The last Chance.
Mr. Lloyd gone! They could scarcely believe it at Baden. Lady Carabas
was in despair, and the Duchess of Winchester was vexed, for she was
fond of flirtation, and she had found Mr. Lloyd "very nice." The led
captains and the other male retainers of both factions looked on
Gilbert as a dangerous rival, and were rather glad than otherwise that
he was out of the way. Gone to England, eh? Yes. Summoned by a
telegram on most important business, so Dolly Clarke said; he happened
to be with him at the time the telegram arrived, and so of course knew
all about it. On Lord Ticehurst's business, of course? Well, Dolly
Clarke supposed so; in fact, he might go so far as to say "yes," and
rather unpleasant business too. Lord Ticehurst was rather annoyed
about it, and so perhaps you would be so good as not to mention it to
him? Needless to say there were some people who did not believe this
statement, even when vouched for on such excellent authority as Mr.
Dolly Clarke's. There are some people who will not believe anything.
Mr. Toshington is one of them. He thinks it a "deuced odd story," and
sets about to investigate it. He sees the landlord, porter, waiters,
_Hausknecht_ of the hotel, every individual separately, and puts them
through the strictest investigation in the most extraordinary
_mélange_ of languages; finally, he goes to the telegraph-office and
ascertains triumphantly that for the Herr Lloyd, Englander, no
telegraphic despatch received was. Tommy opines that Gilbert's absence
has reference to some infernal chicanery connected with the turf, and
sets that down as the reason why Ticehurst is so shy about speaking
about it. Queer business for peers of the rel-lum to be mixin' up in
such matters, Tommy thinks, and anythin' but a good sign in these
infernal levellin' times. Lady Carabas is really very sorry. She had a
sort of idea that Gilbert was "coming round;" but his having gone away
in this sudden manner, and gone away without a hint of his going, or
word of adieu to her, was a deathblow to that hope. And Mr.
Pennington, the gentlemanly creature creature in the F.O., though
charming to look at and pleasant so far as his conversation lasted,
was soon exhausted, and was not to be compared with Gilbert Lloyd as a
bright and amusing companion. "He might have thought of me before he
went away," Lady Carabas thought to herself. She had no idea that
Gilbert Lloyd had thought about her, and with considerable earnestness
too, as he was walking away from the Kursaal in company with Mr. Dolly
Clarke, immediately previous to his quitting Baden. He had carefully
weighed in his mind whether there was any use in getting her to appeal
to Lord Ticehurst in his behalf, founding his appeal on a tremendous
story of his innocence and of his being the victim of circumstances,
which story he could arrange during the night. But he finally rejected
the notion; there was something decisive and pitiless about Mr.
Clarke's manner, which told Lloyd it would be useless for him to
indulge himself with any hopeful view of the case. As he travelled
through the night, and turned all the events of the past days, of the
past years, over and over in his mind, during his weary journey, he
felt convinced that he had acted wisely in this matter. Only one thing
annoyed him; if the worst came to the worst, and he was obliged, as
Clarke had hinted, to go away to Australia or America, he should want
all the money he could lay his hands on, and he might have "bled" her
ladyship for a good round sum. He had letters of hers in his
possession, written in all innocence it is true, but quite
sufficiently compromising if read from the legal point of view, which
ought to have effected that.
When Lloyd arrived in London, he did not go to Lord Ticehurst's house
in Hill-street, where were all his goods and chattels; he would go
there later, he thought, and see what could be done after a careful
examination of the books and papers. He drove to a house in
Duke-street, St. James's, where he had lodged years before; and the
landlady of which, looking scarcely a day older, came out to the door,
told him his old rooms were vacant, and welcomed him heartily. Gilbert
Lloyd always was popular with his inferiors; it was part of his policy
in life to be so, and he took every opportunity of saying polite
things to them, and doing them cheap civilities. Even now, as he
jumped out of the cab, he told Mrs. Jobson how well she was looking,
and how he felt quite pleased at the notion of coming back to the old
rooms; and then he bade her take his luggage in, and ran upstairs.
