The repairs to the ceiling in Austin's room were now finished, and it
was with great satisfaction that he resumed possession of his old
quarters. The mysterious events that had befallen him when he slept
there last, some weeks before, recurred very vividly to his mind as he
found himself once more amid the familiar surroundings, and although
he heard no more raps or anything else of an abnormal nature, he felt
that, whatever dangers might threaten him in the future, he would
always be protected by those he thought of as his unseen friends. Aunt
Charlotte, meanwhile, had taken an opportunity of consulting the vicar
as to the orthodoxy of a belief in guardian angels, and the vicar had
reassured her at once by referring her to the Collect for St Michael
and All Angels, in which we are invited to pray that they may succour
and defend us upon earth; so that there really was nothing
superstitious in the conclusion that, as Austin had undoubtedly been
succoured and defended in a very remarkable manner on more than one
occasion, some benevolent entity from a better world might have had a
hand in it. The worthy lady, of course, could not resist the
temptation of informing Mr Sheepshanks of what her bankers had said
about the investment he had so earnestly urged upon her, and the vicar
seemed greatly surprised. He had not put any money into it himself, it
was true, but was being sorely tempted by another prospectus he had
just received of an enterprise for recovering the baggage which King
John lost some centuries ago in the Wash. The only consideration that
made him hesitate was the uncertainty whether, in view of the
perishable nature of the things themselves, they would be worth very
much to anybody if ever they were fished up.
"Austin," said Aunt Charlotte, two days afterwards at breakfast, "I
have had another letter from Mr Ogilvie. Of course I wrote to him when
I heard first, saying how pleased I should be to see him whenever he
was in the neighbourhood again; and now I have his reply. He proposes
to call here to-morrow afternoon, and have a cup of tea with us."
"So the fateful day has come at last," remarked Austin. "Very well,
auntie, I'll make myself scarce while you're talking over old times
together, but I insist on coming in before he goes, remember. I'm
awfully curious to see what he's like. Do you think he wears a wig?"
"I really haven't thought about it," replied his aunt. "It's nothing
to me whether he does or not--or to you either, for the matter of
that. Of course you must present yourself to him some time or other;
it would be most discourteous not to. And do, if you can, try and
behave rather more like other people. Don't parade your terrible
ignorance of geography, for instance, as you do sometimes. He would
think that I had neglected your education disgracefully, and seeing
what a traveller he's been himself--"
"All right, auntie, I won't give you away," Austin assured her. "You'd
better tell him what a horrid dunce I am before I come in, and then he
won't be so surprised if I do put my foot in it. After all, we're not
sure that he's been a traveller. He may be a painter. Lubin says that
lots of painters come down here sometimes. My own idea is that he'll
turn out to be nothing but a bank manager, or perhaps a stockbroker. I
expect he's rolling in money."
Austin had said nothing to his aunt about the lady who had looked over
the gate for one brief moment and then so unaccountably disappeared.
What would have been the use? He felt baffled and perplexed, but it
was not likely that Aunt Charlotte would be able to throw any light
upon the mystery. She would probably say that he had been dreaming, or
that he only imagined it, or that it was an old gipsy woman, or one of
the MacTavish girls playing a trick, or something equally fatuous and
absurd. But the more he thought of it the more he was convinced of the
reality of the whole thing, and of the existence of some great marvel.
That he had seen the lady was beyond question. That she had vanished
the next moment was also beyond question. That she had hidden behind a
tree or gone crouching in a ditch was inconceivable, to say the least
of it; so fair and gracious a person would scarcely descend to such
undignified manoeuvres, worthy only of a hoydenish peasant girl. And
yet, what could possibly have become of her? The enigma was quite
unsolvable.
The next morning brought with it a surprise. Aunt Charlotte had some
very important documents that she wanted to deposit with her
bankers--so important, indeed, that she did not like to entrust them
to the post; so Austin, half in jest, proposed that he should go to
town himself by an early train, and leave them at the bank in person.
