A LAST INTERVIEW.
But there was another matter besides the one he had discussed with
Benny Hines, which at this period of his career might not unreasonably
be supposed to seriously ruffle that serenity of mind which Mr.
Brabazon had heretofore been so successful in cultivating, and that
was his love affair with Miss Leslie.
With his uncle's discarding of him, all his hopes in that direction
had been irremediably blighted. As a pauper--for he was no more than
that now--all thought of love-making was out of the question for years
to come, if not for ever. It was true that he had won no promise from
Clara, but he had so far declared himself to her at the moment of Mrs.
Mordaunt's interruption that he felt it due to both of them that he
should find an opportunity of explaining to Miss Leslie that, if he
wished her to consider as unsaid the impassioned words he had poured
into her ear on that never-to-be-forgotten occasion, it was not
because his feelings towards her had undergone the shadow of a change,
but because circumstances outside his control had rendered it
impossible for him, as an honourable man, to press his suit to an
issue. Bitter, very bitter to him, would such a confession be. During
the last few months he had dreamt so many dreams of which Clara was
the central figure, his imagination had indued her with so many
precious attributes, and so full of happy confidence had he been but a
little while before, that to find himself at one fell blow robbed of
everything, even of hope for the future, had, taken in conjunction
with that other stroke of fate, the effect, for the time being, of
numbing all his faculties of thought and feeling. For hours he would
lie on his back with shut eyes, his senses too dulled to allow of his
suffering acutely, while yet what might be termed a slow fever of
misery seemed to be eating his very life away.
Among all Mr. Brabazon's acquaintances, and they were more numerous
than he could readily have counted, there was not one, perhaps,
who would have credited him with the possession of more than that
limited--mostly very limited--range of feeling and sensibility with
which a somewhat parsimonious Providence has seen fit to endow your
average young man about town. Indeed, it is only fair to assume that
Burgo himself had no suspicion that there lay dormant within him such
heights and depths of passionate but restrained emotion as those which
now revealed themselves for the first time. But he was essentially a
man of action, and before long he roused himself, although not without
an effort, and shook off him a torpor which could not well be
otherwise than enervating, and which seemed to him nothing less than a
slur on his manhood. And with that his courage came back to him in
full measure, and he set himself to confront the future with resolute
eyes.
A wild, nay, nothing less than an insane notion, had more than once
caught him by the throat, as it were, and for a little while had made
his breath come thick and fast. What, he said to himself--what if,
when he should tell Clara he was a ruined man, and that she must
strive to forget he had ever spoken to her as he had, she were to
reply that to her his loss of fortune meant nothing, that her heart
was his and ever would be; that she loved him not one jot less now
that he was poor than when all the world accepted him as his uncle's
heir It was a madman's dream; yet he had read and been told of such
things; and there were times when it refused to be scouted, and would
"sweetly creep into his study of imagination." But even granting for a
moment that such a thing were to come to pass, what then? The
circumstances of the case would in no wise be altered. To tie any girl
down to his broken fortunes would be both a cruelty and a wrong. It
would be very, very sweet to listen to such a confession from the lips
he loved--but--_après_?
Every morning he skimmed the columns of arrivals and departures in the
_Morning Post_ in quest of a notification of the return to town of
Mrs. Mordaunt and her niece, for he was quite aware that to the elder
lady life would have seemed scarcely worth living had her comings and
goings failed to be duly recorded in that organ of the elect. At
length he found what he was looking for. Mrs. Mordaunt and Miss Leslie
had arrived from Paris at No. 6 Cantelupe Gardens. Then, a few days
later, in one of the weekly society papers he came across an
announcement of the engagement of Miss Leslie and Lord Penwhistle.
It was only what he had been expecting to hear for some time past, and
yet the blow, when it did fall, seemed scarcely the less hard to bear
on that account. Well, all was at an end now. Whatever faint but
altogether illusory hopes had lurked unbidden in the most secret
chamber of his heart that Clara might possibly rise superior to the
prejudices of her station--might even rise to the height of a great
sacrifice, and insist upon throwing in her lot with his--withered and
fell dead before that fatal announcement.
On one point he was determined: he would see Clara and speak with her
for the last time. After what had passed between them, after what he
had said to her on the occasion of their last meeting, he felt that
some justification of himself might not improbably be looked for by
her. At any rate, it was due to himself to impress upon her that,
although fickle fortune had left him in the lurch, there was no change
in the sentiments with which he regarded her--that he still loved her
as devotedly as ever he had done. No less than that and no more would
he say to her.
