L I E) RARY OF THE U N IVERSITY Of ILLINOIS NOTICE: Return or renew aN Ubrary Materialsl The Minimum Fee for each Lost Book is 150.00. The person charging this material is responsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for discipli- nary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN L161— O-1096 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. BY JAMES PAYN, Author of 'Lost Sir Massingberd,' A Perfect Treasure, 'At Her Mercy,' etc. IX THREE rOLVMES. YOL, I. LONDON : RICHAED BEXTLEY AXD SOX NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1874. {All rights reserved.) PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. &Z3 M^ I CONTENTS OF YOL. I. J CHAPTER PAGE I. Father axd Daughter 1 *^ II. "Written in the Sand ... ... 21 III. The Brothers ... 36 ly. The 'Sans Souci' 49 y. The Will e>7 VI. The Co-Heirs 91 Vll. The Wet Blanket 110 yill. Forgiven 125 IX. The Three Months' Bill 145 ^^ X. The Last Farewell 156 XI. What the Servants thought of it ... 174 XII. What the Thornes thought of it 190 XIII. Disenchantment ... ... ... 207 Xiy. Struck down 233 Xy. Championed 252 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS, CHAPTEE I. FATHER AND DAUGHTER. ^ Was Llilbank at the manufactory this morning, Maggie ? ' ' Do you mean John or Richard, father ? ' Old Mr. ThoiTie looked up from his occupation, which was that of engraving something very neat and dehcate on a steel plate, and regarded his daughter with a look that was at once tender and grave. Constant intentness on very minute work had deepened the farrows which age had made on his bald fore- YOL. I. B *Z THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. head, bnt he was not, in reality, very far advanced in life. As he removes the magnifying-glass, which, while engaged in his calling, is habitually fixed in his ®y®> yoii can see how bright and blue it is, and keen as steel. * How should I mean Bichard Milbank, Maggie ? Even when his uncle Thurle was alive, it was rare to see him at his post ; but now that death has taken the old man, and Eichard's interest no longer urges him to attend to business, it is not likely that he would do so from mere duty. I meant John, of course.' ^ John was at the factory as usual,' answered the girl quietly. She, too, was engaged in the same employment as her father, and apparently so wrapt in it that she did not even look up at him, though the blush that had risen to her very brow told that what he was saying did not FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 3 pass unheeded. She was of sKght and graceful form, mth sloe-black haii' and eyes, and a complexion so very colourless that it suggested delicacy of constitution. It was no wonder that it should be so, for there was little fresh aii' to be got at Hilton, one of our great ' centres of industry ' in the Midlands, and the Thomes lived in the heart of the town. Their house was a substantial one enough, though small, and not having any appearance of a shop in its outward aspect. Mr. Thome's customers were not the general pubhc, but he served certain master manufacturers, among others, Matthew Thurle, now, however, lying dead at his little country-seat at Eosebank. His workshop was on the first-floor, and had the aspect of a savant's apartment, rather than that of a mechanic — the walls being hung with 4 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. scientific instruments of various kinds, and the tables strewn not only with articles of his trade, but with abstruse books, and papers full of calculations. The fact was, he was only a mechanic by necessity ; by choice he was an in- ventor, and, as usual, he had suffered for his ingenuity. He found it difficult, even with the help of clever Maggie, to keep his head and hers above water — or rather, at the level, which, as it was, did but barely satisfy him. It was summer time, and the window of the back-room was opened wide, revealing a sort of arbour built upon the leads without, which a few inches of earth had transformed into a flower-plot. ' You look pale, Maggie, darhng ; come out into the air for a few minutes ; I want to speak to you.' The old man stepped out into this improvised garden, FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 5 which, though bright with sweet-smell- ing blossoms, commanded no better view than the backs of houses like their own, and a broad, black space immediately beneath it, across which flashed, many- times in every hour, with a roar and a rattle that shook the street, the trains of the London and Hilton Eailway. It took a great deal of Maggie's spare time to cleanse this little Eden from the * blacks ' and other defilements which the iron horse thus cast upon it ; but with the help of a Httle hand-engine, constructed by her father himself, she contrived to do so. The garden on the leads was the wonder of the neighbour- hood, and especially its arbour, over which the creepers had been so skilfully trained that it formed a very tolerable bower, secure from prying eyes. Here Mr. Thome took his seat ; and after a minute 6 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. or two, during which she employed her- self in methodically putting away her work — either from force of habit, or in order to gain time to marshal her thoughts in readiness for the coming interview — his daughter joined him. ^When you were away, lass, this morning, I received an invitation to Mr. Thurle's faneral. Did John speak of it, when you saw him at the factory ? ' 'No, father; not a word.' Her tone was cheerful, considering the subject of which she spoke ; and her air was one of relief, as though she had expected him to broach some topic more unwel- come. ' That was strange too,' continued the old man, ' since it was he himself who sent me the invitation.' ' Then I think he ought not to have done so, returned Maggie quickly. 'It FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Y was taking too much upon himseK. It was taking for granted — for one thing — that his elder brother would be disin- herited, and that he would be his uncle's heir.' 'Nay, nay; you do John wrong — as you often do, Maggie. He wrote in his brother's name as well as his own ; and there was no assumption at all about it. He did not say so ; but my impres- sion is Pilchard would have nothing to do with the matter at all. There is nothing more to be got from his uncle now; he has done his worst towards him, whatever it is ; and Eichard will not be at the pains to show respect for his memory.' ' That is not to be expected, father. Eichard Milbank is not a hypocrite, whatever his faults may be.' ' Whereas John is ! — Is that what your 8 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. words imply ? ' asked the old man sharply. * In the case of any other girl/ he continued, since she did not reply, * I should have expected no better judg- ment. John is too hard-working, too serious, too ascetic even (I grant that), not to suggest such a suspicion to Hght and frivolous natures ; but I had hoped you were more clear-sighted. I know he is thought ill of by many men, too, because he has become a teetotaler.' ^ That cannot be my reason, father, since I am a teetotaler myseK,' answered Maggie with a faint smile. * You know what I mean well enough, my dear. It is one thing not to drink wine or spirits, and another to take an oath never to do so. John has taken the oath — in the case of any other man in his position, I should say, has foohshly done so. But he has been FATHER AND DAUGHTER. \) peculiarly situated; he has had an ex- ample before him such as might have driven any man to such a step.' * I know that Eichard takes more than is good for him, father,' observed Maggie coldly ; * you need not tell me that.' ^ More than is good for him ! My darling child, you Httle know what wretchedness and niin are hidden beneath that simple phrase. He is a drunkard : you may gloze it over as you will. Unless a miracle takes place, he will become — it is only a question of time — a hopeless, incurable sot. I would spare you if I could. — You shake your head, and smile ! Why, Heaven help me ! do you suppose that I am wounding your tender heart with words like these, to please myself? It is be- cause I am your father — the being who loves you better far than his own seK 10 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. and all the world beside — that I am telling you the bitter truth. The surgeon's knife must needs cut deep as the disease.' ^You were saying that John has be- come a teetotaler from beholding the spectacle of Richard's unhappy failing,' observed Maggie evasively. ' I say that was not the reason, father. He was not tempted to drink, and therefore needed no such protection for himself. He took the oath, that it might come to his uncle's ears, and contrast him favourably with his brother in the old man's eyes — though he needed not to do so, since he knew himself to be the favoured one already.' * You evade the question, Maggie, by blackening John — most cruelly and most unjustly too. But that is nothing to the purpose. Even if John were as FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 11 black as you would make him, that would not make Kichard white. Listen to me, Maggie — Hsten, for it may be for the last time!' A distant thunder from afar had grown and grown while he was speaking, till it began to roar about them ; the earth began to shake, the air to quiver, and presently the down express dashed close beneath them, and was swallowed in the neighboming tunnel with a roar and a thud. ^ So help me. Heaven ! ' continued the old man, pointing with his finger to where the wreaths of steam were cm-ling about the tunnel's mouth, ^ I would as soon you should lay yourself in the path of yonder screaming devil, and be crushed by it, as that you should marry Eichard Milbank. You see his faults, you think, and hope to cure them. That is how foohsh women 12 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. fling themselves after lost men, and are lost with them. I know the world well, Maggie, and helieve me that is a hopeless venture. A man who at twenty-five has taken habitually to drinking — whose habits are idle — whose associates are wicked and debased — whose own fair fame has been foully smirched and blotched ' *By whom, father?' cried the girl, rising suddenly from her seat, and speak- ing with intense energy. * Do you count the report of mischief-makers and scan- dal-mongers as proof of the fact — ^for what else is there to prove it ? ' ^ Common sense, Maggie. Look you — would you break off with this fellow, if you thought he had really done what rumour taxes him with ? Or would you take him for your husband still, even as a felon ? — You would not ! Then you are FATHEE AND DAUGHTER. 13 not utterly mad, as I had feared. Well, I will prove Ms guilt, then.' He held up one supple hand, and, with the forefinger of the other, checked off on it his facts and arguments. ' The cii'cumstances are these. An old man is lying on what is supposed to be his death-bed in a lonely Jiouse. There is a deaf housekeeper in the kitchen (the sick-nurse being gone home to her cottage for half-an-hour, as usual, to take her evening meal), and not a soul beside under that roof. A man with a mask on his face, and otherwise disguised, comes with pistol in hand into the room, and compels the dying man to sign — some deed; he knows not what; he only sees the words eight hundred pounds above the place where he is forced to set his signature. This wretch departs, having gained his object — and without taking with him a single article 14 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. of value, of which, there are many about the house. He was certainly, therefore, no common thief. Who ivas he, then ? Who could possibly derive any benefit from such an outrageous act ? One of two persons only it must have been — the rich man's nephews. The younger of these had already, as was generally sup- posed, been made his heir; no deed could make him better off than he was already.' * I never said John Milbank did it, father,' observed Maggie quietly. * My darling, let me finish. I am using that method of ratiocination which is called the exhaustive process, and I must have time. Of course, you never said so, nor did anybody else. John Milbank was in his proper place at the factory, as a dozen witnesses could prove, at that particular time ; but he was not even FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 15 suspected, for the reason I haYe already given. On the other hand, Eichard Milbank was not in his proper place, nor at any place of which he could give a satisfactory account, at the period in question. It is true that nothing came of it, for, as it happened, Mr. Thuiie rallied, and Hved for some months after- wards, during which he is said to have executed a fresh will. But the man who obtained his signatm-e by force counted on his immediate decease, no doubt, and indeed he was almost the cause of it. Moreover, that man knew the ways of the house, and the houi' at which the sick- nurse was wont to leave her charge ; and he also knew — mark this ! — that eight hundred pounds was exactly the sum at that time standing to ]\Ir. Thurle's credit at his banker's. Now, who but two men in all the world could have commanded 16 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. such, opportunities of knowledge ; and who hut one man in all the world had the motive for committing such an action ? ' Here Mr. Thorne hrought one palm down upon the other sharply, in token that the speech for the prosecution was concluded, while, ' Gentlemen of the jury,' his face seemed to say, *you will surely give your verdict of " Guilty " without moving from your box.' In this, however, he was mistaken. ^You talk of motive, father,' pleaded Maggie, shaping letters on the sanded floor with her little foot ; ^ hut what motive could Richard have in committing this crime, when he must have known that any deed that he might compel Mr. Thurle to sign would, without the signa- ture of a witness also, be mere waste- paper ? * *Ah, you know that,' responded the / FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 17 engraver quickly, ^because you have had to do with papers and parchments all your life, and can engross as well as any attorney's clerk in England. But an ignorant man like Eichard Milbank might not have known it. Moreover, as to wit- nesses, he might find a peck of them, after the event, among his unprincipled friends. Do you think Dennis Blake, for example, would not put his hand to any deed or document whatever for a five pound note ? Ay, though it were one that sold his soul ! No, Maggie ! Your defence has broken down, and is none the better, let me add (as I heard a judge once say), for the reflections that you have cast upon another person.' There was a long silence. Herbert Thome looked pale, and older by a year or two in that short hour, for he knew that he had not carried his point on a VOL. I. c 18 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. vital question. He was not only possessed of considerable scientific knowledge, but was in many respects a wise man. He bad seen from tbe first tbe bopelessness of using any stronger measures against bis daugbter's passion for Eicbard Milbank tban persuasion. If sbe would not give way to bim, pleading as a fatber witb rigbt and reason on bis side, sbe would certainly not bave yielded to commands wbicb could not be enforced. Maggie was of age, and quite competent to earn ber own living by ber pen ; not as an autboress, indeed, but as a transcriber of manuscripts for tbe press — as an engrosser — as an engraver — and also as a painter of pbotograpbs : sbe bad sbown ber neat- ness and dexterity in all tbese walks, and to some purpose. Tbere were, in sbort, two skilled mecbanics in tbat bouse. He was right, then, in using persuasion only ; FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 19 nor was lie to be blamed for putting before his daughter the true character of the dissolute man on whom she had set her heart. Where Herbert Thorne was wrong was in praising John Milbank, whom he would have had her choose for her husband at the expense of his brother — ^in exalting him, as it were, upon the ruins of that broken man. She resented this as only a woman can, and it made her chng to the ruins. Father and daughter sat in silence for many minutes, dming which another train — this time London-bound — ^rushed out from the tunnel, and roared past them. While the noise was still at its height — ^ Did I not hear the beU ring ? ' inquired the engraver, to whom the greater sound was so familiar as almost to pass imnoticed. ^Yes, father; it is Kichard,' was the quiet reply. 20 . THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. The old man rose from his seat with a hopeless look. That she should know his very ring, seemed to convince him that her love was fixed indeed npon this good- for-naught. * Do you know what he is come for, Maggie ? ' said he bitterly. * He is come to ask you to marry him, because he knows that to-morrow he will be a beggar ! ' With that he walked hastily into the room and thence upstairs, only just in time to avoid the expected visitor. ( 21 ) CHAPTEE II. WEITTEN IN THE SAND. Maggie rose, as if to follow her father, and avoid the coming interview; but, while she stood in doubt, a quick step was heard in the inner room, at which the colour rose in her white cheeks, and her bosom rose and feU tumultuously, in spite of the hand with which she strove to repress it. ^Why, Maggie, I thought you had flown ! ' cried an eager voice ; ^ and yet, where should my pretty bird be found but in her garden ! ' The speaker was a young man of five- 22 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. and-twenty or so, and strikingly hand- some ; lie was of medium height, and somewhat robustly made — the sort of figure which, unless its possessor is care- ful in his habits, is sure to develop into corpulency; his face, too, though fair and comely, was of that florid hue which soon grows to a deeper tint than would be chosen by a painter to depict even the healthiest complexion ; his voice, though distinct enough, had already acquired that roughness which is associated with the constant use of stimulants. But his hair, which was brown, and soft and curHng, and eyes, blue and tender as the summer sky, might have suited Apollo himself. Maggie was not in the arbour now, but standing in the sunlight, with, for aught Eichard Milbank knew to the contrary, a hundred pairs of eyes regarding her from the surrounding houses, and yet, had she WRITTEN IN THE SAND. 23 permitted him, this audacious young fellow would have kissed her then and there. She stepped back, however, from his embrace, and held her hand out, not so much in greeting as to keep him at a respectable distance. * Why, Maggie darhng, what's the matter ? ' inquired the visitor, a httle dis- comforted by this rebuff. * Come into the arboui', dear, and tell me why you look so cruel.' * I can tell you here, Eichard, quite as well,' answered Maggie, as coldly as she could. Apollo had already dazzled her, in spite of those recent warnings, and of her own resolve, made but a minute ago, that she would not be dazzled. She had but just determination left to decline his invitation into the arbour, in which retreat she knew he would have got the better of her at once. 24 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^I am not cruel, Eichard, nor even cross; but I am much, displeased to see you in coloured clothes, with tlie only relative but one you have on earth, lying dead in his coffin.' * I am sorry it frets you, Maggie ; but I can't wear black for a man like Uncle Thurle, who had never a good word for me, nor a good wish.' * Don't say that, Kichard, for I'm sure it is not true,' answered the girl rebuke- fally. ^ His manner may have been un- pleasant to you ' ^ Gad, it was ! ' broke in the other, with a contemptuous laugh. ' But he certainly did not wish you ill, Eichard; far from it. If he could have seen you more diligent in business, and dutiful, and steady ' * I beg your pardon ! I thought I was addressing Maggie Thorne,' interrupted WEITTEN IN THE SAND. 25 the young man apologetically; * instead of Tvhicli it is lier father, it seems, who is giving me one of his admirable lec- tui'es ! ' ^ It would have been better for you to have Hstened to them, Eichard ; but you win hsten to nobody.' 'Yes, I will, Maggie; I will Hsten to you — when you are speaking, that is, in your own proper person; and what is more, I will obey you.' * Then you will get mourning for your imcle's funeral to-morrow, and wear it.' * To hear is to obey, Maggie ; it shall be done. I know an estabHshment at which discreet young men deal for ready money, where ready-made clothes are to be bought. I will go, not to its '* mitigated grief department," but to its ''most incon- solable woe ditto," and famish myseK with a suit of sables. It will go against the 26 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. grain witli me, I promise you, but it shall be done. Tbe length of my hat-band and the depth of my weepers shall shame John himself. If crocodiles' tears could be purchased, I would even shed them to please you; but I have reason to beheve that my brother has bought up the entire stock. — It was about to-morrow that I have come to speak to you, Maggie,' added the young feUow, dropping his light tone, and speaking with emotion. ^In four-and-twenty hours my fate, you know, wiU be decided.' * Indeed, I do not know it, Eichard. Men's fates are decided for them, as I believe, by their own conduct; else what would be the use of fighting against fate ? Supposing even that your uncle should leave you nothing ' ' A very reasonable supposition indeed, Maggie ! That is, I suspect, exactly WRITTEN IN THE SAND. 27 what he has left me — bating some ex- cellent advice, and perhaps a shilling to buy a rope with, or a razor.' ^I say, even in that case there is no need to despair of your fatnre, Eichard,' continued the gui firmly. ^ You have youth, and health, and wit enough, though you waste it on flippant jokes.' * It is her father ! ' mused the young man gravely. * That is his style beyond dispute, yet I never saw a man with such a pretty foot.' * Eichard, you are incomgible ! ' cried Maggie, beating the praised foot upon the gravel impatiently ; ^ and I have half a mind to dismiss you altogether from my heart ! ' * If you have half a mind to keep me there, that is aU I can hope for,' answered the other penitently, ^ and a great deal more than I deserve. Maggie ! ' cried 28 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. he, throwing out his arms, and speaking with passionate energy, * do you suppose I am bhnd to what I am and to what you are ? Do I need your father's argu- ments, or any man's, to conyince me of the ruin that I have brought upon myself by my own folly ? It i^ the con- sciousness of all that that makes advice and reproof intolerable to a fellow like me. What is the use of crying over spilt milk? What can the most reckless do, beyond giving his honour not to spill any more ? I do give it — I came here to give it — not to your father, who once told me he would not believe me on my oath — but to you; I came to throw myself on your mercy ' — they were in the arbour now, for he had seized her hand and drawn her thither, and she had not resisted. * I have erred and sinned ; yes, sinned, my girl, beyond anything that WEITTEN IN THE SAND. 29 your piire lieaii: can dream of; but I repent me of it all. The confession is humiliating enough, and yon will not make it more bitter, as others would do.' * Heaven knows I will not make it more bitter, Eichard ! ' sighed Maggie, keeping him at arm's length still, and averting her eyes from his pleading face. * ^^But is this remorse genuine — is this true?" you would say,' interrupted the other eagerly. *It is true — it is genuine ! I have made a false start in life ; or, rather, I have gone the wi'ong side of the post, Maggie, and lost the race that way; but all this may yet be retrieved. If I had some one to love me, and to guide me, I am sure it would be retrieved. Your wise head would keep me straight ; your loving arms would restrain me from evil ways. I don't know what will happen to-morrow. The old man may 30 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. have relented at the last, and done me justice. If so, so mucli the better for us both. But if not, I have still enough to take us both across the seas — to America.' ^ What ! and leave my father ? Never I' She drew herseK back from him at the bare thought. Then her father's parting words recurred to her remembrance : ^ He is come to ask you to marry him because he knows that to-morrow he will be a beggar;' and she once more relented towards her lover : he was incapable of a baseness, and she seemed to owe him a reparation for having listened to a sug- gestion to the contrary. * You love your father, then, more than me ! ' cried Eichard. ^ I wish I did ! ' thought Maggie bit- terly. * Why should these old people for ever cross the path of youth ? ' continued the WEITTEN IN THE SAND. 31 young man vehemently. ^ If my imcle would have permitted us to marry, all would have been well ; and now your father is the obstacle. — Don't be afraid, Maggie ' (for his passion was terrible to witness, and she shrank before it) ; 4t is my love for you that makes me wild. I came to-day to ask you to be my wife, be- cause I had so great a trust in yom' love that I thought, ^'Even at this lowest ebb of my fortunes, she will not refuse me." ' She shivered, and sighed, and shut her eyes. If women had been the chief cus- tomers of the house of Thurle and Co., Eichard Milbank would have been the best man of business in that establish- ment, instead of the worst. He knew well that, with a girl such as Maggie Thome, his very misfortunes would be the most eloquent pleaders for him. ^ It is not much, indeed, that I have to 32 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. offer you, Maggie/ lie went on; ^perhaps nothing beyond a loving heart and these willing hands. They shall henceforth, however, work diligently for you, dearest, if you will let them. They shall be your bread-winners, if bread is to be won.' * I am not afraid of starving, Eichard,' replied the girl, with a touch of pride. ^ It is not the fear of that which would deter me from becoming your wife.' *"What, fhenV inquired he quickly. 