Tavernake was kept waiting in the hall of the Milan Court for at least
half an hour before Elizabeth was prepared to see him. He wandered
aimlessly about watching the people come and go, looking out into the
flower-hung courtyard, curiously unconscious of himself and of his
errand, unable to concentrate his thoughts for a moment, yet filled all
the time with the dull and uneasy sensation of one who moves in a dream.
Every now and then he heard scraps of conversation from the servants and
passers-by, referring to the last night's incident. He picked up a paper
but threw it down after only a casual glance at the paragraph. He saw
enough to convince him that for the present, at any rate, Elizabeth
seemed assured of a certain amount of sympathy. The career of poor
Wenham Gardner was set down in black and white, with little extenuation,
little mercy. His misdeeds in Paris, his career in New York, spoke for
themselves. He was quoted as a type, a decadent of the most debauched
instincts, to whom crime was a relaxation and vice a habit. Tavernake
would read no more. He might have been all these things, and yet she had
become his wife!
At last came the message for which he was waiting. As usual, her maid
met him at the door of her suite and ushered him in. Elizabeth was
dressed for the part very simply, with a suggestion even of mourning in
her gray gown. She welcomed him with a pathetic smile.
“Once more, my dear friend,” she said, “I have to thank you.”
Her fingers closed upon his and she smiled into his face. Tavernake
found himself curiously unresponsive. It was the same smile, and he knew
very well that he himself had not changed, yet it seemed as though life
itself were in a state of suspense for him.
“You, too, are looking grave this morning, my friend,” she continued.
“Oh, how horrible it has all been! Within the last two hours I have had
at least five reporters, a gentleman from Scotland Yard, another from
the American Ambassador to see me. It is too terrible, of course,” she
went on. “Wenham's people are doing all they can to make it worse. They
want to know why we were not together, why he was living in the country
and I in town. They are trying to show that he was under restraint
there, as if such a thing were possible! Mathers was his own
servant--poor Mathers!”
She sighed and wiped her eyes. Still Tavernake said nothing. She looked
at him, a little surprised.
“You are not very sympathetic,” she observed. “Please come and sit down
by my side and I will show you something.”
He moved towards her but he did not sit down. She stretched out her
hand and picked something up from the table, holding it towards him.
Tavernake took it mechanically and held it in his fingers. It was a
cheque for twelve thousand pounds.
“You see,” she said, “I have not forgotten. This is the day, isn't it?
If you like, you can stay and have lunch with me up here and we will
drink to the success of our speculation.”
Tavernake held the cheque in his fingers; he made no motion to put it in
his pocket. She looked at him with a puzzled frown upon her face.
“Do talk or say something, please!” she exclaimed. “You look at me like
some grim figure. Say something. Sit down and be natural.”
“May I ask you some questions?”
“Of course you may,” she replied. “You may do anything sooner than stand
there looking so grim and unbending. What is it you want to know?”
“Did you understand that Wenham Gardner was this sort of man when you
married him?”
She shrugged her shoulders slightly.
“I suppose I did,” she admitted.
“You married him, then, only because he was rich?”
She smiled.
“What else do women marry for, my dear moralist?” she demanded. “It
isn't my fault if it doesn't sound pretty. One must have money!”
Tavernake inclined his head gravely; he made no sign of dissent.
“You two came over to England,” he went on, “with Beatrice and your
father. Beatrice left you because she disapproved of certain things.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“You may as well know the truth,” she said. “Beatrice has the most
absurd ideas. After a week with Wenham, I knew that he was not a person
with whom any woman could possibly live. His valet was really only his
keeper; he was subject to such mad fits that he needed some one always
with him. I was obliged to leave him in Cornwall. I can't tell you
everything, but it was absolutely impossible for me to go on living with
him.”
“Beatrice,” Tavernake remarked, “thought otherwise.”
Elizabeth looked at him quickly from below her eyelids. It was hard,
however, to gather anything from his face.
“Beatrice thought otherwise,” Elizabeth admitted. “She thought that I
ought to nurse him, put up with him, give up all my friends, and try and
keep him alive. Why, it would have been absolute martyrdom, misery for
me,” she declared. “How could I be expected to do such a thing?”
Tavernake nodded gravely.
“And the money?” he asked.
“Well, perhaps there I was a trifle calculating,” she confessed. “But
you,” she added, nodding at the cheque in his hand, “shouldn't grumble
at that. I knew when we were married that I should have trouble. His
people hated me, and I knew that in the event of anything happening
like this thing which has happened, they would try to get as little as
possible allowed me. So before we left New York, I got Wenham to turn as
much as ever he could into cash. That we brought away with us.”
“And who took care of it?”
Elizabeth smiled.
“I did,” she answered, “naturally.”
“Tell me about last night,” Tavernake said. “I suppose I am stupid but I
don't quite understand.”
“How should you?” she answered. “Listen, then. Wenham, I suppose got
tired of being shut up with Mathers, although I am sure I don't see what
else was possible. So he waited for his opportunity, and when the man
wasn't looking--well, you know what happened,” she added, with a shiver.
“He got up to London somehow and made his way to Dover Street.”
“Why Dover Street?”
“I suppose you know,” Elizabeth explained, “that Wenham has a
brother--Jerry--who is exactly like him. These two had rooms in Dover
Street always, where they kept some English clothes and a servant. Jerry
Gardner was over in London. I knew that, and was expecting to see him
every day. Wenham found his way to the rooms, dressed himself in his
brother's clothes, even wore his ring and some of his jewelry, which he
knew I should recognize, and came here. I believed--yes, I believed all
the time,” she went on, her voice trembling, “that it was Jerry who was
sitting with me. Once or twice I had a sort of terrible shiver. Then I
remembered how much they were alike and it seemed to me ridiculous to be
afraid. It was not till we got upstairs, till the door was closed behind
me, that he turned round and I knew!”
Her head fell suddenly into her hands. It was almost the first sign of
emotion. Tavernake analyzed it mercilessly. He knew very well that it
was fear, the coward's fear of that terrible moment.
“And now?”
“Now,” she went on, more cheerfully, “no one will venture to deny that
Wenham is mad. He will be placed under restraint, of course, and the
courts will make me an allowance. One thing is absolutely certain, and
that is that he will not live a year.”
Tavernake half closed his eyes. Was there no sign of his suffering, no
warning note of the things which were passing out of his life! The woman
who smiled upon him seemed to see nothing. The twitching of his fingers,
the slight quivering of his face, she thought was because of his fear
for her.
“And now,” she declared, in a suddenly altered tone, “this is all over
and done with. Now you know everything. There are no more mysteries,”
she added, smiling at him delightfully. “It is all very terrible, of
course, but I feel as though a great weight had passed away. You and I
are going to be friends, are we not?”
She rose slowly to her feet and came towards him. His eyes watched her
slow, graceful movements as though fascinated. He remembered on that
first visit of his how wonderful he had thought her walk. She was still
smiling up at him; her fingers fell upon his shoulders.
