Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 120, vol. III, April 17, 1886

I could not have told at that time what attracted me so strongly to Gerald Atherton, any more than Olivia could have explained the prophetic fascination which drew her to Viola. But there was an atmosphere of youth and freshness about the boy—he was the youngest of all the clerks in our office, a bright-eyed lad, not yet eighteen—that had a refreshing influence on me. I was not old myself—just twenty-four—but eight years’ life in a City office, coming after a boyhood which had had many of the anxieties of middle age, made me feel almost patriarchal compared with my joyous and inexperienced junior. There was, too, a similarity in the circumstances of our lives which tended to friendship.

‘Only, you know, Langham,’ said the boy one day, early in our acquaintance, when we were speaking on the subject, ‘my responsibilities are greater than yours; I have May to look after. A sister is a great anxiety, and when she happens to be your twin-sister, you feel that you are in a special way bound to take care of her.’

‘Where is your sister now?’ I asked.

‘Not far away. She is companion to an old lady at Hampstead. That’s why I live in Camden Town, because it is comparatively near; and I can go occasionally to see May, and even sometimes have a visit from her at my lodgings.’

‘Companion to an old lady!’ I repeated. ‘That’s a dreary life for a young girl.’

‘May doesn’t seem to dislike it; and Mrs Bowden treats her very kindly. The plague of her life is the continual espionage of the old lady’s relations—or rather her dead husband’s relations; she seems to have none of her own—who are quite convinced that my poor little sister’s courtesy to her employer—she hasn’t it in her to be uncivil to a boa-constrictor, the little darling!—is inspired by mercenary motives. That annoys her; but as we are two young people alone in the world, without a penny except what we earn, we must put up with disagreeables—May, with the suspicions of those greedy waiters on dead men’s shoes; and I, with getting the blame of everybody else’s blunders as well as my own. Really, the undeserved or only half-deserved scoldings I get, sometimes irritate me fearfully—and then at times I feel I’d do anything for a good game at cricket. I don’t think I could bear it all, if you didn’t stand by me, Langham.’

‘Who wouldn’t stand by a manly boy like you, Gerald!’ I protested, laughing.

‘Boy, my friend!’ cried Gerald with one of those bright merry glances, accompanied with an upward toss of the head, which always came upon me with the effect of a sunbeam—‘boy, indeed! I am a City man, sir, and demand to be spoken to with respect!’

‘Moreover,’ I went on, ‘the circumstances of your early life are so similar to those of my own childhood, that I felt interested in you as soon as I knew them. My widowed mother, like yours, wore out her life in a long struggle with poverty, and died just when I was about to cease being a burden to her. The only difference is that my mother was doubly overweighted by having to pay off debts of my father’s youth, contracted before he ever met her.’

‘Did not your father’s family take the responsibility even of those?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘My grandfather, after bringing up his son to no profession, and encouraging him in extravagance, cast him off on his marriage with a penniless girl, and left him to sink or swim as best he could. I imagine that my father cannot have been possessed of much moral courage, or he would not have submitted to live on the earnings of my mother’s music-teaching. But he had never been accustomed to work, and his health was bad. He died when I was three years old. Then my mother made an appeal to my grandfather to do something for me, if not for her, or at least take the responsibility of those few hundred pounds of debt which he could have paid without feeling himself a whit poorer, but which formed a millstone round her neck. But the rich Liverpool merchant, who was ready to subscribe lavishly to ostentatious charities, refused to help his daughter-in-law by a penny, and refused in _such_ a letter! My mother never showed it to me, but I found it in her desk after her death. I keep it still, and to this day my blood boils if I read its insulting words.’

‘And did your grandfather never soften?’

‘He gave no sign of it; and on his death, he left all he possessed to my aunt, my father’s half-sister.’

‘And she?’

‘I confess,’ said I, ‘that she did make some advances towards me, but they came at an unlucky moment. My mother had just died; and from the letters I found after her death, I had learned for the first time with what cruelty she had been treated. Besides, I had lately obtained my first situation, and was disposed to be aggressively independent. So I declined my aunt’s invitation to visit her with a rudeness which no one would be guilty of but an inexperienced boy at the age when he is most desirous of being thought a man.’

‘I suppose that was the end of it all?’