To his no small astonishment, Aunt Charlotte took him at his word,
though not without some misgivings; instructed him to send her a
telegram as soon as ever the papers were in safe custody, and assured
him that she would not have a moment's peace until she got it. Austin,
much excited at the prospect of a change, packed the documents away in
the pistol-pocket of his trousers, and started off immediately after
breakfast in high spirits. The journey was a great delight to him, as
he had not travelled by railway for nearly a couple of years, and he
derived immense amusement from watching his fellow-passengers and
listening to their conversation. There was a party of very
serious-minded American tourists, with an accent reverberant enough to
have cracked the windows of the carriage had they not, luckily, been
open; and from the talk of these good people he learnt that they came
from a place called New Jerusalem, that they intended to do London in
two days, and that they answered to the names of Mr Thwing, Mr Moment,
and Mr and Mrs Skull. The gentlemen were arrayed in shiny
broad-cloth, with narrow black ties, tied in a careless bow; the lady
wore long curls all down her back and a brown alpaca gown; and they
all seemed under the impression that the most important sights which
awaited them were the Metropolitan Tabernacle and some tunnel under
the Thames. The only other passenger was a rather smart-looking
gentleman with a flower in his buttonhole, who made himself very
pleasant; engaged Austin in conversation, gave him hints as to how
best to enjoy himself in London, asked him a number of questions about
where he lived and how he spent his time, and finished up by inviting
him to lunch. But Austin, never having seen the man before, declined;
and no amount of persuasion availed to make him alter his decision.
On arrival in London, he got into an omnibus--not daring to call a
cab, lest he should pay the cabman a great deal too much or a great
deal too little--and in a short time was set down near Waterloo Place,
where the bank was situated. His first care was to relieve himself of
the precious documents, and this he did at once; but he thought the
clerk looked at him in a disagreeably sharp and suspicious manner, and
wondered whether it was possible he might be accused of forgery and
given in charge to a policeman. The papers consisted of some
dividend-warrants payable to bearer, and an endorsed cheque, and the
clerk examined them with a most formidable and inquisitorial frown.
Then he asked Austin what his name was, and where he lived; and Austin
blushed and stammered to such an extent and made such confused replies
that the clerk looked more suspiciously at him than ever, and Austin
had it on the tip of his tongue to assure him that he really had not
stolen the documents, or forged Aunt Charlotte's name, or infringed
the laws in any way whatever that he could think of. But just then the
clerk, who had been holding a muttered consultation with another
gentleman of equally threatening aspect, turned to him again with a
less aggressive expression, as much as to say that he'd let him off
this time if he promised never to do it any more, and intimated, with
a sort of grudging nod, that he was free to go if he liked. Which
Austin, much relieved, forthwith proceeded to do.
Then he stumped off as hard as he could go to the Post-Office near by,
to despatch the telegram which should set Aunt Charlotte's mind at
ease; and by dint of carefully observing what all the other people did
managed to get hold of a telegraph-form and write his message.
"Documents all safe in the Bank.--Your affectionate Austin." That
would do beautifully, he thought. Then he offered it to a
proud-looking young lady who lived behind a barricade of brass
palings, and the young lady, having read it through (rather to his
indignation) and rapidly counted the words, gave him a couple of
stamps. But he explained, with great politeness, that he did not wish
it to go by post, as it was most important that it should reach its
destination before lunch-time; whereupon the young lady burst into a
hearty laugh, and asked him how soon he was going back to school.
Austin coloured furiously, rectified his mistake, and bolted.
In Piccadilly Circus his attention was immediately attracted by a
number of stout, florid, elderly ladies who were selling some most
lovely bouquets for the buttonhole. This was a temptation impossible
to resist, and he lost no time in choosing one. It cost fourpence, and
Austin was so charmed at the skilful way in which the florid lady he
had patronised pinned it into the lapel of his jacket that he raised
his hat to her on parting with as much ceremony as though she had been
a duchess at the very least. Then, observing that his shoe was dusty,
he submitted it to a merry-looking shoeblack, who not only cleaned it
and creamed it to perfection but polished up his wooden leg as well;
Austin, in his usual absent-minded way, humming to himself the while.
