Mrs. Ludlow and Til had concluded the meal which is so generally advanced to a position of unnatural importance in a household devoid of the masculine elementen permanence; and, the tea-things having been removed, the old lady, according to the established order, was provided with a book, over which she was expected to fall comfortably asleep. But she did not adhere to the rule of her harmless and placid life on this particular occasion. The "cross" was there--no doubt about it; and it was no longer indefinite in its nature, but very real, and beginning to be very heavy. Under the pressure of its weight Geoffrey's mother was growing indifferent to, even unobservant of, the small worries which had formerly occupied her mind, and furnished the subject-matter of her pardonable little querulousness and complaints--a grievance in no way connected with the tradespeople, and uninfluenced by the "greatest plagues in life"--which no reduction of duties involving cheap groceries, and no sumptuary laws restraining servant-gal-ism within limits of propriety in respect of curls and crinoline, had any power to assuage,--had taken possession of her now, and she fidgeted and fumed no longer, but was haunted by apprehension and sorely troubled.
A somewhat forced liveliness on Til's part, and a marked avoidance of the subject of Geoffrey, of whom, as he had just left them, it would have been natural that the mother and daughter should talk, bore witness to the embarrassment she felt, and increased Mrs. Ludlow's depression. She sat in her accustomed arm-chair, but her head drooped forward and her fingers tapped the arms in an absent manner, which showed her pre-occupation of mind. Til at length took her needle-work, and sat down opposite her mother, in a silence which was interrupted after a considerable interval by the arrival of Charley Potts, who had not altogether ceased to offer clumsy and violently-improbable explanations of his visits, though such were rapidly coming to be unnecessary.
On the present occasion Charley floundered through the preliminaries with more than his usual impulsive awkwardness, and there was that in his manner which caused Til (a quick observer, and especially so in his case) to divine that he had something particular to say to her. If she were right in her conjecture, it was clear that the opportunity must be waited for,--until the nap, in which Mrs. Ludlow invariably indulged in the evening, should have set in. The sooner the conversation settled into sequence, the sooner this desirable event might be expected to take place; so Til talked vigorously, and Charley seconded her efforts. Mrs. Ludlow said little, until, just as Charley began to think the nap was certainly coming, she asked him abruptly if he had seen Geoffrey lately. Miss Til happened to be looking at Charley as the question was put to him, and saw in a moment that the matter he had come to speak to her about concerned her brother.
"No, ma'am," said Chancy; "none of us have seen Geoff lately. Bowker and I have planned a state visit to him; he's as hard to get at as a swell in the Government--with things to give away--what do you call it?--patronage; but we're not going to stand it. We can't do without Geoff. By the bye, how's the youngster, ma'am?"
"The child is very well, I believe," said Mrs. Ludlow, with a shake of the head, which Charley Potts had learned to recognise in connection with the "cross," but which he saw with regret on the present occasion. "I'm afraid theyve heard something," he thought. "But," continued the old lady querulously, "I see little of him, or of Geoffrey either. Things are changed; I suppose it's all right, but it's not easy for a mother to see it; and I don't think any mother would like to be a mere visitor at her own son's house,--not that I am even much of that now, Mr. Potts; for I am sure it's a month 'or more since ever I have darkened the doors of Elm Lodge,--and I shouldn't so much mind it, I hope, if it was for Geoffrey's good; but I can't think it's that--" Here the old lady's voice gave way, and she left off with a kind of sob, which went to Charley's soft heart and filled him with inexpressible confusion. Til was also much taken aback, though she saw at once that her mother had been glad of the opportunity of saying her little say, under the influence of the mortification she had felt at Geoffrey's silence on the subject of her future visits to Elm Lodge. He had, as we have seen, made himself as delightful as possible in every other respect; but he had been strictly reticent about Margaret, and he had not invited his mother and sister to his house. She had been longing to say all this to Til; and now she had got it out, in the presence of a third party, who would "see fair" between her justifiable annoyance and Til's unreasonable defence of her brother. Til covered Charley's embarrassment by saying promptly, in a tone of extreme satisfaction,
"Geoffrey was here to-day; he paid us quite a long visit."
"Did he?" said Charley; "and is he all right?"
"O yes," said Til, "he is very well; and he told us all about his pictures; and, do you know, he's going to put baby and the nurse into a corner group, among the people on the Esplanade,--only he must wait till baby's back is stronger, and his neck leaves off waggling, so as to paint him properly, sitting up nice and straight in nurse's arms." And then Miss Til ran on with a great deal of desultory talk, concerning Geoffrey, and his description of the presents, and what he had said about Lord Caterham and Annie Maurice. Charley listened to her with more seriousness than he usually displayed; and Mrs. Ludlow sighed and shook her head at intervals, until, as the conversation settled into a dialogue, she gradually dropped asleep. Then Til's manner changed, and she lowered her voice, and asked Charley anxiously if he had come to tell her any bad news.
