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And the name of it was--Anne.

  As things actually were at that moment, what course was he to

  take with the unhappy woman who was waiting to hear from him at

  the Scotch inn?

  To write? or not to write? That was the question with Geoffrey.

  The preliminary difficulty, relating to addressing a letter to

  Anne at the inn, had been already provided for. She had

  decided--if it proved necessary to give her name, before Geoffrey

  joined her--to call herself Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. A

  letter addressed to "Mrs. Silvester" might be trusted to find its

  way to her without causing any embarrassment. The doubt was not

  here. The doubt lay, as usual, between two alternatives. Which

  course would it be wisest to take?--to inform Anne, by that day's

  post, that an interval of forty-eight hours must elapse before

  his father's recovery could be considered certain? Or to wait

  till the interval was over, and be guided by the result?

  Considering the alternatives in the cab, he decided that the wise

  course was to temporize with Anne, by reporting matters as they

  then stood.

  Arrived at the hotel, he sat down to write the

  letter--doubted--and tore it up--doubted again--and began

  again--doubted once more--and tore up the second letter--rose to

  his feet--and owned to himself (in unprintable language) that he

  couldn't for the life of him decide which was safest--to write or

  to wait.

  In this difficulty, his healthy physical instincts sent him to

  healthy physical remedies for relief. "My mind's in a muddle,"

  said Geoffrey. "I'll try a bath."

  It was an elaborate bath, proceeding through many rooms, and

  combining many postures and applications. He steamed. He plunged.

  He simmered. He stood under a pipe, and received a cataract of

  cold water on his head. He was laid on his back; he was laid on

  his stomach; he was respectfully pounded and kneaded, from head

  to foot, by the knuckles of accomplished practitioners. He came

  out of it all, sleek, clear rosy, beautiful. He returned to the

  hotel, and took up the writing materials--and behold the

  intolerable indecision seized him again, declining to be washed

  out! This time he laid it all to Anne. "That infernal woman will

  be the ruin of me," said Geoffrey, taking up his hat. "I must try

  the dumb-bells."

  The pursuit of the new remedy for stimulating a sluggish brain

  took him to a public house, kept by the professional pedestrian

  who had the honor of training him when he contended at Athletic

  Sports.

  "A private room and the dumb-bells!" cried Geoffrey. "The

  heaviest you have got."

  He stripped himself of his upper clothing, and set to work, with

  the heavy weights in each hand, waving them up and down, and

  backward and forward, in every attainable variety o f movement,

  till his magnificent muscles seemed on the point of starting

  through his sleek skin. Little by little his animal spirits

  roused themselves. The strong exertion intoxicated the strong

  man. In sheer excitement he swore cheerfully--invoking thunder

  and lightning, explosion and blood, in return for the compliments

  profusely paid to him by the pedestrian and the pedestrian's son.

  "Pen, ink, and paper!" he roared, when he could use the

  dumb-bells no longer. "My mind's made up; I'll write, and have

  done with it!" He sat down to his writing on the spot; actually

  finished the letter; another minute would have dispatched it to

  the post--and, in that minute, the maddening indecision took

  possession of him once more. He opened the letter again, read it

  over again, and tore it up again. "I'm out of my mind!" cried

  Geoffrey, fixing his big bewildered blue eyes fiercely on the

  professor who trained him. "Thunder and lightning! Explosion and

  blood! Send for Crouch."

  Crouch (known and respected wherever English manhood is known and

  respected) was a retired prize-fighter. He appeared with the

  third and last remedy for clearing the mind known to the

  Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn--namely, two pair of boxing-gloves in

  a carpet-bag.

