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"Oh."
It was asort of ecstatic sigh drawn from the bottom of his heart--
wherever that may have been.
The two girls glanced at each other.
"I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Browne a few days ago,"
stammered Clement. He felt that he was making a great idiot of
himself.
"I have told Miss Collumpton," said Cecilia, "how much I owed to
your kindness on that occasion."
"For Mora's sake, Mr. Fildew," said Miss Browne, "I am glad to be
able to thank you in person for the service you rendered her. She
was coming up to town to stay with me at the time you met her."
"How well she acts her part," said Cecilia, to herself, with an
admiring glance at her friend. "And how well she would carry out
such a part in real life."
Clem muttered something about the service he had rendered being a
very slight one, after which he took a rather hurried leave. He was
glad to get out into the cold, wintry afternoon. It seemed to him that
he walked home that day as the gods of old are fabled to have
walked--on ambient air. Surely those were not the cold, slushy
streets of dreary, commonplace London. Everything seemed as if it
had been touched by a necromancer's wand.
"Mora." He whispered the word to himself again and again. What a
sweet and romantic name it was! He did not venture to say, even to
himself, that Mora's surname was either sweet or romantic. But that
surname should be changed for another, by and by, or he would
know the reason why.
19.
CHAPTER VII.
"SWEET COZ."
ClementFildew had not left Cadogan Place more than half an hour
when Mr. Slingsby Boscombe was announced. Slingsby had not seen
Cecilia since the funeral of the young Earl of Loughton, which had
taken place at Ringwood, the family seat, in Bedfordshire. Slingsby
had attended as one of the mourners in chief.
"I don't think that I was ever in poor Alexander's company more
than five or six times in my life," said Mr. Boscombe, in answer to a
question put by Cecilia. He was a round-faced, boyish-looking young
fellow of two-and-twenty, with a tendency to become abnormally
stout even at that early age. "The dowager never cared to cultivate
our branch of the family over much, and I have often heard my
father speak of her in no very friendly terms."
"I believe that Lady Loughton was always noted for having a temper
of her own," said Miss Collumpton. "I have been told that when her
son's wife was alive--I mean, poor Alic's mother--she stood so much
in awe of the dowager's temper that she never would see her when
the latter called at Ringwood, but used to lock herself up in her own
rooms till she was gone."
"When Alic's mother died, of course the dowager went back to
Ringwood."
20.
"Yes, and thereshe has lived ever since, and would, doubtless, have
continued to live, but for this terrible accident, till Alic got married, in
which case I suppose she would have had to find a home
elsewhere."
"And very proper, too. From what little I have seen of her I should
hardly care to live under the same roof with her."
"And yet she must be nearly eighty years old."
"And looks likely to live to be a hundred. She is certainly a very
wonderful old lady."
"I used to like her very well when I went to Ringwood as a child,
although, of course, I stood in great awe of her. But after that she
and Aunt Percival had some words, and I have not seen her for
several years. Fortunately I met poor Alic in the Park only three
months ago: we had a long talk about old times. How little I thought
that I should never see him again!"
There were tears in Cecilia's eyes, and Slingsby forebore to speak for
a minute or two. Then he said, "Do you know, Cis, my father never
told me till a week ago what a very large slice of the Loughton
property was left to me by Alic's father in case Alic should die
without heirs! I was perfectly astounded. I suppose the governor's
reason for not speaking to me about it before was because he
thought the chance of its coming to me seemed so very remote that
it was not worth while troubling me about it in any way. But what an
absurd proviso is that which precludes me from touching a penny of
it till I am twenty-five years old! You can do as you like with your
share, although you are four months younger than I, while I shall
have to wait another three years for mine. It is really too ridiculous!"
"I suppose that when Uncle Charles drew up his will he had an idea
that boys remain boys till they are five-and-twenty, which, indeed,
quite a number of them seem to do."
21.
"And meanwhile Ihave to depend on my father for my income."
"Instead of earning it for yourself, as so many other young men are
obliged to do. How thankful you ought to be that you have such a
father!"
"As for that, the governor says that I shall have plenty to do by and
by in looking after the estates and attending to the property. I am
sure that he works as hard as any laborer."
"Then why not take some of his work on to those broad shoulders of
yours?"
"Bless you, he won't let me have anything to do with the
management of the property. He says it will be time enough for me
to think about that when he is gone."
"But you will no longer have to wait for any such mournful
contingency. Three years will soon pass away, and then this
Loughton property, which will be yours, will find you plenty to do."
"And will make me my own master into the bargain, and that is by
no means the most unimportant feature in the case. You will,
perhaps, hardly credit it, Cis, but I never knew till after Alic's death
that the estates were not entailed."
"I believe the entail was cut off about eighty years ago."
"And a good thing for you and me that it was cut off! By-the-bye,
how is his new lordship supposed to be able to keep up the
traditional state and dignity of an Earl of Loughton?"
"I believe it is not at present known where his new lordship is to be
found, or even whether he is alive or dead. If he be alive, it is quite
possible that he may have means of his own. If it be proved that he
is dead, I suppose we shall have to address you, sir, as my lord
earl."
22.
"Provided the missingearl has not left a son and heir behind him."
From this it will be seen that the conversation we are now recording
took place before that first interview between "Mr. Fildew" and the
dowager countess.
Mr. Fildew, senior, was cousin to Charles, the seventh earl, who was
father of the young lord recently killed. Mr. Slingsby Boscombe was
grandson to the youngest brother of the sixth earl, while Miss
Collumpton was granddaughter to the only sister of the same
nobleman.
"It seems rather strange, doesn't it, Cis," resumed Slingsby, "that
Earl Charles should pass over his own cousin, the man who, if he
lived, must come into the title in case of Alic dying without heirs, in
favor of two such insignificant people as you and I?"
