“Herewe are, Alice,” says Sir Richard, as they entered the hall. “We'll have a good talk this evening. We'll make the best of everything; and I don't see if Uncle David chooses to prevent it, why the old ship should founder after all.”
They are now in the house. It is hard to get rid of the sense of constraint that, in his father's time, he always experienced within those walls; to feel that the old influence is exorcised and utterly gone, and that he is himself absolute master where so lately he hardly ventured to move on tip-toe.
They did not talk so much as Sir Richard had anticipated. There were upon his mind some things that weighed heavily. He had got from Levi a list of the advances made by his luckily found friend, and the total was much heavier than he had expected. He began to fear that he might possibly exceed the limits which his uncle must certainly have placed somewhere. He might not, indeed, allow him to suffer the indignity of a bankruptcy; but he would take a very short and unpleasant course with him. He would seize his rents, and, with a friendly roughness, put his estates to nurse, and send the prodigal on a Childe Harold's pilgrimage of five or six years, with an allowance, perhaps, of some three hundred a year, which in his frugal estimate of a young man's expenditure, would be handsome.
While he was occupied in these ruminations, Alice cared not to break the silence. It was a very unsociabletête-à-tête. Alice had a secret of her own to brood over. If anything could have made Longcluse now more terrible to her imagination, it would have been a risk of her brother's knowing anything of the language he had dared to hold to her. She knew from her brother's own lips, that he was a duellist; and she was alsopersuaded that Mr. Longcluse was, in his own playful and sinister phrase, very literally a “miscreant.” His face, ever since that interview, was always at her right side, with its cruel pallor, and the vindictive sarcasm of lip and tone. How she wished that she had never met that mysterious man! What she would have given to be exempted from his hatred, and blotted from his remembrance!
One object only was in her mind, distinctly, with respect to that person. She was, thank God, quite beyond his power. But men, she knew, live necessarily a life so public, and have so many points of contact, that better opportunities present themselves for the indulgence of a masculine grudge; and she trembled at the thought of a collision. Why, then, should not Dick seek a reconciliation with him, and, by any honourable means, abate that terrible enmity.
“I have been thinking, Dick, that, as Uncle David makes the interest he takes in your affairs a secret, and you can't consult him, it would be very well indeed if you could find some one else able to advise, who would consult with you when you wished.”
“Of course, I should be only too glad,” says Sir Richard, yawning and smiling as well as he could at the same time; “but an adviser one can depend on in such matters, my dear child, is not to be picked up every day.”
“Poor papa, I think, was very wise in choosing people of that kind. Uncle David, I know, said that he made wonderfully good bargains about his mortgages, or whatever they are called.”
“I daresay—I don't know—he was always complaining, and always changing them,” says Sir Richard. “But if you can introduce me to a person who can disentangle all my complications, and take half my cares off my shoulders, I'll say you are a very wise little woman indeed.”
“I only know this—that poor papa had the highest opinion of Mr. Longcluse, and thought he was the cleverest person, and the most able to assist, of any one he knew.”
Sir Richard Arden hears this with a stare of surprise.
“My dear Alice, you seem to forget everything. Why, Longcluse and I are at deadly feud. He hates me implacably. There never could be anything but enmity between us. Not that I care enough abouthimto hate him, but I have the worst opinion of him. I have heard the most shocking stories about him lately. They insinuate that he committed a murder! I told you of that jealousy and disappointment, about a girl he was in love with and wanted to marry, and it ended inmurder! I'm told he had the reputation of being a most unscrupulous villain. They say he was engaged in several conspiracies to pigeon young fellows. He was the utter ruin, they say, of youngThornley, the poor muff who shot himself some years ago; and he was thought to be a principal proprietor of that gaming-house in Vienna, where they found all the apparatus for cheating so cleverly contrived.”
“But are any of these things proved?” urges Miss Arden.
“I don't suppose he would be at large if they were,” says Sir Richard, with a smile. “I only know that I believe them.”
“Well, Dick, you know I reminded you before—you used not to believe those stories till you quarrelled with him.”
“Why, what do you want, Alice?” he exclaims, looking hard at her. “What on earth can you mean? And what can possibly make you take an interest in the character of such a ruffian?”
