WOLFENDEN'S LUCK
To leave London at all, under ordinary circumstances, was usually a
hardship for Wolfenden, but to leave London at this particular moment of
his life was little less than a calamity, yet a letter which he received
a few mornings after the supper at the "Milan" left him scarcely any
alternative. He read it over for the third time whilst his breakfast
grew cold, and each time his duty seemed to become plainer.
"DERINGHAM HALL, NORFOLK.
"MY DEAR WOLFENDEN,--We have been rather looking for you to come
down for a day or two, and I do hope that you will be able to
manage it directly you receive this. I am sorry to say that your
father is very far from well, and we have all been much upset
lately. He still works for eight or nine hours a day, and his
hallucinations as to the value of his papers increases with every
page he writes. His latest peculiarity is a rooted conviction that
there is some plot on hand to rob him of his manuscripts. You
remember, perhaps, Miss Merton, the young person whom we engaged as
typewriter. He sent her away the other day, without a moment's
notice, simply because he saw her with a sheet of copying paper in
her hand. I did not like the girl, but it is perfectly ridiculous
to suspect her of anything of the sort. He insisted, however, that
she should leave the house within an hour, and we were obliged to
give in to him. Since then he has seemed to become even more
fidgety. He has had cast-iron shutters fitted to the study windows,
and two of the keepers are supposed to be on duty outside night and
day, with loaded revolvers. People around here are all beginning to
talk, and I am afraid that it is only natural that they should. He
will see no one, and the library door is shut and bolted
immediately he has entered it. Altogether it is a deplorable state
of things, and what will be the end of it I cannot imagine.
Sometimes it occurs to me that you might have more influence over
him than I have. I hope that you will be able to come down, if only
for a day or two, and see what effect your presence has. The
shooting is not good this year, but Captain Willis was telling me
yesterday that the golf links were in excellent condition, and
there is the yacht, of course, if you care to use it. Your father
seems to have quite forgotten that she is still in the
neighbourhood, I am glad to say. Those inspection cruises were very
bad things for him. He used to get so excited, and he was
dreadfully angry if the photographs which I took were at all
imperfectly developed. How is everybody? Have you seen Lady Susan
lately? and is it true that Eleanor is engaged? I feel literally
buried here, but I dare not suggest a move. London, for him at
present, would be madness. I shall hope to get a wire from you
to-morrow, and will send to Cromer to meet any train.--From your
affectionate mother,
"CONSTANCE MANVER DERINGHAM."
There was not a word of reproach in the letter, but nevertheless
Wolfenden felt a little conscience-stricken. He ought to have gone down
to Deringham before; most certainly after the receipt of this summons he
could not delay his visit any longer. He walked up and down the room
impatiently. To leave London just now was detestable. It was true that
he could not call upon them, and he had no idea where else to look for
these people, who, for some mysterious reason, seemed to be doing all
that they could to avoid his acquaintance. Yet chance had favoured him
once--chance might stand his friend again. At any rate to feel himself
in the same city with her was some consolation. For the last three days
he had haunted Piccadilly and Bond Street. He had become a saunterer,
and the shop windows had obtained from him an attention which he had
never previously bestowed upon them. The thought that, at any turning,
at any moment, they might meet, continually thrilled him. The idea of a
journey which would place such a meeting utterly out of the question,
was more than distasteful--it was hateful.
And yet he would have to go. He admitted that to himself as he ate his
solitary breakfast, with the letter spread out before him. Since it was
inevitable, he decided to lose no time. Better go at once and have it
over. The sooner he got there the sooner he would be able to return. He
rang the bell, and gave the necessary orders. At a quarter to twelve he
was at King's Cross.
He took his ticket in a gloomy frame of mind, and bought the _Field_ and
a sporting novel at the bookstall. Then he turned towards the train, and
walking idly down the platform, looking for Selby and his belongings, he
experienced what was very nearly the greatest surprise of his life. So
far, coincidence was certainly doing her best to befriend him. A girl
was seated alone in the further corner of a first-class carriage.