“You are such a strange person,” she murmured. “You aren't a little bit
like any of the men I've ever known, any of the men I have ever cared
to have as friends. There is something about you altogether different. I
suppose that is why I rather like you. Are you glad?”
For a single wild moment Tavernake hesitated. She was so close to him
that her hair touched his forehead, the breath from her upturned lips
fell upon his cheeks. Her blue eyes were half pleading, half inviting.
“You are going to be my very dear friend, are you not--Leonard?” she
whispered. “I do feel that I need some one strong like you to help me
through these days.”
Tavernake suddenly seized the hands that were upon his shoulders, and
forced them back. She felt herself gripped as though by a vice, and a
sudden terror seized her. He lifted her up and she caught a glimpse of
his wild, set face. Then the breath came through his teeth. He shook all
over but the fit had passed. He simply thrust her away from him.
“No,” he said, “we cannot be friends! You are a woman without a heart,
you are a murderess!”
He tore her cheque calmly in pieces and flung them scornfully away. She
stood looking at him, breathing quickly, white to the lips though the
murder had gone from his eyes.
“Beatrice warned me,” he went on; “Pritchard warned me. Some things I
saw for myself, but I suppose I was mad. Now I know!”
He turned away. Her eyes followed him wonderingly.
“Leonard,” she cried out, “you are not going like this? You don't mean
it!”
Ever afterwards his restraint amazed him. He did not reply. He closed
both doors firmly behind him and walked to the lift. She came even to
the outside door and called down the corridor.
“Leonard, come back for one moment!”
He turned his head and looked at her, looked at her from the corner of
the corridor, steadfastly and without speech. Her fingers dropped from
the handle of the door. She went back into her room with shaking knees,
and began to cry softly. Afterwards she wondered at herself. It was the
first time she had cried for many years.
Tavernake walked to the city and in less than half an hour's time found
himself in Mr. Martin's office. The lawyer welcomed him warmly.
“I'm jolly glad to see you, Tavernake,” he declared. “I hope you've got
the money. Sit down.”
Tavernake did not sit down; he had forgotten, indeed, to take of his
hat.
“Martin,” he said, “I am sorry for you. I have been fooled and you have
to pay as well as I have. I can't take up the option on the property.
I haven't a penny toward it except my own money, and you know how much
that is. You can sell my plots, if you like, and call the money your
costs. I've finished.”
The lawyer looked at him with wide-open mouth.
“What on earth are you talking about, Tavernake?” he exclaimed. “Are you
drunk, by any chance?”
“No, I am quite sober,” Tavernake answered. “I have made one or two bad
mistakes, that's all. You have a power of attorney for me. You can do
what you like with my land, make any terms you please. Good-day!”
“But, Tavernake, look here!” the lawyer protested, springing to his
feet. “I say, Tavernake!” he called out.
But Tavernake heard nothing, or, if he heard, he took no notice. He
walked out into the street and was lost among the hurrying throngs upon
the pavements.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I. NEW HORIZONS
Towards the sky-line, across the level country, stumbling and crawling
over the deep-hewn dikes, wading sometimes through the mud-oozing swamp,
Tavernake, who had left the small railway terminus on foot, made his
way that night steadily seawards, as one pursued by some relentless
and indefatigable enemy. Twilight had fallen like a mantle around him,
fallen over that great flat region of fens and pastureland and bog.
Little patches of mist, harbingers of the coming obscurity, were being
drawn now into the gradual darkness. Lights twinkled out from the
far-scattered homesteads. Here and there a dog barked, some lonely bird
seeking shelter called to its mate, but of human beings there seemed to
be no one in sight save the solitary traveler.
Tavernake was in grievous straits. His clothes were caked with mud,
his hair tossed with the wind, his cheeks pale, his eyes set with the
despair of that fierce upheaval through which he had passed. For many
hours the torture which had driven him back towards his birthplace had
triumphed over his physical exhaustion. Now came the time, however, when
the latter asserted itself. With a half-stifled moan he collapsed. Sheer
fatigue induced a brief but merciful spell of uneasy slumber. He lay
upon his back near one of the broader dikes, his arms outstretched, his
unseeing eyes turned toward the sky. The darkness deepened and passed
away again before the light of the moon. When at last he sat up, it was
a new world upon which he looked, a strange land, moonlit in places, yet
full of shadowy somberness. He gazed wonderingly around--for the moment
he had forgotten. Then memory came, and with memory once more the stab
at his heart. He rose to his feet and went resolutely on his way.
Almost until the dawn he walked, keeping as near as he could to that
long monotonous line of telegraph posts, yet avoiding the road as much
as possible. With the rising of the sun, he crept into a wayside hovel
and lay there hidden for hours. Hunger and thirst seemed like things
which had passed him by. It was sleep only which he craved, sleep and
forgetfulness.
Dusk was falling again before he found himself upon his feet, starting
out once more upon this strangely thought-of pilgrimage. This time he
kept to the road, plodding along with tired, dejected footsteps, which
had in them still something of that restless haste which drove him
ceaselessly onward as though he were indeed possessed of some unquiet
spirit. He was recovering now, however, a little of his natural common
sense. He remembered that he must have food and drink, and he sought
them from the wayside public-house like an ordinary traveler, conquering
without any apparent effort that first invincible repugnance of his
toward the face of any human being. Then on again across this strange
land of windmills and spreading plains, until the darkness forced him
to take shelter once more. That night he slept like a child. With the
morning, the fever had passed from his blood. A great wind blew in his
face even as he opened his eyes, touched to wakefulness by the morning
sun, a wind that came booming over the level places, salt with the touch
of the ocean and fragrant with the perfume of many marsh plants. He was
coming toward the sea now, and within a very short distance from where
he had spent the night, he found a broad, shining river stealing into
the land. With eager fingers he stripped himself and plunged in, diving
again and again below the surface, swimming with long, lazy strokes
backwards and forwards. Afterwards he lay down in the warm, dry grass,
dressed himself slowly, and went on his way. The wind, which had
increased now since the early morning, came thundering across the level
land, bending the tops of the few scattered trees, sending the sails of
the windmills spinning, bringing on its bosom now stronger than ever the
flavor of the sea itself, salt and stimulating. Tavernake told himself
that this was a new world into which he was coming. He would pass into
its embrace and life would become a new thing.
Towards evening with many a thrill of reminiscence, he descended a steep
hill and walked into a queer time-forgotten village, whose scattered
red-tiled cottages were built around an arm of the sea. Boldly enough
now he entered the one inn which flaunted its sign upon the cobbled
street, and, taking a seat in the stone-floored kitchen, ate and drank
and bespoke a bed. Later on, he strolled down to the quay and made
friends with the few fishermen who were loitering there. They answered
his questions readily, although he found it hard at first to pick up
again the dialect of which he himself had once made use. The little
place was scarcely changed. All progress, indeed, seemed to have
passed it by. There were a handful of fishermen, a boat-builder and a
fish-curer in the village. There was no other industry save a couple of
small farmhouses on the outskirts of the place, no railway within twelve
miles. Tourists came seldom, excursionists never. In the half contented,
half animal-like expression which seemed common to all the inhabitants,
Tavernake read easily enough the history of their uneventful days. It
was such a shelter as this, indeed, for which he had been searching.
