The hours dragged along as Stafford faced the tragedy of his life. As
he paced the room or flung himself into a chair, with his head bowed in
his hands, the effects of the wine he had taken, the suppressed
excitement under which he had laboured, passed away, and in the
reaction his brain cleared and he began to realise the terrible import
of the step he had taken, the extent of the sacrifice he had made. His
own life was wrecked and ruined irreparably; not only his own, but that
of the girl he loved.
The step he had taken was not only irreparable but irrevocable; he
could not go back. He had asked Maude Falconer to be his wife, he had
spoken words which must have sounded to her as words of love, he had
kissed her lips. In a word, he was pledged to her, and the pledge could
not be broken.
And Ida! What should he do in regard to her? He had promised that if
his feelings underwent any change towards her he would not go and tell
her. And at that moment, he felt that the promise had not been a vain
one; for he knew that he could not go to her, that at sight of her his
resolution would melt like snow in the sun, that his love for her would
sweep him away on a torrent of passion, and that he would be as false
to Maude Falconer as he had been to Ida.
And yet he could not leave her, desert her--yes, that was the
word!--without making some sign, without speaking one word, not of
excuse, but of farewell. What could he say to her? He could not tell
her the truth; for his father's sake that must never be divulged; he
could give her no explanation, must permit her to think him base and
faithless and dishonorable. There was only one thing he could do, and
that was to write to her. But what could he say?
He went to his writing-table and took up a pen. His hand was cold as
ice and shaking, and he held it before him until it grew steadier. At
the best of times, Stafford was not much of a letter-writer; one does
not learn the epistolatory art either at public schools or the
'varsities, and hitherto Stafford's letter-writing had been confined to
the sending or accepting of invitations, a short note about some meet,
or horse dealing. How was he to address her? She was his dearest still,
the only woman in the world he had loved or ever would love, but he
dared not call her so, dared not tell her so. He wrote her name, but
the sweet word seemed to look up at him reproachfully, accusingly; and
though he had written only that name, he tore up several sheets of
paper, and at last, in desperation, scarcely knowing what he was
writing, he wrote, quickly, hurriedly and without pausing, the
following lines:
"I am writing this because you made me promise that if anything
happened, let it be what it might, to separate us, I would not come and
tell you. Something has happened. I have discovered that I am not only
unworthy of calling you mine as any man in the world, even the best,
would be, but that I am unworthy in the sense that would justify you in
the eyes of your father, of everybody belonging to you, in sending me
adrift. If I could tell you what it is you would understand and see how
great a gulf yawns between us. You would not marry me, I can never be
anything to you but a painful memory. Though you know how much I loved
you, you will never guess what it costs me to relinquish all claim to
you, to tear myself away from you. But I must do so--and forever. There
is no hope, none whatever, for me. I do not ask you to forgive me--if I
had known what I know now I would rather have died than have told you
that I loved you, but I do ask you to forget me; or, if you remember
me, to think of me as the most wretched and ill-fated of men; as one
who is bound hand and foot, and compelled, driven, along a path against
his will. I dare not say any more, dare not tell you what this
sacrifice costs me. Whether you forget or remember me, I shall never
forget you for a single instant, shall never cease to look back upon my
lost happiness, as a man looks back upon a lost heaven.
"STAFFORD."
He read it over a dozen--twenty times, and every time it seemed weaker,
meaner, less inexplicable; but he knew that if he destroyed it he could
write nothing better, nothing that could satisfy him, though it seemed
to him that his heart would have expressed itself more fully it he had
written only, "Good-bye! Forget me!"
At last, and reluctantly he put it in an envelope and addressed it, and
turned it face downwards on his table, so that he might not see the
name which had such power to torture his heart.
By the time he had succeeded in writing the letter the dawn was
creeping over the hills and casting a pearly light upon the lake; he
drew the curtains, and in the weird light caught sight of his face in
the mirror: a white and haggard face, which might well have belonged to
a man ten years his senior; such a face as would not fail to attract
attention and provoke comment by its appearance at the breakfast-table.
