"FORGOTTEN ME, HAS HE?"
If ever a man was in earnest, Yorke, Viscount Auchester, was. He was
going to marry Leslie! The thought dwelt with him all the way up to
town, hovered about him as he lay awake throughout nearly the whole
night, and came to him in the morning with a joy exceeding description.
To marry Leslie!
What had he done to deserve such happiness, such bliss, he asked
himself as he hurried through his tub and dressing? And while he ate
his breakfast in a feverish, restless kind of haste, he pictured and
planned out their future; a future to be spent side by side till Death,
and Death alone, parted them.
They would leave London immediately, after the marriage, and cross the
Channel. Perhaps they'd stay for a while in Paris; but only for a few
days. It would be too big and noisy for such bliss as theirs. No, he
would take her to some quiet spot in Normandy; perhaps to Rouen, that
delightful old-world town with its magnificent churches and historic
streets. Why, he could see themselves standing arm in arm in the vast
cathedral, listening reverently to the grand service; he could see
Leslie's face with the sweet gravity in her lovely eyes, and the half
pensive and yet happy smile on her pure lips. He fancied her by his
side looking up at the carved gables of the quaint houses; or seated
at one of the little marble tables at the Cafe Blanc, with its shining
copper vessels and glittering glass. Then they could go on into
Germany; up the Rhine. How delightful to have her beside him as the
steamer toiled against the stream and the delicious panorama unfolded
itself mile by mile! Then, if they chose, there were Switzerland and
Italy. There was Lucerne, for instance. How she would delight in
Lucerne, with its marvelous lake, in which old Pilatus shadows himself,
with its famous bridge spanning the emerald Reuss; with its snug
cathedral in which the wonderful organ surges and wails as no other
organ can surge and wail, save that of honored Milan.
Happy! He would make her happy or know the reason why! He would devote
every hour of his life, every particle of his by no means gigantic
intellect to the effort to prove how dearly he loved her.
He sat for a little while after breakfast making a mental plan of
his procedure. He would have to act prudently and warily. No hint of
what he was about to do must be allowed to get out. If his numerous
creditors, Jew and Gentile, had the least suspicion that he was about
to marry a penniless angel instead of Lady Eleanor Dallas, the heiress,
they would swoop down upon him. No, he would be very cautious.
He had gone round to Mr. Arnheim, the dealer, on the evening before,
immediately he had reached London, and was very cautious with him;
giving him to understand that he merely wanted a small picture of Mr.
Lisle's, and asking Mr. Arnheim in quite a casual way to write and ask
Mr. Lisle whether he would accept a commission.
"Don't mention my name, please," he said; and Mr. Arnheim had smiled
and shaken his head.
Yorke went away quite confident that the vaguest of letters from the
great dealer would bring Francis Lisle post haste to London; and, as we
know, he was right.
Then he went down to Doctors' Commons, and inquired about the license.
He knew no more about the business than the veriest schoolboy; but he
had a vague idea that you could buy a license somewhere in that strange
locality, and that armed with that he could marry Leslie right away at
once. At once! The thought sent the blood rushing to his handsome face,
and made St. Paul's Cathedral, hard by which is Doctors' Commons, waver
before his eyes.
A seedy-looking gentleman led him to the Faculty office where the
mystic license was to be obtained, and a grave and sedate clerk got off
a high stool at a desk and put several questions to Yorke, who for the
first time in his life--or the second, perhaps, for he was nervous when
he had asked Leslie to be his wife--felt embarrassed and agitated.
"Is it an ordinary license you require, or a special?" asked the clerk.
Yorke looked doubtful.
"What is the difference?" he asked, almost shyly, and struggling with
an actual blush.
The clerk eyed him with cold superiority.
"By an ordinary license," he explained, "you can marry in the church
of the parish in which one of the parties resides; and only there. And
he or she must have resided there fifteen days. With a special license
you can marry in a particular church without having resided in the
parish fifteen days; but you would have to give sufficient reasons for
requiring this special license."
Yorke stared at the dingy floor while he thought the matter out.
He knew of a quiet little church near Bury Street--a "little church
around the corner," so to speak, to which he and Leslie could go, the
morning after her arrival in London; and with no one but the parson,
the clerk, and pew-opener the wiser. Yes, an ordinary license would do,
he said.
The clerk inclined his head--just as if he were a shopman selling
gloves!--and went off to another clerk at another desk, and presently
appeared with an affidavit.
"What's this? the license?" said Yorke.
"No. You will have to swear this. I shall have to ask you to accompany
me to the next office, to a solicitor. You have to swear that the
parties are of age, and that one of you has resided in the parish
fifteen days. You are prepared to do so, I presume?"
It is to be feared that Yorke was prepared to do anything to obtain
his Leslie, and he was led off--he felt like a criminal of the deepest
dye--to another dingy office, and there repeated the oath gabbled out
by the solicitor. Then he returned to the proctor's office, and, after
waiting a quarter of an hour, the clerk handed him a document.
"What have I got to pay?" asked Yorke, prepared for a demand, say,
of fifty pounds. "Only two pounds two and sixpence!" he said, with a
surprise that made even that solemn clerk smile.
