“But you two ain’t going alone?” said the maid.
“Indeed but we are, Markes,” retorted Clotilde.
“But not without your aunts?”
“Yes, of course. How absurd you are!”
“Well, things is coming to a pretty pass! I couldn’t have believed it if I’d been told.”
She went out, and, according to her custom, slammed the door, but it was not heeded now; and soon after, with the affectionate kisses of their aunts moist upon their cheeks, the two girls strolled along one of the paths in the direction of the Lion Gate.
For a time they were very silent, but at last, after two or three sidelong glances at Marie, Clotilde opened the ball.
“Well, dear,” she said, “what do you think of it?”
Marie remained silent.
“For my part,” continued Clotilde, “I think it horrible. It’s like being sold into a seraglio. I won’t have him.”
“Then why did you accept that bracelet?” exclaimed Marie sharply.
“Because it was very beautiful, my dear sister; because I only had a wretchedly common porte bonheur; and, lastly, because it was of diamonds, and I liked it.”
“But it was like telling the man you would have him.”
“Then why did you accept that pearl ring Lord Henry sent you, sweet sissy?”
“For the same reason – because I liked it,” said Marie bitterly; “but I’ve hated myself ever since.”
“It’s a pity they are so old,” said Clotilde. “It would be very nice if they were not, for I like the idea of having plenty of good things, and being able to spend as much money as I like. Why, Rie,” she exclaimed, “let’s have a run through the Maze. We haven’t been since we were quite little children.”
“Nonsense! absurd!”
“Never mind; let’s be absurd for once. There will be no one there so soon as this. I shall go; you can stay away if you like.”
With a quiet, disdainful look, Marie followed her sister, and carelessly began with her threading the devious course through the quaint old labyrinth.
“How ridiculous of you, Clo!” she said at last. “There is not a breath of air, and it is growing terribly hot. Come back, there is someone here.”
“Very well; come back, then,” said Clotilde. “This way, Rie.”
“No; that is not the path.”
“Yes it is. I’m sure it is; and – oh, how strange! Here are those two.”
Marie’s cheeks crimsoned as she found that they had come suddenly upon the two officers. That it was a planned thing she was sure; but this was not the time to resent it, and she returned the salutations with which she was greeted, making up her mind that she would keep close to Clotilde the whole time, and prevent a tête-à-tête.
But such a determination would have been difficult to carry out in the gardens, when three people were arrayed dead against her. In a maze it was simply impossible; and the guide was not there.
She never knew how or when they were separated, but all at once she and Dick were on one side of a hedge, and Clotilde and Glen on the other, and when the boy laughingly tried to put matters right, he did it so cleverly that they were soon two hedges separate; then three, and likely to be four; by which time, forgetful of all his scrupulous feelings, and Clotilde’s want of perfection in his eyes, Glen had clasped her to his heart with a deep, low “My darling, at last!”
“Oh, no, no, no, Marcus,” she sobbed, as she gently thrust him away, and then clung to his arm, gazing piteously up at him the while. “You must not. I ought not to let you. I feel so wicked and despairing I hardly care to live.”
“But why, my darling – my beautiful darling?” he whispered passionately, contenting himself now with holding her hands.
“Because this is so wrong. My aunts would never forgive me if they knew.”
“That is what I want to speak about, dearest,” he said, in a low voice, as he drew her arm through his and they walked on. “May I speak to them? Let me call and ask their permission to come freely and openly to the apartments. I am only a poor suitor, Clotilde – only a captain of cavalry, with very little beside his pay; but you will not despise me for that?”
“For what?” she cried innocently, as she gazed up into his face.
“For my want of money,” he said, smiling down, and longing to clasp her once more in his arms.
“I hardly know what money is,” she said quietly. “We have never had any; so why should I care for that?”
“Then I may speak?” he whispered. “I may be better off by-and-by, and we can wait.”
“Oh yes, we could wait,” sighed Clotilde. “But no – no – no, it is madness! I ought not to talk like this. I’ve been very weak and foolish, and I don’t know what you must think of me.”
“Think of you!” he whispered; “that you are all that is beautiful and innocent and good, and that I love you with all my heart.”
“But I’m not good,” faltered Clotilde; “I’m very wicked indeed, and I don’t know what will become of me; I don’t, really.”
“Become the woman who will share my fate – the woman I shall make my idol. Clotilde, I never saw one I could sincerely say such things to till we met, and at one bound my heart seemed to go out to meet you. Tell me, my darling, that nothing shall separate us now.”
