it—I said so,’ he remarked aloud. ‘Those confounded draughts—give
everybody cold. Why not?’ Then addressing himself directly to Mr
Brooker, he said: ‘Well, sir, well. I have listened to your remarks
with a considerable degree of patience, and I am glad to find that my
graceless nephew has some sense of compunction left in him. But as for
reconciliation and forgiveness and all that nonsense—pooh, pooh!—not to
be thought of—not to be thought of!’
‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain Bowood—very sorry indeed.’
‘You made mention of some other point, sir, that Mr Summers wished you
to lay before me. Eh, now?’
‘I did, sir. It is that of his attachment to a young lady at present
staying under your roof—Miss Brandon by name.’
‘Ah, I guessed as much!’
‘He desires your sanction to his engagement to the young lady in
question, not with any view to immediate marriage, Miss Brandon being a
ward in Chancery, but’——
‘Confound his impudence, sir!’ burst out the Captain irately. ‘How dare
he, sir—how dare he make love to a young lady who is placed under my
charge by her nearest relative? What will Miss Hoskyns say and think,
when she comes back and finds her niece over head and ears in love with
my worthless nephew? Come now.’
‘It may perchance mitigate to some extent the severity of your
displeasure, sir,’ remarked Mr Brooker in his blandest tones, ‘when I
tell you that in my pocket I have a letter written by Miss Hoskyns, in
which that lady sanctions your nephew’s engagement to Miss Brandon.’
The Captain stared in open-mouthed wonder at the veteran actor. This
was the strangest turn of all. He felt that the situation was getting
beyond his grasp, so he did to-day what he always did in cases of
difficulty—he sent for his wife.
Mrs Bowood was almost as much surprised as her husband when she heard
the news. Mr Brooker produced Miss Hoskyns’ letter, the genuineness of
which could not be disputed; but she was still as much at a loss as
before to imagine by what occult means Master Charley had succeeded in
causing such a document to be written. Nor did she find out till some
time afterwards.
It would appear that our two young people had fallen in love with
each other during the month they had spent at Rosemount the preceding
summer, and that, during the ensuing winter, Charley had contrived to
worm his way into the good graces of Miss Hoskyns by humouring her
weaknesses and playing on some of her foibles, of which the worthy
lady had an ample stock-in-trade. But no one could have been more
surprised than the young man himself was when, in answer to his letter,
which he had written without the remotest hope of its being favourably
considered, there came a gracious response, sanctioning his engagement
to Miss Brandon. The fact was that, while in Italy, Miss Hoskyns had
allowed her elderly affections to become entangled with a good-looking
man some years younger than herself, to whom she was now on the point
of being married. The first perusal of Charley’s letter had thrown her
into a violent rage; but at the end of twenty-four hours her views had
become considerably modified. After all, as she argued to herself, why
shouldn’t young Summers and her niece make a match of it? He came of a
good family, and would incontestably be his uncle’s heir; and Captain
Bowood was known to be a very rich man. And then came in another
argument, which had perhaps more weight than all the rest. Would it be
wise, would it be advisable, to keep herself hampered with a niece who
was fast developing into a really handsome young woman, when she, the
aunt, was about to take a good-looking husband so much younger than
herself? No; she opined that such a course would neither be wise nor
advisable. Hence it came to pass that the letter was written which was
such a source of surprise to every one at Rosemount.
‘What am I to do now?’ asked the Captain a little helplessly, as Mrs
Bowood gave back the letter to Mr Brooker.
That lady’s mind was made up on the instant. ‘There is only one thing
for you to do,’ she said with decision, ‘and that is, to forgive the
boy all his past faults and follies, and sanction his engagement to
Elsie Brandon.’
‘What—what! Eat my own words—swallow my own leek—when I’ve said a
hundred times that’——
‘Remember, dear, what you said in the drawing-room last evening,’
interposed Mrs Bowood in her quietest tones.
Then the Captain called to mind how, in conversation the previous
evening with his wife and Lady Dimsdale, he had chuckled over the
tricks played him by his nephew, and had admitted that that young
gentleman’s falling in love with Miss Brandon was the very thing he
would have wished for, had he been consulted in the matter.
The Captain was crestfallen when these things were brought to his mind.
Mrs Bowood gave him no time for further reflection. Rightly assuming
that the young people were not far away, she opened a door leading to
an inner room, and there found them in close proximity to each other on
the sofa. ‘Come along, you naughty children,’ she said, ‘and receive
the sentence due for your many crimes.’
