Lord Hever. A novel

Front matter

a LORD H EVER Lord Hever a Bom. BY PERCY HULBURD, Author of "In Black and IVhite," " The Romance of Shere Mote," etc. "And all was conscience and tendre hearte." In Two Volumes. Vol. II. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, PUBLISHERS in ORDINARY to HER MAJESTY. (A/I rights reserved?) 1896. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. chapter page I. Father and Son ... ... ... i II. Bexhill's Grievance ... ... 12 III. Mrs. Lambarde Smith's Grievance ... 21 IV. Mr. Poole goes forth to Curse 36 V. At First Sight ... ... ... 57 VI. Whom God hath Joined ... 76 VII. The Mask of Comedy ... ... 86 VIII. Peace ... ... ... ... no IX. A Case of Conscience ... ... 115 X. Monkery ... ... ... 127 XL A Parish Council ... ... ... 134 XII. Hedge-row and Highway ... 155 XIII. Bexhill invokes the Law ... ... 170 XIV. Bexhill consults the Sibyl ...

Contents. VI chapter page XV. Bexhill's Diplomacy ... ... 198 XVI. Fidelia's Duty ... ... ... 214 XVII. Winifred's Vow ... ... ... 225 XVIII. The Drawing-room Meeting ... 241 XIX. The Logic of the Divorce Laws ... 258 XX. With the Guns ... ... 278 XXI. "The Stars in their Courses'' ... 290 XXII. The Last Act ... ... ... 307 XXIII. True Knowledge and Understanding 315 XXIV. The Everlasting Silence ... 327 XXV. The Spy ... ... ... ... 33S XXVI. At Last ... ... ...

Chapter I. Father And Son

|fS HEN Wyatt left him, Hever had to give ssi_____i an hour or so to Mr. Driffle, who re quired instructions as to various matters of correspondence and accounts. Mr. Driffle proving rather more deaf than usual, and especially indignant if his mistakes were even inferentially attributed to that defect, Hever found business decidedly wearying. Though he manifested few outward signs of exhaustion, it was none the less true that the anxiety of the last few years had tried his constitution. With a nature that expended so much energy on the interests of others, and that felt so vol. ii. keenly every experience of life, it was in evitable that heart and brain should begin to show symptoms of fatigue. Nevertheless, it was with a light step and a bright smile that he forced himself to enter his son's room for their afternoon interview.

Monia was sitting by the boy's couch, but she rose at her father's entrance, and, with one quick glance into his eyes, as if to pierce behind the smile upon his face, she made a slight inclination of the head to him and moved away. Hever caught her by her little pointed chin, and, holding her face up towards him, nodded gravely down at her, and then stooped and kissed her. After this silent reference to their compact of that morning, he let her go. He took the vacant seat beside "the Master," and placed his hand in his. The boy smiled up at him, and they remained silent for a space. Ernest was in a gentle mood. Presently he raised his thin hand, and, just touching his father's dark brown beard, said — "Well, Hever Ahenobarbus, have you nothing to tell me ? " Hever threw back his head and crossed his legs, with something like a sigh.

" Tell me something instead, Ernest, while I arrange my reminiscences." Ernest's keen perceptions probably detected a real weariness behind his father's words. "Very well," he answered. " I am feeling happy — for me — so I will talk to you a little, while you rest. Do you know, I am really very fond of Monia ! Now, don't you dare to talk to me about relationship ! You know I always rebel against coercion. I am quite at liberty to detest her if I like, but I don't ; and that's the beauty of my affection — it's never ex-ojficio. The little dear has been sitting here for the last hour, taking no notice of my snaps and snarls, and firmly believing that I didn't know all her flattering questions and little timid opinions, and all her dear, silly, childish, wheedling ways were meant to cheer me.

