CHAPTER VIII.

TOGETHER AT LAST.

Sundry matters had been taking place concerning Philip Cleeve which might well have been told previously.

It was on a Wednesday morning, as may be remembered, that Philip started for London, on business, as Lady Cleeve was led to suppose, connected with Mr. Tiplady's office. On Thursday evening Lady Cleeve waited up to welcome her son's return. But Philip did not come.

"He must be staying in town to spend the evening with Mr. Bootle," she said to herself. "I shall have a letter in the morning."

The morning brought neither letter nor messages from the truant, and Lady Cleeve sent her breakfast away nearly untasted. "After all," she thought, "seeing that he will return to-day, he probably hardly thought it worth while to write."

But when Friday evening passed away and still Philip came not, and when Saturday morning's post brought her no letter, then Lady Cleeve became seriously alarmed. Business might, of course, be detaining him, she knew that; but why did he not write? And Philip, as she believed, was so ultra-dutiful.

"I will send to Mr. Tiplady, and risk it, she thought. She would have sent to inquire before, only Philip had so intense a dislike to being, what he called, looked after. Once, when he had stayed away at Norwich a day or two beyond the time of coming home, she had gone herself to the office to ask about him, and Philip was annoyed about it.

"Bridget," she said, calling to the maid who had waited upon her for many years, and who was as well known in Nullington as Lady Cleeve herself, "you had better go and inquire at the office when they expect Mr. Philip home. You can say, if you like, that I am a little uneasy at not hearing from him."

Away went Bridget, in her warm Scotch plaid shawl and black coal-scuttle bonnet. Mr. Tiplady was standing at the office-door, looking up and down the street. Bridget delivered to him her lady's message.

"Lady Cleeve sent you to me to inquire about the movements of Mr. Philip," cried the architect, after listening. "I was just going to send to ask Lady Cleeve the same question."

This famous architect, renowned in more counties than one, was a kindly, unpretending man, small and slight, and chary of speech in general. He took off his hat to push back the few scanty grey hairs left on his head, as he looked at the servant.

"My lady thought, sir, that you must know what was keeping Mr. Philip so long in London."

"I know nothing about it, Bridget. I don't know why he went. His absence is causing us some inconvenience."

Bridget, who was much in her mistress's confidence, could not make this out.

"He went upon business for you, sir, did he not?"

"Not at all. Mr. Best here got a note from him on Wednesday morning, saying he had to run up to town on a little business, but should be back the following day. We have heard nothing of him since. Make my compliments to your lady, and tell her this."

Lady Cleeve became actively alarmed now. All sorts of dire forebodings filled the mother's heart. London was a place beset with dangers in many ways: she had heard, and fully believed, that hardly a day passed but somebody or other was lost in it, and that they were never heard of again.

Sending out to order a fly, she was set down at the office. Mr. Tiplady was in his private room then, and handed her to a seat.

"I would be only too glad to tell you what is detaining him, if I knew," said the little man kindly, in answer to her somewhat impassioned appeal. "We supposed he had gone up upon some matter for yourself. Lost?--lost? no, no, dear Lady Cleeve; don't imagine anything so improbable as that. Philip is quite old enough to take care of himself."

"But what can he have gone to London for? And why should he have made a mystery of it?"

"Well, to say the truth, that's what I cannot quite understand. Best said a word to me this morning--he got it from young Plympton, I fancy--that Philip had been embarking money in some speculation, and---- Do you know anything about it?"

"Nothing," said Lady Cleeve, whose face was growing more anxious with every moment.

"I'll call Best in," said the architect.

But upon going into an adjoining room he found that Mr. Best had stepped out. So he brought in Richard Plympton. This young man, who had been placed in the architect's office as an "improver," was brother to Mr. Kettle's curate, and was a great friend of Philip.

Young Plympton, after shaking hands with Lady Cleeve, told what he knew, thinking it right under present circumstances to do so: that Philip had bought some shares in a rich silver-mining company, the Hermandad, and that he had gone up to town to see if he could not sell out again.

"Oh," said Mr. Tiplady, "embarked money in that, has he? I heard that same mine spoken of yesterday--quite incidentally."

"It is a very rich mine, is it not, sir?" cried young Plympton with enthusiasm.

"Very," drily responded the architect.

"Captain Lennox got him the shares, sir. He is one of the directors, and has gone in for it himself largely."

"Sorry for him," cried Mr. Tiplady. "The mine has come to grief."

"No!" exclaimed the young man, opening his eyes widely. "You don't mean that, sir! Then"--a thought striking him--"it must be that which has been keeping Lennox so much in town lately."

"Ay, no doubt. That will do, Mr. Plympton. I wonder whether Philip has risked much upon this worthless thing?" added the architect to Lady Cleeve, as his clerk withdrew.