They came forward shamefacedly enough. Master Charles looked a little
paler than ordinary; on Elsie’s face there was a lovely wild-rose blush.
Mr Brooker rose to his feet, ran the fingers of one hand lightly
through his wig, and posed himself in his favourite attitude. He felt
that just at this point a little slow music might have been effectively
introduced.
The Captain also rose to his feet.
Charley came forward quickly and grasped one of the old man’s hands in
both of his. ‘Uncle!’ he said, looking straight into his face through
eyes that swam in tears.
For a moment or two the Captain tried to look fierce, but failed
miserably. Then bending his white head, and laying a hand on his
nephew’s shoulder, he murmured in a broken voice: ‘M—m—my boy!’
* * * * *
Sir Frederick Pinkerton was slowly pacing the sunny south terrace,
smoking one cigarette after another in a way that with him was very
unusual. He was only half satisfied with himself—only half satisfied
with the way he had treated Lady Dimsdale. The instincts of a gentleman
were at work within him, and those instincts whispered to him that
he had acted as no true gentleman ought to act. And yet his feelings
were very bitter. Had not Lady Dimsdale rejected him?—had she not
scorned him?—had she not treated him with a contumely that was only
half veiled? Still more bitter was the thought that if he acted as his
conscience told him he ought to act, he would release Lady Dimsdale
from the promise he had imposed on her, and stand quietly on one
side, while another snatched away the prize which, only a few short
hours ago, he had fondly deemed would be all his own. But this was a
sacrifice which he felt that he was not magnanimous enough to make. ‘I
have done the man a great—an inestimable—service,’ he said to himself
more than once; ‘let that suffice. They are not lovesick children—he
and Lady Dimsdale—that they should cry for the moon, and vow there is
no happiness in life because they can’t obtain it. Why should I trouble
myself about their happiness? They would not trouble themselves about
mine.’
It was thus he argued with himself, and the longer he argued the more
angry he became. He was so thoroughly anxious to convince himself that
he was right, and he found himself unable to do so.
He was still deep in his musings, when one of the servants brought
him a letter which had been sent on from his own house to Rosemount.
He recognised the writing as soon as he saw the address, and his face
brightened at once. The letter was from his nephew—the one being on
earth for whom Sir Frederick entertained any real affection. He found
a seat in the shade, where he sat down and broke the seal of his
letter. But as he read, his face grew darker and darker, and when he
had come to the end of it, a deep sigh burst involuntarily from him;
the hand that held the letter dropped by his side, and his chin sank
on his breast. He seemed all at once to have become five years older.
‘O Horace, Horace, this is indeed a shameful confession!’ he murmured.
‘How often is it the hand we love best that strikes us the cruellest
blow! And Oscar Boyd, too! the man I dislike beyond all other men. That
makes the blow still harder to bear. He must be paid the five hundred
pounds, and at once. He has lost his fortune, and yet he never spoke
of this. What an obligation to be under—and to him! He saved Horace’s
honour—perhaps his life—but is that any reason why I should absolve
Lady Dimsdale from her promise? No, no! This is a matter entirely
separate from the other.—Why, here comes the man himself.’
As Sir Frederick spoke thus, Oscar Boyd issued from one of the many
winding walks that intersected the grounds at Rosemount. He had been
alone since he left Lady Dimsdale. He had vowed to her that if she
would not reveal to him the key of the mystery, he would find it for
himself; but in truth he seemed no nearer finding it now than he had
been an hour before. From whatever point he regarded the puzzle, he
was equally nonplused. Utterly unaccountable to him seemed the whole
affair. He was now on his way back to the house in search of Laura. He
would see her once more before she left; once more would he appeal to
her. On one point he was fully determined: come what might, he would
never give her up.
Sir Frederick put away his letter, rose from his seat, pulled himself
together, and went slowly forward to meet Mr Boyd. ‘You are the person,
Mr Boyd, whom I am just now most desirous of seeing,’ he said.
‘I am entirely at your service, Sir Frederick.’
The Baronet cleared his voice. He scarcely knew how to begin what he
wanted to say. Very bitter to him was the confession he was about to
make. ‘Am I wrong, Mr Boyd, in assuming that you are acquainted with a
certain nephew of mine, Horace Calvert by name, who at the present time
is residing at Rio?’
