A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE.
The remainder of that day was passed by Julian in the society of
Beatrix--since Mr. Spranger never came back to his establishment--which
was called "Floresta"--until he returned for good in the evening; the
summer noontide heat causing a drive to and from Belize for lunch to be
a journey too full of discomfort to be worth undertaking. Therefore,
this young man and woman were drawn into a companionship so close that,
ere long, it seemed to each of them that they had been acquainted for a
considerable time, while to Beatrix it began to appear that when once
Lieutenant Ritherdon should have taken his departure, the cool shady
garden of her abode would prove a vastly more desolate place than it
had ever done before.
But, while these somewhat dreary meditations occupied her thoughts,
Julian was himself revolving in his own mind a determination to which
he had almost, if not quite, arrived at as yet--a determination that
she should be made a confidante of what engrossed now the greater part
of his reflections, i.e., the mystery which surrounded both his own
birth and that of Sebastian Ritherdon. The greater part, but not the
whole of these reflections! because he soon observed that one other
form--a form far different from the handsome but somewhat rough and
saturnine figure and personality of his cousin Sebastian--was ever
present in his mind and, if not absolutely present before his actual
eyes, was never absent from his thoughts.
That form was the tall, graceful figure of Beatrix, surmounted by the
shapely head and beautiful features of the girl; the head crowned by
masses of fair curling hair, from beneath which those calm and clear
blue eyes gazed out through the thick and somewhat darker lashes.
"I must do it," he was musing to himself now, as they sat in the shade
when the light luncheon was over, and while around them were all the
languorous accompaniments of a tropic summer day, with, also, the
cloying, balmy odours of the tropic summer atmosphere; "I must do it,
must take her into my confidence, obtain her opinion as well as her
father's. She can see as far as any one, as she showed plainly enough
by her manner when I told her about my ride on that confounded horse.
She might in this case perhaps, see something, divine something of
that which at present is hidden from her father and from me."
Yet, although he had by now arrived at the determination to impart to
her all that now so agitated him, he also resolved that he would not
do so until he had taken her father's opinion on the subject.
"He will not refuse, I imagine," he thought to himself. "Why should
he? Especially when I represent to him that, by excluding her from the
various confidences which he and I must exchange on the matter--since
he has evidently thrown himself heart and soul into unravelling the
mystery--we shall also be dooming her to a great many hours of dulness
and lack of companionship."
But this, perhaps, savoured a little of sophistry--although probably
imperceptibly so to himself--since it must be undoubted that he also
recognised how great a lack of her companionship he was likewise
dooming himself to if she was not allowed to participate in their
conversation on the all important subject.
Young people are, however, sometimes more or less of sophists,
especially those who, independently of all other concerns of
importance, are experiencing a certain attractiveness that is being
exercised by members of the other sex into whose companionship they
are much thrown by chance.
The day drew on; above them the heat--that subtle tropical heat which
has been justly compared with the atmosphere of a Turkish bath or the
engine room of a steamer--was exerting its full and irresistible power
on all and everything that was subject to its influence. Even the
yellow-headed parrots had now ceased their chattering and clacking;
while Beatrix's pet monkey, whose home was on the lower branches of a
huge thatch-palm, presented a mournful appearance of senile
exhaustion, as it sat with its head bowed on its breast and its now
drawn-down, wizened features a picture of absolute but resigned
despair. And even those two human beings, each ordinarily so full of
life and youth and vigour, appeared as if--despite all laws of good
breeding to the effect that friends and acquaintances should not go to
sleep in each other's presence--they were about to yield to the
atmospheric influence. Julian knew that he was nodding, even while, as
he glanced to where Beatrix's great fan had now ceased to sway, he was
still wide awake enough to suspect that his were not the only eyes
that were struggling to keep open.
As thus all things human and animal succumbed, or almost succumbed, to
the dead, unruffled atmosphere, and while, too, the scarlet flowers of
the flamboyants and the lilac-coloured blossoms of the oleanders
drooped, across the lawn so carefully sown, with English grass seeds
every spring and mowed and watered regularly, there fell a heavy
footstep on the ears of Beatrix and Julian--footsteps proclaimed
clearly by the jingle of spurs, if in no other way. And, a moment
later, a sonorous voice was heard, expressing regret for thus
disturbing so grateful a siesta and for intruding at all.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ritherdon," Julian said, somewhat coldly, as now
Sebastian came close to them; while Beatrix--her face as calm as
though no drowsiness had come near her since the past night--greeted
him with a civility that might almost have been termed glacial, and
was, undoubtedly, distant. "I suppose you have heard of my little
adventure on the horse you so kindly exchanged for my mustang?"
"It is for that that I am here," the other answered, dropping into a
basket-chair towards which Beatrix coldly waved her hand. "I cannot
tell you what my feelings, my remorse, were on hearing what had
befallen you. Good Heavens! think--just think--how I should have felt
if any real, any serious accident had befallen you! Yet, it was not my
fault."
