TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.

A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.

CONCLUSION.

Presently the nurse came and carried off Miss Lucy and her doll. Lady Dimsdale rose and joined Mrs Bowood.

A minute later, a servant came and presented Captain Bowood with a card. The latter put on his spectacles, and read what was written on the card aloud: ‘“Mr Garwood Brooker, Theatre Royal, Ryde.” Don’t know him. Never heard of the man before,’ said the Captain emphatically.

‘The gentleman is waiting in the library, sir,’ said the servant. ‘Says he wants to see you on very particular business.’

‘Humph! Too hot for business of any kind. Too many flies about. Must see him though, I suppose.’

The servant retired; and presently the Captain followed him into the house. Mrs Bowood and Lady Dimsdale lingered for a few minutes, and then they too went indoors.

As Captain Bowood entered the library, Mr Brooker rose and made him a profound bow. He was a stoutly-built man, between fifty and sixty years of age. He wore shoes; gray trousers, very baggy at the knees; a tightly buttoned frock-coat, with a velvet collar; and an old-fashioned black satin stock, the ends of which hid whatever portion of his linen might otherwise have been exposed to view. A jet black wig covered his head, the long tangled ends of which floated mazily over his velvet collar behind. His closely shaven face was blue-black round the mouth and chin, where the razor had passed over its surface day after day for forty years. The rest of his face looked yellow and wrinkled, the continual use of pigments for stage purposes having long ago spoiled whatever natural freshness it might once have possessed. Mr Brooker had a bold aquiline nose and bushy brows, and at one time had been accounted an eminently handsome man, especially when viewed from before the footlights; but his waist had disappeared years ago, and there was a general air about him of running to seed. When Mr Brooker chose to put on his dignified air, he was very dignified. Finally, it may be said that every one in ‘the profession’ who knew ‘old Brooker,’ liked and esteemed him, and that at least he was a thorough gentleman.

Having made his bow, Mr Brooker advanced one foot a little, buried one hand in the breast of his frock-coat, and let the other rest gracefully on his hip. It was one of his favourite stage attitudes.

‘Mr Brooker?’ said Captain Bowood interrogatively, as he came forward with the other’s card in his hand.

‘At your service, Captain Bowood.’ The voice was deep, almost sepulchral in its tones. It was the voice of Hamlet in his gloomier moments.

‘Pray, be seated,’ said the Captain in his offhand way as he took a chair himself.

Mr Brooker slowly deposited himself upon another chair. He would have preferred saying what he had to say standing, as giving more scope for graceful and appropriate gestures; but he gave way to circumstances. He cleared his voice, and then he said: ‘I am here, sir, this morning as an ambassador on the part of your nephew, Mr Charles Warden.’

‘Don’t know any such person,’ replied the Captain shortly.

‘Pardon me—I ought to have said your nephew, Mr Charles Summers.’

‘Then it’s a pity you did not come on a better errand. I want nothing to do with the young vagabond in any way. He and I are strangers. Eh, now?’

‘He is a very clever and talented young gentleman; and let me tell you, sir, that you ought to be very proud of him.’

‘Proud of my nephew, who is an actor!—an actor! Pooh!’ The Captain spoke with a considerable degree of contempt.

‘I am an actor, sir,’ was Mr Brooker’s withering reply, in his most sepulchral tones.

The Captain turned red, coughed, and fidgeted. ‘Nothing personal, sir—nothing personal,’ he spluttered. ‘I only spoke in general terms.’

‘You spoke in depreciatory terms, sir, respecting something about which you evidently know little or nothing.’

The Captain winced. He was not in the habit of being lectured, and the sensation was not a pleasant one, but he felt the justice of the reproof.

‘Ah, sir, the actor’s profession is one of the noblest in the world,’ resumed Mr Brooker, changing from his Hamlet to his Mercutio voice; ‘and your nephew bids fair to become a shining ornament in it. I know of few young men who have progressed so rapidly in so short a time, and the press notices he has had are something remarkable. Here are a few of them, sir, only a few of them, which I have brought together. Oblige me by casting your eye over them, sir, and then tell me what you think.’ Speaking thus, Mr Brooker produced from his pocket-book three or four sheets of paper, on which had been gummed sundry cuttings from different newspapers, and handed them to the Captain.

That gentleman having put on his glasses, read the extracts through deliberately and carefully. ‘Bless my heart! this is most extraordinary!’ he remarked when he had done. ‘And do all these fine words refer to that graceless young scamp of a nephew of mine?’

