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.