He flung himself on the bed, not to sleep, for he knew that that would
be impossible, but to get some rest; but rest was as impossible as
sleep. When he closed his eyes Ida's face was near him, her voice was
in his ears, inextricably mixed with the slow and languorous tones of
Maude Falconer. He undressed and got into his flannels before Measom
came, and went down to the lake for a bath.
He was, as a rule, so moderate in drinking that the wine he had taken,
supplemented by his misery, made him feel physically ill. He shuddered
with cold as he dived into the water, and as he swam out he felt, for
the first time in his life, a slight twinge of cramp. At another time
he would have been somewhat alarmed, for the strongest swimmer is
absolutely helpless under an attack of cramp, but this morning he was
indifferent, and the thought struck him that it would be well for him
if he flung up his arms and went down to the bottom of the lake on the
shores of which he had experienced such exquisite joy, such unutterable
misery. He met no one on his way back to the house, and went straight
to his room. The swim had removed some of the traces of last night's
work, but he still looked haggard and worn, and there was that
expression in his eyes which a man's wear when he has been battling
with a great grief or struggling against an overwhelming fate.
As Measom was dressing him he asked himself how he should get the
letter to Ida--the only letter he had ever written her, the only letter
he would probably ever write to her. He decided that he would send it
over by Pottinger, whom he knew he could trust not only to deliver the
letter, but to refrain from telling anyone that he had been sent with
it. He put it in the pocket of his shooting-coat and went downstairs,
intending to go straight to the stables to find Pottinger; but as he
went through the hall, Murray, the secretary, came out of the library,
and Sir Stephen caught sight of Stafford through the open door, and
called to him. Stafford went in, and his father rose from the table on
which was already piled a heap of letters and papers, and taking
Stafford's hand, laid a hand on his shoulder.
"You are early, my boy," he said. "I did not expect to see you for
hours yet; couldn't you sleep? You look rather tired, Stafford; you
were late last night, and--ah, well! there was some excuse for a little
excitement and exaltation."
He smiled whimsically, as a father does at a son who has for once gone
beyond the strict bounds of moderation and looked upon the wine cup too
often.
"Yes, I've rather a head on this morning, sir," said Stafford, quietly,
accepting the suggestion as an excuse for his ill-looks. "I drank and
smoked, last night, more than I usually do. You look as fresh as usual,
sir," he added, with unconscious irony.
Sir Stephen threw up his head with a short laugh.
"Oh, my work wasn't finished last night, my dear boy!" he said. "And
Murray and I have been at it since seven o'clock. I want to put some of
these papers straight before Griffenberg and the rest leave to-day."
"They are going to-day?" said Stafford.
"Oh, yes; there will be a general exodus. A great many of the people
were only staying on until we could be sure we had pulled this railway
scheme through. Falconer and his daughter--I beg your pardon, my dear
Stafford, I mean Maude!--talk of going to-day. But I persuaded them to
stay until to-morrow. I thought you would like to go to London with
them."
He smiled as a father smiles when he is planning a pleasure for his
son.
"Yes, I should like it," said Stafford, quietly. "But could I leave you
here?"
"Oh, yes," said Sir Stephen. "They'll entertain themselves. Besides, it
was an understood thing you should be free to go and come as you
pleased. Of course, you would like to go with Maude."
"Of course," echoed Stafford, his eyes on the ground. As he was leaving
the room his father took a letter from the table, held it up and
dropped it.
"You'll be wanting to buy a little present for your lady-love,
Stafford," he said. "I am placing a thousand pounds to your credit at
your bank, I don't know whether you'll think that is enough--"
"Quite enough," said Stafford, in a low voice. "Thank you! You are very
generous--"
Sir Stephen winced and held up his hand.
"What is mine is yours from this moment, my dear Stafford," he said.