'Is it the fear of my breaking my good resolutions ? Will you not trust me ? Will you not beHeve me ? ' ' I believe you, Eichard : I am sure you mean what you say.' ' But you would have proofs ? I had thought that true love was more confid- ing;' his tone was sorrowfal, and full of tender pleading, but the glance which accompanied it, and feU upon her down- WRITTEN IN THE SAND. 33 drooped face, was impatient, disappointed, angry even. ^ Well, what matters ? ' con- tinued he. ^It is not as if I came to say : *' Will you marry me to-morrow, Maggie ? " I only ask from you the assurance that you will be mine. Then, whatever change of fortune happens, I shall be content. Whatever may be lost, I shall still have won. My own dear, darling Maggie, tell me that you will one day be mine ! — You do not answer ! ' cried he, di'awing her closer towards him ; ^ but your silence speaks for you as sweetly as any words ! On the ground yonder I read your answer, too, which was written before I put the question.' He pointed to the sanded floor, on which, as she had sat by her father's side, she had mechanically traced the letters of her lover's name — 'E. M.' ' May I take my happiness for granted, love? Your cheek is white, but I will VOL. I. D 34 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. change tliis lily to a rose.' So saying, he pressed his lips to hers, and she, with a low, soft cry, half-sigh, half-sob, returned his kiss. And thus they plighted troth. He would have repeated the pleasant ceremony, but that she withdrew from his passionate embrace. * Go, Eichard ! go ! ' cried she. ^ I have done your bidding ; your fate and mine are henceforth one ; but you must leave me now.' * I am yom' slave, dear Maggie, now and for ever, and must obey you. For the present, then, good-bye. To-morrow may have good news in store for us, after aU.' ^ Do not count upon it, Eichard. Nor is it riches, even if you should be rich, that will make you happy.' ^ I know it, Maggie ; for, rich or poor, I am now sure of happiness. But if the WEITTEN IN THE SAND. 35 old man has relented, it may be realized at once. Think of that, sweetheart. And meanwhile, good-bye, my own, my very own ! ' With a kiss snatched from her fore- head, for she had covered her face with her hands, he leffc the arbour, and the next minute she heard the h'ont-door close behind him. He was gone, and had taken her heart ; yet well she knew it was not in safe keeping. Her eyes fell upon those two tell-tale letters upon the ground, and she erased them, slowly and reluctantly, with her foot. ^ Vows written in. sand ! ' sighed she. ' It is an evil omen. I have done wrong ; yet how could I do otherwise? Bichard, Eichard ! I have given myself to you, in spite of my own heart's fore- boding. Do not betray my trust.' 36 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. CHAPTEE III. THE BEOTHEKS. Theee are some natures that never count the cost of anything they can obtain on credit, but think only of the gratification of the moment; but this could not be said with justice of Kichard Milbank ; he thought only of his own personal gratifi- cation, it is true, but he sometimes looked forward to it a week, or even a month, in advance. He had come that afternoon, just as Mr. Thorne had fore- seen, while yet a chance of prosperity remained to him, to persuade Maggie to become his wife ; and, if possible, upon THE BROTHERS. 37 the instant — ^that is, as soon as the law would permit it — to marry her. Of ^ saving common-sense ' he had none, and even his wits (of which he had plenty) were rendered almost wholly useless to him, from his excessive egotism. Having decided upon some line of conduct con- ducing to his own pleasm^e, he did not give himself the trouble to place himself in the position of the person through whom the pleasure was to be obtained — an omission that forms the social safe- guard of the world, which would else be at the feet of the Selfish. But even he perceived that to have put off his pro- posal until he was actually pronounced a beggar by his uncle's will, would lay him open to some suspicion of selfishness. As it was, the meagi'e hope of his having been left something by old Matthew Thurle, was the rag with which he 38 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. covered Ms shamelessness. He had offered himself to Maggie, whether he should he rich or poor ; ' and what more,' said he to himself, ^ could he expected of any man ? ' He was very fond of Maggie — after his fashion : prouder of her, when she was present, than of any other girl in the world ; hut in her absence, her image did not by any means so monopolize his heart as to prevent it receiving other im- pressions. Those who were the most charitable to Eichard Milbank's faults lamented his ' extreme susceptibihty ; ' others called him a dissolute and aban- doned fellow. As to his protestations of penitence and resolutions of amendment, it would have been a compHment to caU them moonshine : they were not even a genuine reflection of virtue. He adopted them as expressions most hkely to please THE BEOTHEES. 39 Maggie's ear ; just as, had she been of a more frivolons disposition, he would have used the language of flattery or passion. If there was any recognized caUing in life in which he would have succeeded, it would have been that of the stage-lover ; for whether the object of his adoration had been a ' singing chambermaid ' or a * serious widow,' he would have played his part equally well. The wits of most sharp people run to making money, and there stagnate, as in a pond of yellow mud ; but those of Eichard ran to making love. They had also another channel — which the virtuous vaguely call ^ gam- bling transactions ; ' but in this he was not so successful, though equally diligent. This man, however, was not a mere selfish voluptuary. When passion was aroused he became reckless of all conse- quences, not only to others, but to himself. 40 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Disappointment did not sour him — for vinegar is not made in a moment — but rendered Mm at once botli desperate and dangerous. To conclude this slight sketch of Mr. Eichard Milbank's cha- racter, we must add in fairness that, in addition to the great attraction of his looks, he was what is termed (by a not very discerning class of critics, however) exceedingly ^ good company,' and was the idol of his particular pubhc — which was to be found for the most part within the walls of the Sans Souci club, at Hilton, and was confined even there to two. apartments, the card-room and the bilHard-room. It is thither that he is now walking, with a face more than ordinarily flushed, and a look of triumph in his large blue eyes which curiously contrasts with the fi^own above them. THE BROTHEES. 41 * She is mine,' mutters lie to himseK, * though not on my own terms. She will keep her promise now, no matter what happens. Though John may have robbed me of the money that should have been mine, he wiU miss the prize he has chiefly aimed at — and I shaU win it Well, what is it ? ' The last words are uttered aloud, in a rough, rude tone, and addressed to one who has stopped him in the street — a man of about his own age, tall and fair, and comely as himself, yet by no means Hke him in other respects. The unhealthy flush upon Eichard's cheek is in this case merely a wholesome colom-, shghtly heightened, however, by the present rencontre ; the flowing beard is absent, and the brown hah does not cmi so crisply ; it is long, and has the appearance of being thrown back, like the hah of angels carved in stone : the expression of the 42 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. face, too, if not angelic, is patient, tender, and serious. ^ I want to have a few words witli yon, Kichard.' * If you want to have words with me, I will not balk you,' answered the other scornfully. ^ But I shall not pick and choose for mine^ I warn you.' *You shall not have the pretence of quarrel, brother, if I can help it. I wish to speak to you for your own good.' ^ That is so like Mr. Morality!' returned Eichard, with a sneering laugh. *You are always Harry the good boy, and I Tommy the bad. ^^For my own good," forsooth ! It was for my good, I suppose, that you gained my uncle's ear, and poisoned it against me, so that he has cut me off with a shilling! ^^ Being thus without the means of self-indulgence, my dear brother Eichard," you say to your- THE BEOTHERS. 43 self, ^^must needs become temperate, and diligent, and sober, and will have cause to bless me for the goodlhsiYe done him." — Bab, you hypocrite ! ' ^You do me wi'ong, brother; but to that I am accustomed ' ^ There he goes again ! ' inteniipted Eichard: 'it is Tartuffe himself: "Pray, spit upon me; I like to be spat upon!" Upon my soul, John, I have half a mind to gratify you ! ' And with an exclamation of disgust and loathing, he spat upon tbe ground. ' You will not allow me to talk with you and keep my self-respect, it seems,' continued John Milbank, the colom' in his cheek as deep by this time as that his brother wore; 'I will therefore give my warning, and have done with it. You have coloured clothes, I see ; let me advise you to put on black ones ; and, at 44 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. all events — unless you wisli to learn better ways in the school of adversity in the manner you just spoke of — do not omit to attend the funeral to-morrow.' 'What, in the Fiend's name, do you mean? Is it possible that you have the assurance to dictate to me as to what I think proper to wear, or to do ! Why, one would think you had seen our uncle's will, and, as his heir, were already lording it over your beggared brother ! ' ' I have not seen his will ; but I know — no matter how — so much of its con- tents as to say that there is hope for you yet, if you will but pay a decent respect to his memory.' ' What ! he'll be there himself, will he, the unnatural old scoundrel, and execute a codicil ! I defy him to do that, for, under the circumstances, he must needs set fire to the parchment. THE BKOTHEKS. 45 If he could have taken Ids money with, him, as somebody says, it would all have melted by this time.' * Matthew Thurle is passed out of OUT judgment,' returned John Milbank gravely, ^ and I will not hear him slandered. I have cleared my con- science, and given you your warning — whether you take it or not Hes with yourself, Kichard.' He was about to move away, when the other laid his hand upon his arm. ^ One moment, John ; you have for- gotten something.' ' Have I so ? What is it ? ' * Ton have forgotten to finish off your Httle speech; after the words '^Cleared my conscience, and given you warning," you should have added: '^And now I wash my hands of you. Tommy!" The hypocrites never conclude anything, you know, without washing their hands ! ' 46 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. For an instant, when his brother had said, 'You have forgotten something,' John Milbank had been in hopes that he was touched by the effort which he had honestly made to avert his worldly ruin ; but one look at his mocking face had been sufficient to dissipate this hope, and he had turned upon his heel before the last insulting words had been fully spoken. Eichard watched his retiring form with a grim smile. ' That is a man who, avoiding wines and dainty meats — which inflame the flesh — is said to live on porridge, and he might have saved his breath to cool it ! Yes, yes, my friend ; it is likely enough you should wish to be friends, knowing how you have robbed me. It would be a fine thing, indeed, if you could oust me from the old man's will and live like a lord at Eosebank, while THE BROTHEES. 47 I am a pauper, and yet keep yourself on good terms with your yictim ! Better still, good Master Jokn, if you could take wicked Tommy's sweetheart away from him and marry her yourself — also for his good, no douht. If it had not heen that I had got the whip-hand of him there, I should not have kept my temper so easily. What the deuce did the fellow mean with his ^^ There is hope for you yet " ? Does he call the chance of a five pound note to buy a momiiing-ring with *'hope"? Confound him ! What does he mean by telling me to change these clothes, and be at the funeral to-morrow ? Why, he means to save his own credit, no doubt. If I should not be there, it would be a protest against my uncle's injustice, and indirectly against himself, for having taken advantage of it. That is as clear 48 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. as crystal. As it happens, Brotlier John, I do mean to be at the faneral, though not because of anything that you have said. Ah, if you only knew whose pretty face and cherry lips had persuaded me, you would not perhaps have been quite so smooth-tongued ! If I could only have got her to marry me to-day, and appear among them all to-morrow with Maggie tucked under my arm ! That would be a triumph worth all Uncle Thurle's money, and would have snuffed out Mr. John's exultation pretty com- pletely. However, it's almost as good as that already. I'm in luck to-day, and shall go in for a ^^ plunge " on the strength of it.' Then, sticking his hat rakishly on one side and whisthng gaily, he pursued his way to the club. ( 49 ) CHAPTEK IV. THE ^ SANS SOUCI.' ^ The Club ' at Hilton, as it was desig- nated by its frequenters — and rightly so, since there was no other similar establish- ment in the town — was a building so large and handsome that it might have dared comparison with many of its metropolitan brethren ; but this scale of grandeur had necessitated that its members should be more numerous than select. While, therefore, it numbered amongst them the parliamentary representatives of the borough and many scions of the county famihes, and almost all the members TOL. I. E 60 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. male of the local aristocracy, it was forced to extend itself beyond these limits, and to admit individuals of in- ferior rank, and whose qualifications for club society were chiefly comprised in their abihty to pay the entrance-money and subscriptions. It had been fondly hoped that the considerable expense of these would have deterred ^ the tag-rag and bob-tail ' — as the large manufacturers in Hilton were given to designate their less wholesale brethren — ^fi'om desiring to be admitted to the Sans Soucij whereas this was the very class that was found most ambitious of the honour, and who paid their money with the greatest cheer- fulness. On the first starting of the club, a few of them had been admitted, as we have said, from necessity ; but these, hke ' the small edge of the wedge,' had made way for the entrance of their friends 51 en masse ; and when the more aristocratic members would have closed the flood- gates, they had found the stream of democracy too strong for them ; they were out-voted in their own palace, and from thenceforth condemned to confine their exclusiveness to shnigs of the shoulders and hftings of the eyehds. Far be it from us to suggest that ^ lower dock- yard people,' to use Mr. Jingle's definition of social inequahty, are necessarily in- ferior in good behaviour to ' upper dock- yard people,' retail folks to wholesale, or the * poor but honest ' class of the com- munity generally to ' swells ' of any description. But the interlopers at the Sans Souci were of a pecuhar and objec- tionable kind. They were not the lesser order of manufacturers themselves, but their sons and nephews, who aspired to * sink the shop,' and who endeavoui*ed to LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ILLirU^i^ 52 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. show themselves the equals of their social superiors by out-bidding them in the extravagance of their club dinners, and the amount of their stakes at cards. Old Matthew Thurle, for instance, a much respected man in his way, but in a com- paratively small way of business as an employer of labour, would never have di'eamed of thrusting himself into the society of the magnates of Hilton ; whereas Eichard Milbank, his nej)hew, having been left by his father with a few hundi'eds a year of his own, had joined the Sans Souci on the very first oppor- tunity, and had spent and lost more money there than most of its fi'equenters. The club, in its outward aspect, was still as respectable as its founders could have desired : the dining-room, indeed, was occasionally occupied by parties of young men who loved champagne, not wisely^ THE ^ SANS SOUCI.' 53 but too well, and whose loud laughter would cause some potent and reverend senior, taking bis port in dignified soli- tude, to level at them his double eye- glasses in reprehension or contempt ; but the well-stocked hbrary was as silent as the grave, and much less extensively tenanted ; the strangers' -room froze your blood with its cold seclusion ; and in the stately drawing-room, save for the falhng leaf (of a newspaper), or the di'opping of a coal in the fire-place, there was an unbroken hush at all times. It was to these rooms that the original members of the Sans Souci for the most part con- fined themselves. They knew nothing, or affected to know nothing, of the * goings on ' in the card-room and the billiard-room. In the former, afternoon play had been of late established, a thing which, common enough in London, is 54 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. thought in itself to be an improper pro- ceeding in the provinces, and the stakes were rumoured to be high — very much higher than the rules of the club coun- tenanced, which, indeed, were set at defiance altogether. The committee had been appealed to, it was true, for the correction of this innovation; but quis custodiet, etc., who shall commit a com- mittee man ? The majority of the executive of the Sans Soucij as it was now constituted, were sinners in this respect themselves. It is up to the card-room, three stories high, and placed thereby out of the supervision of venerable seniors, unless possessed of respiratory powers seldom allotted to their epoch of life, that Kichard Milbank takes his way. It is an apartment that affects a dim and chastened gloom, that might seem adapted to quite THE ^SANS SOUCI.' 55 another purpose. The blinds are drawn down oyer the windows, and the only light from within is that afforded by wax candles fastened into the card-tables, and surmounted by green shades, so as to shield the glare from the eyes of the players. Many of them are already assembled, for Richard, usually a most punctual attendant, has been delayed to-day by his visit to Maggie. A chorus of reproving voices greets his appearance. 'Dick Milbank late for school; you shall have a bad mark ! ' cries one florid- faced old gentleman, the Falstaff of the card-room — Mr. Roberts. He was once a banker in Hilton, but having had some disagreement with his firm, retired from it, and has had for years no other occu- pation than that in which he is now engaged. * His bad mark is to come to-morrow. 56 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. — Is not that so, Dick?' inquired another, looking up for a moment from his cards. This is Lawyer Gresham, whose presence in the Sans Souci is not owing to its new blood at all (upon which circumstance he secretly prides himself), but to the in- fluence of a certain borough member, said to be much indebted for his seat for Hilton to this gentleman's electioneering skill. The clever tactics that had stood Mr. Gresham in such good social stead during election time — his tact, his know- ledge of mankind, his finesse — are fully as useful to him at the whist-table; and even though so successful at that game, he would yet be popular but for a certain maHcious humour which he cannot control. ^Attend to your game, and don't re- mind a man of his misfortunes, Gresham,' says the ex-banker rebukefully. ^ Besides, THE * SANS SOUCI.' 57 though the show of hands is certainly against our friend, he may come out at the head of the poll, after all. — May you not, Dick? You don't wear your uncle's colours, though, I see, eh ? ' Eveiybody laughs at ' Falstaffs ' sally, which is directed against the new-comer's gay clothes. * I shall put them on to-morrow at the hustings,' answers Richard audaciously. * Your brother is wearing them already,' continued Mr. Eoberts ; ^ he was looking so very sombre in the street to-day, that it struck me he would have no woeful looks left for to-morrow's ceremony, and I had a good mind to recommend him to black his face. However, I am sure I hope, as we all do, that he will not play Jacob to your Esau, and rob you of your birthright.' * Hear, hear ! ' answered more than one 68 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. voice ; for Richard, as we have ah-eady said, was really popular in his own circle, and besides, he had very bad luck at cards. * Yes, indeed, let ns hope it will all come right,' observed Mr. Gresham, ' for we shall all be sorry to lose you, my good fellow.' This was a barbed shaft, for everybody knew that if Richard Milbank shonld be disinherited by his uncle he would have no more money to venture. ^ Come and cut in here, and win Gres- ham's money ; that's the only way to stop his mouth, Dick ! ' cried Mr. Roberts good-humouredly ; * we are playing ^'pounds and fives."' Sovereign points and five pounds on the rubber are heavy stakes for any gentleman in a small way of business, and Richard generally confined himself to THE * SANS SOUCI.' 59 the points without the bet, which was euphoniously termed ' flat pounds ; ' but, as we have seen, he considered himseK in luck's way to-day, and had come to the club with the intention of having ' a plunge ' — a phrase which describes not only a cold bath, but also a determina- tion to gamble. He therefore touched the whist-table with his hand, in token that he intended to cut in when the rubber should be concluded. As he did so, ' Dick, a word with you ! ' whispered a voice in his ear. The whisperer was one of his most intimate associates — a young man of his own age, veiy dark and swarthy, and of herculean proportions, by name Dennis Blake. This man had led the same soiij of life as Eichard himself; had gone a little faster, perhaps, and sunk a* little lower in the mud, but of that there were 60 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. no outward traces in his case. He had a frame and constitution that, for the present, bade defiance to all inroads. ^ Look here, Dick, — it's against the rules, you know,' observed this gentle- man, taking Milbank aside, ' for you to cut in at that table.' * Eules ! What rules ? ' inquired the other impatiently, as though rules were not very binding in his eyes, at all events, but that any which might interfere with his own pleasures were, ipso facto^ absurd and powerless. * Well, it was settled by the committee last night, old fellow, that if a man had not paid his debts of the previous day, he was not to sit down to play. I don't refer to your debts to me^ you know,' added the speaker hastily, perceiving Eichard's face to darken till it almost reached the complexion of his own : ' of THE ^ SANS SOUCI.' 61 course, I know you're as straight as a die, but there are other creditors of yours here who might make themselves unpleasant. I thought I would put you on your guard.' Kichard was well aware that this own pecuHar Mend of his, Dennis Blake — * Denny,' as he sometimes called him, ' for love and euphony ' — was speaking two words for himseK, and one for the '■ other creditors ; ' yet it would have hardly suited him to say so, since it must needs have provoked an open rupture. Moreover, he wanted to play, and his wish was ever a law to him. 'Oh, thanks,' said he dryly; 'but I think I'll risk it. Whatever happens, I shall settle with everybody to-morrow, you know, yourself included.' Richard Milbank did really intend to ' settle with everybody,' if he found him- 62 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. self mentioned to any considerable figure in his uncle's will ; if not, lie would also settle with them, in the sense of never entering the doors of the club again, or having a word to say to them. He had still a few hundreds left — ^for he was not so foolish as to denude himself of ready-money, if it could possibly be avoided — enough to keep himseK for a week or two, and afterwards — when he should have persuaded Maggie to marry him, as he felt confident of doing — to defray the expenses of his honeymoon ; and beyond that period it was not his nature to concern himself. ^ Well, if you really are going to pay to-morrow, Dick, honour bright,' hesitated Blake ; ' only the notion here is ' (and the speaker looked about him with a deprecating air) 'that it is all up with your expectations. You can't THE * SANS SOUCI.' 63 wonder at fellows looking sharp after their money : it's every one for himself, you know, in this room.' as it ? ' repHed Eichard bitterly. ' It seems to me, Blake, that some of you fellows are just a little greedy. You have had a good deal of my money among you.' ' That may be : but if they have won of you, they have lost to others.' It was curious to remark how this gentleman would persist in putting ' they ' for ' you : ' the thing that he perhaps still called his conscience, dead to ordinary questions of right and wrong, had still some vitahty in this particular matter, and taxed him with greed and harshness to his friend. It was stiU more curious to observe how quietly the other took his interference. Neither advice nor warning would Richard Milbank have 64 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. submitted to for an instant from lips the most reverend and authoritative ; and as for menace, he would have resented it with the most passionate audacity. He was savage with Blake, of course, and would have discharged his obligation to him by pushing him over an alpine precipice, had a safe opportunity offered, with a great deal of satisfaction; but the uppermost desire in his mind at present was to have his ^plunge;' and the whim of the moment, as usual with him, was stronger than aught else. Without replying to his friend's last rejoinder, he moved towards the table, and as the rubber chanced to be just then brought to a conclusion, he cut in. It is not necessary to follow his for- tunes ; suffice it to say that, like the majority of presentiments that occur to us (though we only remember those THE ' SANS SOUCI.' 