My Lady\'s Money

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MY LADY'S MONEY

by Wilkie Collins




AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A YOUNG GIRL

PERSONS OF THE STORY


Women:


Lady Lydiard (Widow of Lord Lydiard)

Isabel Miller (her Adopted Daughter)

Miss Pink (of South Morden)

The Hon. Mrs. Drumblade (Sister to the Hon. A. Hardyman)


Men

The Hon. Alfred Hardyman (of the Stud Farm)

Mr. Felix Sweetsir (Lady Lydiard's Nephew)

Robert Moody (Lady Lydiard's Steward)

Mr. Troy (Lady Lydiard's Lawyer)

Old Sharon (in the Byways of Legal Bohemia)


Animal

Tommie (Lady Lydiard's Dog)




PART THE FIRST.

THE DISAPPEARANCE.



CHAPTER I.

OLD Lady Lydiard sat meditating by the fireside, with three letters
lying open on her lap.

Time had discolored the paper, and had turned the ink to a brownish hue.
The letters were all addressed to the same person--"THE RT. HON. LORD
LYDIARD"--and were all signed in the same way--"Your affectionate
cousin, James Tollmidge." Judged by these specimens of his
correspondence, Mr. Tollmidge must have possessed one great merit as a
letter-writer--the merit of brevity. He will weary nobody's patience,
if he is allowed to have a hearing. Let him, therefore, be permitted, in
his own high-flown way, to speak for himself.

_First Letter._--"My statement, as your Lordship requests, shall be
short and to the point. I was doing very well as a portrait-painter
in the country; and I had a wife and children to consider. Under
the circumstances, if I had been left to decide for myself, I should
certainly have waited until I had saved a little money before I ventured
on the serious expense of taking a house and studio at the west end of
London. Your Lordship, I positively declare, encouraged me to try the
experiment without waiting. And here I am, unknown and unemployed, a
helpless artist lost in London--with a sick wife and hungry children,
and bankruptcy staring me in the face. On whose shoulders does this
dreadful responsibility rest? On your Lordship's!"

_Second Letter._--"After a week's delay, you favor me, my Lord, with a
curt reply. I can be equally curt on my side. I indignantly deny that
I or my wife ever presumed to see your Lordship's name as a means
of recommendation to sitters without your permission. Some enemy has
slandered us. I claim as my right to know the name of that enemy."

_Third (and last) Letter._--"Another week has passed--and not a word
of answer has reached me from your Lordship. It matters little. I have
employed the interval in making inquiries, and I have at last discovered
the hostile influence which has estranged you from me. I have been, it
seems, so unfortunate as to offend Lady Lydiard (how, I cannot imagine);
and the all-powerful influence of this noble lady is now used against
the struggling artist who is united to you by the sacred ties of
kindred. Be it so. I can fight my way upwards, my Lord, as other men
have done before me. A day may yet come when the throng of carriages
waiting at the door of the fashionable portrait-painter will include her
Ladyship's vehicle, and bring me the tardy expression of her Ladyship's
regret. I refer you, my Lord Lydiard, to that day!"

Having read Mr. Tollmidge's formidable assertions relating to herself
for the second time, Lady Lydiard's meditations came to an abrupt end.
She rose, took the letters in both hands to tear them up, hesitated, and
threw them back in the cabinet drawer in which she had discovered them,
among other papers that had not been arranged since Lord Lydiard's
death.

"The idiot!" said her Ladyship, thinking of Mr. Tollmidge, "I never even
heard of him, in my husband's lifetime; I never even knew that he was
really related to Lord Lydiard, till I found his letters. What is to be
done next?"

She looked, as she put that question to herself, at an open newspaper
thrown on the table, which announced the death of "that accomplished
artist Mr. Tollmidge, related, it is said, to the late well-known
connoisseur, Lord Lydiard." In the next sentence the writer of the
obituary notice deplored the destitute condition of Mrs. Tollmidge and
her children, "thrown helpless on the mercy of the world." Lady Lydiard
stood by the table with her eyes on those lines, and saw but too plainly
the direction in which they pointed--the direction of her check-book.

Turning towards the fireplace, she rang the bell. "I can do nothing in
this matter," she thought to herself, "until I know whether the report
about Mrs. Tollmidge and her family is to be depended on. Has Moody
come back?" she asked, when the servant appeared at the door. "Moody"
(otherwise her Ladyship's steward) had not come back. Lady Lydiard
dismissed the subject of the artist's widow from further consideration
until the steward returned, and gave her mind to a question of domestic
interest which lay nearer to her heart. Her favorite dog had been ailing
for some time past, and no report of him had reached her that morning.
She opened a door near the fireplace, which led, through a little
corridor hung with rare prints, to her own boudoir. "Isabel!" she called
out, "how is Tommie?"

