he

knew to be right and just, and would have made any sacrifice--ay, to

the extent of bowing his head to his own shame, and taking her back to

his home and his heart. If she had recovered; and even if she would

have shown herself willing to come back--which she never would--I could

have faced Geoff, and told him what his duty was, and fought it out

with him to the last. It would have rather done me good, such a turn as

that; but I can't bear this job;--I can't bear to see my old friend,

to have to tell him that it's all over, that the light of his life has

died out, that-- Upon my soul," said old William energetically, "I

think they might have got some one else to do this. And yet I don't

know," said he, after a moment's pause: "the women couldn't be expected

to do it. As for Charley, he'd have bungled it, safe. No, I'll go and

do it myself; but I'll wait till to-morrow, I think: there's no good

adding another day's anguish to the dear fellow's life."

This was on the second day after Margaret's death, and Bowker yet

postponed the execution of his task. On the third day, however, he set

out for Elm Lodge and found Geoffrey in the dining-room. The servant

who admitted Mr. Bowker said, in reply to his inquiry, that "master

was better certainly, but poor and peaky; did not take much notice of

what went on, and were quite off his food." Geoffrey's looks certainly

bore out the handmaiden's account. His cheeks were thin and hollow;

there were great circles round his eyes; his flesh was tight and

yellow; his hands so fallen away that they looked like mere anatomical

preparations. He looked up as Bowker entered, and the ghost of his old

smile hovered round his lips.

"So you've come at last, William, after failing in your troth these

three days, eh?" said he. "What kept you, old friend?"

Bowker was not prepared for any questions. He had gone through all this

scene in his mind more than once; but in his rehearsal it was always he

who commenced the subject; and this order not being followed, he was

rather taken aback.

"I have been particularly engaged," he said. "You know, Geoff, that I

should not have missed coming to you otherwise; but--it was impossible."

"Was it?" said Geoffrey, raising his head quietly, and stedfastly

regarding him with his bright eyes; "was it on my business that you

were engaged?"

"It was," said Bowker. He knew at that moment that his friend had

guessed the truth.

"Then," said Geoffrey, "Margaret is dead!" He said it without altering

the inflection of his voice, without removing his eyes from his

friend's face. Scarcely inquiringly he said it, apparently convinced of

the fact; and he took Bowker's silence for an affirmative, and rose and

walked towards the window, supporting himself by the wall as he went.

Bowker left him there by himself for a few minutes, and then, going

up to him and laying his hand affectionately on his shoulder, said,

"Geoff!"

Geoff's head was averted, but his hand sought Bowker's, and pressed it

warmly.

"Geoff, dear old Geoff,--my old friend of many happy years,--you must

bear up in this hour of trial. Think of it, dear old fellow. God knows,

I'm one of the worst in the world to preach content and submission, and

all that; but think of it: it is the--you know I wouldn't hurt your

feelings Geoff--the best thing that, under all the circumstances, could

have occurred."

"Ive lost her, William--lost her whom I loved better than my heart's

blood, whom I so prized and cherished and worshipped--lost her for

ever--ah, my God, for ever!" And the strong man writhed in his agony,

and burying his head in his arms, burst into tears.

"But, Geoff," said old Bowker, with a great gulp, "you could never have

been any thing to her again you have nothing to reproach yourself with

in your conduct to her. It was her misfortune, poor soul, that she did

not value you as she should have done; and yet before she died she

spoke very, very affectionately of you, and your name was the last on

her lips."

"Tell me about that, William," said Geoffrey, raising his head; "tell

me what she said about me." He was comparatively calm even then, and

sat quite quietly to listen to the details which Bowker had heard from

Annie Maurice, and which he now poured into Geoff's eager ears. When he

had finished, Geoff thanked him, and said he felt much easier and more

relieved than he had been for some days past, but that he was tired

out, and would ask Bowker to excuse him then, and by all means to come

the next day. Honest William, glad to have accomplished his mission

under such apparently favourable circumstances, and with so little of a

"scene," took his leave.

But the next day, when he arrived at Elm Lodge, he found Dr. Brandram's

gig at the gate, and on entering the house was met by Dr. Brandram

himself in the hall. "And a very fortunate man I esteem myself in

meeting you, my dear Mr. Boucher--beg pardon, Bowker! Boucher--name

of old friend of mine in Norfolk--very fortunate indeed. Let's step

into the dining-room, eh?--no need to stand in the draught, eh? You

see I speak without the least professional feeling--ha, ha." And the

little doctor laughed, but very softly. "Now look here, my dear sir,"

he continued; "our friend upstairs--I advised his remaining upstairs

to-day--this _won't do_, my dear sir--this _won't_ do."

"I know it, doctor, almost as well as you," said old William gruffly;

"but what I don't know, and what I suppose you do, is--what will?"

"Change, my dear sir--thorough and entire change; not merely of air

and scene, but of thought, life, habits, surroundings. He has a

splendid constitution, our friend; but if he remains much longer in

this cage, from which all the--all the joys have flown--he'll beat

himself to death against the bars." This was a favourite simile with

Dr. Brandram; and after he had uttered it he leant back, as was his

wont, and balanced himself on his heels, and looked up into the eyes of

his interlocutor to see its effect. On this occasion he was not much

gratified, for old Bowker had not troubled himself about the poetical

setting, but was thinking over the sense of the doctor's remark.

"Change," he repeated, "thorough change; have you told him that

yourself, doctor?"

"Fifty times, my dear sir; repeated it with all the weight of medical

authority."

"And what does he say?"

"Always the same thing--that his duty keeps him here. He's an

extraordinary man, our friend, a most estimable man; but it would be

an excellent thing for him,--in fact, make all the difference in the

length of his life,--if his duty would take him abroad for six months."

"It shall," said old Bowker, putting on his hat, and driving it down

hard down on his head. "Leave that to me. I'll take care of that." And

with these words he nodded at the doctor and departed, leaving the

little medico more astonished at the "odd ways" of artists than ever.

When Mr. Bowker had once made up his mind to carry any thing out, he

never rested until it was achieved; so that on quitting Elm Lodge he at

once made his way to Mr. Stompff's "gallery of modern masters," which

he entered, greatly to the surprise of the proprietor, who was hovering

about the room like a great spider on the watch for flies. There had

never been any thing like cordiality between the great _entrepreneur_

and the rough old artist; and the former opened his eyes to their

widest extent, and pulled his whisker through his teeth, as he bowed

somewhat sarcastically and said, "This is an honour and no flies?"

But before his visitor left, Mr. Stompff had occasion to rub his eyes

very hard with a bright silk pocket-handkerchief, and to resort to

a cupboard under the desk on which the catalogues stood, whence he

produced a tapering flask, from which he and Mr. Bowker refreshed

themselves--his last words being, as Mr. Bowker took his departure,

"You leave it to me, old fellow--you leave it to me."

Carrying out apparently the arrangement herein entered upon, the next

day the great Mr. Stompff's brougham stopped at Elm Lodge, and the

great Mr. Stompff himself descended therefrom, exhibiting far less than

his usual self-sufficiency, swagger, and noise. To the servant who

opened the door in answer to his modest ring he gave a note which he

had prepared; and Geoffrey coming down into the dining-room found him

waiting there, apparently deep in a photographic album. He rose, as the

door opened, and caught Geoffrey warmly by the hand.

"How are you, Ludlow? How are you, my dear fellow? It must have

been pressing business that brought me here just now, worrying you

when you're only just recovered from your illness, my boy; pressing

business, you may take your oath of that." And all the time Mr. Stompff

held Geoffrey's hand between his own, and looked into his eyes with a

wavering unsettled glance.