65 that are fulfilled), his notion that he was in luck that day was not reahzed with respect to the possession of good cards. He ^ put on ' the money — as gamblers (most anomalously) do — with the intention of ^ pulhng it off ' again, but it was always pulled off by his adversaries. In the end, he lost all he had in his pocket and increased his already considerable debt to Dennis Blake by fifty poimds. This last, it was true, concerned him very httle, since, if things went badly for him in the will, he never intended to pay him a shilling. But not daring to play on credit with any one else, he had encroached upon the sum he had designed for the expenses of his honeymoon, which would now have to be curtailed to three weeks at farthest. Even to reckless Eichard, the future looked gloomy that evening, as he took VOL. I. F 66 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. his way to the Jew clothier's to furnish himself forth with a suit of 4nconsolables/ as the shopman termed it, against the all-important morrow. ( 67 ) CHAPTER Y. THE WILL. BosEBANK, the residence of the late Matthew Thiuie, steel-plate manufac- turer, was a picturesque cottage, situated so much at the extremity of the suburbs of Hilton as to be called without flattery a country-house. It had a large garden, full of the sweet-scented flowers from which the place derived its name ; and the cultivation of them had been its owner's hobby. He had spent money on httle else, for his tastes had been simple, as is usually the case with those who have made their own way in the 68 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. world. Time was, and not so long ago, when Matthew Thurle had been in but a small way of business, and had had to borrow the money requisite for cer- tain improvements in the machinery of his trade, which had subsequently yielded him a golden harvest ; and the man who had lent it to him was Herbert Thorne. They had been friends from boyhood, and their pursuits in manhood had been similar, though not identical. They were equally diligent, equally sober, equally sagacious — but the wits of the one had taken a practical turn, and those of the other a theoretical. It was no wonder, therefore, that the former throve in the world, and the latter found himseK, at fifty years of age, a considerably less prosperous man than when he had started in life. Thurle had repaid his debt, with the legal THE WILL. 69 interest, and would have repaid tlie obligation also, if Thome had suggested to him any mode of doing so. With respect to this matter, mankind are divided into three classes : the first, and most numerous, are neither ready nor willing to show then sense of past favours; the second are willing, but not ready without pressure ; and the thnd — so small, as to be hardly called a class — are both ready and walling. Thmie belonged to the second class. He might, in his turn, have advanced money to his former creditor to procure certain patents; one, especially, for the preparation of a pecuhar ink which its iuventor had entitled 'terminable,' and that promised ta repay him for years of thought and toil — ^but not having been apphed to for the advance, he had shut his eyes to his friend's obvious need of it, and 70 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. turned tlie money over and over again in his own business. It was pleasant to Mm to see it grow and grow there ; and for the sake of that pleasure he denied himseK almost every other, in- cluding that of benefiting his old school- fellow and companion. His household at Eosebank was decreased in inverse proportion to his means, until it con- sisted of but a single in-door servant, though no less than three gardeners were employed in the propagation of his roses. He entertained his friends so rarely and so sparely, that they gradually dropped away from him, till he became that most pitiable of spectacles, an old man without a friend. He had two nephews, it was true, of whom the younger, John Milbank, was a man in some respects after his own heart — diligent, studious, averse to dissipation of all kinds, and THE WILL. 71 who showed a remarkable aptitude for the business in which he had embarked his own darhng gold; yet, curiously enough, he could never, as he himself expressed it, ' take to ' John. BLis affec- tion had centred upon Eichard, the ne'er-do-well, the profligate, and it had clung to him despite many a rude shock. There were reasons for this besides the liking for him, which needs no reason, and which weighs with most of us in such cases — though it was strange it should so weigh with him — more heavily than all the virtues in the opposite scale. In the first place, Eichard was, or had been, made in a great measure independent of him by his father's will ; whereas John had Httle beyond his salary as his uncle's assistant : this possession of comparative wealth gave the former an importance in the 72 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. gold-dazzled eyes of old Matthew ; and he would gladly have enriched the nephew who did not (as he imagined) need his riches, although he had not deserved them, at the expense of his diligent brother, but that he felt that in Eichard's hands the business which he had created and toiled for for so many years, and which he loved Hke a sentient creature, would without doubt go to ruin. In the second place, Eichard had pleased the old man by his choice of a sweet- heart in Maggie Thorne. He was not so blinded by mere money as not to recognize money's worth, and he saw in the clever, hard-working girl a valuable helpmate to any man, and to Eichard the very guide and safeguard of which his frivolity and imprudence (for it was thus he mildly designated his favourite nephew's vices) made him stand so much THE WILL. 73 in need. WTiat weighed with him also, perhaps, no less was, that he looked upon the match as a discharge in fall for the obhgation which in time past he had incnrred to Maggie's father, and which his conscience secretly reproached him for not having recognized more directly. It is only of late years that the charity bestowed after death — that of ^benevolent founders,' ^munificent testators,' and so forth — has been esti- mated at its due moral value (expressed arithmetically as nought divided by number one) ; and perhaps Matthew Thurle may be excused for imagining that he was doing a handsome thing in thus giving away what cost him nothing — namely, his consent to his nephew's union; but he w^as certainly blame- worthy in the selfish complacency with which he regarded the sacrifice of 74 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Maggie herself, who was at least as likely to suffer from Eichard's proprie- torship as the 'business.' Thus matters had stood when Mr. Thurle had been attacked by his last ill- ness ; but he had exhibited more severity towards his scapegrace nephew than he had really felt; and under the idea that his name would not appear in his uncle's will, Eichard — as it was generally beHeved and whispered — ^had committed the out- rage of which we have aheady spoken. At all events, some person had obtained by force the old man's signature to some document under the circumstances de- scribed, and it was certainly very suspicious that on his partial recovery Mr. Thurle had instituted no steps for the apprehen- sion of the offender. Under the influence of his immediate alarm, he had at first made known the matter; but he had since THE WILL. 75 been very reluctant to speak of it ; and the impression of those who knew him best was, that he had come to the conclusion that Eichard Milbank — his favourite nephew, and indeed the only man for whom he had ever entertained what could be termed affection — and no other, had been the would-be robber. The circum- stance that he had never sent for Eichard since, even to bid him farewell, greatly corroborated the public opinion in this respect, and it was concluded by all, save Lawyer Linch and one other, that the elder nephew's name would not appear in the old man's will at aU. Curiosity as to this matter — though it would not thereby be satisfied — brought a good many persons to the funeral of Matthew Thurle ; old acquaintances came, with whom, before the disease of getting and saving had settled upon him, he had 76 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. been on familiar terms ; and these the presence of some young fellows interested in Eichard's fortunes, but by no means affected by the melancholy of the occa- sion, greatly scandalized. But after the ceremony was over, those who were privileged by invitation to repair to Eose- bank and hear the last testament of the deceased were few indeed. They com- prised the family lawyer, Mr. Linch — a lay preacher in the sect to which Mr. Thurle had belonged, and who had opened his eyes very wide indeed at seeing Eichard at the cemetery — Eichard himself, pale and anxious, but with a devil-may-care air that strangely contrasted with his funereal garb; John, a little more quiet and thoughtful than usual, perhaps, but without any demonstrations of woe — which in his case would certainly have been out of place enough; he had done THE WILL. 77 his uncle's bidding thi'ough life without pleasing him, and only now was about to enter into his reward; Mrs. Morden, the deaf housekeeper, who had come un- asked up to the parlour — to ' look after ' her own interests, as Mr. Linch afterwards jestingly remarked, since it was impossible she could hear what fortune might be in store for her ; Herbert Thome, the steel- plate engraver ; and last, but by no means least in the eyes of three of the company, and the cynosure of all of them, his daughter. Why Maggie was there — for she had not been of the assemblage at the cemetery, which had been confined to males — was a question only herself could answer. She had announced her inten- tion of being present, at breakfast that morning, to her father in her quiet, reso- lute way, and he had made no effort to oppose it. Whatever her motive, he 78 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. thought it would be good for her to hear what the dead man had to say respecting Eichard Milbank, for he expected some plain speaking ; and Maggie expected it, too, and went to comfort Eichard. He thought she had never looked so beautiful as in her mourning clothes, and even whispered as much in her delicate ear. But she looked very grave, and turned her head away, as though the occasion was ill- chosen for such compliments. The scene, indeed, was serious and sombre enough, as the lawyer took his seat at the table, with the will in his hand ; while the rest, forming a half- circle in front of him, sat all more or less expectant, awaiting its contents. The windows, which opened to the ground, had been set wide, for the afternoon was sultry, and through them came the sum- mer air, heavy and faint with rose odours, THE WILL. 79 bringing with them to all present the memory of the dead man. ^He must have had something gentle and tender about him,' reflected Maggie, ' after all, to have been so fond of flowers : surely, he will not carry his severity to poor Eichard beyond the tomb.' These hopeful thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Linch's shoi^t, dry cough, with which he always commenced what he called * a statement.' * This is the last will and testament of our late friend, Mr. Matthew Thmie,' said he, ' executed in my presence, and duly witnessed, on the sixth of June last — only a few weeks before his de- cease.' Discarding its legal phraseology, and rejecting the moral and reHgious aphorisms with which it was curiously interspersed, so that it resembled less a will than a 80 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. sermon, the document provided as follows : — First, if ^ my nephew, Eichard Milhank, shall, from any cause, save that of illness, absent himself from my funeral, or attend it without decent mourning apparel, he shall, i])so facto, be deprived of any benefits intended for him as hereafter written.' At this, Maggie cast a bright and rapid glance at her lover, as though she would have said : ' See what would have hap- pened, had I not persuaded you to behave with due respect ! ' But, to her surprise, he did not even look towards her : his gaze was fixed upon the floor with a frowning brow. He was, in fact, consumed with rage and chagrin : with rage, that his uncle should have laid this command- ment on him — also because he had obeyed it, as might be imagined, out of fear ; and THE WILL. 81 with chagrin, that he should seem to be indebted to John for his escape from dis- inheritance. It was true that he had been persuaded by Maggie, before his brother had spoken to him, to attend the funeral ; but John could not have known that, and his intentions had therefore been generous and well-meant, and clearly laid him under a strong obHgation. ^You will allow me to say, Mr. Eichard,' said the lawyer, looking up at him from his papers, ^ as an old friend of your family, and one who has known you from a child, that I am glad to see you here ; not only on your own account, but on that of your deceased uncle, to whom, if he knows what is happening here, I am sure your presence will give pleasure.' ' My deceased uncle w^ill be easily pleased, then,' rephed Eichard coolly; 'for, as it happens, I am here out of no respect VOL. I. G 82 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. for his memory whatever, but to please Miss Thorne yonder.' ' Tut, tut, tut,' said Mr. Linch ; ' this is very sad.' ' Moreover,' continued Eichard, with an effort, ' I am bound to say that my brother John gave me a hint that it would be better for my prospects that I should be here to-day ; and though it did not affect my resolution, for the reason I have aheady given, and to which Miss Thorne will testify, I beg to acknowledge his ' — he was about to say ^ generosity,' but stopped himself, and substituted for it — ^ good intentions.' ' This will, to my knowledge, has never been out of my hands,' remarked Mr. Linch, turning sharply on John Milbank. ^ My uncle informed me of its first pro- vision,' observed John quietly, ^ and in such a manner that I was led to the con- THE WILL. 83 elusion that he wished my brother to be informed of it.' ^ It was a very generous and brotherly act,' exclaimed Mr. Linch, with unwonted enthusiasm. ' Had you not better proceed with the will,' remarked Eichard sidlenly, ' and preach yom' sermon afterwards to those who may 'remain to hear it ? ' Mr. Linch bit his lip, and the colour came into his cheeks ; the lay preacher was much given to hold discourses both in season and out of it, but the lawyer was well aware that he had exceeded his professional duties on the present occa- sion. Without rejoinder or further com- ment, therefore, he proceeded to read the provisions of the will. The whole of the dead man's wealth, almost all of which was invested in the factory, was devised to his two nephews 84 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. on the following conditions : they were to be partners in the business, which was not to be disposed of; and they were to live together at Eosebank, at least for the ensuing twelve months. The reasons for this curious proviso were also given. ' By working side by side with John, and especially by living under the same roof with him, I look to see Eichard become another man through his brother's ex- ample. I lay this injunction also upon my elder nephew — for my old friend Herbert Thome's sake — that he does not marry Maggie Thorne for a twelvemonth from this date. In that time, having money at his disposal, and being his own master, it will be seen whether Eichard is fit to be trusted with Maggie's fate. If he marries her earlier, he there- by forfeits aU. that I have above be- queathed to him, which thereupon will THE WILL. 85 fall to his brother absolutely. And who- soever shall leave Eosebank during the above period, and live elsewhere, apart from his brother, shall similarly lose what I have left to him, which shall then revert to the other.' There were many such stringent regula- tions and enactments, but all aimed more or less to draw the brothers together, with the express intention of benefiting the elder ; at the same time that the very precautions imphed that he was a repro- bate and a good-for-naught. Of all the e^il that hves after men, there is nothing so harmful as an unjust will — it parts those who are joined in bonds of friendship, and even of love itself; it widens the fissm-e w^here they are already parted ; and it lays the found- ations of jealousy and hate for generations to come. In the present case, two men 86 THE BEST OF HUSlJANDS. who had not an idea in common, and whose natures were antagonistic in the extreme, were condemned by this dead man's ukase to dwell together for a year of their lives, and to share a common fortune for ever. It was felt by all who heard his mandates that Matthew Thurle had left mischief behind him ; and even the lawyer, looking from Eichard's flushed and angry face to John's, so quiet and so pale, did not venture to address to either of the two co-heirs his customary phrase on such occasions : ' I congratulate you.' The first person to speak was the deaf housekeeper. ' Has my master remembered his old servant, Mr. Linch ? ' inquired she, in a quavering voice. ' I did not hear my name 1 ' The lawyer hesitated. It was a hard case, he knew, that this faithful creature. THE WILL. 87 who had borne with old Thuiie's temper for more than a quarter of a century, and had helped him in his darhng scheme for saving money, to her own discomfort, had not been mentioned in his last testament. ' You are to have fifty pounds a year for life,' said John Milbank, pitching his voice, as long habit had accustomed him to do, so as to reach the old woman's ear. ' God bless him ! ' she answered, with a sigh of rehef, the picture of the parish workhouse probably becoming a dissolv- ing view to her mental eyes. ' I thought he would not forget me ; and I hope he has not cut off Master Eichard.' This was hard on John, though he was accustomed to find his brother preferred before him by the enthe female sex — as an object of pity, it is tine, but also of admiration ; but on this occasion at least 88 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. he had his compensation. The company had now risen, and Maggie advanced towards him with outstretched hand and said : ^ I must thank yon, John, upon my own account, for your generosity to Eichard in urging him to be here to-day.' His face flushed to the temples, and his hand shook as he took hers ; hut his voice was firm and quiet as usual as he replied : ^ I only did my duty, Maggie, in carrying out my uncle's wishes.' There was a certain primness, which his enemies called priggism, in all John said, even at his best. Eichard broke into a contemptuous laugh. ' Well, I think we have had enough of duty and our uncle to-day,' observed he scornfully. — ' Mrs. Morden, this old curmudgeon has not left you a single farthing,' added he vehemently. ' The annuity John spoke of will be paid THE WILL. 89 you by him and me, so don't let us hear any more about your dear master ! ' ' Yes, yes ; God bless him ! ' answered the old lady, to w^hom only the last few words of Eichard's speech were intel- ligible. ' How" he would have enjoyed the smell of them roses to-day. Wouldn't he ? But that's all over now.' Perhaps Kichard would have made another attempt to undeceive her, had not Maggie interfered. ' If it pleases her to think her old master kinder than he was, why disturb her happy faith ? ' said she. 'Yes, yes ; let her think what she likes,' added John persuasively. Eichard shrugged his shoulders. ' Since you wish it, Maggie, let it be so,' said he ; ' but for my part,' added he with signiJi- cance, ' I hate humbug and hypocrisy of all description.' 90 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. There was an unpleasant pause, broken at last by a suggestion from the lawyer, that Mrs. Morden should give up her keys to her young masters, that they might go over the house and explore their new possession. Whereupon, the little com- pany, after a somewhat constrained fare- well, took their departure, leaving the two young men alone at Kosebank. ( 91 ) CHAPTEE YI. THE CO-HEIRS. * Well,' said Eichard, when the house- keeper, not without tears in her old eyes, had produced the keys, and withdrawn to her own apartment, 'you know the cottage well enough, I suppose ; and as for me, though by no means so famihar with it, I have no curiosity about its contents, except in one respect — I should like to know what Uncle Matthew has left in his cellar/ * Just as you please,' answered John quietly. ' There is an inventory of every- thing except the wine.' 92 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^ That is jnst like the old hunks : he took infinite pains about everything that a man of spirit despises ; while all that makes life pleasant he deemed of no account/ John looked as if about to speak, but did not do so. ' What on earth are you at ? ' inquired the other impatiently. ' I am lighting a candle ; the cellar is not Ht from outside, you know.' * Bah ! How those matches smell of brimstone ! They remind me of where the old miser is gone himself ! I should think he gave about a farthing a box for them. I'll just smoke a cigar, to make the room sweet. Just hand me that spill. — Thank you. Gad ! if he saw me now, smoking in his best parlour, it would give him another turn of the screw.' With his hands thrust deep into his THE CO-HEIRS. 93 pockets, and smoking his cigar, Eichard followed his brother as he led the way with the candle. ^ You had better be careful how you come down these steps,' said John, when he had unlocked the cellar door, * for they are very steep.' ^ You are a fool to say so,' laughed the other coarsely, ^ since nothing could turn out better for you than that I should pitch down here head-first, and break my neck ! The place, as it is, looks un- commonly like a grave.' There were two cellars — one contained in the house itself, and the other built out imderground ; the walls of both were damp and mildewy, and on the bottles, particularly those in the outer compart- ment, the cobwebs were hanging in clusters. There was altogether an ample store of wine. 94 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ' Well, I call this a prize ! ' cried Richard, looking about him. ' I will never again find fault with temperance and sobriety. The old fool must have become a teetotaler in his old age, surely. — I beg your pardon, though ; I forgot that you had taken the pledge yourself. But you'll break it now ; won't you ? There's some '20 port here, if the seal tells true : I should think Father Mathew himself would absolve you for drinking that.' ' My uncle drank very little of late years,' remarked John coldly, without taking notice of the other's personal allusion ; ' and what he did drink was only the lighter sorts.' * The cheaper sorts, you mean, my good sir ! Well, it was very wise of him, because they don't keep their body. At the same time, if he could have foreseen THE CO-HEIES. 95 what was going to happen, he would probably have treated himself to some- thing better. There's very Httle cham- pagne, I see ; we must look to that. But old Koberts will smack his lips over that port. — You know Eoberts, of course, the banker that was.' ^ I know who he is,' answered John quietly. ' Ah, but you shall know him — he's a man whose talk is worth heaiing. There's Gresham, too, as sharp as a needle. And if it comes to singing songs, I don't know a man in England that I would back against Dennis Blake. There are merry days, my good fellow, in store for you at Eosebank, I promise you, and many a jolly bout will we have in this old parlour.' They had left the cellar now, and were once more in the sitting-room ; the 96 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. weather had changed ; the rain was fall- ing heavily without, and all the sky was overcast and gloomy. ' Yon will ask whom you please to Eosebank, of course, Eichard,' observed his brother, ' but I hope, while I am here, you will not invite Dennis Blake.' ' Not ask Dennis ! Why not ? He is the very prince of good fellows, and my most particular friend.' ' I am sorry to hear it. That is,' added John, correcting himself, ^ since he is your friend, I will say nothing against him ; but personally, he is very objection- able to me — I may even say offensive.' * That is because you don't understand him, my dear sir. You must know Denny intimately to appreciate him. The fact is, you have been consorting with little better than Quakers. I say nothing against them, because they are your THE CO-HEIKS. 97 friends. But now there is no more necessity for such asceticism ; you have been wearing a hair shirt, but you may now indulge yourself with linen. You have not lost the capacity for enjoying yourself, I hope, through your long course of self-denial ? ' ' There has been no self-denial in my course of life, Eichard,' answered the other quietly. ' I have Hved, so far as my habits go, as pleased myself.' ' And one other,' retm-ned Eichard quickly. ' Come, don't keep on at the old game, when there is no pool left to play for — when you have won the stakes. We are quite alone^ you know, my good fellow, you and I.' Eichard' s air and tone were even more contemptuous than his words, yet a small red spot in the centre of his brother's cheeks was all the fire they kindled. VOL. I. H 98 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^ I know we are alone, Kicliard/ answered lie, ^ and it is very wretched. Still, it is not my fault that it is so, but the misfortune of us both. Since it has pleased our uncle ' Here Eichard burst in with so vehe- ment an execration that the other waited, as though it had been a clap of thunder, for it to pass away, ere he resumed : * Since he has ordained that we should pass the next twelve months in each other's company, why not endeavour to make the best of it ? Why make me feel, in your every word and look, that my society is abhorrent to you ? ' * Because I can't help it,' was the coarse response. ^ It is all very well for you, who are a saint, and can keep all your passions so dutifully under control that those who don't know you as I do suppose you have none.' THE CO-HEIES. 99 Here the little red spot grew larger, and for a moment John Milbank looked towards his brother as Cain might have regarded Abel. ^ You are very hard, Eichard,' said he ; ' you do not spare me.' ' No, by Heaven ! And I don't intend to do so. I mean to make this house unpleasant for you in every way; I tell you that. That is, if you refuse to hsten to reason.' * To reason ! ' repeated John, in a tone the hopelessness of which made it un- wittingly more contemptuous than any sneer. ' Oh yes, I can be reasonable enough when it suits me,' continued Eichard, ^ though it mayn't be your sort of reason. One may know on which side one's bread is buttered, quite as well as another, though one may not sacrifice every 100 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. pleasure in life to the acquisition of a round of it. You have got your round, but I'll take precious good care you don't enjoy it. You think it's a fine thing to be left share and share alike with me at Eosebank ; but I can tell you that I am going to be master here for all that. I'll have my friends here — Denny amongst them — every day in the week. We'll drink Hollo ! what's that I read in your eye ? This prospect seems to give you pleasure ! *^ Give this fellow rope enough," you are saying toyourseK, '^ and he will hang himself." You think old Herbert Thorne wiU object to such goings-on, and that before the year is out Maggie may cry off with me and on with somebody else. Ah, ha ! I have found you out, sly fox ! ' ' Eichard,' cried John suddenly, ' when you win at cards, is it not thought a cruel THE CO-HEIES. 