Oscar started slightly at the mention of the name. ‘I believe that I
had the pleasure of meeting the young gentleman in question on one
occasion.’
‘It is of that occasion I wish to speak. I have in my pocket a letter
which I have just received from my nephew, in which he confesses
everything. Hum, hum.’
‘Confesses—Sir Frederick?’
‘For him, a humiliating confession indeed. He tells me in his letter
how you—a man whom he had never seen before—saved him from the
consequences of his folly—from disgrace—nay, from suicide itself! He
had lost at the gaming-table money which was not his to lose. He fled
the place—despair, madness, I know not what, in his heart and brain.
You followed him, and were just in time to take out of his hand the
weapon that a minute later would have ended his wretched life. But you
not only did that; you took the miserable boy to your hotel, and there
provided him with the means to save his honour. It was a noble action,
Mr Boyd, and I thank you from my heart.’
‘It was the action of a man who remembered that he had been young and
foolish himself in years gone by.’
‘I repeat, sir, that it was a noble action. And you would have gone
away without telling me how greatly I am your debtor!’
‘It was a secret that concerned no one but the young man and myself.’
‘It is a debt that must be and shall be paid. I am glad indeed to
find that there is sufficient sense of honour left in my nephew to
cause him to beg that you may not be allowed to remain a loser by your
generosity. He has ascertained that you have returned to England; he
has even found out the name of your hotel in Covent Garden, where he
asks me to wait upon you. Hum, hum. My cheque-book is at home, Mr Boyd;
but if you will oblige me with your address in town, I’——
‘One moment, Sir Frederick. Am I right in assuming that a certain
anonymous letter which I received yesterday was written by you?’
‘Since you put the question so categorically—frankly, it was.’
‘You have done me a service greater than I know how to thank you for.
You have dragged me from the verge of an abyss. At present, I will not
ask you how you came by the information which enabled you to do this—it
is enough to know that you did it.’ He held out his hand frankly.
‘Suppose we cry quits, Sir Frederick?’ he said.
The Baronet protruded a limp and flaccid paw, which Oscar’s long lean
fingers gripped heartily.
‘But—but, my dear sir, the five hundred pounds is a debt which must and
shall be paid,’ urged Sir Frederick, who felt as if he had lost the use
of his hand for a few moments.
There was no opportunity for further private talk. Round a corner of
the terrace came Captain and Mrs Bowood, Miss Brandon and her lover
in a high state of contentment, and Brooker the benignant, nose in
air, and with one hand hidden in the breast of his frock-coat. A
servant brought out some of Lady Dimsdale’s boxes in readiness for the
carriage, which would be there in the course of a few minutes. Mr Boyd
went forward, leaving Sir Frederick a little way in the rear.
‘Quits—“let us cry quits,” he said,’ muttered the Baronet. ‘Yes, yes;
let it be so as regards all but the money. That must be repaid. The
service I did him was no common one—he admits that. Why, then, should I
not hold Lady Dimsdale to her promise?’
At this moment, Lady Dimsdale, dressed for travelling, appeared on the
terrace. ‘She is going, then. She means to keep her promise,’ said Sir
Frederick to himself. He drew a little nearer the group.
‘And must you really and truly leave us this afternoon?’ said Mrs
Bowood.
‘Really and truly.’
‘I am very angry with you.’
‘I have promised the children to be back in time to go blackberrying
with them, so that you will not lose me for long.’
‘I suppose we shall lose Mr Boyd as soon as you are gone. The house
will be too dull for him.’
‘I have no control over Mr Boyd’s actions,’ answered Lady Dimsdale
quietly, as she turned away.
‘Then he has not proposed! O dear! O dear!’ murmured Mrs Bowood.
Sir Frederick had seated himself on a rustic chair somewhat apart
from the others. He was still uneasy in his mind. ‘He saved Horace’s
honour—he saved his life; but he said himself that we are quits.’
‘Why, this is nothing but rank midsummer madness,’ said the Captain
to Lady Dimsdale. ‘But you women never know your minds for two days
together. You won’t have been settled down at Bayswater more than a
week, before you will want to be off somewhere else. Eh, now?’
‘Do you know, I think that is quite likely. But I am not leaving you
for long. I shall be back again to plague you by the time the leaves
begin to turn.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And now my adieux to all of
you must be brief. Time, tide, and the express train wait for no one.’
