Title: The Rock Ahead. (Vol. 2 of 2) - A Novel
Author: Yates, Edmund
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Rock Ahead. (Vol. 2 of 2) - A Novel" ***


THE ROCK AHEAD.

A NOVEL.

BY EDMUND YATES,
AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," ETC.


_COPYRIGHT EDITION._


IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.



LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
1868.

_The Right of  Translation is reserved_.



CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.


BOOK THE SECOND (_continued_).

CHAPTER IV. Pursuit.
         V. Rebuffed.
        VI. Gertrude speaks.
       VII. Half-revealed.
      VIII. L'Homme propose.
        IX. Dieu dispose.


BOOK THE THIRD.

         I. Ægrotat Animo.
        II. Recognition.
       III. A Mine is laid.
        IV. Perplexity.
         V. An Explosion.
        VI. The last Chance.
       VII. Ineluctabile Fatum.
      VIII. A last Message.
        IX. Twelve Months after.



THE ROCK AHEAD.



BOOK THE SECOND.
(_Continued_.)



CHAPTER IV.
Pursuit.


The clearance effected under the superintendence of the Office of
Works, for the amalgamation under one roof of the various Courts of
Law, has carried away a large portion of Clement's Inn, and has
obliterated the pillared entrance to that dusky but genial home of the
shady and impecunious. In the days of our story, however, Inn and
entrance were still there; the former tenanted by human sheep of
various degrees of blackness--roistering government-office clerks,
with the Insolvent Court--which at the outset of their career had been
but a light cloud as small as a man's hand, but which year by year had
assumed larger and more definite proportions--ever lowering over them;
third-rate attorneys, who combined law with discount, "doing" little
bills for ten and twenty pounds with the aforenamed government clerks,
and carefully putting in an appearance at Somerset House on pay-days
to receive their money, or the refresher which was to induce the
withholding of the document--it is always "a document"--until another
quarter had elapsed; agents for companies of all kinds of limited and
unlimited liability; newspaper writers obliged to have cheap chambers
in the neighbourhood of their offices; foreigners representing
continental firms, and wanting a cheap and quasi-respectable address;
an actor or two, a score of needy men-about-town, and a few Jews.
Round the pillars seethed and bubbled a scum of humanity of the
nastiest kind--vendors of the fried fish and the pickled whelk,
boot-blackers of abnormally horrid appearance: and emaciated children
from the neighbouring Clare Market and the adjoining courts, thieves
and impostors from their infancy, hung about the cab-rank, and added
to the general filth and squalor. A pleasant Slough of Despond, that
little spot, now standing bare and cleared, surrounded by the balmy
Holywell, the virtuous Wych, with Drury Lane running from it at
right-angles, and the dirtiest corner of the great legal cobweb of
courts and alleys at its back.

It was a hot morning in July when a cab drew up at the pillars, and
Gilbert Lloyd jumped out, paid the driver, and made his way into the
Inn. The exhalations from the barrows of the fried-fish vendors were
potent, and the change to the faint, sickly perfume of the West-Indian
pine-apple, tastefully arranged in slices on an open barrow which
blocked the immediate thoroughfare, was scarcely refreshing. Perhaps
in July the second-hand garments, even the uniforms, which the Jewish
gentlemen who deal in such trophies hang up at the entrances of their
warehouses, are a thought stronger in flavour than in the winter; and
a fifth-hand portmanteau, which has seen a great deal of service under
various owners, is apt, under the influence of the sun, to suggest its
presence. But Gilbert Lloyd paid no heed to anything of this kind; he
had roughed it too long to care for what came between the wind and his
nobility; not being a literary photographer on the lookout for
"character," he paid no attention to any of the surroundings, but went
straight on, making his way through the jostling crowd until he
arrived at a door, on the posts of which was painted "Gammidge's
Private-Inquiry Office, ground-floor." A farther reference to the
right-hand door of the first-floor discovered a still more elaborate
placard, announcing that "Nichs. Gammidge, many years in the detective
police, undertook inquiries of a private and confidential nature;
agents all over the Continent; strictest secrecy observed; divorce
cases particularly attended to; ring right-hand bell; and no
connection with foreign impostors trading on N.G.'s new invention."

Gilbert Lloyd with some difficulty--for in the dingy passage there was
but little light even on that bright summer morning--read this
description, and in obedience to its suggestion pulled the right-hand
bell. The sound of the bell, vibrating loudly, apparently had the
effect of putting a sudden stop to a muttered conversation of a
groaning character, which had been dimly audible; the door was opened
by a spring from the inside, and Gilbert entered. He found himself in
a low-ceilinged dirty room, with no other furniture than a couple of
chairs and a very rickety deal table. The windows were covered more
than half-way up with blinds improvised out of old newspapers; a
clock with one hand was on the wall; an almanac, much ink-scored and
pin-marked, stood on the mantel-shelf; and a limp map of Great
Britain, evidently torn out of an ancient _Bradshaw_, was pinned
behind the door. At first, on entering, Gilbert Lloyd thought himself
the sole occupant of the room; but when his eyes had become accustomed
to the partial darkness, he discovered someone rubbing himself against
the wall at the opposite end of the room, and apparently trying to
squeeze himself through into the next house. A little hard looking at
and careful study made him out a very thin, small, white-faced young
man, with hollow cheeks, a sharp face, and a keen restless eye. As
Gilbert's glance fell on him, or rather, as he seemed to feel it fall
on him, he shook himself with an odd restless motion, as though to
endeavour to get rid of some spell of fascination, but evidently
desired to keep as much as possible in the background. The groaning,
smothered conversation meanwhile had recommenced in another quarter,
and Gilbert, looking round, noticed a door evidently leading into an
inner room.

"Is this Mr. Gammidge's office?" he asked abruptly of the white-faced
young man.

The white-faced young man gave a sudden start, as though a pin had
been run into him, but never spoke.

"Mr. Gammidge's office--is this Mr. Gammidge's office?" repeated
Gilbert.

"I--I believe so," said the white-faced young man, taken aback by the
sharpness of the key in which the inquiry was made. "I have no reason
to think it's not."

"Where is Mr. Gammidge?"

"Not in!" Wonderfully sharp and pert came this reply; constant lying
in one groove oils the tongue so splendidly.

"Not in?" echoed Gilbert half savagely.

"Not in! Sure to be in later in the day. Got most important business
on just now for--"

"Stow it!" The words came not from the white-faced young man, nor from
Gilbert, but yet they were perfectly audible.

On hearing them, the white-faced young man became silent at once, and
Gilbert looked round in amazement. The muttered groans became fainter,
a sound as of clinking money was heard, then as of the opening of a
door, the farewell of a gruff voice, the departure of a thick pair of
boots; then one door slammed, and the inner door, which Gilbert had
noticed on his first entrance, opened, and a man stood in the doorway
with a beckoning forefinger.

A short stout man in a brown wig, with a fat unintelligent face, with
heavy pendulous cheeks and a great jowl, and a round stupid chin, but
with an eye like a beryl--small, bright, and luminous; a man with just
sufficient intelligence to know that he was considerably overrated,
and that the best chance for him in keeping up the deception lay in
affectation of deepest mystery, and in saying as little as possible.
Mr. Gammidge had been made a hero in certain police-cases during his
professional career, by two or three "gentlemen of the press," who had
described a few of his peculiarities--a peculiar roll of his head, a
sonorous manner of taking snuff, a half-crow of triumph in his throat
when he thought he saw his way out of a complication--in their various
organs. Henceforth these peculiarities were his stock-in-trade, and he
relied upon them for all his great personal effects.

When Gilbert Lloyd obeyed the influence of the beckoning forefinger,
he passed through the door of communication between the inner and
outer rooms, and found himself in an apartment smaller and not less
dingy than that he had left. In the middle of it was a large desk, on
which were a huge leaden inkstand, a few worn quill-pens, and a very
inky blotting-pad. Sentinel on one flank stood a big swollen
Post-office Directory, two years old; sentinel on the other, a stumpy
manuscript volume in a loose binding, labelled "Cases." The walls
blossomed with bills offering large sums as rewards for information to
be given respecting persons who had absconded; and on a disused and
paralytic green-cloth screen, standing in a helpless attitude close by
the desk, was pinned a bill, setting forth the Sessions of the Central
Criminal Court for the year, with the dates on which Mr. Gammidge was
engaged in any of the trials pending distinguished by a broad cross
with a black-lead pencil.

As soon as Gilbert Lloyd had entered the room, Mr. Gammidge closed
the door carefully behind him, and placing himself in front of him,
indulged him with the peculiar roll of the head, while he took a
sonorous pinch of snuff, and said in a thick confidential voice, "Now,
captin?"

"I'm no captain," said Lloyd shortly, "and you don't recollect me;
though you're ready to swear you do, and though I have employed you
before this."

Lloyd paused here for a moment; but as Mr. Gammidge merely looked at
him helplessly, and muttered under his breath something about "such a
many gents," he went on.

"My name is Gilbert Lloyd. I manage Lord Ticehurst's racing matters
for him; and last year I employed you to look after one of our boys,
who we thought was going wrong; do you recollect now?"

"Perfectly," said Mr. Gammidge, brightening. "Boy had been laid hold
of by a tout from a sporting-paper, who was practisin' on him through
his father, given to drink, and his sister, on 'oom the tout was
supposed to be sweet."

"Exactly; well, you found that out clearly enough, and got us all the
information required. Now I want you again."

"More boys goin' wrong, sir?" asked Mr. Gammidge. "They're the
out-and-outest young scamps; they're that precocious and knowin'--"

"It's not a boy that I want to know about this time," said Lloyd,
checking the flow of his companion's eloquence; "it's a woman."

"That's more in my way; three-fourths of my business is connected with
them. Did you 'appen to take any notice of the young man in that room
as you came through? He's the best 'nose' in London. Find out
anything. Lor' bless you, that young man have been in more divorce
cases than the Serjeant himself. He can hide behind a walking-stick,
and see through the pipe of a Chubb's latch-key. There's nothing like
him in London."

"Put him on to my business at once, then. Look at this card." Mr.
Grammidge produced a large pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed double
eye-glasses, and proceeded to make an elaborate investigation. "You
know the name? I thought so. Now, your man must keep account of
everyone who goes in here by day or night, so long as she's at home;
and when she goes out he must follow her, and, so far as he can, find
out who speaks to her, and where. There is a five-pound note to begin
with. You understand?"

"You may look upon it as good as done, sir," said Mr. Gammidge,
commencing to make a memorandum of the number and date of the
bank-note in his pocket-book, "and to let you know at the old
address?"

"No; when he has anything to tell, drop me a line, and I'll meet him
here. Good-day."

The white-faced young man, entering fully into his new occupation,
speedily deserved the encomiastic remarks which had been lavished upon
him by his principal, and in a short time Mr. Lloyd was furnished with
full information as to the personal appearance of the various visitors
at the Bayswater villa, and of the friends whom Miss Lambert was in
the habit of meeting away from her home. In both these categories
Gilbert Lloyd found, as he had expected to find, a very accurate
representation of Miles Challoner. The information, all expected as it
was, irritated and chafed him; and he gave up a whole day to
considering how he could best put a stop to the ripening intimacy
between Miles and Gertrude, or, at all events, weaken it. Finally, he
decided on paying a visit to Mrs. Bloxam, and seeing whether she could
not be frightened with a suspicion, perfectly undefined, of something
horrible and mysterious which would take place if the intimacy were
permitted to go on unchecked. Accordingly, upon a day when the
white-faced young man had ascertained that Miss Lambert would be for
some time absent from home, Mr. Lloyd presented himself at the
Bayswater villa, and, without sending in his name, followed the
servant into the room, where Mrs. Bloxam was seated. At first sight of
the man who had dared in former days to invade the sanctity of her
sheepfold and carry off one of her pet lambs, the old lady was
exceedingly indignant, and her first impulse was to order the intruder
to leave the house; but a moment's reflection convinced her that as he
yet had the power of being exceedingly dangerous to Gertrude, or, at
all events, of causing her the greatest annoyance, it would be better
to temporise. She therefore listened to all Gilbert Lloyd's bland
assurances that, although there was an unfortunate estrangement
between his wife and himself, he took the greatest interest in her
career, and it was purely as a matter of friendship that he had come
to warn her, through her ablest and best friend, of the danger she
incurred in forming a certain acquaintance. So well did Mrs. Bloxam
play her listening part, and so earnest was she in her thanks to her
informant, that even the _rousé_ turfite was taken in, and went away
convinced that he had made his _coup_.

A few days afterwards he called again, and this time asked for Miss
Lambert. The servant said that Miss Lambert was out. For Mrs. Bloxam:
Mrs. Bloxam was out. Gilbert Lloyd then took out a card and handed it
to the servant, begging her to give it to her mistress; but the
servant, just glancing at it, handed it back, saying she had strict
orders, in case the gentleman bearing that name ever called again, to
refuse him admittance, and to return his card.



CHAPTER V.
Rebuffed.


The cool determination of Gertrude's conduct, the resolution which did
not shrink from a proceeding calculated to excite at least observation
by her servants, took Gilbert Lloyd completely by surprise.
Concealing, by a desperate effort, the passion of anger which flamed
up in him, he turned away from the door, and got into the hansom
awaiting him; but when quite out of sight of the gilded-bronze gates,
and the miniature plantation of the Bayswater villa, he stopped the
cab, got out, and pulling his hat down over his brow, walked
on rapidly, in a mood strange indeed to his calculating and
self-contained nature.

By what fatality had this woman once more turned up in his life--this
woman of whom he was well rid, his marriage with whom had been a
mistake--a failure--and his parting with whom had been the
commencement of a new and decidedly fortunate era in his life? His
thoughts were in a whirl, and for a time resisted his attempts to
reduce them to order and sequence. The physical convulsion of rage
claimed to have its way first, and had it. He had known that feeling
many times in his life--the maddening anger which turns the face white
and the lips livid, which makes the heart beat with suffocating
throbs, and dims the sight. He knew all about that, and he had to bear
it now, and to bear it in silence, without the relief of speech, with
only the aid of solitude. He could not swear at Gertrude now, as he
had done many a time when annoyance had come to him through her; he
could not insult, threaten, strike her now; and much of the fury he
felt was due to the powerlessness which drove him nearly mad, and
which was his own doing. Ay, that was the worst of it, the least
endurable part of the wrath which raged within him. This woman, who
had been in his power, and had been made to experience the full
significance of her position; who had loved him once, and of whom he
had wearied, as it was in his nature to weary of any desired object
when attained,--this woman held him in supreme indifference and
contempt, and set him at naught without fear or hesitation. In the
force and irrationality of his anger, he forgot that she was acting
quite within the letter and the spirit of the convention made between
them; that he it was who had abandoned its spirit at almost the first
sight of her, and had now received a humiliating check in endeavouring
to violate its letter. For a long time his anger was blind, fierce,
and unreasoning--directed almost as much against himself as against
Gertrude--his wife! his wife! as he called her a hundred times over,
in the vain assertion of a position which he had voluntarily
abdicated, and which he knew, in the bottom of his angry heart--even
while the anger seethed within it--he would not be prepared to resume,
were the opportunity afforded him. But as he walked on and on, getting
by degrees into outlying regions of the far west--almost as little
known to him as California--the habit of calculation, of arranging his
thoughts, of (metaphorically) laying his head on the exact process or
combination which he required--a faculty and habit of which he felt
the value every day--resumed its sway over him, and he no longer raged
blindly about what had happened, but set himself to think it out.
This, then, was a _parti pris_ on the part of Gertrude; this, then,
was a game in which he was her adversary--with a purpose to gain;
she--his, with nothing in view but his defeat. Her cards were resolute
ignoring of his existence; the absolute and inexorable adherence to
the agreement made between them at Brighton. His cards were persistent
following and watching of her, which the coincidences of his position
and the facility with which he could make her circle of acquaintance
his, added to the exigencies of her professional career, which she
could not control, however unwelcome they might be, rendered easy of
playing. The next question was, what end did he propose to himself in
this sudden revulsion of feeling, this sudden irruption into his
prosperous and pleasant life of an element which he had hoped,
intended, and believed to be banished from it for ever? This question
he could not answer clearly. The mists of anger and jealousy arose
between him and the outline of his purpose. Was it to undo the past?
Was it to woo and win once more this woman, whom he had driven away
from him, and who had just made evident to him the weakness of his
determination and the strength of her own? Was it to put himself
entirely and unreservedly under the yoke of her power, from whose
possible imposition he had been glad to escape by the final expedient
to which he had resorted? Had he any such rash, insane notion as this
in his thoughts? He did not know, he was not certain; he was not sure
of anything but this--that Gertrude had refused to see him, and that
he was resolved she should, come what might; she should not carry that
point, she should not have the triumph at once of fidelity to their
strange unnatural compact on her own part, and of having forced him to
break it on his. He had dismissed her easily enough from his thoughts,
but he could not dismiss her from them now; she kept possession of
them now, in the pride of her beauty--how handsome she was! he
had never supposed she would have grown into such commanding,
self-possessed beauty as hers was now--and in the triumph of her
talent--as she had never done since the brief earliest days of their
disastrous marriage. Gilbert Lloyd was a man on whom success of any
kind produced a strong impression. It counted for much in the
rekindling of his former passion for Gertrude that she was now a
successful artist, her supposed name in everyone's mouth, holding her
own before the world, a woman with a position, an _entourage_, and an
independent career. His thoughts wandered away among scenes which he
had long forgotten, in which she was the central figure, and into
imaginary pictures of her present life; and he repeated over and over
again, with rage--waxing dull by this time--"But she is my wife! she
is my wife! no matter what she chooses to do, no matter how she
chooses to act towards me, she is my wife! I have only to declare it
if I choose." And the consequences to which she, judging by her
present conduct, would probably be entirely indifferent--was he
prepared to face them? He could not answer this question either; he
was not yet cool-headed enough to estimate them aright.

A devouring curiosity concerning Gertrude took possession of him--a
craving eagerness to know what were her movements, who were her
associates, how she lived; even the disposition of the rooms in her
house, and her domestic relations. The absolute ignorance of all these
things in which he remained, though his imperious will demanded to be
informed of them, exasperated him; and with his fruitless anger there
was mingled a grim humour, as he thought of the scenes through which
they had passed together, as he recalled Gertrude in the intimacy of
their domestic life. And now he was the one person in the world from
whom she concealed herself, the one person shut out from her by a
barrier erected by her inflexible will. Was he? Time would tell. He
had not been ignorant daring the sometimes stormy, sometimes gay and
careless, but always unsatisfactory, period which preceeded their
separation, that he was by no means so indifferent to Gertrude as she
was to him. On the contrary, he had realised that clearly and plainly,
and it had sharpened his anger towards her and hardened his heart in
the hour of their parting; and he had hated her then, and chafed under
the knowledge that she did not hate him, that she was only glad to be
rid of him, had only ceased utterly to love him, and learned utterly
to despise him. Justly esteeming himself to be a good hater, Gilbert
Lloyd found it difficult to understand how it was that he had so soon
ceased to hate Gertrude, had so easily yielded to the sense of relief
in having done with all that portion of his life in which she had a
share, and had never had any serious thought of her, or speculation
about her future; for to such an extent had his cynicism gone now that
this period of oblivion and ease had in its turn expired, and she had
again crossed his path to trouble him. He could only account for this
curious phase through which he had passed by what seemed to him an
insufficient reason--the new interests in his life, the success which
attended his speculation in that "rich brute Ticehurst's" affairs--for
thus did the more fastidious and not less vicious man of the two
characterise, in his meditations, the coarse animal he was devoting
himself so successfully to _exploiter_. Such a chance, after so long a
run of ill-luck, varied only by a _coup_ on which he preferred not to
dwell in remembrance--a chance, as he thought, with an ominous
darkening of his evil face, which, if it had only been afforded him a
little sooner, might have averted the necessity for such a _coup_, was
calculated to occupy him entirely, and banish from his mind, anything
which might divert him from the pursuit of his object.

And now it seemed wonderful to him that he could have thus forgotten
her--now, when he was under the renewed spell of her beauty and her
scorn.

There was an extraordinary fascination for him, even in the midst of
his anger, in the mingled strangeness and familiarity with which she
presented herself to his mind. He had a good deal of imagination,
though but little poetry, in his nature, and the extraordinarily
exceptional position of this woman and himself--the strangeness of the
knowledge that she had accepted the fact of there being nothing mutual
or even relative in their position now or ever--appealed, in the midst
of his passion, to his imagination.

That she should dare to treat him thus,--that she should know him so
little as to dare to treat him thus. He thought this, he said this
more than once through his shut teeth; but he was not a fool, even in
his rage, and he knew he was talking folly to himself in the moment
that he uttered the words. Why should she not dare? Indeed, there was
no daring about it. He had made the position for himself, and he was
for the first time brought face to face with all the details of it.
What was that position externally in the world's sight, in the only
point of view in which he had any practical right to consider it? Just
this: Miss Lambert did not choose to admit him to her acquaintance. He
was helpless; she was in her right. He might force her to meet him in
the houses of other people--at the Marchioness of Carabas' house, for
instance--simply because she could not afford, out of consideration
for her own social position, to give up her patroness; and also (he
began to understand Gertrude now sufficiently to know that this second
argument was by far the stronger), because she Would never suffer the
consideration of meeting or not meeting him to influence her actions,
to form a motive of her conduct in the smallest degree. He felt that
with a smart twinge of pain, the keen pain of mortified self-love. He
had simply ceased to exist for her--that was all; she had taken the
full sense of their convention, and was acting on it _tout bonnement_.
He might, therefore, calculate safely upon meeting her, without her
consent, at other houses than her own; but forcing or inducing her to
admit him there, was, he felt, entirely beyond his power. He was
wholly insensible to the extreme incongruity of such a possibility,
had it existed; and no wonder, for in their position all was
incongruous, and propriety or impropriety had lost their meaning.

In the conflict of feeling and passion in which Gilbert Lloyd was thus
engaged, there was no element of fierce contention wanting. Love, or
the debased feeling which he called and believed to be love, and which
fluctuated between passion and hate, baffled design, undefined fear,
and jealousy, in which not merely Gertrude was concerned, but another
who had a place in his life of still darker and more fatal meaning,
and a more bitterly resented influence over his fate. When he had
fought out the skirmish with the newly reawakened love for the wife
whom he had almost forgotten, and been beaten, and had been forced to
surrender so much of the disputed ground to the enemy, fear marshalled
its forces against him, and pressed him hard. But not to the point of
victory. Gilbert Lloyd was a man with whom fear had never had much
chance; and if he had yielded somewhat to its influence in the
separation from his wife, it was because that influence had been
largely supported by long-smouldering discontent, _ennui_, a
coincidence of convenience and opportunity, and a deserved conviction
that the full potency or Gertrude's will was at work in the matter.
There was little likelihood that fear should master him now; but it
was there, and he had to stand, and repel its assaults. If he
attempted to molest, to control Gertrude in any way; if it even became
her interest or her pleasure to get rid of him in actual fact, in
addition to their convenient theory,--fear asked him, Can she not do
so? Is she not mistress of the situation, of every point of it? And he
answered, Yes. If she chose to carry out the divorce--which they had
mutually instituted without impertinent legal interference--would he
dare to intervene? He remembered how he had speculated upon the
expediency of encouraging the "rich brute's" penchant for the
fashionable singer, when he had no suspicion who the fashionable
singer was; and a rush of fury surged all over him as he thought, if
she had chosen to encourage him, to marry him, for his rank, would he,
Gilbert Lloyd, her husband, have dared to interfere? Fear had the best
of it there; but he would not be beaten by fear. This enemy was strong
mainly because he could not rightly calculate its strength. How much
did Gertrude know, or how little? Was it knowledge, or suspicion only,
which had prompted her to the decision she had adopted, and the prompt
action she had taken upon it? To these questions it was impossible
he could get any answer; and he would, or thought he would, just
then--for he was an unlikely man to stick to such a bargain, if he
could have made it--have given years of his life to know what had
passed that memorable day at Brighton, before he had returned to the
deathbed of his friend, and there encountered Gertrude. The dying
whisper which had conveyed to the young woman the power she had used
so promptly was unknown by Lloyd; on this point--the great, the
essential point of his musings--all was conjecture, dark, terrifying,
and undefined.

Had love and fear only possessed his dark soul between them, the
strife might soon have ended, in a division in which the man's own
safety would have been consulted. Gilbert Lloyd would have made up his
mind that, as his first fancy for Gertrude had passed away, so this
eccentric renewal of it would also harmlessly decline. The whole
difficulty might have resolved itself into his persuading Ticehurst to
go abroad in his company, until the "rich brute" should have escaped
all risk of an "entanglement," which Lloyd would have painted in the
most alarming colours, and Lloyd himself have recovered from a passing
fit of weak folly, which he might have been trusted to learn to
despise, on a sober consideration of its bearing on his interests in
the career in which he had contrived with so much difficulty to
_lancer_ himself.

But the look which he had seen in Gertrude's proud calm face--the
smile which was so absolutely new to him, that it would have thrilled
him through with jealousy to whomsoever addressed, because it revealed
to him that she had never felt for him that which prompted its soft
and trusting sweetness--the smile which had fired all the evil
passions in his exceptionally evil nature--had shown Gilbert a far
more terrible truth: she had never given him such a smile. _Soit_. He
had had such as he had cared for, and he was tired of them, and done
with them, and as bright and beautiful were to be had for love or
money, particularly for money. Thus he might have thought, half in
consoling earnest, half in mortification, and acted on the reassuring
argument. But the smile, the unknown smile, which had not lighted her
face upon their bridal day, which had never adorned the happiest
hour--and they had had some happy hours--of their marriage, had
beamed upon the man whom of all men living Gilbert Lloyd hated most
bitterly--and that man was his brother. His brother, Miles Challoner,
their dead father's darling son--(and when Lloyd thought of his father
his face was horrible to see, and his heart was foul with curses and
unnatural hate, for he hated his dead father more than his living
brother),--the heir who had been his rival always, his master in their
nursery, the object of his bitterest envy and enmity when he was so
young that it was a mystery of the devil how such passions could have
a place in his childish heart. In the name of the devil,--in whom
Gilbert Lloyd was almost tempted to believe as he watched that smile,
and felt the tempest rise in his heart, like the waves under the
moonbeams,--how had _this_ complication come about! This he could
readily ascertain, but what would it avail him to know it? If she
loved this hated brother of his, what could he do? Enjoy the hideous
revenge of keeping quiet, and letting their mutual love grow into the
blessing and hope of their existence perhaps, and then come forward
and expose all the truth, and crush the two at once? And then? His own
share in this, what would it be? Utter ruin; and for his brother the
sympathy of the world! To be sure it would be deep disgrace for the
women who, secretly a wife, encouraged a man to love, and to hope to
win her; but she could deny her love and the encouragement, and nobody
could prove either, and she was entirely ignorant of the relation
subsisting between Miles Challoner and him. Of this Gilbert Lloyd did
not feel a moment's doubt. Miles would not divulge a fact in which a
terrible family secret was involved, to anyone; he had taken his line
towards Gilbert on their first accidental meeting far too decidedly
for the existence of any doubt on that point. If, on the other hand,
Gilbert Lloyd were to yield to the promptings of passion and revenge,
and betray the relationship, ruin of a double kind would inevitably
overtake him; vague indeed as to its source or manner, but not
admitting of any doubt. He knew that such would be the case, thus: One
communication only had been addressed to the man who is here called
Gilbert Lloyd, by his father, after his sudden departure from Rowley
Court. It was brief, and contained in the following words:

"_I have placed in the hands of a friend in whom I have entire
confidence the narrative of the events which have ended with your
banishment from my house, and your erasure from our family annals for
ever. This friend is not acquainted with your personal appearance, and
cannot therefore recognise you, should your future conduct enable you
to present yourself in any place where he may be found; but he will be
in close and constant intercourse with my son; and should you venture,
either directly or remotely, to injure my son, in person, reputation,
estate, or by any means whatever, this friend, being warned by me to
investigate any such injury done to my son, on the presumption that it
comes from you, will be enabled to identify you; and is, in such ease,
bound to me by a solemn promise to expose the whole of the facts, and
the proofs in his possession, in such manner as he may judge best for
bringing you most certainly and expeditiously to that punishment which
human weakness has prevented my being the means of inflicting upon
you. I give you this information and warning, in the interest of my
son, and also because I desire to turn you, by the only motive
available for my purpose, from the commission of a crime whose penalty
no one's weakness will enable you to evade_."

Gilbert Lloyd had never been able during all the vicissitudes of
his career--in all its levities, its successes, its failures, its
schemes--to forget the warning, or even the phrasing, of this terrible
letter. He had burned it in a fury which would have hardly been
assuaged by the blood of the writer, and had tried to persuade himself
afterwards that he scoffed at the suspicions and the threat and the
precaution alike. But the effort failed: he did not scoff--he believed
and feared, and remembered; and in this strange and ominous
complication, which had brought his brother across his path under
circumstances which any man might have feared, he felt the futility of
his pretended indifference to an extent which resembled terror.

He wondered at himself now, when he remembered that whenever he had
thought about his wife at all in the early days after their
separation, in the few and scattered speculations which had arisen in
his mind about her, the idea of her ever loving another man had found
no place. So intense was his egotism, that, though he did not indulge
in the mere vanity of believing that she still loved _him_, and would
repent the step she had taken, he did not in the least realise her
matter-of-fact emancipation from the ties which they loosed by mutual
consent. He had sometimes wondered whether she got on well with her
liberty and her hundred pounds; whether she had gone back to the
drudgery of school-life, in the intensified form that drudgery assumes
to a teacher; whether she had any friends, and how she accounted to
them for her isolation; with other vague and placid vaticinations. But
that this young and handsome woman, who had found out the unworthiness
of her first love, had been rudely awakened from her woman's dream of
happiness, and had exchanged all the sentiment with which she had
regarded him for horror and contempt, and a steadily maintained
purpose of utter separation--that she should have a second love,
should dream again, never occurred to him. As little had he thought
about the probability of his meeting her in the widely divergent
course which his own life had taken from any within the previous
experience of either. But he had met her; and one of the unexpected
results of that undesirable event was to awaken him, with a shock, to
the strongest suspicion that she did love and dream again, and that
the object of the love and the dream was the man he most hated--was
his brother. How Gilbert Lloyd would have regarded this circumstance,
had he carried out his acceptation of the situation with such good
faith and such complete indifference as Gertrude evinced, had he been
able to see her again perfectly unmoved and without the slightest wish
to alter anything in their position, he did not stop seriously to
consider. This might have been; and for a minute or two his mind
glanced at certain cynical possibilities in such a case, which might
have enabled him to gratify his spite towards both his wife and his
brother, in comparative security. But it was not; and that which was,
absorbed him wholly.

Alternately raging against the feelings which possessed him, and
arranging the facts of the case in order, and forcing himself to
ponder them with his accustomed coolness, Gilbert Lloyd walked on for
many miles without taking note of distance. When at length he
bethought him of the time, and consulted his watch, he found he must
hasten back to town, to be ready to dine with the "rich brute," who
was to entertain a party of choice spirits devoted to the turf that
day. The occasion was an important, and Gilbert Lloyd intended that it
should be a profitable, one. In the midst of the anger and
perturbation of his spirit, he was quite capable of attending to his
own and his patron's interests--when they were identical; and there
was no mental process, involving no matter what amount of passion or
scheming or danger, which Gilbert Lloyd could not lay aside--ranged in
its due place in his memory--to await its fitting time; a valuable
faculty, and not a little dangerous in the possession of a man at war,
more or less openly, with society.

The next day, as Gilbert Lloyd, as usual admirably mounted, turned
into the Park, and made for the then almost deserted Lady's Mile, a
carriage swept rapidly by. Two ladies occupied the back-seat, and on
the front Lloyd beheld the unusual apparition of Lord Sandilands. The
ladies were the Marchioness of Carabas and Miss Lambert. They saw him;
and Lady Carabas gave him a bow at once graciously graceful and
deliciously familiar; but Miss Lambert looked straight before her with
such exquisitely perfect unconsciousness, that it never occurred to
either of her companions that she had recognised Gilbert Lloyd.

Then savage anger took possession of him once more, and scattered all
the process of thought he had been going through to the winds, and he
swore that, come what might, he would meet her where it would be
impossible for her to avoid him.



CHAPTER VI.
Gertrude speaks.


Lord Ticehurst's attachment to the turf was by no means of a lukewarm
or of a perfunctory character. He was not one of the young men of the
present day, who keep a racing-stud as they keep anything else, merely
for their amusement; who exult indecently when they are successful,
who are even more indecently depressed when they are unfortunate.
Having such a man as Gilbert Lloyd for his "confederate," manager, and
agent, the young nobleman did not require to look into the details of
his stud and his stable as he otherwise would have done; but nothing
was ever done without his knowledge and approval, and his heart was as
much bound up in turf-matters as it had been when, under the
initiation of Plater Dobbs, he first made his entrance into the Ring.
Perhaps if this attachment to racing-matters and racing-men had been
less strong, Lord Ticehurst would have noticed a certain change in
Lloyd's manner towards him which would have displeased him much. For,
notwithstanding that he struggled hard against the display of any such
feeling, there arose in Gilbert's breast a sullen animosity, a dogged
dislike to his friend and patron, which very often would not be kept
down, but came surging up into his face, and showed itself in knit
brows and tightened lips, and hard cold insolence of bearing. This was
very different from the deep and bitter hatred with which Gilbert
Lloyd regarded Miles Challoner, though it sprung from the same cause,
the admiration which each of them felt for Gertrude. In the present
state of his feelings for her, it enraged Gilbert to think that anyone
should dare to pay attention to one who had been, who by the law still
was, his property: but the depth and measure of his hatred was very
much acted upon by the knowledge that Lord Ticehurst was merely
regarded by Gertrude as one of a hundred hangers-on, while Miles
Challoner stood in a very different position. But though this angry
feeling from time to time got the better of Gilbert Lloyd's usually
placid and equable temperament, and led to exhibitions of temper which
he was afterwards frightened at and ashamed of, they were never
noticed by the kindly-hearted, thick-headed young man whom he had in
training, or, if they were, were ascribed to some of those
"tighteners" and "botherations" which were supposed to fall naturally
to "old Gilbert's" lot in transacting his business of the turf.
"There's bad news up from the Pastures, I suppose," Lord Ticehurst
would say to some of his friends, after the occurrence of some little
episode of the kind; "old Gil's uncommon cranky this mornin', and no
two ways about it. It's always best to leave him to come round by
himself when he is in this way, so lets you and me go down to Rummer's
and get some luncheon." But throughout all his annoyances, and the
renovated passion for his wife,--passion of the strongest, wildest,
most enslaving kind, was now always present in his heart,--Gilbert
Lloyd held carefully to his business career, losing no opportunity of
showing himself of service to his pupil, and taking every care that
his pupil was made aware of the fact.

"I say, Etchingham," said Gilbert one morning, glancing up from his
accounts at his lordship, who was moodily looking out of window,
smoking, and wondering whether he should propose to Miss Lambert
before the season finally broke up, or leave it until next spring,--"I
say, Etchingham I'm pretty near sick of town."

"Same here!" replied his lordship; "fusty and beastly, ain't it? Well,
we're close upon cutting it; it's Goodwood the week after next, and
then there's Brighton--"

"O, curse Brighton!" broke in Lloyd.

"All right," said Lord Ticehurst, lazily dropping into a chair. "Curse
Brighton by all means. But what a rum fellow you are! You wouldn't go
to the Brighton Meeting last year; and I recollect that there was a
talk about it at Rummer's; and Jack Manby--the Bustard, you know--said
you'd never go there again, since in Gaslight's year, I think he said,
the sea-air spoiled your complexion."

"Manby's a chattering idiot," said Lloyd savagely; "and next time you
hear men talking of why I don't go to the Brighton Meeting, you may
say I don't go because it isn't a meeting at all, a third-rate concern
with a pack of platers to run, and a crowd of cockneys to look at
them. You may say that."

"Much obliged," said Lord Ticehurst; "you may say it yourself, if you
want to. I don't hold with mixin' myself up in other fellows' shines;"
and he sucked solemnly at his cigar, and did his best to look
dignified.

"My dear old Etchingham, don't be angry. I was vexed at hearing you
repeat the gabble of those infernal fellows at that filthy tavern--it
isn't anything better--because it's not only about me they talk.
However, that's neither here nor there. I suppose you'll have the
wind-up dinner at Richmond as usual."

"All right, Gil, my boy!" said his good-tempered lordship; "there's no
bones broke, and it's all squared. Of course we'll have the dinner.
Let's see," looking at his memorandum-book; "Friday-week, how will
that suit? Mrs. Stapleton Burge's party. O, ah, that's nothing!" he
added quickly, growing very red.

"Very well," said Gilbert quietly. "Friday-week, since you've only got
Mrs. Stapleton Burge's party; and that's nothing, you say. Friday-week
will do. I'm to ask the usual lot, I suppose?"

"Yes, usual lot, and one or two more, don't you think? It was deuced
slow last time, I remember. Only old Toshington to talk, and
everybody's tired of his old gab. Ask someone to froth it up a bit,
one of those writing-fellows one sees at some houses, or an actor who
can mimic fellows, and that kind of thing, don't you know?"

"I know," said Gilbert, by no means jumping at the suggestion; "but I
generally find that your clever fellows who write are miserable unless
they have all the talk to themselves; and the actors are insulted if
you ask them to do any of their hanky-panky, as though, by Jove,
they'd be invited for anything else. However, I'll look up some of
them, and do my best. Anybody else?"

"No, I think not. Unless, by the way, you were to ask that man that my
aunt's taken up lately--Challoner."

The name brought the blood into Gilbert's face, and he paused a moment
before he said: "I don't think I'd have that fellow, Etchingham, if I
were you."

"What's the matter with him? Ain't he on the square? Bad egg, and that
kind of thing?"

"I know very little about him," said Gilbert, fixing his eyes on Lord
Ticehurst's face; "nothing, indeed, for the matter of that; and he's
never crossed me, and never will have the opportunity." I said, "if I
were you."

"Yes, well--I know. Drop the riddle business and speak out. What do
you mean?"

"Plainly, then, I've noticed--and I can't imagine how it has failed to
escape you--that this man Challoner is making strong running for a
lady for whom I have heard you profess the greatest admiration--Miss
Lambert."

"O, ah, yes--thanks; all right," said Lord Ticehurst, looking more
foolish than usual--in itself a stupendous feat; "well, I ain't
spooney particularly on Challoner, so you needn't ask him."


Peers of the realm, and persons known as "public characters," command
more civility and attention in England than anyone else. With
tradesmen, hotel-waiters, and railway-porters this feeling is so
strongly, developed that they will leave any customer to serve a great
lord or a popular comedian. Lord Ticehurst's name stood very high at
the Crown and Sceptre at Richmond, not merely because he was an
earl--they see plenty of them during the season at the Crown and
Sceptre--but because he was free-spoken, lavish with his money, and
"had no cussed pride about him." Consequently, whenever he dined there
the dinner was always good, which is by no means always the case at
the C. and S.; and the present occasion was no exception. There were
about twenty guests, all men, and nearly all men of one set, who,
though they were mostly wellborn and, in the main, tolerably educated,
apparently never sought for and certainly never attained any other
society. The outside world was familiar with their names, through
seeing them printed in the newspapers as attending the various great
race-meetings; and with their personal appearance, through seeing them
at Tattersall's and in the Park, especially on Sundays in the
season. Some had chambers in the Albany, some in smaller and
cheaper sets; many of them lived humbly enough in one bed-room in the
lodging-house-swarming streets round St. James's; all of them haunted
Rummer's in Conduit-street; and most of them belonged to some
semi-turf, semi-military, whole card-and-billiard-playing club. Some
of them were believed to be married, but their wives were never seen
with them by any chance; for they never went into society, to the
opera or the theatres; and they were always put into the bachelor
quarters at country-houses, and into the topmost rooms at the hotels,
where they treated the female domestics in a pleasant and genial way,
a compound of the manners of the groom and the commercial bagman.

They gathered in full force at the Crown and Sceptre that lovely July
afternoon; for they knew that they would have a good dinner and wine
without stint. Captain Dafter was there--a little wiry man with sandy
scraps of whisker and a mean little white face, but who was the best
amateur steeplechase rider in England, with limbs of steel and
dauntless pluck. Next to him sat a fat, heavy-healed, large-jowled
man, with a face the shape and colour of an ill-baked quartern loaf; a
silent stupid-looking man, who ate and drank enormously, and said, and
apparently understood, nothing; but who was no less a personage than
the "Great Northern," as he was called, from having been born at
Carlisle; the enormous bookmaker and King of the Ring, who began life
as a plumber with eighteenpence, and was then worth hundreds of
thousands. There, too, with his neatly-rolled whiskers and his
neatly-tied blue bird's-eye scarf, with its plain solid gold horseshoe
pin, was Dolly Clarke, the turf-lawyer. Years ago Dolly would have
thought himself lucky if he ever made six hundred a-year. Six
thousand is now nearer Dolly's annual income, all brought, about
by his own talent, and "not standing on any repairs," as he put it,
a quality which is to be found in the dictionary under the word
"unscrupulousness;" for when old Mr. Snoxell, inventor of the
Pilgrim's-Progress Leather for tender feet, died, and left all
his money to his son Sam, who had been bred to the law, Sam took
Dolly Clarke into partnership, and by combining shrewdness with
bill-discounting and a military connection with a knowledge of
turf-matters, they did a splendid business. You would almost mistake
Dolly Clarke for a gentleman now, and Samuel Snoxell calls all the
army by their Christian names. Next to Dolly Clarke was Mr. Bagwax,
Q.C., always retained in cases connected with the turf, and rather
preferring to be on the shaky and shady side, which affords
opportunities for making great fun out of would-be-honest witnesses,
and making jokes which, of all the persons in court, are not least
understood, by Mr. Justice Martingale, who knows a horse from a
wigblock, and is understood to have at one time heard the chimes at
midnight. The redoubtable Jack Manby, called "the Bustard," because
in his thickness of utterance he was in the habit of declaring that he
"didn't, care about bustard so long as he got beef," was there; and
old Sam Roller the trainer, looking something like a bishop, and
something more like Mr. Soapey Sponge's friend, Jack Spraggon; and a
tall thin gentlemanly man, who looked like a barrister, and who was
"Haruspex," the sporting prophet of the _Statesman_. Nor had Gilbert
Lloyd forgotten his patron's hint about the enlivening of the company
by the representatives of literature and the drama. Mr. Wisbottle, the
graphic writer, the charming essayist, the sparkling dramatist;
Wisbottle, who was always turning up in print when you least expected
him; Wisbottle, of whom his brilliant friend and toady M'Boswell had
remarked that he had never tetigited anything which he hadn't
ornavited;--Wisbottle represented literature, and represented it in a
very thirsty and talkative, not to say flippant, manner. As the
drama's representative, behold Mr. Maurice Mendip, a charming young
fellow of fifty-five, who, in the old days of patent theatres and
great tragedians, would have alternated Marcellus with Bernardo,
playing Horatio for his benefit, when his landlady, friends, and
family from Bermondsey came in with tickets sold for his particular
behoof, but who, in virtue of loud lungs and some faint reminiscence
of what he had seen done by his betters, played all the "leading
business" in London when he could get the chance, and was the idolised
hero of Californian gold-diggers and Australian aborigines. He was,
perhaps, a little out of place at such a party, being heavy grave, and
taciturn; but most people knew his name, and when told who he was,
said, "O, indeed!" and looked at him with that mixture of curiosity,
and impertinence with which "public characters" are generally
regarded. The other guests were men more or less intimately connected
with the turf, who talked to each other in a low grumbling monotone,
and whose whole desire was to get the better of each other in every
possible way.

The dinner, which had called forth loud encomiums, was over; the
cigars were lighted, and the conversation had been proceeding briskly,
when in a momentary lull Dolly Clarke, who had the reputation for
being not quite too fond of Gilbert Lloyd, said in a loud voice:
"Well, my lord, and after Goodwood comes Brighton, and of course you
hope to be as lucky there."

"We've got nothing at Brighton," replied Lord Ticehurst, looking
uneasily towards where Gilbert was occupying the vice-chair.

"Nothing at Brigthton!" echoed Dolly Clarke, very loud indeed; "why,
how's that?"

"Because we don't choose, Mr. Clarke," said Gilbert, from the other
end of the table--he had been drinking more than his wont, and there
was a strained, flushed look round his eyes quite unusual to
him--"because we don't choose; I suppose that's reason enough."

"O, quite," said Dolly Clarke, with a short laugh. "I spoke to Lord
Ticehurst, by the way; but in your case I suppose it's not an
'untradesmanlike falsehood' if you represent yourself as 'the same
concern.' However, you used to go to Brighton, Lloyd."

 "Yea," replied Gilbert quickly, "and so used you, when you were
Wiggins and Proctor's outdoor clerk at eighteen shillings a-week--by
the excursion-train! Times have changed with both of us."