Oh, those dear, sweet women, Hever ! How foolish and how clever they all are ! Of course I saw through her, poor little trans parent impostor ! Sitting up on that high chair, with her hands folded in her lap, and her eyes wide with her terror of tears, as she stumbled tactfully over Epictetus and his lame leg. It was a most unfortunate subject ! All the same, you know, I did rather enjoy expounding philosophy, from Pythagoras up wards, for the little creature's benefit. We are vain, we men, when we know anything, and Monia's as quick as any woman to find it out. Well, well, the dear little saint has cheered me ! " He put out his hand again to his father and smiled. " I ought to be happy and contented, oughtn't I, with you and Monia plotting how to cheer me and hiding both your hearts from me r " You've had Master Danby, too ?

" Hever said presently. "Yes," Ernest answered; "It's a nice boy. He rather depressed me, though, somehow. It affects the dying gladiator to see the ' young barbarians all at play.' Oh, I'm not going to be lugubrious ! ' Man is immortal till his work be done ! ' And my work's not done," he added significantly, looking at his father. Hever understood. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hand on "the Master's" arm. " Give up that idea, old fellow ; you make me quite unhappy ! ' " The Master " caught his breath as if the words pained him. " Don't, don't say that ! " And then, abruptly, " At least, I don't mind what you say. I am going to make you happy, not unhappy ! " " Dear boy, you don't know. You can't understand." " Treason, treason ! " interrupted Ernest. "You know you are not to say I don't under stand things.

It is a direct reference to what we have arranged to consider unutterable! If I were not in excellent spirits " He broke off. Hever was pacing the room, a look of trouble on his face. " Father," said " the Master " appealingly, " look here, I won't leave off, I won't give it up — my idea that is — but I will promise not to speak of it again ! " He held out his thin hand with entreaty. Hever came up to the side of the couch and stood looking fondly down at his son. " No ; you had better know everything, perhaps. I have always trusted you, old fellow. You will help me with your honesty and good sense. We will have no secrets. Well, I have seen Bexhill to-day !" "The Master" muttered something con temptuous. " I have seen Bexhill to-day," Hever repeated, " and he — well, he threatens " " Threatens !

" cried Ernest, angrily, with a bright light in his dark eyes. "He threatens ! " " Listen, listen ! " Hever said calmly. " He talks of taking steps — measures. He is mys terious, but distinctly menacing!" Ernest's eyes grew brighter still " Dear father, you will be brave and strong ! " he begged in sincere emotion, drop ping for an instant the fanciful tone of their intercourse. Hever put a hand on the boy's forehead, pushing back the dark curls, and bent over him. "Yes," he answered gravely; "I shall be brave and strong, Ernest." " For my sake ?" " Yes, and for Lady Bexhill's ! " The boy made a gesture of disappointment, and turned his head wearily on his cushion. "Ah!" he sighed despondingly, "you are wrong, fatally, fantastically wrong. And I, lying here, can do nothing — must almost see your happiness, her happiness, my happiness fade away !

And for what ? For a phantom scruple, and for the good report of people you despise ! Ah, give me one day of health and strength, one day to hold Bexhill under the lash of honour — and I would hew a way through all this petty tangle of fancies, qualms, and fears." " I faced Bexhill a good many years ago," Hever said softly. " I'm not afraid ! " " The Master " turned his eyes lovingly on his father. " Afraid ! No, you are the bravest of the brave. But you are good, and honest, and unselfish. What chance have you and Fidelia with a man like that ? You're hampered with your gentle consciences, and he knows neither scruple nor restraint." " Dear boy," Hever said, sitting down again beside him, " you know I shall act for the best ! " " Yes, the best for others ! " Ernest answered bitterly. " I know the world, old fellow.

You must trust me. There is no bee-line to happiness ! Victory's not won by valour nowadays, but sometimes by that strong-hearted waiting that looks like cowardice." "The Master" was calm again, and only shook his head with a mournful smile. "Who are you encouraging, Hever — me, or yourself? And is there no active heroism, then, in this modern world ?" " The only modern heroism is doing a foolish thing with one's eyes open !" Hever replied. Ernest considered the answer gravely, and then he said — " It is so difficult to know what is really a foolish thing." There was a pause, and then Hever remarked — " Oh, by the way, I have actually done something without your permission." " I don't know about permission," Ernest said with a mock seriousness. " Consent, agreement, concurrence. We are partners, co-heirs, tenants in common of everything I can lay hands on, but you have full right to a half share.

