Part 1, Chapter XXX.A Little Narrative.“Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about.”“I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry.”“That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal makes me try to tell you with all my heart.”“Now, Harry, once for all, I won’t have it,” said the little maiden, holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. “I want you to be straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do really like me, don’t pay me silly, sickly compliments.”“I’ll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live,” he said, eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.“Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will do—well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am in very, very great trouble.”“But would you like me to tell you all about it?”“Every word, Harry,” said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she laid her little white hand in his.For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale’s love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion. Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.“Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better.”“Oh, you foolish boy!”It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.“Well, it was like this,” said Artingale. “James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie’s arm.”“Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy.”“Not much fancy about it, certainly,” said the young man, grimly, “unless it’s P.R. fancy.”“P.R. fancy, Harry; what’s that?”“Oh, nothing,” he replied, hastily. “It’s a term they give to fighting. Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel.”“That’s well,” said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; “I like that.”“Do you?”“Oh, yes,” she whispered, nestling up to her companion, and letting him draw her nearer, till her shiny little head rested against his breast.“Yes, Harry, I like it—it sounds so brave and manly of him. Harry, dear, can’t you make James Magnus fall in love with Julie?”“No.”“You can’t!”“No, Cynthy. Shall I tell you a secret?”“I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Harry,” said the maiden, archly.“Of course not. Well, little one, I think—no, I’m almost sure—that he has fallen in love with her already, without any making.”“Oh, Harry, dear, how delightful. Here, I must go and tell her.”“Not for the world, darling.”“And pray why not, sir?”“Because, Cynthy,” he said, raising her little face so that he could gaze seriously into her bright eyes, “because, dear, I should feel as if I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend.”“But I should tell her, not you, Harry.”“Is there any difference?” he said, quietly. “Isn’t it all one now, Cynthy?”There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia’s eyes drooped beneath the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man’s heart gave one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.“Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?”“No; but I feel sure he does.”“I’m so glad, Harry,” said Cynthia, softly; “so very, very glad. But now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint.”“There isn’t much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a moment’s struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the kerbstone.”“Oh!”“That made me feel mad, and I went at the fellow, but he was off like a shot, dashed down the road through the gateway; and as I ran after him, followed by a lot of people and two policemen, I saw him cross the road, go right at the park railings, and he was over in a moment, and right into the shrubs.”“And did you follow?” said Cynthia, excitedly.“Didn’t I! But I couldn’t get over so quickly as he did, and when I dropped on the other side I was half hanging by one of the tails of my coat, for a spike had gone through it.”“Oh, what fun,” laughed Cynthia; “how droll you must have looked.”“I dare say I did,” he said, good-humouredly; “but it gave the rascal time to get a good start, and when I was free and ran on with the police and two more men, the scoundrel had gone goodness knows where.”“And you did not catch him, then?”“No, he had got clean away, Cynthy, and after we had been hunting for above an hour we had to give it up.”“Oh, what a pity.”“Yes, wasn’t it.”“I don’t know, though,” said Cynthia, softly; “if you had caught him he might have hurt you, too, Harry.”“I’ll give him leave to,” said Artingale, “if I can only manage to make my mark upon him.”“Oh, Harry, don’t look like that; you frighten me.”“Do I?—there; but don’t you be alarmed about me, little one, I can take care of myself, and I don’t mean to rest till I’ve paid that fellow my debt.”“Paid your debt, Harry?” said Cynthia, with a look of alarm.“Yes, little one; I owe him something for frightening you, too, down at Lawford!—if it is the same man,” he added.“Oh, yes, Harry; I saw his face last night quite plainly,” cried Cynthia, excitedly.“Then he has frightened little sister twice since. I say, Cynthy, I may call her little sister now?”“Of course you may; but go on with what you are saying. Oh, Harry, dear,” she whispered, “I wish I was as big and brave as you.”“And,” he whispered, “I wish that you were always just as you are now, so sweet and bright and loving.”“Well, sir, go on.”“That’s about all,” he said, “only that I owe my fine fellow for last night’s affair as well.”“And about Mr Magnus?”“Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap.”“Went where?” cried Cynthia, in astonishment. “Oh, I see, you had made your hands dirty getting over the railings.”“No, no,” said Artingale, laughing, “I mean I went back to Perry-Morton’s.”“Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name,” said Cynthia, solemnly, but with her eyes sparkling with delight.“And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being taken back to his chambers, and that’s about all.”“But you’ve been to see him this morning, Harry?”“I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a good deal about Julia.”“Oh!” and a pause. “And is his hurt very bad, Harry?” said Cynthia, looking now rather white. “Will it kill him?”“Oh, no,” said Artingale, “he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of blood, and—oh, what an idiot I am!”“No, no, Harry. I’m not so silly. I’m not going to faint. Hush, here’s Julia.”For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room—smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting.Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night’s affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned.“That fellow must be stopped,” said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. “Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must—it shall be stopped, or he’ll drive the poor child mad.”
“Really, Cynthy, it is not a pleasant thing to talk to you about.”
“I insist upon knowing all, sir. Please tell me, Harry.”
“That first order would have been obeyed, Cynthy; but that last appeal makes me try to tell you with all my heart.”
“Now, Harry, once for all, I won’t have it,” said the little maiden, holding up a tiny white warning finger, which, as they were alone in the drawing-room, Lord Artingale seized and kissed. “I want you to be straightforward and sensible when you talk to me, sir, and if you do really like me, don’t pay me silly, sickly compliments.”
“I’ll never pay you another, Cynthy, as long as I live,” he said, eagerly; and the light-hearted girl burst into a merry fit of laughter.
“Oh, Harry, what a dear, stupid old boy you are. There, now, that will do—well, only one more. Now be serious, and tell me, for really I am in very, very great trouble.”
“But would you like me to tell you all about it?”
“Every word, Harry,” said Cynthia, with a quiet, earnest look, as she laid her little white hand in his.
For, saving an occasional rebuff by teasing, Lord Artingale’s love affairs seemed to be progressing in the most unromantic fashion. Cynthia had made a very pretty little confession to him; the Rector had been appealed to, and had become for the moment a little less rigid; and Mrs Mallow had sighed and then smiled.
“Well, dear. No: let me hold your hand like that, I can talk so much better.”
“Oh, you foolish boy!”
It was very foolish, no doubt; but Cynthia let her hand rest where it was.
“Well, it was like this,” said Artingale. “James Magnus saw that great fellow with the lantern take hold of Julie’s arm.”
“Then you see now, sir, that it is not fancy.”
“Not much fancy about it, certainly,” said the young man, grimly, “unless it’s P.R. fancy.”
“P.R. fancy, Harry; what’s that?”
“Oh, nothing,” he replied, hastily. “It’s a term they give to fighting. Well, Magnus says he felt as if he could have killed the scoundrel.”
“That’s well,” said Cynthia, flushing scarlet, and with her eyes sparkling; “I like that.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered, nestling up to her companion, and letting him draw her nearer, till her shiny little head rested against his breast.
“Yes, Harry, I like it—it sounds so brave and manly of him. Harry, dear, can’t you make James Magnus fall in love with Julie?”
“No.”
“You can’t!”
“No, Cynthy. Shall I tell you a secret?”
“I thought there were to be no secrets between us, Harry,” said the maiden, archly.
“Of course not. Well, little one, I think—no, I’m almost sure—that he has fallen in love with her already, without any making.”
“Oh, Harry, dear, how delightful. Here, I must go and tell her.”
“Not for the world, darling.”
“And pray why not, sir?”
“Because, Cynthy,” he said, raising her little face so that he could gaze seriously into her bright eyes, “because, dear, I should feel as if I had been betraying the confidence of my best friend.”
“But I should tell her, not you, Harry.”
“Is there any difference?” he said, quietly. “Isn’t it all one now, Cynthy?”
There was a slight pause, during which Cynthia’s eyes drooped beneath the searching gaze. Then she raised them, and returned his look with one so frank and full of loving trust that the young man’s heart gave one great throb, and the silence seemed likely to be lasting.
