CHAPTER VI.

MILD LUNACY.

"THIS must be the house, No. 105 Cadogan Place," said Clement Fildew to himself, as he stopped in front of an imposing-looking mansion. Taking the steps two at time, he gave a loud rat-tat-tat at the door. "Is Miss Collumpton at home?" he asked of the man who answered his knock.

Miss Collumpton was at home.

"Will you give her this card, and say that I have called at the request of Sir Percy Jones?"

He was shown into a morning-room while the man took his message. After three or four minutes the door opened, and a young lady entered, dressed very plainly in black. As their eyes met they both started, and then, as if moved by a common impulse, they drew a step or two nearer each other, while Clem colored up to the roots of his hair. The young lady, who was by far the more self-possessed of the two, was the first to speak. "Unless I am much mistaken," she said, "you are the gentleman to whose kindness I was so greatly indebted when coming up to town the other day."

"And you are the lady to whom I had the good-fortune to be of some slight service."

"A slight service, do you call it? It seemed to me a very great service at the time. I missed you in the confusion at the terminus, so that my aunt was not able to thank you, as she would very much like to have done."

"I certainly can't see that any thanks were needed. But, putting that aside, I am very pleased to have met you again." And as he said this there was a fire and earnestness in his eyes that in its turn brought a vivid blush to the young lady's cheeks. "I came here at the request of Sir Percy Jones," he added, "to see Miss Collumpton respecting a portrait. I never expected to have the pleasure of finding you under the same roof."

"I have been living here for some time," she said. Then to herself she added, "I wonder whom he takes me for--a nursery governess or a companion, or what?"

"I hope Miss Collumpton is not a very exacting young lady. If she is, I am afraid that I shall scarcely be able to please her. I have painted very few portraits as yet, but Sir Percy was so pleased with the one I did of him that he declared he must have one of his god-daughter to take with him when he goes abroad."

"I don't think that you will find Miss Collumpton very exacting."

"I am glad to hear that. I wish it was your portrait I was going to paint instead of hers."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, "Why do you wish that?" but, happening to glance at his face, she saw the same look in his eyes that had troubled her before. She dropped her lids and looked another way. There was a moment's awkward silence. Then she said, "I think I had better go and fetch Miss Collumpton. She promised to follow me at once;" and with that she got out of the room.

Left alone, Clem went back at once to his examination of the prints and sketches on the walls. But he saw them without seeing them, and could remember nothing of them afterwards. He had caught Love's fever, and the symptoms were declaring themselves already. He was standing before a little sketch by Stanfield and smiling fatuously, as though there was something comical about it, which there certainly was not. When the patient takes to smiling in this purposeless way it is looked upon by those learned in such matters as a very bad sign.

About a week previously, as he was coming up to town, a young lady--the young lady who had just left the room--got into the same carriage, a second-class one, at Tring, in which he was already seated. He was not aware that she had been driven to take refuge in the second-class on account of the first-class seats being all occupied. They were presently joined by a cad of a fellow, who was evidently half-drunk, and just as evidently determined to talk to the pretty girl on the opposite seat, whether she liked it or not. At length the annoyance reached such a pitch, and the lady became so plainly distressed, that Clem, whose blood had been simmering for some time, felt called upon to interfere. Thereupon the cad turned on our friend like a young bear, and growled out something about wise people minding their own business, adding a certain epithet which had better have been left unspoken. The result was that before he knew what had happened he found himself lying in a heap in a corner of the carriage, with a discolored eye and a bruised nose, and a feeling as if a fifth of November cracker had exploded in his head. The train was slackening speed at the time, and as soon as it stopped the wounded knight scrambled out of the carriage, holding his handkerchief to his nose and muttering something about fetching the police. But he was seen no more. The rest of the journey came to an end far too soon for Clem. When he alighted at Euston the young lady was at once taken possession of by an elderly lady, while Clem rushed off in search of his portmanteau. But Clem had not forgotten the sweet face of his travelling companion. Being an artist, what more natural than that he should attempt to sketch it from memory as soon as he reached home, and not once but twenty times.

