the acquaintance between margaret and annie, which commenced so auspiciously, scarcely ripened into intimacy. when lady beauport's neuralgia passed away,--and her convalescence was much hurried by the near approach of a specially-grand entertainment given in honour of certain serene transparencies then visiting london,--she found that she could not spare miss maurice to go so long a distance, to be absent from her and her work for such a length of time. as to calling at elm lodge in person, lady beauport never gave the project another thought. with the neuralgia had passed away her desire to see that "pretty young person," mrs. geoffrey ludlow; and in sending her card by annie, lady beauport thought she had more than fulfilled any promises and vows of politeness which might have been made by her son in her name.
lord caterham had driven out once to elm lodge with annie, and had been introduced to margaret, whom he admired very much, but about whom he shook his head alarmingly when he and annie were driving towards home. "that's an unhappy woman!" he said; "an unhappy woman, with something on her mind--something which she does not give way to and groan about, but against which she frets and fights and struggles with as with a chain. when she's not spoken to, when she's not supposed to be _en evidence_ there's a strange, half-weary, half-savage gleam in those wondrous eyes, such as i have noticed only once before, and then among the patients of a lunatic asylum. there's evidently something strange in the history of that marriage. did you notice ludlow's devotion to her, how he watched her every movement? did you see what hard work it was for her to keep up with the conversation, not from want of power,--for, from one or two things she said, i should imagine her to be a naturally clever as well as an educated woman,--but from want of will? how utterly worn and wearied and _distraite_ she looked, standing by us in ludlow's studio, while we talked about his pictures, and how she only seemed to rouse into life when i compared that brighton esplanade with the drive in the park, and talked about some of the frequenters of each. she listened to all the fashionable nonsense as eagerly as any country miss, and yet--she's a strange study, that woman, annie. i shall take an early opportunity of driving out to see her again; but i'm glad that the distance will prevent her being very intimate with you."
the opportunity of repeating his visit did not, however, speedily occur. the fierce neuralgic headaches from which lord caterham suffered had become much more frequent of late, and worse in their effect. after hours of actual torture, unable to raise his head or scarcely to lift his eyes, he would fall into a state of prostration, which lasted two or three days. in this state he would be dressed by his servant and carried to his sofa, where he would lie with half-closed eyes dreaming the time away,-comparatively happy in being free from pain, quite happy if; as frequently happened, on looking up he saw annie maurice moving noiselessly about the room dusting his books, arranging his desk, bringing fresh flowers for his glasses. looking round at him from time to time, and finding he had noticed her presence, she would lay her finger on her lip enjoining silence, and then refresh his burning forehead and hands with eau-de-cologne, turn and smooth his pillows, and wheel his sofa to a cooler position. on the second day after an attack she would read to him for hours in her clear musical voice from his favourite authors; or, if she found him able to bear it, would sit down at the cabinet-piano, which he had bought expressly for her, and sing to him the songs he loved so well--quiet english ballads, sparkling little french _chansons_, and some of the most pathetic music of the italian operas; but every thing for his taste must be soft and low: all roulades and execution, all the fireworks of music, he held in utter detestation.
then annie would be called away to write notes for lady beauport, or to go out with her or for her, and caterham would be left alone again. pleasanter his thoughts now: there were the flowers she had gathered and placed close by him, the books she had read from, the ivory keys which her dear fingers had so recently touched! her cheerful voice still rung in his ear, the touch of her hand seemed yet to linger on his forehead. o angel of light and almost of hope to this wretched frame, o sole realisation of womanly love and tenderness and sweet sympathy to this crushed spirit, wilt thou ever know it all? yes, he felt that there would come a time, and that without long delay, when he should be able to tell her all the secret longings of his soul, to tell her in a few short words, and then--ay, then!
