A Wild Proxy

Front matter

*A IVilt* T^OXT. BY Mrs. W. K. CLIFFORD, AUTHOR OF " MRS. KEITHS CRIME," " AUNT ANNE," "THE LAST TOUCHES," ETC, ETC- We two stood there with never a third, But each by each, as each knew well : The sights we saw and the sounds we heard, The lights and the shades made up a spell Till the trouble grew and stirred. Browning. LONDON : HUTCHINSON AND CO., 34, PATERNOSTER ROW. 1893. Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

Preface

. ~"*HIS story was written a few months ago for an illustrated paper. But lack of space made it necessary to leave out some portions : these now appear for the first time. L. C. London, March, 1893. I

Chapter I Chapter

I. MR. CHARLES LAMBERT, with whom we are not much concerned here, was a worthy middle-aged gentleman who had made a sufficient income in the North of England to enable him to settle down with his family for the rest of his days in Hyde Park Gate. His early life had been spent in Sunderland, where, when he was twenty-two, he had married a curate's only daughter. She had become an invalid soon after the birth of her only child, and sorely tried his patience, as well as his then slender resources, by keeping her room, and an expensive nurse in attendance on her for five years. When at last he was left alone he thought the child distinctly in his way ; but he put her out of it, as far as a nurse and a school would enable him to do so, and went on his way making money. After a time he married again, a good strapping girl of six-and-twenty, one of a healthy family addicted to long walks, out door exercise, and worldly wisdom.

She bore him four children, all of them girls, and, like herself, healthy of limb, loud of voice, and unfailing of appetite. Luckily Helen, for so the child of his first marriage was called, was healthy too, as well as slim and undeniably pretty. Her stepmother was by no means unkind to her. She thought her an encumbrance, of course, but she resolved to bring her up properly, then to buy her becoming clothes, and to get her married as soon as possible. When Helen was eighteen the Lambert family installed itself in Hyde Park Gate, prepared to give dinners and evening parties, and to make itself known to London society, in the hope that London society would appreciate the attention and return the compliment. In these money-worshipping days some things are easier than formerly ; therefore many of Mrs. Lambert's social ambitions were gratified.

Moreover, the house in Hyde Park Gate was a pleasant one, and it became the haunt of a sufficient number of pleasant people to give it a certain agreeable reputation ; for many things happen in London for no particular reason, save that Fashion and Chance seem sometimes to go a-hunting together. There fore it mattered little that Mr. Lambert was slow and not given to talk much ; he had a knack of looking interested, and that sufficed ; or that Mrs. Lambert was fussy and anxious, and agreed with all the opinions of her guests in turn : and they knew it. She kept an excellent cook ; unblushingly invited any one who prospered in the upper walks of life on the shortest acquaintance ; and quite under stood that at her own entertainments she was expected to merely hover in the background, except when she was useful as a connecting link.

When her step-daughter came out Mrs. Lambert was agreeably surprised to find that she was a distinct attraction to the outside world, that invitations were much more cor dially given and received when it was under stood that Helen would be included in the first and seen if the last were accepted. Still, Mrs. Lambert was a wise woman, and never swerved from her line of conduct. For one season it was pleasant to have a pretty girl to take about ; even for two it would be possible, but the period must not be prolonged indefinitely. To that she made up her mind. It seemed unlikely that it would be prolonged ; for Helen was not only pretty but distinguished looking and intelligent, and she had the attraction that belongs to most girls who have been thrown upon their own resources for companion ship and sympathy.

She had read a good deal and thought a little ; imagined that she understood Browning and appreciated Wagner. She glowed over Swinburne, though she carefully avoided reading his love poems, according to a promise made to a young man in a conser vatory at a ball, who assured her that they were very improper, and would sully the purity of her soul. It pleased her to think that she had a soul, she wondered what sullying it would feel like ; but she was resolved to keep it as pure as the fair young man with the low voice and large shirt front had seemed to think it. She had, moreover, ambitions of a feminine kind, — a great desire to travel, and a secret conviction that if she had been all alone in the wide, wide world it would have been glorious to go on the stage. But meanwhile, she knew that it was her business in life to get married, and that it was her step-mother's intention that she should do so before her half-sisters grew up.