Stafford went out by the door at the other end of the hall, and made
his way to the stables. Just as he was crossing the lawn the temptation
to ride over to Heron Hall and leave the note himself assailed him
strongly. He took the letter from his pocket and looked at it
wistfully. But he knew that he dared not ran the risk of meeting Ida,
and with a sigh he went on towards the stables, carrying the note in
his hand. And as he turned away Maude Falconer let fall the curtain
which she had raised at her window so that she might watch him.
She stood for a moment with her costly dressing-gown held together with
one white hand, her lids half closed.
"He has written to her," she said to herself. "Has he broken with her
for good, or will he try and keep her? I would give something to see
that letter, to know exactly how he stands. And how I stand! I wonder
how he will send it? He is taking it to the stables." She thought a
moment, then she smiled. "Pottinger!" she murmured.
Stafford found Pottinger giving the last loving touches with a silk
handkerchief to Adonis. His coat and waistcoat were off, his shirt open
at the neck and his sleeves turned up. He touched his forehead with a
respectful and welcoming greeting, and without any surprise; for
Stafford very often paid an early visit to the stable, and had more
than once lent a hand in grooming a favourite horse.
"Looks well, sir, don't he?" said Pottinger, passing a hand over the
glossy black and finishing up with a loving smack. "I'm rather late
this morning, sir." He smiled and looked a little sheepish. "We had a
little bit of jollification in the servants' hall, on our own account,
sir, and were enjoying ourselves like our betters."
"That's right," said Stafford. Something in his voice caused Pottinger
to glance at him with surprise and apprehension; but, of course, he
could not say anything, and he dropped his eyes respectfully after the
one glance at Stafford's haggard face.
"I want you take a letter for me this morning, Pottinger," said
Stafford. "You can take Adonis; it will exercise him, as I shall not
ride him to-day. Here is the letter. Heron Hall lies on the other side
of the river. I want the letter taken there early this morning."
Pottinger touched his forehead. "I know the Hall, sir; I've ridden
over there with messages from the housekeeper and from Mr. Davis."
"There will be no answer," said Stafford. "Simply leave it."
"Yes, sir," said Pottinger. "Would you mind putting it in my
saddle-wallet, sir? I won't touch it till my hands are clean."
Stafford put the letter in the wallet, said a few words to Adonis and
some of the other horses, and then left the stable. He heard voices on
the terrace, and, to avoid meeting anyone until he was compelled, he
went down the slope of the lawn, and, seating himself on a bank, lit a
cigarette.
From her window, Maude Falconer, now attired in a simple but
exquisitely effective morning frock, could see him. After watching him
for a minute or two, she went to her writing-table and wrote two or
three notes quickly, and, with these in her pocket, went down-stairs
and through the hall to the stable court-yard. Pottinger was still
finishing off Adonis, and he drew himself up and saluted as she entered
the stables. As a rule her manner to the servants and her inferiors was
cold and haughty, but, as Stafford had discovered last night, she could
be soft and gentle when she chose, and she smiled now at Pottinger and
the horse in a fashion that almost dazzled that ingenuous youth. At the
same time her eye had noted Pottinger's coat and waistcoat which hung
on a hook at the stall-post with the saddle-wallet slung over them. The
coat was an old one with gaping pockets, and there was no sign of a
letter in them, or in the waistcoat. Instinctively, she knew that it
was in the wallet.
"What splendid condition that horse is in, Pottinger," she said. "His
coat is like satin. I suppose you were in the army?"
Of course Pottinger was flattered, and answered in the negative very
reluctantly.
"Not but what Mr. Stafford, miss, isn't as particular as any army gent
could be. I should be sorry to turn out a badly groomed 'oss for Mr.
Stafford's eyes to rest on, miss. He's as kind-hearted a master as a
man could desire to have, but that's about the one thing Mr. Stafford
wouldn't stand, miss."
