And the name of it was--Anne.
As things actually were at that moment, what course was he to
take with the unhappy woman who was waiting to hear from him at
the Scotch inn?
To write? or not to write? That was the question with Geoffrey.
The preliminary difficulty, relating to addressing a letter to
Anne at the inn, had been already provided for. She had
decided--if it proved necessary to give her name, before Geoffrey
joined her--to call herself Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. A
letter addressed to "Mrs. Silvester" might be trusted to find its
way to her without causing any embarrassment. The doubt was not
here. The doubt lay, as usual, between two alternatives. Which
course would it be wisest to take?--to inform Anne, by that day's
post, that an interval of forty-eight hours must elapse before
his father's recovery could be considered certain? Or to wait
till the interval was over, and be guided by the result?
Considering the alternatives in the cab, he decided that the wise
course was to temporize with Anne, by reporting matters as they
then stood.
Arrived at the hotel, he sat down to write the
letter--doubted--and tore it up--doubted again--and began
again--doubted once more--and tore up the second letter--rose to
his feet--and owned to himself (in unprintable language) that he
couldn't for the life of him decide which was safest--to write or
to wait.
In this difficulty, his healthy physical instincts sent him to
healthy physical remedies for relief. "My mind's in a muddle,"
said Geoffrey. "I'll try a bath."
It was an elaborate bath, proceeding through many rooms, and
combining many postures and applications. He steamed. He plunged.
He simmered. He stood under a pipe, and received a cataract of
cold water on his head. He was laid on his back; he was laid on
his stomach; he was respectfully pounded and kneaded, from head
to foot, by the knuckles of accomplished practitioners. He came
out of it all, sleek, clear rosy, beautiful. He returned to the
hotel, and took up the writing materials--and behold the
intolerable indecision seized him again, declining to be washed
out! This time he laid it all to Anne. "That infernal woman will
be the ruin of me," said Geoffrey, taking up his hat. "I must try
the dumb-bells."
The pursuit of the new remedy for stimulating a sluggish brain
took him to a public house, kept by the professional pedestrian
who had the honor of training him when he contended at Athletic
Sports.
"A private room and the dumb-bells!" cried Geoffrey. "The
heaviest you have got."
He stripped himself of his upper clothing, and set to work, with
the heavy weights in each hand, waving them up and down, and
backward and forward, in every attainable variety o f movement,
till his magnificent muscles seemed on the point of starting
through his sleek skin. Little by little his animal spirits
roused themselves. The strong exertion intoxicated the strong
man. In sheer excitement he swore cheerfully--invoking thunder
and lightning, explosion and blood, in return for the compliments
profusely paid to him by the pedestrian and the pedestrian's son.
"Pen, ink, and paper!" he roared, when he could use the
dumb-bells no longer. "My mind's made up; I'll write, and have
done with it!" He sat down to his writing on the spot; actually
finished the letter; another minute would have dispatched it to
the post--and, in that minute, the maddening indecision took
possession of him once more. He opened the letter again, read it
over again, and tore it up again. "I'm out of my mind!" cried
Geoffrey, fixing his big bewildered blue eyes fiercely on the
professor who trained him. "Thunder and lightning! Explosion and
blood! Send for Crouch."
Crouch (known and respected wherever English manhood is known and
respected) was a retired prize-fighter. He appeared with the
third and last remedy for clearing the mind known to the
Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn--namely, two pair of boxing-gloves in
a carpet-bag.
The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and faced
each other in the classically correct posture of pugilistic
defense. "None of your play, mind!" growled Geoffrey. "Fight, you
beggar, as if you were in the Ring again with orders to win." No
man knew better than the great and terrible Crouch what real
fighting meant, and what heavy blows might be given even with
such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed and padded gloves. He
pretended, and only pretended, to comply with his patron's
request. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance by
knocking him down. The great and terrible rose with unruffled
composure. "Well hit, Sir!" he said. "Try it with the other hand
now." Geoffrey's temper was not under similar control. Invoking
everlasting destruction on the frequently-blackened eyes of
Crouch, he threatened instant withdrawal of his patronage and
support unless the polite pugilist hit, then and there, as hard
as he could. The hero of a hundred fights quailed at the dreadful
prospect. "I've got a family to support," remarked Crouch. "If
you _will_ have it, Sir--there it is!" The fall of Geoffrey
followed, and shook the house. He was on his legs again in an
instant--not satisfied even yet. "None of your body-hitting!" he
roared. "Stick to my head. Thunder and lightning! explosion and
blood! Knock it out of me! Stick to the head!" Obedient Crouch
stuck to the head. The two gave and took blows which would have
stunned--possibly have killed--any civilized member of the
community. Now on one side of his patron's iron skull, and now on
the other, the hammering of the prize-fighter's gloves fell,
thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until even Geoffrey himself
had had enough of it. "Thank you, Crouch," he said, speaking
civilly to the man for the first time. "That will do. I feel nice
and clear again." He shook his head two or three times, he was
rubbed down like a horse by the professional runner; he drank a
mighty draught of malt liquor; he recovered his good-humor as if
by magic. "Want the pen and ink, Sir?" inquired his pedestrian
host. "Not I!" answered Geoffrey. "The muddle's out of me now.
