AsDavid Arden drove towards town, his confusion rather increased. Why should Mr. Longcluse select him for this confidence? There were men in the City whom he must know, if not intimately, at least much better than he knew him. It was a very strange occurrence; and was not Mr. Longcluse's manner, also, strange? Was he not, somehow, very oddly cool under a charge of murder? There was something, it seemed, indefinably incongruous in the nature of his story, his request, and his manner.
It was five or ten minutes before the appointed time when David Arden and Longcluse met in the latter gentleman's “study” in Bolton Street. There was a slight, odd flutter at Longcluse's heart, although his pale face betrayed no sign of agitation, as the shuffling tread of a heavy foot was heard on the doorsteps, followed by a faint knock, like that of a tremulous postman. It was the preconcerted summons of Mr. Paul Davies.
Longcluse smiled at David Arden and raised his finger, as he lightly drew near the room door, with an air of warning. He wished to remind his companion that he was to receive their visitor alone. Mr. Arden nodded, and Mr. Longcluse withdrew. In a minute more the servant opened the study-door, and said—“Mr. Davies, Sir.”
And the tall ex-detective entered, and looked with a silky simper stealthily to the right and to the left from the corners of his eyes, and glided in, shutting the door behind him.
Uncle David received this man without even a nod. He eyed him sternly, from his chair at the end of the table.
“Sit in that chair, please,” said he, pointing to a seat at the other end.
The ex-policeman made his best bow, and turning out his toes very much, he shuffled with his habitual sly smirk on, to the chair, in which he seated himself, and with his big red hands on the table began turning, and twisting, and twiddling a short pencil, which was a good deal bitten at the uncut end, between his fingers and thumbs.
“You came here to see Mr. Longcluse?” asked David Arden.
“A few words of business at his desire. Sir, I ask your parding, I came, Sir, by his wishes, not mine, which has brought me here at his request.”
“And who am I, do you suppose?”
The man, still smiling, looked at him shrewdly. “Well, I don't know, I'm sure; I may 'a' seen you.”
“Did you ever see that gentleman?” said David Arden, as Mr. Longcluse entered the room.
The ex-detective looked also shrewdly at Longcluse, but without any light of recognition. “I may have seen him, Sir. Yes, I saw him in Saint George's, Hanover Square, the day Lord Charles Dillingsworth married Miss Wygram, thehairess. I saw him at Sydenham the second week in February last when the Freemasons' dinner was there; and I saw him on the night of the match between Hood and Markham, at the Saloon Tavern.”
“Do you know my name?” said David Arden.
“Well, no, I don't at present remember.”
“Do you know that gentleman'sname?”
“His name?”
“Ay, his name.”
“Well, no; I may have heard it, and I may bring it to mind, by-and-by.”
Longcluse smiled and shrugged, looking at Mr. Arden, and he said to the man—
“So you don't knowthatgentleman's name, nor mine?”
The man looked at each, hard and a little anxiously, like a person who feels that he may be making a very serious mistake; but after a pause he said decisively—“No, I don't at present. I say I don't know your names, either of you gentlemen, and Idon't.”
The two gentlemen exchanged glances.
“Is either of us as tall as Mr. Longcluse?” asked David Arden, standing up.
The man stood up also, to make his inspection.
“You're both,” he said, after a pause, “much about his height.”
“Is either of us like him?”
“No,” answered Davies, after a pause.
“Did you write these letters?” asked Mr. Longcluse laughing.
“Well, I did, or I didn't, and what's that to you?”
“Something, as you shall know presently.”
“I think you're trying it on. I reckon this is a bit of a plant. I don't care a scratch o' that pencil if it be. I wrote them letters, and I said nothin' but what's true, and I'll go with you now to the station if you like, and tell all I knows.”
The fellow seemed nettled, and laughed viciously a little, and swaggered at the close of his speech. The faintest flush imaginable tinged Longcluse's forehead, as he shot a searching glance at him.
“No, we don't want that,” said he; “but you may be of more use in another way, although just now you are in the wrong box, and have mistaken your man, forIam Mr. Longcluse. You have been misinformed, you see, as to theidentityof the person you suspect; but some person you have, no doubt, in your mind, and possibly a case worth sifting, although you have been deceived as to his name. Describe the appearance of the man you supposed to be Mr. Longcluse. You may be frank with me; I mean you no harm.”
“I defy any man to harm me, Sir, if you please, so long as I do my dooty,” said Paul Davies. “Mr. Longcluse, if that be his name, the man I mean, he's about your height, with round shoulders and red hair, and talks with a north-country twang on his tongue; he's a bit rougher, and aswaggerin'cove, and a yard o' red beard over his waistcoat, and bigger hands a deal than you, and broader feet.”
“And have you a case against him?”
“Partly, but it ain't, Sir, if you please, by no means so complete as would answer as yet. If I was sure you were really Mr. Longcluse, I could say more, for I partly guess who this other gent is—a most respectable party. I think I do know you, Sir, by appearance; if you had your 'at on, Sir, I could say to a certainty. But I think, Sir, if you please, I'm not very far wrong when I say that I would identify you for Mr. David Arden.”