What have you done ? Not given Mrs. Moffatt another cheque, because that I positively oppose ! " " No, no," Hever said, laughing ; " Mrs. Moffatt let me off easily, as far as finance goes. What I have done is to ask Lady Sark to Great Monkery for the summer." " The Master " remained thoughtful an instant, and then smiled quickly. " Excellent ! " he exclaimed, as if fitting the circumstance into some previously arranged plan. "Excellent! It is absolutely necessary there should be a lady at the head of the house." " Then you've no objections ? " " None whatever," the boy answered em phatically ; " besides, I never object to a true Christian, though I am a Pagan." Hever smiled and shook his head. "You see, there is a question of Wyatt's engagement to this Miss Carteret, a cousin of the Bexhills."

" What the girl Leward told us all about this morning ? " " Yes ! Ernest nodded to signify a wide compre hension. Hever gave his son an outline of his last conversation with Wyatt. " If Wyatt goes to Norway, he would like us to have Miss Carteret at Great Monkery, I know, and Lady Sark could receive her." " Her and Fidelia ! " Ernest assented ; and then, quickly, before his father could raise any question, he said, " You haven't seen this young lady of Wyatt's ? " "No. If Wyatt is not back in time, I'm to see her for him this afternoon." " What do you know about her ?" " Very little. You heard what Leward said about her this morning ; and then " " And then ? " " Well — Bexhill spoke about her last night ! " " And what did that evil-minded person say about her ? " " I understood him to say he distrusted her."

Ernest cogitated for a few minutes. " Well, that means, of course, one of two things. Either he dislikes her, and therefore she is nice ; or he does not dislike her, which is most probable, since he says the other thing, and therefore she is horrid." " A great deal may depend on her," Hever said thoughtfully ; " if not our happiness, at least, our peace. Well," he continued, " we must bring her to see you. Perhaps Lady Bexhill will bring her. When do you see Fidelia again ? " " I am to go to Park Lane this evening, for an hour after dinner. Do you want me to see Miss Carteret ?" "You know I always trust you in matters of character. You shall pronounce on this one ! " Ernest smiled. "Very good. I am the augur behind the oracle." Then he added, more gently, " I like to think that what I whisper in your ear goes out to the world through your respected words.

I do some thing, after all ! " "You may do much, Ernest, with a pure heart, and a strong soul ! " Hever was standing up, and they were shaking hands at parting. Their eyes met. After a long glance, Ernest said — " I know — I know. But you are wrong, Hever, quite wrong ! " At that moment a note arrived from Wyatt. It asked Hever briefly to do what had been arranged between them, and afterwards, if possible, to meet him at the station for the boat train.

Chapter II

bexhill's grievance. Tsl EXHILL'S movements, when Hever and ■B" his daughter had left him, had been marked by the peculiar indecision observable in a man who is inclined towards an under taking which he yet instinctively feels to be beyond his strength. He told himself that he was not seriously considering the project slowly forming in his mind. Yet he was in reality weighing probabilities and pondering means with shrewd intentness. For his own part, he felt something more than indifference to equivocal notoriety. Even before Winifred Carteret had stirred him to a new emotion, the nausea of satiety had begun to give way to a craving for any new sensation that would break the colourless monotony of his dull round of daily pleasure. Now, the political necessity of preserving his personal respectability having vanished, a great scandal, with its bracing air of defence, deceit, and counter-vituperation, seemed to his surfeited imagination almost desirable.

