PALLIDA MORS.
As Lord Loughton became more familiarized with his fresh mode of life,
and as the novelty which waits upon all things new gradually wore
itself away, there came times and seasons when he was at a loss how to
get through the day with that degree of satisfaction to himself which,
as an elderly man of the world, he thought he had a right to expect.
He found the morning hours--say, from ten till four--hang the most
heavily on his hands. Some men would have stayed in bed till noon,
have lounged over breakfast till two o'clock, and have made their
cigar and newspaper last them well on into the afternoon. But the earl
had never been used to lying late in bed, and he felt no inclination
to begin the practice now. Besides which, that ever-increasing
tendency to corpulence had to be fought against in various ways. His
medical adviser told him that, in addition to the riding exercise
which he took, he ought to take more exercise on foot. But the earl
detested walking along the dull country roads. To have them, and them
alone, to ride and drive on was bad enough, while everybody else was
enjoying the delights of town, but to be condemned to trudge along
them on foot, as though he were a pedlar or a tramp, was more than he
was prepared to endure. He would have given much to be able to go up
to London for a few weeks during the season, and take up that position
in society to which his rank entitled him. But he durst not venture on
a step so hazardous. Too many people in London knew him as Mr. Fildew
to allow of its being safe for him to appear there as Lord Loughton.
Perhaps one of the first people whom he might chance to meet in the
Row or in Piccadilly would be his own son. He knew well that if the
faintest suspicion of his having a son, or even of his being married,
were to reach the ears of the dowager countess, he might say farewell
forever to his twelve hundred a year. Evidently the game was not worth
the candle. Evidently the risk he would run by such a step was far too
great to be rashly incurred. His periodical journeys to London to see
his wife were another thing. They could be made without much risk of
discovery. He arrived at dusk and departed at dusk, and hardly stirred
out of doors during his stay.
The earl was not a reading man. Sometimes on a Sunday he would skim
through a few pages of _Blackwood_ or _The Quarterly_ (they were good,
old-fashioned periodicals to have lying about when anybody called),
till drowsiness crept over him, and the thread of what he had been
reading became entangled in the webs of sleep. But on weekdays he
rarely read anything except the _Times_. Of that he was a diligent
student, his maxim being that a man may pick enough out of his
newspaper to enable him to hold his own in almost any company. Most
people said, "What a well-informed man the Earl of Loughton seems to
be." It was simply that he had the knack of presenting other people's
ideas from his own point of view, and thereby giving them a gloss of
originality which only one person here or there was clever enough to
see through. But he seldom originated ideas of his own.
But even when the _Times_ had been conscientiously waded through,
several hours were still left before dinner. He could not go out every
day riding on Mr. Larkins's hack, or driving about the country with
Miss Tebbuts and the young ladies. The attractions of Brimley were of
a very limited character, and the nearest town of any consequence was
a dozen miles away. Now and then there was a flower-show, or a picnic,
or an archery meeting, to break the monotony of country life but
such excitements were few and far between. Sometimes the earl, in
dressing-gown and smoking-cap, would potter about his garden for an
hour or two, and simulate an interest he was far from feeling in the
prospects of his wall-fruit or the progress of his marrowfats. Oh, for
the glories of Piccadilly or Regent Street, on a warm spring
afternoon! The life, the brightness, the gay shops, the well-watered
streets, the sunny pavement, the ever-changing panorama--with a
sovereign in one's pocket, and no social obligations to deter one from
slaking one's thirst as often as one might feel inclined to do so!
When once the time to dress for dinner was reached the earl was
himself again. He rarely dined at home more than once or twice a week.
When such a contingency did happen, he generally walked into the town,
and found his way in the course of the evening to the billiard-room at
the George. It was a private subscription table, but his lordship was
always made welcome. It was not every day that the small gentry of
Brimley had the privilege of playing billiards with an earl, and such
opportunities were made the most of. Indeed, they never thought of
begrudging their half-crowns, of which his lordship generally took
half a pocketful back home with him, for he was rather a fine player
when he chose to put forth his strength, and none of the Brimley
amateurs were a match for him.
Still, life at Laurel Cottage sometimes grew rather monotonous, as,
indeed, it well might do to a man who had been a confirmed _flâneur_
for years. Often of a night the earl longed for the jolly company of
the Brown Bear. As a rule the Brimley magnates were intensely sedate
and decorous, whereas the earl had Bohemian proclivities which not
even the gray hairs of middle life had power to eradicate. A jorum of
toddy and a long pipe, with a congenial companion, had far more
attractions for him than the Clicquot and hot-house fruit of
smug-faced respectability. Alas! in all Brimley he could find no
companion who would say Bo to his goose--no one who would forget that
there were such people as earls, who, if needs were, would contradict
him to his face, and to whom such phrases as "Yes, my lord," and "No,
my lord," were absolutely unknown.
