CHAPTER I.
Ravenshill was shut up after its brief season of gaiety, and the Deanescame back to it no more.
Margaret's father felt very bitterly the blow that had fallen on him.Both his affection and his pride were outraged; and he was wanting inneither quality, though, in the first shock of the news, the latterseemed to outweigh the former.
That Meg, his special pet, his favourite daughter, of whose beauty hehad been so proud, whose very failings were so like his own that he hadfelt them a subtle form of flattery, that Meg should have done thisthing,--it seemed monstrous and impossible.
At first he absolutely refused to credit her aunt's letter, throwing itinto the fire with a quick scornful gesture and an angry laugh; but bythe time he had reached England, the reality of what had happened hadentered into his soul.
Mrs. Russelthorpe was not a sympathetic woman, but she cared for herbrother; and the sight of his face on their first meeting in thedrawing-room made her blench for once, and avert her gaze.
He uttered no word of reproach, he asked few questions, and made nocomments.
If Margaret had been dead he would have wept for her; but she was toofar away for tears. She had given the lie to her past; and, had he foundher in her coffin, he felt that she would have been less utterly lost tohim.
Death might have drawn a veil between them, but it is only life that canseparate utterly.
Mrs. Russelthorpe made one faint attempt at consolation; but consolingwas not in her line, and she did it awkwardly.
Mr. Deane lifted his head and looked at her, with a face that seemed tohave grown grey, and eyes that were terribly like Meg's.
"Don't, please!" he said; "you mean well, sis--but you don't understand.She was my child, and is my grief." And Mrs. Russelthorpe was silent. Ifshe had ever felt moved to a revelation of what had led to Meg's flight,she said to herself now that her brother's own entreaty sealed her lips.
No one spoke to him of Meg after that, though every one felt sorry forhim. The quiet dignity with which he bore his trouble awoke moresympathy than any lamentations would have aroused; but he was a man whoalways and involuntarily awoke sympathy, whether in his joy or in hisgrief.
It was not till he had been some weeks in the house that he noticed hisbrother-in-law's absence.
"Joseph is quite as well as usual," Mrs. Russelthorpe said coldly, inreply to his inquiry. "He fancies himself an invalid, and will nevermake the slightest exertion now. It's no use for you to try and see him,Charles;" and Charles did not try.
Perhaps he rather dreaded the old man's sharp-edged cynicism just then;though he need not have been afraid: Meg's uncle was quite as sore abouther as was Meg's father, and a good deal more remorseful.
Very few people saw anything of Mr. Russelthorpe during the last yearsof his life. George Sauls declared that the poor old fellow wasscandalously neglected; but then George Sauls was a good hater, and notlikely to take a lenient view of Mrs. Russelthorpe.
Oddly enough, Mr. Sauls was the only person who guessed how heavilyMeg's last hopeless appeal weighed on her uncle's mind. He was fiercelyangry himself, inclined to quarrel (if they would give him the chance)with all Meg's relatives, to scoff at the popular sympathy for Mr.Deane, and to be unamiably sceptical when he was told that Mrs.Russelthorpe was an altered woman, and felt far more deeply than mighthave been supposed.
People said, indignantly, that Mr. Sauls did not show himself in at alla pleasing light; and that, considering how kind Mr. Deane had been tohim, he might have exhibited more feeling for his friend's trouble; and,indeed, the worst side of the man seemed uppermost at that time.
Yet he called at the house in Bryanston Square when the Russelthorpesreturned to town, showing some boldness in continuing his visits inspite of Mrs. Russelthorpe's surprised looks when they encountered eachother in the hall. Mr. Russelthorpe had a liking for the young Jew,whose secret he had guessed; and though George had made his way into thelibrary, in the first instance, from purely interested motives, beingdetermined to know all there was to be known about Meg, yet he cameagain and again, from an unexpressed friendship for the queer, whimsicalrecluse, who was nominally master of that big house, but who was of noaccount whatever, and who seemed to grow lonelier and queerer as theyears went by.
On the occasion of his first visit after hearing of Meg's departure,George had almost forced an entry, and had found Meg's uncle sittingalmost as Meg herself had found him, save that he was making no pretenceof reading now, and that his little wizened face was surmounted by anightcap.
"Go away, I am ill!" he cried fretfully, when the door opened; but whenhe saw who his visitor was, he straightened himself, and held out hishand.
"Have you come to look at my Egyptian coins again, Sauls?" he asked."You haven't heard the news then, or you would know that the study ofantiquities won't repay you,--won't repay you at all."
