"YOU REMEMBER MISS DENIS?"
"I say to thee, though free from care,
A lonely lot, an aimless life,
The crowning comfort is not there—
Son, take a wife."
_Jean Ingelow._
SCENE: a splendidly furnished dining-room in the most fashionable
square in London; season, end of July; hour, nine p.m.; _dramatis
personæ_, a father and son; the former, an old gentleman with a red
face, beaky nose, and bristling white hair, is holding a glass of
venerable port between his goggle eye and the light, and admonishing
his companion, a sunburnt young man, who is leaning back in his chair
and carelessly rolling a cigarette between his fingers. A young man so
dark, and tanned, that his visage would not look out of place beneath a
Spanish sombrero; nevertheless, we have no difficulty in recognizing
our former friend, Gilbert Lisle.
"It's positively indecent for a man of your position to go roaming
the world, like some ne'er-do-well, or family black sheep. FitzCurzon
told me he met you on the stairs of some hotel in San Francisco, in
a flannel shirt, butcher boots, and a coat that would have been dear
at fourpence! He declared, that you looked for all the world like a
digger."
"Curzon—is—a—puppy, who trots round the globe because he says it's
'the thing to do,'" (imitating a drawl), "and never is seen without
kid gloves, and if asked to dine on bear steaks in the Rockies, would
arrive in evening dress and white tie,—or perish in the attempt;
not that he ever ventures off the beaten track of ocean steamers and
express trains; he could not live without his dressing case, and a hard
day's ride would kill him. He was in the finest country in the world
for sport, and he never fired a cartridge!" It was evident from the
speaker's face, that this latter enormity crowned all.
"Well, you shot enough for _six_! I should think you have killed every
animal, from a mosquito to an elephant; this house is a cross between
a menagerie and a museum. You have been away two years this time, Gil.
'Pon my word, you are as bad as the prodigal son." Here he swallowed
the port at a gulp.
"I admit that I have been to a far country, but you can scarcely
accuse me of wasting my substance in riotous living," remonstrated his
offspring.
"I accuse you of wasting your time, sir! which in a man in your
position is worse. Why can you not content yourself at home, as I
do, instead of roaming about like a play actor, or the agent for
some patent medicine! Where's this you were last? a cattle ranche
in Texas,—before that, California,—before that, Japan, dining on
boa-constrictors, and puppy dogs; before that,—the deuce only knows;
you are as fond of walking up and down the earth, and going to and
fro—as—as—the devil in the Psalms, or where was it?"
"My dear father," replied Gilbert, with the utmost goodhumour. "You
have compared me to a black sheep, a digger,—and I suppose, because
it happens to be Sunday evening,—to the prodigal son; and finally,
the devil! None of your illustrations fit me, and the last I repudiate
altogether; _his_ wanderings, if I remember rightly, were in search of
mischief. Mine were merely in quest of amusement."
"Amusement and mischief are generally the same thing," grunted Lord
Lingard. "Why, the deuce,—you are over thirty, and getting as grey as
a badger.—Why can't you marry and settle?"
"Some people marry and never settle, others marry, and are settled with
a vengeance," rejoined his son, now proceeding to light his cigarette.
"Bah! you are talking nonsense, sir, and you know it; a man in your
position must marry—heir to me, heir to your uncle, heir to yourself."
"Heir to myself," muttered Gilbert, "well, I shall let myself off
cheap. I must marry, must I? _Je n'en vois pas la nécessité. Après moi
le déluge._"
"Oh, hang your French lingo!" growled his father. "If I had not wanted
you to marry, I suppose you'd have brought me home a daughter-in-law
years ago—some barmaid, no doubt."
"Barmaids may be very agreeable young women; but somehow, I don't think
they are just in my line, sir."
"Line, sir, line! I'll tell you what _is_ in your line! confounded
obstinacy. You had the same strong will when you were a little chap in
white frocks,—no higher than the poker. Once you took a thing into
your head, nothing would move you."
"In that respect I believe I take after you," returned his son, with
the deepest respect. "A strong determination to have your own way,
helps a man to shove through life—so I have understood you to say."
