Produced by Charles Bowen
THE ROCK AHEAD.
A NOVEL.
BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
1868.
_The Right of Translation is reserved_.
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.
BOOK THE SECOND (_continued_).
CHAPTER IV. Pursuit.
V. Rebuffed.
VI. Gertrude speaks.
VII. Half-revealed.
VIII. L'Homme propose.
IX. Dieu dispose.
BOOK THE THIRD.
I. Ægrotat Animo.
II. Recognition.
III. A Mine is laid.
IV. Perplexity.
V. An Explosion.
VI. The last Chance.
VII. Ineluctabile Fatum.
VIII. A last Message.
IX. Twelve Months after.
THE ROCK AHEAD.
BOOK THE SECOND.
(_Continued_.)
CHAPTER IV.
Pursuit.
The clearance effected under the superintendence of the Office of
Works, for the amalgamation under one roof of the various Courts of
Law, has carried away a large portion of Clement's Inn, and has
obliterated the pillared entrance to that dusky but genial home of the
shady and impecunious. In the days of our story, however, Inn and
entrance were still there; the former tenanted by human sheep of
various degrees of blackness--roistering government-office clerks,
with the Insolvent Court--which at the outset of their career had been
but a light cloud as small as a man's hand, but which year by year had
assumed larger and more definite proportions--ever lowering over them;
third-rate attorneys, who combined law with discount, "doing" little
bills for ten and twenty pounds with the aforenamed government clerks,
and carefully putting in an appearance at Somerset House on pay-days
to receive their money, or the refresher which was to induce the
withholding of the document--it is always "a document"--until another
quarter had elapsed; agents for companies of all kinds of limited and
unlimited liability; newspaper writers obliged to have cheap chambers
in the neighbourhood of their offices; foreigners representing
continental firms, and wanting a cheap and quasi-respectable address;
an actor or two, a score of needy men-about-town, and a few Jews.
Round the pillars seethed and bubbled a scum of humanity of the
nastiest kind--vendors of the fried fish and the pickled whelk,
boot-blackers of abnormally horrid appearance: and emaciated children
from the neighbouring Clare Market and the adjoining courts, thieves
and impostors from their infancy, hung about the cab-rank, and added
to the general filth and squalor. A pleasant Slough of Despond, that
little spot, now standing bare and cleared, surrounded by the balmy
Holywell, the virtuous Wych, with Drury Lane running from it at
right-angles, and the dirtiest corner of the great legal cobweb of
courts and alleys at its back.
It was a hot morning in July when a cab drew up at the pillars, and
Gilbert Lloyd jumped out, paid the driver, and made his way into the
Inn. The exhalations from the barrows of the fried-fish vendors were
potent, and the change to the faint, sickly perfume of the West-Indian
pine-apple, tastefully arranged in slices on an open barrow which
blocked the immediate thoroughfare, was scarcely refreshing. Perhaps
in July the second-hand garments, even the uniforms, which the Jewish
gentlemen who deal in such trophies hang up at the entrances of their
warehouses, are a thought stronger in flavour than in the winter; and
a fifth-hand portmanteau, which has seen a great deal of service under
various owners, is apt, under the influence of the sun, to suggest its
presence. But Gilbert Lloyd paid no heed to anything of this kind; he
had roughed it too long to care for what came between the wind and his
nobility; not being a literary photographer on the lookout for
"character," he paid no attention to any of the surroundings, but went
straight on, making his way through the jostling crowd until he
arrived at a door, on the posts of which was painted "Gammidge's
Private-Inquiry Office, ground-floor." A farther reference to the
right-hand door of the first-floor discovered a still more elaborate
placard, announcing that "Nichs. Gammidge, many years in the detective
police, undertook inquiries of a private and confidential nature;
agents all over the Continent; strictest secrecy observed; divorce
cases particularly attended to; ring right-hand bell; and no
connection with foreign impostors trading on N.G.'s new invention."
Gilbert Lloyd with some difficulty--for in the dingy passage there was
but little light even on that bright summer morning--read this
description, and in obedience to its suggestion pulled the right-hand
bell. The sound of the bell, vibrating loudly, apparently had the
effect of putting a sudden stop to a muttered conversation of a
groaning character, which had been dimly audible; the door was opened
by a spring from the inside, and Gilbert entered. He found himself in
a low-ceilinged dirty room, with no other furniture than a couple of
chairs and a very rickety deal table. The windows were covered more
than half-way up with blinds improvised out of old newspapers; a
clock with one hand was on the wall; an almanac, much ink-scored and
pin-marked, stood on the mantel-shelf; and a limp map of Great
Britain, evidently torn out of an ancient _Bradshaw_, was pinned
behind the door. At first, on entering, Gilbert Lloyd thought himself
the sole occupant of the room; but when his eyes had become accustomed
to the partial darkness, he discovered someone rubbing himself against
the wall at the opposite end of the room, and apparently trying to
squeeze himself through into the next house. A little hard looking at
and careful study made him out a very thin, small, white-faced young
man, with hollow cheeks, a sharp face, and a keen restless eye. As
Gilbert's glance fell on him, or rather, as he seemed to feel it fall
on him, he shook himself with an odd restless motion, as though to
endeavour to get rid of some spell of fascination, but evidently
desired to keep as much as possible in the background. The groaning,
smothered conversation meanwhile had recommenced in another quarter,
and Gilbert, looking round, noticed a door evidently leading into an
inner room.
"Is this Mr. Gammidge's office?" he asked abruptly of the white-faced
young man.
The white-faced young man gave a sudden start, as though a pin had
been run into him, but never spoke.
"Mr. Gammidge's office--is this Mr. Gammidge's office?" repeated
Gilbert.
"I--I believe so," said the white-faced young man, taken aback by the
sharpness of the key in which the inquiry was made. "I have no reason
to think it's not."
"Where is Mr. Gammidge?"
"Not in!" Wonderfully sharp and pert came this reply; constant lying
in one groove oils the tongue so splendidly.
"Not in?" echoed Gilbert half savagely.
"Not in! Sure to be in later in the day. Got most important business
on just now for--"
"Stow it!" The words came not from the white-faced young man, nor from
Gilbert, but yet they were perfectly audible.
On hearing them, the white-faced young man became silent at once, and
Gilbert looked round in amazement. The muttered groans became fainter,
a sound as of clinking money was heard, then as of the opening of a
door, the farewell of a gruff voice, the departure of a thick pair of
boots; then one door slammed, and the inner door, which Gilbert had
noticed on his first entrance, opened, and a man stood in the doorway
with a beckoning forefinger.
A short stout man in a brown wig, with a fat unintelligent face, with
heavy pendulous cheeks and a great jowl, and a round stupid chin, but
with an eye like a beryl--small, bright, and luminous; a man with just
sufficient intelligence to know that he was considerably overrated,
and that the best chance for him in keeping up the deception lay in
affectation of deepest mystery, and in saying as little as possible.
Mr. Gammidge had been made a hero in certain police-cases during his
professional career, by two or three "gentlemen of the press," who had
described a few of his peculiarities--a peculiar roll of his head, a
sonorous manner of taking snuff, a half-crow of triumph in his throat
when he thought he saw his way out of a complication--in their various
organs. Henceforth these peculiarities were his stock-in-trade, and he
relied upon them for all his great personal effects.
When Gilbert Lloyd obeyed the influence of the beckoning forefinger,
he passed through the door of communication between the inner and
outer rooms, and found himself in an apartment smaller and not less
dingy than that he had left. In the middle of it was a large desk, on
which were a huge leaden inkstand, a few worn quill-pens, and a very
inky blotting-pad. Sentinel on one flank stood a big swollen
Post-office Directory, two years old; sentinel on the other, a stumpy
manuscript volume in a loose binding, labelled "Cases." The walls
blossomed with bills offering large sums as rewards for information to
be given respecting persons who had absconded; and on a disused and
paralytic green-cloth screen, standing in a helpless attitude close by
the desk, was pinned a bill, setting forth the Sessions of the Central
Criminal Court for the year, with the dates on which Mr. Gammidge was
engaged in any of the trials pending distinguished by a broad cross
with a black-lead pencil.
As soon as Gilbert Lloyd had entered the room, Mr. Gammidge closed
the door carefully behind him, and placing himself in front of him,
indulged him with the peculiar roll of the head, while he took a
sonorous pinch of snuff, and said in a thick confidential voice, "Now,
captin?"
"I'm no captain," said Lloyd shortly, "and you don't recollect me;
though you're ready to swear you do, and though I have employed you
before this."
Lloyd paused here for a moment; but as Mr. Gammidge merely looked at
him helplessly, and muttered under his breath something about "such a
many gents," he went on.
"My name is Gilbert Lloyd. I manage Lord Ticehurst's racing matters
for him; and last year I employed you to look after one of our boys,
who we thought was going wrong; do you recollect now?"
"Perfectly," said Mr. Gammidge, brightening. "Boy had been laid hold
of by a tout from a sporting-paper, who was practisin' on him through
his father, given to drink, and his sister, on 'oom the tout was
supposed to be sweet."
"Exactly; well, you found that out clearly enough, and got us all the
information required. Now I want you again."
"More boys goin' wrong, sir?" asked Mr. Gammidge. "They're the
out-and-outest young scamps; they're that precocious and knowin'--"
"It's not a boy that I want to know about this time," said Lloyd,
checking the flow of his companion's eloquence; "it's a woman."
"That's more in my way; three-fourths of my business is connected with
them. Did you 'appen to take any notice of the young man in that room
as you came through? He's the best 'nose' in London. Find out
anything. Lor' bless you, that young man have been in more divorce
cases than the Serjeant himself. He can hide behind a walking-stick,
and see through the pipe of a Chubb's latch-key. There's nothing like
him in London."
"Put him on to my business at once, then. Look at this card." Mr.
Grammidge produced a large pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed double
eye-glasses, and proceeded to make an elaborate investigation. "You
know the name? I thought so. Now, your man must keep account of
everyone who goes in here by day or night, so long as she's at home;
and when she goes out he must follow her, and, so far as he can, find
out who speaks to her, and where. There is a five-pound note to begin
with. You understand?"
"You may look upon it as good as done, sir," said Mr. Gammidge,
commencing to make a memorandum of the number and date of the
bank-note in his pocket-book, "and to let you know at the old
address?"
"No; when he has anything to tell, drop me a line, and I'll meet him
here. Good-day."
The white-faced young man, entering fully into his new occupation,
speedily deserved the encomiastic remarks which had been lavished upon
him by his principal, and in a short time Mr. Lloyd was furnished with
full information as to the personal appearance of the various visitors
at the Bayswater villa, and of the friends whom Miss Lambert was in
the habit of meeting away from her home. In both these categories
Gilbert Lloyd found, as he had expected to find, a very accurate
representation of Miles Challoner. The information, all expected as it
was, irritated and chafed him; and he gave up a whole day to
considering how he could best put a stop to the ripening intimacy
between Miles and Gertrude, or, at all events, weaken it. Finally, he
decided on paying a visit to Mrs. Bloxam, and seeing whether she could
not be frightened with a suspicion, perfectly undefined, of something
horrible and mysterious which would take place if the intimacy were
permitted to go on unchecked. Accordingly, upon a day when the
white-faced young man had ascertained that Miss Lambert would be for
some time absent from home, Mr. Lloyd presented himself at the
Bayswater villa, and, without sending in his name, followed the
servant into the room, where Mrs. Bloxam was seated. At first sight of
the man who had dared in former days to invade the sanctity of her
sheepfold and carry off one of her pet lambs, the old lady was
exceedingly indignant, and her first impulse was to order the intruder
to leave the house; but a moment's reflection convinced her that as he
yet had the power of being exceedingly dangerous to Gertrude, or, at
all events, of causing her the greatest annoyance, it would be better
to temporise. She therefore listened to all Gilbert Lloyd's bland
assurances that, although there was an unfortunate estrangement
between his wife and himself, he took the greatest interest in her
career, and it was purely as a matter of friendship that he had come
to warn her, through her ablest and best friend, of the danger she
incurred in forming a certain acquaintance. So well did Mrs. Bloxam
play her listening part, and so earnest was she in her thanks to her
informant, that even the _rousé_ turfite was taken in, and went away
convinced that he had made his _coup_.
A few days afterwards he called again, and this time asked for Miss
Lambert. The servant said that Miss Lambert was out. For Mrs. Bloxam:
Mrs. Bloxam was out. Gilbert Lloyd then took out a card and handed it
to the servant, begging her to give it to her mistress; but the
servant, just glancing at it, handed it back, saying she had strict
orders, in case the gentleman bearing that name ever called again, to
refuse him admittance, and to return his card.
CHAPTER V.
Rebuffed.
The cool determination of Gertrude's conduct, the resolution which did
not shrink from a proceeding calculated to excite at least observation
by her servants, took Gilbert Lloyd completely by surprise.
Concealing, by a desperate effort, the passion of anger which flamed
up in him, he turned away from the door, and got into the hansom
awaiting him; but when quite out of sight of the gilded-bronze gates,
and the miniature plantation of the Bayswater villa, he stopped the
cab, got out, and pulling his hat down over his brow, walked
on rapidly, in a mood strange indeed to his calculating and
self-contained nature.
By what fatality had this woman once more turned up in his life--this
woman of whom he was well rid, his marriage with whom had been a
mistake--a failure--and his parting with whom had been the
commencement of a new and decidedly fortunate era in his life? His
thoughts were in a whirl, and for a time resisted his attempts to
reduce them to order and sequence. The physical convulsion of rage
claimed to have its way first, and had it. He had known that feeling
many times in his life--the maddening anger which turns the face white
and the lips livid, which makes the heart beat with suffocating
throbs, and dims the sight. He knew all about that, and he had to bear
it now, and to bear it in silence, without the relief of speech, with
only the aid of solitude. He could not swear at Gertrude now, as he
had done many a time when annoyance had come to him through her; he
could not insult, threaten, strike her now; and much of the fury he
felt was due to the powerlessness which drove him nearly mad, and
which was his own doing. Ay, that was the worst of it, the least
endurable part of the wrath which raged within him. This woman, who
had been in his power, and had been made to experience the full
significance of her position; who had loved him once, and of whom he
had wearied, as it was in his nature to weary of any desired object
when attained,--this woman held him in supreme indifference and
contempt, and set him at naught without fear or hesitation. In the
force and irrationality of his anger, he forgot that she was acting
quite within the letter and the spirit of the convention made between
them; that he it was who had abandoned its spirit at almost the first
sight of her, and had now received a humiliating check in endeavouring
to violate its letter. For a long time his anger was blind, fierce,
and unreasoning--directed almost as much against himself as against
Gertrude--his wife! his wife! as he called her a hundred times over,
in the vain assertion of a position which he had voluntarily
abdicated, and which he knew, in the bottom of his angry heart--even
while the anger seethed within it--he would not be prepared to resume,
were the opportunity afforded him. But as he walked on and on, getting
by degrees into outlying regions of the far west--almost as little
known to him as California--the habit of calculation, of arranging his
thoughts, of (metaphorically) laying his head on the exact process or
combination which he required--a faculty and habit of which he felt
the value every day--resumed its sway over him, and he no longer raged
blindly about what had happened, but set himself to think it out.
This, then, was a _parti pris_ on the part of Gertrude; this, then,
was a game in which he was her adversary--with a purpose to gain;
she--his, with nothing in view but his defeat. Her cards were resolute
ignoring of his existence; the absolute and inexorable adherence to
the agreement made between them at Brighton. His cards were persistent
following and watching of her, which the coincidences of his position
and the facility with which he could make her circle of acquaintance
his, added to the exigencies of her professional career, which she
could not control, however unwelcome they might be, rendered easy of
playing. The next question was, what end did he propose to himself in
this sudden revulsion of feeling, this sudden irruption into his
prosperous and pleasant life of an element which he had hoped,
intended, and believed to be banished from it for ever? This question
he could not answer clearly. The mists of anger and jealousy arose
between him and the outline of his purpose. Was it to undo the past?
Was it to woo and win once more this woman, whom he had driven away
from him, and who had just made evident to him the weakness of his
determination and the strength of her own? Was it to put himself
entirely and unreservedly under the yoke of her power, from whose
possible imposition he had been glad to escape by the final expedient
to which he had resorted? Had he any such rash, insane notion as this
in his thoughts? He did not know, he was not certain; he was not sure
of anything but this--that Gertrude had refused to see him, and that
he was resolved she should, come what might; she should not carry that
point, she should not have the triumph at once of fidelity to their
strange unnatural compact on her own part, and of having forced him to
break it on his. He had dismissed her easily enough from his thoughts,
but he could not dismiss her from them now; she kept possession of
them now, in the pride of her beauty--how handsome she was! he
had never supposed she would have grown into such commanding,
self-possessed beauty as hers was now--and in the triumph of her
talent--as she had never done since the brief earliest days of their
disastrous marriage. Gilbert Lloyd was a man on whom success of any
kind produced a strong impression. It counted for much in the
rekindling of his former passion for Gertrude that she was now a
successful artist, her supposed name in everyone's mouth, holding her
own before the world, a woman with a position, an _entourage_, and an
independent career. His thoughts wandered away among scenes which he
had long forgotten, in which she was the central figure, and into
imaginary pictures of her present life; and he repeated over and over
again, with rage--waxing dull by this time--"But she is my wife! she
is my wife! no matter what she chooses to do, no matter how she
chooses to act towards me, she is my wife! I have only to declare it
if I choose." And the consequences to which she, judging by her
present conduct, would probably be entirely indifferent--was he
prepared to face them? He could not answer this question either; he
was not yet cool-headed enough to estimate them aright.
A devouring curiosity concerning Gertrude took possession of him--a
craving eagerness to know what were her movements, who were her
associates, how she lived; even the disposition of the rooms in her
house, and her domestic relations. The absolute ignorance of all these
things in which he remained, though his imperious will demanded to be
informed of them, exasperated him; and with his fruitless anger there
was mingled a grim humour, as he thought of the scenes through which
they had passed together, as he recalled Gertrude in the intimacy of
their domestic life. And now he was the one person in the world from
whom she concealed herself, the one person shut out from her by a
barrier erected by her inflexible will. Was he? Time would tell. He
had not been ignorant daring the sometimes stormy, sometimes gay and
careless, but always unsatisfactory, period which preceeded their
separation, that he was by no means so indifferent to Gertrude as she
was to him. On the contrary, he had realised that clearly and plainly,
and it had sharpened his anger towards her and hardened his heart in
the hour of their parting; and he had hated her then, and chafed under
the knowledge that she did not hate him, that she was only glad to be
rid of him, had only ceased utterly to love him, and learned utterly
to despise him. Justly esteeming himself to be a good hater, Gilbert
Lloyd found it difficult to understand how it was that he had so soon
ceased to hate Gertrude, had so easily yielded to the sense of relief
in having done with all that portion of his life in which she had a
share, and had never had any serious thought of her, or speculation
about her future; for to such an extent had his cynicism gone now that
this period of oblivion and ease had in its turn expired, and she had
again crossed his path to trouble him. He could only account for this
curious phase through which he had passed by what seemed to him an
insufficient reason--the new interests in his life, the success which
attended his speculation in that "rich brute Ticehurst's" affairs--for
thus did the more fastidious and not less vicious man of the two
characterise, in his meditations, the coarse animal he was devoting
himself so successfully to _exploiter_. Such a chance, after so long a
run of ill-luck, varied only by a _coup_ on which he preferred not to
dwell in remembrance--a chance, as he thought, with an ominous
darkening of his evil face, which, if it had only been afforded him a
little sooner, might have averted the necessity for such a _coup_, was
calculated to occupy him entirely, and banish from his mind, anything
which might divert him from the pursuit of his object.
And now it seemed wonderful to him that he could have thus forgotten
her--now, when he was under the renewed spell of her beauty and her
scorn.