"I'm better, thank you, Mr. Stompff, much better; so much better that I

hope soon to be at work again," said Geoff nervously.

"That's right; that's the best hearing possible. Nothing like getting

back to work to set a man straight and bring him to his bearings."

"You were getting nervous about the 'Esplanade,'" said Geoff with a

sickly smile--"as well indeed you might, for it's been a long time

about. But you need not be frightened about that; Ive managed to finish

it."

"Have you?" said Stompff, very dry and husky in the throat.

"Yes; if you'll step into the studio, I'll show it you." They went down

the little steps which Margaret had traversed so oft; and Geoffrey, as

he pulled the big easel round into the light, said, "It's not quite

what I wished. I--circumstances, you know, were against me--and but--it

can be altered, you know; altered in any manner you wish."

"Altered be--hanged!" cried Stompff, very nearly relapsing into the

vernacular; "altered!" he repeated, gazing at it with delight; now

approaching closely to the canvas, now stepping away and looking at it

under the shade of his hand; "why, that's first chop, that is. You've

done it up brown! you've made reg'ler ten-strike, as the Yankees say.

Altered! I wouldn't have a brush laid upon that for a fifty-pun' note

By George, Ludlow, well or ill, you lick the lot in your own line.

There's none of 'em can touch you, d'ye hear? Altered!--damme it's

splendid."

"I'm very glad you like it," said Geoff wearily, "ye glad; more

especially as it may be a long time before paint again."

"What's that you say?" said Mr. Stompff, turning upon him sharply.

"What's that you say?" he repeated in a gentler tone, laying his hand

softly upon Geoffrey Ludlow's shoulder--"a long time before you paint

again? Why, nonsense my good fellow; you don't know what nonsense

you're talking."

"No nonsense, Mr. Stompff, but plain, honest, simple fact. I seem to

have lost all zest for my art; my spirit is broken, and--"

"Of course, my good fellow; I understand all that well enough; too much

England,--that's what it is. Home of the free, and ruling the waves and

all that. Pickles! Capital place to sell pictures; deuced bad place to

paint 'em. Now look here. You've been good enough to say more than once

that Ive been your friend, eh? Not that Ive ever done more than give a

good price for good work, though that's more than some people do--some

people, eh? we know who--never mind. Now, I want you to do _me_ a turn,

and I am sure you will."

Geoffrey bowed his head and said, "So long as you don't require a

picture from me--"

"Picture! O no; of course not. A steam engine, or a hansom cab, or a

stilton cheese--that's what I look for from you naturally, isn't it?

Ludlow, my dear fellow, how can you talk such stuff? Now listen. The

British public, sir, has had a sickener of British subjects. Little

Dab and his crew have pretty nearly used up all the sentimental

domesticity; and we've had such a lot of fancy fairs, and Hyde Parks,

and noble volunteers, and archery fêtes, and gals playing at croky,

that the B.P. won't stand it any longer. There'll be a reaction, you'll

see; and the 'Cademy will be choke full of Charles the Seconds, and

Nell Gwynns, and coves in wigs, and women in powder and patches, and

all that business, just because the modern every-day gaff has been

done to death. I shall have to give in to this; and I shall give in of

course. There's lots of coves can do that trick for me well enough to

sell. But I look for more from you;--and this is what I propose. You go

straight away out of this; where, I don't care--so long as you remain

away a year or so, and keep your eyes about you. You'll work hard

enough,--I don't fear that; and whatever you do, send it home to me and

I'll take it. Lor' bless you, there's rigs that the B.P. knows nothing

about, and that would make stunnin' objects for you--a _table-d'hôte_

on the Rhine, a students' _kneipe_ at Heidelberg, a _schützenfest_ in

Switzerland; and then you've never been to Italy yet, and though that

game's been worked pretty often, yet any thing Italian from you would

sell like mad." He paused for a moment and looked up at Geoffrey, whose

eyes were fixed intently on him, and who seemed eager and excited.

"It's all one to me," said he; "I scarcely know what to say; it's very

kind of you. I know you mean it well; but do you think I can do it? Do

you really think so?"

"Think so! I know so," said Mr. Stompff. "See here! I never take up a

thing of this sort without carrying it through. We said five hundred

for the 'Esplanade,' didn't we? you've had three on account--that's

right! Now here's the other two; and if you're as well pleased with the

bargain as me, no knife shall cut our love in two, as the song says.

Now you must leave this money behind for the old lady and the little

'un, and that nice sister of yours---O yes, by the way, what makes

Charley Potts paint her head in all his pictures, and why don't he sell

to me instead of Caniche?--and here's a hundred in circular notes. I

went round to my bank and got 'em this morning on purpose for you to go

abroad with. When they're done, you know where to send for some more."

"You are very kind, Mr. Stompff, but--"

"No, I ain't. I'm a man of business, I am; and there ain't many as is

very fond of me. But I know what the B.P. wants, and I know a good

fellow when I see one; and when I do see one, I don't often laacklet him

slide. I ain't a polished sort of cove," said Mr. Stompff reflectively;

"I leave that to Caniche, with his paw-paw bowins and scrapins; but I

ain't quite so black as some of the artists paint me. However, this is

a matter of business that I'm rather eager about; and I should be glad to

know if I may look upon it as settled."

"Look here, Mr. Stompff," said Geoffrey Ludlow, turning to his

companion, and speaking in an earnest voice; "you have behaved

generously to me, and you deserve that I should speak frankly with

you. I should immensely like to get away from this place for a while,

to shake off the memory of all that has passed within the last few

months--so far as it is possible for me to shake it off--to get into

new scenes, and to receive fresh impressions. But I very much doubt

whether I shall be able to undertake what you wish. I feel as if all

the little power I ever had were gone; as if my brain were as barren to

conceive as I know my hand is impotent to execute; I feel--"

"I know," interrupted Mr. Stompff; "regularly sewed up; feel as if

you'd like somebody to unscrew your head, take your brains out and

clean 'em, and then put 'em back; feel as if you didn't care for the

world, and would like to try the hermit dodge and eat roots and drink

water, and cut society, eh? Ah, Ive felt like that sometimes; and then

Ive heard of some pictures that was comin' to the hammer, and Ive just

looked in at Christie's, and, Lord, as soon as I heard the lots a-goin'

up, and felt myself reg'ler in the swing of competition, Ive given up

all them foolish notions, and gone home and enjoyed a roast fowl and a

glass of sham and Mrs. S.'s comp'ny, like a Christian! And so will you,

Ludlow, my boy; you'll pull through, I'll pound it. You work just when

you feel inclined, and draw upon me when you want the ready; I'll stand

the racket, never fear."

The conspiracy between Mr. Stompff and old William Bowker had been

carried out minutely in detail; one of the points insisted on being

that, the position once carried, Geoff should have no time for retreat.

Accordingly, while Mr. Stompff was proceeding to Elm Lodge, Mr. Bowker

was indoctrinating the ladies (whom he knew he should find at Sydenham)

as to the tenour of their advice; and scarcely had Mr. Stompff quitted

Geoffrey when Mr. Bowker was announced. To his old friend, Geoffrey,

now in a very excited state, told the whole story of Stompff's visit

and of the proposition which he had made; and old William--whom no one

would have given credit for possessing such control over his face--sat

looking on with the greatest apparent interest. When Geoffrey came to

an end of his narration, and asked his friend whether he had done right

in partially acceding to what had been offered him, or whether--it

was not too late--he should retract, Mr. Bowker was extremely

vehement--more so than he had ever known himself to be--in insisting

that it was the very best thing that could possibly have happened. When

Mrs. Ludlow and Til returned, they unhesitatingly pronounced the same

opinion; and so Geoff's departure was decided on.

