A HOPE EXPIRES.
Mr. Longcluse knocked at Mr. David Arden's door. Yes, Miss Maubray was
at home. He mounted the stairs, and was duly announced at the
drawing-room door, and saw the brilliant young lady, who received him
very graciously. She was alone.
Mr. Longcluse began by saying that the weather was cooler, and the sun
much less intolerable.
"I wish we could say as much for the people, though, indeed, they are
cool enough. There are some people called Tramways: he's a baronet--a
very new one. Do you know anything of them? Are they people one can
know?"
"I only know that Lady Tramway chaperoned a very charming young lady,
whom everybody is very glad to know, to Lady May's garden-party the
other day, at Richmond."
"Yes, very true; I'm that young lady, and that is the very reason I want
to know. My uncle placed me in their hands."
"Oh, he knows everybody."
"Yes, and every one, which is quite another thing; and the woman has
never given me an hour's quiet since. She presents me with bouquets, and
fruit, and every imaginable thing I don't want, herself included, at
least once a day; and I assure you I live in hourly terror of her
getting into the drawing-room. You don't know anything about them?"
"I only know that her husband made a great deal of money by a contract."
"That sounds very badly, and she is such a vulgar woman?"
"I know no more of them; but Lady May had her to Raleigh Hall, and
surely she can satisfy your scruples."
"No, it was my guardian who asked for their card, so that goes for
nothing. It is really too bad."
"My heart bleeds for you."
"By-the-bye, talking of Lady May, I had a visit from her not a
quarter-of-an-hour ago. What a fuss our friends at Mortlake do make
about the death of that disagreeable old man!--Alice, I mean. Richard
Arden bears it wonderfully. When did you see either?" she asked,
innocently.
"You forget he has not been dead three weeks, and Alice Arden is not
likely to see any one but very intimate friends for a long time;
and--and I daresay you have heard that Sir Richard Arden and I are not
on very pleasant terms."
"'Oh! Pity such difference should be----.'"
"Thanks, and Tweedledum and Tweedledee are not likely to make it up. I'm
afraid people aren't always reasonable, you know, and expect, often,
things that are not quite fair."
"He ought to marry some one with money, and give up play."
"What! give up play, and commence husband? I'm afraid he'd think that a
rather dull life."
"Well, I'm sure I'm no judge of that, although I give an opinion.
Whatever he may be, you have a very staunch friend in Lady May."
"I'm glad of that; she's always so kind." And he looked rather oddly at
the young lady.
Perhaps she seemed conscious of a knowledge more than she had yet
divulged.
This young lady was, I need not tell you, a little coarse. She had, when
she liked, the frankness that can come pretty boldly to the point; but I
think she could be sly enough when she pleased; and was she just a
little mischievous?
"Lady May has been talking to me a great deal about Alice Arden. She has
been to see her very often since that poor old man died, and she
says--she says, Mr. Longcluse--will you be upon honour not to repeat
this?"
"Certainly, upon my honour."
"Well, she says----"
Miss Maubray gets up quickly, and settles some flowers over the
chimney-piece.
"She says that there is a coolness in that quarter also."
"I don't quite see," says Mr. Longcluse.
"Well, I must tell you she has taken me into council, and told me a
great deal; and she spoke to Alice, and wrote to her. Did she say she
would show you the answer? I have got it; she left it with me, and asked
me--she's so good-natured--to use my influence--she said _my_ influence!
She ought to know I've _no_ influence."
Longcluse felt very oddly indeed during this speech; he had still
presence of mind not to add anything to the knowledge the young lady
might actually possess.
"You have not said a great deal, you know; but Lady May certainly did
promise to show me an answer which she expected to a note she wrote
about three weeks ago, or less, to Miss Arden."
"I really don't know of what use I can be in the matter. I have no
excuse for speaking to Alice on the subject of her note--none in the
world. I think I may as well let you see it; but you will promise--you
_have_ promised--not to tell any one?"
"I have--I do--I promise. Lady May herself said she would show me that
letter."
"Well, I can't, I suppose, be very wrong. It is only a note: it does not
say much, but quite enough, I'm afraid, to make it useless, and almost
impertinent, for me, or any one else, to say a word more on the subject
to Alice Arden."
All this time she is opening a very pretty marqueterie writing-desk, on
spiral legs, which Longcluse has been listlessly admiring, little
thinking what it contains. She now produced a little note, which,
disengaging from its envelope, she places in the hand that Mr. Longcluse
extended to receive it.
"I do so hope," she said, as she gave it to him, "that I am doing what
Lady May would wish. I think she shrank a little from showing it to you
herself, but I am certain she wished you to know what is in it."
