Never but once to meet on earth again!
She heard me as I fled--her eager tone
Sank on my heart, and almost wove a chain
Around my will to link it with her own,
So that my stern resolve was almost gone.
"I can not reach thee! whither dost thou fly?
My steps are faint. Come back, thou dearest one!
Return, ah me! return!"--The wind passed by
On which those accents died, faint, far, and lingeringly.
SHELLEY, _The Revolt of Islam._
After a prolonged visit in Montreal, Nina had been back in Toronto for a
short time, during which she had seen no one except Jack, whose two
visits she had rendered so unpleasant that he felt inclined to do
anything from _hara-kari_ to marrying somebody else.
At this time Geoffrey received a note one morning, addressed in Nina's
handwriting. He turned pale as he tore it open:
"DEAR MR. HAMPSTEAD: I wish to see you for a moment this
afternoon. If not too much trouble, would you call here at five
o'clock?
"Yours sincerely,
"MOSSBANK, _Tuesday._
"NINA LINDON."
There was nothing very exciting on the face of this line, nothing to
create wrath. Yet Geoffrey tore it into shreds as if it had struck him a
blow and was dangerous.
When he was shown into the drawing-room at Mossbank that afternoon, he
was stepping forward with courteous demeanor and a faint "company smile"
on his face, ready to look placidly and innocently upon any people who
might be calling at the time. He passed noiselessly over the thick
carpets toward the place where Nina was sitting, seeing quickly that
there was nobody else in the room, but aware that the servant was
probably at the door.
"How-de-do, Miss Lindon?" he said aloud, for the benefit of the
inquisitive. "So you have come back to Toronto at last?"
"Yes," said Nina, also with an engaging smile. "And how have you been
since I saw you last?" There was a charming inflection in her "company
voice" as she said these words. Then, raising her tone a little, she
said "Howard."
The servant outside the door took several steps in a circle on the
tesselated pavement of the hall to intimate that he approached from afar
and then appeared.
"Shut the door, please, Howard," said Nina softly. The man obliterated
himself.
As soon as they were alone the heavenly sweetness of the caller and the
called upon vanished. Geoffrey's face became grave and his eyes
penetrating. He went toward her and took her hand in an effort to be
kind, while he looked at her searchingly with a pale face. Nina looked
weary and anxious. Neither of them spoke for a while. As Geoffrey
regarded her, she turned to him beseechingly with both anxiety and
affection in her expression. What he interpreted from the unhappiness of
her visage was more than sufficient to disturb his equanimity. He got up
and walked silently and quickly twice backward and forward. During this
moment his mind apparently made itself up on some point finally, for, as
he sat down as abruptly as he had risen, the tension of his face gave
place to something more like nonchalance and kindness.
"You have something to tell me?" he said, in tones that endeavored to be
kind.
Nina's face--sad, sorrowful, and tearful--bent itself low that she might
hide it from his sight. "Yes," she managed to say at last, almost
inaudibly.
Geoffrey endeavored to assist her. "Don't say any more," said he. "Bad
news, I suppose?"
"The very worst," cried Nina, starting up, her eyes dilating wildly and
despairingly with a sudden accession of fear.
"Hush, hush!" said Geoffrey, laying his hand soothingly and kindly on
her arm. "You must not give way like that. You must control yourself. We
have both of us too much at stake to tell our story to every one who
likes to listen. Come and let us sit down and talk things over
sensibly."
She gave him a quick look, half reproach, as if to say, "It is easy for
_you_ to be calm." But she sat down beside him, holding his coat-sleeve
with both hands--hardly knowing what she did.
Hampstead leaned back, crossed his long legs in front of him, and
counted the eyelet holes in his boot. Then he took her hand, in order to
appear kind and to deal with the matter in an off-hand way.
"As Thackeray says, Nina, 'truly, friend, life is strewn with
orange-peel.' Now and then we get a bad tumble; but we always get up
again. And I don't think that we ought to allow ourselves to be counted
among those weak creatures who most complain of the strength of a
temptation that takes at least a year to work up. After all, there is no
denying Rochefoucauld's wisdom when he said: 'C'est une espece de
bonheur de connaitre jusques a quel point on doit etre malheureux.' I
have been in a good many worries one way or another, and I always got
out of them. We will get out of this one all right, so cheer up and take
heart."