The old rooms! He looked round them, and found them scarcely changed.
The furniture was a little shabbier, perhaps, and looking through the
window the opposite side of the street seemed, if possible, a little
closer than before. The same slippery chintz on the sofa, the same
regulation number of chairs, the same portrait of the Princess
Charlotte, at which Gertrude had screamed with laughter, and called it
a "hideous old thing," the first day he brought her there. Gertrude?
Yes; that was their first lodging after their marriage. He brought her
there, and at that instant he seemed to see her as she was when she
first entered the little room; how she looked round in surprise, and
then ran to the window and knelt and looked up for the sky. The chain
of his reflection was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Jobson, who
expressed her delight at seeing him again.
"But, do you know, I did not reckernise you at first, Mr. Lloyd--I did
not, indeed. Seeing you alone, I suppose it was. I hope you're not
alone in the world, Mr. Lloyd?--that you've not lost that dear sweet
lamb?"
"O no, Mrs. Jobson, thank you; Mrs. Lloyd is alive and very well."
"That's good hearing, I'm sure; and grown into a fine woman, I've no
doubt. Those slight slips of girls with plenty of bone, when they fill
out, improve wonderful;" and then Mrs. Jobson changed the subject, and
launched into questions of domestic economy into which it is not
necessary to follow her.
And the next day Gilbert Lloyd prepared to play the last trump-card
which he found in his hand when he so carefully examined it on the
night he left Baden. He had given deep consideration to his plan
since, had gone through every detail, had turned and twisted the
intended mode of working his scheme, and had definitely, resolved upon
the manner in which he would carry it out.
And this was his resolution--to claim his wife. He had calculated
exactly all the risk that was contained in that one sentence, and he
had determined to brave it, or at all events to pretend to be prepared
to brave it. From those few words which Gertrude had whispered to him,
when in his rashness he had braved her at Mrs. Stapleton Burge's
party, he knew that she was mistress of the secret of Harvey Gore's
death. But the question then arose, would she dare to avail herself of
the knowledge she possessed? Yes, he thought she would, sooner than be
forced to return to him. Except during the first few months of girlish
idolatry, she had never cared for him, and now she had many reasons
for positively hating him. The manner in which he had treated her
would have been quite enough to a girl of her spirit, without the
suspicion of his crime, the position which she had subsequently gained
for herself in the world, and--her love for another man. Even in the
strait in which he found himself, that last thought was sufficient to
tempt him to run almost any risk to prevent her being anything to any
other man, but to that man above all others in the world.
Another question then arose: how much did she know about what had
transpired in those accursed Brighton lodgings? Foxey Walker, with all
his knowingness, with all the means which he had employed, with all
the tremendous inducement he had to endeavour to find out everything,
to drag its deepest depths, and expose all he could rake therefrom in
the light of day, had only been able to patch up a case of suspicion.
So Dolly Clarke had said. To be sure he, Gilbert Lloyd, had taken
fright at the bogey thus raised, and had run away; but he was taken
aback, the charge was brought forward so suddenly, and it was
impossible to face the _charivari_ which would have risen round him,
or to silence the accusation offhand on the spur of the moment.
Impossible, and not particularly worth his while. He had always
thought that the connection between him and Lord Ticehurst must be
brought to an end some day, and had often imagined, more especially
during the last few weeks, that it would terminate in a row. Well,
that could not be helped. He had had wonderfully good pickings for a
very long time; and though he had lost all that he had put by in his
recent unfortunate speculations, the mine was not yet exhausted, the
milch-cow was not yet dry. In the message which Clarke had conveyed to
him from Lord Ticehurst, he was directed to go to Hill-street, and
make up the books and balance the accounts between them; and it was
odd if he could not show a considerable balance due in his favour; ay,
and claim it too, so long as a portion of his lordship's
banking-account was responsive to cheques bearing Gilbert Lloyd's
signature. The question remained then, how much did Gertrude know? He
could not guess from the few words she had whispered to him that
night, for on that occasion also he had taken fright, and rushed off
without probing the matter. But if Foxey Walker could bring forward
nothing positive, nothing actually damnatory, the odds were very
strongly against Gertrude's being able to do so. And it was a great
stake he was going in for now. She could always earn a huge income by
her voice; but this was not all. This old Lord Sandilands, who had
almost adopted Gertrude as his daughter--so, at least, Lady Carabas
had told him, and she ought to know--had the reputation of being
immensely rich. He lived so quietly and unostentatiously, that the
world insisted he had been putting by two-thirds of his income for
years; and he had no relatives to whom to bequeath it. It would
therefore probably all be Gertrude's, or of course, his identity once
established, Gertrude's husband's. Now, what course would they adopt?
