with Lady Lundie, and had excused themselves from accepting her
invitation to the lawn-party. With the exception of Blanche, they were
both quite ignorant of the persons who composed the family circle at
Windygates.
“Make a memorandum of the name,” Lord Holchester went on. “Anne
Silvester. Her father and mother are dead. I knew her father in former
times. Her mother was ill-used. It was a bad business. I have been
thinking of it again, for the first time for many years. If the girl is
alive and about the world she may remember our family name. Help
her, Julius, if she ever wants help, and applies to you.” The painful
contraction passed across his face once more. Were his thoughts taking
him back to the memorable summer evening at the Hampstead villa? Did
he see the deserted woman swooning at his feet again? “About your
election?” he asked, impatiently. “My mind is not used to be idle. Give
it something to do.”
Julius stated his position as plainly and as briefly as he could.
The father found nothing to object to in the report--except the son’s
absence from the field of action. He blamed Lady Holchester for
summoning Julius to London. He was annoyed at his son’s being there, at
the bedside, when he ought to have been addressing the electors. “It’s
inconvenient, Julius,” he said, petulantly. “Don’t you see it yourself?”
Having previously arranged with his mother to take the first opportunity
that offered of risking a reference to Geoffrey, Julius decided to “see
it” in a light for which his father was not prepared. The opportunity
was before him. He took it on the spot.
“It is no inconvenience to me, Sir,” he replied, “and it is no
inconvenience to my brother either. Geoffrey was anxious about you too.
Geoffrey has come to London with me.”
Lord Holchester looked at his eldest son with a grimly-satirical
expression of surprise.
“Have I not already told you,” he rejoined, “that my mind is not
affected by my illness? Geoffrey anxious about me! Anxiety is one of the
civilized emotions. Man in his savage state is incapable of feeling it.”
“My brother is not a savage, Sir.”
“His stomach is generally full, and his skin is covered with linen and
cloth, instead of red ochre and oil. So far, certainly, your brother is
civilized. In all other respects your brother is a savage.”
“I know what you mean, Sir. But there is something to be said for
Geoffrey’s way of life. He cultivates his courage and his strength.
Courage and strength are fine qualities, surely, in their way?”
“Excellent qualities, as far as they go. If you want to know how far
that is, challenge Geoffrey to write a sentence of decent English, and
see if his courage doesn’t fail him there. Give him his books to read
for his degree, and, strong as he is, he will be taken ill at the sight
of them. You wish me to see your brother. Nothing will induce me to see
him, until his way of life (as you call it) is altered altogether. I
have but one hope of its ever being altered now. It is barely possible
that the influence of a sensible woman--possessed of such advantages
of birth and fortune as may compel respect, even from a savage--might
produce its effect on Geoffrey. If he wishes to find his way back into
this house, let him find his way back into good society first, and bring
me a daughter-in-law to plead his cause for him--whom his mother and I
can respect and receive. When that happens, I shall begin to have some
belief in Geoffrey. Until it does happen, don’t introduce your brother
into any future conversations which you may have with Me. To return to
your election. I have some advice to give you before you go back. You
will do well to go back to-night. Lift me up on the pillow. I shall
speak more easily with my head high.”
His son lifted him on the pillows, and once more entreated him to spare
himself.
It was useless. No remonstrances shook the iron resolution of the man
who had hewed his way through the rank and file of political humanity to
his own high place apart from the rest. Helpless, ghastly, snatched out
of the very jaws of death, there he lay, steadily distilling the clear
common-sense which had won him all his worldly rewards into the mind of
his son. Not a hint was missed, not a caution was forgotten, that could
guide Julius safely through the miry political ways which he had trodden
so safely and so dextrously himself. An hour more had passed before the
impenetrable old man closed his weary eyes, and consented to take his
nourishment and compose himself to rest. His last words, rendered barely
articulate by exhaustion, still sang the praises of party manoeuvres
and political strife. “It’s a grand career! I miss the House of Commons,
Julius, as I miss nothing else!”
Left free to pursue his own thoughts, and to guide his own movements,
Julius went straight from Lord Holchester’s bedside to Lady Holchester’s
boudoir.
“Has your father said any thing about Geoffrey?” was his mother’s first
question as soon as he entered the room.
