DRIFTING.
With the commencement of the season, Major and Mrs. Carteret and their
nieces followed the multitude to London. This proceeding was but
little in accordance with the wishes of Gertrude Baldwin, who loved
her home and her dependents, the pleasant routine of her country
duties and recreations; but she could not oppose herself to the
general opinion that it was the right thing to do, in which even Mr.
Dugdale, her great support and ally, agreed with the others. In her
capacity of woman of fashion, Mrs. Carteret was quite shocked that
Gertrude should have passed her twenty-first year without coming out
in proper style in London; but in that of chaperone, or, as she called
it, maternal friend to a great heiress, she had recognised the wisdom
and propriety of permitting her to attain to years of discretion
before she should be formally delivered over to the wiles of the
fortune-hunters and the perils of the "great world." Not but that
there were fortune-hunters in Scotland, witness the Honourable Matthew
Dort; but Gertrude was not likely to be bewildered by their devices in
the sober atmosphere of her home.
Miss Baldwin's mind had not changed on the subject of the superiority
of her Scottish home to anything which a London residence could offer,
and which would certainly wear an air of triumph for her, however
false that air might be. Gertrude was by no means worldly wise. She
had none of the cynical foresight leading her to see in every one who
approached her a covetous idolater of her wealth. She would have
regarded herself with horror if she had lost her faith in love or
friendship; and indeed she had been so accustomed to the presence of
wealth all her life, that she did not understand its effect on others,
and had no mental standard by which to estimate its value, either
material or moral. It was not, therefore, from any unwomanly disdain
of the motives of those whom she was to sojourn amongst in London that
Gertrude took the prospect coolly, showing none of the excitement and
exultation to which Eleanor gave unrestrained expression, and which
made her amiable to Gertrude to an extent unparalleled for many months
past. The truth was that there was a secret in Gertrude's heart, a
preoccupation of Gertrude's mind, to which everything beside, so far
as she was individually concerned, had to yield. This pervading
sentiment did not render her selfish, she was as ready with her
sympathies for others as ever, but it did make her absent and
indifferent.
Robert Meredith and his friend had passed a fortnight at Christmas at
the Deane, and there the plans of the family for the coming season had
been discussed. Gertrude had learned with surprise and discomfiture
that her living in London, where he lived, would not imply her seeing
very much of George Ritherdon. She fancied he had been at some pains
to make her understand this, and the consciousness rendered her
uneasy. Why had he dwelt upon the busy nature of his life, the
diversity between his occupations and hers? Why had he drawn a merry
sketch for her of the wide difference between the society, such as it
was, in which alone he had a footing, and the gilded saloons which
were to throw their doors open for her? He had not offended her by
cynicism, which was as far from his happy and loyal nature as from
hers; but he had made her thoughtful and uncomfortable by an
insistence upon this point, which she could but refer to a wish to
make her understand that she must not expect him to contribute to the
anticipated pleasures of her sojourn in London. And with this
conviction vanished all such anticipations from Gertrude's fancy.
That was an enchanted fortnight. The hours had flown, and a beautiful
new world had opened itself to the girl's perception. She had been too
happy to be afraid of Robert Meredith, or ungracious to him. She had
utterly forgotten the rule of action she had laid down for herself, in
consideration of her sister's perverse jealousy and alienation. She
had determined to treat Meredith with cold politeness, to show him and
Eleanor that she imputed to his sinister influence the state of things
which occasioned her so much pain. But she forgot the pain; she was
happy, and the sunshine of her content spread all around her.
Robert Meredith had a difficult game to play at this time, but he
played it with skill and success. It is not a light test of skill when
an elderly coquette is persuaded by a _ci-devant_ admirer to abandon
the conquering for the confidential _rôle_, and this was precisely the
test which Robert Meredith applied to his _savoir faire_. The secret
betrothal between himself and Eleanor placed them on so secure a
footing, that he was able, without annoying Eleanor, notwithstanding
her exacting disposition, to devote much of his time to Mrs. Carteret,
towards whom his tone modified itself from the slightly vulgar,
somewhat obtrusive gallantry which had been wont to characterise it,
to the very perfection of deferential observance and highly-prized
intimacy. He had appealed to some of Eleanor's best feelings in order
to induce her to consent to the secrecy of their engagement--to her
disinclination to produce family discord, to her duty of avoiding the
rendering of her aunt's position as between her and Gertrude
difficult, and to her noble confidence in his judgment and fidelity,
which it should be his loftiest aim in life to justify and reward.
