by Grant Allen
To most of us, the journey from Liverpool to Euston lies only through a high flat country, past a number of dull, ordinary, uninteresting railway stations. It is, in fact, about as unpicturesque a bit of travelling as a man can do within the four girdling sea-walls of this beautiful isle of Britain. But to Hiram Winthrop it was the most absolutely fairylike and romantic journey he had ever undertaken in the whole course of his mundane existence. First they passed through Lancashire, and then through Cheshire, and then on over the impalpable boundary line into Staffordshire. Why, those tall towers over yonder were Lichfield Cathedral; and that little town on the left was Sam Johnson’s countrified Lichfield! Here comes George Eliot’s Nuneaton, and after it Tom Brown’s and Arnold’s Bugby. At Bletchley, you read on the notice-board: ’Change here for Oxford’; great heavens, just as if Oxford, the Oxford, were nothing more than Orange or Chattawauga! And here is Tring, where Robert Stephenson made his great cutting; and there is Harrow-on-the-Hill, where Paul Howard, the marauding buccaneer of the Caribbean Sea, received the first rudiments of faith and religion. Not a village along the line but had its resonant echo in the young man’s memory; not a manor house, steeple, or farmyard but had its glamour of romance for the young man’s fancy. The very men and women seemed to take the familiar shapes of well-known characters. Colonel Newcome, tall and bronzed by Indian suns, paced the platform alone at Crewe; Dick Swiveller, penniless and jaunty as ever, lounged about the refreshment-room at Blisworth Junction; even Trulliber himself, a little modernised in outer garb, but essentially the same in face and feature, dived red-cheeked after his luggage into the crowded van at Willesden. And so, by rapid stages, through a world of unspeakable delight, the engine rolled them swiftly into the midst of seething, grimy, opulent, squalid, hungry, all-embracing London.
‘I do hope,’ Hiram said to Sam, as they drove together through the strange labyrinth of narrow, dirty streets, to the big modern hotel of Audouin’s choosing— ‘I do hope we shall be in time to catch your brother before he goes to Rome. Europe does look just too delicious; but you’ll admit it’s pretty bustling and hurrying in some places. I don’t know that I’d care so much to go alone as if I had him with me.’
‘Oh, he’s sure to be here,’ Sam answered confidently. ‘Since I wired him from New York, I’ve made my mind easy about that. He’d wait to see me before starting; that’s certain.’
‘And if he isn’t, Hiram,’ Audouin put in, ‘I’ll go on with you. It’s rather an undertaking to go touring alone in Europe, when you’re fresh to it. We’re wild men of the woods, you and I, more at home among the woodchucks and sheldrakes, I conceive, than among the hotels, and streets, and railway stations. You were born in the wilderness: I have fled to it: we’re both of us out of our element in the stir and bustle here; so to fortify one another, we’ll face it together.’
The fact is, their joint journey had been altogether a very hasty and unpremeditated affair. Audouin had long been urging Hiram to go to Europe, and study art in real earnest; and Hiram had been putting it off and putting it off on various pretences, but really because he didn’t want to go until he was able to pay his way honestly out of his own resources. At last, however, Sam Churchill had received a letter from his brother Colin, full of Colin’s completed project of going to Rome. This was a chance for Hiram, both Sam and Audouin argued, which he oughtn’t lightly to throw away. Colin had been working with an Italian marble-cutter in London; he would be going to Rome with the intention of studying the highest art at the lowest possible prices; and he would probably be glad enough to meet with another young man to share expenses and to keep him company in the unknown city. So between the two, almost before he knew what he was doing, Hiram had been bustled off down to New York, put on board a White Star liner, and conveyed triumphantly over to Europe, between a double guard of Sam and Audouin. Sam had long been contemplating a visit to the old country, to see his father and mother before they died; and now the occasion thus afforded by Colin’s resolution seemed propitious for taking his voyage in good company; while as to Audouin, he was so fully in earnest about redeeming Hiram from the advertising style of art, and sending him to Rome to study painting in real earnest, that he undertook to convey him in person, lest any infirmity of purpose should chance to overcome him by the way. He had at last persuaded Hiram to accept a small loan for the necessary expenses of his first year at Rome: and he had also managed to make his young friend believe that at the end of that time his art would begin to bring him in enough to live upon. For which pious fraud, Audouin earnestly trusted the powers that be would deal leniently with him, judging him only by the measure of his good intentions. For if at the end of the first year, Hiram’s exchequer still showed a chronic deficit, it would be easy enough, he thought, to float another loan upon himself by way of lightening the temporary tightness of the money market.