There was an extraordinary fascination for him, even in the midst of
his anger, in the mingled strangeness and familiarity with which she
presented herself to his mind. He had a good deal of imagination,
though but little poetry, in his nature, and the extraordinarily
exceptional position of this woman and himself--the strangeness of the
knowledge that she had accepted the fact of there being nothing mutual
or even relative in their position now or ever--appealed, in the midst
of his passion, to his imagination.
That she should dare to treat him thus,--that she should know him so
little as to dare to treat him thus. He thought this, he said this
more than once through his shut teeth; but he was not a fool, even in
his rage, and he knew he was talking folly to himself in the moment
that he uttered the words. Why should she not dare? Indeed, there was
no daring about it. He had made the position for himself, and he was
for the first time brought face to face with all the details of it.
What was that position externally in the world's sight, in the only
point of view in which he had any practical right to consider it? Just
this: Miss Lambert did not choose to admit him to her acquaintance. He
was helpless; she was in her right. He might force her to meet him in
the houses of other people--at the Marchioness of Carabas' house, for
instance--simply because she could not afford, out of consideration
for her own social position, to give up her patroness; and also (he
began to understand Gertrude now sufficiently to know that this second
argument was by far the stronger), because she Would never suffer the
consideration of meeting or not meeting him to influence her actions,
to form a motive of her conduct in the smallest degree. He felt that
with a smart twinge of pain, the keen pain of mortified self-love. He
had simply ceased to exist for her--that was all; she had taken the
full sense of their convention, and was acting on it _tout bonnement_.
He might, therefore, calculate safely upon meeting her, without her
consent, at other houses than her own; but forcing or inducing her to
admit him there, was, he felt, entirely beyond his power. He was
wholly insensible to the extreme incongruity of such a possibility,
had it existed; and no wonder, for in their position all was
incongruous, and propriety or impropriety had lost their meaning.
In the conflict of feeling and passion in which Gilbert Lloyd was thus
engaged, there was no element of fierce contention wanting. Love, or
the debased feeling which he called and believed to be love, and which
fluctuated between passion and hate, baffled design, undefined fear,
and jealousy, in which not merely Gertrude was concerned, but another
who had a place in his life of still darker and more fatal meaning,
and a more bitterly resented influence over his fate. When he had
fought out the skirmish with the newly reawakened love for the wife
whom he had almost forgotten, and been beaten, and had been forced to
surrender so much of the disputed ground to the enemy, fear marshalled
its forces against him, and pressed him hard. But not to the point of
victory. Gilbert Lloyd was a man with whom fear had never had much
chance; and if he had yielded somewhat to its influence in the
separation from his wife, it was because that influence had been
largely supported by long-smouldering discontent, _ennui_, a
coincidence of convenience and opportunity, and a deserved conviction
that the full potency or Gertrude's will was at work in the matter.
There was little likelihood that fear should master him now; but it
was there, and he had to stand, and repel its assaults. If he
attempted to molest, to control Gertrude in any way; if it even became
her interest or her pleasure to get rid of him in actual fact, in
addition to their convenient theory,--fear asked him, Can she not do
so? Is she not mistress of the situation, of every point of it? And he
answered, Yes. If she chose to carry out the divorce--which they had
mutually instituted without impertinent legal interference--would he
dare to intervene? He remembered how he had speculated upon the
expediency of encouraging the "rich brute's" penchant for the
fashionable singer, when he had no suspicion who the fashionable
singer was; and a rush of fury surged all over him as he thought, if
she had chosen to encourage him, to marry him, for his rank, would he,
Gilbert Lloyd, her husband, have dared to interfere? Fear had the best
of it there; but he would not be beaten by fear. This enemy was strong
mainly because he could not rightly calculate its strength. How much
did Gertrude know, or how little? Was it knowledge, or suspicion only,
which had prompted her to the decision she had adopted, and the prompt
action she had taken upon it? To these questions it was impossible
he could get any answer; and he would, or thought he would, just
then--for he was an unlikely man to stick to such a bargain, if he
could have made it--have given years of his life to know what had
passed that memorable day at Brighton, before he had returned to the
deathbed of his friend, and there encountered Gertrude. The dying
whisper which had conveyed to the young woman the power she had used
so promptly was unknown by Lloyd; on this point--the great, the
essential point of his musings--all was conjecture, dark, terrifying,
and undefined.
Had love and fear only possessed his dark soul between them, the
strife might soon have ended, in a division in which the man's own
safety would have been consulted. Gilbert Lloyd would have made up his
mind that, as his first fancy for Gertrude had passed away, so this
eccentric renewal of it would also harmlessly decline. The whole
difficulty might have resolved itself into his persuading Ticehurst to
go abroad in his company, until the "rich brute" should have escaped
all risk of an "entanglement," which Lloyd would have painted in the
most alarming colours, and Lloyd himself have recovered from a passing
fit of weak folly, which he might have been trusted to learn to
despise, on a sober consideration of its bearing on his interests in
the career in which he had contrived with so much difficulty to
_lancer_ himself.
But the look which he had seen in Gertrude's proud calm face--the
smile which was so absolutely new to him, that it would have thrilled
him through with jealousy to whomsoever addressed, because it revealed
to him that she had never felt for him that which prompted its soft
and trusting sweetness--the smile which had fired all the evil
passions in his exceptionally evil nature--had shown Gilbert a far
more terrible truth: she had never given him such a smile. _Soit_. He
had had such as he had cared for, and he was tired of them, and done
with them, and as bright and beautiful were to be had for love or
money, particularly for money. Thus he might have thought, half in
consoling earnest, half in mortification, and acted on the reassuring
argument. But the smile, the unknown smile, which had not lighted her
face upon their bridal day, which had never adorned the happiest
hour--and they had had some happy hours--of their marriage, had
beamed upon the man whom of all men living Gilbert Lloyd hated most
bitterly--and that man was his brother. His brother, Miles Challoner,
their dead father's darling son--(and when Lloyd thought of his father
his face was horrible to see, and his heart was foul with curses and
unnatural hate, for he hated his dead father more than his living
brother),--the heir who had been his rival always, his master in their
nursery, the object of his bitterest envy and enmity when he was so
young that it was a mystery of the devil how such passions could have
a place in his childish heart. In the name of the devil,--in whom
Gilbert Lloyd was almost tempted to believe as he watched that smile,
and felt the tempest rise in his heart, like the waves under the
moonbeams,--how had _this_ complication come about! This he could
readily ascertain, but what would it avail him to know it? If she
loved this hated brother of his, what could he do? Enjoy the hideous
revenge of keeping quiet, and letting their mutual love grow into the
blessing and hope of their existence perhaps, and then come forward
and expose all the truth, and crush the two at once? And then? His own
share in this, what would it be? Utter ruin; and for his brother the
sympathy of the world! To be sure it would be deep disgrace for the
women who, secretly a wife, encouraged a man to love, and to hope to
win her; but she could deny her love and the encouragement, and nobody
could prove either, and she was entirely ignorant of the relation
subsisting between Miles Challoner and him. Of this Gilbert Lloyd did
not feel a moment's doubt. Miles would not divulge a fact in which a
terrible family secret was involved, to anyone; he had taken his line
towards Gilbert on their first accidental meeting far too decidedly
for the existence of any doubt on that point. If, on the other hand,
Gilbert Lloyd were to yield to the promptings of passion and revenge,
and betray the relationship, ruin of a double kind would inevitably
overtake him; vague indeed as to its source or manner, but not
admitting of any doubt. He knew that such would be the case, thus: One
communication only had been addressed to the man who is here called
Gilbert Lloyd, by his father, after his sudden departure from Rowley
Court. It was brief, and contained in the following words:
"_I have placed in the hands of a friend in whom I have entire
confidence the narrative of the events which have ended with your
banishment from my house, and your erasure from our family annals for
ever. This friend is not acquainted with your personal appearance, and
cannot therefore recognise you, should your future conduct enable you
to present yourself in any place where he may be found; but he will be
in close and constant intercourse with my son; and should you venture,
either directly or remotely, to injure my son, in person, reputation,
estate, or by any means whatever, this friend, being warned by me to
investigate any such injury done to my son, on the presumption that it
comes from you, will be enabled to identify you; and is, in such ease,
bound to me by a solemn promise to expose the whole of the facts, and
the proofs in his possession, in such manner as he may judge best for
bringing you most certainly and expeditiously to that punishment which
human weakness has prevented my being the means of inflicting upon
you. I give you this information and warning, in the interest of my
son, and also because I desire to turn you, by the only motive
available for my purpose, from the commission of a crime whose penalty
no one's weakness will enable you to evade_."
Gilbert Lloyd had never been able during all the vicissitudes of
his career--in all its levities, its successes, its failures, its
schemes--to forget the warning, or even the phrasing, of this terrible
letter. He had burned it in a fury which would have hardly been
assuaged by the blood of the writer, and had tried to persuade himself
afterwards that he scoffed at the suspicions and the threat and the
precaution alike. But the effort failed: he did not scoff--he believed
and feared, and remembered; and in this strange and ominous
complication, which had brought his brother across his path under
circumstances which any man might have feared, he felt the futility of
his pretended indifference to an extent which resembled terror.
He wondered at himself now, when he remembered that whenever he had
thought about his wife at all in the early days after their
separation, in the few and scattered speculations which had arisen in
his mind about her, the idea of her ever loving another man had found
no place. So intense was his egotism, that, though he did not indulge
in the mere vanity of believing that she still loved _him_, and would
repent the step she had taken, he did not in the least realise her
matter-of-fact emancipation from the ties which they loosed by mutual
consent. He had sometimes wondered whether she got on well with her
liberty and her hundred pounds; whether she had gone back to the
drudgery of school-life, in the intensified form that drudgery assumes
to a teacher; whether she had any friends, and how she accounted to
them for her isolation; with other vague and placid vaticinations. But
that this young and handsome woman, who had found out the unworthiness
of her first love, had been rudely awakened from her woman's dream of
happiness, and had exchanged all the sentiment with which she had
regarded him for horror and contempt, and a steadily maintained
purpose of utter separation--that she should have a second love,
should dream again, never occurred to him. As little had he thought
about the probability of his meeting her in the widely divergent
course which his own life had taken from any within the previous
experience of either. But he had met her; and one of the unexpected
results of that undesirable event was to awaken him, with a shock, to
the strongest suspicion that she did love and dream again, and that
the object of the love and the dream was the man he most hated--was
his brother. How Gilbert Lloyd would have regarded this circumstance,
had he carried out his acceptation of the situation with such good
faith and such complete indifference as Gertrude evinced, had he been
able to see her again perfectly unmoved and without the slightest wish
to alter anything in their position, he did not stop seriously to
consider. This might have been; and for a minute or two his mind
glanced at certain cynical possibilities in such a case, which might
have enabled him to gratify his spite towards both his wife and his
brother, in comparative security. But it was not; and that which was,
absorbed him wholly.
Alternately raging against the feelings which possessed him, and
arranging the facts of the case in order, and forcing himself to
ponder them with his accustomed coolness, Gilbert Lloyd walked on for
many miles without taking note of distance. When at length he
bethought him of the time, and consulted his watch, he found he must
hasten back to town, to be ready to dine with the "rich brute," who
was to entertain a party of choice spirits devoted to the turf that
day. The occasion was an important, and Gilbert Lloyd intended that it
should be a profitable, one. In the midst of the anger and
perturbation of his spirit, he was quite capable of attending to his
own and his patron's interests--when they were identical; and there
was no mental process, involving no matter what amount of passion or
scheming or danger, which Gilbert Lloyd could not lay aside--ranged in
its due place in his memory--to await its fitting time; a valuable
faculty, and not a little dangerous in the possession of a man at war,
more or less openly, with society.
The next day, as Gilbert Lloyd, as usual admirably mounted, turned
into the Park, and made for the then almost deserted Lady's Mile, a
carriage swept rapidly by. Two ladies occupied the back-seat, and on
the front Lloyd beheld the unusual apparition of Lord Sandilands. The
ladies were the Marchioness of Carabas and Miss Lambert. They saw him;
and Lady Carabas gave him a bow at once graciously graceful and
deliciously familiar; but Miss Lambert looked straight before her with
such exquisitely perfect unconsciousness, that it never occurred to
either of her companions that she had recognised Gilbert Lloyd.
Then savage anger took possession of him once more, and scattered all
the process of thought he had been going through to the winds, and he
swore that, come what might, he would meet her where it would be
impossible for her to avoid him.
CHAPTER VI.
Gertrude speaks.
Lord Ticehurst's attachment to the turf was by no means of a lukewarm
or of a perfunctory character. He was not one of the young men of the
present day, who keep a racing-stud as they keep anything else, merely
for their amusement; who exult indecently when they are successful,
who are even more indecently depressed when they are unfortunate.
Having such a man as Gilbert Lloyd for his "confederate," manager, and
agent, the young nobleman did not require to look into the details of
his stud and his stable as he otherwise would have done; but nothing
was ever done without his knowledge and approval, and his heart was as
much bound up in turf-matters as it had been when, under the
initiation of Plater Dobbs, he first made his entrance into the Ring.
Perhaps if this attachment to racing-matters and racing-men had been
less strong, Lord Ticehurst would have noticed a certain change in
Lloyd's manner towards him which would have displeased him much. For,
notwithstanding that he struggled hard against the display of any such
feeling, there arose in Gilbert's breast a sullen animosity, a dogged
dislike to his friend and patron, which very often would not be kept
down, but came surging up into his face, and showed itself in knit
brows and tightened lips, and hard cold insolence of bearing. This was
very different from the deep and bitter hatred with which Gilbert
Lloyd regarded Miles Challoner, though it sprung from the same cause,
the admiration which each of them felt for Gertrude. In the present
state of his feelings for her, it enraged Gilbert to think that anyone
should dare to pay attention to one who had been, who by the law still
was, his property: but the depth and measure of his hatred was very
much acted upon by the knowledge that Lord Ticehurst was merely
regarded by Gertrude as one of a hundred hangers-on, while Miles
Challoner stood in a very different position. But though this angry
feeling from time to time got the better of Gilbert Lloyd's usually
placid and equable temperament, and led to exhibitions of temper which
he was afterwards frightened at and ashamed of, they were never
noticed by the kindly-hearted, thick-headed young man whom he had in
training, or, if they were, were ascribed to some of those
"tighteners" and "botherations" which were supposed to fall naturally
to "old Gilbert's" lot in transacting his business of the turf.
"There's bad news up from the Pastures, I suppose," Lord Ticehurst
would say to some of his friends, after the occurrence of some little
episode of the kind; "old Gil's uncommon cranky this mornin', and no
two ways about it. It's always best to leave him to come round by
himself when he is in this way, so lets you and me go down to Rummer's
and get some luncheon." But throughout all his annoyances, and the
renovated passion for his wife,--passion of the strongest, wildest,
most enslaving kind, was now always present in his heart,--Gilbert
Lloyd held carefully to his business career, losing no opportunity of
showing himself of service to his pupil, and taking every care that
his pupil was made aware of the fact.
"I say, Etchingham," said Gilbert one morning, glancing up from his
accounts at his lordship, who was moodily looking out of window,
smoking, and wondering whether he should propose to Miss Lambert
before the season finally broke up, or leave it until next spring,--"I
say, Etchingham I'm pretty near sick of town."
"Same here!" replied his lordship; "fusty and beastly, ain't it? Well,
we're close upon cutting it; it's Goodwood the week after next, and
then there's Brighton--"
"O, curse Brighton!" broke in Lloyd.
"All right," said Lord Ticehurst, lazily dropping into a chair. "Curse
Brighton by all means. But what a rum fellow you are! You wouldn't go
to the Brighton Meeting last year; and I recollect that there was a
talk about it at Rummer's; and Jack Manby--the Bustard, you know--said
you'd never go there again, since in Gaslight's year, I think he said,
the sea-air spoiled your complexion."
"Manby's a chattering idiot," said Lloyd savagely; "and next time you
hear men talking of why I don't go to the Brighton Meeting, you may
say I don't go because it isn't a meeting at all, a third-rate concern
with a pack of platers to run, and a crowd of cockneys to look at
them. You may say that."
"Much obliged," said Lord Ticehurst; "you may say it yourself, if you
want to. I don't hold with mixin' myself up in other fellows' shines;"
and he sucked solemnly at his cigar, and did his best to look
dignified.
"My dear old Etchingham, don't be angry. I was vexed at hearing you
repeat the gabble of those infernal fellows at that filthy tavern--it
isn't anything better--because it's not only about me they talk.
However, that's neither here nor there. I suppose you'll have the
wind-up dinner at Richmond as usual."
"All right, Gil, my boy!" said his good-tempered lordship; "there's no
bones broke, and it's all squared. Of course we'll have the dinner.
Let's see," looking at his memorandum-book; "Friday-week, how will
that suit? Mrs. Stapleton Burge's party. O, ah, that's nothing!" he
added quickly, growing very red.
"Very well," said Gilbert quietly. "Friday-week, since you've only got
Mrs. Stapleton Burge's party; and that's nothing, you say. Friday-week
will do. I'm to ask the usual lot, I suppose?"
"Yes, usual lot, and one or two more, don't you think? It was deuced
slow last time, I remember. Only old Toshington to talk, and
everybody's tired of his old gab. Ask someone to froth it up a bit,
one of those writing-fellows one sees at some houses, or an actor who
can mimic fellows, and that kind of thing, don't you know?"
"I know," said Gilbert, by no means jumping at the suggestion; "but I
generally find that your clever fellows who write are miserable unless
they have all the talk to themselves; and the actors are insulted if
you ask them to do any of their hanky-panky, as though, by Jove,
they'd be invited for anything else. However, I'll look up some of
them, and do my best. Anybody else?"
"No, I think not. Unless, by the way, you were to ask that man that my
aunt's taken up lately--Challoner."
The name brought the blood into Gilbert's face, and he paused a moment
before he said: "I don't think I'd have that fellow, Etchingham, if I
were you."
"What's the matter with him? Ain't he on the square? Bad egg, and that
kind of thing?"
"I know very little about him," said Gilbert, fixing his eyes on Lord
Ticehurst's face; "nothing, indeed, for the matter of that; and he's
never crossed me, and never will have the opportunity." I said, "if I
were you."
"Yes, well--I know. Drop the riddle business and speak out. What do
you mean?"
"Plainly, then, I've noticed--and I can't imagine how it has failed to
escape you--that this man Challoner is making strong running for a
lady for whom I have heard you profess the greatest admiration--Miss
Lambert."
"O, ah, yes--thanks; all right," said Lord Ticehurst, looking more
foolish than usual--in itself a stupendous feat; "well, I ain't
spooney particularly on Challoner, so you needn't ask him."
Peers of the realm, and persons known as "public characters," command
more civility and attention in England than anyone else. With
tradesmen, hotel-waiters, and railway-porters this feeling is so
strongly, developed that they will leave any customer to serve a great
lord or a popular comedian. Lord Ticehurst's name stood very high at
the Crown and Sceptre at Richmond, not merely because he was an
earl--they see plenty of them during the season at the Crown and
Sceptre--but because he was free-spoken, lavish with his money, and
"had no cussed pride about him." Consequently, whenever he dined there
the dinner was always good, which is by no means always the case at
the C. and S.; and the present occasion was no exception. There were
about twenty guests, all men, and nearly all men of one set, who,
though they were mostly wellborn and, in the main, tolerably educated,
apparently never sought for and certainly never attained any other
society. The outside world was familiar with their names, through
seeing them printed in the newspapers as attending the various great
race-meetings; and with their personal appearance, through seeing them
at Tattersall's and in the Park, especially on Sundays in the
season. Some had chambers in the Albany, some in smaller and
cheaper sets; many of them lived humbly enough in one bed-room in the
lodging-house-swarming streets round St. James's; all of them haunted
Rummer's in Conduit-street; and most of them belonged to some
semi-turf, semi-military, whole card-and-billiard-playing club. Some
of them were believed to be married, but their wives were never seen
with them by any chance; for they never went into society, to the
opera or the theatres; and they were always put into the bachelor
quarters at country-houses, and into the topmost rooms at the hotels,
where they treated the female domestics in a pleasant and genial way,
a compound of the manners of the groom and the commercial bagman.