"The missing earl is said to have been very wild and dissipated when
young, and to have got at length into such dreadful difficulties that
he was compelled to go abroad. I suppose there was a great scandal
about it, and very probably the earl's will was made about the time
he felt so much annoyed at his cousin's outrageous conduct."
"And this disgrace to the family has never been heard of since?"
"Not to my knowledge: most probably he is dead."
"Even if he be, the difficulty will be to prove it."
Slingsby, having contemplated this difficulty in silence for a minute
or two, said: "Do you know, Cis, that my father has been badgering
me again about that old family scheme for making you and me man
and wife?"
"And Lady Loughton has been stirring up my aunt about the same
thing. They have become friends again since Alic's death."
23.
"I wish theywould mind their own business."
"So do I, with all my heart."
"Do you think we care enough for each other, Cis, to marry."
"I think it very doubtful, Slingsby, whether we do."
"When you are told from youth upward that you must marry one
person and no other, you naturally begin to rebel in your secret
heart."
"My own feelings exactly."
"You know, Cis, I am very fond of you, and always have been."
"And I of you, Slingsby--in a cousinly sort of way."
"Just so in a cousinly sort of way. But that's hardly how a husband
and wife ought to feel towards each other, is it?"
"I've had no experience either one way or the other, but I should
think not."
"Now that we so thoroughly understand each other, may I tell you a
secret, Cis?"
"A hundred if you like, Slingsby. Being a woman, I am fond of
secrets."
"But, being a woman, can you keep one?"
"I'll try. I daren't say more than that."
"In any case I'll trust you. I'm in love."
"Slingsby?"
24.
"Desperately, devotedly inlove. I--I've actually taken to writing
verses, and if that's not a sure sign of being in love, I should like to
know what is."
"Is the lady any one with whom I am acquainted?"
"No. She's a doctor's daughter. She lives down in Hampshire, and
her father's dead."
"What is she like? Pretty, of course."
"Not so pretty as you, Cis."
"You have no right to say that, sir. If you love her, as you say you do,
she ought to be perfection in your eyes."
"She is perfection in my eyes, but for all that she's not so pretty as
you are. I don't know," added Slingsby, musingly, "that I should care
to have a very pretty woman for my wife. I might grow jealous, you
know, and that must be a jolly uncomfortable sort of feeling."
"Does your father know anything of this affair?"
"No--there's the rub. I dare not tell him on any account. His heart is
set on my marrying you, and as I'm altogether dependent on him,
and shall be for three more years, it would never do to let him into
the secret. But you can help me in my difficulty, Cis?"
"In what way can I help you, Slingsby?"
"By not letting any one know that there is nothing serious between
you and me. You have not refused me yet, have you, because I have
never made you an offer?"
"No; you have certainly not made me an offer, and till you do that,
of course I can't refuse you."
25.
"Then, of course,I can tell my father that you have not refused me;
and if I were further to hint to him that you are hardly prepared to
marry just yet, that you would prefer to wait, say, a year or eighteen
months longer, would that be a very wide departure from the truth?"
"It would be no departure from the truth so far as I am concerned. I
certainly am not prepared to take to myself a husband for a long
time to come."
"You know I can continue to look in here once or twice a week as
usual; and perhaps you wouldn't mind my being seen with you in the
Row, now and then, or at the opera, or the theatre?"
"Not at all. Come with me as often as you like. I have very few
engagements."
"And if your Aunt Percival or Lady Loughton should hint anything to
you 'about our supposed engagement, could you not give them to
understand that you and I are on excellent terms with each other,
and that the less they interfere in the matter the better?"
"I certainly could do all that, although the doing of it would involve a
certain amount of deception on my part."
"But deception that can harm nobody. If these worthy old souls
would only leave you and me to look after our own happiness, there
would be no occasion for subterfuge of any kind."
"Then, under cover of all this, you intend to carry on your flirtation
with the doctor's daughter?"
"It's no flirtation, Cis, but a real downright serious case of spoons.
I've promised to marry her, and I shall do so in spite of everything.
If I can only keep my father in the dark till I'm five-and-twenty, then
all will come right, and with your help, Cis, I shall be able to do that
without much difficulty."
26.
CHAPTER VIII
"GOOD-BYE."
"I amrather glad to have found you alone, Clem," said Lord
Loughton, as he walked into his son's studio in the course of the day
following that on which he had received Mr. Flicker's check for a
hundred and fifty pounds. "I have something rather particular to say
to you."
Clem knew of old that his father's "something particular" generally
took the shape of a request for a loan, so he merely said, "Macer
won't be back for a couple of hours. Will you have a weed and some
bottled ale?"
"Thank you, no. I can't stay many minutes. How are you progressing
with your Academy picture? That, of course, is the most important
affair in the universe just now. I believe, if there were an earthquake
to-morrow that swallowed up a thousand people, all that you painter
fellows would do would be to cry, 'Save my pictures.' The egotism of
art is something sublime."
"We dignify it with another name," answered Clem, with a laugh.
"With us it becomes 'devotion to art.'" He had had too much
experience of his father's tirades to take much notice of them. "I
shall get my picture done, I suppose, and send it in. Beyond that I
know nothing. But as you don't care about modern paintings, I need
not bore you by asking your opinion of it."
27.
"Well, no, it'shardly worth while. I never see anything later than Sir
Joshua that I care about. English art is dead--defunct as a door-
nail."
"I am glad that the people with money don't all think as you do. But
you had something particular to say to me."
"Yes; I am going to leave London for a time."
Clem suspended his brush in mid-air and stared at his father.