It was late that night when they reached the hotel, so they contented themselves with dinner in the coffee-room (mark that word — a coffee-room — exactly where they used to dine in David Copperfield!) without making any attempt to see Colin the same evening. But early the next day the three sallied forth together into the streets of London, and made their way, by lanes and cross-cuts, whose very names seemed historical to Hiram, up to Cicolari’s studio in the Marylebone Road. The little Italian bowed them in with great unction — three American customers by the look of them, good perhaps for a replica of the celebrated Cicolari Ariadne — and inquired politely what might be their business.
‘My name is Churchill,’ Sam said abruptly. ‘My brother has been working with you here. Is he still in London?’
Cicolari went quickly through a short pantomime expressive of deep regret that Sam should have come to make inquiries a week too late, mingled with effusive pleasure at securing the acquaintance of Colin’s most excellent and highly respected brother. ‘If you had come a week ago,’ he added, supplementarily, in spoken language, ‘you would have been in time to see my very dear friend, your brozzer. But you are not in time; your brozzer is gone away. He is gone to Rome, to Rome’ (with a spacious wave of the hand) ‘to become ze greatest of living sculptors. He is a genius, and all geniuses must go to Rome. Zat is ze proper home for zem.’ And Cicolari, drawing his finger rapidly round in an ever-diminishing circle, planted it at last on a spot in the very centre, supposed to symbolise the metropolis of art.
‘Gone to Rome!’ Sam cried disappointed. ‘But why did he go so soon? Didn’t he get my telegram?’
‘He has had no telegram from you or he would tell me of it,’ answered the Italian, with a pantomimic expression of the closest intimacy between himself and Colin. ‘He went away a week ago.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone to in Rome?’ asked Audouin.
‘I do not know where he is gone to, but he has gone as valet to Sir Somebody — Sir Henry Wilberforce I sink zey call him’ — Cicolari answered with open hands spread before him.
Sam Churchill’s democratic instincts rose at once in horror and astonishment. ‘As what!’ he cried. ‘As valet?’
Cicolari only replied by going through the operation of brushing an imaginary coat with an aerial clothes-brush and folding it neatly on a non-existent chair by the side of the inconsolable marble widow.
After twelve years of America, Sam Churchill was certainly a little, shocked and annoyed at the idea of his own brother Colin — the future great sculptor and artist — having gone to Rome as another man’s body-servant. It hurt not only his acquired republican feelings, but what lies far deeper than those, his amour propre. And he was vexed, too, that Cicolari should have blurted out the plain truth so carelessly before Hiram and Audouin. His cheeks burned hot with his discomfiture; but he only turned and said to them as coolly as he was able: ‘Our bird has flown, it seems. We must fly after him.’
‘How soon?’ asked Audouin quickly.
‘This very day,’ Sam answered with decision.
‘And you, Hiram?’ Audouin said.
&nb
sp; ‘I am as clay in the hands of the potter,’ Hiram replied, smiling. ‘For my own part, I should have liked to stop a week or two in London, and see some of the places one has heard and read so much about. But you’ve brought me over by main force between you, Mr. Audouin, and I suppose I must let you both do as you will with me. If Sam wants to follow his brother immediately, I’m ready to go with you and leave London for some future visit.’