Only two pounds two and sixpence for the privilege of marrying Leslie!
He stood and gazed at the mystic document, and laughed aloud, so that
the seedy man who had conducted him to the office eyed him rather
fearfully, and pocketing the half-sovereign Yorke gave him, scrambled
off, fully convinced that the young man was mad.
And indeed he could scarcely be considered in full possession of his
senses that day. Nearly every hour he took out that precious license
and read it through or gazed at the imposing coat of arms at the top,
and the Archbishop's signature at the bottom; and every time put it
away again in his breast coat pocket. He patted the coat to feel that
the document was there safe and sound.
From Doctors' Commons he walked to the Dorchester Club.
Everybody knows that aristocratic institution. It is not so magnificent
as some of the modern political clubs; some of them are palaces
compared with which those of the Caesars were very small potatoes;
it had no marble entrance hall and oak-paneled dining-room, and
its smoking-room was not as vast as a church; but it was snug and
comfortable, and excellent to a degree. You had to have your name down
on the list of candidates full fifteen or twenty years before you could
hope to be balloted in, and some fathers put their sons down when they
were eighteen months old.
Yorke was well known at the club, and the hall porter in his glass
box bowed to him with a mixture of respect and recognition which he
accorded to a very few of the members.
"There are no letters for me, Stephens, I suppose?" said Yorke.
"No, my lord, none."
"Ah, well, I expect one or a telegram directly," said Yorke, trying
to speak casually. "If it comes just send into the smoking-room, or
dining-room, or drawing-room, in fact and see if I'm in the club. I
want it directly it comes, you understand."
"Certainly my lord," was the response. "If your lordship is in the club
when the letter arrives I will see that you have it at once."
Yorke sauntered into the drawing-room and took up a paper; but he did
not see a word of the page he gazed at. He was calculating how soon
that letter could possibly reach him.
Then he went out, and making his way to Regent Street examined the shop
windows carefully, and ultimately made several purchases.
He bought a lady's ulster, a wonderful garment of camel's hair, soft
as lambs' wool and as warm, with cuffs that could be let down over the
hands, and a hood that could be drawn completely over the head.
No lady with this marvelous ulster on could be cold, even while
crossing the Channel, where, as everybody knows, it is possible to be
frozen even on a summer's night. He also bought a traveling rug of
Scotch tweed.
Then he sauntered into the park till lunch time, when he went back to
the club. He knew that no letter could be waiting for him, and yet he
could not help glancing inquiringly at the porter, who faintly smiled
and respectively shook his head.
One or two acquaintances dropped in while he was eating his lunch at
a side table, and they gathered round him and plied him with eager
invitations to join them in a driving trip to Richmond; but he shook
his head.
"Better come, Auchester," said one young fellow. "Jolly afternoon!
Besides, a friend of yours is of the party."
"Who is that?" asked Yorke with polite indifference.
Drive to Richmond when he wanted to be alone to think of Leslie and all
that license in his breast coat pocket meant! Not likely.
"Why, Finetta," said the young fellow. "She has promised, if we get her
back in time for the theater."
Yorke shook his head, and while he was doing it Lord Vinson strolled up.
"What's that about Finetta and Richmond?" he inquired. "Afraid you'll
be disappointed. Just been up there," he drawled. "She's vamoosed the
ranche, sloped off somewhere, and isn't going to dance to-night. Know
where she's gone, Auchester?"
"No," said Yorke, and he answered very quietly. Poor Fin! was she
taking the breaking off of their friendship to heart after all?
"Strikes me Mademoiselle Fin is playing it rather low on an indulgent
public!" grumbled the young fellow who had arranged the outing, and as
he sauntered off with the rest he remarked in a low voice, "Shouldn't
be surprised if Auchester had arranged to take her somewhere; they're
awfully thick, you know, and she'd throw over anything for him."
After lunch Yorke went to Bury Street, and with his own hands packed a
portmanteau or two.
Then he went back to the club, for though he knew no telegram could
have arrived, he felt constrained to be there in waiting, so to speak,
and dined quietly and in solitude, and afterwards he walked by the park
railings to Notting Hill and round the quiet squares, and was happy
thinking of Leslie and the days that lay before them, the delicious,
glorious days when they two should be one--man and wife. Man and wife!
He went to bed early that night and slept soundly, so soundly that he
was rather later than he meant to be at breakfast, and he hurried over
that meal and made his way to the Dorchester with a fast-beating heart.
There might possibly be a telegram for him. But the porter said no,
nothing had come for his lordship, and Yorke, too disappointed to make
a pretense of looking at the papers, went out and stood on the broad
steps and stared up and down Pall Mall.
Arnheim had promised to wire the night Yorke had seen him; there had
been time for the Lisles to get up to London, time for Leslie to wire.