meanwhile it was pleasant to lie in a half-dreamy state, thinking of her, picturing her to his fancy. he would lie on that sofa, his poor warped useless limbs stretched out before him, but hidden from his sight by a light silk _couvrette_ of annie's embroidering, his eyes closed, his whole frame n a state of repose. through the double windows came deadened sounds of the world outside--the roll of carriages, the clanging of knockers, the busy hum of life. from the square-garden came the glad voices of children, and now and then--solitary fragment of rusticity--the sound of the square-gardener whetting his scythe. and caterham lay day by day dreaming through it all, unroused even by the repetition of czerny's pianoforte-exercises by the children in the next house; dreaming of his past, his present, and his future. dreaming of the old farmhouse where they had sent him when a child to try and get strength--the quaint red-faced old house with its gable ends and mullioned windows, and its eternal and omnipresent smell of apples; of the sluggish black pool where the cattle stood knee-deep; the names of the fields--the home-croft, and the lea pasture, and the forty acres; the harvest-home, and the songs that they sung then, and to which he had listened in wonder sitting on the farmer's knee. he had not thought of all this from that day forth; but he remembered it vividly now, and could almost hear the loud ticking of the farmer's silver watch which fitted so tightly into his fob. the lodgings at brighton, where he went with some old lady, never recollected but in connection with that one occasion, and called miss macraw,--the little lodgings with the bow-windowed room looking sideways over the sea; the happiness of that time, when the old lady perpetually talked to and amused him, when he was not left alone as he was at home, and when he had such delicious tea-cakes which he toasted for himself. the doctors who came to see him there; one a tall white-haired old man in a long black coat reaching to his heels, and another a jolly bald-headed man, who, they said, was surgeon to the king. the king--ay, he had seen him too, a red-faced man in a blue coat, walking in the pavilion gardens. dreaming of the private tutor, a master at charter house, who came on wednesday and saturday afternoons, and who struggled so hard and with such little success to conceal his hatred to homer, virgil, and the other classic poets, and his longing to be in the cricket-field, on the river, any where, to shake off that horrible conventional toil of tutorship, and to be a man and not a teaching-machine. other recollections he had, of lionel's pony and lionel's eton school-fellows, who came to see him in the holidays, and who stared in mute wonder at his wheelchair and his poor crippled limbs. recollections of his father and mother passing down the staircase in full dress on their way to some court-ball, and of his hearing the servants say what a noble-looking man his father was, and what a pity that master lionel had not been the eldest son. recollections of the utter blankness of his life until she came--ah, until she came! the past faded away, and the present dawned. she was there, his star, his hope, his love! he was still a cripple, maimed and blighted; still worse than an invalid, the prey of acute and torturing disease; but he would be content--content to remain even as he was so that he could have her near him, could see her, hear her voice, touch her hand. but that could not be. she would marry, would leave him, and then--ah then!--let that future which he believed to be close upon him come at once. until he had known hope, his life, though blank enough, had been supportable; now hope had fled; "the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep." let there be an end of it!
there were but few days that algy barford did not come; bright, airy, and cheerful, bringing sunshine into the sick-room; never noisy or obtrusive, always taking a cheery view of affairs, and never failing to tell the invalid that he looked infinitely better than the last time he had seen him, and that this illness was "evidently a kind of clearing-up shower before the storm, dear old boy," and was the precursor of such excellent health as he had never had before. lord caterham, of course, never believed any of this; he had an internal monitor which told him very different truths; but he knew the feelings which prompted algy barford's hopeful predictions, and no man's visits were so agreeable to caterham as were algy's.
one day he came in earlier than usual, and looking less serenely happy than his wont. lord caterham, lying on his sofa, observed this, but said nothing, waiting until algy should allude to it, as he was certain to do, for he had not the smallest power of reticence.
"caterham, my dear old boy, how goes it this morning? i am seedy, my friend! the sage counsel given by the convivial bagman, that the evening's diversion should bear the morning's reflection, has not been followed by me. does the cognac live in its usual corner, and is there yet soda-water in the land?"
"you'll find both in the sideboard, algy. what were you doing last night to render them necessary?"
"last night, my dear caterham, i did what england expected me to do--my duty, and a most horrible nuisance that doing one's duty is. i dined with an old fellow named huskisson, a friend of my governor's, who nearly poisoned me with bad wine. the wine, sir, was simply infamous; but it was a very hot night, and i was dreadfully thirsty, so what could i do but drink a great deal of it? i had some very fiery sherry with my soup, and some hock. yes; 'nor did my drooping memory shun the foaming grape of eastern france;' only this was the foaming gooseberry of fulham fields. and old huskisson, with great pomp, told his butler to bring 'the hermitage.' what an awful swindle!"
"what was it like?"
"well, dear old boy, minds innocent and quiet may take that for a hermitage if they like; but i, who have drunk as much wine, good and bad, as most men, immediately recognised the familiar beaujolais which we get at the club for a shilling a pint. so that altogether i'm very nearly poisoned; and i think i shouldn't have come out if i had not wanted to see you particularly."
"what is it, algy? some of that tremendously important business which always takes up so much of your time?"