Sam got what further particulars he could from Cicolari, hailed a passing cab impetuously, and drove straight back to the hotel. In an hour they had packed their valises again after their one night in England, and were off to Charing Cross, to catch the tidal train for Paris, on their way to Italy. Hiram watched the cliffs of Folkestone fading behind him with a somewhat heavy heart; for artist as he was, he somehow felt in the corners of his being as though England were the real unknown lady of his love, and Rome, which he had never seen, likely to prove but a cold and irresponsive sort of mistress. Still, in Audouin’s care, he was just what he himself had said, clay in the hands of the potter; for Hiram Winthrop was one of those natures that no man can drive, but that any man can lead with the slightest display of genuine sympathy.
Yet he had one other cause of regret at leaving England: for Chester is in England, and Gwen was presumably at Chester. Gwen — Chester, Gwen — Chester, Gwen — Chester: absurd, romantic, utterly ridiculous; yet all the way from Folkestone to Boulogne, as the vessel lurched from side to side, it made a sort of long-drawn see-saw melody in Hiram Winthrop’s brain to the reiterated names of Gwen and Chester.
CHAPTER XIX. UNWARRANTABLE INTRUSION.
Sir Henry Wilberforce sat sipping his morning coffee in his most leisurely fashion by the table in his own private salon at the Hôtel de l’Allemagne in Rome. ‘Capital man, this fellow Churchill,’ he said to himself approvingly, as he saw Colin close the door noiselessly behind him! ‘By far the best person for the place I’ve ever had since that fool Simpson went off so suddenly and got married, confound him. He’s so quiet and unobtrusive in all his movements, and he talks so well, and has such a respectable accent and manner. Now Dobbs’s accent was quite enough to drive a man wild. I always wanted to throw a boot at him — indeed I’ve done it more than once — he was so utterly unendurable. This fellow, on the other hand, talks really just like a gentleman; in fact, the only thing I’ve got to say against him, so far (there’s always something or other turning up in the long run), the only thing I’ve got to say against him yet, is that he’s positively a deuced sight too gentlemanly and nice-looking and well-mannered altogether. A servant oughtn’t to be too well-mannered. Why, that old Mrs. Cregoe, with the obvious wig and the powdered face, who sits at the table d’hote nearly opposite me, actually went up and spoke to him in the passage yesterday, taking him for one of the visitors! Awkward, exceedingly awkward, when people mistake your man for your nephew, as she did! But otherwise, the fellow’s really a capital servant. He — well, what the dickens do you want now, I wonder?’
‘A signorina below wishes to speak with you, excellency,’ the Italian servant put in, bowing.
‘A signorina! What the deuce! Did she give her card, Agostino?’
‘The signorina said you would not know her, signor. Shall I introduce her? Ah! here she is.’
Sir Henry rose and made a slight stiff inclination, as who should say: ‘Now what the devil can you want with me, I wonder?’ Gwen, nothing abashed, laid down her card upon the table, which Sir Henry then and there took up and looked at narrowly, putting on his eyeglass for the purpose.
‘What an ill-mannered surly old bear,’ Gwen thought to herself; ‘and what an absurd thing that that delightful Mr. Churchill should have to go as the old wretch’s valet. I shall take care to put a stop to that arrangement, anyhow.’
‘Well,’ Sir Henry said, glancing suspiciously from the card to Gwen ‘May I ask — ur — to what I owe the honour of this visit?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ Gwen answered with perfect composure (she was never lacking in that repose that stamps the caste of Vere de Vere). ‘But as it’s rather a long story to tell, perhaps you’ll excuse my sitting down while I tell it.’ And Gwen half took a chair herself, but at the same time half compelled Sir Henry to push it towards her also, with a sort of grudging unmannerly politeness. Sir Henry, after standing himself for a second or two longer, and then discovering that Gwen was waiting for him to be seated before beginning to disclose her business, dropped in a helpless querulous fashion into the small armchair opposite, and prepared himself feebly for the tête-à-tête.
‘The business I’ve come about,’ Gwen went oft quietly, is a rather peculiar one. The fact is my father and I travelled to Rome the other day in the same railway carriage with your servant, whose name, he told us, is Colin Churchill.’
