it was one of those cheerless days not unfrequent at the end of september, which first tell us that such fine weather as we have had has taken its departure, and that the long dreary winter is close at hand. the air was moist and "muggy;" there was no freshening wind to blow away the heavy dun clouds which lay banked up thick, and had seemed almost motionless for days; there was a dead faint depression over all things, which weighed heavily on the spirits, impeded the respiration, and relaxed the muscles. it was weather which dashed and cowed even the lightest-hearted, and caused the careworn and the broken to think self-destruction less extraordinary than they had hitherto considered it.
about noon a man was looking out of one of the upper-windows of long's hotel on the dreary desert of bond street. he was a tall man; who with straight-cut features, shapely beard, curling light hair, and clear complexion, would have been generally considered more than good-looking, notwithstanding that his eyes were comparatively small and his mouth was decidedly sensual. that he was a man of breeding and society one could have told in an instant--could have told it by the colour and shape of his hands, by his bearing, by the very manner in which he, leaving the window from time to time, lounged round the room, his hands plunged in his pockets or pulling at his tawny beard. you could have told it despite of his dress, the like of which had surely never been seen before on any visitor to that select hostelry; for he wore a thick jacket and trousers of blue pilot-cloth, a blue flannel-shirt, with a red-silk handkerchief knotted round the collar, and ankle jack-boots. when he jumped out of the cab at the door on the previous day, he had on a round tarpaulin-hat, and carried over his arm an enormous pea-jacket with horn buttons; and as he brought no luggage with him save a small valise, and had altogether the appearance of the bold smugglers who surreptitiously vend cigars and silk-handkerchiefs, the hall-porter at first refused him admittance; and it was not until the proprietor had been summoned, and after a close scrutiny and a whispered name had recognised his old customer, that the strange-looking visitor was ushered upstairs. he would have a private room, he said; and he did not want it known that he was back just yet--did jubber understand? if any body called, that was another matter: he expected his mother and one or two others; but he did not want it put in the papers, or any thing of that kind. jubber did understand, and left captain lionel brakespere to himself.
captain lionel brakespere, just at that time, could have had no worse company. he had been bored to death by the terrible monotony of a long sea-voyage, and had found on landing in england that his boredom was by no means at an end. he had heard from his mother that "that awkward business had all been squared," as he phrased it; and that it was desirable he should return home at once, where there was a chance of a marriage by which "a big something was to be pulled off," as he phrased it again. so he had come back, and there he was at long's; but as yet he was by no means happy. he was doubtful as to his position in society, as to how much of his escapade was known, as to whether he would be all right with his former set, or whether he would get the cold shoulder, and perhaps be cut. he could only learn this by seeing algy barford, or some other fellow of the _clique_; and every fellow was of course out of town at that infernal time of year. he must wait, at all events, until he had seen his mother, to whom he had sent word of his arrival. he might be able to learn something of all this from her. meantime he had taken a private room; not that there was much chance of his meeting any one in the coffee-room, but some fellow might perhaps stop there for the night on his way through town; and he had sent for the tailor, and the hair-cutter fellow, and that sort of thing, and was going to be made like a christian again--not like the cad he'd looked like in that infernal place out there.
he lounged round the room, and pulled his beard and yawned as he looked out of the window; pulling himself together afterwards by stretching out his hands and arms, and shrugging his shoulders and shaking himself, as if endeavouring to shake off depression. he _was_ depressed; there was no doubt about it. out there it was well enough. he had been out there just long enough to have begun to settle down into his new life, to have forgotten old ties and old feelings; but here every thing jarred upon him. he was back in england certainly, but back in england in a condition which he had never known before. in the old days, at this time of year, he would have been staying down at some country-house, or away in some fellow's yacht, enjoying himself to the utmost; thoroughly appreciated and highly thought of,--a king among men and a favourite among women. now he was cooped up in this deserted beastly place, which every one decent had fled from, not daring even to go out and see whether some old comrade, haply retained in town by duty, were not to be picked up, from whom he could learn the news, with whom he might have a game of billiards, or something to get through the infernally dragging wearisome time. he expected his mother. she was his truest and stanchest friend, after all, and had behaved splendidly to him all through this terrible business. it was better that she should come down there, and let him know exactly how the land lay. he would have gone home, but he did not know what sort of a reception he might have met with from the governor; and from all he could make out from his mother's letters, it was very likely that caterham might cut up rough, and say or do something confoundedly unpleasant. it was an infernal shame of caterham, and just like his straightlaced nonsense--that it was. was not he the eldest son, and what did he want more? it was all deuced well for him to preach and moralise, and all that sort of thing; but his position had kept him out of temptation, else he might not be any better than other poor beggars, who had fallen through and come to grief.