"What do you mean by neglecting your Academy picture in this way?" Tony Macer had fiercely demanded three days later. "And what do you mean, sir, by drawing the same simpering face from morn till dewy eve, and grinning to yourself all the time like a jackass in a fit? You've not been idiot enough to go and fall in love, have you? By Apelles! if I thought you had, I would take you _vi et armis_, and hold you under the back-kitchen tap for half an hour, and see whether that wouldn't cool your foolish brain!"

This threat of Tony must be taken _cum grano_, seeing that he was only about four feet eight inches high and had the arms of a girl of sixteen, whereas his friend Clem could easily have lifted him up with one hand and have thrown him across the room. But Tony's objurgations did Clem good, and he was fast regaining his interest in mutton-chops, bitter-beer, and the progress of his picture, when the deplorable meeting we have just recorded took place, and all hopes of his convalescence were at once scattered to the winds.

The siren who was the cause of all this commotion in our young painter's heart, having shut the door behind her, ran quickly up-stairs and burst into a tiny boudoir, where another young lady, also dressed in black, was sitting calmly at work.

"Mora! Mora! what do you think? This Mr. Clement Fildew, whom god-papa has sent here to paint my portrait, turns out to be the same gentleman who took my part in the train the other day when that man insulted me so dreadfully. Is it not strange that we should meet again in this way, and so soon afterwards?"

"Very strange, indeed. But such coincidences happen oftener in real life than many people imagine."

"But the strangest part is to come, dear. Mr. Fildew doesn't take me for myself, but for you."

"How can he take you for me, Cecilia, when he and I have never seen each other?"

"I mean that he doesn't take me for Miss Collumpton. He believes me to be somebody else living under the same roof with that paragon."

"But why did you not undeceive him the moment you discovered his mistake?"

"I don't intend to undeceive him just yet, it is such fun to be mistaken for somebody else."

"But you cannot keep him in ignorance much longer. He has come here to take your portrait."

"I'll tell you what I mean to do, Mora--it came into my head while I was talking to him: I mean to introduce you to Mr. Fildew as Cecilia Collumpton and myself as Mora Browne, your companion and friend. He can then take your portrait as well as mine."

Miss Browne's large blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Good gracious! Cecilia, what madcap scheme will you take into your head next?"

"I don't know what my next scheme will be, but I think this one will be immense fun, and I trust to your friendship to enable me to carry it out."

"Of course you may trust me for anything; you know that quite well. But what will your aunt say, and what, in the name of goodness, will Lady Loughton say, should either of them hear of it? They would never forgive me for my share in the deception."

"I don't mean either of them to know anything about it. Surely you and I can keep our little plot to ourselves."

"Your scheme frightens me, I must confess. It seems so terribly audacious."

"In its audacity lies our security. Besides, what is there to be afraid of? You certainly look the heiress more than I do. And for myself, it will be a fresh experience--something altogether novel and delightful--to be talked to and treated, not as a young woman with so many thousands a year, but--but--"

"As her humble friend and companion," interposed Miss Browne, with the slightest tinge of bitterness in her tone. "As one who esteems herself passing rich on eighty pounds a year."

"Forgive me, dear," said Cecilia, contritely. "I had no intention of hurting your feelings."

"I know it, dear, I know it. Don't say another word. And now I am at your service, although I am afraid you have hardly considered how foolish we shall both look when we have to face the necessity of an explanation."

"I don't at all see why we should look foolish. You may leave me to arrange all that." Miss Browne shook her head, but offered no further opposition in words.

