A Coup Manqué.
It has been said that Mrs. M'Diarmid took an earnest motherly interest
in Madeleine Kilsyth; but the bare statement is by no means sufficient
to explain the real feelings entertained towards the somewhat forlorn
motherless girl by the brisk energetic vulgar little woman of the
world, who was her connection by marriage. Such affections spring up
in many female breasts which, to all outward appearance, are most
unpromising soil; they need no cultivation, no looking after, no
watering with the tears of sympathy or gratitude, no raking or hoeing
or binding up. They are ruthlessly lopped off in their tenderest
shoots; but they grow again, and twine away round the "object" as
parasitically as ever. Mrs. M'Diarmid's regard for Madeleine was quite
of the parasitical type, in its best sense, be it always understood.
She loved the young girl with all her heart and soul, and would as
soon have dreamed of inspiring as of "carneying" her, as she expressed
it. Her love for Madeleine was pure and simple and unaffected,
deep-seated, and capable of producing great results; but it was of the
"poor-dear" school, after all.
Nothing, for instance, could persuade Mrs. M'Diarmid that Madeleine
was not very much to be pitied in every act and circumstance of her
life. The fact of having a stepmother was in itself a burden
sufficient to break the spirit of any ordinarily-constituted young
woman, according to Mrs. Mac's idea. Not but that Mrs. Mac and Lady
Muriel "got on very well together," according to the former lady's
phraseology; not but that Lady M. (whom she was usually accustomed to
speak of, when extra emphasis was required, as Lady Hem) did her duty
by Madeleine perfectly and thoroughly; but still, as Mrs. Mac would
confess, "she was not one of them; she was of a different family; and
what could you expect out of your own blood and bone?" "One of them"
meant of the Kilsyth family, of which Mrs. M'Diarmid to a certain
portion of her acquaintance, described herself as a component part. In
the late summer and the early autumn, when the Kilsyths and all their
friends had left town, dear old Mrs. M'Diarmid would revel in the
light with which, though her suns of fashion had set, her horizon was
still illumined. When the grandees of Belgravia and Tyburnia have sped
northward in the long preëngaged seat of the limited mail; when they
are coasting round the ever-verdant Island, or lounging in all the
glory of pseudo-naval get-up on the pier at Ryde, there is yet corn in
Egypt, balm in Gilead, and fine weather in the suburbs of London.
Many of Mrs. M'Diarmid's acquaintance, formed in the earlier and
ante-married portion of her life, were found in London during those
months. Some had been away to Ramsgate and Margate with their children
in June; others, unable to "get away from business," had compromised
the matter with their wives by taking a cottage at Richmond or
Staines, and running backwards and forwards from town for a month, and
staying at home on the Saturday. To these worthy people Mrs. M'Diarmid
was the connecting link between them and that fashionable world, of
whose doings they read so religiously every Saturday in the
fashionable journal. For her news, her talk, her appearance, they
loved this old lady, and paid her the greatest court. From some of
them she received brevet rank, and was spoken of as the Honourable
Mrs. M'Diarmid; from all she received kindness and--what she never
gave herself--toadyism. Pleasant dinners at the furnished cottages at
Richmond and Staines, Star-an-Garter reflections, picnics on the
river, what was even more delicious, a croquet-party on the lawn, tea,
and an early supper, with some singing afterwards--all these delights
were provided by her acquaintances for Mrs. M'Diarmid, who had nothing
to do but to sit still, and be taken about; to recall a few of the
scenes of her past season's gaiety; to drop occasionally the names of
a few of her grand acquaintance, and to have it thoroughly understood
that she was "one of them."