She saw Oscar coming towards her, and she crossed to meet him.
‘The crucial moment,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. ‘How bravely she
carries herself!’
Oscar took her hand. For a moment or two they looked into each other’s
eyes without speaking. Then Oscar said: ‘You are determined to go—and
without affording me a word of explanation?’
‘I cannot help myself.’
‘Do you really mean this to be farewell between us?’
‘Yes—farewell.’ There was a sob in her voice which she could not
repress.
‘O my darling!’
‘Not that word, Oscar—not that!’
‘And do you really think, Laura, that I am going to allow myself to
lose you in this way, without knowing the why or the wherefore? Not
so—not so.’
‘You must, Oscar—you must.’
‘Give me some reason—give me some explanation of this unaccountable
change.’
‘I cannot. My lips are sealed.’
‘Very well. I will now say good-bye for a little while; but I shall
follow you to London within three days. You are my promised wife, and I
shall hold you to your promise, in spite of everything and every one.’
‘No, Oscar, no—it cannot be—it can never be!’ She glanced up into his
eyes. There was a cold, clear, determined look in them, such as she had
never seen there before. It was evident that he was terribly in earnest.
At this moment Captain Bowood’s landau drove up. The footman descended,
and contemplated Lady Dimsdale’s numerous packages with dismay.
‘You needn’t bother about the luggage, George,’ said his master. ‘A man
from the station will fetch that.’
The moment for parting had come. As Oscar gazed down on Laura, all
the hardness melted out of his face, and in its stead, the soft light
of love shone out of his eyes, and his lips curved into a smile of
tenderness. ‘Farewell—but only for a little while,’ he whispered. He
lifted her hand to his lips for a moment, and then, without another
word, he turned on his heel and joined the Captain.
‘I actually believe Mr Boyd is in love with dear Lady Dimsdale!’
whispered Elsie to Mr Summers.
‘Of course he is, and she with him; only, she’s playing with him for a
little while.’
‘It seems to me that you know far too much about love-making, Master
Charley.’
‘Who was the first to give me lessons?’
The only answer to this was a pinch in the soft part of his arm.
Lady Dimsdale controlled herself by a supreme effort. Then she crossed
slowly towards where Sir Frederick was sitting.
He rose as she approached him. ‘You have kept your promise bravely,’ he
said in a low voice.
‘Why should not a woman keep a promise as bravely as a man?’
‘It is I who am driving you away.’
‘You flatter yourself, Sir Frederick.’
He shook his head in grave dissent. He seemed strangely moved. He gazed
earnestly at her. ‘There is a tear in your eye, Lady Dimsdale,’ he
said. ‘I am conquered. I revoke the promise I caused you to give me
yesterday.’
‘Oh, Sir Frederick!’
‘I revoke it unconditionally.’
‘Why did you not tell me this five minutes ago!’
‘Better to tell it you now than not at all. You will not leave us now?’
‘But I must, I fear—must.’ She gave him her hand for a moment, and then
turned away.
As the Baronet watched her retreating figure, he muttered to himself:
‘Mr Boyd said we were quits. He was mistaken. We shall be quits after
to-day. Hum, hum.’
As Lady Dimsdale was crossing the terrace, she dropped one of her
gloves—whether by design or accident, who shall say. Oscar Boyd sprang
forward and picked it up. Laura stopped, turned, and held out her
hand for the glove. As Oscar gave it back to her, his fingers closed
instinctively round hers. For a moment or two he gazed into her eyes;
for a moment or two she glanced shyly into his. I don’t in the least
know what he saw there; but suddenly he called out to the coachman:
‘Henry, you can drive back to the stables. Lady Dimsdale will not go to
London to-day.’
THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.
The interesting lecture upon Celtic and Roman Britain, which was
delivered last month at the London Institution by Mr Alfred Tylor,
F.G.S., was illustrated by several drawings of curious antiquities.
There was also shown a map prepared by the lecturer, which depicted
all the Roman roads which at the present time still form important
highways. A large number of these are seen upon this map to converge
at Winchester, which at one time formed a central depôt for the
metallurgical products of this country, before their dispersion abroad.
From Winchester the metals won from the earth in Cornwall, Wales, &c.,
were carried to Beaulieu, in Hampshire, thence to the Solent, close by.
