To tell her all about the boy!
John Tatham shovelled his papers into his portfolio, and shut it up with
a snap of embarrassment, a sort of confession of weakness. He pushed
back his chair with the same sharpness, almost making a noise upon the
old Turkey carpet, and he touched his bell so that it sounded with a
shrill electric ping, almost like a pistol-shot. Simmons understood all
these signs, and he was very sympathetic when he came in to take Mr.
Tatham’s last orders and help him on with his coat.
“Spoilt your evening’s work,” said Simmons, compassionately. “I knew
they would. Ladies never should enter a gentleman’s chambers if I could
help it. They’ve got nothing to do in the Temple.”
“You forget some men in the Temple are married, Simmons.”
“What does that matter?” said the clerk; “let ’em see their wives at
home, sir. What I will maintain is that ladies have no business here.”
This was a little ungrateful, it must be said, for Simmons probably got
off three-quarters of an hour earlier than he would have done had Mr.
Tatham remained undisturbed. As it was, John had some ten minutes to
wait before his habitual hansom drew up at the door.
It was not the first time by many times that Mr. Tatham had considered
the question which he now took with him into his hansom, and which
occupied him more or less all the way to Halkin Street. Lady Mariamne,
however, had put it very neatly and very conclusively when she said that
you can’t hide the heir to a peerage--more concisely at least than John
had himself put it in his many thoughts on the subject--for, to tell the
truth, John had never considered the boy in this aspect. That he should
ever be the heir to a peerage had seemed one of those possibilities
which so outrage nature, and are so very like fiction, that the sober
mind rejects them with almost a fling of impatience. And yet how often
they come true! He had never heard--a fact of which he felt partly
ashamed, for it was an event of too much importance to be ignored by any
one connected with Elinor--of Hal Compton’s death. John was not
acquainted with Hal Compton any more than he was with other men who come
and go in society, occasionally seen, but open to no particular remark.
A son of Lord St. Serf--the best of the lot--a Compton with very little
against him: these were things which he had heard said and had taken
little notice of. Hal was healthier, less objectionable, a better life
than Phil’s, and yet Hal was gone, who ought by all rights to have
succeeded his invalid brother. It was true that the invalid brother, who
had seen the end of two vigorous men, might also see out Phil. But that
would make little difference in the position, unless indeed by modifying
Elinor’s feelings and removing her reluctance to make her boy known.
John shook his head as he went on with his thoughts, and decided within
himself that this was the very reason why Phil Compton should survive
and become Lord St. Serf, and make the imbroglio worse, if worse were
possible. It had not required this to make it a hideous imbroglio, the
most foolish and wanton that ever a woman made. He wondered at himself
when he thought of it how he had ever consented to it, ever permitted
such a state of affairs; and yet what could he have done? He had no
right to interfere even in the way of advice, which he had given until
everybody was sick of him and his counsels. He could not have betrayed
his cousin. To tell her that she was conducting her affairs very
foolishly, laying up untold troubles for herself, was what he had done
freely, going to the very edge of a breach. And he had no right to do
any more. He could not force her to adopt his method, neither could he
betray her when she took her own way. Nevertheless, there can be no
doubt that John felt himself almost an accomplice, involved in this
unwise folly, with a sort of responsibility for it, and almost guilt. It
did not indeed change young Philip’s moral position in any way, or make
the discovery that he had a father living more likely to shock and
bewilder him that this discovery should come mingled with many
extraneous wonders. And yet these facts did alter the circumstances.
“You cannot hide the heir to a peerage.” Lady Mariamne was far, very
far, from being a philosopher or a person of genius, and yet this which
she had said was in reality quite unanswerable. Phil Compton might have
been ignored for ever by his wife and child had he remained only the
_dis_-Honourable Phil, a younger son and a nobody. But Phil Compton as
Lord St. Serf could not be ignored. Elinor had been wise enough never to
change her name, that is to say, she had been too proud to do so, though
nobody knew of the existence of that prefix which was so inappropriate
to her husband’s character. But now Mrs. Compton would no longer be her
name; and Philip, the boy at the big northern grammar-school, would be
Lord Lomond. An unlooked-for summons like this has sometimes the power
of turning the heads of the heirs so suddenly ennobled, but it did
anything but convey elation to John’s mind in the prospect of its effect
upon his relations. Would she see reason _now_? Would she be brought to
allow that something must be done, or would she remain obdurate to the
end of the chapter? A great impatience with Elinor filled John’s mind.
She was, as the reader knows, the only woman to John Tatham; but what
does that matter? He did not approve of her any more on that account. He
was even more conscious of the faults of which she was guilty. He was
aware of her obstinacy, her determined adherence to her own way as no
other man in the world was. Would she acknowledge now at last that she
was wrong, and give in? I am obliged to confess that the giving in of
Elinor was the last spectacle in heaven or earth which John Tatham could
conceive.