Use is second nature; and by dint of perpetually repeating that she
was "one of them," Mrs. M'Diarmid had almost begun to forget the
lodging-house and its associations, and to believe that she was a
blood-relation of the old house of Kilsyth. It did the old lady no
harm, this innocent self-deception; it did not render her insolent,
arrogant, or stuck-up; it did not for an instant tend to render her
forgetful of her position in the household, and it did perhaps
increase the fond maternal affection which she entertained for
Madeleine. How could Lady Muriel feel for that girl like one of her
own blood? Besides, had she not now children of her own, about whose
future she was naturally anxious, and whose future might clash with
that of her stepdaughter? Whose future? Ay, it was about Madeleine's
future that she was so anxious; and just about this stage in our
history Mrs. M'Diarmid, revolving all these things in her mind, set
herself seriously to consider what Madeleine's future should be.
To a woman of Mrs. M'Diarmid's stamp the future of a young girl, it is
almost needless to say, meant her marriage. Notwithstanding all the
shams which, to use Mr. Carlyle's phrases, have been exploded, all the
Babeldoms which have been talked out, all the mockeries, delusions,
and snares which have been exposed, it yet remains that marriage is
the be-all and end-all of the British maiden's existence. That
accomplished, life shuts up; or is of no account, with the
orange-flowers and the tinkling bells, the ring, the oath, and the
blessing; all that childhood has played at, and maidenhood has dreamed
of, is at an end. The husband is secured, and so long as he is in the
requisite position and possesses the requisite means--_vogue la
galère_ in its most respectable translation, be it understood--all
that is requisite on friends' part has been done. We laugh when we
hear that a charwoman offers to produce her "marriage-lines" in proof
of her respectability; but we slur over the fact that in our own
social status we are content to aim at the dignity achieved by the
charwoman's certificate, and not to look beyond into the future
thereby opened.
Madeleine's marriage? Yes; Mrs. M'Diarmid had turned that subject over
in her mind a hundred thousand times; had chewed the cud of it until
all taste therein had been exhausted; had had all sorts of
preposterous visions connected therewith, none of which had the
smallest waking foundation. Madeleine's marriage? It was by her own
marriage that Mrs. M'Diarmid had made her one grand _coup_ in life,
and consequently she attached the greatest value to it. She was always
picturing to herself Madeleine married to each or one of the different
visitors in Brook-street; seeing her walking up the aisle with one,
standing at the altar-rails with another, muttering "I will" to a
third, and shyly looking up after signing the register with a fourth.
The old lady had the good sense to keep these mental pictures in her
own mental portfolio, but still she was perpetually drawing them forth
for her own mental delectation. None of the young men who were in the
habit of dropping in in Brook-street for a cup of afternoon tea and a
social chat had any notion of the wondrous scenes passing through the
brain of the quiet elderly lady, whom they all liked and all laughed
at. None of them knew that in Mrs. Mac's mind's eye, as they sat there
placidly sipping their tea and talking their nonsense, they were
transfigured; that their ordinary raiment was changed into the blue
coat and yellow waistcoat dear to this valentine artist; that from
their coat-collar grew the attenuated spire of a village church, and
that sounds of chiming bells drowned their voices. Madeleine as a
countess presented at a drawing-room "on her marriage;" Madeleine
receiving a brilliant circle as the wife of a brilliant member of the
House of Commons; Madeleine doing the honours of the British embassy
at the best and most distinguished legation which happened at the time
to be vacant. All these pictures had presented themselves to Mrs.
M'Diarmid, and been filled up by her mentally in outline and detail.
Other supplementary pictures were there in the same gallery. Madeleine
presenting new colours to the gallant 140th as the wife of their
colonel; Madeleine landing from the Amphitrite, amidst the cheers of
her crew, as the wife of their admiral; Madeleine graciously receiving
the million pounds' worth of pearls and diamonds which the native
Indian princes offered to the wife of their governor-general. All
these different shiftings of the glasses of the magic lantern appeared
to Mrs. M'Diarmid as she noticed the attention paid to Madeleine by
the different visitors in Brook-street.
But these, after all, were mere daydreams, and it was time Mrs.