On the second night after his arrival, he walked with the boatbuilder
upon the wooden quay. The boatbuilder's name was Nicholls, and he was
a man of some means, deacon of the chapel, with a fair connection as
a jobbing carpenter, and possessor of the only horse and cart in the
place.
“Nicholls,” Tavernake said, “you don't remember me, do you?”
The boat-builder shook his head slowly and ponderously.
“There was Richard Tavernake who farmed the low fields,” he remarked,
reminiscently. “Maybe you're a son of his. Now I come to think of it, he
had a boy apprenticed to the carpentering.”
“I was the boy,” Tavernake answered. “I soon had enough of it and went
to London.”
“You'm grown out of all knowledge,” Nicholls declared, “but I mind you
now. So you've been in London all these years?”
“I've been in London,” Tavernake admitted, “and I think, of the two,
that Sprey-by-the-Sea is the better place.”
“Sprey is well enough,” the boat-builder confessed, “well enough for a
man who isn't set on change.”
“Change,” Tavernake asserted, grimly, “is an overrated joy. I have had
too much of it in my life. I think that I should like to stay here for
some time.”
The boat-builder was surprised, but he was a man of heavy and deliberate
turn of mind and he did not commit himself to speech. Tavernake
continued.
“I used to know something of carpentering in my younger days,” he said,
“and I don't think that I have forgotten it all. I wonder if I could
find anything to do down here?”
Matthew Nicholls stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“The folk round about are not over partial to strangers,” he observed,
“and you'm been away so long I reckon there's not many as'd recollect
you. And as for carpentering jobs, there's Tom Lake over at Lesser
Blakeney and his brother down at Brancaster, besides me on the spot,
as you might say. It's a poor sort of opening there'd be, if you ask my
opinion, especially for one like yourself, as 'as got education.”
“I should be satisfied with very little,” Tavernake persisted. “I want
to work with my hands. I should like to forget for a time that I have
had any education at all.”
“That do seem mightily queer to me,” Nicholls remarked, thoughtfully.
Tavernake smiled.
“Come,” he said, “it isn't altogether unnatural. I want to make
something with my hands. I think that I could build boats. Why do you
not take me into your yard? I could do no harm and I should not want
much pay.”
Matthew Nicholls stroked his beard once more and this time he counted
fifty, as was his custom when confronted with a difficult matter. He had
no need to do anything of the sort, for nothing in the world would have
induced him to make up his mind on the spot as to so weighty a proposal.
“It's not likely that you're serious,” he objected. “You are a young man
and strong-limbed, I should imagine, but you've education--one can tell
it by the way you pronounce your words. It's but a poor living, after
all, to be made here.”
“I like the place,” Tavernake declared doggedly. “I am a man of small
needs. I want to work all through the day, work till I am tired enough
to sleep at night, work till my bones ache and my arms are sore. I
suppose you could give me enough to live on in a humble way?”
“Take a bite of supper with me,” Nicholls answered. “In these serious
affairs, my daughter has always her say. We will put the matter before
her and see what she thinks of it.”
They lingered about the quay until the light from Wells Lighthouse
flashed across the sea, and until in the distance they could hear the
moaning of the incoming tide as it rippled over the bar and began to
fill the tidal way which stretched to the wooden pier itself. Then the
two men made their way along the village street, through a field, and
into the little yard over which stood the sign of “Matthew Nicholls,
Boat-Builder.” At one corner of the yard was the cottage in which he
lived.
“You'll come right in, Mr. Tavernake,” he said, the instincts of
hospitality stirring within him as soon as they had passed through
the gate. “We will talk of this matter together, you and me and the
daughter.”
Tavernake seemed, on his introduction to the household, like a man
unused to feminine society. Perhaps he did not expect to find such a
type of her sex as Ruth Nicholls in such a remote neighborhood. She was
thin, and her cheeks were paler than those of any of the other young
women whom he had seen about the village. Her eyes, too, were darker,
and her speech different. There was nothing about her which reminded him
in the least of the child with whom he had played. Tavernake watched
her intently. Presently the idea came to him that she, too, was seeking
shelter.
Supper was a simple meal, but it was well and deftly served. The girl
had the gift of moving noiselessly. She was quick without giving
the impression of haste. To their guest she was courteous, but her
recollection of him appeared to be slight, and his coming but a matter
of slight interest. After she had cleared the cloth, however, and
produced a jar of tobacco, her father bade her sit down with them.
“Mr. Tavernake,” he began, ponderously, “is thinking some of settling
down in these parts, Ruth.”
She inclined her head gravely.
“It appears,” her father continued, “that he is sick and tired of the
city and of head-work. He is wishful to come into the yard with me, if
so be that we could find enough work for two.”
The girl looked at their visitor, and for the first time there was a
measure of curiosity in her earnest gaze. Tavernake was, in his way,
good enough to look upon. He was well-built, his shoulders and physique
all spoke of strength. His features were firmly cut, although his
general expression was gloomy. But for a certain moroseness, an
uncouthness which he seemed to cultivate, he might even have been deemed
good-looking.
“Mr. Tavernake would make a great mistake,” she said, hesitatingly. “It
is not well for those who have brains to work with their hands. It is
not a place for those to live who have been out in the world. At most
seasons of the year it is but a wilderness. Sometimes there is little
enough to do, even for father.”
“I am not ambitious for over-much work or for over-much money, Miss
Nicholls,” Tavernake replied. “I will be frank with you both. Things out
in the world there went ill with me; it was not my fault, but they went
ill with me. What ambitions I had are finished--for the present, at any
rate. I want to rest, I want to work with my hands, to grow my muscles
again, to feel my strength, to believe that there is something effective
in the world I can do. I have had a shock, a disappointment,--call it
what you like.”
The old man Nicholls nodded deliberately.
“Well,” he pronounced, “it's a big change to make. I never thought of
help in the yard before. When there's been more than I could do, I've
just let it go. Come for a week on trial, Leonard Tavernake. If we are
of any use to one another, we shall soon know of it.”
The girl, who had been looking out into the night, came back.
“You are making a mistake, Mr. Tavernake,” she said. “You are too young
and strong to have finished your battle.”
He looked at her steadily and sighed. It was only too obvious that hers
had been fought and lost.
“Perhaps,” he replied softly, “you are right. Perhaps it is only the
rest I want. We shall see.”
