CHAPTER XXII

.

TAKING IT QUIETLY.

“If you could know all, Harcourt, as you never can, you might excuse--you might forgive----”

Harcourt Lowther, very quick of apprehension always, especially so where his own interests were concerned, had taken careful note of these broken sentences uttered by Maude Hillary, and, rowing Londonwards in the summer darkness, pondered on them long and deliberately, only arousing himself now and then from his sombre reverie, in order to express his profound contempt for some amateur waterman who was just saved from a foul by the superior skill of the young officer.

What did it mean? That was the question which Mr. Lowther set himself to answer.

“It means something more than the caprice of a shallow-hearted jilt,” he thought, as he rested on his oars and lighted his cigar. “How pale she grew at sight of me! That white, agonized look in her face was real despair. ‘If I could know all!’ she said. All _what_? There’s a mystery somewhere. Maude Hillary is the last woman in the world to throw over a poor lover for the sake of a rich one. The sentimental girl, who was ready to keep her engagement with me at the sacrifice of her father’s fortune, would scarcely marry a clownish rustic for the sake of his thirty thousand a year. Besides, these heiresses, who have never known what it is to have a wish denied them, are the most romantic creatures in creation, and cherish sublimely absurd ideas upon the sordid dross question. No, I cannot think that Maude would be influenced by any mercenary considerations--and yet how else----?”

The villas and villages on the river-banks flitted past him like phantom habitations in the dim light. The flat shores of Battersea; the dingy roofs and chimneys of crowded Chelsea and manufacturing Lambeth; the bridges and barges; the low-lying prison, lurking like some crouching beast upon the swampy ground, shifted by as the oars dipped in the quiet water, while Harcourt Lowther’s light wherry sped homeward with the tide. But all the length of his water-journey he could find no satisfactory answer to that question about Maude Hillary; and when he relinquished his boat to its rightful owner at a certain landing-place in Westminster, he was still undecided as to the meaning of those broken phrases which had dropped from the lips of the merchant’s daughter in the first moment of surprise and emotion.

“I dare say it is only the old story after all,” he thought, as he walked towards the Strand, in the purlieus of which he had taken up his quarters. “Lionel Hillary, being as rich as Crœsus, is determined that no poor man shall profit by his daughter’s fortune. Water runs to the river, and Maude’s dowry will go to swell that old Cornish miser’s savings. It’s only my usual luck. I am engaged to a beautiful woman with a hundred thousand or so for a fortune, and I find a victorious rival in the man who cleans my boots.”

But Mr. Lowther had not settled the question even yet. Lying awake and feverishly restless in his lodging in Norfolk Street, Miss Hillary’s pale face was still before him, the sound of her imploring tones was perpetually in his ear.

“‘If I knew all, I might forgive, I might excuse!’ There must have been some meaning in those words, some secret involved in them. Surely, if her father had forced this marriage upon her, after the manner of some tyrannical old parent in a stage-play,--surely, if that had been the case, she would have candidly told me the truth; she would have pleaded the best excuse a woman can have. There must be some secret reason for this marriage, and I must be a consummate fool if I fail in getting to the bottom of the mystery.”

Mr. Lowther breakfasted early the next morning, and dressed himself with his accustomed neatness before going out. He had no body-servant now whom he could badger and worry when the world went ill with him; or that individual would most assuredly have paid the penalty of Miss Hillary’s broken faith. Harcourt Lowther, the younger son, was too poor to keep or pay a valet. He had grown weary of waiting for promotion in the army, as he had sickened of hoping for advancement at the bar, and had sold his commission. The world was all before him now, as it had been seven years ago, when he had first looked about him for a profession. The world was all before him, and his one chance of fortune, the possibility of a marriage with Maude Hillary, seemed entirely lost to him. It was scarcely strange if his spirits sank before the dismal blankness of the prospect which he contemplated that morning, as he loitered over his breakfast of London eggs and lodging-house toast and coffee.