During the operation there suddenly rushed up a drove of very
ungainly-looking objects, who, in point of fact, were persons lately
arrived from Lancashire to play a football match at the Alexandra
Palace--though Austin, of course, could not be expected to know that;
and two of these, staring at him as though he were a wild animal that
they had never seen before, enquired with much solicitude how his
mother was, and whether he was having a happy day. Austin took no more
notice of them than if they had been flies, but as soon as the
shoeblack had finished, and been generously rewarded, he presented
them each with a penny.
"Wot's this for?" growled the foremost. "We ain't beggars, we ain't.
Wot d'ye mean by it?"
"Aren't you? I thought you were," said Austin. "However, you can keep
the pennies. They will buy you bread, you know."
The fellows edged off, muttering resentfully, and Austin prepared to
cross the road to Piccadilly. The next moment he received a violent
blow on the shoulder from an advancing horse, and was knocked clean
off his legs. He was in the act of half-consciously taking off his hat
and begging the horse's pardon when a stout policeman, coming to the
rescue, lifted him bodily up in one arm, and, carrying him over the
crossing, deposited him safely on the pavement. He recovered his
breath in a minute or two, and then began to walk down Piccadilly
towards the Park.
The streets were gay and crowded, partly with black and grey people
who seemed to be going about some business or other, but starred
beautifully here and there with bright-eyed, clear-skinned, slender
youths in straw hats, something like Austin himself, enjoying their
release from school. Phalanxes of smartly-dressed ladies impeded the
traffic outside the windows of all the millinery shops, omnibuses
rattled up and down in a never-ending procession, and strident urchins
with little pink newspapers under their arms yelled for all they were
worth. Austin, absorbed in the cheerful spectacle, sauntered hither
and thither, now attracted by the fresh verdure of the Green Park, now
gazing with vivid interest at the ever-varying types of humanity that
surged around him; blissfully unconscious that every one was staring
at him, as though wondering who the pale-faced boy with eager eyes and
a shiny black wooden leg could be, and why he went zigzagging to and
fro and peering so excitedly about as though he had never seen any
shops or people in his life before. At last he arrived at the Corner,
and, turning into the Park, spent a quarter of an hour watching the
riders in Rotten Row; then he crossed to the Marble Arch, passing a
vast array of gorgeous flowers in full bloom, listened wonderingly to
an untidy orator demolishing Christianity for the benefit of a little
knot of errand-boys and nursemaids, took another omnibus along Oxford
Street to the Circus, and, after an enchanting walk down Regent
Street, entered a bright little Italian restaurant in the Quadrant,
where he had a delightful lunch. This disposed of, he found that he
could afford a full hour to have a look at the National Gallery
without danger of losing his train, and off he plodded towards
Trafalgar Square to make the most of his opportunity.
Meanwhile Aunt Charlotte received her telegram, and, greatly relieved
by its contents, spent an agreeable day. It was not to be wondered at
if she felt a little fluttering excitement at the prospect of seeing
her old suitor, and was more than usually fastidious in the
arrangement of her modest toilet. Lubin had been requisitioned to
provide a special supply of the freshest and finest flowers for the
drawing-room, and she had herself gone to the pastrycook's to order
the cheese-cakes and cream-tarts on which the expected visitor was to
be regaled. Of course she kept on telling herself all the time what a
foolish old woman she was, and how silly Mr Ogilvie would think her if
he only knew of all her little fussy preparations; men who had knocked
about the world hated to be fidgeted over and made much of, and no
doubt it was quite natural they should. And then she went bustling off
to impress on Martha the expediency of giving the silver tea-service
an extra polish, and to be sure and see that the toast was crisp and
fresh. When at last she sat down with a book in front of her in order
to pass the time she found her attention wandering, and her thoughts
recurring to the last occasion on which she had seen Granville
Ogilvie. He had been rather a fine-looking young man in those
days--tall, straight, and well set up; and well she remembered the
whimsical way he had of speaking, the humorous glance of his eye, and
those baffling intonations of voice that made it so difficult for her
to be sure whether he were in jest or earnest. That he had
confessedly been attracted by her was a matter of common knowledge.