"If you have," she said, "aid that it can be kept from mamma, tell it at once, and let me keep it from her."
With much true delicacy and deep sympathy, Charley then related to Til the scene which had taken place between himself, Bowker, and Stompff,--and told her that Bowker had talked the matter over with him and they had agreed that it was not acting fairly by Geoffrey to allow him to remain in ignorance of the floating rumours, injurious to his wife's character, which were rife among their friends. How Stompff had heard of Margaret's having fainted in Lord Caterham's room, Charley could not tell; that he had heard it, and had heard a mysterious cause assigned to it, he knew. That he could have known any thing about an incident apparently so trivial proved that the talk had become tolerably general, and was tending to the injury of Geoffrey, not only in his self...respect and in his feelings, but in his prospects. Charley was much more alarmed and uneasy, and much more grieved for Geoffrey, than even Bowker; for he had reason to fear that no supposition derogatory to Margaret's antecedents could surpass the reality. He alone knew where and how the acquaintance between Geoffrey and Margaret had begun, and he was therefore prepared to estimate the calamity of such a marriage correctly. He did not exactly know what he had intended to say to Matilda Ludlow; he had come to the house with a vague idea that something ought to be done;--that Til ought to speak to her sister-in-law,--a notion which in itself proved Charley Potts to be any thing but a wise man,--ought to point out to her that her indifference to her husband was at once ungrateful to him and shortsighted to her own interest; and that people, notably his employer, were talking about it. Charley Potts was not exactly an adept in reading character, and the real Margaret was a being such as he could neither have understood nor believed in; therefore the crudity, wildness, and inapplicability of this scheme were to be excused.
A very few words on his part served to open the susceptible heart of Miss Til, especially as they had spoken on the subject, though generally, before; and they were soon deep in the exchange of mutual confidences. Til cried quietly, so as not to wake her mother; and it distressed Charley very keenly to see her tears and to hear her declare that her sister-in-law had not the slightest regard for her opinion; that though perfectly civil to her, Margaret had met all her attempts at sisterly intimacy with most forbidding coldness; and that she felt sure any attempt to put their relation on a more familiar footing would be useless.
"She must have been very badly brought up, I am sure," said Til. "We don't know anything about her family; but I am sure she never learned what the duties of a wife and mother are."
Charley looked admirably at Til as she sadly uttered this remark, and his mind was divided between a vision of Til realising in the most perfect manner the highest ideal of conjugal and maternal duty, and speculating upon what might have been the polite fiction presented by Geoffrey to his mother and sister as an authentic history of Margaret's parentage and antecedents.
"Did Geoffrey seem cheerful and happy to-day?" he asked, escaping off the dangerous ground of questions which he could have answered only too completely.
"Well," replied Til, "I can't say he did. He talked and laughed, and all that; but I could see that he was uneasy and unhappy. How much happier he was when we were all together, in the days which seem so far off now!"
At this point the conversation became decidedly sentimental; for Charley, while carefully maintaining that true happiness was only to be found in the married state, was equally careful to state his opinion that separation from Til must involve a perfectly incomparable condition of misery; and altogether matters were evidently reaching a climax. Matilda Ludlow was an unaffected honest girl: she knew perfectly well that Charley loved her, and she had no particular objection to his selecting this particular occasion on which to tell her so. But Til and Charley were not to part that evening in the character of affianced lovers; for in one of those significant pauses which precede important words, cab-wheels rolled rapidly up to the little gate, hurried footsteps ran along the flagged path, and a loud knock and ring at the door impatiently demanded attention.
Mrs. Ludlow awoke with a violent start: Charley and Til looked at each other. The door was opened, and a moment later the cook from Elm Lodge was in the room, and had replied to Charley's hurried question by the statement that her master was very ill, and she had been sent to fetch Miss Ludlow.
"Very ill! has any accident happened?" they all questioned the woman, who showed much feeling--all his dependents loved Geoffrey--and the confusion was so great, that it was some minutes before they succeeded in learning what actually had happened. That Geoffrey had returned home as usual; had gone to the nursery, and played with the child and talked to the nurse as usual; had gone to his painting-room; and had not again been seen by the servants, until the housemaid had found him lying on the hearth-rug an hour before, when they had sent for Dr. Brandram, and that gentleman had despatched the cook to bring Miss Ludlow.
"Did Mrs. Ludlow tell you to come?" asked Til.
To this question the woman replied that her mistress was not at home. She had been out the greater part of the day, had returned home some time later than Mr. Ludlow, and had kept the cab waiting for an hour; then she had gone away again, and had not returned when the cook had been sent on her errand. Charley Potts exchanged looks of undisguised alarm with Til at this portion of the woman's narrative, and, seeing that reserve would now be wholly misplaced, he questioned her closely concerning Mrs. Ludlow. She had nothing to tell, however, beyond that the housemaid had said her master and mistress had been together in the dining-room, and, surprised that dinner had not been ordered up, she had gone thither; but hearing her mistress speaking "rather strangely," she had not knocked at the door. The servants had wondered at the delay, she said, not understanding why their master should go without his dinner because Mrs. Ludlow was not at home, and had at length found him as she described.