M'Diarmid thought that some real and satisfactory match should be
arranged for her dear child. Since the return of the family from
Scotland, after Madeleine's illness, Mrs. M'Diarmid either had
noticed, or fancied she had noticed, that Lady Muriel was less
interested in her stepdaughter than ever, more inclined to let her
have her own way, less particular as to who sought her society. Under
these circumstances, not merely did Mrs. M'Diarmid's dragon
watchfulness increase tenfold, but the necessity of speedily taking
her darling into a different atmosphere, and surrounding her with
other cares and hopes in life, made itself doubly apparent. For
hours and hours the old lady sat in her own little room, cosy little
room,--neat, tidy, clean, and wholesome-looking as the old lady
herself,--revolving different matrimonial schemes in her mind,
guessing at incomes, weighing dispositions, thinking over the traits
and characteristics, the health and position of every marriageable man
of her acquaintance. And all to no purpose; for the old lady, though a
tolerably shrewd and worldly-wise old lady, was a good woman: in the
early days of the lodging-house she had had a spirit of religion
properly instilled into her; and this, aided by her genuine and
unselfish love for Madeleine, would have prevented her from wishing to
see the girl married to any one, no matter what were his wealth,
position, and general eligibility, unless there was the prospect of
her darling's life being a happy one with him. "I don't see my way
clear, my dear," she would say to Mrs. Tonkley, the most intimate of
her early life acquaintances, and the only one whom the old lady
admitted into her confidence (Mrs. Tonkley had been Sarah Simmons,
daughter of Simmons's private hotel, and had married Tonkley, London
representative of Blades and Buckhorn of Sheffield),--"I don't see my
way clear in this business, my dear, and that's the truth. Powers
forbid my Madeleine should marry an old man, though among our people
it's considered to be about the best thing that could happen to a
girl, provided he's old enough, and rich into the bargain. Why, there
are old fellows, tottering old wretches, that crawl about with mineral
teeth in their mouths and other people's hair on their heads, and
they'd only have to say, 'Will you?' to some of the prettiest and the
best-born girls in England, and they'd get the answer 'Yes' directly
minute! No, no; I've seen too much of that. Not to name names, there's
one old fellow, a lord and a general, all stars and garters and
crosses and ribbons, and two seasons ago he carried off a lovely girl.
I won't put a name to her, my dear, but you've seen her photographic
likeness in the portrait-shops; and what is it now? Divorced? Lord,
no, my dear; that sort of thing's never done amongst US, nor even
separation, so far as the world knows. O no; they live very happily
together, to all outward show, and she has her opera-box, and jewels
as much as she can wear; but, Lor' bless you, I hear what the young
fellows say who come to our house about the way she goes on, and the
men who are always about her, and who was meant by the stars and
blanks in last week's _Dustman_. No, no; no old wretch for Madeleine;
nor any of your fast boys either, with their drags and their yachts,
and their hunters and their Market Harboroughs, and their Queen's
Benches, I tell'em; for that's what it'll come to. You can't build a
house of paper, specially of stamped paper, to last very long; and
though you touch it up every three months or so, at about the end of a
year down it goes with a run, and you and your wife and the lot of you
go with it! That would be a pleasant ending for my child, to have to
live at Bolong on what her husband got by winning at cards from the
foreigners; and that's not likely to be much, I should think. No; that
would never do. I declare to you, my dear Sarah, when I think about
that dear girl's future, I am that driven as to be at my wits' end."