“Did James Magnus tell you he loved Julie, Harry?”
“No; but I feel sure he does.”
“I’m so glad, Harry,” said Cynthia, softly; “so very, very glad. But now tell me all. I saw a sort of scuffle, and then we were out of sight, with poor Julie in a dead faint.”
“There isn’t much to tell you, Cynthy, only that Magnus seized the scoundrel by the throat as the carriage dashed off; then there was a moment’s struggle, and the fellow threw him by some clever wrestling dodge, and he fell with his bare head a most awful crash upon the kerbstone.”
“Oh!”
“That made me feel mad, and I went at the fellow, but he was off like a shot, dashed down the road through the gateway; and as I ran after him, followed by a lot of people and two policemen, I saw him cross the road, go right at the park railings, and he was over in a moment, and right into the shrubs.”
“And did you follow?” said Cynthia, excitedly.
“Didn’t I! But I couldn’t get over so quickly as he did, and when I dropped on the other side I was half hanging by one of the tails of my coat, for a spike had gone through it.”
“Oh, what fun,” laughed Cynthia; “how droll you must have looked.”
“I dare say I did,” he said, good-humouredly; “but it gave the rascal time to get a good start, and when I was free and ran on with the police and two more men, the scoundrel had gone goodness knows where.”
“And you did not catch him, then?”
“No, he had got clean away, Cynthy, and after we had been hunting for above an hour we had to give it up.”
“Oh, what a pity.”
“Yes, wasn’t it.”
“I don’t know, though,” said Cynthia, softly; “if you had caught him he might have hurt you, too, Harry.”
“I’ll give him leave to,” said Artingale, “if I can only manage to make my mark upon him.”
“Oh, Harry, don’t look like that; you frighten me.”
“Do I?—there; but don’t you be alarmed about me, little one, I can take care of myself, and I don’t mean to rest till I’ve paid that fellow my debt.”
“Paid your debt, Harry?” said Cynthia, with a look of alarm.
“Yes, little one; I owe him something for frightening you, too, down at Lawford!—if it is the same man,” he added.
“Oh, yes, Harry; I saw his face last night quite plainly,” cried Cynthia, excitedly.
“Then he has frightened little sister twice since. I say, Cynthy, I may call her little sister now?”
“Of course you may; but go on with what you are saying. Oh, Harry, dear,” she whispered, “I wish I was as big and brave as you.”
“And,” he whispered, “I wish that you were always just as you are now, so sweet and bright and loving.”
“Well, sir, go on.”
“That’s about all,” he said, “only that I owe my fine fellow for last night’s affair as well.”
“And about Mr Magnus?”
“Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap.”
“Went where?” cried Cynthia, in astonishment. “Oh, I see, you had made your hands dirty getting over the railings.”
“No, no,” said Artingale, laughing, “I mean I went back to Perry-Morton’s.”
“Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name,” said Cynthia, solemnly, but with her eyes sparkling with delight.
“And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being taken back to his chambers, and that’s about all.”
“But you’ve been to see him this morning, Harry?”
“I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a good deal about Julia.”
“Oh!” and a pause. “And is his hurt very bad, Harry?” said Cynthia, looking now rather white. “Will it kill him?”
“Oh, no,” said Artingale, “he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of blood, and—oh, what an idiot I am!”
“No, no, Harry. I’m not so silly. I’m not going to faint. Hush, here’s Julia.”
For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room—smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting.
Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night’s affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned.
“That fellow must be stopped,” said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. “Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must—it shall be stopped, or he’ll drive the poor child mad.”
Part 1, Chapter XXXI.In the Den.You had to pass through James Magnus’s studio to get to his sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the bump of order thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk’s-head, and a feather brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.Chaos seemed to have come back again at the abode of James Magnus, and modern nature and art to have joined hands to cover the aforesaid chaos with dust. For there was dust everywhere; thick, black, sooty dust of that peculiar kind that affects Fitzroy-square. It was never removed, save when a picture, chair, or “property” was taken from one part of the place to another, and the dust thus set floating, floated and settled upon something else. Certainly there was some kind of order in the sitting and bed-room, where the artists man attended, but it was mostly disorder.“I hate having my things moved,” said Magnus. “When I set to work, I like to be able to begin at once, and not have to hunt for everything I want.”“I think the place is just perfect,” said Harry Artingale. “One can get plenty of tidiness everywhere else, Jemmy, and I like coming to the den to be a beast.”So to make matters more comfortable Artingale, at first out of fun, later on from habit, used to carefully place all his cigar ashes and ends wherever he could find a ledge—on the chimney-pieces, on the tops of upturned canvases, on the inner parts of their frames, and balance soda-water and beer or hock corks upon the properties.You entered the lobby or hall to be confronted by dusty busts and casts, and you went thence into the studio to be confronted by more dusty busts and casts. There were life-sized plaster figures of plenty of well-known antiques mixed up with a heterogeneous collection of artistic odds and ends. There were canvases new and old, with charcoal drawings, sketches, and half-finished paintings, costumes of all kinds, savage weapons, arms and armour, easels from the simplest to the most modern with its screws, and racks and reflectors, and tubes for gas. Rich pieces of carpet partially covered the floor. On one side stood a large raised daïs for sitters, and for non-sitters who wished to sit down there were quaint old carven chairs.The value of the contents of that studio must have been great, for James Magnus earned a great deal of money, and never grudged spending it upon what he called necessaries for his art. Hence it was that handsome vases and specimens of bronze and brass work were plentiful, but they were stuck anywhere, and as often as not held empty or full paint tubes, or served as supports to great palettes covered with pigments of every hue.The sitting-room was almost a repetition of the studio, but it was thickly carpeted, and contained more furniture, with easy-chairs, a dining-table of massive oak, and had a free and easy, chaotic comfort about it that would make a bachelor feel quite at home.The walls bore plenty of pictures, mostly from the brushes of brother artists, and these, with the great full folios, formed a most valuable collection.It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which, evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century brocade silk dress, from which she looked naïvely at a lay figure in Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a large pair of jack boots that could not be put on.There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale’s diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a hole in a plaster Clytie’s lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed.“You see, he is sech a gent for his larks,” said Burgess, a nobly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.Burgess was Magnus’s factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the noblest-looking and most patient models in London.But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise.“How is he, my lord?” he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.“Well, my lord—”“Now look here, Burgess; haven’t I told you a dozen times over to say ‘sir’ to me when I’m here?”“Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect.”“I know—of course, Burgess; but isn’t he better?”“He says he is, sir; and the doctor—he’s only just this minute gone, sir.”“Yes, I know. I saw his brougham.”“The doctor says he’s better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and,” continued the man in a despairing tone, “it ain’t no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don’t seem to pick a bit.”“Poor fellow!” muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man.“I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don’t know, sir, I—I—”The great Hercules of a fellow’s voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.“Oh, come, come, Burgess,” cried Artingale, who felt touched at this display of affection on the part of servant towards master, “it isn’t so bad as that.”The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.“Do you—do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?”“Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow. There, shake hands, Burgess. ’Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed.”“And him a real true lord!” thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a great hand, which the other shook.“Get well? of course he will, if it’s only to help me break that scoundrel’s neck,—a blackguard!”“I only wish I had my will of him, sir,” cried Burgess, grinding his teeth; “I’d serve him out.”“Would you?” said Artingale, smiling. “What would you do?”“I’d make him stand for the old man in the Laocöon sixteen hours a day for stoodents. He wouldn’t want anything worse. But please go in gently, sir, and don’t wake master if he’s asleep.”“All right,” was the reply; and the young man made his way carefully amongst the artistic lumber, and through the studio into the dining-room, at one corner of which was the artist’s chamber.Artingale sighed as he went silently across the thick carpet, for that room was full of memories of numberless merry evenings, and as he paused for a moment beside his friend’s empty chair, a dull sense of pain oppressed him, and he found himself wondering whether he was not taking too sanguine a view of his old companion’s state.“Poor old chap!” he said. “How nice it would be if that could come off. Cynthy says it shall, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Let’s see; I’m to give him Cynthy’s love and this rosebud. She said he would be sure to find out that it was one that Julie had worn. I wonder whether old Mag does care for her; he’s such a close old oyster, and never did make up to women. Well, for the matter of that, no more did I till I met Cynthia—not much.”He went gently on to the door in the corner, and listened, but all was very still, and he paused for a few minutes in a state of hesitation, for which he could not account, and with one hand raised to open the door.“He must be asleep,” he said to himself.“Poor old boy, only to think of it. One moment bright and happy and full of life, and the next moment a helpless mass, with hardly the strength to move. Well, poor fellow, Cynthy is right. If he does care for Julie he has just gone the way to find a tender spot in her heart.”He took hold of the handle and turned it, to find that Burgess had been so busy with a feather and the salad oil flask, that the door yielded without a sound, and he glided into the darkened room.It was handsomely furnished, but its occupant’s profession could be seen at every turn, for the rich litter of the studio that had overflowed into the dining-room, had come in here, and covered walls and filled corners with artistic trifles.The room had been built for a smaller studio, and was lit from the roof, blinds being contrived so as to draw like a Romanvelumacross the glass.These were partly undrawn now, giving a weird effect to the half-dark room, across whose gloom a boldly-defined broad bar of light, full of tiny dancing motes, shone down upon the artist’s bed.The door was by the head of the couch, and the figure of its occupant was hidden by the hangings, as well as by a carefully-arranged screen covered with fantastic Japanese designs, but Artingale felt a strange thrill run through him as he caught sight of the lower portion of the bed, and took a couple of steps rapidly forward, but only to stop short the next moment, as if paralysed by what he saw.