"Lloyd had him there, Jack," whispered Bagwax, Q.C., to his neighbour
the Bustard. "Impudent customer, Master Clarke! I recollect well when
he used to carry a bag and serve writs, and all that; and now--"

"Hold on a binnit," said the Bustard; "he's an awkward customer is
Clarke, and he'll show Gilbert no bercy." And, indeed, there was a
look in Mr. Dolly Clarke's ordinarily smiling, self-satisfied face,
and a decision in the manner in which his hand had, apparently
involuntarily, closed upon the neck of the claret-jug standing in
front of him, that augured ill for the peace of the party in general,
or the personal comfort of Gilbert Lloyd in particular. But old Sam
Roller's great spectacles had happened to be turned towards the
turf-lawyer at the moment; and the old fellow, seeing how matters
stood, had telegraphed to Lord Ticehurst, while Mr. Wisbottle touched
Clarke's knee with one hand under the table, and removed the
claret-jug from his grasp with the other, whispering, "Drop it, dear
old boy! What's the good? You kill him, and have to keep out of the
way, and lose all the business in Davies-street. He kills you, and
what becomes of the policies for the little woman at Roehampton?
Listen to the words of Wisbottle the preacher, my chick, and drop it."
And it having by this time dawned upon Lord Ticehurst that there was
something wrong, that young nobleman cut into the conversation in a
very energetic and happy manner, principally dilating upon the
necessity of his guests drinking as much and as fast as they possibly
could. The first part of the proposition seemed highly popular, but
certain of the company objected to being hurried with their liquor,
and demanded to know the reason of their being thus pressed. Then Lord
Ticehurst explained that he was under the necessity of putting in an
appearance that night at the house of a very particular friend,
where an evening party was being held; that it was an engagement of
long-standing, and one which it was impossible for him to get off.
This, he added, need be no reason for breaking up their meeting; he
should only be too delighted if they would stop as long as they
pleased; and he was quite sure that his worthy vice would come up to
that end of the table, and fill his place much more worthily than it
had hitherto been filled.

But to this proposition there was a great deal of demur. Several of
the guests, keen men of business, with the remembrance of the morrow's
engagements and work before them, and having had quite sufficient
wine, were eager to be off. Others, who would have remained drinking
so long as any drink was brought, scarcely relished their cups under
the presidency of Gilbert Lloyd, who was regarded by them as anything
but a convivialist; while others, again, had engagements in town which
they were anxious to fulfil. Moreover, the plan proposed by his patron
was anything but acceptable to Gilbert Lloyd himself. Ordinarily
almost abstemious, he had on this occasion taken a great deal of wine,
and, though he was by no means intoxicated, his pulses throbbed and
his blood was heated in a manner very unusual with him. From the first
moment of Ticehurst's mentioning that he was going on this evening to
a party at Mrs. Stapleton Burge's house, Gilbert felt convinced, by
his friend's manner, that he must have some special attraction there,
and that that attraction must be the presence of Gertrude. This
thought--the feeling that she would be there, surrounded by courtiers
and flatterers--worried and irritated him, and every glass of wine
which he swallowed increased his desire to see her that night. What
matter if he had been rebuffed! That was simply because he had not had
the chance of speaking to her. Give him that opportunity, and she
would tell a very different tale. He should have that opportunity if
he met her face to face in society; it would be impossible for her,
without committing a palpable rudeness--and Gilbert Lloyd knew well
that she would never do that--to avoid speaking to him. _Château qui
parle est pret de se render_. A true proverb that; and he made up his
mind to tell Lord Ticehurst to take him to Mrs. Stapleton Burge's
gathering, and to run his chance with Gertrude.

So that when he heard his patron propound that he should remain
behind, to fan into a flame the expiring embers of an orgie which,
even at its brightest, had afforded him no amusement, his disgust was
extreme, and uncomplimentary as they were to himself, he fostered and
repeated the excuses which he heard on all sides. Nor did he content
himself with passive resistance, but went straight to Lord Ticehurst,
and taking him aside, told him that this was, after all, only a "duty
dinner;" that all that was necessary had been done, and it was better
they should break up then and there. "Moreover," said he, "I've a
fancy to go with you to-night. You're always telling me I don't mix
enough in what you call society; and as this is the end of the season,
and we're not likely to be--well, I was going to say bothered with
women's parties for a long time, I don't mind going with you; in fact,
I should rather like it. These fellows have done very well, and we can
now leave them to shift for themselves." Lord Ticehurst's astonishment
at this suggestion from his Mentor was extreme. "What a queer chap you
are, Gil!" he said; "when I've asked you to go to all sorts of houses,
first-class, where everything is done in great form and quite correct,
you've stood out and fought shy, and all that kind of thing. And now
you want to go to old Mother Burge's,--old cat who stuffs her rooms
with a lot of people raked up from here and there! 'Pon my soul
there's no knowing where to have you, and that's about the size of
it!" But in this matter, as in almost every other, the young man gave
way to his friend, and the party broke up at once; and Lord Ticehurst
and Gilbert Lloyd drove home to Hill-street, dressed themselves, and
proceeded to Mrs. Stapleton Barge's reception.

Mrs. Stapleton Burge lived in a very big house in Great
Swaffham-street, close out of Park-lane, and though a very little
black-faced woman herself, did everything on a very large scale. Her
footmen were enormous creatures, prize-fed, big-whiskered, ambrosial;
her chariot was like a family ark; the old English characters in which
her name and address were inscribed surged all over her big cards. She
had a big husband, a fat fair man with a protuberant chest, and
receding forehead, and little eyes, who was a major in some Essex
yeomanry, and who was generally mistaken by his guests for the butler.
Everybody went to Mrs. Stapleton Burge's; and she, sometimes
accompanied by the major, but more frequently without him, went
everywhere. Nobody could give a reason for either proceeding. When the
Stapleton Barges went out of town at the end of the season, nobody
knew where they went to. Some people said to the family place in
Essex, but Tommy Toshington said that was all humbug; he'd looked up
the county history, and, there wasn't any such place as Fenners; and
he, Tommy, thought they either retired to the back of the house in
Great Swaffham-street, or took lodgings at Ramsgate. But the next
season they appeared again, as blooming and as big as ever. Lord
Ticehurst, in his description of Mrs. Barge's parties, scarcely did
that worthy woman justice. People said, and truly, that those
gatherings were "a little mixed;" but Lady Tintagel took care that
some of the very best people in London were seen at them. If Mrs.
Burge would have her own friends, that, Lady Tintagel said, was no
affair of hers. Mrs. Burge swore by Lady Tintagel, and the major swore
at her. "If it wasn't for that confounded woman," he used to say, "we
shouldn't be going through all this tomfoolery, but should be living
quietly at--" He was never known to complete the sentence. Lady
Tintagel was Mrs. Barge's sponsor in the world of fashion, and the
major lent money to Lord Tintagel, who was an impecunious and elderly
nobleman. When Lady Tintagel presided over a stall at an aristocratic
fancy-fair for the benefit of a charity, Mrs. Burge furnished the said
stall, and took Lady Tintagel's place thereat during the dull portion
of the day. Lady Tintagel's celebrated _tableaux vivants_ were held in
Mrs. Burge's big rooms in Great Swaffham-street, the Tintagel
establishment being carried on in a two-roomed house in Mayfair. Mrs.
Burge "takes" Lady Tintagel to various places of an evening, when the
Tintagel jobbed horses are knocked up, and never has "her ladyship"
out of her mouth.

When Lord Ticehurst and Gilbert Lloyd arrived at the hospitable
mansion, they found the rooms crowded. It was a great but trying
occasion for Mrs. Burge--trying, because it was plainly the farewell
_fête_ of the season; and all the guests were talking to one another
of where they were going to, while she, poor woman, had a dreary waste
of seven months before her, to be passed away from the delights of
fashionable life. To how many people did she promise a speedy meeting
at Spa, at Baden, in the Highlands, in Midland country-houses? and all
her interlocutors placed their tongues in their cheeks, and knew that
until the next summons of Parliament drew the town together, and
simultaneously produced a card of invitation from Mrs. Burge, they
should not meet their hostess of the night. Meantime, the success of
the present gathering was unimpeachable. Everybody who was left in
London had rallied round Great Swaffham-street; and there was no doubt
but that the _Morning Post_ of the coming day would convey to the ends
of the civilised world a list of fashionables which would redound in
the most complete manner to the _éclat_ of Mrs. Stapleton Burge.

The necessary form of introduction had been gone through--scarcely
necessary, by the way, in Great Swaffham-street; for the men always
averred that Mrs. Burge never knew half the people at her own
parties--and Lord Ticehurst, having done his duty in landing Gilbert,
had strolled away among the other _convives_, with what object Gilbert
well enough knew. He, Gilbert Lloyd, had rather a habit of trusting
to chance in matters of this kind; and, on the present occasion, he
found that chance befriended him. For while his patron, eager and
anxious-eyed, went roaming round the room in hot search for the object
of his thoughts, Gilbert, no less anxious, no less determined,
remained quietly near the entrance-door, and narrowly watched each
passing face. He knew most of them. A London man of-half-a-dozen
seasons can scarcely find a fresh face in any evening party on which
he may chance to stumble. We go on in our different sets, speaking to
every other person we meet, and familiar with the appearance of all
the rest--what freshness and variety! Some of the passers-by raised
their eyebrows in surprise at seeing Lloyd in such a place; others
nodded and smiled, and would have stopped to speak but for the plain
_noli-me-tangere_ expression which he wore. He returned the nods and
grins in a half-preoccupied, half-sullen manner, and it was not until
he heard Miles Challoner's voice close by him that he seemed
thoroughly roused. Then he drew back from the door-post, against which
he had been leaning, and ensconcing himself behind the broad back of a
stout old gentleman, his neighbour, saw Gertrude enter the room, on
Miles Challoner's arm. They had been dancing; she was flushed and
animated, and looked splendidly handsome, as evidently thought her
companion. Her face was upturned to his, and in her eyes was a frank,
honest look of love and trust, such a look as Gilbert Lloyd
recollected to have seen there when he first knew her years ago, but
which had soon died out, and had never reappeared until that moment.
And it was for Miles Challoner that her spirits had returned, her love
and beauty had been renewed; for Miles Challoner, whom he hated with a
deadly hate, who had been his rock ahead throughout his life, and who
was now robbing him of what indeed he had once thrown aside as
valueless, but what he would now give worlds to repossess. Gilbert
Lloyd's face, all the features of which were so well trained and kept
in such constant subjection, for once betrayed him, and the evil
passion gnawing at his heart showed itself in his fiery eyes,
surrounded by a strained hot flush, and in his rigidly set mouth.
Tommy Toshington, tacking about the room to avoid the pressure of the
crowd, and coming suddenly round Lloyd's stout neighbour, was
horrified by the expression in Gilbert's face.

"Why, what's the matter, Lloyd, my boy?" asked the old gentleman; "you
look quite ghastly, by Jove! Ellis's claret not disagreed with you,
has it?"

"Not a bit of it, Tommy; I'm all right," said Gilbert with an effort;
"room's a little hot--perhaps that's made me look a little white."

"Look a little white! Dammy, you looked a little black when I first
caught sight of you. You were scowling away at somebody; I couldn't
make out who."

"Not I," said Gilbert, with an attempt at a laugh; "I was only
thinking of something."

"O, shouldn't do that," said Mr. Toshington; "devilish stupid thing
thinking; never comes to any good, and makes a fellow look deuced old
Lots of people here to-night;" then looking round and sinking his
voice, "and rather a mixture, eh? I can't think where some of the
people come from; one never sees them anywhere else." And the old
gentleman, whose father had been a dissenting hatter at Islington,
propped his double gold-eyeglass on his nose, and surveyed the company
with a look of excessive _hauteur_.

"See!" he said presently, nudging Gilbert with his elbow; "you
reck'lect what I told you, down at the Crystal Palace that day,
about Etchingham and Miss What-do-you-call-'em, the singer?--that
it wasn't any go for my lord, because there was another fellow
cutting in in that quarter--you reck'lect? Well, look here, here they
are,--What's-his-name, Chaldecott or something, and the girl."

"I see them," said Lloyd, drawing back.

"All right," said Toshington; "you needn't hide yourself; don't you be
afraid, they're much too much taken up with each other to be looking
at us. Gad, she's a devilish pretty girl, that, ain't she, Lloyd?
There's a sort of a something about her which--such a deuced good
style too, and way of carryin' herself! Gad, as to most of the women
now--set of dumpy little brutes!--might be kitchen-maids, begad!"

"Just look, Toshington, will you? I can't see, for this old fool's
shoulder's in the way. Has Challoner left Miss Lambert?"

"Yes, he's stepped aside to speak to Lady Carabas; Miss Lambert is
standing by the mantelpiece, and--"

"All right, back in half a-second!" and made straight for the place
where Gertrude was standing.

"Now, that's a funny thing!" said old Toshington to himself, as he
looked after him. "What does that mean? Is Lloyd making the running
for his master, or is that a little commission on his own account? No
go either way, I should say; the man in the beard means winning there,
and no one else has a chance."

As Gilbert Lloyd crossed the room, Gertrude looked up, and their eyes
met. The next instant she looked round for Miles Challoner, but he was
still busily engaged in talking to Lady Carabas. Then she saw some
other ladies of her acquaintance, seated within a little distance, and
she determined on crossing the room to them. But she had scarcely
moved a few steps when Gilbert Lloyd was by her side. Gertrude's heart
beat rapidly; she scarcely heard the first words of salutation which
Gilbert uttered; she looked quickly round and saw that though Miles
was still standing by Lady Carabas's chair, his eyes were fixed on her
and Lloyd. What could she do? What is that her husband says?

"Too much of this fooling! You _must_ hear me now!"

With an attempt at a smile, Gertrude turned to her persecutor and
said, "Once for all, leave me!"

"I will not," said he, in a low voice, but also with a smile on his
face. "You cannot get away from me without exciting the suspicion, or
the wonder at least, of the room. How long do you imagine I am going
to let this pretty little play proceed? How long am I to look on and
see the puppets dallying?"

Gertrude flushed scarlet as he said these words, but she did not
speak.

"You're carrying this business with too high a hand," said he,
emboldened by her silence. "You seem to forget that I have a word or
two to say in the matter."

"See, Gilbert Lloyd," said Gertrude, still smiling and playing with
her fan, "you sought me; not I you. Go now, and--"

"Go!" said Gilbert, who saw Miles Challoner looking hard at
them,--"go, that he may come! Go! You give your orders freely! What
hold have you on me that I am to obey them?"

"Would you wish me to tell you?"

"Tell away!" said Lloyd defiantly. "I don't mind."

"Here, then," said Gertrude, beckoning him a little closer with her
fan, then whispering behind it. But one short sentence, a very few
words, but, hearing them, Gilbert Lloyd turned death-white, and felt
the room reel round before him. In an instant he recovered
sufficiently to make a bow, and to leave the room and the house. When
he got out into the street, the fresh air revived him; he leaned for a
moment against some railings to collect his thoughts; and as he moved
off, he said aloud, "He did suspect it, then; and he told her!"



CHAPTER VII.
Half-revealed.


Of all the places on which the autumnal moon, approaching her full
like a comely matron, looks down, there are many far less picturesque
and less enjoyable than that bit of Robertson-terrace, St. Leonards,
which adjoins the narrow strip of beach communicating with the old
town of Hastings proper. On this beach the moonbeams play


      "Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
       Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
       Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,"


casting grim and fantastic shadows, and bringing oddest objects into
unwonted and undue prominence. Robertson-terrace--as hideous,
architecturally considered, as are the majority of such marine asylums
for the temporary reception of Londoners--stands back from the road,
and has its stuccoed proportions somewhat softened by the trees and
shrubs in the "Enclosure," as the denizens love to call it, a small
oblong strip of something which ought to be green turf, but what,
under the influence of promenading and croquet-playing, has become
brown mud. In the moonlight on this lovely night in early autumn, some
of the denizens yet linger in the Enclosure. Young people mostly, of
both sexes, who walk in pairs, and speak in very low tones, and look
at each other with very long immovable glances; young people who
cannot imagine why people ever grow old, who cannot conceive that
there can be any pleasure except in that one pastime in which they
themselves are then employed--who cannot conceive, for instance, what
enjoyment that old gentleman, who has been so long seated in the
drawing-room balcony of No. 17, can find in life.

That old gentleman is Lord Sandilands, who, the London season over,
has come down to St. Leonards for a little sea-air, and quiet and
change. One reason for his selection of St. Leonards is that Miss
Grace Lambert and Mrs. Bloxam are staying within a few miles'
distance, at Hardriggs, Sir Giles Belwether's pretty place. Lord
Sandilands had been invited to Hardriggs, also, but he disliked
staying anywhere except with very intimate friends; and, moreover, he
had come to that time of life when rest was absolutely essential to
him, and he knew that under Sir Giles Belwether's ponderous
hospitality he would simply be moving the _venue_ of his London life
without altering any of its details. Moreover, the old gentleman, by
coming to St. Leopards, was carrying out a kindly scheme long since
laid, of giving Miles Challoner occasional opportunities of seeing
Miss Lambert. Miles was not invited to stay at Hardriggs; he did not
even know Sir Giles Belwether; but he became Lord Sandilands' guest in
the lodgings in Robertson-terrace, and, as such, he was taken over by
his friend to Hardriggs, introduced to the host, and received with the
greatest hospitality. Lord Sandilands has this advantage over the
youthful promenaders in the "Enclosure," that while they cannot
imagine what he is thinking of, he perfectly well divines the subject
of their thoughts, and is allowing his own ideas to run in another
vein of that special subject. He has just made Miles confess his love
for Grace Lambert, and all the drawbacks and disadvantages of the
position are opening rapidly before him.

"I might have expected it," said the old gentleman half-aloud; "I knew
it was coming. I saw it growing day by day, and yet I never had the
pluck to look the affair straight in the face--to make up my mind
whether I'd tell him anything about Gertrude's parentage; and I don't
know what to do now. Ah, here he is!--Well, Miles, had your smoke?
Lovely night, eh?"

"A lovely night, indeed! No end of people out by the sea."

"You wouldn't mind a turn in that lime-walk at Hardriggs just now,
Miles, eh? with--Kate Belwether, or someone else?"

"Rather the someone else, dear old friend. And so you weren't a bit
astonished at what I told you to-day?"

"Astonished, my boy! I astonished? Why, where do you think my eyes
have been? I declare you young fellows think that to you alone has
been confided the appreciation of beauty and the art of love!"

"Anyone who imagines that must have ears, and hear not, so far as your
lordship is concerned," said Miles, laughing. "Now, of John Borlase,
commonly known as Baron Sandilands, the ladies whom he courted and the
conquests which he made, are they not written in the _Chronique
Scandaleuse_ of the period?"

"Well, I don't know that. I'm of an old-fashioned school, which holds
that no gentleman should so carry on his _amourettes_ that the world
should talk about them. But the idea of your thinking that I should
be astonished when you told me that you were head over ears in love
with--with Miss Lambert! _Nourri dans le sérail j'en connais les
detours_, Master Miles."

"And if not astonished, you were also not annoyed?"

"Annoyed! Not the least bit in the world. I don't mean to say that the
matter looks to me entirely one of plain-sailing, my dear boy; there
are certain difficulties which will naturally arise."

"Do you think that Grace's friends will make any obstacle? By the way,
my dear lord, do you know anything of Miss Lambert's relations? I have
never heard of or seen any connection but Mrs. Bloxam; but you who are
so intimate with the young lady will probably know all about them."

A half-comic look of embarrassment overshadowed Lord Sandilands' face
as he heard this inquiry, and he waited for a moment before he
replied, "Not I, indeed, my dear Miles; Miss Lambert has never spoken
to me of her relations--indeed, I understood from her that she was an
orphan, left to Mrs. Bloxam's charge. I shouldn't think you need look
for any objection to your marriage being made by the lady's friends."

"That is one point happily settled; then the world?"

"The what?"

"The opinion of the world."

"Ah, that's a very different matter! You're afraid of what people will
say about your marrying a singer?"

"To you, dear old friend, I will confess candidly that I am. Not that
I have any position, God knows, on the strength of which to give
myself airs."

"My dear boy, that's where you mistake. If you _had_ a position, you
might marry not merely a charming and amiable and lovely girl like
this, against whom no word ought to be uttered, but even a person
without the smallest rag of reputation; and the world would say very
little about it, and would speedily be silenced. Look at--no need,
however, to quote examples. What I have said is the fact, and you know
it."

"I am forced to acknowledge the truth of your remark, but while
acknowledging it, I shall not permit the fact to turn me from my
purpose. If Miss Lambert will accept me for a husband, I will gladly
risk all the tattle of all the old cats in Belgravia."

"Your sentiments do you credit, my dear boy," said the old nobleman
with a smile, "though the juxtaposition of 'tattle' and 'cats' is
scarcely happy. I've noticed that when people are in love, the
arrangement of their sentences is seldom harmonious. I suppose you
feel tolerably certain of Miss Lambert's answer to your intended
proposal. You are too much a man of the present day to anticipate any
doubt in the matter."

"I should not be worth Miss Lambert's acceptance if I had any such
vanity; and I know you're only joking in ascribing it to me."

"I was only joking; but now seriously, do you fear no rivals? You see
how very much the young lady is sought after. Are you certain that her
preference is given to you?"

"As certain as a man can be who has not 'put it to the touch to win or
lose it all,' by ascertaining positively."

"And there is no one you are absolutely jealous of?"

"No one. Well,--no, not jealous of,--there is one man whom I regard
with excessive distrust."

"You don't mean Lord Ticehurst?"

"O, no! Lord Ticehurst's manners are rough and odd; but he is a
gentleman, and, I'm sure, would 'behave as such,' in every possible
way, to Miss Lambert. Indeed, no duchess of his acquaintance can be
treated with greater respect than she is by him. I would not say as
much of the other man."

"Who is he?"

Miles hesitated a moment before he said, "Lord Ticehurst's great
friend, Mr. Gilbert Lloyd."

"Mr. Gilbert Lloyd!" repeated Lord Sandilands, with a low
whistle--"that's a very different matter. I don't mind telling you, my
dear Miles, that I have had an uncomfortable impression about that
young man ever since the first night we met him at Carabas House. It's
singular too; for I know no real harm of the man. His tastes and
pursuits are not such as interest or occupy me; though, of course,
that is the case with scores of persons with whom I am acquainted, and
towards whom I feel no such dislike. Very odd, isn't it?"

Miles looked hard at his friend to see whether there were any latent
meaning in the question; but seeing that Lord Sandilands was
apparently speaking without any strong motive, he said:

"It is odd. Perhaps," he added, "it is to be accounted for by the
feeling that this--Mr. Gilbert Lloyd is not a gentleman?"

"N-no, not that. Though the man, amongst his own set, has an air of
turfy, horsey life which is hideously repellent, yet with other people
he shows that he knows at least the _convenances_ of society, and is
not without traces of breeding and education. I fancy that in this
case I am suffering myself to be influenced by my belief in
physiognomy. The man has a decidedly bad face; deceit, treachery, and
cruelty are written in the shifty expression of his sunken eyes, in
his thin tightened lips."

"And you really believe this?" said Miles earnestly.

"I do; most earnestly. Depend upon it, Nature never makes a mistake.
We may fail to read her properly sometimes, but she never errs. And in
this case her handwriting is too plain to admit of any doubt."

Miles shuddered. The old gentleman noticed it, and laid his hand
kindly on his friend's knee; then he said:

"But, after all, there's no reason for us to fear him. You say that he
has been somewhat marked in his attention to Grace?"

"More than marked. Did you not notice the other night at the house of
that odd woman, Mrs. Burge--O, no, I forgot, you were not there; but
it was just before we left town, and Miss Lambert had been dancing
with me, and I had only left her for a minute when Lloyd went up and
spoke to her."

"Well?"

"Of course I don't know what he said, but they both seemed to speak
very earnestly, and after a very few moments he left her abruptly and
hurried away."

"Well, I don't think that proceeding ought to cause you much
disquietude, Master Miles. In all probability, from what you say, Miss
Lambert was giving Mr. Lloyd his _congé_, or, at all events, saying
something not very pleasant to him. Have you ever spoken to her about
Lloyd?"

"Once or twice only."

"And what has she said about him?"

"She seems to have taken your view of the question, my dear old
friend, for she spoke of him with cold contempt and irrepressible
dislike, and begged me never to mention his name to her again."

"Really, then it seems to me that you have nothing to fear in that
quarter. That this Mr. Lloyd is a dangerous man I am convinced; that
he would be desperate in any matter in which he was deeply interested,
I don't doubt; but he may be as desperate as he pleases if Grace
dislikes him, and loves you. By the way, as that question is still a
moot point, Master Miles," added the old gentleman with a sly look,
"the sooner you get it settled, the better. We shall be driving over
to Hardriggs to-morrow, and I should think you _might_ find an
opportunity of speaking to the lady in private. I know I would at your
time of life, and under the circumstances. And if you want an elderly
gooseberry-picker, you may command me."


But seeing that Miles Challoner's face wore a stern and gloomy
expression, Lord Sandilands dropped the tone of _badinage_ in which he
had been speaking, and said with great earnestness and softness:

"There is something strangely wrong with you to-night, Miles;
something which keeps crossing your mind and influencing your
thoughts; something which I am convinced is apart from, and yet
somehow connected with, the subject we have been discussing. I have no
wish to pry into your secrets, my dear boy; no right and no desire to
ask for any confidence which you may not feel disposed to give. But
as, since the death of my dear old friend, I have always regarded
myself as your second father, and as I have loved you as I would have
loved a son, I cannot bear to see you in obvious grief and trouble
without longing to share it and to advise and help you."

There was a pathos in the old man's tone, no less than in his words,
which touched Miles deeply. He took his friend's hand and pressed it,
and his eyes were filled with tears, and his voice trembled as he
said:

"God knows, my dearest friend, how willingly I acknowledge the truth
of all that you have just said, and how recognisant I am of all your
affection and kindness. I _am_ troubled and disturbed, but there is
nothing in my trouble that need be hid from you; nothing, indeed,
which your sympathy and counsel will not lighten and tend to
disperse."

"That's right," said the old nobleman, brightening up again. "Come,
what is this trouble? You're not worried for money, Miles?"

"No. I had an odd letter from my lawyers yesterday about some mortgage
that Sir Thomas Walbrook is interested in, but I haven't gone into the
matter yet. No, not money,--I wish it were only that!"

"What then? You've not gone and mixed yourself up with any--any
connection--you know what I mean--that you feel it necessary to break
off before you propose to Miss Lambert?"

"Not I, dear old friend; nothing of the sort. Though my trouble is
caused by what I think the necessity of giving a full explanation on a
very difficult and delicate matter, before I ask Grace to become my
wife."

"In the name of fortune, what is it, then?" asked Lord Sandilands.

"Simply this," said Miles, his face resuming its grave expression;
"you know that my father's life was overshadowed and his whole mental
peace destroyed, at a period when he might reasonably have looked
forward to much future enjoyment, by the conduct of my younger
brother, Geoffrey?"

"Ah! now I begin to comprehend--"

"Wait, and hear me out. That conduct, the nature of which I never
could learn, and do not know at this moment, blighted my father's
life, and changed him from an open-hearted, frank, genial man, into a
silent and reserved valetudinarian. For years and years Geoffrey's
name was never mentioned in our house. I was brought up under strict
orders never to inquire about him, directly or indirectly; and those
orders I obeyed to the letter. Only when my father was on his
deathbed--you recollect my being telegraphed for from your house,
where I was staying? I spoke of Geoffrey. I asked why he had been sent
away, what he had done--"

"Your father did not tell you?" interrupted Lord Sandilands eagerly.

"He did not, he would not. It was just before he expired; his physical
prostration was great; all he could say was that Geoffrey was, and for
ever must be, dead to me. He implored me, he commanded me with his
dying breath, if ever I met my brother to shun him, to fly from him,
to let nothing earthly induce me to know him or acknowledge him."

"Your poor father was right," said Lord Sandilands; "he could have
said nothing else."

"Do you justify my father's severity?" cried Miles in astonishment.
"Do you hold that he was right in dying in anger with one of his own
children, and in bequeathing his anger to me, the brother of the man
whom in his wrath he thus harmed?"

"I do; I do indeed."

"Do you tell me that any crime not punishable by law could justify
such a sentence?--a sentence of excommunication from his home, from
family love, from--"

"Stay, stay, Miles. Tell me, how has this subject cropped up just now?
What has brought it into your thoughts?"

"Because, as a man of honour, I feel that I ought to tell Miss Lambert
something at least--as much as I know--of the story before I ask her
to be my wife. Because I would fain have told her that my father was
harsh and severe to a degree in his conduct to Geoffrey."

"That is impossible; that you can never say. Listen, Miles; I know
more of this matter than you suspect. I know every detail of it. Your
father made me his confidant, and I know the crime which your brother
attempted."

"You do?--the crime!"

"The crime. The base, dastardly, hideous crime, which rendered it
impossible for your father to do otherwise than renounce his son, and
bid you renounce your brother for ever."

"Ah, my God!" groaned Miles, burying his head in his hands.

"There is no reason to be so excited, my poor boy," said Lord
Sandilands, laying his hand gently on him. "You need tell Grace
nothing of this; and be sure that this wretched Geoffrey will never
trouble you again. He is most probably dead."

"Dead!" shrieked Miles, raising his livid face and staring wildly at
his friend. "He lives--here amongst us! I have seen him constantly;
he has recognised me, I know. This man of whom we were just
speaking,--this man whom you call Gilbert Lloyd,--is my younger
brother, Geoffrey Challoner!"



CHAPTER VIII.
L'Homme propose.


When a man of Lord Ticehurst's character and disposition makes up his
mind to achieve a certain result--in the turf slang of the day, "goes
in for a big thing"--he is not easily thwarted, or, at all events, he
does not give up his idea without having tried to carry it through.
The indiscreet, illiterate, but by no means bad-hearted, young
nobleman aforenamed had given himself up, heart and soul, to a passion
for the opera-singer known to him as Miss Grace Lambert, and had gone
through a psychological examination of his feelings, so far as his
brain-power permitted, with the view of seeing how the matter lay, and
what would be his best means for securing his ends. The notion of
succeeding dishonourably had never entered his head, or at least had
not remained there for a moment. In that knowledge of the world which
comes, no one knows how, to persons who are ignorant of everything
else--that _savoir faire_ which is learned unconsciously, and which
can never be systematically acquired--Lord Ticehurst was a proficient.
He was not, as times go, an immoral man, certainly not a wicked one;
but he lived in a loose set, and it did not arise from conscientious
scruples that he had not "tried it on" that Grace Lambert should
become his mistress. Such a result would have given him considerable
_éclat_ amongst his friends, and his religious notions were not
sufficiently developed to make him shrink from taking such a step. He
did _not_ take it because he knew it would be useless; because he knew
that any such offer would be ignominiously rejected; that he would be
spurned from the door, and never permitted again to be in the society
of the girl whom he really loved. There was only one way out of it--to
offer her marriage. And then the question came, Did he really love her
sufficiently for that, and was he prepared to stand the consequences?

Did he really love her? He thought he could put in an answer to that,
by Jove! Did he really love her? You should ask old Gil about that!
Old Gil knew more of him than anyone else; and he could tell you--not
that he knew what it was, what was the reason of it, don't you
know?--that for the whole of last season he had been an altered man.
He knew that himself--he confessed it; he felt that he had not taken
any proper interest in the stable, and that kind of thing; indeed, if
he had not had old Gil to look after it, the whole thing would have
gone to the deuce. He knew that well enough, but he could not help it.
He had been regular spoons on this girl, and he was, and he should be
to the end of the chapter, amen. That was all he had got to say about
it. His life had been quite a different thing since he had known her.
He had left off swearing, and all that cussed low language that he
used to delight in once upon a time; and he'd got up early, because he
thought there was a chance of meeting her walking in the Park (he had
met her once, and solemnly walked between her and Mrs. Bloxam for an
hour without saying a word); and he had cut the _ballet_ and its
professors, with whom formerly he had very liberal relations. The
_coryphées_ and the little _rats_, whom he had been in the habit of
calling by their Christian names, who knew him by the endearing
abbreviation of "Ticey," and to whom formerly he was delighted to
stand and talk by the hour, received the coldest of bows from their
quondam friend, as he stood amongst the wings of the opera-scenery on
the chance of a word of salutation from the _prima donna_ as she
hurried from her dressing-room on to the stage. But that word and the
glance at her were enough. "It's no good," he used to say; "it won't
do after that. If I go away to supper at old Chalkstone's, and find
Bella Marshall and Kate Herbert and half-a-dozen of the T.R.D.L.
_ballet_ there, 'pon my soul it don't amuse me when they put the
lobster-claws at the end of their noses; and I think Bagwax and
Clownington and old Spiff--well, damme, they're old enough to know
better, and they might think about--well, I don't want to preach about
what we're all coming to, and what must be precious near for them."

A man of this kind thus hit suffers very severely. The novelty of the
passion adds considerably to his pangs. The fact that he cannot speak
out his hopes and wishes irritates and worries him. To throw the
handkerchief is easy enough at the first start--becomes easier through
frequent practice; but to win the prize is a very different matter.
With a lady of his own rank it would have been much easier wooing; but
with Grace, Lord Ticehurst felt himself placed at a double
disadvantage. He had to assuage the rage of his friends at the honour
he was doing her, and he had to prove to her that he was doing her no
honour at all. The former, though a difficult, was the easier task.
Lord Ticehurst knew his aunt, Lady Carabas, quite well enough to be
aware that, though she was the first _grande dame_ who had introduced
Miss Lambert into society, and that though up to that minute she had
been the young lady's most steadfast friend, she would be the very
first to rail against the _mésalliance_, and do all she could to cry
down that reputation which she had so earnestly vaunted. Others would
follow suit at once, and he and his wife would have to run the
gauntlet. His wife! Ah, that was just the point; he would not care a
rap if she were his wife, if he had her brains and her beauty to help
in winning the game for him. But Lord Ticehurst's knowledge of the
world was too great to permit him to flatter himself thus far; he knew
that he had never received any substantial acknowledgment from Miss
Lambert; and he recollected, with a very unpleasant twinge, what
Gilbert Lloyd had said about Miles Challoner's attentions in that
quarter--attentions received almost as favourably as they were
earnestly proffered, as Lord Ticehurst had had an opportunity of
witnessing at Mrs. Stapleton Burge's reception.

Young noblemen of large fortunes are not in the habit of fighting with
their inclinations and wishes. Lord Ticehurst felt that he must do his
best to make this girl marry him--whether she would or not, he felt
was doubtful, and acknowledged the feeling to himself with an honest
frankness which was one of his best characteristics. He bore away with
him his dull, wearying heartache, his "restless, unsatisfied longing,"
to Goodwood, where it cankered the ducal hospitality, and made him
think but little of the racing-prizes which he carried off. He bore it
away with him to the hotel at Eastbourne, where, pending the Doncaster
week, he and his friends had set up their Lares and Penates, and were
doing their best to gain health and strength from the sea-breezes and
quiet, and make up for the ravages of the London season.

Except in the desultory manner already narrated, Lord Ticehurst had
not revealed to his confederate the state of his feelings towards Miss
Lambert. He had said nothing positive to him regarding what was now
his fixed intention, of proposing for that young lady's hand, and it
is probable he would have been consistently reticent had not chance
brought the confession about in this way.

It was a splendid August morning, and the two gentlemen were seated in
the largest sitting-room of the pretty hotel, with its bay window
overlooking the pleasant promenading crowd of seaside loungers,
bathable children, bathed young ladies with their limp hair hanging
down their backs, old gentlemen walking up and down with mouths and
nostrils wide open to inhale as much ozone as possible during their
stay, and the other usual common objects of the sea-shore. Breakfast
was just over, and cigars had already been lighted. The blue vapour
came curling round the sides of the sporting-print in which Gilbert
Lloyd's head and shoulders were enveloped, and mixed with another blue
vapour which stole over the more massive folds of the _Times_, with
which Lord Ticehurst was engaged.

A shout of "Hallo!" betraying intense astonishment, roused Gilbert
from his perusal of the vaticinations of "Calchas." "What makes you
hallo out like that? What is it?" he asked.

"What is it! O, nothing particular," replied Lord Ticehurst; adding
immediately, "By Jove, though!"

"No, but I say, Etchingham, something must have roused you to make you
give tongue. What was it, old boy? No more scratchings for the Leger?"

"No, something quite different to that. Well, look here, if you must
know;" and his lordship lazily handed the paper to his friend, and
pointed to a particular paragraph.

"Advertisement!" said Lloyd as he took it. "Now what the deuce can you
find to interest you among the advertisements?" But the expression of
his face changed as he saw, in large letters, the name of Miss Grace
Lambert; and on further perusal he found that Mr. Boulderson Munns,
whose noble style he immediately recognised, informed the British
public that he had made arrangements with this distinguished _prima
donna_ for a tour during the winter months, in the course of which she
would visit the principal cities in England, Ireland, and Scotland,
accompanied by a _troupe_ of distinguished talent, superintended
by Mr. Munns himself, who would lend all the resources of the
justly-celebrated band and _répertoire_ of the Grand Scandinavian
Opera-house to the success of the design.

Gilbert Lloyd, who had felt his colour ebb when he first saw his
wife's name, read through the advertisement carefully, but said,
nothing as he laid the paper down.

"Have you read it?" asked Lord Ticehurst.

"I have."

"And what do you think of it?"

"Think of it! What should I think of it, except that it will probably
be a profitable speculation for--for Miss Lambert, and certainly a
profitable one for Munns?"

"Well but, I say, look here! It mustn't come off."

"What mustn't?"

"Why, this what's-its-name--tour!"

"Then it will be a bad thing for Munns. But, seriously, Etchingham,
what on earth do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Well, I mean that--that young lady, Miss Lambert, mustn't go
flitting about the country."

"Why not? What have you to do with it?"

"Why, haven't I told you--don't you recollect, before Ascot and all
that?--only you're so deuced dull, and think of nothing but--well,
never mind. Don't you recollect my saying I intended to ask Miss
Lambert to be my wife?" And Lord Ticehurst, whom the avowal and the
unusual flux of words rendered a bright peony colour, glared at his
Mentor in nervous trepidation.

Gilbert looked at him very calmly. The corners of his mouth twitched
for an instant as he began to speak, but he was otherwise perfectly
composed as he said, "I had forgotten; you must forgive me; the stable
takes up so much of my time that I have scarcely leisure to look after
your other amusements. O, you intend to propose for this young lady!
Do you think she will accept you?"

"That's a devilish nice question to ask a fellow, that is. 'Pon my
soul, I don't think there's another fellow in the world that would
have had the--well, the kindness--to ask that. I suppose it will be
all right; if I didn't, I shouldn't--"

"Shouldn't ask, eh? Well, I suppose not, and it was indiscreet in me
to suggest anything different. What do you propose to do now?"

"Well, what do you think? Perhaps I'd better go up to town--deuced
odd town will look at this time of year, won't it?--and see Miss
Lambert, and make it all straight with her; and then go off and see
old Munns, and tell him he'll have to give up his notion of the
what's-its-name--the tour. He'll want to be squared, of course, and we
must do it for him; but I shall leave you to arrange that with him."

"Of course; that will not be a difficult matter." Gilbert Lloyd waited
a minute before he added, "But there is no necessity for you to go to
London on this portentous matter. Miss Lambert is much nearer to you
than you imagine."

"Much nearer! What the deuce do you, mean?" asked Lord Ticehurst,
looking round as if he expected to see Gertrude entering the room.

"Exactly what I say. I had a letter this morning from Hanbury; he's
staying at Hardriggs, old Sir Giles Belwether's place, not a dozen
miles from here; and he mentioned that Miss Lambert was a guest there
too. Wait a minute; I'll read you what he says. No, never mind, it's
only some nonsense about Lady Belwether's insisting on old Bel having
a Dean to stay in the house at the same time to counteract the effect
of the stage, and--"

"D--d impertinence!" muttered Lord Ticehurst. "I always did hate that
Hanbury--sneering beast! O, about twelve miles from here, eh? Might
drive over to luncheon? What do you say, Gil? Do us good, eh?"

"Do _you_ good, very likely, Etchingham! At all events, if you have
made up your mind to this course, it's the best and the most
honourable way to bring it to an issue at once. And I'm not sure that
this is not an excellent opportunity. You will find the lady
unfettered by business, free from the lot of fribbles who are always
butterflying about her in town, and have only to make your running. I
can't go; I've got letters to write, and things to do, and must stop
here."

Within half an hour Lord Ticehurst's phaeton came spinning round to
the door of the hotel, and Gilbert, stepping out on to the balcony,
saw him--got up to the highest pitch of sporting _négligé_--drive off
amid the unsuppressed admiration of the bystanders. Then Lloyd walked
back into the room and flung himself on a sofa, and lit a fresh cigar,
and as he puffed at it, soliloquised, "What was that I saw on a seal
the other day? _Quo Fata ducunt_. What a wonderful thing that they
should have led to this; that they should have led me to being the
most intimate friend of a man who is now gone off to propose to my
wife! My wife! I, wonder when I shall make up my mind as to what my
real feelings are towards her. After years of indifference, of
absolute forgetfulness, I see her, and fall madly in love with her
again--so madly that I pursue her, plainly seeing it is against her
will, and, like an idiot, give her the chance of saying that to me
which makes me hate her worse than ever--worse even than when we
parted, and I did hate her then. But I've a feeling now which I had
not during all that long interval of our separation. Then I did not
care where she was, or what she did. Now, by the Lord, if I were to
think that she cared for any man--or not that, I know she does, curse
him! I know she does care for that man--I mean, if she were to give
any man the position that was mine--that was? that _is_, when I choose
to claim it--he and I would have to settle accounts. That poor fool
has no chance. Gertrude has no ambition--that's a fault I always found
in her; if she had had, we might have risen together; but she was
nothing when she was not sentimentally spoony; and she would throw
over my lord, who really loves her in a way that I never thought him
capable of, the title, money, and position, for the _beaux yeux_ and
the soft speeches of my sweet brother. What will be the end of that, I
wonder? By heavens, if I saw _that_ culminating--if I thought that she
was going to claim the freedom we agreed upon for the sake of
bestowing herself on _him_, I'd stand the whole racket, run the whole
risk, declare myself and my position openly, and let her do her
worst!" He rose from the sofa and walked to the window, where he stood
looking out for a few moments, then returned to his old position. "The
worst, eh? How I hate that cursed sea, and the glare of the sun on the
cliffs! It always reminds me of that infernal time. Do her worst!
She's the most determined woman I ever saw. I shall never forget the
look of her face that night, nor the tone of her voice as she
whispered behind her fan. Well, sufficient for the day, &c. That's to
be met when it comes. It hasn't come yet. I may be perfectly certain
what reply will be given to my dear young friend Etchingham, who has
just started on his precious fool's-errand; and as for the other
man--well, he's not staying at Hardriggs, or Hanbury would have
mentioned him. There will be this country tour to fill up the winter;
and by the time next season arrives, he may be off it, or she may be
off it, or a thousand things may have happened, which are now not
worth speculating about, but which will serve my turn as they come."
And Gilbert Lloyd turned to his writing-desk, and plunged into
calculations and accounts with perfectly clear brains, in the working
of which the thoughts of the previous half-hour had not the smallest
share.

Meanwhile, Lord Ticehurst sat upright in his mail-phaeton, driving the
pair of roans which were the cynosure of the Park during the season,
and the envy of all horsey men always, through some of the loveliest
scenery in Sussex. Not that scenery, except Grieve's or Beverley's,
made much impression on his lordship. Constant variety of hill and
dale merely brought out the special qualities and paces of the roans;
wooded uplands suggested good cover-shooting; broad expanse of heath
looked very like rabbits. To such a thorough sportsman thoughts like
these occurred involuntarily; but he had plenty beside to fix what he
called his mind. Though he had made as light as possible to his
henchman of the expedition on which he was engaged, and given himself
the airs of a conquering hero, he was by no means so well satisfied of
his chances of success, or of his chances of happiness, were success
finally achieved. His chances of success occupied him first. Well, he
did not know--you could never tell about women, at least he couldn't,
whether they meant it, or whether they didn't. He didn't know; she was
always very friendly, and that kind of thing; but with women that went
for nothing. They'd draw you on, until you thought nothing could be
more straight; and then throw you over, and leave you nowhere. N-no;
he couldn't recollect anything particular that Miss Lambert had ever
said to induce him to hope: she'd admired the roans as the groom moved
them up and down in front of her windows; and she'd said more than
once that she was glad some song of hers had pleased him, and that was
all. Not much indeed; but then he was an earl; and the grand, undying
spirit of British flunkydom had led him to believe, as indeed it leads
every person of his degree to believe, that "all thoughts, all
passions, all delights, whatever stirs this mortal frame," are at the
command of anyone named in _Debrett_, or eulogised by Sir Bernard
Burke: "Ticehurst, Earl of, Viscount Etchingham, b. 1831, succeeded
his father the 3d Earl in," &c. &c. What was the use of that, if
people were not to bow down in the dust before him, and he were not to
have everything he wished? Heaps of fellows had been floating round
her all the season, but no such large fish as he had risen at the
bait; and though she had not particularly distinguished him, still he
had only to go in and win the prize. What was it that Gilbert Lloyd
had let drop about some rival in the field? O, that man Challoner!
Yes, he had himself noticed that there had been a good deal of
attention paid in that quarter, and by no means unwillingly received.
Queer customer that old Gil! sees everything, by Jove! fancy his
spotting that! Good-looking chap, Challoner, and quite enough to say
for himself; but, Lord, when it came to the choice between him and the
Earl of Ticehurst!