“My father gives Geoffrey a last chance, if Geoffrey will only take it.”
Lady Holchester’s face clouded. “I know,” she said, with a look of
disappointment. “His last chance is to read for his degree. Hopeless,
my dear. Quite hopeless! If it had only been something easier than that;
something that rested with me--”
“It does rest with you,” interposed Julius. “My dear mother!--can you
believe it?--Geoffrey’s last chance is (in one word) Marriage!”
“Oh, Julius! it’s too good to be true!”
Julius repeated his father’s own words. Lady Holchester looked twenty
years younger as she listened. When he had done she rang the bell.
“No matter who calls,” she said to the servant, “I am not at home.” She
turned to Julius, kissed him, and made a place for him on the sofa by
her side. “Geoffrey shall take _that_ chance,” she said, gayly--“I will
answer for it! I have three women in my mind, any one of whom would suit
him. Sit down, my dear, and let us consider carefully which of the three
will be most likely to attract Geoffrey, and to come up to your father’s
standard of what his daughter-in-law ought to be. When we have decided,
don’t trust to writing. Go yourself and see Geoffrey at his hotel.”
Mother and son entered on their consultation--and innocently sowed the
seeds of a terrible harvest to come.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.
GEOFFREY AS A PUBLIC CHARACTER.
TIME had advanced to after noon before the selection of Geoffrey’s
future wife was accomplished, and before the instructions of Geoffrey’s
brother were complete enough to justify the opening of the matrimonial
negotiation at Nagle’s Hotel.
“Don’t leave him till you have got his promise,” were Lady Holchester’s
last words when her son started on his mission.
“If Geoffrey doesn’t jump at what I am going to offer him,” was the
son’s reply, “I shall agree with my father that the case is hopeless;
and I shall end, like my father, in giving Geoffrey up.”
This was strong language for Julius to use. It was not easy to rouse the
disciplined and equable temperament of Lord Holchester’s eldest son.
No two men were ever more thoroughly unlike each other than these two
brothers. It is melancholy to acknowledge it of the blood relation of
a “stroke oar,” but it must be owned, in the interests of truth, that
Julius cultivated his intelligence. This degenerate Briton could digest
books--and couldn’t digest beer. Could learn languages--and couldn’t
learn to row. Practiced the foreign vice of perfecting himself in the
art of playing on a musical instrument and couldn’t learn the English
virtue of knowing a good horse when he saw him. Got through life.
(Heaven only knows how!) without either a biceps or a betting-book.
Had openly acknowledged, in English society, that he didn’t think the
barking of a pack of hounds the finest music in the world. Could go to
foreign parts, and see a mountain which nobody had ever got to the top
of yet--and didn’t instantly feel his honor as an Englishman involved in
getting to the top of it himself. Such people may, and do, exist among
the inferior races of the Continent. Let us thank Heaven, Sir, that
England never has been, and never will be, the right place for them!
Arrived at Nagle’s Hotel, and finding nobody to inquire of in the hall,
Julius applied to the young lady who sat behind the window of “the
bar.” The young lady was reading something so deeply interesting in the
evening newspaper that she never even heard him. Julius went into the
coffee-room.
The waiter, in his corner, was absorbed over a second newspaper. Three
gentlemen, at three different tables, were absorbed in a third, fourth,
and fifth newspaper. They all alike went on with their reading without
noticing the entrance of the stranger. Julius ventured on disturbing
the waiter by asking for Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. At the sound of that
illustrious name the waiter looked up with a start. “Are you Mr.
Delamayn’s brother, Sir?”
“Yes.”
The three gentlemen at the tables looked up with a start. The light of
Geoffrey’s celebrity fell, reflected, on Geoffrey’s brother, and made a
public character of him.
“You’ll find Mr. Geoffrey, Sir,” said the waiter, in a flurried, excited
manner, “at the Cock and Bottle, Putney.”
“I expected to find him here. I had an appointment with him at this
hotel.”
The wait er opened his eyes on Julius with an expression of blank
astonishment. “Haven’t you heard the news, Sir?”
“No!”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the waiter--and offered the newspaper.
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the three gentlemen--and offered the
three newspapers.
“What is it?” asked Julius.
