P. P. C.
The Earl of Loughton lay dying at the George Hotel, Brimley. They had
not ventured to move him to Laurel Cottage. For the first day or two
some hopes had been entertained of his recovery, but before long
certain symptoms developed themselves which left no room for doubt as
to what the final issue must be.
The dowager countess was in Scotland when she heard the news. Slingsby
Boscombe read it out aloud to her at the breakfast-table. They were
visiting among some family connections in the Lothians.
"It was the deed of a hero!" said Slingsby, enthusiastically, as he
laid down the paper.
"It was the deed of a _ganache_ who would risk his life for the sake
of a nine days' notoriety," snarled the countess. "Read the two last
lines again."
"The latest reports add that little or no hope seems to be entertained
of the earl's recovery,'" repeated Slingsby, from the newspaper.
"Then it is quite possible that the earldom may be yours before you
are many days older."
"Oh, Lady Loughton!"
"Why profess a regret which I cannot feel? I tell you candidly that I
hope the man won't recover. You and I must start for Brimley by the
next train. Meanwhile, you had better telegraph to Mr. Flicker to meet
us there."
The countess and Mr. Boscombe reached Brimley Station next forenoon,
where her ladyship's carriage was awaiting their arrival. Slingsby,
never having met the earl but once, had a dread of being looked upon
as an intruder at such a time, and would much rather have stayed away,
but the countess altogether scouted his objections, and insisted upon
taking him with her; and she was certainly too old to venture on such
a journey alone.
Slingsby wished most heartily that the fire had never happened. So far
as he was concerned, if the earl were to die matters would be brought
to a climax far sooner than was convenient for him, and his secret
marriage be a secret no longer.
The first thing the countess did, after reaching the hotel, was to
seek a private interview with Doctor Ward.
"A lamentable affair this, doctor," she said, extending a couple of
frigid fingers, and motioning him to a chair.
"Very lamentable, indeed, madam."
"May I ask what the condition of your patient is by this time?"
The doctor did not answer in words, but gave his eyebrows and
shoulders a simultaneous shrug.
"Dear me! as bad as that, eh?" The countess intended both her words
and the tone in which they were spoken to be sympathetic, but the look
of satisfaction on her crafty old face altogether belied her
intentions.
"I presume there will be no objection to my seeing your patient in the
course of the day?"
"If the earl himself has no objection, madam, I can have none. Indeed,
I may add that any relatives or friends who may be desirous of seeing
his lordship had better be summoned with as little delay as possible."
"Except myself, his lordship has no near relatives," said the
countess. "I will, of course, stay with him till all is over."
Her ladyship having disposed of a cutlet and a glass and a half of old
port, and having had a forty minutes' snooze in an easy-chair, sent
word in to the earl that she should like to see him if he were at
liberty to receive her. The earl gave orders that she should be
admitted at once.
But before this took place Lord Loughton had requested that a telegram
might be despatched to Clement Fildew. It was sent in the name of the
landlord of the hotel, and ran as follows: "You are wanted immediately
at the George Hotel, Brimley, on a matter of life and death. Do not
delay."
Clement wondered greatly at receiving such a summons, but at once
prepared to obey it. The most likely solution that presented itself to
him was that he was wanted to paint the portrait of some one who was
_in extremis_, so he went prepared accordingly.
The countess and Mr. Boscombe had reached Brimley about one o'clock.
The train Clement travelled by was timed to reach there about 4.30. As
it happened, Mr. Flicker went down by the same train.
The countess entered the dying man's room with hushed footsteps, and,
going up to the side of the bed, she gazed down with steel-cold eyes
at the white face upturned to meet her own. Suffering had already done
much to refine and ennoble a face which at one time had lacked little
on the score of manly beauty. The hard, worldly lines had been
smoothed out, and with them had vanished a certain sensuous fulness of
outline which of late years had developed itself more and more. But
when the earl's eyes met those of the countess they lighted up with
somewhat of their old gay, malicious twinkle.
"I am grieved to find you in this condition," said her ladyship.
"And I am grieved to be so found. _Mais c'est la fortune de la
guerre_, and it were useless to repine. I regret that I am not in a
condition to entertain your ladyship more becomingly."
"You do not suffer much pain, I hope?"
"None whatever now, and that's the deuce of it. While there was pain
there was hope now there is neither, and here I am, left in the
lurch."
"While there's life one should never give up hoping."
The earl made a slight grimace.
"I know, and your ladyship, after your interview with Dr. Ward,
doubtless knows, that there is but one thing now to look forward to.
But I shall not be so ill-mannered as to be long a-dying."