so he reasoned with himself as he lounged round and round the room; and at last began to consider that he was a remarkably ill-used person. he began to hate the room and its furniture, altered the position of the light and elegant little couch, flung himself into the arm-chair, drumming his heels upon the floor, and rose from itleaving the chintz covering all tumbled, and the antimacassar all awry, drummed upon the window, stared at the prints already inspected--the "hero and his horse," which led him into reminiscences of seeing the old duke with his white duck trousers and his white cravat, with the silver buckle gleaming at the back of his bowed head, at eton on montem days--glanced with stupid wonderment at ward's "dr. johnson reading the manuscript of the _vicar of wakefield_," which conveyed to him no idea whatsoever--looked at a proof of "hogarth painting the muse of comedy," and wondered "who was the old cock with the fat legs, drawing." he watched the few people passing through the streets, the very few hansom-cabs with drivers listlessly creeping up and down, as though conscious that the chances of their being hired were dismally remote, the occasional four-wheelers with perambulators and sand-spades on the top, and bronzed children leaning out of the windows, talking of the brief holiday over and the work-a-day life about to recommence--he watched all this, and, watching, worked himself up to such a pitch of desperation that he had almost determined to brave all chances of recognition, and sally forth into the streets, when the door opened and a waiter entering, told him that a lady was waiting to speak with him.
his mother had come at last, then? let her be shown up directly.
of all things lionel brakespere abhorred a "scene;" and this was likely to be an uncommonly unpleasant meeting. the mater was full of feeling and that sort of thing, and would probably fling herself into his arms as soon as the waiter was gone, and cry, and sob, and all that sort of thing, and moan over him--make a fellow look so confoundedly foolish and absurd, by jove! must get that over as soon as possible--all the hugging and that--and then find out how matters really stood. so he took up his position close to the door; and as the footsteps approached, was a little astonished to hear his heart thumping so loudly.
the door opened, and passing the bowing waiter, who closed it behind her, a lady entered. though her veil was down, lionel saw instantly that it was not his mother. a taller, younger woman, with step graceful though hurried, an eager air, a strange nervous manner. as the door closed, she threw up her veil and stood revealed--margaret!
he fell back a pace or two, and the blood rushed to his heart, leaving his face as pale as hers. then, recovering himself, he caught hold of the table, and glaring at her, said hoarsely, "you here!"
there was something in his tone which jarred upon her instantly. she made a step forward, and held out her hand appealingly--"lionel," she said, quite softly, "lionel, you know me?"
"know you?" he repeated. "o yes--i--i have that honour. i know you fast enough--though what you do here i _don't_ know. what do you do here?"
"i came to see you."
"devilish polite, i'm sure. but--now you have seen me--" he hesitated and smiled. not a pleasant smile by any means: one of those smiles in which the teeth are never shown. a very grim smile, which slightly wrinkled the lips, but left the eyes hard and defiant; a smile which margaret knew of old, the sight of which recalled the commencement of scenes of violent passion and bitter upbraiding in the old times; a smile at sight of which margaret's heart sank within her, only leaving her strength enough to say: "well!"
"well!" he repeated--"having seen me--having fulfilled the intention of your visit--had you not better--go?"
"go!" she exclaimed--"leave you at once, without a look, without a word! go! after all the long weary waiting, this hungering to see and speak with you to pillow my head on your breast, and twine my arms round you as i used to do in the dear old days! go! in the moment when i am repaid for o such misery as you, lionel, i am sure, cannot imagine i have endured--the misery of absence from you; the misery of not knowing how or where you were--whether even you were dead or alive; misery made all the keener by recollection of joy which i had known and shared with you. go! lionel, dearest lionel, you cannot mean it! don't try me now, lionel; the delight at seeing you again has made me weak and faint. i am not so strong as i used to be. lionel, dearest, don't try me too much."
never had she looked more beautiful than now. her arms were stretched out in entreaty, the rich tones of her voice were broken, tears stood in her deep-violet eyes, and the dead-gold hair was pushed off the dead-white brow. her whole frame quivered with emotion--emotion which she made no attempt to conceal.
lionel brakespere had seated himself on the corner of the table, and was looking at her with curiosity. he comprehended the beauty of the picture before him, but he regarded it as a picture. on most other men in his position such an appeal from such a woman would have caused at least a temporary rekindling of the old passion; on him it had not the slightest effect, beyond giving him a kind of idea that the situation was somewhat ridiculous and slightly annoying. after a minute's interval he said, with his hands in his pockets, and his legs swinging to and fro:
"it's deuced kind of you to say such civil things about me, and i appreciate them--appreciate them, i assure you. but, you see the fact of the matter is, that i'm expecting my mother every minute, and if she were to find you here, i should be rather awkwardly situated."
