A PARAGRAPH IN "THE STANDARD."
Max did not stay long with his friend, but made the excuse that he was
half asleep, after a few minutes' rather desultory conversation, to go
back to his hotel.
It was with the greatest reluctance that he left his friend alone; but
Dudley had given him intimations, in every look and tone and movement,
that he wished to be by himself; and this fact increased the heaviness
of heart with which Max, full of forebodings on his friend's account,
had gone reluctantly down the creaking stairs.
Again and again Max asked himself, during his short walk from Lincoln's
Inn to Arundel Street, why he had not had the courage to put a question
or two straightforwardly to Dudley. As a matter of fact, however, the
reason was simple enough. The relative positions of the two men had been
suddenly reversed, and neither of them, as yet, felt easy under the new
conditions.
Dudley, the hard-working student, the rising barrister, the abstemious,
thoughtful, rather silent man to whom Max had looked up with respect and
affection, had suddenly sunk, during the last few hours, by some
unaccountable and mysterious means, to far below Max's own modest level.
It was he, the careless fellow whom Dudley had formerly admonished, who
had that evening been the sober, the temperate, the taciturn one; it was
he who had watched the other, been solicitous for him, trembled for him.
Max could not understand. He lay awake worrying himself about his
friend, feeling Dudley's fall more acutely than he would have felt his
own, and did not fall asleep until it was nearly daylight.
In these circumstances he overslept himself, and it was eleven o'clock
before he found himself in the hotel coffee-room, waiting for his
breakfast.
He was in the act of pouring out his coffee, when his name, uttered
behind him in a familiar voice, made him start. The next moment Dudley
Horne stood by his side, and holding out his hand with a smile, seated
himself on the chair beside him.
"I--I--I overslept myself this morning," stammered Max.
He was in a state of absolute bewilderment. Not only had the new Dudley
of the previous night disappeared, with his alternate depression and
feverish high spirits, his furtive glances, his hoarse and altered
voice, but the old Dudley, who had returned, seemed happier and livelier
than usual.
"Town and its wicked ways don't agree with you, my boy, nor do they with
me. If I were in your shoes, I shouldn't tread the streets of Babylon
more than once a twelvemonth."
"You think that now," returned Max, "because you see more than enough of
town."
"Well, I'm not going to see much more of it at present," retorted
Dudley. "This afternoon I'm off again down to Datton, and I came to ask
whether you were coming down with me."
"I thought you had had a row, at least a misunderstanding of some sort,
with--with my father?"
"Why, yes, so I had," replied Dudley, serenely, as he took a newspaper
out of his pocket and folded it for reading. "But I've written to him
already this morning, explaining things, and telling him that I propose
to come down to The Beeches this evening. He'll get it before I turn up,
I should think, for I posted it at six o'clock this morning."
"Why, what were you doing at six o'clock in the morning?" said Max, in a
tone of bewilderment, as before. "Didn't you go to bed at all last
night?"
"No," answered Dudley, calmly. "I had some worrying things to think
about, and so I took the night to do it in."
A slight frown passed over his face as he spoke, but it disappeared
quickly, leaving him as placid as before.
"About one of the things I can consult you, Max. You know something
about it, I suppose. Do you think I have any chance with Doreen?"
Max stared at him again.
"You must be blind if you haven't seen that you have," he said, at last,
in a sort of muffled voice, grudgingly. He moved uneasily in his seat,
and added, in a hurried manner: "But, I say, you know, Dudley, after
last night, I--I want to ask you something myself. I'm Doreen's brother,
though I'm not much of a brother for such a nice girl as she is.
And--and--what on earth did you think of going to Liverpool for _with a
woman_? I've a right to ask that now, haven't I?"
Max blurted out these words in a dogged tone, not deterred from
finishing his sentence by the fact that Dudley's face had grown white
and hard, and that over his whole attitude there had come a rapid
change.