‘Not quite. Six months later, after I had come to London, I received another letter from my aunt, in which she stated that she had intended to adopt me and make me her heir, if I had not so insolently rejected her friendly overtures; but that I need no longer hope for anything from her, as she was about to be married shortly. And she added—rather vindictively, I thought—that as her future husband was considerably younger than herself, he would probably survive her and inherit all her property. I fancy she thought to excite in me an avaricious regret for my previous coldness; but in truth my only idea was that in making her become the wife of a man much her junior, spite and loneliness were combining to lead her into a great folly; for, as she was considerably older than my father, she must by that time have been quite a middle-aged woman, and I suspected the youthful husband of fortune-hunting. That was the last I ever heard of my only surviving relative. I don’t know what name she bore after her marriage, nor even if she still lives. I stand quite alone.’

‘Poor old man!’ said the boy affectionately. ‘Rich as you are—from my point of view, for your salary is twice as large as mine—I am better off than you. I don’t stand alone; I have May.’

‘I should think a sister was only an additional anxiety,’ I replied.

‘True; but still there’s a selfish comfort in the thought that somebody cares for you. At least, I like it. I’m a sentimental sort of animal, who likes being petted—not a calm, self-contained creature like you.’

I doubt if I deserved Atherton’s epithets. I felt very lonely at times, and the boy’s affection—for he was sincerely attached to me, and had a refreshing un-English readiness to display his attachment—was charming. I told him more of my history and feelings than I had ever before confided to any one; for he was as sympathetic as a woman, while possessing a discretion reputed to be rare among feminine creatures.

In truth I was greatly attached to Gerald, and I was quite distressed this afternoon at the thought of being late for my engagement with him. It was his birthday, and we were to take tea together at his lodgings, and then go to the theatre, and I feared that my delay might interfere with our plans.

But it was another and more cheerful accident than that of being late that was to prevent our occupying the pit at the Lyceum that night. I had expected to see Gerald’s face looking for me from the window of his sitting-room, as I approached the little street with the long name—Mount Edgcumbe Terrace—where he resided; but I was surprised, and for the moment bewildered, to find _two_ faces gazing with interest at my approaching figure—two faces so alike in feature and colouring, that though a moment’s reflection convinced me that they must belong to Gerald Atherton and his twin-sister, I could not have said which of them was my friend’s. Each had the same bright, laughing, dark-blue eyes, the same short, curling, dark-brown hair, the same contour and expression, and at this moment the same merry and mischievous smile. I thought I had never in my life seen a prettier sight than these two joyous, youthful figures standing side by side.

‘Confess, Langham, that you didn’t know which was who, when you saw us just now,’ cried Gerald as I entered the room.

I admitted that I had been puzzled for the moment; ‘though,’ I added, ‘I am sure that a longer glimpse would have enabled me to distinguish Miss Atherton from you.’

‘Yes,’ returned Gerald, ‘I know that my poor little sister is only a plain-looking likeness of my bewitching self, that could not deceive any one for more than a moment.’

Miss Atherton made a little _moue_ of protest at her brother as she said: ‘Mr Langham only means that the stool on which I was standing, to make me look as tall as you, was so shaky, that I shouldn’t have been able to keep on it a minute longer.’

Then I tried again to utter a complimentary remark, which Gerald again appropriated, whereupon we all laughed and were friends at once.

I had known nothing of the effect of a woman’s presence in the house since I had been old enough to appreciate it; it was therefore a revelation to me to note how May Atherton glorified that dingy parlour in Camden Town. As she moved to and fro, making the tea-table in some nameless way a thousand times more attractive than the landlady knew how to do, my eyes followed her with a persistence which would have been embarrassing to her had she been troubled with the least degree of self-consciousness; but of all the women I have ever known, May Atherton was the most completely free from vanity and all the faults that accompany it. At present her thoughts were occupied solely with the pleasure of being in her brother’s society, and the desire to make things brighter for him and his friend, whom, for Gerald’s sake, she accepted as her friend also.

‘I really feel as if I knew you quite well, Mr Langham,’ she said, ‘for Gerald has spoken to me often of you; and I am so glad to feel that my boy has a good thoughtful friend, older than himself, to advise and help him.’