Alice's face grew pale under his gaze. She cleared her voice and looked down; and then she looked full at him, with burning eyes, and said—
“It is because I am afraid of him, and think he may do you some dreadful injury, unless you are again on terms with him. I can't get it out of my head; and I daresay I am wrong, but I am sure I am miserable.”
She burst into tears.
“Why, you darling little fool, what harm can he do me?” said Richard fondly, throwing his arms about her neck and kissing her, as he laughed tenderly. “He exhausted his utmost malice when he angrily refused to lend me a shilling in my extremity, or to be of the smallest use to me, at a moment when he might have saved me, without risk to himself, by simply willing it.Ididn't ask him, you may be sure. An officious, foolish little friend, doing all, of course, for the best,did, without once consulting me, or giving me a voice in the matter, until he had effectually put his foot in it, as I told you. I would not for anything on earth have applied to him, I need not tell you; but it was done, and it only shows with what delight he would have seen me ruined, as, in fact, I should have been, had not my own relations taken the matter up. I do believe, Alice, the best thing I could do for myself and for you would be to marry,” he says, a little suddenly, after a considerable silence.
Alice looks at him, doubtful whether he is serious.
“I really mean it. It is the only honest way of making or mending a fortune now-a-days.”
“Well, Dick, it is time enough to think of that by-and-by, don't you think?”
“Perhaps so; I hope so. At present it seems to me that, as far as I am concerned, it is just a race between the bishop and the bailiff which shall have me first. If any lady is good enough to hold out a hand to a poor drowning fellow, she had better——”
“Take care, Dick, that the poor drowning fellow does not pull her in. Don't you think it would be well to consider first what you have got to live on?”
“I have plenty to live on; I know that exactly,” said Dick.
“What is it?”
“My wife's fortune.”
“You are never serious for a minute, Dick! Don't you think it would be better first to get matters a little into order, so as to know distinctly what you are worth?”
“Quite the contrary; she'd rather not know. She'd rather exercise her imagination than learn distinctly what I am worth. Any woman of sense would prefer marrying me so.”
“I don't understand you.”
“Why, if I succeed in making matters quite lucid, I don't think she would marry me atall.Isn't it better to say, ‘My Angelina,’ or whatever else it may be, ‘you see before you Sir Richard Arden, who has estates in Yorkshire, in Middlesex, and in Devonshire, thus spanning all England from north to south. We had these estates at the Conquest. There is nothing modern about them but the mortgages. I have never been able to ascertain exactly what they bring in by way of rents, or pay out by way of interest. That I stand here, with flesh upon my bones, and pretty well-made clothes, I hope, upon both, is evidence in a confused way that an English gentleman—a baronet—can subsist upon them; and this magnificent muddle I lay at your feet with the devotion of a passionate admirer of your personal—property!’ That, I say, is better than appearing with a balance-sheet in your hand, and saying, ‘Madam, I propose marrying you, and I beg to present you with a balance-sheet of the incomings and outgoings of my estates, the intense clearness of which will, I hope, compensate for the nature of its disclosures. I am there shown in the most satisfactory detail to be worth exactly fifteen shillings per annum, and how unlimited is my credit will appear from the immense amount and variety of my debts. In pressing my suit I rely entirely upon your love of perspicuity and your passion for arithmetic, which will find in the ledgers of my steward an almost inexhaustible gratification and indulgence.’ However, as you say, Alice, I have time to look about me, and I see you are tired. We'll talk it over to-morrow morning at breakfast. Don't think I have made up my mind; I'll do exactly whatever you like best. But get to your bed, you poor little soul; you do look so tired!”
With great affection they parted for the night. But Sir Richard did not meet her at breakfast.
After she had left the room some time, he changed his mind, left a message for his sister with oldCrozier,ordered his servantand trap to the door, and drove into town. It was not his good angel who prompted him. He drove to a place where he was sure to find high play going on, and there luck did not favour him.
What had become of Sir Richard Arden's resolutions? The fascinations of his old vice were irresistible. The ring of the dice, the whirl of the roulette, the plodding pillage of whist—any rite acknowledged by Fortune, the goddess of his soul, was welcome to that keen worshipper. Luck was not always adverse; once or twice he might have retreated in comparative safety; but the temptation to “back his luck” and go on prevailed, and left him where he was.
About a week after the evening passed at Mortlake, a black and awful night of disaster befel him.
