Twelve Months after.
More than twelve months had rolled away since the man called Gilbert
Lloyd had been found dead in his lodgings in Duke-street, when the
medical journals improved the occasion and had a word of advice for
the general public, and a good many words of abuse for each other, and
when the affair created a little sensation; for amongst a certain set
Lloyd was very well known, and on the whole very much hated for his
success in life. The fact of his quarrel with Lord Ticehurst had got
wind, though the cause of it was kept secret, and had been duly
rejoiced over; but the man must have had extraordinary luck, everyone
said; for the newspapers, in their account of the inquest, published a
half-written letter which was found in his room, and on which he had
evidently been engaged when seized with the spasm which he sought to
allay with that confounded poison, which he had evidently taken in
mistake for the medicine standing by it, in which he alluded to the
offer made to him by some nobleman, of an appointment exactly like
that which he held with Lord Ticehurst, and which, the latter said,
the state of his health made him decline. At the inquest Mrs. Jobson
gave her evidence as to the fit with which her lodger had been seized
on the morning previous to his death, and as to the remedy which he
told her had been prescribed for him; a practical chemist gave
professional evidence; Mr. Pattle produced the letter he had received;
the coroner summed up, and the jury returned a verdict that the
deceased had died from a dose of poison taken accidentally. But this
was more than twelve months since, and the manner of Gilbert Lloyd's
death was never spoken of; and the fact of his ever having lived was
almost forgotten by the members of that busy, reckless, stirring world
in which he had moved and had his being; that world which calls but
for the "living present," and carefully closes its eyes against both
the past and the future.
That world which never makes the smallest difference in its career
whether old members drop out of it, or new members are caught up and
whirled along with it, was pursuing its course in very much its
ordinary way. The Marchioness of Carabas still had a Soul which
required male supervision, and still found somebody to supervise it;
though Mr. Pennington's year of office had expired, another charming
creature reigned in his stead. Mr. Boulderson Munns still drove his
mail-phaeton, still told his foreign artists that he didn't understand
"their d--d palaver," and still managed the Grand Scandinavian Opera,
though not with so much success as formerly. There had been a reaction
after Miss Lambert's secession from the boards; people began to think
there was something good at the Regent, and went to see; and the heart
of Mr. Munns was heavy under his gorgeous waistcoat, and he had half
made up his mind to retiring from management, or, as he phrased it,
"cuttin' the whole concern."
A change had come over one person who has played an important part in
this little drama--Lord Ticehurst. Gilbert Lloyd's place in that young
nobleman's establishment never was filled up, much to the disgust of
Bobby Maitland, who wrote off directly he heard of the quarrel,
volunteering his services, and being perfectly ready to throw over his
then patron, Mr. Stackborough, at a moment's notice. But the news of
his old companion's death acted as a great shock upon the young earl,
and those reflections which had come upon him during that homeward
drive from Hastings, after his refusal by Miss Lambert, came upon him
with redoubled force. His life was purposeless, and worse than
purposeless; was passed in a not very elevated pursuit among very
degrading surroundings. He had a name and position to keep up; and
though his brains were not much, he knew that he might do something
towards filling his station in life, and, please God, he would. From
Mr. Toshington you may gather that Lord Ticehurst has carried out his
intention. "God knows what has come to Etchingham, sir!" the old
gentleman, who has grown very shaky and senile, will say; "you never
saw a fellow so changed. He's cut the turf and all that low lot of
fellows--deuced good thing, that; lives almost entirely at his place
down in Sussex, and has gone in for farmin', and cattle-breedin', and
that kind of thing. What does it mean, eh? Well, I don't know, more
than that there's never a sudden change in a man that I've ever seen,
that there wasn't one thing at the bottom of it. A woman?--of course!
They do say that Grace Belwether, niece of my old friend, Sir Giles,
is a devilish pretty, sensible young woman, and that Etchingham is
very sweet on her."
And Miles Challoner, was he changed? He was sobered and saddened,
perhaps; for a great deal of the gilding, which is but gum and
gold-paper after all, but which makes life seem bright and alluring,
had been ruthlessly rubbed off during the past two years, and he bore
about with him what was at once the greatest sorrow and the greatest
joy--his love for Gertrude. This absorbing feeling influenced his
whole life, and so engrossed him that he gave up everything in which
he had formerly taken interest, and passed his time in recalling
fleeting recollections of the happy days he had spent in the society
of his beloved, and in endeavouring to arrange the wildest and most
improbable combination of chances under which those happy days might
be renewed. Long since he had fled from the "gross mud-honey of
town"--where almost every place was fraught with bitter memories not
merely of the loved and lost, but of the wretched man his brother,
whose career of crime had been so suddenly brought to a close--and had
established himself at Rowley Court in the hope that he quiet life and
the occupation which his position required, and in which he would
involve himself, would bring about a surcease of that gnawing pain
which was ever at his heart.
