although the flame of life, at its best a feeble flicker, now brightened by a little gust of hope, now deadened by an access of despair,--had begun steadily to lessen in lord caterham's breast, and he felt, with that consciousness which never betrays, that his interest in this world, small as it had been, was daily growing less, he had determined to prevent the execution of one act which he knew would be terribly antagonistic to the welfare of her whom his heart held dearest. we, fighting the daily battle of life, going forth each morning to the encounter, returning each eve with fresh dints on our harness, new notches in our swords, and able to reckon up the cost and the advantages gained by the day's combat, are unable to appreciate the anxieties and heart-burnings, the longings and the patience of those whom we leave behind us as a _corps de reserve_, apparently inactive, but in reality partaking of all the worst of the contest without the excitement of sharing it. the conflict that was raging amongst the beauport family was patent to caterham; he saw the positions taken up by the contending parties, had his own shrewd opinion as to their being tenable or the reverse, calmly criticised the various points of strategy, and laid his plans accordingly. in this it was an advantage to him that he was out of the din and the shouting and the turmoil of the battle; nobody thought of him, any more than any one in the middle of an action thinks of the minister in his office at home, by whom the despatches are written, and who in reality pulls the strings by which the man in scarlet uniform and gold-laced cocked-hat is guided, and to whom he is responsible. lord caterham was physically unfitted for the conduct of strategic operations, but he was mentally qualified for the exercise of diplomacy in the highest degree; and diplomacy was required in the present juncture.
in his solitary hours he had been accustomed to recal his past life in its apparently insignificant, but to him important ramifications;--the red south wall is the world to the snail that has never known other resting-place;--and in these days of illness and languor he reverted more and more to his old means of passing the time. a dull retrospect--a weary going over and over again of solitude, depression, and pain. thoughts long since forgotten recurred to him as in the silence of the night he passed in review the petty incidents of his uneventful career. he recollected the burning shame which had first possessed him at the knowledge of his own deformity; the half envy, half wonder, with which he had gazed at other lads of his own age; the hope that had dawned upon him that his parents and friends might feel for him something of the special love with which tiny tim was regarded in that heartfullest of all stories, _the christmas carol_; how that wondrous book had charmed him, when, a boy of ten or twelve years old, he had first read it; how, long before it had been seen by either his father or mother, he had studied and wept over it; how, prompted by a feeling which he could not analyse, he had induced lord beauport to read it, how he knew--intuitively, he was never told--that it had been shown to his mother; and how that christmastide he had been treated with consideration and affection never before accorded to him--had been indeed preferred to lionel, greatly to that young gentleman's astonishment and disgust. it did not last long, that halcyon time; the spells of the romancer held the practical father and the fashionable mother in no lengthened thrall; and when they were dissipated, there was merely a crippled, deformed, blighted lad as their eldest hope and the heir to their honours. tiny tim borne aloft on his capering father's shoulders; tiny tim in his grave,--these were images to wring the heart not unpleasantly, and to fill the eyes with tears of which one was rather proud, as proof of how easily the heart was wrung: but for a handsome couple--one known as a _beau gar?on_, the other as a beauty--to have to face the stern fact that their eldest son was a cripple was any thing but agreeable.
untrusted--that was it. never from his earliest days could he recollect what it was to have trust reposed in him. he knew--he could not help knowing--how superior he was in ability and common-sense to any in that household; he knew that his father at least was perfectly aware of this; and yet that lord beauport could not disconnect the idea of bodily decrepitude and mental weakness; and therefore looked upon his eldest son as little more than a child in mind. as for caterham's mother, the want of any feeling in common between them, the utter absence of any maternal tenderness, the manifest distaste with which she regarded him, and the half-wearied, half-contemptuous manner in which she put aside the attempts he made towards a better understanding between them, had long since begun to tell upon him. there was a time when, smarting under her lifelong neglect, and overcome by the utter sense of desolation weighing him down, he had regarded his mother with a feeling bordering on aversion; then her presence, occasionally bestowed upon him--always for her own purposes---awakened in him something very like disgust. but he had long since conquered that: he had long since argued himself out of that frame of mind. self-commune had done its work; the long, long days and nights of patient reflexion and self-examination, aided by an inexplicable sense of an overhanging great change, had softened and subdued all that had been temporarily hard and harsh in lord caterham's nature; and there was no child, kneeling at its little bedside, whose "god bless dear papa and mamma!" was more tenderly earnest than the blessing which the crippled man constantly invoked on his parents.