He went out a little after twelve o’clock, hailed the first prowling hansom he encountered in the Strand, and ordered the man to drive to a certain street in the City, sacred to the stockbroking and money-making interests. Here he alighted, dismissed the cab, turned into a narrow court, still more entirely sacred to stockbroking, and entered a little office, where there was a desk, two or three horsehair chairs, a great many bills hanging against the wall, all relating to the stockbroking interests, and a six-foot screen of wooden panelling, dividing the small outer office from a larger inner office.

Mr. Lowther walked straight to this screen, and standing on tip-toe, looked over into the second office.

A gentleman with sandy whiskers, a light overcoat, and a white hat, was standing at a desk, and jotting some pencil memoranda upon the margins of a file of documents, which he was turning over with a certain rapidity and precision of touch peculiar to a man of business.

“Can you spare a quarter of an hour of your valuable time from the calculation of last year’s prices for the Fiji Island Grand Junction Stock in order to devote it to the claims of friendship?” asked Mr. Lowther.

The clerks smiled as they looked up from their desks; and the gentleman in the white hat dropped his pencil, and ran to a little wooden door in the partition, over which Harcourt Lowther’s hat made itself visible.

“My dear Lowther!” he exclaimed, presenting himself in the smaller office, and stretching out both his hands towards the intruder; “this _is_ a surprise; I thought you were at the Antipodes.”

“Yes, that’s the way of the world,” answered Mr. Lowther, rather peevishly; “a man is banished to some outlandish hole at the remotest end of the universe, _ergo_ he’s never to return to the civilized half of the globe.”

“But it seems only yesterday when----”

“And that’s another cruel thing a man’s friends say to him when he does turn up in the civilized hemisphere,” interrupted Mr. Lowther. “‘It seems only yesterday when you left us;’ that is to say, life has been so pleasant and rapid for us, amidst all the gaieties and luxuries and successes of the most wonderful city in the world, that we are utterly unable to believe in the dreary months and years that you’ve had to drag out, poor devil, in your hole on the other side of the line. That’s what a fellow’s friends _mean_ when they talk their confounded humbug about it’s only seeming yesterday.”

Harcourt Lowther’s City friend was not the most brilliant or original of men when you took him away from the stockbroking interests. He stared blankly during Mr. Lowther’s discontented remarks upon the selfishness of mankind.

“Haw! that’s good. Meant no offence by allusion to yesterday; only meant that I was jolly glad to see you, you know, and so on. But, you see, a fellow turning up in the City when you’ve been given to understand that he’s in Van Diemen’s Land is rather a surprise, you know. Can I do anything for you? I’ll tell you what, old fellow; I can put you up to a good thing in the Etruscan Loan,--panic prices,--nine percent, and certain to turn up trumps in the long run.”

Mr. Lowther smiled bitterly.

“Do you suppose that I’ve any money to invest; or that if I had money, I’m the sort of man to sink the glorious principal for the sake of some miserable dribblings in the way of interest? No, my dear Wilderson, you _can_ do me a good turn, but it’s in quite another direction. Just step this way.”

He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, and led him to the door leading into the court. Here, safely out of the hearing of the clerks at work in the inner office, Mr. Lowther lowered his voice to a confidential tone.

“Wilderson,” he said, “I think you know Lionel Hillary, the Australian merchant?”

“Hillary and Co.?” exclaimed Mr. Wilderson,--“I should flatter myself I did.”

“I want you to tell me all about him--how he stands--how he has stood for some time past; in short, all you know about him.”

The stockbroker pulled his hay-coloured whiskers thoughtfully, and shook his head.

“These sort of things are rather difficult to _know_,” he said, “but a man may have his thoughts about ’em.”

“And what are your thoughts? Hang it, man, speak out. You talked just now of being ready to serve me. You can serve me in this matter, if you choose.”

Mr. Wilderson shrugged his shoulders, and again pulled his whiskers in a reflective mood.

“Dear boy,” he said presently, “come out into the court.”

