"He's doing right," the old man explained, taking hold of the lapel of
Davenant's coat, "or what he conceives to be right; and no one man can
do that without putting us into a better position all round. Doing
right," he continued, emphasizing his words by shaking the lapel and
hammering on Peter's breast--"doing right is the solution of all the
difficulties into which we get ourselves tied up by shilly-shallying and
doing wrong. If Ashley were to hang fire you wouldn't know where the
devil you were. But now that he's going straight, it leaves you free to
do the same."
"It leaves me free to cut and run." He made little effort to conceal his
bitterness.
"Then cut and run, if that's what you feel impelled to do. You won't run
far before you see you're running to a purpose. I'll cut and run, too,"
he added, cheerfully. "I'll be off to see Olivia, and tell her she's
made a catch."
Davenant was glad to be able to resume his tramp. "Poor old chap," he
said to himself; "a lot he knows about it! It's damned easy to do right
when you've got everything your own way."
Having everything his own way was the happy position in which he placed
Rupert Ashley, seeing he was able to marry Olivia Guion by the simple
process of selling an estate. There was no more to that in Davenant's
estimation than to his own light parting with his stocks and bonds.
Whatever sacrifice the act might entail would have ample compensation,
since the giving up of the temporal and non-essential would secure
supreme and everlasting bliss. He would gladly have spared a hand or an
eye for a mere chance at the same reward.
Arrived in Boston there was nothing for him to do but to eat an
expensive dinner at a restaurant and go back again. He did not return on
foot. He had had enough of his own thoughts. They led him round and
round in a circle without end. He was ashamed, too, to perceive that
they concerned themselves chiefly, not with his love for Olivia Guion,
but with his enmity to Rupert Ashley. It was the first time in his life
that he was ever possessed by the fury to kill a man. He wouldn't have
been satisfied to be rid of Ashley; he wanted to leap on him, to strike
him, to choke him, to beat him to death. Sitting with his eyes fixed on
the table-cloth, from which the waiter had removed everything but the
finger-bowl and the bill, and allowing the cigar that protruded between
his knuckles to burn uselessly, he had already indulged in these
imaginary exercises, not a little to his relief, before he shook himself
and muttered: "I'm a damned fool."
The repetition of this statement, together with the dull belief that
repetition engenders, braced him at last to paying his bill and taking
the tram-car to Waverton. He had formed a resolution. It was still
early, scarcely later than the hour at which he usually dined. He had a
long evening before him. He would put it to use by packing his
belongings. Then he would disappear. He might go at once to Stoughton,
or he might travel no farther than the rooms he had engaged, and which
he had occupied in former years, on the less attractive slope of Beacon
Hill. It would be all the same. He would be out of the circle of
interests that centered round Olivia Guion, and so free to come back to
his senses.
He got so much elation out of this resolve that from the electric car to
Rodney Temple's house he walked with a swinging stride, whistling
tunelessly beneath his breath. He tried to think he was delivered from
an extraordinary obsession and restored to health and sanity. He planned
to initiate Ashley as the new _chargé d'affaires_ without the necessity
on his part of seeing Miss Guion again.
And yet, when he opened the door with his latch-key and saw a note lying
on the table in the hail, his heart bounded as though it meant to stop
beating. It was sheer premonition that made him think the letter was for
him. He stooped and read the address before he had taken off his hat and
while he was still tugging at his gloves:
Peter Davenant, Esq.,
31 Charlesbank.
It was premonition again that told him the contents before he had read a
line:
DEAR MR. DAVENANT,--If you are quite free this evening, could you
look in on me again? Don't come unless you have really nothing else
to do. Yours sincerely,