"GOD FORBID IT!"
Mr. Maddison--to drop at this point the name under which he had chosen
to become the tenant of Falcon's Nest--was a member of a well-known
London club, chiefly affected by literary men, and after his acceptance
of Lady Thurwell's invitation, he hastened there at once and went to his
room to dress. As a rule a man does not indulge in any very profound
meditation during the somewhat tedious process of changing his morning
clothes for the monotonous garb of Western civilization. His attention
is generally fully claimed by the satisfactory adjusting of his tie and
the precaution he has to use to avoid anything so lamentable as a crease
in his shirt, and if his thoughts stray at all, it is seldom beyond the
immediate matter of his toilet, or at most a little anticipation with
regard to the forthcoming evening. If on the right side of thirty, a
pair of bright eyes may sometimes make him pause for a moment, even with
the hair brushes in his hands, to wonder if she will be there to-night,
and if by any fortunate chance he will be able to take her in to dinner.
And if the reign of the forties has commenced, it is just possible that
a little mild speculation as to the _entrees_ may be admitted. But, as a
rule, a man's thoughts do not on such an occasion strike deep beneath
the surface, and there is no record of an author having laid the plan of
his next work, or a soldier having marked out a campaign, while
struggling with a refractory tie, or obstinate parting. Even if such had
ever happened to be the case, we should not have cared to hear about it.
We prefer to think of a Napoleon planning great conquests in the serene
stillness of night among a sleeping camp and beneath a starlit sky, or
of a Wordsworth writing his poetry in his cottage home among the
mountains.
But Mr. Bernard Maddison, before he left his room that evening, had come
to a great decision--a decision which made his step the firmer, and
which asserted itself in the carriage of his head and the increased
brightness of his eyes, as he slowly descended the wide, luxurious
staircase. And he felt calmer, even happier, from having at least passed
from amid the shoals of doubt and uncertainty. The slight nervousness
had quite left him. He was still more than ordinarily pale, and there
was a look of calm resignation in his thoughtful aesthetic face which
gave to its intellectuality a touch of spirituality. One of the members
of the club said, later on in the smoking room, that Maddison seemed to
him to realize one's idea of St. Augustine in evening clothes. So far as
appearance went the comparison was not inapt.
As he reached the hall the porter came up to him with his cloak.
"There is a gentleman waiting for you in the strangers' room, sir," he
said.
Mr. Maddison turned away that the man might not see the sudden dread in
his face. It was not a long respite he craved for--only one evening. Was
even this to be denied him?
"Any name?" he asked quietly.
"He gave none," the man answered; "but I think it is Sir Allan
Beaumerville."
"Ah!" Mr. Maddison felt a sudden relief which escaped him in that brief
interjection. He was scarcely surprised at this visit. "I will go to
him," he said. "Call me a hansom, Grey, will you?"
The porter went outside, and Mr. Maddison crossed the hall and in a
small, dimly-lit room, found himself face to face with his visitor.
Sir Allan wore the brilliant uniform of a colonel in the yeomanry, for
the dinner to which he was going was to be followed by an official
reception. But he was very pale, and his manner had lost much of its
studied nonchalance.
"I followed you here," he began at once, "because, after your departure,
I began to realize more fully the seriousness of what you told me."
"Yes. I thought at the time that your indifference was a little
remarkable," Mr. Maddison said quietly. The positions between them were
entirely reversed. It was Sir Allan Beaumerville now who was placing a
great restraint upon himself, and Mr. Maddison who was collected and at
his ease.
"I was taken by surprise," Sir Allan continued. "Since you left me I
have been picturing all manner of horrible things. Have you fully
realized that you may be arrested at any moment on this frightful
charge?"
"I have fully realized it," Mr. Maddison answered calmly. "In fact, when
the porter told me that a gentleman wished to see me, I imagined at once
that it had come."
"And have you considered, too," Sir Allan continued, "how overwhelming
the evidence is against you?"
"I have considered it."
"Then why do you linger here for one moment? Why don't you escape while
you have the chance?"
"Why should I?" Mr. Maddison answered. "I shall make no attempt to
escape."
Sir Allan's face grew a shade more pallid, and betrayed an agitation
which he strove in vain to conceal.
"But supposing you are arrested," he said quickly, "everything will go
against you. What shall you do?"
"I shall accept my fate, whatever it may be," was the quiet reply. "I
prefer this to flight. Life would not be very valuable to me as a
skulking criminal in a foreign country. If it be declared forfeit to the
law, the law shall have it."
There was a sudden choking in Sir Allan's voice, and an almost piteous
look in his face.
"God forbid it!" he cried; "God forbid it!"
And suddenly this hardened man of the world, this professed cynic in an
age of cynicism, sank down in a chair and buried his head in his arms on
the green baize writing table, crushing the gold lace of his glittering
uniform, and the immaculate shirt front, with its single diamond stud.
It was only for a moment that a sudden rush of feeling overcame him. But
when he looked up his face was haggard and he looked years older.
"Does anyone--know of this?" he asked in a hoarse tone.
Mr. Maddison shook his head.
"No one whatever as yet," he said shortly. "If I am free to-morrow, I
shall go to Italy."
A sudden change swept into Sir Allan's face. He rose from his chair,
drawing himself up to his full height. Again he was the stately,
distinguished man of the world, with little feeling in his voice or
looks. Between him and this other man in his sober black, with wasted
face and thin stooping frame, there was a startling difference.
"I have no doubt that you will do your duty, Mr. Maddison," he said
coldly; "although, if I may be forgiven for saying so, your method
appears to me a little quixotic, and, in a certain sense, singularly
devoid of consideration for others. I will not detain you any longer."
He wrapped his long cloak around him and left the room in dignified
silence. Mr. Maddison followed him to the steps, and saw him get into
his carriage. They parted without another word.