Evidently in Mr. Wilderson’s mind the court was as some primeval forest, wherein no listener’s ears could penetrate.

Out in the court the stockbroker hitched his arm through that of Harcourt Lowther, and began to discourse upon Lionel Hillary, or Hillary and Co., as Mr. Wilderson preferred to designate him. He said a great deal in a low, confidential voice, and Harcourt Lowther’s lower jaw fell a little as he listened. One thing was made clear to the ex-officer, and that was, that Lionel Hillary’s affairs had been hinted at by the knowing ones as rather shaky; that there had been even whispers of that awful word, “suspension:” but that somehow or other Hillary and Co. had contrived to right themselves; and that it was supposed by the aforesaid knowing ones that the Australian merchant had found a wealthy backer.

“There’s fresh blood been let into his business, you may rely upon it, dear boy,” said Mr. Wilderson. “I know that he was in Queer Street last Christmas. Bills referred to drawer, and that sort of thing. The bankers were beginning to get shy of his paper. I held a little of it myself, and a deuced deal of trouble I had to plant it.”

This and much more to hear did Harcourt Lowther seriously incline. Then he asked Mr. Wilderson to dine with him at a certain noted establishment in the Strand, and left the court very grave of aspect and slow of step.

“So my lovely Maude is not a millionaire’s daughter after all,” he thought. “And my friend Hillary has been dipping his capacious paw into Francis Tredethlyn’s purse. I ought to have known that half these reputed rich men are as rotten as a pear. So this is the explanation of my simple Maude’s heroics. Poor little girl, _she_ has been the pretty fly with which that accomplished angler, Mr. Hillary, has whipped the stream for his big gudgeon! Any little card I may have arranged to play for myself has been very neatly taken out of my hands; and I find my friend provided with a needy father-in-law and an extravagant wife. However, I dare say there’s some small part left for me to play: and perhaps the best thing I can do is to take it quietly.”

Harcourt Lowther’s servant!

The man to whom Maude Hillary was now engaged had once been the valet of her discarded lover. This could scarcely be a pleasant thought to any young lady early imbued with all the ordinary prejudices of society. Miss Hillary was not a strong-minded woman; she could not console herself with a neat aphorism from Burns to the effect that “a man’s a man for a’ that;” and to her Harcourt Lowther’s revelation seemed cruelly humiliating. She had heard of young women in her own position marrying grooms, or perhaps even footmen, for love, and she had shuddered at the very idea of their iniquity. But was it not quite as degrading to marry a valet for money, as to elope with a groom for love?

“He blacked Harcourt’s boots!” thought poor Maude; and it is impossible to describe the utter despair expressed in that brief sentence. She met her lover with a very pale face the next day, and, seating himself in his accustomed place by her embroidery frame, Francis Tredethlyn saw that there was something wrong. Alas! poor--Francis, he had already learned to watch every change upon that beautiful face; already, before the marriage vows had been spoken, all the miserable tortures of doubt had begun to prey upon his devoted heart. She had promised to marry him, but she had not promised to love him. He remembered that. She had given herself to him in payment of her father’s debt. She had sacrificed herself in accordance with the loyal instincts of her noble nature. Francis, generous and loyal himself, could understand this, much better than it was understood by Lionel Hillary, for whose sake the sacrifice was made.

There were times when the young man reproached himself for his selfishness in accepting the supreme desire of his soul. Ought he not rather to have wrestled with himself and let this bright young creature go? But there were other times when Francis Tredethlyn suffered himself to be beguiled by delicious hopes. Had not true and honest love sometimes triumphed over circumstance? Might not the day come when Maude Hillary would be able to return his affection, to reward his patience?

“I can afford to be so patient,” he thought; “for it will be such happiness to be her slave.” To-day, watching her pale face in pensive contemplation, Francis puzzled himself vainly to guess what was amiss with his promised wife. It was not only that she was paler than usual,--and the brightness of her colour had faded very much of late,--but to-day, there was a shade of coldness in her manner which was quite new to her affianced husband, and which sent a chill to his heart, always ready to sink under some vague apprehension where Maude Hillary was concerned. We hold these supreme joys of life by so slender a thread, that half our delight in them is poisoned by the dread of their possible loss.

