The porter at Lord Beauport's mansion in St. Barnabas Square became so familiarised with Mr. Bowker's frequent visits as at length to express no surprise at the sight of the "hold cove," who daily arrived to inquire whether any tidings of Lord Caterham had been received. Although the porter's experience of life had been confined to London, his knowledge of the ways of men was great; and he was perfectly certain that this pertinacious inquirer was no dun, no tradesman with an overdue account, no begging letter-writer or imposter of any kind. What he was the porter could not tell; mentioned, in casual chat with the footman waiting for the carriage to come round, that he could not "put a name" to him, but thought from his "rum get-up" that he was either in the picture-selling or the money-lending line.
Undeterred by, because ignorant of, the curiosity which his presence excited--and indeed it may be assumed that, had he been aware of it, his actions would have been very little influenced thereby--old William Bowker attended regularly every day at the St. Barnabas-Square mansion, and having asked his question and received his answer, adjourned to the nearest tavern for his lunch of bread-and-cheese and beer, and then puffing a big meerschaum pipe, scaled the omnibus which conveyed him to London Bridge, whence he took the train for the little house at Sydenham. They were always glad to see him there, even though he brought no news; and old Mrs. Ludlow especially found the greatest comfort in pouring into his open ears the details of the latest experience of her "cross." William Bowker to such recitals was a splendid listener; that is to say, he could nod his head and throw in an "Indeed!" or a "Really!" exactly at the proper moment, while all the time his thoughts were far away, occupied with some important matter. He saw Til occasionally, and sometimes had flying snatches of talk with Annie Maurice in the intervals of her attendance on the invalid. Bowker did not meet Charley Potts very frequently, although that gentleman was a regular visitor at Sydenham whenever Mrs. Ludlow and Til were there; but it was not until the evening that Mr. Potts came, for he was diligently working away at his commissions and growing into great favour with Mr. Caniche; and besides, he had no particular interest in Miss Maurice; and so long as he arrived in time to escort Miss Til and her mother back to London Bridge and to put them into the Lowbar omnibus, he was content, and was especially grateful for the refreshing sleep which always came upon old Mrs. Ludlow in the train.
At length, when many weary days had worn themselves away, and Geoffrey was beginning to feel his old strength returning to him, and with it the aching void which he had experienced on regaining consciousness daily increasing in intensity, and when Margaret's hold on life had grown very weak indeed, old William Bowker, making his daily inquiry of Lord Beauport's porter, was informed that Lord Caterham had returned the previous afternoon, and was at that moment at breakfast. Then, with great deliberation, Mr. Bowker unbuttoned his coat and from an inner breast-pocket produced an old leather pocket-book, from which, among bits of sketches and old envelopes, he took a card, and pencilling his name thereon, requested the porter to give it to Lord Caterham.
The porter looked at the card, and then said jocosely, "You ain't wrote your business on it, then? 'Spose you couldn't do that, eh? Well, you are a plucked 'un, you are, and I like you for it, never givin' in and comin' so reg'lar; and I'll let him have your card just for that reason." He disappeared as he said these words, but came back speedily, remarking, "He'll see you, he says, though he don't know the name. Do you know the way? Same rooms which his brother used to have,--straight afore you. Here, I'll show you."
The friendly porter, preceding Mr. Bowker down the passage, opened the door of what had been poor Arthur's sitting-room, and ushered in the visitor. The bookcases, the desk, the pictures and nicnacks, were all as they had been in the old days; but there was a table in the middle of the room, at which was seated the new Lord Caterham finishing late breakfast. Bowker had never seen the Lionel Brakespere of former days; if he had, he would have noticed the change in the man before him,--the boldness of bearing, the calm unflinching regard, the steadiness of voice, the assurance of manner,--all of which, though characteristic of Lionel Brakespere in his earliest days, had deserted him, only to reappear with his title.
"You wished to see me, Mr. ----. I don't know your name," said Lionel, stiffly returning the stiff bow which Bowker gave him on entering.
"You have my card, my lord," said old Bowker quietly.
"Ah, yes, by the way, I have your card," said Lionel, taking it up. "Mr. Bowker--Mr.--Bowker! Now that does not convey to me any idea whatever?"
"I daresay not. You never heard it before--you never saw me before; and you would not see me now, if I did not come on business of the greatest importance."
"Business of the greatest importance! Dear me, that's what they all come on. Of the greatest importance to yourself, of course?"
"Of the greatest importance to you. Except in a very minor degree, Ive nothing to do in the matter."
"Of the greatest importance to me! O, of course--else it would not have been worth while your coming, would it? Now, as my time is valuable, be good enough to let me know what this business is."
"You shall know in as few words as I can tell you. I come to you from a woman--"
Lionel interrupted him with a cynical laugh.
"The deuce you do!" he said. "From a woman? Well, I thought it was cigars, or a blue diamond, or a portrait of some old swell whom you had made out to be an ancestor of mine, or--"
"I would advise you not to be funny on the subject until you've heard it explained, Lord Caterham," said Mr. Bowker grimly. "I scarcely imagine you'll find it so humorous before I'm done."
"Sha'n't I? Well, at all events, give me the chance of hearing," said Lionel. He was in a splendid temper. He had come back, after a pleasant run with Algy Barford, to enjoy all the advantages of his new position. On the previous night he and his mother had had a long talk about Miss Maurice--this heiress whom he was to captivate so easily. The world lay straight and bright before him, and he could spare a few minutes to this old fellow--who was either a lunatic or a swindler--for his own amusement.
"I come to you Lord Caterham, from a woman who claims to be your wife."
In an instant the colour died out of Lionel's face; his brows were knit, and his mouth set and rigid. "O, ho!" said he through his clenched teeth, after a moment's pause; "you do, do you? You come to me fromthatwoman? That's your line of country, is it? O yes--I guessed wrong about you, certainly--you don't look a bit like a bully!"
"A bully!" echoed William Bowker, looking very white.
"A bully!" repeated Lionel--"the woman's father, brother, former husband--any thing that will give you a claim to put in an appearance for her. And now look here. This game won't do with me--I'm up to it; so you had better drop it at once, and get out."