Cecilia Collumpton had stated no more than the truth when she said that Mora Browne looked far more like an heiress than she did--that is, taking the common idea of what an heiress ought to look like. For Mora was tall, fair, and stately, with large, limpid blue eyes and a wealth of yellow hair. Her figure had the ample proportions of a youthful Juno, but as all her movements seemed tuned to slow music, there was no perceptible lack of harmony. She had a cold, clear, incisive voice, and a slight hauteur of manner, which in her case was not affectation, seeing that it was natural to her and not put on. She was the daughter of a rector who had ruined himself and his family by some mad speculations in mining shares. Although she was Cecilia's dearest friend, and had known her since girlhood, she would not come to live with her except on the footing of a paid companion, to whom, and by whom, a month's notice could at any time be given. But none the less had Mora an intense detestation of poverty and all its surroundings, and years ago she had made up her mind that if she were ever to marry it should be only to some man of ample fortune, who could afford to keep her as she felt she ought to be kept.

Cecilia Collumpton at this time was just twenty-two years old. She was a brunette, and rather petite in figure. She had a small, classically shaped head, a straight, clear-cut nose, and eyes of the darkest gray, with gleams of opaline light in them whenever she was at all excited. She was quick, vivacious, and emotional, and brimful of spirits and energy. She was easily imposed upon. A tale of distress brought tears to her eyes in a moment, and she never paused to inquire whether it was a reality or a sham before bringing out her purse. She was fond of riding, but loved a wild scamper across the downs far more than a regulation canter in the park. Her aunt called her "undisciplined," and Lady Loughton termed her "a hoyden," while Slingsby Boscombe, in some verses he once addressed to her--the feet of which, truth to tell, halted so wofully that Sir Percy Jones, who happened to come across them one day, gave it as his opinion that they must have been composed by a cripple--wrote of her as his "sweet wild rose," and yet Slingsby had never been in love with her.

Miss Browne, followed by Cecilia, sailed slowly into the room where Clement was waiting. He broke his reverie with a start, and advanced a few steps to meet them. "You are Mr. Fildew?" said Mora. Clem bowed. "And you have called respecting a portrait which Sir Percy Jones has commissioned you to paint?"

"Yes, Sir Percy asked me to call without delay, as his time in England was now getting very short. I am desirous of knowing on what days and at what hours it will be convenient for you to give me the requisite sittings."

Mora put a finger to her lips, and considered for a moment.

"To-day is Tuesday. Suppose we say Thursday next, at eleven, for the first sitting. We can arrange for future sittings afterwards. Will that suit you, Mr. Fildew?"

"Any time will suit me, madam. On this card you will find the address of my studio."

"I wish you to bear in mind, Mr. Fildew," said Mora, as she took the card, "that there will be two portraits for you to paint."

"Two portraits, Miss Collumpton!"

"Mine and that of my friend, Miss Browne. I have decided that we shall both be taken at the same time and in the same style."

"Oh."

It was a sort of ecstatic sigh drawn from the bottom of his heart--wherever that may have been.

The two girls glanced at each other.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Browne a few days ago," stammered Clement. He felt that he was making a great idiot of himself.

"I have told Miss Collumpton," said Cecilia, "how much I owed to your kindness on that occasion."

"For Mora's sake, Mr. Fildew," said Miss Browne, "I am glad to be able to thank you in person for the service you rendered her. She was coming up to town to stay with me at the time you met her."

"How well she acts her part," said Cecilia, to herself, with an admiring glance at her friend. "And how well she would carry out such a part in real life."

Clem muttered something about the service he had rendered being a very slight one, after which he took a rather hurried leave. He was glad to get out into the cold, wintry afternoon. It seemed to him that he walked home that day as the gods of old are fabled to have walked--on ambient air. Surely those were not the cold, slushy streets of dreary, commonplace London. Everything seemed as if it had been touched by a necromancer's wand.

"Mora." He whispered the word to himself again and again. What a sweet and romantic name it was! He did not venture to say, even to himself, that Mora's surname was either sweet or romantic. But that surname should be changed for another, by and by, or he would know the reason why.

CHAP TER VII. "SWEET COZ."

Clement Fildew had not left Cadogan Place more than half an hour when Mr. Slingsby Boscombe was announced. Slingsby had not seen Cecilia since the funeral of the young Earl of Loughton, which had taken place at Ringwood, the family seat, in Bedfordshire. Slingsby had attended as one of the mourners in chief.