You had to pass through James Magnus’s studio to get to his sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the bump of order thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk’s-head, and a feather brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.
Chaos seemed to have come back again at the abode of James Magnus, and modern nature and art to have joined hands to cover the aforesaid chaos with dust. For there was dust everywhere; thick, black, sooty dust of that peculiar kind that affects Fitzroy-square. It was never removed, save when a picture, chair, or “property” was taken from one part of the place to another, and the dust thus set floating, floated and settled upon something else. Certainly there was some kind of order in the sitting and bed-room, where the artists man attended, but it was mostly disorder.
“I hate having my things moved,” said Magnus. “When I set to work, I like to be able to begin at once, and not have to hunt for everything I want.”
“I think the place is just perfect,” said Harry Artingale. “One can get plenty of tidiness everywhere else, Jemmy, and I like coming to the den to be a beast.”
So to make matters more comfortable Artingale, at first out of fun, later on from habit, used to carefully place all his cigar ashes and ends wherever he could find a ledge—on the chimney-pieces, on the tops of upturned canvases, on the inner parts of their frames, and balance soda-water and beer or hock corks upon the properties.
You entered the lobby or hall to be confronted by dusty busts and casts, and you went thence into the studio to be confronted by more dusty busts and casts. There were life-sized plaster figures of plenty of well-known antiques mixed up with a heterogeneous collection of artistic odds and ends. There were canvases new and old, with charcoal drawings, sketches, and half-finished paintings, costumes of all kinds, savage weapons, arms and armour, easels from the simplest to the most modern with its screws, and racks and reflectors, and tubes for gas. Rich pieces of carpet partially covered the floor. On one side stood a large raised daïs for sitters, and for non-sitters who wished to sit down there were quaint old carven chairs.
The value of the contents of that studio must have been great, for James Magnus earned a great deal of money, and never grudged spending it upon what he called necessaries for his art. Hence it was that handsome vases and specimens of bronze and brass work were plentiful, but they were stuck anywhere, and as often as not held empty or full paint tubes, or served as supports to great palettes covered with pigments of every hue.
The sitting-room was almost a repetition of the studio, but it was thickly carpeted, and contained more furniture, with easy-chairs, a dining-table of massive oak, and had a free and easy, chaotic comfort about it that would make a bachelor feel quite at home.
The walls bore plenty of pictures, mostly from the brushes of brother artists, and these, with the great full folios, formed a most valuable collection.
It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which, evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century brocade silk dress, from which she looked naïvely at a lay figure in Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a large pair of jack boots that could not be put on.
There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale’s diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a hole in a plaster Clytie’s lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed.
“You see, he is sech a gent for his larks,” said Burgess, a nobly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.
Burgess was Magnus’s factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the noblest-looking and most patient models in London.
But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise.
“How is he, my lord?” he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.
“Well, my lord—”
“Now look here, Burgess; haven’t I told you a dozen times over to say ‘sir’ to me when I’m here?”
“Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect.”
“I know—of course, Burgess; but isn’t he better?”
“He says he is, sir; and the doctor—he’s only just this minute gone, sir.”
“Yes, I know. I saw his brougham.”
“The doctor says he’s better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and,” continued the man in a despairing tone, “it ain’t no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don’t seem to pick a bit.”
“Poor fellow!” muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man.
“I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don’t know, sir, I—I—”
The great Hercules of a fellow’s voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.
“Oh, come, come, Burgess,” cried Artingale, who felt touched at this display of affection on the part of servant towards master, “it isn’t so bad as that.”
The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.
“Do you—do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?”
“Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow. There, shake hands, Burgess. ’Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed.”
“And him a real true lord!” thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a great hand, which the other shook.
“Get well? of course he will, if it’s only to help me break that scoundrel’s neck,—a blackguard!”
“I only wish I had my will of him, sir,” cried Burgess, grinding his teeth; “I’d serve him out.”
“Would you?” said Artingale, smiling. “What would you do?”
“I’d make him stand for the old man in the Laocöon sixteen hours a day for stoodents. He wouldn’t want anything worse. But please go in gently, sir, and don’t wake master if he’s asleep.”
“All right,” was the reply; and the young man made his way carefully amongst the artistic lumber, and through the studio into the dining-room, at one corner of which was the artist’s chamber.
Artingale sighed as he went silently across the thick carpet, for that room was full of memories of numberless merry evenings, and as he paused for a moment beside his friend’s empty chair, a dull sense of pain oppressed him, and he found himself wondering whether he was not taking too sanguine a view of his old companion’s state.
“Poor old chap!” he said. “How nice it would be if that could come off. Cynthy says it shall, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Let’s see; I’m to give him Cynthy’s love and this rosebud. She said he would be sure to find out that it was one that Julie had worn. I wonder whether old Mag does care for her; he’s such a close old oyster, and never did make up to women. Well, for the matter of that, no more did I till I met Cynthia—not much.”
He went gently on to the door in the corner, and listened, but all was very still, and he paused for a few minutes in a state of hesitation, for which he could not account, and with one hand raised to open the door.
“He must be asleep,” he said to himself.
“Poor old boy, only to think of it. One moment bright and happy and full of life, and the next moment a helpless mass, with hardly the strength to move. Well, poor fellow, Cynthy is right. If he does care for Julie he has just gone the way to find a tender spot in her heart.”
He took hold of the handle and turned it, to find that Burgess had been so busy with a feather and the salad oil flask, that the door yielded without a sound, and he glided into the darkened room.
It was handsomely furnished, but its occupant’s profession could be seen at every turn, for the rich litter of the studio that had overflowed into the dining-room, had come in here, and covered walls and filled corners with artistic trifles.
The room had been built for a smaller studio, and was lit from the roof, blinds being contrived so as to draw like a Romanvelumacross the glass.
These were partly undrawn now, giving a weird effect to the half-dark room, across whose gloom a boldly-defined broad bar of light, full of tiny dancing motes, shone down upon the artist’s bed.
The door was by the head of the couch, and the figure of its occupant was hidden by the hangings, as well as by a carefully-arranged screen covered with fantastic Japanese designs, but Artingale felt a strange thrill run through him as he caught sight of the lower portion of the bed, and took a couple of steps rapidly forward, but only to stop short the next moment, as if paralysed by what he saw.