Lord Ticehurst smiled quite pleasantly to himself as this alternative
rose in his mind, and flicked his whip in the air over the heads of
the roans, causing that spirited pair to plunge in a manner which made
the groom (a middle-aged, sober man, with a regard for his neck, and a
horror of his master's wild driving) look over the head of the phaeton
in fear and trembling. As the horses quieted down and settled into
their paces, Lord Ticehurst's spirits sunk simultaneously. Suppose it
were all right with the lady, what about the rest of the people? Not
his following--not Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol, and the rest of the
crew. Lord Ticehurst might not be a clever man, but he had
sufficiently "reckoned up" his _clientèle_, and he knew, whatever they
might think, none of their tongues would wag. But the outsiders--the
"society" people--what would they say to his bringing a lady from the
boards of the opera to sit at the head of his table at home, and
demand all the respect due to her rank abroad? They wouldn't like it;
he knew that fast enough. O yes, of course they'd say that he was not
the first who'd done it, and it had always been a great success
hitherto, and so on; but still he had to look to his own position and
hers, and--by Jove, Lady Carabas! she'd make it pleasant for them, and
no mistake! Her ladyship liked her _protégée_, liked to flaunt her in
the eyes of rival lion-hunters, gloried in the success she achieved,
and the excitement she created; but her nephew knew well enough what
her feelings would be if she had to acknowledge the brilliant _prima
donna_ of the opera-house as a relation; if she had to endure the
congratulations of her female friends on the distinguished addition to
the family circle which her kindness and tact had brought about.

What the deuce did it matter to him! The roans were then pulling well
and steadily together, and the phaeton bowled merrily along the level
turnpike-road. What the deuce did it matter to him! Was not he the
Earl of Ticehurst, and was he not to be his own master? and was not he
old enough, and rich enough, and big swell enough to do what he
pleased, and to take a sight at the world's odd looks, and pooh-pooh
the world's odd remarks? He was, and he intended to prove it; and
after all, he would like to see one of them to compare with his pretty
Grace. Why, who had they made a fuss about last season? Alice
Farquhar, an insipid-looking, boiled-veal kind of girl, with her pale
freckled face and her red hair; and Constance Brand, with her big
black eyebrows, and her flashing eyes, and her hook-nose--talk about
tragedy queens, well, there was Constance Brand cut out for that to a
T! Everybody said what a charming thing it was when Alice Farquhar
married old Haremarch, and how, ever since, he had been clothed and in
his right mind; and as for Constance Brand--well, everyone knew she
had saved the family credit by marrying young Klootz, who now called
himself Cloote, and who only suffered himself to be reminded by his
income that he was lineally descended from old Jacob Klootz, the
banker and money-lender of Frankfurt-am-Main. Neither of these girls
was to be compared to Miss Lambert, and he was determined that--Lord
Ticehurst's spirits sunk again just at this juncture, as the gates of
the Hardriggs avenue came within sight.

The Belwethers were very pleasant old-fashioned people, who lived the
same life year after year without ever getting tired of it. They were
at Hardriggs, their very pleasant ancestral seat, from August until
the end of March, and at their very pleasant town-house in
Brook-street from April till the end of July. When in the country, old
Sir Giles shot, fished, and attended the Quarter-sessions, the
Conservative demonstrations, and the Volunteer reviews of his county.
When in town, he slept a good deal at the Carlton, and rode a clever
cob about the Park between twelve and two, distinguished for the
bottle-green cutaway coat with velvet-collar, and the high muslin
checked cravat of sixty years ago. Lady Belwether's character was well
summed up in the phrase "kind old goose," which a particular friend
applied to her. A madness for music was the only marked feature of her
disposition; at home she visited all the old women, and helped the
curate, and gave largely to the Flannel Club, and looked after the
schools, and worried the doctor, and played the harmonium in the
village-church on Sunday; and in town, what with the opera three
nights a-week, and the Monday Popular Concerts, and the _matinées_ and
_soirées musicales_ of distinguished creatures, with a dash of Exeter
Hall oratorio, and a _soupçon_ of Philharmonic, the old lady's life
was one whirl of delight. Lady Belwether had fallen in love with
Gertrude at first sight. She was by no means a gushing old lady, nor,
though so devoted to music, had she ever made the acquaintance of any
professional. Hitherto she had always stood on her dignity when such a
proposition had been made to her. She had no doubt, she used to say,
that the artists in question were pleasant people in their way, but
that was not her way. However, the first glance at Miss Lambert made
the old lady wild to know her: there never was such a sweet face--so
interesting, so classical---yes, the old lady might say, so holy; "and
her voice, my dear, it gives me the notion of an angel singing." So,
worthy old Lady Belwether having ascertained that Miss Lambert was
perfectly "correct" and ladylike, procured an introduction to her, and
commenced heaping upon her a series of kindnesses which culminated in
the invitation to Hardriggs. This invitation was accepted principally
by the advice of Lord Sandilands, who had known the Belwethers all his
life, and who felt that Gertrude could not enjoy the quiet and fresh
air requisite after her London season with more thoroughly respectable
people.

It was after the invitation had been given and accepted that Lady
Belwether began to feel a little nervous and uncomfortable about what
she had done. For in the pride of her heart and the warmth of her
admiration for Gertrude, she told everybody that dear Miss Lambert was
coming to them at Hardriggs in the autumn. Among others, she mentioned
the fact to Miss Belwether, Sir Giles's sister, a dreadful old woman
who lived in a boarding-house at Brighton, in order to be in the
closest proximity to her "pastor," the Reverend Mr. Tophet, and who
uttered a yelp of horror at the announcement. "I have said nothing,
Maria," said this horrible old person, "to your gaddings-about and the
frivolous style of your existence, but I must lift up my voice when
you tell me you are about to receive a stage-player as your guest."
"Stage-player" is an awkward word to be thrown at the head of a leader
of county society, and it hit home, and rather staggered dear old Lady
Belwether; not that the gallant old lady for an instant entertained
the notion of giving up her intended guest, or suffered herself to
appear the least abashed in the eyes of her antagonist. "It's a mere
matter of taste, my dear Martha," she replied; "for my own part, I
would sooner associate with a lady who, though a singer, is
undoubtedly a lady, than with man who calls himself a minister, who
was a shoemaker, and who always must be a vulgar boor." Having fired
which raking shot at the Reverend Tophet, the old lady sailed away and
closed the conversation.

But she felt that it would be a great advantage if she could have
someone staying in the house at the same time with Miss Lambert, whose
presence would prove an effectual check on the ridiculous gossip
likely to be prevalent in the county. The lay element would be
excellently represented in the respectably dull and decorous people
who were coming; but there was wanting an infusion of the clerical
element, which could best be met by inviting Sir Giles's old friend
the Dean of Burwash. Henry Asprey, Dean of Burwash, had been known as
"Felix" Asprey at school and college, from his uninterrupted run of
luck. The son of a poor solicitor, a good-looking idle lad, of capital
manners and address, but with very little real talent, he had won an
exhibition from his school, a scholarship, a fellowship, and a
double-second at the University, no one knew how. He had taken orders,
and travelled as tutor to the then Premier's son through Egypt and the
Holy Land; on his return had published a little book of very weak
poems, under the title _Palm-leaves and Dates_, which, with his usual
luck, happened to hit the very bad taste of the day, and went through
several editions. His friend the Premier gave him a good living, and
he had scarcely been inducted into it when he won the heart of a very
rich widow, whom he married, and whom, with his usual luck, within the
course of four years he buried, inheriting her fortune of three
thousand a-year. It was to console him in his deep affliction that his
friend the Premier, just then quitting office for the third and last
time, bestowed upon him the Deanery of Burwash. He was now some fifty
years old, tall, thin, and eminently aristocratic-looking; had a long
transparent hand, which was generally clasping his chin, and a soft
persuasive voice. He liked music and poetry, and good dinners; was
found at private views of picture-exhibitions; belonged to the
Athenaeum Club; and liked to be seen there conversing with
professional literary men. People said he would be a Bishop some day,
and he thought so himself--he did not see why not; he would have
looked well in his robes, spoken well in the House of Lords, and never
committed himself by the utterance of any extreme opinion. That was a
thing he had avoided all his life, and to it much of the secret of his
success might be ascribed. His sermons were eloquent--his friends said
"sound," his enemies "empty;" he deplored the division in the Church
with sympathetic face and elegant gesture; but he never gave adhesion
to either side, and showed more skill in parrying home-questions than
in any other action of his life.

Such was Dean Asprey, to whom Lady Belwether wrote an invitation to
Hardriggs, telling him frankly that Miss Grace Lambert would be one of
the guests, and asking if he had any objection to meet her. The Dean's
reply, written in the neatest hand on the thickest cream-laid
notepaper, arrived by return of post. He accepted the invitation as
heartily as it was given ("Genial creature!" said dear old Lady
Belwether); he fully appreciated dear Lady Belwether's frankness about
her guest, for he was aware how could he fail to be?--of the
censoriousness of the world towards persons of his calling. He had,
however, made it his rule through life, and he intended to pursue the
same course until the end, to shape his conduct according to the
dictates of that still small voice of his conscience rather than at
the bidding of the world. ("The dear!" said Lady Belwether.) He should
therefore have the greatest pleasure in making the acquaintance of
Miss Grace Lambert, of whom he had already heard the most favourable
accounts, not merely as regarded her great genius, but her exemplary
conduct. And he was, with kindest regards to Giles, his dear Lady
Belwether's most sincere friend, Henry Asprey. "A Christian
gentleman," said the old lady, with tears of delight standing in her
eyes as she finished the letter; "and Martha to talk of her
stage-players and Tophets indeed, when a man like that does not mind!"

The Belwethers were rather astonished when, just after the party had
sat down to luncheon, they heard Lord Ticehurst announced. For though
there was a certain similarity of sporting tastes between him and Sir
Giles, the disparity of age caused them to move in widely different
sets; while Lady Belwether knew his lordship as the nephew and one of
the principal attendants on, and abettors of, Lady Carabas, whom the
old lady held in great aversion. "One of the new style of ladies, my
dear," she used to say with a sniff of disdain; "finds women's society
too dull for her, must live amongst men, talks slang, and I daresay
smokes, if one only knew." However, they both received the young
nobleman with considerable _empressement_; and Lord Ticehurst, on
taking his seat at the luncheon-table, found that he knew most of the
assembled party. The Dean was almost the only one with whom he had not
a previous acquaintance; and Lord Ticehurst had scarcely whispered to
Lady Belwether a request to know who was the clerical party on his
left, when the Dean turned round and introduced himself as an old
friend of the late Lord Ticehurst's. "I used to meet your father at
Lady Walsingham's receptions when Lord Walsingham was Premier, and he
allowed me to call him my very good friend. We had certain tastes in
common which bound us together--geology and mineralogy, for instance.
You are not a geologist, I believe, my lord?"

"Well, no," said Lord Ticehurst frankly; "that ain't my line."

"N-no," said the Dean. "Well, we all have our different tastes--_tot
homines, quot sententiæ_. Your father was a man who was passionately
fond of science; indeed, I often used to wonder how a man absorbed as
he was in what generally proves to ethers the all-engrossing study of
politics could find time for the discussion of scientific
propositions, and for the attendance at the lectures of the Royal
Institution. But your father was a man of no ordinary calibre; he
was--"

"O yes, he was a great gun at science and electricity, and all that
kind of thing, at least so I've been told. Excuse me for half a
minute; I want to get some of that ham I see on the sideboard." And
Lord Ticehurst rose from the seat, to which he did not return after he
had helped himself, preferring a vacant place at the other end of the
table, by the aide of Sir Giles Belwether, whose conversation about
hunting and racing proved far more entertaining to his lordship.
Moreover, from his new position he could keep a better view of Miss
Lambert, who did not, he was pleased to observe, seem particularly
gratified or amused at the rapid fire of conversation kept up by the
young men on either side of her.

When luncheon was over, and the party rose and dispersed, Lord
Ticehurst was seized upon by Sir Giles, who took him to the stables,
expatiating lengthily and wearily on the merits of his cattle; and it
was not until late in the afternoon that the visitor could make his
escape from his host. He thought that he would have had his journey
for nothing, seeing no chance of getting a private interview with Miss
Lambert, when on his return to the house to see if he could find Lady
Belwether, to whom he intended making his adieux, he heard the sound
of a piano, and recognised the prelude of a favourite ballad of
Gertrude's. Before the song could begin, Lord Ticehurst had entered
the room, and found Miss Lambert, as he expected, alone at the piano.
Gertrude looked round at the opening of the door, and when she saw who
it was, half rose from her seat.

"Pray don't move, Miss Lambert," said Lord Ticehurst, approaching her;
"pray don't let me disturb you."

"You don't disturb me in the least, Lord Ticehurst," said Gertrude,
sitting down again. "I was merely amusing myself. I had not even the
business excuse of being 'at practice.'"

"Don't let me interfere, then. Amuse yourself and me at the same time.
Do now, it will be a charity; 'pon my word it will."

"No, no, no; I'm not so cruel as that. I know the terrible infliction
music is to you in London. I've watched too often the martyr-like
manner in which you've suffered under long classical pieces, and the
self-denying way in which you have applauded at the end of them,
without deliberately exposing you to more torture in the country."

"Assure you you're wrong, Miss Lambert; but I'm too happy to think
you've done me the honour to watch me at all, to go into the question.
No, please don't go. If you won't sing to me, may I speak to you?"

Gertrude, who had again half-risen, turned round to him with a look of
wonder in her eyes. "May you speak to me, Lord Ticehurst? Why, of
course!"

The answer was so manifestly simple and genuine, that it quite took
Lord Ticehurst aback, and there was a moment's pause before he said,
"Thanks, yes--you're very good. I wanted to speak to you--wanted to
say something rather particular to you, in point of fact."

The hesitation in his manner, an odd conscious look in his face, had
revealed the object of his visit. Gertrude knew what he was about to
say, but she remained perfectly calm and unembarrassed, merely saying,

"Fray speak, Lord Ticehurst; I am quite at your service."

"Thanks very much--kind of you to say so, I'm sure. Fact of the matter
is, Miss Lambert, ever since I've had the pleasure of knowing you I've
been completely stumped, don't you know?--bowled over, and that kind
of thing. I suppose you've noticed it; fellows at the club chaff most
awfully, you know, and I can't stand it any longer; and, in short,
I've come to ask you if--if you'll marry me, and that kind of thing."

"You do me great honour, Lord Ticehurst," commenced Gertrude; "very
great honour--"

"O," interrupted his lordship, "don't you think about that; that's
what they said at White's, but I said that was all d--d stuff--I beg
your pardon, Miss Lambert; all nonsense I mean--about honour, and all
that. Why," he went on to say, having worked himself up into a state
of excitement, "of course I know I'm an earl, and that kind of thing.
I can't help knowing about my--my station in life, and you'd think me
a great ass if I pretended I didn't; but when you're my wife, you'll
be--I mean to say you'll grace it and adorn it--and--and there's not
one in the whole list fit to be named along with you, or to hold a
candle to you."

"I cannot thank you sufficiently for this expression of kind feeling
towards me, Lord Ticehurst," said Gertrude. "No, hear me for one
minute;" as he endeavoured again to interrupt her. "Ever since you
have known me you have treated me with the utmost courtesy and
kindness, and you have now done me the greatest possible honour. You
may judge, then, how painful it is to me--" Lord Ticehurst's jaw and
hat here dropped simultaneously--"how painful it is to me to be
compelled to decline that honour."

"To--to decline it?"

"To decline it."

"To say no!"

"To say no."

"Then you refuse me! Case of chalks, by Jove! Miss Lambert, I--I'm
sorry I've troubled you," said Lord Ticehurst, picking up his hat
and making for the door. "I hope you won't think anything of it,
I--good-morning!--Damme if I know whether I'm on my head or my heels,"
he added when he got outside, and was alone.

Lord Ticehurst was so completely _bouleversé_ that he scarcely knew
how he got to his phaeton, or how he tooled the roans, who were
additionally frisky after the Belwether oats, down the avenue. He knew
nothing until he got to the gate, on the other side of which was an
open fly. He looked vacantly at its occupants, but started as he
recognised Lord Sandilands and Miles Challoner.

"O, that's it, is it?" said his lordship to himself. "Damme, old Gil
was right again!"



CHAPTER IX.
Dieu dispose.


The effect of Miles Challoner's startling communication upon Lord
Sandilands was very great; but the long-cultivated habit of
self-command enabled him to conceal its extent and somewhat of its
nature from his younger friend. It was fortunate that Miles was just
then so much engrossed with his love, so full of the hope of the
success of his suit, so relieved and encouraged by discovering that
Lord Sandilands did not attempt to dissuade him from a project in
which he had felt very doubtful whether he should have the support of
a man of the world--and though nothing would have induced him to
abandon that project, Lord Sandilands' acquiescence made a wonderful
difference to him in the present, and would, he felt, be of weighty
importance in the future,--that he was not keenly observant of the old
nobleman. As soon as it was possible, Lord Sandilands got rid of
Miles, but not until he had received from the young man a grateful
acknowledgment of his kindness, and until they had finally agreed on
the expedition to Hardriggs for the following day.

When he was quite alone, the familiar friend of Miles Challoner's
father gave way to the feelings with which this revelation had filled
him. This, then, was the explanation of the instinctive aversion he
had felt towards Gilbert Lloyd--fate had brought him in contact with
the man whose story he alone of living men knew, and under
circumstances which might have terrible import. The one hope of his
dead friend--that the brothers might never meet had been defeated; the
fear which had troubled him in his later days had been fulfilled. If
Miles Challoner's impression concerning this man should be correct--if
indeed he was or intended to become a suitor to Gertrude, a fresh
complication of an extremely dangerous nature--knowing what he knew,
he could well appreciate that danger might arise. The skeleton was
wearing flesh again, and stalking very close by the old man now.
Hitherto only the strong sympathy which had united him with Miles
Challoner and his father--his friendship for the latter had been one
of the strongest and deepest feelings of a life which had, on the
whole, been superficial--made the fate of the outcast son and brother
a subject of any interest to Lord Sandilands. He might have turned up
at any time, and this unfortunate meeting and recognition between the
brothers have taken place, and beyond the unpleasantness of the
occurrence, and the necessity he should have recognised for impressing
upon Miles as stringently as possible the importance of observing his
father's prohibition, he would not have felt himself personally
concerned. But Gertrude! the girl whom he had come to love with such
true fatherly feeling and solicitude--the girl who had brought into
his superficial life such mingled feelings of pain and pleasure--what
if she were about to be involved in this family mystery and misery?
Very seldom in the course of his existence had Lord Sandilands
experienced such acute pain, such a sensation of helpless terror, as
this supposition inspired. Supposing that Miles Challoner was right in
the dread which Gilbert Lloyd's manner with regard to Gertrude had
awakened in him,--and the eyes of a lover not sure of his own
position, and anxiously on the lookout for possible rivals,
were likely to be more acute and more accurate than those of
an old gentleman much out of practice in the subtleties of the
tender passion, and without the spur to his perceptions of
suspicion,--supposing he was really in love with Gertrude, and that by
any horrible chance Gertrude should prefer him to Miles! Very
unpleasant physical symptoms of disturbance manifested themselves
after Lord Sandilands had fully taken this terrible hypothesis into
consideration, and for a time the old gentleman felt that whether it
was gout or apoplexy which was about to claim him for its own was a
mere question of detail. He had lived so long without requiring to
test the strength of his nerves, without having any very strong or
urgent demand made upon him for the exercise of his feelings, that
anything of the kind now decidedly disagreed with him, and he went to
bed in a rueful state of mind, and a shaky condition of body. The
night brought him calmness and counsel, and the symptoms of illness
passed off sufficiently for him to resolve on keeping the engagement
he had made with Miles for the following day. "The sooner his mind is
at ease, the sooner will mine be, on his account and my own." Thus ran
Lord Sandilands' thoughts as he lay awake, listening against his will
to the splash of the sea, and inclined to blame its monotonous murmur
for the nervousness which had him in its grip. "I suppose it's not the
right thing for me to help Miles to marry Gertrude--my old friend
would not have liked the notion of his son and heir's marrying my
natural daughter; but what can I do? The young fellow is not like
other men of his age and position; in fact, he isn't, strictly
speaking, I suppose, a 'young' fellow at all. If he were, and
resembled the young men of the day a little more, I fancy he never
would have thought of marrying her. And then there's an awful blot
upon the Challoners, too--and she is such a charming girl, no tongue
has ever dared to wag against her. Suppose I did not encourage it,
that I set myself against it, what could I do? I have literally no
right in Miles's case, and none that I can acknowledge in Gertrude's,
and I should only make them both dislike me, without preventing the
marriage in the least. I wish--because of what poor old Mark would
have thought--that they had never met; but I can't go beyond that--no,
I can't. But if she cares for that wretch, good heavens! what shall I
do?" The old man put his shrunken hands up to his bald temples, and
twisted his head about on his pillow, and groaned in his solitude and
perplexity. "Must I threaten him with exposure, and so drive him out
of the country? or must I tell her the truth about herself, and ask
her to believe, on the faith of my unexplained assertion, that the man
is one whom she must never think of marrying?"

The position was one of indisputable difficulty; the "pleasant
vice"--that long-ago story of a dead woman, deceived indeed, but with
no extraordinary cruelty, a story which had not troubled Lord
Sandilands' conscience very much--had manufactured itself finally into
a whip of stout dimensions and stinging quality, and he was getting a
very sufficient taste of it just now.

Miles must try his luck. That was the only conclusion which could be
immediately reached. If he could sleep a little, he might feel all
right in the morning, and be able to accompany him to Hardriggs. If he
were not well enough, Miles mast go all the same. If the young man
should feel surprise and curiosity at finding his old friend so
impatient, it could not be helped; it must pass as a vagary of an old
man's. But Miles would not remark anything; the vagary was
sufficiently cognate to his own humour and his own purposes to pass
unnoticed.

When Lord Sandilands and Miles Challoner arrived at Hardriggs on the
following day, a close observer would have discerned that they were
both under a strong impression of some kind. Lord Sandilands was not
feeling well by any means, but he had assured Miles the drive would do
him good, and he had found his indisposition so far useful, that it
explained and excused his being very silent on the way. Neither was
Miles much inclined to talk. He was of an earnest nature, never at any
time voluble, and when under the influence of strong feeling silence
was congenial to him. He well understood that the revelation he had
made to Lord Sandilands on the preceding day had produced a startling
and disagreeable effect; and having perceived plainly, beyond the
possibility of doubt, that the secret which he so earnestly desired to
know was in Lord Sandilands' possession, and was of a darker and direr
nature than he had ever guessed at, but was, at the same time, quite
as securely beyond his reach as ever, he made up his mind to let the
subject drop. Unless this man had cut him out, or was likely to cut
him out with Grace Lambert, he had no power to harm him. The truth
was, Miles Challoner was very sincerely and heartily in love, and he
had as little power, as inclination to occupy his thoughts for long at
a time with anyone but Grace, with any speculation but his chance of
success with her. Luckily, Sir Giles and Lady Belwether were the least
observant of human beings. Sir Giles was stupid to an extent which is
not to be realised except by those who understand the bucolic gentry
of our favoured land, and Lady Belwether was--though superior, as we
have seen, to her baronet in intelligence, and distinguished by a
taste for music--very shortsighted. Close observers were therefore not
"on hand," when Lord Sandilands and Miles arrived at Hardriggs. Sir
Giles was contemplating the turnips at a distant point of his "pretty
little place;" Miss Lambert had gone out into the garden, or the
lime-walk, the servants said, some time before; and Lady Belwether and
Mrs. Bloxam were in the morning-room.

Lord Sandilands did not lose much time in arranging the situation as
he wished it to be arranged, so far as Miles was concerned--his
consummate ease of manner, which Miles admired to the point of envy,
rendered any little disposition of affairs of that kind a very simple
proceeding to him. Miles was despatched in search of Sir Giles, Mrs.
Bloxam was begged on no account to interfere with Miss Lambert's
saunter in the garden--they might join her presently, perhaps--and
Lady Belwether was engaged in a discussion upon the comparative merits
of "our" native composers, within a space of time whose brevity would
have been surprising to anyone unacquainted with the rapid action of a
fixed purpose combined with good manners. Mrs. Bloxam had directed one
searching glance at Lord Sandilands on his entrance, and, as she
withdrew her eyes, she said to herself, "Something has happened. He
wants to speak to me; but I had rather he did not, so he sha'n't." And
strange to say, though he made a protracted visit to Hardriggs that
day, Lord Sandilands did not succeed in getting an opportunity of
speaking a word to Mrs. Bloxam. This annoyed him a good deal.
"Confound the woman!" he said to himself; "either Mrs. Bloxam is too
stupid to see that I want to speak to her, or Lady Belwether is too
clever to leave off talking!" In his capacity of gooseberry-picker,
Lord Sandilands was led on this occasion into anything but pleasant
pastures.

The shortest way to the turnips, just then occupying the mind and
demanding the presence of Sir Giles Belwether, fortunately lay through
the garden, otherwise Miles Challoner might not have profited so
readily and unsuspected by the strategy of his clever old friend.
Through a side-gate of the garden the lime-walk was to be gained, and
as Miles closed that gate behind him he caught sight of Grace Lambert.
She was walking slowly along in the shadow of the trees, her head bent
down in a thoughtful attitude. Miles went quickly towards her, and she
looked up and recognised him with a slight start and a vivid blush; in
fact, with the kind of recognition which takes place when the person
who intrudes upon a reverie happens to be its subject. Gertrude had
been thinking of Miles--she thought of him very often now; and the
interview which had taken place between herself and Lord Ticehurst had
made her think of him more seriously than ever. She loved him. She did
not deny the truth, or palter with it, or fail to recognise its
consequences. She had mistaken pleased and excited fancy and flattered
vanity for love once, but this was nothing of the kind. She knew this
was true love, because she thought of _him_, not of herself; because
she did not hope, but feared he loved her. How would she have listened
to such an avowal from Miles's lips as that which, made by Lord
Ticehurst, had produced mere contempt, and a desire to get rid of it
and him as quickly as possible? Gertrude had accepted her position in
such perfect good faith, that its difficulties never presented
themselves in a practical form at all; and she pondered this matter
now in her heart, as if she were really the free unmarried girl
she seemed to the world. If he should come to her and tell her a
love-tale, what should she say to him? She had asked herself the
question many times and had not found the answer, when, raising her
eyes at the sound of steps, she met those of Miles Challoner, and saw
in them what he had come to say.

There was manifest embarrassment on both sides, and each was
distinctly conscious of its cause. Why could they not meet to-day as
they had met so often before? Why were the ordinary commonplaces so
hard to think of and so incoherently said? Gertrude was the first to
recover her composure. She asked Miles if Lord Sandilands had come
with him, and on his saying he had, and was then in the house, she
turned in that direction, and said something about going in to see
him. But Miles checked her steps by standing still.

"Don't go into the house," he said; "he does not expect you. Let us
walk this way; let me speak to you." She glanced at him, and silently
complied. She knew it all now, and she began to feel what it was that
she must say, and what it would cost her to say it. She felt his eyes
upon her, and the delicate colour faded away from her face.

Neither she nor Miles Challoner could have told afterwards, or even
exactly recalled in their thoughts, the words then spoken between
them. He told her how he had loved her from the first--he who had
never loved before--and how fear and hope had alternated in his heart
until now, when hope was the stronger, and he had determined to tell
her how all his happiness, all his life, was in her hands. He spoke
with the frank manliness of his nature, and Gertrude's heart thrilled
as she listened to him with intense pain, with keen delight. At least
he loved her well and worthily; nothing could deprive her of that
exquisite knowledge. She would, she must, put away the wine of life
offered to her parched lips, but she knew its sweetness, had seen the
splendour and the sparkle of it.

A thousand thoughts, innumerable emotions, crowded upon her, as she
listened to the words of Miles; but when he prayed her to speak and
let him know his fate, prayed her with eagerness and passion, but with
hope that was almost confidence, then she put them all down with her
strong will, and addressed herself to her task. She drew the hand
which he had taken away from his hold, and told him in one short
sentence that she could not give him the answer he desired.

"You cannot, Grace? You refuse me!" he said hoarsely. "You tell me,
then, that I have deceived myself?"

"No," she said, "I do not. Let us sit here awhile"--she seated herself
on a bench under a lime-tree as she spoke--"and let me speak frankly
and freely to you, as you deserve."

Miles obeyed her with bewilderment. What was she going to say? She
would not marry him, and yet he had not deceived himself! She was
deadly pale, and he might have heard the beating of her heart; but she
was quite firm, and she turned her steady eyes upon him unfalteringly.

"There is only one thing you can say to me," he said, "if you
persevere in forbidding me to hope--that is, to send me out of your
sight for ever."

"Perhaps," was her reply; "but listen. I have said you don't deceive
yourself, and I mean it. I know you love me; I know what perfect
sincerity there is in you--hush! let me speak--and I--I do love
you--you have not mistaken me, I have not misled you."

"Then what does anything else matter?" said Miles, and he caught her
hands and kissed them unresisted, unrebuked. "With that assurance,
Grace, surely you will not refuse me?"

"I must," she answered. "Have patience with me. I will tell you why.
It is for your own sake."

"My own sake!" he exclaimed passionately; "you deprive me of all hope
and happiness for my own sake! I shall need patience indeed to
understand that."

"It is true, nevertheless. I could not many you, Miles Challoner,
without doing you a great injury; and I love you too well, much more
and better than myself, to do that. Take that assurance, and believe
that nothing can shake my determination. My fate is decided, my way of
life is quite fixed. I shall never be your wife, never, never,
never!"--his face was hidden in his hands, he did not see the
suffering which broke all control and showed itself plainly in her
every feature--"but I shall never love you less, or anyone but you."
The low distinct tones of her voice thrilled him with a horrid sense
of hopelessness. She spoke as one who had taken an irrevocable
resolution.

"What do you mean?" he said. "You must tell me more than this. What do
you mean by doing me an injury? I protest I have not the faintest
notion of your meaning. It cannot be--" He hesitated, and she took up
his words.

"Because you are a gentleman of old name and a responsible position in
society, and I am a singer, an actress a woman with no name and no
station, you would say. Yes, it is precisely for this cause, which you
think impossible. I know you don't regard any of these things, but the
world does; and the man I love shall never be censured by the world
for me."

How well it was, she thought, how fortunate, that such a real genuine
difficulty did exist; that she could give some explanation which he
might be induced to receive.

"Then you would make me wretched for the sake of the world, even if
what you say of my position and your own were true? And it is not. Is
your genius nothing? Is your fame nothing? I speak now as reasonably
as yourself; not as a man who holds you peerless, far removed above
all the world, but as one discussing a question open to argument. What
am I in comparison to the men who would be proud to offer you rank and
wealth? What have I to give you that others could not give a
thousandfold?"

"You give me all I value, all I care for," she said; "but I must not
take it. You must not, you shall not, deceive yourself. My genius, as
you call it, my fame, are real things in their way and in their
sphere, but they are not of any account in yours. Ask your friend Lord
Sandilands; he is a kind friend to me also, and a man who knows the
world thoroughly; and he will tell you I am right."

"No, he won't!" said Miles triumphantly, "No, he won't! He will tell
_you_, on the contrary, that you are quite wrong; he will tell you
that he knows I love you, and have dared to hope, to believe that you
love me. He will tell you that I have told him what is my dearest
hope, and that he shares it; and more, Grace, more than that, he will
tell you that he came here with me to-day on purpose that I might
learn my fate, and be no longer in suspense; and that he is on duty at
this moment, keeping the old ladies in talk, just to give me this
precious opportunity. Now, where are all your arguments? where are my
wise friends? where is this terrible world to whom we are to be
sacrificed? You have nothing more to say, Grace; your 'never, never,
never!' cannot hurt me any more."

For one brief moment he triumphed. For one moment his arm was around
her, and his lips, were pressed to hers. But the next she had started
from his embrace, and stood pale and breathless before him.

"Is this really true?" she said; "does Lord Sandilands approve?" She
asked him only to gain a moment's time for thought; she was terribly
disconcerted by this complication, it increased her difficulties
immensely. But Miles saw in the question only a symptom of yielding,
only a proof of his victory.

"Yes; yes," he said eagerly, "it is true; it is indeed! He is the only
real friend I have in the world; the only man whose opinion I care
for, and he is on my side. Now, Grace, you must yield; you cannot
refuse me."

 She stood for a moment motionless and silent. Then her nerves;
generally so strong, so completely under control, gave way. The
violence of the struggle, the intensity of the pain she was suffering,
that overwhelming remembrance of the past, the agonising sense of what
might have been, but was now quite impossible, the feebleness of the
only weapon which she could venture to use in this battle in which her
own heart was her adversary,--all these overcame her, and she sunk
upon the bench in a helpless agony of tears.

Terrified by her distress; Miles Challoner knelt before her, and
implored her to explain the cause of this sudden grief. But all his
prayers were vain. She wept convulsively for many minutes and was
literally unable to speak. When at last she conquered the passion of
tears, she felt and looked so very ill that he became alarmed on a
fresh score.

"You are ill," he said; "shall I go for Mrs. Bloxam? Shall I take you
to the house?"

She made a sign with her hand that he should not speak, then leaned
her head against the bench, and closed her eyes. He stood by, awkward
and silent, watching her. After a little while she sat up, and said
faintly:

"Will you leave me? Go away from me for the present--I am ill; but it
is only from agitation. Let me be alone for a while; you shall see me
again when I am able."

"Of course I will leave you, if you wish it," said Miles, with all the
timidity and embarrassment of a man in the presence of feminine
weakness and suffering; "but I am afraid you are not fit to be left
alone."

"I am indeed," she urged, and her face grew whiter as she spoke; "I
shall recover myself, if I am left alone. Don't fear for me. Go to the
house, and do not say you have seen me. Go by the lime-walk into the
avenue; I will go by the garden. No one will see me; and if I can get
to my room and lie down for a little, I shall be quite well. Pray,
pray go."

She put her hands before her face, and Miles saw a quick shudder pass
over her from head to foot. He was afraid to go, afraid to stay; at
length he obeyed her, and took the way towards the house which she had
indicated, feeling bewildered and alarmed.

When Miles Challoner reëntered the drawing-room at Hardriggs he found
Lord Sandilands still there, held in durance by Lady Belwether and
Mrs. Bloxam. Lord Sandilands had found his hostess immovable, and no
other afternoon callers had had the kindness to come and partially
release him. Mrs. Bloxam kept her eyes and her fingers steadily and
unremittingly engaged with her fancy-work, and Lady Belwether
persisted in discoursing on music and religion. With his accustomed
philosophy Lord Sandilands accepted the situation, consoling himself
by the reflection that a day or two could not make any difference in
what he had to say to Mrs. Bloxam, and that the chief object of his
present exertions had at least been secured, for he entertained a
satisfactory conviction that Miles and Gertrude had met "somewhere
about." Miles returned too soon, in one sense, for the old gentleman's
wishes; he would rather have found him utterly oblivious of time; in
that case, and if no consideration of anybody's convenience had
occurred to Miles, Lord Sandilands would have felt confidence in the
prospering of the suit. But Miles came in looking as little like a
successful and happy lover as he could look, and Lord Sandilands
perceived in an instant that things had gone wrong. He did not give
Miles time to speak before he rose, and saying, "You have clear ideas
of time, Miles; we ought to be back before now.--Business, Lady
Belwether, business--you don't understand its claims, happily for
you.--Goodbye, Mrs. Bloxam; tell Miss Lambert I am sorry not to
have seen her;" he got himself and his melancholy, and indeed
frightened-looking, companion out of the room and out of the house.

"Now tell me all about it," said Lord Sandilands to Miles when they
were in the carriage; "what has happened? You have seen her, of
course?"

"Yes," said Miles ruefully, and then with much embarrassment he told
Lord Sandilands what had occurred.

The narrative perplexed and distressed the listener. He understood
Gertrude's feelings up to a certain point, but no farther; he could
not understand why Miles's representations of his advocacy of his suit
had had no effect in moderating her apprehensions of the world's view
of such a marriage. He could say little or nothing to console Miles,
but he told him he did not regard Miss Lambert's decision as final, or
the nervous attack which had so alarmed him as of any import.

"I will see her, and have it out with her," said Lord Sandilands to
himself; "and if it is necessary for her happiness's sake and that of
Miles, I will tell her the truth."



END OF THE SECOND BOOK.



BOOK THE THIRD.



CHAPTER I.
Ægrotat Animo.


Miss Grace Lambert had made herself so popular at Hardriggs, had so
ingratiated herself with all staying in that hospitable mansion that
the news, duly conveyed to the breakfast-table by Mrs. Bloxam on the
morning after Miles Challoner's visit, that she was too unwell to
leave her room, threw a considerable damp over the Company assembled.
Old Sir Giles, who had been very much impressed by Gertrude's quiet
manner and cheerful spirits since she had been staying in the
house--who had been perfectly astonished at the discovery that, though
an opera-singer and a great public favourite, she had, as he phrased
it, "no d--d nonsense about her"--was the first to break out into
loudly-expressed lamentation, mingled with suggestions of sending off
at once to Hastings for medical advice, or telegraphing to London with
the same object. Lady Belwether was distressed beyond measure; the
idea of anyone so charming, anyone capable of yielding such exquisite
delight, suffering from pain or sickness seemed to be something quite
beyond the old lady's ken. She was at Gertrude's bedside within five
minutes after she had heard of her young friend's indisposition, and
was shocked at the swollen eyelids and pallid drawn face of her idol.
The Dean, too, received the news with great regret: he had experienced
much pleasure in Miss Lambert's society. The very fact of her position
had had its secret charm; there was something specially pleasant in
being brought into daily communion with one whose status in life was
considered equivocal, but whose conduct was unexceptionable, and, if
occasion required, would bear any amount of scrutiny. All great men
have their enemies; the Dean was not without his. The _odium
theologicum_, than which there is nothing stronger, had made him its
butt on various occasions, and many of his clerical brethren had
poured out the vials of their wrath, through the medium of the Church
journals to which they contributed, on his devoted head. The Dean had
hitherto never replied to any of these attacks; but he had thought
more than once, as he sat nursing his knee and looking out through the
bay-window of the library at Hardriggs, that he should be by no means
sorry if the contemporaneous visit of Miss Lambert and himself were
made the subject of attack; and he had planned out a very brilliant
and taking letter in reply--a letter abounding in charity and in
quotations from the Fathers, Pollok's _Course of Time_, and the
_Christian Year_. The Dean expressed to Lady Belwether that, charming
as her guests were in the aggregate, Miss Lambert's secession would
leave among them a blank, a _hiatus_, which was not merely _valde
deflendus_, but which, in point of fact, it would be impossible to
fill up; and the old lady, though she did not understand Latin,
comprehended the general nature of the remark, and found in it new
cause for self-gratulation, and fresh weapons of defence against the
insidious attacks of Martha and the Reverend Tophet. There were, it is
true, certain people staying at Hardriggs who seemed to take it as a
grievance that any "person in Miss Lambert's position," as they were
good enough to call it, should be taken ill at all; but they were in a
decided minority, and most of them were very much ashamed of the
opinion they had held when they found the Dean of Burwash taking the
young lady's indisposition so much to heart.

Had any one of them the slightest suspicion of the real cause of
Gertrude's ailment? Not one. Would any one of them have given credence
for a moment, if they had been told, that on the previous day the girl
had refused the proffered hands of two men, one of them an earl, the
other a wealthy commoner? Not one. "Such things are all very well in
books, my dear," Lady Belwether would have told you, adding from
memory a list of ennobled actresses who had all done honour to the
position in life to which they had been raised; but the chances came
but seldom, and were always taken advantage of by those to whom they
were offered. What would have been the effect on the host and hostess,
and on the rest of their company, if it had become known that Lord
Ticehurst had made Miss Lambert an offer, it would be impossible to
say. They would have wondered at him, they would have wondered much
more at her, and they would have professed to pity, and probably have
cordially hated them both. However, that was a secret which of all in
that house was known but to Gertrude alone, and she was not one who
would wittingly let it pass her lips.

She was ill; she had a perfect right to say so, and was not uttering
the slightest falsehood in the assertion. That dreadful sinking of the
heart, that utter prostration, that deep, dead blankness of spirits,
that hopelessness, that refusal to be comforted--if this did not
constitute illness, what did? He _did_ love her, then? She had known
it long, but what bliss it was to hear him avow it! Should she ever
lose the remembrance of him as he stood before her--the light in his
eye, the _pose_ of his head, the tone of his voice? True? She would
stake her life on that man's truth. What a difference between his
diffident earnestness and the theatrical swagger with which Gilbert
Lloyd asked her the same question--ah, how many years ago! Lord
Ticehurst, too,--she had almost forgotten his visit and its purport,
so overshadowed was it by the importance of the affair which
immediately succeeded it,--Lord Ticehurst--he was, in his way,
considerate and kindly--meant to be all courteous and all honest; she
hoped her manner to him had not been brusque or abrupt. Countess of
Ticehurst, eh?--rank, wealth, station. For an instant a hard, cold,
proud look, which had been a stranger to her face of late, flitted
across her features, and then faded away. No! Those might have had
their allurements when she first learned Gilbert Lloyd's
worthlessness, and recommenced her life, scorning to yield, and merely
looking on all human weaknesses as stepping-stones for her
advancement. She had learned better things than that now. Miles! Could
it be possible that but a comparatively short time ago he had been
supremely indifferent to her? that she had looked on and seen the love
for her growing in his heart, without a dream of ever reciprocating
it? And now--Refused him! she could have done nothing else. And for
his own sake--as she had told him, but as he seemed unable to
comprehend,--for his own sake. For the love of such a man as Miles
Challoner she would have risked everything, in the first appreciation
of such a sentiment so fresh and novel to her in all her experience of
life--and that experience had been singular and not small; to be the
recipient of such a passion as that man proffered and laid at her
feet, she would have let her dead past bury its dead; forgotten,
buried, stamped down out of all chance of resurrection the events of
her early life--her marriage, her separation from her husband The
compact made  between her and Gilbert Lloyd should have been more than
ever religiously fulfilled. That she held that husband at her mercy
she knew perfectly well: only once had he ventured to question her
power that evening at Mrs. Burge's reception, and his conduct then had
given her ample proof of the impossibility of his resistance to her
will. She had nothing to fear from him; and she knew him well enough
to be certain that he had kept that secret at least locked in his own
breast. But Miles? No! she had done rightly; even if her appreciation
of Miles Challoner's warm admiration and generous regard had not grown
and deepened into a feeling, the strength of which forbade her
striving against it, and which she knew and confessed to herself to be
love, she would have rebelled against any attempt to hoodwink or
deceive that loyal-hearted gentleman. But now the attempt had been
treachery of the basest kind. She loved him--loved him wildly,
passionately, and yet with an intermingled reverence and respect such
as her girlish fancy had never dreamed of; and she had refused him,
had told him--not indeed calmly or quietly, for once her self-control
had failed her, but with earnestness and decision--that her fate was
decided, her way of life quite fixed, and that she could never be his
wife! Ah, if they could have known all, those good people downstairs,
they would scarcely have wondered at Miss Lambert's indisposition.
They ascribed her illness to over-exertion, over-excitement, the
reaction after the feverish professional life of the past few months.
A little rest, they said to each other, would "bring her round." A
little rest! Something more than a little rest is required, as they
would have allowed, could they have seen what no one, not even Mrs.
Bloxam, saw,--the favourite of the public with dishevelled hair and
streaming eyes stretched prone upon her pillow, and sobbing as though
her heart would break!

Miss Grace Lambert's illness or indisposition, thus evoking the
compassion of the company staying at Hardriggs, was, whatever the
company might have thought about it, known to herself to spring purely
from mental distress. The same _teterrima causa_ acted on Lord
Sandilands, but brought about a different physical result. On the
morning after Miles had communicated the result of his interview with
Gertrude the old nobleman awoke with a return of the symptoms which
had previously alarmed him so much increased that he felt it necessary
to send for a local practitioner, by whose report he would be guided
as to the expediency of summoning his own ordinary physician from
London.

Hastings is so essentially a resort of invalids, that the faculty is
to be found there in every variety. Allopathy, seated far back in its
brougham, looks sedately and smugly at the saunterers on the
promenade; while Homoeopathy, thinking to assume a virtue even if it
have it not, and to wear the livery of medicine though scorned by
regular practitioners, whirls by, black-clothed and white-chokered, in
its open four-wheeler. Nor are there wanting the followers of even
less generally received science. On that charming slope, midway
between Hastings and St. Leonards, where a scrap of green struggles to
put in an arid appearance amidst the vast masses of rock and sand,
Herr Douss, the favourite pupil of Priessnitz (what a large-hearted
fellow he must have been, to judge by the number of his favourite
pupils!), opened a water-cure establishment, to which, for financial
reasons, he has recently added the attractions of a Turkish bath, and
invariably has a houseful of damp hypochondriacs. And in the immediate
neighbourhood is there not the sanatorium of the celebrated Mr. Crux?
a gentleman who has discovered the secret that no mortal ailment can
withstand being rubbed in a peculiar manner, and who shampoos you, and
rubs you, and pulls your joints, and pommels you all over until you
become a miracle of youth and freshness, to which the renovated Æson
could not be compared.