"Did Mrs. Ludlow often go out in this way?" asked Mr. Potts.
"No, sir, never," said the woman. "I never knew my mistress leave my master alone before, sir; and I am afraid something has took place between them."
The distress and bewilderment of the little party were extreme. Manifestly there was but one thing to be done; Til must obey the doctor's summons, and repair immediately to her brother's house. He was very ill indeed, the cook said, and quite "off his head;" he did not talk much, but what he did say was all nonsense; and Dr. Brandram had said it was the beginning of brain-fever. Charley and Til were both surprised at the firmness and collectedness manifested by Mrs. Ludlow under this unexpected trial. She was very pale and she trembled very much, but she was quite calm and quiet when she told Til that she must put up such articles of clothing as she would require for a few days, as it was her intention to go to her son and to remain with him.
"I am the fittest person, my dear," said the old lady. "If it be only illness that ails him, I know more about it than you do; if it is sorrow also, and sorrow of the kind I suspect, I am fitter to hear it and act in it than you."
It was finally agreed that they should both go to Geoffrey's house and that Til should return home in the morning; for even in this crisis Mrs. Ludlow could not quite forget her household gods, and to contemplate them bereft at once of her own care and that of Til would have been too grievous; so they started--the three women in the cab, and Charley Potts on the box, very silent, very gloomy, and not even in his inmost thoughts approaching the subject of a pipe.
It was past ten when Geoffrey Ludlow's mother and sister reached the house which had seen such terrible events since they had visited it last. Already the dreary neglected air which settles over every room in a dwelling invaded by serious illness, except the one which is the scene of suffering, had come upon it. Four hours earlier all was bright and cheerful, well cared for and orderly; now, though the disarray was not material, it was most expressive. Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow had not returned; the doctor had gone away, but was coming back as soon as possible, having left one of the servants by Geoffrey's bedside, with orders to apply wet linen to his temples without intermission. Geoffrey was quiet now--almost insensible, they thought. Mrs. Ludlow and Til went to the sick-room at once, and Charley Potts turned disconsolately into the dining-room, where the cloth was still laid, and the chairs stood about in disorder--one, which Geoffrey had knocked down, lay unheeded on the ground. Charley picked it up, sat down upon it, and leaned his elbows disconsolately on the table.
"It's all up, I'm afraid," said he to himself; "and she's off with the other fellow, whoever he is. Well, well, it will either kill Geoff outright or break his heart for the rest of his life. At all events, there couldn't have been much good in her if she didn't like Til."
After some time Dr. Brandram arrived, and Charley heard him ask the servant whether Mrs. Ludlow had returned, and heard her reply that her mistress was still absent, but Mrs. Ludlow and her daughter had come, and were in her master's room. The doctor went upstairs immediately, and Charley still waited in the parlour, determined to waylay him has he came down.
Geoffrey was dangerously ill, there was no doubt of that, though his mother's terror magnified danger into hopelessness, and refused to be comforted by Dr. Brandram's assurance that no living man for certain could tell how things would be. She met the doctor's inquiry about Margaret with quiet reserve: she did not expect her daughter-in-law's return that evening, she said; but she and Miss Ludlow were prepared to remain. It was very essential that they should do so, Dr. Brandram assured her; and on the following day he would procure a professional nurse. Then he made a final examination of his patient, gave the ladies their instructions, observed with satisfaction the absence of fuss, and the quiet self-subduing alacrity of Til, and went downstairs, shaking his head and wondering, to be pounced upon in the little hall by the impulsive Charley, who drew him into the dining-room, and poured out a torrent of questions. Dr. Brandram was disposed to be a little reserved at first, but unbent when Charley assured him that he and Geoffrey were the most intimate friends--"Brothers almost," said Mr. Potts in a conscious tone, which did not strike the doctor. Then he told his anxious interlocutor that Geoffrey was suffering from brain-fever, which he supposed to be the result of a violent shock, but of what kind he could form no idea; and then he said something, in a hesitating sort of way, about "domestic affairs."
"It is altogether on the mind, then," said Charley. "In that case, no one can explain any thing but himself."
"Precisely so," said Dr. Brandram; "and it may, it most probably will, be a considerable time before he will be able to give us any explanation of any thing, and before it would be safe to ask him for any. In the mean time,--but no doubt Mrs. Ludlow will return, and--"
"I don't think she will do any thing of the kind," said Charley Potts in a decisive tone; "and, in fact, doctor, I think it would be well to say as little as possible about her."
Dr. Brandram looked at Mr. Potts with an expression intended to be knowing, but which was in reality only puzzled, and assuring him of his inviolable discretion, departed. Charley remained at Elm Lodge until after midnight, and then, finding that he could be of no service to the watchers, sorrowfully wended his way back to town on foot.