All in vain. The ghost of the dead Past was not to be laid by change
of scene; nor in the clear air of the country did the uncompromising
Future loom brighter and more rosily than it had in murky London. Nor
horse, nor dog, nor gun afforded the smallest pleasure to Miles
Challoner, who said "Yes" or "No," whichever first entered his head
when his steward made suggestions or asked for instructions, and who
walked about his estate with his head hanging on his breast and his
hands clasped behind him, chewing the cud of his bitter fancy, and
wondering whether this purposeless, useless existence would ever
terminate, and whether before his death he should ever have the chance
of playing a part in the great drama of life.
One day he took a sudden determination. It was useless, he felt,
remaining inert, inactive as he was, ever pursuing a vain phantom and
letting his energies rust and his opportunities of doing real good
pass by. He was a young man, and there was a life before him yet. Not
there, not in his old ancestral home, hampered by "proud laws of
precedent" and conventionality, dragged down by old memories and
associations with things bygone, but in the New World. Why should he
not yet make his life a source of happiness and comfort to himself and
others? He had no sentimental notions about parting with his family
acres. He should never marry, of that he was firmly convinced, and at
his death they would go to some one for whom he cared not one jot.
Better to part with them at once, and take the proceeds with him to
Australia, where at least he should be free from haunting memories of
the past, and have the chance of making a career for himself.
This determination he at once proceeded to carry into effect, writing
to his lawyer, and giving him instructions for the sale of the
Rowley-Court property so soon as he could find a purchaser. Find a
purchaser! It was difficult to make a selection. The Walbrooks and the
Walbrooks' friends, who had bought land in the neighbourhood on Sir
Thomas Walbrook's recommendation, and the friends who had been staying
with the Walbrooks, and thought they would like to have property in
the neighbourhood--all self-made men who came up to London with
half-a-crown and were then worth millions--all wanted to buy Rowley
Court. Eventually, however, Miles gave the preference to Sir Thomas
himself, and the arrangement had just been concluded between them when
Miles received the letter with which the reader has been made
acquainted in the previous chapter.
In one of the wildest and yet most peaceful scenes of the Alpine land,
the grave of the English nobleman was made, by his own desire. He had
no wish that his remains should be brought to England, but desired
that they should be suffered to remain where his last quiet days of
life had been passed in the society of his daughter. Under the shadow
of the rustic church he rested; and when all had been done, Gertrude
and Miles found themselves alone. It was a solemn time and a solemn
occasion; and their utter isolation from all whom they had ever
previously known, the strangeness of the scene, and the urgency and
uncertainty of the future, oppressed them; while the loss of the best
friend either had ever possessed so darkened the horizon for them,
that not even their mutual and avowed love could brighten it.
By Lord Sandilands' desire Miles Challoner had sent for his solicitor,
who arrived at the Fer à Cheval in time to be present at the funeral,
and to whom Gertrude confided all the papers which her father had with
him. Their contents were explicit. The greater portion of Lord
Sandilands' property he had had the power to dispose of, and he had
left it unreservedly to his daughter. There was no mention made of any
other person; and Mr. Leggatt, the solicitor, was charged by his late
client with the administration of the bequest.
The evening had fallen on the day whose morning had seen Lord
Sandilands' quiet and simple funeral. Mr. Leggatt had explained to
Gertrude her very satisfactory position in worldly affairs, and had
received the few instructions she had to give him. He then stated that
he should be obliged to start on his homeward journey on the following
day, and inquired Gertrude's immediate intentions with regard to her
own movements. Gertrude replied that she could not tell him until the
morning. Then Mr. Leggatt discreetly retired, and the lovers and
mourners were left alone.
"I sent you from me because I had deceived you," said Gertrude, when
the conversation, after long lingering upon the details of the past
and upon the friends they had lost, was flagging. "And I thought you
stayed away and made no sign because you could not forgive me."
"I stayed away because you had been deceived," said Miles, "and the
time had not come when I could tell you the truth and ask you to aid
me in making the best of it for us both. You know it all now." He took
the letter Lord Sandilands had written to him from her hand "You know
that the miserable man who was to both of us a rock ahead through life
was my brother--the shame and misfortune of our family."
Gertrude bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.
He continued: "All that can be said, except how truly and devotedly I
love you, is said in this letter--the last message of your father, of
my best friend. There is nothing in England for which we care: we have
no ties there; we are bound to each other only by ties of love and
sorrow in all the world. No one knows, no one can ever know, what that
unhappy man was to you and to me. Will you let me try to make you
forgive and forget it all in a happier marriage? Ours is an
exceptional case. The world would condemn us, if the world knew all it
could, which would be only half the truth; we know all the truth, and
are free from self-condemnation. Say yes, Gertrude; not to me only,
remember, but to him whom we have lost; and we shall never see England
any more, or part again in this world."
Gertrude made him no answer in words. Her head was still bowed, and
her eyes hidden by one hand; but she placed the other in his, and he
knew that she was won.
Their marriage took place at Berne, and they are lost in the crowd.
THE END.
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PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Rock Ahead. (Vol. 2 of 2), by Edmund Yates