“What is it?” repeated the waiter, in a hollow voice. “The most dreadful
thing that’s happened in my time. It’s all up, Sir, with the great
Foot-Race at Fulham. Tinkler has gone stale.”
The three gentlemen dropped solemnly back into their three chairs, and
repeated the dreadful intelligence, in chorus--“Tinkler has gone stale.”
A man who stands face to face with a great national disaster, and who
doesn’t understand it, is a man who will do wisely to hold his tongue
and enlighten his mind without asking other people to help him. Julius
accepted the waiter’s newspaper, and sat down to make (if possible) two
discoveries: First, as to whether “Tinkler” did, or did not, mean a man.
Second, as to what particular form of human affliction you implied when
you described that man as “gone stale.”
There was no difficulty in finding the news. It was printed in the
largest type, and was followed by a personal statement of the facts,
taken one way--which was followed, in its turn, by another personal
statement of the facts, taken in another way. More particulars, and
further personal statements, were promised in later editions. The royal
salute of British journalism thundered the announcement of Tinkler’s
staleness before a people prostrate on the national betting book.
Divested of exaggeration, the facts were few enough and simple enough.
A famous Athletic Association of the North had challenged a famous
Athletic Association of the South. The usual “Sports” were to take
place--such as running, jumping, “putting” the hammer, throwing
cricket-balls, and the like--and the whole was to wind up with a
Foot-Race of unexampled length and difficulty in the annals of human
achievement between the two best men on either side. “Tinkler” was the
best man on the side of the South. “Tinkler” was backed in innumerable
betting-books to win. And Tinkler’s lungs had suddenly given way under
stress of training! A prospect of witnessing a prodigious achievement in
foot-racing, and (more important still) a prospect of winning and losing
large sums of money, was suddenly withdrawn from the eyes of the British
people. The “South” could produce no second opponent worthy of the North
out of its own associated resources. Surveying the athletic world in
general, but one man existed who might possibly replace “Tinkler”--and
it was doubtful, in the last degree, whether he would consent to come
forward under the circumstances. The name of that man--Julius read it
with horror--was Geoffrey Delamayn.
Profound silence reigned in the coffee-room. Julius laid down the
newspaper, and looked about him. The waiter was busy, in his corner,
with a pencil and a betting-book. The three gentlemen were busy, at the
three tables, with pencils and betting-books.
“Try and persuade him!” said the waiter, piteously, as Delamayn’s
brother rose to leave the room.
“Try and persuade him!” echoed the three gentlemen, as Delamayn’s
brother opened the door and went out.
Julius called a cab and told the driver (busy with a pencil and a
betting-book) to go to the Cock and Bottle, Putney. The man brightened
into a new being at the prospect. No need to hurry him; he drove,
unasked, at the top of his horse’s speed.
As the cab drew near to its destination the signs of a great national
excitement appeared, and multiplied. The lips of a people pronounced,
with a grand unanimity, the name of “Tinkler.” The heart of a people
hung suspended (mostly in the public houses) on the chances for and
against the possibility of replacing “Tinkler” by another man. The
scene in front of the inn was impressive in the highest degree. Even the
London blackguard stood awed and quiet in the presence of the national
calamity. Even the irrepressible man with the apron, who always turns up
to sell nuts and sweetmeats in a crowd, plied his trade in silence, and
found few indeed (to the credit of the nation be it spoken) who had
the heart to crack a nut at such a time as this. The police were on the
spot, in large numbers, and in mute sympathy with the people, touching
to see. Julius, on being stopped at the door, mentioned his name--and
received an ovation. His brother! oh, heavens, his brother! The people
closed round him, the people shook hands with him, the people invoked
blessings on his head. Julius was half suffocated, when the police
rescued him, and landed him safe in the privileged haven on the inner
side of the public house door. A deafening tumult broke out, as he
entered, from the regions above stairs. A distant voice screamed,
“Mind yourselves!” A hatless shouting man tore down through the people
congregated on the stairs. “Hooray! Hooray! He’s promised to do it! He’s
entered for the race!” Hundreds on hundreds of voices took up the cry.