“Maude,” he said by-and-by, after a few commonplace phrases, and after he had watched her for some minutes in silence, “I am sure there is something amiss with you to-day. You are ill--you----”

“Oh, no, not ill. Only a little worried.”

“Worried--but about what?”

“I heard something about you last night, Mr. Tredethlyn,” said Miss Hillary,--it was the first time she had called him Mr. Tredethlyn since their engagement,--“something which you never told me yourself. Mr. Lowther,--a friend of papa’s, who has just come home from Van Diemen’s Land, told me--that--that--you had been----”

“His servant! Yes, Maude, it is quite true. I was a soldier, and I was obliged to obey orders. I was ordered to attend upon Ensign Lowther, and I did my best to serve him well. When I enlisted in her Majesty’s service, I had all sorts of foolish fancies about fighting and glory, but they all dwindled down to the usual routine. No fighting, no glory, no desperate attacks upon Indian fortresses, no scaling walls to plant the British flag upon the enemy’s ramparts; but any amount of drill and hard work, and a discontented fine gentleman to wait upon.”

A flood of crimson rushed into Maude’s face as Francis said this; but the young man’s head was drooping over the embroidery frame, and he was trifling mechanically with the loose Berlin wool lying on Miss Hillary’s canvas.

“I am afraid you think it a kind of degradation to you, that _I_ should have been a servant, Maude?” he said presently.

“You never told me----”

“No--I told you I had been a private in the 51st. The other business was only a part of my duty.”

Maude was silent for some moments after this. She sat looking dreamily out of the window, while Francis still twisted the Berlin wools in his strong fingers. Maude was the first to speak.

“Was it Mr. Lowther you meant just now, when you spoke of a discontented fine gentleman?” she asked, with some slight hesitation.

“Yes; I never served any other master. Ensign Lowther was horribly discontented. He was one of those men who can’t take things easily; but I can understand a good deal of his peevish restlessness now. I can sympathize with him now, Maude.”

His voice grew low and tender as he said this.

“Why?” asked Miss Hillary, rather coldly.

“He was in love, Maude,--an unhappy attachment, as I understood, to some lady--an heiress, I think--whose money was a hindrance to a marriage between them.”

From the beginning to the end of this conversation Maude Hillary’s thoughts had been employed in debating one question--should she, or should she not, tell her future husband that Harcourt Lowther was the man to whom she had been previously engaged? He knew of that broken engagement, but he did not know the name of her lover. Was it her duty to tell him? It would be very unpleasant to do so; but then duty is so often unpleasant. She was still silently debating this subject; the words which she should speak were forming themselves in her mind; when the drawing-room door was opened, and a servant announced Mr. Lowther. Maude’s heart beat violently. Would there be a scene? Why had Harcourt come, when he knew----? But Mr. Lowther very speedily relieved her fears upon this subject. Nothing could be more delightful than his manner. He was cordial to his old servant, without attempting any airs of patronage. He could not have been more entirely at his ease with Maude, had he been the most indifferent of first-cousins.

Mr. Lowther was only acting up to his determination to take things quietly. He had met Lionel Hillary in the City that morning, and had surprised the merchant by speaking of Maude’s engagement to Francis Tredethlyn.

“But don’t alarm yourself, my dear Hillary,” he said with a frank smile. “To say that I adored, and do adore, your daughter, is only to admit a fact to which, I dare say, every male visitor at the Cedars would be happy to testify in a round-robin. Miss Hillary is made to be worshipped. I have only been one among a score of worshippers. If ever I hoped to overcome your very natural prejudice against my disgusting poverty, I have long ceased to hope it; so it was scarcely such a death-blow to me to discover what had happened during my exile. Will you let me renew my old relations with your household? Will you let me be one of the moths again? I know now that the candle will burn, and that its dangerous glare alone, and not its tender warmth, is reserved for me, so I shall have only myself to blame if I come away with a scorched wing.”