“Oh, don’t, pray don’t speak to me like that,” sighed Clotilde. “You don’t know – you can’t know. What shall I do?”
“My dear girl, tell me,” he whispered, as he gazed in her wild eyes.
“Oh, no, no!” she sobbed.
“Not give your confidence to one who loves you as I do?”
“I dare not tell you – yes, I will,” she cried piteously. “What shall I do? My aunts say that I must marry Mr Elbraham.”
“Then Millet was right,” cried Glen excitedly. “But no, no, my darling, it cannot – it shall not be. Only tell me you love me – that I may care for you – guard you – defend you, and no aunts or Elbrahams in the world shall separate us.”
“I – I think – I believe I do care for you,” she faltered, as she looked up at him in a piteous, pleading way.
“Heaven bless you, sweet!” he cried. “Then this very day I will see them. They are women, and will listen to reason. I will plead to them, and you shall help me.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Clotilde in horrified tones. “That would be to separate us for ever, and – and – and,” she sobbed, “I could not bear that.”
“But surely” – he began.
“Oh, you do not know my aunts!” she said excitedly. “It would only be to force me into that dreadful man’s arms. We must not let them know. It would be too dreadful.”
“But, my darling, I think I could show them – ”
“No, no! Don’t show them – don’t try to show them, if you love me!”
“If I love you!” he said reproachfully.
“Then pray – pray keep it secret,” she said imploringly, “for the present.”
“But I must see you – I must talk to you.”
“Yes, yes; you shall sometimes. But if they thought you spoke to me as you have, I should never see you again.”
“But what am I to do?” he pleaded.
“You may write to me sometimes,” she said ingenuously; “and sometimes, perhaps, we may meet.”
“But – ”
“Hush! No more now. Oh, pray – pray – pray! Here is sister Marie.”
Glen did not notice it, but Clotilde recovered her calmness very rapidly, as, after a very awkward time spent in trying hard to keep her from joining the others, Marie found out the way for herself, and snubbed Dick so sharply that he came up with her looking exceedingly rueful, and telling himself that the sacrifice he had made to friendship was far too great, and that he ought to have kept to Clotilde.
“Why, Marie,” exclaimed the latter, “where have you been?”
Marie did not reply, only darted an angry glance at her sister, and then one full of scorn at Glen, who made a sign to Millet, one which the little fellow eagerly obeyed, going on with Clotilde, while Glen lingered behind with Marie.
“I am not so blind or so foolish as not to see that you are displeased with my attentions to your sister,” he said in a low voice, which made her thrill with pleasure, in spite of the jealous anger she felt. “Yes, you need not tell me,” he continued, meeting her eyes. “But come, let us be friends – more, let us be like brother and sister, for, believe me, my feelings towards you are warmer than you think. I know that I am no worthy match for your sister, but if love can make up for poverty – there, you will not be angry with me, for I want you to be my ally.”
Marie turned to him again to look scorn and anger, but as she met his eyes her resolution failed, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing.
“He loves her,” she sobbed to herself; “and he cannot see her, he cannot know her, as I do.”
The next moment she was upbraiding herself with her own unworthiness, while he was interpreting her silence into a more softened feeling towards him; and when they parted a few minutes later, and he pressed her hand, Marie felt that if he wished it she could become his slave, while somehow Glen did not feel quite satisfied with his idol.
The sisters did not speak on their way back, while when they re-entered the Palace their aunts were loud in praise of the animation their walk had imparted to their countenances.
“Such news, my dears!” cried Miss Philippa.
“Such good news, my dears!” echoed Miss Isabella.
“Mr Elbraham is coming down to-day,” said Miss Philippa.
“And he will drive Lord Henry Moorpark down in his phaeton.”
“Yes, my sweet darlings,” said Miss Philippa affectionately. “I think, dears, I would sit quietly in the drawing-room all the morning.”
“And go up just before lunch to dress.”
“Yes, dears. Your new morning dresses have come home.”
“Oh, have they, aunt dear?” cried Clotilde. “Come upstairs, then, at once, Rie, and we’ll try them on.”
Volume Two – Chapter Six.
