The Touchstone of Life

Front matter

FIFTH EDITION. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. A NEW NOTE. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt 2/6. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. Daily Telegraph. "The writer's uncommunicativeness respecting his or her name will excite a good deal of public curiosity, for the book is a really remarkable one, of high literary quality, replete with strong human interest, and displaying masterly ability. Widespread popularity awaits 'A New Note*. Ere long everybody who is anybody will read it." Manchester Guardian. "Its merits are far above the average, the characters are admirably drawn, they are living people, and stand out in solid relief amid the shadowy unsubstantial hosts that people the pages of most modern fiction. The authoress has knowledge of the human heart. There is much clever ness and power in the book." Saturday Review. "A promising story; the verdict on this new writer must be decidedly favourable."

Guardian. "It is of an uncommon power and breadth, rare and vivacious humour. Its incidents and ' mise-en-scene ' are decidedly fresh, and the conver sations brisk and to the point." Athenæum. " This cleverly written novel. . . The book is written with considerable alertness of style, and the sketches of the old maiden aunt and half a dozen other minor characters are touched off with no httle skill and humour." Morning Post. "Its crisply rounded phrases, bright dialogues, and general knowledge of the world might be envied by many a practised writer. The book is a novelty in the best sense of the term, vivacious and refined." Academy. "The note in the book is struck well, and with a purpose — delicate insight into shades of feeling and certain hold of human nature. The characters the author has made her own she has made a distinct success."

Speaker. "There is undoubted ability in 'A New Note'. The author is clever and can write well; she can also draw accurate sketches of the better side of social life." London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 34, Paternoster Row. SECOND EDITION. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. A PITIFUL PASSION. In crown 8vo, cloth gilt 6/-. A FEW PRESS OPINIONS. Scotsman. "Exceedingly well drawn characters. Interest at no stage flags in any way, and there are several pleasing developments. The literary workmanship of the story is exceedingly good." Daily Chronicle. "The story is interesting, full of a sort of tragic pathos. There are one or two very painful scenes in the book, but they are powerful as well as painful. Miss MACMAHON'S work has distinctly improved." Freeman's Journal. " The book fulfils the promise of the author's former work and must be regarded as one of the few undoubted successes of the publishing season.

Chapter I

The train from Cambridge ran into Liverpool Street Station, and a young man jumped out on the platform from a first-class carriage. Seventeen years ago — for what happened on this especial day took place seventeen years ago — a young man who was an undergraduate of the Uni versity of Cambridge, whose College was Trinity, and whose annual allowance of money was sufficient to place him in a good set, travelled first class, as much as a matter of course as in these days Heads of Houses and other superb personages have been known to travel third. It was the first week in July and the young man in question — who by the way was no longer an undergraduate since he had obtained a second class in the Historical Tripos a few weeks before — had travelled up from Cambridge without encountering any person of his acquaintance; an incident which did not greatly trouble him, as his thoughts were quite sufficient to keep him busy and to invest his solitude with an interest that would have rendered the society of a companion rather undesirable than otherwise.

It was his twenty-second birthday, and it was, he knew, destined to mark the beginning of a fresh epoch in his life, although the precise nature of the reasons why his life should enter upon it were not known to him yet. Nevertheless he knew that the ensuing hours would explain much. He ran down into Bishopsgate Street and hailing a hansom gave the driver an address in Lincoln's Inn Fields. The rapidity and directness with which he made his way through the crowds that filled the great terminus, as well as a certain assurance of manner and bearing, were noticeable and markedly characteristic in so young a man. As he stood for a moment on the pavement awaiting the hansom that crossed the street in answer to his summons, he looked a very favourable specimen of the English man which the public schools and the Universities turn out by the hundred every year.