One morning, while Lord Loughton was dawdling over his breakfast, a
brougham drove up to Laurel Cottage, from which three gentlemen
alighted. Only one of the three proved to be known to the earl. He was
a certain Mr. Wingfield, a retired merchant of ample means, whom he
had met once or twice at dinner. Mr. Wingfield, after introducing his
two companions, proceeded to state the object of his visit, which was
neither more nor less than to solicit his lordship to become chairman
of the new line of railway between Brimley and Highcliffe. The line
was near completion, and the opening was to take place some time in
July. "Our late chairman died last week," said Mr. Wingfield, "and we
want a good name to fill up the vacancy."
"But I know nothing whatever about rail management," urged the earl.
"That's of no consequence whatever," answered Mr. Wingfield. "_We_
understand it, and I am the vice-chairman, so that your lordship will
be well supported. At present we meet for two hours twice a week.
After each meeting we have luncheon. The chairman's honorarium, as
fixed at present, is two hundred guineas a year."
"But before accepting such a position would it not be requisite that I
should qualify myself by holding a certain number of shares in the
company?"
"If your lordship will leave that little matter to me and my
colleagues, we will take steps to have you duly qualified."
"In that case you may make use of my name in any way you think
proper."
The earl took to his new duties _con amore_. His two visits per week
to the Brimley board-room enabled him to get through a couple of
mornings very pleasantly without interfering with the after-part of
the day. Then the luncheon with which each meeting broke up was by no
means to be despised. More than all, the check for a hundred guineas,
which was to come to him every half-year, would form a very welcome
addition to his limited income.
His position as chairman of the railway board brought Lord Loughton
into contact with a number of well-to-do people, connected more or
less with trade, who thought it a great thing to be hand-and-glove
with an earl. His lordship was always affable to men who gave good
dinners, and the consequence was that he was now less at home than
ever. Mr. Wingfield had a brother in the City who was well known as a
promoter and launcher of new companies. Before long an offer was made
to the earl to become chairman to two new schemes that were on the eve
of being floated. The duties were light--to meet the board twice a
month for a couple of hours--the honorarium liberal, and the liability
in case of disaster next to nothing. The earl closed with the offer at
once. It is true that his visits to the City would involve a certain
degree of risk, but he was quite prepared to face it. Even if some old
acquaintances should chance to meet him as he was being whirled past
them in a cab, it did not of necessity follow that they should know
him as any other than Mr. Fildew. And then, as Wingfield had assured
him more than once, his connection with the City was sure to bring
under his notice some of the "good things" that were always going
about on the quiet, to participate in which the leverage of a little
capital was all that was needed. That capital he was determined by
hook or by crook to obtain. Old as he was, there was still time for
him to lay the foundation of an ample fortune before he died. Clem
should be no pauper peer, dependent on the bounty of relatives for his
daily bread.
These golden dreams were interrupted for a time by the news of his
wife's serious illness, and the necessity for his immediate presence
in London. The letter conveying the news had been lying for three days
at the Shallowford post-office when he called there. He hurried off at
once, but when he reached Soho be found that had he stayed away
another day he would probably have been too late.
"Why, Kitty, my dear, what is this?" he said, as he stooped over the
bed and kissed his wife's white face. There was a tremor in his voice
that sounded as strange to himself as it could possibly have done to
any one else. Now that the end was so near, old chords, the existence
of which he had forgotten, began to vibrate again in his heart;
countless memories burst through the crust of years, and bloomed again
for a little while with the fragrance of long ago. Now that his
treasure was about to be taken from him he began to realize its value
as he had never realized it before.
"This means, John, dear, that my summons to go has come at last--the
summons I have waited for, oh! so wearily." She pressed his hand to
her lips and then nestled it softly against her cheek.
"It's these confounded east winds," said the earl, huskily. "They are
enough to lay anybody by the heels. When the warm weather sets in
you'll soon be all right again."
"Not in this world, darling. Perhaps in the next. I began to be afraid
that you would not be here in time for me to see you," she added,
presently. "It would have seemed very hard to die and you not by my
side."
"I came as soon as the letter reached me. I--I had been from home, and
the letter was waiting for me on my return."
"I knew that you would come, dear, as soon as possible, and now that
you are here I am quite happy. I told Moggy to put a steak on the fire
the moment she heard you knock. I am sure you must be hungry after
your long journey."