Wearily dragged on the days in the sick man's room, where he lay racked and tormented by fever, and vaguely oppressed in mind. His mother and sister tended him with unwearied assiduity, and Dr. Brandram called in further medical advice. Geoffrey's life hung in the balance for many days--days during which the terror his mother and Til experienced are not to be told. The desolate air of he house deepened; the sitting-rooms were quite deserted now. All the bright pretty furniture which Geoff had bought for the delectation of his bride, all the little articles of use and ornament peculiarly associated with Margaret, were dust-covered, and had a ghostly seeming. Charley Potts--who passed a great deal of his time moping about Elm Lodge, too thankful to be permitted on the premises, and occasionally to catch a glimpse of Til's figure, as she glided noiselessly from the sick-room to the lower regions in search of some of the innumerable things which are always being wanted in illness and are never near at hand--occasionally strolled into the painting-room, and lifting the cover which had been thrown over it, looked sadly at "The Esplanade at Brighton," and wondered whether dear old Geoff would ever paint baby's portrait among that group in the left-hand corner.
The only member of the household who pursued his usual course of existence was this same baby. Unconscious alike of the flight of his mother and the illness, nigh unto death, of his father, the child throve apace, and sometimes the sound of his cooing, crowing voice, coming through the open doors into the room where his grandmother sat and looked into the wan haunted face of her son, caused her unspeakable pangs of sorrow and compassion. The child "took to" Til wonderfully, and it is impossible to tell the admiration with which the soul of Charley Potts was filled, as he saw the motherly ways of the young lady towards the little fellow, happily unconscious that he did not possess a mother's love.
Of Margaret nothing was heard. Mrs. Ludlow and Til were utterly confounded by the mystery which surrounded them. She made no sign from the time she left the house. Their ignorance of the circumstances of her departure was so complete, that they could not tell whether to expect her to do so or not. Her dresses and ornaments were all undisturbed in the drawers in the room where poor Geoffrey lay, and they did not know whether to remove them or not. She had said to Geoffrey, "Whatever I actually require I will send for;" but they did not know this, and she never had sent. The centre of the little system--the chief person in the household--the idolised wife--she had disappeared as utterly as if her existence had been only a dream. The only person who could throw any light on the mystery was, perhaps, dying--at all events, incapable of recollection, thought, or speech. It "got about" in the neighbourhood that Mr. Ludlow was dangerously ill, and that his mother and sister were with him, but his beautiful wife was not; whereat the neighbourhood, feeling profoundly puzzled, merely looked unutterably wise, and had always thought there was something odd in that quarter. Then the neighbourhood called to enquire and to condole, and was very pointed in its hopes that Mrs. Geoffrey Ludlow was "bearing up well," and very much astonished to receive for answer, "Thank you ma'am; but missis is not at home." Mrs. Ludlow knew nothing of all this, and Til, who did know, cared nothing; but it annoyed Charley Potts, who beard and saw a good deal from his post of vantage in the dining-room window, and who relieved his feelings by swearing under his breath, and making depreciatory comments upon the personal appearance of the ladies as they approached the house, with their faces duly arranged to the sympathetic pattern.
It chanced that, on one occasion, when Geoffrey had been about ten days ill, Til came down to the dining-room to speak to the faithful Charley, carrying the baby on one arm, and in her other hand a bundle of letters. Charley took the child from her as a matter of course; and the youthful autocrat graciously sanctioning the arrangement, the two began to talk eagerly of Geoffrey. Til was looking very pale and weary, and Charley was much moved by her appearance.
"I tell you what it is," he said, "you'll kill yourself, whether Geoffrey lives or dies." He spoke in a tone suggestive of feeling himself personally injured, and Til was not too far gone to blush and smile faintly as she perceived it.
"O no, I sha'n't," she said. "I'm going to lie down all this afternoon in the night-nursery. Mamma is asleep now, and Geoffrey is quite quiet, though the nurse says she sees no change for the better, no real change of any kind indeed. And so I came down to ask you what you think I had better do about these letters." She laid them on the table as she spoke. "I don't think they are business letters, because you have taken care to let all Geoffrey's professional friends know, haven't you, Charley?"
Charley thrilled; she had dropped unconsciously, in the intimacy of a common sorrow, into calling him by his Christian name, but the pleasure it gave him had by no means worn off yet.
"Yes," he said; "and you have no notion what a state they are all in about dear old Geoff. I assure you they all envy me immensely, because I can be of some little use to you. They don't come here, you know, because that would be no use--only making a row with the door-bell, and taking up the servants' time; but every day they come down to my place, or write me notes, or scribble their names on the door, with fat notes of interrogation after them, if I'm not at home. That means, 'How's dear old Geoff? send word at once.' Why, there's Stompff--I told you he was a beast, didn't I? Well, he's not half a beast, I assure you; he is in such a way about Geoff; and, upon my word, I don't think it's all because he is worth no end of money to him,--I don't indeed. He is mercenary, of course, but not always and not altogether; and he really quite got over me yesterday by the way he talked of Geoffrey, and wanted to know if there was any thing in the world he could do. Any thing in the world, according to Stompff, meant any thing in the way of money, I suppose; an advance upon the 'Esplanade,' or something of that sort."