"Had me there, neatly, Gilbert! Yes, you score one. Well—well—but
seriously,—I want to have a little rational talk with you. There
is that fine place of yours in Berkshire, shut up all the year
round—think——"
"Don't say, of my _position_ again, sir, I implore you," interrupted
his son, with a mock tragic gesture.
"Well, your stake in the country—think of your tenants."
"I have remembered them to the tune of a reduction of thirty per
cent.—What more do they want?"
"They would like you to marry some nice-looking girl, and go down, and
live among them."
"If I did, and kept up a large establishment, took the hounds, and
kept tribes of servants, and had a wife who dressed in hundred-guinea
gowns, and went in for private theatricals, balls, races,—and probably
betting,—I should not be able to make such a pleasant little abatement
in the rent! How would that be?"
"You would never marry a minx like that, I should hope! Listen to me,
Gilbert," now waxing pathetic, "I am getting to be an old man, and you
are all I have belonging to me. I am lost here alone in this great
big mansion. Marry, and make your home with me; my bark is worse than
my bite, as you know, I would like to see a woman about the house
again—they are cheerful, and brighten up a place, especially if they
are young and pretty. Just look at the two of us sitting on here
over our coffee till nearly eleven o'clock, simply because the big
drawing-room above is empty.—I am not nearly as keen about the club as
I used to be, and these attacks of gout play the very devil with me."
And here, to his son's blank amazement, he suddenly dropped into
poetry, and quavered out,—
"Oh woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
When pain and sickness wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou."
"You speak in the plural, sir," rejoined Gilbert gravely. "You say,
you like to see women about the house, that they are cheerful, they
brighten up a place. Do you suppose—granting that I am a follower of
Mormon—that six would be sufficient?"
"I'm not in the humour for jokes! I'm serious, Gilbert, whatever you
may be. I want to see a pretty young face in the carriage, and opera
box, and the family diamonds on a pretty neck and arms—they have not
been worn for years—the very sight of them would make any girl jump at
you," he concluded in a cajoling voice.
"Then, for heaven's sake, don't display them."
"Gilbert, you are enough to drive me mad. I begin to think—'pon my
word, I begin to suspect—that you have a reason for all this fencing,"
glancing at him suspiciously beneath his frost-white eyebrows—"you are
married already, sir; some low-born adventuress, some disreputable——"
"I am _not_," interrupted his son with a gesture of impatience.
"Then you are in love with a married woman!"
"You seem to have a very exalted idea of my character, sir, but again
you are mistaken."
"Ha! humph!" tossing off a beaker of port; "then it just comes to this,
you don't think any woman good enough to be the wife of Mr. Lisle! Now
honestly, Gilbert, have you ever seen a girl you would have married?"
Dead silence succeeded this question.
"Come, Gilbert," pursued the old gentleman remorselessly.
"Well, yes—such a person has existed," at length admitted his victim
most reluctantly.
"And where is she? Why did you not marry her? Where did you meet her?"
"I met her in the Andamans."
"The Andamans! Those cannibal islands! This is another of your
confounded jokes!" Now looking alarmingly angry.—"I know as well as
you do, that there are only savages there. Do you take me for a fool,
sir?"
"There was a large European community at Port Blair. As to taking you
for a fool, it would be the last thing to occur to me—on the contrary,
the young lady took _me_ for one."
"Then she never made a greater mistake in her life,—never. And why did
it not come off?"
"She preferred another fellow, that was all."
"_Preferred!_ humph—good matches must have been growing on the trees
out there. Well, well, well," looking fixedly at his son, "there's as
good fish in the sea as ever were caught—why not fall back on Katie?"
"It has not come to that _yet_, sir—and I would sooner, if it was all
the same to you, fall back on a loaded revolver."
"She has the mischief's own temper, I allow—but what a property!
However, you need not look for money—a pretty, lively English girl,
that wears her own hair and complexion, and that can sing a song or
two, and get out of a carriage like a gentlewoman—that's the style!
Eh, Gilbert?"
"I suppose so, sir," rejoined his son gloomily; "but as the Irishman
said, 'You must give me a long day—a long day, your honour.'"
"And the old savage replied—I remember it perfectly—'I'll give you
till to-morrow, the twenty-first of June, the longest day in the year!'