he loved them in a grave, steady, reverential, dutiful way--loved them even with greater warmth, with more complete fondness than he had done for years; but his love never touched his instinct of justice--never warped his sense of what was right. he remembered how, years before, he had been present, a mere boy, sitting perched up in his wheelchair, apparently forgotten, in an obscure corner of his father's study at homershams, while lord beauport administered a terrific "wigging," ending in threats of gaols and magistrates, to an unlucky wretch accused of poaching by the head-keeper; and he recollected how, when the man had been dismissed with a severe warning, he had talked to and argued with his father, first on the offence, and then on lord beauport's administration of justice, with an air of grave and earnest wisdom which had amused his father exceedingly. he had held the same sentiments throughout his dreary life--he held them now. he knew that a plot was formed by his mother to bring his brother lionel back to england, with a view to his marriage with annie maurice, and he was determined that that plot should not succeed. why? he had his reasons, as they had theirs. to his own heart he confessed that he loved annie with all the depth of his soul; but that was not what prompted him in this matter. he should be far removed from the troubling before that; but he had his reason, and he should keep it to himself. they had not trusted in him, though they had been compelled to take allies from the outside--dear old algy barford, for instance--but they had not trusted him, and he would not reveal his secret. was lionel to marry annie maurice, eh? no; that should never be. he might not be there himself to prevent it; but he would leave behind him instructions with some one, which would--ah! he had hit upon the some one at once,--geoffrey ludlow, annie's oldest and dearest friend, honest as the day, brave and disinterested; not a clever business man perhaps, but one who, armed with what he could arm him with, must, with his sheer singleness of purpose, carry all before him. so far, so good; but there would be a first step which they would take perhaps before he could bring that weapon into play. his mother would contrive to get lionel into the house, on his return, to live with them, so that he might have constant opportunities of access to annie. that was a point in which, as he gleaned, she placed the greatest confidence. if her lionel had not lost all the fascinating qualities which had previously so distinguished him; if he preserved his looks and his address, this young girl--so inexperienced in the world's ways, so warm-hearted and impressible--would have no choice but to succumb.
caterham would see about that at once. lionel should never remain _en permanence_ in that house again. lady beauport would object of course. she had, when she had set her mind upon an object, a steady perseverance in its accomplishment; but neither her patience nor her diplomacy were comparable to his, when he was equally resolved, as she should find. no; on that point at least he was determined. his darling, his treasure, should not even be compelled to run the gauntlet of such a sin-stained courtship as his brother lionel's must necessarily be. what might be awaiting her in the future, god alone knew: temptations innumerable; pursuit by fortune-hunters: all those trials which beset a girl who, besides being pretty and rich, has no blood-relative on whom to reckon for counsel and aid. he would do his best to remedy this deficiency; he would leave the fullest instructions, the warmest adjurations to good geoffrey ludlow--ah! what a pity it was that ludlow's wife was not more heartful and reliable!--and he would certainly place a veto upon the notion that lionel, on his return, should become an inmate of the house. he knew that this must be done quickly, and he determined to take the first opportunity that presented itself. that opportunity was not long in coining; within ten days after margaret's fainting-fit, lady. beauport paid one of her rare maternal visits, and lord caterham saw that his chance had arrived.
there was an extra glow of geniality in lady beauport's manner that morning, and the frosty peck which she had made at her son's cheek had perhaps a trifle more warmth in it than usual. she seated herself instead of standing, as was her wont, and chatted pleasantly.
"what is this i hear about your having a lady fainting in your room, arthur?" said she, with one of her shiniest smiles. (what calumny they spread about enamel! lady beauport smiled perpetually, and her complexion never cracked in the slightest degree.) "you must not bring down scandal on our extremely proper house. she did faint, didn't she?"
