BEYOND SEAS.
Out here on the deck of this great White Star Liner--with the yellow
waters of the Mersey lapping in the sunlight, and a brisk breeze
blowing, and the curious excitement of departure thrilling through all
the heterogeneous crowd of passengers--here something of hope came to
him at last. This was better than haunting lonely restaurants, or
walking through solitary streets; he seemed to know that Maisrie was no
longer in the land he was leaving; she had fled away across the
ocean--gone back to the home, to some one of the various homes, of her
childhood and girlhood. And although it appeared a mad thing that a
young man should set out to explore so vast a continent in search of his
lost love, it was not at all the impossible task it looked. He had made
certain calculations. Newspaper offices are excellent centres of
intelligence; and Scotch-American newspaper offices would still further
limit the sphere of his inquiries. He had dreamed of a wide and
sorrowful sea lying between him and her; but instead of that imaginary
and impassable sea, why, there was only the familiar Atlantic, that
nowadays you can cross in less than a week. And when he had found her,
and seized her two hands fast, he would reproach her--oh, yes, he would
reproach her--though perhaps there might be more of gladness than of
anger in his tones.... 'Ah, false love--traitress--coward heart--that
ran away! What Quixotic self-sacrifice was it, then, that impelled
you?--what fear of relatives?--what fire of wounded pride? No matter
now: you are caught and held. You gave yourself to me; you cannot take
yourself away again; nor shall any other. No more sudden
disappearances--no more trembling notes of farewell--while I have you by
the hand!'
The last good-byes had been called by the people crowded on the deck of
the tender, the great ship was cautiously creeping down the stream, and
the passengers, having done with the waving of handkerchiefs (and here
and there a furtive drying of eyes) set about preparing for the
voyage--securing their places at table, investigating their cabins, and
getting their things unpacked. These occupations kept most of them in
their state-rooms until close on dinner-time, so that they had not much
chance of examining each other; but it is wonderful how rumour runs in a
ship--especially if the Purser be a cheerful and communicative sort of
person; and so it was that when all were assembled in the long and
gorgeous saloon, two things had already become known; first, that the
tall and handsome young Englishman who seemed to have no companion or
acquaintance on board was the newly-elected member for Mendover; and
second, that the extremely pretty woman who had the seat of honour at
the Captain's table was a Mrs. de Lara, a South American, as might have
been guessed from her complexion, her eyes, and hair. It appeared to be
a foregone conclusion that Mrs. de Lara was to be the belle of the ship
on this voyage; such things are very soon settled; perhaps one or two of
the commercial gentlemen may have crossed with her before, and seen her
exercise her sway. As for Vin Harris, his unopposed return for such an
insignificant place as Mendover would not have secured much notice
throughout the country had it not been that, immediately after the
election, the great ---- had been kind enough to write to the new member
a charming note of congratulation, which, of course, had to be
published. It was a significant pat on the back, of which any young man
might very well have been proud; and Mrs. Ellison bought innumerable
copies of that morning's newspapers, and cut the letter out, and sent it
round to her friends, lest they should not have seen it. Mr. Ogden was
also so condescending as to send a similar message--but that was not
published.
Now during the first evening on board ship, strangers mostly remain
strangers to each other; but next morning things become
different--especially if the weather be fine, and everyone is on deck.
Small courtesies are tendered and accepted; people get introduced, or
introduce each other, on the smallest pretence--except the old stagers,
the wary ones, who hang aloof, in order to pick and choose. As for
Vincent, he was well content with his own society, varied by an
occasional chat with the Purser, when that ubiquitous official could
spare a few moments. He was not anxious to make acquaintances. His
thoughts were far ahead. He saw--not the thin, blue line of the Irish
coast that actually was visible on the horizon--but the shallow waters
at Sandy Hook, the broad bay, the long dusky belt of the city, with its
innumerable spires jutting up into the white sky. He was wondering how
long ago it was since Maisrie and her grandfather had crossed the
Newfoundland Banks: it was a long start, but he would overtake them yet.