Every other extravagance and vice draws its victim on at a regulated pace, but this of gaming is an hourly trifling with life, and one infatuated moment may end him. How short had been the reign of the new baronet, and where were prince and princedom now?
Before five o'clock in the morning, he had twice spent a quarter of an hour tugging at Mr. Levi's office-bell, in the dismal old street in Westminster. Then he drove off toward his lodgings. The roulette was whirling under his eyes whenever for a moment he closed them. He thought he was going mad.
The cabman knew a place where, even at that unseasonable hour, he might have a warm bath; and thither Sir Richard ordered him to drive. After this, he again essayed the Jew's office. The cool early morning was over still quiet London—hardly a soul was stirring. On the steps he waited, pulling the office-bell at intervals. In the stillness of the morning, he could hear it distinctly in the remote room, ringing unheeded in that capacious house.
Itwas, of course, in vain looking for Mr. Levi there at such an hour. Sir Richard Arden fancied that he had, perhaps, a sleeping-room in the house, and on that chance tried what his protracted alarm might do.
Then he drove to his own house. He had a latch-key, and let himself in. Just as he is, he throws himself into a chair in his dressing-room. He knows there is no use in getting into his bed. In his fatigued state, sleep was quite out of the question. That proud young man was longing to open his heart to the mean, cruel little Jew.
Oh, madness! why had he broken with his masterly and powerful friend, Longcluse? Quite unavailing now, his repentance. They had spoken and passed like ships at sea, in this wide life, and now who could count the miles and billows between them! Never to cross or come in sight again!
Uncle David! Yes, he might go to him; he might spread out the broad evidences of his ruin before him, and adjure him, by the God of mercy, to save him from the great public disgrace that was now imminent; implore of him to give him any pittance he pleased, to subsist on in exile, and to deal with the estates as he himself thought best. But Uncle David was away, quite out of reach. After his whimsical and inflexible custom, lest business should track him in his holiday, he had left no address with his man of business, who only knew that his first destination was Scotland; none with Grace Maubray, who only knew that, attended by Vivian Darnley, she and Lady May were to meet him in about a fortnight on the Continent, where they were to plan together a little excursion in Switzerland or Italy.
Sir Richard quite forgot there was such a meal as breakfast. He ordered his horse to the door, took a furious two hours' ride beyond Brompton, and returned and saw Levi at his office, at his usual hour, eleven o'clock. The Jew was alone. His large lowering eyes were cast on Sir Richard as he entered and approached.
“Look, now; listen,” says Sir Richard, who looks wofully wild and pale, and as he seats himself never takes his eyes off Mr. Levi. “I don't care very much who knows it—I think I'm totallyruined.”
The Jew knows pretty well all about it, but he stares and gapes hypocritically in the face of his visitor as if he were thunderstruck, and he speaks never a word. I suppose he thought it as well, for the sake of brevity and clearness, to allow his client “to let off the shteam” first, a process which Sir Richard forthwith commenced, with both hands on the table—sometimes clenched, sometimes expanded, sometimes with a thump, by blowing off a cloud of oaths and curses, and incoherent expositions of the wrongs and perversities of fortune.
“I don't think I can tell you how much it is. I don't know,” says Sir Richard bleakly, in reply to a pertinent question of the Jew's. “There was that rich fellow, what's his name, that makes candles—he's always winning. By Jove, what a thing luck is! He won—I know it is more than two thousand. I gave him I O U's for it. He'd be very glad, of course, to know me, curse him! I don't care, now, who does. And he'd let me owe him twice as much, for as long as I like. I daresay, only too glad—as smooth as one of his own filthy candles. And there were three fellows lending money there. I don't know how much I got—I was stupid. I signed whatever they put before me. Those things can't stand, by heavens; the Chancellor will set them all aside. The confounded villains! What's the Government doing? What's the Government about, I say? Why don't Parliament interfere, to smash those cursed nests of robbers and swindlers? Here I am, utterly robbed—I know I'mrobbed—and all by that cursed temptation; and—and—and I don't know what cash I got, nor what I have put my name to!”
“I'll make out that in an hour's time. They'll tell me at the houshe who the shentleman wazh.”