"o, yes, mother, she did faint undoubtedly--went what you call regularly 'off,' i believe."
"ah! so stephens told timpson. well, sir, don't you think that is reprehensible enough? a lady comes to call on a bachelor, and is discovered fainting! why? heaven knows--" and her ladyship gave an unpleasantly knowing chuckle.
"well, i must admit that no one knows, or ever will know why, save that the lady was probably over-fatigued, having only just recovered from a serious illness. but then, you know, the lady's husband was with her, so that--"
"o, yes, i heard all about that. you are a most prudent swain, caterham! the lady's husband with her, indeed! most prudent! you always remind me of the play--i don't know what it's called--something about a french milliner and a screen--"
"'the school for scandal,' you mean?"
"very likely. ive forgotten the name, but i know i recollect seeing farren and miss foote and all of them in it. and i so often think of the two brothers: you so quiet and reserved, like one; and the other so rackety and buoyant, so full of high spirits and gaiety, like our lionel. ah me!" and lady beauport heaved a deep sigh and clasped her hands sadly in front of her.
caterham smiled--rather a sad dreary smile--as he said, "let us trust that quiet and reserve don't always have the effect which they produced on the gentleman to whom you are alluding, mother. but i may as well let you know the real story of mrs. ludlow's fainting-fit, which seems to have become rather warped in its journey. i had asked her husband to call upon me on a matter of business; and he foolishly brought her--only just out of her confinement--with him. the consequence was, that, as we were talking, and she was looking through a book of photographs, she fainted away."
"ay! i heard something of that sort. she must be a curious person to be so easily affected, or it was thoughtless of her husband to bring her out too soon. he is an odd kind of man though, is he not? absent, and that kind of thing?"
"ye-es; his heart is in his work, and he is generally thinking about it."
"so i had imagined. what odd people you know, arthur! your acquaintances all seem such strange people--so different from your father's and mine!"
"yes, mother," said caterham, with a repetition of the sad smile; "perhaps you're right generally. your friends would scarcely care for me, and i am sure i do not care for them. but geoffrey ludlow became known to me through his old intimacy with annie--our annie."
"ye-es. i scarcely know why 'our annie,' though. you see, both your father and i have many blood-relations, more or less distant, on either side; and it would not be particularly convenient if the mere fact of their being blood-relations compelled us to acknowledge them as 'ours.' not that ive any thing to say against miss maurice, though; on the contrary, she's a very charming girl. at one time i thought that--however, let that pass. she holds quite a different position now; and i think every one will allow that my treatment of her is what it should be."
"of course, mother. no one would dream of doubting it."
"well, perhaps not, arthur; but you're such a recluse, you know, that you're scarcely a judge of these things--one does not know what people won't say. the world is so full of envy and jealousy, and all that, i'm sure my position in regard to the matter is any thing but an agreeable one. here i am, having to act _chaperon_ to this girl, who is known now as an heiress; and all kinds of men paying her attention, simply on account of her wealth. what i suffer when we're out together, you can't conceive. every night, wherever we may be, there is a certain set of men always hanging about her, waiting for an introduction--persons whose acquaintance cannot do her the slightest good, and with whom she is yet quite as willing to talk or to dance as she is with he most available _parti_ in london."
caterham smiled again. "you forget, mother, that she's not accustomed to the kind of life--"
"no; i don't forget anything of the kind, arthur. it is her not being accustomed to it that is my greatest trouble. she is as raw as a child of seventeen aft her first drawing-room. if she had any _savoir faire_, any knowledge of society, i should be perfectly at ease. a girl of any appreciation would know how to treat these people in an instant. why, i know myself, that when i was far younger than miss maurice, i should have felt a kind of instinctive warning against two-thirds of the men with whom annie maurice is as talkative and as pleasant as though they were really persons whose acquaintance it was most desirable that she should make."
"and yet annie is decidedly a clever girl."