"A friend of mine, a gentleman whom I knew many years ago, has
just succeeded to a very large property. As he is obliged to reside
abroad on account of his health, he has asked me to undertake the
management of his affairs for a time. He has extensive estates in
different parts of the country, all of which require to be carefully
looked after, so that I shall have no fixed location for any length of
time. For reasons which you will not ask me to explain, I cannot give
the name of my friend, nor can I tell you with certainty where I may
be found at any particular date; but that will not matter, as I shall
run up to London for a day or two to see la mère and you every
month or six weeks. Should any occasion arise for you to
communicate with me while I am away, a letter will always find me,
addressed 'John Fildew, Esquire, Post-office, Shallowford,
Northamptonshire.' You had better put the address down in your
pocket-book so as to make sure of it."
"Have you broken the news to my mother?" asked Clem, as he wrote
down the address.
"Yes; I mentioned it to her this morning, and though, of course, poor
creature, she was rather cut up at first, she soon recovered her
equanimity and agreed with me that it was all for the best. You see,
Clem, this is just the sort of thing I have been looking out for for
years--gentlemanly, dignified, not too much to do, and yet with an
honorarium attached to it that, in the present state of our finances,
we cannot afford to despise. For one thing, my dear boy, there will
28.
no longer beany necessity for my imposing on your good-nature, in
addition to which I shall be in a position to make your mother an
allowance of five guineas per month. I gave her the first five guineas
this morning before leaving home."
"You need not have done that, sir," interposed Clem. "My mother
should not have wanted for anything during your absence."
"I am quite sure of that, my boy. But in making this little
arrangement I feel that I am simply doing my duty--and what a
luxury for one's conscience that is!" His lordship's conscience had
not been used to such luxuries for a long time, and probably
appreciated them all the more by reason of their rarity.
"In addition to my allowance of five guineas per mensem," continued
the earl, "your mother will have her own private income of fifty
pounds a year, and will no longer have me for an encumbrance; so
that, all things considered, she ought to be, and doubtless will be,
tolerably comfortable. There is one thing, however, Clem, that she
wishes you to do. After I am gone she would like you to go back and
sleep in your old room. She is rather timorous, poor thing, at the
thought of being left alone."
"Of course I shall do that, sir," said Clem.
"Then I need not detain you longer. If you have half an hour to
spare this evening before your mother's bedtime, look in and we will
talk these matters over more in extenso." And extending a couple of
fingers to his son and nodding a good-morning, the earl went,
leaving Clem at a loss whether to be more pleased or sorry at what
he had just heard.
The private income of fifty pounds a year to which Lord Loughton
had referred when speaking of his wife was all that was now left of
the fortune he had received with her on her wedding-day. It would
hardly be too much to say that it was on account of that fortune he
had married her. She was an orphan, the daughter of English
29.
parents who hademigrated to America. Her father had been
originally a poor man, but had made a fortune during the last three
or four years of his life. She fell in love with the handsome English
scapegrace at a boarding-house where they happened to meet, and
being her own mistress and well-to-do, and divining that he was
poor--how poor she did not know till afterwards--she was not long in
letting him see the preference which she felt for him. He, on his
side, when once satisfied that her fortune was not a myth, was an
ardent lover enough, and at the end of a few weeks they were
married. Not till the wedding morn did the bride know that her
husband's name was not John Fildew, but John Marmaduke
Lorrimore, and that same evening she was made to take a solemn
oath never to divulge to living soul the secret of her husband's real
name. So faithfully had the promise then given been kept that not
even her own son had the remotest suspicion that the name he
called himself by was not his own. As years slipped away Mrs.
Fildew's fortune also slipped away, till nothing of it was left save the
aforesaid fifty pounds per year, the principal of which neither she nor
her husband could touch. With the struggling, poverty-stricken years
that followed when the bulk of the fortune was gone we have
nothing here to do.
It was owing to Clem's persuasions that his father and mother had
at length agreed to remove all the way from Long Island to London.
The lad had developed a remarkable talent for painting, but had got
the idea into his head that he could have better instruction and
make more rapid progress in London than elsewhere. But, in
addition to that, Mr. Fildew, senior, was heartily sick of the States. So
to London they had come, and there they had lived ever since.
Clem, what with painting and what with drawing on wood for the
magazines, was slowly but surely making his way, and was not only
able to keep himself--in very modest style, it is true--but could also
spare his father a pound a week for pocket-money. What he did in
the way of helping his mother at odd times was known to no one
but him and her. He had lived at home till home was no longer
comfortable for him; and even his mother had at length urged him
30.
to go intolodgings on his own account. That mother, whom he loved
so well, was slowly but surely dying of an incurable complaint. She
had been ill for years, and might be ill for years longer, before the
end came; but that it was surely coming both she and those about
her knew full well. And this knowledge it was that made the one
great trouble of Clem's life.
The earl felt that he had much to do before his departure from
London. After again seeing his son in the evening, but without giving
him many more details as to his future proceedings than he had
given him in the morning, he set out for the Brown Bear. This would
be his last evening at the old haunt for a long time to come, if not
forever; and when he called to mind the many pleasant hours he
had spent in the little coffee-room, he felt quite sentimental--far
more sentimental than he had felt at the thought of parting from his
wife and son.
There was an extraordinary muster at the Brown Bear this evening,
it having got noised about that it was Mr. Fildew's farewell visit. As a
consequence, Mr. Fildew had to enter into particulars, which he
detested doing, as to the why and the wherefore of his going away.
He told them the same story that he had told to his son, with certain
variations, the gist of it being that a very old friend of his had come
into a large fortune and needed his, Mr. Fildew's, services as guide,
philosopher, and friend.