Something familiar in the poise of her head, or the gleam of her hair
gathered up underneath an unusually smart travelling hat, attracted his
attention. He came to a sudden standstill, breathless, incredulous. She
was looking out of the opposite window, her head resting upon her
fingers, but a sudden glimpse of her profile assured him that this was
no delusion. It was Mr. Sabin's niece who sat there, a passenger by his
own train, probably, as he reflected with a sudden illuminative flash of
thought, to be removed from the risk of any more meetings with him.
Wolfenden, with a discretion at which he afterwards wondered, did not at
once attract her attention. He hurried off to the smoking carriage
before which his servant was standing, and had his own belongings
promptly removed on to the platform. Then he paid a visit to the
refreshment-room, and provided himself with an extensive luncheon
basket, and finally, at the bookstall, he bought up every lady's paper
and magazine he could lay his hands upon. There was only a minute now
before the train was due to leave, and he walked along the platform as
though looking for a seat, followed by his perplexed servant. When he
arrived opposite to her carriage, he paused, only to find himself
confronted by a severe-looking maid dressed in black, and the guard. For
the first time he noticed the little strip, "engaged," pasted across the
window.
"Plenty of room lower down, sir," the guard remarked. "This is an
engaged carriage."
The maid whispered something to the guard, who nodded and locked the
door. At the sound of the key, however, the girl looked round and saw
Wolfenden. She lifted her eyebrows and smiled faintly. Then she came to
the window and let it down.
"Whatever are you doing here?" she asked. "You----"
He interrupted her gently. The train was on the point of departure.
"I am going down into Norfolk," he said. "I had not the least idea of
seeing you. I do not think that I was ever so surprised."
Then he hesitated for a moment.
"May I come in with you?" he asked.
She laughed at him. He had been so afraid of her possible refusal, that
his question had been positively tremulous.
"I suppose so," she said slowly. "Is the train quite full, then?"
He looked at her quite keenly. She was laughing at him with her eyes--an
odd little trick of hers. He was himself again at once, and answered
mendaciously, but with emphasis--
"Not a seat anywhere. I shall be left behind if you don't take me in."
A word in the guard's ear was quite sufficient, but the maid looked at
Wolfenden suspiciously. She leaned into the carriage.
"Would mademoiselle prefer that I, too, travelled with her?" she
inquired in French.
The girl answered her in the same language.
"Certainly not, Celeste. You had better go and take your seat at once.
We are just going!"
The maid reluctantly withdrew, with disapproval very plainly stamped
upon her dark face. Wolfenden and his belongings were bundled in, and
the whistle blew. The train moved slowly out of the station. They were
off!
"I believe," she said, looking with a smile at the pile of magazines and
papers littered all over the seat, "that you are an impostor. Or perhaps
you have a peculiar taste in literature!"
She pointed towards the _Queen_ and the _Gentlewoman_. He was in high
spirits, and he made open confession.
"I saw you ten minutes ago," he declared, "and since then I have been
endeavouring to make myself an acceptable travelling companion. But
don't begin to study the fashions yet, please. Tell me how it is that
after looking all over London for three days for you, I find you here."
"It is the unexpected," she remarked, "which always happens. But after
all there is nothing mysterious about it. I am going down to a little
house which my uncle has taken, somewhere near Cromer. You will think it
odd, I suppose, considering his deformity, but he is devoted to golf,
and some one has been telling him that Norfolk is the proper county to
go to."
"And you?" he asked.
She shook her head disconsolately.
"I am afraid I am not English enough to care much for games," she
admitted. "I like riding and archery, and I used to shoot a little, but
to go into the country at this time of the year to play any game seems
to me positively barbarous. London is quite dull enough--but the
country--and the English country, too!--well, I have been engrossed in
self-pity ever since my uncle announced his plans."
"I do not imagine," he said smiling, "that you care very much for
England."
"I do not imagine," she admitted promptly, "that I do. I am a
Frenchwoman, you see, and to me there is no city on earth like Paris,
and no country like my own."
"The women of your nation," he remarked, "are always patriotic. I have
never met a Frenchwoman who cared for England."
"We have reason to be patriotic," she said, "or rather, we had," she
added, with a curious note of sadness in her tone. "But, come, I do not
desire to talk about my country. I admitted you here to be an
entertaining companion, and you have made me speak already of the
subject which is to me the most mournful in the world. I do not wish to
talk any more about France. Will you please think of another subject?"