CHAPTER II. THE SIMPLE LIFE
So Tavernake became a boat-builder. Summer passed into winter and this
hamlet by the sea seemed, indeed, as though it might have been one of
the forgotten spots upon the earth. Save for that handful of cottages,
the two farmhouses a few hundred yards inland, and the deserted Hall
half-hidden in its grove of pine trees, there was no dwelling-place
nor any sign of human habitation for many miles. For eight hours a day
Tavernake worked, mostly out of doors, in the little yard which hung
over the beach. Sometimes he rested from his labors and looked seaward,
looked around him as though rejoicing in that unbroken solitude, the
emptiness of the gray ocean, the loneliness of the land behind. What
things there were which lay back in the cells of his memory, no person
there knew, for he spoke of his past to no one, not even to Ruth. He
was a good workman, and he lived the simple life of those others without
complaint or weariness. There was nothing in his manner to denote that
he had been used to anything else. The village had accepted him without
question. It was only Ruth who still, gravely but kindly enough,
disapproved of his presence.
One day she came and sat with him as he smoked his after-dinner pipe,
leaning against an overturned boat, with his eyes fixed upon that line
of gray breakers.
“You spend a good deal of your time thinking, Mr. Tavernake,” she
remarked quietly.
“Too much,” he admitted at once, “too much, Miss Nicholls. I should be
better employed planing down that mast there.”
“You know that I did not mean that,” she said, reprovingly, “only
sometimes you make me--shall I confess it?--almost angry with you.”
He took his pipe from his mouth and knocked out the ashes. As they fell
on the ground so he looked at them.
“All thought is wasted time,” he declared, grimly, “all thought of the
past. The past is like those ashes; it is dead and finished.”
She shook her head.
“Not always,” she replied. “Sometimes the past comes to life again.
Sometimes the bravest of us quit the fight too soon.”
He looked at her questioningly, almost fiercely. Her words, however,
seemed spoken without intent.
“So far as mine is concerned,” he pronounced, “it is finished. There is
a memorial stone laid upon it, and no resurrection is possible.”
“You cannot tell,” she answered. “No one can tell.”
He turned back to his work almost rudely, but she stayed by his side.
“Once,” she remarked, reflectively, “I, too, went a little way into the
world. I was a school-teacher at Norwich. I was very fond of some one
there; we were engaged. Then my mother died and I had to come back to
look after father.”
He nodded.
“Well?”
“We are a long way from Norwich,” she continued, quietly. “Soon after I
left, the man whom I was fond of grew lonely. He found some one else.”
“You have forgotten him?” Tavernake asked, quickly.
“I shall never forget him,” she replied. “That part of life is finished,
but if ever my father can spare me, I shall go back to my work again.
Sometimes those work the best and accomplish the most who carry the
scars of a great wound.”
She turned away to the house, and after that it seemed to him that she
avoided him for a time. At any rate, she made no further attempt to win
his confidence. Propinquity, however, was too much for both of them. He
was a lodger under her father's roof. It was scarcely possible for them
to keep apart. Saturdays and Sundays they walked sometimes for miles
across the frost-bound marshes, in the quickening atmosphere of the
darkening afternoons, when the red sun sank early behind the hills, and
the twilight grew shorter every day. They watched the sea-birds together
and saw the wild duck come down to the pools; felt the glow of exercise
burn their cheeks; felt, too, that common and nameless exultation
engendered by their loneliness in the solitude of these beautiful empty
places. In the evenings they often read together, for Nicholls, although
no drinker, never missed his hour or so at the village inn. Tavernake,
in time, began to find a sort of comfort in her calm, sexless
companionship. He knew very well that he was to her as she was to him,
something human, something that filled an empty place, yet something
without direct personality. Little by little he felt the bitterness
in his heart grow less. Then a late spring--late, at any rate, in this
quaint corner of the world--stole like some wonderful enchantment across
the face of the moors and the marshes. Yellow gorse starred with golden
clumps the brown hillside; wild lavender gleamed in patches across the
silver-streaked marshes; the dead hedges came blossoming into life.
Crocuses, long lines of yellow and purple crocuses, broke from waxy buds
into starlike blossoms along the front of Matthew Nicholls's garden. And
with the coming o spring, Tavernake found himself suddenly able to thin
of the past. It was a new phase of life. He could sit down and think of
those things that had happened to him, without fearing to be wrecked by
the storm. Often he sat out looking seaward, thinking of the days
when he had first met Beatrice, of those early days of pleasant
companionship, of the marvelous avidity with which he had learned from
her. Only when Elizabeth's face stole into the foreground did he spring
from his place and turn back to his work.
One day Tavernake sat poring over the weekly local paper, reading it
more out of curiosity than from any real interest. Suddenly a familiar
name caught his eye. His heart seemed to stop beating for a moment, and
the page swam before his eyes. Quickly he recovered himself and read:
THE QUEEN'S HALL, UNTHANK ROAD,
NORWICH
TWICE DAILY.
PROFESSOR FRANKLIN
assisted by his daughter,
MISS BEATRICE FRANKLIN,
will give his REFINED and MARVELOUS
ENTERTAINMENT, comprising HYPNOTISM, feats
Of SECOND SIGHT never before attempted on
any stage, THOUGHT-READING, and a BRIEF
LECTURE upon the connection between ANCIENT
SUPERSTITIONS and the EXTRAORDINARY
DEVELOPMENTS OF THE NEW SCIENCE.
PROFESSOR FRANKLIN Can be CONSULTED PRIVATELY,
by letter or by appointment. Address for this
week--The Golden Cow, Bell's Lane, Norwich.
Twice Tavernake read the announcement. Then he went out and found Ruth.
“Ruth,” he told her, “there is something calling me back, perhaps for
good.”
For the first time she gave him her hand.
“Now you are talking like a man once more,” she declared. “Go and seek
it. Comeback and say good-bye to us, if you will, but throw your tools
into the sea.”
Tavernake laughed and looked across at his workshop.
“I don't believe,” he said, “that you've any confidence in my boat.”
“I'm not sure that I would sail with you,” she answered, “even if you
ever finished it. A laborer's work for a laborer's hand. You must go
back to the other things.”
CHAPTER III. OLD FRIENDS MEET
The professor set down his tumbler upon the zinc-rimmed counter. He was
very little changed except that he had grown a shade stouter, and there
was perhaps more color in his cheeks. He carried himself, too, like a
man who believes in himself. In the small public-house he was, without
doubt, an impressive figure.
“My friends,” he remarked, “our host's whiskey is good. At the same
time, I must not forget--”
“You'll have one with me, Professor,” a youth at his elbow interrupted.
“Two special whiskies, miss, if you please.”
The professor shrugged his shoulders--it was a gesture which he
wished every one to understand. He was suffering now the penalty for a
popularity which would not be denied!
“You are very kind, sir,” he said, “very kind, indeed. As I was about to
say, I must not forget that in less than half an hour I am due upon the
stage. It does not do to disappoint one's audience, sir. It is a poor
place, this music-hall, but it is full, they tell me packed from floor
to ceiling. At eight-thirty I must show myself.”
“A marvelous turn, too, Professor,” declared one of the young men by
whom he was surrounded.