He had not only poisoned Eleanor's mind against her sister, but he had
succeeded in undermining the grateful affection which the misguided
girl had once entertained for Mr. Dugdale. He had made her remark the
preference which, in many small ways, the old man showed for
Gertrude--a preference of whose origin and justification Eleanor had
no knowledge to enable her to understand it aright--and assured her
that in him too, in deference to that universal baseness which
dictated subservience to her sister's wealth, Eleanor would find a
bitter opponent to her love, a ruthless adversary of her happiness.
His wicked counsels prevailed. Something romantic in the girl's
disposition responded to the idea of a persecuted passion; and the
demon of jealousy, now thoroughly awakened in her, wrought
unrestrained all the mischief her human evil genius desired. Meredith
counselled Eleanor to soften her manner towards Gertrude, for the
better security of their secret against the danger of her awakened
suspicions; and she obeyed him. He forbade her to tell Mrs. Carteret
all the truth, lest it might hereafter compromise her with her husband
and Mr. Dugdale, but told her to cultivate her good graces in every
way, so that in the time to come her aid might be sure; and she obeyed
him. The result of all this was much more peace for Gertrude; and as
Meredith kept himself out of her way, devoting himself to Mrs.
Carteret and Eleanor, and leaving George Ritherdon to her society, it
had the additional effect of increasing and consolidating her
attachment to George.
Major Carteret was habitually unobservant; his wife confined her
attention to Robert Meredith, of whose wishes she was the delighted
confidante, and Eleanor, whom she did not at present suspect of more
than an incipient inclination towards Robert. Mr. Dugdale,--whose
health had declined considerably since the autumn, did not leave his
rooms, and saw the different members of the family singly,--was
totally unconscious of the drama being played out so near him. Things
were better between the sisters, and he rejoiced at that. The
favourable impression which George Ritherdon had made upon him on his
first visit to the Deane was deepened during his second, and he
greatly enjoyed his society. Gertrude passed many happy hours, working
or drawing, beside her old friend's sofa, while the two men talked
with mutual pleasure and sympathy. When that happy fortnight ended and
the friends had returned to London, Gertrude found her greatest
consolation in Mr. Dugdale's frequent allusions to George, and in the
eulogiums which he pronounced on his mind and his manners, the latter
being a point on which the old gentleman was difficult and fastidious.
During and since that time, Gertrude, who was singularly free from
vanity and quite incapable of pretence, had frequently asked herself
whether she had not given her heart to one who did not love her. Even
if it had been so to her indisputable knowledge, she would not have
striven to withdraw the gift. She loved him, once and for ever, and
she would, sanctify that love in her heart, if he were never to be
more to her than the truest and most valued of friends. She was
utterly sincere and candid in this resolution; she had no
foreknowledge of the difficulty, the impossibility of maintaining it.
She was content, ay, even happy, in her uncertainty, which was
sometimes hope, but never despair. Such a possibility as that George
should love her and refrain from telling her so, because of her
wealth, literally never occurred to her, any more than that, if he
loved her, and told her so, the most unscrupulous calumniator in the
world could accuse him of caring for that wealth, of even remembering
it. It had no place in her thoughts at all. She lived her dream-life
happily; sometimes her dreams were brighter, sometimes more sombre;
but their glitter did not come from her gold, their shadow was not
cast by cynical doubt, by worldly-wise suspicion.
When the time came for their journey to London, Gertrude was more sad
than elated. Her best friend, the one on whom she leaned with the
trusting reliance of a daughter, from whom she had ever experienced
the fond indulgence of a parent, was to remain at the Deane. Mr.
Dugdale's health rendered it impossible for him to accompany the
family, and Mrs. Carteret and Eleanor did not regret his absence.