Mr. Hillary’s only reply to this rather sentimental speech was a hearty invitation to dinner.

“I can give you your favourite Rüdesheimer with the oysters. Chablis is a mistake, when you can get good hock. Sharp seven, remember; but you may go earlier if you care for croquet. I dare say you’ll find Tredethlyn there.”

“The poor fellow is very hard hit, I suppose?”

Mr. Hillary smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

“I never saw such a devoted creature. Good day.”

The merchant hurried off, and Harcourt walked slowly away, pondering as he went.

“A devoted creature. Yes, and there has been new blood let into the commercial anatomy of Hillary and Co. I dare say that poor devil Tredethlyn has been bled to a hideous extent.”

The dinner at the Cedars went off very pleasantly. What dinner could fail to go off tolerably well, enlivened by Harcourt Lowther, when that gentleman cared to exercise his genius for making conversation? There were other guests at the merchant’s round table; and after dinner people showed an inclination to stroll out of the lamplit drawing-room on to the dusky lawn, and down to the terrace, drawn perhaps by the magnetic influence of the river, which _will_ be looked at.

It happened somehow--I suppose Mr. Lowther himself managed it--that he and Maude were left a little way behind the rest of the loiterers upon the twilit terrace. Ah! how vividly in the memory of both arose the picture of a time long ago, when they had stood there side by side, by the same river, in a twilight calm like this, with the same star glimmering faintly in a low rose-tinted western sky! In Maude’s breast that memory awakened cruel pangs of shame and remorse! In Harcourt Lowther’s breast there was a strangely mingled feeling of bitterness and regret;--bitterness against the Destiny which had given him so few of life’s brightest possessions; regret for the vanished time in which some natural earnestness, some touch of fresh and manly feeling, had yet lingered in his heart.

“Poor, simple, unworldly Maude,” he thought, as he contemplated the girl’s pale face, “what a penitent look she has! and yet if she knew----”

He smiled, and left the thought unfinished. Then, turning to Maude, he said, with a little touch of melancholy solemnity, worthy of Edgar Ravenswood himself, “Miss Hillary, let us be friends. If you can bury the past, so can I. We may yet strew sweet flowers of friendship on the grave of our dead love.”

“And I really don’t want to let Francis Tredethlyn slip through my fingers altogether,” Mr. Lowther added, mentally, as a sort of rider to that pretty little speech.

Maude looked at him with rather a puzzled expression.

“You are very generous,” she faltered, embarrassed, and at a loss how to express herself, “but--don’t you think it would be better for us--to--to say good-bye to each other--for ever? I--I--hope you will marry some one--worthy of you--some one who is less the slave of circumstances than I am. I want to do my duty to Mr. Tredethlyn--and I think it is a part of my duty to tell him of our broken engagement.”

“My dear Miss Hillary, you would surely never do anything so foolish. Poor Francis is the best fellow in the world, but he is just the man to be ferociously jealous if he once got any foolish crotchet into his head. I have lived in the same house with him, remember, and must therefore know him better than you do. As for saying farewell for ever, and all that kind of thing, your eternal parting reads remarkably well in a novel, but it isn’t practicable between civilized people who belong to the same rank of society. Georgina bids Algernon an irrevocable adieu on Tuesday morning, and there is burning of letters and love-locks, and weeping and wailing in Brompton Crescent; and on Wednesday evening the same Algernon takes her down to dinner in Westbourne Terrace. We can bury the past in as deep a grave as you like, and lay the ghost of memory with any exorcism you please, but we can’t pledge ourselves not to meet any day in the week in the houses of our common friends.”

Maude was quite unable to argue with so specious a reasoner as Mr. Lowther. She did her best to defend her position, and urged the necessity of telling Francis Tredethlyn the whole truth. But Harcourt overruled her objections, and in the end obtained from her a promise that she would still remain silent as to the name of her discarded lover.

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