“And—upon my soul that's true—I owe the people there something too; it can't be much—it isn't much. And, Levi, like a good fellow—by Heaven, I'llneverforget it to you, if you'll think of something. You've pulled me through so often; I am sure there's good-nature in you; you wouldn't see a fellow you've known so long driven to the wall and made a beggar of, without—without thinking of something.”
Levi looked down, with his hands in his pockets, and whistled to himself, and Sir Richard gazed on his vulgar features as if his life or death depended upon every variation of their expression.
“You know,” says Levi, looking up and swaying his shoulders a little, “the old chap can't do no more. He's taken a share in that Austrian contract, and he'll want his capital, every pig. I told you lasht time. Wouldn't Lonclushe give you a lift?”
“Not he. He'd rather give me a shove under.”
“Well, they tell me you and him wazh very thick; and your uncle'sh man, Blount, knowshe him, and can just ashk him, from himself, mind, not from you.”
“For money?” exclaimed Richard.
“Not at a—all,” drawled the Jew impatiently. “Lishen—mind. The old fellow, your friend——”
“He's out of town,” interrupted Richard.
“No, he'sh not. I shaw him lasht night. You're a—all wrong. He'sh not Mr. David Harden, if that'sh what you mean. He'sh a better friend, and he'll leave you a lot of tin when he diesh—an old friend of the family—and if all goeshe shmooth he'll come and have a talk with you fashe to fashe, and tell you all his plansh about you, before a week'sh over. But he'll be at hish lasht pound for five or six weeksh to come, till the firsht half-million of the new shtock is in the market; and he shaid, ‘I can't draw out a pound of my balanshe, but if he can get Lonclushe's na—me, I'll get him any shum he wantsh, and bear Lonclusheharmlesh.’”
“I don't think I can,” said Sir Richard; “I can't be quite sure, though. It is just possible he might.”
“Well, let Blount try,” said he.
There was another idea also in Mr. Levi's head. He had been thinking whether the situation might not be turned to some more profitable account, for him, than the barren agency for the “friend of the family,” who “lent out money gratis,” like Antonio; and if he did not “bring down the rate of usance,” at all events, deprived the Shylocks of London, in one instance at least, of their fair game.
“If he won't do that, there'sh but one chansh left.”
“What is that?” asked Sir Richard, with a secret flutter at his heart. It was awful to think of himself reduced to his last chance, with his recent experience of what a chance is.
“Well,” says Mr. Levi, scrawling florid capitals on the table with his office pen, and speaking with much deliberation, “I heard you were going to make a very rich match; and if the shettlementsh was agreed on, I don't know but we might shee our way to advancing all you want.”
Sir Richard gets up, and walks slowly two or three times up and down the room.
“I'll see about Blount,” said he; “I'll talk to him. I think those things are payable in six or eight days; and that tallow-chandler won't bother me to-morrow, I daresay. I'll go to-day and talk to Blount, and suppose you come to me to-morrow evening at Mortlake. Will nine o'clock do for you? I sha'n't keep you half-an-hour.”
“A—all right, Shir—nine, at Mortlake. If you want any diamondsh, I have a beoo—ootiful collar and pendantsh, in that shaafe—brilliantsh. I can give you the lot three thoushand under cosht prishe. You'll wa—ant a preshent for the young la—ady.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sir Richard, abstractedly. “To-morrow night—to-morrow evening at nine o'clock.”
He stopped at the door, looking silently down the stairs, and then without leave-taking or looking behind him, he ran down, and drove to Mr. Blount's house, close by, in Manchester Buildings.
For more than a year the young gentleman whom we are following this morning had cherished vague aspirations, of which good Lady May had been the object. There was nothing to prevent their union, for the lady was very well disposed to listen. But Richard Arden did not like ridicule, and there was no need to hurry; and besides, within the last half-year had arisen another flame, less mercenary; also, perhaps, reciprocated.
Grace Maubray was handsome, animated; she had that combination of air, tact, cleverness, which enter into the idea ofchic. With him it had been a financial, but notwithstanding rather agreeable, speculation. Hitherto there seemed ample time before him, and there was no need to define or decide.
Now, you will understand, the crisis had arrived, which admitted of neither hesitation nor delay. He was now at Blount's hall-door. He was certain that he could trust Blount with anything, and he meant to learn from him whatdothis Uncle David intended bestowing on the young lady.
Mr. Blount was at home. He smiled kindly, and took the young gentleman's hand, and placed a chair for him.