Their feelings were in accord on every point connected with the
expedition. Eleanor foresaw no impediment to her frequent enjoyment of
Robert Meredith's society, under the auspices of Mrs. Carteret, who,
on her part, had great satisfaction in the prospect of partaking in
the gaieties of a London season, for which she still retained an
unpalled taste, and maintaining a splendid establishment at the
expense of her niece.
More than half the interval which had to elapse between Gertrude's
attainment of her majority and Eleanor's reaching a similar period had
now elapsed, and Robert Meredith's successful prosecution of his
schemes with respect to the Baldwins was uncheckered by any reverse.
In other respects things were not progressing quite so favourably with
him. He had been negligent in his professional business of late, since
his mind had been full of the mysterious game he was playing, and the
inevitable, inexorable result of this negligence was making itself
felt. George Ritherdon, on the contrary, was getting on rapidly for a
barrister, and was beginning to be talked about as a man with a name
and a standing. The relations between the two had insensibly relaxed,
as was only natural, considering that the strongest tie between them,
their common industry, their common ambition, had so considerably
slackened. Nothing approaching to a quarrel had taken place; but they
were tired of one another, and each was aware of the fact. The
sentiment dated from their second visit to the Deane, whence each had
returned preoccupied with his own thoughts, his own preferences, and
profoundly conscious that no sympathy existed between them.
Little had been said between the two relative to the Baldwins' sojourn
in London; and when George Ritherdon, made aware of their arrival by
the _Morning Post_, asked his friend when he intended to present
himself at their house in Portman-square, he was disagreeably
surprised by the cold brevity of Meredith's reply that he had been
there already, had indeed seen the ladies on the very day of their
arrival, and was going to dine with them the same evening.
George made no remark upon this communication, and left a card for
Major Carteret on the following day. An invitation to dinner followed,
and on his mentioning the circumstance to Meredith, George was
surprised and offended by his manner. He laughed unpleasantly, and
said something about the futility of George's expecting to be received
on the same footing as he had been in the country, which made him
decidedly angry.
"I don't understand you, Meredith," he said. "You brought me to the
Deane, I owe the acquaintance entirely to you, and now you talk as if
you resented it."
"Nonsense, old fellow," returned Robert with good humour, which cost
him an effort; "I only discourage your going to the Baldwins, because
I do not want to hear you talked of as an unsuccessful competitor for
the heiress's money-bags, and because I know, if you have any leaning
in that direction, it will be quite useless. The young ladies fly at
higher game than you or I."
A deep flush overspread George Ritherdon's face as he replied:
"I beg you will not include me, in your own mind, in the category of
fortune-hunters; as for what other people think or say, you need not
trouble yourself."
"As you please. I only warn you that Gertrude Baldwin is an interested
coquette, determined to make the most of her money,--to buy rank with
it, at all events, but by no means averse to numbering her thousands
of victims in the mean time."
"You speak harshly of this girl, Meredith, and cruelly."
"I speak candidly, because I am speaking to _you_. You don't suppose I
would put another fellow on his guard. I might have got bit myself,
you know, if I had not understood her in time. However, we had better
not talk about it. Forewarned, forearmed, they say, though I can't say
I ever knew any good come of warning any one."
Thereupon Meredith pretended to be very busy with his papers, and the
subject dropped. But it left a very unpleasant impression on George's
mind. "An interested coquette!" No more revolting description could be
given of any woman within the category of those whom an honest man
could ever think of marrying. Had George Ritherdon thought of marrying
Gertrude? No. Did he love her? He knew in his heart he did; but he did
not question for a moment his power of keeping the fact hidden from
the object of his love, and every other person. He would have regarded
the declaration of his feelings to an inexperienced girl, who had had
no opportunity of choice, of seeing the world, of forming her judgment
of character, to whom the language of love was utterly unknown, on the
eve of her entrance upon a scene on which she ought to enter perfectly
untrammelled, as in the highest degree dishonourable. He would have
held this opinion concerning any woman whose wealth should have made
her position so exceptionally difficult as that of Gertrude; but in
her particular instance he had an additional motive for his strict
self-conquest and reticence, which, if it ever could be explained,
must remain concealed for the present.