The delights of past indulgence seemed faint when contrasted with those he dimly foresaw, if he threw his remaining scruples aside. And what stood in his way ? His wife — her fear of scandal ! As he sat lunching alone in the corner of his club dining-room, his irritation turned against his wife with a new virulence. Of all " the paths that slope the way to crime," of all the easy descents to Avernian abysses, there exists not one on which our foot steps are so irretrievable as that made for us by the "sense of injury." Of all the tarantulas that prick our passions into madness, of all the will-o'-the-wisps that mislead our judgment, not one is so potent as that gall-fed gad-fly we call a grievance. Its poison will distemper the soundest brain, warp the kindest heart, and eat its way through every principle, em bittering every blessing, and darkening every sorrow.

This venomous distilment was seeth ing now in Bexhill's breast. The charge he brought against Fidelia soon extended, from a few special incidents, to the general aspect of her whole conduct towards him. Looked back upon from the point of her childlessness — a fact that seemed likely to limit his dealings with his own property — her attitude from the first had been unsatisfactory. Waxing unjustly judicial as he drank his Sillery, he reviewed, in the light of his present humour, the long-past circumstances of their marriage. The sting of spite with which the young girl's indifference, and her father's rejection of his advances, had nerved his persistent courtship, was still alive after the twenty years. "She never loved me," he pretended to discover ; though this lovelessness on her side had been the basis of their contract.

" She only accepted me because of some lover's quarrel with Hever," he mentally ejaculated ; passing over the fact that she had begged him to release her. And this woman, who had never loved him, who had never attempted to identify herself with his life, whose attitude was indeed a silent protest against his life, was to continue to the end, he supposed, to mar his existence! He was childless, he was, he might say, wifeless ! His own property did not belong to him, was under the constant scrutiny of his heirs-at-law ! Was ever a man so evilly treated ! Creditors and remainder-men would surround his death bed, as they had thronged his path through life, instead of the children he would doubt less have cherished Even in mental soliloquy he did not follow the antithesis to the end. More children than one would perhaps have been a trouble, certainly an expense.

For only one son is necessary to bar an entail ; and — though of course children would have loved, or, at least, respected, or if not respected exactly, certainly feared him — he was not sure whether he would have cared very much for them. Still Fidelia had never borne him a child, so she could plead no excuse in that particular. In this, as in everything else, she had interfered with the full development of his powers of enjoyment. What he principally complained of — and by this time, so far had his grievance usurped the mastery over him, he almost said it aloud — was that Fidelia showed, in her manner towards him, no compunction, no sense of his having much to endure. When he reflected upon the very uncomfortable position he, up to that morning, had occupied with regard to Miss Carteret, he considered that his wife adopted an atti tude which, under the circumstances, was ridiculous.

This was not the first time he, the real sufferer, had been made to appear, or, at least, such was his sensitiveness, to feel, the culprit. He laughed ironically to himself, sitting alone in his secluded corner. No, it was not the first time. She had refused to receive Mrs. Lambarde Smith, a connection, a relation. Had said to him, quietly, obstinately, "I cannot receive her, Reginald!" He remembered her tone as if it were yesterday. The absurdity of it was that she couldn't have really known ! Still, he had not persisted. He had consented to sacrifice an old friend, a relation, at least a relation on the husband's side. And this, he supposed, was to go on. He was always to give way, to be trampled upon, to be robbed of his old friends, to be positively unable to meet his own cousin beneath his own roof, without feeling ill at ease, simply because she was young and beautiful.

The business questions about the property he felt he could bear, even if young Archibald died ; but the question of his personal intercourse with his Cousin Winifred was one on which he told himself he could not, and would not, bear dictation. With a fresh glass of wine in his stiff fingers, he told himself, or his grievance told him that relationship would prove no bar to his wife's interference. Oh no, this new friendship would be " hunted down " like the other. Innocence was no protection, because, damn it, he could not believe she had ever really known about Mrs. Lambarde Smith ! Of course there was no comparing Winifred Carteret and Mrs. Lambarde. He put down his glass and gazed fixedly at the portrait of Lord John on the wall opposite. What a face, what a figure ! — not Lord John's, but Miss Carteret's. Bah !