"I don't see how," said Nina, turning her head away and feeling a sudden
hope. What was he going to say? Then she recollected that she had
lavished a small income on a dress especially for this interview.
Perhaps if he had an idea worth the hearing the dress might help it out.
She arose, as if absently, and walked to the side window and rested her
elbows against the sash in front of her. The attitude was graceful. As
she turned half over her shoulder to look back at him she could hardly
have appeared to better advantage. Her dress was really magnificent, and
it fitted a form that was ideal. In spite of his late resolutions,
Geoffrey was affected by the cunningly devised snare. A quick thought
came through his head, which he banished about as quickly as it came.
"Well, of course, there is only one thing to be done," said he
decisively, in a tone which told her that so far she had failed.
"What is that, dear Geoffrey? Do tell me, for I am very, very
miserable. And say it kindly, Geoffrey. Don't be too hard with me now."
As she said this she swept toward him. She sank down beside him and
kissed him, and looked up into his face. Again the thought came to him.
Here were riches. Here was a woman whose beauty was talked about in
every city in Canada, who could be his pride, who cared for him
despairingly. If he wished, this mansion and wealth could be his. The
delicate perfumes about her seemed to steal into his brain and affect
his thought.
An hour ago his resolves for himself had appeared so unchangeable that
they seemed of themselves to prop him up. And now he found himself
trying, with a brain that refused to assist him, to prop up his
resolutions, trying to remember what their best merits had been. One
glimmer of an idea was left in him--a purpose to preserve his fealty to
Margaret, and he thought that, if he could only get away for a moment to
think quietly, he might remember what the best points of his resolutions
had been. The perfumes, the beauty, the wealth, the liking he felt for
her, the duty he owed to her, and perhaps her concentration upon what
she desired--all conspired against him. But, with this part of an idea
left to him, he succeeded in being able slightly to turn his head away.
When she asked him again what was to be done there was an unreal
decisiveness in his voice as he said:
"Of course, the only thing to be done is for you to immediately marry
Jack."
She sprang from him as if he had stabbed her. She was furious with
disappointment.
"I will never marry Jack! What a dishonorable thing to propose!"
The idea of dishonor to Jack seemed, for the first time, quite an
argument. When the ethics of a matter can be utilized they suddenly seem
cogent.
"Very well," said Geoffrey, shrugging his shoulders and rising as if to
go away. "My idea was 'any port in a storm'--a poor idea, perhaps, and
certainly, as you say, entirely dishonorable, but still feasible. Of
course, if you have made up your mind not to marry him, we may as well
consider the interview as ended. I'm afraid I have nothing more to
suggest."
He did not intend to go away, but he held out his hand as if about to
say good-by. She stood half turned away trying to think. The idea of his
leaving her to her trouble dazed her. She was terrified to realize that
she would be without help.
"Oh, how cruel you are!"
She almost groaned as she spoke. She was in despair. She put her hands
to her head hopelessly, her eyes dilated with trouble.
"Don't go yet, Geoffrey." Then she tried to nerve herself for what she
had to say. After a pause: "Geoffrey, I can say things to you now, that
I could never have said before. I must speak to you fully before you go.
I must leave no stone unturned. There is no one to help me, so I must
look after myself in what must be said. I went away with you, Geoffrey,
because I loved you." She bit her lips to stay her tears and stopped to
regain a desperate fortitude. "I cared for you so much that being with
you seemed right--nay more, sacred. Oh, it drags me to the dust to speak
in this way! But I must. Does not my ruin give me a right to speak? The
question of a girl's reticence must be put away. I am forced to do the
best I can for myself. And now I say, will you stand by me?" Her head
drooped and her hands hung down by her side with shame at the position
she forced herself to take when she added: "Will you do me justice,
Geoffrey? Will you marry me?"