Well-built, well-dressed, pre-eminently clean looking, even for a class so proverbially clean as that to which he belonged, there was about Ivor Clay already, a touch of that distinction which differentiates one man literally from among thousands of his fellows ; a touch in truth of that quality which leads the ob server of character to unhesitatingly predict that its possessor may one day do great things, that he will at the very least, wherever his walk in life should happen to be, lift himself out of the ruck of those who share with him the same calling, or enjoy similar advantages. Apart from this, Ivor Clay looked what he was, a young English gentleman who up to the present had been content to take life very much as he found it, and who had found it "fairly jolly," all things considered.

He stretched himself comfortably in a corner of the hansom, with the result that the back cushions of the latter tipped his straw hat a good deal over his eyes. It was very early in the day, and he was only in town for a few hours, so that his dress did not so rigidly conform to the standard which town requires of a gentleman as might have been expected — especially seventeen years ago, when a straw hat in Piccadilly, even in July, and in the morning, was sufficient to confer upon the wearer the sign manual of eccentricity. All the same Ivor Clay's blue serge suit and straw hat failed to disturb the accurate conventionality to which the man's whole appearance conformed: a conventionality the more agreeable, in that there was nothing wooden about it. Arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields the cab drew up before a hall door bearing a large brass plate that proclaimed to all whom it might concern that " Messrs. Tilson, Staters, and Claim, Solicitors, " dwelt within.

It was evident that Ivor Clay was expected, for an elderly shabby clerk immediately passed on Mr. Clay to the care of a young and dapper clerk, who in his turn handed the visitor over to the tender mercies of a young gentleman, whose bearing clearly marked him as "articled," and who finally ushered the new-comer into the presence of Mr. Tilson, the senior partner and most active member of the firm. Mr. Tilson's greeting differed in some respects from what under the circumstances might have been expected. He stood up and stretching out one hand drew his visitor close beside him while he laid the other hand on the younger man's shoulder and uttered a few words of warm affection. The younger man's demeanour in response to this, was too, more that of a son to a father than of a client to his lawyer.

Nevertheless, Mr. Tilson was not Ivor Clay's father; he was simply Ivor Clay's man of business. But he was also his guardian and trustee. " Sit down, " he said, pushing the young man into a leather arm-chair, while he stood for a second beside him, " and let me offer you a glass of sherry and a biscuit, or a sherry and seltzer, eh ? " The young man declared without hesitation for a sherry and biscuit. He knew Mr. Tilson's brown sherry far too well to desecrate it with selzer-water, and said so, pleasantly. The elder man smiled. Even the articled clerks knew that the way to " bamboozle the 'boss ' " was to allude judiciously to the merits of the Tilson cellar. Mr. Tilson rang for glasses and seated himself deliberately in his swivel chair before his writing table, from whence he bestowed more than one glance of affectionate approval at the strong young form that filled up the leather arm-chair facing him.

Ivor Clay had taken off the straw hat and had flung it carelessly on the lid of a tin box that stood next the wall close to his hand. Evidently Ivor Clay was very much at home here. Mr. Tilson's eyes glanced from the straw hat with the gay college ribbon, where it lay on the lid of the big tin box, and then back again to the face of the owner of the hat. The face was a healthy one, pleasantly sun-burnt as that of a young English gentleman is bound to be, and indicative even at first sight of good temper and a disposition in which generosity was not wanting. That, however, which gained for it a second glance from thoughtful or observant persons, was its indication of nascent strength and power, unusually developed in a man of his age. Broad across the brow, and almost equally so at the base, contour and expression alike betrayed these.

It was not highly intellectual, but it was extremely intelligent. It was the face of the man of action, to whom deeds rather than ideas are the moving force of things. The features were not remarkable in any way, with the exception of the mouth, and this merely because in the moulding of the latter there was a slight contradiction to the prevailing type in the remainder of the face. It was at once harder and kindlier than might have been expected. But its owner was still a very young man, too young to predicate with any degree of cer tainty the possible qualities it might cover. Deprived of his hat, his head showed that it was of the square-shaped type, wide over the ears, and full at the back ; essentially, like the face, the head of the man of action. The hair which was very fair, quite flaxen in hue, covered the skull well, while it had a tendency to fall over the forehead in a manner that displeased the owner of it, who brushed it with a diligence that kept it smooth and neat, although it failed to conquer the peculiarity in question.