The Anchorite is Consulted Again
“I wonder whether I shall ever have any children of my own,” said John Huish; “and, if I do, whether I shall ever be so hard, cruel, and worldly to them as some people are. Money is very nice, and one would like to see one’s young folks well off; but how a mother and father can deliberately match a beautiful, innocent young girl with some old fellow because he is rich and has a title, is something beyond my comprehension. Sixty and twenty! Oh, it is a disgrace to our boasted civilisation!”
John Huish’s breakfast was on the table in his snug room, and the coffee, French rolls, and delicately-brown ham looked enticing, but they did not tempt him. He had made several beginnings, such as taking off the cover that concealed the ham, opening his napkin, pouring out the steaming amber coffee, and the like; but he had touched nothing, for a letter he had received from Gertrude that morning had taken away his appetite.
“Poor girl!” he mused; “suffering agonies, and I seem as if I can do nothing to help her. Money! Why have I not plenty of money? I always felt well enough off till this happened, and then all at once I discovered that I was a poor man.”
He wrinkled up his brow, and let his cheek down upon his hand, with his elbow in dangerous proximity to his coffee.
“I was dreaming of going up to Stonor’s again last night. Good heavens! Is it likely that I shall ever become like one of those poor fellows – unhinged, doing all kinds of things involuntarily? There must be something wrong with me; only Stonor spoke as he did, like all doctors do, to take one’s thoughts away from one’s malady. It is so strange, that perhaps I ought not to think any more of my poor darling; only Stonor encouraged me so. It would be a sin against her to marry if I really am wrong. But am I? Let me think.
“Robson, for some reason, cut me dead yesterday; but then he is one of Lady Millet’s intimates. Then Rock Anderson apologised for not paying me that money. What money? I remember no debt. It’s softening of the brain, that’s what it is – memory gradually going; and yet I think of Gertrude and dare – Well, the doctor said I was all right; he ought to know. He said it was only a lapse of memory now and then.
“But there are so many things which are so puzzling. Friends seem to be dropping away from me. Man after man with whom I used to be intimate cuts me dead.
“No, no, no!” he cried impatiently; “I will not think of it. And as to that woman who came to me and made me worry my brains, it must have been some town trick.”
But the cloud hung over him still, various little matters connected with his daily life clinging together like snowflakes from that cloud, till the recollection of his position with regard to Gertrude came back, and her face shone through the darkness to dissipate the mental mist.
“Yes!” he cried, brightening up; “the doctor must be right. He encouraged me in my ideas; and my darling will keep away all these wretched morbid fancies. But what am I to do?
“Act!” he cried sharply; “act! – not sit down here like a morbid, dreamy fool, and let that old woman have her way in making two people wretched for life. I’ll go to Captain Millet’s and see him. Not so easy, though,” he said, laughing. “Never mind; I’ll go. He must have plenty of influence. Oh, of course; and if he fails, why, there’s the doctor. Hang it! he might interfere, and put in a certificate saying that it would be the death of the poor girl if she is forced into a wedding with that fellow. But the old man told me to – Oh, what a hesitating fool I am!”
Meanwhile, matters were progressing in no very pleasant way at the Millet’s. Renée made no confidant of her mother, but clung to her sister, from whom Lady Millet heard a portion of the trouble that had fallen upon her child.
“There, I can’t help it,” said her ladyship. “I do everything I can for you children, and if matters go wrong through your own imprudence, you must put up with the consequences. There, there, it is a silly young married couple’s piece of quarrelling, and they must make it up as fast as they can.”
“But, mamma!” said Gertrude.
“Don’t argue with me, Gertrude. Renée must have been imprudent, and she must take the consequences. She had no business to encourage Major Malpas to visit her; and I trust that this will be a warning to you when you are married.”
“Mamma!”
“Oh yes, I understand you, Gertrude,” said her ladyship; “but I know your obstinacy, and I maintain that it would be utter madness for you to see that man after your marriage.”
“But, mamma, you would not think of pressing on that affair now Renée is in such trouble.”
“What has that to do with it, child? What has Renée’s trouble to do with your marriage? Lord Henry has been put off long enough. I wish you to accept him; and I am convinced that a word, even a look, would make him propose.”
“Oh, mamma!”
“Gertrude, I insist! I know he likes you, and if he is to be kept back like this, a scheming woman will secure him for some creature or another. Why, it is nearly a month since he called, and no wonder, after your icy conduct! I shall take steps at once. Let me see, a dinner-party will be best. There, I’m going out; I’ll resume the subject on my return.”
“Oh, mamma, mamma!” cried Gertrude as soon as she was alone. “But I will not; I’d sooner die.”