It was to this end, as she was perfectly aware, that Mrs. Lambert took her to balls and parties and private views, bought her dainty dresses, and was careful of her complexion ; and as she was too good a girl not to wish to fulfil her obligations, she regarded the other sex with interest. Besides, she was very lonely. No one had cared much for her in life as yet, and she had a vague hope that before the marriage there might come a falling in love that would make the rest of the story bewilder ingly happy. Her father was engrossed by many things, and troubled little about her ; her step-mother naturally preserved her affections intact for her own children. The children them selves were as yet given over to lessons and games. She had no companions, and she was not encouraged to make any ; but luckily she was a lively girl with a happy temper, fond of dancing and innocent dissipations, as well as of the higher walks of literature and music ; and there was a simplicity about her that was beguiling.

Still, in her first season she had only one offer, and that from a young man in the War Office, who would have been sorely put to it if she had accepted him ; but this she never for a moment dreamt of doing, for she was not one whit fascinated, and she knew that his income was not equal to the requirements of her family. In her second season there appeared on her horizon Mr. Laurence Halstead. He was eight and-twenty, and well connected. He had dis tinguished himself at Oxford, and studied for the Bar, though he had not yet been known to obtain a brief. He had, however, written a treatise on Jurisprudence, as well as several very long letters to the Times on economic questions, one of which had been printed in large type. It was said that he intended to try for Parliament at the next election.

Altogether, he was considered clever and coming-on, and people expected a vast deal from him in a quiet way, as they frequently do from a young man who takes a good degree, writes to the papers, and talks little. Mr. Halstead was very silent, and nothing leaves so wide a margin as silence for the conclusions of others. He was fairly well off, that is, he had a house in Eccleston Square and a cottage in the country, which he had lent for the last two years to an elderly maiden cousin given to writing for the religious maga zines ; he rode in the Park every morning on a sturdy cob, and he drove a phaeton and excellent pair of horses occasionally in the afternoon. He had also the advantage of being distinctly good-looking. He was tall and graceful, rather thin perhaps, and pale ; he had good brown eyes that were very grave, and brown hair which he did not wear cropped too close to his head after the manner of a woman's hero in a novel.

He went to an irreproachable tailor, though he did not by any means affect very new clothes or dandyism, and his thin overcoat in summer was always a trifle too large for him. It is astonishing how much security in a small emergency a woman will manage to feel with a silent man who has a large moustache and wears a thin and rather flopping overcoat. It was this sense of security that first attracted Helen Lambert. Halstead was not a dancing man, but he sometimes looked in at a ball, and hung for half an hour round a doorway, just to show that he was not above the diversion. This was how she had met him, but as he never asked her to waltz, or even to sit out with him, his existence did not interest her. One night it happened that he was going on, as she was, from a party in Chesham Place to a little dance in Halkin Street.

The carriage had gone to bring Mr. Lambert from somewhere else. It was only a few steps from one house to the other. Mrs. Lambert wrapped her chudder round her, and went on in front with a niece she was chaperoning. Helen followed with Mr. Halstead, a soft lace wrap about her slender shoulders. She leant on his arm a little to avoid treading too heavily on her yellow silk shoes : it felt strong and comfortable. He was a little too tall for her, but, as that only increased her sense of his manliness, she liked it. He wore the thin flopping coat and a crush hat, and looked picturesque and fashion able, and hardly spoke a word ; but he turned his face towards her once or twice. In the soft summer night, and by the flash of the carriage lamps as they whirled past, his eyes looked unutterable — by him very unutterable indeed — things, and Helen felt her simple heart thrill.

A dreamy, puzzled feeling came over him, which was perhaps his response "to her thrill. She was very sweet, he thought, in her yellow dress and buttercups, with her dark brown hair twisted round her head ; so girlish and innocent and slender, that he could have taken her up in his arms and kissed her had he dared. But, though he would naturally have liked it far less, he could more easily have found daring to take up and kiss one of the polar bears at the Zoo than the slender girl who walked by his side. " I wish I liked dancing," he said, with a gravity too great for the subject. She gave a little sigh. "It is heavenly!" she answered. He felt that she was qualified to speak with authority. They went on for a moment in silence, then, as if an idea had slowly dawned on him, he asked, — " Do you like the river ?"