"so much the worse, arthur,--so much the worse. the more reason that she is utterly unlikely to possess or to be able readily to acquire the peculiar knowledge which would fit her to act under the circumstances of which i am speaking. your clever people--such at least as are called clever by you and those whom you cultivate--are precisely the people who act idiotically in worldly affairs, who either know nothing or who set at defiance the _convenances_ of society, and of whom nothing can be made. that man--no, let me give you an example--that man who dined here last thursday on your invitation--professor somebody, wasn't he?--ive heard of him at that place where they give the scientific lectures in albemarle street--was any thing ever seen like his cravat, or his shoes, or the way in which he ate his soup?--he trod on my dress twice in going down to dinner, and i heard perfectly plainly what lady clanronald said to that odious mr. beauchamp hogg about him."
"my father spoke to me in the highest terms about--"
"of course he did; that's just it. your father knows nothing about this sort of thing. it all falls upon me. if annie maurice were to make a _mésalliance_, or, without going so far as that, were to permit herself to be engaged to some penniless fortune-hunter, and were to refuse--as she very likely would, for she has an amount of obstinacy in her composition, i am inclined to think, which one very seldom finds--to listen to the remonstrances of those whose opinion ought to have weight with her, it is i, not your father, who would be blamed by the world."
"your troubles certainly seem greater, mother, than i, in my bachelor ignorance, could have imagined."
"they are not comprehensible, even after my explanation, arthur, by those who have not to undergo them. there is scarcely any thing in my married life which has given me such pleasure as the thought that, having no daughters, i should be relieved of all duties of chaperonage; that i should not be compelled to go to certain places unless i wished; and that i should be able to leave others at what hours i liked. and now i find this very duty incumbent upon me."
"well, but, my dear mother, surely annie is the very last girl in the world for whom it is necessary to make any such sacrifices. she does not care about going out; and when out, she seems, from all she says to me, to have only one anxiety, and that is--to get home again as soon as possible."
"ay, from all she says to you, arthur; but then you know, as ive said before, you are a regular old bachelor, without the power of comprehending these things, and to whom a girl certainly would not be likely to show her real feelings. no; there's only one way to relieve me from my responsibility."
"and that is--"
"and that is by getting her married."
"a-ah!" caterham drew a long breath--it was coming now.
"married," continued lady beauport, "to some one whom we know, and in whom we could trust; some one who would keep her near us, so that we could still keep up an interest in her; and you--for i know how very much attached you are to her, arthur--could see her constantly, without trouble to yourself. that is the only manner in which i can see a conclusion to my anxiety on annie's account."
lady beauport endeavoured to speak in the same tone in which she had commenced the conversation; but there was a quiver in her voice and a tremulous motion in her hands which showed caterham plainly that she was ill at ease.
"and do you think that such a husband would be easily found for annie, mother?" said he, looking up at her with one of his steady piercing glances from under his eyebrows.
"not easily, of course; but still to be found, arthur."
"from your manner, you seem to have already given the subject some attention. may i ask if you have any one in prospect who would fulfil all the conditions you have laid down in the first place, and in the second would be likely to be acceptable to annie?"
"how very singular you are, arthur! you speak in a solemn tone, as if this were the most important matter in the world."
"it is sufficiently important to annie at least. would you mind answering me?"
lady beauport saw that it was useless fighting off the explanation any further. her project must be disclosed now, however it might be received by her eldest son; and she determined to bring her stateliest and most dignified manner to its disclosure: so she composed her face to its usual cold statuesque calmness, folded her wandering hands before her, and in a voice in which there was neither break nor tremor, said:
"no: i will answer you quite straightforwardly. i think that it would be an admirable thing for all parties if a marriage could be arranged between annie maurice and your brother lionel. lionel has position, and is a distinguished-looking man, of whom any woman might be proud; and the fortune which mr. ampthill so oddly left to miss maurice will enable him to hold his own before the world, and--how strangely you look, caterham!--what is the matter?--what were you about to say?"
"only one thing, mother--that marriage must never be."
"must never be!"