It is not for an instant to be supposed that any of this unlicensed
band were allowed to work their will on the person of Lord Sandilands.
The old gentleman was far too careful of his health to quit the
immediate precincts of his private physician without being relegated
to someone to whom that physician had knowledge, and in whom he had
trust. Sir Charles Dumfunk, of Harley-street, habitually attended Lord
Sandilands, and was liked by his lordship as a friend as well as
esteemed as a physician. A very courtly old gentleman was Sir Charles,
one who for years had been honorary physician to the Grand
Scandinavian Opera, and had written more medical certificates for
sulky singers and dancers than any other member of his craft. In his
capacity of fashionable physician--the lungs and throat were supposed
to be his speciality--Sir Charles Dumfunk had the power of bidding
many of his patients to quit their usual pursuits, and devote
themselves to the restoration of their health in a softer climate. The
ultra-fashionables were generally sent to Nice, Cannes, or Mentone;
"it little matters," the old gentleman used to remark; "they will
carry Belgrave-square and its manners and customs with them wherever
they go." _Nouveaux riches_ were despatched to Madeira, energetic
patients to Algiers, while mild cases were permitted to pass their
winter at Hastings. At each one of these places the leading physician
was Sir Charles Dumfunk's friend. Little Dr. Bede, of St. Leonards,
swore by the great London Galen, who invariably sent him a score of
patients during the winter, and was as good to him as a couple of
hundred a-year. Lord Sandilands had come down armed with a letter of
introduction to Dr. Bede, and had sent it on by his servant,
accompanied by a brace of partridges from the Belwether estate,
very soon after his arrival. Dr. Bede had acknowledged the receipt
of letter and birds in a very neat little note, had looked-up
Lord Sandilands in the _Peerage_--the only lay book in his medical
library--and had left his card at his lordship's lodgings.
Consequently, when, the morning after Miles's _fiasco_ at Hardriggs,
Dr. Bede was summoned to come to Lord Sandilands at once, physician
and patient knew as much about each other as, failing a personal
interview, was possible.

Symptoms detailed, examination made, Dr. Bede--a very precise and
methodical little gentleman, with a singularly neatly-tied black
neckerchief, towards which the eye of every patient was infallibly
attracted, and a curiously stony and expressionless blue eye of his
own, out of which nothing could ever be gleaned,--Dr. Bede, tightly
buttoned to the throat in his little black surtout, gives it as his
decided opinion that it is gout, "and not a doubt about it." Lord
Sandilands, really half-gratified that he is literally laid by the
heels by an aristocratic and gentlemanly complaint, combats the
notion--no hereditary predisposition, no previous symptoms. Dr. Bede
is firm and Lord Sandilands is convinced. An affair of time, of
course; an affair very much at the patient's own will; entire
abstinence from this and that and the other, and very little of
anything else; perfect quiet and rest of mind and body--of mind quite
as much as body--repeats the little doctor, with a would-be sharp
glance at the patient, whose mental worry shows itself in a thousand
little ways, all of which are patent to the sharp-eyed practitioner.
Lord Sandilands promises obedience with a half laugh; he is very much
obliged to Dr. Bede, he has thorough confidence in his comprehension
and treatment of the case; there is no need to send to town for
Dumfunk? Dr. Bede, with confidence dashed with humility, thinks
not--of course it is for his lordship to decide; but he, Dr. Bede, has
not the smallest fear, provided his instructions are strictly obeyed;
and he is quite aware of the value of the charge Sir Charles Dumfunk
has confided to him. So far all is arranged. The doctor will look in
every day, and his lordship promises strict compliance with his
instructions.

So far all is arranged; but when the doctor is fairly gone, and the
door is shut, and Lord Sandilands has heard the sound of the wheels of
the professional brougham, low on the sand and loud on the stones,
echo away, the old gentleman is fain to admit--first to himself,
secondly to Miles, whom he summons immediately--that it is impossible
for him to keep his word so far as being mentally quiet is concerned.

"If I'm to be clapped down on this particularly slippery chintz sofa,
my dear boy," said he, "I must accept the fiat. It might be better,
but it might be much worse. I can hear the pleasant plashing of the
sea, which, though a little melancholy, is deuced musical; and I can
see the boats floating away in the distance; and I have every
opportunity of making myself acquainted with the hideousness of the
prevailing fashion in female dress; and, if I'm feeling too happy,
there's safe to arrive a German band, and murder some of my favourite
_morceaux_ in a manner which reminds me that, like that king of
Thingummy, I am mortal, begad! But it's no use for that little
medico--polite, pleasant little person in his way, too--no use for
that little medico to tell me to keep my mind perfectly quiet, and not
to excite myself about anything. What a ridiculous thing for a man to
prescribe! as though we hadn't all of us always something to worry
ourselves about!"

Miles Challoner was, as times go, a wonderful specimen of a selfless
man. He had temporarily laid aside his own trouble on finding that his
old friend was really ill, and it was in genuine good faith that he
said:

"Why, what in the world have you to worry you now, old friend? What
should prevent your keeping rigidly to that mental repose which Dr.
Bede says is so essential to your well-doing?"

"What have I got to worry me? What is likely to prove antipathic to my
being quiet?" asked Lord Sandilands in petulant querulous tones.
"'Gad, when it man's old it's imagined that he has no care, no
interest but in himself! You ought to know me better, Miles; 'pon my
soul you ought!"

"I do know all your goodness, and--"

"No, no! Goodness and stuff! Do you or do you not know the interest I
take in you? You do? Good! Then is it likely I could allow affairs to
remain as they are between you and Miss Lambert without worrying
myself about them? without trying my poor _possible_ to bring them
right?"

"My dear old friend--"

"Yes, yes! your dear old friend; that's all very well; you treat me
like a child, Miles. I know you mean it kindly; but I've been
accustomed to act and think for myself for so long that I can't throw
off the habit even now, when that dapper little fellow tells me I
ought; and I must at once go into this business of Grace Lambert's. I
have my own ideas on that matter, and I won't at all regard her
decision as final, notwithstanding your solemn face and manner. Now,
look here, my dear boy, it's of no use lifting up that warning finger;
if you cross my wishes I shall become infinitely worse, and less
bearable. I've always heard that gout is a disease in which, above all
others, the patient must be humoured. I must see--There! you're
jumping up at once--and quite enough to give me a sharp attack--simply
because you thought I was going to name your divinity. Wasn't it so? I
thought as much. Nothing of the sort; I was about to say that I must
see Mrs. Bloxam at once. I have some very special business to talk
over with her, and I should be much obliged if you, Miles, would take
a fly and go over at once to Hardriggs and bring Mrs. Bloxam back with
you."

"I?--go over to Hardriggs after--"

"Go over to Hardriggs! And why not? I'm sure you could not complain of
your reception by Sir Giles and Lady Belwether; they have been most
cordially polite to you on every occasion of your visiting them, and
they are the host and hostess at Hardriggs, I believe. Besides, I ask
you to do me a special favour, in doing which you need expose yourself
to no disagreeables, even to seeing anyone whom you would rather not
see."

"You are quite right, and I will be off at once."

"That's spoken like my dear good fellow! Goodbye, Miles, goodbye!--If
he does come across her in the house or the grounds?" said the old
gentleman, as the door closed behind his _protégé_. "Well, you never
can tell; it might have been whim, a mere passing caprice, in which
case she might be perfectly ready to revoke to-day; and no harm could
be done by his meeting her again. Or it might be something more
serious--is something more serious probably, for Gertrude is a girl
with plenty of resolution and firm will. At any rate, I'm right in
having Mrs. Bloxam here to talk it over, and I think I shall hold to
the programme which I have already arranged in my mind."


The Hastings fly, drawn by the flea-bitten gray horse, which conveyed
Miles Challoner to Hardriggs, went anything but gaily over the dusty,
hilly road. The driver, a sullen young man, with dreary views of life,
saw at a glance that his fare was in an abstracted frame of mind, and
looked anything but likely to pay for extra speed. So he sat on his
box, driving the usual half-crown-an-hour rate, giving the flea-bitten
gray an occasional chuck with the reins, producing a corresponding
"job" from the bit, and occupying himself now by fitting a new end to
his whip-lash, now by humming dolorous ditties in the hardest Sussex
twang, with a particularly painful and constantly recurring
development of the letter "r." Miles sat leaning back in the carriage,
his hat thrust over his eyes, his hands plunged deep in his pockets.
He was buried in thought of no pleasant kind, and neither heard nor
heeded the chaff of the passers-by, which was loud and frequent. The
first portion of the way to Hardriggs lies along the Fairlight-road,
and numerous parties of cheerful Cockneys, in vehicles and on foot, on
their way to the romantic Lover's Seat, and the waterfall where there
is no water, and the pretty glen, passed the carriage containing the
moody young man, and commented openly on its occupant. "He don't look
like a pleasurer, he don't!" was a remark that gained immediate
sympathy; while a more comic suggestion that "he looked as if he'd
lost a fourpenny-piece," was received with tumultuous applause.
Neither style of comment had the least effect on Miles Challoner, who
remained chewing the cud of his own reflections until the stopping of
the fly at the outer gate of Hardriggs Park reminded him of having
seen Lord Ticehurst driving through that gate on the occasion of his
visit on the previous day. Suddenly it flashed across him that the
young nobleman's manner had been specially odd and remarkable. Could
it have been that--and yet the expression of Lord Ticehurst's face was
chapfallen and disconsolate, anything but that of a successful suitor.
All the world had said, during the past season, that his lordship had
been very strongly _épris_ of Miss Lambert, he had paid her constant
attention, and-- That could have had no influence on her decision of
yesterday; she could never have listened to Lord Ticehurst's
protestations, even if he had made any such, or he would not have gone
away in so melancholy and depressed a state. Besides, had not Grace
told him that she loved him, Miles--that he was not mistaken in
her--that she had not misled him? And yet she would not marry him? Ah,
there must be some mistake, something which could be explained away?
Lord Sandilands had evidently felt that when he had asked him to come
over with this message to Mrs. Bloxam. He would see Miss Lambert--not
asking for her directly, that would be too marked, but taking an
opportunity of chancing on her, and--well, after all, the dearest
object of his life might be obtained.

They were pleased to see the good-looking young man at Hardriggs, as
he descended from the fly and joined the pre-luncheon croquet-party
on the lawn. He had been there very recently, it is true; but
good-looking young men are always welcome in country-houses, where
indeed a fresh face, a fresh voice, a few fresh ideas, are priceless.
Miles threw a hurried glance over the croquet-players. Miss Lambert
was not amongst them. They were all young people, who, after the first
greeting, returned to their game and its necessary accompaniment of
flirtation. But Dean Asprey was seated under a "wide-spreading
beech-tree," reading the _Times_, and he rose as he saw Miles
approach, dropped the paper, and went to meet him. As the Dean
approached, Miles could not help noticing his aristocratic appearance;
could scarcely help smiling at the wonderful way in which the tailor
had combined the fashionable and clerical element in his dress.

"How do you do, my dear Mr. Challoner?" said Dean Asprey, in those
bland mellifluous tones which had won so many hearts. "So delighted to
see you here again! With only one fear tempering my pleasure, and that
is that--believing you to be alone? yes, that is so?--the fear that my
dear old friend Lord Sandilands is indisposed? Say I'm wrong, and set
my fears at rest!"

"I would gladly, Mr. Dean; but I cannot. Lord Sandilands has a sharp
attack of the gout."

"Of the gout? Well, well, I can recollect John Borlase these--ah, no
matter how many years; too many to trouble to recollect--and the gout
was the last complaint one would have ascribed to him."

"Well, he has it tow, without a doubt. Dr. Bede of St. Leonards has
seen him, and pronounced definitely in the matter. I have come over to
ask Mrs. Bloxam, who is a very old friend of his, to go and see him."

"Ay, ay, indeed! Mrs. Bloxam--a very charming and estimable person, by
the way, and apparently well versed in many questions which, for
females at least, would be considered abstruse--Mrs. Bloxam is in
great request just now. Her young charge Miss Lambert is also ill,
and--"

"Miss Lambert ill!" cried Miles; "what is the matter?"

"O, nothing of any consequence, I believe," replied the Dean.
("Charmingly ingenuous the youth of the present day," he said to
himself: "he has at once revealed the reason of his coming over here
again so soon, without having the smallest idea that he has done so.")
"Nothing of any consequence; a trifling indisposition, a _migraine_, a
_nichts_, which in anyone else would be thought nothing of, but which
in Miss Lambert is naturally regarded with special interest. You know
her, of course. I mean know to appreciate her, rather than know in the
mere ordinary sense of acquaintance?"

"I--I--yes, O yes! I've had, the pleasure of seeing Miss Lambert
frequently in town, and think her--of course, most charming--You're
sure there's nothing serious the matter with her, because Lord
Sandilands, don't you know, is such an old friend of hers, and takes
such interest, that--"

"I know that perfectly, and would not dream of deceiving you for an
instant. Some of us, I know, are suspected of doing evil that good may
come," said the Dean, with a specially sweet smile; "but it is a very
dangerous doctrine, which I have always held in abhorrence. I see a
servant passing the end of the lawn, and I suppose I may be considered
sufficiently at home here to venture to give an order.--- James, would
you be good enough to let Mrs. Bloxam know that Mr. Challoner is here,
and would gladly speak with her? Thank you, very much.--And now, my
dear Mr. Challoner, to return to our very interesting conversation.
What were we talking about?"

"You were mentioning that Miss Lambert was ill, and--"

"Ay, to be sure, Miss Lambert! What a charming girl! what grace and
beauty! what amiability! what unaffected-- And you have known her for
some time? I can well understand her creating a great sensation in
London. Such a mixture of beauty and talent is very rare, and
naturally very impressive. What says Dryden?--

     'Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit,
       The power of beauty I remember yet.'

What a charming couplet, is it not? And so, as you were saying, Miss
Lambert is a great success in London society?"

"Rather as you were saying, Mr. Dean," said Miles, with a feeble
attempt at a smile,--he knew he should not see Gertrude, and the
conversation was beginning to bore him,--"though I can cordially
indorse the remark. Miss Lambert made a complete conquest of everyone
she met, including Lady Belwether, who is hastening towards us.--How
do you do, Lady Belwether? I'm sorry to learn I have left one sick
friend to come to another."

"Our dear Grace is certainly better, my dear Mr. Challoner.--Dean, you
will be glad to hear that.--Fancy my position, Mr. Challoner; the
responsibility of having anyone like that in one's care, on whom so
much might be said to hang, you know. Sir Giles was for telegraphing
off at once to London for advice, but Grace would not have it. And she
has proved to be right, as she always is, dear creature! She is much
better, and she heard the message you brought, Mr. Challoner, about
Mrs. Bloxam, and has not raised the least objection to her going.
Indeed, so like her, sweet thing! she seems to have forgotten herself
in anxiety about Lord Sandilands."

"I suppose, Lady Belwether, that there is not much chance of my seeing
Miss Lambert?"

"Seeing her? To-day? My dear sir, not the remotest chance in the
world. I strictly forbade her thinking of leaving her room to-day; and
when Mrs. Bloxam has gone away with you, I shall take her place at
Grace's side.--You think I'm right, Dean? The importance of such a
case as this is--Exactly, I knew you'd agree with me. What do you
think Lady Hawksley said when she heard the darling was ill?"

"Knowing Lady Hawksley," said the Dean, again with his pleasant smile,
"the field of speculation is too vast for me to attempt to enter on
it. What did her ladyship remark?"

"She said it must be a horrid bore for me; and what would Miss Lambert
have done if she had been taken ill in the season, when she was
singing. Did you ever hear such horrible things? But I told her that
if Miss Lambert had been taken ill in town she would have had
everybody's sympathy, from the Queen downwards; which is more than can
be said of some people, I could not help adding."

As the old lady finished speaking, Mrs. Bloxam appeared, and very
shortly afterwards she and Miles took their leave, and started off for
Hastings in the fly. Miles had rather looked forward to this drive in
Mrs. Bloxam's company. The thought of it had afforded him some little
consolation when he found that there was no chance of his seeing
Grace. In default of the presence of the adored one it is the lover's
greatest delight to find someone who will either talk about her, or
will listen to his outspoken raptures. Miles thought that in Mrs.
Bloxam he might possibly find both these virtues combined; and
accordingly they had scarcely cleared the gates of the Hardriggs
avenue before he began to ply his companion with a series of questions
concerning Miss Lambert. These questions were artfully framed, and a
less worldly-wise woman than Mrs. Bloxam might have been deceived as
to their purport. But that worthy lady was not merely always perfectly
cute and observant, but on this particular occasion she was, if
possible, more than ever on her guard. Although during the previous
day her fingers had been unremittingly engaged on her "fancy-work"
during the entire period of Lord Sandilands' visit, her eyes had
strayed now and then to the large looking-glass close by her, which
reflected a window and a part of the garden beyond, leading to the
lime-walk. In that looking-glass Mrs. Bloxam had seen her charge and
Miles Challoner walking together, talking earnestly, and through the
same medium Mrs. Bloxam had seen each of them return separately, and
ill at ease. The ex-school-mistress had all her life been in the habit
of putting two and two together, and arriving at the result with
commendable quickness and accuracy, and her perspicacity did not fail
her now. She felt certain that Miles had proposed, and that Gertrude
had refused him, though she loved him; equally certain that Lord
Sandilands was aware of a portion--she couldn't tell how much--of the
real state of affairs, and that he had sent for her with the intention
of discussing them with her; and Mrs. Bloxam very much deprecated the
idea of any such discussion. She did not know where it might end, or
what it might lead to; and there were passages in the life of her
quondam pupil which Mrs. Bloxam had not thought it necessary to dilate
upon, or indeed to introduce to Lord Sandilands' notice; and
circumstances might render the further suppression of those passages
impossible.

So Mrs. Bloxam sat back in the fly and answered all Miles Challoner's
questions in monosyllables, and was glad when, finding it impossible
to extract anything from his companion, the young man lapsed into
silence and left her to her own reflections, occupying himself with
his. Neither were roseate-hued. The hope which had sprung up in
Miles's breast as he journeyed to Hardriggs seemed suddenly to have
paled and faded out--why he knew not. Grace was ill, to be sure, but
the fact of her illness did not account for the sudden change in the
aspect of his fortunes--did not account for that sinking of the heart,
that depression, that _avertissement_ of coming trouble which we have
all of us experienced many times in our lives, and which just then was
settling down in thick black clouds over Miles Challoner. And Mrs.
Bloxam's reflections were sombre and unpleasant. What Mr. Browning
calls "the conscience-prick and the memory-smart" were beginning to
tell upon her; she had lost the power of self-possession, and the
faculty of lying--at least of lying in that superior manner which she
had once possessed--had deserted her.

So they drove along in silence, and the holiday excursionists to
Fairlight had more fun out of them and much openly-expressed chaff,
opining how that "his mother had found him out courtin' the gal, and
had fetched him away;" how that "he'd married the old woman for her
money, and found out his mistake." But when they arrived at
Robertson's-terrace, they found that Lord Sandilands had experienced a
renewal of his attack, and that Dr. Bede had expressed a strong desire
that his patient should be left perfectly quiet and undisturbed. To
this, however, Lord Sandilands would not agree, and, pursuant to his
orders, Mrs. Bloxam was shown to his room immediately after her
arrival.

She found the old nobleman faint and weak, just recovering from a
sharp bout of pain. The sight of her seemed to rouse and please him.
He asked her a few unimportant questions about the people at
Hardriggs, seemed difficult to convince that Gertrude's indisposition
was only of a temporary character, spoke in a manner that was anything
but cheerful or reassuring about his own health, and remained so long
flying round the real matter at his heart, that Mrs. Bloxam began to
think he would never settle on it. At length, when the landlady of the
lodgings had left the room and they were alone, Lord Sandilands said:

"Our acquaintance dates so far back, Mrs. Bloxam, and has been of such
a character, that there need be no reticence on either side."

Mrs. Bloxam winced at his words, and moved uneasily on the chair which
she had taken by the sick man's bedside. But she was sufficient
mistress of herself to bow and utter a few polite commonplaces.

"I could not get an opportunity of speaking to you yesterday,"
continued his lordship; "but I know how generally observant you are,
and I am sure you cannot have failed to remark that my visit to
Hardriggs with my young _protégé_--for so I must regard Mr.
Challoner--was not a mere ceremonious call. There is no need in
disguising from you--if indeed you do not know it already--that he is
desperately in love with Gertrude. It will further tend to place us in
our proper position if I tell you plainly, and without reserve, that
Mr. Challoner yesterday proposed to Gertrude, and--was rejected."

If Mrs. Bloxam had seen all plain-sailing before her it is probable
that she would have professed the liveliest astonishment, the greatest
stupefaction, at this statement. But as she knew that she should have
to wind her course through very doubtful channels, and would require
all her skill to avoid shoals and contest storms, she thought it
better to rely upon Lord Burleigh's plan, and content herself with a
nod.

This nod Lord Sandilands took to mean acquiescence. "You did
comprehend all that?" he asked. "I was only doing justice to the
acuteness which I have always ascribed to you when I imagined such was
the case. Now we come to the more serious part of the question. Why
did Gertrude refuse that young man's offer? Not that she did not, does
not, love him? I'm an old fellow now, but I'm not old enough to have
forgotten entirely that pleasant mute language; and if woman's looks
and woman's ways are the same as they were thirty years since,
Gertrude is decidedly in love with Miles Challoner. You have not had
many opportunities of seeing them together, and therefore cannot judge
so well. But I _know_ it. Why did she reject him, then? Why, ma'am,
because, thank God, she inherits a certain proper pride; and she felt
that she, an unknown woman--unknown so far as family and friends are
concerned, and with a precarious income dependent on her health and
strength--was not going to permit a member of an old county family to
enter into what might be thought a _mésalliance_ for her."

"Very proper," murmured Mrs. Bloxam, having nothing else to say.

"Exactly; very proper, under circumstances. But those circumstances
must be changed; they must be no longer permitted to exist. It must be
my care, Mrs. Bloxam," continued Lord Sandilands, with additional
gravity, "as it is my duty yes, my bounden duty--to endow that young
lady with such means that she can freely and frankly give herself to
the man she loves; without any obligation on either side."

"But to do that, my lord, you must acknowledge your relationship to
Gertrude?"

"I have made up my mind to that already, Mrs. Bloxam," said the old
gentleman; "I have a sort of idea that I sha'n't get over this attack,
and that is a reparation which must be made before I die. O, not that
I'm going to die just now," he added, as he saw her face change; "but
still--"

"Don't you think you should have a nurse, my lord,--someone more
accustomed to illness, and more able to devote herself entirely to
your service, than the landlady here? If I could be of any use--"

"A thousand thanks, Mrs. Bloxam. But I have telegraphed to town for my
housekeeper--ah, I forgot you have not seen her; she has only recently
come to me, but seems a clear-headed, sensible woman--and she will
come down and nurse me. I am a little faint just now, Mrs. Bloxam, and
must ask you to leave me for the present. I will speak again to you on
that subject before you and Gertrude leave Hardriggs."

Mrs. Bloxam left the room with sentiments of a very unpleasant kind.
Lord Sandilands thought it was the want of fortune that induced
Gertrude to refuse Miles Challoner. But what about her relations with
Mr. Gilbert Lloyd, of which his lordship was totally unaware?



CHAPTER II.
Recognition.


The meditations of Mrs. Bloxam as she returned to Hardriggs were not
agreeable. She was exceedingly puzzled as to what her best line of
action would be, in consideration of her own interests, and, indeed,
to do her justice, those of Gertrude. Justice is the more easily done
in this respect, as the two were identical, and not to be separated by
any of the ingenuity which Mrs. Bloxam would no doubt have found for
the occasion, had there been any profit in its employment. The position
was a difficult one, and she was glad of the solitary drive, which
enabled her to lay it all out, like a map, before her mind, and study
it at comparative leisure. The temporary illness of Gertrude was, she
felt, in the present conjuncture of affairs, a point in her favour.
She could not go to Lord Sandilands, and, daring the continuance of
his attack of gout, Lord Sandilands could not go to her. That
they should not meet until a decisive line of action had been
arranged--first by Mrs. Bloxam in her own mind, and then imparted to
and acceded to by Gertrude--was of the last importance; and that was
safe. The revelation of her parentage to Gertrude by Lord Sandilands
would so immediately and radically alter the relations between her and
her noble friend, that it could hardly be practicable to keep the fact
of her marriage concealed from Lord Sandilands. That revealed, the
sequel to the marriage must also be made known; and what view would
the old nobleman be likely to take of the remarkably original
arrangement into which Gilbert Lloyd and Gertrude had entered? Would
he be excessively shocked, and insist at once on its reversal? or
would he regard it as on the whole the best and most sensible
proceeding for two persons, who had discovered their marriage to be an
immeasurable mistake and an incalculable evil, to have given
themselves such redress and relief as the law would have afforded them
only at the cost of much expense and publicity? Mrs. Bloxam
entertained a conviction that the latter view was much the more
probable one to be taken by Lord Sandilands; but, in any case, how
should she stand with him? Not only should she be convicted of having
deceived him, and of gross negligence and breach of trust as regarded
the young girl placed under her care, but she should be proved guilty
of having received money for Gertrude's maintenance and education for
two years after they had ceased to be any concern of hers--after the
girl's husband had undertaken the one, and the world had become the
vehicle of the other. There was a double awkwardness and difficulty in
this part of Mrs. Bloxam's puzzle. It was almost as unpleasant to
admit the fact to Gertrude as to have it stated to herself by Lord
Sandilands. Under no circumstances would it do for her to quarrel with
Gertrude, that was clear. If she ran the risk of contracting another
marriage, the secret of the first would remain in Mrs. Bloxam's
possession, and she would always be in Mrs. Bloxam's power. It must
not be supposed that the woman was altogether heartless and
cold-blooded in making these calculations: she had real affection for
Gertrude at the bottom of them all; but she was of a cool temperament
and businesslike habits, and she thoroughly understood the useful art
of classifying her sentiments, and not permitting one order of them to
interfere with another out of time and place. The position was a
difficult one; and it was the business aspect of it she had to
consider just now. A comfortable home for the remainder of her life, a
reasonable amount of the kind of pleasure and society which she liked,
and a necessity for only the most trifling inroads upon her savings:
such were the blessings to the attainment of which Mrs. Bloxam looked
forward as the legitimate value of her lien upon Gertrude. In the
event of her declining to run the risk of marriage, and remaining on
the stage, Mrs. Bloxam's material interests would be almost as secure;
so that she could afford to consider the matter with tolerable
impartiality. She did not like to face the discussion which must take
place between her and Gertrude, because of the money-transaction
involved in it. Could she avoid acknowledging it, she thought, and
trust to Lord Sandilands, though he must find it out, being too
careless and indifferent to think about it? _That_ would be very nice,
only she had no reason to suppose that Lord Sandilands was by any
means careless or indifferent in money-matters. It was very
unpleasant; but it must be left to right itself somehow; and as for
the other, and greater breach of trust? After all, the girl eloped
from the Vale House; she did not assist or connive at the affair; and
she might excuse herself to Lord Sandilands on the plea of the
readiness and kindness with which she acceded to Gertrude's request
when she proposed to return to her house. What would Gertrude think,
how would she act, when the revelation and the offer should be made to
her? Mrs. Bloxam had not answered any of these questions to her
satisfaction, or dispelled any of these anxieties, when she reached
Hardriggs.

Miss Lambert was better, Lady Belwether was happy to say; she had had
some refreshing sleep, and would no doubt get on nicely now. Mrs.
Bloxam went to the invalid's room, and found Grace awake and looking
very much better. Her face bore traces of mental strife and suffering,
but they had passed over, and she was now quite composed. Mrs. Bloxam
was a judicious woman in everything, and she took care not to agitate
Gertrude.

"Lord Sandilands is very ill," she said, "but not dangerously so; and
he is comfortable enough there, and not badly looked after. But he has
sent for his own housekeeper, which is a good move. It is nothing but
gout; but he is not strong, and he will probably be laid up for some
time."

Gertrude asked some general questions, and Mrs. Bloxam answered them;
and then, settling herself in a comfortable attitude, and keeping
Gertrude's face well in view, she told her that in requesting her to
visit him Lord Sandilands had a particular object in view. The colour
deepened a little on Gertrude's cheek as she inquired its nature.

"I mean to tell you all about it, my dear," said.

Mrs. Bloxam; "but if I am to do so, I must break through the reserve
which I have always maintained--as I think it was best for both of us
I should--and refer not only to your marriage"--Gertrude started--"but
to later circumstances, which render your position difficult. I
suppose I have your permission to speak plainly?"

"Certainly," replied Gertrude. "I am sure you would not, unnecessarily
or without due consideration, say anything to wound my feelings; and I
am prepared to listen to anything you think it right to say."

This was not a cordial speech, but Mrs. Bloxam did not mind that. She
wanted permission to speak, and she had gotten it; the manner of it
was of no consequence. Things had changed since Gertrude had written
the letter which procured her readmittance to the Vale House, but the
natures of the two women had not undergone much alteration, and they
felt only as much more warmly towards each other as prosperity and
success predispose towards general kindliness and complacency.

"You are right," said Mrs. Bloxam; "I would not. You have not told me
any particulars concerning your quarrel with your husband, and I don't
wish to know--I really do not. I am not more free from curiosity, no
doubt, than other people; but I would rather not gratify it in this
instance. There is only one thing that I must know, if you will tell
it to me." She paused, and Gertrude said, looking steadily at her,

"What is it? I may use my discretion about answering your question at
all when I hear it; but if I decide on answering it, be quite sure
that I will tell you the exact truth."

"No, you won't, my dear," said Mrs. Bloxam; "I don't require it. I
want only the vague truth; tell me that. Is the secret of your quarrel
with your husband one which puts him in your power--which secures your
liberty, your right of action, to you under all circumstances--which
makes the carrying out of this daring scheme of yours, this
self-divorce, a matter distinctly of your choice, in which he cannot
thwart or foil you?"

Gertrude's gaze at the speaker did not relax, her eyelids did not
droop, but she took a little time before she answered.

"I will tell you what you ask. The secret of my quarrel with Gilbert
Lloyd is one which puts him in my power. He _must_ do as I choose in
every matter in which I am concerned. I am perfectly free; he is
hopelessly bound. But the agreement between us is mutual I have no
right over him, as he has none over me. I shall never recognise his
existence in any way."

"That you have the power of carrying out that resolution is the only
thing I need to know," said Mrs. Bloxam. "It makes me clear about the
advice I am going to give you. Having this perfect guarantee for his
not venturing to interfere with you, you consider yourself of course
entitled to act as if no such person as your husband were in
existence. Have you any objection to tell me whether you are disposed
to push this right of action to the extent of marrying again--of
marrying Miles Challoner, for instance?"

Mrs. Bloxam shifted her position as she asked this question, laid her
head well back against the cushion of her chair, and did not look a
Gertrude, who took longer to reply than before. When she spoke, the
words came with difficulty.

"You must have some very strong reason for asking me such a question."

"I have, my dear. Mere curiosity, or even anything short of the
necessity which exists for our understanding each other to a certain
extent, would never have induced me to ask it. Will you answer me?"

"Yes," said Gertrude, "I will. I acknowledge no limits to the extent
to which I am disposed to push my right of action. I should marry
without hesitation from motives of ambition; I should marry without
hesitation if the man were any but what he is--_if he were anyone but
Miles Challoner_."

Mrs. Bloxam sat bolt upright, and gazed at Gertrude in irrepressible,
unmixed amazement. "What do you say?" she asked. "Can it be possible
that we are all mistaken? Lord Sandilands and I, and Miles Challoner
himself, for he thinks you love him. I am as certain as I ever was of
any human being's sentiments. Have you been blind to his love, his
devotion to you? What _do_ you mean?"

"I mean this," said Gertrude: "I know that Miles Challoner loves me;
he has told me so; but I knew it before; I have not been blind to his
devotion; and I love him." She paused. The listener's attitude and
expression of uncomprehending astonishment remained unchanged. "I love
him; I know the difference now, and I know that what I once took for
love did not deserve the name. I would not deceive him; I would not
dishonour _him_; I would not involve _him_ in the degradation of my
life,--for the degradation of the past is still upon me--for any joy
the world could give me, not even for that of being his wife."

The passion and earnestness of her speech almost transformed Gertrude.
She surprised Mrs. Bloxam so much, that all her previously-arranged
line of argument escaped her memory, and she could say nothing but
"Gertrude, Gertrude, you _do_ astonish me!"

"Not more than I astonish myself, I assure you; not so much. Before I
knew him I don't think I could even have imagined what it was like to
care more for the peace and happiness of another than for my own. I
have learned what it is like now, and the lesson, in one word, means
love. Go on with what you have to say to me, Mrs. Bloxam, remembering
in it all that I love Miles Challoner, and will never involve him in
any way in my life."

"But this completely upsets what I was going to say to you," said Mrs.
Bloxam; "it changes the whole state of things, but it renders it no
less necessary that you should make up your mind how you will explain
matters to Lord Sandilands."

"To Lord Sandilands?" said Gertrude inquiringly. "What have I to
explain to him, and why?"

"Because he is Miles Challoner's friend and yours; and because he
knows that Miles wants to marry you, and most earnestly desires that
the marriage should take place."

"_He_ desires it! How can that be? How can a man of Lord Sandilands'
rank wish his friend to make so unequal a marriage--a marriage which
the world he lives in would so utterly condemn?"

"Probably because he has lived long enough in that world to know that
its opinion is of no great value, and to think that Miles Challoner
had better consult his own happiness than its prejudices. He is a
great friend and admirer of yours also; and, in short, I may as well
tell you plainly and abruptly, he sent for me to consult me on the
best means of overcoming what he considers misplaced pride and
overstrained delicacy on your part, and inducing you to consent to his
arranging the preliminaries to the marriage; I mean"--here Mrs. Bloxam
hesitated a little--"settling everything as your mutual friend."

"It is well for him it cannot be," said Gertrude bitterly, "or the
world would hardly praise his conduct in helping Miles Challoner to a
marriage with me. The interest Lord Sandilands takes in me deserves
all my gratitude and as much of my confidence as I can give, and he
shall have them. He may be displeased that his kind projects are not
to be carried out, but he will understand that it is impossible."

"I don't see that he will understand it," said Mrs. Bloxam, "unless
you tell him about your marriage; and how are you to do that?" She
forgot for the moment that she spoke with the knowledge of Gertrude's
parentage in her mind, but that Gertrude was quite ignorant of it.

"Tell Lord Sandilands of my marriage!" said Gertrude; "what can you be
thinking of? That must never be known to _anyone_; he is a kind friend
indeed, but nothing would induce me to tell him _that_."

"I beg your pardon; of course not," said Mrs. Bloxam, recovering
herself, and remembering that the communication Lord Sandilands
intended to make must not be forestalled. "Your resolution surprised
me so much, I grew confused. But how will you account for refusing Mr.
Challoner?"

"I shall account for it," said Gertrude, "on the best grounds--grounds
which would be adequate in my own judgment had I never made the fatal
mistake of my miserable marriage. If I were nothing more than the
world knows or believes me to be, I should still hold myself an
unsuitable wife for _him_, and should still refuse him for his own
sake."

"And this is what you will tell Lord Sandilands?" said Mrs. Bloxam.
"Gertrude, are you sure you can stand firm to your decision against
the pleading of your lover and the support and arguments of your
friend?"

"I am quite sure," said Gertrude, "for I shall stand firm for their
own sakes. To yield would be to injure, to hesitate would be to
torment them: I will neither yield nor hesitate."

"Lord Sandilands wishes to see you as soon as you can come with me to
see him," said Mrs. Mourn. "I know he intends to urge Mr. Challoner's
cause with all the argument and all the authority in his power."

"No argument and no authority can avail," said Gertrude.

"And you are determined to go on in this stage-life?"

"Yes; it is delightful to me in some respects, and it is independent
and free. I don't say I have not had a struggle in reaching the
determination I have arrived at; but I have reached it, and there is
nothing more to be said or done. Whenever you choose, after a day or
two, I will see Lord Sandilands; he will help me to impress on Miles
Challoner the uselessness, indeed the cruelty, of pressing a suit
which can only pain me and avail him nothing. I shall convince _him_
easily; he knows the world too well to be difficult of persuasion of
the justice of all that I shall say to him."

"It appears to me," thought Mrs. Bloxam, "that I shall get out of this
business safely whatever happens, if she only perseveres in hiding her
marriage;  and I don't think there's much danger of her not
doing so."

"I am rather tired, dear," said Gertrude after a pause, during which
they had both kept silence, and turning towards Mrs. Bloxam with
perhaps the sweetest smile and the friendliest gesture she had ever
bestowed upon that lady; "and I think we will not talk any more just
now. Tell Lady Belwether I shall try to come down for a little this
evening. I am far from suspecting the kind old lady of wishing me to
tumble for the company; but I should like to oblige her and the Dean,
if possible."

Mrs. Bloxam took the hint. Gertrude was left alone, to endure all the
agony caused her by the resolution she had taken; but yet to feel that
she derived strength from having taken it, and that to get her
decision finally and authoritatively communicated to Miles Challoner
by Lord Sandilands, with the addition of an earnest request that he
would not remain in England at present, and subject her and himself to
the pain of meeting, was a very sensible relief. The bitterness of the
suffering through which she passed at this time never quite died out
of Gertrude's memory. There was something in it which wrung her soul
with a far keener and deadlier anguish than all the coarser, more
actual miseries which had beset her miserable married life. By the
measure of the increased strength and refinement of her feelings, of
the growth of her intellect, and the development of her tastes, the
power and the obligation to suffer in this instance were increased. Of
the man whom she had once fancied she loved, Gertrude never thought
with any distinctness either of abhorrence, fear, or regret. The few
words she had spoken to him in the midst of the fashionable crowd
where they had last met had, she felt, effectually freed her from his
pursuit henceforth; and in her present frame of mind, with her whole
nature softened by her love for Miles, she was accustomed to look back
rather on her own errors of judgment and perception as the fatal folly
of her own girlhood, as the origin of her misfortunes, and to allow
the sinister figure of her husband to slink in the backgrounds of her
memory, something to be shunned and left in obscurity. In the wildest
and deepest of her misery, and when her resolution was highest and
sternest, there was one steadfast feeling in Gertrude's heart, by
which she clung in all the tempest of emotion, while the clamour was
loudest in her storm-tossed heart. It was the indestructible happiness
of knowing herself beloved. Nothing could take that from her, whatever
befell; life might have many more trials, many more deprivations in
store for her, but it could not deprive her of that--not even change
on his own part: and she did not think he would change. Very early in
their acquaintance she had recognised, with the pleasure of a kindred
disposition, the tranquil stability of Miles Challoner's character;
but not even change could alter that truth, could efface that
blessedness, could deprive her of that priceless treasure. She even
asked herself, in the mood of mournful exultation in which she was,
whether she could have felt this secret, subtle joy so keenly if she
had not learned to distinguish the false from the true by such a
terrible experience? If this had been a first love, could it have been
so awfully dear and precious, a consolation so priceless, as to be
hugged and hidden in her utmost heart; a talisman against misery, a
talisman sufficiently powerful to subdue the anguish of its own
ineffectualness, its own hopelessness? Could any girl unversed in the
world's way, unskilled in the world's delusions, innocent and
ignorant, knowing no ill of herself or others, have loved Miles
Challoner as she loved him--this woman who had been brought in such
close contact with crime, meanness, degradation, who had passed from
girlhood to womanhood, on the border of respectability, with a
tolerably uninterrupted look-out, very little space intervening over
the debatable land of scheming, shifts, and general Bohemianism--this
woman, whose dearest hope was to keep the knowledge of the truth about
her--her life--her very name--from the man she loved?

The task of speaking with Lord Sandilands, of destroying the hopes the
kind old man cherished for his friend and for her, of defending the
position she had to take up, for the destruction of all the prospect
of happiness which life had to offer her, was not one to be
contemplated with anything but intense reluctance. But Gertrude forced
herself to the contemplation of it, and made up her mind to get the
interview over as soon as possible. She had not forgotten that she had
promised Miles to see him again, to speak with him again, on the
subject of the suit he had urged. She knew well how impatient he would
be; but while her illness and seclusion continued, he would know the
fulfilment of her promise was not possible. What if she made an effort
to go down to the drawing-room to-night, and found him there--was
forced to meet him in the presence of strangers? She could not endure
that; she felt that her nerves, in such a trial, would refuse to obey
her will. She would write a line to him, asking him to remain away
from Hardriggs until he should hear from her again. There could be no
harm in that; but suppose he should be intending to come there that
evening, the intimation of her wish would reach him too late. She rang
the bell, and sent her maid for Mrs. Bloxam, to whom she propounded
the difficulty.

"I know he will be here," Mrs. Bloxam said; "Lady Belwether has just
said so."

"Then I must write," said Gertrude; "and you must give him the note."

Mrs. Bloxam conveyed the few lines, in which Gertrude begged Miles to
abstain from appearing in the drawing-room after dinner, to the hands
of that anxious and almost-despairing lover, and he instantly obeyed
the behest which it contained. Lord Sandilands' illness and need of
his society furnished an excuse which was not only valid, but did him
credit with his hostess and Mr. Dean, who was pleased to remark that
his attention to his noble friend was a very gratifying spectacle,
very gratifying indeed. When Miles rejoined his noble friend he told
him most ruefully of the fresh rebuff he had received, and presented a
doleful aspect anything but exhilarating to an invalid in want of
cheerful companionship. Lord Sandilands did not seem to notice the
depressed state of his spirits, but listened to him with an air rather
of satisfaction than otherwise.

"Never mind, Miles," he said; "it's a good sign that she did not
choose to meet you in the presence of a lot of strangers. Have
patience, my dear boy and I promise you, on the faith of your old
friend, which never failed you yet, all will be well."

Miss Lambert made her appearance that evening in the drawing-room at
Hardriggs for a short time. She was warmly congratulated on her
recovery, and had many pretty things said to her about her temporary
eclipse. She even ventured to sing just one song; a simple but
beautiful one, which went to the hearts of the company in general, and
apparently to the nose of Mr. Dean in particular, as that dignitary
used his handkerchief with prolonged solemnity while the concluding
cadence was yet lingering in the air. It was agreed on all hands that
never had Miss Lambert been more completely charming.

On the day but one after,--a bright, balmy day, when the earth looked
its best, and the sky its bluest,--one of the Hardriggs equipages
conveyed Mrs. Bloxam and Miss Lambert to Lord Sandilands' seaside
abode. The visit had been duly notified by a message from Mrs. Bloxam,
and the ladies had the satisfaction of learning that his lordship was
much better, and quite able to receive them. They were ushered
upstairs, and into a sitting-room on the first-floor. The room was
empty, and the folding-doors which communicated with another room
were closed. In a few moments they opened, and gave admittance to a
middle-aged woman, plainly dressed, very respectable; the exact model
of all a housekeeper ought to be. On her steady arm Lord Sandilands
leaned; and as he limped slowly towards his visitors with extended
hand, expressing his pleasure at seeing them, Gertrude recognised in
the housekeeper Mrs. Bush, and Mrs. Bush recognised in the lady whom
she had heard announced as Miss Lambert the wife of her _ci-devant_
lodger, Gilbert Lloyd.



CHAPTER III.
A Mine is laid.


Refused! rejected! Lord Ticehurst could scarcely believe it. "Declined
the honour," she said; that was the way she put it. Declined the
honour! "Whish!" went the whip over the heads of the roans, who became
marvellously unsteady at the sound, and reared, and plunged, and
pulled, and caused the middle-aged groom once again to peer over the
head of the phaeton more nervously and uncomfortably than ever.