He had said the same of hundreds of women, even of Mrs. Lambarde ; but this woman had — damn it, he could not say what ! There was a vitality, a youth, a strength. And what colouring ! No ; frankly, judicially, looking back at all the races and classes of women he had known, he had never felt quite the same attraction. He sighed, leaving his wine untasted. If he were young, or, rather, free — for you can't call fifty-four or five old — if he were free vol. h. An elderly gentleman, hobbling up the room on an ebony crutch, halted beside his table, and, leaning a knuckly hand upon the corner of the white cloth, said laconically — " Do you hear the news about Ettering ? " " No. Is there anything fresh ? " " No, nothing fresh ; only his wife won't stand the old thing any longer, and has applied for a divorce.

The young fool might have done what he liked if he would only have kept decently quiet about it." " That's all very well," Bexhill said testily, "but how's a man to get his freedom, I should like to know, unless he forces his wife to give it him. Tied up for life — it's enough to turn one's blood ! " He filled up his glass in surly silence, under his friend's sharp scrutiny. " You mean, unless he can persuade his wife to follow his example," the friend suggested, with a smile. " Oh, then there's some nonsense about col lusion or barring one's right to appeal to the Courts ! " Bexhill muttered. " It's quite time somebody got up and had the whole matter put straight. Upon my word, it's an infernal blot on the judicial administration of the country, and I consider the Government ought to move in the matter !

" The gentleman laughed, and said he didn't know Bexhill took the matter so seriously. " Bring in a Bill yourself, Bexhill," he added, as he hobbled off to another table, where he confided his opinion that Bexhill had got him self into some mess with a woman. Bexhill, left to his grievance, called it to witness that it had really come to this — he had to contrive means to see and converse with members of his own family ! His wife's extraordinary behaviour was calculated to make him feel a criminal in his own house. Very good, he would not sacrifice this friendless young girl, as he had had to sacrifice Mrs. Lambarde Smith. Certainly he had seen Mrs. Lambarde Smith once or twice at her own residence since she had returned to London ; indeed, his intention that morning had been to go and see her again.

She was under an obligation to him — or was it the other way ? Well, she might be of use in the present emergency ; perhaps, even she might like to take charge of Miss Carteret. Why not ? The most natural thing in the world ! Why had it not occurred to him before ? She was almost the girl's relation. She would do almost anything, he believed, to make Fidelia receive her again. He had had enough of this thing, he muttered, as he tossed off the last of his wine — quite enough, if not too much. Mrs. Lambarde should be the friend in need, and if her reward for coming to the rescue meant Fidelia's being made to counte nance her, why — there being nothing now for him to be ashamed of — he felt that he was quite prepared to insist. He had sent for his phaeton to pick him up, and, by this time, it was waiting for him.

As he drove away towards Kensington, his grievance told him that he was quite right to go to Mrs. Lambarde Smith, that, indeed, this was only her due. It also told him he was right to insist on Fidelia's receiving her, and that, this small point conceded, Fidelia would still owe him, and he would still owe himself, a further measure of indemnification.

Chapter III Mrs

LAMBARDE SMITH'S GRIEVANCE. fMlAMBARDE SMITH, a far-away cousin -J-Sl of the family whose name an injudicious mother had chosen for him at baptism, had been in the Civil Service, with a salary which, eked out with some small private means, had enabled him to take a house and a wife, both too expensive for him to adequately keep up. Mrs. Lambarde Smith was beautiful, clever, extravagant, and socially ambitious. People said that her acknowledgment by the Bexhills had turned her head, but that can scarcely have been true, for during five years she made her husband's per annum pass for She certainly made the best of her husband's high connections, for she forced him and her self within the outer edge of their social circle, and her name figured prominently among the inferior fashionables of her time.