At this particular moment, the removal of his hat had sent one thick strand down over Ivor Clay's right eyebrow. Almost all through the subsequent conversation, Ivor Clay's right hand was trying to smooth that particular lock back again to its proper place. Mr. Tilson looked at his visitor with the air of one who had scarcely decided even yet how he was going to begin what he had to say. In the end he began with a remark, quite superfluous, and hardly pertinent to the subject that was to follow. " So you have got your degree ? " he said slowly. "Yes," said Ivor Clay. " I congratulate you. " The younger man's face clouded slightly. " Only a second class, dash it ! " he observed ; ■ and by a regular squeak, confound it!" He raised him self in his chair, as his right hand pushed up that troublesome hair with a sort of firm impatience.

"It's odd, isn't it? I just missed a first class, and I just missed my 'Blue'." " Eh, I beg your pardon, your all — ?" Mr. Tilson was not a University man. "My Blue," repeated the younger man with a smile, "my place in the Eight, the 'Varsity boat race, you know." "Oh, ah yes, to be sure," said Mr. Tilson, who didn't know very much about it. "Yes," pursued the other; "but," he smiled, " that is not beyond recall. You see, my stroke was all right, it was only a question of weight, and that can and must be remedied, so if I stay up another year and train I'm pretty certain to be all right." " Ah yes, to be sure," Mr. Tilson interposed promptly. " With regard to staying up as you call it, that is what I want to talk to you about, at least" — he corrected himself with an exactitude in keeping with the neat rows of documents tied and ticketed on the table before him — "that is one of the subjects of which I wish to speak this morning, your project of remaining at Cambridge for another year in order to study Law.

May I ask if you still adhere to that?" "What? stay up and read Law? Well, yes, I suppose so." " Then you still think of the Bar as your future profession ? " " I suppose so, " said the younger man again. A pale faint smile crossed Mr. Tilson's iron grey face. " It's as good as there is," continued his companion lazily, " at least it will lead me to what I want," and it was noticeable that in the latter half of the sentence the laziness disappeared totally from the speaker's accents. Mr. Tilson watching him felt his gaze irresistibly drawn from the fair determined face to the spot where the straw hat was lying. With a little ges ture of restless incertitude very foreign to his usual complete composure, Mr. Tilson pointed to the big black tin box standing at the young man's right hand. "Do you see that box?" he asked abruptly, and he cleared his throat after he had spoken as if he felt something impeding his utterance.

Ivor Clay turned his head carelessly. "Which one?" he exclaimed. "This?" tapping, not the box, but the crown of his own hat as it lay on the lid— and the question was not altogether unnecessary, for the room was lined with similar tin boxes of varying sizes. Mr. Tilson nodded. " Read the name on it." Ivor Clay leaned over in his chair and read aloud the words painted boldly in yellow letters: EARL OF SITHRINGTON. There was a moment's pause. Mr. Tilson took a large white silk pocket-handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his coat and began polishing his glasses. " Is the name familiar to you ? " he asked the young man in the leather chair. "Never heard it before in my life, to my know ledge," was the answer. Mr. Tilson dropped his glasses with a clatter on the table. " You are Lord Sithrington's eldest son, " he said curtly, and again he cleared his throat as if something was choking him.