They gathered in full force at the Crown and Sceptre that lovely July
afternoon; for they knew that they would have a good dinner and wine
without stint. Captain Dafter was there--a little wiry man with sandy
scraps of whisker and a mean little white face, but who was the best
amateur steeplechase rider in England, with limbs of steel and
dauntless pluck. Next to him sat a fat, heavy-healed, large-jowled
man, with a face the shape and colour of an ill-baked quartern loaf; a
silent stupid-looking man, who ate and drank enormously, and said, and
apparently understood, nothing; but who was no less a personage than
the "Great Northern," as he was called, from having been born at
Carlisle; the enormous bookmaker and King of the Ring, who began life
as a plumber with eighteenpence, and was then worth hundreds of
thousands. There, too, with his neatly-rolled whiskers and his
neatly-tied blue bird's-eye scarf, with its plain solid gold horseshoe
pin, was Dolly Clarke, the turf-lawyer. Years ago Dolly would have
thought himself lucky if he ever made six hundred a-year. Six
thousand is now nearer Dolly's annual income, all brought, about
by his own talent, and "not standing on any repairs," as he put it,
a quality which is to be found in the dictionary under the word
"unscrupulousness;" for when old Mr. Snoxell, inventor of the
Pilgrim's-Progress Leather for tender feet, died, and left all
his money to his son Sam, who had been bred to the law, Sam took
Dolly Clarke into partnership, and by combining shrewdness with
bill-discounting and a military connection with a knowledge of
turf-matters, they did a splendid business. You would almost mistake
Dolly Clarke for a gentleman now, and Samuel Snoxell calls all the
army by their Christian names. Next to Dolly Clarke was Mr. Bagwax,
Q.C., always retained in cases connected with the turf, and rather
preferring to be on the shaky and shady side, which affords
opportunities for making great fun out of would-be-honest witnesses,
and making jokes which, of all the persons in court, are not least
understood, by Mr. Justice Martingale, who knows a horse from a
wigblock, and is understood to have at one time heard the chimes at
midnight. The redoubtable Jack Manby, called "the Bustard," because
in his thickness of utterance he was in the habit of declaring that he
"didn't, care about bustard so long as he got beef," was there; and
old Sam Roller the trainer, looking something like a bishop, and
something more like Mr. Soapey Sponge's friend, Jack Spraggon; and a
tall thin gentlemanly man, who looked like a barrister, and who was
"Haruspex," the sporting prophet of the _Statesman_. Nor had Gilbert
Lloyd forgotten his patron's hint about the enlivening of the company
by the representatives of literature and the drama. Mr. Wisbottle, the
graphic writer, the charming essayist, the sparkling dramatist;
Wisbottle, who was always turning up in print when you least expected
him; Wisbottle, of whom his brilliant friend and toady M'Boswell had
remarked that he had never tetigited anything which he hadn't
ornavited;--Wisbottle represented literature, and represented it in a
very thirsty and talkative, not to say flippant, manner. As the
drama's representative, behold Mr. Maurice Mendip, a charming young
fellow of fifty-five, who, in the old days of patent theatres and
great tragedians, would have alternated Marcellus with Bernardo,
playing Horatio for his benefit, when his landlady, friends, and
family from Bermondsey came in with tickets sold for his particular
behoof, but who, in virtue of loud lungs and some faint reminiscence
of what he had seen done by his betters, played all the "leading
business" in London when he could get the chance, and was the idolised
hero of Californian gold-diggers and Australian aborigines. He was,
perhaps, a little out of place at such a party, being heavy grave, and
taciturn; but most people knew his name, and when told who he was,
said, "O, indeed!" and looked at him with that mixture of curiosity,
and impertinence with which "public characters" are generally
regarded. The other guests were men more or less intimately connected
with the turf, who talked to each other in a low grumbling monotone,
and whose whole desire was to get the better of each other in every
possible way.
The dinner, which had called forth loud encomiums, was over; the
cigars were lighted, and the conversation had been proceeding briskly,
when in a momentary lull Dolly Clarke, who had the reputation for
being not quite too fond of Gilbert Lloyd, said in a loud voice:
"Well, my lord, and after Goodwood comes Brighton, and of course you
hope to be as lucky there."
"We've got nothing at Brighton," replied Lord Ticehurst, looking
uneasily towards where Gilbert was occupying the vice-chair.
"Nothing at Brigthton!" echoed Dolly Clarke, very loud indeed; "why,
how's that?"
"Because we don't choose, Mr. Clarke," said Gilbert, from the other
end of the table--he had been drinking more than his wont, and there
was a strained, flushed look round his eyes quite unusual to
him--"because we don't choose; I suppose that's reason enough."
"O, quite," said Dolly Clarke, with a short laugh. "I spoke to Lord
Ticehurst, by the way; but in your case I suppose it's not an
'untradesmanlike falsehood' if you represent yourself as 'the same
concern.' However, you used to go to Brighton, Lloyd."
"Yea," replied Gilbert quickly, "and so used you, when you were
Wiggins and Proctor's outdoor clerk at eighteen shillings a-week--by
the excursion-train! Times have changed with both of us."
"Lloyd had him there, Jack," whispered Bagwax, Q.C., to his neighbour
the Bustard. "Impudent customer, Master Clarke! I recollect well when
he used to carry a bag and serve writs, and all that; and now--"
"Hold on a binnit," said the Bustard; "he's an awkward customer is
Clarke, and he'll show Gilbert no bercy." And, indeed, there was a
look in Mr. Dolly Clarke's ordinarily smiling, self-satisfied face,
and a decision in the manner in which his hand had, apparently
involuntarily, closed upon the neck of the claret-jug standing in
front of him, that augured ill for the peace of the party in general,
or the personal comfort of Gilbert Lloyd in particular. But old Sam
Roller's great spectacles had happened to be turned towards the
turf-lawyer at the moment; and the old fellow, seeing how matters
stood, had telegraphed to Lord Ticehurst, while Mr. Wisbottle touched
Clarke's knee with one hand under the table, and removed the
claret-jug from his grasp with the other, whispering, "Drop it, dear
old boy! What's the good? You kill him, and have to keep out of the
way, and lose all the business in Davies-street. He kills you, and
what becomes of the policies for the little woman at Roehampton?
Listen to the words of Wisbottle the preacher, my chick, and drop it."
And it having by this time dawned upon Lord Ticehurst that there was
something wrong, that young nobleman cut into the conversation in a
very energetic and happy manner, principally dilating upon the
necessity of his guests drinking as much and as fast as they possibly
could. The first part of the proposition seemed highly popular, but
certain of the company objected to being hurried with their liquor,
and demanded to know the reason of their being thus pressed. Then Lord
Ticehurst explained that he was under the necessity of putting in an
appearance that night at the house of a very particular friend,
where an evening party was being held; that it was an engagement of
long-standing, and one which it was impossible for him to get off.
This, he added, need be no reason for breaking up their meeting; he
should only be too delighted if they would stop as long as they
pleased; and he was quite sure that his worthy vice would come up to
that end of the table, and fill his place much more worthily than it
had hitherto been filled.
But to this proposition there was a great deal of demur. Several of
the guests, keen men of business, with the remembrance of the morrow's
engagements and work before them, and having had quite sufficient
wine, were eager to be off. Others, who would have remained drinking
so long as any drink was brought, scarcely relished their cups under
the presidency of Gilbert Lloyd, who was regarded by them as anything
but a convivialist; while others, again, had engagements in town which
they were anxious to fulfil. Moreover, the plan proposed by his patron
was anything but acceptable to Gilbert Lloyd himself. Ordinarily
almost abstemious, he had on this occasion taken a great deal of wine,
and, though he was by no means intoxicated, his pulses throbbed and
his blood was heated in a manner very unusual with him. From the first
moment of Ticehurst's mentioning that he was going on this evening to
a party at Mrs. Stapleton Burge's house, Gilbert felt convinced, by
his friend's manner, that he must have some special attraction there,
and that that attraction must be the presence of Gertrude. This
thought--the feeling that she would be there, surrounded by courtiers
and flatterers--worried and irritated him, and every glass of wine
which he swallowed increased his desire to see her that night. What
matter if he had been rebuffed! That was simply because he had not had
the chance of speaking to her. Give him that opportunity, and she
would tell a very different tale. He should have that opportunity if
he met her face to face in society; it would be impossible for her,
without committing a palpable rudeness--and Gilbert Lloyd knew well
that she would never do that--to avoid speaking to him. _Château qui
parle est pret de se render_. A true proverb that; and he made up his
mind to tell Lord Ticehurst to take him to Mrs. Stapleton Burge's
gathering, and to run his chance with Gertrude.
So that when he heard his patron propound that he should remain
behind, to fan into a flame the expiring embers of an orgie which,
even at its brightest, had afforded him no amusement, his disgust was
extreme, and uncomplimentary as they were to himself, he fostered and
repeated the excuses which he heard on all sides. Nor did he content
himself with passive resistance, but went straight to Lord Ticehurst,
and taking him aside, told him that this was, after all, only a "duty
dinner;" that all that was necessary had been done, and it was better
they should break up then and there. "Moreover," said he, "I've a
fancy to go with you to-night. You're always telling me I don't mix
enough in what you call society; and as this is the end of the season,
and we're not likely to be--well, I was going to say bothered with
women's parties for a long time, I don't mind going with you; in fact,
I should rather like it. These fellows have done very well, and we can
now leave them to shift for themselves." Lord Ticehurst's astonishment
at this suggestion from his Mentor was extreme. "What a queer chap you
are, Gil!" he said; "when I've asked you to go to all sorts of houses,
first-class, where everything is done in great form and quite correct,
you've stood out and fought shy, and all that kind of thing. And now
you want to go to old Mother Burge's,--old cat who stuffs her rooms
with a lot of people raked up from here and there! 'Pon my soul
there's no knowing where to have you, and that's about the size of
it!" But in this matter, as in almost every other, the young man gave
way to his friend, and the party broke up at once; and Lord Ticehurst
and Gilbert Lloyd drove home to Hill-street, dressed themselves, and
proceeded to Mrs. Stapleton Barge's reception.
Mrs. Stapleton Burge lived in a very big house in Great
Swaffham-street, close out of Park-lane, and though a very little
black-faced woman herself, did everything on a very large scale. Her
footmen were enormous creatures, prize-fed, big-whiskered, ambrosial;
her chariot was like a family ark; the old English characters in which
her name and address were inscribed surged all over her big cards. She
had a big husband, a fat fair man with a protuberant chest, and
receding forehead, and little eyes, who was a major in some Essex
yeomanry, and who was generally mistaken by his guests for the butler.
Everybody went to Mrs. Stapleton Burge's; and she, sometimes
accompanied by the major, but more frequently without him, went
everywhere. Nobody could give a reason for either proceeding. When the
Stapleton Barges went out of town at the end of the season, nobody
knew where they went to. Some people said to the family place in
Essex, but Tommy Toshington said that was all humbug; he'd looked up
the county history, and, there wasn't any such place as Fenners; and
he, Tommy, thought they either retired to the back of the house in
Great Swaffham-street, or took lodgings at Ramsgate. But the next
season they appeared again, as blooming and as big as ever. Lord
Ticehurst, in his description of Mrs. Barge's parties, scarcely did
that worthy woman justice. People said, and truly, that those
gatherings were "a little mixed;" but Lady Tintagel took care that
some of the very best people in London were seen at them. If Mrs.
Burge would have her own friends, that, Lady Tintagel said, was no
affair of hers. Mrs. Burge swore by Lady Tintagel, and the major swore
at her. "If it wasn't for that confounded woman," he used to say, "we
shouldn't be going through all this tomfoolery, but should be living
quietly at--" He was never known to complete the sentence. Lady
Tintagel was Mrs. Barge's sponsor in the world of fashion, and the
major lent money to Lord Tintagel, who was an impecunious and elderly
nobleman. When Lady Tintagel presided over a stall at an aristocratic
fancy-fair for the benefit of a charity, Mrs. Burge furnished the said
stall, and took Lady Tintagel's place thereat during the dull portion
of the day. Lady Tintagel's celebrated _tableaux vivants_ were held in
Mrs. Burge's big rooms in Great Swaffham-street, the Tintagel
establishment being carried on in a two-roomed house in Mayfair. Mrs.
Burge "takes" Lady Tintagel to various places of an evening, when the
Tintagel jobbed horses are knocked up, and never has "her ladyship"
out of her mouth.
When Lord Ticehurst and Gilbert Lloyd arrived at the hospitable
mansion, they found the rooms crowded. It was a great but trying
occasion for Mrs. Burge--trying, because it was plainly the farewell
_fête_ of the season; and all the guests were talking to one another
of where they were going to, while she, poor woman, had a dreary waste
of seven months before her, to be passed away from the delights of
fashionable life. To how many people did she promise a speedy meeting
at Spa, at Baden, in the Highlands, in Midland country-houses? and all
her interlocutors placed their tongues in their cheeks, and knew that
until the next summons of Parliament drew the town together, and
simultaneously produced a card of invitation from Mrs. Burge, they
should not meet their hostess of the night. Meantime, the success of
the present gathering was unimpeachable. Everybody who was left in
London had rallied round Great Swaffham-street; and there was no doubt
but that the _Morning Post_ of the coming day would convey to the ends
of the civilised world a list of fashionables which would redound in
the most complete manner to the _éclat_ of Mrs. Stapleton Burge.
The necessary form of introduction had been gone through--scarcely
necessary, by the way, in Great Swaffham-street; for the men always
averred that Mrs. Burge never knew half the people at her own
parties--and Lord Ticehurst, having done his duty in landing Gilbert,
had strolled away among the other _convives_, with what object Gilbert
well enough knew. He, Gilbert Lloyd, had rather a habit of trusting
to chance in matters of this kind; and, on the present occasion, he
found that chance befriended him. For while his patron, eager and
anxious-eyed, went roaming round the room in hot search for the object
of his thoughts, Gilbert, no less anxious, no less determined,
remained quietly near the entrance-door, and narrowly watched each
passing face. He knew most of them. A London man of-half-a-dozen
seasons can scarcely find a fresh face in any evening party on which
he may chance to stumble. We go on in our different sets, speaking to
every other person we meet, and familiar with the appearance of all
the rest--what freshness and variety! Some of the passers-by raised
their eyebrows in surprise at seeing Lloyd in such a place; others
nodded and smiled, and would have stopped to speak but for the plain
_noli-me-tangere_ expression which he wore. He returned the nods and
grins in a half-preoccupied, half-sullen manner, and it was not until
he heard Miles Challoner's voice close by him that he seemed
thoroughly roused. Then he drew back from the door-post, against which
he had been leaning, and ensconcing himself behind the broad back of a
stout old gentleman, his neighbour, saw Gertrude enter the room, on
Miles Challoner's arm. They had been dancing; she was flushed and
animated, and looked splendidly handsome, as evidently thought her
companion. Her face was upturned to his, and in her eyes was a frank,
honest look of love and trust, such a look as Gilbert Lloyd
recollected to have seen there when he first knew her years ago, but
which had soon died out, and had never reappeared until that moment.
And it was for Miles Challoner that her spirits had returned, her love
and beauty had been renewed; for Miles Challoner, whom he hated with a
deadly hate, who had been his rock ahead throughout his life, and who
was now robbing him of what indeed he had once thrown aside as
valueless, but what he would now give worlds to repossess. Gilbert
Lloyd's face, all the features of which were so well trained and kept
in such constant subjection, for once betrayed him, and the evil
passion gnawing at his heart showed itself in his fiery eyes,
surrounded by a strained hot flush, and in his rigidly set mouth.
Tommy Toshington, tacking about the room to avoid the pressure of the
crowd, and coming suddenly round Lloyd's stout neighbour, was
horrified by the expression in Gilbert's face.
"Why, what's the matter, Lloyd, my boy?" asked the old gentleman; "you
look quite ghastly, by Jove! Ellis's claret not disagreed with you,
has it?"
"Not a bit of it, Tommy; I'm all right," said Gilbert with an effort;
"room's a little hot--perhaps that's made me look a little white."
"Look a little white! Dammy, you looked a little black when I first
caught sight of you. You were scowling away at somebody; I couldn't
make out who."
"Not I," said Gilbert, with an attempt at a laugh; "I was only
thinking of something."
"O, shouldn't do that," said Mr. Toshington; "devilish stupid thing
thinking; never comes to any good, and makes a fellow look deuced old
Lots of people here to-night;" then looking round and sinking his
voice, "and rather a mixture, eh? I can't think where some of the
people come from; one never sees them anywhere else." And the old
gentleman, whose father had been a dissenting hatter at Islington,
propped his double gold-eyeglass on his nose, and surveyed the company
with a look of excessive _hauteur_.
"See!" he said presently, nudging Gilbert with his elbow; "you
reck'lect what I told you, down at the Crystal Palace that day,
about Etchingham and Miss What-do-you-call-'em, the singer?--that
it wasn't any go for my lord, because there was another fellow
cutting in in that quarter--you reck'lect? Well, look here, here they
are,--What's-his-name, Chaldecott or something, and the girl."
"I see them," said Lloyd, drawing back.
"All right," said Toshington; "you needn't hide yourself; don't you be
afraid, they're much too much taken up with each other to be looking
at us. Gad, she's a devilish pretty girl, that, ain't she, Lloyd?
There's a sort of a something about her which--such a deuced good
style too, and way of carryin' herself! Gad, as to most of the women
now--set of dumpy little brutes!--might be kitchen-maids, begad!"
"Just look, Toshington, will you? I can't see, for this old fool's
shoulder's in the way. Has Challoner left Miss Lambert?"
"Yes, he's stepped aside to speak to Lady Carabas; Miss Lambert is
standing by the mantelpiece, and--"
"All right, back in half a-second!" and made straight for the place
where Gertrude was standing.
"Now, that's a funny thing!" said old Toshington to himself, as he
looked after him. "What does that mean? Is Lloyd making the running
for his master, or is that a little commission on his own account? No
go either way, I should say; the man in the beard means winning there,
and no one else has a chance."
As Gilbert Lloyd crossed the room, Gertrude looked up, and their eyes
met. The next instant she looked round for Miles Challoner, but he was
still busily engaged in talking to Lady Carabas. Then she saw some
other ladies of her acquaintance, seated within a little distance, and
she determined on crossing the room to them. But she had scarcely
moved a few steps when Gilbert Lloyd was by her side. Gertrude's heart
beat rapidly; she scarcely heard the first words of salutation which
Gilbert uttered; she looked quickly round and saw that though Miles
was still standing by Lady Carabas's chair, his eyes were fixed on her
and Lloyd. What could she do? What is that her husband says?
"Too much of this fooling! You _must_ hear me now!"
With an attempt at a smile, Gertrude turned to her persecutor and
said, "Once for all, leave me!"
"I will not," said he, in a low voice, but also with a smile on his
face. "You cannot get away from me without exciting the suspicion, or
the wonder at least, of the room. How long do you imagine I am going
to let this pretty little play proceed? How long am I to look on and
see the puppets dallying?"
Gertrude flushed scarlet as he said these words, but she did not
speak.
"You're carrying this business with too high a hand," said he,
emboldened by her silence. "You seem to forget that I have a word or
two to say in the matter."
"See, Gilbert Lloyd," said Gertrude, still smiling and playing with
her fan, "you sought me; not I you. Go now, and--"
"Go!" said Gilbert, who saw Miles Challoner looking hard at
them,--"go, that he may come! Go! You give your orders freely! What
hold have you on me that I am to obey them?"
"Would you wish me to tell you?"
"Tell away!" said Lloyd defiantly. "I don't mind."
"Here, then," said Gertrude, beckoning him a little closer with her
fan, then whispering behind it. But one short sentence, a very few
words, but, hearing them, Gilbert Lloyd turned death-white, and felt
the room reel round before him. In an instant he recovered
sufficiently to make a bow, and to leave the room and the house. When
he got out into the street, the fresh air revived him; he leaned for a
moment against some railings to collect his thoughts; and as he moved
off, he said aloud, "He did suspect it, then; and he told her!"