Mr. Nutt was unanimously voted into the chair, and a very pleasant
and convivial evening followed. Mr. Fildew's health was drunk with
musical honors, to which "His Grace" responded in a few well-chosen
sentences, and wound up by ordering the landlord to bring in his
biggest punch-bowl filled to the brim. On the heels of the first bowl
came another; and when twelve o'clock struck several of the
gentlemen present were hardly in a condition to find their way
unaided to their homes, so that, as several of them afterwards
averred, it was one of the pleasantest evenings they ever
remembered to have spent.
31.
At dusk, nextafternoon, Lord Loughton bade farewell to his humble
lodgings. His last words to his wife were to the effect that she might
expect to see him again in three weeks or a month. Clem's offer to
accompany him to the station was firmly negatived. However, Clem
saw him into the cab, and heard him give instructions to be driven to
King's Cross. Then there was a last wave of the hand and he was
gone.
CHAPTER IX.
TRANSFORMATION.
When the Earl of Loughton left home in a four-wheeled cab it was by
no means his intention to drive direct to the railway. His first
stopping-place, as soon as he got clear of the neighborhood where
he was known, was at a French hairdresser's. When he came out of
the shop, half an hour later, the cabman did not recognize him till he
spoke. He had gone into the shop with a wild tangle of hair, beard,
and mustache about his face, neck, and throat. He came out with his
hair cropped after the military style, and with his face close shaved
except for an imperial, and a thick, drooping mustache with carefully
waxed tips, both of which had been artistically dyed. From the
hairdresser's he drove to a certain well-known outfitting emporium,
and here the transformation previously begun was consummated.
Again the cabman opened his eyes, this time very wide indeed. His
exceedingly shabby fare, respecting whose ability to pay him his
legal charge he might well have had some reasonable doubts, was
transformed into a military-looking, middle-aged gentleman (most
people would have taken him for an officer in mufti), in a suit of
32.
well-fitting dark tweed,and an ulster. The frayed black satin stock
and the patched boots had disappeared with the rest, and when his
fare with delicately gloved hand drew forth a snowy handkerchief,
and a celestial odor of Frangipanni was wafted to his nostrils, the
man could only touch his hat and say, in a sort of awed whisper,
"Where to next, colonel?" Had he been bidden to drive to Hades he
could hardly have wondered more.
The earl slept that night at the Great Northern Hotel, and went down
to Brimley next morning after a late breakfast. He took up his
quarters for the time being at the Duke's Head, the only really good
hotel in the little town. Everybody was anxious to see the new Lord
Loughton, concerning whose early life and long disappearance from
the world many romantic tales were afloat, and he was just as
willing to let himself be seen. For the first week or two he derived an
almost childlike pleasure from hearing himself addressed as "my
lord" and "your lordship," and from being the recipient of that
adulation, mingled with a mild sort of awe, with which a nobleman is
almost always regarded in small provincial towns. Twenty times a
day he would gaze admiringly at the reflection of himself in the
cheval-glass in his bedroom. He could hardly believe it was John
Fildew of Hayfield Street, that shabby, bepatched individual, who
smiled back at him from the glass. "And yet I am just the same that
I was before," he said to himself with a sneer. "The only change in
me is that which the barber and the tailor have effected."
He had several suits of clothes sent down after him, and he took a
boyish pleasure in frequently changing them. He always dressed for
dinner, although there was no one to dine with him. When a young
man he had been noted for his white hands, and he was determined
that they should be white again, to which end he smeared them
every night with some sort of unguent and slept in kid gloves. Every
morning he measured himself carefully round the waist, and when at
the end of a fortnight he found that his convexity in that region was
less by three quarters of an inch, he felt as if he could go out into
the street and play leap-frog with the boys. He had made up his
33.
mind from thefirst to go in for popularity. With the change in his
fortunes he had in a great measure dropped that curt, sneering,
cynical manner which had not contributed to render him popular in
days gone by. There was now an easy condescension, a sort of
genial affability, about him which charmed every one with whom he
came in contact; but then, how little is needed to make us feel
charmed with a lord! Everybody knew that he was poor--how poor
they did not know--but everybody knew also that he was an earl,
and as earls, even when their antecedents are somewhat shady, are
no more plentiful than green pease in December, we are bound to
make much of such as we have.
The news of Lord Loughton's sojourn at Brimley spread far and wide
through the county, and he need never have lacked company had he
been so minded. Nearly all the best families in the neighborhood left
their cards, and he might have had a dozen visitors a day had he not
given it out that he did not intend to see any one till he was safely
housed in his new home.
Laurel Cottage was not much of a place for a peer to take up his
abode in, but even peers must live according to their means. It was
a little, white, two-storied house, containing only eight or nine rooms
in all. Its front windows looked on to a circular grass-plot and a tiny
carriage drive that opened from the main road. From its back
windows could be seen a lawn, bordered by a terrace, and
interspersed with clumps of flowers, with meadow after meadow
beyond. Stable and coach-house were hidden away behind a
shrubbery to the left.
Such as it was it was quite big enough for the needs of Lord
Loughton, and he at once secured it. There was one stipulation
connected with the letting of it which posed him for a moment, but
for a moment only. It was a sine quâ non that the substantial, old-
fashioned furniture should be taken at a valuation by the incoming
tenant. The valuation was fixed at two hundred pounds. To this the
earl, when he had walked slowly through the rooms, made no
34.
demur. The sameevening he wrote as under to the dowager
countess:
"My Dear Aunt,,--I have taken Laurel Cottage, near this place, for
a term of years, as I told you that I should do. It contains nine
rooms. The rent is £60 a year, and it will suit me admirably. But I
could not obtain possession till I agreed to take the furniture, which
has been valued at £200. As it was an impossibility to live in a house
without furniture, the opportunity seemed to me too good a one to
be missed. Will you therefore kindly send me a check for the amount
in question as early as possible, and oblige,
"Your affectionate nephew,
"Loughton."