And your shrift shall be a short one, my boy! What are you going to do
with yourself to-morrow?"
"Do you mean that you would marry me off within the next twelve hours?"
"No, you young stupid."
"Oh, well, I want to look in at the Academy and a couple of clubs, and
in the evening I'm going to dine with the Durands senior, and do a
theatre afterwards with the Durands junior."
"Oh!—Mary and her husband. Mary is a sensible woman. I want to talk to
her. Ask her to dine—say Thursday? Mary has her head screwed on the
right way. I shall consult her about you, Master Gilbert. I'll see what
she advises about you. She shall help me to put the noose round your
neck."
"The _noose_, indeed," repeated his son in a tone of melancholy sarcasm.
"Yes, yes, I'll settle it all with Mary." So saying, the old gentleman
went chuckling from the room in a high state of jubilation.
The next afternoon Gilbert Lisle formed one of a crowd who were
collected before a certain popular picture at the Royal Academy; but
so far his view had been entirely obscured by the broad back of a
gentleman in front of him; it vaguely occurred to him that there was
something rather familiar in the shape of those broad, selfish-looking
shoulders, when their owner suddenly turned round, and he found himself
face to face with James Quentin.
"By Jove, old fellow!" exclaimed the latter, shaking his hand
vigorously, "this _is_ a pleasant surprise; and so you have returned
from your travels—where do you hail from last?"
"Only New York; I arrived two days ago, and feel as if I had been away
for ten years, I'm so out of everything and behind the times,—a second
Rip Van Winkle."
"Then I suppose you have not heard _my_ little bit of news?"
"No—o—but I fancy I can guess it, it's not a very difficult
riddle—you are married!"
"Right you are! a second Daniel! Come away and speak to Mrs. Q., she
will be delighted to see you."
Gilbert had not bargained for this—he would much rather never meet
Helen Denis again; however, there was no resisting Apollo's summons,
and in another moment he was standing before a velvet settee, and ere
he was aware of it, his companion was saying, "Jane, my love, let me
present an old friend—Mr. Lisle, Mrs. Quentin."
He glanced down, and saw a magnificently-attired, massive-looking dame,
over whose head fully forty summers had flown; she was smiling up at
him most graciously, and holding out a well-gloved hand—this lady was
indisputably Mrs. Quentin—but where was Helen Denis?
Her new acquaintance made a gallant struggle to master his amazement,
and to utter a few bald, commonplace remarks about the heat and the
pictures; and presently suffered himself to be borne onward by the
crowd. But Jim Quentin was not going to lose sight of him thus. He had
married a wife considerably beneath him in birth, and it behoved him to
keep a fast hold of his well-born friends, and a secure footing on the
social ladder.
Lisle was a popular man; he had discovered this fact on his return to
England, and had made considerable capital out of his name in various
ways. It had proved to be an open sesame to a rather exclusive circle,
who cordially welcomed Apollo when they heard that he and Gilbert Lisle
were "like brothers," and had lived under the same roof for months.
Lisle had been useful at Port Blair, and he would be useful in London.
"Well, were you surprised to find that there was a Mrs. Quentin?" he
asked, as he came up with his quarry in a comparatively empty room,
chiefly devoted to the display of etchings on large stands and easels.
"No, of course not—but," looking him steadily in the face, "she is not
the lady I expected to see."
"What!" then all of a sudden he remembered Helen—Helen, who had been
completely swept out of his mind by a twelvemonth of busy intrigues,
and such exciting pursuits as fortune-hunting, tuft-hunting, and
place-hunting. "Oh! to be sure, you were thinking of Miss Denis, but
that did not come off, you see," he added with careless effrontery.
"She was all very well—_pour passer le temps_—in an ungodly hole like
the Andamans, but, by George! England is quite another affair."
"Is it—and why?" inquired his listener, rather grimly.
"Oh! my dear fellow, she has not a rap—she was literally
penniless—when her father died, she was destitute."
"But you always understood that she had no fortune."
"Yes, but when I came to look at it, I saw that it would never do.