"Mr. Sabin is not with you," he remarked.
"He intended to come. Something important kept him at the last moment.
He will follow me, perhaps, by a later train to-day, if not to-morrow."
"It is certainly a coincidence," he said, "that you should be going to
Cromer. My home is quite near there."
"And you are going there now?" she asked.
"I am delighted to say that I am."
"You did not mention it the other evening," she remarked. "You talked as
though you had no intention at all of leaving London."
"Neither had I at that time," he said. "I had a letter from home this
morning which decided me."
She smiled softly.
"Well, it is strange," she said. "On the whole, it is perhaps fortunate
that you did not contemplate this journey when we had supper together
the other night."
He caught at her meaning, and laughed.
"It is more than fortunate," he declared. "If I had known of it, and
told Mr. Sabin, you would not have been travelling by this train alone."
"I certainly should not," she admitted demurely.
He saw his opportunity, and swiftly availed himself of it.
"Why does your uncle object to me so much?" he asked.
"Object to you!" she repeated. "On the contrary, I think that he rather
approves of you. You saved his life, or something very much like it. He
should be very grateful! I think that he is!"
"Yet," he persisted, "he does not seem to desire my acquaintance--for
you, at any rate. You have just admitted, that if he had known that
there was any chance of our being fellow passengers you would not have
been here."
She did not answer him immediately. She was looking fixedly out of the
window. Her face seemed to him more than ordinarily grave. When she
turned her head, her eyes were thoughtful--a little sad.
"You are quite right," she said. "My uncle does not think it well for me
to make any acquaintances in this country. We are not here for very
long. No doubt he is right. He has at least reason on his side. Only it
is a little dull for me, and it is not what I have been used to. Yet
there are sacrifices always. I cannot tell you any more. You must please
not ask me. You are here, and I am pleased that you are here! There!
will not that content you?"
"It gives me," he answered earnestly, "more than contentment! It is
happiness!"
"That is precisely the sort of thing," she said slowly to him, with
laughter in her eyes, "which you are not to say! Please understand
that!"
He accepted the rebuke lightly. He was far too happy in being with her
to be troubled by vague limitations. The present was good enough for
him, and he did his best to entertain her. He noticed with pleasure that
she did not even glance at the pile of papers at her side. They talked
without intermission. She was interested, even gay. Yet he could not but
notice that every now and then, especially at any reference to the
future, her tone grew graver and a shadow passed across her face. Once
he said something which suggested the possibility of her living always
in England. She had shaken her head at once, gently but firmly.
"No, I could never live in this country," she said, "even if my liking
for it grew. It would be impossible!"
He was puzzled for a moment.
"You think that you could never care for it enough," he suggested; "yet
you have scarcely had time to judge it fairly. London in the spring is
gay enough, and the life at some of our country houses is very different
to what it was a few years ago. Society is so much more tolerant and
broader."
"It is scarcely a question," she said, "of my likes or dislikes. Next to
Paris, I prefer London in the spring to any city in Europe, and a week I
spent at Radnett was very delightful. But, nevertheless, I could never
live here. It is not my destiny!"
The old curiosity was strong upon him. Radnett was the home of the
Duchess of Radnett and Ilchester, who had the reputation of being the
most exclusive hostess in Europe! He was bewildered.
"I would give a great deal," he said earnestly, "to know what you
believe that destiny to be."
"We are bordering upon the forbidden subject," she reminded him, with a
look which was almost reproachful. "You must please believe me when I
tell you, that for me things have already been arranged otherwise. Come,
I want you to tell me all about this country into which we are going.
You must remember that to me it is all new!"
He suffered her to lead the conversation into other channels, with a
vague feeling of disquiet. The mystery which hung around the girl and
her uncle seemed only to grow denser as his desire to penetrate it grew.
At present, at any rate, he was baffled. He dared ask no more questions.
The train glided into Peterborough station before either of them were
well aware that they had entered in earnest upon the journey. Wolfenden
looked out of the window with amazement.
"Why, we are nearly half way there!" he exclaimed. "How wretched!"
She smiled, and took up a magazine. Wolfenden's servant came
respectfully to the window.
"Can I get you anything, my lord?" he inquired.
Wolfenden shook his head, and opening the door, stepped out on to the
platform.