“I thank you, sir,” the professor replied, turning towards the speaker,
glass in hand. “There have been others who have paid me a similar
compliment; others, I may say, not unconnected with the aristocracy of
your country--not unconnected either, I might add,” he went on, “with
the very highest in the land, those who from their exalted position
have never failed to shower favors upon the more fortunate sons of our
profession. The science of which I am to some extent the pioneer--not a
drop more, my young friend. Say, I'm in dead earnest this time! No more,
indeed.”
The young man in knickerbockers who had just come in banged the head of
his cane upon the counter.
“You'll never refuse me, Professor,” he asserted, confidently. “I'm
an old supporter, I am. I've seen you in Blackburn and Manchester, and
twice here. Just as wonderful as ever! And that young lady of yours,
Professor, begging your pardon if she is your daughter, as no doubt she
is, why, she's a nut and no mistake.”
The professor sighed. He was in his element but he was getting uneasy at
the flight of time.
“My young friend,” he said, “your face is not familiar to me but
I cannot refuse your kindly offer. It must be the last, however,
absolutely the last.”
Then Tavernake, directed here from the music-hall, pushed open the swing
door and entered. The professor set down his glass untasted. Tavernake
came slowly across the room.
“You haven't forgotten me, then, Professor?” he remarked, holding out
his hand.
The professor welcomed him a little limply; something of the bombast had
gone out of his manner. Tavernake's arrival had reminded him of things
which he had only too easily forgotten.
“This is very surprising,” he faltered, “very surprising indeed. Do you
live in these parts?”
“Not far away,” Tavernake answered. “I saw your announcement in the
papers.”
The professor nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “I am on the war-path again. I tried resting but I
got fat and lazy, and the people wouldn't have it, sir,” he continued,
recovering very quickly something of his former manner. “The number
of offers I got through my agents by every post was simply
astounding--astounding!”
“I am looking forward to seeing your performance this evening,”
Tavernake said politely. “In the meantime--”
“I know what you are thinking of,” the professor interrupted. “Well,
well, give me your arm and we will walk down to the hall together.
My friends,” the professor added, turning round, “I wish you all a
good-night!”
Then the door was pushed half-way open and Tavernake's heart gave a
jump. It was Beatrice who stood there, very pale, very tired, and much
thinner even than the Beatrice of the boardinghouse, but still Beatrice.
“Father,” she exclaimed, “do you know that it is nearly--”
Then she saw Tavernake and said no more. She seemed to sway a little,
and Tavernake, taking a quick step forward, grasped her by the hands.
“Dear sister,” he cried, “you have been ill!”
She was herself again almost in a moment.
“Ill? Never in my life,” she replied. “Only I have been hurrying--we
are late already for the performance--and seeing you there, well, it was
quite a shock, you know. Walk down with us and tell me all about it.
Tell us what you are doing here--or rather, don't talk for a moment! It
is all so amazing.”
They turned down the narrow cobbled street, the professor walking in the
middle of the roadway, swinging his cane, a very imposing and wonderful
figure, with the tails of his frock-coat streaming in the wind, his
long hair only half-hidden by his hat. He hummed a tune to himself
and affected not to take any notice of the other two. Then Tavernake
suddenly realized that he had done a cowardly action in leaving her
without a word.
“There is so much to ask,” she began at last, “but you have come back.”
She looked at his workman's clothes.
“What have you been doing?” she asked, sharply.
“Working,” Tavernake answered, “good work, too. I am the better for it.
Don't mind my clothes, Beatrice. I have been mad for a time, but after
all it has been a healthy madness.”
“It was a strange thing that you did,” she said,--“you disappeared.”
He nodded.
“Some day,” he told her, “I may, perhaps, be able to make you
understand. Just now I don't think that I could.”
“It was Elizabeth?” she whispered, softly.
“It was Elizabeth,” he admitted.
They said no more then till they reached the hall. She stopped at the
door and put out her hand timidly.
“I shall see you afterwards?” she ventured.
“Do you mind my coming to the performance?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“A few moments ago,” she remarked, smiling, “I was dreading your coming.
Now I think that you had better. It will be all over at ten o'clock, and
I shall look for you outside. You are living in Norwich?”
“I shall be here for to-night, at any rate,” he answered.
“Very well, then,” she said, “afterwards we will have a talk.”
Tavernake passed through the scattered knot of loiterers at the door
and bought a seat for himself in the little music-hall, which,
notwithstanding the professor's boast, was none too well filled. It was
a place of the old-fashioned sort, with small tables in the front, and
waiters hurrying about serving drinks. The people were of the lowest
order, and the atmosphere of the room was thick with tobacco smoke.
A young woman in a flaxen wig and boy's clothes was singing a popular
ditty, marching up and down the stage, and interspersing the words o f
her song with grimaces and appropriate action. Tavernake sat down with
a barely-smothered groan. He was beginning to realize the tragedy upon
which he had stumbled. A comic singer followed, who in a dress suit
several sizes too large for him gave an imitation of a popular Irish
comedian. Then the curtain went up and the professor was seen, standing
in front of the curtain and bowing solemnly to a somewhat unresponsive
audience. A minute later Beatrice came quietly in and sat by his side.
There was nothing new about the show. Tavernake had seen the same thing
before, with the exception that the professor was perhaps a little
behind the majority of his fellow-craftsmen. The performance was
finished in dead silence, and after it was over, Beatrice came to the
front and sang. She was a very unusual figure in such a place, in a
plain black evening gown, with black gloves and no jewelry, but they
encored her heartily, and she sang a song from the musical comedy
in which Tavernake had first seen her. A sudden wave of reminiscence
stirred within him. His thoughts seemed to go back to the night when
he had waited for her outside the theatre and they had had supper at
Imano's, to the day when he had left the boarding-house and entered upon
his new life. It was more like a dream than ever now.
He rose and quitted the place immediately she had finished, waiting in
the street until she appeared. She came out in a few minutes.
“Father is going to a supper,” she announced, “at the inn where he has a
room for receiving people. Will you come home with me for an hour? Then
we can go round and fetch him.”
“I should like to,” Tavernake answered.
Her lodgings were only a few steps away--a strange little house in a
narrow street. She opened the front door and ushered him in.
“You understand, of course,” she said, smiling, “that we have abandoned
the haunts of luxury altogether.”
He looked around at the tiny room with its struggling fire and horsehair
sofa, linoleum for carpet, oleographs for pictures, and he shivered,
not for his own sake but for hers. On the sideboard were some bread and
cheese and a bottle of ginger beer.
“Please imagine,” she begged, taking the pins from her hat, “that you
are in those dear comfortable rooms of ours down at Chelsea. Draw
that easy-chair up to what there is of the fire, and listen. You smoke
still?”
“I have taken to a pipe,” he admitted.
“Then light it and listen,” she went on, smoothing her hair for a minute
in front of the looking-glass. “You want to know about Elizabeth, of
course.”
“Yes,” he said, “I want to know.”