I had next to nothing; she had nothing at all; one cannot live on
love, and I don't think I was ever really serious. I did you a good
turn though; _you_ were rather inclined to make a fool of yourself in
that quarter," administering a playful poke in the ribs, and grinning
significantly.
But the grin on his face faded somewhat suddenly as he encountered a
look in his companion's eyes that made him feel curiously uncomfortable.
"Where is she now?" inquired Lisle, speaking in a low, repressed sort
of tone.
"'Pon my honour, I can't tell you! I believe she has gone out as
governess—best thing she could do, you know; better than marrying a
poor devil like me," he added apologetically. "She was a nice enough
little girl, and she had not half a bad time of it in the Andamans. I
daresay she'll pick up some fellow at home. Look here, old chappie,"
button-holeing him as he spoke, "this is my card and address; now,
what day will you come and dine? Got a tip-top cook,—not that you
ever _were_ particular,—my wife has pots of money, and we give rather
swagger entertainments. Whatever day will suit you will suit me; you
have only to say the word."
"I have only to say the word, have I!" cried Gilbert, suddenly blazing
into passion; "then I say that you are a scoundrel, Mr. Quentin. I say
that you have behaved like one to that girl, that's what _I_ say."
Apollo recoiled precipitately. He did not like the angry light in his
old friend's face, nor the manner in which he grasped his cane.
"You jilted her, on your own showing, in the most deliberate,
cold-blooded manner. Jilted her because you were tired of a passing
fancy, and she was left, as you say, penniless and destitute. She may
thank her stars for a lucky escape! Better she should beg her bread
than be the wife of a cur like you! There's your card," tearing it into
pieces and scattering it on the floor. "In my opinion you should be
kicked out of decent society, and turned out of every respectable club
in London. I beg that, for the future, you will be good enough to give
_me_ a wide berth," and with a nod of unspeakable contempt he turned
and walked away, leaving his foe absolutely speechless with rage and
amazement.
Underneath these mixed feelings lay a smouldering conviction that
Lisle, for all his customary _nonchalance_, could be as bitter and
unsparing an enemy as he had been a generous and useful friend.
Pleasant, stately houses would close—nay, slam their doors on him at a
hint from Lisle, and if the story got about the clubs, and was looked
at from Lisle's point of view,—it would be the very deuce! In his
exaltation he had somewhat forgotten the _rôle_ he formerly played
with his fellow inmate,—and we know that to a liar a good memory is
indispensable,—he had spoken rashly and foolishly with his lips, and
had been thus summarily condemned out of his own mouth! Alas! alas! he
already saw his circle of well-beloved, titled friends narrowing to
vanishing point, as he now recalled a veiled threat uttered by the very
man who had just denounced him! On the whole, Mr. Quentin thought that
his little comedy with Miss Denis would prove an expensive performance,
and he returned to his wealthy partner, feeling very much like a beaten
hound.
* * * * *
That evening, as Gilbert Lisle drove up to the door of Mrs. Durand's
mansion, he said to himself, "Here I come to the very house of all
others where I am most likely to hear the sequel to that rascal's
story. Mrs. Durand is safe to know all about Helen Denis,—and if she
is the woman I take her to be, she won't be long before I know as much
as she does herself! I shall say nothing—I shall not ask a single
question about the young lady; not, indeed, that it personally concerns
me whether she is on the parish or not. Still, I should like to hear
what has become of her."
(He made these resolutions as he entered, and passed upstairs, and
presented himself in the drawing-room.)
Strange to say, Mrs. Charles Durand had arrived at a precisely similar
determination with regard to him. Hitherto they had only exchanged
a few hasty words, had no opportunity of raking up "old days," but
to-night it would be different; "At dinner he is sure to make some
allusion to Port Blair, and her name will come on the _tapis_,
and I can easily judge by his looks, if there was anything in my
suspicions—and very strong suspicions they were! However, I won't be
the first to break the ice; as far as Helen is concerned—I shall be
dumb."
Thus Mrs. Durand to her own reflection in the mirror, as she attired
herself for the evening.
