The parting of Mr. and Mrs. Greyne on the following morning was very
affecting. It took place at Victoria Station, in the midst of a
small crowd of admiring strangers, who had recognised the commanding
presence of the great novelist, and had gathered round to observe her
manifestations.
Mrs. Greyne was considerably shaken by the event of the previous night.
Although, on the discovery of the diary, the house had been roused, and
all the servants closely questioned, no light had been thrown upon its
migration from the locked drawer to the schoolroom table. Adolphus and
Olivia, jerked from sleep by the hasty hands of a maid, could only weep
and wan. The powdered footmen, one and all, declared they had never
heard of a diary. The butler gave warning on the spot, keeping on his
nightcap to give greater effect to his pronunciamento. It was all most
unsatisfactory, and for one wild moment Mrs. Greyne seriously thought
of retaining her husband by her as a protection against the mysterious
thief who had been at work in their midst. Could it be Mademoiselle
Verbèna? The dread surmise occurred, but Mr. Greyne rejected it.
“Her father was a count,” he said. “Besides, my darling, I don’t
believe she can read English; certainly not unless it is printed.”
So there the matter rested, and the moment of parting came.
There was a murmur of respectful sympathy as Mrs. Greyne clasped
her husband tenderly in her arms, and pressed his head against her
prune-coloured bonnet strings. The whistle sounded. The train moved on.
Leaning from a reserved first-class compartment, Mr. Greyne waved a
silk pocket-handkerchief so long as his wife’s Roman profile stood out
clear against the fog and smoke of London. But at last it faded, grew
remote, took on the appearance of a feebly-executed crayon drawing,
vanished. He sank back upon the cushions—alone. Darrell was travelling
second with the dressing-case.
It was a strange sensation, to be alone, and _en route_ to Algiers.
Mr. Greyne scarcely knew what to make of it. A schoolboy suddenly
despatched to Timbuctoo could hardly have felt more terribly
emancipated than he did. He was so absolutely unaccustomed to freedom,
he had been for so long without the faintest desire for it, that to
have it thrust upon him so suddenly was almost alarming. He felt
lonely, anxious, horribly unmarried. To divert his thoughts he drew
forth a Merrin’s exercise-book and a pencil, and wrote on the first
page, in large letters, “_African Frailty, Notes for_.” Then he sat
gazing at the title of his first literary work, and wondering what on
earth he was going to see in Algiers.
Vague visions of himself in the bars of African public-houses, in
mosques, in the two-pair-backs of dervishes, in bazaars—which he
pictured to himself like those opened by royalties at the Queen’s
Hall—in Moorish interiors surrounded by voluptuous ladies with large
oval eyes, black tresses, and Turkish trousers of spangled muslin,
flitted before his mental gaze. When the train ran upon Dover Pier,
and the white horses of the turbulent Channel foamed at his feet, he
started as one roused from a Rip Van Winkle sleep. Severe illness
occupied his whole attention for a time, and then recovery.
In Paris he dined at the buffet like one in a dream, and, at the
appointed hour, came forth to take the _rapide_ for Marseilles. He
looked for Darrell and the dressing-case. They were not to be seen.
There stood the train. Passengers were mounting into it. Old ladies
with agitated faces were buying pillows and nibbling biscuits. Elderly
gentlemen with yellow countenances and red ribands in their coats were
purchasing the _Figaro_ and the _Gil Blas_. Children with bare legs
were being hauled into compartments. Rook’s agent was explaining to a
muddled tourist in a tam-o’-shanter the exact difference between the
words “_Oui_” and “_Non_.” The bustle of departure was in the air, but
Darrell was not to be seen. Mr. Greyne had left him upon the platform
with minute directions as to the point from which the train would
start and the hour of its going. Yet he had vanished. The most frantic
search, the most frenzied inquiries of officials and total strangers,
failed to elicit his whereabouts, and, finally, Mr. Greyne was flung
forcibly upward into the _wagonlit_, and caught by the _contrôleur_
when the train was actually moving out of the station.
A moment later he fell exhausted upon the pink-plush seat of his
compartment, realising his terrible position. He was now utterly
alone; without servant, hair-brushes, toothbrushes, razors, sponges,
pajamas, shoes. It was a solitude that might be felt. He thought of
the sea journey with no kindly hand to minister to him, the arrival
in Africa with no humble companion at his side, to wonder with him at
the black inhabitants and help him through the customs—to say nothing
of the manners. He thought of the dread homes of iniquity into which
he must penetrate by night in search of the material for the voracious
“Catherine.” He had meant to take Darrell with him to them all—Darrell,
whose joyful delight in the prospect of exploring the Eastern
fastnesses of crime had been so boyish, so truly English in its frank,
its even boisterous sincerity.
And now he was utterly alone, almost like Robinson Crusoe.
The _contrôleur_ came in to make the bed. Mr. Greyne told him the
dreadful story.
“No doubt he has been lured away, monsieur. The dressing-case was of
value?”
“Crocodile, gold fittings.”
“Probably monsieur will never see him again. As likely as not he will
sleep in the Seine to-night, and at the morgue to-morrow.”
Mr. Greyne shuddered. This was an ill omen for his expedition. He drank
a stiff whisky-and-soda instead of the usual barley water, and went to
bed to dream of bloody murders in which he was the victim.
When the train ran into Marseilles next morning he was an unshaven,
miserable man.