" Oh, yes ! " He liked her voice ; it was full of eager life and readiness to be happy. " I wonder if you and your mother would come down to Cookham one day. We might make up a party ?" She gave a little cry of pleasure. She was delightfully fresh, he thought, and he wished he knew how to talk to her. He didn't show a sign of it, but, as a matter of fact, he was rather afraid of girls, and of women in general. He often stood dumb and picturesque in their presence, and frightened them a good deal, while he wondered what on earth he ought to do or say to them. " A cousin of mine is coming from Egypt shortly," he went on ; " he rather affects the river. Perhaps you have heard of him— Frank Merreday : he is by way of being clever. He has some sort of official position in Cairo." "I don't know him; but isn't Mrs. Percy Ives a great friend of his ?

" "That's it. She is very good to him. Wanted her husband to go out to him last year when he was down with fever. Here we are, I am sorry to say." In some odd way it came about that Helen missed three dances in Halkin Street, and sat them out with Laurence Halstead. He did not talk much, of course, but he listened while she chattered, and he looked too beautiful for words. She felt almost reverent, and a little afraid of him. But she was flattered by his attention ; and flattery is the beginning of many things. Her step-mother was well pleased. She asked Mr. Halstead to dine the next night, and to go to the Opera three nights later. After this he appeared to divine that he could go to Hyde Park Gate when he pleased and without waiting for invitations. Mrs. Lambert was "at home" on Saturdays.

On that day she wore a black satin gown, with quantities of bugles across her expansive chest, and talked to a crowd of women and a sprink ling of men who dropped in between four and seven to sit in the much-furnished drawing room and drink tea. Mr. Halstead appeared on the Saturday following the opera. He leant against the mantelpiece and counted the number of whole parakeets on the chintz-covered chairs and sofas. Most of them, he noticed regret fully, had had their tails lopped by the up holsterer, or tucked in between the seams. The effect was a little cruel, and would hardly have been allowed by a person of imagination ; but imagination was perhaps the last thing on earth to which Mrs. Lambert made any pre tence. He looked at her a little wonderingly, thinking that the Fates had been good to Helen in making her the child of another mother.

Mrs. Lambert turned from the person to whom she had been speaking. " Helen looked for you in the Park this morning, Mr. Halstead," she said beamingly, and with a certain significance. For she was a vulgar person ; and the taint of but recently made position, of remembrance of Sunderland, and of fear that her own girls would come out before her step-daughter was married, betrayed themselves frequently. " She rode immediately after breakfast." " My cousin, Frank Merreday, turned up from Egypt last night, and borrowed my cob this morning," Mr. Halstead answered. Cross ing over to the back room where Helen was making tea, he sat down on a little lounge beside the table, and as usual said nothing. " Are you going to Mrs. Percy Ives's dance to-night ? " she asked presently. " No." He saw with a satisfaction he did not take the trouble to define that she looked disappointed.

" I thought you were certain to be going there," she said. He looked at her again ; evidently she had been thinking of him. " I refused ; but I wish now that I hadn't." The last words fell gratefully on her ears, but he said nothing more : for a few minutes they sat watching the group in the next room. One or two more people arrived. She gave a panting old lady some tea, and thought that it was absurd to expect Mr. Halstead to be so commonplace as to talk. Nevertheless he did presently condescend to speak. " I hope you will enjoy your dance," he said. " I am going with Benfield to the Royal Society, and afterwards home to do a quiet bit of work." She clasped her hands, and her pretty eyes filled with something that for the life of him he could not help thinking was admiration. Was it admiration of him ?

" Oh — but then, you are very clever. The Royal Society always sounds like the seventh heaven of intellect. What will you do there ? " " I am not a Fellow, only an impostor who is going in with Benfield, so I shall do no thing." " I would give anything to go just once in my life to an intellectual place like that." " I'll take you some day — if you like." He said the last words almost in a whisper. " There is a ladies' night once a year, and they are kind enough to send me an invitation." " Will you ? " and she blushed. She could not help it, for she knew that her step-mother was dying to get her married, and every day for the last week the merits of the man before her had been set forth. She liked him, too ; he was so silent and kind, so learned and gentle. She was inclined to think that to marry him would be a beautiful and dignified fate with which she could be very content indeed.

Perhaps she was in love with him. She had had no ex perience, and could not be sure ; but she was sophisticated enough to feel that there might be a certain significance in his remark. He saw the blush, and wondered. He liked her : he had thought of her constantly since the night of the Halkin Street dance. He had also thought of matrimony, but there was a certain hesitation in his nature. Moreover, though it was ridiculous, he was horribly afraid of her. Nineteen and a half, a sweet flushed face, blue eyes and brown hair, a little grey dress and gold bangles, a slim waist and a bunch of honeysuckle tucked into her belt, and he was more disconcerted than he would have been by a whole court full of British public, judge and jury ; or by an election mob, and the fact that he himself was on the hustings.