There was silence for a little while. The countess seated herself on a
chair by the bedside. Presently the dying man said, in a musing sort
of tone, "Perhaps I may fall across Cousin Charley when I get out
yonder. Who knows? If we should meet, I wonder whether he will
recognize me, and whether he will be sorry that he did not lend me
that three thousand pounds which would have made my life such a
different one. In any case I won't forget to give your ladyship's love
to him."
The countess moved uneasily on her chair.
"It is possible that your ladyship and I may meet in the Elysian
Fields before long," resumed the earl, speaking in a slow, calm way,
very unusual with him. "Time flies, and none of us grow younger. I
suppose they keep a list of the latest arrivals of persons of
distinction. If they do, I shall not fail to consult it frequently,
and look out for your ladyship's arrival."
"This is terrible," muttered the countess to herself. "The man is a
perfect heathen."
After a little while the countess said, "If there is anything I can do
for you--if there are any little wishes or commissions you would like
to have attended to, I need hardly say that you may command me in any
way."
"You are very kind," said the earl, and then, after a moment's pause,
he added, dryly--"as you have always been. But any little wants or
wishes of mine will naturally receive attention at the hands of my
son, Lord Shoreham."
"Your son! Lord Shoreham!" gasped the countess, as she rose slowly to
her feet, and drew herself up to her fullest height.
"Precisely so. I am expecting him every minute. I shall be happy to
introduce him to your ladyship."
Words would be powerless to express a tithe of what the dowager felt.
For a little while her wrath was speechless because it was too deep
for utterance. Her face looked like that of some fabled witch, with
its expression of concentrated venom and suppressed rage. Her head
began to wag portentously, and in a little while her tongue recovered
from its temporary paralysis.
"A son, eh?" she cried, and her voice rose to a half-shriek. "So,
then, you die as you have lived--a swindler to the last!"
"No missiles from your tongue, madam, can reach me now," said the
earl, with an easy smile. "I have got beyond their range. Your
ladyship's cunning has overreached itself and fallen on the other
side."
At this moment there came a tap at the door, and the head of the nurse
was intruded into the room. "Mr. Clement Fildew to see your lordship,"
she said, in appropriately subdued tones.
"Show him in at once," said the earl, and next moment Clement entered
the room.
He gazed around for a moment, and then his eyes fell on the pallid,
sunken face on the pillow. "Father! you here!" he cried, striding to
the bedside. "They told me that I was wanted by the Earl of Loughton."
"I am the Earl of Lough ton, and this"--turning to the countess--"is
my son, Clement Fildew Lorrimore, otherwise Lord Shoreham."
The countess stared for a moment or two into the young man's bright,
handsome face, and then her hands grasped the bed as if to support
herself. Turning to the earl with a grin of fiendish spite that showed
the whole range of her artificial teeth, she shook a yellow claw in
his face, and then, with many strange noises and gurglings under her
breath, she tottered slowly from the room.
Ten minutes later her horses' shoes struck fire from the pavement of
the inn yard as they started on their journey to Ringwood, carrying
with them the dowager, Mr. Boscombe, and Mr. Flicker, the latter of
whom, for once, came in for a terrible wigging from her ladyship, for
having omitted to find out that "that wretched creature" had a son in
hiding.
Father and son remained closeted together for upwards of an hour. Then
Clement came out and summoned the nurse. The earl was tired and wanted
to sleep. Clement took his hat and went for a long walk. Time and
solitude were needed to enable him to familiarize his mind in some
degree with the astounding news that had just been told him. Later in
the day the earl sent for him again.
"In a tin box," he said, "labelled with my name, and deposited at
Mellish's bank, you will find all the documents necessary to enable
you to prove your identity, which the other side will no doubt compel
you to do before admitting your right to the title. Wellclose has
instructions with respect to my will, and he will bring it in the
morning to be signed and witnessed. It's not much that I have to leave
you, my boy--more's the pity. Merely a few paltry hundreds, the result
of one or two lucky speculations. Yours will be a barren title indeed.
But if you are a wise man you will speedily alter that state of
things. You will give up painting, of course. Who ever heard of an
earl that painted pictures, except it were for amusement? Equally, of
course, you will marry money. The exigencies of your position render
that imperative. There are the two Miss Larkins--good, modest,
ladylike girls, though their father was a pill doctor. Each of them
will have fifteen thousand pounds when she comes of age, and, no
doubt, Orlando would give another five to secure an earl for his
brother-in-law. You might do worse. I'll speak to Wingfield about you
to-morrow, and see whether you can't have the railway chairmanship as
my successor. Marry Fanny Larkins, and stick to Wingfield there's your
programme, and in a dozen years, if you play your cards well, you
ought to be worth a hundred thousand pounds."