After three days came the following laconic reply:
"Check for £200 enclosed, but don't do this sort of thing again. An
agreement is an agreement, and no further demands beyond the
usual allowance will receive attention."
The letter was undated and unsigned, but it was evidently in the
countess's own writing. A few days later the earl removed to his new
home.
He started his modest establishment with two women and one man
servant. A gardener was engaged to come once a week to attend to
the lawn and flowers. When the earl had paid his hotel bill and a few
35.
other expenses hefound that upwards of two thirds of his 1150 had
gone already, while more than two months of the quarter had yet to
run. But this did not trouble him. He calculated, and rightly, that
when once he was established in Laurel Cottage he might go on
credit for everything he wanted for several months to come. As a
matter of fact, he was inundated with offers from tradespeople of all
kinds, so that his only difficulty lay in choosing which of them he
should patronize. Even horses and carriages were pressed on him,
but he decided that for the present both stable and coach-house
should remain empty. He might, perhaps, have afforded to buy a
cheap cob if an opportunity for doing so had offered itself however,
there would be time enough to think about such luxuries by and by.
But in this matter, as in most others, he was probably actuated by
some motive other than appeared on the surface.
Long before the earl had got quietly settled down one carriage after
another came flashing up to the little green gate of Laurel Cottage.
His lordship was at home to everybody that called. Everybody was
charmed with his affability and the simple kindliness of his
demeanor. "What delightful manners!" exclaimed the ladies, with
one accord. "What ease and polished courtesy! A thorough man of
the world, evidently." Could these fair dames have seen his lordship
six weeks previously, as he sat behind a long pipe in the coffee-room
of the B. B., with his brandy-and-water in front of him, what would
their thoughts of him have been?
Calls, as a matter of course, were succeeded by pressing invitations
to dinner. But the earl frankly pleaded his poverty in fact, he almost
made a parade of it before his newly found friends. "You say that
you live three miles away. Pray tell me how I am to reach you when
I have neither a hoof nor a wheel on the premises." Then, of course,
came offers to send the brougham or other conveyance for him,
which, equally as a matter of course, involved the sending of him
home when the evening was at an end. For the earl had made up
his mind that if people wanted him they must both send for him and
send him back, and before long this necessity came to be accepted
36.
as a well-understoodfact among those whom he honored with his
company.
The vicar of the parish was one of the first to call at Laurel Cottage.
Before leaving he expressed a hope that he should occasionally see
his lordship at church, and his lordship was good enough to promise
that next Sunday morning should find him in the vicar's pew. It was
quite a novel sensation for the earl to find himself inside a place of
worship. The vicar's wife handed him an elegantly bound, large-print
prayer-book, which he accepted with a smile and a little bow, but
when he tried to follow the service and find the different places he
got "terribly fogged," as he afterwards expressed it; and as he was
afraid to let people see the dilemma he was in, he shut the prayer-
book up altogether by and by, and tried to put on the air of a man
who was so thoroughly familiar with the service that the book was
rather an encumbrance to him than otherwise. "The places used to
be easy enough to find when I was a lad," he muttered to himself;
"but I suppose the Rubric has been altered since then, and evidently
altered for the worse."
He had been rather dubious on his arrival at Brimley whether some
of the very big people of the neighborhood might not still bear in
mind some of the escapades of his early years, and decline to
acknowledge him. But his uneasiness on this score was quickly
dispelled. A new generation had grown up since he was a young
man, and whatever any of the older people might remember, they
held their tongues in public, and welcomed him as warmly as if he
were the most immaculate of men and peers.
The nearest house to Laurel Cottage was a large redbrick mansion of
modern erection and imposing appearance. It bore the dignified
name of Bourbon House, from the fact of a certain French prince
having at one time made it his home for a few months. As the earl
was passing the lodge gates one day a basket-carriage containing
two very pretty young ladies was coming out. It then struck him for
the first time that he had never been at the trouble to inquire who
37.
lived at BourbonHouse, neither could he call to mind that any one
from there had ever left a card at the Cottage. As soon as he
reached home he sent for his man and questioned him. It then came
out that Bourbon House was the home of a certain Mr. Orlando
Larkins and his two sisters--the pretty girls whom the earl had
remarked. The youthful Orlando, it appeared, was the son of a
celebrated father--Larkins père having been none other than the
inventor and vender of a certain world-famed pill. Everybody has
heard of Larkins's pills, and hundreds of thousands of people have
swallowed them. As the result, Mr. Larkins, senior, amassed a very
comfortable fortune, which he more than doubled by certain lucky
speculations. Having done this, there was nothing left him to do but
to die; so die he did, and Orlando reigned in his stead. "He's said to
be very rich, and he's nothing to do with the pill trade now, my
lord," concluded the man. "He's a good-natured, sappy sort o' young
gentleman; but somehow the swell people about here don't seem to
take to him, and even the lads shout after him, 'How are you, young
Pillbox?' when he goes riding into the town."
"Very rich and very good-natured, and not received into society,"
said the earl to himself. "It might, perhaps, answer my purpose to
cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Orlando Larkins."
CHAPTER X.
INFATUATION.
38.
At a quarter-pasteleven on the morning of the Thursday following
Clement Fildew's visit to Cadogan Place, Mrs. Percival's brougham
stopped at the corner of Elm Street, Soho, and from it alighted Miss
Collumpton and Miss Browne. They were not long in finding No. 19,
and when, in answer to their ring, the door opened apparently of its
own accord, they might have been puzzled what to do next had not
Clement come rushing downstairs and piloted them the way they
were to go.
Tony Macer had gone out in deep dudgeon. He was disgusted with
Clem for having engaged himself to paint a couple of portraits when
he ought to be devoting the whole of his attention to putting the
finishing touches to his Academy picture. Indeed, Tony, who had a
great opinion of Clem's abilities, did not like the idea of his friend
taking to portrait-painting at all. "You will only spoil yourself for
better work," he kept repeating. "Why should you fritter away your
time in painting the commonplace features of a couple of nobodies?