101 thing to tatmt and crow over the loser ? You have at least the morahty of the card-table, and to that I make an appeal. You are the winner, and I am the loser in — another matter. Is not that enough ? Can you not be silent over your victory ? ' ' That depends, my fine fellow. The sight of you, I confess, has not a con- ciliatory effect upon me. We are like two dogs, you see, whom the keeper has coupled together : one a staid, slow-going hound ; the other, a rover ; and the rover is the stronger one, and is likely to drag the other whither he will, or choke him. What we both want is to shp our collars ; and it lies with you to do it.' * If you mean that it depends on me to alter my uncle's will, Eichard, you are mistaken. You heard its terms yourself.' ' Its terms ! As if I — or you, for the matter of that — cared a farthing about its 102 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. terms ! You will be talking to me next, like Lawyer Linch, about " tbe wishes of the testator." Is the habit of hypocrisy so easily lost, that it is necessary to be always keeping your hand in ? ' ^ I was merely referring to the facts of the case.' ' And so am I. The facts of the case are, that Uncle Matthew wishes me to attend to the factory business ; and I don't mean to go near the place. He wishes me to imitate the example of your virtues, and to be edified by your con- versation; whereas I despise the one, and shall not listen to the other. You will do aU the work, and like it. The companion that I shall choose for myseK is not you, but Dennis Blake, or some such another — certainly not a serious teetotaler Hke yourself. This will happen, my good sir, whether you will assent to it THE CO-HEIRS. 103 or not ; but if you choose to be reason- able, things may be made very pleasant for both of us.' ^ I will make them as pleasant as I can, Eichard.' ' That is well said. Now you are beginning to talk sense. What we are both endeavouring after is a divorce, you see, without the " Queen's proctor inter- vening." There must be no collusion that anybody can lay hold of ; and at the same time we must get free. You shall have the business to yourself — without my even so much as looking into an account — and I will take, not half, but so much of the profits as you consider fair, since I shall be only a sleeping-partner.' * You shall have half, Eichard.' * Well, to be sure, I want money more than you do ; and it ought to be con- sidered that my uncle would have made 104 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. me his heir, but for my own doings. Then one or other of ns must leave Kosehank.' ^ I would wish that as much as you, Eichard ; but it is impossible. If I left you here, I should be forfeiting every shilling of my uncle's bequest.' ' Then, Til go. The money will then, it is true, revert to you by law ; but you are a man of honour, and I'll trust you. Give me your word that it shall make no difference ' ' I would not trust myself to do such a thing, Eichard,' interrupted the other hastily. ' I thank you for your confi- dence, but the temptation might be too powerful for me. I would not risk it.' ^ Then give me your bond. I'll find a better lawyer than Linch, who will make me safe enough. Just imagine what a twelvemonth hes before us, and how we shall detest one another before it's over ! ' THE CO-HEIES. 105 ^ That is true,' murmured the other with a shudder. ' Just so. Then why should you hesi- tate ? We shall hoth be free, and each pursue that road in life which happens to be most attractive to us. You will extend the business — I will never ask for a farthing more than half the present profits of it — and become a merchant- prince in time, no doubt. You will have your little tea-fights and prayer-meetings here at Eosebank, and enjoy them, I hope, to your heart's content.' 'And you?' ' Oh, I shall also become thoroughly domesticated, though not, perhaps, quite so much in the tame-cat line. I shall marry Maggie — privately, of course — at once, and Hve happily ever afterwards. After years of separation, you may feel a tenderness for yom' only brother; and 106 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. when you die, may bequeath ten thou- sand pounds apiece to each of your nephews and nieces. Who knows ? Come ; is it a bargain ? ' * No, Eichard,' answered the other positively; ^ it is impossible.' ' Yet you thought it not impossible a minute ago ; I'll swear to it ! Shall I tell you what caused you to alter your opinion? Your objection is only to the last part of the arrangement — that I should marry at once. It is extraordin- ary, considering your secretive habits, that you have no command over your countenance. I can read you like a book — of course, fall of moralities. Don't be a fool, John ! If you think that Maggie will not wait a year for me, you are vastly mistaken. It was only yesterday that she undertook to marry me out of hand, and go to America, in case things THE CO-HEIKS. 107 had turned out worse to-day for me than they have. As it is, they will have turned out bad for you, if you are obsti- nate. I ask you once more — are we to wear this galling chain or not ? ' * And I tell you once more, I have no power to break it, Kichard ! ' ' That is to say, you have no wish. Very good ! The matter henceforth is dropped; and whatever happens, you have only yourself to blame for it. — And now, may I ask you, my good sir, in the character of partner, how am I to get some ready-money, of which I stand much in need? I suppose my cheques upon the firm will be honoured ? ' * In time, and within the limits speci- fied by Uncle Matthew's will, no doubt they will; but, as Mr. Linch will tell you ' ^ Bother Mr. Linch ! I can't wait 108 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. while the accounts are being looked into, if you mean that. My uncle left some money in the bank, did he not ? ' ' Yes ; eight hundred pounds was the exact sum, as you perhaps remember.' Eichard's handsome face grew very dark, for he could not affect to misunder- stand his brother's allusion. To know that one is guilty of a baseness is very bitter ; to know that another knows it is still worse ; but the dregs of the gall are in the draught when that other reveals to you his knowledge. Eichard hated John more than he had ever done, for those four words, ^ As you perhaps re- member.' Not a syllable, however, did he utter in rejoinder. ^ I want four hundred pounds,' was all he said. ' Can I have it at once ? ' 'Not out of our uncle's bequest, as I should suppose, at present. But I have THE CO-HEIES. 109 about as much as that of my own, and I will advance it you.' 'Yeiy good. I will give you my I U.' And he sat down and wrote it accordingly, in return for his brother's cheque. Then crumpling the latter into his pocket, he ht a second cigar, and strode out of the house and into the pouring rain without a word. His scheme had been to so foreshadow their mutual relations as to disgust his brother, and compel him to enter into some arrangement to evade the condi- tions of their uncle's will; but having failed, he bitterly resolved that the picture he had drawn of John's dis- comfort should be borne out to the uttermost by the reahty. 110 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. CHAPTEE YII. THE WET BLANKET. It is often objected to the good cha- racters in works of fiction, that they are not made sufficiently ^interesting,' and that the cause of morality thereby suffers; and yet, after all, the novehst is in this particular only drawing from life itseK. It was a complaint made by a great rehgious leader, in connection with the question of psalm- singing, that ' the de'il had all the best tunes ; ' and, in spite of some isolated efforts to pre- vent him, the devil still possesses them. The graces of good manners, of wit, and THE WET BLANKET. Ill above aU, of ^natm-alaess,' are almost always conspicuous by tbeir absence in those who caU themselves reHgious per- sons. Their ' cheerfulness ' — though we all agree it is highly commendable — is not attractive, since it often partakes of that character which is termed by the frivolous ^ deadly Hvely.' It is not so easy to be aU things to all men as an apostle might wish, and the attempt of the virtuous to win over the wicked by geniahty is almost always a failure. Like the weU-meant efforts of men of science to gild the pill of instruction, they fail even in the gilding. The orrery by which we are to be attracted towards the heavenly bodies is itself a melancholy .object, and only amusiag from the fact that it aspires to be so. So much is this th^ case, that a clergy- man who happens to have a natural 112 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. turn for humour is generally looked on with some suspicion by his own cloth, and it is whispered : 'It is a pity he took orders.' And what is true in this respect of persons of earnest rehgious feeling, is still more so in the case of those of a rigid morality. They are not only unattractive to their fellow- creatures, but often even intolerable ; which does not so much arise from their being virtuous while the rest of the world like cakes and ale, as from their want of sympathy, their reserve, and from those characteristics the pos- sessor of which is apt to be described in brief as ' a wet blanket.' ' The Wet Blanket ' was the name by which John Milbank was known in social circles at Hilton, as though he had been an Indian chief. He was un- deniably handsome, and personal beauty THE WET BLANKET. 113 is itself a powerful social auxiliary even in a man ; ^ a good-looking feUow ' has, in spite of Wilkes's saying, more than a quarter of an hour's start of an ugly one, even with those of his own sex. But this advantage was thrown away in John's case by the absence of the desire to please. In women, indeed, he excited a temporary iQterest ; but when the}^ found he was marble it soon died away, or crystalhzed into the sort of admiration with which one regards a statue. It could not be said of him that ' he taught in a Sunday school, and had not a vice,' because he did not teach in a Sunday school. The religious sect to which, in common with his late uncle, he belonged was proud of him, by reason of his gi'ow- ing importance, rather than fi'om any gracious sign of piety in the young man : he w^ould one day become a powerful VOL. I. I 114 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. member of their chnrcli, since diligence, sobriety, and intelligence unfailingly lead to power ; but they did not expect from him an enthusiastic support. He attended their prayer-meetings pretty regularly, but by no means so often as he might have done ; and now and then he had a ten- dency to 'withstand the word' — that is, as Mr. Linch preached it. In morals, too, he was not so much austere, which would have been creditable, as apparently un- moved by temptation — a circumstance which, by the fair sex, was naturally felt to be insulting. Even in the most re- spectable circles, it may be remarked that a man who ' doesn't care for ladies' society,' or is not ' impressionable,' is held in more disfavour than a rake. John Milbank was not a saint, in short, but quite as unpopular as though he had been one. On the other hand, he had some THE WET BLANKET. 115 fine qnalities of a positive and active sort. He was as just as Aristides, and yet generous to a fault. For all Ms 'getting,' he never refused to give. His hand, as more and more was poured into it, re- mained open as ever, not only to the necessities of the poor, but even to more doubtful claimants. He had more than once assisted his brother with money to defray his extravagances ; toiled and tasked himseK for months to procure funds for him, that had been wasted in a day. This, indeed, had not happened very lately, for the breach had been so wide between them, that Eichard had not had the front of brass to apply to him for assistance ; but, as w^e have seen, John had made a generous effort to secure to his brother the haK of that wealth which would else, as he had good reason to sup- pose, have accrued to himself alone ; nor 116 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. could anything haye proved more incon- testably the confidence which his uncle had reposed in his generosity of disposi- tion, than the hint which he had given him of the contents of his testament. Even now, notwithstanding the ungra- ciousness with which his kindly warning had been received, he did not regret it, nor would he have done so^ even if, through it alone, his brother had saved his inheritance. His sense of duty over- bore all other considerations ; and only less strong than that was his sense of the obligations of kinship. He could not love his brother ; the text that assumes the knowledge of that relative as a reason for loving him had no application in the case ; for it was his very acquaintance with Richard's character that prevented him from entertaining affection for him ; but he thought himself bound to defend and THE WET BLAXEET. 117 advance his interests for all tliat, even to liis own liurt — save in one particular. He could not, and he would not, assist him to marry Maggie Thorne. If you had opened John Milbank's heart, you would have found her name engraved on that tine metal, more deeply than her father had ever cut into steel. No one had read it there, as he had flattered himself, until an houi' ago, when Eichard had taunted him with that fatal secret. He had never told his love, nor thought of telling it ; it would have been of no use to do so, it was true, since Eichard, his superior in every way in the eyes of womankind, had declared his in- tentions of winning Maggie ; but still it was for Eichard' s sake that he had never so much as sighed for her ; had buried her, as it were, in his heart, and soiTOwed for her loss, as though — ahnost — she had 118 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. been really dead to him. It was that ^ almost ' which had of late become the fiery trial of John Milbank's life. There had been a temptation to him far beyond that of wealth— to keep the knowledge of his uncle's will from Eichard, so that his marriage with Maggie should have been rendered impossible, through lack of means. He had put that from him, like a man — for few women in such a case would have exercised a similar self-denial — and had been in some degree rewarded for it. The marriage which poverty might, after all, have hastened in one so reckless as his brother, had been at least postponed. It afforded John no actual hope, indeed, but it was a reprieve from what would have been despair. On the other hand, Eichard had discovered that he was his rival, and thereby possessed himself of a weapon against which he had THE WET BLANKET. 119 no defence, and the wounds of which were terrible ; and he had aheady shown that he would not spare to use it. Gloomy as was the prospect of the next twelve months for John, it was not that which now weighed upon his mind, as he sat alone at quiet Eosebank — soon to be the scene of unwelcome reveliy and riot. Discomfort and insolence he would have to bear, no doubt ; but it was not of him- self that he was thinking, nor of the ordeal through which he was about to pass. He looked beyond that time, and shuddered at the fate that was awaiting Maggie. The heartless selfishness and brutal vice of Eichard Milbank were revealed to him as they had never been before, and it was Maggie who would be their helpless victim. He did not beheve that any conduct of this man, in the meantime, however gross, would alienate 120 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. her affections from him, though he could not refrain from speculating upon the possibility of such an occurrence. Eichard had bewitched her from the first, and had retained her love without an effort on his part ; nay, notwithstanding that he had been remiss in his attentions to her, and notoriously given up to vice and folly. He had been faithless to her, too, John knew, though Maggie probably did not ; and that reflection was accompanied by another. Should he let her know it ? It would be a base thing to do, in one sense ; but if nothing short of having her eyes opened to the depravity of this man could save her from life-long wretched- ness, would it not be justifiable ? Per- haps. Yet if he, John, were to be the cause of her enlightenment, would it be to save her from Eichard, or to recom- mend to her himself ? A question not to THE WET BLANKET. 121 be satisfactorily answered ; and, more- over, he could never recoramend liimseK to lier tliat way. No ; nor, as it seemed, in any way. Maggie liad never liked him — had never spoken a really pleasant word to him until that afternoon, and then it had only been to thank him for his generosity to Eichard. It had been delicious to him to see her smile, to hear her gracious words, to take her httle hand, and feel it press his own ; but it had also been wormwood ; for did not her very gratitude imply that she and Eichard were already one, or as good as one ! No ; if Eichard were dead, he should be no nearer to possessing her, since she had evidently an antipathy to him. (He was wi'ong here : Maggie had no antipathy to him, though httle sym- pathy WT.th his character — which she nevertheless secretly respected and ad- 122 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. mired ; but she resented his virtues, the possession of which seemed a reproach to his brother, and especially the praise of them by others.) How cruel and un- just it seemed ! All his heart was hers ; all his thoughts were for her. To work for her would have been the greatest bliss his imagination could conceive. Yet all this devotion weighed as nothing against a few passionate glances from Eichard's eyes, a few careless vows from Eichard's lips ! "What was it that his brother possessed, and he did not, which, notwithstanding the former's follies, made him everywhere the favourite with all women, and with nine-tenths of their male acquaintance, including even so business-loving and sedate a personage as had been their Uncle Matthew ? Poor John even went the length of looking at himself in the THE WET BLANKET. 123 little pier-glass, as though some explana- tion pi the phenomenon might be dis- covered there. And, indeed, in the rueful countenance "which now confronted him — so seldom regarded by himseK that it was quite a novel study — he did seem to recognize some' of his social defects. It was not, he owned, as a young man's face should be ; there were lines about it that looked like the autograph of Time him- self; the forehead was not smooth; and the muscles about the mouth were hard and set, not mobile, as in those who are given to smile. ^ She thinks me a dull dog, no doubt,' sighed he ; 'well, at least she shall have no cause to call me a surly one.' Did all his bitterness, and murmuring against the hardness of his fate result, then, but in resignation ? Did he intend to submit patiently to all indignities that 124 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. might be put upon him, well content if he should secure an acknowledgment of his forbearance from Maggie's Hps ? Or did he entertain a hope that before the year was out something might happen yet to reward him for years of silent but supreme devotion ; that her love for Eichard might wane through his own reckless ill-doing ; and that her pity for himself might grow to love, or at least to the toleration which he was willing to accept in its stead ? It is a question that at present cannot be answered, since, if he had that day been asked it, John Milbank could not have answered it himself. ( 125 ) CHAPTEK VIII. FORGIVEN. Though not usually what is called ' a man of his word,' Kichard Milbank kept it as respected his proceedings at Eose- bank to the letter. He assembled there the jovial spirits of whom he had spoken to John so eulogistic ally, and showed him 'life,' in what he well knew would prove to be a very unattractive form. Hitherto, the two brothers had hved almost wholly apart — the elder occupying * apartments ' in the more fashionable part of the town ; and John, in lodgings near the factory. They had had few 126 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. acquaintances in common, and tliose who were now Eichard's most frequent guests at the cottage were not among them. John had indeed met Dennis Blake, just after, it had become pretty well known that his brother was paying court to Maggie ; and something that ' Denny ' had said to him regarding that young woman — by no means intended to be disagreeable-, but spoken out of the fulness of the young gentleman's — well — animal spirits, had offended him mortally. He had received the remark with nothing beyond a cold disapproval, that had caused Mr. Blake to say of him that ' it was easy to see he was not of the right sort ; ' but, as a matter of fact, he had been within an inch or so of taking his brother's ally by his bull neck and shaking the hfe out of him. It was very unreasonable in him to be even annoyed — FOKGIVEN. 127 as those friends to whom Mr. Blake con- fided the matter (which he did as a good joke) were all agreed— since, after all, Maggie Thorne was not his sister-in-law yet, and surely one may talk of any young woman to one's fellow-man — she not being related to him by either blood or marriage — with vivacity and freedom. ' Indeed, for all I care,' said Deimy, in his simpHcity and candour, ' he may tell Dick himself.' But Dick had never known, and never did know, why, of all his dissolute com- panions. Dermis Blake was especially obnoxious to his brother ; he only knew that he tvas so, and asked him all the more frequently to Eosebank on that account. They were great friends again, those two, now that the card debt between them was settled ; and the httle parlour at the cottage had become 128 THE BEST OP HUSBANDS. the scene of even more considerable ^ operations ' than those which had been carried on at the Sans 8ouci. Often and often when John came back to what was now his home he found a quiet Httle company sitting up to their knees in cards — for those against whom luck was running insisted upon new packs, not the less, perhaps, since they were sup- plied to them for nothing — and with the table covered with gold and notes, as though it had been that of a money- changer. If it was a spectacle, as Mrs. Morden said it was, to * make the old master turn in his grave,' he must have made a good many such revolutions. John himself was not, as may be imagined, received by these gentry with enthusiasm ; indeed, they were much too occupied with their gains and losses to pay great attention to his arrival ; but, FORGIVEN. 129 either to show that he had a right to he there, or in order to obey the letter of his uncle's will (since to comply with its spirit was out of the question), he seldom let a day pass without giving his brother the opportunity of speech with him. At first he had even dined in his company, accommodating his own early houi's to suit Eichard's more fashionable habits ; but as there were always guests at table whose presence was more or less unwel- come to him, and some of whom did not hesitate to show that they reciprocated this want of sympathy, he had discon- tinued the custom. He would come home late — or what was late for him — and, after looking in upon the card-party for a few minutes, would retire to his chamber — not always, however, to rest ; for though the company were sedate and serious enough before supper, they were wont VOL. I. K 130 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. after that meal to grow so uproarious that the deaf old housekeeper would awake from slumber with the utterly false im- pression that she was in Little Bethel Chapel, and that Mr. Linch had just given out the hymn. It was complained by some members of the Sans Souci that there was now quite a difficulty in getting up a rubber there, since all the choicer spirits — which meant those most devoted to high play — were drawn away from it by the superior attractions of Eosebank. Nor, it was whispered, was it only whist that was played there, but unhallowed games — such as loo, and even brag. ^And mark my words,' said Colonel Hardhead — who had made a sort of professional income out of the more scientific amuse- ment of about three hundred pounds for the last twenty years — ^ there will be a row at that man Milbank's. No young FOKGIVEN. 131 fellow can hurt himself, to speak of, at short whist,' this mihtaiy morahst went on to say ; ' but when it comes to gambling games, there is no telling what he mayn't lose.' Nor was gambhng, unhappily, the only vice that was now practised in what Miss Linch, the lawyer's sister — an ancient, but still very marriageable maiden, who had paid delicate attentions, indeed so delicate that he had never so much as observed them, to Mr. Matthew Thurle for the last quarter of a century — had been wont poetically to term ' the Eose Bower.' The '20 port, the long un- touched bin of brown sherry, were, to use their new proprietor's own phrase, 'punished very severely'; and people who inflict that sort of chastisement — like a loviQg father who corrects his child — often suffer for it in their own persons. 132 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Drink had always been one of Eichard's weaknesses, and, now that lie could indulge it without stint, it was gaining the mastery over him with rapid strides. He drank when he was winning, for very joy; he drank when he was losing, to keep up his spirits ; and when he was neither winning nor losing, which was about haK his time, he drank because he felt the need of a stimulant. The only approach to regularity and system which his character exhibited, was in keeping his ^ cellar book ' in a most methodical manner, and entering in it every bottle that was withdrawn from that fast-fail- ing treasure-cave. In the middle of a debauch, he would leave his companions, and, with some social platitude about * every man being his own butler,' would stagger down to the bins, bring up more wine himself, and set it down in his book ^ before he forgot it.' FOEGIVEN. 133 ^You keep that book, I suppose, by ''double entry," Dick,' said Mr. Eoberts, on an occasion wben this young Apollo was looking more than usually like Silenus. Nor was it only in the presence of his boon companions that Eichard thus dis- graced himself. As time went on — the time in which he called himseK ' his own master,' but which was making him more and more a slave — indulgence in this re- spect had grown so much a habit with him, that he could not shake it off even when he would have done so. And on one occasion, when, for once, a joint invitation from the two brothers had brought Mr. Linch and his sister, with Mr. Thome and Maggie, to dine at Eose- bank, Eichard' s behaviom' at his own table was what even simple Miss Linch could not forbear to hint at to Maggie in the drawing-room as 'very peculiar.' What 134 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Maggie thought of it was not stated; but what the gentlemen guests thought of it may be gathered from the fact that they had taken both the ladies home, without giving them the opportunity of making a cup of tea — which might have done him good — for the master of the house. The person who suffered most upon that painfal occasion was John Milbank, because he most clearly under- stood what Maggie was suffering, and was absolutely unable, from the nature of the case, to conceal that he did so. If he had had time to consider the affair, perhaps he might have found cause for selfish congratulation ; but in the meantime he was too much pained to enter into such reflections, and besides, was fully occu- pied by his attempts to smooth matters. When Herbert Thorne and his daugh- ter got home that night, the former made FOKGIVEN. 