Here were two people about to meet, each resolved to be silent, and
each determined to hear the other's disclosures on an intensely
interesting subject. As is usual in such cases, the lady yielded first;
her opponent was habitually reserved, and it came as second nature
to him to wait and to hold his peace. He had one false alarm during
dinner, when his former playmate, addressing him across the table,
said, with her brightest air,—
"I saw a particular friend of _yours_ to-day; who do you think it was?"
"I have so many particular friends," he replied, "that's rather a large
order."
"Well, a _lady_ friend."
"A lady friend! They are not much in my way."
"A lady you knew in the Andamans," looking at him keenly.
He cast a quick, questioning glance at her, but remained otherwise
dumb, and she, smiling at her own little _ruse_, said,—
"In short, our well-beloved Mrs. Creery! She was driving in the park,
in a dreadful yellow affair, like an omnibus cut down, along with
another remarkable old person. She was delighted to see me, and hailed
me as if I had been a long-lost child!"
Mrs. Durand smiled to herself again. She was thinking of the battle
royal she had fought with Mrs. Creery over the reputation of the very
gentleman who was now her _vis-à-vis_.
"She asked me particularly for you, and sent you a message—I'm not
sure that it was not her _love_—and told me to be sure and tell you
that Monday is her day."
"I really don't see any connection between Mrs. Creery's Mondays and
myself," coolly rejoined that lady's former _bête-noire_. And, with a
few general remarks about Port Blair, the monsoon, the sharks, and the
shells, the conversation drifted back to less out-of-the-way regions.
The younger members of the party set out after dinner for the Savoy, to
see Gilbert and Sullivan's latest production. They consisted of Captain
and Mrs. Durand, two young lady cousins, a guardsman, and Mr. Lisle.
Mrs. Durand and the latter occupied the back seat in the box, and
discoursed of the piece, mutual friends, and mutual aversions, with a
scrupulous avoidance of the one topic nearest their hearts.
At last, the lady could stand it no longer; and, during the interval
after the first act, she turned to her companion, and said rather
sharply, "You remember Miss Denis?"
"Miss Denis—oh, yes! of course I do!"
"Those are her cousins in the box next the stage—those girls in pink."
"Is she living with them?"
"Oh dear no! She stayed a month or two on her first arrival, and,
by all accounts, they led her the life of a modern Cinderella, and
afterwards turned her off to earn her bread as a governess."
"Indeed!" he ejaculated, with such stoical indifference that Mrs.
Durand felt that she could have shaken him. But, after a moment's
silence, he added, "I always thought she had married Quentin—until
to-day."
"Oh, nonsense! You are not really serious! Of course you are aware that
your friend, Apollo, has espoused a widow with quantities of money in
the oil trade."
"Pray do not call him _my_ friend; I am not at all anxious to claim
that honour," he rejoined stiffly.
"Then you have been quarrelling, I suppose. I wonder if it was about
the usual thing—one of my sex?"
"It was. I may say as much to _you_. In fact it was about Miss
Denis—he treated her shamefully."
"What makes you think so?"—opening her eyes very wide, and shutting up
her fan.
"Because he was engaged to her at Port Blair. He told me so. And when
she was left penniless, he jilted her for this rich widow."
"He told you that he was engaged to Helen? Oh," drawing a long breath,
"never!"
"Yes, and showed me a ring she had given him."
"Again I say, never, never, _never_!"
"My dear Mrs. Durand, there is no good in saying, never, never, never,
like that. The ring he exhibited, was one that I had given Miss Denis
myself!"
"Oh, sets the wind in that quarter!" mentally exclaimed the matron; "I
thought as much." But aloud she replied, "Was it a curious old ring,
without any stones, that was stolen from her the night of the ball?"
"It was the ring you describe. But it was not stolen, for she gave
it to Quentin when he went to the Nicobars as a '_gage d'amour_.' I
expected that he would have married her as soon as possible after her
father's death; indeed, I understood that he was returning from Camorta
with that intention. But you see I have been so completely out of the
world, that I heard nothing further till I met Quentin and his wife
at the Academy to-day; and he calmly informed me that he had never
seriously contemplated marrying Miss Denis, and that the Andamans and
London are quite a different pair of shoes! Pray, do you call that
honourable conduct?"