Perhaps, when he was down in the big and busy town, making his inquiries
from one newspaper-office to another he might suddenly find himself face
to face with the splendid old man, and the beautiful, pensive-eyed
girl.... 'Ah, Maisrie, you thought you would escape?--but I have you
now--never to let you go again! And if you would rather not return to
England--if your pride has been wounded--if you are indignant at what
has been said or suspected of you and your grandfather--well, then, I
will remain with you here! My love is more to me than my home: we will
fight the world together--the three of us together: remaining here, if
that pleases you better--only, no further thought of separation between
you and me!'
On this brisk and bracing morning he was leaning idly with his elbows on
the rail, and looking towards the distant line of the Irish coast that
was slowly becoming more definite in form, when Mr. Purser Collins came
up to him.
"There's a very charming lady would like to make your acquaintance,"
said the officer. "Will you come with me, and I will introduce you?"
"Oh, very well," Vincent said, but with no great eagerness. "Tell me
her name now that I may make sure of it."
"You are favoured--Mrs. de Lara."
"Oh, really," he said, indifferently. "She seems to me to have had half
the men on the ship fetching and carrying for her all the morning."
And indeed, when he followed the Purser in order to be introduced to
this lady, he found her pretty well surrounded by assiduous gentlemen;
and 'if you please--if you please,' Mr. Collins had to keep repeating,
before he could bring the new comer into the august presence. Mrs. de
Lara--who, on closer inspection, turned out to be quite a young woman,
with a pale, clear, olive complexion, softly-lustrous dark eyes that
could say a good deal, a pretty smile and dimple, and magnificent
hair--received him very graciously; and at once, and completely, and
without the slightest compunction, proceeded to ignore the bystanders
who had been so officiously kind to her. Of course their conversation
was at first the usual nothings. Wonderful weather. Might be midsummer,
but for the cold wind. Captain been on the bridge ever since Liverpool,
poor man; get some rest after leaving Queenstown. Was she a good
sailor?--Some ladies remained in their berths all the way over. Dry
champagne, and plenty of it, the only safe-guard? Crossed many times?
And so forth. But at length she said--
"Couldn't you find a chair, and bring it along?"
Now the assiduous gentlemen had managed to find a very snug corner for
Mrs. de Lara, where there was just room for two deck chairs--her own and
that of her companion and friend, Miss Martinez; and Vincent, being
rather shy, had no intention of jamming himself into this nook. He made
some little excuse--and remained standing with the others: whereupon
Mrs. de Lara said to her companion--
"Isabel, will you go and see that the letters I left in my cabin are all
properly stamped and put in the post-bag for Queenstown. Thank you,
dear!"
Then, the moment her faithful friend was gone, she said, with something
of a French manner--
"Here is a seat for you: come, tell me what the news of the ship is!"
Vincent could not very well refuse; though the result of her open
preference and selection was that her other obsequious admirers fell
away one by one, under some pretence of playing rope-quoits or
shovel-board: so that, eventually, he and she were left alone together,
for Miss Martinez did not return.
"Now," said the young grass-widow, whose very pretty chin was cushioned
on abundant furs, "I am going to make you happy. But first of all I
must tell you--you are in love."
"Oh, really?" said Vincent.
"Ah, yes, yes, yes," she said, with a charming insistence. "I have
watched you. I know. You keep apart; you look far away; you speak to
no one. And then I said to myself that I would make you happy. How?
By asking you to tell me all about her."
Whereupon Vincent said to himself, 'You're a very impertinent
woman--although you've got pretty eyes.' And again he said, 'But after
all you are a woman; and perhaps from you I may learn something more
about Maisrie.' So he said aloud--
"The deck of a steamer is hardly the place for secrets."
"Why not?" she protested. "Besides, it is no secret--to anyone with
eyes. Come, tell me all about her--and be happy! I wish to interest
you; I wish you to interest me; and so let us talk about the only thing
that is worth talking about--that is, love. No, there are two things,
perhaps--love, and money; but love is so full of surprises; it is the
perpetual miracle that no one can understand; it is such a wonderful,
unexpected, desperate kind of thing, that it will always be the most
interesting. Now!"