Old Bowker waited for a minute with set teeth and clenched fists, all the gray hair round his mouth bristling with fury. Only for a minute. Then he resumed the seat which he had quitted, and said,
"I'm not quite so certain of myself nowadays, as Ive been a long time out of practice; but it strikes me that during your long career of gentlemanly vice, my Lord Caterham, you never were nearer getting a sound drubbing than you have been within the last five minutes. However, let that pass. You have been good enough to accuse me of being a bully, by which term I imagine you mean a man sent here by the unfortunate lady of whom we have spoken to assert her rights. I may as well start by telling you that she is utterly ignorant of my intention to call on you."
"Of course--O yes, of course. Didn't give you my address, did she?"
"She did not."
"She didn't? O, then you've come on your own hook, being some relation or friend of hers, to see what you could bounce me out of."
"I am no relation of hers. I have not seen her half a dozen times in the course of my life."
"Then what the deuce brings you here?"
"I'll tell you as shortly as I can. When you deserted this woman--not caring what became of her; leaving her to sink or swim as best she might--she slipped from one point of wretchedness to another, until, at the bottom of her descent, she was discovered by a very old friend of mime perishing of cold and hunger--dying in the streets!"
Lionel, whose face when Bowker commenced speaking had been averted, turned here, and gave a short sharp shudder, fixing his eyes on Bowker as he proceeded.
"Dying in the streets! My friend rescued her from this fate, had her nursed and attended, and finally--ignorant of the chief fact of her life, though she had confided to him a certain portion of her story--fell so desperately in love with her as to ask her to become his wife."
"To become his wife!" cried Lionel; "and she consented?"
"She did."
"And they were married?"
"They were. I was present."
"Bravissimo!" said Lionel in a low voice. "you've done me a greater service than you think for, Mr.--what's-your-name. She'll never trouble me again."
"Only once more, my lord," said old Bowker solemnly.
"What the devil do you mean, sir?"
"Simply this, my lord. I understand your exclamation of delight at seeing your way legally to rid yourself of this woman, who is now nothing to you but an incumbrance. But you need not fear; you will not even have the trouble of consulting your lawyer in the matter. There is one who breaks up marriage-ties more effectually even than the Divorce Court, and that one is--Death!"
"Death!"
"Death. The woman of whom we have been speaking lies in the jaws of death. Her recovery, according to all human experience, is impossible. Dying,--and knowing herself to be dying,--she wishes to see you."
"To see me!" said Lionel scornfully; "O no, thank you; I won't interfere in the family party. The gentleman who has married her might object to my coming."
"The gentleman who married her in all noble trust and honour, she deserted directly she heard of your return. Overwhelmed by her cruelty, and by the full details of her story, which he heard from your brother, the then Lord Caterham, at the same time, he fell, smitten with an illness from which he is barely recovering. She is in another house far away from his, and on her deathbed she calls for you."
"She may call," said Lionel, after a moment's pause, frowning, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and settling himself back into his chair; "she may call; I shall not go."
"You will not?"
"I will not--why should I?"
"If you can't answer that question for yourself, Lord Caterham, upon my soul I can't for you," said Bowker gruffly. "If you think you owe no reparation to the woman, your wife, whom you left to be rescued by strangers' charity from starvation, I cannot convince you of it: if you decline to accede to her dying request, I cannot enforce it."
"Why does not the--the gentleman who was so desperately in love with her, and whom she--she accepted--why does not he go to her?" said Lionel. He did not care for Margaret himself, but the thought that she had been something to any one else grated upon his pride.
"Ah, my God," said old Bowker, "how willingly would he; but it is not for him she asks--it is for you. You boast of your experience of women, and yet you know so little of them as to expect gratitude of them. Gratitude from a woman--gratitude--and yet, God knows, I ought not to say that--I ought not to say that."
"You seem to have had a singular experience, Mr. Bowker," said Lionel, "and one on which you can scarcely make up your mind. Where is this lady whom you wish me to see?"
"At Sydenham--within an hour's drive."
Lionel rang the bell. "Tell them to get the brougham round," said he to the servant who answered it. "Now, look here, Mr. Bowker; I am going with you thoroughly depending on your having told me the exact truth."
"You may depend on it," said old Bowker simply. And they started together.
That was a strange ride. At starting Lionel lit a cigar, and puffed fiercely out of the window; idly looking at the Parliament-houses and other familiar objects which met his gaze as they drove over Westminster Bridge, the passing populace, the hoardings blazing with placards, the ordinary bustle and turmoil of every-day life. He was angry and savage; savage with Margaret for the annoyance she had brought upon him, savage with Bowker for having found him out, savage with himself for having allowed himself, in the impulse of a moment, to be betrayed into this expedition. Then, as the houses became fewer, and the open spaces more frequent; as they left behind them the solid blocks of streets and rows and terraces, dull wretched habitations for ninth-rate clerks, solemn old two-storied edifices where the shipping agents and Baltic merchants of a past generation yet lingered in their retirement, frowsy dirty little shops with a plentiful sprinkling of dirtier and frowsier taverns, imbued as was the whole neighbourhood with a not-to-be explained maritime flavour,--as they slipped by these and came into the broad road fringed by pretty gardens, in which stood trim villas stuccoed and plate-glassed, with the "coach-house of gentility" and every other sign of ease and wealth; then leaving these behind, emerged into country lanes with wide-spreading meadows on either side, green uplands, swelling valleys, brown shorn fields whence the harvest had been carried,--as they passed through all these the cruel thoughts in Lionel's mind softened, and he began to think of the scene to which he was being hastened, and of his own share in bringing about that scene. As he flung away the butt-end of his cigar, there rose in his mind a vision of Margaret as he had first seen her, walking on the Castle Hill at Tenby with some of her young companions, and looking over the low parapet at the boiling sea raging round Catherine's Rock. How lovely she looked, glowing with youth and health! What a perfectly aristocratic air andtournureshe had, visible in the careless grace of her hat, the sweeping elegance of her shawl, the fit of her boots and gloves! How completely he had been taken aback by the apparition! how he had raved about her! had never rested until he had obtained an introduction, and--ah, he remembered at that moment distinctly the quivering of her eyelids, the fluttering of her young bosom under its simple gauze, her half hesitating timid speech. That was comparatively a short time ago--and now in what condition was he to find her? He was not all bad, this man--who is?--and the best part of him was awakened now. He crossed his arms, leaned back in the carriage, and was nearer repentance than he had been since his childhood.