"You are quite, quite wrong!" cried Mrs. Durand, excitedly. "Now you
have said your say, it is my turn to speak; and speak I will," she
added with a gleam of determination in her eye.
"Oh, certainly!" returned her listener, with rather dry politeness.
"Helen was, and is, a particular friend of mine, and I happen to _know_
that she could not endure Apollo Quentin! She did not even think him
good-looking! and he bored her to death. He stuck to her like burr, and
she could not shake him off. She would ten times rather have talked
to Captain Rodney, or Mr. Green,—or even to _you_! She was no more
engaged to him than I was. She never gave him that ring."—Here her
listener stirred, and made a gesture of impatient protestation.—"That
ring was _stolen_, and sold for twenty rupees," concluded Mrs. Durand,
in her most forcible manner.
"Stolen—sold!" he echoed, turning towards her so suddenly that it made
her start. "Is this true?"
"_True?_" she repeated indignantly.
"I do not mean to doubt you for one second; but you may have been
deceived."
"At any rate, I had the benefit of my _own_ eyes and ears. They do not
often mislead me."
"Then how——"
"If you will only have patience you shall hear all. Helen stayed with
me for the last week at Port Blair; and the night before she sailed,
when I went into her room I discovered Fatima grovelling on the ground
at her feet, and holding the hem of her dress, and whining,—'A—ma!
A—ma!' in true native fashion. 'I very bad woman, Missy,' she was
saying; 'and I very sorry _now_. I stealing jewels—why for I sent
here? And now I done take, Missy's ring and sell for twenty rupees.'"
"Sold it! To whom?" interrupted Mr. Lisle, his dark face flushing to
his temples.
"_That_ she refused to divulge. All we could prevail on her to confess
was, that she had taken it the night of the ball, and that she did
not think it was of any value; but seeing how much trouble Missy was
in,—and Missy going away to England, she was plenty sorry."
"Stolen the night of the ball—sold for twenty rupees, and Quentin
showed it to me the next morning!" exclaimed Lisle.
After this summing up, he and Mrs. Durand looked at each other for
about twenty seconds, in dead silence.
"Where is Miss Denis now?" he inquired in a kind of husky whisper.
"I wish I could tell you! I'm a miserable correspondent; I never
answered her last letter, written from a school at Kensington. I would
rather walk two miles than write two pages. It's very sad, and gets
me into great disgrace. But though I do not write, I don't _forget_
people. As soon as I arrived at home I went off to this school to see
Helen, and to make my peace."
"Yes?"
"The house was all shut up, blinds down in every window, the cook in
sole charge, every one else away for the holidays. The cook only showed
half her face through the door, and was not at all inclined to be
communicative; but I gave her something to help her memory, and then
she recollected, that six weeks before the school broke up, the English
governess had gone away sick, but she understood that she had not left
for good.—School opens again on the 1st of September," added Mrs.
Durand significantly.
"Meanwhile, where is she?"
"That is more than I can say."
"Perhaps her cousins would tell you," glancing over at the Miss Platts.
"Not they—if they did know, I doubt if they would inform you, as they
are even more disagreeable than they look,—and that is saying much.
However, I shall get a friend to sound them about their cousin. I
believe they treated her like a servant, and made her carry parcels,
run messages, mend their clothes, and button their boots!"
"How did you hear this? from Miss Denis?"
"She never named them. I'm afraid to tell you, lest you should think me
a second Mrs. Creery."
"No fear—there could be but _one_ Mrs. Creery—she is matchless."
"Well, my sister's maid, Plunket—now really this is downright
gossip—came to her from the Platts, and one day we were talking about
fine heads of hair, and she described the beautiful hair of a poor
young lady in her last place,—Mrs. Platt's niece, Miss Denis; and so
it all came out, for of course I pricked up my ears when I heard her
name."
During this conversation the curtain had risen on the second act, and
the entire audience was convulsed with delight at one of Grossmith's
songs, and yet these two talked on, and never once cast their eyes
to the stage. Indeed, Mrs. Durand had almost turned her back on the
actors, and was wholly engrossed in an interesting little drama in
private life. The other occupants of the box were in ecstasies with
the performers, and Captain Durand, after gasping and wiping his eyes,
turned to his wife impatiently, and said,—
"Well, really, Mary, you might just as well have stayed at home, and
talked there; you have done nothing but gossip. I thought you were wild
to see this piece. If you are so bored yourself, you might at least
give Lisle a chance of enjoying it!"