"no, no; now you're chaffing, caterham. 'pon my word i really do a great deal in the course of the day, walking about, and talking to fellows, and that sort of thing: there are very few fellows who think what a lot i get through; but i know myself."
"do you? then you've learned a great thing--'know thyself' one of the great secrets of life;" and caterham sighed.
"yes, dear old boy," said algy "'know thyself, but never introduce a friend;' that i believe to be sterling philosophy. this is a confoundedly back-slapping age; every body is a deuced sight too fond of every body else; there is an amount of philanthropy about which is quite terrible."
"yes, and you're about the largest-hearted and most genial philanthropist in the world; you know you are."
"i, dear old boy? i am richard crookback; i am the uncle of the babes in the wood; i am timon the tartar of athens, or whatever his name was; i am a ruthless hater of all my species, when i have the _vin triste_, as i have this morning. o, that reminds me--the business i came to see you about. what a fellow you are, caterham! always putting things out of fellows' heads!"
"well, what is it now?"
"why, old ampthill is dead at last. died last night; his man told my man this morning."
"well, what then?"
"what then? why, don't you recollect what we talked about? about his leaving his money to dear old lionel?"
"yes," said caterham, looking grave, "i recollect that."
"i wonder whether any good came of it? it would be a tremendously jolly thing to get dear old lionel back, with plenty of money, and in his old position, wouldn't it?"
"look here, my dear algy," said lord caterham; "let us understand each other once for all on this point. you and i are of course likely to differ materially on such a subject. you are a man of the world, going constantly into the world, with your own admirable good sense influenced by and impressed with the opinions of society. society, as you tell me, is pleased to think my brother's--well, crime--there's no other word!--my brother's crime a venial one, and will be content to receive him back again, and to instal him in his former position if he comes back prepared to sacrifice to society by spending his time and money on it!"
"pardon me, my dear old caterham,--just two words!" interrupted algy. "society--people, you know, i mean--would shake their heads at poor old lionel, and wouldn't have him back perhaps, and all that sort of thing, if they knew exactly what he'd done. but they don't. it's been kept wonderfully quiet, poor dear old fellow."
"that may or may not be; at all events, such are society's views, are they not?" barford inclined his head. "now, you see, mine are entirely different. this sofa, the bed in the next room, that wheelchair, form my world; and these," pointing to his bookshelves, "my society. there is no one else on earth to whom i would say this; but you know that what i say is true. lionel brakespere never was a brother to me never had the slightest affection or regard for me, never had the slightest patience with me. as a boy, he used to mock at my deformity; as a man, he has perseveringly scorned me, and scarcely troubled himself to hide his anxiety for my death, that he might be lord beauport's heir--"
"caterham! i say, my dear, dear old boy arthur--" and algy barford put one hand on the back of lord caterham's chair, and rubbed his own eyes very hard with the other.
"you know it, algy, old friend. he did all this; and god knows i tried to love him through it all, and think i succeeded. all his scorn, all his insult, all his want of affection, i forgave. when he committed the forgery which forced him to fly the country, i tried to intercede with my father; for i knew the awful strait to which lionel must have been reduced before he committed such an act: but when i read his letter, which you brought me, and the contents of which it said you knew, i recognised at last that lionel was a thoroughly heartless scoundrel, and i thanked god that there was no chance of his further disgracing our name in a place where it had been known and respected. so you now see, algy, why i am not enchanted at the idea of his coming back to us."
"of course, of course, i understand you, dear fellow; and--hem!--confoundedly husky; that filthy wine of old huskisson's! better in a minute--there!" and algy cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes again. "about that letter, dear old boy! i was going to speak to you two or three times about that. most mysterious circumstance, by jove, sir! the fact is that--"
he was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of stephens, lord caterham's servant, who said that lady beauport would be glad to know if his master could receive her.
it was a bad day for caterham to receive any one except his most intimate friends, and assuredly his mother was not included in that category. he was any thing but well bodily, and the conversation about lionel had thoroughly unstrung his nerves; so that he was just about to say he must ask for a postponement of the visit, when stephens said, "her ladyship asked me if mr. barford wasn't here, my lord, and seemed particularly anxious to see him." lord caterham felt the colour flush in his cheeks as the cause of his mother's visit was thus innocently explained by stephens; but the moment after he smiled, and sent to beg that she would come whenever she pleased.
in a very few minutes lady beauport sailed into the room, and, after shaking hands with algy barford in, for her, quite a cordial manner, she touched her son's forehead with her lips and dropped into the chair which stephens had placed for her near the sofa.
