THE house that had been so peaceful was thus full of agitation and
disturbance, the household, anxious and alarmed, turning their weapons
upon each other, to relieve a little the gnawing of that suspense which
they were so unaccustomed to bear. It was true what Bee’s keen and
sharply aroused observation had convinced her, that Colonel Kingsward
was in correspondence with Miss Lance, and that her letters were very
welcome to him, and read with great interest. He threw down the paper
after he had made a rush through its contents, and read eagerly the long
sheets of paper, upon which the great L, stamped at the head of every
page, could be read on the other side of the table. How did that woman
know the days he was to be at home, that her letters should always come
on those mornings and never at any other time? Bee almost forgot her
troubles, those of the family in respect to Charlie, and those which
were her very own, in her passionate hatred and distrust of the new
correspondent to whom Colonel Kingsward, like his son, had opened his
heart.
He was not, naturally, a man given to correspondence. His letters to his
wife, in those days which now seemed so distant, had been models of
concise writing. His opinions, or rather verdicts, upon things great and
small had been conveyed in terse sentences, very much to the purpose;
deliverances not of his way of thinking, but of the unalterable dogmas
that were to rule the family life; and her replies, though diffuse, were
always more or less regulated by her consciousness of the little time
there would be given to them, and the necessity of making every
explanation as brief as possible--not to worry papa, who had so much to
do.
Why it was that he found the long letters, which he read with a certain
defiant pride in the presence of his daughters at the breakfast table,
so agreeable, it would be difficult to tell. They were very carefully
adapted to please him, it is true; and they were what are called clever
letters--such letters as clever women write, with a _faux air_ of
brilliancy which deceives both the writer and the recipient, making the
one feel herself a Sevigné and the other a hero worthy the exercise of
such powers. And there was something very novel in this sudden inroad of
sentimental romance into an existence never either sentimental or
romantic, which had fallen into the familiar calm of family life so long
ago with a wife, who though sweet and fair enough to delight any man,
had become in reality only the chief of his vassals, following every
indication of his will, when not eagerly watching an opportunity of
anticipating his wishes. His new friend treated the Colonel in a very
different way. She expounded her views of life with all the adroitness
of a mind experienced in the treatment of those philosophies which touch
the questions of sex, the differences between a man’s and a woman’s
view, the sentiment which can be carried into the most simple subjects.
There is nothing that can give more entertaining play of argument, or
piquancy of intercourse, than this mode of correspondence when cleverly
carried out, and Miss Laura Lance was a mistress of all its methods. It
was all entirely new to Colonel Kingsward. He was as much enchanted with
it as his son had been, and thought the writer as brilliant, as
original, as poor Charlie had done, who had no way of knowing better.
The Colonel’s head, which generally had been occupied by professional or
public matters--by the intrigues of the service or the incompetencies of
the Department--now found a much more interesting private subject of
thought. He was a man full of anxiety and annoyance at this particular
crisis of his career, and his correspondent was by way of sharing his
anxiety to the utmost and even blaming herself as the cause of it; yet
she contrived to amuse him, to bring a smile, to touch a lighter key, to
relieve the tension of his mind from time to time, without ever allowing
him to feel that the chief subject of their correspondence was out of
her thoughts. He got no relief of this description at home, where the
girls’ anxious questions about Charlie, their eagerness to know what had
been done, seemed to upbraid him with indifference, as if he were not
doing everything that was possible. Miss Lance knew better the dangers
that were being run, the real difficulties of the case, than these
inexperienced chits of children; but she knew also that a man’s mind
requires relief, and that, in point of fact, the Colonel’s health,
strength and comfort, were of more importance than many Charlie’s. This
was a thing that had to be understood, not said, and the Colonel indeed
was as anxious and concerned about Charlie as it was almost possible to
be. He did not form dreadful pictures as Bee and Betty did of what the
boy might be suffering. The boy deserved to suffer, and this
consideration, had he dwelt upon it, would have afforded a certain
satisfaction. But what did make him wretched was the fear of any
exposure, the mention in public of anything that might injure his son’s
career. An opportunity was already dawning of getting him an
appointment upon which the Colonel had long kept his eye, and which
would be of double importance at present as sending him out of the
country and into new scenes. But of what use were all a father’s careful
arrangements if they were thus balked by the perversity of the boy?
Things were still in this painful suspense when Miss Lance announced to
Colonel Kingsward her arrival in town. She described to him how it was
that she was coming.
“My friend is absent with her son till after Easter, and I am understood
to be fond of town, and am coming to spend a week or two to see the
first of the season, the pictures, &c., as well as a few friends whom I
still keep up, the relics of brighter and younger days--this is the
reason I give, but you will easily understand, dear Colonel Kingsward,
that there is another reason far more near to my heart. Your poor boy!