"Well," said he--for there was something catching in the mad audacity of
this young matron--"it must be secret for secret. My story for yours!"
She laughed long and heartily--until her merriment brought tears to her
eyes.
"Why, I'm an old married woman!" she exclaimed. "Ah, I see what your
bargain means. You only want to put me off. You think the time and
place are not romantic enough; some night--out in mid-Atlantic--with
perhaps a moon--and you'll be more communicative, when you forsake the
smoking-room for half-an-hour, and send me a little message to meet you.
Very well. Perhaps there are too many people tramping up and down.
Shall we have a tramp too? Sitting still so stiffens one. There--can
you pull off the rugs, do you think? They've swathed me up like a
mummy. Now give me your arm; and mind you don't let me go flying--I'm
never steady on my feet for the first day or two."
Well, he found the grass-widow a most charming companion--bright,
loquacious, and happy, until, indeed, they steamed into the entrance to
Cork Harbour. Here, as most of the passengers were going on board the
tender, for a scamper ashore, while the ship waited for the mails to
arrive, Mrs. de Lara began to look a little wistful. All of a sudden it
occurred to him that he ought, if only in common gratitude for her
marked condescension, to ask her if she would care to go also.
"Oh--Mrs. de Lara," said he, "wouldn't you like to go ashore, and have a
look round Queenstown?"
Her face lighted up in an instant; but there was a curious, amused
expression in her eyes.
"I couldn't go alone with you, you know," said she.
"Why not?" said he.
She did not answer that question.
"If you like to ask Miss Martinez as well as myself," she continued,
"I'm sure we should be delighted--and it would be very kind of you."
"Of course I will!" he said--and at once he went off in search of the
needful companion. A few minutes thereafter the three of them were on
board the tender, along with the rest of this crowd of eager, chattering
passengers.
And a very pleasant visit it was they paid to the picturesque
watering-place and its wide-stretching bay. First of all he took his
two guests to a hotel, and gave them an excellent lunch, at which Mrs.
de Lara made merry like an enfranchised schoolgirl; then he got an open
carriage, and they were driven all about the place; and he bought them
such fruit and flowers as he could find, until they were quite laden by
the time they got back to the tender. They were in plenty of time; the
mails were late. When they eventually returned on board the steamer,
Vincent was on the whole very well pleased with that little excursion;
only he hoped that the new acquaintanceship that had been formed had not
been too conspicuously displayed, for people are given to talking during
the _longueurs_ of an Atlantic voyage.
And indeed it very soon appeared that after this little adventure ashore
Mrs. de Lara meant to claim him as her own. When she came on deck for
the usual promenade before dinner, she sent for him (though there were
plenty of gentlemen only too anxious to wait on her), and she took his
arm during that perfunctory march up and down. Then she said to him--
"Would you think me very rude if I asked you to come and sit at our
table? The fact is, I want somebody to be good to me, and to look after
me; and the Captain, although he is a most delightful man when he
happens to be there, is nearly always away, on duty, no doubt. I hate
sitting next an empty chair--that throws me on to Miss Martinez and she
and I have exhausted all our subjects long ago. You've no particular
friend, have you? Come to our table!"
"But I couldn't think of turning anybody out!" he protested.
"Oh, that's all right!" she made answer, cheerfully enough. "Miss
Martinez will get a place somewhere else--Mr. Collins will arrange
that--I dare say she will be rather pleased to be set free."
And so it came to pass that at dinner Vincent found himself in the seat
that had been vacated by the useful Isabel; and perhaps his promotion
provoked a few underhand comments and significant glances at certain of
the other tables, for very small trifles are noted on board ship. At
all events he only knew that Mrs. de Lara was as engaging, and
complaisant, and loquacious as ever; and that she talked away with very
little regard as to who might overhear her. Nor was she any longer the
merry, rattle-pated creature of the Queenstown hotel. Oh, no. Her
conversation now was of a quite superior order. It was literary; and
she had caught up plenty of the phrases of the rococo school; she could
talk as well as another of environments, conditions, the principal note,
style charged with colour, and the like. Nay, she adventured upon an
epigram now and again--or, at least, something that sounded like an
epigram. "England," she said, "was a shop; France a stage; Germany a
camp; and the United States a caucus." And again she said, "There are
three human beings whom I wish to meet with before I die: a pretty
Frenchwoman, a modest American, and an honest Greek. But I am losing
hope." And then there was a tirade against affectation in writing.