“Elizabeth, on the whole,” Beatrice continued, “got out of all her
troubles very well. Her husband's people were wild with her, but
Elizabeth was very clever. They were never able to prove that she had
exercised more than proper control over poor Wenham. He died two months
after they took him to the asylum. They offered Elizabeth a lump sum to
waive all claims to his estate, and she accepted it. I think that she is
now somewhere on the Continent.”
“And you?” he asked. “Why did you leave the theatre?”
“It was a matter of looking after my father,” she explained. “You see,
while he was there with Elizabeth he had too much money and nothing to
do. The consequence was that he was always--well, I suppose I had better
say it--drinking too much, and he was losing all his desire for work. I
made him promise that if I could get some engagements he would come away
with me, so I went to an agent and we have been touring like this for
quite a long time.”
“But what a life for you!” Tavernake exclaimed. “Couldn't you have
stayed on at the theatre and found him something in London?”
She shook her head.
“In London,” she said, “he would never have got out of his old habits.
And then,” she went on, hesitatingly, “you understand that the public
want something else besides the hypnotism--”
Tavernake interrupted her ruthlessly.
“Of course I understand,” he declared, “I was there to-night. I
understood at once why you were not very anxious for me to go. The
people cared nothing at all about your father's performance. They simply
waited for you. You would get the same money if you went round without
him.”
She nodded, a trifle shamefacedly.
“I am so afraid some one will tell him,” she confessed. “They nearly
always ask me to leave out his part of the performance. They have even
offered me more money if I would come alone. But you see how it is. He
believes in himself, he thinks he is very clever and he believes that
the public like his show. It is the only thing which helps him to keep a
little self-respect. He thinks that my singing is almost unnecessary.”
Tavernake looked into that faint glimmer of miserable fire. He was
conscious of a curious feeling in his throat. How little he knew of
life! The pathos of what she had told him, the thought of her bravely
traveling the country and singing at third-rate music-halls, never
taking any credit to herself, simply that her father might still believe
himself a man of talent, appealed to him irresistibly. He suddenly held
out his hand.
“Poor little Beatrice!” he exclaimed. “Dear little sister!”
The hand he gripped was cold, she avoided his eyes.
“You--you mustn't,” she murmured. “Please don't!”
He held out his other hand and half rose, but her lips suddenly ceased
to quiver and she waved him back.
“No, Leonard,” she begged, “please don't do or say anything foolish.
Since we do meet again, though, like this, I am going to ask you one
question. What made you come to me and ask me to marry you that day?”
He looked away; something in her eyes accused him.
“Beatrice,” he confessed, “I was a thick-headed ignorant fool, without
understanding. I came to you for safety. I was afraid of Elizabeth, I
was afraid of what I felt for her. I wanted to escape from it.”
She smiled piteously.
“It wasn't a very brave thing to do, was it?” she faltered.
“It was mean,” he admitted. “It was worse than that. But, Beatrice,” he
went on, “I was missing you horribly. You did leave a big empty place
when you went away. I am not going to excuse myself about Elizabeth. I
lived through a time of the strangest, most marvelous emotions one could
dream of. Then the thing came to an end and I felt as though the
bottom had gone out of life. I suppose--I loved her,” he continued
hesitatingly. “I don't know. I only know that she filled every thought
of my brain, that she lived in every beat of my heart, that I would have
gone down into Hell to help her. And then I understood. That morning
she told me something of the truth about herself, not meaning
to--unconsciously--justifying herself all the time, not realizing that
every word she said was damnable. And then there didn't seem to be
anything else left, and I had only one desire. I turned my back upon
everything and I went back to the place where I was born, a little
fishing village. For the last thirty miles I walked. I shall never
forget it. When I got there, what I wanted was work, work with my hands.
I wanted to build something, to create anything that I could labor upon.
I became a boat builder--I have been a boatbuilder ever since.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Beatrice!”
She turned and faced him. She looked into his eyes very searchingly,
very wistfully.
“Beatrice,” he said, “I ask you once more, only differently. Will you
marry me now? I'll find some work, I'll make enough money for us. Do you
remember,” he went on, “how I used to talk, how I used to feel that I
had only to put forth my strength and I could win anything? I'll feel
like that again, Beatrice, if you'll come to me.”
She shook her head slowly. She looked away from him with a sigh. She
had the air of one who has sought for something which she has failed to
find.
“You mustn't think of that again, Leonard,” she told him. “It would be
quite impossible. This is the only way I can save my father. We have a
tour that will take us the best part of another year.”
“But you are sacrificing yourself!” he declared. “I will keep your
father.”
“It isn't that only,” she replied. “For one thing, I couldn't let you;
and for another, it isn't only the money, it's the work. As long as
he's made to think that the public expect him every night, he keeps off
drinking too much. There is nothing else in the whole world which would
keep him steady. Don't look as though you didn't understand, Leonard. He
is my father, you know, and there isn't anything more terrible than to
see any one who has a claim on us give way to anything like that. You
mayn't quite approve, but please believe that I am doing what I feel to
be right.”
The little fire had gone out. Beatrice glanced at the clock and put on
her jacket again.
“I am sorry, Leonard,” she said, “but I think I must go and fetch father
now. You can walk with me there, if you will. It has been very good
to see you again. For the rest I don't know what to say to you. Do you
think that it is quite what you were meant for--to build boats?”
“I don't seem to have any other ambition,” he answered, wearily. “When
I read in the paper this morning that you and your father were here,
things seemed suddenly different. I came at once. I didn't know what I
wanted until I saw you, but I know now, and it isn't any good.”
“No good at all,” she declared cheerfully. “It won't be very long,
Leonard, before something else comes along to stir you. I don't think
you were meant to build boats all your life.”
He rose and took up his hat. She was waiting for him at the door. Again
they passed down the narrow street.
“Tell, me, Beatrice,” he begged, “is it because you don't like me well
enough that you won't listen to what I ask?”
For a moment she half closed her eyes as though in pain. Then she
laughed, not perhaps very naturally. They were standing now by the door
of the public house.
“Leonard,” she said, “you are very young in years but you are a baby
in experience. Mind, there are other reasons why I could not--would not
dream of marrying you, other reasons which are absolutely sufficient,
but--do you know that you have asked me twice and you have never once
said that you cared, that you have never once looked as though you
cared? No, don't, please,” she interrupted, “don't explain anything. You
see, a woman always knows--too well, sometimes.”
She nodded, and passed in through the swinging-doors. Standing out there
in the narrow, crooked street, Tavernake heard the clapping and applause
which greeted her entrance, he heard her father's voice. Some one struck
a note at the piano--she was going to sing. Very slowly he turned away
and walked down the cobbled hill.
CHAPTER IV. PRITCHARD'S GOOD NEWS
Late in the afternoon of the following day, Ruth came home from the
village and found Tavernake hard at work on his boat. She put down her
basket and stopped by his side.
“So you are back again,” she remarked.
“Yes, I am back again.”
“And nothing has happened?”