More clearly, as time went on, was Burgo made to feel that he was
being coldshouldered and quietly dropped by numbers of those with whom
he had heretofore been on terms of intimacy, and who had always
accepted him as one of themselves. Already his cards and invitations
had dwindled by fifty per cent. People whom he had been in the habit
of visiting for years seemed of late to have unaccountably forgotten
his existence. Mothers with marriageable daughters no longer smiled on
him so sweetly as they had been wont to do, indeed, they often forgot
to smile on him at all; and the daughters themselves, or so he
fancied, had become more shy and distant--in some cases positively
chilling--and no longer evinced the readiness to dance with him or to
allow him to escort them to the supper-room, to which they had
accustomed him. Even at his club he detected a difference. There was a
frigidity in the atmosphere such as he had never been conscious of
before. Men who had always made a point of shaking hands with him, now
satisfied themselves with a nod and a curt "How-de-do?" It was a
lesson in life the value of which Burgo would recognise later on, but
which at present he could only face in a spirit of proud, bitter
indifference.
It is not to be presumed that among the circle of Mr. Brabazon's
friends and acquaintances any knowledge of the fact that his uncle had
discarded him had as yet leaked out. It was enough for society to know
that Sir Everard Clinton had taken to himself a wife not more than
half his own age, and that, as a consequence, his nephew's prospects
had gone down nearly, if not quite, to zero. Henceforward Mr. Brabazon
would be relegated to the great army of detrimentals.
But not all people are alike, and the Hon. Mrs. Dovering was one of
those who never turned her back on any one whom she liked simply
because fortune had chosen to frown on him or her. Yet Mrs. Dovering
moved in very select circles indeed. Thus it came to pass that one day
a card for her forthcoming garden party reached Burgo. He at once made
up his mind to accept the invitation, for he knew that Mrs. Dovering
and Mrs. Mordaunt were friends of long standing, and it seemed to
him very likely that the latter, accompanied, of course, by Miss
Leslie, would be at the party. If so, he might be able to secure his
wished-for opportunity of speaking with Clara for the last time.
Twysden Court, the country house of the Hon. Mrs. Dovering, was about
a dozen miles up river. When the day of the party arrived Burgo timed
himself so as not to reach there till after the majority of the
company would have assembled. The great attraction of the afternoon
was to be a lawn-tennis match, in which two of the most accomplished
amateur players were to take part.
After shaking hands with his hostess, who greeted him with a
cordiality in no wise impaired by the recent change in his prospects,
of which she had been duly informed, he sauntered off, keeping well on
the fringe of the crowd--and it was a crowd, for there must have been
quite a couple of hundred people present--which, just then, was, or
professed to be, intensely interested in a critical point of the game,
but not failing to keep a wary look-out for Mrs. Mordaunt and her
niece. At length he caught sight of them, not among the mob round the
players, but forming part of a thin outer fringe of people for
whom tennis had no special charm, who were scattered about in little
groups of three or four--the ladies seated, the gentlemen mostly
standing or strolling from one group to another--in the welcome shade
of some "immemorial elms." He saw them, but he was nearly sure that
neither of them had recognised him, and as Mrs. Mordaunt was somewhat
short-sighted, there was not much fear of that matron doing so so long
as he kept outside her limited range of vision. They were seated on a
couple of rustic chairs, and now and again one or another of the men
would lounge up, chat for a couple of minutes, and then retire to make
way for some one else. At length he saw his hostess approach them, say
something to Mrs. Mordaunt, and presently carry that lady off in the
direction of the conservatory. The fact was that, just at that time,
the Hon. Mrs. Dovering's pet craze--she had a fresh one every year,
sometimes two--was the cultivation of orchids, and as Mrs. Mordaunt,
who dabbled a little in most things, but had no enthusiasms (they were
too expensive, she said, and she was not overburdened with means), had
on a recent occasion expressed a strong desire to see her hostess's
collection, her wish was now about to be gratified.
Miss Leslie was left alone.
Here was Burgo's opportunity, and he was not slow to avail him self of
it.
He made a little detour on purpose, and so took the girl unawares. She
gave a great start as he stood suddenly before her, and caught her
breath quickly. Then the hot colour surged up and dyed throat and face
alike, but only, a few seconds later, to ebb as swiftly as it had
come, leaving her paler than before. Burgo, on his part, was perhaps a
trifle paler than ordinary, but perfectly self-possessed and
unembarrassed.
"Good afternoon, Miss Leslie," he said in his blandest tones, as he
smilingly raised his hat. "It seems a long time since I had the
pleasure of seeing you last. As an old acquaintance, I trust it won't
be deemed a liberty if I venture to congratulate you on a certain
auspicious event which, I am told, may shortly be expected to take
place." Then, with an almost startling change of voice and manner, he
added: "For, of course, it is true that you are going to marry Lord
Penwhistle."
"Yes, Mr. Brabazon, it is quite true," replied Clara in a timid little
voice.