"how are you, arthur, to day?" she commenced. "you are looking quite rosy and well, i declare. i am always obliged to come myself when i want to know about your health; for they bring me the most preposterous reports. that man of yours is a dreadful kill-joy, and seems to have inoculated the whole household with his melancholy, where you are concerned. even miss maurice, who is really quite a cheerful person, and quite pleasant to have about one,--equable spirits, and that sort of thing, you know, mr. barford; so much more agreeable than those moping creatures who are always thinking about their families and their fortunes, you know,--even miss maurice can scarcely be trusted for what i call a reliable report of caterham."
"it's the interest we take in him, dear lady beauport, that keeps us constantly on the _qui vive_. he's such a tremendously lovable old fellow, that we're all specially careful about him;" and algy's hand went round to the back of caterham's sofa and his eyes glistened as before.
"of course," said lady beauport, still in her hard dry voice. "with care, every thing may be done. there's alice wentworth, lady broughton's grand-daughter, was sent away in the autumn to torquay, and they all declared she could not live. and i saw her last night at the french embassy, well and strong, and dancing away as hard as any girl in the room. it's a great pity you couldn't have gone to the embassy last night, arthur; you'd have enjoyed it very much."
"do you think so, mother?" said caterham with a sad smile. "i scarcely think it would have amused me, or that they would have cared much to have me there."
"o, i don't know; the duchess de st. lazare asked after you very kindly, and so did the viscomte, who is--" and lady beauport stopped short.
"yes, i know--who is a cripple also," said caterham quietly. "but he is only lame; he can get about by himself. but if i had gone, i should have wanted algy here to carry me on his back."
"gad, dear old boy, if carrying you on my back would do you any good, or help you to get about to any place you wanted to go to, i'd do it fast enough; give you a regular derby canter over any course you like to name."
"i know you would, algy, old friend. you see every one is very kind, and i am doing very well indeed, though i'm scarcely in condition for a ball at the french embassy.--by the way, mother, did you not want to speak to barford about something?"
"i did, indeed," said lady beauport. "i have heard just now, mr. barford, that old mr. ampthill died last night?"
"perfectly true, lady beauport. i myself had the same information."
"but you heard nothing further?"
"nothing at all, except that the poor old gentleman, after a curious eccentric life, made a quiet commonplace end, dying peacefully and happily."
"yes, yes; but you heard nothing about the way in which his property is left, i suppose?"
"not one syllable. he was very wealthy, was he not?"
"my husband says that the boxwood property was worth from twelve to fifteen thousand a-year; but i imagine this is rather an under-estimate. i wonder whether there is any chance for--what i talked to you about the other day."
"impossible to say, dear lady beauport," said algy, with an awkward glance at caterham, which lady beauport observed.
"o, you needn't mind caterham one bit, mr. barford. any thing which would do good to poor lionel i'm sure you'd be glad of wouldn't you, arthur?"
"any thing that would do him good, yes."
"of course; and to be mr. ampthill's heir would do him a great deal of good. it is that mr. barford and i are discussing. mr. barford was good enough to speak to me some time ago, when it was first expected that mr. ampthill's illness would prove dangerous, and to suggest that, as poor lionel had always been a favourite with the old gentleman, something might be done for him, perhaps, there being so few relations. i spoke to your father, who called two or three times in curzon street, and always found mr. ampthill very civil and polite, but he never mentioned lionel's name.
"that did not look particularly satisfactory, did it?" asked algy.
"well, it would have looked bad in any one else; but with such an extremely eccentric person as mr. ampthill, i really cannot say i think so. he was just one of those oddities who would carefully refrain from mentioning the person about whom their thoughts were most occupied.--i cannot talk to your father about this matter, arthur; he is so dreadfully set against poor lionel, that he will not listen to a word.--but i need not tell you, mr. barford, i myself am horribly anxious."
perfectly appreciating lord beauport's anger; conscious that it was fully shared by caterham; with tender recollections of lionel, whom he had known from childhood; and with a desire to say something pleasant to lady beauport, all algy barford could ejaculate was, "of course, of course."
"i hear that old mr. trivett the lawyer was with him two or three times about a month ago, which looks as if he had been making his will. i met mr. trivett at the dunsinanes in the autumn, and at beauport's request was civil to him. i would not mind asking him to dine here one day this week, if i thought it would be of any use."
caterham looked very grave; but algy barford gave a great laugh, and seemed immensely amused. "how do you mean 'of any use,' lady beauport? you don't think you would get any information out of old trivett, do you? he's the deadest hand at a secret in the world. he never lets out any thing. if you ask him what it is o'clock, you have to dig the information out of him with a ripping-chisel. o, no; it's not the smallest use trying to learn anything from mr. trivett."