Ivor Clay sat bolt upright, his arms resting heavily on the leather arms of the chair. " Me ! " he exclaimed. " But you have always said my father was dead." " So he is, " returned the other. " Then " — Ivor Clay laughed, but a dim red colour stole over his face up to the roots of his fair hair, and his eyes fixed themselves on the staring yellow letters shining in the oasis of black tin, — "I suppose I'm the Earl of Sithrington ? " "No." CHAPTER H. " No ! " Ivor Clay sprang from his chair. The elder man raised his hand. "Sit down," he said quietly, " sit down and hear the whole story. It is time you should know it." Ivor Clay sank into the leather arm-chair once more, but the flush of colour still lingered in his face and he stared at his friend and guardian steadily, with a straight, unwavering scrutiny characteristic of him.

Seen thus, all the hardness in his face became visible to a remarkable degree, from beneath the easy kindliness that was its habitual expression. Mr. Tilson let his glasses fall from his nose, sat back in his swivel chair, and folding his hands one over the other returned the steady stare of his client by a scrutiny equally steady, but more intent and observant. " Your father, " he began deliberately, noticing the while the tightening of the other's lips at the sound of the words, " your father at the time of his death left it to my discretion to fix the precise date at which you were to hear this story: merely expressing a wish that you should not hear it until KO you were at least twenty-one years old. I have postponed it, as you will perceive, for a year subse quent to that event, because I did not wish to dis turb your mind during the final year of your Uni versity course, and also because I was anxious to see how that course would end.

It has ended very creditably, very creditably indeed." Mr. Tilson spoke with somewhat stilted precision, but the tone of his voice made ample amends for the moderation of his words — "And now, before we go further, and before you finally decide upon your future walk in life and enter upon it, it is right that you should know how you stand." Mr. Tilson paused for a moment. When he resumed, his accents were drier, more entirely business like than they had been yet. " For three generations the Sithrington family have been clients of ours; and when the late lord came to the title, which he did while still a very young man, he honoured my father with a confidence perhaps more than common in such connections. Lord Sithrington, your father, married twice. The first marriage was singularly unfortunate, through no fault on either side, but because a few months after her marriage Lady Sithrington unhappily became insane.

At first it was hoped that care and gentle ness combined with adequate treatment would effect a cure, and that such could be carried out at home. With this end in view, and in accordance with the best medical advice, a young lady was engaged as companion to Lady Sithrington. Nothing, I believe, could exceed the kindness and attention which the young lady in question brought to her sad task. But unhappily nothing that was done proved ofthe slightest avail. Lady Sithrington became steadily worse, until at the end of a year the physicians were unanimous in their opinion that she should be removed from home. To this her husband was in the end compelled to consent, with the result that his home was practically broken up. Meantime, however, an attachment had sprung up between Lord Sithrington and the young lady just mentioned.

You will clearly understand that in this further un happy complication both parties, namely Lord Sithrington and the young lady, behaved with honour and self-respect. Nor was it until his wife's malady was declared quite hopeless and his domestic happiness entirely at an end, that Lord Sithrington was betrayed into an avowal of those feelings which for a considerable time had taken possession of his heart. I cannot tell you" — Mr. Tilson cleared his throat, " what arguments he used, but from what I know of one of the actors concerned, I imagine that his misery and suffering would have been, without any other plea, his strongest passport to her favour and regard— but ultimately he persuaded this lady to go abroad with him, and they lived very quietly, and— very happily I believe, for upwards of two years.

" They were deeply and devotedly attached to one another, and Lord Sithrington plainly declared his intention of making the lady his wife, should the opportunity of doing so arise— which did not seem likely, as his wife although hopelessly mad enjoyed good health physically. But, at the end of two years Lady Sithrington died, very unexpectedly. Lord Sithrington and the lady of whom I have been speaking were at this time living in a quiet country village in the vicinity of Naples ; and " —Mr. Tilson jerked his head nervously and his voice became sharpened slightly — " your birth was expected." Involuntarily he paused, prepared for an outburst, but Ivor Clay remained perfectly silent, his keen blue eyes fixed steadily on the speaker, and Mr. Tilson resumed quickly : " It was impossible for your mother then to travel to England ; it was equally impossible for Lord Sithrington to remain out of England during his wife's funeral.