"o," cried margaret, "you don't think i would compromise you, lionel? you know me too well for that. you know too well how i always submitted to be kept in the background--only too happy to live on your smiles, to know that you were feted and made much of."
"o, yes," said lionel, simply; "you were always a deuced sensible little woman."
"and i sha'n't be in the way, and i sha'n't bore you. they need know nothing of my existence, if you don't wish it, any more than they used. and we shall lead again the dear old life--eh, lionel?"
"eh!" repeated he in rather a high key,--"the dear old life!"
"ah, how happy i was!" said margaret. "you, whose intervening time has been passed in action, can scarcely imagine how i have looked back on those days,--how eagerly i have longed for the time to come when i might have them again."
"gad!" said he, "i don't exactly know about my time being passed in action. it's been horribly ghastly and melancholy, and deuced unpleasant, if you mean that."
"then we will both console ourselves for it now, lionel, we will forget all the misery we have suffered, and--"
"y-es!" said he, interrupting her, swinging his leg a little more slowly, and looking quietly up into her face; "i don't exactly follow you in all this."
"you don't follow me?"
"n-no! i scarcely think we can be on the same tack, somehow."
"in what way?"
"in all this about leading again the old life, and living the days over again, and consoling ourselves, and that kind of thing."
"you don't understand it?"
"well, i don't know about understanding it. all i mean to say is, i'm not going to have it."
but for something in his tone, margaret might not have entirely comprehended what he sought to convey in his words, so enraptured was she at seeing him again. but in his voice, in his look, there was a bravado that was unmistakable. she clasped her hands together in front of her; and her voice was very low and tremulous, as she said,
"lionel, what do you mean?"
"what do i mean? well, it's a devilish awkward thing to say--i can't conceive how it came about--all through your coming here, and that sort of thing; but it appears to me that, as i said before, you're on the wrong tack. you don't seem to see the position."
"i don't indeed. for god's sake speak out!"
"there, you see!--that's just it; like all women, taking the thing so much in earnest, and--"
"so much in earnest? is what would influence one's whole life a thing to be lightly discussed or laughed over? is--"
"there you are again! that's exactly what i complain of. what have i to do with influencing your life?"
"all--every thing!"
"i did not know it, then, by jove,--that's all ive got to say. you're best out of it, let me tell you. my influence is a deuced bad one, at least for myself."
once again the tone, reckless and defiant, struck harshly on her ear. he continued, "i was saying you did not seem to see the position. you and i were very good friends once upon a time, and got on very well together; but that would never do now."
she turned faint, sick, and closed her eyes; but remained silent.
"wouldn't do a bit," he continued. "you know ive been a tremendous cropper--must have thought deuced badly of me for cutting off in that way; but it was my only chance, by jove; and now ive come back to try and make all square. but i must keep deuced quiet and mind my p's and q's, or i shall go to grief again, like a bird."
she waited for a moment, and then she said faintly and slowly, "i understand you thoroughly now. you mean that it would be better for us to remain apart for some time yet?"
"for some time?--yes. confound it all, margaret!--you won't take a hint, and you make a fellow speak out and seem cruel and unkind, and all that kind of thing, that he does not want to. look here. you ought never to have come here at all. it's impossible we can ever meet again."
she started convulsively; but even then she seemed unable to grasp the truth. her earnestness brought the colour flying to her cheeks as she said hurriedly, "why impossible, lionel,--why impossible? if you are in trouble, who has such a right to be near you as i? if you want assistance and solace, who should give it you before me? that is the mistake you made, lionel. when you were in your last trouble you should have confided in me: my woman's wit might have helped you through it; or at the worst, my woman's love would have consoled you in it."
she was creeping closer to him, but stopped as she saw his face darken and his arms clasp themselves across his breast.
"d--n it all!" said he petulantly; "you won't understand, i think. this sort of thing is impossible. any sort of love, or friendship, or trust is impossible. ive come back to set myself straight, and to pull out of all the infernal scrapes i got myself into before i left; and there's only one way to do it."
"and that is--"
"well, if you will have it, you must. and that is--by making a good marriage."
she uttered a short sharp cry, followed by a prolonged wail, such as a stricken hare gives. lionel brakespere looked up at her; but his face never relaxed, and his arms still remained tightly folded across his breast. then she spoke, very quietly and very sadly:
"by making a good marriage! ah! then i see it all. that is why you are annoyed at my having come to you. that is why you dread the sight of me, because it reminds you that i am in the way; reminds you of the existence of the clog round your neck that prevents your taking up this position for which you long; because it reminds you that you once sacrificed self to sentiment, and permitted yourself to be guided by love instead of ambition. that is what you mean?"
his face was darker than ever as he said, "no such d--d nonsense. i don't know what you're talking about; no more do you i should think, by the way in which you are going on. what _are_ you talking about?"
he spoke very fiercely; but she was not cowed or dashed one whit. in the same quiet voice she said: "i am talking about myself--your wife!"
lionel brakespere sprung from the corner of the table on which he had been sitting, and stood upright, confronting her.