‘Every one of them, sir; and he deserves all that’s said of him.’

Like many other people, Captain Bowood had a great respect for anything that he saw in print, more especially for any opinion enunciated by the particular daily organ whose political views happened to coincide with his own, and by whose leading articles he was, metaphorically, led by the nose. When, therefore, he came across a laudatory notice anent his nephew’s acting extracted from his favourite Telephone, he felt under the necessity of taking out his handkerchief and rubbing his spectacles vigorously. ‘There must be something in the lad after all,’ he muttered to himself, ‘or the Telephone wouldn’t think it worth while to make such a fuss about him. But why didn’t he keep to tea-broking?’

‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ said the Captain, as he handed the extracts back to Mr Brooker.

‘I am afraid that I make but a poor envoy, sir,’ said the latter, ‘seeing that as yet I have furnished you with no reason for venturing to intrude upon you this morning.’

‘You have a message for me?’ remarked the Captain.

‘I have, sir; and I doubt not you can readily guess from whom. Sir, I have the honour to be the manager of the travelling theatrical company of which your nephew forms a component part. I am old enough to be the young man’s father, and that may be one reason why he has chosen to confide his troubles to me. In any case, I have taken the liberty of coming here to intercede for him. There are two points, sir, that he wishes me to lay before you. The first is his desire—I might, without exaggeration, say his intense longing—to be reconciled to you, who have been to him as a second father, since his own parents died. He acknowledges and regrets that in days gone by he was a great trouble to you—a great worry and a great expense. But he begs me to assure you that he has now sown his wild-oats; that he is working hard in his profession; that he is determined to rise in it; and that he will yet do credit to you and every one connected with him—all of which I fully indorse. But he cannot feel happy, sir, till he has been reconciled to you—till you have accorded him your forgiveness, and—and’——

Here the Captain sneezed violently, and then blew his nose. ‘I knew it—I said so,’ he remarked aloud. ‘Those confounded draughts—give everybody cold. Why not?’ Then addressing himself directly to Mr Brooker, he said: ‘Well, sir, well. I have listened to your remarks with a considerable degree of patience, and I am glad to find that my graceless nephew has some sense of compunction left in him. But as for reconciliation and forgiveness and all that nonsense—pooh, pooh!—not to be thought of—not to be thought of!’

‘I am sorry to hear that, Captain Bowood—very sorry indeed.’

‘You made mention of some other point, sir, that Mr Summers wished you to lay before me. Eh, now?’

‘I did, sir. It is that of his attachment to a young lady at present staying under your roof—Miss Brandon by name.’

‘Ah, I guessed as much!’

‘He desires your sanction to his engagement to the young lady in question, not with any view to immediate marriage, Miss Brandon being a ward in Chancery, but’——

‘Confound his impudence, sir!’ burst out the Captain irately. ‘How dare he, sir—how dare he make love to a young lady who is placed under my charge by her nearest relative? What will Miss Hoskyns say and think, when she comes back and finds her niece over head and ears in love with my worthless nephew? Come now.’

‘It may perchance mitigate to some extent the severity of your displeasure, sir,’ remarked Mr Brooker in his blandest tones, ‘when I tell you that in my pocket I have a letter written by Miss Hoskyns, in which that lady sanctions your nephew’s engagement to Miss Brandon.’

The Captain stared in open-mouthed wonder at the veteran actor. This was the strangest turn of all. He felt that the situation was getting beyond his grasp, so he did to-day what he always did in cases of difficulty—he sent for his wife.

Mrs Bowood was almost as much surprised as her husband when she heard the news. Mr Brooker produced Miss Hoskyns’ letter, the genuineness of which could not be disputed; but she was still as much at a loss as before to imagine by what occult means Master Charley had succeeded in causing such a document to be written. Nor did she find out till some time afterwards.

It would appear that our two young people had fallen in love with each other during the month they had spent at Rosemount the preceding summer, and that, during the ensuing winter, Charley had contrived to worm his way into the good graces of Miss Hoskyns by humouring her weaknesses and playing on some of her foibles, of which the worthy lady had an ample stock-in-trade. But no one could have been more surprised than the young man himself was when, in answer to his letter, which he had written without the remotest hope of its being favourably considered, there came a gracious response, sanctioning his engagement to Miss Brandon. The fact was that, while in Italy, Miss Hoskyns had allowed her elderly affections to become entangled with a good-looking man some years younger than herself, to whom she was now on the point of being married. The first perusal of Charley’s letter had thrown her into a violent rage; but at the end of twenty-four hours her views had become considerably modified. After all, as she argued to herself, why shouldn’t young Summers and her niece make a match of it? He came of a good family, and would incontestably be his uncle’s heir; and Captain Bowood was known to be a very rich man. And then came in another argument, which had perhaps more weight than all the rest. Would it be wise, would it be advisable, to keep herself hampered with a niece who was fast developing into a really handsome young woman, when she, the aunt, was about to take a good-looking husband so much younger than herself? No; she opined that such a course would neither be wise nor advisable. Hence it came to pass that the letter was written which was such a source of surprise to every one at Rosemount.