The motherly air with which May uttered the last words sat prettily if strangely on her extreme youth, and indeed between the pair of children there were a hundred touches of reciprocal tenderness and protection, which were very pleasant to look at, though they made me feel very lonely and a little envious. Not that I had any cause to feel neglected; for Gerald and his sister united in making much of me—he for my own sake, she for her brother’s sake. Only for your brother’s sake, were you so kind to me then, sweet May; afterwards, it was, I hope, for a more personal reason!

I could spend much time in describing that happy evening; but perhaps, repeated to less sympathetic ears, the wit might not seem so witty nor the wisdom so wise as they did to us. At last, however, May said with a sigh that she must go home; and Gerald proposed that I as well as he should escort her to the door of the ‘ogress’s castle.’

‘But you must not call Mrs Bowden an ogress,’ protested May, laying a hand upon her brother’s shoulder; ‘she is very kind to me. Was it not thoughtful of her to let me come and spend this evening with you, because I had mentioned a week ago that it was our birthday? She is always so much interested in what I say of you—and she likes to hear about you too, Mr Langham,’ added the girl, turning to me.

‘About me!’ I repeated. ‘How does she know of my existence?’

‘Oh, I have mentioned your name often, in speaking of Gerald and his friends, and she frequently questions me about you. I suppose she likes you for Gerald’s sake, and Gerald for mine.’

‘Don’t deceive yourself, mademoiselle,’ interrupted the irrepressible Gerald. ‘Her liking for you is the mere anticipation of the passion that will fill her when she sees me. She cares for you only as Olivia did for Viola before she saw Sebastian.’

How had the boy hit upon that comparison? I had conversely been thinking for three hours past that my liking for Sebastian had been the mere anticipation of my love for Viola!

At her brother’s words, May laughed and shook her head. ‘Don’t _you_ deceive yourself, dear. There is no rival to “dear Henry” in Mrs Bowden’s heart.’

‘Who is “dear Henry?”’ I asked.

‘The late Mr Bowden, and the one vexation of my life.’

‘How can that be, if he is dead?’

‘Alas! he has left innumerable relatives, who haunt his widow and sing his praises. They profess to be actuated only by exceptional devotion to his memory and by affection for his widow; and I suppose it is only the natural perversity of my soul that reminds me of the fact that Mrs Bowden is very rich and has no relatives of her own. Perhaps it is their strong and very plainly displayed jealousy of my supposed influence over my employer that makes me think so uncharitably of them.’

‘And does Mrs Bowden believe in their professions?’

‘I don’t know; but she is a very shrewd old lady; and I suspect her of finding some pleasure in giving each of “dear Henry’s” relatives in turn the impression that he or she is to be her heir, and then dashing their hopes to the ground. To-day, she has delighted her husband’s brother, and will doubtless drive all the other relatives to despair, by giving him Mr Bowden’s favourite seal, a thing she cherishes greatly. This is supposed to be almost equivalent to making a will in his favour. I suppose it’s malicious,’ said May with one of her brightest smiles, ‘but I can’t help getting some fun out of it too. You see, she has expressly stated that she has no intention of dividing her property; one individual is to inherit all, so the anxiety of each is intense, though concealed. I really think the only relief they all have from their dissimulated hatred of each other is their open hatred of me.’

‘Poor little girl! How can even the most prejudiced of fortune-hunters hate you? It is hard to bear,’ said Gerald tenderly, taking his sister’s hand in his.

But the shade which had for a moment darkened her face vanished as she saw it reflected in his. ‘That is only a little trouble, dear,’ she said gently, ‘so little, that if I had any harder ones, I should not notice it; and by way of compensation, I am sure that Mrs Bowden herself really loves and trusts me.’

We were very merry as we walked up to the old house in Well Walk, Hampstead, where Miss Atherton lived. A pretty, picturesque place it seemed in the dim spring moonlight; and May grew quite animated in telling me of the quaint relics of past centuries which survived beside the modern comfort of its furnishing. The path between the garden door and that of the house had been covered with glass and made into a conservatory, where even at this early time of the year flowers and rare ferns spread their leaves. Gerald and I watched May pass within the door, feeling—at least I did—like Moore’s unfortunate Peri to whom the doors of heaven were shut. At the inner door she turned and waved her hand, sending a smile of farewell down the flowery vista. Then she disappeared, and suddenly the night grew darker.