And old William Bowker, what was he thinking of? Indeed, he had fallen into his usual day-dream. The comparison between Margaret and his own lost love, made when he first saw her, had always haunted him; and he was then turning in his mind how, if such a complication as they were experiencing at that moment had been possible, it would have affected her and him. From this his thoughts glided to the impending interview, and he wondered whether he had done right in bringing it about. He doubted whether Margaret would have the physical strength to endure it; and even if she had, whether any good--even so far as the arousing even a transient good in his companion--would result from it. As he was pondering upon these things, Lionel turned quietly upon him and said in a hoarse voice,
"You said she was very ill?"
"Very ill; could hardly be worse--to be alive."
"It's--" and here he seemed to pull himself together, and nerve himself to hear the worst--"it's consumption, I suppose, caught from--damn it all, how my lip trembles!--brought on by--want, and that."
"It originated in rheumatic fever, produced by cold and exposure, resulting in heart-disease and a complication of disorders."
"Has she had proper advice?--the best, I mean, that can be procured?"
"Yes; she has been seen twice by ---- and ----" said Bowker, naming two celebrated physicians, "and her own doctor sees her every day."
"And their opinions agree?"
"They all agree in saying that--"
"Hush," said Lionel, seizing him by the arm; "your face is quite enough. I'd rather not hear it again, please." And he plunged his hands into his pockets, and sunk back shuddering into the corner of the brougham.
Bowker was silent; and they drove on without interchanging a word until William stopped the coachman at a small gate in a high garden-wall. Then Lionel looked up with a strange frightened glance, and asked, "Is this the place?"
"It is," said Bowker; "she has been here for some little time now. You had better let me go in first, I think, and prepare for your coming."
And all Lionel answered was, "As you please," as he shrunk back into his corner again. He was under a totally new experience. For the first time in his life he found himself suffering under a conscience-pang; felt disposed to allow that he had acted badly towards this woman now lying so stricken and so helpless; had a kind of dim hope that she would recover, in order that he might--vaguely, he knew not how--make her atonement. He felt uncomfortable and fidgetty. Bowker had gone, and the sun-blistered damp-stained garden-door had been closed behind him, and Lionel sat gazing at the door, and wondering what was on the other side of it, and what kind of a house it was, and where she was, and who was with her. He never thought he should have felt like this. He had thought of her--half a dozen times--when he was out there; but he knew she was a clever girl, and he always had a notion that she would fall upon her legs, and outgrow that first girlish smite, and settle down comfortably, and all that kind of thing. And so she would now. They were probably a pack of nervous old women about her--like this fellow who had brought him here--and they exaggerated danger, and made mountains of mole-hills. She was ill--he had little doubt of that; but she would get better, and then he'd see what could be done. Gad! it was a wonderful thing to find any woman caring for a fellow so; he might go through life without meeting another; and after all, what the deuce did it matter? He was his own master, wasn't he? and as for money--well, he should be sure to have plenty some day: things were all altered now, since poor old Arthur's death; and-- And at that moment the door opened; and behind William Bowker, who was pale and very grave, Lionel saw the house with all its blinds drawn down. And then he knew that his better resolutions had come too late, and that Margaret was dead.
Yes, she was dead; had died early that morning. On the previous day she had been more than usually restless and uncomfortable, and towards evening had alarmed the nurse who thought she was asleep, and who herself was dozing--by breaking out into a shrill cry, followed by a deep long-drawn lamentation. Annie Maurice at the sound rushed hastily into the room, and never left it again until all was over. She found Margaret dreadfully excited. She had had a horrible dream, she said--a dream in which she went through all the miseries of her days of penury and starvation, with the added horror of feeling that they were a just punishment on her for her ingratitude to Geoffrey Ludlow. When she was a little quieted, she motioned Annie to sit by her; and holding her hand, asked her news of Geoffrey. Annie started, for this was the first time that, in her calm senses, Margaret had mentioned him. In her long ravings of delirium his name was constantly on her lips, always coupled with some terms of pity and self-scornful compassion; but hitherto, during her brief intervals of reason, she had talked only of Lionel, and of her earnest desire to see and speak to him once again. So Annie, pleased and astonished, said,
"He is getting better, Margaret; much better, we trust."
"Getting better! Has he been ill, then?"
"He has been very ill--so ill that we at one time feared for his life. But he is out of danger now, thank God."
"Thank God!" repeated Margaret. "I am grateful indeed that his death is not to be charged to my account; that would have been but a bad return for his preservation of my life; and if he had died, I know his death would have been occasioned by my wickedness. Tell me, Miss Maurice--Annie--tell me, has he ever mentioned my name?"
"Ah, Margaret," said Annie, her eyes filling with tears, "his talk is only of you."
"Is it?" said Margaret, with flushing cheeks and brightening eyes; "is it? That's good to hear---O how good! And tell me, Annie--he knows I shall not trouble him long--has he, has he forgiven me?"
"Not that alone," said Annie quietly. "Only yesterday he said, with tears in his eyes, how he loved you still."
There was silence for a moment, as Margaret covered her eyes with her hands. Then, raising her head, in a voice choked with sobs she said, with a blinding rush of tears, "O Annie, Annie, I can't beallbad, or I should never have won the love of that brave, true-hearted man."
She spoke but little after this; and Lionel's name never passed her lips--she seemed to have forgotten all about him and her desire to see him. From time to time she mentioned Geoffrey--no longer, as in her delirium, with pity, but with a kind of reverential fondness, as one speaks of the dead. As the night deepened, she became restless again, tossing to and fro, and muttering to herself; and bending down, Annie heard her, as she had often heard her before, engaged in deep and fervent prayer. Then she slept; and, worn out with watching, Annie slept also.
It was about four o'clock in the morning when Annie felt her arm touched; and at once unclosing her eyes, saw Margaret striving to raise herself on her elbow. There was a bright weird look in her face that was unmistakable.
"It's coming, Annie," she said, in short thick gasps; "it's coming, dear--the rest, the peace, the home! I don't fear it, Annie. Ive--Ive had that one line running in my brain, 'What though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.' I trust in His mercy, Annie, who pardoned Magdalen; and--God bless you, dear; God in His goodness reward you for all your love and care of me; and say to Geoffrey that I blessed him too, and that I thanked him for all his--your hand, Annie--so bless you both!--lighted late, there's One will--"
And the wanderer was at rest.