Mr. Blountwas intelligent: he was an effective though not an artful diplomatist. He promptly undertook to sound Mr. Longcluse without betraying Sir Richard.
Richard Arden did not allude to his losses. He took good care to appear pretty nearly as usual. When he confessed histendressefor Miss Maubray, the grave gentleman smiled brightly, and took him by the hand.
“Ifyoushould marry the young lady, mark you, she will have sixty thousand pounds down, and sixty thousand more after Mr. David Arden's death. That is splendid, Sir, and I think it will please himverymuch.”
“I have suffered a great deal, Mr. Blount, by neglecting his advice hitherto. It shall be my chief object, henceforward, to reform, and to live as he wishes. I believe people can't learn wisdom without suffering.”
“Will you take a biscuit and a glass of sherry, Sir Richard?” asked Mr. Blount.
“Nothing, thanks,” said Sir Richard. “You know, I'm not as rich as I might have been, and marriage is a very serious step; and you are one of the oldest and most sensible friends I have, and you'll understand that it is only right I should be very sure before taking such a step, involving not myself only, but another who ought to be dearer still, that there should be no mistake about the means on which we may reckon. Are you quite sure that my uncle's intentions are still exactly what you mentioned?”
“Perfectly; he authorised me to say so two months ago, and on the eve of his departure on Friday last he repeated his instructions.”
Sir Richard, in silence, shook the old man very cordially by the hand, and was gone.
As he drove to his house in May Fair, Sir Richard's thoughts, among other things, turned again upon the question, “Who could his mysterious benefactor be?”
Once or twice had dimly visited his mind a theory which, ever since his recent conversation with Mr. Levi, had been growing more solid and vivid. An illegitimate brother of his father's, Edwin Raikes, had gone out to Australia early in life, with a purse to which three brothers, the late Sir Reginald, Harry, and David, had contributed. He had not maintained any correspondence with English friends and kindred; but rumours from time to time reached home that he had amassed a fortune. His feelings to the family of Arden had always been kindly. He was older than Uncle David, and had well earned a retirement from the life of exertion and exile which had consumed all the vigorous years of his manhood. Was this the “old party” for whom Mr. Levi was acting?
With this thought opened a new and splendid hope upon the mind of Sir Richard. Here was a fortune, if rumour spoke truly, which, combined with David Arden's, would be amply sufficient to establish the old baronetage upon a basis of solid magnificence such as it had never rested on before.
It would not do, however, to wait for this. The urgency of the situation demanded immediate action. Sir Richard made an elaborate toilet, after which, in a hansom, he drove to Lady May Penrose's.
If our hero had had fewer things to think about he would have gone first, I fancy, to Miss Grace Maubray. It could do no great harm, however, to feel his way a little with Lady May, he thought, as he chatted with that plump alternative of his tender dilemma. But in this wooing there was a difficulty of a whimsical kind. Poor Lady May was so easily won, and made so many openings for his advances, that he was at his wits' end to find evasions by which to postpone the happy crisis which she palpably expected. He did succeed, however; and with a promise of calling again, with the lady's permission, that evening, he took his leave.
Before making his call at his uncle's house, in the hope of seeing Grace Maubray, he had to return to Mr. Blount, in Manchester Buildings, where he hoped to receive from that gentleman a report of his interview with Mr. Longcluse.
I shall tell you here what that report related. Mr. Longcluse was fortunately still at his house when Mr. Blount called, and immediately admitted him. Mr. Longcluse's horse and groom were at the door; he was on the point of taking his ride. Hisgloves and whip were beside him on the table as Mr. Blount entered.
Mr. Blount made his apologies, and was graciously received. His visit was, in truth, by no means unwelcome.
“Mr. David Arden very well, I hope?”
“Quite well, thanks. He has left town.”
“Indeed! And where has he gone—the moors?”
“To Scotland, but not to shoot, I think. And he's going abroad then—going to travel.”
“On the Continent? How nice that is! What part?”
“Switzerland and Italy, I think,” said Mr. Blount, omitting all mention of Paris, where Mr. Arden was going first to make a visit to the Baron Vanboeren.
“He's going over ground that I know very well,” said Mr. Longcluse. “Happy man! He can't quite break away from his business, though, I daresay.”