Two miles across the Solent is Gurnard’s Bay, in the Isle of Wight,
whence there was an easy road to the safe harbour of Brading, where
the ores could be shipped for continental ports. It is believed, from
the existence of so many British sepulchral mounds along these routes,
that the roads were established and in constant use many centuries
before the Roman occupation. The lecturer also referred to the curious
Ogham inscriptions which are found nowhere except in the British Isles,
and which are written in a kind of cipher of the simplest but most
ingenious kind. A horizontal bar forms the backbone of this curious
system of caligraphy. Five vertical strokes across this line would
express the first five letters of an alphabet; the next five would
be expressed by like lines kept above the horizontal bar, and five
more by similar lines kept below it. Other five, making up a total of
twenty signs, corresponding to a twenty-letter alphabet, are expressed
by diagonal lines across the bar. This primitive method of writing is
due to the Irish division of the Celtic race, and indicates a proof
of early culture, which is seen in more enduring form in the artistic
skill evident in such metallurgical work as has been assigned to the
same period and people.
Professor Maspero’s recently issued new catalogue of the Boulak Museum,
Cairo, deals with antiquities compared with which those referred to the
Roman period in Britain seem but things of yesterday. Many of these
archæological treasures, but more particularly the funerary tablets or
_stelæ_, cover the enormous period of thirty-eight centuries, a period,
too, which ends two thousand years before the Christian era. As to the
object of these tablets, which are almost invariably found attached to
ancient Egyptian tombs, Professor Maspero gives a new theory. There
is no doubt that the ancient Egyptians believed in the immortality of
the soul, but coupled with this was a belief in the existence of a
something outside the soul and body—a kind of shade or double, called
the Ka. The preservation of this Ka was essential to the preservation
of the soul; and images of the defunct in which this spirit could dwell
were entombed with the mummy. The various scenes of domestic labour and
pastoral pursuits were not—as was until recently supposed—inscribed
upon the Egyptian tombs merely as records of manners and customs, but
were associated with the belief in the Ka. The pursuits carried on in
life could by these representations enable the spiritual double to
carry on the same line of conduct. Representations of various kinds
of food in baked clay, limestone, or other material, formed the food
of the Ka, and such things have been found in abundance. According to
Professor Maspero’s new theory, the _stela_ or tablet enumerated the
funereal offerings of the deceased, and contained a prayer for their
continuance. This prayer, repeated by a priest—or passer-by, even—would
insure the well-being of the Ka. The name and status of the deceased
were also inscribed upon the tablet; for, according to Egyptian ideas,
a nameless grave meant no hereafter for its inmate. The catalogue
referred to is intended to be a popular guide for the use of visitors,
but it contains very much which will be of value to the student.
Mr Petrie’s recently published book upon the Pyramids of Gezeh, while
it makes short work of many previously accepted theories as to the
intention and uses of those gigantic structures, gives much information
of a most interesting kind, and throws a new light upon many previously
obscure portions of the subject. Most interesting is that part of the
work devoted to the mechanical means employed by the builders of the
Pyramids. Mr Petrie traces in the huge stones of which the Pyramids
are built, the undoubted marks of saw-cutting and tubular drilling. He
believes that the tools employed were of bronze, and asserts that this
metal has left a green stain on the sides of the saw-cuts. Jewels, to
form cutting-points, he believes to have been set both in the teeth of
the saws and also on the circumference of the drills. (If this be true,
rock-boring diamond drills are no new things.) He has even detected
evidence of the employment of lathes with fixed tools and mechanical
rests.
There is now little doubt as to the value of ensilage as a food for
cattle, for there is abundant testimony from various parts of the
country, where the experiment has been tried of building silos,
that beasts thrive upon the compressed fodder that had been stored
therein. For instance, its value as a fatting food for cattle has been
demonstrated upon Mr Stobart’s estate at Northallerton, by a carefully
conducted trial. Twelve beasts were divided into two lots of six each.
All were alike given the same quantity of meal and cake. Besides this,
one lot received daily, each beast, twenty-four and a half pounds of
hay and ninety-five pounds of turnips; the other lot receiving in
lieu of hay and turnips each seventy-five pounds of ensilage. At the
beginning of the experiment, the animals were weighed separately. At
the end of one month they were again weighed. All of course showed a
great advance; but those fed on ensilage totalled up to a figure which
was forty-nine pounds better than the total exhibited by those fed in
the more orthodox style.