"Yes, I suppose it did," said Til; "but we don't want money. Mamma has plenty to go on with until--" here her lipquivered,--"until Geoffrey can understand and explain things. It's very kind of Mr. Stompff, however, and I'm glad he's not quite a beast," said the young lady simply. "But, Charley, about these letters; what should I do?"
At this point the baby objected to be any longer unnoticed, and was transferred to Til, who walked up and down the room with the injured innocent, while Charley turned over the letters, and looked at their superscriptions.
"You are sure there is no letter from his wife among these?" said Charley.
"O no!" replied Til; "I know Margaret's hand well; and I have examined all the letters carefully every day. There has never been one from her."
"Here are two with the same monogram, and the West-end district mark; I think they must be from Miss Maurice. If these letters can be made out to mean any thing, they are A.M. And see, one is plain, and one has a deep black edge."
Til hurried up to the table. "I hope Lord Caterham is not dead," she said! "I have heard Geoffrey speak of him with great regard; and only the day he was taken ill, he said he feared the poor fellow was going fast."
"I think we had better break the seal and see," said Charley; "Geoff would not like any neglect in that quarter."
He broke the seal as he spoke, and read the melancholy note which Annie had written to Geoffrey when Arthur died, and which had never received an answer.
Charley Potts and Til were much shocked and affected at the intelligence which the note contained.
"I haven't cared about the papers since Geoff has been ill, or I suppose I should have seen the announcement of Lord Caterham's death, though I don't particularly care for reading about the swells at any time," said Charley. "But how nicely she writes to Geoffrey, poor girl! I am sure she will be shocked to hear of his illness, and you must write to her,--h'm,--Til. What do you say to writing, and letting me take your letter to-morrow myself? Then she can ask me any questions she likes, and you need not enter into any painful explanations."
Til was eminently grateful for this suggestion which she knew was dictated by the sincerest and most disinterested wish to spare her; for to Charley the idea of approaching the grandeur of St. Barnabas Square, and the powdered pomposity of the lordly flunkeys, was, as she well knew, wholly detestable. So it was arranged that Charley should fulfil this mission early on the following day, before he presented himself at Elm Lodge. The baby was sent upstairs, Til wrote her note, and Charley departed very reluctantly, stipulating that Til should at once fulfil her promise of lying down in the nursery.
When, on the ensuing morning, Miss Maurice's maid reached Elm Lodge, the servants communicated to her the startling intelligence, which she roused Annie from her sleep to impart to her, without any reference to Mrs. Ludlow and Til, who were not aware for some time that Miss Maurice had sent to make inquiries. On his arrival at St. Barnabas Square, Charley Potts was immediately admitted to Annie's presence, and the result of the interview was that she arrived at Elm Lodge escorted by that gentleman, whose embarrassment under the distinguished circumstances was extreme, before noon. She knew from Charley's report that it would be quite in vain to take Caterham's letter with her; that it must be long ere it should meet the eyes for which it was written, if ever it were to do so, and it remained still undisturbed in her charge. So Annie Maurice shared the sorrow and the fear of Geoffrey's mother and sister, and discussed the mystery that surrounded the calamities which had befallen them, perfectly unconscious that within reach of her own hand lay the key to the enigma.
Written by a dying hand, the letter addressed by Lord Caterham to Geoffrey Ludlow was read when the doctors would scarcely have pronounced its recipient out of the jaws of death. Gaunt, wan, hectic; with great bistre-rings round his big eyes, now more prominent than ever; with his shapely white hands now almost transparent in their thinness; with his bushy beard dashed here and there with gray patches; and with O such a sense of weariness and weakness,--old Geoff, stretched supine on his bed, demanded news of Margaret. They had none to give him: told him so--at first gently, then reiterated it plainly; but he would not believe it. They must know something of her movements; some one must have been there to tell him where she was; something must have been heard of her. To all these questions negative answers. Then, as his brain cleared and his strength increased--for, except under both of these conditions, such a question would not have occurred to him--he asked whether, during his illness, there had been any communication from Lord Beauport's house. A mystery then--a desire to leave it over, until Miss Maurice's next call, which happened the next day, when Caterham's letter, intact, was handed to him.