"It is true, then!" said Mr. Sauls, a trifle hoarsely. "Would you mindtelling me what you know about it, sir?"
"Yes, I should mind," said the old man. Then, when he looked at Mr.Sauls, he apparently relented. "Sit down; though the story won't takelong. It's short, and not particularly sweet," he remarked; and he toldit in as few words as possible.
"Put not your trust in women," said George, with rather a futile attemptat flippancy, when he had heard the end. "What a fool I've been! Ithought I had bought all my experience in that line years ago. Oh well!it's done now, and the sweetest _ingenue_ in the world won't take me inagain."
Mr. Russelthorpe looked up sharply. "I suppose when a man's hurt he mustblame some one," he said; "and it's easiest to throw the blame on thewoman; and this, perhaps, is as good a reason for raving against her asany other. Otherwise, I should say that whoever has cause of complaint,you've none; but my eyes are old and blind. You talk of being 'takenin'. Possibly she encouraged you more than I knew."
George coloured. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I did not mean toimply that Miss Deane--Mrs. Thorpe, I mean--ever did more than barelytolerate me at times. She was a cut above me, I fancied. As events haveproved, I was a trifle too modest. It isn't generally my failing; but,evidently, her taste was not so fastidious as I supposed. BarnabasThorpe knew better. D----n him!" he added savagely.
"Oh certainly!" said Mr. Russelthorpe. "We'll do that, with all myheart. Not that it will make any difference. But, as to her, you'rewrong. If it's any consolation to you, I don't think that she would havemarried you in any case. Not that I don't believe she would have done awise thing if she had," he added, holding out his hand with a gleam ofsympathy. "I should have been glad to see it; but--and this is one ofthose little arrangements that make one wonder whether there isn't adevil at the steering wheel after all--the purer minded and moreinnocent a girl is, the more likely she is to fling herself away for anempty idea, and the more faith she'll have in any canting fool whoappeals to her 'higher motives'. It is born with some women, that piningto sacrifice themselves, and to spend all their energies on otherpeople. It used to amuse me, when my niece was a child, to see how shewas always throwing pearls before swine. Well! well! she's done it witha vengeance this time!"
"Ah! I am glad it amuses you so much," said Mr. Sauls. "It's a veryentertaining story from first to last, isn't it? I don't know which isfunniest, the thought of that girl's lonely girlhood in this house,where no one seems to have cared twopence about her, or her recklessmarriage with a man who'll probably make her repent every hour of herlife. Do you suppose he'll kick her when he gets sick of the pearls?That would be most amusing of all, wouldn't it?"
He spoke almost brutally. Mr. Deane, however angry, could not have usedthat tone to an old man; but George had been brought up in a less strictschool of manners, and, perhaps, at that moment had a revulsion offeeling against these grandees amongst whom he had pushed himselfin,--to his own undoing, as he felt just then.
At that moment he found it hard to look at things calmly, or to considerthat, after all, a love affair was an episode he would get over
; whereasthe advantages he had derived from an intimacy with the Deanes weresolid and lasting, the _entree_ to Mr. Deane's house having been adecided step upwards on the social ladder. Mr. Russelthorpe made noreply, and George took up his hat.
"I am in too bad a temper to be good company, sir," he said; "though, Idaresay, I amuse you. Good-bye."
"You are young still, and angry with fate, or Providence, or thedevil,--whichever you like to call it," said the old man. "But as forme, I am old,--too old to be indignant any more, or to go on knocking myhead against stone walls; but--I am sorry too--I have not outlivedsorrow yet;--unfortunately, that is the last thing we leave behind."
George twisted his eyeglass rapidly. "There are a good many years beforeme, in all probability," he said. "I may meet her again. In fact, I willtry to, sooner or later. One would like to know how it answers, but notjust yet. I don't want to be taken up for assault, and I should find ithard to keep my hands off that preaching villain. I will wait."
"Well," said Mr. Russelthorpe drily, "I think you'd better; for I'veheard that Barnabas Thorpe knows how to use his fists too: it would beundignified, should you get the worst of it. Besides (though you canhardly be expected to see this), though I've met hypocrites in my time,I doubt whether they are common. Self-deceived idiots there are inplenty, who dub their own desires and prejudices the 'Voice of theLord'; but villains are scarce. He may be one; of course, it simplifiesmatters to believe that he is; one can curse him the more heartily,--butI doubt it."