135 one more effort — the first since Eichard had come into his property, nine months ago — to remonstrate with Maggie upon her engagement. * You see, what I told you would happen has come to pass, Maggie,' observed he bluntly : ' Eichard Milbank has become a sot/ 'Father, this is your house,' answered the girl, at the same time rising from her chair, ' and you have, of coiu'se, the right to say in it what you please ; but I will not stay here if you speak such words of Eichard!' She spoke in desperate earnest, and even moved towards the shawl and bon- net which she had just laid aside upon the table. It was evidently no use to drive her from the path that she had chosen. That would only hurry her over the precipice round which she ran. 136 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. * I do not wish to use hard words, Maggie, and certainly not words to pain you; but what is to be thought of Eichard Milbank's behaviour to you, to me, to all of us, at his own table to-day ? Is it possible that you could not see he was intoxicated ? ' * I did see that ! ' She had seen it long before the old man had done so ; the sense of it had reached her heart, and chilled it, alas ! without numbing it to pain, before the suspicion of it had dawned in her father's brain. ^It was shocking and most sad; but then he knows that you look un- favourably upon him, and that Mr. Linch is not his friend ; and that puts him ill at ease. I think he took the wine in order to give him vivacity. I don't defend him, but I think there was some excuse. I am sure his brother thought that, by the way he took it.' FORGIVEN. 137 * John is his good angel, of course, if only Kichard would let him be so; but he will not. His example and advice are utterly thrown away upon him. He strove to enrich him at his own expense, and the return which he has got for it is, that this fellow has already half ruined him.' ^ Half i-uined John ? How can that be?' ^ First, by borrowing money of him, which he has not repaid, and never can repay; then, by drawing out every shilling he can lay his hands upon from the busi- ness, so that it is almost crippled. Of course, you did not know this; nor should I have done so, if I had waited for John to tell me. He is one of those who never complain. But it is none the less true, for all that. I doubt, Maggie, whether Eichard Milbank is any the better off at 138 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. this moment, if every tiling was to be made square, than before his uncle's death.' ^ He is no worse off, at all events, father, than when I promised to marry him,' was the quiet reply. ^ Worse off ! As to money, perhaps not. But is he no worse ? Maggie, darling, look into your heart, and tell me truth- fally, have you any genuine confidence in this man? Do you think that, though the patience and long-suffering of his brother have been utterly thrown away upon him, you may yet win him from ruin, as his wife ? Is there any reason- able expectation of it? Nay, is there even hope ? ' Maggie answered not a word, nor even looked up at her father, but sat with her fingers plucking at a little bouquet of roses, which Eichard had gathered her FOKGIVEN. 139 from the garden before they had sat down to table. *You know, my girl, that I am but speaking the bare truth when I say that the gulf of ruin gapes for you, and that the branch by which you trust to save yourself from it, though green and plea- sant to the eye, is rotten and woi-thless. Are you bewitched by this handsome scoundrel? Has he fascinated you, as the snake fascinates the poor innocent bird, merely with his bright eyes ? If you were not my daughter, I should say that the father of such a gui must needs be ashamed of her.' Into her pale cheeks there stole a scar- let flush, as though one of the rose petals she was stripping from their stem and strewing on the ground had settled there ; but her voice was very quiet as she repHed : ' Speak of me as you please, 140 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. father, and whatever you speak of me, I will not even say that I have not deserved it. Perhaps I am bewitched. I have nothing to answer in Kichard's defence, nor in my own, except three words : I love him ! ' ^You are easily satisfied, Maggie. If your mother had given the same reason for choosing me for a husband, she would at least have added: "And he loves me."' * Richard does love me, father ! ' answered Maggie vehemently. ' If you were to paint him ever so darkly, and then convince me that the portrait was a correct one, I should stiU be sure of that.' * Then love is not what love was in my time, lass ! ' sighed the old man, with the air of one who is weary of contention. '■ Why, the man never comes to see you ; or, at least, I could count on my fingers the times that he has been here since his FORGIVEN. 141 uncle left him his co-heir. He must be sure of you indeed, Maggie, since he takes such httle pains to keep what he has so Hghtly won.' Nothing more that night was spoken between the father and daughter upon the matter; for, indeed, each had said all they had to say; but, as sometimes happens in arguments, the arrow that had been shot with the least care had gone nighest home. The Parthian shaft which the engraver had let fly at a ven- ture when all seemed over, and he was indeed in full retreat, had almost turned the fortune of the battle. Maggie could have resisted anything in the way of depreciation of her lover, simply by intrenching herself behind the rampart of unbeHef; but the suggestion that Eichard was neglecting her was insup- portable, skice she had her own sus- picions that it was true. 142 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. The very next morning, however, as it happened, Eichard made his appearance at the engraver's house, not to excuse his conduct of the previous evening, nor even to extenuate it, he said, hut to throw himself — as he confessed he had often done hefore — on his darhng's mercy ; a course of conduct which not only reinstated him in her good graces, but probably placed him higher therein than he would have been had he never fallen. He spent the whole morning in her company — not without steahng a furtive look or two at his watch, however — and seemed to take a greater interest in her occupations and pursuits than he had ever done before. As to the state of his affairs, concerning which she put some straightforward questions — without, however, any tincture of reproach — he told her very frankly that they were far FORGIVEN. 143 from flomishing, and that when the year was out he might again propose to her to share his fortunes across the Atlantic. 'You once spoke to me of ''a fresh start," Maggie, in a new country,' said he, with a penitent sigh, ' and I have often wished that fortune — though it seemed to be a good fortujie — had not interfered to prevent my trying it. I doubt we shall have to try it, after all.' ' So much the better, darling,' answered she resolutely. ' Eemoved fi^om these terrible temptations, which in your wiser moments you regret so much, you will then be a happier man. You smile, Eichard, but it is not with your old smile ! surely, surely, you will not regret them ! ' ' I was not thinking of them at all, Maggie,' whispered the young man ; ' I was only regretting the time lost which 144 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. we miglit have spent together, since I might have called yon mine six months Eichard Milbank may have been dull at figures; but for skill in getting his somewhat cooked accounts passed by an auditress in the High Court of Love he had few superiors. ( 145 ) CHAPTEE IX. THE THEEE MONTHs' BILL. Late one afternoon, when Jolin Milbank was closing his desk at the office, the day's work being done, word was brought that a stranger wished to see him. ' Show him up,' said John mechanically. He was not so eager to do business as he had been ; first, because his mind was engrossed with another matter (in two months, or less, Maggie would be lost to him for ever ; for it was not likely that Eichard would delay his marriage one day beyond the limit imposed by his uncle's will) ; secondly, because while YOL. I. L 146 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. his brother remained Jhis partner, a con- tinnous drain upon the resources of the firm, it was hopeless to push its interests. There entered to him a man with a gray head and beard, but thickly built, and with no trace of age in his gait or bearing. His dark and piercing eyes had a furtive look, and in a tone which was not altogether unfamiliar to John, he asked to have a few words with him in private. John was not suspicious, and fear was unknown to him; still, it was a comfort to reflect that a large sum of money which had been in the office strong-box that morning was now lying safe at the banker's. It was not business gains — far from it : he had just disposed of the proceeds of a certain property at a dead loss, and which his brother's expenditure had compelled him to reaHze. THE THEEE MONTHS' BELL. 147 ' We are quite private here, sir, and you need not fear interruption,' was his quiet reply. *I am not a man of business,' observed the stranger, ' and therefore you must forgive me if I am out of order in what I am about to ask you. It may be an impertinence, in which case the personal interest I have m the question must plead my excuse.' Where was it that John had heard this specious yet unconvincing tongue before ? a tongue that seemed to requhe schooling to be decent, and to have had infinite pains taken with it, in the way of butter, to smooth off its rough edge. 'I am not easily . offended, sir,' said John, eyeing his visitor very narrowly, * where, at least, no offence is meant.' * Then may I ask you, whether you have a certain bill out — a bill for a 148 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. thousand pounds at three months' date from yesterday?' John was Kke a rock as to his Hmhs, but he felt his heart fail within him. He knew of no such bill, but it was possible that his recldess brother might have di'awn it on the house without his know- ledge. If it was so, and he should honour it, the sacrifice he had just made for the sake of ready-money, for the carrying on of his trade, would go for nothing. If he did not honour it, disgrace would befall Richard, and alas, on her who would then be one with him, before their honeymoon was over. Their honeymoon ? Why had he not consented to Richard's proposal at first, and let them marry ? The agony that he now endured would have then been over long ago, the wound in his heart might have even cicatrized, and he would have been spared these many THE THREE MONTHS' BILL. 149 months of meagre hope, that were now flickering out to leave him in black de- spair. Moreover, he would have escaped the material losses which Eichard's conduct (and his own thankless leniency) had brought upon him, and which, if the man spoke tnith, were now about to culminate in what was almost ruin. ' A bill at three months, for a thousand pounds,' said John quietly. 'We may have such a bill out ; but I should not gratify the curiosity of a stranger ' * May have ? ^^Tiy, the bill is ac- cepted by yourseK ! ' broke in the other coarsely. ' I know him now,' whispered John to himseK. ' There is some devil's work afoot, then.' Though the sweat was on his brow his face was calm ; his heart, though sick and weary, was resolute : whoever' s foot should be placed upon his 150 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. neck, lie swore it should not be this man's foot. * Let me look at the bill,' said he quietly. *Look at it, sir? What for? You have not so many thousand-pound bills out, I conclude, as not to be able to say ^^ Yes " or ^' No " to my first question ! Look at it ? Well, so you shall ; but not too close ! I am not going to risk your snatching it out of my hand and throwing it into the fire ! ' In his utter contempt and loathing of this man, John Milbank smiled. ^ What duU villains must such wretches be, to suppose honest men are like themselves,' thought he. ' Why, you don't mean to say it's all right ? ' cried his visitor, encouraged by John's quiet, which contrasted strangely with his own vehemence and indignation. THE THEEE MONTHS' BILL. 151 * When a man has given money down for a thing Uke this ' ^ Did you give money down, sir ? ' ^Well, yes, I did; some money. There was value received, if yon mean that. And if he'd tricked me — if this, I say, was waste-paper, well, I'd hang him ! By Heaven, I would ! ' ' Whom would you hang ? ' * Never mind who ; the dog who gave it me. His name is not here ; this is your name. You know your handwriting, I suppose.' He held a shp of paper out at arm's-length, which John regarded attentively. * John Milhanh : that is plain enough, sir,' he continued. ' Is that worth a thousand pounds or not ? ' ' It is certainly not worth a thousand pounds.' ^ Then your brother shaU lodge in jail to-night, as sure as his name is Eichard.' 152 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. * Or as yours is Dennis Blake.* * Well, what if it is ? I came here thus disguised not for my own sake.' ^ Of course not : it was for the sake of the money. If you found the bill all right, you would have gone away without your dear friend knowing that you had entertained the least suspicion of him. As it happens, you have made a shght mistake. The handwriting is my own.' * Then how can the bill be valueless ? You don't mean to tell me that you are stumped out — bankrupt ? The unprin- cipled villain ! And he has got two hundred pounds of mine, unless he has lost it this afternoon. He shall disgorge it, or ' ' One moment, Mr. Blake,' for the visitor had snatched up his hat, and was already at the door. ^ Business is not conducted quite so quickly as a game at THE THEEE MONTHS' BILL. 153 short- whist. You jumped too mucli at conclusions. I never said the bill was worth nothing ; I only said it was not worth a thousand pounds. You will discover that yourseK when you try to discount it. The hank is shut for to-day; but I will give you a cheque for the same money as it would fetch, if you want to get rid of the bill.' ^ I very much want to get rid of it,' answered Blake frankly. 'I am all for ready-money transactions. It was only because your brother was my friend, you see ' * I quite see, Mr. Blake,' interrupted John fiigidly. ' You would make, I am sure, any sacrifice to friendship.' * Well, I would go as far as most, that I will say. But when your brother said : ** Now, that bill must not be presented till it comes due," and I knew that in a 154 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. montli or two lie might be across seas with his young woman, that, of course, rather aroused my suspicions. But since you have chosen to settle the matter yourself, there can be no harm in that ; can there ? I have not broken my word to him, I mean, or behaved otherwise than as a man of honour.' ^As regards that, I am no judge, sir,' answered John. ' To me, this matter is a mere business transaction.' ' Just so, with no obligation on either side. And Eichard need know nothing about it, need he ? Good afternoon, Mr. Milbank, and thank you.' * You have no more bills of mine about you, I suppose ? ' inquired John imper- turbably. ^ No, indeed ; not at present, that is. Gad ! I wish I had ! Good afternoon, sir.' THE THKEE MONTHS' BD^L. 155 And John was left alone, with the bill in his hand. It was growing dark by this time, and he Ht the gas, and held the document against the light. It was an ordinary three months' bill, drawn by Eichard, and accepted by himself, and, to all appearance, in his own handwriting: nobody but himself could have detected that it was a forgery. Nor, indeed, could he have detected it, save that he knew he had never signed it. To gain posses- sion of that paper had cost him near a thousand pounds, which he could ill spare, and yet his eyes flashed with pleasure, and his face flushed with triumph, as he looked at it. * He shall not have her now ! ' cried he ; ^ I will send him to jail rather with my own hands.' 156 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. CHAPTEE X. THE LAST FAEEWELL. EiCHAED had no guests at Eosebank that niglit, but was roistering elsewhere, and, as usual, did not return until the small- bours. What was not so usual was, tbat be came borne quite sober, and wben be saw bis brother in the parlour sitting up for him, he turned suddenly grave. ^ What ! not abed yet, John ? ' said he, astonished ; then falling into his ordinary mocking style, ^ or is it that you have taken to rise an hour earlier? We have long ceased to eat with one another, and now it seems one must be up and about while the other sleeps/ THE LAST FAREWELL. 157 'I have not been to bed, Eichard; I have been waiting here these many hours to speak with you.' ^ That's a pity ; if you had sent to old Koberts's, you would have found me any time since dinner. I wish to Heaven you had.' * You have lost your two hundred pounds, then, I conclude ? ' * What two hundred pounds ? ' stam- mered Eichard, setting down the candle he had been about to light, and sinking into a chaii'. The gas shone full upon his face, and John noticed, for the first time, how much it had lost of health as well as beauty. It could not be said of Eichard that he had been no one's enemy but his own ; but he had been his own enemy, and would one day slay himself, that was certain. What a beautiful boy he had been ! How generous, after his 158 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. lavish fasliion, and when he himself had had all he needed; and how their dead mother had loved him ! Young as John was when she died — a year younger than Richard — such was her confidence in the one, such was her love for the other, that it was to the younger's care that she had commended the elder. * You have the sense and the prudence, John ; and when the time comes to help poor Dick, think of me,' she had said, ^ and do it/ It was ten years ago since they had been uttered, yet he remembered his mother's words as though they had been spoken yesterday, and saw her once more^ thin and gray, but still very comely, with her wasted hand — through which the sun seemed to shine — lying lovingly in his own. She was the only woman who had ever loved him, and even she had pre- ferred his brother ; but he was used even then to that. THE LAST FAEEWELL. lo9 *Tlie two himcLrecl pounds that Blake gave yoii in exchange for that forged bill, I mean,' said John, not menacingly, but in a grave accusing tone. * It is a he,' said Eichard sullenly. * What is a he ? That Blake gave you so much back out of a thousand pounds ? As for the bill, I have seen it with my own eyes.' Eichard groaned, and his face fell for- ward into his hands upon the table, as though a buhet had pierced him. * Listen to me, Eichard. Hours ago, when this thing was first shown to me, I felt very hard towards you. This evil deed was but the climax of a series of ill turns that you had done me, not one of which I had provoked. I have given up everything to you that you have asked, and more ; I have stripped myself bare to supply you, not with necessaries, but 160 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. with superfluities of all kinds. This last act of yours went nigh to ruin me, as indeed it still does. A great temptation seized upon me ; never mind what. I have had many hours of thought since, and it is over now. Only, you shall not stay here — in England. You must go.' ' Must is a hard word, brother ! ' said Eichard, looking up with a fierce scowl. ' The time has gone by for soft ones, Eichard.' His voice trembled, but not with tenderness. It had suddenly, and for the first time, struck him that, by avowing to Blake that he had put his own name to the bill, he had placed it out of his power to proclaim it a forgery. Should Eichard discover this, he would really have no hold upon him at all. How foolish had he been to buy back that piece of paper, since only while it THE LAST FAKEWELL. 161 remained in its late owner's hands could it be held over Eichard in terrorein I * And suppose I said I would not budge, Brother John; what would you do then ? ' * Do not ask me . You know what I could do. Or, rather, let me say what Dennis Blake — your bosom friend — could do, ay, and ivould — for he told me so, in case he should discover you had forged my name.' ^ And has he discovered it ? ' inquii'ed Eichard quickly. * Not yet. It Hes with me whether he will do that or not.' ' I see. He came to you — the scoundrel ! — to find that out, and you gave him some evasive answer. He suspects already, in fact, that I forged the bill, but beheves that you will buy it of him, and hush up the matter.' ^ Yes, for the present it is worth his VOL. I. M 162 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. while to be silent. But if the bare sus- picion makes bim furious, you may judge what bis wratb would be, what sort of mercy you may expect from bim, if it should be realized.' John could hardly beheve his ears, when here Eichard burst out into loud laughter. ^ Denny would be pretty mad, that's true ; he don't hke to lose money at any time, not even what has been other people's, and some of this was lent money. I have often thought how long his face would have looked this day three months, when he found that bill waste- paper and Eichard Milbank over the seas ! ' John stood regarding him with an expression of wonder, pity, and even terror. ' Can this be our mother's son ? Thank Heaven, she did not live to see him thus ! ' was what he was thinking. THE LAST FAEEWELL. 163 ^ It was a scurvy trick, I own,' con- tinued the other, as if in answer to this look ; ^ but Denny is a scurvy fellow. I have lost a fortune to him at one thing and another, and he has been always hard upon me, and always ready with his '^ But I have lost to others, Dick," as an excuse for being hard ; though he does lose heavily too, sometimes, I am glad to say. You see I didn't mean to take you in, John, but only him. You would have been none the worse, since, of course, when the bill came due, it would have been dishonoured.' * The bill ! ' exclaimed John in agony. ' Do you think only of the biU ? " ' Well, I thought that would be your own way of looking at it, being a man of business,' was the other's cool reply. ' As for viy dishonour, I should have been too far away by that time for any one in Hilton to see me blush.' 164 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. * I pray you, say no more, Richard. I will pay this thousand pounds, upon condition that you leave this place at once — to-morrow. It will almost ruin me. You are Hke one who, passing by the work of some toilsome insect, brushes down with wilful foot, in a single instant, what has cost it months of labour to erect.' * Well, I say again that I didn't mean to hurt you,' returned Richard doggedly. ^I'll leave the country, of course, since you insist upon it; but you must give a fellow a little time — and a little money.' * Money ; yes,' returned John ; ^ I have still a hundred pounds ' * Beyond the thousand ? ' interrupted Richard practically. *Yes; I sold out all I had but yesterday, and you shall have it to the THE LAST FAEEWELL. 165 last shilling. But as to time, I vnll not give you a day, not an horn- ! (' If he should see Blake,' thought John, ' and learn that I have bought the bill — that the danger is over — this millstone will be about my neck for ever. He must depart at once.') ^ That is shai^ work. Brother John ; remember, there is Maggie.' As if he did not remember ; as if that had not been the temptation against which he had been battling for the last eight hom's in the soHtary night ! Should he forbid him to take Maggie with him, to marry her at all, on pain of being proclaimed a felon ? Or should he permit him to escape with her? — the richest piize that the best of men could win. ^ I have thought of that, Kichard,' said he, with icy calm. ' She shall 166 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. follow yon to some other town, with her father; and after having become your wife, yon shall take her with yon beyond seas. Bnt if yon have a grain of feeling left, have compassion upon her, brother. Let this be the last of yonr evil deeds. Do not drag her down with yonrself into the gnlf of shame and rnin. Yon talked jnst now of having escaped beyond the reach of dishononr ; you might have done so, bnt not she; and she wonld have withered at the tonch of it. Imagine what Maggie Thorne wonld have felt, had she learned, thongh it were ten thousand leagues from hence, that she was the wife of a felon — of a forger ! ' He spoke with uncommon vehe- mence, and yet with a tender entreaty in his tone that was inexpressibly touching. He had given up all he had THE LAST FAEEWELL. 167 of worldly goods to benefit ttds man, but that was nothing in his eyes to what he was giving him now : not that it was his own to give, but still it was what his heart chmg to, as a mother to her babe ; and he was renouncing such claim to it as he had in favour of this good-for-naught, and with it all his cherished hopes and dreams of happiness. ' Maggie ought to be greatly beholden to you,' was Eichard's chilling reply. ' I daresay I shall not be a husband worthy of her; not such a model of propriety as you would have been, for instance, if her fancy had chimed with yours; but as to this particular pecca- dillo of the bill, it would be very im- reasonable in her to reproach me with it, since, in point of fact, it was she that did it.' ^ She that did it ! ' John leaped fi'om 168 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. his chair, and uttered the first oath that had ever escaped his lips. ^ She forge that bill, and bring disgrace upon your- self, and her, and me, and on her father ! Oh shameless liar ! ' ^I said nothing about ^'bringing dis- grace," ' was the sullen reply. ' She knew nothing of that, of course, nor, indeed, of what she was doing.' ' Go on,' said John, in a hoarse voice, and gripping the table with both his hands. ' How was it ? ' ' Well, it was very simple. I made up my mind to do the trick, and took the bill to her one morning. We talked of this and that, and presently I brought the subject up of her own accomphshments : her drawing, painting, writing — she can copy anything, you know, as like as life.' ' I know ! ' groaned John. ' Well, then, to please me, she began to THE LAST FAEEWELL. 