That letter lay on a chair by Geoffrey's bedside the whole of that afternoon. To clutch it, to look at it, to hold it, with its seal yet unbroken, before his eyes, he had employed such relics of strength as remained to him; but he dared not open it. He felt that he could give no explanation of his feelings; but he felt that if he broke that seal, and read what was contained in that letter, all his recent tortures would return with tenfold virulence: the mocking demons that had sat on his bed and sneered at him; the fiery serpents that had uncoiled themselves between him and the easel on which stood the picture which urgent necessity compelled him to work at; the pale fair form, misty and uncertain generally, yet sometimes with Margaret's hair and eyes, that so constantly floated across his vision, and as constantly eluded his outstretched arms,--all these phantasms of his fevered brain would return again. And yet, in it, in that sheet of paper lying so temptingly near to his pillow, there was news of her! He had but to stretch out his hand, and he should learn how far, at least, her story was known to the relatives of him who---- The thought in itself was too much; and Geoffrey swooned off. When he recovered, his first thought was of the letter; his first look to assure himself that it had not been removed. No, there it lay I He could resist the temptation no longer; and, raising himself on his elbow, he opened and read it.
The effect of the perusal of that letter on Geoffrey Ludlow none knew but himself. The doctors found him "not quite so well" for the succeeding day or two, and thought that his "tone" was scarcely so good as they had been led to anticipate; certain it was that he made no effort to rouse himself, and that, save occasionally, when spoken to by Til, he remained silent and preoccupied. On the third day he asked Til to write to Bowker, and beg him to come to him at once. Within twenty-four hours that worthy presented himself at Elm Lodge.
After a few words with Til downstairs, Mr. Bowker was shown up to Geoffrey's room, the door of which Til opened, and, when Mr. Bowker had entered, shut it behind him. The noise of the closing door roused Geoffrey, and he turned in his bed, and, looking up, revealed such a worn and haggard face, that old Bowker stopped involuntarily, and drew a long breath, as he gazed on the miserable appearance of his friend. There must have been something comical in the rueful expression of Bowker's face, for old Geoff smiled feebly, as he said,
"Come in, William; come in, old friend! Ive had a hard bout of it, old fellow, since you saw me; but there's no danger now--no infection, I mean, or any thing of that kind."
Geoff spoke haphazard; but what he had said was the best thing to restore Mr. Bowker to himself.
"Your William's fever-proof;" he growled out in reply, "and don't fear any nonsense of that kind; and if he did, it's not that would keep him away from a friend's bedside. I should have been here--that is, if you'd have let me; and, oddly enough, though I'm such a rough old brute in general, I'm handy and quiet in times of sickness,--at least so Ive been told;" and here Bowker stifled a great sigh. "But the first I heard of your illness was from your sister's letter, which I only got this morning."
"Give me your hand, William; I know that fast enough. But I didn't need any additional nursing. Til and the old lady--God bless them!--have pulled me through splendidly, and--But I'm beyond nursing now, William; what I want is--" and Geoff's voice failed him, and he stopped.
Old Bowker eyed him with tear-blurred vision for a moment, and then said, "What you want is--"
"Don't mind me just now, William; I'm horribly weak, and girlish, and trembling, but I shall get to it in time. What I want is, some man, some friend, to whom I can talk openly and unreservedly,--whose advice and aid I can seek, in such wretchedness as, I trust, but few have experienced."
It was a good thing that Geoffrey's strength had in some degree returned, for Bowker clutched his hand in an iron grip, as in a dull low voice, he said, "Do you remember my telling you the story of my life? Why did I tell you that? Not for sympathy, but for example. I saw the rock on to which you were drifting, and hoped to keep you clear. I exposed the sadness of my life to you when the game was played out and there was no possibility of redemption. I can't tell what strait you may be in; but if I can help you out of it, there is no mortal thing I will not do to aid you."
As well as he could Geoff returned the pressure; then, after a moment's pause, said, "You know, of course, that my wife has left me?"
Bowker bowed in acquiescence.
"You know the circumstances?"
"I know nothing, Geoff, beyond the mere fact. Whatever talk there may be among such of the boys as I drop in upon now and then, if it turned upon you and your affairs, save in the matter of praising your art, it would be certain to be hushed as soon as I stepped in amongst them. They knew our intimacy, and they are by far too good fellows to say any thing that would pain me. So that beyond the mere fact which you have just stated, I know nothing."
Then in a low weak voice, occasionally growing full and powerful under excitement, and subsiding again into its faint tone, Geoffrey Ludlow told to William Bowker the whole history of his married life, beginning with his finding Margaret on the doorstep, and ending by placing in his friend's hands the posthumous letter of Lord Caterham. Throughout old Bowker listened with rapt attention to the story, and when he came back from the window, to which he had stepped for the perusal of the letter, Geoffrey noticed that there were big tears rolling down his cheeks. He was silent for a minute or two after he had laid the letter on Geoffrey's bed; when he spoke, he said, "We're a dull lot, the whole race of us; and that's the truth. We pore over our own twopenny sorrows, and think that the whole army of martyrs could not show such a specimen as ourselves. Why, Geoff, dear old man, what was my punishment to yours! What was,--but, however, I need not talk of that. You want my services--say how."