Pen and ink be hanged! I shall look up some of our fellows, and
go to the play." He left the public house in the happiest
condition of mental calm. Inspired by the stimulant application
of Crouch's gloves, his torpid cunning had been shaken up into
excellent working order at last. Write to Anne? Who but a fool
would write to such a woman as that until he was forced to it?
Wait and see what the chances of the next eight-and-forty hours
might bring forth, and then write to her, or desert her, as the
event might decide. It lay in a nut-shell, if you could only see
it. Thanks to Crouch, he did see it--and so away in a pleasant
temper for a dinner with "our fellows" and an evening at the
play!
C
HAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.
GEOFFREY IN THE MARRIAGE MARKET.
THE interval of eight-and-forty hours passed--without the
occurrence of any personal communication between the two brothers
in that time.
Julius, remaining at his father's house, sent brief written
bulletins of Lord Holchester's health to his brother at the
hotel. The first bulletin said, "Going on well. Doctors
satisfied." The second was firmer in tone. "Going on excellently.
Doctors very sanguine." The third was the most explicit of all.
"I am to see my father in an hour from this. The doctors answer
for his recovery. Depend on my putting in a good word for you, if
I can; and wait to hear from me further at the hotel."
Geoffrey's face darkened as he read the third bulletin. He called
once more for the hated writing materials. There could be no
doubt now as to the necessity of communicating with Anne. Lord
Holchester's recovery had put him back again in the same critical
position which he had occupied at Windygates. To keep Anne from
committing some final act of despair, which would connect him
with a public scandal, and ruin him so far as his expectations
from his father were concerned, was, once more, the only safe
policy that Geoffrey could pursue. His letter began and ended in
twenty words:
"DEAR ANNE,--Have only just heard that my father is turning the
corner. Stay where you are. Will write again."
Having dispatched this Spartan composition by the post, Geoffrey
lit his pipe, and waited the event of the interview between Lord
Holchester and his eldest son.
Julius found his father alarmingly altered in personal
appearance, but in full possession of his faculties nevertheless.
Unable to return the pressure of his son's hand--unable even to
turn in the bed without help--the hard eye of the old lawyer was
as keen, the hard mind of the old lawyer was as clear, as ever.
His grand ambition was to see Julius in Parliament. Julius was
offering himself for election in Perthshire, by his father's
express desire, at that moment. Lord Holchester entered eagerly
into politics before his eldest son had been two minutes by his
bedside.
are not easily killed. (Look at Brougham and Lyndhurst!) You
won't be called to the Upper House yet. You will begin in the
House of Commons--precisely as I wished. What are your prospects
with the constituency? Tell me exactly how you stand, and where I
can be of use to you."
"Surely, Sir, you are hardly recovered enough to enter on matters
of business yet?"
"I am quite recovered enough. I want some present interest to
occupy me. My thoughts are beginning to drift back to past times,
and to things which are better forgotten." A sudden contraction
crossed his livid face. He looked hard at his son, and entered
abruptly on a new question. "Julius!" he resumed, "have you ever
heard of a young woman named Anne Silvester?"
Julius answered in the negative. He and his wife had exchanged
cards with Lady Lundie, and had excused themselves from accepting
her invitation to the lawn-party. With the exception of Blanche,
they were both quite ignorant of the persons who composed the
family circle at Windygates.
"Make a memorandum of the name," Lord Holchester went on. "Anne
Silvester. Her father and mother are dead. I knew her father in
former times. Her mother was ill-used. It was a bad business. I
have been thinking of it again, for the first time for many
years. If the girl is alive and about the world she may remember
our family name. Help her, Julius, if she ever wants help, and
applies to you." The painful contraction passed across his face
once more. Were his thoughts taking him back to the memorable
summer evening at the Hampstead villa? Did he see the deserted
woman swooning at his feet again? "About your election?" he
asked, impatiently. "My mind is not used to be idle. Give it
something to do."
Julius stated his position as plainly and as briefly as he could.
The father found nothing to object to in the report--except the
son's absence from the field of action. He blamed Lady H
olchester for summoning Julius to London. He was annoyed at his
son's being there, at the bedside, when he ought to have been
addressing the electors. "It's inconvenient, Julius," he said,
petulantly. "Don't you see it yourself?"
Having previously arranged with his mother to take the first
opportunity that offered of risking a reference to Geoffrey,
Julius decided to "see it" in a light for which his father was
not prepared. The opportunity was before him. He took it on the
spot.
"It is no inconvenience to me, Sir," he replied, "and it is no
inconvenience to my brother either. Geoffrey was anxious about
you too. Geoffrey has come to London with me."
Lord Holchester looked at his eldest son with a grimly-satirical
expression of surprise.