There was another reason for the old lady's feeling "driven" when
thinking over her dear girl's future which she never imparted to her
dear Sarah, nor indeed to anyone else, but which she crooned over
constantly, and relished less and less after each spell of
consideration, and that was the evident intention of Lady Muriel with
regard to Ramsay Caird. Mrs. M'Diarmid, though a woman of strong
feelings, rarely, if ever, took antipathies; but certainly her strong
aversion to Ramsay Caird could be called by no other name. She hated
him cordially, and took very little pains to conceal her dislike,
though, if she had been called upon, she would have found it difficult
to define the reasons for her prejudice. It was probably the obvious
purpose for which he had been introduced into the family which the
old lady immediately divined and as immediately execrated, that made
her his enemy; but she could not put forward this reason, and she
had no other to offer. She used to say to herself that he was a
"down-looking fellow," which was metaphorical, inasmuch as Ramsay
Caird had rather a frank and free expression, though, to one more
versed in physiognomy than Mrs. M'Diarmid, there certainly was a
shifty expression in his eyes. She hated to see him paying
attention to Madeleine, bending over her, hovering near her--in
her self-communion the old lady declared that it gave her "the
creeps"--and it was with great difficulty that she refrained when
present from actually shuddering. It was lucky that she did so
refrain; for Lady Muriel, who brooked no interference with her plans,
would have ruthlessly given Mrs. Mac her _congé_, and closed the
doors of Brook-street against her for ever.
To find someone so eligible that Kilsyth would take a fancy to him--a
fancy which Lady Muriel could not, in common honesty, combat--and
thus to get rid of Ramsay Caird and his pretensions to Madeleine's
hand,--this was Mrs. M'Diarmid's great object in life. But she had
pottered hopelessly about it; and it is probable that she would never
have succeeded in getting the smallest clue to what, if properly
carried through, might really have led to the accomplishment of her
hopes, had it not been for her own kindness of heart, which led her to
spend many of her leisure half-hours in the nursery with Lady Muriel's
little girls. Sitting one day with these little ladies, but in truth
not attending much to their prattle, being occupied in her favourite
daydream, Mrs. M'Diarmid was startled by hearing an observation which
at once interested her, and caused her to attend to the little ladies'
conversation.
"When you grow up, Maud, will you be like Maddy?" asked little Ethel.
"I don't know," replied her sister. "I think I shall be quite as
pretty as Maddy; and I'm sure I sha'n't be half so dull."
"You don't know that! People are only dull because they can't help it.
They're not dull on purpose; only because they can't help it."
"Well, then, I shall help it," said Maud in an imperious way.
"Besides, it's not always that Maddy's dull; she's only dull since
we've been back in London; she wasn't dull at Kilsyth."
"Ah, no one was dull at Kilsyth," said little Ethel with a sigh.
"O, we all know what you mean by that, Ethel," said Maud. "You silly
sentimental child, you were happy at Kilsyth because you had _someone_
with you."
"Well, it's no use talking to you, Maud; because you're a dreadful
flirt, and care for no one in particular, and like to have a heap of
men always round you. But wasn't Madeleine happy at Kilsyth because
she had _someone_ with her?"
"Why, you don't mean that Lord Roderick?"
"Lord Roderick, indeed! I should think not," said little Ethel,
flushing scarlet. "Madeleine's 'someone' was much older and graver and
wiser and sterner, and nothing like so good-looking."
"Ethel dear, you talk like a child!" said Maud, who, by virtue of her
twelvemonth's seniority, gave herself quite maternal airs towards her
sister. "Of course I see you're alluding to Dr. Wilmot; but you can't
imagine that Maddy cared for him in any way but that of a--a friend
who was grateful to him--for--"
"O yes! 'Your grateful patient,' we know! Maddy did not know how to
end her note to him the other morning, and I kept suggesting all kinds
of things: 'yours lovingly,' and 'yours eternally,' and 'your own
devoted;' and made Madge blush awfully; and at last she put that.
'Grateful patient'! grateful rubbish! You hadn't half such
opportunities as I had of seeing them together at Kilsyth, Maud."
"I'm not half so romantic and sentimental, Ethel; and I can see a
doctor talking to a girl about her illness without fancying he's madly
in love with her. And now I am going to my music." And Maud pranced
out of the room.