Part 1, Chapter XXXII.Magnus Makes Confession.Not many moments before, Artingale had wonderingly asked himself whether Magnus cared for her whom he regarded quite as a sister, and about whose state he was troubled in no small degree. The question was answered now without room for a doubt.Poor fellow! It had been a terrible cut he had received upon his head in the fall that night. There had been concussion of the brain, with fever and delirium, and for a long time his state had been very serious. Then came some slight amendment, but only to be followed, for months, by a depression which seemed to master the strong man’s spirits; and this, too, in spite of the efforts of the medical men, constant nursing, and the companionship of Artingale, given to such an extent that Cynthia had pouted, and then thrown her arms round “dear Harry’s” neck, and told him she loved him ten thousand times better for his devotion to his friend.Artingale had been with Magnus the night before, but had been kept away that morning, and it was now close upon five o’clock when he stood as it were petrified at the sight which met his eyes.As has been said, the greater portion of the chamber was in a state of semi-obscurity; but a broad band of light fell direct from the skylight upon the bed where James Magnus had been propped up with pillows before a dwarf easel and canvas, upon which, rapidly dashed in by his masterly hand, showing in every line the inspiration that had been thrown upon the canvas by the artist’s mind, was the work upon which he had been engaged.Had been engaged, for, palette in one hand, brush in the other, he had sunk back, his pallid face, with the hair cut closely now, giving him in the gloom wherein he lay the aspect of some portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez, the stern lines cut by sickness softened by a contented smile.He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale thought that he was dead.It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid’s lips.Satisfied upon that point, Artingale’s eyes were turned upon the canvas illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was Julia’s self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips, but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes.It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait.His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so perfectly have reproduced those features from memory.“I wish Cynthia could see it,” he thought; and he took another step forward.That broke the sick man’s slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm.“Don’t hide it, old fellow,” he said. “Why should you?”Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame.“Why should you mind?” continued Artingale. “I’ve never been ashamed to confess to you. But how wonderfully like.”Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and the two men remained looking into each other’s eyes as Artingale seated himself upon the edge of the bed.“Mag, old fellow,” said Artingale at last, “I’m very, very glad.”“Why should you be?” said the other, in a low, weak voice. “It is only an empty dream.”“No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you ought to be up and doing.”“What!” said Magnus, bitterly; “trying to make her life unhappy by my mad love?”“Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as I’m sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?”“Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another.”“But that would never be if she knew of your love.”“Harry, my dear boy,” said the artist sadly, “it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned.”“Yes; of course.”“And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend.”“Yes. Well, where’s the madness?”Magnus shook his head sadly.“Why should I tell you?” he said. “I have studied nature too long not to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse with—with—her without knowing something of her heart?”“Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure,” cried Artingale.“I don’t know that,” said Magnus, sadly; “but this I do know—that no word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb.”“Nonsense, man,” said Artingale, merrily. “Why, Mag, where’s your courage? Up, lad, and try. Don’t lie there and let that piece of imitation human being carry her off.”Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.“Why,” continued Artingale, “you are bound to succeed. What could be better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more fortunate.”“Have you found out anything more about that fellow?” said Magnus, at last.“No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well and help me.”“Nothing more has been seen of him, then?”“Indeed but there has,” said Artingale; “he has turned up no less than three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well, Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia Mallow.”“Tell me about her engagement.”“What for? To make you worse?”“It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to Perry-Morton, is she not?”“Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can’t last; it’s impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what an ass the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and poetry. It is all the Rector’s doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch.”“You said the other day that they were going back into the country.”“Yes, and I shall be obliged to go too.”Magnus smiled.“Well, yes, of course,” said Artingale, quickly, “I want to be near Cynthy. There, I’m not ashamed; I am very fond of the little girl. I must be, or I should never stand those brothers of hers.”“Anything fresh about them?” said Magnus, who seemed deeply interested in the conversation.“Fresh? Yes—no—only the old game. Being so near down there, my people hear everything at Gatley, and though I don’t encourage tattling, I can’t help hearing a lot about my beautiful brothers-in-law, and yours too if you like.”“Don’t be foolish. Go on.”“Well, ’pon my soul, Mag, they’re a pair of scamps, and once I’ve got my little Cynthy, hang me if I don’t cut them. They haven’t the decency to wait till I am their brother, but are always borrowing money. Sort of blackmail for letting me court their sister,” he added, bitterly. “’Pon my word, Mag, it would be a charity to get Julia away as well.”“It is a great pity,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “What an anxiety to the poor sick mother!”“Who is quite an angel of goodness in her way, Mag, only too ready to look over those two fellows’ faults. Bah! I haven’t patience with them.”“Why does not the Rector get them away?”“Get them away? Well, he has, over and over again, but they always come back. The townspeople call themThe Bad ShillingandThe Boomerangon that account. The Rector’s a good old fellow, only obstinate and weak, and with too big an idea of his sacred prerogative, which the folks down there won’t stand. Here, get well, Mag, and come down and help me rout the enemy.”“I wish I could,” sighed Magnus. “Only wants will, my lad. If you are using my billiard-table and horses it will keep those fellows off, but mind they don’t rook you.”“I thought you told me that Frank had made a lot of money at the gold fields?”“So he gives it out, but I don’t believe it. If he had he wouldn’t be borrowing of me and getting Perry-Morton to do bills for him.”“It seems strange.”“Strange! yes. I believe it’s all gammon. Hang that fellow, I don’t like him at all. Of course this is all in confidence, Mag.” Magnus looked up at him with a smile. “My people tell me that he is always going over to Lewby, close by my place. It’s one of the farms that came to me. Nice jolly farmer fellow there. Bluff chap, John Berry, with a pretty little wife fifteen years younger; and it seems there was something on between the lady and Master Frank before he went to the antipodes.”“That’s bad,” said Magnus, frowning.“Damn bad,” said Artingale; “but I try to make it smooth by thinking he is interceding for his brother.”“Interceding for his brother? What do you mean?”“Well, you see, Mrs Berry was Rue Portlock, and Cyril has been paying attentions to her sister Sage.”“Rue? Sage?”“Yes; rum idea. Two such pretty girls. I call ’em the sweet herbs. Quaint idea of their father.”“And Cyril is paying attentions to one of them?”“Yes; little Sage. She is the Lawford schoolmistress, and engaged to some one else.”“Humph! Better than paying attentions to a married lady, as his brother does.”“Oh, bless him, he is not perfect. Master Cyril has an affair on at the ford just outside Lawford. There is a pretty wheelwright’s wife—no, hang it, I mean the pretty wife of a wheelwright there. She used to be Julia’s and Cynthia’s maid, you know, and I hear that Master Cyril has been seen hanging about.”“They seem to be a nice pair,” said Magnus, gruffly.“Beauties,” said Artingale, sharply. “Hang ’em, they shall have it warmly when once I have got Cynthia away. Of course I have to swallow it all now. There, you see how badly you’re wanted. It’s an unhappy family, and you would be doing a charitable act in giving Julia a good husband.”“Let her marry Perry-Morton,” said Magnus, changing his position with a weary sigh.“Bah! you need not mind that, my dear boy. I feel certain that some fine morning the Rector will prick Perry-Morton and find out what a bag of wind he is. Besides, see what allies you have—Cynthia, your humble servant, and the lady’s heart.”Magnus shook his head sadly.“But I say you have, and that it is waiting to beat to any tune you like to teach. Come, the will has no end to do with the body. Just swear you will get well and come and help me put those big brothers in order, and thrash the big rascal who—No, I say though, Magnus, ’pon my word, I think you ought to bless that fellow, for he will frighten poor little Julie right into your arms.”Whether it was his friend’s encouraging words, and that hopes were raised in the artist’s breast, or whether it was simply the fact that he was already mending fast, at all events James Magnus rapidly got better now, and at the end of another two months he was about once more, though still weak from his injury, and likely to be for months.