Why had she given him no encouragement? Perhaps it was because she had
never understood him; because she had never been able to feel any real
rapport between them, because their minds moved on different planes,
and never seemed to meet. She had no sense of humour, and no insight;
he was elusive, difficult to get into touch with; all she knew of him
was his exterior, and that, for her, was no guide to the man beneath.
Then he had dropped out of her life, and for five and twenty years she
had never heard of him. Whatever chance she may have had was gone, and
gone for ever. Did she regret it, now that she was able to look back
upon the past so calmly? She thought not. And yet, as she meditated on
those far-off days when she was young and pretty, the intervening
years seemed to be annihilated, and she felt herself once more a girl
of twenty-two, with a young man hovering around her, always on the
verge of a proposal that she herself staved off.
She was not agitated, but she was very curious to see what he would
look like, and just a little anxious lest there should be any
awkwardness about their meeting. But eventually it came about in the
most natural manner in the world, and if anybody had peeped into the
shady drawing-room just at the time when Austin's train was steaming
into the station, there would certainly have been nothing in the scene
to suggest any tragedy or romance whatever. Aunt Charlotte, in a
pretty white lace _fichu_ set off with rose-coloured bows, was
dispensing tea with hospitable smiles, while Martha handed cakes and
poured a fresh supply of hot water into the teapot. Opposite, sat the
long expected visitor; no lean, brown adventurer, no Indian nabob, and
certainly no artist, but a tallish, large-featured, and somewhat
portly gentleman, with a ruddy complexion, good teeth, and a general
air of prosperity. His fashionable pale-grey frock-coat, evidently the
work of a good tailor, fitted him like a glove; he wore, also, a white
waistcoat, a gold eye-glass, and patent leather shoes. His appearance,
in short, was that of a thoroughly well-groomed, though slightly
over-dressed, London man; and he impressed both Martha and Aunt
Charlotte with being a very fine gentleman indeed, for his manners
were simply perfect, if perhaps a little studied. He dropped his
gloves into his hat with a graceful gesture as he accepted a cup of
tea, and then, turning to his hostess, said----
"It is indeed delightful to meet you after all these years; it seems
to bring back old times so vividly. And the years have dealt very
gently with you, my dear friend. I should have known you anywhere."
It was not quite certain to Aunt Charlotte whether she could
truthfully have returned the compliment. There are some elderly people
in whom it is the easiest thing in the world to recognise the features
of their youth. Allow for a little accentuation of facial lines, a
little roughening of the skin, a little modification in the
arrangement of the hair, and the face is virtually the same. Aunt
Charlotte herself was one of these, but Granville Ogilvie was not. She
might even have passed him in the street. That he was the man she had
known was beyond question, but there was a puffiness under the eyes
and a fulness about the cheeks that altered the general effect of his
appearance, and in spite of his modish dress and elaborate manners he
seemed to have grown just a little coarse. Still, remembering what a
bird of passage he had been, and the many experiences he must have had
by land and sea, all that was not to be wondered at. It was really
remarkable, everything considered, that he had managed to preserve
himself so well.
"Oh, I'm an old woman now," replied Aunt Charlotte with an almost
youthful blush. "But I've had a peaceful life if rather a monotonous
one, and I've nothing to complain of. It is very good of you to have
remembered me, and I'm more glad than I can say to see you again. It's
a quarter of a century since we met!"
"It seems like yesterday," Mr Ogilvie assured her. "And yet how many
things have happened in the meantime! This charming house of yours is
a perfect haven of rest. Why do people knock about the world as they
do, when they might stay quietly at home?"
"Nay, it is rather I who should ask you that," laughed Aunt Charlotte.
"It is you who have been knocking about, you know, not I. Men are so
fond of adventures, while we women have to content ourselves with a
very humdrum sort of life. You've been a great traveller, have you
not?"
This was a mild attempt at pumping on the part of Aunt Charlotte, for
Mr Ogilvie certainly did not give one the idea of an explorer. But she
was consumed with curiosity to knew where he had spent the years
since she had seen him last, and now brought all her artless ingenuity
into play in order to find out.