169 imitate the liandwiiting of lier friends : old Lincli's and his wife's ; her father's ; yours — and when she came to yours, I said: ^' Let's puzzle John," and out I shpped the bill, and she signed that, without even asking what it was.' * Eichard, I'll hang you ! ' * Hands off ! ' cried Eichard, for John had seized him by the collar, ' or I shall hang for taking your life ! Are you mad ? Hands off! I say.' ^ If you leave the house without having copied the letter I have drawn up here,' cried John, almost inarticulate with rage, ' it shall be to go to jail ; I swear it ! ' ' What letter ? ' ' This ! ' He pushed a sheet of ordinary note-paper before him, with trembling hands. * You undeii^ake, for a cei-tain sum of money — aU I have — to leave this town to-morrow, and England in a 170 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. month. To spare you — for I thought to spare you then — I have written nothing about the bill. You are going of your own free-will, you say, to seek your fortune elsewhere. I find this on my table in the morning, by way of farewell.' ^ Pooh, pooh ; you need not put your- seK in such a fury. I had agreed to that before.' ' Not all of it. You will now depart alone.' ' What ! without Maggie ? Never ! ' 'We shall see. To-morrow you will spend in jail ; and when the assizes come you will be tried, and sentenced to twenty years of penal servitude, which will all be passed without Maggie.' ' Jack, you dare not do it ! What ! not buy the biU up when you have the money, and your brother's fate depends upon it ? And then to let it all come THE LAST FAKE WELL. 171 out in coui-t that Maggie forged the bill ! You dare not do it, John, for her sake ! ' ' By Heaven, I dare, though ; and I wiU! What is one day's tortui-e, or a week's, to the whole Lifetime of disgrace and misery that she must needs endm^e with you ! Is any hope of reformation left in one who can make a cat's-paw of the woman he loves, can cause her innocent hand to do his kicked work ! No ; vile and heartless traitor, you w^ould be her ruin ! Sit down, and write, I say ! Beneath this very roof, you once com- pelled a sick and dying man to ^Tite for you ; now write for vie, or rot in prison ! ' Kichard took the pen, overmastered quite by the other's vehement resolve. For the present at least he felt that he was beaten ; put under foot by the man on whom he had himself so often trodden. How he hated John, and Dennis Blake, 172 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. and even Maggie herseK, now that he was not to have her for his own ! ' Well,' said he sullenly, ^ I have written it.' John took the paper, examined it care- fally, then placed it in his pocket-hook. * And now,' said he, ^ take this cheque, almost the last shilling that I have to draw, and the last yon will ever see of mine. It is on onr London hank, so that there is no need to wait at Hilton to cash it. Pack np to-night : take all you please ; but leave this house at dawn, and never let me see your handsome, hateful face again — you ' he looked at him for a moment with unutterable scorn and loathing, then added — 'you jail- bird ! ' ' A pretty farewell to your own flesh and blood,' remarked Eichard grimly. * You are not my flesh and blood, nor any man's,' answered John, turning THE LAST FAKE WELL. 173 fiercely round with his hand upon the door. ' The villain who would make a thief of an innocent giii whom he pre- tends to love, it were flatteiy to call a man! I say again, ^* jail-bird !" ' And with that he closed the door behind him ; and so they parted. Eichard did not go upstah's, but, after a moment's thought, snatched up his hat, and, late as it was, left the house and started at a quick pace towards the town. 174 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. CHAPTEE XI. WHAT THE SERVANTS THOUGHT OF IT. John Milbank was one of tliose men who rise in the morning with the regularity of clock-work, but on the day after his parting with his brother, he was purposely a few minutes late. He was in hopes that Mrs. Morden, who, although she had ^ assist- ance ' in the kitchen, always dusted out the parlour herself, would find the open letter that Eichard had left behind him, on the table, and bring it upstairs. But the housekeeper belonged to ' that fast expiring race of domestic servants who do not read their masters' letters, no ^^-HAT THE SERVANTS THOUGHT. 175 matter how eligible may be the oppor- tunity. She had seen it, indeed, but had simply removed it to the mantelpiece, in order that she might lay the table for breakfast. So John had to come down unsummoned, and discover the document for himself. Then he rang the bell, and, with a very grave face, put the note into Mrs. Mordents hand, since to have made her understand its contents by word of mouth would have been also to state them to the parish. ' Oh, the poor dear ! ' exclaimed she, and wringing her hands, fled instantly up to Kichard's room. * He is gone, Master John, he's gone ! ' cried she, from the top of the stairs. ' Oh, do 'ee come and look. He has never been anigh his bed. And yet — thank Heaven for it — he has left his brushes, and scents, and all : he would never have gone away for good without 176 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. his brnshes.' This remark was a saga- cious one, and showed that, within a Hmited range, Mrs. Morden was an observer of human nature. Eichard was not a dandy; but he was scrupulous about his personal appearance, and especially careful of his bright, soft, curhng hair. ^ He says in the letter,' observed John referring to it, ' that when I read it he will be far away from Hilton, and never means to return to it again.' *I know he does : but he can't mean it. There's his portmantel just as it was, and even his carpet-bag. Does that look as thougu he had really meant to leave home ? And not a word of good-bye to me, as loved him from a child. Lord, I can see him now, in his velvet frock tied with red ribbons at the sleeves, and look- ing like an angel ! No, no ; he didn't WHAT THE SERVANTS THOUGHT. 177 know what lie wrote, Master Jolin. He was in drink when he did it.' John Hstened to this babble with atten- tion. The housekeeper was the type of many of her class, and perhaps he was curious to note the effect ' of Eichard's sudden disappearance upon her. If she did not beheve he had really gone, others would not do so ; and in that case the letter which he had composed with such laboui' would, for the present, have been written in vain. 'You're trembling. Master John, and you look sadly scared, as well you may; but take you comfort ; youi' brother will come back again. It ain't in nature he should leave his home for good with nothing but the clothes he stood in. He was iU to guide at times ; but in an hour like this, one only thinks how sad it would be to miss his handsome face for VOL, I. N 178 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ever. There, sit ye down on liis bed — well, on tlie chair, if you like it better — and tbink — tbink, for tbey all say yon bave snob a sbarp wit — bow we are to get tbe poor lad back again.' Jobn was indeed deadly pale, and trembled even more tban bis aged com- panion. Tbe resolution wbicb be bad shown tbe previons nigbt seemed to bave quite forsaken bim ; lie sat in bis brother's room with his head resting on bis hand, quite silent, notwithstanding Mrs. Mor- den's impatient queries. ^ Can you think of nothing, nothing. Master John, to get him back ? Let me send at all events for the crier. Or shall we put ^'Come back" in the newspaper, as many does, that have been so bereaved, ^^and all shall be forgotten and forgiven?" You did quarrel a bit, I know : you quar- relled a bit last night belike ' John WHAT THE SERVANTS THOUGHT. 179 looked up quickly with, a flushed, inquir- ing face. ' Well, I meant no offence : it was not your fault, I know, if you did.' * We had no quarrel, woman.' * That's true enough, because it takes two to make one, and you were ever patient with him ; that I will say. But perhaps you spoke to him sharply about the drink. Did you ? ' ' No ; he came in about two o'clock in the morning, and we talked of business matters ; then I left him, and afterwards I heard the front door close.' 'Ah, then, lie will come back again. Let us wait awhile. But when he does, oh, do ye. Master John, keep him off the drink! It's the cellar as will be bis grave, else. Ah, well, you may frown, for you know it even better than I ! Look ye here, sir : I shall go to Mr. Thome's, and find out whether Miss Maggie has any 180 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. news of him ? Or shall I send the brick- layer yonder — he's come to mend the tool-house wall — ^round to Mr. Linch ? ' ^ No, no ; not yet : it will be better to wait.' ^ I daresay you're right, su' ; since, when Master Eichard comes back, it would annoy him to find such a fass made. But, oh, if he does come, save him, save him from himself! You are master here, they tell me, more than he is, if you had your rights. The strong drink that is left is yours. It killed my own father — rest his soul — and it is killing him. The cards is nothing to it, for it steals health and wealth away alike.' John started to his feet with sudden eagerness. ' You are right, dame ! ' said he eagerly. * I have been weak and foohsh, where I WHAT THE SEKYANTS THOUGHT. 181 ought to have been strong. There shall be no more card-playing nor wine-drink- ing in this house. Come downstairs with me.' When they got into the parlour, he opened drawers and cupboards, and threw every pack of cards that he could find in a heap upon the floor. ^ Now, put these devil's books into the fire,' cried he. ^ What ! the new ones ? ' exclaimed the old housekeeper. ^ Why not send them back to the makers ? ' ' To ruin others as they ruined him ? No ; burn them all, I say ! ' When the fire was yet leaping and roaring over its painted prey, he bade her fetch the brick- layer. ' What ! are you going to send for Mr. Linch, then, after all ? Won't that make Master Eichard wild, sir, though, to be sure, not wilder than this ; ' and she 182 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. looked at the glowing remnants on the hearth, in extreme dismay. ^ Do as I hid you ! ' cried John, stamp- ing his foot. He was no longer cast down and nervous ; and yet, in his vehemence and haste, he was as different from him- self as he had been before. When the man left his work, and came into the house — ^ Bring bricks and mortar,' cried John, ^ and brick up that cellar door.' He spoke so loud that for once Mrs. Morden caught the sense of an obser- vation not addressed to herself. ^But you will take out the wine first, surely, Master John?' remonstrated she. ^ To ruin others as it ruined him ? ' cried John again. ^ No ; brick it up, I say ! ' It seemed to Mrs. Morden that she had got a new master altogether ; quite a grand Turk of a man. She admired his WHAT THE SEKVANTS THOUGHT. 183 edicts, and indeed had herself suggested them, and yet she feared for the scene that was hkely to take place when the prodigal should return. This one had always been so patient and submissive, that the other was sure to resent these high-handed acts, though only intended for his good. Nevertheless, it was evi- dent that John was in earnest, and meant to stick by what he had done. Perhaps the old housekeeper's reiterated assur- ances that Richard would return, made him haK believe that he would do so, and this awakened his ii'e. If he did come back, the great ^ Who-shaU-be-master ? ' question would, without doubt, have to be tried on a very narrow basis. There were no longer to be two kings in Brentford. John sat doTSTi as usual to breakfast, but not to eat. His rasher of bacon, and even the toast in the rack, remained 184 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. untasted; but he swallowed tlie tea as Eichard was wont to do on the morning after a debauch ; yet sometimes on its way to his mouth he would poise the cup in the air, and listen. Now it was the brick- layer come with more bricks to complete his task ; now it was the postman ; now one of those begging folk who, since old Matthew's time, ventured occasionally into the grounds of Eosebank, to take their chance of a curse or a shilling from its reckless tenant : but it was never Eichard. Presently, the country lass who helped Mrs. Morden came to take away the breakfast things ; John had generally left the house by that time, but this morning he showed no signs of de- parture. ^ What are you bringing in these things for ? ' She had brought another break- fast service with her. WHAT THE SEBVANTS THOUGHT. 185 'For Mr. Kichard, sii'.' * To be sure ; I had forgotten,' said he. His brother did not usually rise till noon, or even later, but all was wont to be pre- pared for him thus early. * Mrs. Morden said I had better lay it, in case, sir.' She meant in case of Mr. Eichard's return ; she had learned about his departure, of course, fi'om Mrs. Morden. Here, too, it seemed that John was curious to have the opinion of others respecting his brother's disappearance, for he began to talk to this giii on the sub- ject. This was the more strange, as he had never said to her three words, perhaps, before : he w^as shy of addressing young women, even though they were his own servant-girls ; while his brother was very affable, and chucked them under then: chins. ' Did you hear Mr. Eichard leave the house last night ? ' 186 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^ No, sir ; but I heard him come in.' There was a Httle pause, during which John slowly wound up his watch, which he had apparently forgotten to do on the previous night : a very rare omission on his part. It seemed as though nothing was to come to pass as usual with him that morning. ^ And what time might that have been, Lucy ? ' ' It struck two, sir, a few minutes after I heard his latch-key in the door.' * You look after Mr. Eichard's room, do you not ? Well, have you ever known him to be out all night — the bed not slept in, I mean, as has happened now ? ' ' Never, sir. I — I ' ^What's the matter?' ^ Nothing, sir, nothing ; only I do fear as he has come to some mischief. He had always a kind word for a poor girl ; ' and WHAT THE SERVANTS THOUGHT. 187 she suddenly bui'st into tears. It was nothing more than an emotional outburst in one wholly unaccustomed to conceal her feelings, but it seemed to disconcert John excessively. He sighed heavily, and taking up a book affected to be occupied with its contents till the girl's task was done, and she had left the room. Perhaps he felt it hard, when he was trying to steel his heart against his brother, that such imearned sympathy should be bestowed upon scapegrace Eichard. Presently, he went into the Httle hall, and took down his greatcoat. ^ Ai'e you going out. Master John ? ' inquired the old housekeeper timidly. ^ If Master Eichard should retuiTi home in the meantime, what shall we do ? ' The last cHcks of the trowel could be heard fi'om where they stood, coming from the ceUar-door. 188 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^ If any explanation of my conduct is required, I shall give it myself,' was the stern reply. ^ And where would you be, sir ? ' ' Where would I be ? Why, at the office, of course ! Where should I be ? ' ' Well, I thought — and no offence, sir, but I think so still — that you should be taking that letter to Mitchell Street ' (the street where the Thornes Hved). John had got his greatcoat half-way on, and now it seemed he could get it no farther. He turned quite white, and sank down on the lobby- chair, with one arm in its sleeve and one out. ^ Lord bless ye, sir, don't take on so. It's a heart-breaking errand, no doubt, but somebody must tell her the news, and who so fit as you, being his only brother.' John groaned. ^ You are quite right, dame,' answered he humbly. ^ I will go at once.' WHAT THE SERVANTS THOUGHT. 189 He rose and put on his coat, drew himself up Kke a soldier on parade, and with the face of one who had volunteered for a forlorn-hope, grave, stem, and reso- lute, went out upon his errand. 190 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. CHAPTEE XII. WHAT THE THOENES THOUGHT OF IT. John's friends in Mitcliell Street were early risers, like himself, and wlien he arrived there they had already hreak- fasted. Maggie was below-stairs, making the housekeeping arrangements for the day, but he found the engraver hard at work in the sitting-room. 'Ah, John, I am right glad to see you ; you are quite a stranger here ! ' was his cordial greeting. * But what has happened ? ' He had taken his micro- scope from the eye which it obscured, and now regarded his visitor attentively. WHAT THE THOENES THOUGHT. 191 ' I am afraid that it is not good news which has brought you.' ' No; it is bad news.' * About Eichard, I suppose ? ' said the old man drily. ^ What ! have you heard, then, Mr. Thome ? ' * I have heard nothing ; but nothing \\ill sui-prise me.' The old man got up and carefully closed the door. 'Let us spare her if we can. What is it ? ' John put into his hand his brother's letter without a word. * This is all a blind,' observed the engraver quietly, when he had read it. ' It is too good news to be true. Eichard will never leave Hilton.' ' You really think that ? ' ' I am sure of that ; that is, until he has got every shilling out of you that is to be got, broken my daughter's heart, 192 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. and made an old man of me before my time. No, no; there is no sucli good luck in store for any of us three, you may be sure.' ^ But why should he have written that letter ? ' 'I am not at the back of Eichard's motives, thank Heaven ! ' answered the engraver bitterly. ^ But he has probably some bad end in view. I shall he far from here when you get this, he says : that is a melodramatic touch which he has heard at the theatre. He is probably no farther, at this moment, than we are from the slums.' * Don't talk like that, Thorne ; I can't bear it. Suppose he should be — have made away with himself, for instance? Mind, I don't say it is probable, but I believe it possible.' * Then you will beHeve anything. WHAT THE THOENES THOUGHT. 193 However, since you think it worth while — though, for my part, I expect he is at home by this time — let us discuss the matter. Had he money in his pocket ? ' John hesitated a moment, then answered : ^ Yes : he had a hundred pounds. I gave him a cheque on our London bank for that amount last night.' * Then, if that cheque is not changed within twenty-four hom's, I will beheve anything you please. A man like Kichard Milbank does not try the other world while he has money to spend in this one.' * You are very hard upon Eichard.' * Sir, I have an only daughter,' was the cold reply. * However, let that pass. If you wish to have my advice, without any comments, you shall have it. When did you see your brother last ? ' VOL. L 194 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. * About three o'clock this morning. I waited up for him to remonstrate upon certain matters : his reckless expenditure, and the fatal effect it is having upon the business. We had no quarrel; but I spoke out. The time had come for it.' ^ So I should think,' was the quiet rejoinder. * Well, he was offended, doubt- less — though not so much so as to prevent him taking your money; and now he intends to play on your feelings by a dis- appearance — until he wants help again. He took everything with him he could lay his hands upon, I suppose ? ' * He took nothing — nothing but the clothes he stood up in.' * Indeed ! ' The engraver looked less cynical and more serious. John watched him with grave atten- tion : if the opinions of Mrs. Morden and her * help ' had had an interest for him, it WHAT THE THORNES THOUGHT. 195 was no wonder he was curious to hear Herb art Thome's view of matters. * And you say you had no tiff, John ; he did not fling himself out of the house in a rage ? ' * Certainly not. He left it a few minutes after we parted for the night ; and I found this note awaiting me at breakfast.' 'What note?' It was Maggie's voice distinct, authori- tative, clear, as she was wont to speak to all but her lover. Her gentle hand had opened the door, her soft step had entered the room, without disturbing the two men : the open letter was on the table, and her quick eye was already fixed upon it. ' That is Eichard's hand I ' cried she. ^Yes, Maggie. You must not be frightened/ began her father; but she 196 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. had already seized the note, and made herself acquainted with its contents. * What does it mean ? ' asked she, look- ing nervously from one to the other. ^Eichard gone away, without a word, without a line to me ! I don't believe it ! ' * Just what I said,' observed the en- graver dryly. ' The handwriting is his, but not the words,' continued she. * There is some trickery in this.' * Nothing more likely,' was the en- graver's comment ; ^ but you don't sus- pect our friend here of tricking you, I suppose, Maggie ? ' * Indeed not,' answered she, holding out her hand, with a faint smile. ^ Forgive me, John. I am sure that this has dis- tressed you to the core. If anything should go amiss with Bichard, there is one man at least whom it would pain, I know — his brother.' WHAT THE THOBNES THOUGHT. 197 It pained liiin so — or so it seemed, even to think of such, mischance — that John could find no words to answer her. He stood stock-still, where he had risen, her hand held out to him in vain, though his eyes devoured her. * Good heavens ! ' cried she, looking at him anxiously, ' do you really think that this was written in earnest ? That Eichard meant — that ' She gasped for breath ; then hurried frantically on : ' You knew him, loved him ; blameless yourself, were tender to his faults. Tell me the truth, John; you are concealing somethiag. I can bear the worst; and he — my father yonder ' — this with a crooked smile that became her sadly — *Vould welcome it. Is Eichard dead?' She had suddenly fallen on her knees at the young man's feet, her face whiter than milk, her long black hair shaken 198 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. loose about her slionlders. ^ Is he dead, is he dead ? ' sobbed she. John shook his head ; his pale lips parted twice, but no sound came. To see her appealing to him as to one she trusted, confident of his help and truth, yet all for another's sake, overpowered him quite; * How can he be dead, lass,' observed the engraver kindly, ' when he tells us in his own hand that he is gone away ? ' * It is to you I speak, John : answer me, for you know the truth ! ' * I only know what is there, Maggie,' returned John slowly, and pointing to the letter. ' If you ask what is become of Eichard, I cannot teU you ; if you ask my opinion as to whether he has really gone away — I think he has.' ^ There were reasons, you see, my girl,' put in the engraver, more anxious now to comfort Maggie than to estabhsh his own WHAT THE THOENES THOUGHT. 199 theory, ^ why Eichard should have left the town. His affairs were in evil plight; there is httle doubt that he owes money ; and though John here has done hie best ' ^ He has not left the town,' interrupted Maggie excitedly ; ' he would never go without taking leave of me ; I am sure of it. I will stake my life upon it ! ' ^ It is hke enough you are right, lass. Eichard may have returned home by this time, who knows ? John and I wiH go back now and see.' * And I wiU go with you,' said Maggie resolutely. * Not to Eosebank,' exclaimed John suddenly, the remembrance, doubtless, of his high-handed acts that morning flash- ing upon him. If she should hear there of the card-burning, or of the ceUar-door being bricked up, would she not accuse 200 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Mm of harshness towards her lost Richard ? ^ Yes, John, to Rosebank,' answered she calmly. * Why not ? If he is there, that is my place ; if he has gone else- where, I will foUow him.' She moved towards the door, then stopped, and turned upon them. ^ Don't imagine that I will ever give him up. If this is a trick upon me, it will not serve.' ^ A trick ! ' groaned John. But she had aheady left the room. ^ Does she think I could stab her in joke ? ' * No, no ; she spoke to me, not to you at all,' said Thorne bitterly. ^ She thinks that since I have tried fair means in vain to persuade her to break with Richard, that I am now trying foul. It seems strange to you, no doubt, but then you have not a daughter who clung to you for two-and-twenty years, and cast WHAT THE THOENES THOUGHT. 201 you off in a moment for a What ! ready already, lass ? Let ns go, then.' Maggie had been about half a minute in fleeing upstairs and back again, and had contrived to put bonnet and shawl on on the retui'n journey, ^lien love de- mands it, a woman can be quick, even over her toilet. The three went out together, the father and daughter arm-in-arm, and John taking his place on the side remote h'om Maggie. He was never forward to be near her. They had not gone far, when Thorne whispered in his ear : ' There goes a man, who, if he would, could teU us as well as any where your brother is.' John, being in deep thought, looked up with a quick start, almost of alarm. ' What man ? ' * Dennis Blake. See ! he has caught sight of us, and wishes to avoid a meet- 202 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ing. For my part, I don't like to be seen speaking to snch a fellow, else he is very likely to know something.' Maggie's quick ear, sharpened by anxiety, overheard this. ' If yon are ashamed to speak with anybody about Eichard, I am not,' said she, withdrawing her hand from her father's arm. But another hand was laid upon her wrist, as she was about to hurry after Blake's retreating figure. ^ No, Maggie,' said John firmly ; ^ you shall not speak to that man, neither now nor ever ; I will do it.' And off he started with rapid strides. Since, without running, it was clear that his pursuer could not be evaded, Blake slackened his pace, and suffered John to come up with him. His face, which the latter, of course, since he was behind him, could not see, was a study of WHAT THE THOKNES THOUGHT. 203 the baser emotions — dislike, apprehension, and dupHcity. Lavater would have said : ' That man is a scoundrel, but he pos- sesses a soul, for he has a secret on it.' His shifty eyes seemed to grow smaller as John came up with him, or perhaps it was that his frowning brow hid them more and more. ' Ha ! is that you, Mr. Milbank ? Good- day to you ; ' and he smiled as a dog does, showing his teeth. * Good-day. I have something to say to you, Mr. Blake. An unpleasant affau' has happened : my brother Eichard is missing.' ' Missing ? ' His look of sui'prise was perfect, if it was not genuine : Dennis Blake had another talent in him besides that of playing short whist. He was an actor spoiled. * Yes ; he left home about two o'clock 204 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. this morning, with the intention of calling ujpon you.' Here both men's faces were well worth looking at : his who put the query was searching, resolute, menacing, and even desperate — its colour a dead white. The expression of the other was variable : flying clouds of doubt obscured it ; its hue changed from red to white, from white to red, as quickly as the colours in a kaleidoscope. ' I have not seen your brother since the day before yesterday — not since I saw you^' said he at last. John Milbank drew a long, deep breath ; the relief of finding that Kichard had not discovered that the thousand-pound bill had been already honoured was doubtless intense. '■ And you never heard him express any intention of leaving home ? ' This in the tone with which a counsel puts his WHAT THE THOENES THOUGHT. 