  The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and faced

  each other in the classically correct posture of pugilistic

  defense. "None of your play, mind!" growled Geoffrey. "Fight, you

  beggar, as if you were in the Ring again with orders to win." No

  man knew better than the great and terrible Crouch what real

  fighting meant, and what heavy blows might be given even with

  such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed and padded gloves. He

  pretended, and only pretended, to comply with his patron's

  request. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance by

  knocking him down. The great and terrible rose with unruffled

  composure. "Well hit, Sir!" he said. "Try it with the other hand

  now." Geoffrey's temper was not under similar control. Invoking

  everlasting destruction on the frequently-blackened eyes of

  Crouch, he threatened instant withdrawal of his patronage and

  support unless the polite pugilist hit, then and there, as hard

  as he could. The hero of a hundred fights quailed at the dreadful

  prospect. "I've got a family to support," remarked Crouch. "If

  you _will_ have it, Sir--there it is!" The fall of Geoffrey

  followed, and shook the house. He was on his legs again in an

  instant--not satisfied even yet. "None of your body-hitting!" he

  roared. "Stick to my head. Thunder and lightning! explosion and

  blood! Knock it out of me! Stick to the head!" Obedient Crouch

  stuck to the head. The two gave and took blows which would have

  stunned--possibly have killed--any civilized member of the

  community. Now on one side of his patron's iron skull, and now on

  the other, the hammering of the prize-fighter's gloves fell,

  thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until even Geoffrey himself

  had had enough of it. "Thank you, Crouch," he said, speaking

  civilly to the man for the first time. "That will do. I feel nice

  and clear again." He shook his head two or three times, he was

  rubbed down like a horse by the professional runner; he drank a

  mighty draught of malt liquor; he recovered his good-humor as if

  by magic. "Want the pen and ink, Sir?" inquired his pedestrian

  host. "Not I!" answered Geoffrey. "The muddle's out of me now.

  Pen and ink be hanged! I shall look up some of our fellows, and

  go to the play." He left the public house in the happiest

  condition of mental calm. Inspired by the stimulant application

  of Crouch's gloves, his torpid cunning had been shaken up into

  excellent working order at last. Write to Anne? Who but a fool

  would write to such a woman as that until he was forced to it?

  Wait and see what the chances of the next eight-and-forty hours

  might bring forth, and then write to her, or desert her, as the

  event might decide. It lay in a nut-shell, if you could only see

  it. Thanks to Crouch, he did see it--and so away in a pleasant

  temper for a dinner with "our fellows" and an evening at the

  play!

  C
HAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

  GEOFFREY IN THE MARRIAGE MARKET.

  THE interval of eight-and-forty hours passed--without the

  occurrence of any personal communication between the two brothers

  in that time.

  Julius, remaining at his father's house, sent brief written

  bulletins of Lord Holchester's health to his brother at the

  hotel. The first bulletin said, "Going on well. Doctors

  satisfied." The second was firmer in tone. "Going on excellently.

  Doctors very sanguine." The third was the most explicit of all.

  "I am to see my father in an hour from this. The doctors answer

  for his recovery. Depend on my putting in a good word for you, if

  I can; and wait to hear from me further at the hotel."

  Geoffrey's face darkened as he read the third bulletin. He called

  once more for the hated writing materials. There could be no

  doubt now as to the necessity of communicating with Anne. Lord

  Holchester's recovery had put him back again in the same critical

  position which he had occupied at Windygates. To keep Anne from

  committing some final act of despair, which would connect him

  with a public scandal, and ruin him so far as his expectations

  from his father were concerned, was, once more, the only safe

  policy that Geoffrey could pursue. His letter began and ended in

  twenty words:

  "DEAR ANNE,--Have only just heard that my father is turning the

  corner. Stay where you are. Will write again."

  Having dispatched this Spartan composition by the post, Geoffrey

  lit his pipe, and waited the event of the interview between Lord

  Holchester and his eldest son.

  Julius found his father alarmingly altered in personal

  appearance, but in full possession of his faculties nevertheless.

  Unable to return the pressure of his son's hand--unable even to

  turn in the bed without help--the hard eye of the old lawyer was

  as keen, the hard mind of the old lawyer was as clear, as ever.