Lady Millet was put off from resuming the subject on her return, and during her absence Gertrude had relieved her troubled heart by writing a letter of no small importance to herself.
Next day she was driven to Chesham Place with Lady Millet, who left her there while her ladyship went to attend to some shopping.
“Not been back?” said Gertrude eagerly, as she gazed in her sister’s pale face.
“No, Gertrude, not yet,” replied Renée; “but he will come soon, I hope,” she continued, with a sigh full of resignation; “I am waiting. And now about your troubles. Is this affair to take place?”
“So mamma says,” replied Gertrude, with a bitter smile. “Like you, I am to have an establishment.”
“Oh, Gertrude, sister!” whispered Renée, kissing her. “But it makes it less bitter, now that Mr Huish has proved to be – ”
Gertrude laid her hand upon her lips.
“Hush, Renée!” she cried. “I do not know what you may have heard, and I will not listen to it. Neither will I sit and hear a word against Mr Huish.”
“I will not speak against him, dear,” said Renée sadly; and she gazed piteously in her sister’s eyes.
“And you, Renée? My poor darling! your position gives me the heartache.”
“I shall wait, Gertrude. Some day he will find out my innocence and return to ask my pardon. I can wait till then. You see, dear, that, like you, I have faith, and can abide my time.”
In place of returning home, Gertrude persuaded her sister to accompany her to her uncle’s, where Vidler admitted them both directly, and showed them up to the darkened drawing-room.
It was a curious change from the bright sunshine of the street to the gloom within; but it seemed to accord well with the sadness in the sisters’ breasts, and they sat and talked to the old man, playing to him as well, till it drew near the time for them to return to their respective homes.
All this time the pale, almost ghostly-looking hand was playing about in the little opening, and indicating by its nervous action that something was passing in the ordinarily calm mind of its owner.
“Renée, my child,” he said at last, “I can hear that you are in trouble.”
There was no reply for a few moments, and then she said softly: “Yes, dear uncle.”
“I do not ask you for your confidence,” he said, “for if it is some trouble between you and your husband it should be sacred. I dreaded this,” he muttered to himself. “Gertrude, my child, I would not, if I could help it, do anything to encourage you to act in disobedience to your parents’ wishes, but be careful how you enter on this proposed alliance. I like it not, I like it not.”
Gertrude did not answer, only stole to the opening, and pressed her warm fresh lips to the cold white hand. Then the young people took their leave, and the yellow-looking house in Wimpole Street resumed its wonted aspect of gloom.
Volume Two – Chapter Seven.
Brought to a Double Head
“Ah, my dearest boy!” cried Lady Millet, an evening or two later; “I did not expect you.”
“’Spose not,” said Dick shortly; “but I’ve come, all the same.”
“You want money, sir, I suppose; and I will not have papa worried.”
“No, I don’t want money. I’ve come up on particular business.”
“Business! Great heavens, my dear child! what is the matter?”
“Well, I don’t know yet. But, I say, is Gertrude going to marry John Huish?”
“Certainly not – impossible! I have other views for your sister.”
“And what are they?”
“This is a subject I should discuss with your papa, Richard; but you are a man grown now, and I am sorry to say papa does not afford me the support I should like, so I will tell you in confidence. I believe Lord Henry Moorpark will propose directly.”
“Do you? I don’t.”
“What do you mean, Dick?” cried her ladyship sharply.
“That’s what has brought me up to town. Lady Littletown has been stealing a march on you, and is trying to egg him on to propose elsewhere.”
“The wretched scheming creature! Oh! No, no, it is impossible. You are mistaken, my boy.”
“Oh no, I’m not. The old chap is quite on there at Hampton Court. But of course he has no chance.”
“Stop! At Hampton Court? Who is the lady?”
“One of the Miss Dymcoxes’ nieces, living with her aunts in the Palace.”
“Philippa Dymcox’s niece?”
“Yes.”
“Not a Miss Riversley?”
“That’s the name, mamma.”
“How horrible! – Riversleys! Why, they are connected with the Huishes. That Mr John Huish’s father married a Miss Riversley.”
“Very likely,” said Dick Millet coolly. “That’s the lady, all the same – Miss Dymcox’s niece.”
“The Dymcoxes! the paupers! Lady Littletown’s doing! Oh, that woman!”
“You don’t like her, then, mamma?”