“So I am; that is quite true.”
“Thank you, Sir, I am obleeged; that's very quietin' to my mind, Sir, having full confidence in your character; and if you, Sir, please to tell methatgentleman is undoubtingly Mr. Longcluse, the propperieter of this house, I must 'a' been let into a mistake; I don't think they was agreenin' of me, but it was a mistake, if you please, Sir, if you say so.”
“This is Mr. Longcluse—I know of no other—and he resides in this house,” said David Arden. “But if you have informationto give respecting that red-bearded fellow, there is no reason why you should not give it forthwith to the police.”
“Parding me, Sir, if you please, Mr. Arden. There is, I would say, strong reasons for a poor man in rayther anxious circumstances, like myself, Sir, 'aving an affectionate mother to, in a measure, support, and been himself unfortunately rayther hard up, he can't answer it nohow to his conscience if he lets a hoppertunity like the present pass him and his aged mother by unimproved. There been a reward offered, Sir, I naturally wish, Sir, if you please, to earn it myself by valuable evidence leading to the conviction of the guilty cove; and if I was to tell all I knows and 'av' made out by my own hindustry to the force, Sir, other persons would, don't you conceive, Sir, draw the reward, and me and my mother should go without. If I could get a hinterview with the man I 'av' bin a-gettin' things together for, I'd lead him, I 'av' no doubt, to make such hadmissions as would clench the prosecution, and vendicate justice.”
“I see what you mean,” said David Arden.
“And fair enough, I think,” added Longcluse.
Theex-detective cleared his voice, shook his head, and smirked.
“A hinterview, gentlemen,” said he, “is worth much in the hands of a persuasive party. I have hanged several obnoxious characters, and let others in for penal for life, by means of a hinterview. You remember Spikes, gentlemen, as got into difficulties for breaking Mr. Winterbotham's desk? Spikes would have frusterated justice, if it wasn't for me. It was done in one hinterview. Says I, ‘Mr. Spikes, you have a wife and five children.’”
The recollection of Mr. Paul Davies' diplomacy was so gratifying to that smiling gentleman, that he could not forbear winking at his auditors as he proceeded.
“‘And my belief is, Mr. Spikes, Sir,’” he continued, “‘that it was all the hinfluence of Tom Sprowles. It was Sprowles persuaded yer—it was him as got the whole thing up. That's my belief; and you did not want to do it, no-wise, and only consented to force the henges in the belief that Sprowles wanted to read the papers, and no more. I have a bad opinion of Sprowles,’ says I, ‘for deceiving you, I may say innocently;’ and talking this way, you conceive, I got it all out of him, and he's under penal for life. Whenever you want to get round a man, and to turn him inside out, your way is to sympathisewith him. If I had but an hinterview with that man, I know enough to draw it out of him, every bit. It's all done by sympathising.”
“But do you think you can discover the man?” asked Mr. Arden.
“I'm sure to make him out, if you please, Sir; I'll find out all about him. I'd a found out the facks long ago, but for the mistake, which it occurred most unlucky. I saw him twicesence, and I know well where to look for him; and I'll have it all right before long, I'm thinkin'.”
“That will do, then, for the present,” said Mr. Longcluse. “You have said all you have to say, and you see into what a serious mistake you have blundered; but I sha'n't give you any trouble about it—it is too ridiculous. Good-night, Mr. Davies.”
“No mistake of mine, Sir, please. Misinformed, Sir, you will kindly remark—misinformed, if you please—misinformed, as may occur to the sharpest party going. Good-night, gentlemen; I takes my leave without no unpleasant feelin', and good wishes for your 'ealth and 'appiness, both, gentlemen.” And blandly, and with a sly sleepy smile, this insinuating person withdrew.
“It is the reward he is thinking of,” said Longcluse.
“Yes, he won't spare himself; you mentioned that your own suspicions respecting him were but vague,” said David Arden.
“I merely stated what I saw to the coroner, and it was answered that he was watching the Frenchman Lebas, because the detective police, before Paul Davies' dismissal, had received orders to keep an eye on all foreigners; and he hoped to conciliate the authorities, and get a pension, by collecting and furnishing information. The police did not seem to think his dogging and watching the unfortunate little fellow really meant more than this.”
“Very likely. It is a very odd affair. I wonder who that fellow is whom he described. He did not give a hint as to the circumstances which excited his suspicions.”
“Itisstrange. But that man, Paul Davies, kept his eye upon Lebas from the motive I mentioned, and this circumstance may have led to his seeing more of the matter than, with the reward in his mind, he cares to make known at present. I think I did right in meeting him face to face.”
“Quite right, Sir.”
“It has been always a rule with me to go straight at everything. I think the best diplomacy is directness, and that the truest caution lies in courage.”
“Precisely my opinion, Mr. Longcluse,” said Uncle David, looking on him with eyes of approbation. He was near adding something hearty in the spirit of our ancestors' saying, “I hope you and I, Sir, may be better acquainted;” but something in the look and peculiar face of this unknown Mr. Longcluse chilled him, and he only said—
“As you say, Mr. Longcluse, courage is safety, and honesty the best policy. Good-night, Sir.”