"Do you?" said George shortly; "I don't!"
"No," said the old man; "I don't suppose you do. You're young and hard,as I said before, and sure about everything. Well, don't go and make afool of yourself about her. What good do you suppose you could do? Youmight, of course, do harm--that is always so much easier--harm to herand yourself too. I don't know that it would amuse me much if harmshould come to you. I should miss you rather--though probably I shoulddo nothing to prevent it."
His voice died away sadly, in a rambling sentence, about something hehad said or had not said, and might have prevented and hadn't prevented.
"But you are in such a hurry, Margaret, and I am too old to think soquickly--too old, too old!" he mumbled.
Mr. Sauls, who was just going away, turned back, arrested by that longweak murmur. He crossed the room again, made up the fire, and pushed thearmchair closer to it.
"You are not well, sir. Ought you to be alone like this? shall I fetchany one?"
"No--no--don't fetch her. I can't stand her. Don't, I say, _don't_!"cried Mr. Russelthorpe so nervously that George gave up the idea atonce.
"I'll look in again if you would like it," he said, half wondering athimself while he spoke.
"Yes; come again, and, Sauls--come nearer--I've something to say."
George came nearer, and bent over him. "If ever they tell you that I amdying, you insist on coming in, and turn her out," he whispered. "Youturn her out! And--and--I want to make my will. Come in and talk itover. I wish to make you executor--and I'll tell you where I putit--then you can find it, when I am dead; but don't let her know--sheknows only about the old one. Promise me!"
"All right!" said George; "I promise." Mr. Russelthorpe broke into a lowchuckle.
"I wish my spirit could be there to see," he said. "Who knows? it maybe, eh? We really know nothing after all. You won't mind a scene withher, will you?"
"With Mrs. Russelthorpe?" said George. "Oh, no; I shall rather like it!"
"Ah!" said the old man. "So shall I, if I am there, released from thisfeeble old body. I hope I may be." Arid he chuckled again. "Well,good-night, lad."
As for George, he wended his way to Hill Street to dine with his mother.He had pulled his rather unpresentable family up with him, and he wasworshipped at home. He always gave Mrs. Sauls the pleasure of hissociety on one evening in the week; and, considering how busy he was,and how manifold were his engagements, his constancy in keeping to thisrule showed some tenacity of purpose.
Mrs. Sauls most firmly believed that all the grand ladies he met weresimply dying for "her George," and that he might, as she elegantlyexpressed it, "'ave 'is pick of them". Perhaps some of "George's"partners might have been rather appalled at the idea of having her for amother-in-law; but then, as she said, "Lord bless you, they won't marry_me_; and George's wife will be able to afford to put up with my yellowold face if the Sauls' diamonds set off her young one. I shan't grudge'em to her, though I won't give them up to any one else; and she'll havethe finest in London."
While awaiting the arrival of "George's wife," who had been discussedand speculated on since George had been in petticoats, his mother worethe diamonds herself, in season and out of season. She had a gay tastein dress, delighting in crimsons and yellows, and she always put on herbest clothes for her son. Rebecca Sauls had had a bad husband; butGeorge more than made up, as she never tired of saying.
He had been a most objectionable little boy, and had sown a too liberalsupply of wild oats as a youth; but his manhood had repaid her: he hadturned out cleverer than his father; for, while old Sauls had known onlyhow to make and to save, George, in addition, knew how to spend.
It had required something of an effort on George's part to tear himselfaway from the old place in the City; but his ambition was even strongerthan his talent for money-making, and he boldly cut the shop, and wentin for the law. His mother supported him, though all his father'srelations held up their hands in holy horror.
"And now my son sits down at table in houses where the Benjamin Mossesand Joseph Saulses wouldn't dream of putting the tips of their longnoses!" said she. "And, what's more, they are glad and thankful to gethim; but he won't give _me_ up, not for the grandest of them; he'll dinehere on a Saturday night, let alone who wants him." And that Saturdaynight was Mrs. Sauls' gala day. Then she donned her lowest and gayestdress, and most fearful and wonderful headgear, and ordered analdermanic feast. She would have given George melted pearls to drink,had he expressed any desire that way.
She was an odd-looking old lady, with jet black hair and curiouslylight-coloured eyes, which were in strong contrast to her very darkcomplexion, and gave her rather a strange expression. Her mouth wascoarse, like her son's, and, like him also, she had plenty to say forherself, and was excellent company.