“Nothing has happened,” he assented, wearily. “Nothing ever will happen
now.”
She smiled.
“You mean that you will stay here and build boats all your life?”
“That is what I mean to do,” he announced.
She laid her hand upon his shoulder.
“Don't believe it, Leonard,” she said. “There is other work for you in
the world somewhere, just as there is for me.”
He shook his head and she picked up her basket again, smiling.
“Your time will come as it comes to the rest of us,” she declared,
cheerfully. “You won't want to sit here and bury your talents in the
sands all your days. Have you heard what is going to happen to me?”
“No! Something good, I hope.”
“My father's favorite niece is coming to live with us--there are seven
of them altogether, and farming doesn't pay like it used to, so Margaret
is coming here. Father says that if she is as handy as she used to be I
may go back to the schools almost at once.”
Tavernake was silent for a moment. Then he got up and threw down his
tools.
“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed. “If I am not becoming the most selfish
brute that ever breathed! Do you know, the first thought I had was that
I should miss you? You are right, young woman, I must get out of this.”
She disappeared into the house, smiling, and Tavernake called out to
Nicholls, who was sitting on the wall.
“Mr. Nicholls,” he asked, “how much notice do you want?”
Matthew Nicholls removed his pipe from his mouth.
“Why, I don't know that I'm particular,” he replied, “being as you want
to go. Between you and me, I'm gettin' fat and lazy since you came.
There ain't enough work for two, and that's all there is to it, and
being as you're young and active, why, I've left it to you, and look at
my arms.”
He held them up.
“Used to be all muscle, now they're nothin' but bloomin' pap. And no'
but two glasses of beer a day extra have I drunk, just to pass the time.
You can stay if you will, young man, but you can go out fishin' and
leave me the work, and I'll pay you just the same, for I'm not saying
that I don't like your company. Or you can go when you please, and
that's the end of it.”
Matthew Nicholls spat upon the stones and replaced his pipe in his
mouth. Tavernake came in and sat down by his side.
“Look here,” he said, “I believe you are right. I'll stay another week
but I'll take things easy. You get on with the boat now. I'll sit here
and have a smoke.”
Nicholls grunted but obeyed, and for the next few days Tavernake loafed.
On his return one afternoon from a long walk, he saw a familiar figure
sitting upon the sea wall in front of the workshop, a familiar figure
but a strange one in these parts. It was Mr. Pritchard, in an American
felt hat, and smoking a very black cigar. He leaned over and nodded to
Tavernake, who was staring at him aghast.
“Hallo, old man!” he called out. “Run you to earth, you see!”
“Yes, I see!” Tavernake exclaimed.
“Come right along up here and let's talk,” Pritchard continued.
Tavernake obeyed. Pritchard looked him over approvingly. Tavernake was
roughly dressed in those days, but as a man he had certainly developed.
“Say, you're looking fine,” his visitor remarked. “What wouldn't I give
for that color and those shoulders!”
“It is a healthy life,” Tavernake admitted. “Do you mean that you've
come down here to see me?”
“That's so,” Pritchard announced; “down here to see you, and for no
other reason. Not but that the scenery isn't all it should be, and that
sort of thing,” he went on, “but I am not putting up any bluff about
it. It's you I am here to talk to. Are you ready? Shall I go straight
ahead?”
“If you please,” Tavernake said, slowly filling his pipe.
“You dropped out of things pretty sudden,” Pritchard continued. “It
didn't take me much guessing to reckon up why. Between you and me, you
are not the first man who's been up against it on account of that young
woman. Don't stop me,” he begged. “I know how you've been feeling. It
was a right good idea of yours to come here. Others before you
have tried the shady side of New York and Paris, and it's the wrong
treatment. It's Hell, that's what it is, for them. Now that young
woman--we got to speak of her--is about the most beautiful and the most
fascinating of her sex--I'll grant that to start with--but she isn't
worth the life of a snail, much less the life of a strong man.”
“You are, quite right,” Tavernake confessed, shortly. “I know I was
a fool--a fool! If I could think of any adjective that would meet the
case, I'd use it, but there it is. I chucked things and I came here. You
haven't come down to tell me your opinion of me, I suppose?”
“Not by any manner of means,” Pritchard admitted. “I came down first to
tell you that you were a fool, if it was necessary. Since you know it,
it isn't. We'll pass on to the next stage, and that is, what are you
going to do about it?”
“It is in my mind at the present moment,” Tavernake announced, “to leave
here. The only trouble is, I am not very keen about London.”
Pritchard nodded thoughtfully.
“That's all right,” he agreed. “London's no place for a man, anyway. You
don't want to learn the usual tricks of money-making. Money that's made
in the cities is mostly made with stained fingers. I have a different
sort of proposal to make.”
“Go ahead,” Tavernake said. “What is it?”
“A new country,” Pritchard declared, altering the angle of his cigar,
“a virgin land, mountains and valleys, great rivers to be crossed, all
sorts of cold and heat to be borne with, a land rich with minerals--some
say gold, but never mind that. There is oil in parts, there's tin,
there's coal, and there's thousands and thousands of miles of forest.
You're a surveyor?”
“Passed all my exams,” Tavernake agreed tersely.
“You are the man for out yonder,” Pritchard insisted. “I've two years'
vacation--dead sick of this city life I am--and I am going to put you on
the track of it. You don't know much about prospecting yet, I reckon?”
“Nothing at all!”
“You soon shall,” Pritchard went on. “We'll start from Winnipeg. A few
horses, some guides, and a couple of tents. We'll spend twenty weeks, my
friend, without seeing a town. What do you think of that?”
“Gorgeous!” Tavernake muttered.
“Twenty weeks we'll strike westward. I know the way to set about the
whole job. I know one or two of the capitalists, too, and if we don't
map out some of the grandest estates in British Columbia, why, my name
ain't Pritchard.”
“But I haven't a penny in the world,” Tavernake objected.
“That's where you're lying,” Pritchard remarked, pulling a newspaper
from his pocket. “See the advertisement for yourself: 'Leonard
Tavernake, something to his advantage.' Well, down I went to those
lawyers--your old lawyer it was--Martin. I told him I was on your track,
and he said--'For Heaven's sake, send the fellow along!' Say, Tavernake,
he made me laugh the way he described your bursting in upon him and
telling him to take your land for his costs, and walking out of the room
like something almighty. Why, he worked that thing so that they had to
buy your land, and they took him into partnership. He's made a pot of
money, and needs no costs from you, and there's the money for your land
and what he had of yours besides, waiting for you.”
Tavernake smoked stolidly at his pipe. His eyes were out seaward, but
his heart was beating to a new and splendid music. To start life again,
a man's life, out in the solitudes, out in the great open spaces! It was
gorgeous, this! He turned round and grasped Pritchard by the shoulder.
“I say,” he exclaimed, “why are you doing all this for me, Pritchard?”
Pritchard laughed.