A fresh young voice answered from behind the curtain which closed the
further end of the corridor, "No better, my Lady."

A low growl followed the fresh young voice, and added (in dog's
language), "Much worse, my Lady--much worse!"

Lady Lydiard closed the door again, with a compassionate sigh for
Tommie, and walked slowly to and fro in her spacious drawing-room,
waiting for the steward's return.

Accurately described, Lord Lydiard's widow was short and fat, and, in
the matter of age, perilously near her sixtieth birthday. But it may be
said, without paying a compliment, that she looked younger than her age
by ten years at least. Her complexion was of that delicate pink tinge
which is sometimes seen in old women with well-preserved constitutions.
Her eyes (equally well preserved) were of that hard light blue color
which wears well, and does not wash out when tried by the test of
tears. Add to this her short nose, her plump cheeks that set wrinkles at
defiance, her white hair dressed in stiff little curls; and, if a doll
could grow old, Lady Lydiard, at sixty, would have been the living
image of that doll, taking life easily on its journey downwards to the
prettiest of tombs, in a burial-ground where the myrtles and roses grew
all the year round.

These being her Ladyship's personal merits, impartial history must
acknowledge, on the list of her defects, a total want of tact and taste
in her attire. The lapse of time since Lord Lydiard's death had left her
at liberty to dress as she pleased. She arrayed her short, clumsy figure
in colors that were far too bright for a woman of her ages. Her dresses,
badly chosen as to their hues, were perhaps not badly made, but were
certainly badly worn. Morally, as well as physically, it must be said of
Lady Lydiard that her outward side was her worst side. The anomalies
of her dress were matched by the anomalies of her character. There were
moments when she felt and spoke as became a lady of rank; and there were
other moments when she felt and spoke as might have become the cook in
the kitchen. Beneath these superficial inconsistencies, the great heart,
the essentially true and generous nature of the woman, only waited the
sufficient occasion to assert themselves. In the trivial intercourse
of society she was open to ridicule on every side of her. But when a
serious emergency tried the metal of which she was really made, the
people who were loudest in laughing at her stood aghast, and wondered
what had become of the familiar companion of their everyday lives.

Her Ladyship's promenade had lasted but a little while, when a man in
black clothing presented himself noiselessly at the great door which
opened on the staircase. Lady Lydiard signed to him impatiently to enter
the room.

"I have been expecting you for some time, Moody," she said. "You look
tired. Take a chair."

The man in black bowed respectfully, and took his seat.




CHAPTER II.

ROBERT MOODY was at this time nearly forty years of age. He was a
shy, quiet, dark person, with a pale, closely-shaven face, agreeably
animated by large black eyes, set deep in their orbits. His mouth was
perhaps his best feature; he had firm, well-shaped lips, which softened
on rare occasions into a particularly winning smile. The whole look of
the man, in spite of his habitual reserve, declared him to be eminently
trustworthy. His position in Lady Lydiard's household was in no sense
of the menial sort. He acted as her almoner and secretary as well as her
steward--distributed her charities, wrote her letters on business, paid
her bills, engaged her servants, stocked her wine-cellar, was authorized
to borrow books from her library, and was served with his meals in his
own room. His parentage gave him claims to these special favors; he was
by birth entitled to rank as a gentleman. His father had failed at a
time of commercial panic as a country banker, had paid a good dividend,
and had died in exile abroad a broken-hearted man. Robert had tried
to hold his place in the world, but adverse fortune kept him down.
Undeserved disaster followed him from one employment to another, until
he abandoned the struggle, bade a last farewell to the pride of other
days, and accepted the position considerately and delicately offered to
him in Lady Lydiard's house. He had now no near relations living, and
he had never made many friends. In the intervals of occupation he led a
lonely life in his little room. It was a matter of secret wonder among
the women in the servants' hall, considering his personal advantages and
the opportunities which must surely have been thrown in his way, that
he had never tempted fortune in the character of a married man. Robert
Moody entered into no explanations on that subject. In his own sad and
quiet way he continued to lead his own sad and quiet life. The women all
failing, from the handsome housekeeper downward, to make the smallest
impression on him, consoled themselves by prophetic visions of his
future relations with the sex, and predicted vindictively that "his time
would come."

"Well," said Lady Lydiard, "and what have you done?"