“A thousand thanks, Mr. Arden. Might I ask one more favour, that you will endorse on each of these threatening letters a memorandum of the facts of this strange interview?—Imean a sentence or two, which may at any time confound this fellow, should he turn out to be a villain.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Arden thoughtfully, and he sat down again, and wrote a few lines on the back of each, which, having signed, he handed them to Mr. Longcluse, with the question, “Will that answer?”
“Perfectly, thank you very much; it is indeed impossible for me to thank you as I ought and wish to,” said Mr. Longcluse with effusion, extending his hand at the same time; but Mr. Arden took it without much warmth, and said, in comparison a little drily—
“No need to thank me, Mr. Longcluse; as you said at first, there are motives quite sufficient, of a kind for which you can owe me, personally, no thanks whatever, to induce the very slight trouble of coming here.”
“Well, Mr. Arden, Iamverymuchobliged to you, notwithstanding;” and so he gratefully saw him to the door, and smiled and bowed him off, and stood for a moment as his carriage whirled down the short street.
“He does not like me—nor I, perhaps, him. Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed, very softly and reservedly, looking down on the flags. “What an odd thing it is! Those instincts and antipathies, they are very odd.” All this, except the faint laughter, was in thought.
Mr. Longcluse stepped back. He was negatively happy—he was rid of an anxiety. He was positively happy—he had been better received by Miss Arden, this evening, than he had ever been before. So he went to his bed with a light heart, and a head full of dreams.
All the next day, one beautiful image haunted Longcluse's imagination. He was delayed in town; he had to consult about operations in foreign stocks; he had many words to say, directions to modify, and calls to make on this man and that. He had hoped to be at Mortlake Hall at three o'clock. But it was past six before he could disentangle himself from the tenacious meshes of his business. Never had he thought it so irksome. Was he not rich enough—too rich? Why should he longer submit to a servitude so wearisome? It was high time he should begin to enjoy his days in the sunshine of his gold and the companionship of his beautiful idol. But “man proposes,” says the ancient saw, “and God disposes.”
It was just seven o'clock when Mr. Longcluse descended at the steps of old Mortlake Hall.
Sir Reginald, who is writhing under a letter from the attorney of the millionaire mortgagee of his Yorkshire estate, making an alternative offer, either to call in the principal sum or to allow it to stand out on larger interest, had begged of Mr.Longcluse, last night, to give him a few words of counsel some day. He had, in a quiet talk the evening before, taken the man of huge investments rather into his confidence.
“I don't know, Mr.—a—Mr. Longcluse, whether you are aware how cruelly my property is tied up,” he said, as he talked in a low tone with him, in a corner of the drawing-room. “A life estate, and my son, who declines bearing any part of the burden of his own extravagance, will do nothing to facilitate my efforts to pay his debts for him; and I declare solemnly, if they raise the interest on this very oppressive mortgage, I don't know how on earth I can pay my insurances. I don't see how I am to do it. I should be so extremely obliged to you, Mr. Longcluse, if you would, with your vast experience and knowledge in all—all financial matters, give me any advice that strikes you—if you could, with perfect convenience, afford so much time. I don't really know what rate of interest is usual. I only know this, that interest, as a rule, has been steadily declining ever since I can remember—perpetually declining; I mean, of course, upon perfect security like this; and now this confounded harpy wants, after ten years, toraiseit! I believe they want to drive me out of the world, among them! and they well know the cruelty of it, for I have never been able to pay them a single half-year punctually. Will you take some tea?”
So Longcluse had promised his advice very gladly next day; and now he asked for Sir Reginald. Sir Reginald was very particularly engaged at this moment on business; Mr. Arden was with him at present; but if Mr. Longcluse would wait for a few minutes, Sir Reginald would be most happy to see him. So there was to be a little wait. How could he better pass the interval than in Miss Arden's company?
Upto the drawing-room went Mr. Longcluse, and there he found Miss Arden finishing a drawing. He fancied a very slight flush on her cheek as he entered. Was there really a heightening of that beautiful tint as she smiled? How lovely her long lashes, and her even little teeth, and the lustrous darkness of her eyes, in that subdued light!
“I so wanted advice, Mr. Longcluse, and you have come in so fortunately! I am not satisfied with my sky and mountains, and the foreground where the light touches that withered branch is a horrible failure. In nature, it looked quite beautiful. I remember it so well. It looked on fire, almost. This is Saxteen Castle, near Golden Friars, and that is a bit of the lake and those are the fells. I sketched it in pencil, and trusted to memory for colouring. It was just at the most picturesque moment, when the sun was going down between the two mountains that overhang the little town on the west.”
“Sunset is very well expressed. You indicated all those long shadows, Miss Arden, in pencil, and I envy your perspective, and I think your colouring so extremely good! The distances are admirably marked. Try a little cadmium, burnt sienna, and lake for the intense touches of light in the foreground, on that barkless branch. Your own eye will best regulate the proportions. I am one of those vandals who prefer colour a little too bold and overdone to any timidity in that respect. Exuberance in a beginner is always, in my mind, an augury of excellence. It is so easy to moderate afterwards.”