He went over these circumstances as he drove through all of London that
is to some people worth calling London, on that dark January night,
passing from the light of the busy streets into the comparative darkness
of those in which people live, without in the least remarking where he
was going, except in his thoughts. He had not the least intention of
accepting the invitation of Lady Mariamne, nor did his mind dwell upon
her or the change that age had wrought in her. But yet the Compton
family had gained an interest in John’s eyes which it did not possess
even at the time when Elinor’s marriage first brought its name into his
thoughts. Philip--young Philip--the boy, as John called him in his own
mind, in fond identification--was as near John’s own child as anything
ever could be in this world. He had many nephews and nieces belonging to
him by a more authentic title, but none of these was in the least like
Philip, whom none of all the kindred knew but himself, and who, so far
as he was aware, had but one kinsman in the world, who was Uncle John.
He had followed the development of the boy’s mind always with a
reference to those facts of which Philip knew nothing, which would be so
wonderful to him when the revelation came. To John that little world at
Lakeside--where the ladies had made an artificial existence for
themselves, which was at the same time so natural, so sweet, so full of
all the humanities and charities--was something like what we might
suppose this erring world to be to some archangel great enough to see
how everything is, not great enough to give the impulse that would put
it right. If the great celestial intelligences are allowed to know and
mark out perverse human ways, how much impatience with us must mingle
with their tenderness and pity! John Tatham had little perhaps that was
heavenly about him, but he loved Elinor and her son, and was absolutely
free of selfishness in respect to them. Never, he was aware, could
either woman or child be more to him than they were now. Nay, they were
everything to him, but on their own account, not his; he desired their
welfare absolutely, and not his own through them. Elinor was capable at
any moment of turning upon him, of saying, if not in words, yet in
undeniable inference, what is it to you? and the boy, though he gladly
referred to Uncle John when Uncle John was in the way, took him with
perfect composure as a being apart from his life. They were everything
to him, but he was nothing to them. His whole heart was set upon their
peace, upon their comfort and well-being, but as much apart from himself
as if he had not been.
Mr. Tatham was dining out that night, which was a good thing for him to
distract his thoughts from this problem, which he could only torment
himself about and could not solve; and there was an evening party at the
same house--one of those quieter, less-frequented parties which are,
people in London tell you, so much more agreeable than in the crowd of
the season. It was a curious kind of coincidence that at this little
assembly, which might have been thought not at all in her way, he met
Lady Mariamne, accompanied by her daughter, again. It was not in her
way, being a judge’s house, where frivolity, though it had a certain
place, was not the first element. But then when there are few things to
choose from, people must not be too particular, and those who cannot
have society absolutely of their own choosing, are bound, as in other
cases of necessity, to take what they can get. And then Dolly liked to
hear people talking of things which she did not understand. When Lady
Mariamne saw that John Tatham was there she gave a little shriek of
satisfaction, and rushed at him as if they had been the dearest friends
in the world. “So delighted to see you _again_,” she cried, giving
everybody around the idea of the most intimate relationship. “It was the
most wonderful good fortune that I got my Toto home in safety, poor
darling; for you know, Mr. Tatham, you would not give him any tea, and
Dolly, who is quite unnatural, pitched him into the carriage and simply
sat upon him--sat upon him, Mr. Tatham! before I could interfere. Oh,
you do not know half the trials a woman has to go through! And now
please take me to have some coffee or something, and let us finish the
conversation we were having when Dolly made me go away.”
John could not refuse his arm, nor his services in respect to the
coffee, but he was mute on the subject on which his companion was bent.
He tried to divert her attention by some questions on the subject of
Dolly instead.
“Dolly! oh, yes, she’s a girl of the period, don’t you know--not what a
girl of the period used to be in our day, Mr. Tatham, when those nasty
newspaper people wrote us down. Look at her talking to those two men,
and laying down the law. Now, we never laid down the law; we knew best
about things in our sphere--dress, and the drawing-room, and what people
were doing in society. But Dolly would tell you how to manage your next
great case, Mr. Tatham, or she could give one of those doctor-men a
wrinkle about cutting off a leg. Gracious, I should have fainted only to
hear of such a thing! Tell me, are those doctor-men supposed to be in
society?” Lady Mariamne cried, putting up her thin shoulder (which was
far too like a specimen of anatomy) in the direction of a famous
physician who was blandly smiling upon the instruction which Miss Dolly
assuredly intended to convey.
“As much as lawyer-men are in society,” replied John.
“Oh, Mr. Tatham, such nonsense! Lawyers have always been in society.
What are the Attorney General and Lord Chancellor and so forth? They are
all lawyers; but I never heard of a doctor that was in the Cabinet,
which makes all the difference. Here is a quiet corner, where nobody can
disturb us. Sit down; it will be for all the world like sitting out a
dance together: and tell me about Nell and her boy.”
“And what if I have nothing to tell?” said John, who did not feel at all
like sitting out a dance; but, on the contrary, was much more upright
and perpendicular than even a queen’s counsel of fifty has any need to
be.