To all this Clement yielded a tacit acquiescence. If his father's last
hours would be rendered more easy by the thought that everything would
be done in accordance with his wishes, why disturb him by urging
anything to the contrary? Soon he would be where the sum of this
world's troubles and anxieties is of less account than the lightest
snowflake that drops through the midnight on the summit of Mont Blanc.
The earl passed a restless night and was a little light-headed at
times. He seemed better in the morning, and was able to see Mr.
Wellclose for half an hour. During the rest of the day Clement never
left him for more than a minute or two at a time. It was evident that
he was growing weaker with every hour. He ceased to talk much as the
afternoon advanced, but seemed content to lie with closed eyes, but
not asleep, and with one of Clement's hands in his--thinking, who
shall say of what?
As the autumn daylight was deepening into dusk he fell asleep, and Dr.
Ward, coming in about that time, pronounced it doubtful whether he
would wake again. Nor, indeed, did he, to the extent of being
conscious of where he was, or of recognizing those about him. By and
by his mind began to wander again. At five minutes before twelve he
died. His last faintly murmured words were, "Where's your hand, Kitty?
I can't see you in the dark."
When the earl's will came to be read it was found that he had left
Clement all he had to leave, with the exception of fifty guineas to
the child whose life he had saved at the expense of his own.
As soon as the funeral was over--the earl being buried in the same
grave with his wife--Clement went quietly back to his painting. Mr.
Wingfield and Mr. Plume had proffered their services in various ways,
but Clement loved his art too well to be tempted from it into the more
glittering paths of financial speculation. He went back to his studio
as he had left it, plain Clement Fildew. Not even to Tony Macer did he
breathe a word concerning the strange things that had befallen him. He
simply said that his father was dead, and that was all. Not from his
lips should the world ever hear a word respecting that title which he
was told he could now claim, but which he was determined utterly to
abjure. Not even to Cecilia would he speak of it till they should be
husband and wife. Of course, his marriage would now have to be delayed
a little while. Cecilia had gained her point in this matter, but after
a fashion she had never dreamed of. In those hours of trouble the
white wings of her love seemed to fold Clement more closely round than
they had ever done before.
Mr. Slingsby Boscombe took an early opportunity of putting a number of
questions to Mr. Flicker respecting the earl and his son. Of the
latter individual the lawyer knew absolutely nothing. He had been as
much astounded to hear of the existence of such a person as the
countess had been, and he blamed himself severely for having allowed
himself to be so thoroughly duped by the earl's plausible, off-handed
assumption that he had never been anything but a bachelor. With regard
to the earl he told Slingsby pretty nearly all that he knew.
One morning, about three weeks after the funeral, Clement was
surprised at his studio by a visit from Mr. Boscombe. The latter,
acting on the information given him by Flicker, had gone in the first
instance to the Brown Bear, and had there ascertained Mr. Fildew's
late address. From Hayfield Street he had been directed to Clement's
lodgings, and from there to the studio.
"I was awfully sorry not to have met you at Brimley, but the dowager
carried me off by main force," said Slingsby, after shaking hands
heartily with Clem, and condoling with him on his loss. "I hope you
won't for one moment think that I bear you the slightest ill-will on
account of losing the title. I assure you that I care nothing for it.
I take no interest in politics. I am not cut out for shining in
society. All I ask for is a little den in the country, with a big
garden, a horse or two, plenty of fishing, and a few friends whose
tastes are something like my own."
"I wish with all my heart that the title were yours," said Clem. "It
is a useless acquisition, as far as I am concerned."
"But you are not going to let it remain in abeyance, I hope?"
"I certainly am. What has a poor painter to do with titles? My only
ambition is to be known by my works."
Then, little by little, and with considerable hesitation and
stammering, the real object of Slingsby's visit was made apparent. He
wanted Clement to share with him the income which, as soon as he
should be twenty-five years old, would begin to accrue to him from the
Loughton property, in accordance with the will of the last earl but
one. "Such a will ought never to have been made," said Slingsby,
"unless it had first been ascertained beyond doubt that there was no
direct heir in existence. So, with your permission, we will divide the
money between us, and even then I shall have more than I shall know
what to do with."
Clement, of course, would agree to no such proposition. The world
should know him only as Clement Fildew, a painter of pictures for his
daily bread. Slingsby was evidently much disappointed. Finding all his
arguments of no avail, he rose to go but, before leaving, he took a
glance round the room at the various canvases, finished and
unfinished, some of them Clem's and some Tony Macer's, that were
either stretched on the easels or hanging on the walls. Over the
fireplace hung a little sketch in crayons of two female heads. "I
ought to know those faces," said Slingsby, as soon as his eyes lighted
on the sketch. "One of them is the likeness of my cousin Cecilia, and
the other that of her friend, Miss Browne."
