That decision, if favourable, would at once settle his plans, and necessitate an immediate communication to his mother. This was a phase of the subject which Geoffrey characteristically had ignored, put by, and refrained from thinking of as long as possible. But now there was no help for it. Under any circumstances he would have endeavoured, on marrying, to set up a separate establishment for himself; but situated as he was, with Margaret Dacre as his intended wife, he saw that such a step was inevitable. For though he loved his mother with all his heart, he was not blind to her weaknesses and he knew that the "cross" would never be more triumphantly brought forward, or more loudly complained of, than when it took the form of a daughter-in-law,--a daughter-in-law, moreover, whose antecedents were not held up for the old lady's scrutinising inspection. And here, perhaps, was the greatest tribute to the weird influence of the dead-gold hair, the pallid face, and the deep-violet eyes. A year ago, and Geoff Ludlow would have told you that nothing could ever have made him alter his then style of life. It had continued too long, he would have told you; he had settled down into a certain state of routine, living with the old lady and Til: they understood his ways and wishes, and he thought he should never change. And Mrs. Ludlow used to say that Geoffrey would never marry now; he did not care for young chits of girls, who were all giggle and nonsense, my dear; a man at his time of life looked for something more than that, and where it was to come from she, for one, did not know. Miss Matilda had indeed different views on the subject; she thought that dear old Geoff would marry, but that it would probably come about in this way. Some lovely female member of the aristocracy, to whom Geoff had given drawing-lessons, or who had seen his pictures, and become imbued with the spirit of poetry in them, would say to her father, the haughty earl, "I pine for him; I cannot live without him;" and to save his darling child's health, the earl would give his consent, and bestow upon the happy couple estates of the annual value of twenty thousand pounds. But then you see Miss Matilda Ludlow was given to novel-reading, and though perfectly practical and unromantic as regards herself and her career, was apt to look upon all appertaining to her brother, whom she adored, through a surrounding halo of circulating-library.
How this great intelligence would, then, be received by his home-tenants set Geoff thinking after Stompff's departure, and between the puff of his pipe he turned the subject hither and thither in his mind, and proposed to himself all kinds of ways for meeting the difficulty; none of which, on reconsideration, appearing practicable or judicious, he reverted to an old and favourite plan of his, that of postponing any further deliberation until the next day, when, as he argued with himself; he would have "slept upon it"--a most valuable result when the subject is systematically ignored up to the time of going to sleep, and after the hour of waking--he would have been to the private view at the Academy--which had, of course, an immense deal to do with it--and he would have received the final decision from Margaret Dacre. O yes, it was useless to think any more of it that night. And fully persuaded of this, Geoff turned in and fell fast asleep.
"And there won't be a more gentlemanly-looking man in the rooms than our dear old Geoff!"
"Stuff, Til! don't be absurd!"
"No, I mean it; and you know it too, you vain old thing; else why are you perpetually looking in the glass?"
"No, but--Til, nonsense!--I suppose I'm all right, eh?"
"All right!--you're charming, Geoff! I never saw you such a--I can't help it you know--swell before! Don't frown, Geoff; there's no other word that expresses it. One would think you were going to meet a lady there. Does the Queen go, or any of the young princesses?"
"How can you be so ridiculous, Til! Now, goodbye;" and Geoff gave his sister a hearty kiss, and started off. Miss Matilda was right; he did look perfectly gentlemanly in his dark-blue coat, white waistcoat, and small-check trousers. Nature, which certainly had denied him personal beauty or regularity of feature, had given him two or three marks of distinction: his height, his bright earnest eyes, and a certain indefinable odd expression, different from the ordinary ruck of people--an expression which attracted attention, and invariably made people ask who he was.
It was three o'clock before Geoff arrived at the Academy, and the rooms were crowded. The scene was new to him, and he stared round in astonishment at the brilliancy of the toilettes, and what Charley Potts would have called the "air of swelldom" which pervaded the place. It is scarcely necessary to say that his first act was to glance at the Catalogue to see where his pictures were placed; his second, to proceed to them to see how they looked on the walls. Round each was a little host of eager inspectors, and from what Geoff caught of their conversation, the verdict was entirely favourable. But he was not long left in doubt. As he was looking on, his arm was seized by Mr. Stompff, who, scarcely waiting to carry him out of earshot, began, "Well! you've done it up brown this time, my man, and no flies! Your pictures have woke 'em up. They're talking of nothing else. Ive sold 'em both. Lord Everton--that's him over there: little man with a double eyeglass, brown coat and high velvet collar--he's bought the 'sic wos;' and Mr. Shirtings of Manchester's got the other. The price has been good, sir; I'm not above denyin' it. There's six dozen of Sham ready to go into your cellar whenever you say the word: I ain't mean with my men like some people. Power of nobs here to-day. There's the Prime Minister, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer--that's him in the dirty white hat and rumpled coat--and no end of bishops and old ladies of title. That's Shirtings, that fat man in the black satin waistcoat. Wonderful man, sir,--factory-boy in Manchester! Saved his shillin' a-week, and is now worth two hundred thousand. Fine modern collection he's got! That little man in the turn-down collar, with the gold pencil-case in his hand, is Scrunch, the art-critic of the Scourge. A bitter little beast; but Ive squared him. I gave him five-and-twenty pounds to write a short account of the Punic War, which was given away with Bliff's picture of 'Regulus,' and he's never pitched into any of my people since. He's comin' to dinner to-day. O, by the bye, don't be late! I'll drive you down."
"Thank you," said Geoff; "I--Ive got somewhere to go to. I'll find my own way to Blackwall."