Not many moments before, Artingale had wonderingly asked himself whether Magnus cared for her whom he regarded quite as a sister, and about whose state he was troubled in no small degree. The question was answered now without room for a doubt.
Poor fellow! It had been a terrible cut he had received upon his head in the fall that night. There had been concussion of the brain, with fever and delirium, and for a long time his state had been very serious. Then came some slight amendment, but only to be followed, for months, by a depression which seemed to master the strong man’s spirits; and this, too, in spite of the efforts of the medical men, constant nursing, and the companionship of Artingale, given to such an extent that Cynthia had pouted, and then thrown her arms round “dear Harry’s” neck, and told him she loved him ten thousand times better for his devotion to his friend.
Artingale had been with Magnus the night before, but had been kept away that morning, and it was now close upon five o’clock when he stood as it were petrified at the sight which met his eyes.
As has been said, the greater portion of the chamber was in a state of semi-obscurity; but a broad band of light fell direct from the skylight upon the bed where James Magnus had been propped up with pillows before a dwarf easel and canvas, upon which, rapidly dashed in by his masterly hand, showing in every line the inspiration that had been thrown upon the canvas by the artist’s mind, was the work upon which he had been engaged.
Had been engaged, for, palette in one hand, brush in the other, he had sunk back, his pallid face, with the hair cut closely now, giving him in the gloom wherein he lay the aspect of some portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez, the stern lines cut by sickness softened by a contented smile.
He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale thought that he was dead.
It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid’s lips.
Satisfied upon that point, Artingale’s eyes were turned upon the canvas illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was Julia’s self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips, but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes.
It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait.
His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so perfectly have reproduced those features from memory.
“I wish Cynthia could see it,” he thought; and he took another step forward.
That broke the sick man’s slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm.
“Don’t hide it, old fellow,” he said. “Why should you?”
Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame.
“Why should you mind?” continued Artingale. “I’ve never been ashamed to confess to you. But how wonderfully like.”
Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and the two men remained looking into each other’s eyes as Artingale seated himself upon the edge of the bed.
“Mag, old fellow,” said Artingale at last, “I’m very, very glad.”
“Why should you be?” said the other, in a low, weak voice. “It is only an empty dream.”
“No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you ought to be up and doing.”
“What!” said Magnus, bitterly; “trying to make her life unhappy by my mad love?”
“Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as I’m sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?”
“Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another.”
“But that would never be if she knew of your love.”
“Harry, my dear boy,” said the artist sadly, “it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned.”
“Yes; of course.”
“And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend.”
“Yes. Well, where’s the madness?”
Magnus shook his head sadly.
“Why should I tell you?” he said. “I have studied nature too long not to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse with—with—her without knowing something of her heart?”
“Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure,” cried Artingale.
“I don’t know that,” said Magnus, sadly; “but this I do know—that no word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb.”
“Nonsense, man,” said Artingale, merrily. “Why, Mag, where’s your courage? Up, lad, and try. Don’t lie there and let that piece of imitation human being carry her off.”
Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.
“Why,” continued Artingale, “you are bound to succeed. What could be better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more fortunate.”
“Have you found out anything more about that fellow?” said Magnus, at last.
“No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well and help me.”
“Nothing more has been seen of him, then?”
“Indeed but there has,” said Artingale; “he has turned up no less than three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well, Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia Mallow.”
“Tell me about her engagement.”
“What for? To make you worse?”
“It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to Perry-Morton, is she not?”
“Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can’t last; it’s impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what an ass the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and poetry. It is all the Rector’s doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch.”
“You said the other day that they were going back into the country.”
“Yes, and I shall be obliged to go too.”
Magnus smiled.
“Well, yes, of course,” said Artingale, quickly, “I want to be near Cynthy. There, I’m not ashamed; I am very fond of the little girl. I must be, or I should never stand those brothers of hers.”
“Anything fresh about them?” said Magnus, who seemed deeply interested in the conversation.
“Fresh? Yes—no—only the old game. Being so near down there, my people hear everything at Gatley, and though I don’t encourage tattling, I can’t help hearing a lot about my beautiful brothers-in-law, and yours too if you like.”
“Don’t be foolish. Go on.”
“Well, ’pon my soul, Mag, they’re a pair of scamps, and once I’ve got my little Cynthy, hang me if I don’t cut them. They haven’t the decency to wait till I am their brother, but are always borrowing money. Sort of blackmail for letting me court their sister,” he added, bitterly. “’Pon my word, Mag, it would be a charity to get Julia away as well.”
“It is a great pity,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “What an anxiety to the poor sick mother!”
“Who is quite an angel of goodness in her way, Mag, only too ready to look over those two fellows’ faults. Bah! I haven’t patience with them.”
“Why does not the Rector get them away?”
“Get them away? Well, he has, over and over again, but they always come back. The townspeople call themThe Bad ShillingandThe Boomerangon that account. The Rector’s a good old fellow, only obstinate and weak, and with too big an idea of his sacred prerogative, which the folks down there won’t stand. Here, get well, Mag, and come down and help me rout the enemy.”
“I wish I could,” sighed Magnus. “Only wants will, my lad. If you are using my billiard-table and horses it will keep those fellows off, but mind they don’t rook you.”
“I thought you told me that Frank had made a lot of money at the gold fields?”
“So he gives it out, but I don’t believe it. If he had he wouldn’t be borrowing of me and getting Perry-Morton to do bills for him.”
“It seems strange.”
“Strange! yes. I believe it’s all gammon. Hang that fellow, I don’t like him at all. Of course this is all in confidence, Mag.” Magnus looked up at him with a smile. “My people tell me that he is always going over to Lewby, close by my place. It’s one of the farms that came to me. Nice jolly farmer fellow there. Bluff chap, John Berry, with a pretty little wife fifteen years younger; and it seems there was something on between the lady and Master Frank before he went to the antipodes.”
“That’s bad,” said Magnus, frowning.
“Damn bad,” said Artingale; “but I try to make it smooth by thinking he is interceding for his brother.”
“Interceding for his brother? What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, Mrs Berry was Rue Portlock, and Cyril has been paying attentions to her sister Sage.”
“Rue? Sage?”
“Yes; rum idea. Two such pretty girls. I call ’em the sweet herbs. Quaint idea of their father.”
“And Cyril is paying attentions to one of them?”
“Yes; little Sage. She is the Lawford schoolmistress, and engaged to some one else.”
“Humph! Better than paying attentions to a married lady, as his brother does.”
“Oh, bless him, he is not perfect. Master Cyril has an affair on at the ford just outside Lawford. There is a pretty wheelwright’s wife—no, hang it, I mean the pretty wife of a wheelwright there. She used to be Julia’s and Cynthia’s maid, you know, and I hear that Master Cyril has been seen hanging about.”
“They seem to be a nice pair,” said Magnus, gruffly.
“Beauties,” said Artingale, sharply. “Hang ’em, they shall have it warmly when once I have got Cynthia away. Of course I have to swallow it all now. There, you see how badly you’re wanted. It’s an unhappy family, and you would be doing a charitable act in giving Julia a good husband.”
“Let her marry Perry-Morton,” said Magnus, changing his position with a weary sigh.
“Bah! you need not mind that, my dear boy. I feel certain that some fine morning the Rector will prick Perry-Morton and find out what a bag of wind he is. Besides, see what allies you have—Cynthia, your humble servant, and the lady’s heart.”
Magnus shook his head sadly.
“But I say you have, and that it is waiting to beat to any tune you like to teach. Come, the will has no end to do with the body. Just swear you will get well and come and help me put those big brothers in order, and thrash the big rascal who—No, I say though, Magnus, ’pon my word, I think you ought to bless that fellow, for he will frighten poor little Julie right into your arms.”
Whether it was his friend’s encouraging words, and that hopes were raised in the artist’s breast, or whether it was simply the fact that he was already mending fast, at all events James Magnus rapidly got better now, and at the end of another two months he was about once more, though still weak from his injury, and likely to be for months.