He had a great deal to attend to before he could leave; and the mere

bustle and activity of business seemed to do him good at once. Mrs.

Ludlow was thoroughly happy in preparing his clothes for his journey;

Mr. Bowker and Charley Potts were constantly at Elm Lodge, the latter

gentleman finding his assistance usually required by Miss Til; and

on the day before that fixed for Geoffrey's departure, Annie Maurice

called to take farewell. It was an interview which had been dreaded

by both of them, and was as brief as possible. Annie expressed her

satisfaction at his having been persuaded to seek change, by which she

was sure he would benefit, and extended her hand in "goodbye."

Geoff took her hand, and holding it tenderly in his, said:

"Annie, some day I may be able--I am very far from being able now--to

tell you how the knowledge of your kindness to--to one whom I have

lost--has sustained me under my bitter sorrow. God bless you, my more

than sister! God bless you, my good angel!" And Geoffrey touched her

forehead with his lips, and hurried from the room.

The authorities at the South-Eastern terminus at London Bridge thought

that some distinguished exile must be about returning to France that

night, there were so many curiously-hatted and bearded gentlemen

gathered round the mail-train. But they were only some of our old

friends of the Titians come to say "God speed" to Geoffrey Ludlow,

whose departure had been made known to them by Mr. Stompff. That worthy

was there in great force, and old Bowker, and Charley Potts, and little

Dabb, and old Tom Wrigley, and many others; and as the train wound out

of the station, bearing Geoff along with it, there were rising tears

and swelling knots in eyes and throats that were very unused to such

manifestations of weakness.

CHAPTER XI.

LAND AT LAST.

The calm had come after the storm; the great, hurrying, thundering

waves had stilled into silence, and lay quiet over the shattered wreck

of home, and happiness, and hope. The winter rain had beaten upon the

pretty house, and the light snow had fallen and lain a while, and had

then melted away upon the garden ground and the smooth green turf,

within the walls which had made a prison to the restless spirit of

Margaret, even as the rain had beaten and the snow had fallen upon her

grave in Norwood Cemetery. Now the spring odours were abroad in the

air, and the trees were breaking into leaf, and Elm Lodge was looking

the very perfection of tranquillity, of well-ordered, tasteful comfort

and domesticity; an appearance in which there was all the sadness of a

great contrast, a terrible retrospect, and an irremediable loss. Yet

this appearance was not altogether deceptive; for within the house

which had witnessed so much misery, peace and resignation now reigned.

Mrs. Ludlow's unacknowledged desire was now realised; she was the

mistress of her son's house, of all the modest splendour which had come

with poor Geoff's improved fortunes; she ruled now where she had been

subordinate before, and in the nursery, where at best she had only

enjoyed toleration, she found herself supreme. To be sure, the great

element of enjoyment, her son's presence, was wanting; but she knew

that Geoffrey was doing the best thing in his power to do, was taking

the most effectual means for the establishment of his health and the

alleviation of his sorrow; and the old lady--on whom the supineness

which comes with years, and which takes the edge off the sword of

grief and the bitterness out of its cup, was beginning to steal--was

satisfied. Much that had occurred was only imperfectly known to her;

and indeed she would have been unfitted, by the safe routine and

happy inexperience of evil passions which had marked her own life, to

understand the storm and conflict which had raged around her. That her

son's beautiful wife had been utterly unworthy of him, and that she had

deceived and left him, Mrs. Ludlow knew; but Margaret's death had come

so soon to terminate the terrible and mysterious dilemma in which her

conduct had placed them all, that it had imposed upon them the silence

of compassion, and filled them with the sense of merciful relief; so

that by mutual consent her name had snot been mentioned in the house

where she had been mistress for so long. Her son's illness, and the

danger of losing him, had impressed Mrs. Ludlow much more vividly than

his domestic calamity; and she had settled down with surprising ease

and readiness to the routine of life at Elm Lodge.

That routine included a good deal of the society of Mr. Charley Potts;

and as Mrs. Ludlow was almost as much attached to that warm-hearted and

hot-headed gentleman as Miss Til herself, she acquiesced with perfect

willingness in the state of affairs which brought him to Elm Lodge

with regularity equalled only by that of the postman. The household

was a quiet one; and the simple and unpretending women who walked

along the shady paths at Lowbar in their deep-mourning dresses, or

played with the little child upon the lawn, furnished but scanty food

for the curiosity of the neighbourhood. Popular feeling was indeed

somewhat excited on the subject of Charley Potts; but Dr. Brandram--a

gallant gentleman in his way--set that matter at rest very quickly

by announcing that Charley and Miss Ludlow were engaged, and were

shortly to be married--information which was graciously received; as

indeed the most distant tidings of a prospective wedding always are

received by small communities in which the female element predominates.

Dr. Brandram had done Geoffrey good service too, by his half-made,

half-withheld communications respecting the beautiful mistress of Elm

Lodge, whose disappearance had been so sudden. She had not recovered

her confinement so well as he had hoped: the nervous system had been

greatly shaken. He had ordered change: a temporary removal from home

was frequently of great benefit. Yes, there had been a terrible scene

with Mr. Ludlow--that was quite true: the non-medical mind was hard

to convince in these matters sometimes; and Mr. Ludlow had been hard

to manage. But a quarrel between _them!_--O dear no: quite a mistake.

Mrs. Ludlow left home by herself?--O dear no: by her own consent,

certainly. She perfectly comprehended the necessity of the change, and

was ready to submit; while Ludlow could not be brought to see it--that

was all. "I assure you, my dear madam," the doctor would say to each

of his female catechists, "I never had a more interesting patient; and

I never pitied a man more than Ludlow when she sank so rapidly and

unexpectedly. I really feared for _his_ reason then, and of course

I sent _him_ away immediately. A little change, my dear madam,--a

littlechange in these cases produces a wonderful effect--quite

wonderful!"

"But, doctor," the anxious inquirer would probably say, "Mr. Ludlow

never saw her again after she was removed, did he?"

"Well, indeed, my dear madam,--you see I am telling professional

secrets; but you are not like other women: you are so far above any

vulgar curiosity, and I know I may rely so entirely on your discretion,

that I make an exception in your case,--they never did meet. You see

these cases are so uncertain; and cerebral disease developes itself

so rapidly, that before any favourable change took place, the patient

sunk."

"Dear me, how very sad! It was at an asylum, I suppose?"

"Well, my dear madam, it was under private care--under the very best

circumstances, I assure you; but--you'll excuse me; this is entirely

confidential. And now to return to your dear little boy."

So did kind-hearted Dr. Brandram lend his aid to the laying of the

ghost of scandal at Elm Lodge; and gradually it became accepted that

Mrs. Ludlow had died under the circumstances hinted at by Dr. Brandram.

"It is rather a disadvantage to the dear child, Charley, I fear,"

sapiently remarked Miss Til to the docile Mr. Potts as he was attending

her on a gardening expedition, holding a basket while she snipped and

weeded, and looking as if pipes and beer had never crossed the path of

his knowledge or the disc of his imagination; "people will talk about

his mother having died in a lunatic-asylum."

"Suppose they do?" asked Charley in reply. "That sort of thing does

not harm a man; and"--here the honest fellow's face darkened and his

voice fell--"it is better they should say that than the truth. I think

that can always be hidden, Til. The poor woman's death has saved us

all much; but it has been the greatest boon to her child; for now no

one need ever know, and least of all the child himself, that he has no

right to bear his father's name."

"It is well Geoff is not a rich man, with a great estate to leave to

an eldest son," said Til, pulling at an obstinate tuft of groundsel,

and very anxious to prevent any suspicion that her lover's words had

brought tears to her eyes.