"It is sad news for me," she sighed, wiping her pale face. "We can soon ascertain, by inquiring at the bank how much money he has drawn out. Of course, anything is better than that he should be lost."

"Of course," smiled Mr. Tiplady. "Still I don't myself see why this matter should be keeping Philip in London. It has been known to the public some days now. Shall I make the inquiry at the bank for you, Lady Cleeve?"

"If you will take the trouble. I shall be very much obliged to you."

"I may want your authority before they'll answer me. I'm not quite sure, though; they know me for Philip's good friend."

It was arranged that he should get into the fly now with Lady Cleeve. The driver was directed to stop at the bank. Mr. Tiplady went in, and came out with a serious face.

"Will they not answer you?" cried Lady Cleeve.

"Oh yes; they made no difficulty about that."

"Well! How much has he drawn out?"

"Nearly every pound he had there."

So poor Lady Cleeve had to go home with her anxiety augmented, instead of lessened. Suppose Philip, in his dismay at the loss of all his money, should--should have done something rash!

Saturday wore itself away. The look on the mother's face was pitiful to see. She sat at the window which faced the entrance-gate, looking for one that did not appear. And when dusk had closed in she still sat on in the same spot, listening in the dark with straining eyes for the well-known footfall that was so long in coming.

Sunday morning came and with it the postman, for there was an early postal delivery on that day at Nullington. But there was no letter from Philip. Dr. Spreckley was in the act of brushing his hat preparatory to setting out for church, when in rushed Bridget. Her lady had suddenly been taken with one of her old attacks, and the Doctor must hasten to her.

Dr. Spreckley had another patient on his hands at that time--the Reverend Francis Kettle; he was laid up with gout. When Dr. Spreckley called there after church, he mentioned Lady Cleeve's illness to Maria.

"She had been getting on so well lately," he lamented. "Anxiety of mind has brought on this attack; nothing else."

"Anxiety of mind?" repeated Maria.

"Yes; all about that harum-scarum son of hers. He went to London on Wednesday last, and has never been heard of since. She is in a fine quandary, I can tell you, fancying some dreadful harm has come to him."

"But why should harm come to him?" asked Maria, her heart beating wildly.

"Why, indeed! He does harm enough to himself without its coming to him gratuitously. Been and spent all his money; made ducks and drakes of it."

"Oh!" gasped Maria. "_How?_"

"How!" returned the Doctor. "Well"--looking at Maria's tale-telling countenance--"been embarking a lot of it in some precious mining scheme, and the mine has burst up."

Maria went to Lady Cleeve's that afternoon. She found her very ill. Maria hid her own fears and forebodings, and spoke cheerfully and hopefully; although every now and then a blinding rush of tears would come into her eyes when she thought that perhaps in very truth she should never see Philip more on this side the grave. More than ever before, she seemed to realise how dear he was to her heart.

How many days of this terrible anxiety went on, neither of them cared to number. The vicar was getting better now, though still confined to a sofa in his room, and Maria spent much of her time at Homedale. One morning there arrived a telegram addressed to Lady Cleeve. The poor mother's face turned paler still, and her hands trembled so much that she could not open it. She signed to Maria to take the paper.

"No. 6, Maxwell Terrace, Wandsworth, London. "_From_ Phillip Cleeve,

"I have met with a slight accident, which will detain me in London for a few days yet. It is nothing serious, so do not be alarmed. Another message to-morrow."

"Thank heaven! my boy still lives," said Lady Cleeve. Tears of thankfulness stood in Maria's eyes: for she also had been fearing the worst. "And yet it is strange why he has not written," mused Lady Cleeve, stretching out her hand for the paper. "He says, 'Another message to-morrow!' Why send a telegram when, if he were to post a letter this evening, it would reach me in the morning? He must be worse than he wishes me to know of; he must be so ill that he cannot write. He may be dying. And I cannot go to him!"

"I will go to him, dear Lady Cleeve!" said Maria, with a lovely flush on her cheeks.

"You, my dear!"

"Yes, I. I can go: papa is almost well now."

"But, my dear child, will it do for _you_ to go? You----"

"I am his promised wife, and who has more right to be by his side, at such a time as this, than I have?" She flung herself into Lady Cleeve's arms, and the two wept together.

Maria lost no time. Before the astonished vicar could say yes or no, before he quite understood what the matter was, she was on her way to the railway-station.

A cab stopped that same evening at the door of No. 6, Maxwell Terrace. Miss Kettle alighted, knocked, and inquired for Mr. Cleeve.

Before the servant had time to reply, a white-haired, ruddy-faced gentleman came out of a side-room. "Come inside, come inside," he said, as he peered at Maria through his spectacles. "Yes, Mr. Cleeve is under this roof. He is my guest, you know; and you, I presume, are some relation of his?" he added, as he led the way into the parlour. "Perhaps his sister?"