Her husband was a fool, at least Lord Bexhill always said so, building castles in the air on a foundation of rout-seats and opera-boxes, and expecting promotion " from the West " to drive up to his house in coroneted broughams. He was the only man to be surprised when, at the end of the five years, the crash came. In reality, it did not actually come, but it hung imminent ; so imminent that Lambarde Smith was forced to recognize it as disaster. He did all he could, but it seemed that all he could have done, had been done long ago by his wife. He appealed then to his only rich relation, Jonathan Smith, of Bermondsey, who was credited with more wealth than he knew what to do with. He exposed his position frankly to this relative, but Jonathan Smith declined to give any assistance "to pay for entertain ments to which he had never been invited."

Lambarde instinctively did not appeal to his " cousin Bexhill " — though he had certainly been an habitue oi the little house in Mayfair — but sat down to await his fate as a ruined man. Then miraculously the cloud lifted. The brokers disappeared, the creditors were silenced, the mortgaged income was redeemed ; his wife recovered from her tragic despair and lapsed into frenzied gaiety. The gossip ceased, or was hushed to whispers, when the nine days' wonder became a solved enigma. Lambarde Smith was, perhaps, the last to solve the enigma ; but, when he slowly unravelled its deadly significance, it awoke him to a burst of fury that cost him his life. He died suddenly, seated in his study, while writing a note to his wife, who, the papers mentioned, " happened to have left the house for a few hours at the time of the sad occurrence."

A week later Jonathan Smith died, leaving the whole of his fortune to the man he had refused to assist in his dire necessity, and Mrs. Lambarde Smith found herself a widow, free of responsibilities, and with an income that placed her almost beyond the vicissitudes of fortune. Many people were surprised that she ap peared broken-hearted, inconsolable. They pointed out that, to the best of wives, so sudden an accession to wealth should be some mitigation of grief at a husband's death ; but there were others who said that perhaps " it came too late," and with this opinion Mrs. Lambarde Smith seemed to agree. The house in Mayfair was given up, and its mistress went abroad. When she returned to London, it was to settle in a neighbourhood removed by caste, more than by mileage, far from the scene where her married life had been spent.

Soon after her return, Lord Bexhill called upon her. The somewhat enigmatical character of the recep tion given him had caused him to repeat the visit from time to time, though at gradually increasing intervals, as the charm of novelty wore off. It happened that the afternoon when he determined to again honour her with his presence was the day especially set apart by Mrs. Lambarde Smith for the reception of her friends, of whom she had collected a certain class around her. It was a class of friends who recognized her as a social superior, and who therefore were less inquisitive as to the past, or were inclined to be impressed by its brilliancy only. It happened also to be the day fixed for a great social function, and, therefore, most of the friends in question had not made an appearance at Mrs. Lambarde Smith's lest it should be too evident they were not invited elsewhere.

Accordingly Mrs. Lambarde Smith was sitting solitary in her drawing-room, an open book on her lap, her arms crossed over her breast, her head sunk in deep reflection. She was a fair beauty, of massive and rather statuesque proportions. A handsome woman still, but with a beauty that impressed rather than attracted ; the hard line of the mouth, the hard angle of the nose, the hard blue eyes, and the harsh, even voice, were all as cold as the metallic shimmer of her grey brocade. " A very striking woman," Johnnie Leward once had said ; " but she strikes you cold ! " Her attitude at this moment was accounted for by the fact that she was practically alone, Miss Worthington, the companion, counting for nothing ; and when alone Mrs. Lambarde Smith was subject to these fits of fierce brood ing, which often lasted for hours.

She, too, had a grievance. So absorbed was she in her thoughts that, when the door opened and Lord Bexhill was announced, she never moved, and seemed only to have connected the spoken words with some imaginary scene she was enacting in her brain. Even Lord Bexhill's greeting to Miss Worthington, and the companion's reply, did not disturb that deep pre-occupation. When at last her visitor stood before her, she seemed to grasp the reality of his presence, and, rising, welcomed him with a curious smile. " I was thinking of you as you were announced." " Pleasantly, I hope ?" he said gallantly. " No, I can't pay you that compliment," she answered, with a cold look in her hard eyes. " Miss Worthington, see to the tea, please, will you ? " she added, as if to divert the con versation. Bexhill, declining tea, accepted a green chartreuse, but remained pensive.