After Baxtow's Death. A novel

Book I

— (continued). BURGOYNE'S MARRIAGE. PAGE CHAPTEE VI. A STEP IN THE WRONG DIP.ECTION . . 3 „ Vn. SAMPSON IS UNSUCCESSFUL .... 12 l'ENTR'aCTE. CORRESPONDENCE ... 28

Chapter I. Marriage Prospects

37 „ ii. Cecil's fortunes 44 ,, IH. FURTHER FORTUNES OF CECIL . . . . 56 „ nr. the product of Sampson's advice . 73 ,, v. PHILIP makes no progress .... 90 .> VI CONTENTS. PAGE

CHAPTER VI.

rosina is theatrical Ill „ VII. MRS. MONTAGUE AS A MORAL AGENT . 126 „ VIII. SAMPSON IS BLINDED 136 ,, ix. Sampson's eyes opened 145 „ x. mrs. Montague's eyes opened . . . 153 „ XI. MRS. MONTAGUE EXPLICIT .... 171 ,, XII. MATTERS GET WORSE 179 „ XIII. DANGER 190 ,, XIV. THE " CALYPSO" 204 „ XV. FLYING FROM DANGER 217 „ XVI. STRANDED 229 „ XVII. IN HARBOUR AFTEE BAXTOW'S DEATH.

BOOK I.

— (continued). BURGOYNE'S MAERIAGE. 1 VOL.

CHAPTER VI.

A STEP IH THE -WRONG DIKECTION. It was the next morning. Isabel Archdale was alone in the old drawing room of Archdale Towers. It was very cold and frosty, and the grounds on which she looked now and then rather abstractedly were white with the Httle snow that had fallen during the night. Lady Archdale, Sir Martin, Mrs. Montague, and Chevalier had gone out some time ago, bent on a brisk constitutional. Ellen Montague was a lady who with an eye to her health took a great deal of exercise ; and since her stay at the Towers had tried, in some cases effectuaUy, to stir up the inhabitants thereof to adopt her views. It was a pleasure for Sir Martin to potter after her, caUing attention now and then to certain beauties in the scene, or to a tree occa sionally, that had girth and age to recommend it.

He was quite charmed with her, more than 1—2 once confidentiaUy remarking to his wife, or Chevalier, " that she was a lady — quite a lady ! " As he was really very poor, and she but partially supplied with the means sufficient for her tastes and inclinations, and both coveted wealth, they could meet and agree on a common ground of discomfort. In these walks, Chevalier took occasion to ratify the contract implied though unexpressed between himself and Mrs. Montague. Rosina had repHed to her mother's letter, after that interview when Edith Baring had given indication at least enough for Rosina to build and speculate upon ; and in this letter she had made some reference to that event. It was however done very kindly ; for the girl's passion was soon over. StiU, enough was said to satisfy EUen Montague.

She told Chevalier what she believed had taken place ; and he explained what Hne he had adopted towards Miss Baring in his interview with her. This morning they left Isabel — quite a merry party — bent on exploring some wood once supposed to have had a good deal of game ; wliich had decreased of late years, from the lowness of the Archdale purse. Isabel was restless. Her eyes wandered over the garden— cold, bright, and frosty — and about an hour after the departure of the rest, PhUip Burgoyne came in. " How early you are back, Mr. Burgoyne ! I really thought you meant your departure yesterday to be final, in spite of what you said." " No, Miss Archdale ; I found all things right at home — and far from lively ; so I came back here as soon as I could." " I " — she hesitated — " I am sure Mamma wiU be glad to see you.

They are all out. Mrs. Montague tried to persuade me to join them ; but I haven't her spirits or her courage. How cold it looks without !" She stirred the fire in the old-fashioned grate, and made the large, heavUy-curtained room glow. A purpose, vague yesterday in Philip's heart, after Edith Baring's refusal of his hand, had grown every hour of the day that now was ; and, as he found himself before Isabel Archdale — who seemed so gracious and so kind, though in a half-proud and distant manner, which indeed added some subtle force to her charms — this purpose seized him immediately, and swept aside aU other considerations by its tyrannous sway. He had been angry, dissatisfied, and im patient; carried on by such a condition of mind, careless, blind to the future, he spoke to Isabel in such a way that his first few words gave indication of what was to come.