"No, not his sister," faltered Maria, the difficulties of her position suddenly presenting themselves to her. "I am not related to him."

"Not related to him!" repeated the old gentleman, gazing at her. But, there was something so benevolent in the ruddy face, so kindly in the honest eyes, that Maria took heart and courage.

"I am his promised wife, sir," she said simply. "There was nobody but me to come."

"His promised wife, now! Bless my heart, but that's very nice, do you know! I never had a promised wife; I often wish that I had. My name's Marjoram, my dear--Josiah Marjoram, late of Bucklersbury, City; now retired, with nothing to do--nothing to do. It's hard work, though, sometimes."

"But about Philip--about Mr. Cleeve, sir?" said Maria, earnestly. "Is he very ill? I was to send a telegram to his mother if I got here in time. How was he hurt?"

"Sit down, my dear, and I will tell you all about it. It was as gallant a thing as ever I saw. I was standing at my drawing-room window one afternoon, whistling to myself, and thinking about nothing in particular, when all at once a hansom cab came dashing round the corner at a most furious rate. A little child was running across the road: it stumbled and fell: upon which a young man, who happened to be passing, and whom I had not noticed before, dashed into the road and seized the child in his arms. But he was too late; the cab was over him. The child escaped with a few bruises, but the young man was--well, let us put it, rather badly hurt. 'Take him to the hospital,' called out the people, running up. 'The only hospital he shall go to is my house,' I said to them: and into it he was carried. We found a name on some cards in his pocket-book, 'Mr. Cleeve,' but no address, so that I was unable to communicate with his friends."

"And he was too much injured to give you the address!" exclaimed Maria.

"Just so; he was not sufficiently sensible. But he is getting better now; oh, very much better," added the old gentleman, briskly. "As a proof of it, it was he who dictated the telegram to Lady Cleeve this morning. My doctor and the one from London both say that with care we shall soon have him on his legs again now."

"I should like to see him, sir, if you please," said Maria, faintly.

"So you shall, my dear: so you shall, when I have spoken to the nurse. Meanwhile, my housekeeper, Mrs. Wale, a good, motherly old soul, shall show you to your room, to take your bonnet off. We prepared it for his mother, thinking she might come."

The old housekeeper came in curtseying. She supposed Maria to be Lady Cleeve's daughter. Maria took off her travelling things, and was then ready to see Philip. Mr. Marjoram opened the chamber-door for her. She caught sight of a white face on the pillow, and two preternaturally large eyes, that stared at her as if she were a visitor from the dead. She bent her face to his.

"Oh, my dear one!" she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I have found you at last!" And Maria made up her mind that she would not leave him again. The doctors said that very much would depend on good nursing. Maria felt that no one could nurse him as she could; at least, she would help to do it. The old gentleman approved of this so much that he clapped his hands in applause; he told Maria he wished she could be converted by some good fairy into his real daughter, and never go away from his house.

On the morning after Philip's first wretched night in London, when he was somewhat restored to common sense, he resolved to return to Nullington and confess all his weakness and folly to his mother and to Mr. Tiplady. There was no help for it. But the thought struck him that he ought once more to go to the Hermandad office in the City, and to ascertain, if possible, whether the silver-mining prospect was absolutely hopeless.

The place was still shut up, and Philip could hear nothing. In coming away he met a gentleman whom he had seen at The Lilacs, an acquaintance of Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie. This gentleman had also put some money into the mine, and had come down to the City on the same errand as Philip.

"Lennox? No, I can't tell you where he is; I've not seen him here lately," he said, in answer to Philip's question. "Lennox is as hard hit as we are, I expect; worse, in fact. He may be staying with those friends he has at Wandsworth; he is there sometimes."

"Can you give me their address?

"Why, yes, I can. I spent an evening or two there with Lennox in the summer."

Philip took the address, and went to Wandsworth. He found the people, but could not hear anything of Captain Lennox; they supposed him to be at Nullington. It was after leaving their house that Philip met with the accident. It is probable that his previous night's vigil, and the troubled state his mind was in, rendered him less quick and agile than he might otherwise have been.

When Philip had gained sufficient strength, he poured into Maria Kettle's ear all the story of his folly and ruin, the latter culminating with these dreadful mines. He was yet so weak and ill that when he had done he cried like a child. Maria pressed his hand to her soft, warm cheek, and soothed and comforted him.

"I think sometimes, Maria, that if you had not cast me off as you did all this would not have happened," he continued; "and yet how weak and foolish I have been all through, no one knows better than myself."

"I will never leave you again," she murmured, with scarlet cheeks: and they sealed the promise with a kiss.

"I shall always say, Maria, your father was harder to me than he need have been."