"never. hear me out. i have kept accurate account of all you have said, and will judge you in the first place simply out of your own mouth. your first point was that miss maurice should be married to some one whom we knew, and whom we could trust. could we trust lionel? could we trust the man whose father's head was bowed to the dust, whose mother's eyes were filled with tears at the mere recital of his deeds of sin and shame? could we trust the man who was false to his friend, and who dragged down into the dirt not merely himself, but all who bore his name? you spoke of his position--what is that, may i ask? are we to plume ourselves on our relationship with an outcast? or are we to hold out as an inducement to the heiress the fact that her intended husband's liberty is at the mercy of those whom he has swindled and defrauded?"
"caterham! arthur! you are mad--you--"
"no, mother, i am simply speaking the truth. i should not even have insisted on that in all its bitterness, had i not been goaded to it by your words. you talk of devoting the fortune which annie maurice has inherited to setting lionel right before the world, and you expect me to sit quietly by! why, the merest instincts of justice would have made me cry out against such a monstrous proposition, even if lionel had not long since forfeited, as annie has long since won, all my love."
"a-h!" said lady beauport, suddenly pausing in her tears, and looking up at him,--"long since won all your love, eh? i have often suspected that, caterham; and now you have betrayed yourself. it is jealousy then,--mere personal jealousy,--by which all your hatred of your younger brother is actuated!"
once more the dreary smile came over lord caterham's face. "no, mother," said he, "it is not that. i love annie maurice as i love the sun, as i love health, as i love rest from pain and weariness; and with about as much hope of winning either. you could confer on me no greater happiness than by showing me the man deserving of her love; and the thought that her future would have a chance of being a happy one would relieve my life of its heaviest anxiety. but marry lionel she shall not; nay, more, she shall not be exposed to the chance of communication with him, so long as i can prevent it."
"you forget yourself, lord caterham! you forget not merely whose house you are in, but to whom you are speaking."
"i trust not, mother. i trust i shall never--certainly not now, at this time--forget my duty to you and to my father; but i know more than i can ever divulge even to you. take for granted what i tell you; let what you know of lionel's ways and conduct suffice to prove that a marriage between him and annie is impossible,--that you would be culpable in lending yourselves to such a scheme."
"i have not the least idea of what you are talking about, arthur," said lady beauport after a minute's pause. "you appear to have conceived some ridiculous idea about your brother lionel, into the discussion of which you must really excuse my following you. besides, even if you had good grounds for all you say, you are too late in making the remonstrance. lionel arrived in england the day before yesterday."
lord caterham started, and by the help of his stick raised himself for a moment.
"lionel returned! lionel in england, mother! after all his promises, after the strict conditions on which my father purchased for him immunity from the penalties of his crime! how is this? does lord beauport know it?"
lady beauport hesitated. she had been betrayed by her vexation into saying more than she had intended, and had placed lionel in his brother's power. lord caterham, she had hoped, would have received her confidence in a different spirit,--perhaps she had calculated on his being flattered by its novelty,--and would assist her in breaking the fact of the prodigal's return to his father, and winning him over to her way of thinking. she had by no means forgotten the painful solemnity with which the earl had renounced lionel, and the formal sentence of exclusion which had been passed against him; but lady beauport understood her husband well, and had managed him with tolerable success for many years. he had forbidden all mention of their son to her, as to every other member of the family; but lady beauport had been in the habit of insinuating an occasional mention of him for some time past; and it had not been badly received. perhaps neither the father nor the mother would have acknowledged to themselves or to each other the share in this change of feeling which belonged to the unmistakable daily decline of lord caterham's health. they never alluded to the future, but they saw it, and it influenced them both. lady beauport had not looked for lionel's return so soon; she had expected more patience--it might have been appropriately called more decency--from him; she had thought her difficulties would be much lessened before his return; but he had neglected her injunctions, and forestalled her instructions: he had arrived,--there was no help for it; she must meet the difficulty now. she had been meeting difficulties, originating from the same source, for many years; and though caterham's manner annoyed her deeply, she kept her courage up. her first instinct was to evade her son's last question, by assuming an injured tone in reference to his first. so she said,
"o, it's all very well to talk about his promises, arthur; but, really, how you could expect lionel to remain in australia i cannot understand."