"In that case, pray accept my best wishes for your happiness," he
said, as he dropped into the chair by her side. His voice had
recovered its smoothness, his face was a mask. Only for a moment had
he betrayed himself, and, if he could anyhow help it, it should not
happen again.
"On the one side youth and beauty," he continued, "on the other a
title and a rent-roll of thirty thousand a year, with Love himself,
young, fresh, and pure as the dawn, to pipe before the glowing hours
as they pass! It will, indeed, be an ideal union--one of those
marriages (alas, that they should be so few in number!) which are said
to be made in heaven itself."
"You are very cruel, Mr. Brabazon," murmured Clara, with a tear in the
corner of either eye.
"Am I? I did not mean to be," he said; and some of the hardness melted
out of his eyes as he looked at her.
She was not regarding him, but looking straight before her. How lovely
she looked, with her delicate clear-cut profile, her fresh purity of
complexion, her long brown upcurved lashes, which half veiled the
violet orbs beneath them, and that half-opened rosebud of a mouth
which seemed made purposely for kisses--and, perhaps, for sugar-plums!
Burgo, as his eyes devoured her, was possessed by an almost
irresistible longing to put his strong arms around her and strain her
to his heart. How was he to know that beneath that lovely exterior
there fluttered the soul of a butterfly (if butterflies possess
souls), at once vain, frivolous, and shallow--incapable of constancy,
or of any depth of affection, and infected by a certain mercenary
quality which would grow and develop into something hateful as years
went on, and had already instilled its first great lesson into her
mind--that a girl's primary duty to herself; more especially if she be
a girl without a "tocher," is to make a wealthy marriage?
Of all the men to whom she had been introduced since her aunt had
taken her in hand and brought her out, she liked Burgo Brabazon best.
His good looks were of a kind which took her fancy captive. As a rule
she did not care for fair men--and yet, little Lord Penwhistle had
straw-tinted hair, eyes of the colour of skim milk, and a faint,
fluffy moustache, like the down on the breast of a very young
chicken--while Brabazon, the first time she saw him, seemed to her
her own embodiment of Byron's _Corsair_, a poem which she had lately
read for the first Lime; or the hero of one of those very sentimental
milk-and-water novels, to a perusal of which a large share of her
leisure hours was devoted. But although Burgo's personality appealed
so strongly to the romantic side of her character, she would never
have devoted a second serious thought to him (for one can be at once
romantic and mercenary-minded) had he been nothing more than (say) a
banker's clerk, instead of the nephew and heir of a wealthy baronet.
Mrs. Mordaunt had made it her business to ascertain as much about Mr.
Brabazon's family history as it concerned her to know, and she was
quite satisfied that he would make as good a match for her niece as
that charming but impecunious young woman could reasonably look for.
At any rate, unless something better should presently offer itself, he
must by no means be allowed to slip through Clara's fingers, for
although Mr. Brabazon had not yet spoken, his infatuation was as plain
as a pikestaff to that astute matron. Therefore the _mot d'ordre_ was
passed to Clara, much to her delight. She was to lead him gently on as
by a silken thread, but never, if possible, to let him suspect that
her fingers had fast hold of the other end of it. It ought not to be a
difficult matter to bring him to book, Mrs. Mordaunt opined, "for,
unless I am very much mistaken, the bandage is over his eyes already."
Nobody, therefore, could have been more astonished than Miss Leslie
was that evening when, Mr. Brabazon having been brought to declare
himself, her aunt (who had known quite well where to find them) bore
down upon them just in time to prevent her from accepting him, and,
with a request to Mr. Brabazon to rearrange the conservatory slides,
carried her off from under the nose of her would-be lover.
But Clara comprehended when, a few minutes later, her aunt said to
her: "Mr. Brabazon's uncle has got married somewhere abroad. I've just
heard the news. It may--nay, it must--make a great difference as
regards the young man's prospects. The safest plan will be to give him
his _congé_. Besides, Lord Penwhistle, with whom you danced twice the
other night, has been asking for you. He's very rich. If you play your
cards judiciously, there's no knowing what may come to pass."
Miss Leslie cried a good deal in the course of the next few days in
the solitude of her chamber. She disliked Lord Penwhistle as much as
she liked Burgo; indeed, it might be said that she loved the latter as
much as her shallow little heart was capable of loving any one. But
she was a good girl, and thoroughly amenable to her aunt's dictates.
No thought of rebellion ever entered her mind. Besides, if Mr.
Brabazon was going to be a poor man it was far better that they should
not marry. She had seen and understood enough of the horrors of
genteel poverty when a child at home. It had been the perpetual worry
about sordid details and the long, hopeless struggle to free himself
from debt, which had worn out her father years before his time. Even
now the recollection of it made her shudder.
No, there was no help for it. Fate was very unkind, but she and Mr.