There was a pause when the younger man had finished. Dudley kept his
eyes down, and traced a pattern on the table-cloth with a fork, while
Max looked at him furtively. At last Dudley looked up quickly and asked,
in a tone which admitted of no prevarication in the answer he demanded:
"You have been playing the spy upon me, I see. Tell me just how much you
saw."
It was such a straightforward way of coming to the point that Max, taken
aback, but rather thankful that the ground was to be cleared a little,
answered at once without reserve:
"I did play the spy. It was enough to make me. I saw the hansom waiting
outside your door last night; the cabman mistook me for you, and told me
the lady had walked away. I couldn't help putting that together with
what you had told me about seeing a friend off to Liverpool, and,
perhaps, going there yourself. Now, who could have helped it?"
Dudley did not at once answer. He just glanced inquiringly at the face
of Max while he went on tracing the pattern on the cloth.
"You didn't see the lady," he said at last, not in a questioning tone,
but with conviction.
"No."
"Well, if you had seen her you would have been satisfied that it was not
her charms which were leading me astray," said he, with a faint smile.
"Are you satisfied now, or do you still consider," he went on with a
slight tone of mockery in his voice, "that my character requires further
investigation before you can accept me for a brother-in-law?"
Max moved uneasily again.
"What rot, Horne!" said he, impatiently. "You know very well I've always
wanted you to marry Doreen. I've said so, lots of times. I still say it
was natural I should want to understand your queer goings-on last night.
And now--and now--"
"And now that you don't understand them any better than before, you are
ready to take it for granted it's all right?" broke in Dudley, with the
same scoffing tone as before.
Max grew very red, began to speak, glanced at Dudley, and got up.
"Yes, I suppose that's about the size of it," said he, stiffly.
"And are you going down with me to-night? I can catch the seven o'clock
train."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. I'll meet you at Charing Cross."
Max's enthusiasm on his friend's behalf had been much damped by his
behavior, and he gave him a nod, turned on his heel and left him without
another word. He gave up trying to understand the mystery which hung
about Dudley, and left it to Doreen and to his father to unravel.
The two young men did not meet again, therefore, until seven that
evening, when they took their seats in the same smoking-carriage. Max
felt quite glad that the presence of a couple of strangers prevented any
talk of a confidential sort between himself and Dudley, who on his side
seemed perfectly contented to puff at his pipe in silence.
Dudley's letter had evidently been received, and well received, for at
the station the two friends found the dog-cart waiting to take them the
mile and a half which lay between the station and The Beeches.
At the house itself, too, the front door flew open at their approach,
and Mr. Wedmore himself stood in the hall to welcome them.
Queenie was there. Mr. Wedmore was there. But there was never a glimpse
of Doreen.
"I got your letter, my dear boy," began Mr. Wedmore, holding out his
hand with so much heartiness that it was plain he was delighted to be
able to forgive his old friend's son, "and I am very glad, indeed, that
you have found your way back to us so soon. I am heartily glad to hear
that the worries which have been making you depressed lately are
over--heartily glad. And so, I am sure," added he, with a significant
smile, "Doreen will be."
"Thank you, sir," said Dudley. "You are very kind, very indulgent. I am
not ungrateful, I assure you."
Max, behind them, was listening with attentive ears. He did not feel so
sure as his father seemed to be that all was now well with Dudley.
"Where's Doreen?" he asked his younger sister.
"Don't know, I'm sure. She's taken herself off somewhere. Probably
somebody else will find her quicker than you will."
The younger sister was right. The younger sister always is on these
occasions.
Within five minutes of his arrival, Dudley found his way into the
breakfast room, where Doreen, a pug dog and a raven were sitting
together on the floor, surrounded by a frightful litter of paper and
shavings and string, wooden boxes, hampers, and odds and ends of cotton
wool.
She just looked up when Dudley came in, gave him a glance and a little
cool nod, and then, as he attempted to advance, uttered a shrill little
scream.
"One step farther, and my wax cupids will be ruined!"
"Wax cupids!" repeated Dudley, feebly.