"Have I not already told you," he rejoined, "that my mind is not
affected by my illness? Geoffrey anxious about me! Anxiety is one
of the civilized emotions. Man in his savage state is incapable
of feeling it."
"My brother is not a savage, Sir."
"His stomach is generally full, and his skin is covered with
linen and cloth, instead of red ochre and oil. So far, certainly,
your brother is civilized. In all other respects your brother is
a savage."
"I know what you mean, Sir. But there is something to be said for
Geoffrey's way of life. He cultivates his courage and his
strength. Courage and strength are fine qualities, surely, in
their way?"
"Excellent qualities, as far as they go. If you want to know how
far that is, challenge Geoffrey to write a sentence of decent
English, and see if his courage doesn't fail him there. Give him
his books to read for his degree, and, strong as he is, he will
be taken ill at the sight of them. You wish me to see your
brother. Nothing will induce me to see him, until his way of life
(as you call it) is altered altogether. I have but one hope of
its ever being altered now. It is barely possible that the
influence of a sensible woman--possessed of such advantages of
birth and fortune as may compel respect, even from a
savage--might produce its effect on Geoffrey. If he wishes to
find his way back into this house, let him find his way back into
good society first, and bring me a daughter-in-law to plead his
cause for him--whom his mother and I can respect and receive.
When that happens, I shall begin to have some belief in Geoffrey.
Until it does happen, don't introduce your brother into any
your election. I have some advice to give you before you go back.
You will do well to go back to-night. Lift me up on the pillow. I
shall speak more easily with my head high."
His son lifted him o
n the pillows, and once more entreated him to
spare himself.
It was useless. No remonstrances shook the iron resolution of the
man who had hewed his way through the rank and file of political
humanity to his own high place apart from the rest. Helpless,
ghastly, snatched out of the very jaws of death, there he lay,
steadily distilling the clear common-sense which had won him all
his worldly rewards into the mind of his son. Not a hint was
missed, not a caution was forgotten, that could guide Julius
safely through the miry political ways which he had trodden so
safely and so dextrously himself. An hour more had passed before
the impenetrable old man closed his weary eyes, and consented to
take his nourishment and compose himself to rest. His last words,
rendered barely articulate by exhaustion, still sang the praises
of party manoeuvres and political strife. "It's a grand career! I
miss the House of Commons, Julius, as I miss nothing else!"
Left free to pursue his own thoughts, and to guide his own
movements, Julius went straight from Lord Holchester's bedside to
Lady Holchester's boudoir.
"Has your father said any thing about Geoffrey?" was his mother's
first question as soon as he entered the room.
"My father gives Geoffrey a last chance, if Geoffrey will only
take it."
Lady Holchester's face clouded. "I know," she said, with a look
of disappointment. "His last chance is to read for his degree.
Hopeless, my dear. Quite hopeless! If it had only been something
easier than that; something that rested with me--"
"It does rest with you," interposed Julius. "My dear mother!--can
you believe it?--Geoffrey's last chance is (in one word)
Marriage!"
"Oh, Julius! it's too good to be true!"
Julius repeated his father's own words. Lady Holchester looked
twenty years younger as she listened. When he had done she rang
the bell.
"No matter who calls," she said to the servant, "I am not at
home." She turned to Julius, kissed him, and made a place for him
on the sofa by her side. "Geoffrey shall take _that_ chance," she
said, gayly--"I will answer for it! I have three women in my
mind, any one of whom would suit him. Sit down, my dear, and let
us consider carefully which of the three will be most likely to
attract Geoffrey, and to come up to your father's standard of
what his daughter-in-law ought to be. When we have decided, don't
trust to writing. Go yourself and see Geoffrey at his hotel."
Mother and son entered on their consultation--and innocently
sowed the seeds of a terrible harvest to come.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.
GEOFFREY AS A PUBLIC CHARACTER.
TIME had advanced to after noon before the selection of
Geoffrey's future wife was accomplished, and before the
instructions of Geoffrey's brother were complete enough to
justify the opening of the matrimonial negotiation at Nagle's
Hotel.
"Don't leave him till you have got his promise," were Lady
Holchester's last words when her son started on his mission.
"If Geoffrey doesn't jump at what I am going to offer him," was
the son's reply, "I shall agree with my father that the case is
hopeless; and I shall end, like my father, in giving Geoffrey
up."
This was strong language for Julius to use. It was not easy to
rouse the disciplined and equable temperament of Lord
Holchester's eldest son. No two men were ever more thoroughly
unlike each other than these two brothers. It is melancholy to
acknowledge it of the blood relation of a "stroke oar," but it
must be owned, in the interests of truth, that Julius cultivated
his intelligence. This degenerate Briton could digest books--and
couldn't digest beer. Could learn languages--and couldn't learn
to row. Practiced the foreign vice of perfecting himself in the
art of playing on a musical instrument and couldn't learn the
English virtue of knowing a good horse when he saw him. Got
through life. (Heaven only knows how!) without either a biceps or