Lord Ticehurst could not understand the experience of the morning. The
more he thought over it the more preposterous it appeared to him.
Throughout the whole course of his life he had never had one wish
thwarted. At Eton his fag did his exercises, and at Oxford the dons
toadied him as dons only can toady; and in later life he had had
henchmen innumerable, who bad received his every word as law. As for
this affair with Miss Lambert, he--well, he didn't know; he had not
been so cocksure about it at first, when he first began to be
spooney on her. She was a deuced nice girl, there was no denying
that,--clever, and all that kind of thing; sort of person that any
fellow might be proud of to see sitting at the head of his table, and
look deuced well at the Opera, and all that. Was not half so cocksure
when he first began to be spooney; that was perhaps because he was
spooney; fellows always thought they were not good enough for the
woman they were spooney on; and--not good enough? that's a great
notion! the idea of the Earl of Ticehurst not being good enough
for--no, he couldn't say anything against her; she was an
opera-singer, everyone knew, but she was a perfect lady. O d--, what a
nuisance it was! Since he had made up his mind to it he had begun to
look upon it as quite certain, as a result about which there could not
be the smallest doubt; and now he saw that all his conjectures had
been false and his plans foundationless. What could be her motive? No
question of hoping to hook a larger fish? That was absurd. Lord
Ticehurst reflected with a certain amount of consolation that there
were very few larger fish than he in the waters preserved for
matrimonial angling, and of those few none were likely to make Miss
Lambert an offer. Not any question of personal objection? Even if such
a thing were probable to a person in his position, Miss Lambert's
manner to him had always been courteous, and occasionally cordial. No
one could have been making mischief about him? No, he thought not; he
did not go in to be strait-laced, and all that kind of thing, any more
than any other fellow of his age; but there was nothing that anyone
could lay hold of and make a fuss about; his name was not mentioned in
conjunction with any woman's, or anything of that kind that a woman
might find objectionable in the man who wanted to marry her. What,
then, could it be? Could it be shyness, modesty, and all that? Jove!
he'd never thought of that, never looked at it in that light. Could it
be possible that Miss Lambert had refused him because she did not feel
herself up to the mark--didn't think herself equal to the position
which he had proposed to her to occupy? The notion was a very pleasant
one to Lord Ticehurst; it gratified his vanity, and it gave him
hope. It might come off after all! He had not had much experience of
women--not of that sort, at least--and it was impossible to make them
out; there was never any knowing what to do with them. After all,
perhaps, she only wanted a little more pressing; he certainly had
nipped off rather sharp, without asking her to explain, or anything of
that kind. He supposed that was what fellows usually did,--asked the
women "Why," and all that sort of thing. "Declined the honour," she
said; perhaps if he had given her the chance she would not have
declined it a second time. He would give her the chance; he would go
over again to what's-a-name, old Belwether's place, and tell Miss
Lambert that he really meant it, and that--

As the thought of "what's-a-name, old Belwether's place," passed
through Lord Ticehurst's mind, simultaneously arose therein the very
uncomfortable recollection of having seen Miles Challoner at the gate.
The young nobleman's spirits, which had risen rapidly under the
roseate influence of his hopes, sunk at once to zero when he
remembered that Gilbert Lloyd had told him of the manner in which this
man Challoner was making "strong running" for Miss Lambert, and bade
him beware of him as a dangerous rival. Jove! that might account for
her declining the honour, and all that. Of course it was a ridiculous
thing to imagine any woman taking a fellow like Chaldecott--Challoner,
or whatever they called him--before a man in his position; but one
never knew, it was impossible to say; and--he did not know what the
deuce to do one way or the other.

"Princes and women must not be contradicted," says the proverb. Young
noblemen, or old noblemen for the matter of that, with health and
wealth, are pretty much in the same category. For the first time in
his life Lord Ticehurst found himself debarred from the fulfilment of
a special wish, and he raged inwardly and chafed against his destiny.
He could have cried from sheer spite and vexation; he stamped his foot
in his rage, and once more startled the roans out of all propriety. He
felt that he was morally "cornered;" he did not like to give up all
idea of this girl, for whom he had a certain liking and a certain
passion, and in the possession of whom he would have had the
justification of that pride which was perhaps the most thoroughly
developed of all the various component parts of his character. On the
other hand, he dared not run the chance of a second rejection, as the
news of it might get wind, and he might be made to appear ridiculous;
and, like most of his order, Lord Ticehurst was more afraid of
ridicule than of anything else. To be laughed at had always been
looked on by him as the greatest possible infliction, for he knew that
neither his position nor his wealth rendered him invulnerable to
"chaff;" and he was sufficiently man of the world to feel that these
advantages in themselves would tempt the aim and barb the arrows of
the sharpshooters. He could not face it out, by Jove he couldn't! The
mere thought of being bantered on the subject of his rejection by Miss
Lambert gave an apoplectic hue to his lordship's cheeks, and brought
large beads of perspiration on to his forehead.

"I couldn't stand it," he said half aloud, and forgetting the
proximity of the serious groom. "Gad! I think I should go mad, and
that kind of thing. Don't think I'll give old Gil the chance of having
a crow over me just yet. He's sure to ask me how I got on, and all
that, and I'd better hold it over for an hour or two. He's rather
spiky in his chaff, I've noticed lately, Master Gil is; I don't know
what's come to him!"

So, on further reflection, Lord Ticehurst struck off the road leading
to Eastbourne, and turned back, tooling the roans along the St.
Leonards parade, to the immense delight of the promenaders there
assembled, and finally pulling up at the door of the principal hotel
in Hastings. Here he alighted, and bidding his groom to bring the
phaeton round at eight in the evening, entered the hotel, ordered an
early dinner, and strolled out on to the parade.

A person in Lord Ticehurst's position and of Lord Ticehurst's habits
is almost certain to find a number of acquaintances in every place of
anything like pretension to fashion which he may visit; and
his lordship had not lounged up the promenade for more than a dozen
paces ere his arrival was known to as many persons. Old Lady Spills,
who was always seated at the bow-window of her lodgings with a
powerful opera-glass, marked the young nobleman's arrival at the
hotel, and immediately called to her granddaughter, then resident with
her, to get her hat and accompany her on the parade as quickly as
possible. "Not that it's of any use," the old lady remarked to
herself; "for Julia is as stupid as an owl, and not likely to be
attractive even to the most innocent of youths, much less to a young
man like this, who is, no doubt, perfectly able to take care of
himself." The Duke of Doncaster, a melancholy old man, in a crumpled
wig and dyed whiskers, wearing the bell-hat, large-checked
neckerchief, and cutaway green coat of the past generation, was
driving his team up and down the parade, solemnly and methodically as
was his usual afternoon practice, and he recognised Lord Ticehurst's
presence by jerking his whip-elbow into the air in true coachman-like
fashion. The sisters Lavrock, of the Scandinavian Opera and the
nobility's concerts--brave little women, who in the off-season went
round to the different watering-places, and made a good deal of money
by giving a little musical entertainment--blushed and giggled in great
delight as his good-natured lordship stopped them on the promenade,
and inquired with unaffected interest after their well-doing. That
eminent landscape-painter Scumble, R.A., who had often met Lord
Ticehurst at Carabas House, over which mansion he seemed to have the
right of free warren, happened to be staying at Hastings, partly for
the sake of studying marine effects, partly for the purpose of
pacifying Mrs. Scumble, who had but a dull time of it in London; and
he tore off his wideawake as he met Lord Ticehurst's eye, and
pretended to have nothing to do with Mrs. Scumble, who at that moment
was a little way off, placidly bargaining for a shell pincushion.
Lastly, Bobby Maitland--who had come ashore for two days from Mr.
Stackborough's yacht, with the view of meeting his solicitor, and
settling pecuniary matters during his absence--Bobby Maitland, looking
over the blind of the coffee-room of the Marine Hotel, along which
blind he had been thoughtfully rubbing his nose, spied his lordship,
and announced his discovery to his friend Stackborough in these
flattering terms: "By Jove, Haystacks, old man, here's that ass
Ticehurst!"

"Haystacks" and "old man" were both terms of endearment and
familiarity. Mr. Stackborough was about three-and-twenty, very rich,
very foolish, and with an irrepressible yearning for what he called
"high society." He had chambers in the Albany, splendid horses, a
capital yacht, and more clothes than any other man in London. He was
always extensively got-up, and never looked like a gentleman. Bobby
Maitland, who lived with him and on him, could influence him on
everything except his wardrobe--in that matter he always would have
his own way. On the present occasion he was elaborately appareled in
maritime fashion, dark-blue jacket with gilt buttons, very open white
waistcoat, flap shirt-collar, trousers tight to the knee, then loose
and flapping, black oilskin-hat with blue ribbon. Mr. Stackborough
generally suited his language as far as possible to his style of
costume. When that was horsey he talked turf, now he talked sea;
consequently he said--

"Ticehurst, eh? Where does he hail from?"

"How the deuce should I know!" replied Bobby. "He's only just come in
sight."

"T'other craft in company, of course?" suggested Mr. Stackborough.
"He's always under convoy, his is! T'other craft's close by, I
suppose, or at all events in the offing." And Mr. Stackborough peered
from under his hand at his friend as though scanning the horizon.

"Look here, Haystacks, old man!" said Bobby Maitland thoughtfully;
"you must moderate your transports, you must indeed. There's too much
of this bold-smuggler business about you--a deal too much. I daresay
it's a kind of gaff that takes with some people, but it don't with me,
and so you may as well drop it. It isn't good style either; so drop
it, old flick, and tell me in the Queen's English what you mean."

Mr. Stackborough wriggled uneasily in the maritime suit and blushed.
"All right," he said after a minute's pause, "I'll take care. Thank
you for telling me, Bobby. What I meant to say was, wasn't Lloyd
there? He's always with his, you know."

"O, I understand now! No; Ticehurst seems to be by himself for a
wonder. No doubt Lloyd's close at hand, though; he never lets my lord
go far without him."

"Shall we 'bout ship and--I mean, shall we go out and speak to him?"
asked Mr. Stackborough. It _was_ so difficult to resist the influence
of the maritime garments.

"Well, yes; there's no harm," said Bobby, knowing his young friend was
dying to speak to and be seen speaking to a recognised "swell."

So Mr. Stackborough put on the glazed hat with the blue ribbon, and
they strolled into the street. Now, though Lord Ticehurst did not much
affect Bobby Maitland, and had a great contempt for Mr. Stackborough,
he had such a horror of being alone and being thrown on his own
resources for amusement, that, as soon as he saw these gentlemen
approaching, he brightened up, and received them with a warmth which
completely captivated Mr. Stackborough. Bobby Maitland was older and
less enthusiastic. He disliked Ticehurst; and as he knew there was
nothing to be got out of his lordship, he always spoke to him with
charming frankness.

"We could scarcely believe it was you, Etchingham," said he, after the
ordinary salutations had been exchanged.

"O, ah!" replied his lordship, "didn't expect to find me in this
place, eh?"

"Well, no, perhaps one wouldn't have thought of finding you here.
Nothing going on that you can understand--horses, I mean, and that
kind of thing. But that was not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?" asked his lordship somewhat crossly, for he
understood and appreciated the sneer.

"Well, we didn't think you were ever let out without your
dry-nurse--Lloyd, don't you know? Don't be angry, old fellow, it's
only my chaff!"

"It's a deuced bad style of chaff," said Lord Ticehurst, who had grown
very white, and whose lips trembled as he spoke,--"a deuced bad style
of chaff; and I'll trouble you not to try it on me, Mr. Maitland!"

"Mr. Maitland! Come, that be hanged!" said Bobby, who saw that he had
gone a little too far. "I'm very sorry if I've offended you,
Etchingham, and I apologise. I can't say more."

The good-natured young man accepted the apology at once, and the three
walked on together. Lord Ticehurst, then explaining that he was only
in the town for a few hours, and that he had ordered a solitary dinner
at the Queen's Hotel, was easily persuaded to let Mr. Stackborough
(who was too delighted to fetch and carry for a lord) go and
countermand it, while his lordship agreed to dine with his new-found
acquaintances at the Marine. So, to the intense delight of Mr.
Stackborough, they strolled up and down the parade, listening to the
band, looking after the pretty women, and criticising the horses.
"Haystacks" conversation became almost unintelligible during this
walk; for Lord Ticehurst being eminently horsey, and the talk running
on the breeding and look of horses, Mr. Stackborough would, under
ordinary circumstances, have turned on the turf tap, and drawn his
idioms from the stable; but the maritime clothes still from time to
time asserted their influence, and the result was that the unfortunate
youth got into a series of linguistic knots which he could not untie,
and with which no one could assist him.

The dinner at the Marine was a success. Boffham, who keeps the hotel,
had been _chef_ to Count Krammetsvogel, of the Hanoverian embassy, in
former days, and had turned out many excellent official dinners, of
which Lord Ticehurst's father had partaken. When he heard that the
young lord was to be a guest of one of his guests, Boffham went
himself to the kitchen, and showed that neither Time nor the gout had
robbed his hand of its cunning. The wines too--notably some Chateau
Yquem and some Steinberger Cabinet, which had been bought by Boffham
out of the Krammetsvogel cellar when the count was recalled--were
delicious; so delicious, that many bottles were drunk, and the hearts
of the drinkers were warmed, and their tongues loosened. Something
which Bobby Maitland had said to him when they first met that day had
stuck in Lord Ticehurst's throat. He had tried to swallow it, but the
attempt had been unsuccessful. Under the influence of the wine he felt
he must mention it--he could see no reason why he should not.

"Bobby!" he said, as they were sipping their claret, "my horses will
be round in a minute; but I want to say two words to you before I
go.--Don't you move, Mr. Stacks," Stackborough made a kind of
blundering attempt to rise,--"don't you move, there's nothing secret
or private,"--here Lord Ticehurst looked long and earnestly at the
wick of the candle close by him, then proceeded--"or at least; if
there is, you're far too good a fellow, Stacks, to--to--you know what
I mean.--So do you, Bobby."

"All right, Etchingham, old boy, I know," said Mr. Maitland "What do
you want to say?" Mr. Maitland had to repeat his question, Lord
Ticehurst having again become absorbed in the contemplation of the
candle. "What do you want to say?"

"What do I want to say?" said his lordship, after a pause--"ah, that's
just it! I wonder--O, I know! Don't you know when you folks first met
me to-day, you said something, Bobby--something about Lloyd?"

"Yes, I recollect--what then?"

"You asked me where my nurse was, or something of that sort, didn't
you?"

"I think I did."

"Ah! just tell me, like a good fellow--is that the way men talk about
me and Lloyd?"

"What way?"

"Do they say that he--that I--that he's like what you said, my nurse?"

"They say you daren't call your soul your own without his leave. That
you never move hand or foot without him; some say he washes you and
parts your hair; but that's their way of putting it. What they mean
is, that he's your master, and you're his most obedient."

"And do you think Lloyd knows they say this?"

"Knows they say it!" repeated Bobby Maitland, with a loud vinous
laugh; "knows they say it! why, he says it himself; boasts of it!"

"The deuce he does!" said Lord Ticehurst, rising with an unsteady
gait. "That must be stopped! There are some things that a man can
stand; and there are some things he----My carriage. Thank
you!--Good-night, Mr. Stacks; very glad to have looked you
up.--Good-night, Bobby; see you at Doncaster, I suppose? No! well,
then--never mind.--Right, Martin!" and his lordship dashed off at a
tremendous pace, while the serious groom, who had seen his master reel
on the phaeton-step, looked more serious than ever as he jumped up
behind.

When the other two gentlemen returned to their room, Mr. Stackborough
said, "He didn't half like what you said about Lloyd just now.
Shouldn't wonder if there was a row when he gets home."

"Serve Master Gil deuced well right," said Maitland; "I've owed him
one for a long time, and now I think I've paid him. Teach him to give
himself airs over me next time we meet in the ring."

"Devilish pleasant, gentlemanly fellow is Etchinghurst," said Mr.
Stackborough, steadying himself by holding on to the table.

Bobby Maitland regarded him with a smile. "His name is Etchingham, not
Etchinghurst; but you're not sufficiently intimate with him to call
him anything but Lord Ticehurst. Haystacks, dear old boy, you've had
too much wine; have a tumbler of soda, plain, and go to bed."

There was no reason for the serious groom's apprehensions, so far as
the safety of his person was concerned. It is a received axiom that
the effects of intoxication are increased when gentlemen labouring
under them are exposed to the influence of the air; and the groom's
perturbation was probably based upon this theory. He had not, however,
probably made allowance for the fact--which possibly had never come
within his ken--that when the mind is actively at work it becomes an
admirable counterirritant to the influence of wine. That feeble
nonsense of the hiccupping toper of the past generation relative to
the drowning of dull Care in bowls was as void of reason as of rhythm.
That men in good spirits will have those spirits made livelier by good
drink in good company is intelligible enough; but dull Care--whatever
he may have suffered in the three-bottle days--declines to be drowned
or in any way got rid of by such a quantity of liquor as is at the
present time drank in society. The confirmation of his suspicions
about Gilbert Lloyd, which Bobby Maitland had communicated with so
much charming frankness to Lord Ticehurst, had had a singularly
sobering influence on the young nobleman. The anger arising in his
heart seemed to have chased away the fumes which had been obscuring
his brain; and after he had been five minutes on the road he was in as
good condition as he ever was--which, perhaps, is not saying much--to
think the matter calmly through. It was a lovely night; the roans,
knowing they were on their homeward journey, stepped out splendidly
and refrained from indulging in any of the capers and antics which had
characterised their morning's performance; and Lord Ticehurst, getting
them well in hand, settled himself down to think over all he had
heard, and to endeavour to arrive at some definite conclusion before
the end of his drive.

Was it what we have no adequate expression for, but what the French
call the _vin triste_, that was exercising its malign influence over
the young man? Had his "potations pottle deep" but resulted in
stirring up dull Care instead of drowning him? Had Boffham's Chateau
Yquem and Steinberger Cabinet an effect exactly opposite to that of
the waters of Lethe? Certain it is that as Lord Ticehurst rolled
rapidly homewards his memory, which very seldom troubled him, was
actively at work, and his reflections were of anything but a pleasant
character.

So they said that he was a mere child in Gilbert Lloyd's hands, did
they?--that he dare not call his soul his own; that he had no will, no
opinion,--chaffed, and said Lloyd was his dry-nurse, did they?
Pleasant that, by Jove!--to have things like that said about you by
fellows to whom you had always been civil and polite, and all that
kind of thing--more than that, hospitable, and letting them stand in
with good things, and putting them on to everything you knew. And they
went about and said this--not before your face, of course; they would
not do that; but thought it before your face, and went about and said
it as soon as your back was turned. Made you their laughing-stock and
their butt; poked their fun at you all the time they were eating your
dinners, and made game of you while they borrowed your money. It was
d--d unfriendly and blackguard conduct; that's what it was. And Bobby
Maitland was as bad as any of them--worse, for he would never have
heard of it but for him. They all thought he was a fool, and Bobby
must have thought so too, sneering about him and Gilbert Lloyd, and
pretending to think he would not notice it. He would let them see
pretty sharp he was not such a fool as they took him for; let them see
he knew how they laughed at and chaffed him. Next time any of them
wanted a fifty for a fortnight, that would be the time. They should
laugh the wrong side of their mouths then, he would take care. Called
himself a gentleman too, did Bobby Maitland, and gave himself airs
because he was a peer's son. Why, damme, that other chap, that poor
fellow Haystacks, or whatever his name was, with all his ridiculous
nonsense about his get-up and all that, he was more of a gentleman
than Bobby Maitland. He looked quite queer and uncomfortable,
Haystacks did, when Maitland was going on all that chaff about the
nurse.

About the nurse? That riled him more than anything else. "How was it
he was let out without his nurse?" That's what Maitland had said. As
he thought of that speech Lord Ticehurst kicked out against the
splashboard in front of him, startled the roans into a gallop, and
woke the groom from an elysian dream of eating boiled beans and bacon
in the back-parlour of a public-house which was his own. And when he
had asked if Gilbert knew about the chaff that was going on, Maitland
said he did, and, more than that, had started it and laughed at it
himself. Could that be true? He could scarcely think that; he had been
doosid kind to old Gil, and doosid fond of him, and done all sorts of
things for him one way or the other, and he did not believe old Gil
would go against him in that way. Fellows are always talking about
ingratitude and that kind of thing, but he did not think anyone would
be such a thorough-paced duffer as to go in against a fellow who had
shown him nothing but kindness ever since he had known him. Ever since
he had known him? Well, that was not so long ago, when he came to
think about it, but it seemed like his whole life. He thought with an
odd kind of incredulous wonder on that portion of his life anterior to
his acquaintance with Gilbert Lloyd. The Plater-Dobbs _régime_ seemed
like a dream. He was a vulgar old cad, the Plater, but he would not
have played double, he would not have allowed any of the fellows to
chaff. No fellows had ever been allowed to chaff him, even at
Eton--Eton, hey presto! At that reminiscence the clouds rolled away,
and scenes of bygone time and the actors in them, unthought of for
years, rose before the young man's mind. Some of those fellows who had
been with him at Eton, and were now doing so well and making such stir
in the world--Brackenbury, who had made such a hit in the House, and
who, everybody said, would be A1 some of these days; and Graves, who
had written a devilish clever book about something; and Hammond, who
was under-secretary in one of those office-places down at Whitehall,
and who the newspapers said was a rising man, and all that. Lord! he
recollected when he first went to Eton, his old governor took him, and
a crowd there was when they buried his governor in the family-vault at
Etchingham! He recollected Lord Tantallon the Premier standing at the
foot of the grave after the service, and looking in, with the tears
running down his face. No end of official swells came down to see
the last of their old colleague. He recollected seeing the great
black-marble top of the tomb, which had been taken off, lying on its
side among the weeds; and he remembered the smell of the newly-turned
earth, and the trodden turf, and he could see just as plainly as on
the day itself the men from the London newspapers bending over to read
the inscription on the coffin. Poor old governor! he was a clever
fellow, and was awfully respectable and respected. He would not think
much of the life his son was leading, mixed up with horses and
betting-people and jockeys, and all that kind of thing. Whew! it could
not be helped, he supposed. It was too late to change it. Steady
there! Arrived!

When Lord Ticehurst entered the rooms in the hotel which he occupied
conjointly with Gilbert Lloyd, he found that gentleman asleep on the
sofa, with a decanter of brandy on a small table by his side. The
decanter was half-empty; and when Gilbert, awaking at the noise made
by his friend's arrival, turned round, his face, especially round the
eyes, had a strained, flushed look, and his voice, when he began to
speak, was rather thick and husky.

"Hallo!" he said, raising himself on his elbow, and shading his eyes
with his other hand, "you've got back!"

"Yes," replied his lordship; "here I am!"

"Perhaps the next time you are going to stop out to dinner you will
have the goodness to say so."

"Don't be cross, old man; you knew I was going, fast enough."

"I knew you were going out to luncheon, but there was nothing said
about dinner, I believe; and as to being cross, it's enough to make a
fellow savage, having had to cool his heels about here for an hour and
a half, waiting dinner for a man who never came; and then to sit down
to a lot of stuff cooked to rags, half cold, and quite uneatable."

"Sorry for that, Gil," said Lord Ticehurst with unimpaired
good-humour; "very sorry, but you should not have waited."

"O, I like that!" said Lloyd; "and suppose your lordship had not had
your dinner, and had come in when I had half-finished mine, you would
have been pleased, wouldn't you?"

"I don't suppose 'my lordship,' as you call me, would have cared one
straw about it. What a rum fellow you are, Gil! What's the matter with
you to-night, that you are going on in this way?"

"Going on in what way? I merely suggested that it would have been
pleasanter if you had said you would not be back to dinner, and--"

"But I didn't know that I should not. I had no intention of stopping
when I went away. Can't you understand?"

"O yes, I understand! _Chapeau bas, chapeau bas!_ However, that's no
matter now. I ought to have known that the young lady would suggest
your stopping there--that the old Belwethers would be delighted to
receive a person of your lordship's quality, and that--"

"There, you may drop that silliness as soon as you like. It's very
funny, I daresay; but it's all thrown away, because I didn't stop at
Hardriggs after all."

"The deuce you didn't! Why, where did you dine, then?"

"At the hotel at Hastings, with Bobby Maitland and that young fellow
he's always about with now--'Haystacks.'"

"I know," growled Gilbert. He hated Maitland, and half-despised him,
as men do their unsuccessful rivals. "What on earth made you dine with
them?"

"Well, I don't know," said the earl, blushing a little, in spite of
vigorous attempts to prevent it and look unconcerned. "I--I had
stopped later there than I intended at Hardriggs, and I thought you
would have dined, and so I put up at Hastings, and those fellows saw
me and asked me to dinner."

"And you went, deuced Samaritan-like and benevolent, and all that, I
declare! That fellow Stackborough will be set up for life; there will
be no holding him, now that he has once dined in company with a real
live earl."

"Well, I don't know; Mr. Stackborough seemed to me to behave like a
gentleman."

"O yes; but you like a fellow who bows down before you, Etchingham, we
all know that; and it's natural enough. However, that's neither here
nor there. What about the object of your visit to Hardriggs? You saw
the young lady?"

"Yes, I saw her."

"And you carried out your intention?"

"What intention?" asked Lord Ticehurst, summoning up courage, and
looking his friend full in the face. And then Gilbert knew for
certain, what he had decidedly anticipated, that Lord Ticehurst had
been rejected by Gertrude.

"What intention?" he replied, with a sneer already dawning on his
face; "why, the intention of proposing to Miss--what does she call
herself?--Miss Lambert."

"Yes," said Lord Ticehurst quietly, "I carried out that intention."

"Well, and we are to ring the joy-bells, and to roast the whole ox,
and set the barrels of ale flowing, and order the bishop to be in
readiness at St. George's, and select the new carriages, and have
Etchingham new furnished. And when are we to do all this?"

"Not just now, at all events," said Lord Ticehurst. "First catch your
hare, don't you know?" and his lordship tried to look knowing--a
process in which he failed sublimely.

"Why, you don't mean to say that--"

"I mean to say that I proposed to Miss Lambert--you know her name fast
enough--and she refused me."

"Refused you!" screamed Gilbert with admirably-assumed astonishment;
"refused you,--the opera-singer, the tragedy-queen, the Princess Do Re
has refused my lord with his thousands and his tens of thousands! The
world is coming to an end! People will next question the value of an
hereditary legislature. You astound me!"

"I'll tell you what, Lloyd," said Lord Ticehurst sulkily, "I wish you
to drop that style of chaff; I don't see the fun of it."

"You never saw the fun of anything, Etchingham; it is not your
_métier_; Providence has ordained otherwise. It's for us poor devils
to see the fun that you big swells make for us."

Rage swelled within Lord Ticehurst's heart as he listened to these
words, which were so eminently corroborative of what Bobby Maitland
had said to him, and of what he had thought to himself on his homeward
drive. But he controlled himself, and said:

"Well, what I see or what I don't see don't matter much just now.
Perhaps I see more than some people think I do; more than I give
tongue about, that's certain. However, I don't care about being
chaffed on that subject, and so please drop it."

"Poor old boy!" said Lloyd, with an elaborate affectation of
compassion; "of course he's very sore, that's natural enough; and of
course it comes much harder to a fellow in his position, who thinks
that he has only to lie under the wall and the ripe cherries will
tumble into his mouth, to find that they sometimes hang on the stalk
and won't tumble. It puts me in mind of the little stories in one
syllable that we used to learn at school. 'There was once a small boy,
and he cried for the moon, and when--'"

"D--n it, sir, will you stop?" cried Lord Ticehurst, angered beyond
all patience. "Look here, Lloyd, you and I have been friends for a
long time; but if you go on in this way I shall--"

"What?" interrupted Gilbert, turning quickly on him.

"Cut the whole concern, stock, lock, and barrel," said his lordship,
"and part from you for ever."

The two men stood confronting each other; Lord Ticehurst flushed and
heated, Lloyd wonderfully pale and calm, and only betraying agitation
in the twitchings of the muscles of his mouth. He was the first to
speak.

"Part from me for ever, eh?" he said in slow deliberate tones, each
word clipping out from between his thin tight lips. "O no, you
wouldn't do that! You are not very wise, Lord Ticehurst, but you would
not be such a fool as to quarrel with or part from the man who has
made you what you are. Ah, you may stare and pretend to be astonished,
but I repeat, who has made you what you are. And you need not come
down upon me, as you are going to--I see it!--with the whole long
story of your birth and position and status, and all the rest of it. I
know all that from _Debrett_; and still I stick to my text,--that I
made you what you are! The time has come--you have brought it about,
not I; I could have gone on for ever as we were--but the time has come
for plain speaking; and I say that whatever you are, and whatever you
may be thought of in the world, you owe to me, to me; without whom you
would have remained the unformed cub you were when I found you in the
hands of that old duffer, Plater Dobbs!"

The prospect of a row with his pupil--not a separation, of course, but
a brisk breeze to freshen up the tamely-flowing current of their
ordinary life--had often occurred to Gilbert Lloyd. He had thought
over calmly what should be his conduct under such circumstances, and
he had determined upon using the strongest possible "bounce," and
acting in the most offensive and most truculent manner. His
remembrance of Lord Ticehurst's behaviour in the quarrel with the
Frenchman, M. de Prailles, at Baden, prompted him to this line of
action, and he found it was the correct one. Lord Ticehurst did not
knock him down, or fling a chair at him, or take any other prompt and
decisive step. His cheek flushed angrily, certainly, but he only said:

"Major Dobbs might have been a duffer, as you say he was, but at all
events he aid not pitch into people who were kind to him, didn't
blackguard them before their faces, as some people do, or what's
worse, make game of them behind their backs."

He laid such stress on this last sentence that Gilbert Lloyd looked
hard at him, and said, "Make game of you behind your back! What do you
mean by that?"

"What I say," said Lord Ticehurst; "chaffin' about my not being able
to do anything without asking you, and you being my dry-nurse, and all
that kind of thing!"

"Ah, ha!" said Gilbert Lloyd; "you haven't dined with our friend Bobby
Maitland for nothing! That's his stab, I'll swear. Now look here,
Ticehurst, you've talked about our parting, and I never let a man
threaten me twice. So part we will. We must wait over Doncaster,
because there are some things coming off there in which we are
mutually interested; but after that I'll square up all the accounts
and hand over everything to you."

He looked bard at his pupil as he said these words, expecting that the
announcement would evoke a burst of protestations and disavowals. But
Lord Ticehurst merely said "Very well; all right;" and took up his
candle and left the room.



CHAPTER IV.
Perplexity.


Lord Sandilands was looking and feeling ill and feeble, and was mainly
occupied, as he hobbled across the not-magnificently-proportioned
drawing-room of that most desirable lodging-house, with an unrivalled
view of the Esplanade, in so putting down and moving his feet as to
cause himself the least possible pain, when he came, leaning on the
arm of his housekeeper, to meet Mrs. Bloxam and Miss Lambert. But he
was a man of too quick perception at all times, and his mind had been
dwelling of late with so much anxiety upon Gertrude and her interests,
that he was additionally keen in remarking every incident in which she
was concerned. As he put out his disengaged hand and took Gertrude's,
he glanced from her face to that of the housekeeper, and back to hers
again, and saw that each recognised the other.

"You know Mrs. Bush?" he asked, still holding Gertrude's hand in one
of his, still leaning with the other on Mrs. Bush's arm.

"Mrs. Bush and I have met before," Gertrude answered calmly; "but she
does not know my stage name. I am a singer, Mrs. Bush," she added;
"and my stage name is Lambert."

"O, indeed, ma'am!" said Mrs. Bush, in a singularly unsympathetic
voice, and with an expression which said pretty plainly that she did
not think it signified much what the speaker called herself.--"Shall I
put your lordship in the chair near the window?"

"Yes, yes," said Lord Sandilands testily; and then he added, with the
perversity of age and illness, "and where did you know Miss Keith,
Mrs. Bush?" He seated himself as he spoke, drew the skirts of his gray
dressing-gown over his knees, and again looked from one to the other.
Mrs. Bloxam, to whom the scene had absolutely no meaning, stood by in
silence. Gertrude was very calm, very pale, and her eyes shone with a
disdainful, defiant light, as they had shone on the fatal day of which
this meeting so vividly reminded her. Mrs. Bush smiled, a dubious kind
of smile, and rubbed her hands together very slowly and deliberately,
as she answered:

"If you please, my lord, I didn't never know a Miss Keith. It were
when the young lady was Mrs. Lloyd as she come to my house at
Brighton."

"When the young lady was Mrs. Lloyd!" repeated Lord Sandilands in
astonishment, and now including Mrs. Bloxam, who looked extremely
embarrassed and uncomfortable in the searching gaze he directed
towards the housekeeper and Gertrude. "What does this mean?"

"I will explain it to you," said Gertrude firmly but very gently, and
bending over him as she spoke; "but there is no occasion to detain
Mrs. Bush." The tone and manner of her words were tantamount to a
dismissal, and so Mrs. Bush received them. She immediately retreated
to the door, with an assumption of not feeling the smallest curiosity
concerning the lady with whom she was thus unexpectedly brought into
contact, and left the room, murmuring an assurance that she should be
within call when his lordship might want her. A few moments' pause
followed her departure. The astonishment and vague uneasiness with
which Lord Sandilands had heard what Mrs. Bush had said kept him
silent, while Gertrude was agitated and puzzled--the first by the
imminent danger of discovery of her carefully-kept secret, and the
second by hearing Lord Sandilands allude to her as "Miss Keith." When
she thought over this strange and critical incident in her life
afterwards, it seemed to her that something like a perception of the
truth about to be imparted to her came into her mind as Lord
Sandilands spoke. Mrs. Bloxam experienced a sensation unpleasantly
akin to threatened fainting. What was coming? Must all indeed be told?
Must her conduct be put in its true light before both Gertrude and
Lord Sandilands? Could she not escape either of the extremes which, in
her mental map of the straits in which she found herself, she
had laid down? But she was a strong woman by nature, and a quiet,
self-repressed woman by habit, and in the few moments' interval of
silence she did not faint, but sat down a little behind Lord
Sandilands, and with her face turned away from the light. As for the
old nobleman himself, the mere shock of the dim suspicion, the vague
possibility which suggested itself, shook his composure severely,
through all the restraint which his natural manliness and the acquired
impassiveness of good breeding imposed. Gertrude was the first to
speak. She stood in her former attitude, slightly leaning over him,
and he sat, his head back against the chair, and his keen, gray,
anxious eyes raised to her handsome, haughty face.

"You sent for me, my dear lord, my good friend," she said,--and there
was a tone in the rich, sweet voice which the old man had never heard
in it before, and in which his ear caught and carried to his heart the
echo of one long silent and almost forgotten,--"and I have come; in
the first place to see you, to know how you are, and to satisfy myself
that this illness has had nothing alarming in it. In the second place,
that I may hear all you mean to say to me; I know about what,"--her
eyes drooped and her colour rose--"Mrs. Bloxam has told me; she has
fully explained all your kindness, all your goodness and generosity to
me. Will you tell me all you intended to say to me, and let me say
what I meant to say to you, just as if Mrs. Bush had never called me
by that strange name in your hearing, and then I will explain all."
The lustrous earnestness of her face rendered it far more beautiful
than Lord Sandilands had ever before seen it. Her mother had never
looked at him with that purposeful expression, with that look which
told of sorrow and knowledge, and the will and resolution to live them
down.

"I will do anything you wish, my dear," said the old nobleman; and it
was remarkable that he discarded in that moment all the measured
courtesy a manner which he had hitherto sedulously preserved, and
adopted in its stead the deep and warm interest, the partial judgment,
the protecting tone of his true relationship to her. "Sit here beside
me, and listen. I have some painful things to say, but they will soon
be said; and I hope--I hope happy days are in store for you;" but his
face was clouded, and doubt, even dread, expressed itself in his
voice. Gertrude did not exactly obey him. Instead of taking a seat,
she placed herself on her knees beside his chair; and in this attitude
she listened to his words.

"I know how it is with you and Miles Challoner, my dear, and Miles is
dearer to me than any person in the world except one,--and that one
is you."

"I!" said Gertrude, amazed. "I dearer to you than Miles Challoner,
your old friend's child!"

"Yes," he said, with a faint smile, "for you are my own child,
Gertrude; that is what I sent for you to tell you, and I want to make
you happy if I can." So saying, the old man took her bent head between
his hands, and kissed her. Gertrude did not evince any violent
emotion--she turned extremely pale, and her eyes filled with tears;
but she did not say anything for a little while, and she afterwards
wondered at the quietness with which the revelation was made and
received. She was not even certain that she had been very much
surprised. Mrs. Bloxam rose, opened the window, stepped out upon the
balcony, and carefully closed the window behind her. During a
considerable time she might have been observed by the numerous
promenaders on the Esplanade, leaning over the railing, which was more
ornamental than solid, in an attitude of profound abstraction. By
those within the room her very existence was forgotten until, in the
course of their mutual interrogation, her name came to be mentioned.
Still kneeling beside him, but now with her head resting against his
breast, and one long thin white hand laid tenderly upon the bright
masses of her chestnut hair, Gertrude heard from her father the story
of her mother's brief happy life and early death;--and the sternest
might have forgiven the old man the unintentional, deception which was
self-delusion, which made him tell his daughter how only that early
death had prevented his making Gertrude Gautier his wife. For the
first time he realised now in the keenness of his longing, in the
misery of his dreaded powerlessness to secure the happiness of his
child, the full extent of the injury inflicted upon her by her
illegitimate birth.

"I know," he said, "that Miles loves you, and I think you love him,
and I know you would be happy. I have lived long enough in the world,
and seen enough of it, to know how rarely one can say that with common
sense and justice of any two human beings. Tell me, Gertrude, why it
is that you have refused Miles,--why it is that you seem determined
not to let me smooth away all obstacles to your marrying him?"

The conversation had lasted long, and had embraced many subjects,
before it reached this point. Gertrude had undergone much and varying
emotion, but she had not lost her calmness, partly because of her
exceptional strength of mind and body, and partly because she never
suffered herself to forget the danger of over-excitement to Lord
Sandilands. She had listened quietly to the story of her mother (the
idea of actually learning about her own parentage, and being able to
realise it, was quite new to her--and abstract sentiment was not in
Gertrude's way), and had rendered to it the tribute of silent tears.
She had heard her father tell how he had first recognised her at Lady
Carabas' concert, and how he had felt the strong instinctive interest
in which he had never believed, and which he had never practically
experimented in, arise at the sight of her; how he had found, first
with misgiving, and afterwards with increasing pleasure, ratified and
approved by his conscience because of his knowledge of Miles
Challoner's tastes and character, that his young friend and companion
was attached to her. She had heard him tell how he had watched the
ill-success of Lord Ticehurst's suit with pleasure, and how he had won
Miles to confide to him his hopes and plans, and encouraged him to
hope for success, and then had been induced by her refusal of Miles
and his belief that that refusal was dictated by disinterested
regard for Challoner's worldly interests, and in no degree by her own
feelings, to take the resolution of telling her all the truth--upon
which resolution he was now acting.

So far Gertrude had been wonderfully composed. Her father had said to
her all he had urged with himself, when he had been first assailed by
misgivings that his old friend would have resented his endeavouring to
bring about a marriage between Miles and a woman to whom the
disadvantage of illegitimate birth attached; and she had assented,
adding that while she only knew herself utterly obscure, she had felt
and acted upon the sense of her own inferiority. The conversation had
strayed away from Gertrude's early life--the father met his
acknowledged daughter for the first time as a woman, and they made
haste to speak of present great interests. Mrs. Bloxam might have been
quite easy in her mind about the amount of notice her share in any of
the transactions of the past would be likely to excite. But now, when
Lord Sandilands pleaded earnestly the cause of Miles Challoner, and in
arguing it argued in favour of the weakness of Gertrude's own heart,
her fortitude gave way, and a full and overwhelming knowledge of the
bitterness of her fate rushed in upon her soul. The veil fell from her
eyes; she knew herself for the living lie she was; she realised that
the unjustifiable compact she had made with her husband was a
criminal, an accursed convention, bearing more and more fruit of
bitterness and shame and punishment, as her father unfolded the scheme
of a bright and happy future which he had formed for her.

"If he had been any other than Miles Challoner," she had said to Mrs.
Bloxam, she would have married him, would have incurred the risk for
rank and money--or she had thought so, had really believed it of
herself. What had possessed her with such an idea? What had made her
contemplate in herself a creature so lost, so utterly, coldly wicked?
It was so long since she had permitted herself to think of her real
position; she had deliberately blinded, voluntarily stultified her
mind for so long, that she had ceased to feel that she was playing a
part as fictitious off, as any she performed on the stage. But now, as
her father's voice went on, speaking lovingly, hopefully, telling her
how conventionalities should be disregarded and wealth supplied in her
interests; telling her she need have no fear in the case of such a man
as Miles--had he not known him all his life?--of any late regret or
after reproach; now the tide of anguish rushed over her, and with
choking sobs she implored him to desist.

"Don't, don't!" she said. "You don't know--O my God!--you don't
know--and how shall I ever tell you? There is another reason, ten
thousand times stronger; all the others I gave were only pretences,
anything to keep him from suspecting, from finding out the truth;
there is a reason which makes it altogether impossible."

"Another reason! What is it? Tell me at once--tell me," said Lord
Sandilands; and he raised himself in his chair, and held her by the
shoulders at arms' length from him. Dread, suspicion, pain were in his
face; and under the influence of strong emotion, which reflected
itself in her features, the father and daughter, with all the
difference of colouring and of form, were wonderfully like each other.

"I will tell you," she said; but she shut her eyes, and then hid them
with her hand while she spoke, shrinking from his gaze. "I will tell
you. I am not free to be Miles Challoner's wife. I am married to
another man."

"Married! You married?"

"Yes," she said, "I am married. Your housekeeper knows me as a married
woman. The name she called me by is my real name. You know the man who
is my husband, unhappy wretch that I am!"

"Who is he?" said Lord Sandilands hoarsely, his nerveless hands
falling from her shoulders as he spoke. She looked at him, was alarmed
at the paleness of his face, and rose hurriedly from her knees.

"You are ill," she said. "I will go--" But he caught her dress, and
held it.

"Tell me who he is."

"Gilbert Lloyd!"


Gertrude was horrified at the effect which the communication she had
made to her father had upon him. He had set his heart strongly indeed
upon her marriage with Miles Challoner, she thought, when the
frustration of the project had the power to plunge him into a state of
prostration and misery. As for herself, the alarm she experienced, and
the great excitement she had undergone in the revelation made to her
by her father, the agony of mind she had suffered in the desperate
necessity for avowing the truth, were quickly succeeded by such
physical exhaustion as she had never before felt. This effect of
mental excitement was largely assisted by the weakness still remaining
after her illness, and was so complete and irresistible, that when she
had seen the doctor hurriedly summoned to Lord Sandilands by Mrs.
Bloxam's orders--that lady's meditations on the balcony had been
terminated by Gertrude's cry for help--and learned that the patient
was not in danger, but must be kept absolutely quiet, she yielded to
it at once.

Not a word was said by Mrs. Bloxam to Gertrude concerning the
disclosure made by Lord Sandilands. In the confusion and distress
which ensued on the sudden attack of violent pain with which her
father was seized, Gertrude lost sight of time and place, and thought
of nothing but him so long as she was able to think of anything.
Little more than an hour had elapsed since Lord Sandilands had told
her the secret of his life, and she was speaking of him freely to Mrs.
Bloxam as her father, and the word hardly sounded strange. She could
not return to Hardriggs; she was not able, even if she would have left
Lord Sandilands. There was no danger of her seeing Miles if she
remained at St. Leonards. Lord Sandilands had told her early in their
interview that he had sent Miles up to town, and procured his absence
until he should summon him back by promising to plead his cause in his
absence. She and Mrs. Bloxam must remain--not in the house, indeed,
but at the nearest hotel. She would send a message to that effect to
Lady Belwether, and inform Mrs. Bush of her intention.

Mrs. Bush had not relaxed her suspicious reserve during all the bustle
and confusion which had ensued on the sudden illness of Lord
Sandilands. She had been brought into contact with Gertrude frequently
as they went from room to room in search of remedies, and ultimately
met by the old nobleman's bedside after the doctor's visit. Mrs. Bush
did not indeed call Gertrude "Mrs. Lloyd" again, but she scrupulously
addressed her as "Madam;" and there was an unpleasant, though not
distinctly offensive, significance about her manner which convinced
Gertrude that not an incident of the terrible time at Brighton had
been forgotten by the _ci-devant_ lodging-house keeper, whose changed
position had set her free from the necessity of obsequiousness.

Gertrude had taken a resolution on the subject of Mrs. Bush, on which
she acted with characteristic decision, when at length her father was
sleeping under the influence of opiates, and she and Mrs. Bloxam had
agreed that their remaining at St. Leonards was inevitable. She asked
Mrs. Bush to accompany her to the drawing-room, and then said to her
at once:

"You are surprised to see me here, Mrs. Bush, no doubt; and as I
understand from Lord Sandilands that he has great confidence in you,
and values your services highly, I think it right to explain to you
what may seem strange in the matter."

Mrs. Bush looked at the young lady a little more kindly than before,
and muttered something about being much obliged, and hoping she should
merit his lordship's good opinion. Gertrude continued:

"It will displease Lord Sandilands, to whom I am closely related, if
the fact of my being married is talked about. I am separated from Mr.
Lloyd, and it is customary for singers to retain their own names. Mine
is Grace Lambert. If you desire to please his lordship, you may do so
by keeping silence on this subject, by not telling anyone that you
ever saw me at Brighton under another name."