CHAPTER VII.
Half-revealed.
Of all the places on which the autumnal moon, approaching her full
like a comely matron, looks down, there are many far less picturesque
and less enjoyable than that bit of Robertson-terrace, St. Leonards,
which adjoins the narrow strip of beach communicating with the old
town of Hastings proper. On this beach the moonbeams play
"Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,"
casting grim and fantastic shadows, and bringing oddest objects into
unwonted and undue prominence. Robertson-terrace--as hideous,
architecturally considered, as are the majority of such marine asylums
for the temporary reception of Londoners--stands back from the road,
and has its stuccoed proportions somewhat softened by the trees and
shrubs in the "Enclosure," as the denizens love to call it, a small
oblong strip of something which ought to be green turf, but what,
under the influence of promenading and croquet-playing, has become
brown mud. In the moonlight on this lovely night in early autumn, some
of the denizens yet linger in the Enclosure. Young people mostly, of
both sexes, who walk in pairs, and speak in very low tones, and look
at each other with very long immovable glances; young people who
cannot imagine why people ever grow old, who cannot conceive that
there can be any pleasure except in that one pastime in which they
themselves are then employed--who cannot conceive, for instance, what
enjoyment that old gentleman, who has been so long seated in the
drawing-room balcony of No. 17, can find in life.
That old gentleman is Lord Sandilands, who, the London season over,
has come down to St. Leonards for a little sea-air, and quiet and
change. One reason for his selection of St. Leonards is that Miss
Grace Lambert and Mrs. Bloxam are staying within a few miles'
distance, at Hardriggs, Sir Giles Belwether's pretty place. Lord
Sandilands had been invited to Hardriggs, also, but he disliked
staying anywhere except with very intimate friends; and, moreover, he
had come to that time of life when rest was absolutely essential to
him, and he knew that under Sir Giles Belwether's ponderous
hospitality he would simply be moving the _venue_ of his London life
without altering any of its details. Moreover, the old gentleman, by
coming to St. Leopards, was carrying out a kindly scheme long since
laid, of giving Miles Challoner occasional opportunities of seeing
Miss Lambert. Miles was not invited to stay at Hardriggs; he did not
even know Sir Giles Belwether; but he became Lord Sandilands' guest in
the lodgings in Robertson-terrace, and, as such, he was taken over by
his friend to Hardriggs, introduced to the host, and received with the
greatest hospitality. Lord Sandilands has this advantage over the
youthful promenaders in the "Enclosure," that while they cannot
imagine what he is thinking of, he perfectly well divines the subject
of their thoughts, and is allowing his own ideas to run in another
vein of that special subject. He has just made Miles confess his love
for Grace Lambert, and all the drawbacks and disadvantages of the
position are opening rapidly before him.
"I might have expected it," said the old gentleman half-aloud; "I knew
it was coming. I saw it growing day by day, and yet I never had the
pluck to look the affair straight in the face--to make up my mind
whether I'd tell him anything about Gertrude's parentage; and I don't
know what to do now. Ah, here he is!--Well, Miles, had your smoke?
Lovely night, eh?"
"A lovely night, indeed! No end of people out by the sea."
"You wouldn't mind a turn in that lime-walk at Hardriggs just now,
Miles, eh? with--Kate Belwether, or someone else?"
"Rather the someone else, dear old friend. And so you weren't a bit
astonished at what I told you to-day?"
"Astonished, my boy! I astonished? Why, where do you think my eyes
have been? I declare you young fellows think that to you alone has
been confided the appreciation of beauty and the art of love!"
"Anyone who imagines that must have ears, and hear not, so far as your
lordship is concerned," said Miles, laughing. "Now, of John Borlase,
commonly known as Baron Sandilands, the ladies whom he courted and the
conquests which he made, are they not written in the _Chronique
Scandaleuse_ of the period?"
"Well, I don't know that. I'm of an old-fashioned school, which holds
that no gentleman should so carry on his _amourettes_ that the world
should talk about them. But the idea of your thinking that I should
be astonished when you told me that you were head over ears in love
with--with Miss Lambert! _Nourri dans le sérail j'en connais les
detours_, Master Miles."
"And if not astonished, you were also not annoyed?"
"Annoyed! Not the least bit in the world. I don't mean to say that the
matter looks to me entirely one of plain-sailing, my dear boy; there
are certain difficulties which will naturally arise."
"Do you think that Grace's friends will make any obstacle? By the way,
my dear lord, do you know anything of Miss Lambert's relations? I have
never heard of or seen any connection but Mrs. Bloxam; but you who are
so intimate with the young lady will probably know all about them."
A half-comic look of embarrassment overshadowed Lord Sandilands' face
as he heard this inquiry, and he waited for a moment before he
replied, "Not I, indeed, my dear Miles; Miss Lambert has never spoken
to me of her relations--indeed, I understood from her that she was an
orphan, left to Mrs. Bloxam's charge. I shouldn't think you need look
for any objection to your marriage being made by the lady's friends."
"That is one point happily settled; then the world?"
"The what?"
"The opinion of the world."
"Ah, that's a very different matter! You're afraid of what people will
say about your marrying a singer?"
"To you, dear old friend, I will confess candidly that I am. Not that
I have any position, God knows, on the strength of which to give
myself airs."
"My dear boy, that's where you mistake. If you _had_ a position, you
might marry not merely a charming and amiable and lovely girl like
this, against whom no word ought to be uttered, but even a person
without the smallest rag of reputation; and the world would say very
little about it, and would speedily be silenced. Look at--no need,
however, to quote examples. What I have said is the fact, and you know
it."
"I am forced to acknowledge the truth of your remark, but while
acknowledging it, I shall not permit the fact to turn me from my
purpose. If Miss Lambert will accept me for a husband, I will gladly
risk all the tattle of all the old cats in Belgravia."
"Your sentiments do you credit, my dear boy," said the old nobleman
with a smile, "though the juxtaposition of 'tattle' and 'cats' is
scarcely happy. I've noticed that when people are in love, the
arrangement of their sentences is seldom harmonious. I suppose you
feel tolerably certain of Miss Lambert's answer to your intended
proposal. You are too much a man of the present day to anticipate any
doubt in the matter."
"I should not be worth Miss Lambert's acceptance if I had any such
vanity; and I know you're only joking in ascribing it to me."
"I was only joking; but now seriously, do you fear no rivals? You see
how very much the young lady is sought after. Are you certain that her
preference is given to you?"
"As certain as a man can be who has not 'put it to the touch to win or
lose it all,' by ascertaining positively."
"And there is no one you are absolutely jealous of?"
"No one. Well,--no, not jealous of,--there is one man whom I regard
with excessive distrust."
"You don't mean Lord Ticehurst?"
"O, no! Lord Ticehurst's manners are rough and odd; but he is a
gentleman, and, I'm sure, would 'behave as such,' in every possible
way, to Miss Lambert. Indeed, no duchess of his acquaintance can be
treated with greater respect than she is by him. I would not say as
much of the other man."
"Who is he?"
Miles hesitated a moment before he said, "Lord Ticehurst's great
friend, Mr. Gilbert Lloyd."
"Mr. Gilbert Lloyd!" repeated Lord Sandilands, with a low
whistle--"that's a very different matter. I don't mind telling you, my
dear Miles, that I have had an uncomfortable impression about that
young man ever since the first night we met him at Carabas House. It's
singular too; for I know no real harm of the man. His tastes and
pursuits are not such as interest or occupy me; though, of course,
that is the case with scores of persons with whom I am acquainted, and
towards whom I feel no such dislike. Very odd, isn't it?"
Miles looked hard at his friend to see whether there were any latent
meaning in the question; but seeing that Lord Sandilands was
apparently speaking without any strong motive, he said:
"It is odd. Perhaps," he added, "it is to be accounted for by the
feeling that this--Mr. Gilbert Lloyd is not a gentleman?"
"N-no, not that. Though the man, amongst his own set, has an air of
turfy, horsey life which is hideously repellent, yet with other people
he shows that he knows at least the _convenances_ of society, and is
not without traces of breeding and education. I fancy that in this
case I am suffering myself to be influenced by my belief in
physiognomy. The man has a decidedly bad face; deceit, treachery, and
cruelty are written in the shifty expression of his sunken eyes, in
his thin tightened lips."
"And you really believe this?" said Miles earnestly.
"I do; most earnestly. Depend upon it, Nature never makes a mistake.
We may fail to read her properly sometimes, but she never errs. And in
this case her handwriting is too plain to admit of any doubt."
Miles shuddered. The old gentleman noticed it, and laid his hand
kindly on his friend's knee; then he said:
"But, after all, there's no reason for us to fear him. You say that he
has been somewhat marked in his attention to Grace?"
"More than marked. Did you not notice the other night at the house of
that odd woman, Mrs. Burge--O, no, I forgot, you were not there; but
it was just before we left town, and Miss Lambert had been dancing
with me, and I had only left her for a minute when Lloyd went up and
spoke to her."
"Well?"
"Of course I don't know what he said, but they both seemed to speak
very earnestly, and after a very few moments he left her abruptly and
hurried away."
"Well, I don't think that proceeding ought to cause you much
disquietude, Master Miles. In all probability, from what you say, Miss
Lambert was giving Mr. Lloyd his _congé_, or, at all events, saying
something not very pleasant to him. Have you ever spoken to her about
Lloyd?"
"Once or twice only."
"And what has she said about him?"
"She seems to have taken your view of the question, my dear old
friend, for she spoke of him with cold contempt and irrepressible
dislike, and begged me never to mention his name to her again."
"Really, then it seems to me that you have nothing to fear in that
quarter. That this Mr. Lloyd is a dangerous man I am convinced; that
he would be desperate in any matter in which he was deeply interested,
I don't doubt; but he may be as desperate as he pleases if Grace
dislikes him, and loves you. By the way, as that question is still a
moot point, Master Miles," added the old gentleman with a sly look,
"the sooner you get it settled, the better. We shall be driving over
to Hardriggs to-morrow, and I should think you _might_ find an
opportunity of speaking to the lady in private. I know I would at your
time of life, and under the circumstances. And if you want an elderly
gooseberry-picker, you may command me."
But seeing that Miles Challoner's face wore a stern and gloomy
expression, Lord Sandilands dropped the tone of _badinage_ in which he
had been speaking, and said with great earnestness and softness:
"There is something strangely wrong with you to-night, Miles;
something which keeps crossing your mind and influencing your
thoughts; something which I am convinced is apart from, and yet
somehow connected with, the subject we have been discussing. I have no
wish to pry into your secrets, my dear boy; no right and no desire to
ask for any confidence which you may not feel disposed to give. But
as, since the death of my dear old friend, I have always regarded
myself as your second father, and as I have loved you as I would have
loved a son, I cannot bear to see you in obvious grief and trouble
without longing to share it and to advise and help you."
There was a pathos in the old man's tone, no less than in his words,
which touched Miles deeply. He took his friend's hand and pressed it,
and his eyes were filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he
said:
"God knows, my dearest friend, how willingly I acknowledge the truth
of all that you have just said, and how recognisant I am of all your
affection and kindness. I _am_ troubled and disturbed, but there is
nothing in my trouble that need be hid from you; nothing, indeed,
which your sympathy and counsel will not lighten and tend to
disperse."
"That's right," said the old nobleman, brightening up again. "Come,
what is this trouble? You're not worried for money, Miles?"
"No. I had an odd letter from my lawyers yesterday about some mortgage
that Sir Thomas Walbrook is interested in, but I haven't gone into the
matter yet. No, not money,--I wish it were only that!"
"What then? You've not gone and mixed yourself up with any--any
connection--you know what I mean--that you feel it necessary to break
off before you propose to Miss Lambert?"
"Not I, dear old friend; nothing of the sort. Though my trouble is
caused by what I think the necessity of giving a full explanation on a
very difficult and delicate matter, before I ask Grace to become my
wife."
"In the name of fortune, what is it, then?" asked Lord Sandilands.
"Simply this," said Miles, his face resuming its grave expression;
"you know that my father's life was overshadowed and his whole mental
peace destroyed, at a period when he might reasonably have looked
forward to much future enjoyment, by the conduct of my younger
brother, Geoffrey?"
"Ah! now I begin to comprehend--"
"Wait, and hear me out. That conduct, the nature of which I never
could learn, and do not know at this moment, blighted my father's
life, and changed him from an open-hearted, frank, genial man, into a
silent and reserved valetudinarian. For years and years Geoffrey's
name was never mentioned in our house. I was brought up under strict
orders never to inquire about him, directly or indirectly; and those
orders I obeyed to the letter. Only when my father was on his
deathbed--you recollect my being telegraphed for from your house,
where I was staying? I spoke of Geoffrey. I asked why he had been sent
away, what he had done--"
"Your father did not tell you?" interrupted Lord Sandilands eagerly.
"He did not, he would not. It was just before he expired; his physical
prostration was great; all he could say was that Geoffrey was, and for
ever must be, dead to me. He implored me, he commanded me with his
dying breath, if ever I met my brother to shun him, to fly from him,
to let nothing earthly induce me to know him or acknowledge him."
"Your poor father was right," said Lord Sandilands; "he could have
said nothing else."
"Do you justify my father's severity?" cried Miles in astonishment.
"Do you hold that he was right in dying in anger with one of his own
children, and in bequeathing his anger to me, the brother of the man
whom in his wrath he thus harmed?"
"I do; I do indeed."
"Do you tell me that any crime not punishable by law could justify
such a sentence?--a sentence of excommunication from his home, from
family love, from--"
"Stay, stay, Miles. Tell me, how has this subject cropped up just now?
What has brought it into your thoughts?"
"Because, as a man of honour, I feel that I ought to tell Miss Lambert
something at least--as much as I know--of the story before I ask her
to be my wife. Because I would fain have told her that my father was
harsh and severe to a degree in his conduct to Geoffrey."
"That is impossible; that you can never say. Listen, Miles; I know
more of this matter than you suspect. I know every detail of it. Your
father made me his confidant, and I know the crime which your brother
attempted."
"You do?--the crime!"
"The crime. The base, dastardly, hideous crime, which rendered it
impossible for your father to do otherwise than renounce his son, and
bid you renounce your brother for ever."
"Ah, my God!" groaned Miles, burying his head in his hands.
"There is no reason to be so excited, my poor boy," said Lord
Sandilands, laying his hand gently on him. "You need tell Grace
nothing of this; and be sure that this wretched Geoffrey will never
trouble you again. He is most probably dead."
"Dead!" shrieked Miles, raising his livid face and staring wildly at
his friend. "He lives--here amongst us! I have seen him constantly;
he has recognised me, I know. This man of whom we were just
speaking,--this man whom you call Gilbert Lloyd,--is my younger
brother, Geoffrey Challoner!"
CHAPTER VIII.
L'Homme propose.
When a man of Lord Ticehurst's character and disposition makes up his
mind to achieve a certain result--in the turf slang of the day, "goes
in for a big thing"--he is not easily thwarted, or, at all events, he
does not give up his idea without having tried to carry it through.
The indiscreet, illiterate, but by no means bad-hearted, young
nobleman aforenamed had given himself up, heart and soul, to a passion
for the opera-singer known to him as Miss Grace Lambert, and had gone
through a psychological examination of his feelings, so far as his
brain-power permitted, with the view of seeing how the matter lay, and
what would be his best means for securing his ends. The notion of
succeeding dishonourably had never entered his head, or at least had
not remained there for a moment. In that knowledge of the world which
comes, no one knows how, to persons who are ignorant of everything
else--that _savoir faire_ which is learned unconsciously, and which
can never be systematically acquired--Lord Ticehurst was a proficient.
He was not, as times go, an immoral man, certainly not a wicked one;
but he lived in a loose set, and it did not arise from conscientious
scruples that he had not "tried it on" that Grace Lambert should
become his mistress. Such a result would have given him considerable
_éclat_ amongst his friends, and his religious notions were not
sufficiently developed to make him shrink from taking such a step. He
did _not_ take it because he knew it would be useless; because he knew
that any such offer would be ignominiously rejected; that he would be
spurned from the door, and never permitted again to be in the society
of the girl whom he really loved. There was only one way out of it--to
offer her marriage. And then the question came, Did he really love her
sufficiently for that, and was he prepared to stand the consequences?
Did he really love her? He thought he could put in an answer to that,
by Jove! Did he really love her? You should ask old Gil about that!
Old Gil knew more of him than anyone else; and he could tell you--not
that he knew what it was, what was the reason of it, don't you
know?--that for the whole of last season he had been an altered man.
He knew that himself--he confessed it; he felt that he had not taken
any proper interest in the stable, and that kind of thing; indeed, if
he had not had old Gil to look after it, the whole thing would have
gone to the deuce. He knew that well enough, but he could not help it.
He had been regular spoons on this girl, and he was, and he should be
to the end of the chapter, amen. That was all he had got to say about
it. His life had been quite a different thing since he had known her.
He had left off swearing, and all that cussed low language that he
used to delight in once upon a time; and he'd got up early, because he
thought there was a chance of meeting her walking in the Park (he had
met her once, and solemnly walked between her and Mrs. Bloxam for an
hour without saying a word); and he had cut the _ballet_ and its
professors, with whom formerly he had very liberal relations. The
_coryphées_ and the little _rats_, whom he had been in the habit of
calling by their Christian names, who knew him by the endearing
abbreviation of "Ticey," and to whom formerly he was delighted to
stand and talk by the hour, received the coldest of bows from their
quondam friend, as he stood amongst the wings of the opera-scenery on
the chance of a word of salutation from the _prima donna_ as she
hurried from her dressing-room on to the stage. But that word and the
glance at her were enough. "It's no good," he used to say; "it won't
do after that. If I go away to supper at old Chalkstone's, and find
Bella Marshall and Kate Herbert and half-a-dozen of the T.R.D.L.
_ballet_ there, 'pon my soul it don't amuse me when they put the
lobster-claws at the end of their noses; and I think Bagwax and
Clownington and old Spiff--well, damme, they're old enough to know
better, and they might think about--well, I don't want to preach about
what we're all coming to, and what must be precious near for them."
A man of this kind thus hit suffers very severely. The novelty of the
passion adds considerably to his pangs. The fact that he cannot speak
out his hopes and wishes irritates and worries him. To throw the
handkerchief is easy enough at the first start--becomes easier through
frequent practice; but to win the prize is a very different matter.
With a lady of his own rank it would have been much easier wooing; but
with Grace, Lord Ticehurst felt himself placed at a double
disadvantage. He had to assuage the rage of his friends at the honour
he was doing her, and he had to prove to her that he was doing her no
honour at all. The former, though a difficult, was the easier task.
Lord Ticehurst knew his aunt, Lady Carabas, quite well enough to be
aware that, though she was the first _grande dame_ who had introduced
Miss Lambert into society, and that though up to that minute she had
been the young lady's most steadfast friend, she would be the very
first to rail against the _mésalliance_, and do all she could to cry
down that reputation which she had so earnestly vaunted. Others would
follow suit at once, and he and his wife would have to run the
gauntlet. His wife! Ah, that was just the point; he would not care a
rap if she were his wife, if he had her brains and her beauty to help
in winning the game for him. But Lord Ticehurst's knowledge of the
world was too great to permit him to flatter himself thus far; he knew
that he had never received any substantial acknowledgment from Miss
Lambert; and he recollected, with a very unpleasant twinge, what
Gilbert Lloyd had said about Miles Challoner's attentions in that
quarter--attentions received almost as favourably as they were
earnestly proffered, as Lord Ticehurst had had an opportunity of
witnessing at Mrs. Stapleton Burge's reception.