“He never tells us where a letter will find him, and the consequence is his holidays are never spoiled.”
“Not a bad plan, Mr. Blount. Won't he visit the Paris Exhibition?”
“I rather think not.”
“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Blount?”
“Well, Mr. Longcluse, I just called to ask you a question. I have been invited to take part in arranging a little matter which I take an interest in, because it affects the Arden estates.”
“Is Sir Richard Arden interested in it?” inquired Mr. Longcluse, gently and coldly.
“Yes, I rather fancy he would be benefited.”
“I have had a good deal of unpleasantness, and, I might add, a great deal of ingratitude from that quarter, and I have made up my mind never again to have anything to do with him or his affairs. I have no unpleasantfeeling, you understand; no resentment; there is nothing, of course, he could say or do that could in the least affect me. It is simply that, having coolly reviewed his conduct, I have quite made up my mind to aid in nothing in which he has act, part, or interest.”
“It was notdirectly, but simply as a surety——”
“All the same, so far as I'm concerned,” said Mr. Longcluse sharply.
“And only, I fancied, it might be, as Mr. David Arden is absent, and you should be protected by satisfactory joint security——”
“I won't do it,” said Mr. Longcluse, a little brusquely; and he took out his watch and glanced at it impatiently.
“Sir Richard, I think, will be in funds immediately,” said Mr. Blount.
“How so?” asked Mr. Longcluse. “You'll excuse me, asyou press the subject, for sayingthatwill be something new.”
“Well,” said Mr. Blount, who saw that his last words had made an impression, “Sir Richard is likely to be married, very advantageously, immediately.”
“Are settlements agreed on?” inquired Mr. Longcluse, with real interest.
“No, not yet; but I know all about them.”
“He is accepted then?”
“He has not proposed yet; but there can be, I fancy, no doubt that the lady likes him, and all will go right.”
“Oh! and who is the lady?”
“I'm not at liberty to tell.”
“Quite right; I ought not to have asked,” says Mr. Longcluse; and looks down, slapping at intervals the side of his trousers lightly with his whip. He raises his eyes to Mr. Blount's face, and looks on the point of asking another question, but he does not.
“It is my opinion,” said Mr. Blount, “the kindness would involve absolutely no risk whatever.”
There was a little pause. Mr. Longcluse looks rather dark and anxious; perhaps his mind has wandered quite from the business before them. But it returns, and he says,—
“Risk or no risk, Mr. Blount, I don't mean to do him that kindness; and for how long will Mr. David Arden be absent?”
“Unless he should take a sudden thought to return, he'll be away at least two months.”
“Where is he?—in Scotland?”
“Ireallydon't know.”
“Couldn't one see him for a few minutes before he starts? Where does he take the steamer?”
“Southampton.”
“And on what day?”
“You really want a word with him?” asked Blount, whose hopes revived.
“I may.”
“Well, the only person who will know that is Mr. Humphries, of Pendle Castle, near that town; for he has to transact some trust-business with that gentleman as he passes through.”
“Humphries, of Pendle Castle. Very good; thanks.”
Mr. Longcluse looks again at his watch.
“And perhaps you will reconsider the matter I spoke of?”
“No use, Mr. Blount—not the least. I have quite made up my mind. Anything more? I am afraid I must be off.”
“Nothing, thanks,” said Mr. Blount.
And so the interview ended.
When he was gone, Mr. Longcluse thought darkly for a minute.
“That's a straightforward fellow, they say. I suppose the facts are so. It can't be, though, that Miss Maubray, that handsome creature with so much money, is thinking of marrying that insolent coxcomb. It may be Lady May, but the other is more likely. We must not allowthat, Sir Richard. That would never do.”
There was a fixed frown on his face, and he was smiling in his dream. Out he went. His pale face looked as if he meditated a wicked joke, and, frowning still in utter abstraction, he took the bridle from his groom, mounted, looked about him as if just wakened, and set off at a canter, followed by his servant, for David Arden's house.
Smiling, gay, as if no care had ever crossed him, Longcluse enters the drawing-room, where he finds the handsome young lady writing a note at that moment.
“Mr. Longcluse, I'm so glad you've come!” she says, with a brilliant smile. “I was writing to poor Lady Ethel, who is mourning, you know, in the country. The death of her father in the house was so awfully sudden, and I'm telling her all the news I can think of to amuse her. And is it really true that old Sir Thomas Giggles has grown so cross with his pretty young wife, and objects to her allowing Lord Knocknea to make love to her?”