‘What am I to do now?’ asked the Captain a little helplessly, as Mrs Bowood gave back the letter to Mr Brooker.

That lady’s mind was made up on the instant. ‘There is only one thing for you to do,’ she said with decision, ‘and that is, to forgive the boy all his past faults and follies, and sanction his engagement to Elsie Brandon.’

‘What—what! Eat my own words—swallow my own leek—when I’ve said a hundred times that’——

‘Remember, dear, what you said in the drawing-room last evening,’ interposed Mrs Bowood in her quietest tones.

Then the Captain called to mind how, in conversation the previous evening with his wife and Lady Dimsdale, he had chuckled over the tricks played him by his nephew, and had admitted that that young gentleman’s falling in love with Miss Brandon was the very thing he would have wished for, had he been consulted in the matter.

The Captain was crestfallen when these things were brought to his mind.

Mrs Bowood gave him no time for further reflection. Rightly assuming that the young people were not far away, she opened a door leading to an inner room, and there found them in close proximity to each other on the sofa. ‘Come along, you naughty children,’ she said, ‘and receive the sentence due for your many crimes.’

They came forward shamefacedly enough. Master Charles looked a little paler than ordinary; on Elsie’s face there was a lovely wild-rose blush.

Mr Brooker rose to his feet, ran the fingers of one hand lightly through his wig, and posed himself in his favourite attitude. He felt that just at this point a little slow music might have been effectively introduced.

The Captain also rose to his feet.

Charley came forward quickly and grasped one of the old man’s hands in both of his. ‘Uncle!’ he said, looking straight into his face through eyes that swam in tears.

For a moment or two the Captain tried to look fierce, but failed miserably. Then bending his white head, and laying a hand on his nephew’s shoulder, he murmured in a broken voice: ‘M—m—my boy!’

Sir Frederick Pinkerton was slowly pacing the sunny south terrace, smoking one cigarette after another in a way that with him was very unusual. He was only half satisfied with himself—only half satisfied with the way he had treated Lady Dimsdale. The instincts of a gentleman were at work within him, and those instincts whispered to him that he had acted as no true gentleman ought to act. And yet his feelings were very bitter. Had not Lady Dimsdale rejected him?—had she not scorned him?—had she not treated him with a contumely that was only half veiled? Still more bitter was the thought that if he acted as his conscience told him he ought to act, he would release Lady Dimsdale from the promise he had imposed on her, and stand quietly on one side, while another snatched away the prize which, only a few short hours ago, he had fondly deemed would be all his own. But this was a sacrifice which he felt that he was not magnanimous enough to make. ‘I have done the man a great—an inestimable—service,’ he said to himself more than once; ‘let that suffice. They are not lovesick children—he and Lady Dimsdale—that they should cry for the moon, and vow there is no happiness in life because they can’t obtain it. Why should I trouble myself about their happiness? They would not trouble themselves about mine.’

It was thus he argued with himself, and the longer he argued the more angry he became. He was so thoroughly anxious to convince himself that he was right, and he found himself unable to do so.

He was still deep in his musings, when one of the servants brought him a letter which had been sent on from his own house to Rosemount. He recognised the writing as soon as he saw the address, and his face brightened at once. The letter was from his nephew—the one being on earth for whom Sir Frederick entertained any real affection. He found a seat in the shade, where he sat down and broke the seal of his letter. But as he read, his face grew darker and darker, and when he had come to the end of it, a deep sigh burst involuntarily from him; the hand that held the letter dropped by his side, and his chin sank on his breast. He seemed all at once to have become five years older. ‘O Horace, Horace, this is indeed a shameful confession!’ he murmured. ‘How often is it the hand we love best that strikes us the cruellest blow! And Oscar Boyd, too! the man I dislike beyond all other men. That makes the blow still harder to bear. He must be paid the five hundred pounds, and at once. He has lost his fortune, and yet he never spoke of this. What an obligation to be under—and to him! He saved Horace’s honour—perhaps his life—but is that any reason why I should absolve Lady Dimsdale from her promise? No, no! This is a matter entirely separate from the other.—Why, here comes the man himself.’