You had better set up as a photographer at once."
"Only these two," Clem had pleaded. "When I have finished these I
won't try my hand at another portrait for a whole year."
Mr. Macer having ascertained at what hour the ladies were expected
to arrive, set off growlingly for Hampstead in company with his
sketch-book and his pipe.
"And this is a studio!" exclaimed Cecilia, as she halted for a moment
on the threshold and looked round. "What a very strange place!"
"I hope you did not expect to find any halls of dazzling light," said
Clem, with a laugh. "If so, it is a pity that you should be
disenchanted. A poor painter's workshop is necessarily a poor sort of
place."
39.
"I think itquite delightful, and I like it immensely. So thoroughly
unconventional, is it not?" she added, turning to Miss Browne. "For
my part, I'm tired of drawing-rooms and fine furniture. One can
breathe here."
Clem had nailed down a square of green baize on one part of the
floor and had hired a couple of chairs and a few "properties" from
Wardour Street. Miss Browne walked across the floor in her slow,
stately way, and seated herself on one of the chairs. To her the
studio was nothing but a dingy, commonplace room. How to arrange
her draperies most effectively for the forthcoming sitting was the
subject of paramount importance in her thoughts just now. She wore
a pearl-gray satin robe this morning. She hoped that Mr. Fildew was
clever at painting satin.
"Are both these pictures yours, Mr. Fildew?" asked Cecilia, pointing
to two covered-up canvases standing on easels in the middle of the
room.
"No. That one is my friend Macer's; this one is mine."
"If I am very good and promise not to make a noise or ask too many
questions, may I see them, Mr. Fildew--both of them?"
"Certainly you may see them, Miss Browne, and that without making
a promise of any kind. But I must warn you that neither of them is
finished, and must therefore deprecate any severe criticism."
"I don't want to criticise them, but simply to see them," said Cecilia,
as Clem flung back the coverings.
She looked at Tony's picture first. After contemplating it in silence for
a little while, she said softly, and more as if talking to herself than to
Clem, "I think that I should like to know Mr. Macer." Then she passed
on to Clem's picture. But she had not looked at it more than half a
minute before she discovered that one of the two faces depicted in it
was an exact reproduction of her own. Sly Master Clem had painted
40.
her portrait frommemory, and had stuck it into his picture. The
warm color mounted to Cecilia's face, her eyes dropped, and she
turned away without a word.
Clem readjusted the coverings, and when he turned Cecilia was
sitting in the chair next to Miss Browne's, apparently immersed in
the pages of Punch.
Clem got his colors, brushes, and palette, with the view of
immediately setting to work. He had already planted his easel on the
spot where he intended it to stand. The cause of Cecilia's blush had
been patent to him in a moment, and, while sorry to think that his
audacity might possibly have annoyed her, he yet could not help
feeling flattered by the fact of her having so quickly recognized her
own likeness. "I have scared her a little," he said to himself. So for
the present he addressed himself exclusively to Miss Browne, of
course under the mistaken belief that she was Miss Collumpton,
posing her and arranging her so as to suit best with his ideas of
artistic effect.
Three quarters of an hour passed quickly, and then Miss Browne
declared that she was tired. All this time Cecilia had scarcely spoken.
"Now, Mora, dear, it's your turn," said Miss Browne to Cecilia.
"I am ready any time." Then it was her turn to be posed and
arranged. For a little while no one spoke. Then Cecilia said, "Are
both those pictures destined for the Academy, Mr. Fildew?"
"That is their destination if the Hanging Committee will deign to find
room for them."
"Then, of course, they are intended for sale?"
"But whether they will find purchasers is another matter," answered
Clement, with a shrug.
41.
Cecilia said nomore, and Mora, seeing that she was disinclined for
talking, exerted herself for once, and kept up a desultory
conversation with Clem till the sitting came to an end: Then the
ladies went. There was no sign of lingering vexation or annoyance in
Cecilia's way of bidding Clem good-morning, but she took care not to
lift her eyes to his while she did so. The next sitting was fixed for the
following Monday.
One, two, three sittings followed in rapid succession. Cecilia's
brightness and gayety did not long desert her. She chattered with
Clem as easily and lightly as at first, only she never alluded to the
Academy pictures. When the third sitting was over, just as Cecilia
was leaving the room, Clem slipped a brief note into her hand. Her
fingers closed over it instinctively. She and Mora were to have called
at several other places before going home, but Cecilia pleaded a
headache, and they drove back direct to Cadogan Place.
After two hours spent in her own room, Cecilia went downstairs. But
she was restless and uneasy, and seemed unable to settle to
anything for many minutes at a time. Sketching, reading,
needlework were each tried in turn, and each in turn discarded.
Several times Mora looked at her with inquiring eyes, but said
nothing. Twice her aunt said, "Cecilia, I do wish you wouldn't fidget
so you are as bad as any child of six."
The ladies dined early when they had no company. After dinner Mrs.
Percival went out. The two girls sat by themselves in the drawing-
room. By and by Mora went to the piano and began to play. Cecilia
sat and looked into the fire and listened, or, without listening, felt,
half-unconsciously, the sweet influence of the music steal into her
senses. Then the twilight deepened, and Binks came in and lighted
the lamps. But still Mora went on playing, and still Cecilia sat and
gazed dreamily into the fire.
By and by Mora looked round and saw that she was alone. Cecilia
had slipped through the curtains that shrouded one end of the room
42.
from the conservatorybeyond. There was just enough light in the
conservatory to enable Mora to see Cecilia as she sat among the
orange-trees at the foot of a statue of Silence, that loomed white
and ghost-like above her. Mora knelt by her friend and took one of
Cecilia's hands in hers and pressed it to her lips. "What is it,
darling?" she whispered. "Tell me what it is that is troubling you."