"No?" asked Julian. "No? Did you not know the animal's peculiarities,
then?"
"Of course. Naturally. But, owing to the carelessness of one of the
stable hands, you were given the wrong one. I can tell you that that
fellow has had the best welting he ever had in his life and has been
sent off the estate. You won't see him there when you return to me."
"No," thought Beatrix to herself, "he won't. And what's more he never
would have seen him, unless he has the power of creating imaginary
people out of those who have no actual existence." While, although her
lips did not move, there was in her eyes a look--conveyed by a hasty
glance towards Julian, which told him as plainly as words could have
done, what her thoughts were.
"We had bought a new draft of horses," Sebastian went on, "and by a
mistake this one--the one on which you rode--got into the wrong stall,
the stall properly belonging to the animal you ought to have had.
Heavens!" he exclaimed again, "when I heard that it had been found
lying dead near All Pines and that you had been attended to
there--your injuries being exaggerated, I am thankful to see--I
thought I should have gone mad. You, my guest, my cousin, to be
treated thus."
"It doesn't matter. Only, when I come to see you, I hope your
stableman will be more careful."
As he spoke of returning to Desolada once more, the other man's face
lit up with a look of pleasure in the same manner that it had done on
a previous occasion. Any one regarding him now would have said that
there was a generous, hospitable host, to whom no greater satisfaction
could be afforded than to hear that his invitations were sought after
and acceptable.
He did not deceive either of his listeners, however; not Julian, who
now had reason to suspect many things in connection with this man's
existence and possession of Desolada; nor Beatrix who, without knowing
what Julian knew, had always disliked Sebastian and, since the affair
of the horse, had formed the most unfavourable opinions concerning his
good faith.
Probably, however, Sebastian, who also had good reasons for doubting
whether either of them was likely to believe his explanations,
scarcely expected that they should be deceived. He expressed,
nevertheless, the greatest, indeed the most vivid, satisfaction at
Julian's words, and exclaimed, "Ah! when next you come to see me? That
is it--what I desire. You shall be well treated, I can assure you--the
honoured relative, and all that kind of thing. Now fix the date, Mr.
Rither--cousin Julian."
The poets and balladmongers (also the lady novelists) have told us so
frequently that there is no possibility of our ever forgetting it,
that there exists, such a thing as the language of the eyes, while, to
confirm their statements, we most of us have our own special knowledge
on the subject. And that language was now being used with considerable
vehemence by Beatrix as a means of conveying her thoughts to Julian,
her sweet blue eyes signalling clearly to him a message which she took
care should be unseen by Sebastian. A message that, if put into words,
would have said: "Don't go! Don't go!" or, "Don't fix a date."
But--although Julian understood perfectly that language--it was not
his cue to act upon it at the present moment. Beatrix did not know all
yet, though he was determined she should do so that very night; and,
also, he had already resolved that he would once more become an inmate
of Desolada. There, if anywhere, he believed that some proof might be
found, some circumstances discovered to throw a light upon what he
believed to be a strange reversal of the proper state of things that
ought to actually exist; in short, he was determined to accept
Sebastian's invitation.
Purposely avoiding Beatrix's glance, therefore, while meaning to
explain his reason for doing so later on, when they should be alone,
he said now to his cousin--
"You are very good, and, of course, I shall be delighted to come back
and stay with you. As to the date, well! Mr. and Miss Spranger are so
kind and hospitable that you must let me avail myself of their welcome
for a little longer. I suppose a day need not be actually fixed just
now?"
"Why, no, my dear fellow," Sebastian exclaimed, with that almost
boisterous cordiality which he had unfailingly evinced since they had
first met, and which might be either real or assumed. "Why, no, of
course not. Indeed, there is no need to fix any date at all. There is
the house and everything in it, and there am I. Come when you like and
you will find a welcome, rough as it must needs be in this country,
but at any rate sincere."
After which there was nothing more for Julian to do than to mutter
courteous thanks for such proffered hospitality and to promise that,
ere long, he would again become a guest at Desolada.
They walked with Sebastian now to the stable, where his horse was
awaiting him, Beatrix proffering refreshment--to omit which courtesy
to a visitor would have been contrary to all the established, though
unwritten, laws of Honduras, as well as, one may say, of most
colonies--but Sebastian, refusing this, rode off to Belize, where he
said he had business. And Julian could not help wondering to himself
if that business could possibly have any connection with the same
affairs which had brought him out from England.
"You either didn't see my signals, or misunderstood them," Beatrix
said, as now they returned once more to the coolness of the garden.
"Pardon me," Julian replied, "I did. Only, it is necessary--absolutely
necessary, I think--that I should pay another visit to my cousin's
house. To-night your father and I are going to invite your opinion on
a matter between Sebastian and me. Then I think you will also agree
that it is necessary for me to return to Desolada."
"I may do so," Beatrix said, "but all the same I don't like the idea
of your being an inhabitant of that place--of your being under his
roof again."