Hampstead was about to speak, but she knew at once that she had
asked too much, and she continued more quickly and more despairingly:
"Nay, I won't ask so much. I only ask you to take me away. I am
distracted. I don't know what to do. I will do anything. I will be
your slave. You need not marry me--only take me away and hide
me--somewhere--anywhere--for God's sake, Geoffrey, from my shame--from
my disgrace."
She was on her knees before him as she said these last words. If our
pleasure-loving acquaintance could have changed places with a
galley-slave at that moment he would have done so gladly.
The first thing he did was to endeavor to quiet the wildness of her
despair. To be surprised by any person with her on her knees before him
in an agony of tears would be a circumstance difficult to explain away.
As soon as he began to talk, it seemed to him a most dastardly thing to
sacrifice Margaret's life now to conceal his own wrong-doing. In the
light of this idea, Nina's wealth and beauty suddenly became tawdry.
Margaret's nobility and happiness suddenly seemed worth dying for. They
must not be wrecked in a moment of weakness. As if dispassionately, he
laid before Nina the history of their acquaintance, and also his 'other
obligations.' Really, it placed him in a very awkward, not to say
absurd, position. He wished to do what was right, but did not see his
way at all clear. The only way was to efface himself entirely, and
consider only what was due to others. Before the world he was engaged to
Margaret, and had been so all along. She had his word that he would
marry her. If it were only "his word" that had to be broken, that might
be done. But was the happiness of Margaret's life to be cast aside?
Which, of the two, was the more innocent--which, of the two, had the
better right or duty to bear the brunt of the disaster?
The way he effaced his own personality in this discourse was almost
picturesque. Justice blindfold, with impartial scales in her hand, was
nothing to him.
Nina said no word from beginning to end. All she heard in the discourse
was something to show her more and more that what she wished must be
given up. It was something to know that at least she had tried every
means in her power to move him--feeling that she had a helpless woman's
right to do so. And as the deep, kindly tones went on they calmed her
and gradually compelled her tacitly and wearily to accept his
suggestion, while his ingenuity showed her the sinuous path that lay
before her.
At the same time, in spite of all his arguments and her own resolutions,
she could not clearly see why she should be the one to suffer instead of
Margaret. Margaret had so much more strength of character to assist her.
The ability to bear up under sorrow and trouble was a virtue she was
ready to acknowledge to be weaker in herself than in others. The
confession of this weakness, through self-pity, seemed half a virtue,
even though only made to insist upon compensations.
* * * * *
The next day, Jack called by appointment.
"I thought I would just send for you, Jack," said Nina, looking half
angry and half smiling. "I felt as if I wanted to give trouble to
somebody, and I thought you were the most available person."
"Go ahead, then, old lady. I can stand it. There is nothing a fellow may
not become accustomed to."
Jack seated himself in one of Nina's new easy-chairs which yielded to
his weight so luxuriously that he thought he would like to get one like
it. He felt the softness of the long arms of the chair, and then,
regaining his feet, turned it round.
"That's a nice chair, Nina. How much did it put the old man back?"
Nina looked at him inquiringly.
"Cost--you know. How much did it spoil the old man?"
"How do I know? He bought it in New York with a lot of things. Do you
suppose I keep an inventory of prices to assist me in conversation?"
"I wish you did. I'd like to get one. But I don't know. When we get
married you can hand it out the back gate to me, you know, and then
we'll be one chair ahead--and a good one, too."
"I do wish you would leave off referring to getting married," said Nina.
And then, "By the way, that is what I wanted to speak to you about--"
Jack smiled. "Be careful," he said. "Don't set me a bad example by
referring to the subject yourself."
"Well, I will, for a change. I have been making up my mind
to end this way of dragging on existence. This sort of
neither-one-thing-nor-the-other has got to end. It wearies me. I am not
half as strong as I was. I went away to pick up, and now I am no
better."
"And how do you propose to end it?" Jack was surprised at the decision
in her voice.
"I propose to break it off all together," said she firmly.
"Of course," said Jack, "there is no other alternative for you but
marriage."