"Your Ladyship seemed to be anxious about the dog," Moody answered, in
the low tone which was habitual to him. "I went first to the veterinary
surgeon. He had been called away into the country; and--"

Lady Lydiard waved away the conclusion of the sentence with her hand.
"Never mind the surgeon. We must find somebody else. Where did you go
next?"

"To your Ladyship's lawyer. Mr. Troy wished me to say that he will have
the honor of waiting on you--"

"Pass over the lawyer, Moody. I want to know about the painter's widow.
Is it true that Mrs. Tollmidge and her family are left in helpless
poverty?"

"Not quite true, my Lady. I have seen the clergyman of the parish, who
takes an interest in the case--"

Lady Lydiard interrupted her steward for the third time. "Did you
mention my name?" she asked sharply.

"Certainly not, my Lady. I followed my instructions, and described you
as a benevolent person in search of cases of real distress. It is quite
true that Mr. Tollmidge has died, leaving nothing to his family. But the
widow has a little income of seventy pounds in her own right."

"Is that enough to live on, Moody?" her Ladyship asked.

"Enough, in this case, for the widow and her daughter," Moody answered.
"The difficulty is to pay the few debts left standing, and to start the
two sons in life. They are reported to be steady lads; and the family is
much respected in the neighborhood. The clergyman proposes to get a few
influential names to begin with, and to start a subscription."

"No subscription!" protested Lady Lydiard. "Mr. Tollmidge was Lord
Lydiard's cousin; and Mrs. Tollmidge is related to his Lordship by
marriage. It would be degrading to my husband's memory to have the
begging-box sent round for his relations, no matter how distant they may
be. Cousins!" exclaimed her Ladyship, suddenly descending from the lofty
ranges of sentiment to the low. "I hate the very name of them! A person
who is near enough to me to be my relation and far enough off from me
to be my sweetheart, is a double-faced sort of person that I don't like.
Let's get back to the widow and her sons. How much do they want?"

"A subscription of five hundred pounds, my Lady, would provide for
everything--if it could only be collected."

"It _shall_ be collected, Moody! I will pay the subscription out of my
own purse." Having asserted herself in those noble terms, she spoilt the
effect of her own outburst of generosity by dropping to the sordid view
of the subject in her next sentence. "Five hundred pounds is a good bit
of money, though; isn't it, Moody?"

"It is, indeed, my Lady." Rich and generous as he knew his mistress
to be, her proposal to pay the whole subscription took the steward by
surprise. Lady Lydiard's quick perception instantly detected what was
passing in his mind.

"You don't quite understand my position in this matter," she said. "When
I read the newspaper notice of Mr. Tollmidge's death, I searched among
his Lordship's papers to see if they really were related. I discovered
some letters from Mr. Tollmidge, which showed me that he and Lord
Lydiard were cousins. One of those letters contains some very painful
statements, reflecting most untruly and unjustly on my conduct; lies,
in short," her Ladyship burst out, losing her dignity, as usual. "Lies,
Moody, for which Mr. Tollmidge deserved to be horsewhipped. I would have
done it myself if his Lordship had told me at the time. No matter; it's
useless to dwell on the thing now," she continued, ascending again to
the forms of expression which became a lady of rank. "This unhappy man
has done me a gross injustice; my motives may be seriously misjudged, if
I appear personally in communicating with his family. If I relieve them
anonymously in their present trouble, I spare them the exposure of a
public subscription, and I do what I believe his Lordship would have
done himself if he had lived. My desk is on the other table. Bring it
here, Moody; and let me return good for evil, while I'm in the humor for
it!"

Moody obeyed in silence. Lady Lydiard wrote a check.

"Take that to the banker's, and bring back a five-hundred pound note,"
she said. "I'll inclose it to the clergyman as coming from 'an unknown
friend.' And be quick about it. I am only a fallible mortal, Moody.
Don't leave me time enough to take the stingy view of five hundred
pounds."

Moody went out with the check. No delay was to be apprehended in
obtaining the money; the banking-house was hard by, in St. James's
Street. Left alone, Lady Lydiard decided on occupying her mind in the
generous direction by composing her anonymous letter to the clergyman.
She had just taken a sheet of note-paper from her desk, when a servant
appeared at the door announcing a visitor--

"Mr. Felix Sweetsir!"




CHAPTER III.

"MY nephew!" Lady Lydiard exclaimed in a tone which expressed
astonishment, but certainly not pleasure as well. "How many years is it
since you and I last met?" she asked, in her abruptly straightforward
way, as Mr. Felix Sweetsir approached her writing-table.