As Sir Frederick spoke thus, Oscar Boyd issued from one of the many winding walks that intersected the grounds at Rosemount. He had been alone since he left Lady Dimsdale. He had vowed to her that if she would not reveal to him the key of the mystery, he would find it for himself; but in truth he seemed no nearer finding it now than he had been an hour before. From whatever point he regarded the puzzle, he was equally nonplused. Utterly unaccountable to him seemed the whole affair. He was now on his way back to the house in search of Laura. He would see her once more before she left; once more would he appeal to her. On one point he was fully determined: come what might, he would never give her up.

Sir Frederick put away his letter, rose from his seat, pulled himself together, and went slowly forward to meet Mr Boyd. ‘You are the person, Mr Boyd, whom I am just now most desirous of seeing,’ he said.

‘I am entirely at your service, Sir Frederick.’

The Baronet cleared his voice. He scarcely knew how to begin what he wanted to say. Very bitter to him was the confession he was about to make. ‘Am I wrong, Mr Boyd, in assuming that you are acquainted with a certain nephew of mine, Horace Calvert by name, who at the present time is residing at Rio?’

Oscar started slightly at the mention of the name. ‘I believe that I had the pleasure of meeting the young gentleman in question on one occasion.’

‘It is of that occasion I wish to speak. I have in my pocket a letter which I have just received from my nephew, in which he confesses everything. Hum, hum.’

‘Confesses—Sir Frederick?’

‘For him, a humiliating confession indeed. He tells me in his letter how you—a man whom he had never seen before—saved him from the consequences of his folly—from disgrace—nay, from suicide itself! He had lost at the gaming-table money which was not his to lose. He fled the place—despair, madness, I know not what, in his heart and brain. You followed him, and were just in time to take out of his hand the weapon that a minute later would have ended his wretched life. But you not only did that; you took the miserable boy to your hotel, and there provided him with the means to save his honour. It was a noble action, Mr Boyd, and I thank you from my heart.’

‘It was the action of a man who remembered that he had been young and foolish himself in years gone by.’

‘I repeat, sir, that it was a noble action. And you would have gone away without telling me how greatly I am your debtor!’

‘It was a secret that concerned no one but the young man and myself.’

‘It is a debt that must be and shall be paid. I am glad indeed to find that there is sufficient sense of honour left in my nephew to cause him to beg that you may not be allowed to remain a loser by your generosity. He has ascertained that you have returned to England; he has even found out the name of your hotel in Covent Garden, where he asks me to wait upon you. Hum, hum. My cheque-book is at home, Mr Boyd; but if you will oblige me with your address in town, I’——

‘One moment, Sir Frederick. Am I right in assuming that a certain anonymous letter which I received yesterday was written by you?’

‘Since you put the question so categorically—frankly, it was.’

‘You have done me a service greater than I know how to thank you for. You have dragged me from the verge of an abyss. At present, I will not ask you how you came by the information which enabled you to do this—it is enough to know that you did it.’ He held out his hand frankly. ‘Suppose we cry quits, Sir Frederick?’ he said.

The Baronet protruded a limp and flaccid paw, which Oscar’s long lean fingers gripped heartily.

‘But—but, my dear sir, the five hundred pounds is a debt which must and shall be paid,’ urged Sir Frederick, who felt as if he had lost the use of his hand for a few moments.

There was no opportunity for further private talk. Round a corner of the terrace came Captain and Mrs Bowood, Miss Brandon and her lover in a high state of contentment, and Brooker the benignant, nose in air, and with one hand hidden in the breast of his frock-coat. A servant brought out some of Lady Dimsdale’s boxes in readiness for the carriage, which would be there in the course of a few minutes. Mr Boyd went forward, leaving Sir Frederick a little way in the rear.

‘Quits—“let us cry quits,” he said,’ muttered the Baronet. ‘Yes, yes; let it be so as regards all but the money. That must be repaid. The service I did him was no common one—he admits that. Why, then, should I not hold Lady Dimsdale to her promise?’

At this moment, Lady Dimsdale, dressed for travelling, appeared on the terrace. ‘She is going, then. She means to keep her promise,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. He drew a little nearer the group.

‘And must you really and truly leave us this afternoon?’ said Mrs Bowood.

‘Really and truly.’

‘I am very angry with you.’

‘I have promised the children to be back in time to go blackberrying with them, so that you will not lose me for long.’