"o, that's it, is it?" in a hard low voice. "that's your game, eh? i thought it was coming to that. now, look here," shaking his fist at her,--"drop that for good and all; drop it, i tell you, or it will be the worse for you. let me hear of your saying a word about your being my wife, and, so help me god, i'll be the death of you! that's plain, isn't it? you understand that?"
she never winced; she never moved. she sat quietly under the storm of his rage; and when he had finished speaking, she said:
"you can kill me, if you like,--you very nearly did, just before you left me,--but so long as i am alive i shall be your wife!"
"will you, by george?--not if there's law in the land, i can tell you. what have you been doing all this time? how have you been living since ive been away? how do you come here, dressed like a swell as you are, when i left you without money? i shall want to know all that; and i'll find out, you may take your oath. there are heaps of ways of discovering those things now, and places where a fellow has only to pay for it, and he may know any thing that goes on about any body. i don't think you would particularly care to have those inquiries made about _you_, eh?"
she was silent. he waited a minute; then, thinking from her silence that he had made a point, went on:
"you understand me at last, don't you? you see pretty plainly, i should think, that being quiet and holding your tongue is your best plan don't you? if you're wise you'll do it; and then, when i'm settled, i may make you some allowance--if you want it, that's to say,--if your friends whove been so kind to you while ive been away don't do it. but if you open your mouth on this matter, if you once hint that you've any claim on me, or send to me, or write to me, or annoy me at all, i'll go right in at once, find out all you've been doing, and then see what they'll say to you in the divorce court. you hear?"
still she sat perfectly silent. he was apparently pleased with his eloquence and its effect, for he proceeded:
"this is all your pretended love for me, is it? this is what you call gratitude to a fellow, and all that kind of thing? turning up exactly when you're not wanted, and coolly declaring that you're going in to spoil the only game that can put me right and bring me home! and this is the woman who used to declare in the old days that she'd die for me, and all that! i declare i didn't think it of you, madge!"
"don't call me by that name!" she screamed, roused at last; "don't allude to the old days, in god's name, or i shall go mad! the recollection of them, the hope of their renewal, has been my consolation in all sorts of misery and pain. i thought that to hear them spoken of by you would have been sufficient recompense for all my troubles: now to hear them mentioned by your lips agonises and maddens me; i--"
"this is the old story," he interrupted; "you haven't forgotten that business, i see. this is what you used to do before, when you got into one of these states. it frightened me at first, but i got used to it; and ive seen a great deal too much of such things to care for it now, i can tell you. if you make this row, i'll ring the bell--upon my soul i will!"
"o, lionel, lionel!" said margaret, stretching out her hands in entreaty towards him--"don't speak so cruelly! you don't know all i have gone through for you--you don't know how weak and ill i am. but it is nothing to what i will do. you don't know how i love you, lionel, my darling! how i have yearned for you; how i will worship and slave for you, so that i may only be with you. i don't want to be seen, or heard of, or known, so long as i am near you. only try me and trust me, only let me be your own once more."
"i tell you it's impossible," said he petulantly. "woman, can't you understand? i'm ruined, done, shut up, cornered, and the only chance of my getting through is by my marriage with some rich woman, who will give me her money in exchange for--there, d--n it all,--it's no use talking any more about it. if you can't see the position, i can't show it you any stronger; and there's an end of it. only, look here!--keep your mouth shut, or it will be the worse for you. you understand that?--the worse for you."
"lionel!" she sprang towards him and clasped her hands round his arm. he shook her off roughly, and moved towards the door.
"no more foolery," he said in a low deep voice. "take my warning now, and go. in a fortnight's time you can write to me at the club, and say whether you are prepared to accept the conditions i have named. now, go."
he held the door open, and she passed by him and went out. she did not shrink, or faint, or fall. somehow, she knew not how, she went down the stairs and into the street. not until she had hailed a cab, and seated herself in it, and was being driven off, did she give way. then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passionate fit of weeping, rocking herself to and fro, and exclaiming, "and it is for this that i have exiled myself from my home, and trampled upon a loving heart! o my god! my god; if i could only have loved geoffrey ludlow!--o, to love as i do, such a man as this!"
