A Barren Title: A Novel

by T. W. Speight

When the earl's will came to be read it was found that he had left Clement all he had to leave, with the exception of fifty guineas to the child whose life he had saved at the expense of his own.

As soon as the funeral was over--the earl being buried in the same grave with his wife--Clement went quietly back to his painting. Mr. Wingfield and Mr. Plume had proffered their services in various ways, but Clement loved his art too well to be tempted from it into the more glittering paths of financial speculation. He went back to his studio as he had left it, plain Clement Fildew. Not even to Tony Macer did he breathe a word concerning the strange things that had befallen him. He simply said that his father was dead, and that was all. Not from his lips should the world ever hear a word respecting that title which he was told he could now claim, but which he was determined utterly to abjure. Not even to Cecilia would he speak of it till they should be husband and wife. Of course, his marriage would now have to be delayed a little while. Cecilia had gained her point in this matter, but after a fashion she had never dreamed of. In those hours of trouble the white wings of her love seemed to fold Clement more closely round than they had ever done before.

Mr. Slingsby Boscombe took an early opportunity of putting a number of questions to Mr. Flicker respecting the earl and his son. Of the latter individual the lawyer knew absolutely nothing. He had been as much astounded to hear of the existence of such a person as the countess had been, and he blamed himself severely for having allowed himself to be so thoroughly duped by the earl's plausible, off-handed assumption that he had never been anything but a bachelor. With regard to the earl he told Slingsby pretty nearly all that he knew.

One morning, about three weeks after the funeral, Clement was surprised at his studio by a visit from Mr. Boscombe. The latter, acting on the information given him by Flicker, had gone in the first instance to the Brown Bear, and had there ascertained Mr. Fildew's late address. From Hayfield Street he had been directed to Clement's lodgings, and from there to the studio.

"I was awfully sorry not to have met you at Brimley, but the dowager carried me off by main force," said Slingsby, after shaking hands heartily with Clem, and condoling with him on his loss. "I hope you won't for one moment think that I bear you the slightest ill-will on account of losing the title. I assure you that I care nothing for it. I take no interest in politics. I am not cut out for shining in society. All I ask for is a little den in the country, with a big garden, a horse or two, plenty of fishing, and a few friends whose tastes are something like my own."

"I wish with all my heart that the title were yours," said Clem. "It is a useless acquisition, as far as I am concerned."

"But you are not going to let it remain in abeyance, I hope?"

"I certainly am. What has a poor painter to do with titles? My only ambition is to be known by my works."

Then, little by little, and with considerable hesitation and stammering, the real object of Slingsby's visit was made apparent. He wanted Clement to share with him the income which, as soon as he should be twenty-five years old, would begin to accrue to him from the Loughton property, in accordance with the will of the last earl but one. "Such a will ought never to have been made," said Slingsby, "unless it had first been ascertained beyond doubt that there was no direct heir in existence. So, with your permission, we will divide the money between us, and even then I shall have more than I shall know what to do with."

Clement, of course, would agree to no such proposition. The world should know him only as Clement Fildew, a painter of pictures for his daily bread. Slingsby was evidently much disappointed. Finding all his arguments of no avail, he rose to go but, before leaving, he took a glance round the room at the various canvases, finished and unfinished, some of them Clem's and some Tony Macer's, that were either stretched on the easels or hanging on the walls. Over the fireplace hung a little sketch in crayons of two female heads. "I ought to know those faces," said Slingsby, as soon as his eyes lighted on the sketch. "One of them is the likeness of my cousin Cecilia, and the other that of her friend, Miss Browne."