"Yes, I was always a roving, restless sort of fellow," said Mr
Ogilvie. "Never could stay long in the same place, you know. I often
wonder how long it will be before I settle down for good."
"Well, I almost envy you," confessed Aunt Charlotte, nibbling a
cheese-cake. "I love travels and adventures; in books, of course, I
mean. I've been reading Captain Burnaby's 'Ride to Khiva' lately, and
that wonderful 'Life of Sir Richard Burton.' What marvellous nerve
such men must have! To think of the disguises, for instance, they were
forced to adopt, when detection would have cost them their lives! You
should write your travels too, you know; I'm sure they'd be most
exciting. Were you ever compelled to disguise yourself when you were
travelling?"
"I should rather think so," replied Mr Ogilvie, nodding his head
impressively. "And that, my dear lady, under circumstances in which
disguise was absolutely imperative. The most serious results would
have followed if I hadn't done so; not death, perhaps, but utter and
irretrievable ruin. However, here I am, you see, safe and sound, and
none the worse for it after all. What delicious cream-tarts these are,
to be sure! They remind one of the Arabian Nights. In Persia, by the
way, they put pepper in them."
"Oh dear! I don't think I should like that at all," exclaimed Aunt
Charlotte, naïvely. "And have you really been in Persia? You must have
enjoyed that very much. I suppose you saw some magnificent scenery in
your wanderings?"
"Oh, magnificent, magnificent," assented the great traveller.
"Mountains, forests, castles, glaciers, and everything you can think
of. But I've never got quite as far as Persia, you understand, and
just at present I feel more interested in England. I sometimes think
that I shall never leave English shores again."
"And you are not married?" ventured the lady, with a tremor of
hesitation in her voice. She had rushed on her destruction unawares.
"No--no," replied the man who had once wanted to marry her. "And at
this moment I'm very glad I'm not."
"Oh, are you? Why?" exclaimed the foolish woman. "Don't you believe in
marriage?"
"In the abstract--oh, yes," said Mr Ogilvie, with meaning. "But my
chance of married happiness escaped me years ago."
Aunt Charlotte blushed hotly. She felt angry with herself for having
given him an opening for such a remark, and annoyed with him for
taking advantage of it. "Let me give you some more tea," she said.
"Thank you so much, but I never exceed two cups," replied Mr Ogilvie,
who did not particularly care for tea. "And yet there comes a time,
you know, when the sight of so peaceful and attractive a home as this
makes one wish that one had one like it of one's own. Of course a man
has his tastes, his hobbies, his ambitions--every man, I mean, of
character. And I am a man of character. But indulgence in a hobby is
not incompatible with the love of a fireside, and the blessings of
_dulce domum_, to say nothing of the _placens uxor_, who is the only
true goddess of the hearth. Yes, dear friend, I confess that I should
like--that I positively long--to marry. That is why, paradoxical as it
may appear, I congratulate myself on not being married already. But,
of course, in all such cases, the man himself is not the only factor
to be reckoned with. The lady must be found, and the lady's consent
obtained. And there we have the rub."
"Dear me! how very unfortunate!" was all Aunt Charlotte could think of
to remark. "And can't you find the lady?"
"I thought I had found her once," said Mr Ogilvie.
Then he deliberately rose from his chair, brushed a few crumbs from his
coat, and took a few steps up and down the room. "Listen to me, dear
friend," he began, in low, earnest tones. "There was a time--far be it
from me to take undue advantage of these reminiscences--when you and I
were thrown considerably together. At that time, that far-off, happy,
and yet most tantalising time, I was bold enough to cherish certain
aspirations." Here he took up his position behind a chair, resting his
hands lightly on the back of it. "That those aspirations were not wholly
unsuspected by you I had reason to believe. I may, of course, have been
mistaken; love, or vanity if you prefer it, may blind the wisest of us.
In any case, if I was vain, my pride came to the rescue, and sooner than
incur the humiliation of a refusal--possibly a scornful refusal--I kept
my secret locked in the inmost sanctuary of my heart, and went away."