Brabazon must part. And when--her birthday falling about a week
later--Lord Penwhistle requested her acceptance of a ruby and sapphire
bracelet, she felt still more convinced that all must be considered at
an end as between Burgo and herself.
"I am glad to have secured this opportunity, Miss Leslie, for a little
quiet talk with you," resumed Mr. Brabazon after a pause which to
Clara was fast becoming intolerable. The dying embers of her love for
Burgo had been fanned afresh into a flame by his presence. Never had
Lord Penwhistle seemed so odious to her as at that moment. "After
to-day, however, you need have no fear that I shall trouble you again.
On a certain occasion I took the liberty of saying certain things to
you, but was interrupted before I had got more than half-way through.
Your aunt broke in upon us and carried you off--for what reason is now
plain enough. She had just heard that my uncle, whose heir I was
supposed to be, had taken to himself a wife, and that, consequently,
my eligibility as a _parti_ for her niece had suddenly gone down to
vanishing point. Is my statement very wide of the mark, Miss Leslie?"
"No, it is not, Mr. Brabazon," replied Clara without hesitation. Just
then she felt that she hated Mrs. Mordaunt. She would save her nothing
in the way of exposure. "My aunt had heard the news you speak of, and
she told me that as between you and me everything must at once come to
an end."
"And you?" said Burgo quietly.
"What could I do? When you called, we were not at home. A few days
later my aunt carried me off to Paris, and from the date of that
evening in the conservatory till now you and I have never met."
"That has been owing to no remissness on my part, I assure you. I was
most anxious to meet you. I wanted to tell you that, although I was
unfortunately no longer in a position to ask you to become my wife, my
sentiments towards you had in no wise changed--that it was not I, but
circumstances, that were to blame."
He paused till a burst of clapping and cheering from the crowd round
the players had died away.
"I am glad to have been able to tell you this at last," he went on.
"But if fortune has behaved scurvily by me, she has dealt kindly by
you. If you had conceded me that which I was on the point of asking
you for when Mrs. Mordaunt appeared so inopportunely on the scene, you
would have made me a happy man, but think what you would have lost
yourself!"
"I fail to understand you. Pray explain yourself, Mr. Brabazon," said
Clara a little uneasily.
"'Tis plain enough. Had you given your hand to me, you would never
have had the happiness of becoming Lady Penwhistle."
A faint "Oh!" was Clara's sole reply. Why was he so bitter? He must
have loved her very much to talk as he did.
"So that you see everything has happened for the best as far as you
are concerned," resumed Burgo in his soft drawling tones. "Indeed, I
think that you ought to be very thankful for your escape--probably you
are. The Penwhistle family diamonds are said to be superb, and rumour
has it that his lordship is disposed to behave most liberally in the
way of settlements. You are a very fortunate young woman, Miss
Leslie."
Clara's heart, such as it was, was full to bursting. "Oh! if you knew
all," she exclaimed; "if you knew how I was pestered and badgered into
accepting Lord Penwhistle, you would pity me instead of sneering at
me! If you think I like him, you are mistaken. I don't. There! And I
don't care who knows it." For once she was carried out of herself.
"Pestered and badgered, indeed! Is that all? Why should any young
woman allow herself to be pestered and badgered by anybody into
marrying a man for whom she does not care? What a confession of
weakness is here!"
"As I said before, you don't know my aunt--as I know her."
"No--thank heaven!" murmured Burgo.
"But all this talk is to no purpose, Mr. Brabazon," said Clara
hastily. She already regretted her little outburst. "In fact, I ought
not to have listened to it. It is enough that I have promised to marry
Lord Penwhistle, and I am not going to run away from my promise."
"Of course you are not," assented Burgo with that exasperating smile
of his. "You would regret it to the last day of your life if you did."
"Ah, here comes my aunt," said Clara with a sigh of relief.
Burgo stood up as Mrs. Mordaunt drew near. Her face became charged
with thunder the moment she recognised him. But that in no wise
discomposed our friend. "Delighted to see you again, Mrs. Mordaunt,"
he said, as he raised his hat. "It seems ages since I parted from you
last. I have just been felicitating Miss Leslie upon a certain event
which, I hear on good authority, is to take place very shortly. I
suppose, if it would not be considered presumptuous on my part, that I
ought also to congratulate you, Mrs. Mordaunt, for affairs of this
sort, to be successfully carried through, necessitate delicate
manipulation and diplomatic talent of a very special kind. Yes, I am
quite sure you ought to be congratulated. Penwhistle's a decent little
chap enough, though they _did_ blackball him at the Corinthian. Still,
I don't think it can be true that the reason they 'chucked' him was
because his grandfather is said to have been a marine-store dealer in
Auld Reekie. No man can help his grandfather, can he? And when a
fellow is worth thirty thousand a year, it would not matter a button
even if one of his ancestors was hanged for sheep-stealing."