205 last question — always a comparatiyely unimportant one — to a witness who has done his cause good service. " * Well, I can't say that,' was the unex- pected reply. * I have heard him say he was sick and tii'ed of Hilton, but that, of course, he was bound by circumstances to remain here.' < Then, if he had money in his pocket, and was no longer bound, you think it not unlikely my brother might have taken Buch a step ? ' John spoke with great calmness — not carelessly, but mth all his usual delibera- tion ; yet there was an eagerness in his eyes which he could not quench. * Such a step as to leave Hilton ? ' answered Blake quietly. ^ I should think nothing was more probable. I don't say, however, but that he may turn up again pretty soon, you know. Let us hope he may.' 206 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ' Thank you.' It was with quite a friendly nod that John returned to his companions, for in truth the person who had given him most comfort that morning — and never had he needed it more — had been Mr. Dennis Blake. * Well, man, . what news ? ' cried Thorne, who by this time was but a few paces distant. ^ No news : Blake has not seen Eichard since yesterday.' ^ John,' said Maggie solemnly, ' I watched that man's face while he was talking to you, and I am sure he was not speaking truth.' ' ^ It is possible,' returned John quietly. ^ Time will show.' ( 207 ) CHAPTEE XIII. DISENCHANTMENT, EiCHAED MiLBANK did not return to Eose- bank either that day or the next, and by that time aU Hilton knew it. His disap- pearance, though by no means mysterious, since he had announced his intention to depart, was a much debated topic. At the Sans Souci, among the older members, there was a good deal of lifting the eye- brows and shaking of heads : ' There was something more behind, you might depend upon it, which would not be long in coming out.' The less prudent pro- phets even entreated their friends, in 208 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. whispers, to mark their words : * It would be presently discovered that John Mil- bank was ^' let in " for a heap of money ' through his scapegrace brother. The younger men were (as they imagined) more charitable ; it was their openly expressed opinion that Dick had been signalled elsewhere by the flutter of a petticoat, and that they would see him back again in ten days, or a fortnight at farthest. He was impressionable, but his fervour was apt to cool within a very limited time. In the meanwhile, he was much missed, and genuinely regretted, in the card-room, notwithstanding that he had left no debts behind him. His hand- some face had been pleasant to look upon, his reckless talk had had a genial glow about it, though but too often from forbidden fires. Some even held him as witty as old Koberts, though he had not DISENCHANTMENT. 209 that dry manner with him which makes a httle joke go such a long way. It was agreed on all hands that Dennis Blake knew more about Milbank's whereabouts than he chose to tell, and he was cross- examined accordingly; and since he was foohsh enough to take this in ill part, it was persisted in. * Is it true, Denny, that you have quite ruined him, and given him back a httle money, to take him beyond seas — as they say old Crockford used to do for his victims ? ' ^ No, no,' said another; 'Blake would never do that. His favourite goose having laid its last golden egg, he has killed him, and sold the body.' Whereupon, the economist referred to would scowl and mutter, and in his excessive uritation even play a wrong card. This he could lQ afford to do, for, VOL. I. p 210 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. now that Dick was gone, lie got very little plunder, but, on the contrary, like the ringed pelican, had daily to disgorge to others the prey that he had laboriously collected for his own benefit. Outside the club, Eichard was missed also, in many quarters. Tradesmen of all sorts — tailors, bootmakers, horse- dealers — ^were making the most anxious inquiries about him. A jeweller wrote to Mr. Thorne to inform him that a golden cross set with turquoises, that his daughter was wearing, and which had come out of his establishment, had not been paid for. To have to return a love gift under these circumstances was ^rubbing the gilt off' with a vengeance, but Maggie complied with the suggestion without a murmur. It was thought a hard thing by the jeweller that John Milbank did not offer to pay for it, which DISENCHANTMENT. 211 Thorne was by no means in a position to do. As time went on, and still no news came of the missing man, public opinion set in against bis brother upon his account — that he did not pay Richard's debts; though, as a matter of fact, he had not the money. His business, for the present, was crippled, and indeed was going on on credit, though there was httle doubt of its eventual recovery. Thorne did not hesitate to tell his daughter of all this ; but he might have spared his breath : while her Richard was absent, and his fate unknown, all talk to his disparagement was wasted. She did not beheve that he had gone away from her of his own free will, but feared for his personal safety ; and while such an anxiety was on her mind, what mattered tradesmen's bills ! 212 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. At last a day arrived which was des- tined to give her father a tremendous advantage. ' Maggie/ said he one morning, as they were at their work together, ' what would make you beHeve that Kichard had given you up ? ' She was so pale now that she could scarcely grow paler; but instead of pur- suing her occupation, as it was her wont to do when the engraver pressed this theme, she desisted from it at once ; her trembling fingers had refused their office. ' You have some news, father ; what is it?' ' That cheque has been paid into the London bank.' *I don't understand,' said she faintly. She did understand, poor soul, being well enough acquainted with such matters. DISENCHANTMENT. 213 ' Wliy, the hundred pounds that John gave to his brother on the night of his departure. It was an open cheque, but payable to order; and it has just come in with Eichard's signature on the back of it. A man must be aHve, you know, to sign a cheque. It is plain, therefore, that Richard is ahve.' ^ Thank God ! ' murmured Maggie humbly; but it was not a fervent ejaculation; the alternative, indeed, was not in her case to be fervently welcomed. ' It was very stupid of John,' con- tinued the engraver, 'not to stop the cheque ; but I suppose he was afraid of offending his brother. He has already telegraphed, it seems ; and the reply from the bank is that it was presented by a stranger ; so there is no clue. Only the fact is now certain . that 214 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Eichard is alive, and, for reasons of his own — and I have no doubt very good ones — lias no wish to have any com- munication with you.' There was a long pause, then Maggie said : ^ Can I see the cheque ? ' ^ It is here, my child ; I asked John to send it for your own satisfaction.' Her satisfaction ! Does the ship- captain use that phrase when he writes to tell some widowed mother that her only lad has perished in the pitiless sea ? If Eichard had really signed that cheque, he was not dead, indeed, but it was almost certain proof that he had deserted her. She took it from her father, and with practised and tearless eye examined the endorsement. It was her lover's — or what once had been her lover's — hand : no forger could have ever deceived her there. DISENCHANTMENT. 215 * Are you conyinced at last, my poor lassie ? ' inquired the engraver tenderly. ' That Eichard signed this cheque ? Yes, father.' ^ And does not the other thing follow, that he has given you up ? Or will nothing ever make you beheve that ? ' ^ Nothing ; unless I hear it from his own hps.' She rose, and walked slowly to the door; then dragged herself up- stairs to her own room ; and having shut herself in, dropped into a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. ^ Eichard, Eichard, you are breaking a heart that only beats for you ! ' She came doT\Ti an horn- afterwards and resumed her work as though nothing had happened : her eyes, her ears, were quick as ever, but all that they took in shaped itself with reference to her lost lover ; the ^ terminable ' ink, in experiments with 216 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. which her father chanced to he engaged that morning, reminded her of Eichard's vows — so fixed and stahle to all seem- ing, and yet so unstable and fleeting ; nay, the parallel was even more com- plete, for in neither case was there any fading away, but, in a moment, all was blank on heart and paper. The very wintry wind that huddled the snow against the window-pane seemed to breathe cold farewells, not from the grave, but worse, from lips estranged ! Herbert Thorne knew nothing of such thoughts. He had forgotten, or perhaps had never known, what grief women are capable of concealing ; what mortal wounds they will hide from kith and kin, rather than confess their pain, when a once-loved hand has inflicted them. When Maggie said that she would never credit that Eichard had DISENCHANTMENT. 217 forsaken her till he told her so himself, her father had beheved her. If this man should die, then, she would be a mourner for him through all her youthful days ; and if he hved, and should retui'n to claim her promise, she would be a moui-ner still — for her own sake. Beneath the engraver's methodical manner and outspoken ways, there lay a heai-t, limited, indeed, in the sphere of its affections, but tender as a girl's towards all it did love, and that all was Maggie. He had borne misfortune, disappointment in his most cherished hopes, and bitter humilia- tions in his calling, without a murmur ; but they had set theii' mark upon his being : he felt old age creeping on apace, and something worse than old age ; he had had warnings, unrevealed to Maggie, but which a doctor had trans- 218 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. lated for him, that a day miglit come, even before the appointed Fatal One, when his deft; fingers should ply no more their bnsy work ; when blessed Toil should no more offer its cup of Lethe ; when he should be no longer the bread- winner, but only the bread -eater. It had been his one desire to see his daughter placed on some safe coign of 'vantage — the wife of some well-to-do and honest man, so that the wave of Want should never reach her, and chill her with its spray, when he himseK should be powerless to avert it. And now this modest hope lay shattered within him. Maggie was thoroughly resolved to sac- rifice herself to an idol, with front of brass and feet of clay — to throw herself away upon a selfish reprobate. He had felt very bitter about it, as well as sad, but the bitterness was over now, and DISENCHANTMENT. 219 the sadness had turned to blank despair. If he had told her all this, she would perhaps have flung her arms about him, and confessed her error. But he was reticent by habit, and besides, too worn and broken in sphit to risk a new repulse. Silence may be golden, but how many a life has been worse than lost when one word of nature's prompt- ings would have saved it ! It was Maggie's custom every after- noon to repan to Eosebank, generally in her father's company, about the time when John returned home from business, to inquire if there were any news of Eichard ; and, at the usual hour, she rose, and put on her shawl and bonnet. ' Won't you go with me, father ? I am sure you have been working long enough : you look tired and pale. It has ceased snowing, and the fresh air will do you good.' 220 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. 'Not to-day, Maggie.' His words were always few and de- cisive, but if lier thouglits liad not been elsewhere — hoping against hope that John might have something comforting to tell her — she would have noticed that his tone was very tremulous. "When she left the house, he went to the window, and followed her with his eyes to the corner of the street ; then sighing, resumed his seat, but not his toil. He sat him down to think — but to think was to be full of sorrows and leaden-eyed despairs. We lavish our pity, both in life and books, upon the disappointments of youth and the unhappiness of lovers ; but we ought to reserve it rather for those who, without the strength of youth to support them, have lost not only happiness, but hope itself. Maggie was a rapid walker, and when DISENCHANTMENT. 221 she had cleared the town, she saw before her on the road a woman going in the same direction : her steps were slow because of some burden that she carried, and she seemed to progress with difficulty. Where could she be going, thought Maggie, so late in the dull, dark afternoon, and when the laden clouds were menacing more snow so unmistakably ? At each of the scattered villas on the way, she ex- pected to see her stop, and it was with genuine compassion that she observed her pass by the last, save Kosebank itself, whereby she knew she must be bound on a long journey. By this time she had overtaken her, and perceived that she was about her own age, and very pretty, but painfully delicate, and evidently of frail and feeble frame. Her breast was the cradle of a Httle babe, whose peevish cries she was vainly endeavouring to soothe. 222 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^ I hope yon are not going far this bitter evening ? ' said Maggie kindly. ' I am not going far,' echoed the girl sullenly, and huddling her cloak about her, as though with some vague intention of conceahng her hving burden. The movement was not lost upon Maggie, who hurried on, and presently reached Eosebank. As she turned to enter the gate, she looked back, and saw that the girl had stopped also. Perhaps she had meant to beg at the cottage, and would now be deterred from doing so by seeing her enter ? Maggie glanced at the threatening sky, and her heart smote her for the evanescence of her pity for this poor creature and her innocent child; and, instead of ringing the bell, she walked hastily back, and addressed her. ' Did you want anything, my good girl ? ' said she. ^ I am known at yonder DISENCHANTMENT. 223 house, and can procure you there at least a meal, if you stand in need of it.' * I am not hungry, thank you,' was the cold reply. ' But see ! it has already begun to snow again ; will you not step in for shelter till the storm is over ? ' * I am used to bad weather — and worse ! ' answered the girl, with a trem- bling of the Hps that was meant for a cynical smile. ^ But your child ? ' urged Maggie tenderly. The girl burst into tears. ' Yes ; my child has a right to shelter in that house,' answered she with vehemence ; ' and I am going there to claim it.' ' Of whom ? ' inquired Maggie faintly. ^ Of its father. You say you are known there. Can you tell me, then, whether Mr. Milbank has returned. 224 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ' Mr. Milbank ! ' Maggie's heart felt like a stone ; her hmbs trembled beneath her. ' Which Mr. Milbank ? ' ' Are there two ? ' answered the girl simply. ' I only know of one. I have not seen him for weeks, nay, months ; and I have been ill and weak, and dared not write, and now they tell me he has gone away, no one knows whither.' ^ Do you mean Eichard Milbank ? ' * Oh yes. Who else ? You are known at Eosebank, you say, and must know him.' ^ Yes ; I know him,' answered Maggie gravely. It had taken her years to do so, but the recognition had come at last : he stood before her a faithless breaker of women's hearts. ^ Have I done mischief ? ' cried the girl in affrighted tones. ^ Are you his DISENCHANTMENT. 225 sister, that you look so pained and angry ? ' * No ; I am nothing to him, nor he to me.' ^ But you can tell me if it is true that he has left us — his bahe, the very image of himself — look you ! ' She drew her cloak aside, that Maggie might look upon the child ; and she did so, but with such a hard and searching gaze, that the girl shrunk back from her, exclaim- ing, ^ You would not hurt him ? ' ^ God forbid ! ' said Maggie hoarsely. * Ah, you are kind, and would not tread us underfoot, as some do. I am a sinful girl; but then I loved him so, and he loved me^ or else he is perjured.' Then, with haggard face and eager eyes, she added, ^ Is he really gone ? Can he have deserted us for ever, think you ? ' ^ It is possible,' answered Maggie slowly. ^ He has deserted others.' VOL. I. Q 226 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. * Nay ; bnt not like me and this one. He was Ms father, and he should have been my hnshand ; a score of times he vowed to marry me. I would not come here begging to his door, to shame him thus, but for his own child's sake ; for if the mother starve, the babe must die.' * You shall not starve,' said Maggie. * Will his people, yonder, help us, think you ? ' * I don't know. You must not go there : come back with me, and show me where you Hve.' ' It is a very poor place,' hesitated the other ; ^ they have turned us out of the rooms he took for me.' * No matter how poor it be, let me see it.' And yielding to her stronger wiH, the sobbing girl turned back towards the town. Within an hour of leaving her father's DISENCHANTMENT. 227 house, Maggie stood once more before its door; but in that time a revolution bad taken place within her mind that years of ordinaiy events could not have effected. It was as if to the wound of which she had languished the actual cauteiy had been suddenly apphed, and though still suffering tortures, she felt in a manner cured. To thinh that all the while Kichard had been paying his vows to her, and protesting his fidehty, he had been promising marriage to another, was a reflection that tm'ned her wholesome blood to gall. The very remembrance of his caresses was hateful to her, now that she knew that they had been lavished elsewhere. Ignorant of the world, though so sagacious in more than one of its use- ful callings, his infidehty appeared to her something monstrous and abnormal. Had her position in life been a more lowly one, 228 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. or if it had been higher, or if her bring- ing-up, even in her own condition, had been less exceptional, she would have been spared the shock of this revelation, and also, perhaps, would have missed its lesson ; but her knowledge of life was as inferior to that of most girls of her own age as her intelligence was superior. How different she was from them may be best gathered from the fact that, as soon as the sudden passion-flush had passed, and reason had time to assert itself within her, she forgave her un- conscious rival, or rather confessed to herself that she had nothing to forgive. Her first impulse had been to get the girl away from Kosebank, in order to save herself from a public mortification; but her honest heart had since been moved towards her with genuine pity. If she herself had been deceived by Eichard — DISENCHANTMENT. 229 against whom every voice was warning" her — was this poor girl to be blamed for having become his victim? Nay, if her tale was true, might not Kichard, had it not been for her own sake — she would not say ' for the love of her,' for she now ignored it — have redressed her wrong, and married her, so that in a manner was not she herself to blame for this poor girl's desertion ? Henceforth, at all events, she would do her best to serre her and her innocent child. In good actions, it has been said, the most wretched of mankind can find some comfort ; our own cup of bitterness seems not so bitter when we strive to make that of others more palat- able. Moreover, terrible as was this revelation to herself, the effects of it, she could not but reflect, would be welcome to her father, to whose loving appeals she had hitherto refused to listen ; she would 230 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. henceforward make up for her undutiful- ness by obedience to his every wish; indeed, for the future, what wishes could she ever entertain not in accordance with his own ! Side by side they would work together, undissociated by any secret thought : she would give herself heart and soul to him, sympathize with his aims, second them all she could, and if they should be successful, strive to find some happiness in his triumph. Eeader, has it not sometimes happened to you, when you have had occasion to resolve particularly upon a course of con- duct, when your plans are laid, and the circumstances for which they are prepared lie, as it seems, plainly before you — the same as they did yesterday, and the day before, without a hint of a change — that all this forethought has gone for nothing, or only for what thought is worth which DISENCHANTMENT. 231 can never be put in practice ? Does it not seem, I say, as though Fate were jealous of feeble man's proposals, and resolute to flout them ? While Maggie has her hand upon the door of home, where all that happens is known to her so well, and goes on with such methodical iteration, an empty carriage drives swiftly up to it, and stops. ' Is this Mr. Thome's house, please. Miss ? ' asks the coachman. ^Yes,' says she, surprised, but not alarmed ; why should she be ? ' Have you any message for him ? ' * No, Miss ; but I have got my orders to wait here for my master, Dr. Naylor, who has been summoned to see him.' * Summoned to see him ! What about ? ' cried Maggie, ringing nervously at the beU. ^ Well, I don't rightly know. Miss ; but the man from the chemist's shop came 232 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. running down to us, ten minutes ago, to say as Mr. Thorne in Mitchell Street was took with a stroke. He told our cook it was summut of paralysis.' ( 233 ) CHAPTEK XIV. STEUCK DOWN. We hear mucli of the contrasts between rich and poor, and, Heaven knows, they are sharply defined and unmistakable enough ; but there is another contrast not so defined, and therefore not so patent, in the social positions of our fellow-men, but which in the. end is often as deplorable. This is caused by the presence or absence of what is vulgarly termed ^ an independence ; ' that is, the possession of some sum of money, small or great, which is their own, and upon which they can fall back for support 234 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. in case of need. The barrister in good practice lives, during the holidays, next neighbour, at some seaside resort, to the country gentleman, who has chanced to bring his wife and children to the same place. The way of living of their two famihes is almost identical; you would set them down as being in the enjoyment of somewhat similar incomes ; and very likely it may be so. Yet the difference between their pecuniary positions is in reality as great as, perhaps greater than, that which exists between the barrister and the humble lodging-house keeper of whose apartments he is the temporary tenant. For, if he sickens, or his practice falls away, poverty and want soon begin to press him sore ; while, if he dies, ruin too often seizes upon those he has so tenderly nurtured, only to feel their fate the harder when it thus befalls. On the STRUCK DOWN. 235 other hand, should the coimtry gentle- man decease, his girls have only his personal loss to deplore ; it is not the prop of the house that has been snatched away from them; in the matter of material prosperity they are as they were ; while the daughters of thek neigh- bour are no more then* equals, but will have to work for scanty pay, for strangers, from youth to age. The occurrence is so common, that it excites but Httle remark. ^ I see Bro^TL of the Chancery Bar, or Brown the doctor, or Brown the vicar (as the case may be), is dead,' we say : *I fear those nice guis of his will be left but badly off.' Yet, but yesterday, Brown to all out- ward seeming was as prosperous as his friend Brown the county magistrate, and it would have been the height of pre- sumption to pity his guis. Of coui'se 236 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. folks say, ^Why did lie not insure his life ? ' and probably to some small extent — less than lie should have done, but not much less, perhaps, considering what responsibility he would have incurred in undertaking a great premium — he did insure it. At all events, that httle pro- vision does but serve to break the fall of the suddenly descending Browns. This reflection, indeed, would sadden us more if the downfall was less sudden and complete, since as it is they all go ^ under,' as it were, immediately; the ranks of society close up, and little or nothing more is heard of them, unless, indeed, one of their number happens to be fortunate enough to be taken into the family circle (yet not quite inside) of the country Browns — as their gover- ness. This sad difference of lot does not commonly take place in the pro- STKUCK DOWN. 237 fessional class while the breadwinner is yet alive ; he may fail in brain or health a little without losing his means of livelihood altogether- — indeed, in tlie case of Brown the vicar they remaiQ to him, even if he be bedridden, and m other cases the ttivahd's fiiends and associates 'rally romid him,' and some- thing is done for the afflicted man ; but in the lower middle class — that of the mechanic who works for weekly wage — a serious illness is almost as bad as a death-blow. There is but one step from competence to penury. It is small com- fort, even to a selfish man thus situated, to reflect that this misfortune is Hable to occur not to him alone, but to nineteen- twentieths of those in his own calling. The little ' independence ' is almost un- known among them, while the advantages of the 'benefit club' belong to a class below. 238 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. From the moment, therefore, that Herhert Thorne was stricken down by sudden sickness, the fortunes of the little household began to collapse rather than to wane. His weekly income had been better than that of many an un- beneficed clergyman, though it was largely taxed to defray the expenses of scientific experiments; and now it was absolutely nil. There was no incoming at all, but all was outgoing — save what Maggie, who had the duty of sick-nurse to perform, could earn with her hands. It is the consideration of cases of this kind — which are as common as the tooth- ache — which makes one smile scorn- fully when the man of ^independent' means talks about ^ hard times,' for he can never know what they are. Maggie was very clever and assiduous ; did not waste her wits or wages, like her STEUCK DOWN. 239 father, upon impracticable theories ; woTild have been the best helpmate and home-mler that a diligent man could have taken to his bosom ; and could have maintained herself at all times were health but granted to her; but the burden that was now cast upon her willing shoulders was greater than they could bear. The rent of the house, for one thing, would have swallowed up half her gains ; and there were her father and the servant to feed, and the doctor to pay, and But the list of what has to be provided for even in the most humble household is a long one, and would weary the comfortable reader ; albeit every item of it, as it flashed on poor Maggie's mind, was not merely a wearisome detail, but inflicted a pang as real and painful as the most sentimental woe ever endured by a heroine of romance. 