Or may I for once say our poor boy? For you are aware that I have never
ceased to upbraid myself for what has happened, and that I shall always
bear a mother’s heart to Charlie, dear fellow, to whom, in wishing him
nothing but good, I have been so unfortunate as to do such dreadful
wrong. Every word you say about your hopes for him, and the great chance
which he is so likely to miss, cuts me to the heart. And it has occurred
to me that there are some places in which he may have been heard of, to
which I could myself go, or where I might take you if you wished, which
you would not yourself be likely to know. I wish I had thought of them
before. I come up now full of hope that we may hear something and find a
reliable clue. I shall be in George Street, Hanover Square, a place
which is luckily in the way for everything. Please come and see me. I
hope you will not think I am presuming in endeavouring to solve a
difficulty for which I am, alas, alas! partially to blame. To assure me
of this at least if no more, come, do come to see me to-morrow, Tuesday
afternoon. I shall do nothing till I have your approval.”
This letter had an exciting effect upon the Colonel, more than anything
he had known for years. He held it before him, yielding himself up to
this pleasurable sensation for some minutes after he had read it. The
Easter recess had left London empty, and he had been deprived of some of
the ordinary social solaces which, though they increased the difficulty
of keeping his son’s disappearance a secret, still broke the blank of
his suspense and made existence possible. Hard to bear was the point
blank shock which he had sometimes received, as when an indiscreet but
influential friend suddenly burst upon him, “I don’t see your son’s name
in the Oxford lists, Kingsward.” “No,” the Colonel had replied, with a
countenance from which all expression had been dismissed, “we thought it
better that he should keep to his special studies.” “Quite right, quite
right,” answered that great official, for what is a mere degree to F.
O.? Even to have such things as this said to him, with the chance of
putting in a response, was better than the stagnation, in which a man is
so apt to feel that all kinds of whispers are circulating in respect to
the one matter which it is his interest to conceal.
And his heart, though it was a middle-aged, and no longer nimble organ
given to leaping, jumped up in his breast when he read his letter. There
was the possible clue which it was good to hear of--and there was the
listener to whom he could tell everything, who took such an entire and
flattering share in his anxieties, with whom there was no need to invent
excuses, or to conceal anything. Perhaps there were other reasons, too,
which he did not put into words. The image which had dazzled him at
Oxford rose again before his eyes. It was an image which had already
often visited him. One of the handsomest women he had ever seen, and so
flattering, so confidential, so deeply impressed by himself, so candid
and anxious to blame herself, to place herself in his hands. He went
back to town with agreeable instead of painful anticipations. To share
one’s cares is always an alleviation--to be able openly to take a
friend’s advice. The girls, to whom alone he could be perfectly open on
this matter, were such little fools that he had ceased to discuss it
with them, if, indeed, he had ever discussed it. And to nobody else
could he speak on the subject at all. The opportunity of pouring forth
all his speculations and alarms, of hearing the suggestions of another
mind--and such a mind as hers--of finding a new clue, was balm to his
angry, annoyed and excited spirit. There were other douceurs involved,
which were not absent from his thoughts. The pleasure of the woman’s
society, who was so flatteringly pleased with his, her mature beauty,
which had so much attraction in it, the look of her eyes, which said
more than words, the touch--laid upon his for a moment with so much
eloquent expression, appeal, sympathy, consolation, provocation--of her
beautiful hands. All this was in the Colonel’s mind. He had scarcely
known what was the touch of a woman’s hand, at least in this way, during
the course of his long, calm domestic life. He had been very fond of his
wife, of course, and very tender, as well as he knew how, during her
illness, though entirely unconscious of how much he demanded from her
even in the course of that illness. But this was utterly different,
apart from everything he had ever known. Friendship--that friendship
between man and woman which has been the subject of so much sentimental
controversy. Somebody whom Miss Lance had quoted to him, some great man
in Oxford, had said it was the only real friendship; many others,
amongst whom Colonel Kingsward himself had figured when at any moment so
ridiculous an argument had crossed his path, denounced it as a mere
unfounded fiction to conceal other sentiments. Dolts! It was the Oxford
great man who was in the right of it. The only friendship!--with
sweetness in it which no man could give, a more entire confidence, a
more complete sympathy. He knew that he could say things to Laura--Miss
Lance--which he could say to no man, and that a look from her eyes would
do more to strengthen him than oceans of kind words from lips which
would address him as “old fellow.” He had her image before him all the
time as he went up in the train; it went with him into the decorous
dulness of his office, and when he left his work an hour earlier than
usual his steps were as light as a young man’s. He had not felt so much
exhilaration of spirit since----; but he could scarcely go back to a
date on which his bosom’s lord had sat so lightly on his throne. Truth
to tell, Colonel Kingsward had fallen on evil days. Even the course of
his ordinary existence, when he had gone through life with his pretty
wife by his side, dining out constantly, going everywhere, though
enjoyable in its way, and with the satisfaction of keeping up to the
right mark, had not been exciting. She no doubt told for a great deal in
his happiness, but there were no risks, no excitements, and not as much
as the smart of an occasional quarrel between them. He had known what to
expect of her in every emergency; there was nothing novel to be looked
for, no unaccustomed flavour in anything she was likely to do or say. He
did not make this comparison consciously, for indeed there was no
comparison at all between his late wife (he called her so already in his
mind) and Miss Lance--not the slightest comparison! The latter was a far
more piquant thing--a friend--and the most delightful friend, surely,
that ever man had!