He left your mother — he never returned to her." Mr. Tilson's voice failed here curiously and completely, but it was clear and steady again as he proceeded — " For from the moment his wife's breath was out of her body his family never ceased by every device in their power to detach him from your mother. They succeeded. Before his wife was three months dead Lord Sithrington had engaged himself to marry a lady of his family's choosing, a lady in his own set and of equal rank. The marriage took place forthwith; the announcement of it killed your mother " Mr. Tilson's right hand folded over the left, stirred suddenly and the fingers clenched themselves — "You were born and she died. Acting in Lord Sithrington's behalf, I went out to Italy and brought you home to England. I ought perhaps to explain that owing to ill-health my father had at that time handed over almost the entire con duct of our business to me, and that in that way I had become acquainted both with the first and second Lady Sithrington, and— with your mother."

Ivor Clay looked at the man facing him. " Tell me," he said slowly, and they were the first words he had yet uttered, "tell me, honestly, what sort of woman was — my mother ? " Mr. Tilson lifted his hand, letting it fall impulsively on the desk beneath. "She was the best and sweetest of women," he said deliberately, " a lady by birth as well as by education : a gentlewoman in every sense ofthe word." The younger man regarded the elder as if he were trying to read him through and through. " On your honour as a gentleman," he said hoarsely. " By all that is sacred," returned the other gravely. Ivor Clay's eyes flashed. " I should like to know my mother's name, " he said restrainedly. " Marie Delahay. She was a French Canadian, that is to say paternally, her mother, I understand, was an Englishwoman.

I believe that she was introduced to the first Lady Sithrington by the rector ofthe parish." Mr. Tilson turned to a leather despatch box on the table beside him as he spoke, and took out a little case. "Here," he added, opening the case, and pushing it across the table towards Clay, " is a portrait of your mother, the only one, so far as I am aware, in existence. It was painted at your father's request shortly after they settled in Italy." Ivor Clay took the case in his hand. It enclosed a miniature, evidently the work of a first-rate artist, representing a young lady of about five-and-twenty years old. It was certainly and unmistakably the portrait of a lady. The face was sweet and lovable rather than beautiful. The rare combination of blue eyes and very dark hair forming perhaps the owner's highest claim to actual beauty.

The eyes were clear and candid, betraying a disposition given rather to trustfulness than suspicion. Her son's fingers closed round the case tightly. "I am not like my mother," he said slowly, looking up at his friend. The latter returned his gaze for a second before responding. "No," he said at length, with some hesitation; * and yet there is a look sometimes across the eyes. " "Then," said the other, and his lips curved them selves into a hard sneer, "have I the honour to resemble my — father ? " "Slightly," replied Mr. Tilson,- taking no notice of the sneer, " but you are not strikingly like either of your parents. Nine people out of ten are not. At least I have found it so, especially in the case of those who lose their parents in infancy. Likeness, I am persuaded, grows with contact and intimacy.

The tones of your voice resemble your father's, unquestionably. " Ivor Clay laid the case containing his mother's portrait on the table. "Is that all?" he asked quietly. "Not quite," returned Mr. Tilson. "You will remember that I told you how, acting for Lord Sithrington, I went out to Italy and brought you back to England. I must now tell you that immedi ately aster his second marriage. Lord Sithrington intimated to me his determination to execute a deed of gift whereby your mother would be placed in possession of a very comfortable fortune. Her death alone prevented the execution of that deed, which I had actually drafted roughly ; and when I brought you to England, Lord Sithrington instead, made a will, by which not only was the fortune destined for your mother bequeathed to you, but was augmented to a very considerable degree indeed, so much so, that the annual income arising from it amounts to something over three thousand pounds."