A roar of cheering burst from the people outside. Reporters for the
newspapers raced, in frantic procession, out of the inn, and rushed into
cabs to put the news in print. The hand of the landlord, leading Julius
carefully up stairs by the arm, trembled with excitement. “His brother,
gentlemen! his brother!” At those magic words a lane was made through
the throng. At those magic words the closed door of the council-chamber
flew open; and Julius found himself among the Athletes of his native
country, in full parliament assembled. Is any description of them
needed? The description of Geoffrey applies to them all. The manhood
and muscle of England resemble the wool and mutton of England, in this
respect, that there is about as much variety in a flock of athletes as
in a flock of sheep. Julius looked about him, and saw the same man in
the same dress, with the same health, strength, tone, tastes, habits,
conversation, and pursuits, repeated infinitely in every part of the
room. The din was deafening; the enthusiasm (to an uninitiated stranger)
something at once hideous and terrifying to behold. Geoffrey had been
lifted bodily on to the table, in his chair, so as to be visible to the
whole room. They sang round him, they danced round him, they cheered
round him, they swore round him. He was hailed, in maudlin terms of
endearment, by grateful giants with tears in their eyes. “Dear old man!”
“Glorious, noble, splendid, beautiful fellow!” They hugged him. They
patted him on the back. They wrung his hands. They prodded and punched
his muscles. They embraced the noble legs that were going to run
the unexampled race. At the opposite end of the room, where it was
physically impossible to get near the hero, the enthusiasm vented itself
in feats of strength and acts of destruction. Hercules I. cleared a
space with his elbows, and laid down--and Hercules II. took him up in
his teeth. Hercules III. seized the poker from the fireplace, and broke
it on his arm. Hercules IV. followed with the tongs, and shattered them
on his neck. The smashing of the furniture and the pulling down of the
house seemed likely to succeed--when Geoffrey’s eye lighted by accident
on Julius, and Geoffrey’s voice, calling fiercely for his brother,
hushed the wild assembly into sudden attention, and turned the fiery
enthusiasm into a new course. Hooray for his brother! One, two,
three--and up with his brother on our shoulders! Four five, six--and
on with his brother, over our heads, to the other end of the room! See,
boys--see! the hero has got him by the collar! the hero has lifted him
on the table! The hero heated red-hot with his own triumph, welcomes
the poor little snob cheerfully, with a volley of oaths. “Thunder and
lightning! Explosion and blood! What’s up now, Julius? What’s up now?”
Julius recovered his breath, and arranged his coat. The quiet little
man, who had just muscle enough to lift a dictionary from the shelf, and
just training enough to play the fiddle, so far from being daunted by
the rough reception accorded to him, appeared to feel no other sentiment
in relation to it than a sentiment of unmitigated contempt.
“You’re not frightened, are you?” said Geoffrey. “Our fellows are a
roughish lot, but they mean well.”
“I am not frightened,” answered Julius. “I am only wondering--when the
Schools and Universities of England turn out such a set of ruffians as
these--how long the Schools and Universities of England will last.”
“Mind what you are about, Julius! They’ll cart you out of window if they
hear you.”
“They will only confirm my opinion of them, Geoffrey, if they do.”
Here the assembly, seeing but not hearing the colloquy between the two
brothers, became uneasy on the subject of the coming race. A roar of
voices summoned Geoffrey to announce it, if there was any thing wrong.
Having pacified the meeting, Geoffrey turned again to his brother, and
asked him, in no amiable mood, what the devil he wanted there?
“I want to tell you something, before I go back to Scotland,” answered
Julius. “My father is willing to give you a last chance. If you don’t
take it, _my_ doors are closed against you as well as _his._”
Nothing is more remarkable, in its way, than the sound common-sense and
admirable self-restraint exhibited by the youth of the present time when
confronted by an emergency in which their own interests are concerned.
Instead of resenting the tone which his brother had taken with him,
Geoffrey instantly descended from the pedestal of glory on which
he stood, and placed himself without a struggle in the hands which
vicariously held his destiny--otherwise, the hands which vicariously
held the purse. In five minutes more the meeting had been dismissed,
with all needful assurances relating to Geoffrey’s share in the coming
Sports--and the two brothers were closeted together in one of the
private rooms of the inn.
“Out with it!” said Geoffrey. “And don’t be long about it.”