Her face only turned a little paler; but there was no anger or distress in it. By this he was encouraged. He hesitated no more, but spoke his mind and hopes fully. When, ten minutes afterwards, Lady Archdale appeared at the window — furred, cloaked, and glowing with so much health as to render unnecessary the artificial means of giving sem blance to this condition — Isabel had promised to be Philip Burgoyne's wife. Lady Archdale in a moment shrewdly guessed what had happened. " Is it really so," she said, " Isabel dear ? Oh, Mr. Burgoyne ! May you both be happy !" Though her worldly hopes were satisfied, she showed some very genuine feeHng. " I can entrust my daughter's happiness to you, in full confidence that you will promote it." Isabel, very pale, soon afterwards left the room. Lady Archdale again offered her con gratulations to Philip Burgoyne ; and was per fectly honest in wishing him all kinds of good things.

All matters considered, it was a relief to him to get away from these congratulations. Wounded pride, disappointment, impatience, had had so much to do with the offer he had made (and love so little), that he had no relish for the expressions of good will of which Lady Archdale was so profuse. So, as soon as he could conveniently do so — without at the same time violating any politeness — he left the room. He had hardly gone before Mrs. Montague and Sir Martin entered. " What a delicious walk ! You, Sir Martin, ought to take one Hke this every day !" " I've a little piece of news to tell you, Sir Martin," said Lady Archdale, before her husband could make any reply to Mrs. Montague. " I interrupted quite a scene as I came in. Isabel has accepted Mr. Burgoyne !" Mrs. Montague, who had taken up a book from the table, turned quickly to Lady Arch dale and almost let the book drop, but said nothing.

" Oh ! oh, indeed !" Sir Martin answered with hesitation — " oh, indeed ! An engagement. Well " A swift look of surprise, anger, and mortifi cation passed over EUen Montague's face ; but she mastered herself soon. So, with aU her diplomacy, it had come to this. She was humiHated — shocked — sUenced . BeUeving what ChevaHer had said of his sister, and placing, as she believed, due value upon that romance of Isabel with CecU Raven haU, of which she had heard from Mr. Archdale, she in no wise apprehended such an issue of events. She had played off Isabel against Edith ; and she knew, to her bitterness, or guessed, with a close approximation to truth, what had happened ; and that she must in a measure thank herself for what Lady Archdale, with such complacency, had just revealed. " My daughter wUl be a neighbour of yours," said Lady Archdale to Mrs. Montague; just then, Chevalier Archdale entered.

" What is that I hear ?" he asked quickly. "And have you been bHnd to everything ?" — Then thinking a little professional allusion might not be inappropriate, — " Man of law as you are, Chevalier, you ought to have your eyes wide open ! Now, descending to facts ; your sister is engaged to be married to your old friend PhUip Burgoyne." " Lady Archdale !" " Yes. Philip." " I " and he almost involuntarUy turned to Mrs. Montague. The discomfiture on her face was very visible to him. " This is very curious. — I never expected it." " You are surely very pleased, Chevalier ?" " Pleased ! scarcely that. Why should I be ? StUl, I suppose the affair is settled, and, so far as I am concerned, there is an end of the matter." He had had too much confidence in the pride of Isabel and in her love for CecU Ravenhall to apprehend this ; and the conviction he had tried, successfully, to force upon Mrs. Montague was always an earnest one.

To have known that Edith Baring was to become PhUip Burgoyne's wife, would have tortured his miserable jealousy. Now he received a severe wound in his pride. He walked about fretfully and moodily. " This is quite absurd, Chevalier," said Lady Archdale. Worldly as she was, she recognised and despised the folly of her son. " I am sure, Mr. Archdale, you must be deHghted, at least in one sense, with the match !" said Mrs. Montague. " No one appre ciates birth more than I do ; still, birth is not everything." " Oh, of course I" he replied, glancing at her and trying to read her meaning. She had arranged for returning to-day, and not long after this disclosure was made, a carriage (a revived but somewhat seedy glory of the Archdales) came round to take her to the station. Chevalier saw her to it, and after Lady Archdale and Sir Martin had taken a most kind farewell of her (the latter expressing his hope that she would visit them on an early day, and not, in his gaUantry, heeding the cold wind as it blew on him standing on the steps of the terrace), had a few words with her, unheard by the others.