Part 1, Chapter XXXIII.The Rector Gives Way.Cyril Mallow was right. He had three women to fight upon his side, and he was not long in bringing their power to bear. Petted, spoiled son as he was, literally idolised by the patient invalid, to whom his presence formed the greater part of the sunshine of her life, he was not long in winning her to his side.“It is no light fancy, dear,” he said tenderly, as he sat beside her couch. “She is to me the woman who will bless my life as you have blessed my father’s.”The sick woman shook her head mournfully.“I repeat my words,” he said: “as you have blessed my father’s life. Well, I have been restless and foolish, perhaps, but I am sobered down now, and I mean to marry. I cannot help it, mamma, and I am quite prepared to have plenty of opposition to my proposal, and to be told that I am marrying beneath me; all the same, I mean to marry Sage Portlock, and I ask you to help me.”Mrs Mallow tried persuasion, pointed out how directly this would be in opposition to his father’s wishes, and how the Churchwarden had set his face against it; but all she said only seemed to strengthen her son’s desire, and the natural consequence was that very soon Mrs Mallow began to talk earnestly to the Rector, but for quite a month without any other effect than angering him more against his son, whom he accused of fighting against his sisters’ prospects.But when the father began to find that with patient pertinacity the son was keeping up his pursuit of Sage, the words of his wife began to have more effect, and one day, during a visit to the school, the old gentleman found himself speaking to Sage with greater deference, and thoughtfully musing over the possibility of her becoming his sons wife.“It is terrible though,” he mused; “just as his sisters are about to make brilliant matches. It is like degrading them.”That night, however, the Rector heard something about Cyril having been seen a great deal down by the ford lately, and quick to take alarm, warned as he had been by earlier escapades, he began to think more seriously, and went down to the school a great deal more.“Better that than disgrace,” he said; “a fresh scandal would almost kill her, poor sweet. Ah, me! she has much to bear.”He sighed weakly and went to the school again, setting Sage Portlock in a flutter by his quiet paternal ways, and he came away at last avowing that if the object of his son’s affections had been the daughter of a brother clergyman, he would have been delighted to find in her the child his son should bring to him to take a place within his heart.Then he began thinking about Lord Artingale and Mr Perry-Morton, and he grew angry; but again he was obliged to say to himself, It would settle Cyril perhaps. Better that than a fresh scandal.He tried to find failings in Sage—seeing in her conduct cause of offence—but without avail, for she gave him no hold whatever, and he went away thinking of her deeply, and wondering what was to be the end.Cyril Mallow smiled as he saw that he was right, and that it was only a matter of time. He liked Sage Portlock, and he told himself that he loved her passionately, and that without her he should die, and then he entered into pecuniary calculations.“The old man must leave her at least half of what he has, and every one in Lawford says he is well off, so that it will be a pleasant little bit of revenge to spend the old hunks’s money for the way in which he abused me. Then there is poor mamma’s money. That must come to me, so that we shall be pretty well off. Bah! it will all come right in time. But I hope Frank is not playing the fool about little Rue.”After the stern encounter with the Churchwarden, and the angry words with his father, Cyril thought it prudent to keep away from Kilby Farm, and ceased to watch for Sage as she was going to or leaving school; but he rearranged his seat in the rectory pew, so that he could see her where she sat in church, became more regular than ever in his attendance, and sat through his father’s sermons gazing pensively at the young schoolmistress.People said he was growing pale and thin, which was a fact easily explicable, for he smoked from morning to night, and the healthy brown of the last sea voyage was fading away consequent upon his indoor life.“If I kick up a row I shall do no good,” he argued, “so I may as well wait. I could persuade her to run away with me, but then we should be confoundedly short of money till the old folks forgave us, and I’m sick of that sort of thing. No, I think the injured dodge is best, for it pays all round.”He was quite right; and while he shut himself up with his brother in the room devoted to their personal use, readBell’s Life in London, and sent communications to one or two betting men in town whenever he had the necessary funds at his disposal, everything was working steadily to the end he sought to gain.His quiet acceptance, as it seemed to the Rector and Portlock, of the commands which he had received, gave him, in the eyes of the other interested parties, an injured, martyrlike air, and, though she did not meet him now, Sage’s thoughts were none the less busy about him. His every word had impressed her deeply, and day by day, in spite of her efforts to be true to her promise, she felt that she was falling more and more away.This was plainly shown in her letters to Luke Ross, to whom she wrote weekly, hearing from him regularly in return. But he noted the gradual change in her communications. They grew shorter by degrees; less full of chatty little paragraphs about herself and her daily life. Still she did not fail to send to him once. It had become a habit—a duty—and while she did this she told herself that she was making a brave fight against her weak heart, and hiding the truth from Luke, little thinking that her notes laid her heart quite bare to the reader.For it is a very strange thing how the feelings of a writer at the time of writing infuse themselves in the words. A note may contain only a thousand, and those thousand words relate certain matters, but from one writer they will seem to flow with affection, from another be calm, cool, and simply matter-of-fact. The sentences shall be almost the same, the words be very little varied, and yet, even without endearing expressions, one letter shall breathe and emanate affection, the other be friendliness alone.So, by slow degrees, it was with Sage’s letters to her lover; and at first, as the idea stole upon him that she was growing colder, Luke Ross fought back the cruel thought, telling himself that he was wrong, and that hard study was souring his disposition, making him exacting and strange.But as time went on he was obliged to realise the truth, and he wrote reproachful letters, but only tore them up again, to write others in his old, simple, confiding strain.He longed to go down and see her more often, but kept putting it off till she should express a wish for him to come, hinting at it, and expecting that some such invitation would be contained in the next letter; but he hoped against hope.Then a week passed without any communication from Lawford, and Luke packed up a few things in a bag, and started for his old home, but only to return directly to his chambers.“She is not ill,” he said to himself. “If she had been some one would have written to tell me. I’ll wait.”He waited, and at the appointed time—at the end of another week—a letter came, very similar to the last, and in which she said that she would have written as usual, only that she was very busy.“Very busy,” said Luke to himself, as he sat in his dingy room, gazing straight before him, through the dull window, at the smoky chimney-pots, but seeing, as in a picture, the interior of Lawford Girls’ School, with its mistress moving from class to class. “Very busy.”He sighed deeply, and went on with his reading.From that time Sage’s letters came fortnightly, Luke sending two for one, but he made no complaint, keeping rigidly to his old stern determination.“I said I would place myself in a worthy position to win her,” he said. “That I will do. What is more, I will be faithful, come what may—faithful, even in my belief in her.”He sat, hot of eye and weary of brain, thinking whether he ought not to go down and see why this gradual change was taking place, but in his stern repression of self he felt that to go down unexpectedly would be like mistrusting the woman he hoped to make his wife, and this he could not bear.Study—hard study—was Luke Ross’s medicine for a mind diseased, and whenever doubting thoughts and mistrust came hand in hand to torture him he forced himself to attend to his studies, making, by prodigious efforts, great advances in the learned treatises he was striving to master, but only at the expense of his health.“It is for Sage,” he said, by way of encouragement, and when doubts became very strong he held up the shield of his faith.