The visitor was not a person easily discouraged. He took Lady Lydiard's
hand, and kissed it with easy grace. A shade of irony was in his manner,
agreeably relieved by a playful flash of tenderness.

"Years, my dear aunt?" he said. "Look in your glass and you will see
that time has stood still since we met last. How wonderfully well you
wear! When shall we celebrate the appearance of your first wrinkle? I am
too old; I shall never live to see it."

He took an easychair, uninvited; placed himself close at his aunt's
side, and ran his eye over her ill-chosen dress with an air of satirical
admiration. "How perfectly successful!" he said, with his well-bred
insolence. "What a chaste gayety of color!"

"What do you want?" asked her Ladyship, not in the least softened by the
compliment.

"I want to pay my respects to my dear aunt," Felix answered, perfectly
impenetrable to his ungracious reception, and perfectly comfortable in a
spacious arm-chair.

No pen-and-ink portrait need surely be drawn of Felix Sweetsir--he is
too well-known a picture in society. The little lith e man, with his
bright, restless eyes, and his long iron-gray hair falling in curls to
his shoulders, his airy step and his cordial manner; his uncertain age,
his innumerable accomplishments, and his unbounded popularity--is he not
familiar everywhere, and welcome everywhere? How gratefully he receives,
how prodigally he repays, the cordial appreciation of an admiring
world! Every man he knows is "a charming fellow." Every woman he sees
is "sweetly pretty." What picnics he gives on the banks of the Thames in
the summer season! What a well-earned little income he derives from the
whist-table! What an inestimable actor he is at private theatricals
of all sorts (weddings included)! Did you never read Sweetsir's novel,
dashed off in the intervals of curative perspiration at a German bath?
Then you don't know what brilliant fiction really is. He has never
written a second work; he does everything, and only does it once. One
song--the despair of professional composers. One picture--just to show
how easily a gentleman can take up an art and drop it again. A
really multiform man, with all the graces and all the accomplishments
scintillating perpetually at his fingers' ends. If these poor pages
have achieved nothing else, they have done a service to persons not
in society by presenting them to Sweetsir. In his gracious company
the narrative brightens; and writer and reader (catching reflected
brilliancy) understand each other at last, thanks to Sweetsir.

"Well," said Lady Lydiard, "now you are here, what have you got to say
for yourself? You have been abroad, of course! Where?"

"Principally at Paris, my dear aunt. The only place that is fit to live
in--for this excellent reason, that the French are the only people who
know how to make the most of life. One has relations and friends in
England and every now and then one returns to London--"

"When one has spent all one's money in Paris," her Ladyship interposed.
"That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"

Felix submitted to the interruption with his delightful good-humor.

"What a bright creature you are!" he exclaimed. "What would I not give
for your flow of spirits! Yes--one does spend money in Paris, as you
say. The clubs, the stock exchange, the race-course: you try your luck
here, there, and everywhere; and you lose and win, win and lose--and you
haven't a dull day to complain of." He paused, his smile died away, he
looked inquiringly at Lady Lydiard. "What a wonderful existence
yours must be," he resumed. "The everlasting question with your needy
fellow-creatures, 'Where am I to get money?' is a question that has
never passed your lips. Enviable woman!" He paused once more--surprised
and puzzled this time. "What is the matter, my dear aunt? You seem to be
suffering under some uneasiness."

"I am suffering under your conversation," her Ladyship answered sharply.
"Money is a sore subject with me just now," she went on, with her eyes
on her nephew, watching the effect of what she said. "I have spent five
hundred pounds this morning with a scrape of my pen. And, only a
week since, I yielded to temptation and made an addition to my
picture-gallery." She looked, as she said those words, towards an
archway at the further end of the room, closed by curtains of purple
velvet. "I really tremble when I think of what that one picture cost me
before I could call it mine. A landscape by Hobbema; and the National
Gallery bidding against me. Never mind!" she concluded, consoling
herself, as usual, with considerations that were beneath her. "Hobbema
will sell at my death for a bigger price than I gave for him--that's one
comfort!" She looked again at Felix; a smile of mischievous
satisfaction began to show itself in her face. "Anything wrong with your
watch-chain?" she asked.

Felix, absently playing with his watch-chain, started as if his aunt
had suddenly awakened him. While Lady Lydiard had been speaking, his
vivacity had subsided little by little, and had left him looking so
serious and so old that his most intimate friend would hardly have known
him again. Roused by the sudden question that had been put to him, he
seemed to be casting about in his mind in search of the first excuse for
his silence that might turn up.