"I don't think that I was ever in poor Alexander's company more than five or six times in my life," said Mr. Boscombe, in answer to a question put by Cecilia. He was a round-faced, boyish-looking young fellow of two-and-twenty, with a tendency to become abnormally stout even at that early age. "The dowager never cared to cultivate our branch of the family over much, and I have often heard my father speak of her in no very friendly terms."

"I believe that Lady Loughton was always noted for having a temper of her own," said Miss Collumpton. "I have been told that when her son's wife was alive--I mean, poor Alic's mother--she stood so much in awe of the dowager's temper that she never would see her when the latter called at Ringwood, but used to lock herself up in her own rooms till she was gone."

"When Alic's mother died, of course the dowager went back to Ringwood."

"Yes, and there she has lived ever since, and would, doubtless, have continued to live, but for this terrible accident, till Alic got married, in which case I suppose she would have had to find a home elsewhere."

"And very proper, too. From what little I have seen of her I should hardly care to live under the same roof with her."

"And yet she must be nearly eighty years old."

"And looks likely to live to be a hundred. She is certainly a very wonderful old lady."

"I used to like her very well when I went to Ringwood as a child, although, of course, I stood in great awe of her. But after that she and Aunt Percival had some words, and I have not seen her for several years. Fortunately I met poor Alic in the Park only three months ago: we had a long talk about old times. How little I thought that I should never see him again!"

There were tears in Cecilia's eyes, and Slingsby forebore to speak for a minute or two. Then he said, "Do you know, Cis, my father never told me till a week ago what a very large slice of the Loughton property was left to me by Alic's father in case Alic should die without heirs! I was perfectly astounded. I suppose the governor's reason for not speaking to me about it before was because he thought the chance of its coming to me seemed so very remote that it was not worth while troubling me about it in any way. But what an absurd proviso is that which precludes me from touching a penny of it till I am twenty-five years old! You can do as you like with your share, although you are four months younger than I, while I shall have to wait another three years for mine. It is really too ridiculous!"

"I suppose that when Uncle Charles drew up his will he had an idea that boys remain boys till they are five-and-twenty, which, indeed, quite a number of them seem to do."

"And meanwhile I have to depend on my father for my income."

"Instead of earning it for yourself, as so many other young men are obliged to do. How thankful you ought to be that you have such a father!"

"As for that, the governor says that I shall have plenty to do by and by in looking after the estates and attending to the property. I am sure that he works as hard as any laborer."

"Then why not take some of his work on to those broad shoulders of yours?"

"Bless you, he won't let me have anything to do with the management of the property. He says it will be time enough for me to think about that when he is gone."

"But you will no longer have to wait for any such mournful contingency. Three years will soon pass away, and then this Loughton property, which will be yours, will find you plenty to do."

"And will make me my own master into the bargain, and that is by no means the most unimportant feature in the case. You will, perhaps, hardly credit it, Cis, but I never knew till after Alic's death that the estates were not entailed."

"I believe the entail was cut off about eighty years ago."

"And a good thing for you and me that it was cut off! By-the-bye, how is his new lordship supposed to be able to keep up the traditional state and dignity of an Earl of Loughton?"

"I believe it is not at present known where his new lordship is to be found, or even whether he is alive or dead. If he be alive, it is quite possible that he may have means of his own. If it be proved that he is dead, I suppose we shall have to address you, sir, as my lord earl."

"Provided the missing earl has not left a son and heir behind him."

From this it will be seen that the conversation we are now recording took place before that first interview between "Mr. Fildew" and the dowager countess.

Mr. Fildew, senior, was cousin to Charles, the seventh earl, who was father of the young lord recently killed. Mr. Slingsby Boscombe was grandson to the youngest brother of the sixth earl, while Miss Collumpton was granddaughter to the only sister of the same nobleman.

"It seems rather strange, doesn't it, Cis," resumed Slingsby, "that Earl Charles should pass over his own cousin, the man who, if he lived, must come into the title in case of Alic dying without heirs, in favor of two such insignificant people as you and I?"

