A FEARFUL DISCOVERY.
A few days after this Hawbury was in his room, when Dacres entered.
"Hallo, old man, what's up now? How goes the war?" said Hawbury. "But
what the mischief's the matter? You look cut up. Your brow is sad;
your eyes beneath flash like a falchion from its sheath. What's
happened? You look half snubbed, and half desperate."
Dacres said not a word, but flung himself into a chair with a look
that suited Hawbury's description of him quite accurately. His brows
lowered into a heavy frown, his lips were compressed, and his breath
came quick and hard through his inflated nostrils. He sat thus for
some time without taking any notice whatever of his friend, and at
length lighted a cigar, which he smoked, as he often did when excited,
in great voluminous puffs. Hawbury said nothing, but after one or two
quick glances at his friend, rang a bell and ordered some "Bass."
"Here, old fellow," said he, drawing the attention of Dacres to the
refreshing draught. "Take some--'Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe,
and forget thy lost Lenore.'"
Dacres at this gave a heavy sigh that sounded like a groan, and
swallowed several tumblers in quick succession.
"Hawbury!" said he at length, in a half-stifled voice.
"Well, old man?"
"I've had a blow to-day full on the breast that fairly staggered me."
"By Jove!"
"Fact. I've just come from a mad ride along the shore. I've been mad,
I think, for two or three hours. Of all the monstrous, abominable,
infernal, and unheard-of catastrophes this is the worst."
He stopped, and puffed away desperately at his cigar.
"Don't keep a fellow in suspense this way," said Hawbury at last.
"What's up? Out with it, man."
"Well, you know, yesterday I called there."
Hawbury nodded.
"She was not at home."
"So you said."
"You know she really wasn't, for I told you that I met their carriage.
The whole party were in it, and on the front seat beside Minnie there
was another lady. This is the one that I had not seen before. She
makes the fourth in that party. She and Minnie had their backs turned
as they came up. The other ladies bowed as they passed, and as I held
off my hat I half turned to catch Minnie's eyes, when I caught sight
of the face of the lady. It startled me so much that I was
thunder-struck, and stood there with my hat off after they had passed
me for some time."
"You said nothing about that, old chap. Who the deuce could she have
been?"
"No, I said nothing about it. As I cantered off I began to think that
it was only a fancy of mine, and finally I was sure of it, and laughed
it off. For, you must know, the lady's face looked astonishingly like
a certain face that I don't particularly care to see--certainly not in
such close connection with Minnie. But, you see, I thought it might
have been my fancy, so that I finally shook off the feeling, and said
nothing to you about it."
Dacres paused here, rubbed his hand violently over his hair at the
place where the scar was, and then, frowning heavily, resumed:
"Well, this afternoon I called again. They were at home. On entering I
found three ladies there. One was Lady Dalrymple, and the others were
Minnie and her friend Ethel--either her friend or her sister. I think
she's her sister. Well, I sat for about five minutes, and was just
beginning to feel the full sense of my happiness, when the door opened
and another lady entered. Hawbury"--and Dacres's tones deepened into
an awful solemnity--"Hawbury, it was the lady that I saw in the
carriage yesterday. One look at her was enough. I was assured then
that my impressions yesterday were not dreams, but the damnable and
abhorrent truth!"
"What impressions--you haven't told me yet, you know?"
[Illustration: "I STOOD TRANSFIXED."]
"Wait a minute. I rose as she entered, and confronted her. She looked
at me calmly, and then stood as though expecting to be introduced.
There was no emotion visible whatever. She was prepared for it: I was
not: and so she was as cool as when I saw her last, and, what is more,
just as young and beautiful."
"The devil!" cried Hawbury.
Dacres poured out another glass of ale and drank it. His hand trembled
slightly as he put down the glass, and he sat for some time in thought
before he went on.
"Well, Lady Dalrymple introduced us. It was Mrs. Willoughby!"
"By Jove!" cried Hawbury. "I saw you were coming to that."
"Well, you know, the whole thing was so sudden, so unexpected, and so
perfectly overwhelming, that I stood transfixed. I said nothing. I
believe I bowed, and then somehow or other, I really don't know how, I
got away, and, mounting my horse, rode off like a madman. Then I came
home, and here you see me."
There was a silence now for some time.
"Are you sure that it was your wife?"
"Of course I am. How could I be mistaken?"
"Are you sure the name was Willoughby?"
"Perfectly sure."
"And that is the name your wife took?"
"Yes; I told you so before, didn't I?"
"Yes. But think now. Mightn't there be some mistake?"
"Pooh! how could there be any mistake?"
"Didn't you see any change in her?"
"No, only that she looked much more quiet than she used to. Not so
active, you know. In her best days she was always excitable, and a
little demonstrative; but now she seems to have sobered down, and is
as quiet and well-bred as any of the others."
"Was there not any change in her at all?"