"I was wondering," he began, "why I miss something when I look round
this beautiful room; something familiar, you know, that I fully expected
to find here."

"Tommie?" suggested Lady Lydiard, still watching her nephew as
maliciously as ever.

"That's it!" cried Felix, seizing his excuse, and rallying his spirits.
"Why don't I hear Tommie snarling behind me; why don't I feel Tommie's
teeth in my trousers?"

The smile vanished from Lady Lydiard's face; the tone taken by her
nephew in speaking of her dog was disrespectful in the extreme.
She showed him plainly that she disapproved of it. Felix went on,
nevertheless, impenetrable to reproof of the silent sort. "Dear little
Tommie! So delightfully fat; and such an infernal temper! I don't know
whether I hate him or love him. Where is he?"

"Ill in bed," answered her ladyship, with a gravity which startled even
Felix himself. "I wish to speak to you about Tommie. You know everybody.
Do you know of a good dog-doctor? The person I have employed so far
doesn't at all satisfy me."

"Professional person?" inquired Felix.

"Yes."

"All humbugs, my dear aunt. The worse the dog gets the bigger the bill
grows, don't you see? I have got the man for you--a gentleman. Knows
more about horses and dogs than all the veterinary surgeons put
together. We met in the boat yesterday crossing the Channel. You
know him by name, of course? Lord Rotherfield's youngest son, Alfred
Hardyman."

"The owner of the stud farm? The man who has bred the famous
racehorses?" cried Lady Lydiard. "My dear Felix, how can I presume to
trouble such a great personage about my dog?"

Felix burst into his genial laugh. "Never was modesty more woefully
out of place," he rejoined. "Hardyman is dying to be presented to your
Ladyship. He has heard, like everybody, of the magnificent decorations
of this house, and he is longing to see them. His chambers are close by,
in Pall Mall. If he is at home we will have him here in five minutes.
Perhaps I had better see the dog first?"

Lady Lydiard shook her head. "Isabel says he had better not be
disturbed," she answered. "Isabel understands him better than anybody."

Felix lifted his lively eyebrows with a mixed expression of curiosity
and surprise. "Who is Isabel?"

Lady Lydiard was vexed with herself for carelessly mentioning Isabel's
name in her nephew's presence. Felix was not the sort of person whom she
was desirous of admitting to her confidence in domestic matters. "Isabel
is an addition to my household since you were here last," she answered
shortly.

"Young and pretty?" inquired Felix. "Ah! you look serious, and you
don't answer me. Young and pretty, evidently. Which may I see first, the
addition to your household or the addition to your picture-gallery? You
look at the picture-gallery--I am answered again." He rose to approach
the archway, and stopped at his first step forward. "A sweet girl is a
dreadful responsibility, aunt," he resumed, with an ironical assumption
of gravity. "Do you know, I shouldn't be surprised if Isabel, in the
long run, cost you more than Hobbema. Who is this at the door?"

The person at the door was Robert Moody, returned from the bank. Mr.
Felix Sweetsir, being near-sighted, was obliged to fit his eye-glass in
position before he could recognize the prime minister of Lady Lydiard's
household.

"Ha! our worthy Moody. How well he wears! Not a gray hair on his
head--and look at mine! What dye do you use, Moody? If he had my open
disposition he would tell. As it is, he looks unutterable things, and
holds his tongue. Ah! if I could only have held _my_ tongue--when I
was in the diplomatic service, you know--what a position I might have
occupied by this time! Don't let me interrupt you, Moody, if you have
anything to say to Lady Lydiard."

Having acknowledged Mr. Sweetsir's lively greeting by a formal bow,
and a grave look of wonder which respectfully repelled that vivacious
gentleman's flow of humor, Moody turned towards his mistress.

"Have you got the bank-note?" asked her Ladyship.

Moody laid the bank-note on the table.

"Am I in the way?" inquired Felix.

"No," said his aunt. "I have a letter to write; it won't occupy me
for more than a few minutes. You can stay here, or go and look at the
Hobbema, which you please."

Felix made a second sauntering attempt to reach the picture-gallery.
Arrived within a few steps of the entrance, he stopped again, attracted
by an open cabinet of Italian workmanship, filled with rare old china.
Being nothing if not a cultivated amateur, Mr. Sweetsir paused to pay
his passing tribute of admiration before the contents of the cabinet.
"Charming! charming!" he said to himself, with his head twisted
appreciatively a little on one side. Lady Lydiard and Moody left him in
undisturbed enjoyment of the china, and went on with the business of the
bank-note.