Cold and calculating in many ways as Mora Browne might be, there
was at least one sweet, unselfish impulse in her heart, and that was
her love for Cecilia Collumpton.
Cecilia responded to her friend's question by stooping and kissing
her. Then she whispered--but it was a whisper so faint that if the
statue bending over her with its white finger on its white lips had
been endowed with life it could not have overheard what she said--
"He has written to me and told me that he loves me!"
Mora started, but Cecilia's arms held her fast and would not let her
go. "Who has written to you? Not Mr. Fildew?"
"Yes--Mr. Fildew."
"How sorry I am to hear this!"
"I am not sorry."
"You don't mean to say that--"
"Yes, I do. Why not?" Then Cecilia's arms were loosened, and Mora
rose to her feet.
"Oh, Cecilia, I cannot tell you how grieved I am that I ever was a
party to this deception!"
"Why should you be grieved, Mora?"
"Because if Mr. Fildew had been told from the first who you were,
this terrible business would never have happened."
43.
"I am notso sure of that. Men are sometimes very audacious. But it
is no such terrible business after all."
"To me it certainly seems so, and I shall never forgive myself for
helping to bring it about."
"And I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for the share you
have had in it."
"This is infatuation, Cecilia. But don't, pray don't, tell me that you
have any thought of encouraging Mr. Fildew's attentions."
"Encouraging his attentions! What phrases are these, Mora? Did I
not tell you just now that--that Mr. Fildew has told me that he loves
me, and did I not give you to understand that I care for him in
return?"
"How wretched you make me feel! But you have not told him that
you return his love?"
"Not one syllable has he heard from my lips."
"Then it is not too late to undo all this."
"I don't understand you, dear."
"You have never spoken to him--you have given him no
encouragement--he knows nothing of your infatuation. Such being
the case, he need never know. We will go to his studio no more.
Some other artist shall paint your portrait. Mr. Fildew shall be quietly
dropped, and in few weeks you will have forgotten that any such
person had an existence in your thoughts."
Cecilia laughed, but there was a ring of bitterness in her mirth. "I
might be listening to the maxims of Lady Loughton or my Aunt
Percival," she said. "But you have never loved, therefore I cannot
expect you to sympathize with me."
44.
"But you certainlywould not marry this man, Cecilia?"
"I have never thought of marrying either 'this man,' as you call him,
or any other man. But I certainly should not marry any one unless I
did love him."
"I consider it a great impertinence on the part of Mr. Fildew to have
addressed you at all."
"In what way is it an impertinence, Mora? However much we poor
women may care for a man we cannot write to him and tell him so.
We must wait till it pleases him to write or speak. Mr. Fildew is an
artist and a gentleman. Perhaps I should not be far wrong in calling
him a man of genius. It is I who ought to feel honored by the love of
such a man."
"I cannot think where you contrive to pick up your strange ideas."
"Strange ideas, indeed! Why, Mora, with all my love for you, I
believe you are one of those women who would rather marry a
dunderhead with ten thousand a year than a Milton in a ragged
coat."
"I certainly should not care for love in a garret, even with one of
your so-called men of genius. And as for Milton, from what I have
read of him, he was not one of the most agreeable of men to live
with."
"The author of Paradise Lost' agreeable! Oh, Mora, Mora! have you
no sense of the incongruous?" With this Cecilia rose, and putting her
arm in Miss Browne's, went back into the drawing-room.
"Since papa died I have not felt so unhappy as I do to-night," said
Mora, presently.
"And I never so happy in my life." Then, turning to kiss her friend for
goodnight, Cecilia added, "There is one thing to be said he is not
45.
making love tome because I am rich, and that, with me, goes for
much. There is another thing to be said," she added, in a whisper;
"he has asked me to meet him."
"An appointment! Oh, Cecilia!"
"Yes, an appointment. Why not?"
"But--"
"Not another word," said Cecilia, smilingly laying her hand on Mora's
lips. "You have heard enough to fill your thoughts for a little while.
Goodnight and happy dreams."
Next morning Miss Browne was called away by a telegram. Her
mother was seriously ill.
There was no opportunity before she went for any more confidences
between Cecilia and herself.
CHAPTER XI.
CONFIDENTIAL.
Letter from Miss Collumpton, in London, to Miss Browne, in the
country.
"My Dearest Mora,--Your telegram of yesterday, followed by your
letter, which came to hand this morning, was a great relief to our
46.
anxiety. Pray giveour joint love (Aunt Percival's and mine) to your
dear mother, and say how happy it has made us to hear of such a
decided change for the better.
"Had you not in your letter made a special point of asking me to
furnish you with all particulars anent a certain affair, I should not
have thought of troubling you at a time like the present. As,
however, you want 'to know, you know,' I shall be glad to do my
best to satisfy your curiosity.
"If you remember, dear, you seemed terribly shocked at the idea of
Mr. Fildew having asked me to meet him. And yet, what else could
the poor man do? Pray bear in mind that in his eyes I am only an
indigent young lady, who earns her living by filling the post of
companion to a rich young lady. He could not come to Cadogan
Place and ask for me. He knows nothing of my friends and
connections. Having very foolishly fallen in love with me, how else
was he to plead his cause, how else say all that he wanted to say? I
have no expectation of making a convert of you, simply because this
is one of those questions that you and I look at from totally different
points of view. In the first place, you would never fall in love with an
artist--at least, not with one who, like Mr. Fildew, had still his way to
fight; in the second place, you would never give any man who had
not an assured income the slightest encouragement to fall in love
with you. Still, without hoping that anything I can say will induce you
to modify your views, I must, in justice to myself, put down some of
the reasons by which I have been influenced in doing as I have
done. All through the affair I have argued with myself in this wise:
Supposing I were really a poor girl who was earning her living in a
shop or a warehouse, or it matters not how, and Clement had fallen
in love with me, what form would our courtship have taken? how
and where should we have seen each other? and so on. Thousands
of such courtships are going on around us every day. It was only to
imagine that Cis Collumpton had lost the whole of her fortune, or
had never had any to lose. In short, I wanted to be loved for myself
alone; I wanted to be courted as if I were a girl without a 'tocher.'