Young noblemen of large fortunes are not in the habit of fighting with
their inclinations and wishes. Lord Ticehurst felt that he must do his
best to make this girl marry him--whether she would or not, he felt
was doubtful, and acknowledged the feeling to himself with an honest
frankness which was one of his best characteristics. He bore away with
him his dull, wearying heartache, his "restless, unsatisfied longing,"
to Goodwood, where it cankered the ducal hospitality, and made him
think but little of the racing-prizes which he carried off. He bore it
away with him to the hotel at Eastbourne, where, pending the Doncaster
week, he and his friends had set up their Lares and Penates, and were
doing their best to gain health and strength from the sea-breezes and
quiet, and make up for the ravages of the London season.
Except in the desultory manner already narrated, Lord Ticehurst had
not revealed to his confederate the state of his feelings towards Miss
Lambert. He had said nothing positive to him regarding what was now
his fixed intention, of proposing for that young lady's hand, and it
is probable he would have been consistently reticent had not chance
brought the confession about in this way.
It was a splendid August morning, and the two gentlemen were seated in
the largest sitting-room of the pretty hotel, with its bay window
overlooking the pleasant promenading crowd of seaside loungers,
bathable children, bathed young ladies with their limp hair hanging
down their backs, old gentlemen walking up and down with mouths and
nostrils wide open to inhale as much ozone as possible during their
stay, and the other usual common objects of the sea-shore. Breakfast
was just over, and cigars had already been lighted. The blue vapour
came curling round the sides of the sporting-print in which Gilbert
Lloyd's head and shoulders were enveloped, and mixed with another blue
vapour which stole over the more massive folds of the _Times_, with
which Lord Ticehurst was engaged.
A shout of "Hallo!" betraying intense astonishment, roused Gilbert
from his perusal of the vaticinations of "Calchas." "What makes you
hallo out like that? What is it?" he asked.
"What is it! O, nothing particular," replied Lord Ticehurst; adding
immediately, "By Jove, though!"
"No, but I say, Etchingham, something must have roused you to make you
give tongue. What was it, old boy? No more scratchings for the Leger?"
"No, something quite different to that. Well, look here, if you must
know;" and his lordship lazily handed the paper to his friend, and
pointed to a particular paragraph.
"Advertisement!" said Lloyd as he took it. "Now what the deuce can you
find to interest you among the advertisements?" But the expression of
his face changed as he saw, in large letters, the name of Miss Grace
Lambert; and on further perusal he found that Mr. Boulderson Munns,
whose noble style he immediately recognised, informed the British
public that he had made arrangements with this distinguished _prima
donna_ for a tour during the winter months, in the course of which she
would visit the principal cities in England, Ireland, and Scotland,
accompanied by a _troupe_ of distinguished talent, superintended
by Mr. Munns himself, who would lend all the resources of the
justly-celebrated band and _répertoire_ of the Grand Scandinavian
Opera-house to the success of the design.
Gilbert Lloyd, who had felt his colour ebb when he first saw his
wife's name, read through the advertisement carefully, but said,
nothing as he laid the paper down.
"Have you read it?" asked Lord Ticehurst.
"I have."
"And what do you think of it?"
"Think of it! What should I think of it, except that it will probably
be a profitable speculation for--for Miss Lambert, and certainly a
profitable one for Munns?"
"Well but, I say, look here! It mustn't come off."
"What mustn't?"
"Why, this what's-its-name--tour!"
"Then it will be a bad thing for Munns. But, seriously, Etchingham,
what on earth do you mean? What are you talking about?"
"Well, I mean that--that young lady, Miss Lambert, mustn't go
flitting about the country."
"Why not? What have you to do with it?"
"Why, haven't I told you--don't you recollect, before Ascot and all
that?--only you're so deuced dull, and think of nothing but--well,
never mind. Don't you recollect my saying I intended to ask Miss
Lambert to be my wife?" And Lord Ticehurst, whom the avowal and the
unusual flux of words rendered a bright peony colour, glared at his
Mentor in nervous trepidation.
Gilbert looked at him very calmly. The corners of his mouth twitched
for an instant as he began to speak, but he was otherwise perfectly
composed as he said, "I had forgotten; you must forgive me; the stable
takes up so much of my time that I have scarcely leisure to look after
your other amusements. O, you intend to propose for this young lady!
Do you think she will accept you?"
"That's a devilish nice question to ask a fellow, that is. 'Pon my
soul, I don't think there's another fellow in the world that would
have had the--well, the kindness--to ask that. I suppose it will be
all right; if I didn't, I shouldn't--"
"Shouldn't ask, eh? Well, I suppose not, and it was indiscreet in me
to suggest anything different. What do you propose to do now?"
"Well, what do you think? Perhaps I'd better go up to town--deuced
odd town will look at this time of year, won't it?--and see Miss
Lambert, and make it all straight with her; and then go off and see
old Munns, and tell him he'll have to give up his notion of the
what's-its-name--the tour. He'll want to be squared, of course, and we
must do it for him; but I shall leave you to arrange that with him."
"Of course; that will not be a difficult matter." Gilbert Lloyd waited
a minute before he added, "But there is no necessity for you to go to
London on this portentous matter. Miss Lambert is much nearer to you
than you imagine."
"Much nearer! What the deuce do you, mean?" asked Lord Ticehurst,
looking round as if he expected to see Gertrude entering the room.
"Exactly what I say. I had a letter this morning from Hanbury; he's
staying at Hardriggs, old Sir Giles Belwether's place, not a dozen
miles from here; and he mentioned that Miss Lambert was a guest there
too. Wait a minute; I'll read you what he says. No, never mind, it's
only some nonsense about Lady Belwether's insisting on old Bel having
a Dean to stay in the house at the same time to counteract the effect
of the stage, and--"
"D--d impertinence!" muttered Lord Ticehurst. "I always did hate that
Hanbury--sneering beast! O, about twelve miles from here, eh? Might
drive over to luncheon? What do you say, Gil? Do us good, eh?"
"Do _you_ good, very likely, Etchingham! At all events, if you have
made up your mind to this course, it's the best and the most
honourable way to bring it to an issue at once. And I'm not sure that
this is not an excellent opportunity. You will find the lady
unfettered by business, free from the lot of fribbles who are always
butterflying about her in town, and have only to make your running. I
can't go; I've got letters to write, and things to do, and must stop
here."
Within half an hour Lord Ticehurst's phaeton came spinning round to
the door of the hotel, and Gilbert, stepping out on to the balcony,
saw him--got up to the highest pitch of sporting _négligé_--drive off
amid the unsuppressed admiration of the bystanders. Then Lloyd walked
back into the room and flung himself on a sofa, and lit a fresh cigar,
and as he puffed at it, soliloquised, "What was that I saw on a seal
the other day? _Quo Fata ducunt_. What a wonderful thing that they
should have led to this; that they should have led me to being the
most intimate friend of a man who is now gone off to propose to my
wife! My wife! I, wonder when I shall make up my mind as to what my
real feelings are towards her. After years of indifference, of
absolute forgetfulness, I see her, and fall madly in love with her
again--so madly that I pursue her, plainly seeing it is against her
will, and, like an idiot, give her the chance of saying that to me
which makes me hate her worse than ever--worse even than when we
parted, and I did hate her then. But I've a feeling now which I had
not during all that long interval of our separation. Then I did not
care where she was, or what she did. Now, by the Lord, if I were to
think that she cared for any man--or not that, I know she does, curse
him! I know she does care for that man--I mean, if she were to give
any man the position that was mine--that was? that _is_, when I choose
to claim it--he and I would have to settle accounts. That poor fool
has no chance. Gertrude has no ambition--that's a fault I always found
in her; if she had had, we might have risen together; but she was
nothing when she was not sentimentally spoony; and she would throw
over my lord, who really loves her in a way that I never thought him
capable of, the title, money, and position, for the _beaux yeux_ and
the soft speeches of my sweet brother. What will be the end of that, I
wonder? By heavens, if I saw _that_ culminating--if I thought that she
was going to claim the freedom we agreed upon for the sake of
bestowing herself on _him_, I'd stand the whole racket, run the whole
risk, declare myself and my position openly, and let her do her
worst!" He rose from the sofa and walked to the window, where he stood
looking out for a few moments, then returned to his old position. "The
worst, eh? How I hate that cursed sea, and the glare of the sun on the
cliffs! It always reminds me of that infernal time. Do her worst!
She's the most determined woman I ever saw. I shall never forget the
look of her face that night, nor the tone of her voice as she
whispered behind her fan. Well, sufficient for the day, &c. That's to
be met when it comes. It hasn't come yet. I may be perfectly certain
what reply will be given to my dear young friend Etchingham, who has
just started on his precious fool's-errand; and as for the other
man--well, he's not staying at Hardriggs, or Hanbury would have
mentioned him. There will be this country tour to fill up the winter;
and by the time next season arrives, he may be off it, or she may be
off it, or a thousand things may have happened, which are now not
worth speculating about, but which will serve my turn as they come."
And Gilbert Lloyd turned to his writing-desk, and plunged into
calculations and accounts with perfectly clear brains, in the working
of which the thoughts of the previous half-hour had not the smallest
share.
Meanwhile, Lord Ticehurst sat upright in his mail-phaeton, driving the
pair of roans which were the cynosure of the Park during the season,
and the envy of all horsey men always, through some of the loveliest
scenery in Sussex. Not that scenery, except Grieve's or Beverley's,
made much impression on his lordship. Constant variety of hill and
dale merely brought out the special qualities and paces of the roans;
wooded uplands suggested good cover-shooting; broad expanse of heath
looked very like rabbits. To such a thorough sportsman thoughts like
these occurred involuntarily; but he had plenty beside to fix what he
called his mind. Though he had made as light as possible to his
henchman of the expedition on which he was engaged, and given himself
the airs of a conquering hero, he was by no means so well satisfied of
his chances of success, or of his chances of happiness, were success
finally achieved. His chances of success occupied him first. Well, he
did not know--you could never tell about women, at least he couldn't,
whether they meant it, or whether they didn't. He didn't know; she was
always very friendly, and that kind of thing; but with women that went
for nothing. They'd draw you on, until you thought nothing could be
more straight; and then throw you over, and leave you nowhere. N-no;
he couldn't recollect anything particular that Miss Lambert had ever
said to induce him to hope: she'd admired the roans as the groom moved
them up and down in front of her windows; and she'd said more than
once that she was glad some song of hers had pleased him, and that was
all. Not much indeed; but then he was an earl; and the grand, undying
spirit of British flunkydom had led him to believe, as indeed it leads
every person of his degree to believe, that "all thoughts, all
passions, all delights, whatever stirs this mortal frame," are at the
command of anyone named in _Debrett_, or eulogised by Sir Bernard
Burke: "Ticehurst, Earl of, Viscount Etchingham, b. 1831, succeeded
his father the 3d Earl in," &c. &c. What was the use of that, if
people were not to bow down in the dust before him, and he were not to
have everything he wished? Heaps of fellows had been floating round
her all the season, but no such large fish as he had risen at the
bait; and though she had not particularly distinguished him, still he
had only to go in and win the prize. What was it that Gilbert Lloyd
had let drop about some rival in the field? O, that man Challoner!
Yes, he had himself noticed that there had been a good deal of
attention paid in that quarter, and by no means unwillingly received.
Queer customer that old Gil! sees everything, by Jove! fancy his
spotting that! Good-looking chap, Challoner, and quite enough to say
for himself; but, Lord, when it came to the choice between him and the
Earl of Ticehurst!
Lord Ticehurst smiled quite pleasantly to himself as this alternative
rose in his mind, and flicked his whip in the air over the heads of
the roans, causing that spirited pair to plunge in a manner which made
the groom (a middle-aged, sober man, with a regard for his neck, and a
horror of his master's wild driving) look over the head of the phaeton
in fear and trembling. As the horses quieted down and settled into
their paces, Lord Ticehurst's spirits sunk simultaneously. Suppose it
were all right with the lady, what about the rest of the people? Not
his following--not Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol, and the rest of the
crew. Lord Ticehurst might not be a clever man, but he had
sufficiently "reckoned up" his _clientèle_, and he knew, whatever they
might think, none of their tongues would wag. But the outsiders--the
"society" people--what would they say to his bringing a lady from the
boards of the opera to sit at the head of his table at home, and
demand all the respect due to her rank abroad? They wouldn't like it;
he knew that fast enough. O yes, of course they'd say that he was not
the first who'd done it, and it had always been a great success
hitherto, and so on; but still he had to look to his own position and
hers, and--by Jove, Lady Carabas! she'd make it pleasant for them, and
no mistake! Her ladyship liked her _protégée_, liked to flaunt her in
the eyes of rival lion-hunters, gloried in the success she achieved,
and the excitement she created; but her nephew knew well enough what
her feelings would be if she had to acknowledge the brilliant _prima
donna_ of the opera-house as a relation; if she had to endure the
congratulations of her female friends on the distinguished addition to
the family circle which her kindness and tact had brought about.
What the deuce did it matter to him! The roans were then pulling well
and steadily together, and the phaeton bowled merrily along the level
turnpike-road. What the deuce did it matter to him! Was not he the
Earl of Ticehurst, and was he not to be his own master? and was not he
old enough, and rich enough, and big swell enough to do what he
pleased, and to take a sight at the world's odd looks, and pooh-pooh
the world's odd remarks? He was, and he intended to prove it; and
after all, he would like to see one of them to compare with his pretty
Grace. Why, who had they made a fuss about last season? Alice
Farquhar, an insipid-looking, boiled-veal kind of girl, with her pale
freckled face and her red hair; and Constance Brand, with her big
black eyebrows, and her flashing eyes, and her hook-nose--talk about
tragedy queens, well, there was Constance Brand cut out for that to a
T! Everybody said what a charming thing it was when Alice Farquhar
married old Haremarch, and how, ever since, he had been clothed and in
his right mind; and as for Constance Brand--well, everyone knew she
had saved the family credit by marrying young Klootz, who now called
himself Cloote, and who only suffered himself to be reminded by his
income that he was lineally descended from old Jacob Klootz, the
banker and money-lender of Frankfurt-am-Main. Neither of these girls
was to be compared to Miss Lambert, and he was determined that--Lord
Ticehurst's spirits sunk again just at this juncture, as the gates of
the Hardriggs avenue came within sight.
The Belwethers were very pleasant old-fashioned people, who lived the
same life year after year without ever getting tired of it. They were
at Hardriggs, their very pleasant ancestral seat, from August until
the end of March, and at their very pleasant town-house in
Brook-street from April till the end of July. When in the country, old
Sir Giles shot, fished, and attended the Quarter-sessions, the
Conservative demonstrations, and the Volunteer reviews of his county.
When in town, he slept a good deal at the Carlton, and rode a clever
cob about the Park between twelve and two, distinguished for the
bottle-green cutaway coat with velvet-collar, and the high muslin
checked cravat of sixty years ago. Lady Belwether's character was well
summed up in the phrase "kind old goose," which a particular friend
applied to her. A madness for music was the only marked feature of her
disposition; at home she visited all the old women, and helped the
curate, and gave largely to the Flannel Club, and looked after the
schools, and worried the doctor, and played the harmonium in the
village-church on Sunday; and in town, what with the opera three
nights a-week, and the Monday Popular Concerts, and the _matinées_ and
_soirées musicales_ of distinguished creatures, with a dash of Exeter
Hall oratorio, and a _soupçon_ of Philharmonic, the old lady's life
was one whirl of delight. Lady Belwether had fallen in love with
Gertrude at first sight. She was by no means a gushing old lady, nor,
though so devoted to music, had she ever made the acquaintance of any
professional. Hitherto she had always stood on her dignity when such a
proposition had been made to her. She had no doubt, she used to say,
that the artists in question were pleasant people in their way, but
that was not her way. However, the first glance at Miss Lambert made
the old lady wild to know her: there never was such a sweet face--so
interesting, so classical---yes, the old lady might say, so holy; "and
her voice, my dear, it gives me the notion of an angel singing." So,
worthy old Lady Belwether having ascertained that Miss Lambert was
perfectly "correct" and ladylike, procured an introduction to her, and
commenced heaping upon her a series of kindnesses which culminated in
the invitation to Hardriggs. This invitation was accepted principally
by the advice of Lord Sandilands, who had known the Belwethers all his
life, and who felt that Gertrude could not enjoy the quiet and fresh
air requisite after her London season with more thoroughly respectable
people.
It was after the invitation had been given and accepted that Lady
Belwether began to feel a little nervous and uncomfortable about what
she had done. For in the pride of her heart and the warmth of her
admiration for Gertrude, she told everybody that dear Miss Lambert was
coming to them at Hardriggs in the autumn. Among others, she mentioned
the fact to Miss Belwether, Sir Giles's sister, a dreadful old woman
who lived in a boarding-house at Brighton, in order to be in the
closest proximity to her "pastor," the Reverend Mr. Tophet, and who
uttered a yelp of horror at the announcement. "I have said nothing,
Maria," said this horrible old person, "to your gaddings-about and the
frivolous style of your existence, but I must lift up my voice when
you tell me you are about to receive a stage-player as your guest."
"Stage-player" is an awkward word to be thrown at the head of a leader
of county society, and it hit home, and rather staggered dear old Lady
Belwether; not that the gallant old lady for an instant entertained
the notion of giving up her intended guest, or suffered herself to
appear the least abashed in the eyes of her antagonist. "It's a mere
matter of taste, my dear Martha," she replied; "for my own part, I
would sooner associate with a lady who, though a singer, is
undoubtedly a lady, than with man who calls himself a minister, who
was a shoemaker, and who always must be a vulgar boor." Having fired
which raking shot at the Reverend Tophet, the old lady sailed away and
closed the conversation.
But she felt that it would be a great advantage if she could have
someone staying in the house at the same time with Miss Lambert, whose
presence would prove an effectual check on the ridiculous gossip
likely to be prevalent in the county. The lay element would be
excellently represented in the respectably dull and decorous people
who were coming; but there was wanting an infusion of the clerical
element, which could best be met by inviting Sir Giles's old friend
the Dean of Burwash. Henry Asprey, Dean of Burwash, had been known as
"Felix" Asprey at school and college, from his uninterrupted run of
luck. The son of a poor solicitor, a good-looking idle lad, of capital
manners and address, but with very little real talent, he had won an
exhibition from his school, a scholarship, a fellowship, and a
double-second at the University, no one knew how. He had taken orders,
and travelled as tutor to the then Premier's son through Egypt and the
Holy Land; on his return had published a little book of very weak
poems, under the title _Palm-leaves and Dates_, which, with his usual
luck, happened to hit the very bad taste of the day, and went through
several editions. His friend the Premier gave him a good living, and
he had scarcely been inducted into it when he won the heart of a very
rich widow, whom he married, and whom, with his usual luck, within the
course of four years he buried, inheriting her fortune of three
thousand a-year. It was to console him in his deep affliction that his
friend the Premier, just then quitting office for the third and last
time, bestowed upon him the Deanery of Burwash. He was now some fifty
years old, tall, thin, and eminently aristocratic-looking; had a long
transparent hand, which was generally clasping his chin, and a soft
persuasive voice. He liked music and poetry, and good dinners; was
found at private views of picture-exhibitions; belonged to the
Athenaeum Club; and liked to be seen there conversing with
professional literary men. People said he would be a Bishop some day,
and he thought so himself--he did not see why not; he would have
looked well in his robes, spoken well in the House of Lords, and never
committed himself by the utterance of any extreme opinion. That was a
thing he had avoided all his life, and to it much of the secret of his
success might be ascribed. His sermons were eloquent--his friends said
"sound," his enemies "empty;" he deplored the division in the Church
with sympathetic face and elegant gesture; but he never gave adhesion
to either side, and showed more skill in parrying home-questions than
in any other action of his life.