Would they accept him; let him live with her during the old man's
lifetime, and inherit with her at the old man's death? Even if all the
capital were tied down, the interest would afford a splendid income.
Or would they offer to buy him off with a sum down and a yearly
income? Either would do, though the first would be best, for--yes, by
Jove! much best, for the second would leave Gertrude open to the
attentions of his brother Miles, However, he was in a strait, and
could not afford to be particular, unless they fought him, and
then--well, he would risk that, and play his last trump-card.
So Gilbert Lloyd, on the morning after his arrival in London from
Baden, sat down and wrote a long and elaborate letter to his wife. He
told her that from the first he had never ceased to grieve over that
unfortunate step which they had taken under the influence of temper
and youthful folly. He did not repine; indeed, he had no doubt that
the separation had had a properly chastening effect--had given them
time and opportunity to see the mistake of indulging in headstrong
passion, and had probably rendered them both--he certainly could speak
for himself--worthier members of society; but the time, he thought,
had arrived when it would be not merely advisable, but proper, to
place themselves right with each other and before the world. There
existed between them a tie which was far more solemnly obligatory on
them than any human-made law,--although he need scarcely point out to
his wife that their marriage had never been legally dissolved,--and
while both the spiritual and moral contracts were in force it was
impossible to shirk their influence. He owned that he had been
profoundly touched, on the several occasions on which he had met her
recently in society, by the fact that he, her legitimate protector,
who should have been at her side, whose proper position was at her
right hand, should have had to stand aloof and look on, while others
pressed round her, owing to the foolish step they had taken. She would
agree with him, he felt sure, that this was a fain position, and one
which should be at once set right; and the only way in which that
could be done would be by their at once coming together and assuming
their proper relations before the world. He, on his part, would not
object, if it was thought necessary or advisable, for an entirely
fresh marriage between them; that detail could be arranged afterwards.
He was writing this in his old lodgings in Duke-street, which she
would recollect, to which he had first taken her after their marriage.
She was a _grand dame_ now, but he did not think he wronged her, or
flattered himself, in stating his belief that she had never known more
real happiness than when inhabiting those little rooms. Might the omen
prove propitious!--Ever hers, G.L.
"And for a sort of thing that's not the least in my line I don't think
that's bad," said Gilbert Lloyd, as he read it over. "It seems to me
to combine the practical with the romantic, a very difficult thing to
hit off, and one likely to please both phases of Gertrude's
character." Then he sealed it, and addressed it to Miss Lambert, to
Sir Giles Belwether's care, despatched it, and waited the result.
There must be a clear day at least before he could receive a reply,
and that day he found it very difficult to get through. He could not
go to Hill-street, though there was plenty of work awaiting him there,
because on the tone of Gertrude's reply to his letter would greatly
depend the tone of his conduct towards Lord Ticehurst. If his wife, no
matter from whatever motives of policy, thought it better to yield to
his views, he would then be in a position to resent his sudden
dismissal, and to speak his plain and unadorned sentiments to his
lordship in equally plain and unadorned language. If, on the contrary,
Gertrude temporised or refused point-blank, and he saw there was no
chance of carrying out his wishes, then all he had left him was to go
to Hill-street to see the very best arrangement he could make for
himself, by which he meant to ascertain the largest amount he could
draw on the fund for which his signature was good at Lord Ticehurst's
banker's--other available funds he had none--and making the best of
his way to Australia or America under a feigned name, begin life again
_de novo_. So he mooned about during the dreary day--it was dreary
enough; none of his friends were in London, and the aspect of the town
was deserted and wretched in the extreme--and was not sorry when it
was time to go home and to bed. The next morning before he was yet up
Mrs. Jobson knocked at his door, and pushed in a letter which had just
arrived by the post. Lloyd sprang up, and seized it at once. It was a
large folded letter, addressed not in Gertrude's hand, but in writing
which had once been bold and was still large, but a little shaky and
tremulous, and was sealed with a coronet and a cipher. Gilbert broke
it open hurriedly, and read as follows:
"_Hastings, Sept. 26, 186--_.