“No,” he would say aloud, “writing is, perhaps, irksome to one who has so much to do, but her heart is mine, and save from her own lips I would never believe that she could let it stray.”In his stern determination to master the profession for which he was reading, Luke Ross only allowed himself a very rare visit home; and though he had felt frequent urgings of late he fought them down, setting his teeth, and vowing that he would not go before the appointed time.It was a terrible fight when once the dire attacks of doubt were made, and repeated from day to day, for during the weeks of the past month Sage’s letters had grown more irregular still, as if she felt emboldened to be more careless from that absence of reproach. But the truth was that every letter from London was read by Sage with bitter misery and reproach, and her replies were often so blotted with tears that they were destroyed instead of being posted, and it was only those which escaped the fire which he received.It only wanted a week of the time he had settled in his own mind, and in spite of his efforts to be calm, it was almost more than he could do to keep on with his task. A strong feeling was urging him to go down at once, see Sage, and learn the worst, for a fortnight had again passed and no letter.Twenty times over he threw his books aside and started up to go, but upon each occasion the indomitable power of will that helped him to make the great efforts to master his profession—a power of will that had already stood him in such good stead during his stay at Saint Chrysostom’s—came to his aid, and he fought out the miseries of that last week and won. “I will—not—show—mistrust,” he said, sternly, as if addressing an unseen accuser of Sage; “I gave—her—my—love—and—I—will—never—take—it—from—her. If—she—cast—it—away—then—the—act—is—hers—not—mine.”This, slowly repeated, with a pause between the words, became, as it were, a formula impressed in his mind, and it seemed to him that he had become Sage’s advocate, bound to defend her against unseen accusers.At last, having no longer any conscientious reasons for deferring his visit, he hastily packed his bag and closed up his dreary little chambers, feeling, as he went out into busy roaring Fleet-street, that the rest was absolutely necessary, for his head throbbed and seemed confused, troubled as it had been with conflicting emotions.It was winter once more, but one of those mild seasons when balmy winds from the west tempt the wild flowers into a belief that it is spring, and sweetly-scented violets make the air redolent of their homely, heart-appealing fragrance, when from amongst the dark dead leaves the tender green of the crinkled primrose roots could be seen surrounding here and there a pale sulphur blossom.It was such a change from the smoke-haunted, soot-dotted city region of the law, that fifteen-mile coach ride, after the run down by fast train, that as Luke gazed over the flat landscape illumined by the mellow glow of the wintry sun, and noted the silvery bronze of the young oak stems, and the ruddy birch and ashes grey, he felt a joyous elasticity of frame; his pulses throbbed with pleasure, and before they reached the town he determined to alight and follow the mossy lane to the left, two miles of whose windings would take him within a hundred yards of Kilby, the time fitting so well that he knew he should intercept Sage as she left the school, which would not break up for the holidays until the following day.Home again, after many months’ absence—months of stern self-denial; and as he leaped down from his seat on the coach, leaving his portmanteau for delivery at the inn, he felt so boyish and light-hearted that he began to run along the lane.“What nonsense!” he said, half aloud. “One shuts oneself up in that little hole and reads and reads till one’s brain gets clogged, and full of unwholesome fancies. What a brute I am to let such thoughts creep in, when I’ll wager anything that my darling is longing to see me back.”He stopped to pick a primrose, then another, and a violet. Walked rapidly on again, but paused to select a couple of bramble-leaves of a most glorious deep green bronze. Then there was a beautiful privet spray, and another primrose or two, and by degrees, as he hurried on with little pauses, a goodly wild bouquet had been culled, and he smiled as he saw in imagination Sage’s delight at his present.“Heaven bless her!” he said, half aloud, and, all unpleasant suspicions gone, he walked on with his eyes half closed, revelling in a kind of day-dream full of delights, the only jarring thought being that he was coming to see Sage before paying his duty to his father at home.“He’ll forgive me,” he said. “He knows how I love her. Why, what a boy I feel to-day! It’s this delicious air that has not been breathed by two million sets of lungs.”“There’s the farm,” he said. “How clean the windows must be to reflect the setting sun like that. Different to mine. I wonder how Mrs Portlock is, and what the old lady will say?”He hurried on, eager to reach the narrow cross where the Kilby lane and the one he was in intersected, and, once there, he meant to mount the high bank, and wait by the old mossy oak pollard, watching for Sage’s steps, so as to give her a surprise by throwing the bouquet of wild flowers at her feet, and then—And then?—Alas! how pleasant is that habit of castle-building in the air. How brightly the edifices are raised, how quickly, how dismally they fall! Luke had planned all so well, and hurried on along the soft, mossy border of the lane, heedless of the winter’s dirt, till he reached the cross, turned sharply, and then stopped short, uttering a low moan as he reeled against the hedge, clutching at the thorns for a support.
Cyril Mallow was right. He had three women to fight upon his side, and he was not long in bringing their power to bear. Petted, spoiled son as he was, literally idolised by the patient invalid, to whom his presence formed the greater part of the sunshine of her life, he was not long in winning her to his side.
“It is no light fancy, dear,” he said tenderly, as he sat beside her couch. “She is to me the woman who will bless my life as you have blessed my father’s.”
The sick woman shook her head mournfully.
“I repeat my words,” he said: “as you have blessed my father’s life. Well, I have been restless and foolish, perhaps, but I am sobered down now, and I mean to marry. I cannot help it, mamma, and I am quite prepared to have plenty of opposition to my proposal, and to be told that I am marrying beneath me; all the same, I mean to marry Sage Portlock, and I ask you to help me.”
Mrs Mallow tried persuasion, pointed out how directly this would be in opposition to his father’s wishes, and how the Churchwarden had set his face against it; but all she said only seemed to strengthen her son’s desire, and the natural consequence was that very soon Mrs Mallow began to talk earnestly to the Rector, but for quite a month without any other effect than angering him more against his son, whom he accused of fighting against his sisters’ prospects.
But when the father began to find that with patient pertinacity the son was keeping up his pursuit of Sage, the words of his wife began to have more effect, and one day, during a visit to the school, the old gentleman found himself speaking to Sage with greater deference, and thoughtfully musing over the possibility of her becoming his sons wife.
“It is terrible though,” he mused; “just as his sisters are about to make brilliant matches. It is like degrading them.”
That night, however, the Rector heard something about Cyril having been seen a great deal down by the ford lately, and quick to take alarm, warned as he had been by earlier escapades, he began to think more seriously, and went down to the school a great deal more.
“Better that than disgrace,” he said; “a fresh scandal would almost kill her, poor sweet. Ah, me! she has much to bear.”
He sighed weakly and went to the school again, setting Sage Portlock in a flutter by his quiet paternal ways, and he came away at last avowing that if the object of his son’s affections had been the daughter of a brother clergyman, he would have been delighted to find in her the child his son should bring to him to take a place within his heart.
Then he began thinking about Lord Artingale and Mr Perry-Morton, and he grew angry; but again he was obliged to say to himself, It would settle Cyril perhaps. Better that than a fresh scandal.
He tried to find failings in Sage—seeing in her conduct cause of offence—but without avail, for she gave him no hold whatever, and he went away thinking of her deeply, and wondering what was to be the end.
Cyril Mallow smiled as he saw that he was right, and that it was only a matter of time. He liked Sage Portlock, and he told himself that he loved her passionately, and that without her he should die, and then he entered into pecuniary calculations.
“The old man must leave her at least half of what he has, and every one in Lawford says he is well off, so that it will be a pleasant little bit of revenge to spend the old hunks’s money for the way in which he abused me. Then there is poor mamma’s money. That must come to me, so that we shall be pretty well off. Bah! it will all come right in time. But I hope Frank is not playing the fool about little Rue.”
After the stern encounter with the Churchwarden, and the angry words with his father, Cyril thought it prudent to keep away from Kilby Farm, and ceased to watch for Sage as she was going to or leaving school; but he rearranged his seat in the rectory pew, so that he could see her where she sat in church, became more regular than ever in his attendance, and sat through his father’s sermons gazing pensively at the young schoolmistress.
People said he was growing pale and thin, which was a fact easily explicable, for he smoked from morning to night, and the healthy brown of the last sea voyage was fading away consequent upon his indoor life.
“If I kick up a row I shall do no good,” he argued, “so I may as well wait. I could persuade her to run away with me, but then we should be confoundedly short of money till the old folks forgave us, and I’m sick of that sort of thing. No, I think the injured dodge is best, for it pays all round.”
He was quite right; and while he shut himself up with his brother in the room devoted to their personal use, readBell’s Life in London, and sent communications to one or two betting men in town whenever he had the necessary funds at his disposal, everything was working steadily to the end he sought to gain.