Such was Dean Asprey, to whom Lady Belwether wrote an invitation to
Hardriggs, telling him frankly that Miss Grace Lambert would be one of
the guests, and asking if he had any objection to meet her. The Dean's
reply, written in the neatest hand on the thickest cream-laid
notepaper, arrived by return of post. He accepted the invitation as
heartily as it was given ("Genial creature!" said dear old Lady
Belwether); he fully appreciated dear Lady Belwether's frankness about
her guest, for he was aware how could he fail to be?--of the
censoriousness of the world towards persons of his calling. He had,
however, made it his rule through life, and he intended to pursue the
same course until the end, to shape his conduct according to the
dictates of that still small voice of his conscience rather than at
the bidding of the world. ("The dear!" said Lady Belwether.) He should
therefore have the greatest pleasure in making the acquaintance of
Miss Grace Lambert, of whom he had already heard the most favourable
accounts, not merely as regarded her great genius, but her exemplary
conduct. And he was, with kindest regards to Giles, his dear Lady
Belwether's most sincere friend, Henry Asprey. "A Christian
gentleman," said the old lady, with tears of delight standing in her
eyes as she finished the letter; "and Martha to talk of her
stage-players and Tophets indeed, when a man like that does not mind!"
The Belwethers were rather astonished when, just after the party had
sat down to luncheon, they heard Lord Ticehurst announced. For though
there was a certain similarity of sporting tastes between him and Sir
Giles, the disparity of age caused them to move in widely different
sets; while Lady Belwether knew his lordship as the nephew and one of
the principal attendants on, and abettors of, Lady Carabas, whom the
old lady held in great aversion. "One of the new style of ladies, my
dear," she used to say with a sniff of disdain; "finds women's society
too dull for her, must live amongst men, talks slang, and I daresay
smokes, if one only knew." However, they both received the young
nobleman with considerable _empressement_; and Lord Ticehurst, on
taking his seat at the luncheon-table, found that he knew most of the
assembled party. The Dean was almost the only one with whom he had not
a previous acquaintance; and Lord Ticehurst had scarcely whispered to
Lady Belwether a request to know who was the clerical party on his
left, when the Dean turned round and introduced himself as an old
friend of the late Lord Ticehurst's. "I used to meet your father at
Lady Walsingham's receptions when Lord Walsingham was Premier, and he
allowed me to call him my very good friend. We had certain tastes in
common which bound us together--geology and mineralogy, for instance.
You are not a geologist, I believe, my lord?"
"Well, no," said Lord Ticehurst frankly; "that ain't my line."
"N-no," said the Dean. "Well, we all have our different tastes--_tot
homines, quot sententiæ_. Your father was a man who was passionately
fond of science; indeed, I often used to wonder how a man absorbed as
he was in what generally proves to ethers the all-engrossing study of
politics could find time for the discussion of scientific
propositions, and for the attendance at the lectures of the Royal
Institution. But your father was a man of no ordinary calibre; he
was--"
"O yes, he was a great gun at science and electricity, and all that
kind of thing, at least so I've been told. Excuse me for half a
minute; I want to get some of that ham I see on the sideboard." And
Lord Ticehurst rose from the seat, to which he did not return after he
had helped himself, preferring a vacant place at the other end of the
table, by the aide of Sir Giles Belwether, whose conversation about
hunting and racing proved far more entertaining to his lordship.
Moreover, from his new position he could keep a better view of Miss
Lambert, who did not, he was pleased to observe, seem particularly
gratified or amused at the rapid fire of conversation kept up by the
young men on either side of her.
When luncheon was over, and the party rose and dispersed, Lord
Ticehurst was seized upon by Sir Giles, who took him to the stables,
expatiating lengthily and wearily on the merits of his cattle; and it
was not until late in the afternoon that the visitor could make his
escape from his host. He thought that he would have had his journey
for nothing, seeing no chance of getting a private interview with Miss
Lambert, when on his return to the house to see if he could find Lady
Belwether, to whom he intended making his adieux, he heard the sound
of a piano, and recognised the prelude of a favourite ballad of
Gertrude's. Before the song could begin, Lord Ticehurst had entered
the room, and found Miss Lambert, as he expected, alone at the piano.
Gertrude looked round at the opening of the door, and when she saw who
it was, half rose from her seat.
"Pray don't move, Miss Lambert," said Lord Ticehurst, approaching her;
"pray don't let me disturb you."
"You don't disturb me in the least, Lord Ticehurst," said Gertrude,
sitting down again. "I was merely amusing myself. I had not even the
business excuse of being 'at practice.'"
"Don't let me interfere, then. Amuse yourself and me at the same time.
Do now, it will be a charity; 'pon my word it will."
"No, no, no; I'm not so cruel as that. I know the terrible infliction
music is to you in London. I've watched too often the martyr-like
manner in which you've suffered under long classical pieces, and the
self-denying way in which you have applauded at the end of them,
without deliberately exposing you to more torture in the country."
"Assure you you're wrong, Miss Lambert; but I'm too happy to think
you've done me the honour to watch me at all, to go into the question.
No, please don't go. If you won't sing to me, may I speak to you?"
Gertrude, who had again half-risen, turned round to him with a look of
wonder in her eyes. "May you speak to me, Lord Ticehurst? Why, of
course!"
The answer was so manifestly simple and genuine, that it quite took
Lord Ticehurst aback, and there was a moment's pause before he said,
"Thanks, yes--you're very good. I wanted to speak to you--wanted to
say something rather particular to you, in point of fact."
The hesitation in his manner, an odd conscious look in his face, had
revealed the object of his visit. Gertrude knew what he was about to
say, but she remained perfectly calm and unembarrassed, merely saying,
"Fray speak, Lord Ticehurst; I am quite at your service."
"Thanks very much--kind of you to say so, I'm sure. Fact of the matter
is, Miss Lambert, ever since I've had the pleasure of knowing you I've
been completely stumped, don't you know?--bowled over, and that kind
of thing. I suppose you've noticed it; fellows at the club chaff most
awfully, you know, and I can't stand it any longer; and, in short,
I've come to ask you if--if you'll marry me, and that kind of thing."
"You do me great honour, Lord Ticehurst," commenced Gertrude; "very
great honour--"
"O," interrupted his lordship, "don't you think about that; that's
what they said at White's, but I said that was all d--d stuff--I beg
your pardon, Miss Lambert; all nonsense I mean--about honour, and all
that. Why," he went on to say, having worked himself up into a state
of excitement, "of course I know I'm an earl, and that kind of thing.
I can't help knowing about my--my station in life, and you'd think me
a great ass if I pretended I didn't; but when you're my wife, you'll
be--I mean to say you'll grace it and adorn it--and--and there's not
one in the whole list fit to be named along with you, or to hold a
candle to you."
"I cannot thank you sufficiently for this expression of kind feeling
towards me, Lord Ticehurst," said Gertrude. "No, hear me for one
minute;" as he endeavoured again to interrupt her. "Ever since you
have known me you have treated me with the utmost courtesy and
kindness, and you have now done me the greatest possible honour. You
may judge, then, how painful it is to me--" Lord Ticehurst's jaw and
hat here dropped simultaneously--"how painful it is to me to be
compelled to decline that honour."
"To--to decline it?"
"To decline it."
"To say no!"
"To say no."
"Then you refuse me! Case of chalks, by Jove! Miss Lambert, I--I'm
sorry I've troubled you," said Lord Ticehurst, picking up his hat
and making for the door. "I hope you won't think anything of it,
I--good-morning!--Damme if I know whether I'm on my head or my heels,"
he added when he got outside, and was alone.
Lord Ticehurst was so completely _bouleversé_ that he scarcely knew
how he got to his phaeton, or how he tooled the roans, who were
additionally frisky after the Belwether oats, down the avenue. He knew
nothing until he got to the gate, on the other side of which was an
open fly. He looked vacantly at its occupants, but started as he
recognised Lord Sandilands and Miles Challoner.
"O, that's it, is it?" said his lordship to himself. "Damme, old Gil
was right again!"
CHAPTER IX.
Dieu dispose.
The effect of Miles Challoner's startling communication upon Lord
Sandilands was very great; but the long-cultivated habit of
self-command enabled him to conceal its extent and somewhat of its
nature from his younger friend. It was fortunate that Miles was just
then so much engrossed with his love, so full of the hope of the
success of his suit, so relieved and encouraged by discovering that
Lord Sandilands did not attempt to dissuade him from a project in
which he had felt very doubtful whether he should have the support of
a man of the world--and though nothing would have induced him to
abandon that project, Lord Sandilands' acquiescence made a wonderful
difference to him in the present, and would, he felt, be of weighty
importance in the future,--that he was not keenly observant of the old
nobleman. As soon as it was possible, Lord Sandilands got rid of
Miles, but not until he had received from the young man a grateful
acknowledgment of his kindness, and until they had finally agreed on
the expedition to Hardriggs for the following day.
When he was quite alone, the familiar friend of Miles Challoner's
father gave way to the feelings with which this revelation had filled
him. This, then, was the explanation of the instinctive aversion he
had felt towards Gilbert Lloyd--fate had brought him in contact with
the man whose story he alone of living men knew, and under
circumstances which might have terrible import. The one hope of his
dead friend--that the brothers might never meet had been defeated; the
fear which had troubled him in his later days had been fulfilled. If
Miles Challoner's impression concerning this man should be correct--if
indeed he was or intended to become a suitor to Gertrude, a fresh
complication of an extremely dangerous nature--knowing what he knew,
he could well appreciate that danger might arise. The skeleton was
wearing flesh again, and stalking very close by the old man now.
Hitherto only the strong sympathy which had united him with Miles
Challoner and his father--his friendship for the latter had been one
of the strongest and deepest feelings of a life which had, on the
whole, been superficial--made the fate of the outcast son and brother
a subject of any interest to Lord Sandilands. He might have turned up
at any time, and this unfortunate meeting and recognition between the
brothers have taken place, and beyond the unpleasantness of the
occurrence, and the necessity he should have recognised for impressing
upon Miles as stringently as possible the importance of observing his
father's prohibition, he would not have felt himself personally
concerned. But Gertrude! the girl whom he had come to love with such
true fatherly feeling and solicitude--the girl who had brought into
his superficial life such mingled feelings of pain and pleasure--what
if she were about to be involved in this family mystery and misery?
Very seldom in the course of his existence had Lord Sandilands
experienced such acute pain, such a sensation of helpless terror, as
this supposition inspired. Supposing that Miles Challoner was right in
the dread which Gilbert Lloyd's manner with regard to Gertrude had
awakened in him,--and the eyes of a lover not sure of his own
position, and anxiously on the lookout for possible rivals,
were likely to be more acute and more accurate than those of
an old gentleman much out of practice in the subtleties of the
tender passion, and without the spur to his perceptions of
suspicion,--supposing he was really in love with Gertrude, and that by
any horrible chance Gertrude should prefer him to Miles! Very
unpleasant physical symptoms of disturbance manifested themselves
after Lord Sandilands had fully taken this terrible hypothesis into
consideration, and for a time the old gentleman felt that whether it
was gout or apoplexy which was about to claim him for its own was a
mere question of detail. He had lived so long without requiring to
test the strength of his nerves, without having any very strong or
urgent demand made upon him for the exercise of his feelings, that
anything of the kind now decidedly disagreed with him, and he went to
bed in a rueful state of mind, and a shaky condition of body. The
night brought him calmness and counsel, and the symptoms of illness
passed off sufficiently for him to resolve on keeping the engagement
he had made with Miles for the following day. "The sooner his mind is
at ease, the sooner will mine be, on his account and my own." Thus ran
Lord Sandilands' thoughts as he lay awake, listening against his will
to the splash of the sea, and inclined to blame its monotonous murmur
for the nervousness which had him in its grip. "I suppose it's not the
right thing for me to help Miles to marry Gertrude--my old friend
would not have liked the notion of his son and heir's marrying my
natural daughter; but what can I do? The young fellow is not like
other men of his age and position; in fact, he isn't, strictly
speaking, I suppose, a 'young' fellow at all. If he were, and
resembled the young men of the day a little more, I fancy he never
would have thought of marrying her. And then there's an awful blot
upon the Challoners, too--and she is such a charming girl, no tongue
has ever dared to wag against her. Suppose I did not encourage it,
that I set myself against it, what could I do? I have literally no
right in Miles's case, and none that I can acknowledge in Gertrude's,
and I should only make them both dislike me, without preventing the
marriage in the least. I wish--because of what poor old Mark would
have thought--that they had never met; but I can't go beyond that--no,
I can't. But if she cares for that wretch, good heavens! what shall I
do?" The old man put his shrunken hands up to his bald temples, and
twisted his head about on his pillow, and groaned in his solitude and
perplexity. "Must I threaten him with exposure, and so drive him out
of the country? or must I tell her the truth about herself, and ask
her to believe, on the faith of my unexplained assertion, that the man
is one whom she must never think of marrying?"
The position was one of indisputable difficulty; the "pleasant
vice"--that long-ago story of a dead woman, deceived indeed, but with
no extraordinary cruelty, a story which had not troubled Lord
Sandilands' conscience very much--had manufactured itself finally into
a whip of stout dimensions and stinging quality, and he was getting a
very sufficient taste of it just now.
Miles must try his luck. That was the only conclusion which could be
immediately reached. If he could sleep a little, he might feel all
right in the morning, and be able to accompany him to Hardriggs. If he
were not well enough, Miles mast go all the same. If the young man
should feel surprise and curiosity at finding his old friend so
impatient, it could not be helped; it must pass as a vagary of an old
man's. But Miles would not remark anything; the vagary was
sufficiently cognate to his own humour and his own purposes to pass
unnoticed.
When Lord Sandilands and Miles Challoner arrived at Hardriggs on the
following day, a close observer would have discerned that they were
both under a strong impression of some kind. Lord Sandilands was not
feeling well by any means, but he had assured Miles the drive would do
him good, and he had found his indisposition so far useful, that it
explained and excused his being very silent on the way. Neither was
Miles much inclined to talk. He was of an earnest nature, never at any
time voluble, and when under the influence of strong feeling silence
was congenial to him. He well understood that the revelation he had
made to Lord Sandilands on the preceding day had produced a startling
and disagreeable effect; and having perceived plainly, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that the secret which he so earnestly desired to
know was in Lord Sandilands' possession, and was of a darker and direr
nature than he had ever guessed at, but was, at the same time, quite
as securely beyond his reach as ever, he made up his mind to let the
subject drop. Unless this man had cut him out, or was likely to cut
him out with Grace Lambert, he had no power to harm him. The truth
was, Miles Challoner was very sincerely and heartily in love, and he
had as little power, as inclination to occupy his thoughts for long at
a time with anyone but Grace, with any speculation but his chance of
success with her. Luckily, Sir Giles and Lady Belwether were the least
observant of human beings. Sir Giles was stupid to an extent which is
not to be realised except by those who understand the bucolic gentry
of our favoured land, and Lady Belwether was--though superior, as we
have seen, to her baronet in intelligence, and distinguished by a
taste for music--very shortsighted. Close observers were therefore not
"on hand," when Lord Sandilands and Miles arrived at Hardriggs. Sir
Giles was contemplating the turnips at a distant point of his "pretty
little place;" Miss Lambert had gone out into the garden, or the
lime-walk, the servants said, some time before; and Lady Belwether and
Mrs. Bloxam were in the morning-room.
Lord Sandilands did not lose much time in arranging the situation as
he wished it to be arranged, so far as Miles was concerned--his
consummate ease of manner, which Miles admired to the point of envy,
rendered any little disposition of affairs of that kind a very simple
proceeding to him. Miles was despatched in search of Sir Giles, Mrs.
Bloxam was begged on no account to interfere with Miss Lambert's
saunter in the garden--they might join her presently, perhaps--and
Lady Belwether was engaged in a discussion upon the comparative merits
of "our" native composers, within a space of time whose brevity would
have been surprising to anyone unacquainted with the rapid action of a
fixed purpose combined with good manners. Mrs. Bloxam had directed one
searching glance at Lord Sandilands on his entrance, and, as she
withdrew her eyes, she said to herself, "Something has happened. He
wants to speak to me; but I had rather he did not, so he sha'n't." And
strange to say, though he made a protracted visit to Hardriggs that
day, Lord Sandilands did not succeed in getting an opportunity of
speaking a word to Mrs. Bloxam. This annoyed him a good deal.
"Confound the woman!" he said to himself; "either Mrs. Bloxam is too
stupid to see that I want to speak to her, or Lady Belwether is too
clever to leave off talking!" In his capacity of gooseberry-picker,
Lord Sandilands was led on this occasion into anything but pleasant
pastures.
The shortest way to the turnips, just then occupying the mind and
demanding the presence of Sir Giles Belwether, fortunately lay through
the garden, otherwise Miles Challoner might not have profited so
readily and unsuspected by the strategy of his clever old friend.
Through a side-gate of the garden the lime-walk was to be gained, and
as Miles closed that gate behind him he caught sight of Grace Lambert.
She was walking slowly along in the shadow of the trees, her head bent
down in a thoughtful attitude. Miles went quickly towards her, and she
looked up and recognised him with a slight start and a vivid blush; in
fact, with the kind of recognition which takes place when the person
who intrudes upon a reverie happens to be its subject. Gertrude had
been thinking of Miles--she thought of him very often now; and the
interview which had taken place between herself and Lord Ticehurst had
made her think of him more seriously than ever. She loved him. She did
not deny the truth, or palter with it, or fail to recognise its
consequences. She had mistaken pleased and excited fancy and flattered
vanity for love once, but this was nothing of the kind. She knew this
was true love, because she thought of _him_, not of herself; because
she did not hope, but feared he loved her. How would she have listened
to such an avowal from Miles's lips as that which, made by Lord
Ticehurst, had produced mere contempt, and a desire to get rid of it
and him as quickly as possible? Gertrude had accepted her position in
such perfect good faith, that its difficulties never presented
themselves in a practical form at all; and she pondered this matter
now in her heart, as if she were really the free unmarried girl
she seemed to the world. If he should come to her and tell her a
love-tale, what should she say to him? She had asked herself the
question many times and had not found the answer, when, raising her
eyes at the sound of steps, she met those of Miles Challoner, and saw
in them what he had come to say.
There was manifest embarrassment on both sides, and each was
distinctly conscious of its cause. Why could they not meet to-day as
they had met so often before? Why were the ordinary commonplaces so
hard to think of and so incoherently said? Gertrude was the first to
recover her composure. She asked Miles if Lord Sandilands had come
with him, and on his saying he had, and was then in the house, she
turned in that direction, and said something about going in to see
him. But Miles checked her steps by standing still.
"Don't go into the house," he said; "he does not expect you. Let us
walk this way; let me speak to you." She glanced at him, and silently
complied. She knew it all now, and she began to feel what it was that
she must say, and what it would cost her to say it. She felt his eyes
upon her, and the delicate colour faded away from her face.
Neither she nor Miles Challoner could have told afterwards, or even
exactly recalled in their thoughts, the words then spoken between
them. He told her how he had loved her from the first--he who had
never loved before--and how fear and hope had alternated in his heart
until now, when hope was the stronger, and he had determined to tell
her how all his happiness, all his life, was in her hands. He spoke
with the frank manliness of his nature, and Gertrude's heart thrilled
as she listened to him with intense pain, with keen delight. At least
he loved her well and worthily; nothing could deprive her of that
exquisite knowledge. She would, she must, put away the wine of life
offered to her parched lips, but she knew its sweetness, had seen the
splendour and the sparkle of it.
A thousand thoughts, innumerable emotions, crowded upon her, as she
listened to the words of Miles; but when he prayed her to speak and
let him know his fate, prayed her with eagerness and passion, but with
hope that was almost confidence, then she put them all down with her
strong will, and addressed herself to her task. She drew the hand
which he had taken away from his hold, and told him in one short
sentence that she could not give him the answer he desired.
"You cannot, Grace? You refuse me!" he said hoarsely. "You tell me,
then, that I have deceived myself?"
"No," she said, "I do not. Let us sit here awhile"--she seated herself
on a bench under a lime-tree as she spoke--"and let me speak frankly
and freely to you, as you deserve."
Miles obeyed her with bewilderment. What was she going to say? She
would not marry him, and yet he had not deceived himself! She was
deadly pale, and he might have heard the beating of her heart; but she
was quite firm, and she turned her steady eyes upon him unfalteringly.
"There is only one thing you can say to me," he said, "if you
persevere in forbidding me to hope--that is, to send me out of your
sight for ever."