He watched Ivor Clay's face narrowly as he spoke, but except for a certain hardening of the lips it betrayed no emotion at finding himself the owner of three thousand a year. "I must say," Mr. Tilson spoke with peculiarly cold calm precision, " I must say that it was a very handsome reparation " " What.'" The word rang through the room till it awoke the faint vibration of an echo from the walls. Ivor Clay was on his feet, facing the man whose words he had cut short. The man sitting in the swivel chair kept his lips from smiling, and his eyes from betraying the warmth that almost escaped them in spite of his efforts. He merely raised his glasses and fixed them deliberately on his nose, with the air of a man whose experience permits him to pardon the exceeding youthfulness of youth. But all the time he was studying his man closely.

Ivor Clay took up his hat. Mr. Tilson tapped his forefinger after a fashion of his upon the open blotter beneath his hand. "Your father," he resumed as composedly as though no interruption had occurred, and taking no overt notice of the resolution plainly expressed by the younger man's seizure of his hat, " bestowed the utmost care and consideration upon your concerns. Your education and up-bringing he requested me to superintend. I was to be your guardian, standing, so far as you were to be made aware, in the place of your parents, who, he wished you to understand, were both dead. At a considerable sacrifice of his feelings, Lord Sithrington, after you had grown old enough to recognise and remember him, abstained entirely from seeing you. But his plans for your future were carefully sketched.

He desired that you should be sent to Harrow, which was done. If you chose a university career, Cam bridge was to be the university; your College, Trinity. If you preferred the army, you were to be given your choice of the best regiments in the service. Arrived at manhood you would find your self the possessor of a private fortune amply suffi cient to enable you to live like a gentleman, and more than sufficient to secure for you a good start in whatever career your tastes inclined you to enter upon. Your father, as I have told you, is dead. But everything has been done as he desired. I have nothing now left to do, but to put you for mally into possession of your inheritance, first of all detailing to you the sources of your fortune. We can go into that this moment if you wish. My time is entirely at your disposal."

" May I ask, " said Ivor Clay, suddenly interpos ing, " if there is an Earl of Sithrington at present, and if so, who he is ? " " The present Lord Sithrington is a boy at Eton. He is the son of your father's second marriage — the only son. Your father had but the two, your self — and the present successor to the title." "Is Lady Sithrington alive?" " She is." "And may I ask," said Ivor Clay shrewdly, " what her opinion might be of my father's will ? " For the first time in the whole interview Mr. Tilson laughed. " My boy, " he exclaimed laughingly, dropping the lawyer in the guardian and friend, " go to the Bar by all means; you'll do." Ivor Clay's face relaxed not a whit. Mr. Tilson spread out his hands. " Lady Sithrington's opinion may be summed up in six words— she wanted to dispute the wil.

We had considerable difficulty in persuading her not to do so. I implored her, for her own sake, for her husband's sake, and above all for her child's sake, to make no such attempt. It would have been as futile as mistaken. She had no shadow of a case to take into court. Lord Sithrington died at forty-eight, of pneumonia, after a week's illness. Prior to that he had been mentally and physically in perfect health. Never at any time had his mental condition been questioned. Neither could undue influence be asserted, seeing that your mother was dead when the will was made and you were only a few months old. Lord Sithrington made the will deliberately. Never was one made more so. There was not the shadow of a chance of upsetting it. Of course, " Mr. Tilson shrugged his shoulders, " her ladyship was not content with my opinion.

She must needs have the opinion of eminent Counsel. She had it. And it was identical with mine. I knew too that her son was amply provided for. The Sithrington family have always been rich, and since the discovery of coal on their northern estates they have been very wealthy indeed. Ulti mately Lady Sithrington was brought to hear reason, the will was proved and she took out letters of administration. I shall read you the provisions dealing with yourself presently." Mr. Tilson paused, a little out of breath, though he had spoken with his accustomed deliberation. Ivor Clay, still standing before him with his hat in his hand, asked yet another question. "Was my mother absolutely penniless?" "Not absolutely," replied the lawyer accurately. " She had a small independence that produced about seventy pounds a year.