THE GNAWING FOX.
But he was not disheartened by those ominous words of hers, not even on
the following morning, when he found the little thoroughfare so
strangely silent and empty, and the two windows over the way become
vacant and devoid of charm. He had the high courage and impetuous will
of youth; seeing no difficulties or dangers ahead, he refused to believe
in any; Maisrie had not denied him her love, therefore she must be his
wife; and all the future shone fair. And so he set to work on his
Mendover lecture; and made good progress, even if his thoughts went
sometimes flying away down to Brighton. As for the lecture
itself--well, perhaps certain of its contentions and illustrations would
have surprised and even shocked that Communist-capitalist, his father;
but the young man was accustomed to think for himself.
Yes, this little street was terribly empty, and those windows
indescribably blank. And the room was lonely, work or no work. But as
he was standing looking out, cigarette in hand, after his frugal
luncheon, a happy inspiration sprung into his head; for here was Hobson,
the husband of the landlady across the way, coming along the pavement;
and would it not be a comforting thing to have him in to talk about the
two lodgers who had just left? Vincent opened the window a bit, and
said into the street (there was no need to call)--
"Hobson!"
The man looked up.
"Yes, sir?"
"I want you for a moment."
Then Vincent went himself downstairs and opened the door; and here was
the shabby-genteel ex-butler, obsequiously waiting, with an excess of
imbecile amiability in his weak, prominent, nervous eyes.
"Come in and have a smoke, Hobson," the young man said. "You must be
lonely over there now. Makes a difference, doesn't it?"
"Wonderful, sir, wonderful;" and the docile Hobson obediently followed
up the stairs, and accepted a big cigar, and was prevailed on to draw in
a chair to the fire. Vincent took a seat opposite him, and lit another
cigarette--in a quite friendly fashion.
"You've seen a good deal of Mr. Bethune since he came to live in your
house?" the young man began, in a sort of tentative and encouraging way.
And Hobson responded with instant enthusiasm----
"Ah, yes, indeed, sir, and proud of the same. A great man, sir--oh, a
very great man--and how he came to be where he is, sir, well, that beats
me, sir. And that haffable, sir!--if he ave somethink on the table,
he'll say, 'Hobson, bring two tumblers'--yes, sir--'Hobson, bring two
tumblers'--and I must take a seat, just as kind and condescending as you
are, sir. 'Fill your glass, Hobson,' he says, just that haffable
like--"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Vincent, looking guiltily towards his
vacant sideboard. "The fact is, I haven't anything of the kind in these
rooms; but I can send out. Which would you like, gin or whiskey?"
"Whichever you please," said Hobson, complacently, "being so kind as to
think of it, sir."
The necessary fluid was soon procured; and Hobson was liberally helped.
And when at length he began to expatiate on the character and the
wonderful attainments and abilities of Maisrie's grandfather, there may
have been a little exaggeration (for gin tends towards exaggeration) in
his speech; but his aim and admiration were genuine enough at the core.
He grovelled in the dust before that impressive old man. He spoke in
almost a breathless way of his haffability. Why, that a great personage
in literature should condescend to read his, Hobson's, poor little
verses was extraordinary; but that he should give advice, too, and
encouragement, that was overwhelming. And as for the young lady--but
here Hobson's language failed him. With tears in his eyes he declared
that she was a hangel of sweetness--which did not convey much to
Vincent's eager-listening ears. But when he went on to tell about all
sorts of little acts of kindness and consideration--when he spoke of her
patience with the old gentleman's temper, of her cheerfulness over small
disappointments happening to herself, of her gentleness, and sunniness,
and invariable good humour--here he was on more intelligible ground; and
his delighted and grateful audience was not slow to press on him another
cigar, which was not refused. Indeed, what with so much courtesy shown
him, and what with the stimulating influence of the gin and water,
Hobson grew valiant; and began to broach wild and iconoclastic theories
about filthy lucre, and to describe in dark colours the character of any
one--presumably his own wife--who could be so base as to take every
farthing of her rent, fortnight after fortnight, from a grand and noble
old gentleman and a beautiful young lady both of whom seemed to have
known better days.
"Do you know how long they are to be away?" Vincent asked.
"Well, sir, the old gentleman, sir, he says perhaps two weeks and
perhaps three."
"I see you've put up a notice that the rooms are to be let."
"Yes, sir; but that ain't much use, not for so short a time, sir."
And here another sudden fancy struck the young man.
"But I know how you can get them let," said he.
"How, sir?"
"You can let them to me."