George Ritherdon had no coxcombry or conceit about him, and he had not
made up his mind by any means that Gertrude loved him, or was likely
to be brought to love him in the future, should he find that the
ordeal to which she was about to be exposed had left her still
fancy-free, and his own circumstances be such as to enable him to
believe he might try for the great prize of her heart and hand without
dishonour. He did not deceive himself as to the obstacles and the
rivals he might have to encounter; he gave all the fascinations of the
new sphere in which Gertrude was about to shine their full credit and
importance, and he contented himself with this conclusion:
"If, when she has had full experience, ample time, when she knows her
position and her own mind perfectly, I can be sure that she prefers me
to all the world beside, I will win her, and marry her, without
bestowing a thought on her fortune, or caring a straw for any one's
interpretation of my motives, caring only for _hers_."
Steadily acting upon the plan he had laid down for himself, George
Ritherdon frequented Gertrude's society not often enough to make his
visits a subject of comment, not sufficiently seldom to induce her to
think him indifferent or estranged. She and Eleanor were going through
the ordinary routine of the life of London in the season; he rarely
participated in its more tumultuous and irrational pleasures. But he
kept a tolerably strict watch upon Gertrude for all that; and he had
no reason to believe, at the end of the second month of her stay in
London, that any one of the numerous admirers with whom rumour and his
own observation had accredited her, had found the slightest favour
with the young lady of the Deane.
Before the end of that second month, Robert Meredith and George
Ritherdon had parted company. The former could perhaps have given a
plain and conclusive reason for his desire that so it should be; but,
in the case of the latter, the actuating motive was more vague. George
felt that they did not get on together. The Baldwins were hardly ever
mentioned between them, though each knew the terms on which the other
stood with the family, and they not unfrequently met at the house in
Portman-square. The dissolution of the old arrangement, once so
pleasant to them both, was plainly imminent to each before it actually
occurred, and it might have come about after a disagreeable fashion
but for a fortunate accident. The gentleman who had been George's
university tutor, and with whom he had always maintained intimate
relations, died, and bequeathed to George his numerous and valuable
library. What was he to do with the books? Their joint chambers would
not accommodate them. George took a large set in another building, and
the difficulty was solved, to their mutual relief, without a quarrel.
The season was a brilliant one, and Gertrude and Eleanor Baldwin had
their full share of its glories and its pleasures. They enjoyed it,
after their different fashions, but Gertrude more than Eleanor. In the
heart of each there was indeed a disquieting secret; but in the one
case there was no self-reproach, no misgiving, while in the other that
voice would occasionally make itself heard. As time passed over,
Gertrude felt more and more hopeful that George Ritherdon loved her,
though for some reason which she could not penetrate, but to which it
was not difficult for her docile nature to submit, he did not at
present avow the sentiment. Her happiness was not lost, it was only
deferred; she would be patient, and then she could always comfort
herself with the knowledge that her love for him--pure, lofty, with no
element of torment in it--could never die, or be taken from her, while
she lived.
Eleanor's lot was by no means so favoured, and she proved more
difficult to manage than Robert Meredith had foreseen. She chafed
under the restraint of her position, and suffered agonies of suspicion
and jealousy. The evil passion which he had been quick to see and
skilful to cultivate, for his own purposes, was easily turned against
him, a contingency which with all his astuteness he had failed to
apprehend; and Eleanor's daily increasing imperiousness and distrust
made him tremble for the safety of his secret and the success of his
plans.
Nothing made Eleanor so suspicious of the falsehood of his
professions, nothing exasperated her so much, as Robert Meredith's
imperviousness to the feeling which had obtained so fearful a dominion
over her. If she could but have roused his jealousy, as she
ceaselessly endeavoured to do, by such reckless flirtations as brought
her into trouble with even her careless uncle, and furnished plentiful
food for ill-natured tongues, she would have been more easy, less
unhappy, more convinced. But Robert would not be made jealous, and his
easy tranquil assumption of confident power, not laid aside even
during the stolen interviews in which he bewildered her with his
passionate protestations and caresses, sometimes nearly drove her mad.