He found her in a little drawing-room on the first floor of what looked
very much like an ordinary London lodging-house; but within it had
changed its character completely, and had become, though in a different,
more subtle way than that of the drawing-room in Oxford, the bower of
Laura, a special habitation marked with her very name, like the
notepaper on her table. He could not for the first moment avoid a
bewildering idea that it was the same room in which he had seen her in
Oxford transported thither. There seemed the same pictures on the walls,
the same writing-table, or at least one arranged in precisely the same
way, the same chairs placed two together for conversation. What a
wonderful creature she was, thus to put the stamp of her own being upon
everything she touched. Once more he had to wait for a minute or two
before she came, but she made no apology for her delay. She came in with
her hand extended, with an air of sympathy yet satisfaction at the sight
of him which went to Colonel Kingsward’s heart. If she had been sorry
only it would have displeased him, as showing a mind occupied wholly
with Charlie, but the delicate mingling of pleasure with concern was
exactly what the Colonel felt to be most fit.
“I am so glad to see you,” she said. “How kind of you to come so soon,
to pay such prompt attention to my wish.”
“Considering that it was my own wish,” he said, “and what I desired
most, I should say how good of you to come, but I can’t venture to hope
that it was entirely for me.”
“It was very much for you, Colonel Kingsward. You know what blame I take
to myself for all that has happened. And I think, perhaps, I may have it
in my power to make some inquiries that would not suggest themselves.
But we must talk of this after. In the meantime, I can’t but think first
of you. What an ordeal for you--what weary work! But what a pull over us
you men have! You keep your great spirit and command over yourself
through everything, while, whatever little trouble we may have, it shows
immediately. Oh,” said Miss Lance, clasping her hands, “a calm strong
man is a sight which it elevates one only to see.”
“You give me far too much credit. One is obliged to keep a good face to
the world. I don’t approve of people who wash their dirty linen in
public.”
“Don’t try to make yourself little with all this commonplace reasoning.
You need not explain yourself to me, dear Colonel Kingsward. I flatter
myself that I have the gift of understanding, if nothing else.”
“A great many things else,” he said; “and indeed my keeping up in this
emergency has been greatly helped by your great friendship and moral
support. I don’t know what you have done to this room,” he added,
changing the theme quickly, “did you bring it with you? It is not a mere
room in London--it is your room. I should have known it among a
thousand.”
“What a delightful compliment,” she said. “I am so glad you think so,
for it is one of the things I pride myself on. I think I can always make
even a lodging-house look a bit like home.”
“It looks like you,” he repeated. “I don’t notice such matters much, but
no one could help seeing. And I hope you are to be here for some time,
and that if I can be of any use--”
“Oh! Colonel Kingsward, don’t hold out such flattering hopes. You of
use! Of course, to a lone woman in town you would be far more than of
use--you would simply be a tower of strength. But I do not come here to
make use of you. I come--”
“You could not give me greater pleasure than by making use of me. I am
not going much into society, my house is not open--my girls are too
young to take the responsibilities of a season upon themselves; but
anything that a single individual can do to be of service--”
“Your dear girls--how I should like to see them, to be able to take them
about a little, to make up to those poor children as far as a stranger
could! But I can scarcely hope that you would trust them to me after the
trouble I have helped to bring on you all. Dear Colonel Kingsward, your
chivalrous offer will make all the difference in my life. If you will
give me your arm sometimes, on a rare occasion--”
“As often as you please--and the oftener the more it will please me,” he
cried, in tones full of warmth and eagerness. Miss Lance raised her
grateful eyes to him full of unspeakable things. She made no further
reply except by one of those light touches upon his arm less than
momentary, if that were possible, like the brush of a wing, or an
ethereal contact of ideas.
And then she said gravely, “Now about that poor, dear boy; we must find
him, oh, we must find him. I have thought of several places where he may
have been seen. Do you know that I met him once by chance in town last
year? It was at the Academy, where I was with some artist friends. I
introduced him to them, and you know there is great freedom among them,
and they have a great charm for young men. I think some of them may have
seen him. I have put myself in communication with them.”
“I would not for a moment,” said the Colonel, somewhat stiffly, “consent
to burden you with inquiries of this kind!”
“You do not think,” she said, sweetly, “that I would do anything, or say
anything to compromise him or you?”
The Colonel looked at her with the strangest sudden irritation. “I was
not thinking either of him or myself. Why should you receive men, who
must be entirely out of your way, for our sakes?”
“Oh,” she said, with a soft laugh, “you are afraid that I may compromise
myself.” She rose with an unspoken impulse, which made him rise also, in
spite of himself, with a feeling of unutterable downfall, and the sense
of being dismissed. “Don’t be afraid for me, Colonel Kingsward, I beg. I
shall not compromise anyone.” Then she turned with a sudden illumination
of a smile. “Come back and see me to-morrow, and you shall hear what I
have found out.”
And he went away humbly, relieved yet mortified, not holding his head as
high as when he came, but already longing for to-morrow, when he might
come back.