“Yes, I daresay; I'm very glad you advise that, because I always thought so myself; but I was half afraid to act on it. Ithink that is about the tint—a little more yellow, perhaps. Yes; how does it look now?—what do you think?”
“Now judge yourself, Miss Arden. Do not those three sharp little touches of reflected fire light up the whole drawing? I say it is admirable. It is really quite a beautiful little drawing.”
“I'm growing so vain! you will quite spoil me, Mr. Longcluse.”
“Truth will never spoil any one. Praise is very delightful. I have not had much of it in my day, but I think it makes one better as well as happier; and to speak simple truth of you, Miss Arden, is inevitably to praise you.”
“Those are compliments, Mr. Longcluse, and they bewilder me—anything one does not know how to answer; so I would rather you pointed me out four or five faults in my drawing, and I should be very well content if you said no more. I believe you know the scenery of Golden Friars.”
“I do. Beautiful, and so romantic, and full of legends! the whole place with its belongings is a poem.”
“So I think. And the hotel—the inn I prefer calling it—the ‘George and Dragon,’ is so picturesque and delightfully old, and so comfortable! Our head-quarters were there for two or three weeks. And did you see Childe Waylin's Leap?”
“Yes, an awful scene; what a terrible precipice! I saw it to great advantage from a boat, while a thunderstorm was glaring and pealing over its summit. You know the legend, of course?”
“No, I did not hear it.”
“Oh, it is a very striking one, and won't take many words to tell. Shall I tell it?”
“Pray do,” said Alice, with her bright look of expectation.
He smiled sadly. Perhaps the story returned with an allegoric melancholy to his mind. With a sigh and a smile he continued—
“Childe Waylin fell in love with a phantom lady, and walked day and night along the fells—people thought in solitude, really lured on by the beautiful apparition, which, as his love increased, grew less frequent, more distant and fainter, until at last, in the despair of his wild pursuit, he threw himself over that terrible precipice, and so perished. I have faith in instinct—faith in passion, which is but a form of instinct. I am sure he did wisely.”
“I sha'n't dispute it; it is not a case likely to happen often. These phantom ladies seem to have given up practice of late years, or else people have become proof against their wiles, and neither follow, nor adore, nor lament them.”
“I don't think these phantom ladies are at all out of date,” said Mr. Longcluse.
“Well, men have grown wiser, at all events.”
“No wiser, no happier; in such a case there is no room for what the world calls wisdom. Passion is absolute, and as for happiness, that or despair hangs on the turn of a die.”
“I have made that shadow a little more purple—do you think it an improvement?”
“Yes, certainly. How well it throws out that bit of the ruin that catches the sunlight! You have made a very poetical sketch; you have given not merely the outlines, but the character of that singular place—thegenus lociis there.”
Just as Mr. Longcluse had finished this complimentary criticism, the door opened, and rather unexpectedly Richard Arden entered the room. Very decidedlyde tropat that moment, his friend thought Mr. Arden. Longcluse meant again to have turned the current of their talk into the channel he liked best, and here was interruption. But was not Richard Arden his sworn brother, and was he not sure to make an excuse of some sort, and take his leave, and thus restore him to histête-à-tête.
But was there—or was it fancy—a change scarcely perceptible, but unpleasant, in the manner of this sworn brother? Was it not very provoking, and a little odd, that he did not go away, but stayed on and on, till at length a servant came in with a message from Sir Reginald to Mr. Longcluse, to say that he would be very happy to see him whenever he chose to come to his room? Mr. Longcluse was profoundly vexed. Richard Arden, however, had resumed his old manner pretty nearly. Was the interruption he had persisted in designed, or only accidental? Could he suppose Richard Arden so stupid? He took his leave smiling, but with an uncomfortable misgiving at his heart.
Richard Arden now proceeded in his own way, with some colouring and enormous suppression at discretion, to give his sister such an account as he thought would best answer of the interview he had just had with his father. Honestly related, what occurred between them was as follows:—
Richard Arden had come on summons from his father. Without a special call, he never appeared at Mortlake while his father was there, and never in his absence but with an understanding that Sir Reginald was to hear nothing of it. He sat for a considerable time in the apartment that opened from his father's dressing-room. He heard the baronet's peevish voice ordering Crozier about. Something was dropped and broken, and the same voice was heard in angrier alto. Richard Arden looked out of the window and waited uncomfortably. He hatedhis father's pleadings with him, and he did not know for what purpose he had appointed this interview.
The door opened, and Sir Reginald entered, limping a little, for his gout had returned slightly. He was leaning on a stick. His thin, dark face and prominent eyes looked angry, and he turned about and poked his dressing-room door shut with the point of his stick, before taking any notice of his son.
“Sit down, if you please, in that chair,” he said, pointing to the particular seat he meant him to occupy with two vicious little pokes, as if he were running a small-sword through it. “I wrote to ask you to come, Sir, merely to say a word respecting your sister, for whom, if not for other members of your family, you still retain, I suppose, some consideration and natural affection.”