And then Mrs. M'Diarmid who had greedily swallowed every word of this
conversation between the children, laid down the book over which she
had been nodding; and going up to little Ethel, gave herself over to
the task of learning from the child her impressions of the state of
Madeleine's feelings towards Dr. Wilmot, and of gleaning as much as
she could of all that passed between them at Kilsyth; the result being
that little Ethel, who was, as her sister had said, sentimentally and
romantically inclined, led her old friend to believe, first, that
Madeleine was deeply attached to the doctor, and, secondly, that the
doctor was inclined to respond promptly to the young lady's
sentiments.
That night Mrs. M'Diarmid remained at home, for the purpose of
"putting on her considering cap," as she phrased it, and steadily
looking at the question of Madeleine's future in the new light now
surrounding it. Like all other old ladies, she had a _tendresse_ for
the medical profession; and though she had never met Dr. Wilmot, she
had often heard of him, and had taken great interest in his rise and
progress. And this was the man who was to fulfil her expectations, and
to prevent Madeleine's being sacrificed to a sordid or disagreeable
match? It really seemed like it. Dr. Wilmot was in the prime of life,
was highly thought of and esteemed by all who knew him, was
essentially a man of mark in the world, and must be in the enjoyment
of a very lucrative practice. Practice? ay, that was rather awkward!
Kilsyth would not care much about having a son-in-law who was in
practice, and at the beck and call of every hypochondriacal old
woman; and Lady Muriel would, Mrs. Mac was certain, refuse to
entertain such a notion. And yet Dr. Wilmot was in every other respect
so eligible; it was a thousand pities! Dr. Wilmot! Yes, there it was;
that "Doctor" would stick to him through life; and he, from all she
had heard of him, was just the man to be proud of the title, and
refuse to be addressed by any other. Unless, indeed, they could get
him knighted; that would be something indeed. Sir--Sir--whatever his
name was--Wilmot would sound very well; and nobody need ever know that
he had felt pulses and written prescriptions. That is, of course, if
he retired from his professsion, as he would do on his marriage into
"our" family; because if the unpleasantness with Lady Muriel and--but
then how were they to live? Dr. Wilmot could not possibly have saved
enough money to retire upon; and though Madeleine had her own little
fortune, neither Kilsyth nor Lady Muriel would feel inclined to accept
for a son-in-law a penniless man, unless he had some old alliance with
the family. The old lady was very much puzzled by all these thoughts.
She sat for hour after hour revolving plans and projects in her head,
without arriving at any definite result. The want of adequate fortune
without continuing in practice--that was what worried Mrs. M'Diarmid.
She had already perfectly settled in her own mind that Madeleine and
Wilmot adored each other. She had pictured them both at the altar, and
settled upon the new dress to which she should treat herself on the
occasion of their marriage--a nice brown _moire_; none of your cheap
rubbish--a splendid silk, stiff as a board, that would stand upright
by itself, as one might say; and she knew just the pew which she would
be shown into. All the arrangements were completed in Mrs. Mac's
mind--all, with the exception of the income for the happy pair.
How could that be managed? What could be done? Were there not
appointments, government things, where people were very well paid, and
which were always to be had, if asked for by people of influence?