“You did me a good turn,” he said, “and you're a man. You've the
pluck--that's what I like. You knew nothing, you were as green and
ignorant as a young man from behind the counter of a country shop, but,
my God! you'd got the right stuff, and I meant getting even with you
if I could. You'll leave here with me to-morrow, and in three weeks we
sail.”
Ruth came smiling out from the house.
“Won't you bring your friend in to supper, Mr. Tavernake?” she begged.
“It's good news, I hope?” she added, lowering her voice a little.
“It's the best,” Tavernake declared, “the best!”
CHAPTER V. BEATRICE REFUSES
A week later Tavernake was in London. A visit to his friend Mr. Martin
had easily proved the truth of Pritchard's words, and he found himself
in possession of a sum of money at least twice as great as he had
anticipated. He stayed at a cheap hotel in the Strand and made purchases
under Pritchard's supervision. For the first few days he was too busy
for reflection. Then Pritchard let him alone while he ran over to Paris,
and Tavernake suddenly realized that he was in the city to which he had
thought never to return. He passed the back of the theatre where he had
waited for Beatrice, he looked up at the entrance of the Milan Court;
he lunched alone, and with a curious mixture of feelings, at the little
restaurant where he had supped with Beatrice. It was over, that part
of his life, over and finished. Yet, with his natural truthfulness, he
never attempted to disguise from himself the pain at his heart. Three
times in one day he found himself, under some pretext or another, in
Imano's Restaurant. Once, in the middle of the street, he burst into a
fit of laughter. It was while Pritchard was in London, and he asked him
a question.
“Pritchard,” he remarked, “you area man of experience. Did any one ever
care for two women at the same time?”
Pritchard removed his cigar from his teeth and stared at his companion.
“Why, my young friend,” he replied, “I've found no trouble myself in
being fond of a dozen.”
Tavernake smiled and said no more. Pritchard was one of the good fellows
of the world, but there were things which were hidden from him.
Yet Tavernake, who had fallen into a habit, during his solitude, of
analyzing his sensations, was puzzled by this one circumstance, that
when he thought of Elizabeth, though his heart never failed to beat
more quickly, the sense of shame generally stole over him; and when he
thought of Beatrice, a curious loneliness, a loneliness that brought
with it a pain, seemed suddenly to make the hours drag and his pleasures
flavorless. For two days he was puzzled. Then his habit of taking long
walks helped him toward a solution. In a small outlying music-hall in
the east-end of London, he saw the same announcement that he had noticed
in the Norfolk newspaper,--“Professor Franklin” in large type, and “Miss
Beatrice Franklin” in small.
That night he attended the music-hall. The scene was practically a
repetition of the one in Norwich, only with additions. The professor's
bombastic performance met with scarcely any applause. Its termination
was, indeed, interrupted by catcalls and whistles from the gallery.
Beatrice's songs, on the other hand, were applauded more vociferously
than ever. She had hard work to avoid a third encore.
At the end of the performance, Tavernake made his way to the stage-door
and waited. The neighborhood was an unsavory one, and the building
itself seemed crowded in among a row of shops of the worst order,
fish stalls, and a glaring gin palace. Long before Beatrice came out,
Tavernake could hear the professor's voice down the covered passage, the
professor's voice apparently raised in anger.
“Undutiful behavior, that's what I call it--undutiful!”
They emerged into the street, the professor very much the same as usual;
Beatrice paler, with a pathetic droop about her mouth. Tavernake came
eagerly forward.
“Beatrice!” he cried, holding out his hand.
The professor drew back. Beatrice stood still,--for a moment it seemed
as though she were about to faint. Tavernake grasped her hands.
“I am so sorry!” he exclaimed, clumsily. “I ought not to have come up
like that.”
She smiled a little wan smile.
“I am quite all right,” she replied, “only the heat inside was rather
trying, and even out here the atmosphere isn't too good, is it? How did
you find us out?”
“By chance again,” Tavernake answered. “I have news. May I walk with you
a few steps?”
She glanced timidly toward her father. The professor was holding aloof
in dignified silence.
“Perhaps,” Tavernake said quickly, “you would take supper with me? I am
going abroad, and I should like to say good-bye properly. A bottle of
champagne and some supper. What do you say, Professor?”
The professor suffered his features to relax.
“A very admirable idea,” he declared. “Where shall we go?”
“Is it too late to get to Imano's?” Tavernake suggested.
The professor hesitated.
“A taxicab,” he remarked, “would do it, if--”
He paused, and Tavernake smiled.
“A taxicab it shall be,” he decided. “I am in funds just for the moment.
Come along, both of you, and I'll tell you all about it.”
He made her take his arm, although her fingers did no more than touch
his coat sleeve.
“Pritchard came and dug me out,” he continued. “I am going abroad with
him. It's sort of prospecting in some new country at the back of British
Columbia. We see what we can find and then go to a financier's and start
companies, mining companies and oil fields--anything. I am off in a
week.”
Beatrice half closed her eyes. They had hailed a passing cab and she
sank back among the cushions with a sigh of relief.
“Dear Leonard,” she murmured, “I am so glad, so very happy for your
sake. This is the sort of thing which I hoped would happen.”
“And now tell me about yourselves,” he went on.
There was a sudden silence. Tavernake was conscious that Beatrice's
clothes were distinctly shabbier, that the professor's hat was shiny.
The professor cleared his throat.
“I do not wish,” he said, “to intrude our private matters upon one who,
although I will not call him a stranger, is assuredly not one of our
old friends. At the same time, I admit that a little trouble has arisen
between Beatrice and myself, and we were discussing it at the moment
you arrived. I shall appeal to you now. As an unprejudiced member of the
audience to-night, Mr. Tavernake, you will give me your honest opinion?”
“Certainly,” Tavernake promised, with a sinking premonition of what was
to come.
“What I complain of,” the professor began, speaking with elaborate and
impressive slowness, “is that my performance is hurried over and that
too long a time is taken up by Beatrice's songs. The management remark
upon the applause which her efforts occasionally ensure, but, as I would
point out to you, sir,” he continued, “a performance such as mine makes
too deep an impression for the audience to show their appreciation of it
by such vulgar methods as hand-clapping and whistling. You follow me, I
trust, Mr. Tavernake?”
“Why, yes, of course,” Tavernake admitted.
“I take a sincere and earnest interest in my work,” the professor
declared, “and I feel that when it has to be scamped that my daughter
may sing a music-hall ditty, the result is, to say the least of it,
undignified. For some reason or other, I have been unable to induce the
management to see entirely with me, but my point is that Beatrice
should sing one song only, and that the additional ten minutes should be
occupied by me in either a further exposition of my extraordinary powers
as a hypnotist, or in a little address to the audience upon the hidden
sciences. Now I appeal to you, Mr. Tavernake, as a young man of common
sense. What is your opinion?”
Tavernake, much too honest to be capable in a general way of duplicity,
was on the point of giving it, but he caught Beatrice's imploring gaze.
Her lips were moving. He hesitated.