Here was a pause which Richard Arden did not very well know what to do with. However, as his father's fierce eyes were interrogating him, he murmured—
“Certainly, Sir.”
“Yes, and under that impression I showed you Lord Wynderbroke's letter. He is to dine here to-morrow at a quarter to eight—please to recollect—precisely. Do you hear?”
“I do, Sir, everything.”
“You must meet him. Let us not appear more divided than we are. You know Wynderbroke—he's peculiar. Why the devil shouldn't we appear united? I don't saybeunited, for you won't. But there is something owed to decency. I suppose you admit that? And before people, confound you, Sir, can't we appear affectionate? He's a quiet man, Wynderbroke, and makes a great deal of these domestic sentiments. So you'll please to show some respect and affection while he's present, and I mean to show some affection for you; and after that, Sir, you may go to the devil for me! I hope you understand?”
“Perfectly, Sir.”
“As to Wynderbroke, the thing is settled—it isthere.” He pointed to his desk. “What I told you before, I tell you now—you must see that your sister doesn't make a fool of herself. I have nothing more to say to you at present—unless you have something to say to me?”
This latter part of the sentence had something sharp and interrogative in it. There was just a chance, it seemed to imply, that his son might have something to say upon the one point that lay near the old man's heart.
“Nothing, Sir,” said Richard, rising.
“No, no; so I supposed. You may go, Sir—nothing.”
Of this interview, one word of the real purport of which he could not tell to his sister, he gave her an account very slight indeed, but rather pleasant.
Aliceleaned back in her chair, smiling, and very much pleased.
“So my father seems disposed to relent ever so little—and ever so little, you know, is better than nothing,” said Richard Arden.
“I'm so glad, Dick, that he wishes you to take your dinner with us to-morrow; it is a very good sign. It would be so delightful if you could be at home with us, as you used to be.”
“You are a good little soul, Alice—a dear little thing! This is very pretty,” he said, looking at her drawing. “What is it?”
“The ruined castle near the northern end of the lake at Golden Friars. Mr. Longcluse says it is pretty good. Is he to dine here, do you know?”
“No—I don't know—I hope not,” said Richard shortly.
“Hope not! why?” said she. “I thought you liked him extremely.”
“I thought he was very well for a sort of outdoor acquaintance formen; but I don't even knowthat, now. There's no use in speaking to Lady May, but I warn you—you had better drop him. There is very little known about him, but there is a great deal that is not pleasantsaid.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“But you used to speak so highly of him. I'm so surprised!”
“I did not know half what people said of him. I've heard a great deal since.”
“But is it true?” asked Alice.
“It is nothing to me whether it is true or not. It is enough if a man is talked about uncomfortably, to make it unpleasant to know him. We owe nothing to Mr. Longcluse; there is no reason why you should have an acquaintance that is not desirable.Imean to drop him quietly, and youcan'tknow him, really youmustn't, Alice.”
“I don't know. It seems to me very hard,” said Miss Alice spiritedly. “It is not many days since you spoke of him so highly; and I was quite pained when you came in just now. I don't know whether he perceived it, but I think he must. I only know that I thought you were so cold and strange to him, your manner so unlike what it always was before. I thought you had been quarrelling. I fancied he was vexed, and I felt quite sorry; and I don't think what you say, Richard, is manly, or like yourself. You used to praise him so, and fight his battles; and he is, though very distinguished in some ways, rather a stranger in London; and people, you told me, envy him, and try in a cowardly way to injure him; and what more easy than to hint discreditable things of people? and you did not believe a word of those reports when last you spoke of him; and considering that he had no people to stand by him in London, or to take his part, and that he may never even hear the things that are said by low people about him, don't you think it would be cowardly of us, and positively base to treat him so?”
“Upon my word, Miss Alice, that is very good oratory indeed! I don't think I ever heard you so eloquent before, at least upon the wrongs of one of my sex.”
“Now, Dick, that sneer won't do. There may possibly be reasons why it would have been wiser never to have made Mr. Longcluse's acquaintance; I can't say. Those reasons, however, you treated very lightly indeed a little time ago—you know you did—and now, upon no better, you say you are going to cut him.Ican't bring myself to do any such thing. He is always looking in at Lady May's, and I can't help meeting him unless I am to cut her also. Now don't you see how odious I should appear, and how impossible it is?”
“I won't argue it now, dear Alice; there is quite time enough. I shall come an hour before dinner, to-morrow, and we can have a quiet talk; and I am quite sure I shall convince you. Mind, I don't say we should insult him,” he laughed. “I only say this, and I'll maintain it—and I'll show you why—that he is not a desirable acquaintance. We have taken him up very foolishly, and wemustdrophim.And now, darling, good-bye.”
He kissed her—she kissed him. She looked grave for a moment after, after he had run down the stairs. He has quarrelled with Mr. Longcluse about something, she thought, as she stood at the window with the tip of her finger to her lip,looking at her brother as he mounted the showy horse which had cantered with him up and down Rotten Row for two hours or more, before he had ridden out to Mortlake. She saw him now ride away.