Straightway the indefatigable old lady began questioning everybody
able to give her information about consulships, secretaryships, and
commissionerships; and received an amount of news that quite
bewildered her. Two or three men in the Whitehall offices, who were in
the habit of coming to Brook-street, from whom she had endeavoured to
glean information, amused themselves by telling her the wildest
nonsense of the necessary qualifications for such appointments; so
that the old lady was in despair, and almost at her wits' end, when
she suddenly bethought her of Mr. Foljambe. The very man! Wealthy and
childless, with the highest opinion of Wilmot, and with a great regard
for Madeleine. Mrs. Mac remembered hearing it said in Brook-street,
long before Madeleine's illness, that Mr. Foljambe would in all
probability leave his fortune to Dr. Wilmot. And his fortune was a
very large one--quite enough to keep up the dignity of a knight upon;
though indeed, as there would be no lack of money, Mrs. Mac did not
see why a baronetcy should not be substituted. Lady Wilmot, and
green-and-gold liveries, and hair-powder, of course; that would be the
very thing, if that dear old man would only settle it, and not care to
live too long after he had settled it--his attacks of gout were
dreadful now, she had heard Lady Muriel say--all would be well. Would
it be possible to ascertain whether there was any real foundation for
the gossip whether Mr. Foljambe had really made Wilmot his heir? Would
it not be possible to give him such hints respecting his power of
benefiting the future of two persons in whom he had the greatest
interest as to settle him finally in his amiable determination? Mrs.
M'Diarmid was a woman of impulse, and believed much in the expediency
of "clinching the nail," and "striking the iron while it was hot," as
she expressed it. "In such matters as these," she was accustomed to
say, "nothing is ever done by third parties, or by writing; if you
want a thing done, go and see about it at once, and go and see about
it yourself, Lord love you!" Acting on which wise maxims, Mrs.
M'Diarmid determined to call in person upon Mr. Foljambe, and then and
there "have it out with him."
At ten o'clock on the following morning, Mr. Foljambe, seated at
breakfast, was disturbed by a sharp rap at his street-door. Mrs.
M'Diarmid was right in saying that the old gentleman's gout had been
extra troublesome lately, and his temper had deteriorated in
proportion to the sharpness and the frequency of the attacks. He had
had some very sharp twinges the previous evening, and was in anything
but a good temper; and as the clanging knock resounded through the
hall, and penetrated to the snug little room where the old gentleman,
in a long shawl dressing-gown, such as were fashionable
five-and-twenty years ago, but are now seldom seen out of farces, was
dallying with his toast and glancing at the _Times_, he broke out into
a very naughty exclamation. A thorough type of the 'old English
gentleman of his class, Mr. Foljambe, as witness his well-bred hands
and feet,--the former surrounded by long and beautifully white
wristbands, one of the latter incased in the nattiest of
morocco-leather slippers, though the other was in a large list
shoe,--his high cross-barred muslin cravat, his carefully trimmed gray
whiskers, and his polished head.
"Visitors' bell!" muttered the old gentleman to himself, after giving
vent to the naughty exclamation. "What the deuce brings people calling
here at this hour? Just ten!" with a glance at the clock. "'Pon my
word, it's too bad; as though one were a doctor, or a dentist, and on
view from now till five. Who can it be? Collector of some local
charity, probably, or someone to ask if somebody else doesn't live
here, and to be quite astonished and rather indignant when he finds
he's come to the wrong house."
"Well, Sergeant," to the servant who had just entered, "what is it?"
"Lady, sir, to speak with you," said Sergeant, grim and inflexible. He
objected to women anywhere in general, but at that house in
particular. Like his master, he passed for a misogynist; but unlike
his master, he was one.
"A lady! God bless my soul, what an extraordinary thing for a lady to
come here to see me, and at this hour, Sargeant!"
The tone of Mr. Foljambe's voice invited response; but from Sargeant
no response came. His master had uttered his sentiments, and there was
nothing more to say.
"Why don't you answer, man?" said the old gentleman peevishly. "What
sort of a lady is she? Young or old, tall or short? What do you think
she has come about, Sargeant?"
"About middle 'ithe; but 'ave her veil down. Wouldn't give a message;
but wanted to speak to you partickler, sir."
"Confounded fellow! no getting anything out of him!" mattered the old
gentleman beneath his breath. Then aloud, "Where is she?"
"I put the lady in the droring-room, sir; but no fire, as the chimlies
was swept this morning."
"I know that; I heard 'em, the scoundrels! No fire! the woman will be
perished! Here, bring me down a coat, and take this dressing-gown, and
just put these things aside, and poke the fire, and brighten up the
place, will you?"