"The missing earl is said to have been very wild and dissipated when young, and to have got at length into such dreadful difficulties that he was compelled to go abroad. I suppose there was a great scandal about it, and very probably the earl's will was made about the time he felt so much annoyed at his cousin's outrageous conduct."

"And this disgrace to the family has never been heard of since?"

"Not to my knowledge: most probably he is dead."

"Even if he be, the difficulty will be to prove it."

Slingsby, having contemplated this difficulty in silence for a minute or two, said: "Do you know, Cis, that my father has been badgering me again about that old family scheme for making you and me man and wife?"

"And Lady Loughton has been stirring up my aunt about the same thing. They have become friends again since Alic's death."

"I wish they would mind their own business."

"So do I, with all my heart."

"Do you think we care enough for each other, Cis, to marry."

"I think it very doubtful, Slingsby, whether we do."

"When you are told from youth upward that you must marry one person and no other, you naturally begin to rebel in your secret heart."

"My own feelings exactly."

"You know, Cis, I am very fond of you, and always have been."

"And I of you, Slingsby--in a cousinly sort of way."

"Just so in a cousinly sort of way. But that's hardly how a husband and wife ought to feel towards each other, is it?"

"I've had no experience either one way or the other, but I should think not."

"Now that we so thoroughly understand each other, may I tell you a secret, Cis?"

"A hundred if you like, Slingsby. Being a woman, I am fond of secrets."

"But, being a woman, can you keep one?"

"I'll try. I daren't say more than that."

"In any case I'll trust you. I'm in love."

"Slingsby?"

"Desperately, devotedly in love. I--I've actually taken to writing verses, and if that's not a sure sign of being in love, I should like to know what is."

"Is the lady any one with whom I am acquainted?"

"No. She's a doctor's daughter. She lives down in Hampshire, and her father's dead."

"What is she like? Pretty, of course."

"Not so pretty as you, Cis."

"You have no right to say that, sir. If you love her, as you say you do, she ought to be perfection in your eyes."

"She is perfection in my eyes, but for all that she's not so pretty as you are. I don't know," added Slingsby, musingly, "that I should care to have a very pretty woman for my wife. I might grow jealous, you know, and that must be a jolly uncomfortable sort of feeling."

"Does your father know anything of this affair?"

"No--there's the rub. I dare not tell him on any account. His heart is set on my marrying you, and as I'm altogether dependent on him, and shall be for three more years, it would never do to let him into the secret. But you can help me in my difficulty, Cis?"

"In what way can I help you, Slingsby?"

"By not letting any one know that there is nothing serious between you and me. You have not refused me yet, have you, because I have never made you an offer?"

"No; you have certainly not made me an offer, and till you do that, of course I can't refuse you."

"Then, of course, I can tell my father that you have not refused me; and if I were further to hint to him that you are hardly prepared to marry just yet, that you would prefer to wait, say, a year or eighteen months longer, would that be a very wide departure from the truth?"

"It would be no departure from the truth so far as I am concerned. I certainly am not prepared to take to myself a husband for a long time to come."

"You know I can continue to look in here once or twice a week as usual; and perhaps you wouldn't mind my being seen with you in the Row, now and then, or at the opera, or the theatre?"

"Not at all. Come with me as often as you like. I have very few engagements."

"And if your Aunt Percival or Lady Loughton should hint anything to you 'about our supposed engagement, could you not give them to understand that you and I are on excellent terms with each other, and that the less they interfere in the matter the better?"

"I certainly could do all that, although the doing of it would involve a certain amount of deception on my part."

"But deception that can harm nobody. If these worthy old souls would only leave you and me to look after our own happiness, there would be no occasion for subterfuge of any kind."

"Then, under cover of all this, you intend to carry on your flirtation with the doctor's daughter?"

"It's no flirtation, Cis, but a real downright serious case of spoons. I've promised to marry her, and I shall do so in spite of everything. If I can only keep my father in the dark till I'm five-and-twenty, then all will come right, and with your help, Cis, I shall be able to do that without much difficulty."