It was near eight o'clock, and all this time Mr. Longcluse had been in confidence with Sir Reginald about his miserable mortgage. Mr. Longcluse was cautious; but there floated in his mind certain possible contingencies, under which he might perhaps make the financial adjustment, which Sir Reginald desired, very easy indeed to the worthy baronet.
It was the tempting hour of evening when the birds begin to sing, and the level beams from the west glorify all objects. Alice put on her hat and ran out to the old gardens of Mortlake. They are enclosed in a grey wall, and lie one above the other in three terraces, with tall standard fruit trees, so old that their fruit was now dwarfed in size to half its earlier bearings, standing high with a dark and sylvan luxuriance, and at this moment, sheltering among their sunlit leaves, nestle and flutter the small birds whose whistlings cheer and sadden the evening air. Every tree and bush that bore fruit, in this old garden, had grown quite beyond the common stature of its kind, and a good gardener would have cut them all down fifty years ago. But there was a kind of sylvan and stately beauty in those wonderful lofty pear-trees, with their dense dark foliage, and in the standard cherries so tall and prim, and something homely and comfortable in the great straggling apples and plums, dappled with grey lichens and tufted with moss. There were flowers as well as fruits, of all sorts, in this garden. All its arrangements were out of date. There was an air, not actually of neglect—for it was weeded, and the walks were trim and gravelled—but of carelessness and rusticity, not unpleasant, in the place. Trees were allowed to straggle and spread, and rise aloft in the air, just as they pleased. Tall roses climbed the walls about the door, and clustered in nodding masses overhead; and no end of pretty annuals and other flowers, quite out of fashion, crowded the dishevelled currant bushes, and the forest of raspberries. Here and there were very tall myrtles, and the quince, and obsolete medlars, were discoverable among the other fruit-trees. The summits of the walls were in some places crowned, to the scandal of all decent gardening, with ivy, and a carved shaft in the centre of each garden supported a sun-dial as old as the Hall itself.
There are fancies, as well as likings and lovings. Where there is a real worship, however cautiously masked—and Mr. Longcluse was by no means so—it is never a mystery to a clever girl. And such adoration, although it be not at all reciprocated, is sometimes hard to part with. There is something of thenature of compassion, with a little gratitude, perhaps, mingling in the pang which a gentle lady feels at having to discharge for ever an honest love and a true servant, and send him away to solitary suffering for her sake. Some little pang of reproach of this sensitive kind had, perhaps, armed her against her brother's sudden sentence of exclusion pronounced against Mr. Longcluse.
The evening sunlight travelled over the ivy on the discoloured wall, and glittered on the leaves of the tall fruit-trees, in whose thick foliage the birds were still singing their vespers. Walking down the broad walk towards the garden-door, she felt the saddening influence of the hour returning; and as she reached the door, overclustered with roses, it opened, and Mr. Longcluse stood in the shadow before her.
Miss Arden, thus surprised in the midst of thoughts which at that moment happened to be employed about him, showed for a second, as she suddenly stopped, something in her beautiful face almost amounting to embarrassment.
“I was called away so suddenly to see Sir Reginald, that I went without saying good-bye; so I ran up to the drawing-room, and the servant told me I should probably find you here; and, really without reflecting—I act, I'm afraid, so much from impulse that I might appear very impertinent—I ventured to follow. What a beautiful evening! How charming the light! You, who are such an artist, and understand the poetry of colour so, must admire this cloister-like garden, so beautifully illuminated.”
Was Mr. Longcluse also a very little embarrassed as he descanted thus on light and colour?
“It is a very old garden and does very little credit, I'm afraid, to our care; but I greatly prefer it to our formal gardens and all their finery, in Yorkshire.”
She moved her hand as if she expected Mr. Longcluse to take it and his leave, for it was high time her visitor should “order his wings and be off the west,” in which quarter, as we know, lay Mr. Longcluse's habitation. He had stepped in, however, and the door closed softly before the light evening breeze that swung it gently. She was standing under the wild canopy of roses, and he under the sterner arch of grooved and fluted stone that overhung the doorway.
“I wasafraid I had vexed your brother somehow,” said Mr. Longcluse—“I thought he seemed to meet me a little formally. I should be so sorry if I had annoyed him by any accident!”
He paused, and Miss Arden said, half laughing—“Oh, don't you know, Mr. Longcluse, that people are out of spirits sometimes, and now and then a little offended with all the world? It is nothing, of course.”
“What a fib!” whispered conscience in the young lady's pretty ear, while she smiled and blushed.
Again she raised her hand a little, expecting Mr. Longcluse's farewell. But she looked a great deal too beautiful for a farewell. Mr. Longcluse could not deny himself a minute more, and he said, “It is a year, Miss Arden, since I first saw you.”
“Is it really? I daresay.”
“Yes, at Lady May Penrose's. Yes, I remember it distinctly—so distinctly that I shall never forget any circumstance connected with it. It is exactly a year and four days. You smile, Miss Arden, because for you the event can have had no interest; for me it is different—how different I will not say.”