  His grand ambition was to see Julius in Parliament. Julius was

  offering himself for election in Perthshire, by his father's

  express desire, at that moment. Lord Holchester entered eagerly

  into politics before his eldest son had been two minutes by his

  bedside.

  "Much obliged, Julius, for your congratulations. Men of my sort

  are not easily killed. (Look at Brougham and Lyndhurst!) You

  won't be called to the Upper House yet. You will begin in the

  House of Commons--precisely as I wished. What are your prospects

  with the constituency? Tell me exactly how you stand, and where I

  can be of use to you."

  "Surely, Sir, you are hardly recovered enough to enter on matters

  of business yet?"

  "I am quite recovered enough. I want some present interest to

  occupy me. My thoughts are beginning to drift back to past times,

  and to things which are better forgotten." A sudden contraction

  crossed his livid face. He looked hard at his son, and entered

  abruptly on a new question. "Julius!" he resumed, "have you ever

  heard of a young woman named Anne Silvester?"

  Julius answered in the negative. He and his wife had exchanged

  cards with Lady Lundie, and had excused themselves from accepting

  her invitation to the lawn-party. With the exception of Blanche,

  they were both quite ignorant of the persons who composed the

  family circle at Windygates.

  "Make a memorandum of the name," Lord Holchester went on. "Anne

  Silvester. Her father and mother are dead. I knew her father in

  former times. Her mother was ill-used. It was a bad business. I

  have been thinking of it again, for the first time for many

  years. If the girl is alive and about the world she may remember

  our family name. Help her, Julius, if she ever wants help, and

  applies to you." The painful contraction passed across his face

  once more. Were his thoughts taking him back to the memorable

  summer evening at the Hampstead villa? Did he see the deserted

  woman swooning at his feet again? "About your election?" he

  asked, impatiently. "My mind is not used to be idle. Give it

  something to do."

  Julius stated his position as plainly and as briefly as he could.

  The father found nothing to object to in the report--except the

  son's absence from the field of action. He blamed Lady H

  olchester for summoning Julius to London. He was annoyed at his

  son's being there, at the bedside, when he ought to have been

  addressing the electors. "It's inconvenient, Julius," he said,

  petulantly. "Don't you see it yourself?"

  Having previously arranged with his mother to take the first

  opportunity that offered of risking a reference to Geoffrey,

  Julius decided to "see it" in a light for which his father was

  not prepared. The opportunity was before him. He took it on the

  spot.

  "It is no inconvenience to me, Sir," he replied, "and it is no

  inconvenience to my brother either. Geoffrey was anxious about

  you too. Geoffrey has come to London with me."

  Lord Holchester looked at his eldest son with a grimly-satirical

  expression of surprise.

  "Have I not already told you," he rejoined, "that my mind is not

  affected by my illness? Geoffrey anxious about me! Anxiety is one

  of the civilized emotions. Man in his savage state is incapable

  of feeling it."

  "My brother is not a savage, Sir."

  "His stomach is generally full, and his skin is covered with

  linen and cloth, instead of red ochre and oil. So far, certainly,

  your brother is civilized. In all other respects your brother is

  a savage."

  "I know what you mean, Sir. But there is something to be said for

  Geoffrey's way of life. He cultivates his courage and his

  strength. Courage and strength are fine qualities, surely, in

  their way?"

  "Excellent qualities, as far as they go. If you want to know how

  far that is, challenge Geoffrey to write a sentence of decent

  English, and see if his courage doesn't fail him there. Give him

  his books to read for his degree, and, strong as he is, he will

  be taken ill at the sight of them. You wish me to see your

  brother. Nothing will induce me to see him, until his way of life

  (as you call it) is altered altogether. I have but one hope of

  its ever being altered now. It is barely possible that the

  influence of a sensible woman--possessed of such advantages of

  birth and fortune as may compel respect, even from a

  savage--might produce its effect on Geoffrey. If he wishes to

  find his way back into this house, let him find his way back into

  good society first, and bring me a daughter-in-law to plead his

  cause for him--whom his mother and I can respect and receive.