Well, he would be patient and not worry. But, Heaven and earth, what
should he do with himself while he was waiting for that telegram! He
was so wrapped up in the thought of meeting his darling that he could
not endure the distraction of even exchanging greetings with his
acquaintances. He could not go to Finetta's--never again!--or Lady
Eleanor's. He wanted to be alone, alone with his thoughts. What should
he do? Was there anything else he could buy? As the question crossed
his mind the answer flashed upon him and made him almost start. Why,
there was the ring! He had not bought that yet. What an idiot he was.
Even with a license, you could not be married without a ring. He went
straight off to Bond Street, to the jeweler's of whom he had purchased
the diamond pendant and the plain gold locket, and stood for a minute
or two outside looking at the things in the window.
He would have a keeper as well as a plain wedding ring. He would get
the prettiest and 'solidest' they'd got. He gazed at the rows of
diamond ornaments, for the first time in his life covetously. Ah, if
he were only the Duke of Rothbury, as she thought him, what things he
would buy for her! Notwithstanding that, if he were the duke he would
have the great Rothbury diamonds, those gems which were supposed to
rank next to the Crown jewels, and they would be hers, his duchess's;
yet, all the same, he would buy her all sorts of pretty things. As the
heathen loves to deck his idol, so he, Yorke, would love to deck his
idol with all that this world counted good and precious.
Regarding that masquerade of his, that sailing under false colors, he
thought that Leslie would neither be very disappointed nor angry.
"It is me she loves," he told himself with a proudly swelling heart.
"And it will not matter what I am or am not. But all the same I wish
that idea had not occurred to poor old Dolph."
All this was passing through his mind as he was standing outside the
well-known shop in Bond Street. Everybody knows it, and everybody knows
that the street is rather narrow just where the shop is situated,
and at that moment it happened that one of the many blocks of the
day occurred, and that a neatly appointed brougham was brought to a
standstill very nearly opposite the jeweler's shop.
It was a charming little brougham, one of those costly toys which only
very wealthy people can indulge in. The interior was lined with Russian
leather, the cushions of sage plush; there was a clock in ormolu and
turquoise and a delightful little reading lamp, fan and scent case, and
china what-not basket.
It was the brougham which took the celebrated Finetta to and from the
Diadem; the brougham of which the newspapers have given an elaborate
account, and in it was no less a personage than Finetta herself. She
was leaning back against the eiderdown cushions, her handsome face
pale, with purplish rings round her dark eyes. She looked as if she was
half worn out by excitement and physical fatigue.
She had been lying with closed eyes till the block and stoppage came,
then she opened her eyes and asked listlessly:
"What is it?"
"It's a block," said Polly who sat beside her. "There's a carriage and
a butcher's cart in front, a swell carriage----."
Finetta leant forward listlessly, then her listlessness changed, fled
rather.
"It's--it's Lady Eleanor Dallas," she said between her teeth.
"Oh," said Polly; "is it? Well, I wish they'd get on, and--oh!" The
exclamation escaped her lips unawares, and Finetta, following the
direction of Polly's eyes, saw Yorke standing gazing in at the shop
window.
She uttered a faint cry and fell back, clutching Polly's arm.
"It's him!" she breathed.
"Lord Auchester. I know it is!" said the matter-of-fact Polly. "Well,
you needn't start as if you'd got the jumps."
"What is he doing there, what is he going to buy?" said Finetta in a
low and agitated voice.
Polly jerked down the blind.
"Don't make a perfect fool of yourself, Fin," she ventured to
remonstrate. "What's it matter to you what Lord Yorke is doing or going
to buy? He and you have done with each other----."
"Have we!" between the set teeth. "Much you know about it!"
"Well, if you haven't, you ought to have done. Oh, I wasn't deaf the
other night when he was telling you about the girl he had fallen in
love with and was going to marry; I heard enough to put two and two
together. And I tell you what it is, Fin: you are making yourself a
perfect idiot over that young man, and all for no good. Why, you've
been away from the Diadem for two nights, and though I suppose you
think I don't know where you've been, why I can guess. You've been
dogging him down in the country somewhere----."
"Hold your tongue," said Finetta, her eyes still fixed, through a chink
beside the silk blind, on Yorke.
"Yes, I can hold my tongue; but I'm talking for your good. Here you've
been away for two days, goodness knows where, though I can guess, as I
say, and you come back looking more dead than alive, and no more fit to
dance to-night than I am."
"What is it he is buying? Something for her?" said Finetta almost to
herself.
"What's it matter to you? You and he have done with each other, I tell
you," said sensible Polly. "You let Lord Auchester alone, and forget
him. You bet your life he's forgotten you by this time," and she
ventured on a short laugh.
Finetta turned on her.
"Forgotten me, has he? What did he send me his portrait in a locket and
that letter for, then? You hold your tongue! Tell the man to drive to
Piccadilly and then back again!"
Her face was flushed, her eyes shining with feverish light in their
purple rings.
"Well, if anyone had told me that you--you, Fin--would make such a fool
of yourself over a man, I'd have given them the lie," remarked Polly
after she had delivered the directions to the coachman.
Finetta fell back.
"Sneer on," she said in a low voice. "You don't understand, and, what's
more, you never will. Is there any one in the carriage opposite? Is--is
Lady Eleanor in it?"