With the shrewdness which most women of her class and calling possess
by nature, and which the necessities of her struggling career as a
lodging-housekeeper had developed, Mrs. Bush instantly perceived her
own interest in this affair, and replied very civilly that she was
sure she should never mention anything his lordship would wish
concealed; and that she was not given to gossip, thank goodness! never
had been when she had a house herself, and which her opinion had
always been as lodgers' business was their own and not hers.
Consequent, she had never said a word about the poor dear gentleman
what had died so sudden,--at this point of her discourse Gertrude's
jaded nerves thrilled again with pain,--although it had injured her
house serious. With a last effort of self-command, Gertrude listened
to her apparently unmoved, and dismissed her, with an intimation that
she should return in the morning to take her place by Lord Sandilands.
Mrs. Bush had both a talent and a taste for nursing invalids, and she
established herself in the darkened room, there to watch the troubled
sleeper, with cheerful alacrity. Her thoughts were busy with Gertrude,
however, and with what she had said to her. "So she's his near
relation, is she?" thus ran Mrs. Bush's cogitations. "_What_ relation
now, I wonder? Lambert is not a family name on any side, and he called
her Miss Keith too--and I'll be hanged if he knew she was married! I'm
sure he didn't. There's something queer in all this; but it's not my
affair. However, if his lordship asks me any questions, I'm not going
to hold my tongue to him. Separated from Mr. Lloyd! I wonder was she
ever really married to him? She looked like it, and spoke like it,
though; a more respectable young woman in her ways never came to my
place, for the little time she was in it. I wonder what she has left
him for?--though in my belief it's a good job for her, and he's a bad
lot."

The hours of the night passed over the heads of the father and the
daughter unconsciously. With the morning came the renewed sense of
something important and painful having taken place. On the preceding
evening, Gertrude had entreated Mrs. Bloxam to refrain from
questioning her. "I am too tired," she had said. "I cannot talk about
it; let me rest now, and I will tell you everything in the morning."
To this Mrs. Bloxam had gladly assented; she was naturally very
anxious, and not a little curious; but anxiety and curiosity were both
held in abeyance by the satisfaction she experienced in perceiving
that the revelations which had been made had not seriously injured her
position with Lord Sandilands or with Gertrude. The mutual recognition
between Gertrude and Mrs. Bush had been unintelligible to her. That it
had produced important results she could not doubt; but on the whole,
she did not regret them. The acknowledgment of Gertrude's marriage
might prevent future mischief, in which she (Mrs. Bloxam) might
possibly be unpleasantly involved, and at present it was evident that,
in the overwhelming agitation and surprise of the discovery, her
conduct had been entirely forgotten or overlooked. That she might
continue to occupy a position of such safe obscurity was, for herself,
Mrs. Bloxam's dearest wish; and Mrs. Bloxam's wishes seldom extended,
at all events with any animation, beyond herself.

Lord Sandilands awoke free from pain, but so weak and confused that it
was some time before he could bring up the occurrences of yesterday,
in their due order and weight of import, before his mind. He had
received a shock from which his physical system could hardly be
expected to recover; but the extent of the mental effect--the fear,
the horror, the awakening of remorse, not yet to be softened into
abiding and availing repentance--none but he could ever estimate. The
past, the present, and the future alike menaced, alike tortured him:
the dead friend, the sole sharer of whose confidence he was; the dead
man's son, whom he loved almost as well as if he were of his own flesh
and blood; the dead woman, whom he had deceived and betrayed (in the
wholesome bitterness of his awakened feelings Lord Sandilands was hard
upon himself, and ready to ignore the ignorance which had made her a
facile victim); the dreadful combination of fate which had made the
daughter whom he had neglected and disowned the wife of a man whose
tremendous guilt her father alone of living creatures knew, and had
thrown her in the path of that same guilty man's brother, to love him
and be beloved by him. In so dire a distress was he; and this girl
whom he loved with an anxious intensity which surprised himself,
imprisoned in the hopeless meshes of the net in which his feet were
involved. No wonder he found it hard, with all his natural courage,
and all the acquired calmness of his caste, to marshal these facts in
their proper order, and make head against the dismay they caused him.
But this was no time for dismay. He had to act in a terrible emergency
of his daughter's life, and to act, if indeed it were possible for any
ingenuity or prudence to enable him to do so, so that the real truth
of the emergency, the full extent of its terrible nature, should be
known to himself alone, never suspected by her. The housekeeper came
softly to the old nobleman's bedside while his mind was working busily
at this problem, the most difficult which life had ever set him for
solution; and seeing his eyes closed and his face quiet, believed him
to be still sleeping, and withdrew gently.

By degrees, the facts and the necessities of the case arranged
themselves somewhat in this order. Gertrude had told her father of her
marriage, of the misery which had speedily resulted from it, and of
the strange bargain made between her husband and herself. She knew
Lloyd's worthlessness then, though she had spoken but vaguely of him
as a gambler and a reckless, unprincipled man, not giving Lord
Sandilands any reason to think she could regard him as capable of
actual crime. The shock of the disclosure Gertrude had imputed simply
to his horror of the clandestine nature of her marriage, and the moral
blindness and deadness which had made the bargain between her and
Lloyd present itself as possible to their minds (the light of a true
and pure love had shone on Gertrude now, and shown her the full
turpitude of the transaction); his sudden seizure had prevented his
hearing more than a brief, bare outline of the dreadful episode of his
daughter's marriage. She knew nothing of the real, appalling truth;
she was ignorant that the man she had married was a criminal of the
deepest dye, the secret of his crime in her father's hands, his own
brother the object of her affections, and the only possible issue out
of all this complication and misery one involving utter and eternal
separation between her and Miles Challoner. If he and Gertrude ever
met again, she must learn the truth; she must learn that Gilbert Lloyd
was Geoffrey Challoner, and an additional weight of horror and anguish
be added to the load of sorrow her unfortunate marriage--in which Lord
Sandilands humbly and remorsefully recognised the consequence, the
direct result, of his own sin--had laid upon her. If she could be
prevented from ever knowing the worst? If he, invested with the
authority and with the affection of a parent, could induce her to
consent to an immediate separation from Miles Challoner, to a prompt
removal from the possibility of seeing him, by strengthening her own
views of the insuperable nature of the barrier between them? She would
not, however, yield to Miles's prayer for their marriage; but that
would not be sufficient for her safety: she must never see him more;
she must be kept from the misery of learning the truth. How was this
to be done? For some time Lord Sandilands found no answer to that
question; but at last it suggested itself. Miles--yes, he would make
an appeal to him; he would tell him all the truth--to him who knew
that Lord Sandilands also possessed that other secret, which, to judge
by its consequences, must be indeed a terrible one; and Miles would be
merciful to this woman, who, though she had sinned by the false
pretence under which she lived, was so much more sinned against; and,
appearing to accept her decision, Miles would not ask to see her
again. Yes, that would do; he was sure that would succeed. And then he
would acknowledge Gertrude as his daughter to all who had any claim to
an explanation of any proceedings of his--the number was
satisfactorily small--and he would leave England for ever, with
Gertrude. It was wonderful with how strong and irresistible a voice
Nature was now speaking to the old man's heart; how all the habits and
conventionalities of his life seemed to be dropping suddenly away from
him, and something new, but far more powerful, establishing itself in
their stead as a law of his being. The tremendous truth and extent of
his responsibility as regarded Gertrude presented themselves to him
now in vivid reality, and the strongest desire of his heart was for
strength, skill, and patience, to carry out the plan which presented
itself for her benefit. He felt no anger towards her for what she had
done. Poor motherless, fatherless, unprotected girl, how was she to
understand the moral aspect of such a deed? He pitied the folly, but
he did not seriously regard the guilt, while he deplored the
consequences. Gertrude's professional career, he saw at once, must
come to an immediate and abrupt close. There was no safety for her in
the terrible unexplained attitude of the brothers Challoner, and her
total unconsciousness of it and its bearing upon her own fate, but
absence from the scene of the secret drama. With the grief of her
hopeless, impossible love at her heart, and with the help and safety
of her new-discovered relationship to him, security for her future and
escape from the present, Gertrude would not hesitate about abandoning
her career as a singer. It had never had for her the intoxicating
delight and excitement with which such a success is invested for the
fortunate few who attain it; and as for the world, the lapse of the
brilliant star from the operatic firmament would be a nine-days'
wonder, and no more, like such other of the episodes of her story and
his as the world might come to learn. That part of the business hardly
deserved, and certainly did not receive, more than the most passing
consideration from Lord Sandilands. It was all dreadfully painful, and
full of complications which involved infinite distress; but Lord
Sandilands began to see light in his difficult way. It was not until
he had thought long and anxiously of Gertrude and of Miles that his
mind turned in the direction of Gilbert Lloyd; and then it was with
inexpressible pain that he contemplated the fact that this man, whom
of all men he most abhorred, was the husband of his daughter; had had
the power to make her girlhood miserable, to blight her life in its
bloom, and to continue to blight it to the end. How great a villain
Gilbert Lloyd was, he alone knew; but no doubt Gertrude had had
considerable experience of his character. On this point he would find
out all the truth by degrees. His thoughts glanced for a moment at the
probable effect it would have on Lloyd when he should discover that
the one man in the world in whose power he was, was the father of his
wife, and had constituted himself her protector. At least there was
one bright spot in all this mass of misery: knowing this, Lloyd would
never dare to molest Gertrude, would never venture to seek her or
trouble her, in any straits, however severe, to which his unprincipled
life might drive him. In this perfectly reasonable calculation there
was but one item astray: Lord Sandilands had no suspicion of the state
of feeling in which Gilbert Lloyd now was with respect to his wife. If
he had known the fierce revival of passion for her, and the rage which
filled his baffled and desperate heart, Lord Sandilands would not have
looked with so much confidence upon the prospect of suffering no
molestation from Lloyd. Whether his tigerish nature could ever be
wholly controlled by fear, was a question to which no answer could yet
be given. But Lord Sandilands did not ask it, and his thoughts had
again reverted to Miles, and were dwelling sadly on the caprice of
fate which had brought his brother once more so fatally across his
track, and had erected so strange a link between the calamity which
had overshadowed his dead friend's life and that which must now be the
abiding sorrow of his own, when the arrival of the doctor interrupted
his musings, and obliged him to confess to being awake.

When the visit was concluded, with a favourable report but many
cautions on the part of the medical attendant, Lord Sandilands
inquired of Mrs. Bush when the arrival of the two ladies might be
looked for. They had already sent to ask how his lordship was, and
would be there at eleven. Lord Sandilands then bethought him that the
recognition of the preceding day, which had no doubt led to his
receiving his daughter's confidence, and being preserved from blindly
pursuing a course of persuasion and advocacy of Miles Challoner's
suit, which might have led to most disastrous consequences, could now
be made still more useful, as affording him an opportunity of learning
more about his daughter's married life than she had had time or
probably inclination to tell him.

The old man looked very weak and curiously older all of a sudden, and
Mrs. Bush, a kind-hearted woman in her narrow little way, was sorry to
see the change. The sympathy in her manner and voice inspired Lord
Sandilands with a resolution somewhat similar to that one which
Gertrude had noted on the previous day. He asked Mrs. Bush to take a
seat, requested her best attention to what he was going to say, and
then told her without any circumlocution that the lady called Grace
Lambert, whom she had known as Mrs. Lloyd, was his daughter, whom he
intended to acknowledge and to take abroad with him. The housekeeper
showed very plainly the astonishment which this communication
occasioned her, and her embarrassment was extreme when Lord Sandilands
continued: "And now, Mrs. Bush, I wish you to tell me all you know
about my daughter, and all that occurred while Mr. Lloyd, from whom
she separated immediately afterwards, lodged at your house at
Brighton."

"Of course, my lord," replied Mrs. Bush, in a nervous and hesitating
manner, "I cannot refuse to do as your lordship wishes, nor do I wish
so to do; but Mrs. Lloyd did not lodge at my house at all in a manner;
she only came there unexpected, and went away at night, after the poor
gentleman died, as were took so sudden--dear, dear, how sudden he were
took, to be sure!"

"What gentleman? I don't understand you. Pray tell me the whole story,
Mrs. Bush; don't omit any particulars you can remember; it is of great
importance to me."

Mrs. Bush possessed no ordinary share of that very common gift of
persons of her class--circumlocution, and she told her story with a
delightful sense of revelling in the fullest details. Her hearer, not
under ordinary circumstances distinguished for patience, neither
hurried nor interrupted her, but, on the contrary, when he asked her
any questions at all, put to her such as induced her to lengthen and
amplify the narrative. When the housekeeper took her seat beside his
bed, Lord Sandilands had been lying with his face towards her. As she
progressed in her account of the sojourn of Gilbert Lloyd and Harvey
Gore at her house, he turned away, and lay towards the wall against
which his bed was placed, so that at the conclusion of the story she
did not see his face. Ashy pale that face was, and it bore a fixed
look of horror; for, bringing his own secret knowledge of Gilbert
Lloyd to bear upon the story told by the housekeeper, Lord Sandilands
readily divined what was that swift, unaccountable illness of which
Lloyd's friend had died, what the irresistible power his wife had
wielded in insisting upon the separation which had taken place. "The
wretched girl! What must she not have suffered!" the father thought.
"Alone, in the power of such a man, in possession of such a secret,
whether by positive knowledge or only strong suspicion, no matter.
Good God, what must she not have suffered! What has she not yet before
her to suffer!"

Here, as he afterwards thought, in reflecting upon the unconscious
disclosure which Mrs. Bush had made to him--here was another barrier
against any possible molestation of Gertrude by her husband, a
horrible truth to grasp at with something like ghastly satisfaction.
But horrible truths were all around them in this miserable
complication, on every side.

"Thank you," said Lord Sandilands, when Mrs. Bush had concluded her
narrative. "I am much indebted to you for telling me all these
particulars. You will oblige me very materially by not mentioning the
subject in any way to anyone."

Mrs. Bush was aware that Lord Sandilands not only possessed the means
but the inclination to make it very well worth anyone's while to
oblige him, so she immediately resolved upon maintaining undeviating
fidelity to the obligation he imposed upon her; and she afterwards
kept her resolution, which she found profitable.

When Gertrude arrived, Mrs. Bush met her with a request that she would
go to his lordship at once, which implied that Mrs. Bloxam was to
remain in the drawing-room. This she did, composedly occupying herself
with needlework, and feeling her hopes that she should be entirely
overlooked in the crisis of affairs growing stronger and stronger. It
may as well be said here, once for all, that these hopes were
justified. Mrs. Bloxam was never called to account by Lord Sandilands
for his money, or her own conduct.


"I take it upon myself, my dear," said Lord Sandilands to his
daughter, when many hours passed in close and mournful consultation
between them had gone by; "as soon as I am able to move--and, you see,
I am greatly better already--the arrangements shall all be made."

From the bed where he lay, the old man's eyes were turned anxiously,
sadly, towards the figure of his daughter. Gertrude was seated in a
deep chintz-covered chair, in the bay of the window, which overlooked
a small garden of the sterile and sandy order, familiar to the memory
of occasional dwellers in seaside lodging-houses. She was leaning
forward, her head resting on her hands, her arms supported by a little
three-legged table, her attitude full of grace and dejection. The
afternoon sun tinged her pale cheek and her clustering hair, but for
the moment the brilliance that was so characteristic of her appearance
was gone. But she touched the old man's heart all the more keenly for
the lack of brilliancy, for she was more like her mother without
it,--the dead mother whom she had never seen, and whose name had as
yet been barely mentioned between them.

"Yes," she said absently, drearily, "I must leave it all to you. How
strange it is to me to know that I have you to help me, to leave it
all to!"

"You will not pine for the excitement and applause to which you are so
accustomed, Gertrude?"

"No; they have been very wearisome to me of late, since I have known
how much might have been mine that never can be now."

"No indeed, my dear," said her father earnestly, "it never, never can
be now; and your true courage, your true good sense is in
acknowledging this at once, and consenting to turn your back upon it
all promptly. You shall have none of the misery of severing these
ties; I will write to Munns, and tell him I am ready to indemnify his
real or imaginary losses."

"It will cost you a great deal of money," she said, still absently,
still drearily.

"It is almost time that I began to spend it on you," said her father,
with a very unsuccessful attempt at a smile.

The past, the present, and the future had been discussed during the
hours they had passed together, and emotion had worn itself out.
Steadily keeping in mind the concealment he desired to practise, and
the effect he designed to produce, the old nobleman had received the
confidences which his daughter--who more and more strongly felt
the tie between them hour by hour, and softened under its
influence--imparted to him with the utmost tenderness and indulgence,
but with as little effusion as possible. He had induced her to tell
him the whole truth concerning her separation from her husband; and
had received the terrible revelation with calmness which would have
perhaps shocked Gertrude had she not been too much absorbed in the
newer, sacred sorrow of her hopeless love to perceive as keenly as was
her wont, had she not also been much exhausted physically, and thus
mercifully less sensible to impressions. She had also told him of
Gilbert Lloyd's late pursuit of her; and at that portion of her
narrative Lord Sandilands ground his still strong white teeth with
furious anger, and a thrill of exultation mingled with the rage and
misery of the circumstances, as he thought how utterly this villain
was in his power, how soon he would set his foot upon his neck and see
him writhe in impotent anguish and humiliation. But this was one of
the feelings which he had to conceal from Gertrude, and he did
effectually conceal it.

The plan decided upon was that Gertrude and Mrs. Bloxam should return
on that evening to Hardriggs, and terminate their stay there as soon
as possible; and then go to London and occupy the interval which must
elapse before Lord Sandilands could travel, in making preparations for
departure. The pretty villa was to be given up; the household gods
which Gertrude had gathered around her were to be dispersed, and her
life was "to begin over again." Is there any drearier phrase than
that? can words represent any harder fact, any more painful idea? Then
Lord Sandilands and his daughter would go abroad, and leave the
English world behind them, to think and say just what it might please.
The place of their abode was not even discussed. All foreign countries
were alike new to Gertrude, and old to Lord Sandilands. One little
point of detail had been mentioned between them. If Gertrude wished
it, her father would take Mrs. Bloxam with them. He inclined to the
belief that it would be butter not; better to be away from everyone
connected with the past, from which it was their wish, their object to
escape. And his daughter agreed with him, as did Mrs. Bloxam, when the
matter was mentioned to her. She hated foreign countries--her trip to
Italy was a standing grievance--and she was very glad to retire from
her post of chaperone to Miss Lambert, with such a handsome present in
money from Lord Sandilands--an ill-deserved acknowledgment of her
services--as, added to the savings she had accumulated at the Vale
House, rendered her free from the presence or the apprehension of
poverty. When the time of parting came, this lady, on the whole a not
unfortunate member of society as human affairs are constituted, took
leave of Lord Sandilands and his daughter with the utmost propriety;
and it is more than probable that by this time she has ceased to
remember their existence.

Gertrude took leave of her father, when the appointed time came for
her return to Hardriggs, with little visible emotion. She was dazed
and exhausted; and it was not until the events of the last few days
were weeks old, and she passed them in review under a foreign sky, in
a distant land, far away from the man she loved and the man she bated,
that she began to realise them in detail, and to feel that she had,
indeed, "begun life over again."

When Lord Sandilands contemplated the prospect of the interview he was
about to have with Miles Challoner, he shrunk from it with dread. But
he had to go through with it; and perhaps the most painful moment of
the many painful hours he and his friend passed together was that in
which the young man advanced to him with beaming looks, with
outstretched hand, with agitated voice, and said, "You have sent for
me? you have good news for me?"

The task was done the task in which the old man felt the hand of
retribution striking him heavily through the suffering of those he
loved--the pain was borne, and the day after that which witnessed the
arrival of Gertrude and Mrs. Bloxam in London saw Miles Challoner
leaving the great city for Rowley Court, where he shut himself up in
such gloomy seclusion that the people about began to talk oddly of it.
Somehow the Court seemed an unlucky place, they said. First, the
mysterious disgrace and banishment of the younger son; then the
lonely, moping, moody life of the Squire; and now here was the young
Squire going the same gait. There was surely something in it which was
not lucky, that there was, and time would tell.

The world did talk, as they had anticipated, of the departure of Lord
Sandilands and Miss Lambert for foreign parts; and as it was some
little time before it got hold, of anything like a correct version of
the story, it started some very pretty and ingenious theories to
account for that "unaccountable" proceeding. Managers were savage,
_débutantes_ delighted, and Lady Carabas, who knew nothing whatever of
the matter, was charmingly mysterious, and assured everyone that her
dear Grace had been guided in everything by her advice, and that that
dear Lord Sandilands was the most perfect of creatures, and had
behaved like an angel. And then, in even a shorter time than Lord
Sandilands and Gertrude had calculated upon, the world, including Lady
Carabas, forgot them.



CHAPTER V.
An Explosion.


When Gilbert Lloyd awoke the next morning after an excellent night's
rest, his first impression was that something disagreeable had
happened on the previous evening, but it was some time before he could
exactly recollect all the circumstances and pass them calmly in review
before him. Even when he had done so he felt by no means certain how
far matters had gone. He had taken too much of that infernal brandy,
he remembered with disgust--taken it because he had been brooding over
that business at Brighton which happened years ago, it is true, but
which some confounded fate seemed to have set people talking about
lately. He had not thought about it, it had never troubled him, and
now he found his mind continually running on that one subject. It must
have been the constant reference made by those about him to--to his
wife that must have turned his thoughts in that direction. Curses on
that Sunday regulation of shutting the telegraph-offices! If he had
only been able to send that telegram as he had originally intended
early in the morning, it would have stopped her coming down, and
prevented her having that fatal hold over him, of which she is well
aware, and which she is determined to exercise if necessary. It was
thinking last night of all these things combined that had sent him to
the brandy-bottle, a dangerous habit, which seemed to be growing upon
him, he thought, and which he must at once break himself of, as
ruinous and destructive of all chances of keeping that clearness of
brain which was to him a vital necessity. He was muddled the previous
night; he felt it then; he only saw through a glass darkly what had
happened, and the retrospect was by no means agreeable. Etchingham had
annoyed him, he recollected that; and he had replied without measuring
his language, and the result had been that they had agreed to part. O
yes, now he remembered what Bobby Maitland had told Etchingham about
him. What an idiot he had been to make a row about such a thing as
that! He knew well enough that Bobby Maitland had been trying all he
knew for years to supplant him in Etchingham's confidence, that he was
awfully jealous of him, and would say or do anything to get a rise out
of him. He must have taken an amount of brandy to have made such an
ass of himself. It was a comfort to know that Etchingham was sure to
be all right in the morning, and to be in a great fright at what had
occurred. He knew his pupil well enough to be certain of that. No
doubt his lordship had also dined, and had taken quite enough of Mr.
Stackborough's wine. They were both of them excited, no doubt, but he
must take care and stand on his dignity, and then Etchingham would
come round at once.

So, thinking over these things, Gilbert Lloyd took his cold sea-water
bath, which got rid of most of the ill effects of the previous night,
and having leisurely dressed himself, descended to the room where
breakfast was laid. He was the first; Lord Ticehurst had not yet
appeared. So Gilbert took up the newspaper, and after glancing at the
state of the odds and the sporting-intelligence generally, remained
expectant. He had not to wait very long. In a few minutes Lord
Ticehurst, looking very white and seedy, and with his small eyes more
tightly screwed up and sunk more deeply into his head than usual,
entered the room. Gilbert bade him "good-morning," which his lordship,
walking round the table and flinging himself into an easy-chair, only
answered by a short nod. He then rang the bell, and, on the waiter's
appearing, ordered brandy and soda-water. This, Lloyd argued to
himself, was merely the effect of the "morning after," the result of
too much indulgence in Stackborough's wines. His lordship's digestion
was impaired and consequently his temper suffered: both would improve
simultaneously. But after his brandy and soda-water, Lord Ticehurst
pulled his chair to the table, and commenced and proceeded with a very
excellent breakfast, during the discussion of which he said never a
word to his anxiously-expectant confederate, while, at its finish, he
lit a big cigar, and, still mute, armed himself with a telescope,
flung open the window, and stepped into the balcony to inspect the
exhibition of the naiads bathing in the foreground.

For once in his life Gilbert Lloyd was nonplused. He had made
perfectly certain that Etchingham would have cried peccavi, would have
come to him begging to have their relations replaced on the old
footing; and here was the recalcitrant apparently quite at ease, not
taking the least notice of him, and obviously rather enjoying himself
than otherwise. Had he been blind, or had Etchingham's character
suddenly changed? One thing was quite certain, that all was going
wrong, and that he must take prompt measures to set himself right.
Gilbert Lloyd was not an adept at leek-swallowing. He had played his
cards so well during the latter portion at least of his life that he
had seldom been required to perform that humiliating feat, but he saw
that he must do it now. Lord Ticehurst was, like most good-natured
men, intensely obstinate and sulky when affronted, and though Lloyd
had had no experience of this state of his pupil's mood so far as he
was regarded, he had seen it evidenced against others. It was
perfectly plain that one of these fits, and a very strong one, was on
Lord Ticehurst at present, and Lloyd was compelled to acknowledge to
himself that if he wanted to retain his position in the future he must
knuckle under unreservedly and at once.

He laid down the newspaper which he had made a pretence of reading,
and looked towards the window. There, in the balcony, sat his
lordship, the light-blue smoke from his cigar curling round his head,
and his eye fixed at the telescope which he held in his hand Gilbert
rose and went behind him, but Lord Ticehurst, although he must have
heard the footstep, never moved. Then Gilbert laid his hand on his
pupil's shoulder, and said, "Etchingham!"

His lordship moved his eye from the telescope, and looked quietly at
Lloyd. "Well?" said he, in a sufficiently sulky manner.

"I have come to ask your pardon. I--"

"O, there, that's all right," said his lordship, preparing to
recommence his performance with the telescope.

"No, it is not all right. You and I have been intimate allies for a
very long time. Until last night there has never been a word of
difference between us. Nor would there have been then but for the
infernal meddling of people who--"

"O, just look here! I didn't name any names, remember. It was you who
said you knew Bobby Maitland had been making mischief."

"It was I; I acknowledge it. You are quite right. You are far too good
a fellow to say a word against even such a bad lot as that. I lost my
temper, and I spoke out. But why? Because I was in a tremendous rage
at the impudence of that fellow Maitland daring to put his own words
and his own sentiments into my mouth, and to pretend that I had said
them. His own words and sentiments, I say, and no one else's."

"What! Do you mean to say that you never said--all that confounded
stuff about the 'nurse,' and all that?"

"I pledge you my word of honour I never said anything of the kind."

Lord Ticehurst looked straight at him as he said these words, but
Gilbert Lloyd met the look firmly, without the smallest increase of
colour, without the movement of a muscle in his face.

"Well," said his lordship, after a momentary pause, "of course after
that I cannot say any more. I was most infernally riled when I heard
you'd been chaffing about me, I'll allow; because, after all, don't
you know, when you and a fellow have lived together, and been regular
pals, and that kind of thing--"

"And you thought I could have been such a scoundrel as to do that? No,
Etchingham, I don't pretend to be strait-laced, and I don't go in to
be demonstrative and gushing in my affection for you, like those
duffers who are always hanging about you in town, and whose game you
see through perfectly, I know. My regard for you I endeavour to show
in another way, in devoting myself heart and soul to the management of
your affairs; and if you look into them I think you'll find that I am
faithful and true to you."

Into his voice, as he uttered these last words, Gilbert Lloyd threw a
little tremulous touch of sentiment, which gave evidence of a hitherto
undeveloped histrionic ability, and which was really excellent of its
kind. It was so close an imitation of the genuine article that most
people would have been taken in by it, and Lloyd looked to see a
responsive twinkle in his pupil's eyes; but clever and telling as it
was it failed to touch Lord Ticehurst. He said, "All right, Gilbert,
old fellow; of course I know that. Here, there's an end of it!" and he
stretched out his hand; but there was no heartiness, no enthusiasm in
his tone, no warmth in the grasp he gave, and Gilbert Lloyd recognised
all this, and began to feel a dim prescience that his hold on his
lordship was beginning to wax faint, and that his position as chief
manager of Lord Ticehurst's affairs was manifestly insecure.


Was Gilbert Lloyd's luck really beginning to fail him? Had the devil,
who had stood his friend so long, and aided him in his advancement so
wonderfully, grown tired of and forsaken him? It seemed like it, he
was forced to confess to himself. By nature cool, crafty, and
clear-headed, and from long practice in matters in which the exercise
of those qualities is constantly required, Lloyd was by no means a man
to suffer himself to remain blind to any danger which might threaten
him. There are men amongst us passing for sane, nay, even reputed to
be clever, who obstinately shut their eyes against the sight of the
chasm towards which they are pressing forward, who are obstinately
deaf to the roar of the avalanche which in a few seconds must
overwhelm them, when by merely striking out into a new path--not so
pleasant indeed, and that is mostly what they look at--they might
avoid their fate. These are the men who, Micawber-like, are always
expecting something to turn up, who refuse to see the plainest
portents, to listen to the most obvious warnings, who think that bills
disregarded are payments indefinitely deferred, and who put away
unpleasant-looking letters unopened with the idea that the bad news
they bring will thereby be staved off, who go on _quo Fata ducunt_,
and who are astonished when they find themselves involved in misery
and ruin. Gilbert Lloyd was very different from this. Let a cloud,
even though it were "no bigger than a man's hand," appear above the
horizon, and he took note of it instantly. He was specially observant
of the slightest change in the character or demeanour of those with
whom he was brought in contact, even of persons of inferior grade. In
fact, although for a long time past his life had been one of
comparative ease and undoubted luxury, he had never forgotten the
habits acquired in the early days of poverty and shifting and
scheming, when his hand was against every man and every man's hand
against him, and he was prepared to go to the end of the world, or out
of it altogether for the matter of that, if he saw plainly the
necessity of absconding, or felt that his Fate had arrived.

Was his luck going? Was his game nearly played out? There had been a
great change lately, without a doubt; he must not shut his eyes to
that. Etchingham was certainly changed. Very civil and acquiescent in
all that was suggested to him, never referring to their dispute on
that unlucky night, but still without a particle of the heartiness
which formerly characterised him, and which was the salt of his
otherwise unpleasant disposition. There had been a turn of luck, too,
in turf-matters. Some of his own private speculations (for Gilbert had
a book of his own in addition to the "operations" in which he had a
joint interest with Lord Ticehurst, and was said also to do a great
deal by anonymous commission) had been very unfortunate during the
past season, and so far as he could see he was not likely to recoup
himself by any success at Doncaster, where one of Lord Ticehurst's
cracks had been disgracefully beaten for the Cup, while another, which
had been one of the leading favourites for the Leger, had run down the
scale in the most alarming manner, and was now, on the eve of the
race, scarcely mentioned in the betting.

Was his luck going? was his game nearly played out? _Venit summa dies
et ineluctabile fatum!_ Where had he heard that, Gilbert Lloyd
wondered as he sat on the edge of his bed at the Angel Inn at
Doncaster, turning all these things in his mind. _Ineluctabile fatum_.
He gave a half-shudder as he repeated the words, and he gulped down
half the tumbler of brandy standing on the table by his side. He felt
a _frisson_ run through him--that kind of creeping feeling which silly
old women ascribe to the fact of someone "walking over your grave"--on
which the brandy had no effect, and he stamped his foot in rage at his
weakness. He was all wrong somehow; out of health, perhaps? But his
clear sense refused to be deluded by that excuse. _Ineluctabile
fatum!_ that was it, the _summa dies_ for him was at hand; he felt it,
he knew it, and found it in vain to struggle, impossible to make head
against it. The roar of the crowd in the street came through the open
window of the room in which he sat, that hideous roar which fills the
streets of every country town at race-time, and which he knew so well,
with its component parts of ribaldry, blasphemy, bestiality, and
idiotcy. The day was bright and hot and clear--what did the noise
outside and the bright day remind him of? Something unpleasant, he
felt, but he could not exactly fix it in his memory. He rose, and his
eyes fell on the big, heavy, old-fashioned four-post bedstead on which
he had been seated, and on the table with the glass and bottles
standing by it. And then in an instant what had been dimly haunting
his memory flashed all bright across his brain: Brighton, the crowd of
racing-men on the cliff in the hot, bright weather, and the lodging,
with Harvey Gore dying on the bed! Gilbert Lloyd swallowed the
remainder of the brandy, and hurried downstairs into the street.
Immediately opposite the inn-door, and surrounded by a little crowd, a
preacher--as is often to be seen on such occasions--was holding forth.
The crowd mocked and jeered, but the preacher, secure in the
stentorian powers of his lungs, never stopped in his attacks on the
wickedness going on around him; and the first words which Lloyd heard
as he issued from the inn were, "Prepare to meet thy God!"

The gentlemen who had "operated" against Lord Ticehurst's horse in the
betting-ring were, on the succeeding day, proved to be perfectly
correct in their prognostications; that eminent animal being as far
behind the winner of the Leger as his stable-companion had been in the
race for the Cup. This result did not affect Lord Ticehurst much, so
far as his betting losses were concerned; he had so much money that it
mattered little to him whether he won or lost; but he did not like
losing the _prestige_ which had attached to his stable ever since
Lloyd had succeeded poor old Dobbs and taken the stud in hand And he
particularly disliked the half-pitying, half-chaffing way in which
several men condoled with him about it.

"What's come to you, dear old Etchingham?" said Bobby Maitland, who
had been unable to withstand the fascinations of the Doncaster
Meeting, and had accordingly persuaded Mr. Stackborough to leave the
yacht at anchor off Dover while they came north; "what's come to you,
old man? The white jacket and cherry spots seem now always to be where
the little boat was--all behind!"

"We have not been very lucky lately, have we?" replied his lordship,
with an attempt at a grin--he writhed under Bobby's compassionate
familiarity; "but we did very well early in the year; and you can't
have it always, don't you know."

"Ah yes, to be sure, you had some little things, I recollect," said
Bobby Maitland more furtively than ever.

"Don't know what you call 'little things,' Maitland," said Lord
Ticehurst, twitted out of his usual reticence; "the One Thousand, and
the Ascot Cup, with two of the best things at Stockbridge. That seems
pretty good to me; but I suppose it's nothing to you. You never even
won a donkey-race that I heard of."

"O yes, he did," said Gilbert Lloyd, who had come up to them unseen,
and overheard the last remark; "O yes; Bobby won a donkey-race once,
and he was so proud of it, he always takes the animal about with him.
He's somewhere in the neighbourhood now, I'll swear!"

There was a shout of laughter at this remark from all the men standing
round, which was increased to a roar as Mr. Stackborough, dressed most
elaborately, was seen approaching the group. It was always said that
Bobby Maitland had never been seen to lose his temper. At that instant
he was within an ace of it; but he controlled himself with an effort,
and said, "That's not bad, Lloyd; not at all bad, for you. When you
order Lloyd's man's new livery, Etchingham, you must have a cap and
bells added to it. 'Gad, you're like one of those great swells in the
olden time, who used to keep a fool to amuse their friends!"

"Haw, haw! Maitland had him there!" shouted "Barrel" Moss, a fat,
handsome Israelite, ex-gambling-house-keeper, now racehorse-proprietor
and betting-man, admitted into the society of the highest patrons of
the turf.

"What are you grinning at, Barrel?" retorted Gilbert. "You may thank
your stars you did not live in the days of those 'great swells of the
olden time.' Why, when Jews wouldn't pay, they used to pull their
teeth out; and what would have become of you when you were posted in
Teddington's year? Why you wouldn't have had a single grinder left!"

Once more the laugh was on Lloyd's side, and taking advantage of his
triumph he pushed through the knot gathered round him, and, taking
Lord Ticehurst by the arm, moved off towards the hotel. The colloquy
between the two, as they walked along, was brief. His lordship was
more than a little "out of sorts." His rejection by Miss Lambert yet
rankled in his mind; his recent want of success on the turf upset and
annoyed him. He was fidgety and fretful, and when Gilbert asked him
what they should do, and where they should go to next, he confessed as
much, and said that he did not care so long as he was "out of the
whole d--d thing!" Such a state of mind rather coinciding with Gilbert
Lloyd's own feelings at the time, that astute counsellor, instead of
opposing his patron's unmistakable though oddly expressed views, fell
in with them at once; declared that everything from British Dan to
British Beersheba was barren, and suggested that they should go abroad
for a month or two, lie fallow, and pick up health. Lord Ticehurst
fully agreed with the idea of going abroad, but "would not have any of
your touring;" he had had enough of Switzerland, thank you; and as for
any of those dead-alive old cribs where fellows poked about among
pictures and those kind of things, well, he would as soon cut his
throat offhand! He did not mind going to Hombourg or Baden, or one of
those places where there was something to be done, and plenty of
people to be seen.

It was Gilbert's policy just at that time to keep his pupil in
good-humour if possible, so that even if the notion of a visit to
Baden had not happened to be agreeable to him, he would doubtless have
suppressed his own feelings and assented with a good grace. But
situated as he was, wanting a thorough change, and yet so ill at ease
as to fear being left alone to his own resources in a dull place, the
gaiety of a foreign watering-place was exactly what he would have
chosen. So, two days after, the _Morning Post_ recorded that "the Earl
of Ticehurst and Mr. Gilbert Lloyd passed through town yesterday _en
route_ for Baden."

Men of middle age, who recollect Baden before the fatal facility of
travel, or the invention of Mr. Cook and his excursionists, must look
back with deep regret upon the pleasant days when comparatively few
English people found their way along the newly-opened railway that
crept along the bank of the Oos. The place was known, of course; but
the difference between the visitors then and nowadays was as great as
between the visitors to the gardens of Hampton Court on any ordinary
fine day in early spring or on Easter Monday. The style of the
company, despite the importing of many of the great British
aristocracy who in former years never visited the place, but now
find it much cheaper and more amusing than "entertaining" for
partridge-shooting at home, has gradually been decaying; but since the
establishment of the races it has received a large proportion of that
very worst ingredient, the sporting-cad. When Lord Ticehurst and Lloyd
arrived, the races were just about to take place, and there was a
strong muster of the "professionals" of high and middle grade, the
worst being kept away by the difficulty of obtaining means of
transport from England, which is a mercy of which the Germans are not
sufficiently aware to be properly thankful for. The lowest order of
sporting-man is the lowest order of anything. If anyone wishes to be
impressed with the depth of degradation to which the human species can
be successfully reduced, he has only to go into the Strand on a day
when some great "event" is coming off, and observe the persons
gathered round the office of the great sporting-newspaper about four
in the afternoon. He will see a crowd of men of all ages--wizened old
creatures, big burly roughs, shambling knock-kneed hobbledehoys,
in battered hats, in greasy, close-fitting caps, most of them
shirt-collarless, but with belcher handkerchiefs twisted round their
thick throats; many of them have the long, flat thieves' curl on the
side of the face; nearly all have the hair cut close round the nape of
the neck: costermongers, butchers, the scum and refuse of the
population; dirty, half-starved, in clothes whose looped and windowed
raggedness would be dear at half-a-crown for the whole lot. These be
the gallant sporting-men, without the slightest knowledge of or care
for sport, who, in order to enable them to bet their half-crowns on a
race, empty tradesmen's tills, burst into our houses, and "put the
hug" on us in the open street.

Of course this class was unrepresented in the great gathering at
Baden; but there was a large influx of people who had never been seen
there before. They filled the hotels and lodging-houses; they
swaggered over the promenades; they lounged about the Kursaal,
outraging the dignity of the officials by talking and laughing loudly;
and they played at the tables, slapping their coins down with a ring,
or motioning and calling to the grave croupiers "just to hook 'em that
louy they'd left behind." They were a cause of great offence to Tommy
Toshington, on whom Gilbert lighted on the morning after his arrival
at the springs, where the old gentleman was holding a tumbler of very
nasty water with a very shaky hand, and, in default of having anyone
to talk to, was vainly endeavouring for the five-hundredth time to
find out the meaning of some very tremendous frescoes in front of him.

"I've been in the habit of comin' to this place for an immense number
of years, and thought I could go on till I died. Devilish comfortable
quarters I've got at the Roossy, and nice amusin' place I've always
found it; but I must give it up, by George! I can't stand the set
of racin'-fellows that come here now, 'pon my soul I can't! God
knows who they are, my good fellow. You, who go about to all these
what-do-you-call-'em meetings, you may know some of 'em; but I, who
only toddle down to the Derby and Ascot on Sumphington's drag, and get
over to Goodwood when the Dook's good enough to ask me--I've never set
eyes on any of 'em before."

"Well, but how do they annoy you, Toshington?" asked Gilbert, who was
rather amused at this outbreak on the old gentleman's part.

"They don't actually annoy me, except by bein' such a dam low-bred
lot, yahooin' all over the place. And to think of 'em comin' just now,
when we were so pleasant. It's rather late in the season, to be sure;
but there's a very nice set of people here. My Lady Carabas is here,
but that _you_ knew, of course; and the Dook and Duchess of
Winchester, and the Dashwoods, and the Grevilles, and the Alsagers,
and Tom Gregory and half the First. It's monstrous pleasant, you can't
think!"

"It must be," said Gilbert quietly. "So new and fresh and charming.
Such a change, too, for you all, not to see anybody you are accustomed
to meet in London,--it must be delightful. Goodbye, Toshington; I'm
going in for rusticity, and intend to have a turn before breakfast."

Although Mr. Toshington's sense of humour was very slight, and
although he took most things _au pied de la letter_, he detected some
sarcasm in Gilbert's remarks, and looked after him from under scowling
brows. "That's another of 'em," he muttered; "another of your
horse-racin' customers, though he is in society, and all that. Damme
if I know how they let 'em in; I don't, by George! They'd as soon have
thought of lettin' a fiddler, or a painter, or a fellow of that sort
into society when I was a young man. But it's best to keep in with
this one; he has the orderin' of everything at Etchingham's, and might
leave me out of many a good thing if he chose to be disagreeable." So
saying, the old worldling finished his second glass of Brunnenwasser,
paid his kreutzers, audibly cursed the coinage of the country in a
select mixture of the English and German languages prepared expressly
by him for his own use, and departed.

Mr. Toshington was perfectly right in stating that the Marchioness of
Carabas was enthroned in great state at Baden, but wrong in imagining
that Gilbert Lloyd was aware of that fact. Truth to tell, there had
been a slight misunderstanding, what is vulgarly but intelligibly
called a "tiff," between her ladyship and Lloyd, and for a few weeks
past he had not been enlightened as to her movements. The fact was,
that when Lloyd had sufficiently used the _grand dame_ as a means to
various business ends, as a stepping-stone to certain objects which
without her aid he would have been unable to reach, he began to find
his position rather a wearying one. It was pleasant to be the
custodian and hierophant of the Soul while it served his purpose, but
it was dreary work when that purpose was achieved, and his interest in
the Soul's owner was consequently gone. He attended at the shrine as
regularly as ever for reasons of policy, but his policy was not
sufficiently strong to keep him from occasionally gaping and betraying
other signs of weariness. Lady Carabas was too observant a woman not
to mark this immediately on its first occurrence, but she thought it
might be accidental, and determined to wait a repetition of it before
speaking. The repetition very shortly afterwards took place, and even
then her ladyship did not speak. After a little reflection she
determined on adopting another plan. She resolved upon taking to
herself someone else who should be admitted into the mysteries of the
Soul. This, she thought, would capitally answer a double purpose; it
would tend to her amusement--and she was beginning to feel the want of
a little novelty, she confessed to herself--and would probably have
the effect of rendering Gilbert Lloyd jealous. A little time showed
the result. In the turf-idiom which she had learned of Lloyd, and
which she sometimes used in self-communion, she acknowledged that
"while the first event had come off all right, the second had gone to
grief;" which, being interpreted, meant that while she (Lady Carabas)
was thoroughly amused, and indeed at the height of one of her Platonic
flirtations with the new possessor of the Soul (a young man in the
Foreign Office, with lovely hair parted in the middle, charming
whiskers, and brilliant teeth), he (Gilbert Lloyd) had not shown the
smallest symptom of jealousy. On the contrary, Gilbert Lloyd was
unfeignedly glad to find that his place had been satisfactorily filled
up, and that he would no longer be constantly required to be on
escort-duty. And when Lady Carabas found that this was the case--and
she discovered it very quickly, being a woman of great worldly
penetration and tact--she made up her mind that the best thing for her
to do was to accept the position at once, and give Lloyd his liberty.
This accordingly she did; and when they met at Baden,


     "They seemed to those who saw them meet,
      Mere casual friends of every day;"


as Lord Houghton says in a very charming little poem, though there was
an echo of bygone tenderness, of the voice of the Soul, in fact,
pervading her ladyship's tones for many a day after. Meantime she was
the queen of a very pleasant little coterie. Half the frequenters of
Carabas House did a little passing homage at her ladyship's temporary
court at Baden on their way to and from the other watering-places. The
promenade contained types of all the people usually seen seated on the
Hyde-Park chairs, with a large sprinkling of others never seen in that
aristocratic locality. For though H.R.H. the Duke of Brentford, the
captains and commanders and mighty men of valour, the senators, the
clerks in the government offices, and the nothing-doers have plenty of
time to lounge about in London, the working-bees--the judges and
barristers, the doctors, the civil-engineers, the cunning workers
in ink and pigment, all of whom grind their brains to make their
bread--have no such opportunity when in town, and are only seen idling
in daylight during their brief autumn holiday. "Society"--except that
Carabas-House set, which knew them very well--stared very much at most
of these people, and called Jack Hawkes of the F. O. to its aid to
explain who they were; and Jack Hawkes, who was only too delighted to
act as cicerone to society when it had a handle to its name,
explained, "Tall man with the round high shoulders and the long gray
hair is great lady's doctor, don't you know? uses up three pair of
horses a-day whippin' about town; that's his wife and daughter with
him--think her pretty, the daughter? nice-lookin' they call her. The
man with the red face, not him in the white hat--that's Kollum the
portrait-painter; that one in the wideawake is Sir Blewson Bagge, one
of the judges--say he knows more law than any other three men in
England The fat man with the cigar is Protheroe, and the man
talkin' to him dressed all in black is Tuberville; they're great
engineers--one laid out the John o' Groat's and Land's End Extension
Line, and the other designed the Channel-Islands Submarine Railway.
Wonderful how they stick together, those railway fellows; if one knows
a good thing he tells the other of it, and they hunt in couples to
keep other fellows off the game. Tuberville's son has married
Protheroe's daughter; and the money that's there passes all count.
There are two writin' chaps comin' this way; they belong to the
_Kresse_, that blackguard paper that attacks everybody, don't you
know? Don't look bad fellows, do they? and they're always laughin' and
keepin' it up at the Badischer. Who's the little round fat fellow
they've stopped and are talkin' to?--that's Bellows of the Old-Bailey
Bar; first-rate in his business, and such good company; and the man
with him of course you know? No! Why that's Finchington, the light
comedian of the Minerva. Yes, he does look different in the daylight,
as you say. These? No, these are people who have come over for the
races, and I don't know anything about them. We must get Lloyd to give
us that information.--Here, Lloyd, come and tell her grace who are
these odd people who are coming this way; they're turf-people, I
suppose, so you'll know all about them."