“Like her? Ugh!” exclaimed Lady Millet in tones of disgust; “I can soon put a stop to that, my son.” Her ladyship compressed her lips. “But it is all Gertrude’s fault, behaving so ridiculously about that John Huish. I don’t know what she may not have said to Lord Henry the other night. He was almost at her feet, and now he shall be quite. John Huish indeed! – a man going hopelessly to the bad,” Her ladyship rang. “There is no time to be lost. I must act at once. Lord Henry Moorpark must be brought back to his allegiance. Send Miss Gertrude’s maid to ask her to step down here,” continued her ladyship to the servant who answered the bell.
“What are you going to do?”
“Arrange for invitations to be sent out at once. Oh, Dick, my boy, the stories I have heard lately about Mr Huish’s gambling and dissipation are terrible! Gertrude has had a marvellous escape. It is very shocking, for your uncle and father have known the Huishes all their lives. Well?”
“Richards says, my lady, that Miss Millet went out an hour ago.”
“Out? Gone out?”
“Yes, my lady; and Richards found this note left on the dressing-table, my lady, stuck down on the cushion with a pin.”
“Great heavens!” cried Lady Millet, snatching the note from a salver; “there, leave the room.”
The man bowed and moved to the door, in time to open it for Sir Humphrey, who stood beaming at his son, while her ladyship tore open the letter and read:
“Dear Mamma, —I cannot marry Lord Henry Moorpark. Good-bye.”
“That’s all!” cried her ladyship in a perfect wail. “What does it mean?”
“Looks suspicious,” said Dick. “Hullo!” he continued, as the servant reopened the door. “Can’t see visitors.”
“Mr Frank Morrison, sir,” said the man, who looked rather scared at seeing her ladyship sink upon a couch, where Sir Humphrey began to fan her.
“What the deuce does he want?” grumbled Dick. “Hullo, Frank! I was coming to see you about that row with our Renée. Gertrude wrote and told me.”
“My wife here?” said Morrison, who was a good deal excited by wine.
“What, Renée? No!”
“Damn!” cried the young husband, dropping upon a chair, and looking from one to the other.
“Something fresh, then?” cried Dick, growing excited. “Here, why the devil don’t you speak, man?”
“Yes, yes! why don’t you speak?” cried Lady Millet piteously. “Oh, Frank dear, what news? Have you seen Gertrude?”
“No,” he said thickly. “I want Renée.”
“Where is she? Speak, I conjure you!” cried her ladyship.
“Don’t know,” said Morrison, glancing round. “Haven’t been home for days. Went home this afternoon. Had some words and came away again.”
“Well, well, go on! I saw you playing billiards at the club.”
“Yes,” said Morrison, whose brain was clouded with days of excess. “Went home again just now. Going to make it up, and she’d gone. Where is she? Want her directly.”
Dick stood thinking for a few moments, while her ladyship looked at him as if imploring him to speak.
“She’s in it, p’raps,” he said. “Look here, Frank, can you understand me, or have you got D.T. too bad?”
“Yes, I understand,” said the young man thickly.
“Gertrude’s gone away. We think your wife must be in the plot.”
“No,” said Morrison slowly, as he gave his head a shake to clear it, and stood up angry and fierce, while the others hung upon his words as being likely to dispel their fears. “No, poor girl! too much trouble. I’m a villain,” he groaned, “and I struck her to-night; but – but,” he cried excitedly, “she deceived me. Gone with Malpas. She’s false as hell!”
“It’s a lie!” cried Dick fiercely. “Here, father, see to my mother. It’s a lie, I say; and you, Frank Morrison, you’re a cad to dare to – Ah!” said the lad, uttering a shrill cry, and he had just time to drive up a pistol as it exploded, and save his brother-in-law’s brains from being scattered on the wall.
Then there was a fierce struggle, as Frank Morrison strove to direct the revolver at his temples once more, and Dick fought with him bravely till overpowered; but two of the frightened servants ran in, and with their help the madman was secured and held down till the arrival of the nearest doctor, a messenger having been also sent for Dr Stonor, who arrived a couple of hours later; and between them the excitement of the would-be suicide was somewhat allayed, though he was still half mad.
It was the old story – days and days of heavy use of stimulants, till the fevered madness that generally comes in its wake had seized upon an already too excited brain; and it was only by the use of the strongest measures that the medical men were able to restrain their patient’s violence, as he rambled on wildly hour after hour, the burden of his incoherent mutterings being, “My wife! my wife!”