They looked to Bowker to break the news to Geoffrey; at least so Charley Potts said, after a hurried conference with Til and her mother, at which Annie Maurice, overwhelmed by the reaction from excessive excitement, had not been present. They looked to Bowker to perform this sad duty--to tell Geoffrey Ludlow that the prize which had been so long in coming, and which he had held in his arms for so short a time, was snatched from him for ever. "For ever," said old William: "that's it. He bore up wonderfully, so long as he thought there was any chance of seeing her again. He hoped against hope, and strove against what he knew to be right and just, and would have made any sacrifice--ay, to the extent of bowing his head to his own shame, and taking her back to his home and his heart. If she had recovered; and even if she would have shown herself willing to come back--which she never would--I could have faced Geoff, and told him what his duty was, and fought it out with him to the last. It would have rather done me good, such a turn as that; but I can't bear this job;--I can't bear to see my old friend, to have to tell him that it's all over, that the light of his life has died out, that-- Upon my soul," said old William energetically, "I think they might have got some one else to do this. And yet I don't know," said he, after a moment's pause: "the women couldn't be expected to do it. As for Charley, he'd have bungled it, safe. No, I'll go and do it myself; but I'll wait till to-morrow, I think: there's no good adding another day's anguish to the dear fellow's life."
This was on the second day after Margaret's death, and Bowker yet postponed the execution of his task. On the third day, however, he set out for Elm Lodge and found Geoffrey in the dining-room. The servant who admitted Mr. Bowker said, in reply to his inquiry, that "master was better certainly, but poor and peaky; did not take much notice of what went on, and were quite off his food." Geoffrey's looks certainly bore out the handmaiden's account. His cheeks were thin and hollow; there were great circles round his eyes; his flesh was tight and yellow; his hands so fallen away that they looked like mere anatomical preparations. He looked up as Bowker entered, and the ghost of his old smile hovered round his lips.
"So you've come at last, William, after failing in your troth these three days, eh?" said he. "What kept you, old friend?"
Bowker was not prepared for any questions. He had gone through all this scene in his mind more than once; but in his rehearsal it was always he who commenced the subject; and this order not being followed, he was rather taken aback.
"I have been particularly engaged," he said. "You know, Geoff, that I should not have missed coming to you otherwise; but--it was impossible."
"Was it?" said Geoffrey, raising his head quietly, and stedfastly regarding him with his bright eyes; "was it on my business that you were engaged?"
"It was," said Bowker. He knew at that moment that his friend had guessed the truth.
"Then," said Geoffrey, "Margaret is dead!" He said it without altering the inflection of his voice, without removing his eyes from his friend's face. Scarcely inquiringly he said it, apparently convinced of the fact; and he took Bowker's silence for an affirmative, and rose and walked towards the window, supporting himself by the wall as he went. Bowker left him there by himself for a few minutes, and then, going up to him and laying his hand affectionately on his shoulder, said, "Geoff!"
Geoff's head was averted, but his hand sought Bowker's, and pressed it warmly.
"Geoff, dear old Geoff,--my old friend of many happy years,--you must bear up in this hour of trial. Think of it, dear old fellow. God knows, I'm one of the worst in the world to preach content and submission, and all that; but think of it: it is the--you know I wouldn't hurt your feelings Geoff--the best thing that, under all the circumstances, could have occurred."
"Ive lost her, William--lost her whom I loved better than my heart's blood, whom I so prized and cherished and worshipped--lost her for ever--ah, my God, for ever!" And the strong man writhed in his agony, and burying his head in his arms, burst into tears.
"But, Geoff," said old Bowker, with a great gulp, "you could never have been any thing to her again you have nothing to reproach yourself with in your conduct to her. It was her misfortune, poor soul, that she did not value you as she should have done; and yet before she died she spoke very, very affectionately of you, and your name was the last on her lips."
"Tell me about that, William," said Geoffrey, raising his head; "tell me what she said about me." He was comparatively calm even then, and sat quite quietly to listen to the details which Bowker had heard from Annie Maurice, and which he now poured into Geoff's eager ears. When he had finished, Geoff thanked him, and said he felt much easier and more relieved than he had been for some days past, but that he was tired out, and would ask Bowker to excuse him then, and by all means to come the next day. Honest William, glad to have accomplished his mission under such apparently favourable circumstances, and with so little of a "scene," took his leave.
But the next day, when he arrived at Elm Lodge, he found Dr. Brandram's gig at the gate, and on entering the house was met by Dr. Brandram himself in the hall. "And a very fortunate man I esteem myself in meeting you, my dear Mr. Boucher--beg pardon, Bowker! Boucher--name of old friend of mine in Norfolk--very fortunate indeed. Let's step into the dining-room, eh?--no need to stand in the draught, eh? You see I speak without the least professional feeling--ha, ha." And the little doctor laughed, but very softly. "Now look here, my dear sir," he continued; "our friend upstairs--I advised his remaining upstairs to-day--thiswon't do, my dear sir--thiswon'tdo."
"I know it, doctor, almost as well as you," said old William gruffly; "but what I don't know, and what I suppose you do, is--what will?"
"Change, my dear sir--thorough and entire change; not merely of air and scene, but of thought, life, habits, surroundings. He has a splendid constitution, our friend; but if he remains much longer in this cage, from which all the--all the joys have flown--he'll beat himself to death against the bars." This was a favourite simile with Dr. Brandram; and after he had uttered it he leant back, as was his wont, and balanced himself on his heels, and looked up into the eyes of his interlocutor to see its effect. On this occasion he was not much gratified, for old Bowker had not troubled himself about the poetical setting, but was thinking over the sense of the doctor's remark.
"Change," he repeated, "thorough change; have you told him that yourself, doctor?"
"Fifty times, my dear sir; repeated it with all the weight of medical authority."
"And what does he say?"
"Always the same thing--that his duty keeps him here. He's an extraordinary man, our friend, a most estimable man; but it would be an excellent thing for him,--in fact, make all the difference in the length of his life,--if his duty would take him abroad for six months."
"It shall," said old Bowker, putting on his hat, and driving it down hard down on his head. "Leave that to me. I'll take care of that." And with these words he nodded at the doctor and departed, leaving the little medico more astonished at the "odd ways" of artists than ever.