"Well," said Charley, with rather a gloomy smile, "I'm not so certain

of that, Til: it's a matter of opinion; but I'm clear that it's a good

thing he's not a great man--in the 'nob' sense of the word I mean--and

that the world can afford to let him alone. Here comes the young

shaver--let's go and talk to him." And Charley, secretly pining to get

rid of the basket, laid down that obnoxious burden, and went across the

grass-plat towards the nurse, just then making her appearance from the

house.

"Charley is always right," said Til to herself as she eradicated

the last obstinate weed in the flower-bed under inspection and

rejoined Mr. Potts; from which observation it is to be hoped that

the fitness of Miss Til for undertaking that most solemn of human

engagements--matrimony--will be fully recognised. There are women who

practically apply to their husbands the injunctions of the Church

Catechism, in which duty to God is defined; who "believe in, fear,

trust, and love" them "with all their hearts, with all their minds,

with all their souls, and with all their strength;" and Matilda Ludlow,

though a remarkably sensible girl, and likely enough to estimate other

people at their precise value, was rapidly being reduced to this state

of mind about Charley, who was at all events much less unworthy than

most male objects of female devoteeism.

Mrs. Ludlow and her daughter heard pretty regularly from Geoff.

Of course his letters were unsatisfactory; men's letters always

are, except they be love-letters when their meaning is tempered

by their exclusiveness. He was eager for news of the child; but

he never referred to the past in any other respect, and he said

little in anticipation of the future. He described his travels,

reported the state of his health, and expressed his anxiety for his

mother's comfort; and that was about the sum-total of these literary

productions, which no doubt were highly penitential performances to

poor Geoffrey.

Spring was well advanced when Charley and Til began to discuss the

propriety of naming a time for their marriage. The house at Brompton

was still "on their hands," as Mrs. Ludlow was fond of saying, while

in her secret heart she would have deeply regretted the turning-up of

an eligible tenant; for who could answer for the habits and manners

of strangers, or tell what damage her sacred furniture might receive?

Charley proposed to Til that they should become her mother's tenants,

and urged that young lady to consent to a speedy marriage, from the

most laudable economic principles, on the ground that under present

circumstances he was idling dreadfully, but that he confidently

expected that marriage would "settle his mind." The recent date of the

family calamity Charley could not be brought to regard as a reasonable

obstacle to his wishes.

"Look here, Til," he said; "it isn't as if we were swells, you

know, with our names, ages, and weights in the _Morning Post_, and

our addresses in the _Red Book_. What need we care, if Geoff don't

mind?--and he won't, God bless him!--the happier we are, the sooner

he'll cease to be miserable; and who's to know or to care whether it's

so many months sooner or later after that poor woman's death? Besides,

consider this, Til; if we wait until Geoff comes home, a wedding and

all that won't be pleasant for him: will it, now? Painful associations

you know, and all that. I really think, for Geoff's sake, we had better

get it over."

"Do you indeed, Master Charley?" said Til, with a smile full of pert

drollery, which rendered her exasperatingly pretty. "How wonderfully

considerate you are of Geoff; and how marvellously polite to describe

marrying me as 'getting it over' No, no, Charley," she continued,

seriously; "it cannot be. I could not leave mamma to the responsibility

of the house and the child--at least not yet. Don't ask me; it would

not be right towards Geoff, or fair to my mother. You must wait, sir."

And the crestfallen Charley knew that he must wait, and acquiesced with

a very bad grace; not but that Miss Til would have been horribly vexed

had it been better.

An unexpected auxiliary was about this time being driven by fate

towards Charley Potts in the person of Annie Maurice. She had been

constant and regular in her visits to Elm Lodge, affectionate and

respectful in her demeanour to Mrs. Ludlow, and sisterly in her

confidence towards Til. The hour that had united the two girls in a

tie of common responsibility towards Geoff and Margaret had witnessed

the formation of a strong and lasting friendship; and though Annie's

superior refinement and higher education raised her above the level of

Matilda Ludlow, she was not more than her equal in true womanly worth.

They passed many happy hours together in converse which had now become

cheerful, and their companionship was strengthened by the bond of their

common interest in Til's absent brother. Miss Ludlow, perhaps, did an

unfair proportion of the talking on these occasions; for she was of

the gushing order of girls, though she did not border even remotely

on silliness. By common consent they did not speak of Margaret, and

Til had never known Arthur; so that Annie rarely talked of him, always

sacredly loved and remembered in her faithful heart, preserved as her

friend and monitor--dead, yet speaking. Annie had been more silent than

usual lately, and had looked sad and troubled; and it chanced that on

the day following that which witnessed Charley's luckless proposition,

Miss Maurice arrived at Elm Lodge at an earlier hour than usual;

and having gained a private audience of Til, made to her a somewhat

startling revelation.

The conference between the girls lasted long, and its object took Til

completely by surprise. Annie Maurice had resolved upon leaving Lord

Beauport's house, and she had come to ask Mrs. Ludlow to receive her.

She told Til her reasons, simply, honestly, and plainly.

"I cannot live in the house with Lionel Brakespere," she said; "and I

have no friends but you. Geoffrey and I were always friends, and my

dear Arthur trusted him, and knew he would befriend me. I am sure if

he were living now, he would counsel me to do what I am doing. I have

often thought if he had had any idea that the end was so near, he would

have told me, if any difficulty came in my way, to apply for aid to

Geoffrey, and I am clear that I am doing right now. I have no friends,

Til, though I am rich," Annie repeated, with a more bitter smile than

had ever flitted over her bright face in former days; "and I have no

'position' to keep up. I cannot go and live in a big house by myself,

or in a small one either, for that matter, and I want your mother to

let me come and live with her while Geoffrey is away."

Til hesitated before she replied. She saw difficulties in the way of

such an arrangement which Annie did not; difficulties arising from the

difference in the social position of the friends Annie wished to leave,

and those she wished to come to.

"I am sure, as far as we are concerned, every thing might be as you

wish," she said; "but--Lady Beauport might not think it quite the

thing."

"Lady Beauport knows I will not remain in her house, Til; and she will

soon see as plainly as I do that it is well I should not. The choice

is between me and her son, and the selection is not difficult. Lionel

Brakespere (I cannot call him by Arthur's familiar name) and I are not

on speaking terms. He knows that I am acquainted with his crimes; not

only those known to his family, but those which he thought death had

assisted him to hide. I might have concealed my knowledge from him had

he not dared to insult me by an odious pretence of admiration, which I

resented with all my heart and soul. A few words made him understand

that the safest course he could pursue was to abandon such a pretence,

and the revelation filled him with such wrath and hatred as only such

a nature could feel. Why he has adopted a line of behaviour which can

only be described as down-right savage rudeness--so evidently intended

to drive me out of the house, that Lord and Lady Beauport themselves

see it in that light--I am unable to comprehend. I have sometimes

fancied that he and his mother have quarrelled on the matter; but if

so, he has had the best of it. However, there is no use in discussing

it, Til; my home is broken up and gone from me; and if your mother will

not take me under her charge until Geoffrey comes home, and advises me

for the future, I must only set up somewhere with a companion and a

cat."

Annie smiled, but very sadly; then she continued:

"And now, Til, I'll tell you how we will manage. First, we will get the

mother's leave, and I will invite myself on a visit here, to act as

your bridesmaid, you see, and--"

"Charley has been talking to you, Annie!" exclaimed Miss Til, starting

up in mingled indignation and amusement: "I see it all now--you have

been playing into each other's hands."