As soon as the old gentleman had put on his coat, and cast a hasty
glance at himself in the glass, he hobbled to the drawing-room, and
there found a lady seated, who, when she raised her veil, partly to
his relief, partly to his disappointment, revealed the well-known
features of Mrs. M'Diarmid.
"God bless my soul, my dear Mrs. Mac, who ever would have thought of
seeing you here! I mean to say this is what one might call an
unexpected pleasure. Come out of this confoundedly cold room, my dear
madam. Now I know who is my visitor, I will, with your permission,
waive all formality and receive you in my sanctum. This way, my dear
madam. You must excuse my hobbling slowly; but my old enemy the gout
has been trying me rather severely during the last few days."
Chattering on in this fashion, the old gentleman gallantly
offered Mrs. M'Diarmid his arm, and led her from the cold and
formally-arranged drawing-room, where everything was set and stiff, to
his own cheerful little room, the perfection of bachelor comfort and
elegance.
"Wheel a chair round for the lady, Sargeant, there, with its back to
the light, and push that footstool nearer.--There, my dear madam,
that's more comfortable. You have breakfasted? Sorry for it. I've some
orange pekoe that is unrivalled in London, and there's a little ham
that is perfectly de-licious. You won't? Then all I can say is, that
yours is the loss. And now, my dear madam, you have not told me what
has procured me the honour of this visit."
Had the old lady been viciously disposed, she might easily have
pleaded that her host had not given her the chance; but as it was her
policy to be most amiable, she merely smiled sweetly upon him, and
said that her visit was actuated by important business.
Outside the bank-parlour, Mr. Foljambe detested business visits of all
kinds; and even there he only tolerated them. Female visitors were his
special aversion; and the leaden-buttoned porter in Lombard-street had
special directions as to their admission. The junior partner, a buck
of forty-five, who dressed according to the fashion of ten years
since, and who was supposed still to cause a flutter in the virgin
breasts of Balham, where his residence, "The Pineries," was situate,
was generally told off to reply to the questions of such ladies as
required consultation with Burkinyoung, Foljambe, and Co.
So that when Mrs. M'Diarmid mentioned business as the cause of her
visit, the old gentleman was scarcely reassured, and begged for a
farther explanation.
"Well, when I say business, Mr. Foljambe," said the old lady, again
resuming her smile, "I scarcely know whether I'm doing justice to what
lies in my own--my own bosom. Business, Mr. Foljambe, is a hard word,
as I know well enough, connected with my early life--of which you
know, no doubt, from our friends in Brook-street--connected with
boot-cleaning, and errand-sending, and generally poor George's
carryings-on in--no matter. And indeed there is but little business
connected with what rules the court, the camp, the grove, and is like
the red red rose, which is newly sprung in June, sir. You will
perceive, Mr. Foljambe, that I am alluding to Love."
"To Love, madam!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a jerk, thinking at
the same time, "Good God! can it be possible that I have ever said
anything to this old vulgarian that can have induced her to imagine
that I'm in love with her?"
"To Love, Mr. Foljambe; though to you and me, at our time of life,
such ideas are generally _non compos_. Yet there are hearts that feel
for another; and yours is one, I am certain sure."
"You must be a little clearer, madam, if you want me to follow you,"
said the old gentleman gruffly.
"Well, then, to have no perspicuity or odontification, and to do our
duty in that state into which heaven has called us," pursued Mrs. Mac,
with a lingering recollection of the Church Catechism, "am I not right
in thinking that you take an interest in our Maddy?"
"In Miss Kilsyth?" said Foljambe. "The very greatest interest that a
man at--at my time of life could possibly take in a girl of her age.
But surely you don't think, Mrs. M'Diarmid, that--that I'm in love
with her?"