Some cousins came to dinner, also loud-voiced and bedizened withdiamonds. The youngest cousin was at the age when Jewesses arehandsomest, being barely seventeen.
She flirted outrageously with George, and he patronised her in a freeand easy style. He could generally suit his manners to his company, and_this_ company was rather a rest and relaxation to him.
They all made a great deal of noise after dinner; it struck George thatseven people in Hill Street were noisier than fourteen in BryanstonSquare, and probably merrier. Mrs. Russelthorpe's hair would have stoodon end if she could have seen that entertainment.
Mrs. Sauls enjoyed it as much as any one; but when the company had goneoff hilariously, and George, having seen his guests out of the halldoor, returned for a _tete-a-tete_ with her,--then she tasted thecrowning felicity of the evening.
George always paid his mother the compliment of talking to her about hisprofessional ambitions and interests. She was his only confidante, andhe never forgot how she had encouraged him at the very outset of hiscareer. He was not a man who forgot either injuries or benefits.
He talked a long time. Neither of them minded sitting up half the night;and the old lady liked the smell of his cigar, and enjoyed mixing hiswhisky and water for him, and rejoiced in the sound of his voice.
"Really!" he exclaimed at last, when two o'clock struck. "I am teachingyou very bad ways, mother! I say, do you suppose that Miriam Moss willdream of forfeits to-night? She's a very precocious little girl! It'sodd how early Jewesses develop. I've known other women of twenty or oneand twenty not a quarter so 'formed' as she is."
His mother looked anxiously at him. "You are not thinking of marryingher, are you?" she asked. "You should do better than
that, my son. TheMosses are rich, certainly; but I should like to see you go in for atitle, myself; and you needn't be afraid that I'll stand in your waywhen you want to bring a wife home. Indeed, I'd like to have a grandsonon my knee before I die, George; though I don't deny that it's been luckfor me, in some respects, that you haven't married before. 'A son's ason till he gets him a wife.' Still, it's time now; and, if I were you,I'd look not lower than a county family. You've got money enough. Andyou may tell the lady from me," and her hard old face softened at thewords, "you may tell her from me, that she'll be a lucky woman, for yourvulgar old mother says so, and she has had reason enough to swear toit."
George laughed, and put his arm round her. The caress meant a good dealmore than all the pretty speeches he had made to Miriam.
"The lucky young woman of title to whom I shall so kindly condescend tothrow the handkerchief hasn't appeared on the horizon yet," he said."When she does, she shan't turn up her highly aristocratic little noseat you, mother! Nobody shall come between you and me."
Mrs. Sauls nodded till her earrings twinkled again. "So much the betterfor me, my son; but wives aren't so amenable as mothers. Don't answerfor her too soon!"
"One can answer for any woman--just as far as one can see her, eh?" saidGeorge, yawning; and his mother looked hard at him.
Possibly she guessed that the horizon had not been quite so clear as hewould have had her believe; and had a pretty shrewd suspicion thatsomething besides work had deepened the lines on his face. But she waswise in her generation, and kept her counsel.
He talked on for some time, chiefly on business, after that; bidding hergood-night only when the dawn began to creep through the shutters.
"Good-night, my dear," said his mother, "and God bless you for a goodson, as I'm sure He ought."
She had a wistful feeling while she said the words that Providence hadsomehow been unduly hard on George lately. Her son laughed profanely: "Ibelieve you think that the Almighty is rather honoured in having me tobless!"
But he was fond of his mother all the same, and her blessing did him noharm.
After all, he couldn't go and make an utter fool of himself--orworse,--while the old woman believed in him so.
A girl begged of him on his way through the streets, and his sallowcheek flushed, for the colour of her hair was like Meg's.
_Her_ innocent face swam before him for a moment, and he put his handbefore his eyes with a sense of sacrilege at the reminder. He believedhimself as little given to sentiment as any man; but he had felt, sincehe had known Meg, that his other thoughts were not good enough companyfor those of her. Now, with a bitter revulsion, he declared to himselfthat the preacher, who had had no scruples, had fared the best.
He thrust the girl aside, and quickened his steps with compressed lips.
When he got to his rooms he walked straight up to his writing-tabledrawer, and took from it a little water-colour sketch that had been tornout of Laura's sketch book.
"I can't afford this nonsense," he said. "I shall murder the preacher,if I let you stay here now."
He tore the portrait across, and burnt it in the flame of his lamp. Andthis was, perhaps, the most sensible thing he could have done; butGeorge seldom lost his head, whatever happened to his heart.
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