An instinct, which it had been well for her if she had heeded, told
her that this man was not true to her. But she loved him madly.
He had changed her whole nature, it seemed to her, in the few
seldom-recurring moments in which she saw clearly into the past, and
strained fearful eyes into the future; he had ruined the peace and
happiness of her home, he had estranged her from her sister, he had
taught her lessons of scorn and suspicion towards all her kind. But
she loved him, him only in all the world.
Towards the close of the season, Haldane Carteret grew extremely
impatient. He had been, he considered, quite an unreasonable time on
duty, and he declared his intention of at once returning to the Deane.
The men-servants would suffice for an escort for Mrs. Carteret and her
nieces; or, if they did not like that arrangement, he was sure
Meredith, who was coming down for the shooting at all events, would
make it convenient to leave town a week or so sooner, and take care of
them on the journey. No one had any objection to urge against this
proposal; and Major Carteret took himself off, hardly more to his own
satisfaction than to that of his wife, who declared herself worn out
by his "crossness," and disgusted with his selfishness.
On the following evening Robert Meredith had a guest at his chambers,
who, to judge by the moody and impatient expression of his host's
countenance, was anything but welcome. Meredith had dined at
Portman-square, where he had met George Ritherdon, to whom Miss
Baldwin, with her simplest and yet most dignified air, had given, in
her own and her uncle's name, an invitation to the Deane for the
shooting season. This incident was highly displeasing to Meredith,
who, distracted by an uneasy suspicion that his friend had found him
out to a certain extent, desired nothing less than his presence during
any part of the critical time which must elapse before he could make
his _coup_. Robert had returned to his chambers in a sullen and
exasperated temper, which was intensified by the spectacle which met
his view. An old man, shabby of aspect, and anything but venerable in
appearance or bearing--an old man with bleared watery eyes, bushy gray
eyebrows, and dirty gray hair--was seated in an arm-chair by the open
window, smoking a churchwarden pipe and drinking hot brandy-and water.
The mingled odours of tobacco and spirits perfumed the room after a
fashion which harmonised ill with the sweet autumnal air and the
flowers which adorned the sitting-room, in accordance with one of the
owner's most harmless tastes.
"What, you here, Oakley!" said Meredith, in a tone which did not
dissemble his disgust. "What are you doing here? What has brought you
up from Cheltenham?"
"Business," replied the unvenerable visitor quietly, without rising or
making any attempt at a salutation of his reluctant host. "Business,"
he repeated with an emphatic nod.
"With me?" Meredith threw his hat and gloves upon a table, and sat
down, sullenly facing his visitor.
"With you. Look here, I'm tired of all this. You see, I am not so
young as you are, and at my time of life I can't afford to play a
waiting game. You can't, if you would, make it worth my while to do
it; and as the case actually stands, you _don't_ make it worth my
while to play any game at all--of yours, I mean. Of course I should,
in any case, play mine."
"I don't understand you," said Meredith, making a strong effort to
keep his temper and speak with indifference. "I have kept the terms I
made with you to the letter. What do you mean by _your_ game, as apart
from mine?"
"Just this. I have no interest whatever in your marrying this girl
rather than in any other man's marrying her. It does not matter to me
where my price comes from; I'm sure of it from her husband, whoever he
may be, and I don't believe you're sure that she _will_ marry you. You
have tried to keep me dark, and in the dark, cunningly enough; but I
have found out more about them than you think for, for all that; and I
know she has more than one string to her bow, and at least one of them
more profitable to play upon than you are. If you can't persuade the
girl to marry you before she's of age, and raise money for me upon her
expectations, or if you can't in some way make things more
comfortable, I shall try whether I cannot carry my information to a
better market. Indeed, I am so tired of living respectably upon a
pittance, paid with a dreary exactitude which is distressingly like
Somerset House, I have been seriously contemplating an affecting visit
to my relative Mrs. Carteret, and a family arrangement to buy me off
at once at a long price."
"And _my_ knowledge of the affair; what do you make of _that_, in your
rascally calculation?