"Perhaps," was her reply; "but listen. I have said you don't deceive
yourself, and I mean it. I know you love me; I know what perfect
sincerity there is in you--hush! let me speak--and I--I do love
you--you have not mistaken me, I have not misled you."
"Then what does anything else matter?" said Miles, and he caught her
hands and kissed them unresisted, unrebuked. "With that assurance,
Grace, surely you will not refuse me?"
"I must," she answered. "Have patience with me. I will tell you why.
It is for your own sake."
"My own sake!" he exclaimed passionately; "you deprive me of all hope
and happiness for my own sake! I shall need patience indeed to
understand that."
"It is true, nevertheless. I could not many you, Miles Challoner,
without doing you a great injury; and I love you too well, much more
and better than myself, to do that. Take that assurance, and believe
that nothing can shake my determination. My fate is decided, my way of
life is quite fixed. I shall never be your wife, never, never,
never!"--his face was hidden in his hands, he did not see the
suffering which broke all control and showed itself plainly in her
every feature--"but I shall never love you less, or anyone but you."
The low distinct tones of her voice thrilled him with a horrid sense
of hopelessness. She spoke as one who had taken an irrevocable
resolution.
"What do you mean?" he said. "You must tell me more than this. What do
you mean by doing me an injury? I protest I have not the faintest
notion of your meaning. It cannot be--" He hesitated, and she took up
his words.
"Because you are a gentleman of old name and a responsible position in
society, and I am a singer, an actress a woman with no name and no
station, you would say. Yes, it is precisely for this cause, which you
think impossible. I know you don't regard any of these things, but the
world does; and the man I love shall never be censured by the world
for me."
How well it was, she thought, how fortunate, that such a real genuine
difficulty did exist; that she could give some explanation which he
might be induced to receive.
"Then you would make me wretched for the sake of the world, even if
what you say of my position and your own were true? And it is not. Is
your genius nothing? Is your fame nothing? I speak now as reasonably
as yourself; not as a man who holds you peerless, far removed above
all the world, but as one discussing a question open to argument. What
am I in comparison to the men who would be proud to offer you rank and
wealth? What have I to give you that others could not give a
thousandfold?"
"You give me all I value, all I care for," she said; "but I must not
take it. You must not, you shall not, deceive yourself. My genius, as
you call it, my fame, are real things in their way and in their
sphere, but they are not of any account in yours. Ask your friend Lord
Sandilands; he is a kind friend to me also, and a man who knows the
world thoroughly; and he will tell you I am right."
"No, he won't!" said Miles triumphantly, "No, he won't! He will tell
_you_, on the contrary, that you are quite wrong; he will tell you
that he knows I love you, and have dared to hope, to believe that you
love me. He will tell you that I have told him what is my dearest
hope, and that he shares it; and more, Grace, more than that, he will
tell you that he came here with me to-day on purpose that I might
learn my fate, and be no longer in suspense; and that he is on duty at
this moment, keeping the old ladies in talk, just to give me this
precious opportunity. Now, where are all your arguments? where are my
wise friends? where is this terrible world to whom we are to be
sacrificed? You have nothing more to say, Grace; your 'never, never,
never!' cannot hurt me any more."
For one brief moment he triumphed. For one moment his arm was around
her, and his lips, were pressed to hers. But the next she had started
from his embrace, and stood pale and breathless before him.
"Is this really true?" she said; "does Lord Sandilands approve?" She
asked him only to gain a moment's time for thought; she was terribly
disconcerted by this complication, it increased her difficulties
immensely. But Miles saw in the question only a symptom of yielding,
only a proof of his victory.
"Yes; yes," he said eagerly, "it is true; it is indeed! He is the only
real friend I have in the world; the only man whose opinion I care
for, and he is on my side. Now, Grace, you must yield; you cannot
refuse me."
She stood for a moment motionless and silent. Then her nerves;
generally so strong, so completely under control, gave way. The
violence of the struggle, the intensity of the pain she was suffering,
that overwhelming remembrance of the past, the agonising sense of what
might have been, but was now quite impossible, the feebleness of the
only weapon which she could venture to use in this battle in which her
own heart was her adversary,--all these overcame her, and she sunk
upon the bench in a helpless agony of tears.
Terrified by her distress; Miles Challoner knelt before her, and
implored her to explain the cause of this sudden grief. But all his
prayers were vain. She wept convulsively for many minutes and was
literally unable to speak. When at last she conquered the passion of
tears, she felt and looked so very ill that he became alarmed on a
fresh score.
"You are ill," he said; "shall I go for Mrs. Bloxam? Shall I take you
to the house?"
She made a sign with her hand that he should not speak, then leaned
her head against the bench, and closed her eyes. He stood by, awkward
and silent, watching her. After a little while she sat up, and said
faintly:
"Will you leave me? Go away from me for the present--I am ill; but it
is only from agitation. Let me be alone for a while; you shall see me
again when I am able."
"Of course I will leave you, if you wish it," said Miles, with all the
timidity and embarrassment of a man in the presence of feminine
weakness and suffering; "but I am afraid you are not fit to be left
alone."
"I am indeed," she urged, and her face grew whiter as she spoke; "I
shall recover myself, if I am left alone. Don't fear for me. Go to the
house, and do not say you have seen me. Go by the lime-walk into the
avenue; I will go by the garden. No one will see me; and if I can get
to my room and lie down for a little, I shall be quite well. Pray,
pray go."
She put her hands before her face, and Miles saw a quick shudder pass
over her from head to foot. He was afraid to go, afraid to stay; at
length he obeyed her, and took the way towards the house which she had
indicated, feeling bewildered and alarmed.
When Miles Challoner reëntered the drawing-room at Hardriggs he found
Lord Sandilands still there, held in durance by Lady Belwether and
Mrs. Bloxam. Lord Sandilands had found his hostess immovable, and no
other afternoon callers had had the kindness to come and partially
release him. Mrs. Bloxam kept her eyes and her fingers steadily and
unremittingly engaged with her fancy-work, and Lady Belwether
persisted in discoursing on music and religion. With his accustomed
philosophy Lord Sandilands accepted the situation, consoling himself
by the reflection that a day or two could not make any difference in
what he had to say to Mrs. Bloxam, and that the chief object of his
present exertions had at least been secured, for he entertained a
satisfactory conviction that Miles and Gertrude had met "somewhere
about." Miles returned too soon, in one sense, for the old gentleman's
wishes; he would rather have found him utterly oblivious of time; in
that case, and if no consideration of anybody's convenience had
occurred to Miles, Lord Sandilands would have felt confidence in the
prospering of the suit. But Miles came in looking as little like a
successful and happy lover as he could look, and Lord Sandilands
perceived in an instant that things had gone wrong. He did not give
Miles time to speak before he rose, and saying, "You have clear ideas
of time, Miles; we ought to be back before now.--Business, Lady
Belwether, business--you don't understand its claims, happily for
you.--Goodbye, Mrs. Bloxam; tell Miss Lambert I am sorry not to
have seen her;" he got himself and his melancholy, and indeed
frightened-looking, companion out of the room and out of the house.
"Now tell me all about it," said Lord Sandilands to Miles when they
were in the carriage; "what has happened? You have seen her, of
course?"
"Yes," said Miles ruefully, and then with much embarrassment he told
Lord Sandilands what had occurred.
The narrative perplexed and distressed the listener. He understood
Gertrude's feelings up to a certain point, but no farther; he could
not understand why Miles's representations of his advocacy of his suit
had had no effect in moderating her apprehensions of the world's view
of such a marriage. He could say little or nothing to console Miles,
but he told him he did not regard Miss Lambert's decision as final, or
the nervous attack which had so alarmed him as of any import.
"I will see her, and have it out with her," said Lord Sandilands to
himself; "and if it is necessary for her happiness's sake and that of
Miles, I will tell her the truth."
END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
BOOK THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
Ægrotat Animo.
Miss Grace Lambert had made herself so popular at Hardriggs, had so
ingratiated herself with all staying in that hospitable mansion that
the news, duly conveyed to the breakfast-table by Mrs. Bloxam on the
morning after Miles Challoner's visit, that she was too unwell to
leave her room, threw a considerable damp over the Company assembled.
Old Sir Giles, who had been very much impressed by Gertrude's quiet
manner and cheerful spirits since she had been staying in the
house--who had been perfectly astonished at the discovery that, though
an opera-singer and a great public favourite, she had, as he phrased
it, "no d--d nonsense about her"--was the first to break out into
loudly-expressed lamentation, mingled with suggestions of sending off
at once to Hastings for medical advice, or telegraphing to London with
the same object. Lady Belwether was distressed beyond measure; the
idea of anyone so charming, anyone capable of yielding such exquisite
delight, suffering from pain or sickness seemed to be something quite
beyond the old lady's ken. She was at Gertrude's bedside within five
minutes after she had heard of her young friend's indisposition, and
was shocked at the swollen eyelids and pallid drawn face of her idol.
The Dean, too, received the news with great regret: he had experienced
much pleasure in Miss Lambert's society. The very fact of her position
had had its secret charm; there was something specially pleasant in
being brought into daily communion with one whose status in life was
considered equivocal, but whose conduct was unexceptionable, and, if
occasion required, would bear any amount of scrutiny. All great men
have their enemies; the Dean was not without his. The _odium
theologicum_, than which there is nothing stronger, had made him its
butt on various occasions, and many of his clerical brethren had
poured out the vials of their wrath, through the medium of the Church
journals to which they contributed, on his devoted head. The Dean had
hitherto never replied to any of these attacks; but he had thought
more than once, as he sat nursing his knee and looking out through the
bay-window of the library at Hardriggs, that he should be by no means
sorry if the contemporaneous visit of Miss Lambert and himself were
made the subject of attack; and he had planned out a very brilliant
and taking letter in reply--a letter abounding in charity and in
quotations from the Fathers, Pollok's _Course of Time_, and the
_Christian Year_. The Dean expressed to Lady Belwether that, charming
as her guests were in the aggregate, Miss Lambert's secession would
leave among them a blank, a _hiatus_, which was not merely _valde
deflendus_, but which, in point of fact, it would be impossible to
fill up; and the old lady, though she did not understand Latin,
comprehended the general nature of the remark, and found in it new
cause for self-gratulation, and fresh weapons of defence against the
insidious attacks of Martha and the Reverend Tophet. There were, it is
true, certain people staying at Hardriggs who seemed to take it as a
grievance that any "person in Miss Lambert's position," as they were
good enough to call it, should be taken ill at all; but they were in a
decided minority, and most of them were very much ashamed of the
opinion they had held when they found the Dean of Burwash taking the
young lady's indisposition so much to heart.
Had any one of them the slightest suspicion of the real cause of
Gertrude's ailment? Not one. Would any one of them have given credence
for a moment, if they had been told, that on the previous day the girl
had refused the proffered hands of two men, one of them an earl, the
other a wealthy commoner? Not one. "Such things are all very well in
books, my dear," Lady Belwether would have told you, adding from
memory a list of ennobled actresses who had all done honour to the
position in life to which they had been raised; but the chances came
but seldom, and were always taken advantage of by those to whom they
were offered. What would have been the effect on the host and hostess,
and on the rest of their company, if it had become known that Lord
Ticehurst had made Miss Lambert an offer, it would be impossible to
say. They would have wondered at him, they would have wondered much
more at her, and they would have professed to pity, and probably have
cordially hated them both. However, that was a secret which of all in
that house was known but to Gertrude alone, and she was not one who
would wittingly let it pass her lips.
She was ill; she had a perfect right to say so, and was not uttering
the slightest falsehood in the assertion. That dreadful sinking of the
heart, that utter prostration, that deep, dead blankness of spirits,
that hopelessness, that refusal to be comforted--if this did not
constitute illness, what did? He _did_ love her, then? She had known
it long, but what bliss it was to hear him avow it! Should she ever
lose the remembrance of him as he stood before her--the light in his
eye, the _pose_ of his head, the tone of his voice? True? She would
stake her life on that man's truth. What a difference between his
diffident earnestness and the theatrical swagger with which Gilbert
Lloyd asked her the same question--ah, how many years ago! Lord
Ticehurst, too,--she had almost forgotten his visit and its purport,
so overshadowed was it by the importance of the affair which
immediately succeeded it,--Lord Ticehurst--he was, in his way,
considerate and kindly--meant to be all courteous and all honest; she
hoped her manner to him had not been brusque or abrupt. Countess of
Ticehurst, eh?--rank, wealth, station. For an instant a hard, cold,
proud look, which had been a stranger to her face of late, flitted
across her features, and then faded away. No! Those might have had
their allurements when she first learned Gilbert Lloyd's
worthlessness, and recommenced her life, scorning to yield, and merely
looking on all human weaknesses as stepping-stones for her
advancement. She had learned better things than that now. Miles! Could
it be possible that but a comparatively short time ago he had been
supremely indifferent to her? that she had looked on and seen the love
for her growing in his heart, without a dream of ever reciprocating
it? And now--Refused him! she could have done nothing else. And for
his own sake--as she had told him, but as he seemed unable to
comprehend,--for his own sake. For the love of such a man as Miles
Challoner she would have risked everything, in the first appreciation
of such a sentiment so fresh and novel to her in all her experience of
life--and that experience had been singular and not small; to be the
recipient of such a passion as that man proffered and laid at her
feet, she would have let her dead past bury its dead; forgotten,
buried, stamped down out of all chance of resurrection the events of
her early life--her marriage, her separation from her husband The
compact made between her and Gilbert Lloyd should have been more than
ever religiously fulfilled. That she held that husband at her mercy
she knew perfectly well: only once had he ventured to question her
power that evening at Mrs. Burge's reception, and his conduct then had
given her ample proof of the impossibility of his resistance to her
will. She had nothing to fear from him; and she knew him well enough
to be certain that he had kept that secret at least locked in his own
breast. But Miles? No! she had done rightly; even if her appreciation
of Miles Challoner's warm admiration and generous regard had not grown
and deepened into a feeling, the strength of which forbade her
striving against it, and which she knew and confessed to herself to be
love, she would have rebelled against any attempt to hoodwink or
deceive that loyal-hearted gentleman. But now the attempt had been
treachery of the basest kind. She loved him--loved him wildly,
passionately, and yet with an intermingled reverence and respect such
as her girlish fancy had never dreamed of; and she had refused him,
had told him--not indeed calmly or quietly, for once her self-control
had failed her, but with earnestness and decision--that her fate was
decided, her way of life quite fixed, and that she could never be his
wife! Ah, if they could have known all, those good people downstairs,
they would scarcely have wondered at Miss Lambert's indisposition.
They ascribed her illness to over-exertion, over-excitement, the
reaction after the feverish professional life of the past few months.
A little rest, they said to each other, would "bring her round." A
little rest! Something more than a little rest is required, as they
would have allowed, could they have seen what no one, not even Mrs.
Bloxam, saw,--the favourite of the public with dishevelled hair and
streaming eyes stretched prone upon her pillow, and sobbing as though
her heart would break!
Miss Grace Lambert's illness or indisposition, thus evoking the
compassion of the company staying at Hardriggs, was, whatever the
company might have thought about it, known to herself to spring purely
from mental distress. The same _teterrima causa_ acted on Lord
Sandilands, but brought about a different physical result. On the
morning after Miles had communicated the result of his interview with
Gertrude the old nobleman awoke with a return of the symptoms which
had previously alarmed him so much increased that he felt it necessary
to send for a local practitioner, by whose report he would be guided
as to the expediency of summoning his own ordinary physician from
London.
Hastings is so essentially a resort of invalids, that the faculty is
to be found there in every variety. Allopathy, seated far back in its
brougham, looks sedately and smugly at the saunterers on the
promenade; while Homoeopathy, thinking to assume a virtue even if it
have it not, and to wear the livery of medicine though scorned by
regular practitioners, whirls by, black-clothed and white-chokered, in
its open four-wheeler. Nor are there wanting the followers of even
less generally received science. On that charming slope, midway
between Hastings and St. Leonards, where a scrap of green struggles to
put in an arid appearance amidst the vast masses of rock and sand,
Herr Douss, the favourite pupil of Priessnitz (what a large-hearted
fellow he must have been, to judge by the number of his favourite
pupils!), opened a water-cure establishment, to which, for financial
reasons, he has recently added the attractions of a Turkish bath, and
invariably has a houseful of damp hypochondriacs. And in the immediate
neighbourhood is there not the sanatorium of the celebrated Mr. Crux?
a gentleman who has discovered the secret that no mortal ailment can
withstand being rubbed in a peculiar manner, and who shampoos you, and
rubs you, and pulls your joints, and pommels you all over until you
become a miracle of youth and freshness, to which the renovated Æson
could not be compared.
It is not for an instant to be supposed that any of this unlicensed
band were allowed to work their will on the person of Lord Sandilands.
The old gentleman was far too careful of his health to quit the
immediate precincts of his private physician without being relegated
to someone to whom that physician had knowledge, and in whom he had
trust. Sir Charles Dumfunk, of Harley-street, habitually attended Lord
Sandilands, and was liked by his lordship as a friend as well as
esteemed as a physician. A very courtly old gentleman was Sir Charles,
one who for years had been honorary physician to the Grand
Scandinavian Opera, and had written more medical certificates for
sulky singers and dancers than any other member of his craft. In his
capacity of fashionable physician--the lungs and throat were supposed
to be his speciality--Sir Charles Dumfunk had the power of bidding
many of his patients to quit their usual pursuits, and devote
themselves to the restoration of their health in a softer climate. The
ultra-fashionables were generally sent to Nice, Cannes, or Mentone;
"it little matters," the old gentleman used to remark; "they will
carry Belgrave-square and its manners and customs with them wherever
they go." _Nouveaux riches_ were despatched to Madeira, energetic
patients to Algiers, while mild cases were permitted to pass their
winter at Hastings. At each one of these places the leading physician
was Sir Charles Dumfunk's friend. Little Dr. Bede, of St. Leonards,
swore by the great London Galen, who invariably sent him a score of
patients during the winter, and was as good to him as a couple of
hundred a-year. Lord Sandilands had come down armed with a letter of
introduction to Dr. Bede, and had sent it on by his servant,
accompanied by a brace of partridges from the Belwether estate,
very soon after his arrival. Dr. Bede had acknowledged the receipt
of letter and birds in a very neat little note, had looked-up
Lord Sandilands in the _Peerage_--the only lay book in his medical
library--and had left his card at his lordship's lodgings.
Consequently, when, the morning after Miles's _fiasco_ at Hardriggs,
Dr. Bede was summoned to come to Lord Sandilands at once, physician
and patient knew as much about each other as, failing a personal
interview, was possible.
Symptoms detailed, examination made, Dr. Bede--a very precise and
methodical little gentleman, with a singularly neatly-tied black
neckerchief, towards which the eye of every patient was infallibly
attracted, and a curiously stony and expressionless blue eye of his
own, out of which nothing could ever be gleaned,--Dr. Bede, tightly
buttoned to the throat in his little black surtout, gives it as his
decided opinion that it is gout, "and not a doubt about it." Lord
Sandilands, really half-gratified that he is literally laid by the
heels by an aristocratic and gentlemanly complaint, combats the
notion--no hereditary predisposition, no previous symptoms. Dr. Bede
is firm and Lord Sandilands is convinced. An affair of time, of
course; an affair very much at the patient's own will; entire
abstinence from this and that and the other, and very little of
anything else; perfect quiet and rest of mind and body--of mind quite
as much as body--repeats the little doctor, with a would-be sharp
glance at the patient, whose mental worry shows itself in a thousand
little ways, all of which are patent to the sharp-eyed practitioner.
Lord Sandilands promises obedience with a half laugh; he is very much
obliged to Dr. Bede, he has thorough confidence in his comprehension
and treatment of the case; there is no need to send to town for
Dumfunk? Dr. Bede, with confidence dashed with humility, thinks
not--of course it is for his lordship to decide; but he, Dr. Bede, has
not the smallest fear, provided his instructions are strictly obeyed;
and he is quite aware of the value of the charge Sir Charles Dumfunk
has confided to him. So far all is arranged. The doctor will look in
every day, and his lordship promises strict compliance with his
instructions.