"Why should the man thrust himself upon me?" she demanded. "I don't
want to know him at all. I want him to report honestly and simply what
he has seen of the world and of human nature, and I am willing to be
talked to, and I am willing to believe; but when he begins to posture
and play tricks, then I become resentful. Why should he intrude his own
personality at all?--he was never introduced to me; I have no wish for
his acquaintance. So long as he expresses an honest opinion, good and
well; I am willing to listen; but when he begins to interpose his clever
little tricks and grimaces, then I say, 'Get away, mountebank--and get a
red-hot poker ready for pantaloon.'" And in this way she went on,
whimsical, petulant, didactic by turns, to the stolid astonishment of a
plethoric and red-faced old lady opposite, who contributed nothing to
the conversation but an indigestion cough, and sate and stared, and
doubtless had formed the opinion that any one who could talk in that
fashion before a lot of strangers was no better than she should be.
But it was not of literature that Mrs. de Lara discoursed when Vincent
returned that evening to the saloon, after having been in the
smoking-room for about an hour, watching the commercials playing poker
and getting up sweepstakes on the next day's run. When she caught sight
of him, she immediately rose and left the group of newly-formed
acquaintances with whom she had been sitting--in the neighbourhood of
the piano--and deliberately came along and met him half-way.
"Let us remain here," said she; "and then if we talk we shan't interfere
with the music."
She lay back in her chair as if waiting for him to begin; he was
thinking how well her costume became her--her dress of black silk
touched here and there with yellow satin--the sharp scarlet stroke of
her fan--the small crescent of diamonds in her jet-black hair. Then the
softened lamplight seemed to lend depth and lustre to her dark eyes; and
gave something of warmth, too, to the pale and clear complexion. She
had crossed her feet; her fan lay idle in her lap; she regarded him from
under those long, out-curving lashes.
"They cannot hear you," she said--perhaps thinking that he was silent
out of politeness to the innocent young damsels who were doing their
best at the piano--"and you cannot hear them, which is also fortunate.
Music is either divine--or intolerable; what they are doing is not
divine; I have been listening. But good music--ah, well, it is not to
be spoken of. Only this; isn't it strange that the two things that can
preserve longest for you associations with some one you have been fond
of are music and scent? Not painting--not any portrait; not poetry--not
anything you have read, or may read: but music and scent. You will
discover that some day."
He laughed.
"How curiously you talk! I dare say I am older than you--though that is
not saying much."
"But I have seen the world," said she, with a smile, almost of sadness.
"Not half of what I have seen of it, I'll answer for that."
"Oh, but you," she continued, regarding him with much favour and
kindliness, "you are an _ingenu_--you have the frank English
character--you would believe a good deal--in any one you cared for, I
mean."
"I suppose I should," he said, simply enough. "I hope so."
"But as I say," she resumed, "the two things that preserve associations
the longest--and are apt to spring on you suddenly--are music and scent.
You may have forgotten in every other direction; oh, yes, forgetting is
very easy, as you will find out; for 'constancy lives in realms above,'
and not here upon earth at all: well, when you have forgotten the one
you were fond of, and cannot remember, and perhaps do not care to
remember all that happened at that too blissful period of life--then, on
some occasion or another there chances to come a fragment of a song, or
a whiff of scent, and behold! all that bygone time is before you again,
and you tremble, you are bewildered! Oh, I assure you," she went on,
with a very charming smile, "it is not at all a pleasant experience.
You think you had buried all that past time, and hidden away the ghosts;
you are beginning to feel pretty comfortable and content with all
existing circumstances; and then--a few notes of a violin--a passing
touch of perfume--and your heart jumps up as if it had been shot through
with a rifle-ball. What is your favourite scent?" she asked, somewhat
abruptly.
