CHAPTER VII.
CONTAINS A LETTER FROM A DEAR FRIEND, AND TAKES THE
READER ONCE MORE TO SEVERNTOWN.
“My dear Amy,” wrote Phœbe in reply to her friend’s invitation, “your letter was indeed welcome, though the news it contained startled me not a little, and made me regret ever so much more my inability to respond to your kind and sisterly invitation. My poor mother is so unwell that I cannot possibly leave her at present. She is suffering from an attack of the same kind as that which prostrated her at Barton Hall. I hope she will be quite recovered in a day or two, and then I hope to come to you.
“Dearest Amy, I am sure you will not give way in the slightest with regard to that respect and love which is your noble husband’s. The trial has come earlier than you expected, but so much the better; it will be the sooner at an end; trials in anticipation are more grievous often than when they come upon us suddenly. The memory of your noble and religious vow in that London hotel when you and I were alone will support you, and God will help you to keep in the path of duty! I know what your only fear is; but you may rely upon his respecting your position and considering the happiness of his brother too much even to utter an incautious word that shall compel you to confess all. Should the worst come to the worst, my dear sister—and this is the worst—there will be no shame in an honest avowal of the past. Don’t fear, my dear, dear Amy, he must have too acute a sense of his own neglect to make him otherwise than your true friend, and you will find him returning to India sooner than you expect.
“When mother has recovered I am to make arrangements for my marriage to my own dear Arthur. Of course you have seen how famous he has become; he is taking the highest position in art that is attainable. Ere long he will stand at the highest point of success. He comes to us from Severntown every week.
“You will be surprised to receive this letter from Lincolnshire. That Oldhall farm of which my father used to talk so much is his, and we have removed thither now a month past—during the month of your honeymoon. We have left old Dorothy at Barton, and father is going to write to you about the tenancy. We are not far from the birthplace of Tennyson, your favourite poet. I don’t think I like the country quite so well as Avonworth Valley; but it is a pleasure to see my father ‘at home,’ as it were, in his native county.
“I shall write again in a day or two. Meanwhile accept my most affectionate regards, and believe me to be
“Ever yours devotedly,
“Phœbe.”
“Oldhall, Lincolnshire.”
Amy was disappointed with this letter, but she had grown calmer since she had written to Phœbe; she had become more accustomed to the situation, and Lionel Hammerton’s conduct had allayed her fears. He observed a studious courtesy towards her, and had not in the slightest alluded to the past by word or deed. It is true she gave him no opportunity, although he had certainly once made an effort to be alone with her in the grounds.
A succession of callers and visitors was of great assistance to the Earl’s wife, and she encouraged his lordship to invite his country neighbours to dinner. On several days she had to receive presents from local manufacturers at Brazencrook—specimens of their wares specially manufactured for her. This gave her occupation, and her gracious manners speedily won for her a reputation of which she might well be proud. She was pronounced in Brazencrook to be the most beautiful and the least proud of any lady in the land, and the country people were enchanted with her amiability and her sparkling conversational powers. The old vicar and his wife, who had never agreed about anything in their lives before, agreed that she was a charming woman, and all the district was singing her praises in less than a week.
Mrs. Somerton’s health did not improve, and so Phœbe did not come to Amy’s side, and Lionel Hammerton still remained at Barton Hall. A hundred times he had resolved to go, but he had resolved, as many times, to stay. By degrees Amy became more accustomed to his presence, though she had taken an opportunity, after a fortnight had elapsed, to hint that she was unhappy in his continued stay at Montem.
After this he went away to London for a month, preparatory to making final arrangements for his return to India; so he said. During this month Amy’s life flowed on again smoothly amidst these new scenes; she received visits and returned visits; she had given a grand ball to the county families surrounding Montem Castle, and his lordship had given an al fresco fête to his tenantry. Never had there been such gaiety at Montem Castle; never had the old place rejoiced in so gracious a mistress.
Meanwhile Lionel Hammerton led a life of excitement in London. Proud and weak, as the reader has seen, Earl Verner’s brother could not overcome his terrible disappointment. He was mad with vexation, and he hated himself for losing the prize which had fallen so strangely to his brother’s lot. That this woman had loved him with all her heart he now believed, and that she had married his brother out of pique or revenge he believed also. Why had he doubted her? That miserable thought about mercenary motives; he despised himself for harbouring it, and yet it was a plausible doubt, he confessed to himself. What should he do? Go to India again and for good, without returning to Montem. He would. There could be no good purpose served in seeing her again. It would be manly to depart now. He would do so. Thus he would resolve at night only to break his resolution in the morning, and the end was a cab to Paddington and a ticket for Brazencrook. When Lionel had arrived at Severntown, however, he changed his mind again, got out, and drove to the College Green, where he found Arthur Phillips at work in his familiar studio.
“At last,” said Arthur, reciprocating Lionel’s hearty greeting, “at last; I feared you had forgotten your friend.”
“No chance of that,” said Lionel; “your name is in everybody’s mouth, and I have seen your great picture ‘now on view.’”
“In England all this time, and not even a letter from you!” said Arthur.