"Geoffrey Challoner,--_for it would be absurd in me to address you by any
other name,--the lady who has the inexpressible misfortune of being
dressed to her, and has begged me to reply to it. The reply to such a
letter could not be confided to fitter hands than those of the lady's
father, in which position I stand. The young lady whose professional
name is Miss Grace Lambert is my natural daughter; the fact has been
duly acknowledged by me, and the first act after the avowal is to
champion my daughter's cause against a villain. For you are a villain,
Geoffrey Challoner; though God knows it is with the deepest pain that
I write such words of any man bearing your paternal name; for in
applying this term to you I am not actuated by a remembrance of the
wrongs you have done to Gertrude, I am not even thinking of the
fearful crime which you committed, and which was revealed to her by
your victim with his dying breath on the occasion of your final
separation. I am looking back across a gulf of years to the time when
the dearest friend I had in the world was your father. Now, Geoffrey
Challoner, do you begin to understand? To me your father confided the
narrative of the events which ended with your banishment from home,
and your erasure from the family annals for ever. That narrative I
have by me now. Your career has been hitherto so successful, you have
gone so long unpunished, that you will be sceptical on this point, but
I will prove it to you. That narrative, written in your father's own
hand, sets forth your boyish disobedience, your tendency to
dissipation, the impossibility to make you think or act rightly; and
finally, your awful crime. When you have read thus far you will still
cling to the hope that the knowledge of the nature of that crime may
have passed into the grave with him whose heart it broke, who never
held up his head after its discovery. If any such hope arises in you,
it is my duty to stamp it out. Geoffrey Challoner, in my possession,
complete in every detail from its commencement to its frustration, is
the story of your attempted fratricide. There can be read, couched in
your father's homely, serious, truth-begetting phrases, the record of
how you, finding it impossible to undermine your father's confidence
in your elder brother by lies and slanders of the most malignant
nature, at length determined to step into that brother's position by
taking away his life by poison. Do you admit the force of my position
now, or would you wish the details brought out one by one into the
light of day, before the public eye?_
"_This letter is written in self-defence, or, what is the same thing,
in defence of my child. The letter she has received from you, however
pleasantly and skilfully worded, was a threat, an order to her to
receive you as her husband, a threat as to what she might expect if
she refused. Now beware. Had you been content to leave Gertrude
unmolested, had you shown the slightest remorse for the horrible
crimes, one of which you contemplated, the other which, as I verily
believe, you committed, I would have tempered justice with mercy, and
left you to the never-failing retribution which your conscience would
sooner or later have claimed of you. That is now impossible. By your
own act you have prevented my using any such discretion in the matter.
You have thrown down the gauntlet, however covertly, and must take the
consequences. I have telegraphed to your brother and to my solicitor
to come to me at once. I shall place before them your father's
narrative, and shall tell them what Gertrude has told me. Do not
flatter yourself with the notion that a wife cannot be a witness
against her husband. There is plenty of other evidence, some of which
I find has been already worked up; and we shall take such steps as may
seem to us advisable_.
"SANDILANDS."
"I've knocked twice with Mr. Lloyd's breakfast, and I can't make him
hear," said Mrs. Jobson to her servant that morning; "and he such a
light sleeper too, in general. I'll try once more, and if he don't
answer, I'll peep in."
The landlady knocked again, but with no effect; and when she "peeped
in" she found Gilbert Lloyd fallen prone on his face on the floor,
with a letter grasped in his stiffened hand.