"Powers above!" exclaimed Mrs. Mac, "do you think that I've lost my
reason; or that if you were, it would be any good? Do you think that I
for one would stand by and see my child sacrificed? No, of course I
don't mean that! But what I do mean is, that you're fond of our Maddy,
ain't you?"
"Yes," said the old gentleman with a burst; "yes, I am; there, will
that content you? I think Madeleine Kilsyth a very charming girl!"
"And worthy of a very charming husband, Mr. Foljambe?"
"And worthy of a very charming husband. But where is he? I have been
tolerably intimate with the family for years--not, of course, as
intimate as you, my dear Mrs. M'Diarmid, but still I may say an
intimate and trusted friend--and I have never seen anyone whom I could
think in the least likely to be a _prétendu_--not in the least."
"N-no; not before they left for Scotland, certainly."
"No; and then in Scotland, you know, of course there would have been a
chance--country house full of company, thrown together and all that
kind of thing--best adjuncts for love-making, importunity and
opportunity, as I daresay you know well enough, my dear madam; but
then Maddy was taken ill, and that spoilt the whole chance."
"Spoilt the whole chance! Maddy's illness spoilt the whole chance, did
it? Are you quite sure of that, Mr. Foljambe? Are you quite sure that
that illness did not decide Maddy's future?"
"That illness!"
"That illness. 'Importunity and opportunity,' to quote your own words,
Mr. Foljambe, the last if hot the worst--have it how you will."
"My dear Mrs. M'Diarmid, you are speaking in riddles; you are a
perfect Sphinx, and I am, alas, no OEdipus. Will you tell me shortly
what you mean?"
"Yes, Mr. Foljambe, I will tell you; I came to tell you, and to ask
you, as an old friend of the family, what you thought. More than that,
I came to ask you, as an old friend of one whom I think most
interested, what you thought. You know well and intimately Dr.
Wilmot?"
"Know Wilmot? Thoroughly and most intimately, and--why, good God, my
dear madam, you don't think that Wilmot is in love with Miss Kilsyth?"
"I confess that I have thought--"
"Rubbish, my dear madam! Simple nonsense! You have been confounding
the attention which a man wrapped up in his own profession, in the
study of science, pays to a case, with attentions paid to an
individual. Why, my dear madam, if--not to be offensive--if _you_ had
had Miss Kilsyth's illness, and Wilmot had attended you, he would have
bestowed on you exactly the same interest."
"Perhaps while the case lasted, Mr. Foljambe, while his professional
duty obliged him to do so; but not afterwards."
"Not afterwards? Does Dr. Wilmot still pay attention to Miss Kilsyth?"
"The last time I was in Brook-street I saw him there," said the old
lady, bridling, "paying Miss Kilsyth great 'attention.'"
"Then it was a farewell visit, Mrs. M'Diarmid," replied Mr. Foljambe.
"Dr. Wilmot quits town--and England--at once, for a lengthened sojourn
on the Continent."
"Leaves town--and England?" said Mrs. Mac blankly.
"For several months. Devoted to his profession, as he always has been,
without the smallest variation in his devotion, he goes to Berlin to
study in the hospitals there. Does that look like the act of an ardent
_soupirant_, Mrs. M'Diarmid?"
"Not unless he has reasons for feeling that it is better that he
should so absent himself," said the old lady.
"Of that you will probably be the best judge," said Mr. Foljambe. "My
knowledge of Chudleigh Wilmot is not such as to lead me to believe
that he would 'set his fortunes on a die' without calculating the
result."
In the "off season," when her fashionable friends were away from town,
Mrs. M'Diarmid was in the habit of receiving some few acquaintances
who constituted a whist-club, and met from week to week at each
other's houses. Amongst this worthy sisterhood Mrs. Mac passed for a
very shrewd and clever woman; a "deep" woman, who never "showed her
hand." But on turning into Portland-place after her interview with Mr.
Foljambe, the old lady felt that she had forfeited that title to
admiration, and that too without the slightest adequate result.