“I meant to have looked you up the first day after my arrival,—I did indeed, but at the time I thought you miserable.”
“Miserable!” said the artist with some astonishment.
“Yes; but it was I all the time who had reason for sympathy.”
“Let me ring the bell,” said Arthur. “There! Now go on.”
A man-servant answering the bell, the artist said, “Take Captain Hammerton’s portmanteau into the blue room.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man.
“Of course you will make a short stay here,” said Arthur, once more addressing his friend.
“I will not leave you to-day at any rate,” said Lionel. “May I smoke?”
“Of course you may,” said Arthur, opening the old cupboard by the fireplace and producing cigars and lights.
“How familiar the old room looks,” said Lionel. “You have made no change here.”
“No,” said Arthur; “none was required.”
“You are changed, Arthur—changed for the better. You seem to have lost some of your quiet dreamy nature. There is more animation in your step and in your voice. How well you look!”
“Yes, thank God, I am well,” said Arthur.
“Success in all things—success in your profession—success in love,” said Lionel; “you should look well and happy. By heavens, Arthur, I envy you!”
Arthur shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, and said no man could judge another’s happiness sufficiently to justify envy.
“A sop to Cerberus that,” said Lionel. “You wish to discount your own happiness that my misery may appear the less. It won’t do, Arthur. But never mind, I have not come here to croak. I have heard of your success, of your happy prospects, even in London, and I congratulate you. You have deserved success; you deserve happiness. If I had listened to you before I left England, I too might have been a happy man. As it is, I am the sport of cruel Fortune, a broken-spirited, weak fool, only fit for the society of idiots.”
“Tush, tush! talk rationally, my friend; we have all our troubles and disappointments,” said Arthur. “You will soon get over this. Change of scene, the performance of duty, will stand you in good stead, and help you to look upon the past indifferently.”
“I fear me not, Arthur; I am dead beat. I came over to England for nothing in the world else but to marry that girl; to throw myself at her feet, and ask her to have mercy on me. In the meantime, as if the devil himself had plotted against me, everything is changed—even the woman herself. Fortune has been playing a game of ‘swop,’ and the woman whom I could have married meets me as my brother’s wife.”
“The changes have been very remarkable—very,” said Arthur, altogether at a loss how to say anything in the way of consolation.
“Remarkable! Good Lord! why, the world is turned topsy-turvy. You have come right, Arthur, that’s one comfort, and it is my own fault that I stand where I do. Does she love my brother? How came it all about? Was it revenge? Tell me all you know, Arthur: it is some relief to talk about one’s misfortunes.”
Arthur complied so far as he could with this request, telling Lionel the story of the eventful period between his departure and return. They sat talking together until evening approached, and then went in to dinner, Lionel finding comfort in his friend’s kindly considerate words and advice.
At night they walked forth together by the river. Lionel grew calm in presence of the great swollen torrent, and listened to Arthur’s story of his own life and its troubles, and of his plans for the future. They talked of Phœbe too, and of Arthur’s years of patient hope. Lionel laughed aloud with joy at the story of Richard Tallant’s discomfiture.
“I always hated that fellow,” said Lionel, in his loud emphatic way; “he was a thief.”
“He had not too high a sense of honour, I fear,” said Arthur.
“He was a thief when I knew him,” said Lionel still more emphatically, “and the confederate of that ruffian Gibbs. What a fine old fellow, that father of his, to disinherit the vagabond!”
“It was a great blow to him, though he prospers still,” said Arthur.
“And I might have had some of the beggar’s money,” said Lionel, “had I married his sister. By heavens! I would have pitched it into the river!”
“He does not want money, they say,” Arthur went on. “His losses have been great lately, but he talks of going into parliament. In fact he has selected my native town for the honour of his candidature.”
“Happy coincidence! Severntown was to have supplied me with a seat in the house, if I had not been fool enough to run my head into that Ashford Club den, and consented to soil my fingers with their filthy Stock Exchange ventures. Upon my soul it is time I disappeared from the land altogether.”
Lionel strode on as if he were keeping pace with his thoughts, and intended to stride out of the land at once, and then he broke out into a loud ironical laugh as he said,—
“Fancy anybody contesting a seat with a scoundrel like that fellow Tallant; and yet Amy is his sister, and my sister-in-law. We must all have been eating of the insane root, Arthur.”
“Fact is stranger than fiction,” said the artist.
“Fiction! Fiction halts miles behind the ordinary facts of daily life. What is this fellow then?”
“A great financier, I suppose they would call him: his chief position is that of managing director of the Meter Iron Works Company, which his father founded,—one of the richest corporations in the land, I believe.”
They little thought that Mr. Richard Tallant was really in serious difficulties at this very time. Whilst others of his class had been content to make large fortunes and retire, Mr. Richard Tallant had gone on playing for higher stakes. Men who had no money to begin with, had succeeded in humbugging the public out of thousands; and others who commenced cautiously and equally unscrupulously with thousands, had retired upon magnificent fortunes. Richard Tallant might have been amongst the latter had he been less covetous; and now he stood in imminent peril of losing nearly all: nothing but timely aid could save him.