It was no good, he could not get on with women. Let it be said at once that he had never tried. He had once made love in a highly platonic manner to a married woman ; or, rather, he had submitted while she made love to him. It had bored him. He had, a little later, entered upon a rather animated corres pondence with the charming widow of a certain eloquent advocate for Woman's Suffrage, and he had been struck with the cleverness of her letters. On one occasion he made up a party for her, and a dinner at Richmond. There was a drive home by moonlight, and he had sat looking extremely poetic and satisfied, while he thought that he would never do anything so tiresome again, and that as soon as he was safe in his study he would have a whisky-ana] .. soda, and read a Maupassant story to pick himself up.

But he was not in the right frame of mind for the story, it would not lay hold of him : he put it down to try a graver book that suggested hard work and made the intellectual world appear the only one worth living for ; and so he found compensation. All of us need occasional compensations. But this girl before him was vastly different from either the wife or widow of his limited sentimental experiences, and he looked at the blush, half puzzled, till it had vanished and left her drooping a little, like a flower in the sunshine. Then, almost without knowing it, he put his hand on hers as she arranged her honeysuckle. " I was thinking yesterday," he said, "that I saw you first at the Academy view a year ago." " I don't remember," she answered. This was not encouraging, and he turned away. But he thought of her all the time as he walked home across the Park.

He felt that she was lonely. She appeared to have no friends of her own age ; he fancied that her step-mother objected to them. She was a clever girl, too, and not a bit strong-minded. He had been struck by her reading and her longings. She had told him that she wanted to travel — longed for it more than for any thing else in the world ; but she had never been out of England. It would be excellent fun, he thought, to take her everywhere, and to show her places for the first time. By Jove ! what wonderful things first times were ; there was nothing in the world like them ; the worst of them was that they never came twice. He stopped at his own door. There was a hansom before it, and while he was fumbling for his latchkey a young man appeared. " You've just turned up in the nick of time," he said to Mr. Halstead.

" I have not a silver coin in my pocket. Lend me ten shillings, old man." " There you are," Mr. Halstead said, leisurely pulling out some change. " Thank you. I am going to dine early at the Ives's. They have a dance afterwards ; by the way, are you going ? " No." " Lucky for you." "Why lucky?" Merreday wrinkled up his forehead, yet laughed as he answered, — " The luck is always in the thing undone or out of reach — at least to me. By the way," he went on in a boisterous voice, as if a spell of happiness had suddenly flashed upon him, " I have borrowed your latchkey. It will be a glorious dance. She is a wonderful woman. See you in the morning," and he drove off.

Chapter II Chapter II

MRS. PERCY IVES lived in Hans Place, and was well known to that section of society that likes enjoying itself, and shakes its head at too much seriousness in any form. She was bright and clever in a social sense, and not in the least intellectual, for which her husband was devoutly thankful. The world was a pleasant place to her, and she tried to make other people think it one. She especially took an interest in their sentimental affairs, which she knew more about than they did themselves, probably because she generally managed to take a fairer view of them. Women trusted her, which was remarkable, and men liked her. As a rule, the latter fell in love with her when they first knew her ; but when they realised that— though she listened to them with a charming expression on her well-bred face, sighed at precisely the right moment, and had even gone so far as to allow her hand to be held for five consecutive minutes — she never went any farther, and, moreover, treasured up everything they said to regale her husband on afterwards, they drew back.

They thought her most sensible and charming, but they did not care to provide amusement a trois. Very young men were often quite desperate about her for a fortnight, and when, on her own advice, .she was replaced by somebody else, they invariably told her all about it, and before they married asked leave to bring their future wives to see her. Her husband adored her, and as she had not the least objection to his flirting with other women, why, he only did it occasionally, and found that it helped to strengthen his conviction that his own wife was nicer than any other man's. He was not handsome, but he was impressive in his way, big, tall, and fat, slow of movement, and, like Mr. Halstead, rather scanty of speech. His wife called him a dear, sweet, beloved boy when she was pleased with him.