Mr Ogilvie illustrated his disappearance into vacancy by a slight but
most expressive gesture of his arms. "I simply went away. And now I have
come back. I have unburdened myself before you. In the years that are
past, I was silent. Now I have spoken. And I am here to know what answer
you have in your heart to give me."
It had actually come. She remembered how she had told herself that,
though she could never dream of marrying, it really would be very
pleasant to be asked. But now that the proposal had been made she felt
most horribly embarrassed. What in the world was she to say to the
man? She knew him not one bit better than she had done when she saw
him last. He puzzled her more than ever. He did not look like a
despairing lover, but a singularly plump and prosperous gentleman; and
certainly the silver-grey frock-coat, and gold eye-glass, and
varnished shoes struck her as singularly out of harmony with the
extraordinary speech he had just delivered. Yet it was evidently
impromptu, and possibly would never have been delivered at all had not
she herself so blunderingly led up to it. And it was not a bad speech
in its way. There was something really effective about it--or perhaps
it was in the manner of its delivery. So she sat in silence, most
dreadfully ill at ease, and not finding a single word wherewith to
answer him.
"Charlotte," said Mr Ogilvie in a low voice, bending over her,
"Charlotte."
"Mr Ogilvie!" gasped the unhappy lady, almost frightened out of her
wits.
"You _once_ called me Granville," he murmured, trying to take her
hand.
"But I can't do it again!" cried Aunt Charlotte, shaking her head
vigorously. "It wouldn't be proper. We are just two old people, you
see, and--and----"
"H'm!" Mr Ogilvie straightened himself again. "It is true I am no
longer in my first youth, and time has certainly left its mark upon my
lineaments; but you, dear friend, are one of those whose charms
intensify with years." Here he took out a white pocket-handkerchief,
and passed it lightly across his eyes. "But I have startled you, and I
am sorry. I have sprung upon you, suddenly and thoughtlessly, what I
ought to have only hinted at. I have erred from lack of delicacy.
Forgive me my impulsiveness, my ardour. I was ever a blunt man, little
versed in the arts of diplomacy and _finesse_. For years I have
looked forward to this moment; in my dreams, in my waking hours,
in----"
"Pardon me one moment," said Aunt Charlotte, starting to her feet. "I
know I'm sadly rude to interrupt you, but I hear my nephew in the
hall, and I must just say a word to him before he comes in. I'll be
back immediately. You will forgive me--won't you?"
She floundered to the door, leaving Mr Ogilvie no little disconcerted
at his appeal being thus cut short. Austin had just come in, and was
in the act of hanging up his hat when his aunt appeared.
"Well, auntie!" he said. "And has the gentleman arrived?"
"Hush!" breathed Aunt Charlotte, as she pointed a warning finger to
the door. "He's in the drawing-room. Austin, you've come back in the
very nick of time. Don't ask me any questions. My dear, you were right
after all."
"Ah!" was all Austin said. "Well?"
"Come in with me at once, we can't keep him waiting," said Aunt
Charlotte hastily. "I'll explain everything to you afterwards. Never
mind your hair--you look quite nice enough. And mind--your very
prettiest manners, for my sake."
What in the world she meant by this Austin couldn't imagine, but
instantly took up the cue. The two entered the room together. Mr
Ogilvie was standing a little distance off in an attitude of
expectancy, his eyes turned towards the door. Aunt Charlotte took a
step forward, and prepared to introduce her nephew. Austin suddenly
paused; gazed at the visitor for one instant with an expression that
no one had ever seen upon his face before; and then, falling flop upon
the nearest easy-chair, went straightway into a paroxysm of hysterical
and frantic laughter.
"Austin! Austin! Have you gone out of your mind?" cried his aunt,
almost beside herself with stupefaction. "Is this your good behaviour?
What in the world's the matter with the boy now?"
"It's _Mr Buskin!_" shrieked Austin, hammering his leg upon the floor
in a perfect ecstasy of delight. "The step-uncle! Oh, do slap me,
auntie, or I shall go on laughing till I die!"