"is there, then, no means of finding out what the will contains?"
"no, mother," interrupted caterham; "none at all. you must wait until the will is read, after the funeral; or perhaps till you see a _résumé_ of it in the illustrated papers."
"you are very odd, arthur," said lady beauport; "really sometimes you would seem to have forgotten the usages of society.--i appeal to you, mr. barford. is what lord caterham says correct? is there no other way of learning what i want to know?"
"dear lady beauport, i fear there is none."
"very well, then; i must be patient and wait. but there's no harm in speculating how the money could be left. who did mr. ampthill know now? there was mrs. macraw, widow of a dissenting minister, who used to read to him; and there was his physician, sir charles dumfunk: i shouldn't wonder if he had a legacy."
"and there was algernon barford, commonly known as the honourable algernon barford, who used to dine with the old gentleman half-a-dozen times every season, and who had the honour of being called a very good fellow by him."
"o, algy, i hope he has left you his fortune," said caterham warmly. "there's no one in the world would spend it to better purpose."
"well," said lady beauport, "i will leave you now.--i know i may depend upon you, mr. barford, to give me the very first news on this important subject."
algy barford bowed, rose, and opened the door to let lady beauport pass out. as she walked by him, she gave him a look which made him follow her and close the door behind him.
"i didn't like to say any thing before caterham," she said, "who is, you know, very odd and queer, and seems to have taken quite a singular view of poor lionel's conduct. but the fact is, that, after the last time you spoke to me, i--i thought it best to write to lionel, to tell him that--" and she hesitated.
"to tell him what, lady beauport?" asked algy, resolutely determined not to help her in the least.
"to tell him to come back to us--to me--to his mother!" said lady beauport, with a sudden access of passion. "i cannot live any longer without my darling son! i have told beauport this. what does it signify that he has been unfortunate--wicked if you will! how many others have been the same! and our influence could get him something somewhere, even if this inheritance should not be his. o my god! only to see him again! my darling boy! my own darling handsome boy!"
ah, how many years since gertrude, countess of beauport, had allowed real, natural, hot, blinding tears to course down her cheeks! the society people, who only knew her as the calmest, most collected, most imperious woman amongst them, would hardly recognise this palpitating frame, those tear-blurred features. the sight completely finishes algy barford, already very much upset by the news which lady beauport has communicated, and he can only proffer a seat, and suggest that he should fetch a glass of sherry. lady beauport, her burst of passion over, recovers all her usual dignity, presses algy's hand, lays her finger on her lip to enjoin silence, and sails along as unbending as before. algy barford, still dazed by the tidings he has heard, goes back to caterham's room, to find his friend lying with his eyes half-closed, meditating over the recent discussion. caterham scarcely seemed to have noticed algy's absence; for he said, as if in continuance of the conversation: "and do _you_ think this money will come to lionel, algy?"
"i can scarcely tell, dear old boy. it's on the cards, but the betting is heavily against it. however, we shall know in a very few days."
in a very few days they did know. the funeral, to which earl beauport and algy barford were invited, and which they attended, was over and mr. trivett had requested them to return with him in the mourning-coach to curzon street. there, in the jolly little dining-room, which had so often enshrined the hospitality of the quaint, eccentric, warm-hearted old gentleman whose earthly remains they had left behind them at kensal green, after some cake and wine, old mr. trivett took from a blue bag, which had been left there for him by his clerk, the will of the deceased, and putting on his blue-steel spectacles, commenced reading it aloud. the executors appointed were george earl beauport and algernon barford, and to each of them was bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. to algernon barford, "a good fellow, who, i know, will spend it like a gentleman," was also left a thousand pounds. there were legacies of five hundred pounds each "to john saunders, my faithful valet, and to rebecca, his wife, my cook and housekeeper." there was a legacy of one hundred pounds to the librarian of the minerva club, "to whom i have given much trouble." the library of books, the statues, pictures, and curios were bequeathed to "my cousin arthur, viscount caterham, the only member of my family who can appreciate them;" and "the entire residue of my fortune, my estate at boxwood, money standing in the funds and other securities, plate, wines, carriages, horses, and all my property, to anna, only daughter of my second cousin, the late ralph ampthill maurice, esq., formerly of the priory, willesden, whom i name my residuary legatee."