Nina was startled at first by these words. But he had only spoken them
casually.
"Certainly. A break off or marriage are the only alternatives. Going on
like this is what I will not stand any longer."
Jack was shaking in his shoes for fear this was the last of him. He
controlled his anxiety, though, and shutting his eyes, he leaned back,
supinely, as if he knew that what he said did not matter much. She would
do as she liked--no question about that!
"I have, I think, at some previous time," said he, from the recesses of
the chair where he was calmly judicial with his eyes shut, "advocated
the desirability of marriage. I think I have mentioned the subject
before. Of course, this is only an opinion, and not entitled, perhaps,
to a great deal of weight."
Nina for the first time in her life was annoyed that Jack was not
sufficiently ardent. The unfortunate young man had had cold water thrown
over him too many times. He was getting wise. To-day he was keeping out
of range. Nina had been decidedly eccentric lately and might give him
his _conge_ at any moment. She was evidently in a queer mood still, and,
to-day, Jack would give her no chance to gird at him.
This well-trained care on his part bid fair to make things awkward. She
saw that it had become necessary to draw him out, and with this object
in view she asked carelessly, as if she had been absent-minded and had
not heard him:
"What did you say then, Jack?"
"I was merely hinting, delicately, as an outsider might, that, of the
two important alternatives, marriage seems to offer you a greater scope
for breaking up the _ennui_ of a single life that a mere change from one
form of single life to another."
Jack did not see the bait she was holding out. He would not rise to it.
Really, it was maddening to have to lead _Jack_ on. He had been "trained
down too fine."
"Well, for my part," she said laughingly, with her cheek laid against
the soft plush of the sofa, "I don't seem to care now which of the
alternatives is adopted."
Jack remained quiet when he heard this. Then he said coolly: "If I were
not a wise man, that speech of yours would unduly excite me. But you
said you wanted some one to annoy, and I won't give you a chance. If I
took the advantage of the possibilities in your words we would certainly
have a row. No, old lady, you are setting a trap for me, in order that
you may scold afterward. You like having a row with me, but you can't
have one to-day. 'Burnt child'--you know."
What could be more provoking than this. Nina, in spite of her troubles,
saw the absurdity of her position, and laughed into the plush. But her
patience was at an end. She sat upright again and said vehemently:
"Jack Cresswell, you are a born fool!"
He looked up himself, then, from the chair. There was an expression in
Nina's face that he had not seen for a long time--a consenting and kind
look in her eyes. He got up, slowly, without any haste, still doubtful
of the situation; and as he came toward her his breath grew shorter. "I
believe I am a fool, but I could not believe what I wished. Is it true,
Nina, that you will take me at last?"
"Listen! Come and sit down, boy, and behave yourself."
Jack obeyed mechanically.
She turned around to face him, while she commanded his obedience and
gave her directions with finger upraised, as if she were teaching a dog
to sit up.
"To-morrow you will call upon my father at his office and ask his
consent to our immediate marriage."
"Tell me to do something hard, Nina. I feel rather cooped up, just now.
I could spring over that chandelier. I don't mind tackling the old
man--that's nothing. Haven't you got some lions' dens that want looking
after?"
"You'll feel tired enough when you come out of father's den, I'll
warrant."
"I dare say. What if he refuses?"
"Jack," said Nina, "I am an heiress. I dictate to every man but my
father. I have always had my own way, and always mean to have it. So,
beware! But I don't care, now, whether he refuses or not. I have come to
the conclusion that it was this long engagement that worried me, and I
am going to end it in short order. I am getting as thin as a scarecrow.
My bones are coming through my dress." Nina felt the top of one superbly
rounded arm and declared she could feel her collar-bone coming through
in that improbable place. "No, I don't care whether he refuses or not. I
am going to marry you, Jack, before the end of the week."
Next day Jack found himself not quite so brave as he thought he would be
on entering Mr. Joseph Lindon's office. He was ushered into a rather
shabby little room, which the millionaire thought was quite good enough
for him. He took a pride in its shabbiness. Joseph Lindon, he said, did
not have to impress people with brass and Brussels. There was more solid
monetary credit in his threadbare carpet than in all the plate glass and
gilt of any other establishment in the city.