"I suppose not," she said. "Are you going to ride into Bryndermere this
morning, Pottinger? If so, I should be glad if you would take these
notes to the linen draper's and the chemist's, and bring me back the
things I have written for."
"Certainly, miss," said Pottinger; then he remembered Stafford's order,
and looked anything but certain. "Would it do late in the morning,
miss? I have to go somewhere first."
"Oh, yes," she replied, "where shall I put the letters--in this wallet?"
Pottinger answered in the affirmative and thanked her, and she
unfastened the wallet, talking to him as she did so. "Is that a
swelling on that near fore leg, Pottinger?" she said, suddenly,
pointing to Adonis.
Pottinger started and regarded her with a look of horror, and, of
course, instantly knelt down to examine the suspected member. Long
before he had come up again with a breath of relief and a smiling "No,
miss, there is nothing the matter with it," she had looked into the
wallet and seen Stafford's letter.
"Oh, I thought there was," she said. "Have you finished your horses?"
"No, miss," he replied. "I have the master's hunter and the mare you
ride to do yet."
She nodded and went out of the stable, humming one of her songs; but
she did not go very far. In five minutes she back again.
"Oh, Pottinger, don't trouble about those letters. I will ride into
Bryndermere myself."
Pottinger was in the mare's stall, and Maude stopped him as he was
coming forward, by saying:
"Don't trouble; I'll take the letters from the wallet."
With Stafford's letter amongst her own in her pocket, she went quickly,
and yet without apparent hurry, to her own room, sent away her maid on
an errand, and slipped the bolt in the door. Rapidly she lit her silver
spirit-lamp and heated the water almost to boiling-point, and held the
envelope of Stafford's letter over it until the gum was melted and the
flap came open. Then she took out the letter, and, throwing herself
back in an easy-chair, read it slowly.
At first, as she read, her face burned, then it grew pale, and still
paler; every word of the bitter farewell, of the renunciation, written
as if with a man's heart's blood, stabbed her and tortured her with the
pangs of jealousy. Once she started to her feet, her hands clenched,
her head thrown back her eyes flashing; a superb figure--the tigress
aroused. At that instant she was minded to take the letter and fling it
in Stafford's face, and with it fling back the pledge which he had
given her the night before; then she collapsed, as it were, and sank
into a chair, dropping the letter and covering her face with her hands.
She could not. The strength of her love made her weak as water where
that love was concerned. Though her pride called upon her to surrender
Stafford, she could not respond to it.
Swaying to and fro, with her eyes covered as if to hide her shame, she
tried to tell herself that Stafford's was only a transient fancy for
this girl, that it was mere flirtation, a vulgar _liaison_ that she
would teach him to forget.
"He shall, he shall!" she cried behind her hands, as if the words were
wrung from her in her anguish of wounded pride and rejected love. "I
will teach him! There is no art that woman ever used that I will not
use--they say I am beautiful: if I am, my beauty shall minister to him
as no woman's beauty has ever ministered before. Cold to all the rest
of the world, I will be to him a fire which shall warm his life and
make it a heaven--It is only because he saw her first: if he had seen
me--Oh, curse her, curse her! Last night, while he was talking to me,
even while he was kissing me, he was thinking of her. But she shall not
have him! She has lost and I have won and I will keep him!"
She dashed her hand across her eyes, though there were no tears in
them, and stood upright, holding herself tensely as if she were
battling for calm; then she replaced the poignant note in its envelope,
and went back to the stables. Again she met no one, for those who were
down were in at breakfast.
"I have changed my mind, Pottinger," she said; "and will be glad if you
will take the notes, please. See, I have put them back in the wallet."
"Certainly, miss!" said Pottinger, and he touched his forehead two or
three times, and coloured and smiled awkwardly and looked at her with a
new and vivid interest. One of the maids had run into the stable,
during Maud's absence, and had told him the news that his master was
engaged to Miss Maude Falconer; for the servants, who are so quick to
discover all our little secrets, had already learnt this one, and the
servants' hall was buzzing with it.