But Gilbert Lloyd, objecting very much to be patronised either by Mr.
Hawkes or the great people to whom that social barnacle had
temporarily attached himself, declared his inability to perform the
duties assigned to him, and took himself off with a bow. It was the
night before the first race-day, and all the Baden world was enjoying
itself on the promenade in front of the Kursaal. There had been a
grand excursion-party that day to the Favourite, a party of which Lady
Carabas had been the reigning star, and after a delightful outing they
had returned, and were now formed into a large group, laughing and
talking loudly. Gilbert Lloyd carefully avoided these people, and
steered equally clear of another group in the midst of which the
Duchess of Winchester was enthroned. These two great ladies had never
much liked each other, and when they met at Baden their antagonism was
patent, and their rivalry openly declared. Each had her circle of
admirers, and whatever one did the other tried to outdo. The
Winchester faction having heard that the Carabas people were going
that day to the Favourite, had themselves had a picnic at Eberstein
Schloss, and both were now planning their next day's diversion at the
races.

Gilbert Lloyd was in no humour to join either of these parties at that
moment, though each would have been glad to have secured him as an
adherent. He was in a bad temper, having just had some sharp words
with Lord Ticehurst on a question on which that young nobleman a few
weeks since would not have dared to offer an opinion. Just before they
left town for Doncaster, Lloyd had dismissed a groom; the man appealed
to Lord Ticehurst in a letter. This letter Lloyd opened, read, and
contemptuously threw into the fire. The man heard of this, and made a
fresh appeal to his lordship, setting forth the treatment his former
letter had received, and defying Lloyd to deny it. This letter was
forwarded to Lord Ticehurst at Baden, and made him exceedingly angry.
He went at once to Lloyd, and spoke very plainly, said that he would
not be treated like a child, that all letters addressed to him--no
matter on what subject--should be brought to him, and even hinted that
on their return to England Lloyd's position and responsibility must be
more exactly defined.

"It was that infernal Maitland's hint that he can't swallow," said
Lloyd, as he seated himself at an empty table on the verge of the
crowd and ordered some brandy. "He referred to it just now when he
said he wouldn't be treated like a child. O he's never spoken to me
like that since we've been together.--Here!" to the waiter who brought
the brandy, "_encore_; another of these _carafons_. What's the good of
a drop like that to a man!--He's never been the same since that night
he dined with those fellows, after he had been over to that place to--
Lord! I forgot--to propose to _her!_ Of course _she_ must be mixed up
in everything that's unlucky for me! How I wish I'd never set eyes on
her! how I wish--What the devil does this fellow want!"

"This fellow" was a short, square-built man of about fifty years of
age, with sunken eyes, a sharp-pointed nose, and a close-cut beard,
the original red colour of which was fast fading into gray. His seedy
clothes were of a foreign and fantastic cut, and round his neck he
wore a long, dirty-white cravat, folded quite flat, and wonderfully
neatly tied, and fastened in front with a flashy mock pin. "This
fellow" had been hanging round the table for some time, dodging in and
out so as to get a better view of its occupant in the dim light. At
length, when Gilbert Lloyd raised his head and looked up at the
strange figure, "this fellow" seemed to be satisfied, and shambling up
to the table, placed his hands upon it, leaned over, and said in a
thick, husky voice,

"Gilbert Lloyd!"

Lloyd looked at him steadily, and then said, "That's my name; who are
you?"

"I thought you would not know me," said the stranger with a laugh,
"none of my old pals do; at least, most don't, and some won't, so it
don't make much--"

"Stay," interrupted Lloyd; "I know you now; knew you directly you
threw your head back and I saw your cravat. There's only one man in
the world can tie a neckerchief like that, or get its folds to lie as
flat. You're Foxey Walker."

"I am that same," said the stranger; "at least, I was when I
was alive, for I'm nothing but a blessed old ghost now, I verily
believe.--Here, you fellow, bring some brandy; Cognac, you know!--I
ain't of much 'count now, Lloyd, and that's a fact." He was shabby and
bloated and shaky, altogether very different from the tight, trim
little Foxey, who was found leaning over the rails on Brighton
Esplanade at the commencement of this story.

"Ah, I remember," said Lloyd; "you came to grief the Derby before
last, in the Prior's year?"

"I did so. Went a regular mucker. That was a bad business, sir; a
regular bad business. I could show you my book now. There were men
that I dropped my money to over that Epsom Meetin' that had owed me
hundreds--ay, hundreds on other events. I'd always given them time,
much as they wanted, I had; but when I asked 'em for it then--for I
had a rattlin' good book for Ascot, and some good things later on in
the season--O no, not a bit of it! 'Pay up,' they says, 'pay up!' All
devilish fine; I couldn't pay up--so I bolted."

"Ah, recollect perfectly your being proclaimed a defaulter," said
Lloyd pleasantly. "It made rather a talk at the time, you were so well
known. What have you been doing since?"

"Well, I've been cadgin' about on the Continent, doin' what I could to
keep body and soul together.--You're goin' to pay for this brandy, you
know? I suppose you don't mind standin' another go? all right.--But
there's little enough to be done. I ain't much good at cards; and,
besides, there's nothing to be done with them unless you get among the
swells in the clubs and that, and that's not likely; and there's not
much to be picked up off the foreigners at billiards, let alone their
not playing our game. I've won a little on the red and black here and
there, and I've come across an old friend now and again who's helped
me with a fiver or so."

"You don't speak in riddles, Foxey," said Lloyd with a half-laugh.
"You make your meaning tolerably clear. I must not be worse than the
others, I suppose; so here, catch hold;" and he took a couple of
bank-notes from his pocket-book and handed them to his companion.

"Thank'ee, Lloyd," said Foxey, pocketing the money. "I ain't proud,
and hadn't need to be. Besides, you've become a tremendous swell since
you got hold of young Ticehurst, eh? I see your name regular in _Bell_
amongst the nobs. Rather different from what we reck'lect in the old
days: 'Ten to one, bar one!'--don't you remember?" and Foxey put his
hand to the side of his mouth and shouted loudly in imitation of the
worthies of the outer ring.

"Ye-es," said Lloyd, who did not at all relish being told that he had
"got hold of" anybody, and who was much disgusted by Foxey's
recollections and performance. "Yes," said he, rising from his chair
as he spoke; "I think I must go now."

"Must you?" said Foxey, who had become very much flushed and
invigorated by the brandy; "must you? That's a bore, that is, for I
had somethin' very particular to say to you; somethin' that concerns
you much more than it does me; somethin'," added Foxey, looking hazily
at his companion, "that would be d--d awkward for you if it got blown.
Don't you fear for me! I'm as close as wax, I am; only--however, I'll
see you about it to-morrow or next day. Good-night, old fellow;
compliments to my lord."

"Something that concerns me more than it does him? That would be
awkward for me if it got blown? What the devil does he mean?" said
Lloyd to himself, as he walked down the _allée_. "Awkward for me?--the
old brute was drunk, and did not know what he said. Probably a plant
to get more money out of me. He _could_ know nothing that would have
the slightest bearing on me or my affairs. I daresay he'll try it on
again when I see him next; but he'll find it difficult to draw me of
any more money, more especially if he attempts to bounce me out of
it."

The next day was bright and cheerful, and the little racecourse,
though much sneered at by the "talent," served its purpose very well,
and was thronged with a merry, animated crowd. The natives, to be
sure, did not understand very much what it was all about. The women
cried, "Ach, Herr Je!" at the sight of the tight little English jocks
stripping off their outer coats and appearing in all the glory of
flashing silk; and the men took their pipes from their mouths and
swore "Donnerwetter!" as the horses went thundering by. The Winchester
and Carabas faction had each one side of the little stand, the leaders
exchanged sweet hand-kissings, the followers bowed and grinned and
nodded with all the warmth and sincerity which form the basis of our
social relations. Lady Carabas, as usual, wore pink; the Duchess of
Winchester, who was very fair and petite, wore blue; and the retainers
followed suit. Mr. Toshington was as much divided in his allegiance
and as much perplexed to know which colour to sport as a London cabman
on the morning of the University boat-race. He had enjoyed the
hospitality of both houses, and indeed had earned many a good dinner
by carrying tattle from one to the other; but up to this time he had
never been called upon to make his election, to say "under which
queen;" and those who were in the secret, in which category was
included everyone present, were greatly amused to see the difficulty
which the old gentleman had in trimming his sails and steering his
course in safety. There were some who, unlike Tommy Toshington, were
independent, who sided with neither party, but were friendly and
familiar with both. Among those were Lord Ticehurst--who, though bound
by family ties to Lady Carabas, never allowed his clanship to "mix him
up in any of her ladyship's rum starts," as he phrased it--and Gilbert
Lloyd, whose worn and haggard appearance was the cause of much
solicitude and anxious inquiry from Lady Carabas. Lloyd appeared
rather annoyed at the _prononcé_ manner which her ladyship adopted
towards him, and at which some of the most daring followers smiled,
more especially when the reigning favourite, the gentleman in the
Foreign Office, looked very much displeased. He seemed very much
happier when at a later period in the day he found himself seated by
the Duchess of Winchester, who rallied him with much piquancy on his
defection.

"I am astonished at you, Mr. Lloyd, quite astonished," she said
laughingly. "Do you know we used to call you the Undying One!"

"Well, you could not call Toshington that, could you, Duchess?" said
Gilbert; "look how very purple his whiskers are in the sunlight."

"No, no, of course I don't mean that; how can you be so absurd? You
know our dear friend opposite is like somebody in old time I read of
once, who used to kill her admirers regularly at the end of a certain
time. It's a notorious fact that--over there--no flirtation lasts
longer than twelve months, and we call you the Undying One because you
have held undisputed sway over that Soul for--O, it must be years! And
now, after all this, you have the baseness to shut your ears to the
voice of the charmer--we saw the spell tried on an hour ago--and to
come over here!"

"I don't think there's much harm done, Duchess, even if all were as
you say, which I am very far from admitting. Calypso is the only
instance on record of a woman who '_ne pouvait se consoler après le
depart_' of anyone she liked. I am certain that no lady of modern days
would be so weak."

"Ah, I know what you mean; you mean Mr. Pennington. Well, he's very
good-looking, certainly, in his own red-and-white way, but he's
insufferably stupid; and a stupid man, however handsome he may be,
always bores me to death. I-- Who is this dreadful man down here? Is
it to you or to me he's making those horrible grimaces?"

Lloyd looked over in the direction in which the Duchess pointed, and
to his horror saw Mr. Foxey Walker, who apparently had had a great
deal too much to drink, whose fantastic clothes looked infinitely
shabbier and seedier in the daylight than they had on the previous
evening, and who was throwing up his arms, endeavouring to attract the
attention of someone in the stand. Foxey no sooner saw that Gilbert
Lloyd had recognised him than he approached the stand, and called out,
"Hi, Lloyd! hollo there, Lloyd! Just come and pass me up there, will
you? I want to speak to you."

"It's to you he's calling, Mr. Lloyd!" said the Duchess, arching her
pretty eyebrows and making a little _moue_ of astonishment.

"What a strange-looking creature! who in the world is he?"

"He's a poor half-witted fellow, an old friend of mine, Duchess," said
Lloyd with the utmost calmness. "He is a man of family, and once had a
large fortune; but he lost every sixpence on the turf, and that quite
turned his brain. He's eccentric, as you see, but perfectly harmless;
a few of us make him a little allowance, on which he lives, and he
thinks this gives him a claim upon us, poor fellow! I--Yes, yes; I'm
coming!" he called to Mr. Foxey, for that gentleman had recommenced
bellowing, "Hi, Lloyd!" with redoubled vehemence; "I'm coming!--I
think I had better go down and calm him, Duchess, if you will excuse
me." And with a bow Gilbert Lloyd leisurely retreated from the stand.

He smiled so pleasantly--he knew he was still under observation--at
Mr. Foxey, who was waiting for him in front, that that worthy, who had
been somewhat doubtful of the wisdom of the course he had pursued,
felt perfectly reassured and said, "Hallo, Gil., my boy! sorry to call
you away from such stunnin' company; but I want a word with you." It
was not until they had walked a few paces and were well out of sight
of the people in the stand that Lloyd caught his companion tightly by
the arm, and said, "You infernal drunken old idiot, how dare you come
and annoy me when you saw me with my friends?"

"Come, I say, drop that," said Foxey, "you're pullin' my arm off;
don't you hear?"

"You scoundrel, I'll have your head off if you don't take care! What
fool's game is up now? What do you want with me? Have you anything
really to say, or is it only to repeat the rubbish of last night?"

"What rubbish? what did I say last night? I didn't--no, of course I
didn't; I recollect now. I know what I'm doin' fast enough, and what I
can do."

"And I know what I can do, and what I will do too, if you interrupt me
again when I'm talking with friends, and that is, have you moved off
the course by the gend'armes as a drunken nuisance."

"O, that's it, is it?" said Foxey, glowering at him, and speaking in a
dull thick voice. "Moved off the course! a drunken nuisance, eh?
You'll sing a very different toon to this, Master Lloyd, before I've
done with you. O, you can't come the high jeff over me," he continued,
raising his tone; "for all your standin' in with big swells now; we
know what you were once; we know--"

"Will you be quiet, you old fool, and say what you want?" said
Gilbert, turning fiercely upon him.

"What I want? Ah, that's more like it! What I want? Well, that's
easily told, and that's more than most people can say. What I want is
money."

"I gave you money last night--more than you can have spent, or ought
to have spent."

"Ah, that's more like it: what I _can_ spend--Well, no matter.
However, that's not the way I mean in which I want money. Look here,
Gilbert Lloyd; I'm tired of this cadging life; I'm sick of hikin' up
and down from one gamblin'-place to another; I'm disgusted with the
Continent, and the foreigners, all the lot of 'em."

"O, you are, eh?" said Lloyd with a sneer; "I should scarcely have
thought it."

"Yes," replied Foxey, in perfect good faith, "I am thoroughly. What I
long for is to get back to England, to see my old pals, to lead my old
life."

"Indeed," sneered Gilbert again; "but from what I understand from you
there would be some difficulty in carrying out that pleasant little
arrangement."

"None that you couldn't help me to settle at once. They all think
their money's clean gone; but if I'm to come on the turf again, it
would never do for me to come out as a welsher, so I must pay 'em
something; but ever so little would square it. Then, if I just had a
little trifle in hand to start with, and you gave me the office when
you knew of a good thing--and you must hear lots, havin' the
management of that young swell's stable--well, I should do as right as
ninepence."

There was a minute's pause, and then Lloyd said:

"You are a great creature, Mr. Walker, a very great creature, and your
power of sketching out a happy future is something wonderful. But to
my great astonishment I find that I play a part in this notable scheme
of your life, and that its being carried out successfully wholly
depends upon me. Now, we may as well understand each other clearly,
and at once. From me you'll never get another sixpence."

Foxey started, looked hard at his companion, and said, "You mean
that?"

"No," said Lloyd, "I don't mean it literally; I'll give you another
ten pounds on the day I leave this place."

It was Foxey's turn to sneer now. "That's generous of you," he said,
"regular generous; but you always were a free-handed fellow with your
money, Lloyd. I reck'lect we used to say in the old days how pleased
you always were to have to part. Now look here," he cried, changing
his tone; "I will have all I've asked from you: the money to square it
with those fellows, the sum to start fresh with the straight tips from
young Ticehurst's stable; I'll have this, or else--"

"Or what else?" asked Gilbert Lloyd, without any alteration in his
usual calm manner.

"Or else I'll ruin you, root and branch; horse and foot; stock, lock,
and barrel! You laugh and sneer; you think I can't do it? I tell you I
can."

"You tell me a pack of lies and blather. You begun last night, and
you've done nothing else for the last half-hour. How can you do it?"

"By blowing the gaff on you; by telling something I know which would
make all these swells cut you and hunt you out of society; which
would--"

"There, there's enough of this!" cried Lloyd, interrupting him; "my
time's too valuable to waste over such trash. It's the old game of
hush-money for a secret, after all. I should have thought you would
have known some better dodge than that, Master Foxey, after all the
life you've seen. If you were going in for the extortion-of-money
business in your old age, you might have learned something fresher
than that very stale device. Now, be off, and give me a wider berth
for the future, if you're wise. Your drunken stupidity--for I suppose
you would not have acted thus if you had not taken to drink--has lost
you ten pounds. Take care it does not get you a horsewhipping." As he
said these words he turned shortly on his heel and strode away.

Foxey looked after him, his face lit up with rage and disappointment.
"All right, my fine-fellow," he muttered, shaking his fist at the
fast-receding figure; "all right; you will have it, and you shall. It
will be quite enough to cook your goose as it is; but if I'd only had
time to learn a little more, I think I could have hanged you."


There was a little extra excitement in the rooms that night. Count
Nicolaeff, a Russian nobleman who had on two previous occasions broken
the bank, had returned to Baden, and was playing with a boldness and
success which augured the repetition of the feat. A crowd was gathered
round him as he sat, calm and composed, quietly gathering the
_rouleaux_ which the croupiers pushed across to him. In this crowd was
Lloyd; the qualities which the Russian was displaying were just those
to excite his admiration, and he was watching every movement and
trying to account for each calculation of the gambler, when he felt a
tap on his shoulder. He looked round and saw Dolly Clarke, the
sporting-lawyer, who beckoned him away.

Gilbert was annoyed at the interruption. "Not just now," he said
impatiently; "I'll come to you later."

"Come this instant," said Dolly Clarke; and there was something in
his tone that made Gilbert Lloyd leave the table and follow him into
the open space outside. By the lamp-light Lloyd saw that Clarke was
very pale; noticed also that he stood back as if avoiding contact with
him.

"What is it?" asked Lloyd. "It should be something special by your
tone and manner, Clarke?"

"It is something special," replied Clarke; "it is a matter of life or
death for you. Do you know a man called Foxey Walker?"

"Pshaw! is that all?" said Lloyd, whose heart had failed him at the
solemnity of his companion's manner, and whose courage now as suddenly
revived. "Is that all? Yes, I know him; a defaulting ring-man, a mere
common 'welsher.' I saw him on the course to-day, and he threatened me
that if I did not give him money he would expose something in my past
life--some trick or dodge I practised, I suppose, when I was in the
ring, and had to be a sharp practitioner to hold my own with my
fellows. That's all, eh?"

"No," said Clarke earnestly, "nothing of the sort; the man has made a
revelation, but not of the kind you imagine--a thousand times more
serious. There's never been much love lost between you and me, Lloyd,
and you may wonder why I'm here to counsel and help you; so understand
at once, it's for Ticehurst's sake; you're so mixed up with him that
any public _exposé_ would be the deuce and all for him."

"What do you mean by public _exposé_, Mr. Clarke? what do you--"

"Stop; don't bounce--it won't do. Do you remember when we dined at
Richmond six weeks ago, you answered me very sharply because I asked
why you never went to Brighton now? I've always had my own opinion on
that matter; but I don't chatter, and I kept it to myself. This man
Walker stopped Ticehurst and me as we were coming from the course, and
begged so earnestly for an interview that Ticehurst listened to him. I
need not go into all he said; it appears he had his suspicions too,
and determined to trade on them; went the next year to your old
lodgings, pumped the landlady; saw the doctor who attended Harvey
Gore; has been working it since he left England through friends; and
has made up a case which, if not positive, is at all events infernally
suspicious."

"What--what did Etchingham say about it?" asked Lloyd.

"I never saw a fellow so completely knocked over in all my life. You
know he is not strong-minded, and he--well, he funks death, and that
kind of thing, and--"

"Does he believe it? what does he say about me?"

"He does believe it fully, and he says he will never set eyes on you
again. I see--your eyes are blazing--you see there's nothing proved,
and your place is too good a one to give up on mere suspicion?
You'll say you'll have the matter sifted, and all that. Don't;
take my advice--given as a lawyer who sees queer things in his
practice--drop it, clear out of this at once, get over to England,
make up Ticehurst's accounts, and then get away to Australia,
America--anywhere!"

"Thank you; and leave my 'place,' as you call it, to you, eh?" It was
the last remaining touch of bravado in his voice, bravado belied by
the ashy paleness of his face, and the set rigidity of his mouth.

"To me! I'm a lawyer, not a turfite. Pshaw! don't try to humbug any
longer--you're too clever a man. You can post over to Carlsruhe
to-night, and get straight through to-morrow. I'll come with you to
the hotel; I promised Ticehurst I'd see you off. Come."

Gilbert Lloyd saw that there was no use in fighting the question any
longer. He felt as though his career was at its close, as though he
should drop as rapidly as he had risen. He turned on his heel and
walked towards the hotel, Dolly Clarke walking by his side. It was all
over, then? The position he had gained for himself amid the envy and
hatred of all his compeers was shattered at its base, and--

No! Before he reached the hotel-door, he had carefully searched his
hand, and found in it one last trump-card, which he determined on
playing directly he arrived in England.



CHAPTER VI.
The last Chance.


Mr. Lloyd gone! They could scarcely believe it at Baden. Lady Carabas
was in despair, and the Duchess of Winchester was vexed, for she was
fond of flirtation, and she had found Mr. Lloyd "very nice." The led
captains and the other male retainers of both factions looked on
Gilbert as a dangerous rival, and were rather glad than otherwise that
he was out of the way. Gone to England, eh? Yes. Summoned by a
telegram on most important business, so Dolly Clarke said; he happened
to be with him at the time the telegram arrived, and so of course knew
all about it. On Lord Ticehurst's business, of course? Well, Dolly
Clarke supposed so; in fact, he might go so far as to say "yes," and
rather unpleasant business too. Lord Ticehurst was rather annoyed
about it, and so perhaps you would be so good as not to mention it to
him? Needless to say there were some people who did not believe this
statement, even when vouched for on such excellent authority as Mr.
Dolly Clarke's. There are some people who will not believe anything.
Mr. Toshington is one of them. He thinks it a "deuced odd story," and
sets about to investigate it. He sees the landlord, porter, waiters,
_Hausknecht_ of the hotel, every individual separately, and puts them
through the strictest investigation in the most extraordinary
_mélange_ of languages; finally, he goes to the telegraph-office and
ascertains triumphantly that for the Herr Lloyd, Englander, no
telegraphic despatch received was. Tommy opines that Gilbert's absence
has reference to some infernal chicanery connected with the turf, and
sets that down as the reason why Ticehurst is so shy about speaking
about it. Queer business for peers of the rel-lum to be mixin' up in
such matters, Tommy thinks, and anythin' but a good sign in these
infernal levellin' times. Lady Carabas is really very sorry. She had a
sort of idea that Gilbert was "coming round;" but his having gone away
in this sudden manner, and gone away without a hint of his going, or
word of adieu to her, was a deathblow to that hope. And Mr.
Pennington, the gentlemanly creature creature in the F.O., though
charming to look at and pleasant so far as his conversation lasted,
was soon exhausted, and was not to be compared with Gilbert Lloyd as a
bright and amusing companion. "He might have thought of me before he
went away," Lady Carabas thought to herself. She had no idea that
Gilbert Lloyd had thought about her, and with considerable earnestness
too, as he was walking away from the Kursaal in company with Mr. Dolly
Clarke, immediately previous to his quitting Baden. He had carefully
weighed in his mind whether there was any use in getting her to appeal
to Lord Ticehurst in his behalf, founding his appeal on a tremendous
story of his innocence and of his being the victim of circumstances,
which story he could arrange during the night. But he finally rejected
the notion; there was something decisive and pitiless about Mr.
Clarke's manner, which told Lloyd it would be useless for him to
indulge himself with any hopeful view of the case. As he travelled
through the night, and turned all the events of the past days, of the
past years, over and over in his mind, during his weary journey, he
felt convinced that he had acted wisely in this matter. Only one thing
annoyed him; if the worst came to the worst, and he was obliged, as
Clarke had hinted, to go away to Australia or America, he should want
all the money he could lay his hands on, and he might have "bled" her
ladyship for a good round sum. He had letters of hers in his
possession, written in all innocence it is true, but quite
sufficiently compromising if read from the legal point of view, which
ought to have effected that.

When Lloyd arrived in London, he did not go to Lord Ticehurst's house
in Hill-street, where were all his goods and chattels; he would go
there later, he thought, and see what could be done after a careful
examination of the books and papers. He drove to a house in
Duke-street, St. James's, where he had lodged years before; and the
landlady of which, looking scarcely a day older, came out to the door,
told him his old rooms were vacant, and welcomed him heartily. Gilbert
Lloyd always was popular with his inferiors; it was part of his policy
in life to be so, and he took every opportunity of saying polite
things to them, and doing them cheap civilities. Even now, as he
jumped out of the cab, he told Mrs. Jobson how well she was looking,
and how he felt quite pleased at the notion of coming back to the old
rooms; and then he bade her take his luggage in, and ran upstairs.

The old rooms! He looked round them, and found them scarcely changed.
The furniture was a little shabbier, perhaps, and looking through the
window the opposite side of the street seemed, if possible, a little
closer than before. The same slippery chintz on the sofa, the same
regulation number of chairs, the same portrait of the Princess
Charlotte, at which Gertrude had screamed with laughter, and called it
a "hideous old thing," the first day he brought her there. Gertrude?
Yes; that was their first lodging after their marriage. He brought her
there, and at that instant he seemed to see her as she was when she
first entered the little room; how she looked round in surprise, and
then ran to the window and knelt and looked up for the sky. The chain
of his reflection was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Jobson, who
expressed her delight at seeing him again.

"But, do you know, I did not reckernise you at first, Mr. Lloyd--I did
not, indeed. Seeing you alone, I suppose it was. I hope you're not
alone in the world, Mr. Lloyd?--that you've not lost that dear sweet
lamb?"

"O no, Mrs. Jobson, thank you; Mrs. Lloyd is alive and very well."

"That's good hearing, I'm sure; and grown into a fine woman, I've no
doubt. Those slight slips of girls with plenty of bone, when they fill
out, improve wonderful;" and then Mrs. Jobson changed the subject, and
launched into questions of domestic economy into which it is not
necessary to follow her.

And the next day Gilbert Lloyd prepared to play the last trump-card
which he found in his hand when he so carefully examined it on the
night he left Baden. He had given deep consideration to his plan
since, had gone through every detail, had turned and twisted the
intended mode of working his scheme, and had definitely, resolved upon
the manner in which he would carry it out.

And this was his resolution--to claim his wife. He had calculated
exactly all the risk that was contained in that one sentence, and he
had determined to brave it, or at all events to pretend to be prepared
to brave it. From those few words which Gertrude had whispered to him,
when in his rashness he had braved her at Mrs. Stapleton Burge's
party, he knew that she was mistress of the secret of Harvey Gore's
death. But the question then arose, would she dare to avail herself of
the knowledge she possessed? Yes, he thought she would, sooner than be
forced to return to him. Except during the first few months of girlish
idolatry, she had never cared for him, and now she had many reasons
for positively hating him. The manner in which he had treated her
would have been quite enough to a girl of her spirit, without the
suspicion of his crime, the position which she had subsequently gained
for herself in the world, and--her love for another man. Even in the
strait in which he found himself, that last thought was sufficient to
tempt him to run almost any risk to prevent her being anything to any
other man, but to that man above all others in the world.

Another question then arose: how much did she know about what had
transpired in those accursed Brighton lodgings? Foxey Walker, with all
his knowingness, with all the means which he had employed, with all
the tremendous inducement he had to endeavour to find out everything,
to drag its deepest depths, and expose all he could rake therefrom in
the light of day, had only been able to patch up a case of suspicion.
So Dolly Clarke had said. To be sure he, Gilbert Lloyd, had taken
fright at the bogey thus raised, and had run away; but he was taken
aback, the charge was brought forward so suddenly, and it was
impossible to face the _charivari_ which would have risen round him,
or to silence the accusation offhand on the spur of the moment.
Impossible, and not particularly worth his while. He had always
thought that the connection between him and Lord Ticehurst must be
brought to an end some day, and had often imagined, more especially
during the last few weeks, that it would terminate in a row. Well,
that could not be helped. He had had wonderfully good pickings for a
very long time; and though he had lost all that he had put by in his
recent unfortunate speculations, the mine was not yet exhausted, the
milch-cow was not yet dry. In the message which Clarke had conveyed to
him from Lord Ticehurst, he was directed to go to Hill-street, and
make up the books and balance the accounts between them; and it was
odd if he could not show a considerable balance due in his favour; ay,
and claim it too, so long as a portion of his lordship's
banking-account was responsive to cheques bearing Gilbert Lloyd's
signature. The question remained then, how much did Gertrude know? He
could not guess from the few words she had whispered to him that
night, for on that occasion also he had taken fright, and rushed off
without probing the matter. But if Foxey Walker could bring forward
nothing positive, nothing actually damnatory, the odds were very
strongly against Gertrude's being able to do so. And it was a great
stake he was going in for now. She could always earn a huge income by
her voice; but this was not all. This old Lord Sandilands, who had
almost adopted Gertrude as his daughter--so, at least, Lady Carabas
had told him, and she ought to know--had the reputation of being
immensely rich. He lived so quietly and unostentatiously, that the
world insisted he had been putting by two-thirds of his income for
years; and he had no relatives to whom to bequeath it. It would
therefore probably all be Gertrude's, or of course, his identity once
established, Gertrude's husband's. Now, what course would they adopt?
Would they accept him; let him live with her during the old man's
lifetime, and inherit with her at the old man's death? Even if all the
capital were tied down, the interest would afford a splendid income.
Or would they offer to buy him off with a sum down and a yearly
income? Either would do, though the first would be best, for--yes, by
Jove! much best, for the second would leave Gertrude open to the
attentions of his brother Miles, However, he was in a strait, and
could not afford to be particular, unless they fought him, and
then--well, he would risk that, and play his last trump-card.

So Gilbert Lloyd, on the morning after his arrival in London from
Baden, sat down and wrote a long and elaborate letter to his wife. He
told her that from the first he had never ceased to grieve over that
unfortunate step which they had taken under the influence of temper
and youthful folly. He did not repine; indeed, he had no doubt that
the separation had had a properly chastening effect--had given them
time and opportunity to see the mistake of indulging in headstrong
passion, and had probably rendered them both--he certainly could speak
for himself--worthier members of society; but the time, he thought,
had arrived when it would be not merely advisable, but proper, to
place themselves right with each other and before the world. There
existed between them a tie which was far more solemnly obligatory on
them than any human-made law,--although he need scarcely point out to
his wife that their marriage had never been legally dissolved,--and
while both the spiritual and moral contracts were in force it was
impossible to shirk their influence. He owned that he had been
profoundly touched, on the several occasions on which he had met her
recently in society, by the fact that he, her legitimate protector,
who should have been at her side, whose proper position was at her
right hand, should have had to stand aloof and look on, while others
pressed round her, owing to the foolish step they had taken. She would
agree with him, he felt sure, that this was a fain position, and one
which should be at once set right; and the only way in which that
could be done would be by their at once coming together and assuming
their proper relations before the world. He, on his part, would not
object, if it was thought necessary or advisable, for an entirely
fresh marriage between them; that detail could be arranged afterwards.
He was writing this in his old lodgings in Duke-street, which she
would recollect, to which he had first taken her after their marriage.
She was a _grand dame_ now, but he did not think he wronged her, or
flattered himself, in stating his belief that she had never known more
real happiness than when inhabiting those little rooms. Might the omen
prove propitious!--Ever hers, G.L.

"And for a sort of thing that's not the least in my line I don't think
that's bad," said Gilbert Lloyd, as he read it over. "It seems to me
to combine the practical with the romantic, a very difficult thing to
hit off, and one likely to please both phases of Gertrude's
character." Then he sealed it, and addressed it to Miss Lambert, to
Sir Giles Belwether's care, despatched it, and waited the result.

There must be a clear day at least before he could receive a reply,
and that day he found it very difficult to get through. He could not
go to Hill-street, though there was plenty of work awaiting him there,
because on the tone of Gertrude's reply to his letter would greatly
depend the tone of his conduct towards Lord Ticehurst. If his wife, no
matter from whatever motives of policy, thought it better to yield to
his views, he would then be in a position to resent his sudden
dismissal, and to speak his plain and unadorned sentiments to his
lordship in equally plain and unadorned language. If, on the contrary,
Gertrude temporised or refused point-blank, and he saw there was no
chance of carrying out his wishes, then all he had left him was to go
to Hill-street to see the very best arrangement he could make for
himself, by which he meant to ascertain the largest amount he could
draw on the fund for which his signature was good at Lord Ticehurst's
banker's--other available funds he had none--and making the best of
his way to Australia or America under a feigned name, begin life again
_de novo_. So he mooned about during the dreary day--it was dreary
enough; none of his friends were in London, and the aspect of the town
was deserted and wretched in the extreme--and was not sorry when it
was time to go home and to bed. The next morning before he was yet up
Mrs. Jobson knocked at his door, and pushed in a letter which had just
arrived by the post. Lloyd sprang up, and seized it at once. It was a
large folded letter, addressed not in Gertrude's hand, but in writing
which had once been bold and was still large, but a little shaky and
tremulous, and was sealed with a coronet and a cipher. Gilbert broke
it open hurriedly, and read as follows:


"_Hastings, Sept. 26, 186--_.

"Geoffrey Challoner,--_for it would be absurd in me to address you by any
other name,--the lady who has the inexpressible misfortune of being
dressed to her, and has begged me to reply to it. The reply to such a
letter could not be confided to fitter hands than those of the lady's
father, in which position I stand. The young lady whose professional
name is Miss Grace Lambert is my natural daughter; the fact has been
duly acknowledged by me, and the first act after the avowal is to
champion my daughter's cause against a villain. For you are a villain,
Geoffrey Challoner; though God knows it is with the deepest pain that
I write such words of any man bearing your paternal name; for in
applying this term to you I am not actuated by a remembrance of the
wrongs you have done to Gertrude, I am not even thinking of the
fearful crime which you committed, and which was revealed to her by
your victim with his dying breath on the occasion of your final
separation. I am looking back across a gulf of years to the time when
the dearest friend I had in the world was your father. Now, Geoffrey
Challoner, do you begin to understand? To me your father confided the
narrative of the events which ended with your banishment from home,
and your erasure from the family annals for ever. That narrative I
have by me now. Your career has been hitherto so successful, you have
gone so long unpunished, that you will be sceptical on this point, but
I will prove it to you. That narrative, written in your father's own
hand, sets forth your boyish disobedience, your tendency to
dissipation, the impossibility to make you think or act rightly; and
finally, your awful crime. When you have read thus far you will still
cling to the hope that the knowledge of the nature of that crime may
have passed into the grave with him whose heart it broke, who never
held up his head after its discovery. If any such hope arises in you,
it is my duty to stamp it out. Geoffrey Challoner, in my possession,
complete in every detail from its commencement to its frustration, is
the story of your attempted fratricide. There can be read, couched in
your father's homely, serious, truth-begetting phrases, the record of
how you, finding it impossible to undermine your father's confidence
in your elder brother by lies and slanders of the most malignant
nature, at length determined to step into that brother's position by
taking away his life by poison. Do you admit the force of my position
now, or would you wish the details brought out one by one into the
light of day, before the public eye?_

"_This letter is written in self-defence, or, what is the same thing,
in defence of my child. The letter she has received from you, however
pleasantly and skilfully worded, was a threat, an order to her to
receive you as her husband, a threat as to what she might expect if
she refused. Now beware. Had you been content to leave Gertrude
unmolested, had you shown the slightest remorse for the horrible
crimes, one of which you contemplated, the other which, as I verily
believe, you committed, I would have tempered justice with mercy, and
left you to the never-failing retribution which your conscience would
sooner or later have claimed of you. That is now impossible. By your
own act you have prevented my using any such discretion in the matter.
You have thrown down the gauntlet, however covertly, and must take the
consequences. I have telegraphed to your brother and to my solicitor
to come to me at once. I shall place before them your father's
narrative, and shall tell them what Gertrude has told me. Do not
flatter yourself with the notion that a wife cannot be a witness
against her husband. There is plenty of other evidence, some of which
I find has been already worked up; and we shall take such steps as may
seem to us advisable_.

"SANDILANDS."


"I've knocked twice with Mr. Lloyd's breakfast, and I can't make him
hear," said Mrs. Jobson to her servant that morning; "and he such a
light sleeper too, in general. I'll try once more, and if he don't
answer, I'll peep in."

The landlady knocked again, but with no effect; and when she "peeped
in" she found Gilbert Lloyd fallen prone on his face on the floor,
with a letter grasped in his stiffened hand.



CHAPTER VII.
Ineluctabile Fatum.


It was fortunate that Mrs. Jobson was a practical woman of resources
and presence of mind, for the first thing she did was to fling the
contents of the water-jug over Lloyd's head (he was a favourite with
her, or she would scarcely have risked damaging the carpet by such a
proceeding); the second was to open the window; and the third was to
loosen his collar, and raise him into a half-sitting position. She
then called out to the servant to run for the doctor; but Lloyd, who
had by this time opened his eyes and come to his senses, vehemently
opposed this suggestion, declaring himself to be quite recovered, and
leading Mrs. Jobson to believe that these were attacks to which he was
by no means unaccustomed--which, though unpleasant to the lookers-on,
were not dangerous to the sufferer, and that he knew how to treat
himself, to prevent the recurrence of the seizure for some time to
come. Mrs. Jobson was much pleased to hear this, for, with all her
practicality, she had that vague fear of sudden death, and its
necessitated coroner's inquest, which is so often found among people
of her class. After her fashion, too, she really liked her lodger, for
Gilbert Lloyd had always been civil and agreeable--had given little
trouble, and paid his way with consistent punctuality; so she was glad
to find him looking something like himself, and lightly treating what
she had at first imagined would be a very serious matter.

But when he was left to himself, and the reaction after the cold
water, and the mental spurt which he had put on to talk to the
landlady, set in, Gilbert Lloyd felt that the blow which for the last
few days he had been certain was impending, had fallen at last. The
depression under which he had been recently labouring was then
accounted for; that attempted crime, which had brought upon him the
sentence of banishment from his father's house, the loss of his
ancestral name and family position, which had sent him forth into the
wilderness of the world, there to stand or fall entirely by his own
arts or luck,--this crime was to be visited on him again, just at the
very time when everything else was going wrong with him!

Lord Sandilands, then, was the friend to whom his father had confided
that horrible secret. He had often wondered to whom his father's
letter had alluded, but had never thought of identifying the bland,
pleasant old nobleman with the man who held the history of his
dishonour in his keeping. His father's letter had said, "This friend
is not acquainted with your personal appearance, and cannot therefore
recognise you, should your future conduct enable you to present
yourself in any place where he may be found." Even in the desperate
circumstances in which he was placed, Gilbert Lloyd almost laughed as
he recalled these words, and thought how frequently his conduct had
"enabled him to present himself" in places where old Sandilands was to
be found; how, indeed, he had been a leader and prime favourite in the
very society which the old nobleman most affected. "Not acquainted
with his personal appearance:" of course not, or Lord Sandilands would
never have consented to meet him on the terms on which they had met,
and which, though not intimate, were sufficiently familiar; would
never have suffered him to be the second-self of Lord Ticehurst--his
lordship could endure Gilbert Lloyd the turfite, but Geoffrey
Challoner--How had he learned about Geoffrey Challoner, then?--whence
had come this secret information? Not from Gertrude: that little fact
was yet to be broken to her, he thought with bitter delight. Who had
been Lord Sandilands' informant? Miles, of course!--he had forgotten
him, his dear, charming brother Miles! O, that boyish hatred had not
been misplaced; there was something in it beyond the mere desire to
get rid of one who stood between him and the estate. If Miles had been
nothing to him, he should have hated him. Miles, of course! His
father's letter had told him that this friend would be "always in
close and constant intercourse with my son." Close and constant
intercourse!--that was true enough; and now this precious pair had put
their heads together for the purpose of his humiliation. Why just at
that time? It could only have been recently that Miles had told the
old gentleman, though he had known it so long ago. Why had he only
just told Lord Sandilands, when he had known it ever since Gertrude's
first appearance at Carabas House? Gertrude--and Miles! was that the
clue? Miles was desperately in love with Gertrude--he had seen that
with his own eyes; and, besides, Toshington--everybody--had told him
so. In their confidence on this point, can Miles have revealed this
fact to his old friend? Gilbert did not see what end could have been
gained by that, more especially as the greatest secret of all--the
existence of the marriage between him and Gertrude--was evidently not
yet known to Miles.

And Gertrude was Lord Sandilands' daughter? That was a surprise to
Gilbert. That the old nobleman would have adopted her, and made her
his heiress, Lloyd had expected; but the thought that she was his
natural daughter had never suggested itself to him. Ah, what an
infernal fool he had been! All these years he had been congratulating
himself on his good fortune, and now he found he had been merely
running after the shadow and neglecting the substance. What a dolt he
had been to allow Gertrude to leave him at all! He might have lived on
her in a princely manner--first on the money which she made by her
profession, and secondly by properly working this secret of her
relationship to Lord Sandilands. And now he had lost all!

His time was come, he thought. _Venit summa dies et ineluctabile
fatum!_ That line remained haunting his brain. He felt that matters
were closing round him very rapidly. What was that he had read in Lord
Sandilands' letter about that cursed Brighton business with Harvey
Gore? He could not distinctly recollect; he would read the letter
again. He turned round to look for it; it was nowhere to be found.

He hunted for it high and low; searched every portion of the room
again and again; examined, as people will do in the desperation of
such circumstances, the most impossible places. He did not like to ask
Mrs. Jobson about it. If she had seen it her curiosity might have been
aroused; she might have read it, and then--At length he rang his bell,
and Mrs. Jobson appeared; and Gilbert saw in an instant by her face
that whatever might have happened she had not read the letter.

"When you were good enough to come to my assistance just now, Mrs.
Jobson, when I had that little attack, did you happen to see an open
letter lying about?" said Gilbert.

"A letter, sir?" said Mrs. Jobson dubiously; "there were no letter
that I saw, 'cept the one in your hand."

"In my hand?"

"Clinched tight up, as was both your fists, so that I could hardly
uncrook your fingers; and in one of 'em there _was_ a letter all
squeezed up."

"That must have been it. What did you do with it?"

"Put it on to the table by the window, just as it might be there,"
said Mrs. Jobson, taking an exact aim, and marking a particular spot
on the table with her finger.

"It's no good looking there," said Gilbert testily--for Mrs. Jobson
still kept peering on the table, as though she expected to see the
letter swim up to the surface through the wood--"it's not there. What
can have become of it?"

"Well, now I recollect," said Mrs. Jobson slowly, "that I thought you
would be all the better for a puff of fresh air, so I opened the
window, and the paper might have blowed out."

"Good God, woman, what have you done!" cried Gilbert, starting up and
rushing towards the street, pushing past Mrs. Jobson, who this time
began to be seriously alarmed, thinking her lodger was going out of
his mind.

The street was tolerably empty when Gilbert Lloyd reached it. There
is not much doing in Duke-street, St. James's, in the month of
September--a slack season, when even the livery-stable-keepers'
helpers are probably out of town, and there were but few people about
to express surprise at seeing a gentleman fly out of a house, and
begin searching the pavement and the kennel with intense anxiety and
perseverance. In the season, a dozen young gutter-bloods, street-boys,
would have been round him in a moment, all aiding in the search for an
unknown something, the probable finding of which, if seen, would bring
them a few coppers, the possible stealing of which, unseen, might fill
their pockets. But on this calm September morning a Jew clothesman
going his rounds, the servant of a lodging-house opposite, and an
elderly-gentleman lodger, who never went out of town, and who in the
winter never got out of bed, and who at the then moment was calmly
looking on at Lloyd's proceedings as at a show, were all the
spectators of the hunt for the missing paper, in which none of them
evinced anything but the most cursory interest.