"Sandal-wood," said he (for surely that was revealing no secret?)
"Then she wore a string of sandal-wood beads," said Mrs. de Lara, with a
quick look.
He was silent.
"And perhaps she gave them to you as a keep-sake?" was the next
question.
Here, indeed, he was startled; and she noticed it; and laughed a little.
"No, I am not a witch," she said. "All that has happened before now: do
you think you are the first? Why, I'm sure, now, you've worn those
beads next your heart, in the daytime, and made yourself very
uncomfortable; yes, and you've tried wearing them at night, and couldn't
sleep because they hurt you. Never mind, I will tell you what to do:
get them made into a watch chain, with small gold links connecting the
beads; and when you wear it with evening dress, every woman will
recognise it as a love-gift--every one of them will say 'A girl gave him
that.'"
"Perhaps I might not wish to make a display of it," said Vincent.
"Then you're in the first stage of inconstancy," said she, promptly.
"If you're not madly anxious that the whole world should know you have
won her favour, then you've taken the first step on the downward road to
indifference; you are regarding certain things as bygone, and your eyes
are beginning to rove elsewhere. Well, why not? It's the way of the
world. It's human nature. At the same time I want to hear some more
about the young lady of the sandal-wood necklace."
"I have told you more than I intended," he answered her.
"You haven't told me anything: I guessed for myself."
"Well, now, I am going to ask your advice," said he--for how could he
tell but that this bright, alert, intrepid person, with her varied
experience of the world, might be able to help him? She was far
different from Maisrie, to be sure; different as night from day; but
still she was a woman; and she might perhaps be able to interpret a
nature wholly alien from her own.
So she sate mute and attentive, and watching every expression of his
face, while he put before her a set of imaginary circumstances. It was
not his own story; but just so much of it as might enable her to give
him counsel. And he had hardly finished when she said--
"You don't know where to find her; and yet you have never thought of a
means of bringing her to you at once?"
"What means?" said he.
"Why, it is so simple!" she exclaimed. "Have you no invention? But I
will tell you, then. As soon as you land in New York, get yourself
knocked over by a tram-car. The accident to the rich young Englishman
who has just arrived in America will be in all the papers, and will lose
nothing in the telling. Your father's name is known; you have recently
been elected a member of Parliament; they will make the most of the
story--and of course you needn't say your life is _not_ in danger. Then
on the wings of love the fair one comes flying; flops down by the side
of your bed, in tears; perhaps she would even consent to a marriage--if
you were looking dreadfully pale; then you could get well again in
double quick time--and live happy ever after."
She was still watching him from under her long, indolent lashes; and of
a sudden she changed her tone.
"Are you vexed? You find me not sympathetic? Perhaps I am not. Perhaps
I am a little incredulous. You have told me very little; but I surmise;
and when a young lady remains away from her lover, and does not wish it
to be known where she is, then I confess I grow suspicious. Instead of
'Seek the woman,' it is 'Find the man'--oh, I mean in most cases--I mean
in most cases--not in all--you must not misunderstand me!"
"In this case you are mistaken, then," said Vincent, briefly.
Indeed the gay young grass-widow found that she could not get very far
into Vincent's confidence in this matter; and when she indulged in a
little pleasantry, he grew reserved and showed a disposition to
withdraw; whereupon she thought it better to give up the subject
altogether. But she did not give him up; on the contrary, she took
possession of him more completely than ever; and made no secret of the
favour she bestowed on him. For example, there was an amateur
photographer on board; and one morning (everybody knew everybody else by
this time) he came up to Mrs. de Lara, who was seated in her deck-chair,
with a little band of devoted slaves and admirers surrounding her.
"Mrs. de Lara," said he, "I've taken nearly everybody on board except
you. Aren't you going to give me a chance?"
"Oh, yes," said she. "Yes, certainly." Then she looked round, and
added, in the most natural way in the world--"But where is Mr. Harris?"
"He's in the saloon writing letters--I saw him there a minute ago," said
one of the bystanders.
"Won't somebody go and fetch him?" she continued. "We ought to be all
in--if Mr. Searle can manage it."