“Have I time to buy a tooth-brush,” he inquired anxiously at the
station, “before the boat sails for Algiers?”
The _chef de gare_ thought so. Monsieur had four hours, if that was
sufficient. Mr. Greyne hastened forth, had a Turkish bath, purchased a
new dressing-case, ate a hasty _déjeuner_, and took a cab to the wharf.
It was a long drive over the stony streets. He glanced from side to
side, watching the bustling traffic, the hurry of the nations going to
and from the ships. His eyes rested upon two Arabs who were striding
along in his direction. Doubtless they were also bound for Algiers. He
thought they looked most wicked, and hastily took a note of them for
“African Frailty.” Beside his sense of loss and loneliness marched the
sense of duty. The great woman at home in Belgrave Square, founder of
his fortunes, mother of his children, she depended upon him. Even in
his own hour of need he would not fail her. He took a lead pencil, and
wrote down:
Saw two Arab ruffians. Bare legs. Look capable of anything. Should
not be surprised to hear that they had⸺
There he paused. That they had what? Done things. Of course, but what
things? That was the question. He exerted his imagination, but failed
to arrive at any conclusion as to their probable crimes. His knowledge
of wickedness was really absurdly limited. For the first time he
felt slightly ashamed of it, and began to wish he had gone into the
militia. He comforted himself with the thought that in a fortnight
he would probably be fit for the regular army. This thought cheered
him slightly, and it was with a slight smile upon his face that he
welcomed the first glimpse of the _Général Bertrand_, which was lying
against the quay ready to cast off at the stroke of noon. Most of the
passengers were aboard, but, as Mr. Greyne stepped out of his cab,
and prepared to pay the Maltese driver, a trim little lady, plainly
dressed in black, and carrying a tiny and rather coquettish hand-bag,
was tripping lightly across the gangway. Mr. Greyne glanced at her as
he turned to follow, glanced, and then started. That back was surely
familiar to him. Where could he have seen it before? He searched his
memory as the little lady vanished. It was a smart, even a _chic_ back,
a back that knew how to take care of itself, a back that need not go
through the world alone, a back, in fine, that was most distinctly
attractive, if not absolutely alluring. Where had he seen it before,
or had he ever seen it at all? He thought of his wife’s back, flat,
powerful, uncompromising. This was very different, more—how should he
put it to himself?—more Algerian, perhaps. He could vaguely conceive
it a back such as one might meet with while engaged in adding to one’s
stock of knowledge of—well—African frailty.
At this moment the steward appeared to show him to his cabin, and his
further reflections were mainly connected with the Gulf of Lyons.
Twilight was beginning to fall when, so far as he was capable of
thinking, he thought he would like a breath of air. For some moments
he lay quite still, dwelling on this idea which had so mysteriously
come to him. Then he got up, and thought again, seated upon the cabin
floor. He knew there was a deck. He remembered having seen one when he
came aboard. He put on his fur coat, still sitting on the cabin floor.
The process took some time—he fancied about a couple of years. At last,
however, it was completed, and he rose to his feet with the assistance
of the washstand and the berth.
The ship seemed very busy, full of almost American activity. He thought
a greater calm would have been more decent, and waited in the hope
that the floor would presently cease to forget itself. As it showed no
symptoms of complying with his desire he endeavoured to spurn it, and,
in the fulness of time, gained the companion.
It was very strange, as he remembered afterwards, that only when he had
gained the companion did the sense of his utter loneliness rush upon
him with overwhelming force: one of the ironies of life, he supposed.
Eventually he shook the companion off with a good deal of difficulty,
and found himself installed upon planks under a grey sky, and holding
fast to a railing, which was all that interposed between him and
eternity.
At first he was only conscious of greyness and the noise of winds
and waters, but presently a black daub seemed to hover for a second
somewhere on the verge of his world, to hover and disappear. He
wondered what it was. A smut, perhaps. He rubbed his face. The daub
returned. It was very large for a smut. He strove to locate it, and
found that it must be somewhere on his left cheek. With a great
effort he took out his pocket-handkerchief. Suddenly the daub assumed
monstrous proportions. He turned his head, and perceived the lady in
black whom he had seen tripping over the gangway on his arrival.
She was a few steps from him, leaning upon the rail in an attitude of
the deepest dejection, with her face averted; yet it struck him that
her right shoulder was oddly familiar, as her back had surely been. The
turn of her head, too—he coughed despairingly. The lady took no notice.
He coughed again. Interest was quickening in him. He was determined to
see the lady’s face.
This time she looked around, showing a pale countenance bedewed with
tears, and totally devoid of any expression which he could connect with
a consciousness of his presence. For a moment she stared vacantly at
him, while he, with almost equal vacancy, regarded her. Then a thrill
of surprise shook him. A sudden light of knowledge leaped up in him,
and he exclaimed:
“Mademoiselle Verbèna!”
“Monsieur?” murmured the lady, with an accent of surprise.
“Mademoiselle Verbèna! Surely it is—it must be!”
He had staggered sideways, nearing her.
“Mademoiselle Verbèna, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne, the
father of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?”
An expression of stark amazement came into the lady’s face at these
words. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne’s then
gave a little cry.
“_Mon Dieu!_ It is true! You are so altered that I could not recognise.
And then—what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from madame?”
“I was just about to ask you the very same question!” cried Mr. Greyne.