Cresswell paused on the threshold as he entered, and then, feeling glad
that nobody else was in the room, advanced toward Mr. Lindon. Lindon saw
him out of the corner of his eye as he came in, and a saturnine smile
relaxed his face while he completed a sentence in a letter which he was
writing.
"Good morning, Jack," he said briskly. "Come at last, have you?"
This was rather disconcerting, but Jack replied: "Yes, and you evidently
know why." He said this cheerfully and with considerable spirit, but Mr.
Lindon's next remark was a little chilling.
"Just so. I was afraid you would come some day. Let us cut it short, my
boy. I have a board meeting in ten minutes."
"Well, you know all I've got to say. Now, what do you say?"
This was a happy abruptness on Jack's part, and Lindon rather liked him
for it. It seemed business like. It seemed as if Jack thought too highly
of Mr. Lindon's sagacity to indulge in any persuasion or argument. He
lay back in his chair with an amused look.
"Why dammit, boy, she's not in love with you."
Jack shrugged his shoulders and smiled--as if that was point on which
modesty compelled him to be silent But his individuality asserted
itself.
"Is that all the objection?"
Evidently, abruptness and speaking to the point were preferred in this
office, and Jack was prepared to give the millionaire all the abruptness
he wanted.
"No," said Lindon. "Of course, that is not all. But I know, as a matter
of fact, that my daughter does not care a pin about you. Don't think I
have been making money all my life. I can tell when a woman is in love
as well as any man. I have watched Nina myself when you were with her,
and I tell you she does not care half enough for you to marry you."
"She says she does," said Jack, determined not to be browbeaten by this
man's force.
"I don't believe a word of it, if she does say so. I was afraid, at one
time, that she was going to make a goose of herself with you, and I
waltzed her off to the Continent. But after she came back I thoroughly
satisfied myself that she was in no danger, or else, my boy, you would
not have had the run of my house as you have had. Under the
circumstances, Jack, I was always glad to see you, since we came back
last, and hope to see you always, just the same. Quite apart, however,
from anything she may say or consent to, I have other plans for my
daughter. I have no son to carry on the name, but my daughter's marriage
will be a grand one. With her beauty and my money, she will make the
biggest match of the day. I did not start with much of a family myself,
but I can control family. When Nina marries, sir, she marries blood;
nothing less than a dook, sir,--nothing less than a dook will satisfy
me. And I'll have a dook, sir; mark my words!"
When his ambition was aroused, Mr. Lindon sometimes reverted to the more
marked vulgarity of forty years ago.
Jack arose. The interview was ended as far as he was concerned.
Lindon felt kindly toward him. He was one of the few young men who were
not overawed by his money and obsequious on account of his wine.
"Well, good-by," he said. "Don't let this make any interruption in your
visits to Mossbank. You'll always find a good glass of wine ready for
you with Joseph Lindon. I rather like you, Jack, and if you ever want
any backing, just let me know. But, my boy"--here Lindon regarded him as
kindly as his keen, business-loving face would allow, and he laid his
hand on his arm--"my lad, you must be careful. Remember what an old man
says--you're too honest to get along all through life without getting
put upon. You must try to see into things a little more. Just try and be
a little more suspicious. If you don't, somebody will 'go for you,' sure
as a gun."
Jack saw that this was intended kindly, and he took it quietly,
wondering if Joseph Lindon, while looking so uncommonly sober, could
have been indulging in a morning glass of wine. He went out, and Mr.
Lindon watched his free, manly bearing as he passed to the front door.
"If I had a son like that," he said warmly, "Nina could marry whom she
liked. That boy would be family enough for me. He would have enough of
the gentleman about him both for himself and his old father. Lord, if I
had a son like that I'd make a prince of him! I'd just give him blank
checks signed with my name. Darned if I wouldn't!"
To give a son unfilled signed checks seemed to be a culmination of
parental foolishness which would show his fondness more than anything
else he could do. Perhaps he was right.