240 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. She had found her father prostrate and powerless on his bed, unable even to shape her name, though he looked at her with an eloquence of love and sorrow that went beyond all power of words. And at the end of the terrible three months that followed, so far from being ^himself again,' of which Dr. Naylor had given her hopes, he had not yet wholly recovered the use of his limbs — the power of getting about and helping himself — ^while, whether that once deft and diligent right hand should ever regain its cunning at all, was more than doubtful. Most fortunately, what work Maggie could do could be done at home, and she had toiled by the sick man's bed all day without leaving him for an hour. He was not on any account to be ^ worried ' or made ^ to think,' the doctor had said; so her talk STRUCK DOWN. 241 had been always cheerful ; she had sung to him his favourite songs — which her mother had taught her when a child — as soon as he was strong enough to hear them without tears ; she had read to him also, whenever he had felt inclined, making up for the hours thus idly spent by work in her own room at night ; and John Milbank had called every day, and sat with the old man, especially through that time when Maggie was compelled to go out to dispose of the proceeds of her handiwork, or for health's sake for a breath of fi'esh ah. It was a hard life for her, yet in some respects, like all hves spent in the 'psiih of duty, it had not been without benefit to herself. She had learned from it that her affec- tion for Eichard had not only been misplaced, but selfish ; and though it stih existed within her, it was to be from VOL. I. R 242 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. henceforth subordinate to fihal duty. Suppose she had married, and been for- bidden by her husband to tend this beloved parent — would all Richard's pro- testations of devotion to herself, even had they been genuine, have consoled her, or acquitted her conscience for that undutiful desertion? The doctor's questions as to the cause of her father's seizure had quivered like a barbed arrow in her very heart. Did he suffer from any mental trouble ? "Was he grieving for a disappointment, or had lie heen for any length of time in expectation of some calamity !■ She answered in the nega- tive, but something within her seemed to protest against her words. Without acknowledging to herseK that she had been the cause of his misfortune, her whole soul was bent upon reparation; and in the practice of self-sacrifice, she STKUCK DOWN. 243 had found a balm for many tilings. Only at first, the shadow of the coming Want, of the inevitable hour in which her slender purse should not contain a coin, threw gloom upon her soul. What gloom, then, must it needs be throwing upon him who, lying upon his sick-bed with helpless hands, had Httle else to occupy his thoughts ! Yet, since he never spoke of it, and always had a smile for her, she had begun to hope that Fate, while striking him with so pitiless a hand, had deadened her father's capabilities of pain in this respect, and that, like a child, he took all that was given to him, without concern as to the source from which it came ; that Nature herself had backed the doctor's orders, that the invahd was not to be ^ made to think.' It was not long, however, before she was undeceived. On the very 244 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. first day tliat tlie engraver was moved downstairs into tlie sitting-room, lie looked about him with a surprised and troubled air. ^ Maggie, darhng,' he whispered feebly, 'how is it that all is here as when I left it ? ' * "Why not, dear father ? "What should not be here ? ' He pointed to the costly scientific in- struments which he loved as Norman William loved the tall deer. * These would have brought money, darling, and you must have needed it sadly. How is it you have managed without it ? ' Maggie's cheek showed a faint blush in spite of herself. ' I borrowed a httle,' answered she ; ' we are to repay the loan as soon as you are able to work again.' The engraver looked at his wasted right hand, still disobedient to his will. STRUCK DOWN. 245 * That is but poor security,' sighed he ; ^ there is but one man that I know of who would have advanced us anything upon it.' ' Well, father, he has done it, so what matters ? Dr. Naylor says you are not to worry yourseK about business affahs.' ' It does not worry me to talk of John Milbank ; it does me good.' Maggie blushed deeper than ever ; his words had a meaning for her which she strove to ignore. ^ Tell me all about it, darling, fi'om the first.' ^ When you were first taken ill, father, I could think of nothing else but that, and the question of how we should pay oui' way did not trouble me ; besides, the doctor told me that you would soon be well again. But presently one httle bill di'opped in, and then another ; and w^e 246 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. began to owe for things tliat we had been used to settle for every week. Lucy's wages fell due, too, and it seemed right to pay them before anything ; and, small as they were, they took my last shilling.' ^ My poor Maggie ! ' * Then the man called for the quarter's rent, and though he was civil enough, I knew it would not be so the next time ; and others called who were not so civil. I had no idea how hard some folks could be.' ^ But others were kind, Maggie ; tell me about that.' * John was very kind, father. He pre- tended that the price of goods, such as I supply, was raised in the market, and offered to dispose of them at higher prices ; but I saw through that — ' here her voice began to tremble a little — ' and declined the aid that was but alms, how- ever delicately bestowed.' STEUCK DOWN. 247 ' And about the loan, Maggie ? ' con- tinued the old man (for he looked old indeed now) after a long silence, during which he regarded her, while she worked on as usual, with yearning eyes. ' How was it he came to lend this money ? ' ^ I think he saw that I was greatly troubled, father ; and once, when I went out to pay some one who had been very importunate an instalment of his bill, I found the whole had been abeady settled by an unknown hand. When I taxed John with having paid it, he at first denied it, and then insisted that he was your debtor. You had lent his uncle money, he said, years ago, through which he had made his fortune, and since he had done so and made John his heir, John owed it you.' ' But the money was paid, Maggie.' ^ So I told him, father ; but he answered 248 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. that the ohhgation remained, and that, at all events, he must insist on yonr accept- ing from him a loan to the same amount as the deht originally incurred. I was very loath, hut he urged what was hut too true, that money must be had somehow ; and if I parted with your hooks or instru- ments, they would he sold at a great sacrifice, and that, besides, you would be crippled for the want of them, when you should recover. So at last I took the money.' 'Why, that was a hundred pounds, lass ! I know not how it can ever be repaid,' added he, looking at her wistfully. ' You were not to worry yourself about that, he said,' answered Maggie hastily, ' but to repay it by instalments when it suited you; and, besides, I have spent but very little of it ; only, I thought it better to accept John's offer, handsome STEUCK DOWN. 249 as it was, rather than be applying to him again and again, if we should need to do so. It is so unpleasant to talk about money matters, even if one's friend is ever so kind — and, indeed, I think John was as embarrassed as myself.' * Don't you think that was because he was dealing with you, Maggie ? When he comes to mention it to me, he will have no such shyness.' ^ Yery likely, father,' answered she quietly ; ' a man understands a man so much better than he understands a woman.' Then Maggie worked on in silence with nimble fingers, and the old man moved slowly about the room among his favomite instruments, touching this and that in an absent and preoccupied manner. ' John tells me that nothing has been heard of his brother, Maggie,' said he at 250 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. last ; * yon have heard nothing yourself, I conclude ; no letter, nor anything ? ' ^ I have heard nothing, nor do I expect to hear,' was her calm reply. ' And if you did ? ' asked the engraver with significance. ^ If I did, it would make no difference, father; I would never marry Eichard now. — Don't ask me why,' added she with vehemence ; * don't speak to me upon the subject, if you would spare me pain ; but, if it is any comfort to you to know it, Eichard ' Here something seemed to choke her speech, and she laid her hand upon her bosom as if in pain. * What 1 you love him no longer ? ' cried the engraver with eager joy. ^ I did not say that,' exclaimed Maggie passionately ; ^ I wish to Heaven I could ! But do not fear that I will ever be his wife/ STEUCK DOWN. 251 The old man tottered towards her, and stooping down, kissed her bowed fore- head. * The doctor need not come again to see me, darhng ; your words have done me more good than all his drugs.' If it was so, the cui'e was obtained at the expense of the physician : as the mesmerist gives his own vital force to eke out that of his patient, so Maggie, it seemed, had parted with heart and hope to give them to her father, for the girl had fainted at her desk. 252 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS, CHAPTEE XV. CHAMPIONED. A FEW days after the avowal from his daughter's Hps, which had made the engraver very hterally ^ another man ' — brought the hght back to his eye, the flush of health to his wasted cheek, and even returning steadiness to his still way- ward right hand — Mr. Linch, the lawyer, paid them a visit. Without having absolutely neglected them during their late troubles, he had not been a frequent visitor in Mitchell Street, and his arrival on that particular morning astonished them considerably, for it happened to be CHA^kfPIONED. 253 the Sabbath, of which that gentleman was a very strict observer. ' I am glad to see yon np and abont again, IVIr. Thorne. Miss Maggie, I hope yon are well ? ' The difference of manner with which the new-comer delivered those two sentences was remarkable : the former was spoken in as genial a tone as the sacredness of the day permitted, the latter was cold and formal. The sensi- tive ear of the engraver at once detected this. He knew that the speaker thought ill of Maggie for her fidehty to Eichard Milbank, and judged her ^"ith sectarian narrowness, and, though he had at one time lamented her obstinacy to this very man, he resented — now that she was obstinate no longer — any show of reproof towards her. * I beUeve Maggie is more of an invalid, 254 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Mr. Lincli, than myself,' observed he gravely : ' in tending me, she has, I fear, injured, her own health, and has no more appetite than a bird.' * There are some birds — such as cor- morants,' remarked Maggie cheerfally, * who have very good appetites, father.' *Yes; but you don't eat Hke a cor- morant, my darling, but more like a canary ; and the consequence is, you are worn to a shadow.' ^ Miss Maggie looks pale and delicate, doubtless,' said Mr. Linch dryly. ^ Could I have a few minutes in private with you, Thorne ? ' ' In private ? Well, I have no secrets from Maggie ; but ' ' It is no secret, unfortunately,' inter- rupted the lawyer ; ^ but I think it would be more advisable to say what I have to say to you in your daughter's absence.' CHAMPIONED. 255 ^Is there any news — I mean, from Eosebank ? ' exclaimed Maggie suddenly. ' If so, Mr. Linch, I can bear to bear it ; nay, I claim to bear it.' Mr. Linch returned ber appealing look witb one of extreme surprise. ^ Claim to bear it, young woman ! ' returned be witb irritation ; ' the law knows no sucb claim : it is not as if you were an accused party. — Upon my life, Tborne, I don't know wbat your daugbter means.' * You must be very dull, tben,' said tbe engraver tartly. ' Sbe wisbes to know if there is any news of Ricbard Milbank.' ^ No, no,' answered tbe lawyer hastily ; * none at all, I assure you — none at all. It is on quite another matter that I wish to have a few words with your father.' Maggie at once withdrew, and left the two men alone together. ' It is the most extraordinary thing that 256 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. your daughter should have asked that question,' gasped the Httle lawyer : * my head was so full of certain news from Kosebank, that I could think of nothing else. Richard Milbank had no place in my mind, because it was wholly occupied with John.' * What about John ? ' asked the en- graver with anxiety. ^ I thought, when you rang the bell Hke that, it was sure to be he.' * Well, John has got into a scrape. You would think he w^as the last man in the world to have done it, but he has come into — yes — colhsion with the pohce,' said Mr. Linch, bringing out this painful intelhgence with a gasp of desperation. ^ With the police ! echoed the engraver, astounded. ' What ! has John been drinking ? ' * No, indeed ; perhaps it would be CHAMPIONED. 257 better for Mm in this case if lie had. He has comraitted a very serious assault, without drunkenness to excuse it, upon Mr. Dennis Blake.' ^ Well, he was right so far — I mean in his selection of a victim,' observed the engraver grimly. 'It was about Eichard, of course ; and, for my part, I have always held that that fellow Blake knows more about John's brother than he chooses to tell. He was veiy flush of money just at the time he disappeared — though he soon got quit of it at cards, they say — and if there was foul play anywhere ' ' It was not about Eichard that the quarrel arose,' interrupted the lawyer gravely, ' or else I should not have come here to-day. It was about somebody dearer and nearer to you than he, Thorne: it was about your daughter Maggie.' VOL. I. S 258 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. 'I have heard sometlimg of this before/ said the engraver, with an air of extreme annoyance. ^ I know John means us well, and more than well, every way ; but he should not pay attention to the idle talk of every good-for-naught, nor think it necessary to correct him for letting his tongue run. It does more harm than good to those he would stand up for.' ' Blake said a very aggravating thing this time, however,' replied the other, looking at the engraver very fixedly; ^ and supposing it was all lies, as I hope it was, I don't blame John — speaking as a man, of course, not as a lawyer — for taking the matter up. But Blake was drunk, it seems ; indeed, if he had not been he would not have dared to say what he said; and John has beaten him within an inch of his life. I say again, it is a serious business. The case will CHAMPIONED. 259 have to come to-morrow before the magis- trates ; and if it should tm-n out that Blake was only telling the truth, or what he believed to be the truth ' ^ The truth about ivliat ? ' inquired the engraver impatiently. ^You don't mean to say, I hope, that it was anything dis- graceful, which might yet be true of my Maggie ? ' ' Now, my dear Thome, it is no use your putting yourself in a passion ; I have come here to get at the facts of the case, whatever they may be, for I shall have to meet them to-morrow. Mind, I assert nothing of myseK; but if what Blake said was true, Eichard Milbank has left a legacy of shame and wrong behind him, such as my heart bleeds to think of, for your sake. There is a child in Boulter's Alley out at wet nurse ' ^ Silence ! ' exclaimed the engraver, in 260 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. sharp, skrill tones, and rising from his chair as hastily as his lame hmbs would let him. ^ You do not know Herbert Thome's daughter. — Maggie ! ' cried he, going out upon the landing, and calling up the stairs, ^ come down here, lass ; thou'rt wanted. — Not a word more, Mr. Linch, I beg, until she comes.' 'It is an unnecessary ordeal,' com- menced the lawyer ; but the next moment the girl stood in the doorway, pale and undisturbed, with her quiet inquiry, ' What is it, father ? ' ' John Milbank has got into trouble through thrashing Dennis Blake, for uttering lies about yoUj Maggie. Mr. Linch has called to know whether they are lies, in order that he may adopt the proper line of defence. Please to answer any question he may put to you. ' ' Your father has imposed a very un- CHAMPIONED. 261 pleasant duty upon me,' observed the lawyer hesitatingly ; 'it is none of my seeking, of course. I merely came here as John Milbank's legal adviser, in order to get at the facts.' Maggie bowed Hke a princess, walked quickly up to her father, and, kissing him, forced him gently into a chair; for, not- withstanding his attempts at seK-control, he was trembling excessively; and then stood up with her hand on his shoulders, confronting the visitor. ' WeU, sir ? ' * You have — ahem ! — a pensioner, I beUeve, in Poulter's Alley,' he began^ — ' a young woman ? ' ' Not now,' repHed she, with quiet sadness : ' the person you speak of is dead.' ' Indeed ! I saw her myself not an hour ago.' 262 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ^You are mistaken. However, there was a poor girl there, to whom I gave assistance — as much as I could, though much less than I would fain have given.' ^ There is a child — an infant — out at nurse there : is it true that you support it ? ' ' I do so.' Maggie felt her father shiver heneath her touch, and sliding down her hand till it met with his, clasped it assuringly. ^ My daughter is always good to the poor,' said he, ^ though we are poor our- selves.' ^ And who is the father of this child ? ' inquired the lawyer, looking at his fingers, and dropping his voice to almost a whisper. 'Must I tell that?' asked Maggie, in the, same hushed tone. 'It will have to be told to-morrow, and if I am unacquainted with the fact, CHAMPIONED. 263 my client will be placed at a disad- vantage,' was tlie rejoinder. There was a long pause ; and Maggie's lips moved twice in vain before they could shape her answer : ' It is Eichard Milbank.' Then she burst into tears. *It is mere cruelty to your daughter, Thome, to continue this investigation,' said the lawyer, himself greatly moved ; ^ we must make the best fight of it we can for John ; that's all.' ^ Maggie ! darling Maggie ! he does not know you as I know you ; he has not your hand in his as I have, bidding me trust on through all. You must bear one question more, and answer it. — ^You may ask it, Linch, without fear. Nay, if you will not^ I will. — Eichard Milbank is the father of this child, you say, Maggie ; now, tell us one thing more — who was its mother ? ' 264 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. ' It was Alice Grey of Dardham. She ought to have been Eichard's wife. May Heaven forgive him for his wrong to her ! She died some weeks ago — I fear, in want — I was too late to help her; only just in time to save the child.' 'And this ca^n he corroborated by proof? ' exclaimed the lawyer excitedly. ' If necessary — if absolutely necessary to John. But oh, spare Eichard ! ' ' My dear Miss Maggie, we wiU admit nothing unless we are absolutely obliged. After what you have told me, I should think this Blake would be only too glad to compromise the affair. However, though he spoke in mahce, it was probably in ignorance of the facts of the case, and he has certainly been most terribly knocked about. We shall have to pay the man a good lump sum, no doubt. — It is very hard upon our friend CHAMPIONED. 265 Joliii,' continned ]\ir. Lincli, addressing himself to the engraver, ^ to suffer thus in pocket for his brother, having just paid off his debts. I settled the last one for him yesterday. I never knew a man with so fine a sense of duty. Well, I go away with a light heart, Thorne, upon all accounts. Miss Mar- garet, I wish you good day.' His friendly and effusive manner had quite returned. Maggie suffered him to take her hand, which most young women who had been subjected to such an Lojurious suspicion would probably not have done ; but her nature was emi- nently a just one. She perceived that the circumstances of the case had afforded Mr. Linch no other alternative than to believe the child in Poulter's Alley was her own. Was it possible, thought she, with a shudder, that Jobn 266 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. Milbank also believed it, notwithstanding that he had resented the accusation in another's mouth ? What a good brother, as Mr. Linch had said, had he proved himself, and how unostentatiously had he performed his good deeds, for not a word had he dropped to them about settling Eichard's debts ! The consciousness of having grudged him praise, and the sense of his late kindness to her father, in the matter of the loan — as well, perhaps, of this last action in her own behalf, though she tried to shut that out from her con- sideration — prompted her to speak of John as she had never done before. She said he seemed to her to be the most unselfish and unsulhed of all men of their acquaintance. The engraver smiled ; her choice of adjectives was particularly agreeable to CHAIVfPIONED. 267 him, since it appeared to be suggested by the contrast in the characters of the two brothers; but, taught by experience, he refrained from eulogy. John was always a good fellow, he admitted ; but why was he not more popular? There must be something wrong, he feared, about one who was a favourite with such few- people. Maggie quoted from the book that she had been reading to her father before the lawyer had looked in, the observation that the friendship of the world was not to a man's credit, but altogether- the other way. ' In that case,' returned the engraver, ^ John should be secure of heaven, since everything he does has a bad motive ascribed to it by his fellow- creatures. The very paying- off his brother's debts will be considered but a tardy act of 268 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. justice — nay, of reparation — though, to my knowledge, the poor fellow has been sadly straitened for money to carry on his business.' ^ Of reparation ! How of reparation ? ' inquired Maggie. ' Oh ! they say he made money by Eichard, instead, as was really the case, of having been half-ruined by him ! His very disappearance, even, has been laid to John's account.' ' What do you mean, father ? ' * Nay, I don't mean to say they think he murdered him ; but tKe world says — or did, before I was taken ill — that he bought him out of the concern at a cheap rate, and so secured it for himself.' ' Then the Hilton world must be a very, very wicked and slanderous one ! ' said Maggie indignantly. The engraver shrugged his shoulders. CHAMPIONED. 269 ' I think it is the aii', my dear. I have known somebody in Hilton — and not, in my judgment, a wicked person — who had at one time never a good word to say for this John Milbank, herself.' To this, Maggie answered nothing ; but after awhile, dui'ing which she gazed fixedly at the book before her, without reading a line, she observed : ' If you knew John was straitened for money, was it not wi'ong, father, to let him lend us so large a sum the other day ? ' ' I did not know it was lent, until afterwards,' returned the engraver, smil- ing. ^ It was lent to you, you know, my dear, not to vieJ ' That was only, of course, because you were ill, and could not attend to such matters. Don't you think it would be better to return him, say, half of it at once, and pay him the remainder by 270 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. instalments, as we can scrape it to- gether ? ' ' Why not give him security for the whole, Maggie ? ' answered the old man sHly. Then perceiving that he was not understood, he added : ' Is it possible, my good lass, that you did not guess by what means we have won through this terrible trouble? You know, of course, that it was thanks to John ; but are you so blind as not to see why John has helped us ? It is my belief that he has loved you from a boy; only, because Richard was too quick for him with you, that he never spoke of it.' ^ Oh, father, father ! ' cried Maggie, hiding the crimson of her cheeks in both her hands, ^ I hope not, I hope not ! ' ' That's hoping against hope, lass, for it is the case. But there is no need to take on so ; I have quite done with CHAMPIONED. 271 giving you advice as to marriage, and if I know John, tie is not one to intrude his attentions where they are not wanted. He is too used to holding his tongue, poor fellow, to plague you in that way. While Kichard was paying you attentions, John could scarcely have done you a service lest it should have been misunderstood ; but now the coast is clear, he has ven- tured upon a kindness. But as to speak- ing to you of marrying him, unless you give him some encouragement, that he will never do : such, at least, is my view of the matter, and though my limbs are lamed, I have still some use of my eyes.' The sorrowful glance that the engraver cast on his nerveless right hand went more perhaps to Maggie's heart than all his words. ^ I am very sony, father, for your sake,' sighed she, 'that I cannot 272 THE BEST OF HUSBANDS. love John Milbank. I honour and respect him above all men, and feel more grateful to him than I can express, both on yonr account and my own.' ' May I tell him that, Maggie ? ' 'Yes, father ; it is but right that he should know it.' * My darling, you are curing me fast ; where honour and respect are won, love is not altogether out of reach.' * My love is dead, father,' sighed she, ' and no miracle can ever quicken it.' * But if John would be content with the respect and honour, lass, and take you on those terms ? ' ' It is not necessary to speak of that, father : when John asks me to become his wife — if he be really so ill-judged as to desire it — it will be time enough to consider that matter.' CHAMPIONED. 273 * Very good, Maggie ; we vnll say no more about it,' said her father softly. He was secretly well pleased with the measure of success that had been vouch- safed to him. END OF YOL. I. VOL. 1. LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CL0WE3 AND SONS, STAMFORD STUEET AND CHARING CROSS. w si. V UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 3 0112 084216115 • t n'vV .if' ■,'{,'• ■ri'ii'/ Wi '^/0f: f'};-^}:^^ . . ...ipssifil