When Mr. Bowker had once made up his mind to carry any thing out, he never rested until it was achieved; so that on quitting Elm Lodge he at once made his way to Mr. Stompff's "gallery of modern masters," which he entered, greatly to the surprise of the proprietor, who was hovering about the room like a great spider on the watch for flies. There had never been any thing like cordiality between the greatentrepreneurand the rough old artist; and the former opened his eyes to their widest extent, and pulled his whisker through his teeth, as he bowed somewhat sarcastically and said, "This is an honour and no flies?" But before his visitor left, Mr. Stompff had occasion to rub his eyes very hard with a bright silk pocket-handkerchief, and to resort to a cupboard under the desk on which the catalogues stood, whence he produced a tapering flask, from which he and Mr. Bowker refreshed themselves--his last words being, as Mr. Bowker took his departure, "You leave it to me, old fellow--you leave it to me."
Carrying out apparently the arrangement herein entered upon, the next day the great Mr. Stompff's brougham stopped at Elm Lodge, and the great Mr. Stompff himself descended therefrom, exhibiting far less than his usual self-sufficiency, swagger, and noise. To the servant who opened the door in answer to his modest ring he gave a note which he had prepared; and Geoffrey coming down into the dining-room found him waiting there, apparently deep in a photographic album. He rose, as the door opened, and caught Geoffrey warmly by the hand.
"How are you, Ludlow? How are you, my dear fellow? It must have been pressing business that brought me here just now, worrying you when you're only just recovered from your illness, my boy; pressing business, you may take your oath of that." And all the time Mr. Stompff held Geoffrey's hand between his own, and looked into his eyes with a wavering unsettled glance.
"I'm better, thank you, Mr. Stompff, much better; so much better that I hope soon to be at work again," said Geoff nervously.
"That's right; that's the best hearing possible. Nothing like getting back to work to set a man straight and bring him to his bearings."
"You were getting nervous about the 'Esplanade,'" said Geoff with a sickly smile--"as well indeed you might, for it's been a long time about. But you need not be frightened about that; Ive managed to finish it."
"Have you?" said Stompff, very dry and husky in the throat.
"Yes; if you'll step into the studio, I'll show it you." They went down the little steps which Margaret had traversed so oft; and Geoffrey, as he pulled the big easel round into the light, said, "It's not quite what I wished. I--circumstances, you know, were against me--and but--it can be altered, you know; altered in any manner you wish."
"Altered be--hanged!" cried Stompff, very nearly relapsing into the vernacular; "altered!" he repeated, gazing at it with delight; now approaching closely to the canvas, now stepping away and looking at it under the shade of his hand; "why, that's first chop, that is. You've done it up brown! you've made reg'ler ten-strike, as the Yankees say. Altered! I wouldn't have a brush laid upon that for a fifty-pun' note By George, Ludlow, well or ill, you lick the lot in your own line. There's none of 'em can touch you, d'ye hear? Altered!--damme it's splendid."
"I'm very glad you like it," said Geoff wearily, "ye glad; more especially as it may be a long time before paint again."
"What's that you say?" said Mr. Stompff, turning upon him sharply. "What's that you say?" he repeated in a gentler tone, laying his hand softly upon Geoffrey Ludlow's shoulder--"a long time before you paint again? Why, nonsense my good fellow; you don't know what nonsense you're talking."
"No nonsense, Mr. Stompff, but plain, honest, simple fact. I seem to have lost all zest for my art; my spirit is broken, and--"
"Of course, my good fellow; I understand all that well enough; too much England,--that's what it is. Home of the free, and ruling the waves and all that. Pickles! Capital place to sell pictures; deuced bad place to paint 'em. Now look here. You've been good enough to say more than once that Ive been your friend, eh? Not that Ive ever done more than give a good price for good work, though that's more than some people do--some people, eh? we know who--never mind. Now, I want you to domea turn, and I am sure you will."
Geoffrey bowed his head and said, "So long as you don't require a picture from me--"
"Picture! O no; of course not. A steam engine, or a hansom cab, or a stilton cheese--that's what I look for from you naturally, isn't it? Ludlow, my dear fellow, how can you talk such stuff? Now listen. The British public, sir, has had a sickener of British subjects. Little Dab and his crew have pretty nearly used up all the sentimental domesticity; and we've had such a lot of fancy fairs, and Hyde Parks, and noble volunteers, and archery fêtes, and gals playing at croky, that the B.P. won't stand it any longer. There'll be a reaction, you'll see; and the 'Cademy will be choke full of Charles the Seconds, and Nell Gwynns, and coves in wigs, and women in powder and patches, and all that business, just because the modern every-day gaff has been done to death. I shall have to give in to this; and I shall give in of course. There's lots of coves can do that trick for me well enough to sell. But I look for more from you;--and this is what I propose. You go straight away out of this; where, I don't care--so long as you remain away a year or so, and keep your eyes about you. You'll work hard enough,--I don't fear that; and whatever you do, send it home to me and I'll take it. Lor' bless you, there's rigs that the B.P. knows nothing about, and that would make stunnin' objects for you--atable-d'hôteon the Rhine, a students'kneipeat Heidelberg, aschützenfestin Switzerland; and then you've never been to Italy yet, and though that game's been worked pretty often, yet any thing Italian from you would sell like mad." He paused for a moment and looked up at Geoffrey, whose eyes were fixed intently on him, and who seemed eager and excited.
"It's all one to me," said he; "I scarcely know what to say; it's very kind of you. I know you mean it well; but do you think I can do it? Do you really think so?"
"Think so! I know so," said Mr. Stompff. "See here! I never take up a thing of this sort without carrying it through. We said five hundred for the 'Esplanade,' didn't we? you've had three on account--that's right! Now here's the other two; and if you're as well pleased with the bargain as me, no knife shall cut our love in two, as the song says. Now you must leave this money behind for the old lady and the little 'un, and that nice sister of yours---O yes, by the way, what makes Charley Potts paint her head in all his pictures, and why don't he sell to me instead of Caniche?--and here's a hundred in circular notes. I went round to my bank and got 'em this morning on purpose for you to go abroad with. When they're done, you know where to send for some more."