‘I suppose we shall lose Mr Boyd as soon as you are gone. The house will be too dull for him.’

‘I have no control over Mr Boyd’s actions,’ answered Lady Dimsdale quietly, as she turned away.

‘Then he has not proposed! O dear! O dear!’ murmured Mrs Bowood.

Sir Frederick had seated himself on a rustic chair somewhat apart from the others. He was still uneasy in his mind. ‘He saved Horace’s honour—he saved his life; but he said himself that we are quits.’

‘Why, this is nothing but rank midsummer madness,’ said the Captain to Lady Dimsdale. ‘But you women never know your minds for two days together. You won’t have been settled down at Bayswater more than a week, before you will want to be off somewhere else. Eh, now?’

‘Do you know, I think that is quite likely. But I am not leaving you for long. I shall be back again to plague you by the time the leaves begin to turn.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And now my adieux to all of you must be brief. Time, tide, and the express train wait for no one.’

She saw Oscar coming towards her, and she crossed to meet him.

‘The crucial moment,’ said Sir Frederick to himself. ‘How bravely she carries herself!’

Oscar took her hand. For a moment or two they looked into each other’s eyes without speaking. Then Oscar said: ‘You are determined to go—and without affording me a word of explanation?’

‘I cannot help myself.’

‘Do you really mean this to be farewell between us?’

‘Yes—farewell.’ There was a sob in her voice which she could not repress.

‘O my darling!’

‘Not that word, Oscar—not that!’

‘And do you really think, Laura, that I am going to allow myself to lose you in this way, without knowing the why or the wherefore? Not so—not so.’

‘You must, Oscar—you must.’

‘Give me some reason—give me some explanation of this unaccountable change.’

‘I cannot. My lips are sealed.’

‘Very well. I will now say good-bye for a little while; but I shall follow you to London within three days. You are my promised wife, and I shall hold you to your promise, in spite of everything and every one.’

‘No, Oscar, no—it cannot be—it can never be!’ She glanced up into his eyes. There was a cold, clear, determined look in them, such as she had never seen there before. It was evident that he was terribly in earnest.

At this moment Captain Bowood’s landau drove up. The footman descended, and contemplated Lady Dimsdale’s numerous packages with dismay.

‘You needn’t bother about the luggage, George,’ said his master. ‘A man from the station will fetch that.’

The moment for parting had come. As Oscar gazed down on Laura, all the hardness melted out of his face, and in its stead, the soft light of love shone out of his eyes, and his lips curved into a smile of tenderness. ‘Farewell—but only for a little while,’ he whispered. He lifted her hand to his lips for a moment, and then, without another word, he turned on his heel and joined the Captain.

‘I actually believe Mr Boyd is in love with dear Lady Dimsdale!’ whispered Elsie to Mr Summers.

‘Of course he is, and she with him; only, she’s playing with him for a little while.’

‘It seems to me that you know far too much about love-making, Master Charley.’

‘Who was the first to give me lessons?’

The only answer to this was a pinch in the soft part of his arm.

Lady Dimsdale controlled herself by a supreme effort. Then she crossed slowly towards where Sir Frederick was sitting.

He rose as she approached him. ‘You have kept your promise bravely,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Why should not a woman keep a promise as bravely as a man?’

‘It is I who am driving you away.’

‘You flatter yourself, Sir Frederick.’

He shook his head in grave dissent. He seemed strangely moved. He gazed earnestly at her. ‘There is a tear in your eye, Lady Dimsdale,’ he said. ‘I am conquered. I revoke the promise I caused you to give me yesterday.’

‘Oh, Sir Frederick!’

‘I revoke it unconditionally.’

‘Why did you not tell me this five minutes ago!’

‘Better to tell it you now than not at all. You will not leave us now?’

‘But I must, I fear—must.’ She gave him her hand for a moment, and then turned away.

As the Baronet watched her retreating figure, he muttered to himself: ‘Mr Boyd said we were quits. He was mistaken. We shall be quits after to-day. Hum, hum.’

As Lady Dimsdale was crossing the terrace, she dropped one of her gloves—whether by design or accident, who shall say. Oscar Boyd sprang forward and picked it up. Laura stopped, turned, and held out her hand for the glove. As Oscar gave it back to her, his fingers closed instinctively round hers. For a moment or two he gazed into her eyes; for a moment or two she glanced shyly into his. I don’t in the least know what he saw there; but suddenly he called out to the coachman: ‘Henry, you can drive back to the stables. Lady Dimsdale will not go to London to-day.’