“Quite true. It is a very bad quarrel, and I'm afraid it can't be made up,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“It must be very bad, indeed, if Sir Thomas can't make it up; for he allowed his first wife, I am told, to do anything she pleased. Is it to be a separation?”
“Atleast. And you heard, I suppose, of poor old Lady Glare?”
“No!”
“She has been rolling ever so long, you know, in a sea of troubles, and now, at last, she has fairly foundered.”
“How do you mean?”
“They have sold her diamonds,” said Mr. Longcluse. “Didn't you hear?”
“No! Really? Sold her diamonds? Good Heaven! Then there's nothing left of her but her teeth. I hope they won't sell them.”
“It is an awful misfortune,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Misfortune! She's utterly ruined. It was her diamonds that people asked. I am really sorry. She was such fun; she was so fat, and such a fool, and said such delicious things, and dressed herself so like a macaw. Alas! I shall never see her more; and people thought her only use on earth was to carryabout her diamonds. No one seemed to perceive what a delightful creature she was. What about Lady May Penrose? I have not seen her since I came back from Cowes, the day before yesterday, and we leave London together on Tuesday.”
“Lady May! Oh! she is to receive a very interesting communication, I believe. She is one name on a pretty long and very distinguished list, which Sir Richard Arden, I am told, has made out, and carries about with him in his pocket-book.”
“You're talking riddles; pray speak plainly.”
“Well, Lady May is one of several ladies who are to be honoured with a proposal.”
“And would you have me believe that Sir Richard Arden has really made such a fool of himself as to make out a list of eligible ladies whom he is about to ask to marry him, and that he has had the excellent good sense and taste to read this list to his acquaintance?”
“I mean to say this—I'll tell the whole story—Sir Richard has ruined himself at play; take that as a fact to start with. He is literally ruined. His uncle is away; but I don't think any man in his senses would think of paying his losses for him. He turns, therefore, naturally, to the more amiable and less arithmetical sex, and means to invite, in turn, a series of fair and affluent admirers to undertake, by means of suitable settlements, that interesting office for him.”
“I don't think you like him, Mr. Longcluse; is not that a story a little too like ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor?’”
“It is quite certain I don't like him, and it is quite certain,” added Mr. Longcluse, with one of his cold little laughs, “that if I did like him, I should not tell the story; but it is also certain that the story is, in all its parts, strictly fact. If you permit me the pleasure of a call in two or three days, you will tell me you no longer doubt it.”
Mr. Longcluse was looking down as he said that with a gentle and smiling significance. The young lady blushed a little, and then more intensely, as he spoke, and looking through the window, asked with a laugh,—
“But how shall we know whether he really speaks to Lady May?”
“Possibly by his marrying her,” laughed Mr. Longcluse. “He certainly will if he can, unless he is caught and married on the way to her house.”
“He was a little unfortunate in showing you his list, wasn't he?” said Grace Maubray.
“I did not say that. If there had been any, the least, confidence, nothing on earth could have induced me to divulge it. We are not even, at present, on speaking terms. He had the coolness to send a Mr. Blount, who transacts all Mr. DavidArden's affairs, to ask me to become his security, Mr. Arden being away; and by way of inducing me to do so, he disclosed, with the coarseness which is the essence of business, the matrimonial schemes which are to recoup, within a few days, the losses of the roulette, the whist-table, or the dice-box.”
“Oh! Mr. Blount, I'm told, is a very honest man.”
“Quite so; particularly accurate, and I don't think anything on earth would induce him to tell an untruth,” testifies Mr. Longcluse.
After a little pause, Miss Maubray laughs.
“One certainly does learn,” she said, “something new every day. Could any one have fancied agentlemandescending to so gross a meanness?”
“Everybody is a gentleman now-a-days,” remarked Mr. Longcluse with a smile; “but every one is not a hero—they give way, more or less, under temptation. Those who stand the test of the crucible and the furnace are seldom met with.”