"You are very kind, Mr. Stompff, but--"
"No, I ain't. I'm a man of business, I am; and there ain't many as is very fond of me. But I know what the B.P. wants, and I know a good fellow when I see one; and when I do see one, I don't often laacklet him slide. I ain't a polished sort of cove," said Mr. Stompff reflectively; "I leave that to Caniche, with his paw-paw bowins and scrapins; but I ain't quite so black as some of the artists paint me. However, this is a matter of business that I'm rather eager about; and I should be glad to know if I may look upon it as settled."
"Look here, Mr. Stompff," said Geoffrey Ludlow, turning to his companion, and speaking in an earnest voice; "you have behaved generously to me, and you deserve that I should speak frankly with you. I should immensely like to get away from this place for a while, to shake off the memory of all that has passed within the last few months--so far as it is possible for me to shake it off--to get into new scenes, and to receive fresh impressions. But I very much doubt whether I shall be able to undertake what you wish. I feel as if all the little power I ever had were gone; as if my brain were as barren to conceive as I know my hand is impotent to execute; I feel--"
"I know," interrupted Mr. Stompff; "regularly sewed up; feel as if you'd like somebody to unscrew your head, take your brains out and clean 'em, and then put 'em back; feel as if you didn't care for the world, and would like to try the hermit dodge and eat roots and drink water, and cut society, eh? Ah, Ive felt like that sometimes; and then Ive heard of some pictures that was comin' to the hammer, and Ive just looked in at Christie's, and, Lord, as soon as I heard the lots a-goin' up, and felt myself reg'ler in the swing of competition, Ive given up all them foolish notions, and gone home and enjoyed a roast fowl and a glass of sham and Mrs. S.'s comp'ny, like a Christian! And so will you, Ludlow, my boy; you'll pull through, I'll pound it. You work just when you feel inclined, and draw upon me when you want the ready; I'll stand the racket, never fear."
The conspiracy between Mr. Stompff and old William Bowker had been carried out minutely in detail; one of the points insisted on being that, the position once carried, Geoff should have no time for retreat. Accordingly, while Mr. Stompff was proceeding to Elm Lodge, Mr. Bowker was indoctrinating the ladies (whom he knew he should find at Sydenham) as to the tenour of their advice; and scarcely had Mr. Stompff quitted Geoffrey when Mr. Bowker was announced. To his old friend, Geoffrey, now in a very excited state, told the whole story of Stompff's visit and of the proposition which he had made; and old William--whom no one would have given credit for possessing such control over his face--sat looking on with the greatest apparent interest. When Geoffrey came to an end of his narration, and asked his friend whether he had done right in partially acceding to what had been offered him, or whether--it was not too late--he should retract, Mr. Bowker was extremely vehement--more so than he had ever known himself to be--in insisting that it was the very best thing that could possibly have happened. When Mrs. Ludlow and Til returned, they unhesitatingly pronounced the same opinion; and so Geoff's departure was decided on.
He had a great deal to attend to before he could leave; and the mere bustle and activity of business seemed to do him good at once. Mrs. Ludlow was thoroughly happy in preparing his clothes for his journey; Mr. Bowker and Charley Potts were constantly at Elm Lodge, the latter gentleman finding his assistance usually required by Miss Til; and on the day before that fixed for Geoffrey's departure, Annie Maurice called to take farewell. It was an interview which had been dreaded by both of them, and was as brief as possible. Annie expressed her satisfaction at his having been persuaded to seek change, by which she was sure he would benefit, and extended her hand in "goodbye."
Geoff took her hand, and holding it tenderly in his, said:
"Annie, some day I may be able--I am very far from being able now--to tell you how the knowledge of your kindness to--to one whom I have lost--has sustained me under my bitter sorrow. God bless you, my more than sister! God bless you, my good angel!" And Geoffrey touched her forehead with his lips, and hurried from the room.
The authorities at the South-Eastern terminus at London Bridge thought that some distinguished exile must be about returning to France that night, there were so many curiously-hatted and bearded gentlemen gathered round the mail-train. But they were only some of our old friends of the Titians come to say "God speed" to Geoffrey Ludlow, whose departure had been made known to them by Mr. Stompff. That worthy was there in great force, and old Bowker, and Charley Potts, and little Dabb, and old Tom Wrigley, and many others; and as the train wound out of the station, bearing Geoff along with it, there were rising tears and swelling knots in eyes and throats that were very unused to such manifestations of weakness.
The calm had come after the storm; the great, hurrying, thundering waves had stilled into silence, and lay quiet over the shattered wreck of home, and happiness, and hope. The winter rain had beaten upon the pretty house, and the light snow had fallen and lain a while, and had then melted away upon the garden ground and the smooth green turf, within the walls which had made a prison to the restless spirit of Margaret, even as the rain had beaten and the snow had fallen upon her grave in Norwood Cemetery. Now the spring odours were abroad in the air, and the trees were breaking into leaf, and Elm Lodge was looking the very perfection of tranquillity, of well-ordered, tasteful comfort and domesticity; an appearance in which there was all the sadness of a great contrast, a terrible retrospect, and an irremediable loss. Yet this appearance was not altogether deceptive; for within the house which had witnessed so much misery, peace and resignation now reigned. Mrs. Ludlow's unacknowledged desire was now realised; she was the mistress of her son's house, of all the modest splendour which had come with poor Geoff's improved fortunes; she ruled now where she had been subordinate before, and in the nursery, where at best she had only enjoyed toleration, she found herself supreme. To be sure, the great element of enjoyment, her son's presence, was wanting; but she knew that Geoffrey was doing the best thing in his power to do, was taking the most effectual means for the establishment of his health and the alleviation of his sorrow; and the old lady--on whom the supineness which comes with years, and which takes the edge off the sword of grief and the bitterness out of its cup, was beginning to steal--was satisfied. Much that had occurred was only imperfectly known to her; and indeed she would have been unfitted, by the safe routine and happy inexperience of evil passions which had marked her own life, to understand the storm and conflict which had raged around her. That her son's beautiful wife had been utterly unworthy of him, and that she had deceived and left him, Mrs. Ludlow knew; but Margaret's death had come so soon to terminate the terrible and mysterious dilemma in which her conduct had placed them all, that it had imposed upon them the silence of compassion, and filled them with the sense of merciful relief; so that by mutual consent her name had snot been mentioned in the house where she had been mistress for so long. Her son's illness, and the danger of losing him, had impressed Mrs. Ludlow much more vividly than his domestic calamity; and she had settled down with surprising ease and readiness to the routine of life at Elm Lodge.