Accordingly Vincent was summoned from below, and forthwith made his
appearance.
"You come and sit by me, Mr. Harris," said the young matron. "It would
look absurd to have one sitting and all the others standing."
"Oh, no--this will do," said Vincent, seating himself on a signal-cannon
that was close to the rail, while he steadied himself by putting a hand
on the shrouds.
"Not at all," she protested, with a certain imperious wilfulness.
"You're too far over; you'll be out of the picture altogether. There is
Isabel's chair over there: fetch that."
And, of course, he had to do as he was bid; though it was rather a
conspicuous position to assume. Then, when that negative was taken, she
would have the grouping altered; Vincent had to stand by her side, with
his arm on her chair; again he had to seat himself on the deck at her
feet; whatever suggestions were made by the artist, she managed somehow
that she and Vincent should be together. And when, next day, the
bronze-brown proofs were handed about, they were very much
admired--except, perhaps, by the lady-passengers, who could not
understand why Mrs. de Lara should pose as the only woman on board the
steamer.
But it was not Mrs. de Lara who was in his thoughts when, early one
morning, he found himself on the upper deck, just under the bridge, with
his eyes fixed on a far strip of land that lay along the western
horizon. Not a thin sharp line of blue, but a low-lying bulky mass of
pale neutral tint; and there were faint yellow mists hanging about it,
and also covering the smooth, long-undulating surface of the sea.
However, the sunrise was now declared; this almost impalpable fog would
soon be dispersed; and the great continent behind that out-lying coast
would gradually awaken to the splendour of the new day. And in what
part of its vast extent was Maisrie now awaiting him?--no, not awaiting
him, but perhaps thinking of him, and little dreaming he was so near?
They cautiously steamed over the shallow waters at Sandy Hook; they
sailed up the wide bay; momentarily the long flat line of New York, with
its towering buildings and steeples jutting up here and there, was
drawing nigh. Mrs. de Lara, rather wistfully, asked him whether she was
ever likely to see him again; he answered that he did not know how soon
he might have to leave New York; but, if she would be so kind as to give
him her address, he would try to call before he went. She handed him
her card; said something about the pleasant voyage they had had; and
then went away to see that Isabel had not neglected anything in her
packing.
They slowed into the wharf; the luggage was got ashore and examined--in
this universal scrimmage he lost sight of Mrs. de Lara and her faithful
companion: and by and by he was being jolted and pitched and flung about
in the coach that was carrying him to the hotel he had chosen. With an
eager curiosity he kept watching the passers-by on the side-walk,
searching for a face that was nowhere to be seen. He had heard and
known of many strange coincidences: it would only be another one--if a
glad and wonderful one--were he to find Maisrie on the very first day of
his arrival in America.
As soon as he had got established in his hotel, and seen that his
luggage had been brought up, he went out again and made away for the
neighbourhood of Printing House Square. It needs hardly be said that
the _Western Scotsman_ was not in possession of a vast white marble
building, with huge golden letters shining in the afternoon sun; all the
same he had little difficulty in finding the small and unpretentious
office; and his first inquiry was for Mr. Anstruther. Mr. Anstruther
had been there in the morning; but had gone away home, not feeling very
well. Where did he live?--over in Brooklyn. But he would be at the
office the next day? Oh, yes; almost certainly; it was nothing but a
rather bad cold; and as they went to press on the following evening, he
would be pretty sure to be at the office in the morning.
Then Vincent hesitated. This clerk seemed a civil-spoken kind of young
fellow.
"Do you happen to know if--if a Mr. Bethune has called at this office of
late?"
"Bethune?--not that I am aware of," was the answer.
"He is a friend of Mr. Anstruther's," Vincent went on, led by a vague
hope, "an old gentleman with white hair and beard--a handsome old man.
There would be a young lady with him most probably."
"No, sir; I have not seen any one of that description," said the clerk.
"But he might have called on Mr. Anstruther at his home."
"Oh, yes, certainly--very likely," said Vincent. "Thank you. I will
come along to-morrow morning, and hope to find Mr. Anstruther quite well
again."