"Not so much as I would have supposed; certainly not so much as there
is in me. But then I've been knocking about all over the world, and
she's been living a life of peace and calm, with the sweet
consciousness of having triumphed over a hated husband, and possessing
a handsome competency. Now she mingles in the best society. She
associates with lords and ladies. She enjoys life in England, while I
am an exile. No doubt she passes for a fine young widow. No doubt,
too, she has lots of admirers. They aspire to her hand. They write
poetry to her. They make love to her. Confound her!"
Dacres's voice grew more and more agitated and excited as he spoke,
and at length his tirade against his wife ended in something that was
almost a roar.
Hawbury said nothing, but listened, with his face full of sympathy. At
last his pent-up feeling found expression in his favorite exclamation,
"By Jove!"
"Wouldn't I be justified in wringing her neck?" asked Dacres, after a
pause. "And what's worse," he continued, without waiting for an answer
to his question--"what's worse, her presence here in this unexpected
way has given me, _me_, mind you, a sense of guilt, while she is, of
course, immaculate. _I_, mind you--_I_, the injured husband, with the
scar on my head from a wound made by _her_ hand, and all the ghosts of
my ancestors howling curses over me at night for my desolated and
ruined home--_I_ am to be conscience-stricken in her presence, as if I
were a felon, while _she_, the really guilty one--the blight and
bitter destruction of my life--_she_ is to appear before me now as
injured, and must make her appearance here, standing by the side of
that sweet child-angel, and warning me away. Confound it all, man! Do
you mean to say that such a thing is to be borne?"
Dacres was now quite frantic; so Hawbury, with a sigh of perplexity,
lighted a fresh cigar, and thus took refuge from the helplessness of
his position. It was clearly a state of things in which advice was
utterly useless, and consolation impossible. What could he advise, or
what consolation could he offer? The child-angel was now out of his
friend's reach, and the worst fears of the lover were more than
realized.
"I told you I was afraid of this," continued Dacres. "I had a
suspicion that she was alive, and I firmly believe she'll outlive me
forty years; but I must say I never expected to see her in this way,
under such circumstances. And then to find her so infernally
beautiful! Confound her! she don't look over twenty-five. How the
mischief does she manage it? Oh, she's a deep one! But perhaps she's
changed. She seems so calm, and came into the room so gently, and
looked at me so steadily. Not a tremor, not a shake, as I live. Calm,
Sir; cool as steel, and hard too. She looked away, and then looked
back. They were searching glances, too, as though they read me through
and through. Well, there was no occasion for that. She ought to know
Scone Dacres well enough, I swear. Cool! And there stood I, with the
blood flashing to my head, and throbbing fire underneath the scar of
her wound--hers--her own property, for she made it! That was the woman
that kicked me, that struck at me, that caused the destruction of my
ancestral house, that drove me to exile, and that now drives me back
from my love. But, by Heaven! it'll take more than her to do it; and
I'll show her again, as I showed her once before, that Scone Dacres is
her master. And, by Jove! she'll find that it'll take more than
herself to keep me away from Minnie Fay."
"See here, old boy," said Hawbury, "you may as well throw up the
sponge."
"I won't," said Dacres, gruffly.
"You see it isn't your wife that you have to consider, but the girl;
and do you think the girl or her friends would have a married man
paying his attentions in that quarter? Would you have the face to do
it under your own wife's eye? By Jove!"
The undeniable truth of this assertion was felt by Dacres even in his
rage. But the very fact that it was unanswerable, and that he was
helpless, only served to deepen and intensify his rage. Yet he said
nothing; it was only in his face and manner that his rage was
manifested. He appeared almost to suffocate under the rush of fierce,
contending passions; big distended veins swelled out in his forehead,
which was also drawn far down in a gloomy frown; his breath came thick
and fast, and his hands were clenched tight together. Hawbury watched
him in silence as before, feeling all the time the impossibility of
saying any thing that could be of any use whatever.
"Well, old fellow," said Dacres at last, giving a long breath, in
which he seemed to throw off some of his excitement, "you're right, of
course, and I am helpless. There's no chance for me. Paying
attentions is out of the question, and the only thing for me to do is
to give up the whole thing. But that isn't to be done at once. It's
been long since I've seen any one for whom I felt any tenderness, and
this little thing, I know, is fond of me. I can't quit her at once. I
must stay on for a time, at least, and have occasional glimpses at
her. It gives me a fresh sense of almost heavenly sweetness to look at
her fair young face. Besides, I feel that I am far more to her than
any other man. No other man has stood to her in the relation in which
I have stood. Recollect how I saved her from death. That is no light
thing. She must feel toward me as she has never felt to any other. She
is not one who can forget how I snatched her from a fearful death, and
brought her back to life. Every time she looks at me she seems to
convey all that to me in her glance."
"Oh, well, my dear fellow, really now," said Hawbury, "just think. You
can't do any thing."
"But I don't want to do any thing."
"It never can end in any thing, you know."
"But I don't want it to end in any thing."
"You'll only bother her by entangling her affections."
"But I don't want to entangle her affections."
"Then what the mischief _do_ you want to do?"