" I certainly did not expect this catastrophe, Mrs. Montague." " Nor I. I understand your feelings in the case, Mr. Archdale. I can quite believe that it is galling." " I stiU believe that she cares for CecU RavenhaU, though, poor devU, he has been un lucky enough ! I suppose we must put up with what has happened." "There is no doubt about it, Mr. Archdale, so I fuUy sympathize with you; and I pity that poor Mr. RavenhaU. But this seems to be a case where it is no use complaining." Then the carriage drove away through the snow, and Mrs. Montague reclined back in it, thoughtfully. Though naturaUy hopeful in disposition and with fine powers of intrigue, she could always recognise a case when it was hopeless ; she saw therefore how thoroughly foolish it was of her now to encourage any expectation of winning Philip Burgoyne.

" I must give it up, I see. What has happened I suppose I may consider I have brought about. Rosina must have worked on Edith so as to cause her to refuse him — that's evident — in pique — after which (how do I know that I am not guessing all vaguely ?) he went back to Isabel. I must think of other things." Her courage rose with defeat. " Do these Archdales offer me much ? No, not much. That cold, proud fool, Chevalier, how transparent he is ! Perhaps though they'll yet be back into society. If they do, what then ? I am only tolerated on account of what my famUy is or was. No ! I must not be satisfied with things as they are, — I must cast about. Surely I can do something. I must ! I will!" When she got home, the first person she saw was Rosina, who told her that Mr. Sampson Baring was in the house wishing to see her.

CHAPTER VII. SAMPSON IS UNSUCCESSFUL.

" And you don't think your brother wUl suit, Mr. Baring ?" " I don't, Philip. I am sorry to say this of one who is a wondcrfuUy clever man, and might have made a splendid position. You wont be consulting your interest, nor his." " Mrs. Montague seems to have taken up his case warmly. She has known him a long whUe, I suppose ?" "Yes; I always fancied that he wanted to marry her once, and that for many reasons she objected. You must understand that I am speak ing without any actual knowledge of facts ; but years ago this was a conviction of mine." " Then you advise me not to engage him ?" " Decidedly ; but reluctantly." " My judgment honours your conviction ; but at the same time I should like to do something o for Sampson Baring, and this stewardship would be a help to him." " It would not ; at least, not in the way you suppose.

If he were another man than he is, he might combine a good deal of literary work with at the same time a due attention to the duties of stewardship. But I know him too well to place any hope in the arrangement which your kind heart dictates. He would be idle — dissipated. There would be no spur on him ; he would despise your work. I know how bitterly contemptuous he can be, and then he would shirk it, after having first, by degrees, given up such as he had been used to for years, because of there being no im mediate compulsion to pursue it. I am sorry to speak of Sampson Baring in this way, for he is my brother, and I once hoped great things of him." " Well — I must say no, then, I expect. If it is as you say with Mrs. Montague, I shall be out of her good books. She has written and spoken to me several times upon the subject.

Your brother wUl wonder that I have not repHed sooner. Hang it, Mr. Baring, I've half a mind to follow my own inclination !" " Don't, Philip. And honestly, I speak as much for my brother's sake as for yours." " Very weU — the thing is settled ; I'll write to him at once. How is Edith ?" he added, after a moment's pause. " Quite weU. By the way, I have never offered you my congratulations yet upon your engagement with Miss Archdale." " I'm much obliged," Philip replied, hastily, as he began a letter to Sampson Baring. Cun ningham Baring looked at him scrutinizingly. PhiUp, raising his head, saw that he was being looked at, threw aside his pen and went to the window; turning round suddenly on Baring as Baring was about to leave the room. " Has Edith said anything to you ? No ! I may as well teU you then what has happened.