"I want your advice first, William. I want to know how to--how to find my wife--for, O, to me she is my wife; how to find Margaret. You'll blame me probably, and tell me that I am mad--that I ought to cast her off altogether, and to--But I cannot do that, William; I cannot do that; for I love her--O my God, how I love her still!" And Geoffrey Ludlow hid his face in his arms, and wept like a child.
"I shan't blame you, Geoff, nor tell you any thing of the kind," said old Bowker, in a deep low voice. "I should have been very much surprised if--However, that's neither here nor there. What we want is to find her now. You say there's not been the slightest clue to her since she left this house?"
"Not the slightest."
"She has not sent for any thing--clothes, or any thing?"
"For nothing, as I understand."
"She has not sent,--you see, one must understand these things, Geoff; all our actions will be guided by them,--she has not sent to ask about the child?"
Geoff shuddered for an instant, then said, "She has not."
"That simplifies our plans," said Bowker. "It is plain now that we have only one chance of discovering her whereabouts."
"And that is--"
"Through Blackett the detective, the man mentioned in Lord Caterham's letter. He must be a sharp fellow; for through the sheer pursuance of his trade, and without the smallest help, he must have been close upon her trail, even up to the night when you met her and withdrew her from the range of his search. If he could learn so much unaided, he will doubtless be able to strike again upon her track with the information we can give him."
"There's no chance of this man--this Captain Brakespere, having--I mean--now he's back, you know--having taken means to hide her somewhere--where--one couldn't find her, you know?" said Geoffrey, hesitatingly.
"If your William knows any thing of the world," replied Bowker, "there's no chance of Captain Thingummy having taken the least trouble about her. However, I'll go down to Scotland Yard and see what is to be made of our friend Inspector Blackett. God bless you, old boy! You know if she is to be found, I'll do it."
They are accustomed to odd visitors in Scotland Yard; but the police-constables congregated in the little stone hall stared the next day when Mr. Bowker pushed open the swing-door, and calmly planting himself among them, ejaculated "Blackett." Looking at his beard, his singular garb, and listening to his deep voice, the sergeant to whom he was referred at first thought he was a member of some foreign branch of the force; then glancing at the general wildness of his demeanour, had a notion that he was one of the self-accused criminals who are so constantly forcing themselves into the grasp of justice, and who are so impatient of release; and finally, comprehending what he wanted, sent him, under convoy of a constable, through various long corridors, into a cocoa-nut-matted room furnished with a long green-baize-covered table, on which were spread a few sheets of blotting-paper, and a leaden inkstand, and the walls of which were adorned with a printed tablet detailing the disposition of the various divisions of the police-force, and the situation of the fire-escapes in the metropolis, and a fly-blown Stationers' Almanac. Left to himself, Mr. Bowker had scarcely taken stock of these various articles, when the door opened, and Mr. Inspector Blackett, edging his portly person through the very small aperture which he had allowed himself for ingress, entered the room, and closed the door stealthily behind him.
"Servant, sir," said he, with a respectful bow, and a glance at Bowker, which took in the baldness of his head, the thickness of his beard, the slovenliness of his apparel, and the very shape of his boots,--"servant, sir. You asked for me?"
"I did, Mr. Blackett. Ive come to ask your advice and assistance in a rather delicate manner, in which you've already been engaged--Lord Caterham's inquiry."
"O, beg pardon, sir. Quite right. Friend of his lordship's, may I ask, sir?"
"Lord Caterham is dead, Mr.--"
"Quite right, sir; all right, sir. Right to be cautious in these matters; don't know who you are, sir. If you had not known that fact, must have ordered you out, sir. Imposter, of course. All on the square, Mr.--beg pardon; didn't mention your name, sir."
"My name is Bowker. To a friend of mine, too ill now to follow the matter himself; Lord Caterham on his deathbed wrote a letter, detailing the circumstances under which he had employed you in tracing a young woman. That friend has himself been very ill, or he would have pursued this matter sooner. He now sends me to ask whether you have any news?"
"Beg pardon, sir; can't be too cautious in this matter. What may be the name of that friend?"
"Ludlow--Mr. Geoffrey Ludlow."
"Right you are, sir! Know the name well; have seen Mr. Ludlow at his lordship's; a pleasant gentleman too, sir, though not given me the idea of one to take much interest in such a business as this. However, I see we're all square on that point, sir; and I'll report to you as exactly as I would to my lord, if he'd been alive--feeling, of course, that a gentleman's a gentleman, and that an officer's trouble will be remunerated--"
"You need not doubt that, Mr. Blackett."
"I don't doubt it, sir; more especially when you hear what I have got to tell. It's been a wearing business, Mr. Bowker, and that I don't deny; there have been many cases which I have tumbled-to quicker, and have been able to lay my finger upon parties quicker but this has been a long chase; and though other members of the force has chaffed me, as it were, wanting to know when I shall be free for any thing else, and that sort of thing, there's been that excitement in it that Ive never regretted the time bestowed, and felt sure I should hit at it last. My ideas has not been wrong in that partic'ler, Mr. Bowker; Ihavehit it at last!"