  When that happens, I shall begin to have some belief in Geoffrey.

  Until it does happen, don't introduce your brother into any

  future conversations which you may have with Me. To return to

  your election. I have some advice to give you before you go back.

  You will do well to go back to-night. Lift me up on the pillow. I

  shall speak more easily with my head high."

  His son lifted him o
n the pillows, and once more entreated him to

  spare himself.

  It was useless. No remonstrances shook the iron resolution of the

  man who had hewed his way through the rank and file of political

  humanity to his own high place apart from the rest. Helpless,

  ghastly, snatched out of the very jaws of death, there he lay,

  steadily distilling the clear common-sense which had won him all

  his worldly rewards into the mind of his son. Not a hint was

  missed, not a caution was forgotten, that could guide Julius

  safely through the miry political ways which he had trodden so

  safely and so dextrously himself. An hour more had passed before

  the impenetrable old man closed his weary eyes, and consented to

  take his nourishment and compose himself to rest. His last words,

  rendered barely articulate by exhaustion, still sang the praises

  of party manoeuvres and political strife. "It's a grand career! I

  miss the House of Commons, Julius, as I miss nothing else!"

  Left free to pursue his own thoughts, and to guide his own

  movements, Julius went straight from Lord Holchester's bedside to

  Lady Holchester's boudoir.

  "Has your father said any thing about Geoffrey?" was his mother's

  first question as soon as he entered the room.

  "My father gives Geoffrey a last chance, if Geoffrey will only

  take it."

  Lady Holchester's face clouded. "I know," she said, with a look

  of disappointment. "His last chance is to read for his degree.

  Hopeless, my dear. Quite hopeless! If it had only been something

  easier than that; something that rested with me--"

  "It does rest with you," interposed Julius. "My dear mother!--can

  you believe it?--Geoffrey's last chance is (in one word)

  Marriage!"

  "Oh, Julius! it's too good to be true!"

  Julius repeated his father's own words. Lady Holchester looked

  twenty years younger as she listened. When he had done she rang

  the bell.

  "No matter who calls," she said to the servant, "I am not at

  home." She turned to Julius, kissed him, and made a place for him

  on the sofa by her side. "Geoffrey shall take _that_ chance," she

  said, gayly--"I will answer for it! I have three women in my

  mind, any one of whom would suit him. Sit down, my dear, and let

  us consider carefully which of the three will be most likely to

  attract Geoffrey, and to come up to your father's standard of

  what his daughter-in-law ought to be. When we have decided, don't

  trust to writing. Go yourself and see Geoffrey at his hotel."

  Mother and son entered on their consultation--and innocently

  sowed the seeds of a terrible harvest to come.

  CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

  GEOFFREY AS A PUBLIC CHARACTER.

  TIME had advanced to after noon before the selection of

  Geoffrey's future wife was accomplished, and before the

  instructions of Geoffrey's brother were complete enough to

  justify the opening of the matrimonial negotiation at Nagle's

  Hotel.

  "Don't leave him till you have got his promise," were Lady

  Holchester's last words when her son started on his mission.

  "If Geoffrey doesn't jump at what I am going to offer him," was

  the son's reply, "I shall agree with my father that the case is

  hopeless; and I shall end, like my father, in giving Geoffrey

  up."

  This was strong language for Julius to use. It was not easy to

  rouse the disciplined and equable temperament of Lord

  Holchester's eldest son. No two men were ever more thoroughly

  unlike each other than these two brothers. It is melancholy to

  acknowledge it of the blood relation of a "stroke oar," but it

  must be owned, in the interests of truth, that Julius cultivated

  his intelligence. This degenerate Briton could digest books--and

  couldn't digest beer. Could learn languages--and couldn't learn

  to row. Practiced the foreign vice of perfecting himself in the

  art of playing on a musical instrument and couldn't learn the

  English virtue of knowing a good horse when he saw him. Got

  through life. (Heaven only knows how!) without either a biceps or