"No, indeed, Charley never said a word to me about it," replied Annie

seriously; "though I am sure if he had, I should have done any thing he

asked; but, Til, do let us be earnest,--I am serious in this. I don't

want to make a scandal and a misery of this business of my removal from

Lord Beauport's; and if I can come here to be your bridesmaid, in a

quiet way, and remain with your mother when you have left her, it will

seem a natural sort of arrangement, and I shall very soon, heiress

though I am, drop out of the memory of the set in which I have lately

moved. I am sure Geoffrey will be pleased; and you know that dear

little Arthur is quite fond of me already."

It is unnecessary to report the conversation between the two girls in

fuller detail. Mrs. Maurice carried her point; the consent of Mrs.

Ludlow to the proposed arrangement was easily gained; and one day the

fine carriage with the fine coronets, which had excited the admiration

of the neighbourhood when Miss Maurice paid her first visit to Geoffrey

Ludlow's bride, deposited that young lady and her maid at Elm Lodge. A

few days later a more modest equipage bore away Mr. and Mrs. Potts on

the first stage of their journey of life.

"And so, my dear Annie," wrote Geoffrey to his ex-pupil, "you are

established in the quiet house in which I dreamed dreams once on a

time. I continue the children's phrase, and say 'a long time ago.' I

am glad to think of you there with my mother and my poor little child.

If you were any one but Annie Maurice, I might fear that you would

weary of the confined sphere to which you have gone; but, then, it is

because you _are_ Annie Maurice that you are there. Sometimes I wonder

whether I shall ever see the place again which, if ever I do see it,

I must look upon with such altered eyes. God knows: it will be long

first--for I am wofully weak still. But enough of me. My picture goes

on splendidly. When it is finished and sent home to Stompff, I shall

start for Egypt. I suppose many a one before me has tried to find the

waters of Lethe between the banks of Nile."

Charley Potts and Til were comfortably settled in the house at

Brompton, where Til guarded the household gods with pious care, and

made Charley uncommonly comfortable and abnormally orderly. Mrs.

Ludlow and her young guest led a tranquil life at Elm Lodge. Annie

devoted herself to the old lady and the child with a skilful tenderness

partly natural to her and partly acquired by the experiences of her

life in her rural home, and within the scene of Caterham's lengthened

and patient suffering. The child loved her and throve under her

charge; and the old lady seemed to find her "cross" considerably less

troublesome within the influence of Annie's tranquil cheerfulness,

strong sense, and accommodating disposition. The neighbourhood had

taken to calling vigorously and pertinaciously on Mrs. Ludlow and

Miss Maurice. It approved highly of those ladies; for the younger was

very pleasant, not alarmingly beautiful, reputed to be very rich, and

acknowledged not to "give herself airs;" while the elder was intensely

respectable--after the fashion dear to the heart of Lowbar; and both

went to church with scrupulous regularity. Dr. Brandram was even more

cordial in his appreciation of Annie than he had been in his admiration

of Margaret; and the star of Elm Lodge was quite in the ascendant. A

few of the members of the great world whom she had met in the celestial

sphere of St. Barnabas Square found Annie out even at Elm Lodge, and

the apparition of other coronets than that of the Beauports was not

unknown in the salubrious suburb. Lady Beauport visited Miss Maurice

but rarely, and her advent seldom gave Annie pleasure. The girl's

affectionate and generous heart was pained by the alteration which she

marked more and more distinctly each time that she saw the cold and

haughty Countess, on whose face care was fast making marks which time

had failed to impress.

Sometimes she would be almost silent during her short visits, on which

occasions Mrs. Ludlow was wont to disappear as soon as possible;

sometimes she would find querulous fault with Annie--with her

appearance and her dress, and her "throwing herself away." Sometimes

Annie felt that she was endeavouring to turn the conversation in the

direction of Lionel; but that she invariably resisted. It chanced one

day, however, that she could not succeed in preventing Lady Beauport

from talking of him. Time had travelled on since Annie had taken up her

abode at Elm Lodge, and the summer was waning; the legislative labours

of the Houses had come to an end, and Lord and Lady Beauport were

about to leave town. This time the Countess had come to say goodbye to

Annie, whom she found engaged in preparations for a general flitting

of the Elm-Lodge household to the seaside for the autumn. Annie was in

blooming health, and her usual agreeable spirits--a strong contrast to

the faded, jaded, cross-looking woman who said to her complainingly,

"Really, Annie, I think you might have come with us, and left your

friends here to find their autumnal amusements for themselves; you know

how much Lord Beauport and I wished it."

"Yes," said Annie gently, "I know you are both very kind; but it cannot

be. You saw that yourself, dear Lady Beauport, and consented to my

entering on so different a life. You see I could not combine the two;

and I have new duties now--"

"Nonsense, Annie!" said Lady Beauport angrily. "You will not come

because of Lionel,--that is the truth. Well, he is not to be at home at

all; he is going away to a number of places: he likes any place better

than home, I think. I cannot understand why you and he should disagree

so much; but if it must be so, I suppose it must. However, you will not

meet him now." And Lady Beauport actually condescended to reiterate

her request; but she had no success. Annie had resolutely broken with

the old life, which had never suited her fresh, genial, simple tastes;

and she was determined not to renew the tie. She knew that she was

not in any true sense necessary to Lady Beauport's happiness; she was

not ungrateful for such kindness as she had received; but she was a

sensible girl, and she made no mistake about her own value, and the

true direction in which her duty, her vocation lay. So she steadily

declined; but so gently that no offence was taken; and made inquiry

for Lord Beauport. The worried expression which had gradually marred

the high-bred repose of Lady Beauport's face increased as she replied,

and there was a kind of involuntary confidence in her manner which

struck Annie with a new and painful surprise. Lord Beauport was well,

she said; but he was not in good spirits. Things seemed to be wrong

with them somehow and out of joint. Then the elder lady, seeing in

the face of her young listener such true sympathy, thawed suddenly

from her habitual proud reserve, and poured out the bitterness of her

disappointment and vain regret. There was a tone of reproach against

Annie mingled with her compliant, which the girl pityingly passed

over. If Annie had but liked Lionel; if she would but have tried to

attract him, and keep him at home, all might have been well: but

Annie had imbibed poor Arthur's prejudices; and surely never were

parents so unfortunate as she and the Earl in the mutual dislike which

existed between their children. Lady Beauport did not want to justify

Lionel entirely--of course not: but she thought he might have had a

better chance given him in the first instance. Now he had greatly

deteriorated--she saw that: she could not deny it; and her "granted

prayer" for his return had not brought her happiness.

Annie listened to all this with a swelling heart. A vision floated

before her tearful eyes of the lost son, who had been so little

loved, so lightly prized; whose place the brother preferred before

him had taken and disgraced; and a terrible sense of retribution

came into her mind. Too late the father and mother were learning how

true his judgment had been, and how valuable his silent influence.

Time could only engrave that lesson more and more deeply on their

hearts; experience could only embitter it--its sting was never to be

withdrawn. They had chosen between the two, and their choice, like

Esau's, was "profane." Lady Beauport spoke more and more bitterly as

she proceeded. The softening touch of grief was not upon her--only

the rankling of disappointment and mortification; only the sting of a

son's ingratitude, of discovering that in return for the sacrifice of

principle, self-respect, and dignity to which she had consented for

Lionel's sake, she had not received even the poor return of a semblance

of affection or consideration.