Later on in the evening, when they were alone, the sick woman
said to her husband--and by this time her voice was very weak and
uncertain--"I have been thinking a great deal about our wedding-day
this afternoon. Why, I cannot tell. When I was lying half asleep just
now, every little incident came back to me as freshly as though they
only dated from yesterday, even to the smell of the musk-roses on the
breakfast-table. And then I remembered something that I have hardly
thought of for years. I remembered that your name is not John Fildew,
but John Marmaduke Lorrimore. You told me never to mention that name
to any one, and I never have--not even to Clement. You told me never
to ask you any questions about it, and I never have. But you told me
also that some day, and of your own accord, you would reveal to me the
reasons that had compelled you to change your name. A woman's
curiosity is one of the last things to leave her. It is not too late,
dear, to tell me now."
The earl mused for a moment. The doctor had told him that it was quite
impossible for his wife to live, consequently no valid reason existed
why he should not tell her everything. "I changed my name," he said,
"because when I was young and foolish I did something that disgraced
both my friends and myself. Not a crime, mind you; in fact, nothing
more heinous than incurring debts of honor which I was totally unable
to meet. That was bad enough in all conscience, but I was young and
sensitive in those days, and probably felt things more keenly than I
should now. Anyhow, I thought that in a new country, and under a new
name, I could bury the past, and perhaps do wonders in the future.
Then I met you, dear, and you know the rest. Only I have never done
the wonders I intended to do."
"You have been the best and dearest husband in the world." The earl
winced, and shook his head in mild dissent. "But what a pity that
after all these years you are not able to resume your own proper name
and station in the world."
"I hope to be able to do so before long. Death has made strange havoc
among the Lorrimores of late years, and your husband is now the head
of the family."
"I have always said that you were a gentleman bred and born."
"And you are a lady, Kitty--if not by birth at least by merit and by
rank. If the world knew you by your proper title it would call you
Countess of Loughton."
The sick woman stared at her husband as though unable to take in the
meaning of his words. "I am the Earl of Loughton, Kitty, and you are
my countess," he said. "The thing is simple enough."
"You tell me this and I am dying!" she said, after a minute's silence.
"It is of little use to tell me now."
"The time was not ripe for you to be told before. Nor has the time yet
come to tell it to the world."
"And Clement?"
"He knows nothing, and at present it would not be wise to tell him. It
would only unsettle his mind and do him harm instead of good. When the
proper time comes he will be told everything. At present I am working
both for his interests and my own. A pretty thing it would be thought
that Lord Shoreham, the son of the Earl of Loughton, should have to
paint pictures for his bread and cheese! He had far better go on
painting them as 'Clement Fildew' till he can afford to give up
painting altogether."
"My dear boy a lord! It seems all a strange, foolish dream."
"It is a very simple reality. Clement is Lord Shoreham as surely as I
am sitting by your side. But of this he must know nothing for some
time to come."
"And I am Countess of Loughton! How wonderful it seems! But I could
not have loved you more than I have had I known this all along.
Perhaps I should not have loved you so much. God is good, and he
orders everything for the best. I have been very happy, and the queen
on her throne can't be more than that."
She closed her eyes and lay silent a little while, thinking over what
she had just heard. "John, dear," she said after a time, "if you ever
put a stone over my grave, will you say on it, 'Here lies Catharine,
Countess of Loughton,' or will you say, 'Here lies Kitty, wife of John
Fildew'?"
"Why do you talk of such things? I hope and trust you will be with us
for many a day to come."
"You know better than that, dear. My time is very short how. But I
think I should like to have my real name on my tombstone--if my real
name is what you tell me."
"It is your real name, and everything shall be as you wish."
A smile of satisfaction crept over the dying woman's face. "I think I
can sleep a little now," she said, "and you must be tired, sitting
here so long. There's your Turkish pipe in the cupboard downstairs,
and I told Moggy to have some of your favorite mixture in readiness
for you."
Mrs. Fildew died the following afternoon. She sank into a sleep as
calm as that of an infant, and did not wake again. Her husband and son
were with her at the last. Cecilia had seen her two days before the
earl's arrival. "It is not half such a trouble to leave my boy as I
thought it would be," Mrs. Fildew said to her. "I know that you and he
love each other, and that I leave him in the best of hands. Don't
worry your mind about the housekeeping, dear--you will have servants
to do all that for you. Clement will like to see you nicely dressed
when he comes home. Those pretty hands were never made to be spoiled
by pickles and preserves."
The earl buried his wife under the name she had so long been known by.
To have made use of any other would have led to questions which as yet
he was not prepared to meet. "By and by, when I put up the tombstone,
the world shall know her by her proper name and title, but not
now--not now." To his son's surprise he bought a private lot in one of
the cemeteries, and had an expensive bricked grave made. The cost
seemed to be no object to him. Clem wondered, but said nothing. On the
evening of the day after the funeral the earl bade farewell to his son
for a little while, and went back to Laurel Cottage.