I had all this time—so selfish a thing is pleasure!—forgotten the unfortunate gentleman whose sudden illness I had witnessed; but as Gerald and I were walking down Haverstock Hill, after parting with May, the thought of him suddenly came to my mind, and at the same moment I recollected the packet I had picked up and put in my pocket. I narrated the incident of the afternoon to my friend, and went back with him to his rooms to examine the thickly-filled envelope which had come into my possession. There was on it neither address nor other superscription; one side was soiled by falling in the mud of the street; on the other was a large seal in red wax, on which I deciphered, in old English characters, the letters H. L. B., below a mailed hand holding a dagger, and above the motto, ‘What I hold, I hold fast.’

I determined to take the packet to the hospital next day, when I should go to inquire for the invalid, and either give it to him, or, if his condition rendered him incapable of taking care of it, intrust it to the house-surgeon. It was not permitted to me to fulfil my intention. When, after my day’s work, I went to the hospital, I found that the patient in whom I was interested had been removed.

‘We found out his name and address from some letters in his pocket,’ said the house-surgeon, ‘and sent a message to his family. His son came immediately and removed him.’

‘What is the name?’ I asked.

‘I forget. Collins or Cotton, or something like that; but I can’t speak with any certainty. He was a solicitor, I remember.’

‘Is not his name on the hospital books?’

‘No. He was here so short a time, that it was never entered.’

‘How very unfortunate!’ I exclaimed.

‘Why? Was it of importance that you should see him?’ asked the house-surgeon, an easygoing and careless youth, who had evidently felt hitherto that my interrogatories were tiresome and unnecessary, but was now roused to attention by the fervour of my tone.

‘It may be of considerable importance to him. He dropped a packet, apparently containing documents, when he fell yesterday. I picked it up, and forgot to deliver it to you when I left him in your charge. It may be essential to him to regain immediate possession of it.’

The young doctor was sufficiently interested now, but he could do nothing; he had no certain recollection of anything connected with his patient. I was forced to content myself with leaving with him my name, Richard Langham, and the address of Messrs Hamley and Green, in whose employ I was, that he might refer to me if any inquiry was made about the packet.

I doubted not that I should within a few days be relieved of the charge of it; but days and weeks passed into months, and that sealed envelope remained in my possession, and lay like an undeserved burden on my conscience.

THE OLD PRIORY GARDEN.

The whispering May wind stirs the hawthorn and lilac in the old priory garden, and brings great gushes of delicious scent past the window, and fills the room with sweetness. All the last month the weather has been fitful and changeable—rain and storm, sunshine and cloud, dust and east winds; but after two days of soaking downpour and wild west wind, the morning of the last day of May has dawned in the full glorious beauty of late spring. Thrushes and blackbirds vie with each other in song, sweet and shrill, clear and inspiring; a modest siskin whistles its little monotonous roulade; now and then, a few notes of the shy linnet are heard; a robin is feeding its brood close by; swallows and martins are darting about in all directions; in the apple blossoms are hundreds of bees, making a dense dreamy music; while their compatriot the humble-bee booms along with his big velvety body shining and gleaming in the sun.

What a splendid creature! See, it settles close at hand. Turn it over with a grass bent. With a surprised buzz, it rights itself. Again and yet again it turns over, seemingly staring to see the cause of its overthrow. Draw the bent lightly across its back—two legs are instantly raised to brush off the unwelcome touch. A second time the same; a third, and the bent is fairly clutched by all the gummy legs, and retained under its body. It crawls up a stick, and with angry bustle, goes booming off.

One does not realise summer is so close upon us, when May is such a capricious maiden, till a morning like this wakes one up to the conviction that in twenty-four more days the sun will have reached its altitude, and soon will begin the shortening days again. The garden here is quaint, and quite unlike the generality of town gardens. From the square of paved court rises one step, and then a stretch of grass, an oval flower-bed each side, a path up the centre; sloping grass banks supported with large stones, where huge bunches of primroses spring from the niches. Along the sides are rockeries with hardy trailing plants—stonecrop, periwinkle both major and minor, white and blue, with variegated foliage; sweet woodruff, violets, and a mass of ferns, whose delicate light silver green fronds are daily uncurling into beauty. The wallflowers are in full bloom. Later on, the germander speedwell will open its bright evanescent flowers, that, though only a wild plant, makes such splendid masses of colour when cultivated, with the silver-foil in bunches near it.