That routine included a good deal of the society of Mr. Charley Potts; and as Mrs. Ludlow was almost as much attached to that warm-hearted and hot-headed gentleman as Miss Til herself, she acquiesced with perfect willingness in the state of affairs which brought him to Elm Lodge with regularity equalled only by that of the postman. The household was a quiet one; and the simple and unpretending women who walked along the shady paths at Lowbar in their deep-mourning dresses, or played with the little child upon the lawn, furnished but scanty food for the curiosity of the neighbourhood. Popular feeling was indeed somewhat excited on the subject of Charley Potts; but Dr. Brandram--a gallant gentleman in his way--set that matter at rest very quickly by announcing that Charley and Miss Ludlow were engaged, and were shortly to be married--information which was graciously received; as indeed the most distant tidings of a prospective wedding always are received by small communities in which the female element predominates. Dr. Brandram had done Geoffrey good service too, by his half-made, half-withheld communications respecting the beautiful mistress of Elm Lodge, whose disappearance had been so sudden. She had not recovered her confinement so well as he had hoped: the nervous system had been greatly shaken. He had ordered change: a temporary removal from home was frequently of great benefit. Yes, there had been a terrible scene with Mr. Ludlow--that was quite true: the non-medical mind was hard to convince in these matters sometimes; and Mr. Ludlow had been hard to manage. But a quarrel betweenthem!--O dear no: quite a mistake. Mrs. Ludlow left home by herself?--O dear no: by her own consent, certainly. She perfectly comprehended the necessity of the change, and was ready to submit; while Ludlow could not be brought to see it--that was all. "I assure you, my dear madam," the doctor would say to each of his female catechists, "I never had a more interesting patient; and I never pitied a man more than Ludlow when she sank so rapidly and unexpectedly. I really feared forhisreason then, and of course I senthimaway immediately. A little change, my dear madam,--a littlechange in these cases produces a wonderful effect--quite wonderful!"
"But, doctor," the anxious inquirer would probably say, "Mr. Ludlow never saw her again after she was removed, did he?"
"Well, indeed, my dear madam,--you see I am telling professional secrets; but you are not like other women: you are so far above any vulgar curiosity, and I know I may rely so entirely on your discretion, that I make an exception in your case,--they never did meet. You see these cases are so uncertain; and cerebral disease developes itself so rapidly, that before any favourable change took place, the patient sunk."
"Dear me, how very sad! It was at an asylum, I suppose?"
"Well, my dear madam, it was under private care--under the very best circumstances, I assure you; but--you'll excuse me; this is entirely confidential. And now to return to your dear little boy."
So did kind-hearted Dr. Brandram lend his aid to the laying of the ghost of scandal at Elm Lodge; and gradually it became accepted that Mrs. Ludlow had died under the circumstances hinted at by Dr. Brandram.
"It is rather a disadvantage to the dear child, Charley, I fear," sapiently remarked Miss Til to the docile Mr. Potts as he was attending her on a gardening expedition, holding a basket while she snipped and weeded, and looking as if pipes and beer had never crossed the path of his knowledge or the disc of his imagination; "people will talk about his mother having died in a lunatic-asylum."
"Suppose they do?" asked Charley in reply. "That sort of thing does not harm a man; and"--here the honest fellow's face darkened and his voice fell--"it is better they should say that than the truth. I think that can always be hidden, Til. The poor woman's death has saved us all much; but it has been the greatest boon to her child; for now no one need ever know, and least of all the child himself, that he has no right to bear his father's name."
"It is well Geoff is not a rich man, with a great estate to leave to an eldest son," said Til, pulling at an obstinate tuft of groundsel, and very anxious to prevent any suspicion that her lover's words had brought tears to her eyes.
"Well," said Charley, with rather a gloomy smile, "I'm not so certain of that, Til: it's a matter of opinion; but I'm clear that it's a good thing he's not a great man--in the 'nob' sense of the word I mean--and that the world can afford to let him alone. Here comes the young shaver--let's go and talk to him." And Charley, secretly pining to get rid of the basket, laid down that obnoxious burden, and went across the grass-plat towards the nurse, just then making her appearance from the house.
"Charley is always right," said Til to herself as she eradicated the last obstinate weed in the flower-bed under inspection and rejoined Mr. Potts; from which observation it is to be hoped that the fitness of Miss Til for undertaking that most solemn of human engagements--matrimony--will be fully recognised. There are women who practically apply to their husbands the injunctions of the Church Catechism, in which duty to God is defined; who "believe in, fear, trust, and love" them "with all their hearts, with all their minds, with all their souls, and with all their strength;" and Matilda Ludlow, though a remarkably sensible girl, and likely enough to estimate other people at their precise value, was rapidly being reduced to this state of mind about Charley, who was at all events much less unworthy than most male objects of female devoteeism.
Mrs. Ludlow and her daughter heard pretty regularly from Geoff. Of course his letters were unsatisfactory; men's letters always are, except they be love-letters when their meaning is tempered by their exclusiveness. He was eager for news of the child; but he never referred to the past in any other respect, and he said little in anticipation of the future. He described his travels, reported the state of his health, and expressed his anxiety for his mother's comfort; and that was about the sum-total of these literary productions, which no doubt were highly penitential performances to poor Geoffrey.
Spring was well advanced when Charley and Til began to discuss the propriety of naming a time for their marriage. The house at Brompton was still "on their hands," as Mrs. Ludlow was fond of saying, while in her secret heart she would have deeply regretted the turning-up of an eligible tenant; for who could answer for the habits and manners of strangers, or tell what damage her sacred furniture might receive? Charley proposed to Til that they should become her mother's tenants, and urged that young lady to consent to a speedy marriage, from the most laudable economic principles, on the ground that under present circumstances he was idling dreadfully, but that he confidently expected that marriage would "settle his mind." The recent date of the family calamity Charley could not be brought to regard as a reasonable obstacle to his wishes.
"Look here, Til," he said; "it isn't as if we were swells, you know, with our names, ages, and weights in theMorning Post, and our addresses in theRed Book. What need we care, if Geoff don't mind?--and he won't, God bless him!--the happier we are, the sooner he'll cease to be miserable; and who's to know or to care whether it's so many months sooner or later after that poor woman's death? Besides, consider this, Til; if we wait until Geoff comes home, a wedding and all that won't be pleasant for him: will it, now? Painful associations you know, and all that. I really think, for Geoff's sake, we had better get it over."