I wished to make her my wife. To my surprise, at my first words, she turned and refused me angrily. I was hurt — piqued ; and so you can guess the temper with which I proposed to Miss Archdale. Now you know all about it. Although you are the father of the girl that I must think treated me unjustly, you have been my best friend, and I can therefore speak openly to you." " Philip !" " I look forward to making the best of my bargain. I have no great love for Miss Arch dale, but everything is settled. Indeed, I ex pect some of them over to-day, Isabel never having seen this place. As there has been some constraint between us for the last two or three weeks, I thought it right to remove it by telling you this story. Edith was hard, cold, and cruel ; why, heaven knows." " I am glad you have told me this," returned Cunningham Baring.

" Edith has said nothing to me. It can't be helped. But I hope from my heart, PhiUp, you wUl be happy. Perhaps — but it is no use speculating. I should have been proud of you as a son-in-law ; and I should have been bHnd had I not thought you would have been. You may be sure that what Edith did (for I know her so weU) was as much for your happiness as hers. She is so true — so good. Be sure of that." " We shaU always be good friends, Mr. Baring, — you and I, in spite of this." " Always — always ! God bless you, PhUip !" "When the door was closed on Cunningham Baring, PhUip sat down to his letter again ; but he was worried, and thought of other things — looking now and then to his library clock, or from the window down the garden road, where he soon expected to see a carriage bearing some of the famUy of the young lady, and the young lady herself whom he was to marry before many months, or perhaps weeks, had gone over his head.

When he at last sat down to write his reply to Sampson Baring's application for the steward ship, a servant came in and told him that Mr. Sampson Baring himself was without, wishing to see him. Mr. Baring's tall figure then appeared. Sampson soon placed himself, as the servant, at Philip's order, brought in sherry. " I've been rather expecting to hear from you, Mr. Burgoyne," said Baring, as he poured out a glass of sherry and drained it off. " But under aU circumstances, I don't wonder that you have been really too engaged to pay much regard to the business of so insignificant a personage as myself." " I am sorry I did not reply to you before. I was, however, only doing so as you came in." " I hope my application received a favourable hearing," said Mr. Baring, quickly. " Yes ; but — I hardly fancy, Mr. Baring, that you would care for the place."

" I am answered ! I see, Mr. Burgoyne ! Perhaps, all things considered, I should not like the place." " I am really very sorry." " Not any apology is necessary. I, Mr. Bur goyne, have become so used to disappointment, that this has not surprised me much. Still, I confess that I thought you were not entirely wanting in feeling and consideration. I am, I see, mistaken." PhUip had produced a cheque-book and was writing a draft for a very handsome sum, but the offensiveness of the man's tone arrested his free hand — so he tore the cheque up. He was troubled by a good many things, chiefly by the uncertain outlook which surrounded his hastily arranged marriage with Miss Archdale ; and these annoy ances made him inconsiderate. His face flushed angrily. I am sorry to say that aU the real pity he had conceived for the condition of Samp son Baring was swaUowed up in a very different feeling at the angry words of this disappointed gentleman.

" Have you mentioned my application to my brother ?" " Yes." " Ah ! His view — what was it ?" "What mine now is, Mr. Baring — that in every respect you would fail to do justice to the office." This was spoken angrily. PhUip threw aside his pen, and arose. " Exactly. I may then thank that encyclopædia of conscientiousness for the course you have adopted ! Bah ! I can reaUy pity him, Mr. Burgoyne ; there is so Httle in him. And see what a kind position fate has adjudged him. And look at me," and he thundered his hand on the table, " with brains — power — I am not even thought worthy by you of VOL. II. the insignificant office of steward. Good morning l» He had barely opened the door before the lumbering carriage of the Archdales was seen driving up to the front of the house. Only Isabel and Lady Archdale came.

ChevaHer had gone back to his dull London chambers, sullenl\T disgusted with the turn affairs had taken. When he and his sister discussed her forthcoming marriage with Philip Burgoyne he expressed himself in an emphatic, though not loud, manner on what he thought of the arrange ment, not forgetting to make some reference to Cecil Ravenhall. Isabel winced slightly, and then stated her position in a very practical way, without omitting one item to which importance could be attached. She did not profess that she had become in different to CecU, but showed her brother how hopeless it was of her to encourage any serious regard, at least so as to interfere with more useful arrangements, or to believe that he would ever arise out of that social and moral slough m m o in which he had now sunk. How hardened, and yet how reckless she had become was shown by the manner in which she listened to Chevalier, and by the way in which she spoke to him afterwards.