"Charley says I must not go on chattering any longer, distracting
your attention from the play. We can finish our conversation another
time."—So saying, she took up her opera glass, and addressed herself
seriously to the performance.
As for Gilbert Lisle, he leant back in his chair, and also fixed his
eyes on the stage, but he saw absolutely nothing. If he had been asked
to describe a character, a scene, or a song, he could not have done so
to save his life. His mind was in a state of extraordinary confusion;
he was dazed, overwhelmed, at the situation in which he found himself.
So he had been the dupe, and tool, of Quentin from first to last! It
seemed incredible, that Quentin, to gain a momentary empty triumph,
had stooped to theft, in order to bolster up a lie, and maintain his
reputation as a lady-killer. Then as for Miss Denis,—if she had not
been engaged to Quentin, and had never parted with the ring, what must
she think of him? He held his breath at this poignant reflection. If
any one had jilted her,—if any one had behaved vilely, if any one
was a dishonoured traitor, it was he—Gilbert Lisle—sitting there
staring stupidly before him, surrounded by ignorant and confiding
friends, who believed him to be a gentleman, and a man of honour! As
he cast his eyes over a mental picture, and saw himself, as he must
appear to Helen, he was consumed by a fever of shame, that seemed to
devour him. To live under the imputation of such conduct, was torture
of the most exquisite description to a man of his temperament;—who
had such a delicate sense of personal honour, and such chivalrous
reverence for other people's veracity, that he had fallen an easy prey
to an unscrupulous brazen-tongued adventurer, like James Quentin.
Fury against Quentin, restored faith in his lost _fiancée_, were
all secondary to one scorching thought, that seemed to burn his
very brain—the thought of the disgrace that lay upon his hitherto
unblemished name. To have sworn to return to a girl,—to have vowed
to make her his wife,—and to have miserably deserted her, without
message, or excuse,—left her to bear the buffets of adversity as best
she could,—to earn her own living, or to eat the bread of charity, was
maddening—maddening. He must get out of the theatre into the open air;
but first he leant over Mrs. Durand's chair, and spoke to her in a few
broken and imperfect sentences.
"What you have told me to-night, has a significance that you cannot
guess" (oh, could she not?) "It alters—it may alter—the whole
course of my life. Mrs. Durand—Mary! you were always my friend, be
my friend now. When you get her address, and you will get it—you
_must_ get it,—to-night, to-morrow—you will give it to me in the same
hour—promise."
"Why should I promise?" she asked playfully, delighted to see the
immovable Gilbert for once a prey to some powerful emotion.
He was pale—his very lips were trembling, big beads of perspiration
stood upon his temples.
"Why should I tell you especially?"—she repeated, but looking in his
face, she saw that he was too terribly in earnest to be in the mood for
light badinage. Looking in his face, she read the answer.
"I _see_,—yes, you may depend on me."
Reassured by this pledge, he grasped her hand in silence, and rose
to leave the box. But ere he departed, she turned her head over her
shoulder, and murmured behind her fan, "I believe it is all going to
come right at last.—And, Gilbert," lowering her voice to a whisper, "I
always suspected that it was _you_."
"What's the matter? What has become of Lisle?" inquired her husband,
looking sharply round as he heard the door close. "Where is he? Why has
he gone away?"
"He was not in the mood for light comedy, my dear. He has just heard
something of far more powerful interest than 'The Silver Churn,'"
nodding her head impressively. "You remember a bet you made about him
and Helen Denis, one evening in the Andamans?"
"I don't remember any bet—but I know you had some impossible idea in
your head."
"Then _I_ recollect the wager—distinctly—a new bonnet. And my idea
may seem impossible, but it is true. It was _not_ that odious puppy,
Apollo Quentin, who was in love with Helen, it was,—as I repeatedly
told you,—Gilbert Lisle. So to-morrow, my good Charles, I shall go
to Louise's and invest—at your expense—in the smartest bonnet in
London."