So far all is arranged; but when the doctor is fairly gone, and the
door is shut, and Lord Sandilands has heard the sound of the wheels of
the professional brougham, low on the sand and loud on the stones,
echo away, the old gentleman is fain to admit--first to himself,
secondly to Miles, whom he summons immediately--that it is impossible
for him to keep his word so far as being mentally quiet is concerned.
"If I'm to be clapped down on this particularly slippery chintz sofa,
my dear boy," said he, "I must accept the fiat. It might be better,
but it might be much worse. I can hear the pleasant plashing of the
sea, which, though a little melancholy, is deuced musical; and I can
see the boats floating away in the distance; and I have every
opportunity of making myself acquainted with the hideousness of the
prevailing fashion in female dress; and, if I'm feeling too happy,
there's safe to arrive a German band, and murder some of my favourite
_morceaux_ in a manner which reminds me that, like that king of
Thingummy, I am mortal, begad! But it's no use for that little
medico--polite, pleasant little person in his way, too--no use for
that little medico to tell me to keep my mind perfectly quiet, and not
to excite myself about anything. What a ridiculous thing for a man to
prescribe! as though we hadn't all of us always something to worry
ourselves about!"
Miles Challoner was, as times go, a wonderful specimen of a selfless
man. He had temporarily laid aside his own trouble on finding that his
old friend was really ill, and it was in genuine good faith that he
said:
"Why, what in the world have you to worry you now, old friend? What
should prevent your keeping rigidly to that mental repose which Dr.
Bede says is so essential to your well-doing?"
"What have I got to worry me? What is likely to prove antipathic to my
being quiet?" asked Lord Sandilands in petulant querulous tones.
"'Gad, when it man's old it's imagined that he has no care, no
interest but in himself! You ought to know me better, Miles; 'pon my
soul you ought!"
"I do know all your goodness, and--"
"No, no! Goodness and stuff! Do you or do you not know the interest I
take in you? You do? Good! Then is it likely I could allow affairs to
remain as they are between you and Miss Lambert without worrying
myself about them? without trying my poor _possible_ to bring them
right?"
"My dear old friend--"
"Yes, yes! your dear old friend; that's all very well; you treat me
like a child, Miles. I know you mean it kindly; but I've been
accustomed to act and think for myself for so long that I can't throw
off the habit even now, when that dapper little fellow tells me I
ought; and I must at once go into this business of Grace Lambert's. I
have my own ideas on that matter, and I won't at all regard her
decision as final, notwithstanding your solemn face and manner. Now,
look here, my dear boy, it's of no use lifting up that warning finger;
if you cross my wishes I shall become infinitely worse, and less
bearable. I've always heard that gout is a disease in which, above all
others, the patient must be humoured. I must see--There! you're
jumping up at once--and quite enough to give me a sharp attack--simply
because you thought I was going to name your divinity. Wasn't it so? I
thought as much. Nothing of the sort; I was about to say that I must
see Mrs. Bloxam at once. I have some very special business to talk
over with her, and I should be much obliged if you, Miles, would take
a fly and go over at once to Hardriggs and bring Mrs. Bloxam back with
you."
"I?--go over to Hardriggs after--"
"Go over to Hardriggs! And why not? I'm sure you could not complain of
your reception by Sir Giles and Lady Belwether; they have been most
cordially polite to you on every occasion of your visiting them, and
they are the host and hostess at Hardriggs, I believe. Besides, I ask
you to do me a special favour, in doing which you need expose yourself
to no disagreeables, even to seeing anyone whom you would rather not
see."
"You are quite right, and I will be off at once."
"That's spoken like my dear good fellow! Goodbye, Miles, goodbye!--If
he does come across her in the house or the grounds?" said the old
gentleman, as the door closed behind his _protégé_. "Well, you never
can tell; it might have been whim, a mere passing caprice, in which
case she might be perfectly ready to revoke to-day; and no harm could
be done by his meeting her again. Or it might be something more
serious--is something more serious probably, for Gertrude is a girl
with plenty of resolution and firm will. At any rate, I'm right in
having Mrs. Bloxam here to talk it over, and I think I shall hold to
the programme which I have already arranged in my mind."
The Hastings fly, drawn by the flea-bitten gray horse, which conveyed
Miles Challoner to Hardriggs, went anything but gaily over the dusty,
hilly road. The driver, a sullen young man, with dreary views of life,
saw at a glance that his fare was in an abstracted frame of mind, and
looked anything but likely to pay for extra speed. So he sat on his
box, driving the usual half-crown-an-hour rate, giving the flea-bitten
gray an occasional chuck with the reins, producing a corresponding
"job" from the bit, and occupying himself now by fitting a new end to
his whip-lash, now by humming dolorous ditties in the hardest Sussex
twang, with a particularly painful and constantly recurring
development of the letter "r." Miles sat leaning back in the carriage,
his hat thrust over his eyes, his hands plunged deep in his pockets.
He was buried in thought of no pleasant kind, and neither heard nor
heeded the chaff of the passers-by, which was loud and frequent. The
first portion of the way to Hardriggs lies along the Fairlight-road,
and numerous parties of cheerful Cockneys, in vehicles and on foot, on
their way to the romantic Lover's Seat, and the waterfall where there
is no water, and the pretty glen, passed the carriage containing the
moody young man, and commented openly on its occupant. "He don't look
like a pleasurer, he don't!" was a remark that gained immediate
sympathy; while a more comic suggestion that "he looked as if he'd
lost a fourpenny-piece," was received with tumultuous applause.
Neither style of comment had the least effect on Miles Challoner, who
remained chewing the cud of his own reflections until the stopping of
the fly at the outer gate of Hardriggs Park reminded him of having
seen Lord Ticehurst driving through that gate on the occasion of his
visit on the previous day. Suddenly it flashed across him that the
young nobleman's manner had been specially odd and remarkable. Could
it have been that--and yet the expression of Lord Ticehurst's face was
chapfallen and disconsolate, anything but that of a successful suitor.
All the world had said, during the past season, that his lordship had
been very strongly _épris_ of Miss Lambert, he had paid her constant
attention, and-- That could have had no influence on her decision of
yesterday; she could never have listened to Lord Ticehurst's
protestations, even if he had made any such, or he would not have gone
away in so melancholy and depressed a state. Besides, had not Grace
told him that she loved him, Miles--that he was not mistaken in
her--that she had not misled him? And yet she would not marry him? Ah,
there must be some mistake, something which could be explained away?
Lord Sandilands had evidently felt that when he had asked him to come
over with this message to Mrs. Bloxam. He would see Miss Lambert--not
asking for her directly, that would be too marked, but taking an
opportunity of chancing on her, and--well, after all, the dearest
object of his life might be obtained.
They were pleased to see the good-looking young man at Hardriggs, as
he descended from the fly and joined the pre-luncheon croquet-party
on the lawn. He had been there very recently, it is true; but
good-looking young men are always welcome in country-houses, where
indeed a fresh face, a fresh voice, a few fresh ideas, are priceless.
Miles threw a hurried glance over the croquet-players. Miss Lambert
was not amongst them. They were all young people, who, after the first
greeting, returned to their game and its necessary accompaniment of
flirtation. But Dean Asprey was seated under a "wide-spreading
beech-tree," reading the _Times_, and he rose as he saw Miles
approach, dropped the paper, and went to meet him. As the Dean
approached, Miles could not help noticing his aristocratic appearance;
could scarcely help smiling at the wonderful way in which the tailor
had combined the fashionable and clerical element in his dress.
"How do you do, my dear Mr. Challoner?" said Dean Asprey, in those
bland mellifluous tones which had won so many hearts. "So delighted to
see you here again! With only one fear tempering my pleasure, and that
is that--believing you to be alone? yes, that is so?--the fear that my
dear old friend Lord Sandilands is indisposed? Say I'm wrong, and set
my fears at rest!"
"I would gladly, Mr. Dean; but I cannot. Lord Sandilands has a sharp
attack of the gout."
"Of the gout? Well, well, I can recollect John Borlase these--ah, no
matter how many years; too many to trouble to recollect--and the gout
was the last complaint one would have ascribed to him."
"Well, he has it tow, without a doubt. Dr. Bede of St. Leonards has
seen him, and pronounced definitely in the matter. I have come over to
ask Mrs. Bloxam, who is a very old friend of his, to go and see him."
"Ay, ay, indeed! Mrs. Bloxam--a very charming and estimable person, by
the way, and apparently well versed in many questions which, for
females at least, would be considered abstruse--Mrs. Bloxam is in
great request just now. Her young charge Miss Lambert is also ill,
and--"
"Miss Lambert ill!" cried Miles; "what is the matter?"
"O, nothing of any consequence, I believe," replied the Dean.
("Charmingly ingenuous the youth of the present day," he said to
himself: "he has at once revealed the reason of his coming over here
again so soon, without having the smallest idea that he has done so.")
"Nothing of any consequence; a trifling indisposition, a _migraine_, a
_nichts_, which in anyone else would be thought nothing of, but which
in Miss Lambert is naturally regarded with special interest. You know
her, of course. I mean know to appreciate her, rather than know in the
mere ordinary sense of acquaintance?"
"I--I--yes, O yes! I've had, the pleasure of seeing Miss Lambert
frequently in town, and think her--of course, most charming--You're
sure there's nothing serious the matter with her, because Lord
Sandilands, don't you know, is such an old friend of hers, and takes
such interest, that--"
"I know that perfectly, and would not dream of deceiving you for an
instant. Some of us, I know, are suspected of doing evil that good may
come," said the Dean, with a specially sweet smile; "but it is a very
dangerous doctrine, which I have always held in abhorrence. I see a
servant passing the end of the lawn, and I suppose I may be considered
sufficiently at home here to venture to give an order.--- James, would
you be good enough to let Mrs. Bloxam know that Mr. Challoner is here,
and would gladly speak with her? Thank you, very much.--And now, my
dear Mr. Challoner, to return to our very interesting conversation.
What were we talking about?"
"You were mentioning that Miss Lambert was ill, and--"
"Ay, to be sure, Miss Lambert! What a charming girl! what grace and
beauty! what amiability! what unaffected-- And you have known her for
some time? I can well understand her creating a great sensation in
London. Such a mixture of beauty and talent is very rare, and
naturally very impressive. What says Dryden?--
'Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,
The power of beauty I remember yet.'
What a charming couplet, is it not? And so, as you were saying, Miss
Lambert is a great success in London society?"
"Rather as you were saying, Mr. Dean," said Miles, with a feeble
attempt at a smile,--he knew he should not see Gertrude, and the
conversation was beginning to bore him,--"though I can cordially
indorse the remark. Miss Lambert made a complete conquest of everyone
she met, including Lady Belwether, who is hastening towards us.--How
do you do, Lady Belwether? I'm sorry to learn I have left one sick
friend to come to another."
"Our dear Grace is certainly better, my dear Mr. Challoner.--Dean, you
will be glad to hear that.--Fancy my position, Mr. Challoner; the
responsibility of having anyone like that in one's care, on whom so
much might be said to hang, you know. Sir Giles was for telegraphing
off at once to London for advice, but Grace would not have it. And she
has proved to be right, as she always is, dear creature! She is much
better, and she heard the message you brought, Mr. Challoner, about
Mrs. Bloxam, and has not raised the least objection to her going.
Indeed, so like her, sweet thing! she seems to have forgotten herself
in anxiety about Lord Sandilands."
"I suppose, Lady Belwether, that there is not much chance of my seeing
Miss Lambert?"
"Seeing her? To-day? My dear sir, not the remotest chance in the
world. I strictly forbade her thinking of leaving her room to-day; and
when Mrs. Bloxam has gone away with you, I shall take her place at
Grace's side.--You think I'm right, Dean? The importance of such a
case as this is--Exactly, I knew you'd agree with me. What do you
think Lady Hawksley said when she heard the darling was ill?"
"Knowing Lady Hawksley," said the Dean, again with his pleasant smile,
"the field of speculation is too vast for me to attempt to enter on
it. What did her ladyship remark?"
"She said it must be a horrid bore for me; and what would Miss Lambert
have done if she had been taken ill in the season, when she was
singing. Did you ever hear such horrible things? But I told her that
if Miss Lambert had been taken ill in town she would have had
everybody's sympathy, from the Queen downwards; which is more than can
be said of some people, I could not help adding."
As the old lady finished speaking, Mrs. Bloxam appeared, and very
shortly afterwards she and Miles took their leave, and started off for
Hastings in the fly. Miles had rather looked forward to this drive in
Mrs. Bloxam's company. The thought of it had afforded him some little
consolation when he found that there was no chance of his seeing
Grace. In default of the presence of the adored one it is the lover's
greatest delight to find someone who will either talk about her, or
will listen to his outspoken raptures. Miles thought that in Mrs.
Bloxam he might possibly find both these virtues combined; and
accordingly they had scarcely cleared the gates of the Hardriggs
avenue before he began to ply his companion with a series of questions
concerning Miss Lambert. These questions were artfully framed, and a
less worldly-wise woman than Mrs. Bloxam might have been deceived as
to their purport. But that worthy lady was not merely always perfectly
cute and observant, but on this particular occasion she was, if
possible, more than ever on her guard. Although during the previous
day her fingers had been unremittingly engaged on her "fancy-work"
during the entire period of Lord Sandilands' visit, her eyes had
strayed now and then to the large looking-glass close by her, which
reflected a window and a part of the garden beyond, leading to the
lime-walk. In that looking-glass Mrs. Bloxam had seen her charge and
Miles Challoner walking together, talking earnestly, and through the
same medium Mrs. Bloxam had seen each of them return separately, and
ill at ease. The ex-school-mistress had all her life been in the habit
of putting two and two together, and arriving at the result with
commendable quickness and accuracy, and her perspicacity did not fail
her now. She felt certain that Miles had proposed, and that Gertrude
had refused him, though she loved him; equally certain that Lord
Sandilands was aware of a portion--she couldn't tell how much--of the
real state of affairs, and that he had sent for her with the intention
of discussing them with her; and Mrs. Bloxam very much deprecated the
idea of any such discussion. She did not know where it might end, or
what it might lead to; and there were passages in the life of her
quondam pupil which Mrs. Bloxam had not thought it necessary to dilate
upon, or indeed to introduce to Lord Sandilands' notice; and
circumstances might render the further suppression of those passages
impossible.
So Mrs. Bloxam sat back in the fly and answered all Miles Challoner's
questions in monosyllables, and was glad when, finding it impossible
to extract anything from his companion, the young man lapsed into
silence and left her to her own reflections, occupying himself with
his. Neither were roseate-hued. The hope which had sprung up in
Miles's breast as he journeyed to Hardriggs seemed suddenly to have
paled and faded out--why he knew not. Grace was ill, to be sure, but
the fact of her illness did not account for the sudden change in the
aspect of his fortunes--did not account for that sinking of the heart,
that depression, that _avertissement_ of coming trouble which we have
all of us experienced many times in our lives, and which just then was
settling down in thick black clouds over Miles Challoner. And Mrs.
Bloxam's reflections were sombre and unpleasant. What Mr. Browning
calls "the conscience-prick and the memory-smart" were beginning to
tell upon her; she had lost the power of self-possession, and the
faculty of lying--at least of lying in that superior manner which she
had once possessed--had deserted her.
So they drove along in silence, and the holiday excursionists to
Fairlight had more fun out of them and much openly-expressed chaff,
opining how that "his mother had found him out courtin' the gal, and
had fetched him away;" how that "he'd married the old woman for her
money, and found out his mistake." But when they arrived at
Robertson's-terrace, they found that Lord Sandilands had experienced a
renewal of his attack, and that Dr. Bede had expressed a strong desire
that his patient should be left perfectly quiet and undisturbed. To
this, however, Lord Sandilands would not agree, and, pursuant to his
orders, Mrs. Bloxam was shown to his room immediately after her
arrival.
She found the old nobleman faint and weak, just recovering from a
sharp bout of pain. The sight of her seemed to rouse and please him.
He asked her a few unimportant questions about the people at
Hardriggs, seemed difficult to convince that Gertrude's indisposition
was only of a temporary character, spoke in a manner that was anything
but cheerful or reassuring about his own health, and remained so long
flying round the real matter at his heart, that Mrs. Bloxam began to
think he would never settle on it. At length, when the landlady of the
lodgings had left the room and they were alone, Lord Sandilands said:
"Our acquaintance dates so far back, Mrs. Bloxam, and has been of such
a character, that there need be no reticence on either side."
Mrs. Bloxam winced at his words, and moved uneasily on the chair which
she had taken by the sick man's bedside. But she was sufficient
mistress of herself to bow and utter a few polite commonplaces.
"I could not get an opportunity of speaking to you yesterday,"
continued his lordship; "but I know how generally observant you are,
and I am sure you cannot have failed to remark that my visit to
Hardriggs with my young _protégé_--for so I must regard Mr.
Challoner--was not a mere ceremonious call. There is no need in
disguising from you--if indeed you do not know it already--that he is
desperately in love with Gertrude. It will further tend to place us in
our proper position if I tell you plainly, and without reserve, that
Mr. Challoner yesterday proposed to Gertrude, and--was rejected."
If Mrs. Bloxam had seen all plain-sailing before her it is probable
that she would have professed the liveliest astonishment, the greatest
stupefaction, at this statement. But as she knew that she should have
to wind her course through very doubtful channels, and would require
all her skill to avoid shoals and contest storms, she thought it
better to rely upon Lord Burleigh's plan, and content herself with a
nod.
This nod Lord Sandilands took to mean acquiescence. "You did
comprehend all that?" he asked. "I was only doing justice to the
acuteness which I have always ascribed to you when I imagined such was
the case. Now we come to the more serious part of the question. Why
did Gertrude refuse that young man's offer? Not that she did not, does
not, love him? I'm an old fellow now, but I'm not old enough to have
forgotten entirely that pleasant mute language; and if woman's looks
and woman's ways are the same as they were thirty years since,
Gertrude is decidedly in love with Miles Challoner. You have not had
many opportunities of seeing them together, and therefore cannot judge
so well. But I _know_ it. Why did she reject him, then? Why, ma'am,
because, thank God, she inherits a certain proper pride; and she felt
that she, an unknown woman--unknown so far as family and friends are
concerned, and with a precarious income dependent on her health and
strength--was not going to permit a member of an old county family to
enter into what might be thought a _mésalliance_ for her."
"Very proper," murmured Mrs. Bloxam, having nothing else to say.
"Exactly; very proper, under circumstances. But those circumstances
must be changed; they must be no longer permitted to exist. It must be
my care, Mrs. Bloxam," continued Lord Sandilands, with additional
gravity, "as it is my duty yes, my bounden duty--to endow that young
lady with such means that she can freely and frankly give herself to
the man she loves; without any obligation on either side."
"But to do that, my lord, you must acknowledge your relationship to
Gertrude?"
"I have made up my mind to that already, Mrs. Bloxam," said the old
gentleman; "I have a sort of idea that I sha'n't get over this attack,
and that is a reparation which must be made before I die. O, not that
I'm going to die just now," he added, as he saw her face change; "but
still--"
"Don't you think you should have a nurse, my lord,--someone more
accustomed to illness, and more able to devote herself entirely to
your service, than the landlady here? If I could be of any use--"
"A thousand thanks, Mrs. Bloxam. But I have telegraphed to town for my
housekeeper--ah, I forgot you have not seen her; she has only recently
come to me, but seems a clear-headed, sensible woman--and she will
come down and nurse me. I am a little faint just now, Mrs. Bloxam, and
must ask you to leave me for the present. I will speak again to you on
that subject before you and Gertrude leave Hardriggs."
Mrs. Bloxam left the room with sentiments of a very unpleasant kind.
Lord Sandilands thought it was the want of fortune that induced
Gertrude to refuse Miles Challoner. But what about her relations with
Mr. Gilbert Lloyd, of which his lordship was totally unaware?