Chevalier did not, and could not, pretend to feel moved by any enthusiasm on Cecil Ravenhall's probable regeneration; and so far as the handsome scapegrace was concerned, admitted reluctantly that his sister was in a measure right in the deci sion to which she had come. No lofty or catholic benevolence made him adhere to the cause of Ra venhall, but family pride, and a concentrated pre judice which his narrow heart made dishonourable to that aristocratic spirit in which he rejoiced. It is easy, therefore, to judge how gaUing was this prospective marriage of his sister with PhUip Burgoyne. He could not be blind to the pecuniary advantages which would probably arise to his family (for PhUip was as liberal as he was rich, and was hated cordially by his old school fellow on both accounts) ; but he was none the less opposed to the marriage, and antedated his intended return by some days, to save an excuse for his not accompanying his sister on her visit to that house over which she would preside in due course as mistress.

Isabel Archdale, accompanied by her mother and PhUip, went from room to room, from gaUery to gallery. It would have been strange ff the girl's heart had not been elated by the thought that all this would soon be hers. Lady Archdale was in ecstasies. Isabel was full of praises and thankfulness to her lover, but within she was distressed. After inspecting the interior 2—2 of the house, Philip proposed that they should go round the gardens. The frost of a few days since had broken up, and there was almost warmth, as they stepped out into the garden, although the month was December. Isabel and Philip wandered on in front until they came to a retired part, only separated by a slight shrubbery from the road. Such a sweet view of the valley could be obtained here, that Isabel burst into a cry of genuine pleasure.

A seat was placed here, and she sat down. " Where is Mamma ?" she cried ; " she ought to see this." " I fancy some winter beds attracted ber, as she strolled off just where they begun." " Do go and bring her, PhUip." So PhiUp Burgoyne disappeared, and Isabel sat alone looking over the pleasant valley. In a minute she heard a movement in the shrubbery, and turned quickly to ascertain the cause. " CecU \" " Yes ; I knew it was your voice, as I was passing !" " What brought you here ?" '" M^ny reasons. Curiosity to see the man you are going to marry, and a desire to have, if possible, a few words with you. I dare not show myself at Archdale Towers. I saw Chevalier last night, who told me you were coming over here to-day ; so I determined to come too." " If Mr. Burgoyne should come !" she said, looking frightened up the long path which Philip had taken to see after Lady Archdale.

" CecU, you should not have come." " Do you love this man ?" " He is so kind — so good " " Isabel ; you don't answer my question." " I — I can't ! Oh, Cecil, forgive me — forgive me ; I have had such bitter days." " I daresay ; and so have I ! I have been going down hUl, as you can see. But I love you, Isabel, for all that, and always shaU, however miserable I become. How beautiful you look ! Kiss me, Isabel." He had advanced; but she put her hands out. " No, no ! We must forget the past." " Forget ! I teU you I am ruined through you ; or rather through your mother ! If we had married, everything would have been different with me ; for I was not whoUy bad, Isabel ! In deed I was not. What wiU happen now, I don't know." " Oh, you must not say that, for my sake ! Oh, CecU Hark !" " There's no one !

I couldn't help trying to see you again before you married. I suppose that event wiU soon come off. You can't well ask me to the ceremony, of course. Oh ! there's some one at last ! Good-bye, Isabel ! Think of me sometimes ; I shaU of you always — come what will !" " Go, Cecil, go !" she said in a whisper ; and Ravenhall, after pressing her hands, dashed through the shrubbery, and leaped the hedge that divided the grounds from the road leading to Colne-in-the-Valley. He had hardly disappeared before PhUip returned witb Lady Archdale. Lady Archdale saw no traces of her daughter's quickly-mastered emotion as she rejoined her. " Isn't it delightful, Isabel ?" she asked, as she glanced over the vaUey. "Very." " The land is very productive — eh, Mr. Burgoyne ?" And Lady Archdale turned to her prospective son-in-law.