"i did not, and i do not, form any expectations whatever concerning lionel, mother," her son replied, in a steady voice, and without releasing her from his gaze; "that is beside the question. lionel has broken his pledged word to my father by returning here,--you know he has,--and he has not given any career a fair trial. i can guess the expectations with which he has returned," he continued in a bitter tone; "and god knows i trust they are not unfounded. but my place is not vacant _yet_; and he has forfeited his own. you cannot restore it to him. why has he returned?"
lady beauport did not dare to say, "because i wrote to him, and told him to come home, and marry annie maurice, and buy the world's fickle favour over again with her money, while waiting for yours;" but her silence said it for her; and caterham let his eyes drop from her face in disgust, as he coldly said,
"once more, madam, i ask you, is my father aware that lionel is in london?"
"no," she replied boldly, seeing things were at the worst; "he is not. i tell you, caterham, if you tell him, before i have time and opportunity to break it to him, and set your father against him, and on keeping his word just as a point of pride, i will never forgive you. what good could it do you? what harm has lionel done you? how could he stay in that horrid place? he's not a tradesman, i should think; and what could he _do_ there? nor an irishman, i hope; so what could he _be_ there? the poor boy was perfectly miserable; and when i told him to come lit, me, i thought you'd help me, arthur,--i did indeed."
a grave sad smile passed over lord caterham's worn face. here was his proud mother trying to cajole him for the sake of the profligate son who had never felt either affection or respect for her. had a less object been at stake he might have yielded to the weakness which he rather pitied than despised; yielded all the more readily that it would not be for long. but annie's peace, annie's welfare was in danger, and his mother's weakness could meet with no toleration at his hands.
"listen to me, mother," he said; "and let this be no more mentioned between us. i am much exhausted to-day, and have little strength at any time; but my resolve is unshaken. i will not inform my father of lionel's return, if you think you can manage to tell him, and to induce him to take it without anger more successfully than i can. but while i live lionel brakespere shall never live in the same house with annie maurice; and whether i am living or dead, i will prevent his ever making her his wife. this is her proper home; and i will do my best to secure her remaining in it; but how long do you suppose she would stay, if she heard the plans you have formed?" lady beauport attempted to speak, but he stopped her. "one moment more, mother," he said, "and i have done. let me advise you to deceive my father no more for lionel. he is easily managed, i have no doubt, by those whom he loves and admires; but he is impatient of deceit, being very loyal himself. tell him without delay what you have done; but do not, if even he takes it better than you hope, and that you think such a suggestion would be safe,--do not suggest that lionel should come here. let me, for my little time, be kept from any collision with my father. i ask this of you, mother." o, how the feeble voice softened, and the light in the eyes deepened! "and my requests are neither frequent nor hard to fulfil, i think."
he had completely fathomed her purpose; he had seen the projects she had formed, even while he was speaking the first sentences; and had defeated them. by a violent effort she controlled her temper,--perhaps she had never made so violent an effort, even for lionel, before,--and answered,--
"i hardly understand you, arthur; but perhaps you are right. at all events, you agree to say nothing to your father,--to leave it to me?"
"certainly," said caterham. he had won the day; but his mother's manner had no sign of defeat about it, no more than it had sign of softening. she rose, and bade him goodmorning. he held her hand for a moment, and his eyes followed her wistfully, as she went out of his room.
as she passed through the passage, just outside her son's door she saw a stout keen-looking man sitting on the bench, who rose and bowed as she passed.
when stephens answered the bell, he found his master lying back, bloodless and almost fainting. after he had administered the usual restoratives, and when life seemed flowing back again, the valet said,
"inspector blackett, my lord, outside."
lord caterham made a sign with his hand, and the stout man entered.
"the usual story, blackett, i suppose?"
"sorry to say so, my lord. no news. two of my men tried maidstone again yesterday, and canterbury, thinking they were on the scent there; but no signs of her."
"very good, blackett," said caterham faintly; "don't give in yet."
then, as the door closed behind the inspector, the poor sufferer looked up heavenward and muttered, "o lord, how long--how long?"