Miss Arden coloured and then grew pale. She was very much embarrassed. She was about to say a word to end the interview, and go. Perhaps Mr. Longcluse was, as he said, impulsive—too precipitate and impetuous. He raised his hand entreatingly,—
“Oh, Miss Arden, pray, only a word!—I must speak it. Ever since then—ever since that hour—I have been the slave of a single thought; I have worshipped before one beautiful image, with an impious adoration, for there is nothing—no sacrifice, no crime—I would shrink from for your sake. You can make of me what you will; all I possess, all my future, every thought andfeeling and dream—all are yours. No, no; don't interrupt the few half desperate words I have to speak, they may move you to pity. Never before, in a life of terrible vicissitude, of much suffering, of many dangers, have I seen the human being who could move me as you have done. I did not believe my seared heart capable of passion. And I stand now aghast at what I have spoken. I stand at the brink of a worse death, by the word that trembles on your lips, than the cannon's mouth could give me. I see I have spoken rashly—I see it in your face—oh, Heaven! I see what you would say.”
His hands were clasped in desperate supplication, as he continued; and the fitful breeze shook the roses above them, and the fading leaves fell softly in a shower about his feet.
“No, don't speak—your silence is sacred. I sha'n't misinterpret—I conjure you, don't answer! Forget that I have spoken. Oh! let it, in mercy, be all forgotten, and let us meet again as if there never had been this moment of madness, and in pity—as you look for mercy—forget it and forgive it!”
He waited for no answer: he was gone: the door closed as it was before. Another breath of wind ruffled the roses, and a few more sere leaves fell where he had just been standing. She drew a long breath, like one awaking from a vision. She was trembling slightly. Never before had she seen such agony in a human face! All had happened so suddenly. It was an effort to believe it real. It seemed as if she could see nothing while he spoke, but that intense, pale face. She heard nothing but his deep and thrilling words. Now it seemed as if flowers, and trees, and wall, and roses, all emerged suddenly again from mist, and as if all the birds had resumed their singing after a silence.
“Forget it—forgive it! Let it, as you look for mercy, be all forgotten. Let us meet again as if it never was.” This strange petition still rang in the ears of the astonished girl.
She was still too much flurried by the shock of this wild and sudden outbreak of passion, and appeal to mercy, quite to see her true course in the odd combination that had arisen. She was a little angry, and a little flattered. There was a confusion of resentment and compassion. What business had this Mr. Longcluse to treat her to those heroics! What right had he to presume that he would be listened to? How dared he ask her to treat all that had happened as if it had never been? How dared he seek to found on this unwarrantable liberty relations of mystery between them? How dared he fancy that she would consent to play at this game of deception with him?
Mingled with these angry thoughts, however, were the recollections of his homage, his tone of melancholy deference ever since she hadknownhim, and his admiration.
Underlying all his trifling talk, there had always been towardher a respect which flattered her, which could not have been exceeded had she been an empress in her own right. No, if he had said more than he had any right to suppose would be listened to, the extravagance was due to no want of respect for her, but to the vehemence of passion.
He was driving now into town, at a great pace. His cogitations were still more perturbed. Had he, by one frantic precipitation, murdered his best hopes?
One consolation at least he had. Being a man, not without reason, prone to suspicion, he had a deep conviction that, for some reason, Richard Arden was opposed to his suit, and had already begun to work upon Miss Arden's mind to his prejudice. His best chance, then, he still thought, was to anticipate that danger by a declaration. If that declaration could only be forgiven, and the little scene at old Mortlake garden door sponged out, might not his chances stand better far than before? Would not the past, though never spoken of, give meaning, fire, and melancholy to things else insignificant, and keep him always before her, and her alone, be his demeanour and language ever so reserved and cold, as an impassioned lover? Did not his knowledge of human nature assure him that these relations of mystery would, more than any other, favour his fortunes?
“That she should consign what has passed, in a few impetuous moments, to oblivion and silence, is no unreasonable prayer, and one as easy to grant as to will it. She will think it over, and, for my part, I will meet her as if nothing had ever happened to change our trifling but friendly relations. I wish I knew what Richard Arden was about. I soon shall. Yes, I shall—I soon shall.”
An opportunity seemed to offer sooner even than he had hoped; for as he drove towards St. James's Street, passing one of Richard Arden's clubs, he saw that young gentleman ascending the steps with Lord Wynderbroke.
Longcluse stopped his brougham, jumped out, and overtook Richard Arden in the hall, where he stood, taking his letters from the hall-porter.
“How d'ye do, again? I sha'n't detain you a minute. I have had a long talk with your father about business,” said Longcluse, seizing the topic most likely to secure a few minutes, and speaking very low. “You can bring me into a room here, and I'll tell you all that is necessary in two minutes.”
“Certainly,” said Richard, yielding to his curiosity. “I have only two or three minutes. I dine here with a friend, who is at this moment ordering dinner; so, you see, I am rather hurried.”
He opened a door, and looking in said—
“Yes, we shall be quite to ourselves here.”
Longcluse shut the door. There was no one to overhear them.