The dear sweet beloved boy was three-and-thirty, but that was a detail. He was secretly troubled at his increasing fatness, but she adroitly assured him that she liked it, "for you are a good old darling," she explained, " and the more room good things take up in the world the better. I hope you will grow big, and big, and bigger, till the other people are afraid of falling over the edge." He hoped he wouldn't himself, but he didn't say so, for he made a point of never disturbing her ambitions if he could help it. " How is Merreday ? " he asked, as they waited for dinner on the evening of their dance. " I am sorry I missed him this morning." " He's as charming as ever, and as great a demon." " How do you know that ? " "It's evident the moment he speaks; it is in his eyes. He is a strange boy.

No human being knows what he will do next, least of all does he know himself." ' Is he devoted to you still ? " ' Deeply, of course." "Sensible man," sighed Mr. Ives. "And as envious as ever of Laurence Halstead?" " Quite. It's odd, but he seems to want everything that is his. He is still indignant with the uncle who left him five thousand pounds some time ago, and Mr. Halstead twenty." " There's a difference, of course. When are we going to have dinner ? " " Directly. We are only waiting for him." " I wish he'd come, then. Oh, here he is. How do you do, Merreday ? Glad to see you back again. The wife has been pining for you, as usual. Is that magnificent bouquet for me?" " I hoped Mrs. Ives would accept it," Merreday said, offering it to her. "You are an angel," she laughed, "though no one would suspect it."

"You are really a looking-glass, and she mistakes her own reflection for you," Mr. Ives said slowly, enormously pleased with his own elaborate joke. Mrs. Ives took a moment to consider it. " I understand. I see it. Frank, isn't he adorable ? " " Do you still like compliments from your own husband ?" Merreday asked incredulously. " Love them. They are unique ; so few women get them. By the way, I have found an heiress for you, with ten thousand a year — an Australian, and not at all bad-looking." Merreday shook his head. " No, thank you, freedom is better." He looked at his hostess, and thought how much and for how short a time he had once been in love with her. They dined in the library. The dinner was hurried, and they were almost silent, for they felt the responsibility of the coming dance.

When it was over Mr. Ives went out to see to the illuminations. The house stood in a corner, and the drawing-room, on the ground-floor, opened on to a garden shaped like an open fan, an excellent place to saunter out to on a summer night. The demon, as she called him, walked up and down the white floor with Mrs. Ives. The candles had not burnt up, the windows were open, the soft twilight swept in, the flowers gave out their sweetest breath. Mrs. Ives and Merreday looked at themselves now and then as they passed a leaf-framed looking-glass. She was a little taller than he, a pretty, happy looking woman, somewhere between twenty seven and thirty. Her features were well cut, her head well poised, her arms perfect. He was dark, pale, slim, and compact looking, keen of expression and quick in his movements ; his eyes were dark, his hair black, his smile did not come often, but when it did, though it was small in circumference, and left his eyes grave, it lighted up the whole of his face.

His mouth was firm and well cut, and not hidden by the short black moustache above it ; his teeth were a little irregular, and he had a trick of grinding them if he were angry or impatient. But, as a whole, the face was a good one, and into his eyes there could come, now and again, compassion and tenderness, and into his voice tones that women loved, and that made men, often against their will, his friends. He had a happy laugh, and inex haustible spirits. Mrs. Ives always declared that when she wanted to enjoy herself there was no one like him ; he had the power of abandoning himself absolutely to the humour of the moment. Some one once asked her whether, if she had a grown-up daughter, she would let her marry Merreday. She laughed, and said, " Oh no ; for though for a twelve month perhaps he would be the most devoted and delightful lover on earth, afterwards — why, afterwards he might simply forget that she even existed, he is so strange.

But then he is a demon." Perhaps he was, or perhaps he occasionally gave up the reins, with which he drove himself, to one, and enjoyed the whirl that followed, till he stopped to look round with a face grown grave and a voice that had a world of remembrance in it — God knew of what — and eyes that seemed to comprehend the sorrow and loneliness and pain of every human being. His face looked tired to-night ; there was a half-rueful expression upon it, a little surprise, as if he had expected something better of life than it had given him yet. He looked out absently at the lamps beginning to twinkle in the garden : he listened to the musicians settling themselves in the alcove, hidden by palms : they were beginning to tune up. There was a great white cockle-shell hanging low, by blue strings, from one of the palms.