"The devil you have!"
"I have indeed, sir; and hit it, as has cur'ously happened in my best cases, by a fluke. It was by the merest fluke that I was at Radley's Hotel in Southampton and nobbled Mr. Sampson Hepworth, the absconding banker of Lombard Street, after Daniel Forester and all the city-men had been after him for six weeks. It was all a fluke that I was eatin' a Bath-bun at Swindon when the clerk that did them Post-office robberies tried to pass one of the notes to the refreshment gal. It was all a fluke that I was turning out of Grafton Street, after a chat with the porter of the Westminster Club,--which is an old officer of the G's and a pal of mine,--into Bond Street, when I saw a lady that I'd swear to, if description's any use, though I never see her before, comin' out of Long's Hotel."
"A lady!--Long's Hotel!"
"A lady a-comin' out of Long's Hotel. A lady with--not to put too fine a point upon it--red hair and fine eyes and a good figure; the very moral of the description I got at Tenby and them other places. I twigged all this before she got her veil down and I said to myself, Blackett, that's your bird, for a hundred pound."
"And were you right? Was it--"
"Wait a minute, sir: let's take the things in the order in which they naturally present themselves. She hailed a cab and jumped in, all of a tremble like, as I could see. I hailed another--hansom mine was; and I give the driver the office, which he tumbled-to at once--most of the West-enders knows me; and we follows the other until he turned up a little street in Nottin' 'Ill, and I, marking where she got out, stopped at the end of it. When she'd got inside, I walked up and took stock of the house, which was a litle milliner's and stay-shop. It was cur'ous, wasn't, it, sir," said Mr. Blackett, with a grave professional smile, "that my good lady should want a little job in the millinery line done for her just then, and that she should look round into that very shop that evening, and get friendly with the missis, which was a communicative kind of woman, and should pay her a trifle in advance, and should get altogether so thick as to be asked in to take a cup of tea in the back-parlour, and get a-talking about the lodger? Once in, I'll back my old lady against any ferret that was ever showed at Jemmy Welsh's. She hadn't had one cup of tea before she know'd all about the lodger; how she was the real lady, but dull and lonesome like; how she'd sit cryin' and mopin' all day; how she'd no visitors and no letters; and how her name was Lambert, and her linen all marked M. L. She'd only been there a day ortwo then, and as she'd scarcely any luggage, the milliner was doubtful about her money. My good lady came back that night, and told me all this, and I was certain our bird was caged. So I put one of our men regular to sweep a crossin' during the daytime, and I communicated with the sergeant of the division to keep the house looked after at night. But, Lor' bless you, she's no intention of goin' away. Couldn't manage it, I think, if she had; for my missis, who's been up several times since, says the milliner says her lodger's in a queer way, she thinks."
"How do you mean in a queer way?" interrupted Bowker; "ill?"
"Well, not exactly ill, I think, sir. I can't say exactly how, for the milliner's rather a stupid woman; and it wouldn't do for my missis--though she'd find it out in a minute--to see the lady. As far as I can make out, it's a kind of fits, and she seems to have had 'em pretty bad--off her head for hours at a time, you know. It's rather cornered me, that has, as I don't exactly know how to act in the case; and I went round to the Square to tell his lordship, and then found out what had happened. I was thinking of asking to see the Hearl--"
"The what, Mr. Blackett?"
"The Hearl--Hearl Beauport, his lordship's father. But now you've come, sir, you'll know what to do, and what orders to give me."
"Yes, quite right," said Bowker, after a moment's consideration. "You must not see Lord Beauport; he's in a sad state of mind still, and any further worry might be dangerous. You've done admirably, Mr. Blackett,--admirably indeed; and your reward shall be proportionate, you may take my word for that; but I think it will be best to leave matters as they are until--at all events, until I have spoken to my friend. The name was Lambert, I think you said; and what was the address?"
"No. 102, Thompson Street, just beyond Nottin'-'Ill Gate; milliner's shop, name of Chapman. Beg your pardon, sir, but this is a pretty case, and one as has been neatly worked up; you won't let it be spoilt by any amatoors?"
"Eh?--by what? I don't think I understand you."
"You won't let any one go makin' inquiries on their own hook? So many of our best cases is spoilt by amatoors shovin' their oars in."
"You may depend on that, Mr. Blackett; the whole credit of the discovery is justly due to you, and you shall have it. Now good day to you; I shall find you here, I suppose, when next I want you?"
Mr. Blackett bowed, and conducted his visitor through the hollow-sounding corridors, and bade him a respectful farewell at the door. Then, when William Bowker was alone, he stopped, and shook his head sorrowfully, muttering, "A bad job, a bad job! God help you, Geoff, my poor fellow! there's more trouble in store for you--more trouble in store!"