Richard Arden sat down on a sofa, and Mr. Longcluse threw himself into a chair.
“And what did he say?” asked Richard.
“They want to raise his interest on the Yorkshire estate; and he says you won't help him; but that of course is your affair, and I declined, point-blank, to intervene in it. And before I go further, it strikes me, as it did to-day at Mortlake, that your manner to me has undergone a slight change.”
“Has it? I did not mean it, I assure you,” said Richard Arden, with a little laugh.
“Oh! yes, Arden, ithas, and you must know it, and—pardon me—you mustintendit also; and now I want to know what I have done, or how I have hurt you, or who has been telling lies of me?”
“Nothing of all these, that I know of,” said Richard, with a cold little laugh.
“Well, of course, if you prefer it, you may decline an explanation. I must however, remind you, because it concerns my happiness, and possibly other interests dearer to me than my life, too nearly to be trifled with, that you heard all I said respecting your sister with the friendliest approbation and encouragement. You knew as much and as little about me then as you do now. I am not conscious of having said or done anything to warrant the slightest change in your feelings or opinion; and in your manner thereisa change, and a very decided change, and I tell you frankly I can't understand it.”
Thus directly challenged, Richard Arden looked at him hard for a moment. He was balancing in his mind whether he should evade or accept the crisis. He preferred the latter.
“Well, I can only say I did not intend to convey anything by my manner; but, as you know, when there is anything in one's mind it is not always easy to prevent its affecting, as you say, one's manner. I am not sorry you have asked me, because I spoke without reflection the other day. No one should answer, I really think, for any one else, in ever so small a matter, in this world.”
“But you didn't—you spoke only for yourself. You simply promised me your friendship, your kind offices—you said, in fact, all I could have hoped for.”
“Yes, perhaps—yes, I may, I suppose I did. But don't you see, dear Longcluse, things may come to mind, on thinking over.”
“Whatthings?” demanded Longcluse quickly, with a sudden energy that called a flush to his temples; and fire gleamed for a moment from his deep-set, gloomy eyes.
“What things? Why, young ladies are not always the most intelligible problems on earth. I think you ought to know that; and really I do think, in such matters, it is far better that they should be left to themselves as much as possible; and I think, besides, that there are some difficulties that did not strike us. I mean, that I now see that there really are great difficulties—insuperable difficulties.”
“Can you define them?” said Longcluse coldly.
“I don't want to vex you, Longcluse, and I don't want to quarrel.”
“That's extremely kind of you.”
“I don't know whether you are serious, but it is quite true. I don't wish any unpleasantness between us. I don't think I need say more than that; having thought it over, I don't see how it could ever be.”
“Will you give me your reasons?”
“I really don't see that I can add anything in particular to what I have said.”
“I think, Mr. Arden, considering all that has passed between us on this subject, that you areboundto let me know your reasons for so marked a change of opinion.”
“I can't agree with you, Mr. Longcluse. I don't see in the least why I need tell you my particular reasons for the opinion I have expressed. My sister can act for herself, and I certainly shall not account to you for my reasons or opinions in the matter.”
Mr. Longcluse's pale face grew whiter, and his brows knit, as he fixed a momentary stare on the young man; but he mastered his anger, and said in a cold tone—
“We disagree totally upon that point, and I rather think the time will come when youmustexplain.”
“I have no more to say upon the subject, Sir, except this,” said Arden, very tartly, “that it is certain your hopes can never lead to anything, and that I object to your continuing your visits at Mortlake.”
“Why, the house does not belong to you—it belongs to Sir Reginald Arden, who objects to your visits and receives mine. Your ideas seem a little confused,” and he laughed gently and coldly.
“Very much the reverse, Sir. I object to my sister being exposed to the least chance of annoyance from your visits. I protest against it, and you will be so good as to understand that I distinctly forbid them.”
“The young lady's father, I presume, will hardly ask your advice in the matter, andIcertainly shall not ask your leave. I shall call when I please, so long as I am received at Mortlake, and shall direct my own conduct, without troubling youfor counsel in my affairs.” Mr. Longcluse laughed again icily.
“And so shall I, mine,” said Arden sharply.
“You have no right to treat anyone so,” said Longcluse angrily—“as if one had broken his honour, or committed a crime.”
“A crime!” repeated Richard Arden. “Oh!That, indeed, would pretty well end all relations.”
“Yes, as, perhaps, you shall find,” answered Longcluse, with sudden and oracular ferocity.
Each gentleman had gone a little farther than he had at first intended. Richard Arden had a proud and fierce temper when it was roused. He was near saying what would have amounted to insult. It was a chance opening of the door that prevented it. Both gentlemen had stood up.
“Please, Sir, have you done with the room, Sir?” asked the man.
“Yes,” said Longcluse, and laughed again as he turned on his heel.
“Because three gentlemen want the room, if it's not engaged, Sir. And Lord Wynderbroke is waiting for you, please, Mr. Arden.”
So with a little toss of his head, which he held unusually high, and a flushed and “glooming” countenance, Richard Arden marched a little swaggeringly forth, to his dinnertête-à-têtewith Lord Wynderbroke.