“Oh, sit down, _please_! I never could bear a man standing over me, as
if he had swallowed a poker. Why did she go off and leave Phil? Where
did she go to? I told you I went off on my own hook to that horrid place
where they lived, and knocked up the old clergyman and the woman who
wanted me to put on a shawl over one of the prettiest gowns I ever had.
Fancy, the Vandal! But they knew nothing at all of her there. Where is
Nell, Mr. Tatham? You don’t pretend not to know. And the boy? Why he
must be about eighteen--and if St. Serf were to die---- Mr. Tatham, you
know it is quite, quite intolerable, and not to be borne! I don’t know
what steps Phil has taken. He has been awfully good--he has never said a
word. To hear him you would think she was far too nice to be mixed up
with a set of people like us. But now, you know, he must be got hold
of--he must, he must! Why, he’d be Lomond if St. Serf were to die! and
everybody would be crying out, ‘Where’s the heir?’ After Phil there’s
the Bagley Comptons, and they would set up for being heirs presumptive,
unless you can produce that boy.”
“But the boy is not mine that I should produce him,” said John.
“Oh, Mr. Tatham! when Nell is your relation, and always, always was
advised by you. You may tell that to the Marines, or anybody that will
believe it. You need not think you can take me in.”
“I hope not to take in anybody. If being advised by me means
persistently declining to do what I suggest and recommend----”
“Oh, then, you are of the same opinion as I am!” said Lady Mariamne.
“Bravo! now we shall manage something. If you had been like that years
ago when I used to go to you, don’t you remember, to beg you to smooth
things down--but you would never see it, till the smash came.”
“I wish,” said John, not without a little bitterness, “that I could
persuade you how little influence I have. There are some women, I
suppose, who take advice when it is given to them; but the women whom I
have ever had anything to do with, I am sorry to say----”
“I’ll promise,” cried Lady Mariamne, putting her hands and rings
together in an attitude of supplication, “to do what you tell me
faithfully, if you’ll advise me where I’ll find the boy. Oh, let Nell
alone, if you want to keep her to yourself--I sha’n’t spoil sport, Mr.
Tatham, I promise you,” she cried, with her shrill laugh; “only tell me
where I’ll find the boy. What is it you want, Dolly, coming after me
like a policeman? Don’t you see I am busy? We are sitting out the dance,
Mr. Tatham and I.”
Dolly did not join in her mother’s laugh nor unbend in the least. “As
there is no dancing,” she said, “and everybody is going, I thought you
would prefer to go too.”
“But we shall see you to-morrow, Mr. Tatham? Now, I cannot take any
refusal. You must come, if it were only for Toto’s sake; and Dolly will
go out, I hope, on one of her great works and will not come to disturb
us, just when I have persuaded you to speak--for you were just going to
open your mouth. Now you know you were! Five o’clock to-morrow, Mr.
Tatham, whatever happens. Now remember! and you are to tell me
everything.” She held up her finger to him, half threatening, half
coaxing, and then, with a peal of laughter, yielded to Dolly, and was
taken away.
“I did not know, Tatham,” said the Judge who was his host, “that you
were on terms of such friendship with Lady Mariamne.”
“Nor did I,” said John Tatham, with a yawn.
“Queer thing this is about that old business, in which her brother was
mixed up--haven’t you heard? one of those companies that came to smash
somewhere about twenty years ago. The manager absconded, and there was
something queer about the books. Well, the fellow, the manager, has been
caught at last, and there will be a trial. It’s in your way--you will be
offered a brief, no doubt, with refreshers every day, you lucky fellow.
I have just as much trouble and no refreshers. What a fool a man is,
Tatham, ever to change the Bar for the Bench! Don’t you do it, my dear
fellow--take a man’s advice who knows.”
“At least I shall wait till I am asked,” said John.
“Oh, you will be asked sooner or later--but don’t do it--take example by
those who have gone before you,” said the great functionary, shaking his
learned head.
And the Judge’s wife had also a word to say. “Mr. Tatham,” she said, as
he took his leave, “I know now what I have to do when I want to secure
Lady Mariamne--I shall ask you.”
“Do you often want to secure Lady Mariamne?” said John.
“Oh, it is all very well to look as if you didn’t care! She is, perhaps,
a little _passée_, but still a great many people think her charming.
Isn’t there a family connection?” Lady Wigsby said, with a curiosity
which she tried not to make too apparent, for she was acquainted with
the ways of the profession, and knew that was the last thing likely to
procure her the information she sought.
“It cannot be called a connection. There was a marriage--which turned
out badly.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Tatham, if the question was indiscreet! I
hear Lord St. Serf is worse again, and not likely to last long; and
there is some strange story about a lost heir.”
“Good-night, Lady Wigsby,” John replied.
And he added, “Confound Lord St. Serf,” under his breath, as he went
down-stairs.
But it was not Lord St. Serf, poor man, who had done him no harm, whom
John wished to be confounded because at last, after many threatenings,
he was about to be so ill-advised as to die. It was some one very
different. It was the woman who for much more than twenty years had been
the chief object of John Tatham’s thoughts.