The hardness of Lionel's nature was shown in every thing his mother

said of him--the utter want of feeling, the deadness of soul. Annie

felt very sad as she listened to Lady Beauport's melancholy account of

the life they had fallen into at the great house. She was oppressed by

the sense of the strangeness of the events which had befallen, and in

which the Countess had, all unconsciously, so deep an interest. It was

very sad and strange to remember that she was detailing the conduct

of the man whose baseness had enabled Margaret to lay Geoffrey's

life in ruins under Geoffrey's own roof. It was terrible to Annie to

feel that in her knowledge there was a secret which might so easily

have been divulged at any moment, and which would have afflicted the

vexed and mortified woman before her more deeply than any thing that

had occurred. Lady Beauport was not tender-hearted; but she was a

high-minded gentlewoman, and would have been shamed and stricken to

the soul had she discovered the baseness of her son in this particular

instance. She had fondly flattered herself into a belief that the crime

which had been so inadequately punished was only a folly; but there

was no possibility of such a reading of this one, and Annie was glad

to think that at least the pang of this knowledge was spared to Lady

Beauport. She could say nothing to comfort her. In her inmost heart she

had an uneasy, unexplained sense that it was all the just retribution

for the conduct of Arthur's parents towards him, and hopelessness for

the future of a family of which Lionel formed a member took possession

of her.

"He is so disagreeable, so selfish, Annie," continued Lady Beauport,

"and O so slangy; and you know how his father hates that sort of thing."

"It is better that he should be away, then, for a little," said Annie,

trying to be soothing, and failing lamentably.

"Well, perhaps it is," said Lady Beauport; "and yet that seems hard

too, when I longed so much for his return, and when now he has every

thing he wants. Of course, when he was only a second son, he had

excuses for discontent; but now he has none, and yet he is never

satisfied. I sometimes think he is ill at ease, and fancies people are

thinking about the past, who don't even know any thing about it, and

would not trouble themselves to resent it if they did. But his father

does not agree with me, Annie: he will not give Lionel credit for any

thing good. I cannot make out Lord Beauport: he is much more cold and

stern towards Lionel than he need be, for he is not so careless and

inconsiderate towards his father as he is towards me. He seems to have

taken up poor Arthur's notions now, and to judge Lionel as severely

as he did. He does not say much; but things are uncomfortable between

them, and Lord Beauport is altered in every way. He is silent and

dispirited; and do you know, Annie, I think he grieves for Arthur more

than he did at first?"

Distress and perplexity were in Lady Beauport's face and voice, and

they went to Annie's gentle heart.

"Try not to think so much of it," she said; "circumstances may alter

considerably when Lionel gets more settled at home, and Lord Beauport

has had time to get over the irritation which his return occasioned

him."

"He resents your having left us more bitterly than any thing, Annie. He

constantly speaks of you in the highest terms of praise, and wishes you

back with us. And so do I, my dear, so do I."

Annie was amazed. Tears were in Lady Beauport's eyes, and a tremble in

her voice. During all the period of Annie's residence in her house,

the Countess had never shown so much feeling towards her, had never

suffered her to feel herself of so much importance. The sterling merit

of the girl, her self-denial, her companionable qualities, had never

before met with so much recognition; and a thrill of gratification

passed through her as she felt that she was missed and valued in the

home whence Lionel's conduct had driven her.

"I am very glad," she said, "that Lord Beauport thinks and speaks so

kindly of me--indeed, he was always kind to me, and I am very grateful

to him and you."

"Then why will you not come to us, Annie? Why do you prefer these new

friends to us?"

"I do not," she answered; "but as things have been, as they are, it is

better I should not be in a position possibly to estrange the father

and son still more. If I were in the house, it would only furnish him

with an excuse to remain away, and cause Lord Beauport additional

anxiety."

Annie knew that she must appear strangely obstinate to Lady Beauport;

but it could not be helped; it was impossible that she could explain.

The visit of the Countess was a long one; and Annie gathered from

her further confidences that her dissatisfaction with Lionel was not

her only trouble. The future was not bright before Lady Beauport.

The charms of the world were fading in her estimation; society was

losing its allurements, not under the chastening of a wholesome grief;

but under the corroding, disenchanting influence of bitterness and

disappointment. She looked aged and wearied; and before she and Annie

parted that day, she had acknowledged to the girl that she dreaded the

prospect before her, and had no confidence in her only son, or in his

line of conduct towards her in the event of Lord Beauport's death. The

Earl's words to his wife had been prophetic,--in Caterham's death there

had been but the beginning of sorrow.

Annie stood sadly at the house-door, and watched the carriage as it

rolled away and bore Lady Beauport out of her sight, as it bears her

out of this history.

"This is the man," she thought, "whom she would have remorselessly

made me marry, and been insensible to the cruel wrong she would have

done to me. What a wonderful thing is that boundless, blind egotism of

mothers! In one breath she confesses that he makes her miserable, and

admits his contemptible, wretched nature, though she knows little of

its real evil; in the next she complains that I did not tie myself to

the miserable destiny of being his wife!"

Then Annie turned into the drawing-room, and went over to the window,

through whose panes Margaret's wistful, weary gaze had been so often

and so long directed. She leaned one round fair arm against the glass,

and laid her sleek brown head upon it, musingly:

"I wonder when _home_ will really come for me," she thought. "I wonder

where I shall go to, and what I shall do, when I must leave this. I

wonder if little Arthur will miss me very much when I go away, after

Geoffrey comes back."

Geoffrey Ludlow's letters to his mother and sister were neither

numerous nor voluminous, but they were explicit; and the anxious hearts

at home gradually began to feel more at rest about the absent one so

dear to them all. He had written with much kindness and sympathy on the

occasion of Til's marriage, and they had all felt what a testimony to

his unselfish nature and his generous heart his letter was. With what

pangs of memory,--what keen revivals of vain longing love and cruel

grief for the beautiful woman who had gone down into her grave with the

full ardour of his passionate devotion still clinging around her,--what

desperate struggles against the weariness of spirit which made every

thing a burden to him,--Geoffrey had written the warm frank letter

over which Til had cried, and Charley had glowed with pleasure, the

recipients never knew. There was one who guessed them,--one who seemed

to herself intuitively to realise them all, to weigh and measure every

movement of the strong heart which had so much ado to keep itself from

breaking, far away in the distant countries, until time should have

had sufficient space in which to work its inevitable cure. Mrs. Potts

showed her brother's letter to Annie Maurice with infinite delight, on

that memorable day when she made her first visit, as a married woman,

to Elm Lodge. The flutter and excitement of so special an occasion

makes itself felt amid all the other flutters and excitements of that

period which is the great epoch in a woman's life. The delights of

"a home of one's own" are never so truly realised as when the bride

returns, as a guest, to the home she has left for ever as an inmate. It

may be much more luxurious, much more important, much more wealthy; but

it is not hers, and, above all, it is not "his;" and the little sense

of strangeness is felt to be an exquisite and a new pleasure. Til was

just the sort of girl to feel this to the fullest, though her "own"

house was actually her "old" home, and she had never been a resident at

Elm Lodge: but the house at Brompton had a thousand charms now which

Til had never found in it before, and on which she expatiated eagerly

to Mrs. Ludlow, while Annie Maurice was reading Geoffrey's letter. She

was very pale when she handed it back to Til, and there were large

tears standing in her full brown eyes.

"Isn't it a delightful letter, Annie?" asked Mrs. Potts; "so kind and

genial; so exactly like dear old Geoff."

"Yes," Annie replied, very softly; "it is indeed, Til; it is very like

Geoffrey."

Then Annie went to look after little Arthur, and left the mother and

daughter to their delightful confidential talk.