His quiet acceptance, as it seemed to the Rector and Portlock, of the commands which he had received, gave him, in the eyes of the other interested parties, an injured, martyrlike air, and, though she did not meet him now, Sage’s thoughts were none the less busy about him. His every word had impressed her deeply, and day by day, in spite of her efforts to be true to her promise, she felt that she was falling more and more away.
This was plainly shown in her letters to Luke Ross, to whom she wrote weekly, hearing from him regularly in return. But he noted the gradual change in her communications. They grew shorter by degrees; less full of chatty little paragraphs about herself and her daily life. Still she did not fail to send to him once. It had become a habit—a duty—and while she did this she told herself that she was making a brave fight against her weak heart, and hiding the truth from Luke, little thinking that her notes laid her heart quite bare to the reader.
For it is a very strange thing how the feelings of a writer at the time of writing infuse themselves in the words. A note may contain only a thousand, and those thousand words relate certain matters, but from one writer they will seem to flow with affection, from another be calm, cool, and simply matter-of-fact. The sentences shall be almost the same, the words be very little varied, and yet, even without endearing expressions, one letter shall breathe and emanate affection, the other be friendliness alone.
So, by slow degrees, it was with Sage’s letters to her lover; and at first, as the idea stole upon him that she was growing colder, Luke Ross fought back the cruel thought, telling himself that he was wrong, and that hard study was souring his disposition, making him exacting and strange.
But as time went on he was obliged to realise the truth, and he wrote reproachful letters, but only tore them up again, to write others in his old, simple, confiding strain.
He longed to go down and see her more often, but kept putting it off till she should express a wish for him to come, hinting at it, and expecting that some such invitation would be contained in the next letter; but he hoped against hope.
Then a week passed without any communication from Lawford, and Luke packed up a few things in a bag, and started for his old home, but only to return directly to his chambers.
“She is not ill,” he said to himself. “If she had been some one would have written to tell me. I’ll wait.”
He waited, and at the appointed time—at the end of another week—a letter came, very similar to the last, and in which she said that she would have written as usual, only that she was very busy.
“Very busy,” said Luke to himself, as he sat in his dingy room, gazing straight before him, through the dull window, at the smoky chimney-pots, but seeing, as in a picture, the interior of Lawford Girls’ School, with its mistress moving from class to class. “Very busy.”
He sighed deeply, and went on with his reading.
From that time Sage’s letters came fortnightly, Luke sending two for one, but he made no complaint, keeping rigidly to his old stern determination.
“I said I would place myself in a worthy position to win her,” he said. “That I will do. What is more, I will be faithful, come what may—faithful, even in my belief in her.”
He sat, hot of eye and weary of brain, thinking whether he ought not to go down and see why this gradual change was taking place, but in his stern repression of self he felt that to go down unexpectedly would be like mistrusting the woman he hoped to make his wife, and this he could not bear.
Study—hard study—was Luke Ross’s medicine for a mind diseased, and whenever doubting thoughts and mistrust came hand in hand to torture him he forced himself to attend to his studies, making, by prodigious efforts, great advances in the learned treatises he was striving to master, but only at the expense of his health.
“It is for Sage,” he said, by way of encouragement, and when doubts became very strong he held up the shield of his faith.
“No,” he would say aloud, “writing is, perhaps, irksome to one who has so much to do, but her heart is mine, and save from her own lips I would never believe that she could let it stray.”
In his stern determination to master the profession for which he was reading, Luke Ross only allowed himself a very rare visit home; and though he had felt frequent urgings of late he fought them down, setting his teeth, and vowing that he would not go before the appointed time.
It was a terrible fight when once the dire attacks of doubt were made, and repeated from day to day, for during the weeks of the past month Sage’s letters had grown more irregular still, as if she felt emboldened to be more careless from that absence of reproach. But the truth was that every letter from London was read by Sage with bitter misery and reproach, and her replies were often so blotted with tears that they were destroyed instead of being posted, and it was only those which escaped the fire which he received.
It only wanted a week of the time he had settled in his own mind, and in spite of his efforts to be calm, it was almost more than he could do to keep on with his task. A strong feeling was urging him to go down at once, see Sage, and learn the worst, for a fortnight had again passed and no letter.
Twenty times over he threw his books aside and started up to go, but upon each occasion the indomitable power of will that helped him to make the great efforts to master his profession—a power of will that had already stood him in such good stead during his stay at Saint Chrysostom’s—came to his aid, and he fought out the miseries of that last week and won. “I will—not—show—mistrust,” he said, sternly, as if addressing an unseen accuser of Sage; “I gave—her—my—love—and—I—will—never—take—it—from—her. If—she—cast—it—away—then—the—act—is—hers—not—mine.”
This, slowly repeated, with a pause between the words, became, as it were, a formula impressed in his mind, and it seemed to him that he had become Sage’s advocate, bound to defend her against unseen accusers.
At last, having no longer any conscientious reasons for deferring his visit, he hastily packed his bag and closed up his dreary little chambers, feeling, as he went out into busy roaring Fleet-street, that the rest was absolutely necessary, for his head throbbed and seemed confused, troubled as it had been with conflicting emotions.
It was winter once more, but one of those mild seasons when balmy winds from the west tempt the wild flowers into a belief that it is spring, and sweetly-scented violets make the air redolent of their homely, heart-appealing fragrance, when from amongst the dark dead leaves the tender green of the crinkled primrose roots could be seen surrounding here and there a pale sulphur blossom.
It was such a change from the smoke-haunted, soot-dotted city region of the law, that fifteen-mile coach ride, after the run down by fast train, that as Luke gazed over the flat landscape illumined by the mellow glow of the wintry sun, and noted the silvery bronze of the young oak stems, and the ruddy birch and ashes grey, he felt a joyous elasticity of frame; his pulses throbbed with pleasure, and before they reached the town he determined to alight and follow the mossy lane to the left, two miles of whose windings would take him within a hundred yards of Kilby, the time fitting so well that he knew he should intercept Sage as she left the school, which would not break up for the holidays until the following day.
Home again, after many months’ absence—months of stern self-denial; and as he leaped down from his seat on the coach, leaving his portmanteau for delivery at the inn, he felt so boyish and light-hearted that he began to run along the lane.
“What nonsense!” he said, half aloud. “One shuts oneself up in that little hole and reads and reads till one’s brain gets clogged, and full of unwholesome fancies. What a brute I am to let such thoughts creep in, when I’ll wager anything that my darling is longing to see me back.”
He stopped to pick a primrose, then another, and a violet. Walked rapidly on again, but paused to select a couple of bramble-leaves of a most glorious deep green bronze. Then there was a beautiful privet spray, and another primrose or two, and by degrees, as he hurried on with little pauses, a goodly wild bouquet had been culled, and he smiled as he saw in imagination Sage’s delight at his present.
“Heaven bless her!” he said, half aloud, and, all unpleasant suspicions gone, he walked on with his eyes half closed, revelling in a kind of day-dream full of delights, the only jarring thought being that he was coming to see Sage before paying his duty to his father at home.
“He’ll forgive me,” he said. “He knows how I love her. Why, what a boy I feel to-day! It’s this delicious air that has not been breathed by two million sets of lungs.”
“There’s the farm,” he said. “How clean the windows must be to reflect the setting sun like that. Different to mine. I wonder how Mrs Portlock is, and what the old lady will say?”
He hurried on, eager to reach the narrow cross where the Kilby lane and the one he was in intersected, and, once there, he meant to mount the high bank, and wait by the old mossy oak pollard, watching for Sage’s steps, so as to give her a surprise by throwing the bouquet of wild flowers at her feet, and then—
And then?—Alas! how pleasant is that habit of castle-building in the air. How brightly the edifices are raised, how quickly, how dismally they fall! Luke had planned all so well, and hurried on along the soft, mossy border of the lane, heedless of the winter’s dirt, till he reached the cross, turned sharply, and then stopped short, uttering a low moan as he reeled against the hedge, clutching at the thorns for a support.