"Why, very little. I'll start off soon for the uttermost ends of the
earth, but I wish to stay a little longer and see her sweet face. It's
not much, is it? It won't compromise her, will it? She need not run
any risk, need she? And I'm a man of honor, am I not? You don't
suppose me to be capable of any baseness, do you?"
"My dear fellow, how absurd! Of course not. Only I was afraid by
giving way to this you might drift on into a worse state of mind.
She's all safe, I fancy, surrounded as she is by so many guardians. It
is you that I'm anxious about."
"Don't be alarmed, old chap, about me. I feel calmer already. I can
face my situation firmly, and prepare for the worst. While I have been
sitting here I have thought out the future. I will stay here four or
five weeks. I will only seek solace for myself by riding about where I
may meet her. I do not intend to go to the house at all. My demon of a
wife may have the whole house to herself. I won't even give her the
pleasure of supposing that she has thwarted me. She shall never even
suspect the state of my heart. That would be bliss indeed to one like
her, for then she would find herself able to put me on the rack. No,
my boy; I've thought it all over. Scone Dacres is himself again. No
more nonsense now. Do you understand now what I mean?"
"Yes," said Hawbury, slowly, and in his worst drawl; "but ah, really,
don't you think it's all nonsense?"
"What?"
"Why, this ducking and diving about to get a glimpse of her face."
"I don't intend to duck and dive about. I merely intend to ride like
any other gentleman. What put that into your head, man?"
"Well, I don't know; I gathered it from the way you expressed
yourself."
"Well, I don't intend any thing of the kind. I simply wish to have
occasional looks at her--to get a bow and a smile of recognition when
I meet her, and have a few additional recollections to turn over in my
thoughts after I have left her forever. Perhaps this seems odd."
"Oh no, it doesn't. I quite understand it. A passing smile or a
parting sigh is sometimes more precious than any other memory. I know
all about it, you know--looks, glances, smiles, sighs, and all that
sort of thing, you know."
"Well, now, old chap, there's one thing I want you to do for me."
"Well, what is it?"
"It isn't much, old fellow. It isn't much. I simply wish you to visit
there."
"_Me_?--visit _there_? What! me--and visit? Why, my dear fellow, don't
you know how I hate such bother?"
"I know all about that; but, old boy, it's only for a few weeks I ask
it, and for my sake, as a particular favor. I put it in that light."
"Oh, well, really, dear boy, if you put it in that light, you know, of
course, that I'll do any thing, even if it comes to letting myself be
bored to death."
"Just a visit a day or so."
"A visit a day!" Hawbury looked aghast.
"It isn't much to ask, you know," continued Dacres. "You see my reason
is this: I can't go there myself, as you see, but I hunger to hear
about her. I should like to hear how she looks, and what she says, and
whether she thinks of me."
"Oh, come now! look here, my dear fellow, you're putting it a little
too strong. You don't expect me to go there and talk to her about you,
you know. Why, man alive, that's quite out of my way. I'm not much of
a talker at any time; and besides, you know, there's something
distasteful in acting as--as--By Jove! I don't know what to call it."
"My dear boy, you don't understand me. Do you think I'm a sneak? Do
you suppose I'd ask you to act as a go-between? Nonsense! I merely ask
you to go as a cursory visitor. I don't want you to breathe my name,
or even think of me while you are there."
"But suppose I make myself too agreeable to the young lady. By Jove!
she might think I was paying her attentions, you know."
"Oh no, no! believe me, you don't know her. She's too earnest; she has
too much soul to shift and change. Oh no! I feel that she is mine, and
that the image of my own miserable self is indelibly impressed upon
her heart. Oh no! you don't know her. If you had heard her thrilling
expressions of gratitude, if you had seen the beseeching and pleading
looks which she gave me, you would know that she is one of those
natures who love once, and once only."
"Oh, by Jove, now! Come! If that's the 'state of the case, why, I'll
go."
"Thanks, old boy."
"As a simple visitor."
"Yes--that's all."
"To talk about the weather, and that rot."
"Yes."
"And no more."
"No."
"Not a word about you."
"Not a word."
"No leading questions, and that sort of thing."
"Nothing of the kind."
"No hints, no watching, but just as if I went there of my own accord."
"That's exactly the thing."
"Very well; and now, pray, what good is all this going to do to you,
my boy?"
"Well, just this; I can talk to you about her every evening, and you
can tell me how she looks, and what she says, and all that sort of
thing, you know."
"By Jove!"
"And you'll cheer my heart, old fellow."
"Heavens and earth! old boy, you don't seem to think that this is
going to be no end of a bore."
"I know it, old man; but then, you know, I'm desperate just now."
"By Jove!"
And Hawbury, uttering this exclamation, relapsed into silence, and
wondered over his friend's infatuation.
On the following day when Dacres came in he found that Hawbury had
kept his word.
"Great bore, old fellow," said he; "but I did it. The old lady is an
old acquaintance, you know. I'm going there to-morrow again. Didn't
see any thing to-day of the child-angel. But it's no end of a bore,
you know."