At this moment the door opened, and Lord Wynderbroke was announced. A little start, a lighting of the eyes, as Grace rose, and a fluttered advance, with a very pretty little hand extended, to meet him, testified, perhaps, rather more surprise than one would have quite expected. For Mr. Longcluse, who did not know him so well as Miss Maubray, recognised his voice, which was peculiar, and resembling the caw of a jay, as he put a question to the servant on his way up.
Mr. Longcluse took his leave. He was not sorry that Lord Wynderbroke had called. He wished no success to Sir Richard's wooing. He thought he had pretty well settled the question in Miss Maubray's mind, and smiling, he rode at a pleasant canter to Lady May's. It was as well, perhaps, that she should hear the same story. Lady May, however, unfortunately, had just gone out for a drive.
Itwas quite true that Lady May was not at home. She was actually, with a little charming palpitation, driving to pay a very interesting visit to Grace Maubray. In affairs of the kind that now occupied her mind, she had no confidants but very young people.
Miss Maubray was at home—and instantly Lady May's plump instep was seen on the carriage step. She disdained assistance, and descended with a heavy skip upon the flags, where she executed aninvoluntaryfrisk that carried her a little out of the line of advance.
As she ascended the stairs, she met her friend Lord Wynderbroke coming down. They stopped for a moment on the landing, under a picture of Cupid and Venus; Lady May, smiling, remarked, a little out of breath, what a charming day it was, and expressed her amazement at seeing him in town—a surprise which he agreeably reciprocated. He had been at Glenkiltie in the Highlands, where he had accidentally met Mr. David Arden. “Miss Maubray is in the drawing-room,” he said, observing that the eyes of the good lady glanced unconsciously upward at the door of that room. And then they parted affectionately, and turned their backs on each other with a sense of relief.
“Well, my dear,” she said to Grace Maubray as soon as they had kissed, “longing to have a few minutes with you, with ever so much to say. You have no idea what it is to be stopped on the stairs by that tiresome man—I'll never quarrel with you again for calling him a bore. No matter, here I am; and really, my dear, itissuch an odd affair—not quite that; such an odd scene, I don't know where or how to begin.”
“I wish I could help you,” said Miss Maubray laughing.
“Oh, my dear, you'd never guess in a hundred years.”
“How do you know? Hasn't a certain baronet something to do with it?”
“Well, well—dear me! That isveryextraordinary. Did he tell you he was going to—to—Good gracious! My dear, itisthe most extraordinary thing. I believe you hear everything; but—a—butlisten. Not an hour ago he came—Richard Arden, of course, we mean—and, my dear Grace, he spoke so very nicely of his troubles, poor fellow, you know—debts I mean, of course—not the least his fault, and all that kind of thing, and—he went on—I really don't know how to tell you. But he said—he said—he said he liked me, and no one else on earth; and he was on the very point of sayingeverything, when, just at that moment, who should come in but that gossiping old woman, Lady Botherton—and he whispered, as he was going, that he would return, after I had had my drive. The carriage was at the door, so, when I got rid of the old woman, I got into it, and came straight here to have a talk with you; and what do you think I ought to say? Do tell me, like a darling, do!”
“I wish you would tellmewhat one ought to say to that question,” said Grace Maubray with a slight disdain (that young lady was in the most unreasonable way piqued), “for I'm told he's going to ask me precisely the same question.”
“You, my dear?” said Lady May after a pause, during which she was staring at the smiling face of the young lady;“youcan't be serious!”
“Hecan't be serious, you mean,” answered the young lady, “and—who's this?” she broke off, as she saw a cab drive up to the hall-door. “Dear me! is it? No. Yes, indeed, it is Sir Richard Arden. We must not be seen together. He'll know you have been talking to me. Just go in here.”
She opened the door of the boudoir adjoining the room.
“I'll send him away in a moment. You may hear every word I have to say. I should like it. I shall give him a lecture.”
As she thus spoke she heard his step on the stair, and motioned Lady May into the inner room, into which she hurried and closed the door, leaving it only a little way open.
These arrangements are hardly completed when Sir Richard is announced. Grace is positively angry. But never had she looked so beautiful; her eyes so tenderly lustrous under their long lashes; her colour so brilliant—an expression so maidenly and sad. If it was acting, it was very well done. You would have sworn that the melancholy and agitation of her looks, and the slightly quickened movement of her breathing, were those of a person who felt that the hour of her fate had come.
With what elation Richard Arden saw these beautiful signs!