Not so the seeker. He hunted up and down, poked in wind-swept corners,
peered down rusty gratings, seemed to have at one time a vague idea of
following the chase up the livery-stableman's yard, and glared at the
barrel swinging in mid-air from the crane outside the oilman's
warehouse-door, as though it might have sucked up the precious
document. He must have it, Gilbert Lloyd kept repeating to himself; he
must have it. But he could not find it, and at the end of an hour's
search he returned to the house, worn out with fatigue, and in a state
of feverish anxiety.

If it had blown out of the window, as the woman had suggested, into
the street--and the probabilities were that it had done so--somebody
must have picked it up. There was no wet or mud to discolour the paper
or efface the writing; it was a peculiar and striking-looking letter,
and anyone finding it would doubtless read it through. If such had
been the case it was lost--irretrievably, for ever. Great beads of
perspiration stood upon his pallid forehead as this notion flashed
across him. His name headed the letter, the name of his accuser was
signed at its foot, and its contents plainly set forth one attempted
crime and hinted at the knowledge of another, which had been more than
attempted, which had been carried into effect. Anyone reading this
would see the whole state of affairs at a glance, would feel it
incumbent on them to give information to the police, and--he was a
dead man! What was that Lord Sandilands had said about further
inquiries relative to Harvey Gore? Foxey had been doing his best to
find out something definite in that quarter, and had failed; but then
Lord Sandilands was a man of influence, with plenty of money, which he
would not scruple to spend freely in any matter such as this. That
made all the difference; they might succeed in tampering with that
wretched doctor fellow, who plainly had had his suspicions--Gilbert
had often recalled his expression about the _rigor mortis_--and there
would be an end of it. Pshaw! what a fool he was! He passed his hand
across his damp brow, sprang from the chair on which he had been
sitting, and commenced pacing the room. An end of it? No, not yet. He
had always had his own notion of how that end should be brought about,
if the pressure upon him became unbearable. Most men leading such
precarious shifty lives have thus thought occasionally, and made odd
resolves in regard to them. But there was hope yet. He was seedy,
weak, and unhinged; a glass of brandy would set him all right, and
then he would go off to Hill-street, look through the accounts, draw
on the bankers to the uttermost farthing, and start for America. It
was hard lines to leave town, where he had played the game so long and
so successfully. However, that was all over, he should never play it
any more, and so he might as well--better, much better--begin his new
life in a fresh place.

He dressed himself, got into a cab, and drove to Hill-street. The
house had been left in charge of some of those wonderful people who
occupy houses during the temporary absence of their legitimate owners;
but when Gilbert rang the bell the door was opened, to his intense
surprise, by Martin, Lord Ticehurst's valet, whom he had left behind
with his lordship at Baden.

"You here, Martin!" said Lloyd with an astonishment mingled with an
uncomfortable sensation which he could not conceal. "Why, when did you
arrive, and what has brought you?"

"Arrived last night, sir," said Martin with a jaunty air, very
different from his usual respectful bearing. "Came by his lordship's
orders."

"By his lordship's orders?" echoed Lloyd. "That was rather sudden,
wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir; very sudden, sir; done all in a hurry, sir; after a long
talk with Mr. Clarke the lawyer, sir."

"With Mr. Clarke, eh?" again echoed Lloyd, feeling more and more
uncomfortable. "Well, no matter; it's all right, I suppose. Just come
up to my room and tell me all about it;" and he was passing on into
the house.

"Beg pardon, sir," said Martin, placing himself before him and barring
the way; "beg pardon, sir, but you're not to come in; his lordship's
orders, sir."

"Not to come in!" cried Lloyd, white with passion; "what the devil do
you mean?"

"Just what I say, sir," replied Martin, with perfect coolness; "his
lordship's orders, sir; last words he said to me. Got a note here for
you, sir. Lordship said if you was here I was to give it you at once;
if you wasn't, I wasn't to trouble about finding you until you came
here."

"Give it here!" said Lloyd savagely; and Martin dived in his pocket,
fetched out the note, and handed it to him with a polite bow. It was
in Ticehurst's unformed round schoolboy hand, which Gilbert knew so
well; was very short, but very much to the purpose. It said that Lord
Ticehurst had given orders that Mr. Lloyd should be denied access to
the house in Hill-street; the question of accounts between them could
be gone into on Lord Ticehurst's return from the Continent, which
would be in the course of the ensuing week. Lord Ticehurst would
remain a couple of days in London on his way to his place in Sussex,
and would devote those days to settling all matters with Mr. Lloyd. It
would be advisable, in the mean time, that Mr. Lloyd should draw no
cheques on the account hitherto open to his signature at Lord
Ticehurst's bankers, as Lord Ticehurst had given instructions to his
bankers to close that account so far as Mr. Lloyd was concerned.

"That's that infernal Clarke's doing," said Gilbert to himself;
"Etchingham's writing, certainly, but Clark's suggestion and
dictation; Etchingham would not have thought of the idea, and could
not have expressed it half so succinctly. There's a chance yet. That
order to the bankers could not have been sent by telegram. They would
not have risked that. Perhaps I'm in time.--Martin, did you bring any
other letters to England?"

"Yes, sir; one from his lordship to Messrs. Tilley and Shoveller.
Delivered it at the bank at nine this morning, sir."

"Thanks; I'll write to his lordship. Good-day, Martin." He saw the man
bow ironically and stick his tongue in his cheek, but he took no
notice. He turned round, but had to make an effort to gather all his
strength together and walk away without staggering. The pavement
surged up in front of him; the houses on either side threatened to
topple over him. When he got out of sight of the valet still lingering
at the door, he stopped, and leaned against some railings to recover
himself.

It was all over, then! The last chance had been tried, and failed. A
day sooner, and he could have carried out his notion of drawing on the
bankers and escaping to America. That accursed couple--his wife and
his brother--had been against him in that, as well as in all his other
misfortunes lately. If he had not waited for that answer from
Gertrude,--that answer which, when it came, filled him with so much
anxiety,--he would have gone to Hill-street on the previous day,
before Martin had arrived, have drawn his cheques, and made all
square. Curses on them both! That letter from Gertrude--from Lord
Sandilands rather--this last business in Hill-street had driven from
his mind; but the thought of it now returned in tenfold agony. It was
lost, with all its terrible accusations! Had been found and read, and
was probably now in the hands of the police. And he had no means for
providing for flight. The few pounds in his purse were all he
possessed in the world. He should be taken, and have to die on the
scaffold! No, not that; he knew a better trick than that yet.

Once again he had to stop. His legs failed him; his head was burning;
he felt his heart beating with loud thick throbs. A dizziness came
over him, and it needed all his strength to prevent himself from
falling. After a minute or two he felt a little relieved. He called a
cab, and was driven to his club. The porter was away from his post,
and his deputy, one of the page-boys, failed to recognise the dashing
Mr. Lloyd in the pallid man who passed him with unsteady gait, and
asked him for his name. He went into the deserted coffee-room,
swallowed a glass of brandy, which revived him, then made his way to
the writing-room, and wrote a note. It was to a sporting acquaintance
of his, who happened at the time to be house-surgeon to one of our
largest hospitals, and ran as follows:

"_Private_.

"Dear Pattle--A nag that has carried my lord (and master) for ten
years has become past work, and is dangerous to ride. But his l'ship
won't give him up, and some day he'll get his neck broken for his
pains. To prevent this I want to put the poor beast quietly out of the
way, and I can't trust our vet., who is a blab. Nor do I want to buy
any 'stuff' at a chemist's, as, if anything came of it, and it got
wind, chemist might peach. Can you manage to send me a small bottle of
strychnine by bearer? Do so; and the next good thing that comes off,
you shall stand in with the profit. _Keep it dark_.

"Yours,

"GILBERT LLOYD."


"That's vague enough," said Lloyd, as he read the letter before
placing it in an envelope. "But Pattle's a great ass; he'll be
flattered to think he is helping my Lord Ticehurst's 'confederate,'
and he'll have a dim idea that there's a chance of making some
money--quite enough to make him do it." And Gilbert was right. He
stopped the cab outside the hospital, and sent in the note. Within
five minutes the porter appeared at the door with a parcel, which he
handed in "With Mr. Pattle's compliments," and with which Lloyd drove
off to his lodgings.

His haggard looks on alighting alarmed Mrs. Jobson, who expressed a
hope that he had been to see a doctor. This gave him the opportunity
for making an explanation which he had been seeking to bring about, as
he came along in the cab. He told the worthy landlady that he had
consulted his physician, who told him that the attacks, one of which
she had been a witness to, were highly dangerous, and that every means
should be taken to check them. With this view the doctor had
recommended him, if he felt one coming on, as was not unlikely,
judging from the present deranged state of his health, to take a
slight quantity of the medicine which he prescribed for him, and which
would give him instant relief. Upon which Mrs. Jobson remarked that of
course the doctors knew best. She did not herself "hold with"
sedatives, confessing at the same time that her experience as regarded
their application was confined to certain interesting cases, in which
she looked upon the taking of them as flying in the face of
Providence, which would not have sent pain if it was not meant to be
endured.

Gilbert Lloyd retired to his room, and did not see his landlady again
until about nine o'clock that evening, when he sent for her to tell
her that he felt a renewal of the symptoms of his attack, that he
should at once get to bed, and that he begged he might not be
disturbed. This Mrs. Jobson promised, and took her leave. When she was
gone Gilbert opened his despatch-box, and commenced the following
letter:


"My Dear Lord--You tell me you hear that my relations with Lord
Ticehurst are at an end, and you ask me if I will undertake the
management of your stud, and personally supervise your affairs. I need
scarcely say that I am highly flattered by the proposal, thus
repeated, I believe, for the third time. At present, however, I must,
in all respect, decline to entertain it. I have been so far lucky that
my circumstances are such as to prevent any necessity for my doing any
more work for the remainder of my life, while my state of health,
especially during the last few weeks, peremptorily forbids my doing
anything but nurse myself for some time to--"


Here he finished abruptly, leaving the sheet on the blotting-pad, by
the side of the open, despatch-box.

"They'll not be able to get over that," he said with a shudder; "and
the woman's testimony will be concurrent. It's an odd thing that a man
who can do it should care about what people say of him after it's
done."

He shuddered again as from his dressing-case he took a small phial of
medicine which he had purchased at a chemist's for the purpose, and
from the drawer in which he had locked it the strychnine-bottle, and
placed them side by side on the table. He then leisurely undressed
himself, turned the bedclothes back, and rumpled the bed to give it
the appearance of having been slept in; then he extinguished the
light, took the phial of strychnine in his hand, lifted it to his
mouth, drained it, and with one convulsive spring managed to throw
himself on the bed.


"And he's quite gone, sir?" inquired weeping Mrs. Jobson the next
morning of the doctor who had been hastily summoned.


"Gone, madam!" said the doctor, who was a snuffy Scotchman of the old
school--"he's as dad as Jullius Cæsar. And this is another case o' the
meschief of unauthorised parsons doctorin' themsalves and takkin'
medicines in the dark."



CHAPTER VIII.
A last Message.


Wordsworth has written of one of those beautiful scenes which he loved
so intensely, and with whose loveliness he was so familiar--

     "The spot was made by Nature for herself;
      The travellers know it not.   *   *    *
          *   *   *       But it is beautiful,
      And if a man should plant his cottage near,
      Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,
      And blend its waters with his daily meals,
      He would so love it, that in his death-hour
      Its image would survive amongst his thoughts."


It was amid a scene to which these lines might be applied, that Lord
Sandilands and his daughter were living, a year after the death of
Gilbert Lloyd--a scene so grand, and yet so full of soft and tender
beauty, that an English writer, who knew it better than anyone except
the native Swiss dwellers in it, declared it to be, "even amongst the
wonders of the Alps, a very miracle of beauty." It was a nook in the
Savoy Alps, near the Valley of the Sixt. It had needed both money and
interest to enable the old English nobleman to make even a temporary
"settlement" in the remote region; but he had used both to good
purpose, when he found that the wounded spirit, the mind diseased, of
his daughter were not to be healed by the distractions of travelling
in the busy and populous centres of European life. They had tried many
places, but she had sickened of all, though she tried hard to hide
from her father--whose solicitude for her increased daily, as did her
affection for him--that all his efforts to procure peace and pleasure
for her were to a great extent ineffectual. The young English _prima
donna_--whose brief and brilliant career, whose sudden, unexplained
disappearance from the scene of her triumphs, had been the subject of
much talk and many conjectures in London--was not identified on the
Continent with the Miss Keith who kept so much to herself, but who was
so very charming when she could be induced to enter into the pastime
of the hour. This was the more natural, as Gertrude never exerted her
greatest, her most characteristic, talent--she never sang after she
left England The last occasion on which she had "tumbled," as she had
said, to a limited but critical audience at Hardriggs, was the last
appearance of Miss Lambert on any stage. Miss Keith looked well, when
he was to be seen, and talked well, when she could be heard; but she
never sang, and thus a kindly mist diffused itself over her identity.

It seemed incredible to Gertrude that the incidents which had
occurred, the great emotions she had experienced, the various kinds of
suffering she had undergone, could all have passed over her within so
brief a period: that in so short a space of time the exterior and
interior conditions of her life should be so completely changed. She
had passed through many widely-varying phases of mind since she had
left England with her father: the uncertainty of her life over, the
necessity for personal exertion at an end, and the death of her
husband--horrible and unlamented as it was--had produced a great
effect upon her. It was like relief from torturing, bodily pain,
exhausting and constant; it made her feel the need of deep and
prolonged rest, quite undisturbed and irresponsible. She turned
impatiently, in the great relief of her freedom, from men and cities;
and longed for the solitudes of nature, and the release from
conventionalities, which she felt was needed to complete the sense of
her emancipation. Lord Sandilands, who, though he had been very well
since they left England, was sensibly older, and who had gradually
come to centre all his interests in this woman--who, though a
reproach, was yet a constant delight to him--instantly obeyed her
wishes, and they went to Switzerland. The beaten track of the tourists
did not content Gertrude, whose taste for the wild and solitary
beauties of nature was thoroughly gratified in the Alp region; and at
no late period of their wanderings, they found themselves in the
neighbourhood of the beautiful and little-known valley of the Sixt.
The place had an interest for Gertrude, from association with a
favourite volume which she had read many a time, wondering whether the
time would ever come when the scenery of the great glacier-world
should be other than a romantic, unattainable vision to her. Lord
Sandilands found the air invigorating, and though he could not join
Gertrude in her explorations, he made every possible arrangement for
their being effected with comfort and safety; and by means of
supplying himself with a number of truly English "comforts"--most of
which were entirely unintelligible to the simple people of the
district, and caused him to be regarded with more than common awe--he
established himself very satisfactorily at the hospitable hostelry of
the Fer à Cheval, formerly the Convent of Sixt. There had always been
a good deal of philosophical contentment in the disposition of Lord
Sandilands, and under his present circumstances this useful mental
characteristic grew stronger and more ready at call. Reflecting, as he
often did now, upon the past, it had an almost amusing effect upon his
mind to remember how his time had formerly been passed--the people
whom he had really thought of consequence to him, the things he had
cared for and taken an interest in. How far away, how along ago, it
all seemed now--now that he cared for nothing but Gertrude: the memory
of Gertrude's mother--ah, what a blunder his conduct to her had been,
as well as what a sin!--and his dead friend's son, mysteriously
involved in that sin's consequence. Who remembered him, he thought;
and whom did he remember of the many who had been his associates, and
had called themselves his friends? If tidings of his death were to be
sent to England, how many would say or think more than--"Old
Sandilands has popped off, I hear; deuced good thing for the parson's
son in Dorsetshire, nephew or cousin, isn't it?" None he knew--and the
knowledge did not pain him--except Miles Challoner. And of these
phantom friendships, these several associations, he had made the
pabulum of his life. What utter nonsense it seemed now, to be sure,
when his daughter, sedulously kept out of sight and out of mind during
so many years, was now the great central truth and occupation of his
life, and his books and the eternal hills the quiet company in which
he most delighted! To the old man, too, the time seemed strangely
short though eventful, since the whole aspect of his existence had
been changed by the revelation made to him by his daughter. Since
Gilbert Lloyd's death he had watched her even more closely than
before, for the purpose of making up his mind whether she should be
left in entire ignorance of who the wicked man who had blighted her
young life, and was now removed from it for ever, really was, or
whether she should be told the truth. He decided that the latter
course should be pursued if Gertrude pined for Miles Challoner's
presence, if she made any persistent attempts to break through the
barrier of separation which circumstances and her own consent had
placed between them. If change of scene, the excitement and interest
of travel, and the natural influence of her youth and her recovered
liberty should produce the effect he hoped for, should lead her to
remember Miles with only a soft, kindly, painless regret, he would not
tell her the truth at all; the whole mystery of Geoffrey Challoner's
life should rest in his grave with him, instead of only that dark
secret which now Lord Sandilands could never by any possibility be
forced to divulge. The purpose which his dead friend had had in view
in imparting it to him had been faithfully served so long as the
unhappy man lived,--it had died with him. Neither Miles nor Gertrude
should ever learn that tremendous truth. Lord Sandilands took great
delight in his daughter's society, and sometimes under its influence
lost sight of the troubles of the past. But the future fate of
Gertrude occupied his mind painfully. He had never felt very strong
since the illness he had gone through at St. Leonards, and he had
become sensible since then that his life was not likely to be much
prolonged. He had said nothing to Gertrude of his conviction on this
point, nor had he alluded to it in his communications with Miles
Challoner. But in the quiet majestic region where they had now taken
up their abode, Lord Sandilands found an influence which attuned his
mind to very serious thought, and disposed him to the setting of his
house in order. What was to become of Gertrude when he should be gone?
The painful and peculiar circumstances of her former life disinclined
her to seek the busy haunts of the world, and her disposition required
companionship, sympathy, and affection. He could leave her in easy
circumstances, to be sure,--and he was of much too practical a turn of
mind to underrate the importance of such a power,--but he could not
give her security or happiness for the future. His heart turned
yearningly to Miles Challoner as this solicitude troubled him, and he
wondered whether his daughter's heart turned in the same direction. It
had not been mentioned between them for long. The death of Gilbert
Lloyd had set Gertrude free, so far as she knew; but she felt that the
barrier between her and Miles existed still. He had loved and wooed
her under a false impression, and since he had known the truth had
made no attempt to see or write to her. Lord Sandilands had not
failed to discern that she suffered keenly from this cause, but he
still believed that she would suffer more keenly had she known the
truth--the imperative and insurmountable reason which prevented Miles
from again seeking her presence. Thus on this subject--the most
interesting, the most vital to the father and the daughter--there had
been silence, and now Lord Sandilands wished to break it, but hardly
knew how to do so.

The time since the travellers had set up their rest at the Fer à
Cheval had passed tranquilly away, and Gertrude had frequently assured
her father that she had never enjoyed her foreign tour so much as now,
when she found herself among the solemn and majestic beauties of the
Alpine lands, and surrounded only by associations with nature, and
people of the simplest and most primitive habits. This assurance, so
far as it went, was strictly true, and yet Gertrude was not quite
happy. It was not altogether the shadow of the past which oppressed
her--it was dark, and fell chill upon her, doubtless--but there was an
actual haunting grief which was more painful even than that. She had
loved worthily a man worthy of her love, she had loved him more than
she had known or realised to herself, and he was lost to her now,--a
great gulf seemed to have fixed itself between them, and she was
perforce condemned to stand upon the opposite shore and gaze vainly
across it with longing eyes. What was he doing there, far away in the
distance beyond her ken? She did not know, and now not to know was
becoming unbearable. Had he forgotten her? How had he borne the
revelation which Lord Sandilands had made to him, and which had
disclosed to him the terrible deception of her life? Her father had
conveyed to her an assurance of his perfect forgiveness, and told her
that he had said, hopeless as his suit was now, and void of
expectation or happiness as his life must be, he could not regret that
he had known and loved her. This was all she knew, and the need, the
strong, desperate desire to know more became very potent as the time
lengthened, and the first shock of her husband's death, with the
revulsion of feeling it had caused, passed away. Thus it happened that
by a somewhat analogous process a similar result was wrought in the
minds of the father and the daughter, and it became imminent that
Miles Challoner should be spoken of between them.

The occasion arose on a splendid evening, late in the summer, when the
beauty of the scene amid which they lived was at its height, when the
peace and the majesty of the mountains filled their spirits, and the
turmoil of the past in their lives seemed an impossible delusion. A
time to think of the beloved dead with joyful hope as well as with
poignant sorrow; a time to make eternity seem true and near, and
hardly surprising; a time and a scene to soften and refine every
feeling, and to put far away the passions and pursuits of the common
world. Lord Sandilands was keenly impressed by this vague and
beautiful influence of nature; and under the impression reverted, as
the old do, to the long-past scenes of youth, its pleasures, its
dreams, its occupations, and its companions. He talked a great deal to
his daughter that evening of her mother, and of his own. The great
wrong he had done Gertrude Gautier once frankly acknowledged, and the
sincere repentance he had come to feel earnestly professed, Lord
Sandilands had alluded to that no more. Gertrude's mother might have
been his honoured wife for any tone of restraint or difference there
was in his infrequent mention of her. Then he strayed into talk of the
associates of his boyhood and his school and college days, and
mentioned Mark Challoner, the "young Squire" of Rowley in those
distant days. Here was Gertrude's opportunity, and she availed herself
of it promptly.

"Tell me about the Squire," she said, looking up into her father's
face from her low seat by his side, and laying her clasped hands upon
his knee. "I should like to hear all about him. Miles Challoner used
to speak of him with the greatest affection and respect."

"Yes," said Lord Sandilands, "Miles loved his father. He was a very
good son."

Seeing that a thoughtful expression spread itself over his face,
Gertrude was afraid he might lapse again into silence, and once more
asked him eagerly to tell her about the Squire. He did so. He told her
of the old times at Rowley, of the geniality, heartiness, popularity,
happiness of the Squire; of his pretty young wife, her death, the
change it wrought in the friend he so loved; of the long-unbroken
confidence which had existed between them, only disturbed by death;
and as he told the story, and dwelt upon the affectionate remembrances
which it revived, he felt how little death had really disturbed the
tie between them, how faithfully he had kept his friend's secret, and
how wonderful it was to think that his own daughter was so deeply
concerned in it--quite unconsciously. As her mobile, expressive face
lighted up with interest and emotion, he looked at her with deep
tenderness and compassion, thinking of the common suffering which
linked her with his dead friend, and made that secret more important
to her than even it had been to him. For him it was over and done with
for ever; for her its baleful and guilty influence lingered still.

"Is Miles like the Squire?" Gertrude asked.

"Yes," replied Lord Sandilands, "like him in face and in character,
but of a milder temper. Mark Challoner was very hot-tempered in his
youth, quick, and impatient. Miles is more like his mother in his
ways. She was a very sweet woman, and a terrible loss to her husband."

It was a relief to them to have thus slipped into an easy and familiar
mention of him whose name had been for so long unspoken between them.

"Have you heard of Miles lately, father?" said Gertrude quietly, and
without removing her eyes from Lord Sandilands' face.

"I am very glad you have asked me, my dear," replied her father. "I
did not like to talk of Miles to you until you should mention him
first. I have heard from him lately, and I don't like the tone in
which he writes about himself."

"Is he ill?" said Gertrude, with quick alarm in her face and in her
voice.

"No, not at all; but he is thoroughly discontented and unhappy. He has
tried his very best and hardest to live the life of a moral English
squire at Rowley, but he cannot do it; he has no heart for it; and I
should not be surprised any day to hear that he had given up the
useless attempt. He has not forgotten you, Gertrude; and he cannot
forget you."

"I am glad of that," she said in the same calm tone. "I suppose I
ought to say otherwise; but it would not be true, and I cannot say it.
I deceived him, and was forced to disappoint him, and bring a great
cross on his life; but I _cannot_ say that I should be glad to know he
had forgotten me, and had found elsewhere the happiness he thought he
might have had with me."

"I am glad you speak so frankly to me," said Lord Sandilands, laying
his hand tenderly on the shining bands of Gertrude's dark-brown hair.
"I have been thinking a great deal about you and Miles Challoner; and
I should like to know exactly how you feel about him."

The answer was very plainly to be read in her face, but Gertrude did
not hesitate to give it in words.

"There is no change in my feelings for him, father," she said. "I
shall never cease to love him."

"Would you marry him, Gertrude, if he came to ask you, though your
marriage should involve your relinquishing all connexion with England,
breaking entirely, even more completely than we have done, with old
associations, and making quite a new life in a new country for
yourselves? Don't start, my dear, and look so agitated; he has not
told me to ask you this. You are not required to give a decision. I
have asked you for my own satisfaction, because I want to know."

"I would marry him," Gertrude answered, "to go to the other end of the
world with him, if it did not mean parting with you--but that can
never be--without a scruple, without a regret, without a fear. But he
could not marry me--have I not deceived him?--even supposing he cared
for me now as he once did. No, no, that is over and I must not repine,
blest as my life is far above my deserts."

She put her father's hand to her lips as she spoke, then laid her soft
cheek tenderly upon it.

"And you think the obstacle which your hard fate raised between you
and Miles is insurmountable?" said Lord Sandilands, thinking the while
of that obstacle of which she was unconscious.

"I think so," Gertrude answered sadly. "Do not you? Have you any
reason for thinking it is not so?"

"None that I can make you understand, my child," said Lord Sandilands.
"But I have a strong conviction--a feeling which may not be
reasonable, but is irresistible--that all this strange riddle of your
life will yet work itself out to a clear and happy solution in your
becoming Miles Challoner's wife. I understand the extent and force of
the objections much better than you do, and give them their full
weight in the estimation of the world. But (since I have been here
particularly) I have for some time ceased to set very great store by
the opinions of the world, and to believe that there is much happiness
or even satisfaction to be got out of conformity to them. I fancy
Miles is very strongly of my opinion, and in time--not a very long
time either--I have a perfect conviction that all will be well, and
that when I leave you I shall do so in better hands than mine."

Gertrude's tears were falling before her father concluded these
sentences, which he spoke with much earnestness, and for some time she
did not speak. At length she said:

"When he writes to you, does he ever mention me?"

"Always, and always in the same invariable tone. No other woman will
ever be offered the place in his home which he once hoped would have
been yours. This he has told me often, and desired I should tell you,
if ever, or whenever, you should again speak of him to me."

"He knows we have not spoken of him lately?"

"He knows that, and has been satisfied that it should be so; the time
that has elapsed since the event that set you free has not been too
long for a silence dictated by propriety; but it has expired now,
Gertrude, and I think you and he might be brought to understand each
other, and make up your minds, like rational people, what extent of
sacrifice you are prepared to make to secure the privilege of passing
the remainder of your lives together."

"I have it not in my power to make any sacrifice," said Gertrude;
"that must come from him, if it is to come at all. I wish I had; but
it is he who would have all to forgive, all to forego, all to endure."

Lord Sandilands, with his secret knowledge of the truth, felt that she
had reason in her words. But he had strong faith in Miles Challoner,
and confident hope in the result of a plan which he had formed, and on
which this conversation with his daughter finally determined him to
act. He did not prolong their conference, but bade Gertrude be of good
cheer, and trust in him and in the future. She gave him her ready
promise, and a fervent assurance of the happiness and contentment of
her life with him, and said a few earnest words of affection to him,
which her father received with a fervour which would have astonished
himself almost as much as it would have surprised his London
acquaintances. As the shades of evening deepened, silence fell upon
Lord Sandilands and Gertrude once more, unbroken until he asked her to
sing to him. She complied immediately (her father and the peasants
were the only persons who now heard the glorious voice which had
enchanted the most splendid, refined, and critical audience in the
world), and the rich, thrilling strains soon floated out upon the pure
mountain-air. Her father--lying on a couch beneath the window at the
end of the long room, which commanded a glorious view of the valley
leading up to the Col d'Auterne, and from whence Gertrude had watched
many a sunrise, and gazed at many a moonlight scene, such as no words
could convey a description of--listened to her singing, and was
transported in fancy back to the long-vanished past. The last song
which Gertrude sung that night was the first she had sung at the
concert at Carabas House, when Miles Challoner had looked upon her to
love her, and Lord Sandilands had looked at her and found Gertrude
Gautier's features in her face.

A few days later, when he had considered the matter maturely, and made
up his mind that in the way which had suggested itself to him the
happiness of his daughter and Miles Challoner might be secured, Lord
Sandilands wrote to his dead friend's son. The letter was a long one,
replying fully to the last which he had received from Miles, and
giving him excellent advice, which the writer was thoroughly well
qualified to offer, concerning the disposition and management of his
property. It contained intelligence of Lord Sandilands' health, and a
description of the locale and its resources. Then it continued:

"_I have purposely avoided mentioning Gertrude to you until the
present stage of my letter should have been reached, because I have
much to say concerning her of a more serious nature than the details
of her daily occupations, and a report of her health and looks. The
latter are good, the former are as usual. She still retains unaltered
her pleasure in the mountain scenery, the primitive people, and the
flowers. She is still the same to me--an affectionate daughter and a
charming companion. But some time has now passed since the death of
her unhappy husband, and its influence is telling upon her. I have not
been blind to the change in her; and a few days ago, for the first
time, I mentioned you, and elicited from her an avowal which I am
about to disclose to you, addressing you in my double character (and
of course without her knowledge) of Gertrude's father and your oldest,
and I think I may add truest, friend. She is still attached to
you--and in spite of all the sorrow and all the equivocal experiences
which have been hers--with a fresh, vivid, and trusting affection,
which would suffice, or I am very much mistaken in my estimate of both
of you, to make your lives, if united, happy. I do not entertain any
doubt that your feelings towards her remain unchanged, and it is on
this supposition that I now address you. You have known me long, my
dear Miles, and as well as a man of your age can know a man of mine;
and when I tell you that I regret more deeply, bitterly, and
unavailingly than anything else--it is my lot, the common one of old
age, to look back upon the past with vain bitterness and regret--the
having hesitated before the opinion of the world in doing my duty by
the woman I loved, and following to a practical issue my own
conviction of the means by which my true happiness might have been
secured, you will not suspect me of unduly underrating, or carelessly
despising, the opinion and the judgment of the world. The
circumstances must be very exceptional indeed under which I would
counsel any man, holding a fair position in society and endowed with
the duties and privileges of a landed proprietor as you we, to defy
the opinion of society, and to turn his back on those duties and
privileges. But yours is a very exceptional position, and I do counsel
you to do both these things. Your heart is not in Rowley Court, nor
are you capable of fulfilling your duties as you are at present. Make
new ones for yourself, my dear Miles. Yield to the inclination which
you have partly confessed, and which I have very distinctly perceived,
and turn your back upon the scene which has been overclouded for you
since your boyhood by a sorrow which has ever been, and must remain, a
mystery to you. Geoffrey Challoner's crime is buried in the grave of
Gilbert Lloyd; but you will never lay its ghost while you remain at
Rowley Court. I am neither a credulous nor a superstitious man; but I
have seen more instances than one of the passing away of the 'luck' of
an old place, and I feel that Rowley Court is one of those from which
the old 'luck' has passed away. So far as leaving the place is
concerned, I believe my advice will only anticipate, if even it does
anticipate, the resolution I fully expect to hear you have by this
time taken. And now to my other point. Society in England and English
law do not recognise such a marriage as that of yourself and Gertrude
would be; and under anything like ordinary circumstances I should be
one of the first and strongest protestants against such a union; but
as I have already said, yours are the most exceptional circumstances
conceivable out of the region of the wildest romance. Your marriage
with Gertrude could not injure any rights, or offend any principles or
prejudices, as no one ever likely to see your faces again, or, if you
did marry, ever to be aware of the fact, has the least notion of the
existence of those circumstances. Sell the property, leave England,
and if you still love Gertrude, as she loves you, marry her, and seek
happiness and home in a foreign land. I write now, you must bear in
mind, remembering that she is entirely ignorant of the complication in
your story and hers which sets it apart from perhaps any other human
experience. She regards herself as a faulty woman, who deceived the
man she loved by an assumption which she deems unpardonable,
undeniable, even after that wretched man's death had set her free. You
regard her as still (as I believe) the object of your truest love, but
parted from you by the fact that the man who made her miserable, and
might have made her guilty had not true love intervened to save her,
was your own brother, the author of the misery which made the latter
years of your father dark and cheerless. These are both substantial
truths and phantoms,--the first in their simple existence, the second
in the effect they ought to produce on such a mind as yours. The
misfortunes of your life are irremediable; but they are also past and
gone, and the future may still be yours--yours too, without a braving
of opinion, a defiance of the world to which you would probably not
feel equal, if the selection of your future course of proceeding were
put before you hampered with any such imperative condition. You might
take wealth with you to a foreign land, and the antecedents of your
wife could never be known there to anyone; here, only to me; and I am
ready to give your determination to carry out such a scheme as this my
warmest approbation and support, though, if you do it, I must lose the
society of my child, which is inexpressibly dear to me. But I owe it
to Gertrude, and still more to Gertrude's mother, that I should not
rest content with a half-compensation to my daughter, that she should
not be only half-happy. I know in what her true happiness would
consist, and it shall not be wanting through any failure of self-denial
on my part. My time here is not to be long; perhaps it may be
peaceful, and less haunted by remorse, if my daughter becomes your
wife. I have sinned much towards the living and the dead; and though
there does not at first sight appear to be any reparation in the
scheme which I propose, there is a reparation which you will
understand in part, and I entirely. If I am not in error in respect to
your feelings, write to me, and say that you will join us here, when
the necessary arrangement of your affairs will admit of your coming_."

When Lord Sandilands had written this letter, he did not immediately
despatch it, but laid it by-for a few days, during which he
deliberated with himself much and secretly. But the end of all his
meditations, the upshot of all his close observation of Gertrude, was
a conviction that the letter was an exposition of the truth, and ought
to be sent. Accordingly, on the fourth day after he had written he
despatched it, and it was fortunate that he had taken and acted upon
the resolution at the time he did; for Lord Sandilands was not to act
upon any more resolutions, or play any active part in the affairs of
this world any more.

On the evening of the day on which his letter to Miles Challoner had
been sent away, and while his daughter was singing to him, Lord
Sandilands was taken ill with acute gout. The attack had many features
in common with that which had tried him so severely at St. Leonards,
but was more severe and exhausting. The English doctor from Chamouni
shook his head and looked very grave from the first,--he was naturally
a gloomy practitioner, but in this instance his gravity was amply
justified. There was not enough rallying-power in the constitution of
the patient it seemed, and the illness rapidly assumed a fatal aspect.
The intelligence was conveyed, not without humane gentleness, to
Gertrude, on whom its effect was overwhelming indeed. A kind of
stupefaction came over her; she could render but little assistance,
but she never left her father, and even when his exhaustion was
greatest he was conscious of her presence.

One day, when the end was only a few hours off, she was sitting by
Lord Sandilands' bed, holding one of his thin hands in hers, and
gazing with looks expressive of such anguish as only such a vigil
knows, on his sleeping face. A slight noise at the door disturbed her,
but she merely raised her hand with a warning gesture, and did not
turn her head. In another moment a man's form approached her with
swift, noiseless strides, and she was silently clasped in the arms of
Miles Challoner.

Thus sheltered, thus comforted, her father found her when he awoke,
and a little while after Lord Sandilands died.



CHAPTER IX.
Twelve Months after.


More than twelve months had rolled away since the man called Gilbert
Lloyd had been found dead in his lodgings in Duke-street, when the
medical journals improved the occasion and had a word of advice for
the general public, and a good many words of abuse for each other, and
when the affair created a little sensation; for amongst a certain set
Lloyd was very well known, and on the whole very much hated for his
success in life. The fact of his quarrel with Lord Ticehurst had got
wind, though the cause of it was kept secret, and had been duly
rejoiced over; but the man must have had extraordinary luck, everyone
said; for the newspapers, in their account of the inquest, published a
half-written letter which was found in his room, and on which he had
evidently been engaged when seized with the spasm which he sought to
allay with that confounded poison, which he had evidently taken in
mistake for the medicine standing by it, in which he alluded to the
offer made to him by some nobleman, of an appointment exactly like
that which he held with Lord Ticehurst, and which, the latter said,
the state of his health made him decline. At the inquest Mrs. Jobson
gave her evidence as to the fit with which her lodger had been seized
on the morning previous to his death, and as to the remedy which he
told her had been prescribed for him; a practical chemist gave
professional evidence; Mr. Pattle produced the letter he had received;
the coroner summed up, and the jury returned a verdict that the
deceased had died from a dose of poison taken accidentally. But this
was more than twelve months since, and the manner of Gilbert Lloyd's
death was never spoken of; and the fact of his ever having lived was
almost forgotten by the members of that busy, reckless, stirring world
in which he had moved and had his being; that world which calls but
for the "living present," and carefully closes its eyes against both
the past and the future.

That world which never makes the smallest difference in its career
whether old members drop out of it, or new members are caught up and
whirled along with it, was pursuing its course in very much its
ordinary way. The Marchioness of Carabas still had a Soul which
required male supervision, and still found somebody to supervise it;
though Mr. Pennington's year of office had expired, another charming
creature reigned in his stead. Mr. Boulderson Munns still drove his
mail-phaeton, still told his foreign artists that he didn't understand
"their d--d palaver," and still managed the Grand Scandinavian Opera,
though not with so much success as formerly. There had been a reaction
after Miss Lambert's secession from the boards; people began to think
there was something good at the Regent, and went to see; and the heart
of Mr. Munns was heavy under his gorgeous waistcoat, and he had half
made up his mind to retiring from management, or, as he phrased it,
"cuttin' the whole concern."

A change had come over one person who has played an important part in
this little drama--Lord Ticehurst. Gilbert Lloyd's place in that young
nobleman's establishment never was filled up, much to the disgust of
Bobby Maitland, who wrote off directly he heard of the quarrel,
volunteering his services, and being perfectly ready to throw over his
then patron, Mr. Stackborough, at a moment's notice. But the news of
his old companion's death acted as a great shock upon the young earl,
and those reflections which had come upon him during that homeward
drive from Hastings, after his refusal by Miss Lambert, came upon him
with redoubled force. His life was purposeless, and worse than
purposeless; was passed in a not very elevated pursuit among very
degrading surroundings. He had a name and position to keep up; and
though his brains were not much, he knew that he might do something
towards filling his station in life, and, please God, he would. From
Mr. Toshington you may gather that Lord Ticehurst has carried out his
intention. "God knows what has come to Etchingham, sir!" the old
gentleman, who has grown very shaky and senile, will say; "you never
saw a fellow so changed. He's cut the turf and all that low lot of
fellows--deuced good thing, that; lives almost entirely at his place
down in Sussex, and has gone in for farmin', and cattle-breedin', and
that kind of thing. What does it mean, eh? Well, I don't know, more
than that there's never a sudden change in a man that I've ever seen,
that there wasn't one thing at the bottom of it. A woman?--of course!
They do say that Grace Belwether, niece of my old friend, Sir Giles,
is a devilish pretty, sensible young woman, and that Etchingham is
very sweet on her."

And Miles Challoner, was he changed? He was sobered and saddened,
perhaps; for a great deal of the gilding, which is but gum and
gold-paper after all, but which makes life seem bright and alluring,
had been ruthlessly rubbed off during the past two years, and he bore
about with him what was at once the greatest sorrow and the greatest
joy--his love for Gertrude. This absorbing feeling influenced his
whole life, and so engrossed him that he gave up everything in which
he had formerly taken interest, and passed his time in recalling
fleeting recollections of the happy days he had spent in the society
of his beloved, and in endeavouring to arrange the wildest and most
improbable combination of chances under which those happy days might
be renewed. Long since he had fled from the "gross mud-honey of
town"--where almost every place was fraught with bitter memories not
merely of the loved and lost, but of the wretched man his brother,
whose career of crime had been so suddenly brought to a close--and had
established himself at Rowley Court in the hope that he quiet life and
the occupation which his position required, and in which he would
involve himself, would bring about a surcease of that gnawing pain
which was ever at his heart.

All in vain. The ghost of the dead Past was not to be laid by change
of scene; nor in the clear air of the country did the uncompromising
Future loom brighter and more rosily than it had in murky London. Nor
horse, nor dog, nor gun afforded the smallest pleasure to Miles
Challoner, who said "Yes" or "No," whichever first entered his head
when his steward made suggestions or asked for instructions, and who
walked about his estate with his head hanging on his breast and his
hands clasped behind him, chewing the cud of his bitter fancy, and
wondering whether this purposeless, useless existence would ever
terminate, and whether before his death he should ever have the chance
of playing a part in the great drama of life.

One day he took a sudden determination. It was useless, he felt,
remaining inert, inactive as he was, ever pursuing a vain phantom and
letting his energies rust and his opportunities of doing real good
pass by. He was a young man, and there was a life before him yet. Not
there, not in his old ancestral home, hampered by "proud laws of
precedent" and conventionality, dragged down by old memories and
associations with things bygone, but in the New World. Why should he
not yet make his life a source of happiness and comfort to himself and
others? He had no sentimental notions about parting with his family
acres. He should never marry, of that he was firmly convinced, and at
his death they would go to some one for whom he cared not one jot.
Better to part with them at once, and take the proceeds with him to
Australia, where at least he should be free from haunting memories of
the past, and have the chance of making a career for himself.

This determination he at once proceeded to carry into effect, writing
to his lawyer, and giving him instructions for the sale of the
Rowley-Court property so soon as he could find a purchaser. Find a
purchaser! It was difficult to make a selection. The Walbrooks and the
Walbrooks' friends, who had bought land in the neighbourhood on Sir
Thomas Walbrook's recommendation, and the friends who had been staying
with the Walbrooks, and thought they would like to have property in
the neighbourhood--all self-made men who came up to London with
half-a-crown and were then worth millions--all wanted to buy Rowley
Court. Eventually, however, Miles gave the preference to Sir Thomas
himself, and the arrangement had just been concluded between them when
Miles received the letter with which the reader has been made
acquainted in the previous chapter.


In one of the wildest and yet most peaceful scenes of the Alpine land,
the grave of the English nobleman was made, by his own desire. He had
no wish that his remains should be brought to England, but desired
that they should be suffered to remain where his last quiet days of
life had been passed in the society of his daughter. Under the shadow
of the rustic church he rested; and when all had been done, Gertrude
and Miles found themselves alone. It was a solemn time and a solemn
occasion; and their utter isolation from all whom they had ever
previously known, the strangeness of the scene, and the urgency and
uncertainty of the future, oppressed them; while the loss of the best
friend either had ever possessed so darkened the horizon for them,
that not even their mutual and avowed love could brighten it.

By Lord Sandilands' desire Miles Challoner had sent for his solicitor,
who arrived at the Fer à Cheval in time to be present at the funeral,
and to whom Gertrude confided all the papers which her father had with
him. Their contents were explicit. The greater portion of Lord
Sandilands' property he had had the power to dispose of, and he had
left it unreservedly to his daughter. There was no mention made of any
other person; and Mr. Leggatt, the solicitor, was charged by his late
client with the administration of the bequest.

The evening had fallen on the day whose morning had seen Lord
Sandilands' quiet and simple funeral. Mr. Leggatt had explained to
Gertrude her very satisfactory position in worldly affairs, and had
received the few instructions she had to give him. He then stated that
he should be obliged to start on his homeward journey on the following
day, and inquired Gertrude's immediate intentions with regard to her
own movements. Gertrude replied that she could not tell him until the
morning. Then Mr. Leggatt discreetly retired, and the lovers and
mourners were left alone.

"I sent you from me because I had deceived you," said Gertrude, when
the conversation, after long lingering upon the details of the past
and upon the friends they had lost, was flagging. "And I thought you
stayed away and made no sign because you could not forgive me."

"I stayed away because you had been deceived," said Miles, "and the
time had not come when I could tell you the truth and ask you to aid
me in making the best of it for us both. You know it all now." He took
the letter Lord Sandilands had written to him from her hand "You know
that the miserable man who was to both of us a rock ahead through life
was my brother--the shame and misfortune of our family."

Gertrude bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.

He continued: "All that can be said, except how truly and devotedly I
love you, is said in this letter--the last message of your father, of
my best friend. There is nothing in England for which we care: we have
no ties there; we are bound to each other only by ties of love and
sorrow in all the world. No one knows, no one can ever know, what that
unhappy man was to you and to me. Will you let me try to make you
forgive and forget it all in a happier marriage? Ours is an
exceptional case. The world would condemn us, if the world knew all it
could, which would be only half the truth; we know all the truth, and
are free from self-condemnation. Say yes, Gertrude; not to me only,
remember, but to him whom we have lost; and we shall never see England
any more, or part again in this world."

Gertrude made him no answer in words. Her head was still bowed, and
her eyes hidden by one hand; but she placed the other in his, and he
knew that she was won.

Their marriage took place at Berne, and they are lost in the crowd.



THE END.

---------------------------------
PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Rock Ahead. (Vol. 2 of 2) - A Novel" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.