Sir Henry nodded a non-committing acquiescence. ‘The deuce!’ he thought to himself. ‘Something or other turned up already against him. — I hope, I’m sure, Miss — ur — let me see your card here once more — ur — Miss Howard-Russell — I hope, I’m sure, he didn’t in any way behave impertinently, or make himself at all disagreeable to you. You see, one’s obliged to put one’s servants into carriages with other people on these continental lines, which of course is very unpleasant for — ur — for those other people.’
‘Not at all,’ Gwen answered with a charming smile, which almost melted even stony old Sir Henry. ‘Not at all; quite the contrary, I assure you. His society and conversation were really quite delightful. Indeed, that’s just what I’ve come about.’
Sir Henry wriggled uneasily in his chair, put up his eyeglass for the third time, and stared at Gwen in puzzled wonderment. His valet’s society was really quite delightful! How extraordinary! Could this very handsome and quite presentable young woman — with a double-barrelled surname too — be after all nothing more than a lady’s maid who had had a flirtation with his new valet? But if so, and if she had come to propose for Churchill, so to speak, what the deuce could she want to see him for? He dropped his eyeglass once more in silent dubitation, and merely muttered cautiously: ‘Indeed!’
‘Yes, very much so altogether,’ Gwen went on boldly, in spite of Sir Henry’s freezing rigidity. ‘The fact is, I wanted to speak to you about him, because, you know, really and truly, he isn’t a valet at all, and he oughtn’t to be one.’
Sir Henry started visibly. ‘Not a valet!’ he cried. ‘Why, if it conies to that, I’ve found him a very useful and capable person for the place. But I don’t quite understand you. Am I to gather that you mean he’s an impostor — a thief in disguise, or something of that sort? I picked him up, certainly, under rather peculiar circumstances, just because he could speak a little Italian.’
Gwen laughed a little joyous ringing laugh. ‘Oh, no!’ she said quickly, ‘nothing of that sort, certainly. I meant quite the opposite. Mr. Churchill’s a sculptor, and a very accomplished well-read artist.’
Sir Henry rose from his chair nervously.
‘You don’t mean to say so!’ he cried in surprise. ‘You quite astonish me. And yet, now you mention it, I’ve certainly noticed that the young man had a very gentlemanly voice and accent. And then his manners — quite unexceptionable. But what the deuce — excuse an old man’s freedom of language — what the deuce, my dear madam, does he mean by playing such a scurvy trick upon me as this — passing himself off for an ordinary valet?’
‘That’s just what I’ve come about, Sir Henry. He happened to mention your name to my father and myself, and to allude to the nature of his relations with you; and I was so much interested in the young man that I looked your name up in the visitors’ list in the “Italian Times,” and came round to speak to you about him.’
Sir Henry raised his eyebrows slightly, but answered nothing.
‘And he’s not playing you any trick; that’s the worst of it,’ Gwen went on boldly, taking no notice of Sir Henry’s indifferent politeness. ‘He’s poor, and he’s a sculptor. He’s been working for several years w
ith a small Italian artist in the Marylebone Road.’
‘Ah! yes, yes; I remember. He said he’d been engaged as a marble-cutter since he left his last situation. Why, bless my soul, his last situation was with old Mr. Philip Howard-Russell, of Wootton Mandeville. Let me see — your card — ah! quite so. He must have been some relation of yours, I should imagine.’
‘My uncle,’ Gwen answered, glancing up at him defiantly. To her the relationship was no introduction.
Sir Henry bowed again slightly. ‘Excuse my stupidity,’ he said, with more politeness than he had hitherto shown. ‘I ought of course to have recognised your name at once. I knew your uncle. A most delightful man, and a brother collector. — The selfish old pig,’ he thought to himself with an internal sneer; ‘he was the most disagreeable bumptious old fellow I ever met in the whole course of my experience. Why, he pretended to doubt the genuineness of my Pinturicchio! But at least he was a man of good family, and his niece, in spite of the interest she evidently takes in my servant Churchill, is no doubt a person whom one ought to treat civilly.’ For Sir Henry was one of those ingenuous people who don’t think there is any necessity at all for treating civilly that inconsiderable section of humanity which doesn’t happen to be connected with men of good family.