"Yes, for my Christmas tree. It's to be the greatest success ever known
in these parts, or the greatest failure. Nothing between. That's what I
must always have--something sensational--something to make people howl
at me, or to make them want to light bonfires in my honor. That's
characteristic, isn't it?"
And Doreen, who was dressed in a black skirt, with a scarlet velvet
bodice which did justice to her brilliant complexion and soft, dark
hair, paused in the act of turning out a number of glittering glass
balls into her lap.
"Very," said Dudley, as he made his way carefully to the nearest chair
and sat down to look at her.
He was up to his knees in brown-paper parcels, over which barricade he
stretched out his hand.
Doreen affected not to see it. She began to tie bits of fancy string
into the little rings in the glass balls, cutting off the ends with a
pair of scissors.
"Aren't you going to shake hands with me?" asked Dudley, impatiently.
Doreen answered without looking tip.
"No. Not yet."
"What's the matter now?"
"Oh, I am offended."
"What have I done now?"
Doreen threw up her head.
"What have you _not_ done? We have all of us--I among the
others--had a good deal to put up with from you, lately, in the matter
of what I will call general neglect. And you put a climax to it the day
before yesterday by rushing out of the house without a word of good-bye
to anybody."
"There was a reason for it," interrupted Dudley, quickly.
"I suppose so. But I'm not going to take the reason on trust, Mr.
Horne."
"Not if you're satisfied that you will meet with no more neglect in the
future? That my conduct shall be in every respect what you--and the
others--can desire?"
"Not even then," replied Doreen decisively.
"But if your father is satisfied?"
"Then go and talk to my father."
There was a pause and their eyes met. Dudley, who had acknowledged to
himself the patience with which Doreen had put up with his recent
neglect, was astonished by the resolution which he saw in her eyes.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked, in a condescending and
indulgent tone.
"A great deal more than you will tell me," answered Doreen, promptly.
Whereat there was another pause. Dudley took up one of the brown-paper
parcels and turned it over in his hands. Perhaps it was to hide the fact
that an irrepressible tremor was running through his limbs.
If he had looked at her at that moment he would have seen in her eyes a
touching look of sympathy and distress. The girl knew that something had
been amiss with him--that something was amiss still. She cared for him.
She wanted his confidence, or at least so much of it as would allow her
to pour out upon him the tender sympathy with which her innocent heart
was overflowing. And he would have none of it. He wanted to treat her
like a beautiful doll, to be left in its cotton wool when his spirits
were too low for playthings, and to be taken out and admired when things
went better with him.
This was what Doreen mutinously thought and what her lips were on the
point of uttering, when the door was opened by Mr. Wedmore, who came
into the room with a copy of the _Evening Standard_ in his hand.
"Look here, Horne, did you see this?" said he, as he folded the paper
and handed it to Dudley. "Here's an odd thing. Of course it may be only
a coincidence. But doesn't it seem to refer to the rascal who ruined
your prospects--Edward Jacobs?"
"A middle-aged Jewish woman, who found some difficulty in making
herself understood, from an impediment in her speech, applied to
Mr. ----, of ---- Street Police Court, for advice in the following
circumstances: She and her husband had returned to England in
reduced circumstances, after a long residence abroad, and her
husband was in search of employment. He had received a letter from
Limehouse, offering him employment and giving him an appointment
for yesterday afternoon, which he started to keep. He had not
returned; she had been to Limehouse police station to make
inquiries, but could learn nothing of her husband. She seemed to be
under the impression that he had met with foul play, and made a
rambling statement to the effect that he had 'enemies.' It was only
after much persuasion, and the assurance that the press could not
help her without the knowledge, that she gave her name as Jacobs,
and her husband's first name as Edward. She described him as of the
middle height, thin, with gray hair and a short gray beard. The
magistrate said he had no doubt the press would do what they could
to help her, and the woman withdrew."
Dudley Horne read this account, and gave the paper back to Mr. Wedmore.
He tried to speak as he did so, but, though his mouth opened, the voice
refused to come.