"Yes. But the truth is, Philip, he has had more on his mind than he would speak of," she returned. "It was about----"

"About, what?" queried Philip, as she stopped.

"I am almost ashamed to mention it."

"I shall never rest now, till you have told me."

"Papa took up a notion that you were somehow concerned in those robberies which took place: his own purse, you know--and the Doctor's snuff-box--and the jewels."

Philip's large eyes grew larger as he stared at Maria.

"Not that I stole them? You can't mean that!"

"I fear that he was afraid you did. Dr. Downes was also."

Philip lay without speaking, lost in astonishment. Presently he burst into the strongest laugh his feeble state allowed.

"What a joke, Maria! They could not believe such a thing of me. I am Philip Cleeve."

The words imparted their own assurance. Though Maria had never needed to be assured.

"Did _you_ think this?"

"Oh, Philip! Don't you know me better than that?"

"My dear, yes. Forgive the question. You say you will never leave me again, Maria: I bless you for that. If we could but be married here, and now, so that no adverse fate might ever more part us! Here and now!"

Maria's vivid blush was the only answer.

"But how could we live now that our future is marred?" continued Philip. "As Tiplady's partner, I could have ensured you a good home; but the money which was to have secured that position, the twelve hundred pounds, is gone for ever."

"I have two thousand pounds that I think you have not heard of, Philip," she said in a low tone, as she hid her face. "Mrs. Page left it to me. We will pay over some of it to Mr. Tiplady, in place of that which is lost."

"Maria!"

"Yes," she answered. "I have been intending it ever since I knew you were getting better. Do not fret after the money, Philip. Captain Lennox is worse off----"

"Hang Captain Lennox!" interjected Philip. "But for him I should never have got into trouble of any kind."

"He had embarked, it is said, a great deal in this mine," added Maria. "People fancy that it is his loss in it which makes him think of giving up The Lilacs."

Romantic though old Mr. Marjoram showed himself to be, it yet may have surprised him to be told that the two young people enjoying his hospitality had determined to get married as soon as possible, while Philip still lay ill and helpless--if he, the kind old gentleman, would only help them to accomplish it.

"Oh ho!" said he. "Love's young dream, and all that, eh? Your parents have destined you for one another from childhood, you tell me."

"That's quite true," said Philip, from his pillow.

"Philip will need careful tending for some time to come, as you know, sir," spoke Maria, with soft red cheeks and downcast eyes; "and no one can tend him as a wife can. If you, sir, would be at the trouble of procuring a special license for us, and--and Philip and I thought if you would not mind our being married here quietly some morning----"

Tears twinkled on the old gentleman's eyelashes. He drew Maria to him and pressed her to his heart, and she cried a little on his shoulder as she might have done on that of her father. Mr. Marjoram wished that Heaven had given him such a child.

Thus it fell out that a few days later a quiet wedding took place in the drawing-room of No. 6, Maxwell Terrace. Philip was lifted out of bed that day for the first time since his accident, and lay on a couch while the ceremony was performed. He looked desperately white and ill, poor fellow! but the light of perfect content shone in his eyes, and the old sweet smile that used to mark the Philip Cleeve of old days came and went continually on his lips. Mr. Marjoram gave away the bride, and his sister, a charming maiden lady of fifty, came all the way from Hertford to countenance the ceremony. And the old state of things then went on again. Poor helpless Philip lay in bed, and Maria waited on him.

But he seemed to get rapidly better now. And when sufficiently well to leave the good old man's hospitable roof, he and Maria went to a quiet seaside place lying on their way to Norfolk, that Philip might inhale the refreshing sea-breezes for a few days before returning home. At present he and his wife would stay with Lady Cleeve.

She, Lady Cleeve, was thankful in her heart for all that had happened, now that it had led to all this happiness. The Vicar, making up his mind at first to be very stern and high and mighty, broke down at the first interview. For one thing, his mind was at rest as to Philip's fancied participation in the robberies. Too much proof had been found at The Lilacs by Mr. Detective Meath, to admit of suspicion against anyone but Captain Lennox.

Dr. Downes's snuff-box had turned up first. It was supposed the Captain had been afraid to get rid of it for a time. Most of the jewels lost at Heron Dyke had been found there; and--the fellow sleeve-link of malachite and gold.

"That we must have a snake-in-the-grass amongst us here, I knew," cried Dr. Downes; "but I never suspected Lennox. I was more inclined to suspect _you_, Master Philip," with a nod at Philip, who was lying on a sofa, "although you are your father's son and your good mother's. You are laughing, are you? Well, you can afford to laugh, things having turned out so: you'd have found it no laughing matter had you been the black sheep."

"I dare say not, Doctor," answered Philip.

"But it is an awful thought that he, Lennox, whose hand has been meeting ours in friendship, should have been the murderer of Hubert Stone."