"_Who's_ Mr Buskin?" gasped his aunt, bewildered. "This is Mr
Granville Ogilvie. What Buskin are you raving about, for Heaven's
sake?"
"It's Mr Buskin the actor," panted Austin breathlessly, as he began to
recover himself. "He was at the theatre here, some time ago. How do
you do, Mr Buskin? Oh, please forgive me for being so rude. I hope
you're pretty well?"
Mr Ogilvie had not budged an inch. But when Austin came in he had
started violently. "Great Scott! Young Dot-and-carry-One!" he
muttered, but so low that no one heard him. He now advanced a pace or
two, and cleared his throat.
"I have certainly had the honour of meeting this young gentleman
before," he said, in his most stately manner. "He was even kind enough
to present me with his card, but I fear I did not pay as much
attention to the name as it deserved. It is true, my dear lady, that I
am known to Europe under the designation he ascribes to me; but to you
I am what I have always been and always shall be--Granville Ogilvie,
and your most humble slave."
"Is it possible?" ejaculated Aunt Charlotte faintly.
"You will, no doubt, attribute to its true source the concealment I
have exercised towards you respecting my life for the last
five-and-twenty years," resumed Mr Ogilvie, with a candid air. "I was
ever the most modest of men, and the modesty which, from a gross and
worldly point of view, has always been the most formidable obstacle in
my path, prohibited my avowing to you the secret of my profession.
Still, I practised no deceit; indeed, I confessed in the most artless
fashion that, in my wanderings--in other words, on tour--I was
compelled to assume disguises, and that some of my scenery was
magnificent. But why should I defend myself? _Qui s'excuse s'accuse_;
and now that this very engaging young gentleman has saved me the
trouble of revealing the position in life that I am proud to occupy,
there is nothing more to be said. We were interrupted, you remember,
at a crisis of our conversation. I crave your permission to add, at a
crisis of our lives. Far be it from me to----"
"I am afraid I am scarcely equal to renewing the conversation at the
point where we broke off," said Aunt Charlotte, who now felt her wits
getting more under control. "Indeed, Mr Ogilvie, I have nothing to
reproach you with. I had no right to enquire what your profession was,
and still less have I a right to criticise it. But of course you will
understand that the subject we were speaking of must never be
mentioned again."
The lover sighed. It was not a bad situation, and his long experience
enabled him to make it quite effective. Silently he took his gloves
out of his hat, paused, and then dropped them in again, with the very
faintest and most dramatic gesture of despair. The action was trifling
in the extreme, but it was performed by a play-actor who knew his
business, and Aunt Charlotte felt as though cold water were running
down her back. Then he turned, quite beautifully, to Austin.
"And you, young gentleman. And what have _you_ to say?" he asked in a
carefully choking voice.
"That I like you even better in your present part than as
Sardanapalus," replied Austin, cordially.
"The tribute is two-edged," observed the actor with a shrug. And
certainly he had acted well, and dressed the character to perfection.
But the takings of the performance, alas, had not paid expenses. He
really had a sentiment for the lady he had been wooing, and the
prospect of a solid additional income--for it was clear she was in
very easy circumstances--had smiled upon him not unpleasantly. And
why should she not have married him? He was her equal in birth, they
had been possible lovers in their youth, he had made a name for
himself meanwhile, and, after all, there was no stain upon his honour.
But she had now definitely refused. The little comedy had been played
out. There was nothing for him to do but to make a graceful exit, and
this he did in a way that brought tears to the lady's eyes. "Oh, need
you go?" she urged with fatuous politeness. Austin was more friendly
still; he reminded Mr Ogilvie that having returned so late he had had
no opportunity of enjoying a renewal of their acquaintance, and begged
him to remain a little longer for a chat and a cigarette. But Mr
Ogilvie was too much of an artist to permit an anti-climax. The
catastrophe had come off, and the curtain must be run down quick. So
he wrenched himself away with what dignity he might, and, relapsing
into his natural or Buskin phase as soon as he got outside, comforted
himself with a glass of stiff whiskey and water at the refreshment bar
of the railway station before getting into the train for London.