" Yes ! At least I hope so — as I have spent a good deal of money in the purchase of much that you see here." They were so standing that he could easily see the pretty house where Cunningham Baring lived ; and he thought of the old times when he was a lad there ; and of the times, closer to thc day now present, when he had hoped that Edith might be his wife ; of her cruel and inexplicable refusal; of the disappointment to his yet un tried, yet hasty temper ; and of being hurried, in consequence, into that act which made the beautiful and haughty girl at his side, his wife elect ! Before the afternoon closed, the Archdale carriage lumbered away from the door of Colne Hall. PhUip saw it disappear with coldness — with indifference. Isabel's beautiful face was bent upon him as she went away, but its smUes were almost as false as the spirits with which his fareweU words were spoken.

"Are you in favour of long engagements, Mr. Burgoyne ?" Lady Archdale had said, when she was alone for a few moments with PhiUp, before the departure of her and her daughter. " No. I think they are very foolish." "So do I ! Then— then — in the case of you and Isabel, we wUl not protract matters?" This was said interrogatively; but with a pleasant spirit of patronage. " Certainly not, Lady Archdale." Cecil RavenhaU had not left the grounds of Colne Hall long on his way to the vUlage, when the figure of Sampson Baring was seen emerging from the little garden of Mrs. Montague's house. He hurried on; and Sampson hearing steps behind him, turned. " What, Captain RavenhaU, you here ?" " Yes, Sampson." " What is your errand ?" CecU explained his business as fully as he thought necessary. " Oh, oh, young friend !

Daring intruder upon those lordly grounds ! That young grocer is a lucky fellow, eh ?" " Yes !" And Cecil Ravenhall emphasized his answer by an oath. " And how are things going with you ?" asked Sampson, linking his arm in that of the other. " Bad enough, in all conscience. You must know that, Sampson. I've even lost my usual luck at billiards." " Poor devU ! at the green table thou wast erst successful." "Give up this confounded blank verse, Sampson, and speak ordinary sense. I've lost everywhere. I couldn't lay large sums last year ; but it didn't matter. However big or however small the stake, I was the loser." " The aunt — how is she ?" " Seedy in health — bad in temper." " As she's ancient, she'll soon terminate ; and I lay a big wager that you get her money. Then, CecU Ravenhall, the world wUl be your own again.

Excuse this rubbish. I've been doing a strong play for an East-end theatre, and its phraseology wiU cling to me. In the vaUey there is a snug hostelrie. ShaU we favour it?" " Anything you like." They walked down to the vaUey chatting, and Sampson Baring, as he saw the sign of the Swan swinging invitingly from the waUs of a pleasant viUage inn, clapped his companion on the back, and cried — " Good friend, there's luck in store for you. I see it coming. Your aunt will remember you in her wUl. Go to her. Let her not be un gracious. And when you have made things square, come to your old friend. You have taken my advice before, eh? and done well by it." " Once or twice !" repHed CecU, in a surly tone. " You are angry. I don't wonder. Poor boy ! And you have loved this girl — this Arch dale — so long ?

She doesn't care for Burgoyne, of course. I'm glad on't. What ho ! By Jove, these people wiU think I am mad if I adopt this stage language. So we'll go in and have a chop, and talk sense. Never mind Isabel A_rchdale. Neither you nor I have cause to thank the women; our coats are seedy — that is, mine is ; and yours, Cecil Ravenhall, has not the gloss of former days, before Moses PhiUips made you sell out. Can we then expect favour from haughty women's eyes ? We'll drink to PhUip Burgoyne's future." " I don't wish — and I don't believe it will be a happy one," said Cecil, savagely, as Sampson opened the door of the little vUlage inn, letting out into the street a perfect glow of light and warmth, which as they entered and closed the doors upon themselves, soon dissolved. When the winter was verging upon spring, the bells of Colne-in-the- VaUey and Colne-on the-Hill one day burst into a merry peal, pro claiming to the neighbourhood that Philip Bur goyne had married Isabel Frances, daughter of Sir Martin and Lady Archdale.