47.
"Well, I methim by appointment at seven o'clock one evening, in a
quiet crescent not far from Sloane Street. He lifted his hat, shook
hands, and said how pleased he was to see me. Then he put my
hand under his arm, and so took possession of me. 'We can talk
better thus,' he said; 'I have something particular to say to you;
besides, I want to have you as close to me as possible.'
"Would you believe it, Mora, I seemed to have altogether lost my
tongue,' as we used to say when I was a little girl. For aught I had
to say for myself, I might have been brought up in the farthest
Hebrides. However, he did not seem to mind whether I answered
him or not; he had taken me into custody, as it were, and I had no
power to resist--nor any inclination either, for the matter of that.
"He began by apologizing for the liberty he had taken in asking me
to meet him; 'but as you are here,' he added, 'I may, perhaps, hope
that I have not transgressed beyond forgiveness; although, indeed,'
he went on, 'I knew of no other mode of obtaining an opportunity of
saying all that I want to say.' Still I was tongue-tied, still the words
refused to come. The next ten minutes were the most memorable of
my life. How my heart beat! how his words thrilled me from head to
foot! What he said you can perhaps faintly imagine; if you cannot, I
cannot tell you.
"He pressed me for an answer. Then my tongue was loosened. It
would not be worth while to put down here what I said, even if I
could do so, which I very much doubt. The result was that I
promised to meet him again the following Friday evening at the
same time and place, and give him an answer of some kind.
"What that answer would be was a foregone conclusion from the
first. I might just as well have said 'Yes' then and there, but that I
would not have him think I was to be quite so easily won. He
pressed my hand to his lips at parting. I left him at the corner at
which I had met him, and ran nearly all the way home. Of course,
dear, you may be sure that the first thing I did when I found myself
48.
alone was tohave a good cry. But what happy tears they were!
From all which you will understand that your poor Cecilia's case is a
desperate one indeed.
"How the time passed till Friday came round I hardly know. I wanted
it to come and yet I didn't, if you can understand such a paradox. I
longed and yet I trembled, and when Friday evening was really here
I wished it were only Thursday. However, I met him as agreed, and
was again taken possession of. 'I am afraid you are cold,' he said.
'You ought to have wrapped yourself up more warmly.' I was
trembling a little, but not with cold. We walked slowly along, and for
some minutes Clement said very little. I think he saw that I was put
out, and he was giving me time to recover myself. At length my
hand ceased to tremble, and then he spoke, asking me whether I
had thought over his words--whether I felt that I could accept his
love and give him mine in return? A church clock was beginning to
strike eight as he finished speaking. Not till the last stroke had
ceased to reverberate did I make any reply. Then for answer I laid
one of my hands softly on one of his. 'God bless you, dear one!' he
said. 'May you never regret the gift you have given me to-night.'
Then, before I knew what had happened, a strong arm was passed
round my waist and Clement's lips were pressed to mine. A lamp
was no great distance off and a policeman was passing at the
moment. The man turned his head and coughed discreetly behind
his hand. I turned hot all over, but Clement only laughed, and said it
would not have mattered if all the world had been there to see.
"After that we had a long, delicious walk through quiet streets and
squares where there were few passers-by. There was a sweet, new
feeling at my heart of belonging to some one and of some one
belonging to me. Clement asked whether he should write to or see
my father. Then I told him that I was an orphan and my own
mistress. 'In that case our marriage need not be long delayed,' he
said. This frightened me. I had never contemplated such a
contingency except as something very remote and far-off indeed.
After that he began to talk to me about his position and prospects.
49.
He was farfrom rich at present, he said, and could not give me such
a home as he would have liked; but he hoped to be better off by and
by. He was getting higher prices for his pictures, and people were
beginning to seek him out. If only his Academy picture found a
purchaser there was no reason why we should not be married before
midsummer. Knowing what I did, I could have clapped my hands for
glee as I listened to him. I said I was afraid that I could not make
arrangements to be married before Christmas at the very soonest. I
could see that he was disappointed. 'I shall certainly hold you to
midsummer,' he said, 'unless you can give some good and valid
reason for delay.'
"' You must come and see my mother before you are many days
older,' he said, presently. 'I have spoken to her about you already.'
Would you believe it, Mora, a little jealous pang shot through my
heart when he said this? I felt as if I did not want even a mother to
come between him and me. But next moment I put away the
thought as utterly unworthy, and said how pleased I should be to
see and know Mrs. Fildew.
"Then he told me that his mother had been an invalid for years, and
that there was no hope of her ever being any better. He told me,
too, how cheerful she was---how bravely she bore up against the
insidious disease that was slowly but surely eating away her life. I
hated myself for allowing even a moment's jealous feeling to find
room in my heart. I would try to love her as much as Clement loved
her; but what if she should turn against me and say that her son's
choice was a foolish one?
"This evening Clement would insist on walking with me nearly to the
door. I was in mortal fear lest my aunt should chance to be passing
and should recognize me. But nothing happened except that, when
the moment came for saying goodnight, Clement repeated the
process which had frightened me so much before. But I don't think
that even a policeman saw us this time: still I must admit that it was
very dreadful. All that night I hardly slept a wink. I felt that I had