So he left and went out into the gathering dusk of the afternoon; and as
he had nothing to do now, he walked all the way back to his hotel,
looking at the various changes that had taken place since last he had
been in the busy city. And then, when he reached the sumptuous and
heavily-decorated apartment that served him at once as sitting-room and
bed-room, he set to work to put his things in order, for they had been
rather hurriedly jammed into his portmanteau on board ship.
He was thus engaged when there came a knock at the door.
"Entrez!" he called out, inadvertently (with some dim feeling that he
was in a foreign town.)
The stranger needed no second invitation. He presented himself. He was
a small man, with a sallow and bloodless face, a black beard closely
trimmed, a moustache allowed to grow its natural length, and dark,
opaque, impassive eyes. He was rather showily dressed, and wore a
pince-nez.
For a second he paused at the door to take out his card-case; then,
without uttering a word, he stepped forward and placed his card on the
table. Vincent was rather surprised at this form of introduction; but of
course he took up the card. He read thereon. '_Mr. Joseph de Lara._'
"Oh, really," said he (but what passed through his mind was--'Is that
confounded woman going to persecute me on shore as well as at sea?').
"How do you do? Very glad to make your acquaintance."
"Oh, indeed, are you?" the other said, with a peculiar accent, the like
of which Vincent had never heard before. "Perhaps not, when you know
why I am here. Ah, do not pretend!--do not pretend!"
Vincent stared at him, as if this were some escaped lunatic with whom he
had to deal.
"Sir, I am here to call you to account," said the little foreigner, in
his thick voice. "It has been the scandal of the whole ship--the talk
of all the voyage over--and it is an insult to me--to me--that my wife
should be spoken of. Yes, you must make compensation--I demand
compensation--and how? By the only way that is known to an Englishman.
An Englishman feels only in his pocket; if he does wrong, he must pay; I
demand from you a sum that I expend in charity----"
Vincent who saw what all this meant in a moment, burst out laughing--a
little scornfully.
"You've come to the wrong shop, my good friend!" said he.
"What do you mean? What do you mean?" the little dark man exclaimed,
with an affectation of rising wrath: "Look at this--I tell you, look at
this!" He drew from his pocket one of the photographs which had been
taken on board the steamer, and smacked it with the back of his hand.
"Do you see that?--the scandal of the whole voyage! My wife
compromised--the whole ship talking--you think you are to get off for
nothing? No! No! you do not! The only punishment that can reach you is
the punishment of the pocket--you must pay."
"Oh, don't make a fool of yourself!" said Vincent, with angry contempt.
"I've met members of your profession before. But this is too thin."
"Oh--too thin? You shall find out!" the other said, vindictively--and
yet the black and beady eyes behind the pince-nez were impassive and
watchful. "There, on the other side of my card, is my address. You can
think over it. Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow. If I do not--if you
do not come there to give the compensation I demand, I will make this
country too hot to hold you--yes, very much too hot, as you shall
discover. I will make you sorry--I will make you sorry--you shall
see----"
He went on vapouring in this fashion for some little time longer,
affecting all the while to become more and more indignant; but at length
Vincent, growing tired, walked to the door and opened it.
"This is the way out," he said curtly.
Mr. de Lara took the hint with a dignified equanimity.
"You have my address," he said, as he passed into the corridor; "I do
not wish to do anything disagreeable--unless I am compelled. You will
think over it; and I shall see you to-morrow, I hope. I wish to be
friendly--it will be for your interest, too. Good night!"
Vincent shut the door and went and sate down, the better to consider.
Not that he was in the least perturbed by this man's ridiculous threats;
what puzzled him--and frightened him almost--was the possible connection
of the charming and fascinating Mrs. de Lara with this barefaced attempt
at blackmail. But no; he could not, he would not, believe it! He
recalled her pretty ways, her frankness, her engaging manner, her good
humour, her clever, wayward talk, her kindness towards himself; and he
could not bring himself to think that all the time she had been planning
a paltry and despicable conspiracy to extort money, or even that she
would lend herself to such a scheme at the instigation of her scapegrace
husband. However, his speculations on these points were now interrupted
by the arrival of the dinner-hour; and he went below to the table
d'hote.