“I won’t be five minutes,” replied Julius. “I go back to-night by the
mail-train; and I have a great deal to do in the mean time. Here it is,
in plain words: My father consents to see you again, if you choose to
settle in life--with his approval. And my mother has discovered where
you may find a wife. Birth, beauty, and money are all offered to you.
Take them--and you recover your position as Lord Holchester’s son.
Refuse them--and you go to ruin your own way.”
Geoffrey’s reception of the news from home was not of the most
reassuring kind. Instead of answering he struck his fist furiously on
the table, and cursed with all his heart some absent woman unnamed.
“I have nothing to do with any degrading connection which you may have
formed,” Julius went on. “I have only to put the matter before you
exactly as it stands, and to leave you to decide for yourself. The
lady in question was formerly Miss Newenden--a descendant of one of the
oldest families in England. She is now Mrs. Glenarm--the young widow
(and the childless widow) of the great iron-master of that name. Birth
and fortune--she unites both. Her income is a clear ten thousand a
year. My father can and will, make it fifteen thousand, if you are lucky
enough to persuade her to marry you. My mother answers for her personal
qualities. And my wife has met her at our house in London. She is now,
as I hear, staying with some friends in Scotland; and when I get back I
will take care that an invitation is sent to her to pay her next visit
at my house. It remains, of course, to be seen whether you are fortunate
enough to produce a favorable impression on her. In the mean time you
will be doing every thing that my father can ask of you, if you make the
attempt.”
Geoffrey impatiently dismissed that part of the question from all
consideration.
“If she don’t cotton to a man who’s going to run in the Great Race at
Fulham,” he said, “there are plenty as good as she is who will! That’s
not the difficulty. Bother _that!_”
“I tell you again, I have nothing to do with your difficulties,” Julius
resumed. “Take the rest of the day to consider what I have said to you.
If you decide to accept the proposal, I shall expect you to prove you
are in earnest by meeting me at the station to-night. We will travel
back to Scotland together. You will complete your interrupted visit at
Lady Lundie’s (it is important, in my interests, that you should treat a
person of her position in the county with all due respect); and my wife
will make the necessary arrangements with Mrs. Glenarm, in anticipation
of your return to our house. There is nothing more to be said, and no
further necessity of my staying here. If you join me at the station
to-night, your sister-in-law and I will do all we can to help you. If I
travel back to Scotland alone, don’t trouble yourself to follow--I have
done with you.” He shook hands with his brother, and went out.
Left alone, Geoffrey lit his pipe and sent for the landlord.
“Get me a boat. I shall scull myself up the river for an hour or two.
And put in some towels. I may take a swim.”
The landlord received the order--with a caution addressed to his
illustrious guest.
“Don’t show yourself in front of the house, Sir! If you let the people
see you, they’re in such a state of excitement, the police won’t answer
for keeping them in order.”
“All right. I’ll go out by the back way.”
He took a turn up and down the room. What were the difficulties to be
overcome before he could profit by the golden prospect which his brother
had offered to him? The Sports? No! The committee had promised to
defer the day, if he wished it--and a month’s training, in his physical
condition, would be amply enough for him. Had he any personal
objection to trying his luck with Mrs. Glenarm? Not he! Any woman would
do--provided his father was satisfied, and the money was all right. The
obstacle which was really in his way was the obstacle of the woman whom
he had ruined. Anne! The one insuperable difficulty was the difficulty
of dealing with Anne.
“We’ll see how it looks,” he said to himself, “after a pull up the
river!”
The landlord and the police inspector smuggled him out by the back way
unknown to the expectant populace in front The two men stood on the
river-bank admiring him, as he pulled away from them, with his long,
powerful, easy, beautiful stroke.
“That’s what I call the pride and flower of England!” said the
inspector. “Has the betting on him begun?”
“Six to four,” said the landlord, “and no takers.”
Julius went early to the station that night. His mother was very
anxious. “Don’t let Geoffrey find an excuse in your example,” she said,
“if he is late.”
The first person whom Julius saw on getting out of the carriage was
Geoffrey--with his ticket taken, and his portmanteau in charge of the
guard.
FOURTH SCENE.--WINDYGATES.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
NEAR IT.