"Yes. I had the honor of painting Miss Collumpton's portrait--and also
that of Miss Browne."
The tell-tale color rushed to Clement's face as he finished speaking.
Slingsby, slow of apprehension in some things, did not fail to notice
this.
"Here's a romance!" he muttered to himself. "I verily believe our
friend the earl has fallen in love with the stately Mora. Just the
kind of girl to take a painter's eye."
"If it would not be looked upon as an intrusion," said Slingsby, as he
stood for a moment with Clement's hand in his, "I should like to bring
a couple of friends of mine to-morrow morning to see one or two of the
things you have here."
"I shall be very pleased to see both you and your friends," said
Clement, heartily.
A little before noon next day Slingsby, Cecilia, and Mora alighted at
the door of Clement's studio. Slingsby had got the girls to promise
overnight that they would go with him next morning, to see some
pictures, painted by a friend of his, which he was very anxious they
should not miss. Absorbed in conversation, neither Cecilia nor Mora
noticed in which direction they were being driven, and it was not till
the brougham drew up that they discovered where they were. They
interchanged looks of consternation which were not lost on Slingsby.
"This is Mr. Fildew's studio," said Cecilia. "We have been here
before."
"I am quite aware of that," answered Slingsby. "But since you were
here last Mr. Fildew has painted a really remarkable picture, which I
am very anxious that you should see."
After this there was nothing for it but to make their way to the
studio, and leave the result to the chapter of accidents.
As they entered the room Clement put down his brush and palette and
came forward to greet them. But, before any one else had time to say a
word, Slingsby burst in. "Permit me to have the honor of introducing
you to the Earl of Loughton," he said. "Your lordship has met these
ladies before. My cousin, Miss Collumpton: Miss Browne."
"The Earl of Loughton!" exclaimed both ladies, in a breath.
"Miss Collumpton! Miss Browne!" gasped Clement, as he gripped
Slingsby by the arm. "You are mistaken. This is Miss Collumpton, and
this"--taking Cecilia by the hand--"is Miss Browne, whom, now that you
have told her something which I did not intend her to know for a long
time to come, I beg to introduce to you as my promised wife."
In speechless bewilderment Slingsby stared from one to the other.
Twice he strove to speak, but words failed him. Cecilia and Mora, too,
were like people lost in a maze, while on Clement's face there was a
look of fatuity such as no one had ever seen there before.
And so the curtain falls, and our little tragi-comedy comes to an end.
Clement and Cecilia were married the following spring, when the
woodland ways were all aglow with bursting buds and delicate blooms.
After the wedding they set out for Italy, which Clement had long been
desirous of visiting for artistic purposes. His brush and palette are
still as dear to him as ever they were, and Cecilia does not wish it
otherwise. He still paints under his old name of Clement Fildew, and
in the Republic of Art he is known by no other.
The Dowager Countess of Loughton shut her doors inexorably against the
new earl and his wife. She vowed that she would never see Cecilia
again, and she kept her word. She died in the winter following her
niece's marriage, and bequeathed all she was possessed of to Mr.
Boscombe. She died in ignorance of Slingsby's marriage, otherwise she
would probably have altered her will at the last moment.
Slingsby lives the life of a quiet country gentleman, and in it he
finds his happiness. He is lord-lieutenant of his county, but beyond
that he has no ambition, political or otherwise. He has a large family
and a large estate. He is a pattern husband, an excellent father, and
the best angler within twenty miles of his house. He has also some
capital shooting, which his friends do not fail to appreciate.
Miss Browne succeeded in the ambition of her life: slow, steady
patience such as hers generally does succeed in the long run. A rich
iron-master saw her, approved of her, proposed, and was accepted. Mora
lives at a splendid place in Wales, and is happy in her cold, stately,
unsympathetic way. It is to be hoped that her husband, who is said by
some people to have married her for love, is equally satisfied.
Tony Macer now writes A.R.A. after his name, and the dignity will lose
nothing at his hands. He is still a bachelor, and likely to remain
one. His house in St. John's Wood is presided over by a lame sister,
and has a crowd of poor relations perpetually hovering round it but
Tony is never so happy as when doing a kindness to some one. He and
"Clement Fildew" are as great chums as ever they were, and smoke many
a "short gun" together over their talk of days gone by, and the
pictures they hope to paint in days to come. Mr. Macer's portrait of
Lady Loughton in last year's Academy was one of the hits of the
season.
THE END.