When the party from Elm Lodge were at the seaside, after Til's

marriage, Annie began to write pretty regularly to Geoffrey, who was

then in Egypt. She was always thinking of him, and of how his mind was

to be roused from its grief; and once more interested in life. She felt

that he was labouring at his art for money, and because he desired

to secure the future of those dear to him, in the sense of duty, but

that for him the fame which he was rapidly winning was very little

worth, and the glory was quite gone out of life,--gone down, with the

golden hair and the violet eyes, into the dust which was lying upon

them. Annie, who had never known a similar grief; understood his in

all its intricacies of suffering, with the intuitive comprehension of

the heart, which happily stands many a woman instead of intellectual

gifts and the learning of experience; and knowing this, the girl,

whose unselfish spirit read the heart of her early friend, but never

questioned her own, sought with all her simple and earnest zeal how to

"cure him of his cruel wound." His picture had been one of the gems

of the Academy, one of the great successes of the year, and Annie had

written to him enthusiastically about it, as his mother had also done;

but she counted nothing upon this. Geoffrey was wearily pleased that

they were pleased and gratified, but that was all. His hand did its

work, but the soul was not there; and as he was now working amid the

ruins of a dead world, and a nation passed away in the early youth of

time, his mood was congenial to it, and he grew to like the select

lapse of the sultry desert life, and to rebel less and less against

his fate, in the distant land where every thing was strange, and there

was no fear of a touch upon the torturing nerves of association. All

this Annie Maurice divined, and turned constantly in her mind; and

amidst the numerous duties to which she devoted herself with the quiet

steadiness which was one of her strongest characteristics, she thought

incessantly of Geoffrey, and of how the cloud was to be lifted from

him. Her life was a busy one, for all the real cares of the household

rested upon her. Mrs. Ludlow had been an admirable manager of her own

house, and in her own sphere, but she did not understand the scale on

which Elm Lodge had been maintained even in Margaret's time, and that

which Miss Maurice established was altogether beyond her reach. The

old lady was very happy; that was quite evident. She and Annie agreed

admirably. The younger lady studied her peculiarities with the utmost

care and forbearance, and the "cross" sat lightly now. She was growing

old; and what she did not see she had lost the faculty of grieving for;

and Geoffrey was well, and winning fame and money. It seemed a long

time ago now since she had regarded her daughter-in-law's furniture and

dress with envy, and speculated upon the remote possibility of some day

driving in her son's carriage.

Mrs. Ludlow had a carriage always at her service now, and the most

cheerful of companions in her daily drive; for she, Annie, and the

child made country excursions every afternoon, and the only time

the girl kept for her exclusive enjoyment was that devoted to her

early-morning rides. Some of the earliest among the loungers by the

sad sea-waves grew accustomed to observe, with a sense of admiration

and pleasure, the fresh fair face of Annie Maurice, as, flushed with

exercise and blooming like a rose in the morning air, she would

dismount at the door of her "marine villa," where a wee toddling child

always awaited her coming, who was immediately lifted to her saddle,

and indulged with a few gentle pacings up and down before the windows,

whence an old lady would watch the group with grave delight. Mrs.

Ludlow wrote all these and many more particulars of her happy life to

her absent son; and sometimes Annie wondered whether those cheerful

garrulous letters, in which the unconscious mother showed Geoffrey

so plainly how little she realised his state of mind, increased his

sense of loneliness. Then she bethought her of writing to Geoffrey

constantly about the child. She knew how he had loved the baby in

happier times, and she never wronged the heart she knew so well by a

suspicion that the disgrace and calamity which had befallen him had

changed this deep-dwelling sentiment, or included the motherless child

in its fatal gloom. She had not spoken of little Arthur in her earlier

letters more than cursorily, assuring his father that the child was

well and thriving; but now that time was going over, and the little

boy's intellect was unfolding, she caught at the legitimate source of

interest for Geoffrey, and consulted him eagerly and continuously about

her little _protégé_ and pupil.

The autumn passed and the winter came; and Mrs. Ludlow, her grandchild,

and Annie Maurice were settled at Elm Lodge. Annie had taken anew to

her painting, and Geoffrey's deserted studio had again an inmate.

Hither would come Charley Potts--a genial gentleman still, but with

much added steadiness and scrupulously-neat attire. The wholesome

subjugation of a happy marriage was agreeing wonderfully with

Charley, and his faith in Til was perfectly unbounded. He was a

model of punctuality now; and when he "did a turn" for Annie in the

painting-room, he brushed his coat before encountering the unartistic

world outside with a careful scrupulousness, at which, in the days of

Caroline and the beer-signals, he would have derisively mocked. Another

visitor was not infrequent there, though he had needed much coaxing to

induce him to come, and had winced from the sight of Geoff's ghostly

easel on his first visit with keen and perceptible pain.

A strong mutual liking existed between William Bowker and Annie

Maurice. Each had recognised the sterling value of the other on the

memorable occasion of their first meeting; and the rough exterior of

Bowker being less perceptible then than under ordinary circumstances,

it had never jarred with Annie's taste or offended against her

sensibilities. So it came to pass that these two incongruous persons

became great friends; and William Bowker--always a gentleman in the

presence of any woman in whom he recognised the soul of a lady--passed

many hours such as he had never thought life could again give him in

his dear old friend's deserted home. Miss Maurice had no inadequate

idea of the social duties which her wealth imposed upon her, and she

discharged them with the conscientiousness which lent her character

its combined firmness and sweetness. But all her delight was in her

adopted home, and in the child, for whom she thought and planned with

almost maternal foresight and quite maternal affection. William Bowker

also delighted in the boy, and would have expended an altogether

unreasonable portion of his slender substance upon indigestible

eatables and curiously-ingenious and destructible toys but for Annie's

prohibition, to which he yielded loyal obedience. Many a talk had the

strangely-assorted pair of friends as they watched the child's play;

and they generally ran on Geoffrey or if they rambled off from him for

a while, returned to him through strange and tortuous ways. Not one

of Geoff's friends forgot him, or ceased to miss him, and to wish him

back among them. Not one of "the boys" but had grieved in his simple

uncultivated way over the only half-understood domestic calamity which

had fallen upon "old Geoff;" but time has passed, and they had begun

to talk more of his pictures and less of himself. It was otherwise

with Bowker, whose actual associates were few, though his spirit of

_camaraderie_ was unbounded. He had always loved Geoffrey Ludlow with a

peculiar affection, in which there had been an unexplained foreboding;

and its full and terrible realisation had been a great epoch in the

life of William Bowker. It had broken up the sealed fountains of

feeling; it had driven him away from the grave of the past; it had

brought his strong sympathies and strong sense into action, and had

effected a moral revolution in the lonely man, who had been soured by

trouble only in appearance, but in whom the pure sweet springs of the

life of the heart still existed. Now he began to weary for Geoffrey. He

dreaded to see his friend sinking into the listlessness and dreariness

which had wasted his own life; and Geoffrey's material prosperity,

strongly as it contrasted with the poverty and neglect which had

been his own lot, did not enter into Bowker's calculations with any

reassuring effect.

"Does Geoffrey never fix any time for his return?" asked William

Bowker of Miss Maurice one summer evening when they were slowly pacing

about the lawn at Elm Lodge, after the important ceremonial of little

Arthur's _coucher_ had been performed.

"No," said Annie, with a quick and painful blush.

"I wish he would, then," said Bowker. "He has been away quite long

enough now; and he ought to come home and face his duties like a man,

and thank God that he has a home, and duties which don't all centre

in himself. If they did, the less he observed them the better." This

with a touch of the old bitterness, rarely apparent now. Annie did not

answer, and Bowker went on:

"His mother wants him, his child wants him, and for that matter Mrs.

Potts's child wants him too. Charley talks some nonsense about waiting

to baptize the little girl until Geoff comes home 'with water from the

Jordan,' said Master Charley, being uncertain in his geography, and

having some confused notion about some sacred river. However, if we

could only get him home, he might bottle a little of the Nile for us

instead. I really wish he'd come. I want to know how far he has really

lived down his trouble; I can't bear to think that it may conquer and

spoil him."