He opened it quickly. It ran thus ("Merry," I must remark, was a pet
name, originating, perhaps, in Shakespeare's song that speaks of "the
merry month of May"):--
"DEAREST MERRY,
"I hope you will come to see me to-morrow. I cannot yet bear the
idea of going into town. I feel as if I never should, and I think I
grow more and more miserable every day. You are one of the very few
friends whom I can see. You can't think what a pleasure a call from
you is--if, indeed, in my miserable state, I can call anything a
pleasure. I have read your letter about Mr. Longcluse, and parts of
it a little puzzle me. I can't say that I have anything to forgive,
and I am sure he has acted just as kindly as you say. But our
acquaintance has ended, and nothing shall ever induce me to renew
it. I can give you fifty reasons, when I see you, for my not
choosing to know him. Darling Merry, I have quite made up my mind
upon this point. I _don't_ know Mr. Longcluse, and I _won't_ know
Mr. Longcluse; and I'll tell you _all_ my reasons, if you wish to
hear them, when we meet. Some of them, which seem to me _more_ than
sufficient, you do know. The only condition I make is that you don't
discuss them with me. I have grown so stupid that _I_ really cannot.
I only know that I am right, and that _nothing_ can change me. Come,
darling, and see me very soon. You have no idea how very wretched I
am. But I do not complain: it has drawn me, I hope, to higher and
better thoughts. The world is not what it was to me, and I pray it
never may be. Come and see me soon, darling; you cannot think how I
long to see you.--Your affectionate,
"ALICE ARDEN."
"What mountains of molehills!" said Mr. Longcluse, very gently, smiling
with a little shrug, as he placed the letter again in Miss Maubray's
hand.
"Making such a fuss about that poor old man's death! It certainly does
look a little like a pretty affectation. Isn't that what you mean? He
_was_ so _insupportable_!"
"No, I know nothing about that. I mean such a ridiculous fuss about
nothing. Why, people cease to be acquainted every day for much less
reason. Sir Reginald chose to talk over his money matters with me, and I
think he expected me to do things which no stranger could be reasonably
invited to do. And I suppose, now that he is gone, Miss Arden resents my
insensibility to his hints; and I daresay Sir Richard, who, I may say,
on precisely similar grounds, chooses to quarrel with me, does not spare
invective, and has, of course, a friendly listener in his sister. But
how absurdly provoking that Lady May should have made such a diplomacy,
and given herself so much trouble! And--I'm afraid I appear so
foolish--I merely assented to Lady May's kind proposal to mediate, and I
could not, of course, appear to think it a less important mission than
she did; and--where are you going--Scotland? Italy?"
"My guardian, Mr. Arden, has not yet settled anything," she answered;
and upon this, Mr. Longcluse begins to recommend, and with much
animation to describe, several Continental routes, and then he tells her
all his gossip, and takes his leave, apparently in very happy spirits.
I doubt very much whether the face can ever be taught to lie as
impudently as the tongue. Its muscles, of course, can be trained; but
the young lady thought that Mr. Longcluse's pallor, as he smiled and
returned the note, was more intense, and his dark eyes strangely fierce.
"He was more vexed than he cared to say," thought the young lady. "Lady
May has not told me the whole story yet. There has been a great deal of
fibbing, but I shall know it all."
Mr. Longcluse had to dine out. He drove home to dress. On arriving, he
first sat down and wrote a note to Lady May.
"DEAR LADY MAY,
"I am so grateful. Miss Maubray told me to-day all the trouble you
have been taking for me. Pray think no more of that little vexation.
I never took so serious a view of so commonplace an unpleasantness,
as to dream of tasking your kindness so severely. I am quite ashamed
of having given you so much trouble.--Yours, dear Lady May,
sincerely,
"WALTER LONGCLUSE."
"P.S.--I don't forget your kind invitation to lunch to-morrow."
Longcluse dispatched this note, and then wrote a few words of apology to
the giver of the City dinner, to which he had intended to go. He could
not go. He was very much agitated: he knew that he could not endure the
long constraint of that banquet. He was unfit, for the present, to bear
the company of any one. Gloomy and melancholy was the pale face of this
man, as if he were going to the funeral of his beloved, when he stepped
from his door in the dark. Was he going to walk out to Mortlake, and
shoot himself on the steps?
As Mr. Longcluse walked into town, he caught a passing sight of a
handsome young face that jarred upon him. It was that of Richard Arden,
who was walking, also alone, not under any wild impulse, but to keep an
appointment. This handsome face appeared for a moment gliding by, and
was lost. Melancholy and thoughtful he looked, and quite unconscious of
the near vicinity of his pale adversary. We shall follow him to his
place of rendezvous.
He walked quickly by Pall Mall, and down Parliament Street, into the
ancient quarter of Westminster, turned into a street near the Abbey, and
from it into another that ran toward the river. Here were tall and dingy
mansions, some of which were let out as chambers. In one of these, in a
room over the front drawing-room, Mr. Levi received his West-end
clients; and here, by appointment, he awaited Sir Richard Arden.
The young baronet, a little paler, and with the tired look of a man who
was made acquainted with care, enters this room, hot with the dry
atmosphere of gas-light. With his back towards the door, and his feet on
the fender, smoking, sits Mr. Levi. Sir Richard does not remove his hat,
and he stands by the table, which he slaps once or twice sharply with
his stick. Mr. Levi turns about, looking, in his own phrase, unusually
"down in the mouth," and his big black eyes are glowing angrily.
"Ho! Shir Richard Harden," he says, rising, "I did not think we was sho
near the time. Izh it a bit too soon?"
"A little later than the time I named."
"Crikey! sho it izh."