During dinner he thought that a little later on in the evening he would
go along to Lexington Avenue, and call on a lawyer whose acquaintance he
had made on a former visit to New York. He might by chance be at home
and disengaged; and an apology could be made for disturbing him at such
an unusual hour. And this, accordingly, Vincent did; found that Mr.
Griswold was in the house; was shown into the study; and presently the
lawyer--a tall, thin man, with a cadaverous and deeply-lined face and
cold grey eyes--came in and received his unexpected visitor politely
enough.
"De Lara?" said he, when Vincent had told his story. "Well, yes, I know
something of De Lara. And a very disagreeable fellow he is to have any
dealings with."
"But I don't want to have any dealings with him," Vincent protested,
"and I don't see how there should be any necessity. The whole thing is
a preposterous attempt at extortion. If only he were to put down on
paper what he said to me this evening, I would show him something--or at
least I should do so if he and I were in England."
"He is not so foolish," the lawyer said. "Well, what do you propose to
do?--compromise for the sake of peace and quietness?"
"Certainly not," was the instant reply.
"He's a mischievous devil," said Mr. Griswold, doubtfully. "And of
course you don't want to have things said about you in newspapers,
however obscure. Might get sent over to England. Yes, he's a
mischievous devil when he turns ugly. What do you say now?--for the
sake of peace and quietness--a little matter of a couple of hundred
dollars--and nobody need know anything about it----"
"Give a couple of hundred dollars to that infernal scoundrel?--I will
see him d----d first!" said Vincent, with a decision that was
unmistakeable.
"There's no reason why you should give him a cent--not the slightest,"
the lawyer went on. "But some people do, to save trouble. However, you
will not be remaining long in this city; I see it announced that you are
going on a tour through the United States and Canada."
"The fact is, Mr. Griswold," said Vincent, "I came along--at this unholy
hour, for which I hope you will forgive me--not to ask you what I should
do about that fellow's threats--I don't value them a pin's-point--but
merely to see if you knew anything about those two----"
"The De Lara's?"
"Yes, what does he do, to begin with? What's his occupation--his
business?"
"Nominally," said Mr. Griswold, "he belongs to my own profession; but I
fancy he is more mixed up with some low-class newspapers. I have heard,
indeed, that one of his sources of income is levying black-mail on
actresses. The poor girls lose nerve, you understand: they won't fight;
they would rather 'see' him, as the phrase is, than incur his enmity."
"Well, then, what I want to know still more particularly," the young man
proceeded, "is this: is Mrs. de Lara supposed to take part in these
pretty little plans for obtaining money?"
The lawyer smiled.
"You ought to know her better than I do; in fact, I don't know her at
all."
Vincent was silent for a second.
"No; I should not have imagined it of her. It seems incredible. But if
you don't know her personally, perhaps you know what is thought of her?
What is her general reputation?"
"Her reputation? I can hardly answer that question. I should say," Mr.
Griswold went on, in his slow and deliberate manner, "that there is a
kind of--a kind of impression--that, so long as the money was
forthcoming, Mrs. de Lara would not be too anxious to inquire where it
came from."
"She was at the Captain's table!" Vincent exclaimed.
"Ship captains don't know much about what is going on on shore," was the
reply. "Besides, if Mrs. de Lara wanted to sit at the Captain's table,
it's at the Captain's table you would find her, and that without much
delay! In any case why are you so anxious to find out about Mrs. de
Lara's peculiarities--apart from her being a very pretty woman?"
"Oh," said Vincent, as he rose to apologise once more for this
intrusion, and to say good-night, "one is always meeting with new
experiences. Another lesson in the ways of the world, I suppose."
But all the same, as he walked slowly and thoughtfully back to his
hotel, he kept saying to himself that he would rather not believe that
Mrs. de Lara had betrayed him and was an accomplice in this shameless
attempt to make money out of him. Nay, he said to himself that he would
refuse to believe until he was forced to believe: though he did not go a
step further, and proceed to ask himself the why and wherefore of this
curious reluctance.