"Nothing, thanks, Selby," he said. "You had better get yourself some
lunch. We don't get to Deringham until four o'clock."
The man raised his hat and turned away. In a moment, however, he was
back again.
"You will pardon my mentioning it, my lord," he said, "but the young
lady's maid has been travelling in my carriage, and a nice fidget she's
been in all the way. She's been muttering to herself in French, and she
seems terribly frightened about something or other. The moment the train
stopped here, she rushed off to the telegraph office."
"She seems a little excitable," Wolfenden remarked. "All right, Selby,
you'd better hurry up and get what you want to eat."
"Certainly, my lord; and perhaps your lordship knows that there is a
flower-stall in the corner there."
Wolfenden nodded and hurried off. He returned to the carriage just as
the train was moving off, with a handful of fresh, wet violets, whose
perfume seemed instantly to fill the compartment. The girl held out her
hands with a little exclamation of pleasure.
"What a delightful travelling companion you are," she declared. "I think
these English violets are the sweetest flowers in the world."
She held them up to her lips. Wolfenden was looking at a paper bag in
her lap.
"May I inquire what that is?" he asked.
"Buns!" she answered. "You must not think that because I am a girl I am
never hungry. It is two o'clock, and I am positively famished. I sent my
maid for them."
He smiled, and sweeping away the bundles of rugs and coats, produced the
luncheon basket which he had secured at King's Cross, and opening it,
spread out the contents.
"For two!" she exclaimed, "and what a delightful looking salad! Where on
earth did that come from?"
"Oh, I am no magician," he exclaimed. "I ordered the basket at King's
Cross, after I had seen you. Let me spread the cloth here. My
dressing-case will make a capital table!"
They picnicked together gaily. It seemed to Wolfenden that chicken and
tongue had never tasted so well before, or claret, at three shillings
the bottle, so full and delicious. They cleared everything up, and then
sat and talked over the cigarette which she had insisted upon. But
although he tried more than once, he could not lead the conversation
into any serious channel--she would not talk of her past, she distinctly
avoided the future. Once, when he had made a deliberate effort to gain
some knowledge as to her earlier surroundings, she reproved him with a
silence so marked that he hastened to talk of something else.
"Your maid," he said, "is greatly distressed about something. She sent a
telegram off at Peterborough. I hope that your uncle will not make
himself unpleasant because of my travelling with you."
She smiled at him quite undisturbed.
"Poor Celeste," she said. "Your presence here has upset her terribly.
Mr. Sabin has some rather strange notions about me, and I am quite sure
that he would rather have sent me down in a special train than have had
this happen. You need not look so serious about it."
"It is only on your account," he assured her.
"Then you need not look serious at all," she continued. "I am not under
my uncle's jurisdiction. In fact, I am quite an independent person."
"I am delighted to hear it," he said heartily. "I should imagine that
Mr. Sabin would not be at all a pleasant person to be on bad terms
with."
She smiled thoughtfully.
"There are a good many people," she said, "who would agree with you.
There are a great many people in the world who have cause to regret
having offended him. Let us talk of something else. I believe that I
can see the sea!"
They were indeed at Cromer. He found a carriage for her, and collected
her belongings. He was almost amused at her absolute indolence in the
midst of the bustle of arrival. She was evidently unused to doing the
slightest thing for herself. He took the address which she gave to him,
and repeated it to the driver. Then he asked the question which had been
trembling many times upon his lips.
"May I come and see you?"
She had evidently been considering the matter, for she answered him at
once and deliberately.
"I should like you to," she said; "but if for any reason it did not suit
my uncle to have you come, it would not be pleasant for either of us. He
is going to play golf on the Deringham links. You will be certain to see
him there, and you must be guided by his manner towards you."
"And if he is still--as he was in London--must this be goodbye, then?"
he asked earnestly.
She looked at him with a faint colour in her cheeks and a softer light
in her proud, clear eyes.
"Well," she said, "goodbye would be the last word which could be spoken
between us. But, _n'importe_, we shall see."
She flashed a suddenly brilliant smile upon him, and leaned back amongst
the cushions. The carriage drove off, and Wolfenden, humming pleasantly
to himself, stepped into the dogcart which was waiting for him.