"It has not done that; it won't do that--no fear of it," said Annie

eagerly; "I can tell from his letters that Geoffrey is a strong man

again,--stronger than he has ever been before."

"He needs to be, Miss Maurice," said William, with a short, kind,

sounding laugh, "for Geoffrey's nature is not strong. I don't think I

ever knew a weaker man but one--"

He paused, but Annie made no remark. Presently he fell to talking of

the child and his likeness to Geoffrey, which was very strong and very

striking.

"There is not a trace of the poor mother in him," said Bowker; "I am

glad of it. The less there is before Geoffrey's eyes when he returns to

remind him of the past the better."

"And yet," said Annie in a low voice, and with something troubled in

her manner, "I have often thought if he returned, and I saw his meeting

with the child, how dreadful it would be to watch him looking for a

trace of the dead in little Arthur's face, and not finding it, to know

that he felt the world doubly empty."

Her face was half averted from Bowker as she spoke, and he looked at

her curiously and long. He marked the sudden flush and pallor of her

cheek, and the hurry in her words; and a bright unusual light came into

William Bowker's eyes. He only said,

"Ay--that would indeed be a pang the more." And a few minutes later he

took his leave.

"Charley," said Mr. Bowker to Mr. Potts, three or four Gays afterwards,

as he stood before that gentleman's easel, criticising the performance

upon it with his accustomed science and freedom, "why don't you get

your wife to write to Geoffrey, and make him come home? He ought to

come, you know, and it's not for you or me to remonstrate with him.

Women do these things better than men; they can handle sores without

hurting them, and pull at heartstrings without making them crack.

There's his mother, growing old, you know, and wanting to see him;

and the child's a fine young shaver now, and his father ought to know

something of him, eh, Charley, what do you think?"

"You're about right, old fellow, that's what I think. Til often talks

about it, particularly since the baby was born, and wonders how

Geoffrey can stay away; but I suppose if his own child won't bring him

home, ours can't be expected to do it; eh, William? Til doesn't think

of that, you see."

"I see," said Mr. Bowker, with a smile. "But, Charley, do you just get

Til to write to Geoffrey, and tell him his mother is not as strong as

she used to be, and that the care of her and the child is rather too

much of a responsibility to rest upon Miss Maurice's shoulders, and I

think Geoffrey will see the matter in the true light, and come home at

once."

Charley promised to obey Mr. Bowker's injunction, premising that he

must first "talk it over with Til." William made no objection to

this perfectly proper arrangement, and felt no uneasiness respecting

the result of the conjugal discussion. He walked away smiling,

congratulating himself on having done "rather a deep thing," and

full of visions in which Geoffrey played a part which would have

considerably astonished him, had its nature been revealed to him.

Six weeks after the conversation between Mr. Bowker and Mr. Potts,

a foreign letter in Geoffrey's hand reached Mrs. Ludlow. She hardly

gave herself time to read it through, before she sought to impart its

tidings to Annie. The young 114 was not in the painting-room, not in

the drawing-room, not in the house. The footman thought he had seen

her on the lawn with the child, going towards the swing. Thither Mrs.

Ludlow proceeded, and there she found Annie; her hat flung off; her

brown hair falling about her shoulders, and her graceful arms extended

to their full length as she swung the delighted child, who shouted

"higher, higher!" after the fashion of children.

"Geoffrey's coming home, Annie!" said Mrs. Ludlow, as soon as she

reached the side of the almost breathless girl. "He's coming home

immediately,--by the next mail. Is not that good news?"

The rope had dropped from Annie's hand at the first sentence. Now she

stooped, picked up her hat, and put it on; and turning to lift the

child from his seat, she said,

"Yes, indeed, Mrs. Ludlow, it is; but very sudden. Has any thing

happened?"

"Nothing whatever, my dear. Geoffrey only says--stay, here's his

letter; read for yourself. He merely says he feels it is time to come

home; he has got all the good out of his captivity in Egypt in every

way that he is likely to get--though why he should call it captivit

when he went there of his own accord, and could have come away at any

moment he liked, is more than I can understand. Well, well, Geoffrey

always had queer sayings; but what matter, now that he is coming

home!--Papa is coming home, Arty;--we shall see him soon."

"Shall we?" said the child. "Let me go, Annie; you are making my hand

cold with yours;" and he slipped his little hand from her grasp, and

ran on to the house, where he imparted the news to the household with

an air of vast importance.

"Annie," said Geoffrey Ludlow one day when he had been about three

weeks at home, and after he had passed some time in examining Miss

Maurice's art-performances, "what has become of the drawing I once made

of you, long ago, when you were a little girl? Don't you remember you

laughed at it, and said, 'Grandmamma, grandmamma, what big eyes you've

got!' to it? and the dear old Rector was so dreadfully frightened lest

I should be offended."

"Yes, I remember," answered Annie; "and I have the picture. Why?"

"Because I want it, Annie. If you will let me have it, I will paint a

full-length portrait of you for the next Academy, in which every one

shall recognise a striking likeness of the beautiful and accomplished

Miss Maurice."

"Don't, Geoffrey," said Annie gravely. "I am not in the least more

beautiful now than I was when you took my likeness long ago; but you

shall have the drawing, and you shall paint the picture, and it shall

belong to Arthur, to remind him of me when I am gone abroad."

"Gone abroad!" said Geoffrey, starting up from his chair and

approaching her. "You--gone abroad!"

"Yes," she said, with a very faint smile. "Is no one to see men and

cities, and sand and sphinxes, and mummies and Nile boatmen, except

yourself? Don't you remember how Caterham always wished me to travel

and improve my mind?"

"I remember," said Geoff moodily; "but I don't think your mind wants

improving, Annie. How selfish I am! I really had a kind of fancy that

this was your home; different as it is from such as you might, as you

may command, it was your own choice once. You see what creatures we

men are. A woman like you sacrifices herself for one of us, to do him

good in his adversity, and he takes it as a matter of course that the

sacrifice is to continue--" Geoffrey turned to the window, and looked

wearily out. From the dim corner in which she sat, Annie looked timidly

at his tall figure--a true image of manliness and vigour. She could see

the bronzed cheek, the full rich brown eye, the bushy beard with its

mingled lines of brown and gray. There was far more strength in the

face than in former days, and far more refinement, a deeper tenderness,

and a loftier meaning. She thought so as she looked at him, and her

heart beat hard and fast.

"It was no sacrifice to me, Geoffrey," she said in a very low tone.

"You know I could not bear the life I was leading. I have been very

happy here. Every one has been very good to me, and I have been very

happy; but--"

Geoffrey turned abruptly, and looked at her--looked at the graceful

head, the blushing cheek, the faltering lips--and went straight up to

her. She shrunk just a little at his approach; but when he laid his

hand upon her shoulder, and bent his head down towards hers, she raised

her sweet candid face and looked at him.

"Annie," he said eagerly, with the quick earnestness of a man whose

soul is in his words, "will you forgive all my mistakes,--I have found

them out now,--and take the truest love that ever a man offered to the

most perfect of women? Annie, can you love me?--will you stay with me?

My darling, say yes!"

His strong arms were round her now, and her sleek brown head lay upon

his breast. She raised it to look at him; then folded her hands and

laid them upon his shoulder, and with her crystal-clear eyes uplifted,

said, "I will stay with you, Geoffrey. I have always loved you."

The storm had blown itself out now--its last mutterings had died away;

and through all its fury and despair, through all its rude buffets and

threatening of doom, Geoffrey Ludlow had reached LAND AT LAST!

THE END.

-------------------------------------------------- Printed by W. H.

Smith & Son, 188, Strand, Loudon.