"Not quite so much as _you_ make of it in _your_ rascally calculation,
my good friend; for it is not knowledge at all, it is only guesswork;
and you have not an atom of proof without my evidence, which I am
quite as willing to withhold as to give, for Mr. Trapbois' omnipotent
motive--a consideration."
For all answer, Robert Meredith rose, opened an iron safe let into the
wall of the room, and hidden by a curtain--greedily followed the while
by the old man's eyes, which watched for the gold he hoped he had
extorted--and took out a red-leather pocket-book, with a clasp of
brass wirework. He came up to the old man's side, and opening a page
of the memorandum-book, pointed to an entry upon it.
"No evidence, I think you said. Not so fast, my faithful colleague.
What is _that?_"
"Initials, a date,--a guess, Meredith, a mere surmise, not an atom of
proof."
"And this?" Robert Meredith took an oblong slip of paper out of a
pocket in the book, and held it up to the old man's eyes. "An attested
copy of the marriage-register is evidence, I fancy."
"Yes," said Mr. Oakley reluctantly; "that's evidence of one part of
the story, to be sure; but not of the material part, the only part
that's profitable to _you_. You can't do without me--you can't indeed;
but I can do very well without you. You will save time and trouble by
acknowledging the fact, and acting on it."
"What the d--l do you want me to do?" said Meredith fiercely, as he
threw the pocket-book back into the safe and locked the doors in a
rage. "I can't marry the girl till she is of age. I tell you I am
perfectly sure of her. Do you think I am such a fool as to allow any
doubt to exist on that point? But I don't choose to change my plans,
and _I won't_ change them, let you threaten as you will. You old
idiot! you would ruin yourself by thwarting me. You don't know these
people--_I do_; and you could as soon induce them to join you in
robbing a church as to buy you off in the way you propose. You had
much better stick to the bargain you've made, and have patience. I
think if _I_ can find patience, _you_ may."
Mr. Oakley reflected for some minutes, his bushy gray eyebrows meeting
above his frowning eyes. At last he said:
"Then I'll tell you what it is, Meredith. You shall give me 20_l_.
extra now, to-night, and introduce me at once, to-morrow, to the
family, and we'll go on playing on the square again."
"No," said Meredith; "it won't do. I can't give you 20_l_.; I can't
spare the money. I'll give you 10_l_., on condition you don't show
yourself here until I send for you. And as to introducing you to the
family just yet, it is out of the question. It would only embarrass
our proceedings, and do you no good."
"What do you mean?" said Oakley furiously. "Why should you not
introduce me to my own relative? I choose to partake of the advantages
of her capital match. I intend to be Mrs. Carteret's guest at the
Deane this autumn, whether the prospect be agreeable to you or not."
Meredith smiled, a slow exasperating smile, carefully exaggerated into
distinctness for the old man's dimmed vision, as he said:
"_I_ could have no objection to do my good friend Mrs. Carteret the
kindness of reuniting her with a long-severed member of her family,
and to introduce you as a visitor at Portman-square, during the few
days they will be in town, would not be any trouble to me; but as for
your being invited to the Deane, the idea is _too_ absurd."
"And why?"
"Because Miss Baldwin, and not your relative, is the mistress of that
very eligible mansion; because you are not the style of person Miss
Baldwin admires; and because, you may take my word for it, you will
never set your foot within those doors while the Deane belongs to Miss
Baldwin."
The old man's face turned a fiery red, and the angry colour showed
itself under his thin gray hair.
"While the Deane belongs to Miss Baldwin!" he repeated low and slowly.
"Well, then, there's no use talking about it. Hand over the 10_l_.,
and I'll be off."
In a few minutes Robert Meredith was alone, and as he listened to Mr.
Oakley's heavy tread upon the stairs, he muttered:
"It's a useful study, that of the ruling passions of one's
fellow-creatures. An expert finds it tolerably easy to work them to
his advantage. Avarice and pride! eh, Mr. Oakley? and pride the
stronger of the two. You won't give me much more trouble. No danger of
your being bribed to abstain from saying or doing anything that can
harm Miss Baldwin."