"Do you indeed, Master Charley?" said Til, with a smile full of pert drollery, which rendered her exasperatingly pretty. "How wonderfully considerate you are of Geoff; and how marvellously polite to describe marrying me as 'getting it over' No, no, Charley," she continued, seriously; "it cannot be. I could not leave mamma to the responsibility of the house and the child--at least not yet. Don't ask me; it would not be right towards Geoff, or fair to my mother. You must wait, sir."
And the crestfallen Charley knew that he must wait, and acquiesced with a very bad grace; not but that Miss Til would have been horribly vexed had it been better.
An unexpected auxiliary was about this time being driven by fate towards Charley Potts in the person of Annie Maurice. She had been constant and regular in her visits to Elm Lodge, affectionate and respectful in her demeanour to Mrs. Ludlow, and sisterly in her confidence towards Til. The hour that had united the two girls in a tie of common responsibility towards Geoff and Margaret had witnessed the formation of a strong and lasting friendship; and though Annie's superior refinement and higher education raised her above the level of Matilda Ludlow, she was not more than her equal in true womanly worth. They passed many happy hours together in converse which had now become cheerful, and their companionship was strengthened by the bond of their common interest in Til's absent brother. Miss Ludlow, perhaps, did an unfair proportion of the talking on these occasions; for she was of the gushing order of girls, though she did not border even remotely on silliness. By common consent they did not speak of Margaret, and Til had never known Arthur; so that Annie rarely talked of him, always sacredly loved and remembered in her faithful heart, preserved as her friend and monitor--dead, yet speaking. Annie had been more silent than usual lately, and had looked sad and troubled; and it chanced that on the day following that which witnessed Charley's luckless proposition, Miss Maurice arrived at Elm Lodge at an earlier hour than usual; and having gained a private audience of Til, made to her a somewhat startling revelation.
The conference between the girls lasted long, and its object took Til completely by surprise. Annie Maurice had resolved upon leaving Lord Beauport's house, and she had come to ask Mrs. Ludlow to receive her. She told Til her reasons, simply, honestly, and plainly.
"I cannot live in the house with Lionel Brakespere," she said; "and I have no friends but you. Geoffrey and I were always friends, and my dear Arthur trusted him, and knew he would befriend me. I am sure if he were living now, he would counsel me to do what I am doing. I have often thought if he had had any idea that the end was so near, he would have told me, if any difficulty came in my way, to apply for aid to Geoffrey, and I am clear that I am doing right now. I have no friends, Til, though I am rich," Annie repeated, with a more bitter smile than had ever flitted over her bright face in former days; "and I have no 'position' to keep up. I cannot go and live in a big house by myself, or in a small one either, for that matter, and I want your mother to let me come and live with her while Geoffrey is away."
Til hesitated before she replied. She saw difficulties in the way of such an arrangement which Annie did not; difficulties arising from the difference in the social position of the friends Annie wished to leave, and those she wished to come to.
"I am sure, as far as we are concerned, every thing might be as you wish," she said; "but--Lady Beauport might not think it quite the thing."
"Lady Beauport knows I will not remain in her house, Til; and she will soon see as plainly as I do that it is well I should not. The choice is between me and her son, and the selection is not difficult. Lionel Brakespere (I cannot call him by Arthur's familiar name) and I are not on speaking terms. He knows that I am acquainted with his crimes; not only those known to his family, but those which he thought death had assisted him to hide. I might have concealed my knowledge from him had he not dared to insult me by an odious pretence of admiration, which I resented with all my heart and soul. A few words made him understand that the safest course he could pursue was to abandon such a pretence, and the revelation filled him with such wrath and hatred as only such a nature could feel. Why he has adopted a line of behaviour which can only be described as down-right savage rudeness--so evidently intended to drive me out of the house, that Lord and Lady Beauport themselves see it in that light--I am unable to comprehend. I have sometimes fancied that he and his mother have quarrelled on the matter; but if so, he has had the best of it. However, there is no use in discussing it, Til; my home is broken up and gone from me; and if your mother will not take me under her charge until Geoffrey comes home, and advises me for the future, I must only set up somewhere with a companion and a cat."
Annie smiled, but very sadly; then she continued:
"And now, Til, I'll tell you how we will manage. First, we will get the mother's leave, and I will invite myself on a visit here, to act as your bridesmaid, you see, and--"
"Charley has been talking to you, Annie!" exclaimed Miss Til, starting up in mingled indignation and amusement: "I see it all now--you have been playing into each other's hands."
"No, indeed, Charley never said a word to me about it," replied Annie seriously; "though I am sure if he had, I should have done any thing he asked; but, Til, do let us be earnest,--I am serious in this. I don't want to make a scandal and a misery of this business of my removal from Lord Beauport's; and if I can come here to be your bridesmaid, in a quiet way, and remain with your mother when you have left her, it will seem a natural sort of arrangement, and I shall very soon, heiress though I am, drop out of the memory of the set in which I have lately moved. I am sure Geoffrey will be pleased; and you know that dear little Arthur is quite fond of me already."
It is unnecessary to report the conversation between the two girls in fuller detail. Mrs. Maurice carried her point; the consent of Mrs. Ludlow to the proposed arrangement was easily gained; and one day the fine carriage with the fine coronets, which had excited the admiration of the neighbourhood when Miss Maurice paid her first visit to Geoffrey Ludlow's bride, deposited that young lady and her maid at Elm Lodge. A few days later a more modest equipage bore away Mr. and Mrs. Potts on the first stage of their journey of life.
"And so, my dear Annie," wrote Geoffrey to his ex-pupil, "you are established in the quiet house in which I dreamed dreams once on a time. I continue the children's phrase, and say 'a long time ago.' I am glad to think of you there with my mother and my poor little child. If you were any one but Annie Maurice, I might fear that you would weary of the confined sphere to which you have gone; but, then, it is because youareAnnie Maurice that you are there. Sometimes I wonder whether I shall ever see the place again which, if ever I do see it, I must look upon with such altered eyes. God knows: it will be long first--for I am wofully weak still. But enough of me. My picture goes on splendidly. When it is finished and sent home to Stompff, I shall start for Egypt. I suppose many a one before me has tried to find the waters of Lethe between the banks of Nile."