"Law, sir!"
There was a doubtful look about Hobson's big, vacuous eyes: being of a
poetic and sensitive nature he did not like jokes, and was suspicious.
However, the young gentleman, to judge by his manner, seemed fair and
honest and above-board.
"I will take them," said Vincent, "until Mr. Bethune and his
granddaughter come back. Not to occupy them myself, you understand; but
I don't want any stranger to be going into these rooms, you see--that is
all."
"How kind, sir--how thoughtful!" Hobson said, in a pathetic way. "That
it is to have good, kind friends!"
"And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I might go over and look at
them--if you will finish up your tumbler?"
"Certainly, sir, certainly," Hobson said, jumping to his feet with
alacrity, and hastily draining his glass. "They're all tidied up, sir,
against the chance of a lodger. And won't the missus be surprised!--for
the women, sir, the women, you see, sir, they likes to haggle and
bargain, but with men, sir, begging your pardon, sir, it's a word and
done!"
Indeed he seemed quite proud of the promptitude with which he had
conducted and concluded this negotiation; and it was with an unusual air
of authority and importance that he led the way upstairs and showed
Vincent into the little parlour, with which he was already abundantly
familiar. There were few alterations. The old man's books, Maisrie's
music, and similar personal belongings, had disappeared; and a hideous
purple vase stood for ornament in the middle of the table. The pallid
lithographs were still on the walls; Maisrie's chrysanthemums were out
there in the little iron balcony.
"Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?"
The young man hesitated for a second.
"Oh, very well."
Hobson led the way up to the next landing; and there the first door he
came to he flung wide open.
"The young lady's room, sir."
But Vincent did not accept the implied invitation. He hung shamefacedly
back.
"Oh, yes, that's all right," said he. "I--I only wished to--to have it
kept for her."
And yet he lingered for another second at the door of this chamber--that
seemed so sacred--that seemed to shut him out. He could see the
dressing-table, the chest of drawers, the neatly folded bed, the rather
dingy window.
"Look here, Hobson," said he, "if I were to get a few things to make the
room a little more cheerful, I suppose that could be done without
letting Miss Bethune know who sent them? The looking-glass there--you
know, that is not the right kind of thing at all; there should be a
pretty mirror on the dressing-table, with some lace round the top of
it----"
Here he ventured in half a step or so, and rather timidly looked round.
"That one gas-jet can't be half enough, when Miss Bethune is dressing to
go out in the evening," he said, complainingly--perhaps to conceal his
incomprehensible diffidence and shyness. "She must have candles--one on
each side of the mirror, for example. And that screen across the
window, why, it is so common!--it ought to be a piece of pale silk--to
let the light through."
He ventured a few inches further, and again looked round.
"What do you call that thing?--the coverlet--the counterpane--isn't it?
Well, it shouldn't be white, and cold, and cheerless like that; it
should be a deep crimson satin--and there should be pretty things at the
head of the bed--loops and bows of ribbon--my goodness, what is Mrs.
Hobson about!--a young lady's room shouldn't be like a cell in a
prison!"
"Law, sir, I'm very sorry," Hobson said, in a bewildered way: a crimson
satin coverlet sounded a grand thing; but it also meant a heap of money.
"But come away out and I will talk to you," Vincent said, just as if
they were in a mysteriously sacred shrine, where the discussion of
business affairs was a sort of profanation. Or perhaps he resented the
intrusion of the amiable but gin-odorous Hobson? At all events, he did
not resume the conversation until they were both downstairs again in the
parlour.
"You understand, then," he said, and there was no more timidity about
his speech now, "I am willing to get a number of things for the room,
and to make you and Mrs. Hobson a present of them, on the distinct
condition that Miss Bethune is kept in absolute ignorance how they came
there. One word to her--and out they come again, every rag and stick.
Why, you can easily invent excuses! You can tell them you took the
opportunity of their absence to brighten up the place a bit. It is in
your own interest to keep the rooms smart: it doesn't imply any favour
conferred on your lodgers. Don't you see?"
"Yes, sir. Very kind of you, sir, indeed," said Hobson, who seemed a
little confused. "And what did you want me to do?"
"Do? I want you to do nothing: and I want you to say nothing. Don't
you understand? I am going to send in a few things to smarten up that
room; and they are yours so long as not any one of you hints to Miss
Bethune where they came from. Isn't that simple enough?"
But far less simple was his own part in this transaction, as he was
speedily to discover. For when he went outside again, and made away
towards Regent-street, thinking he would go to a famous shop there, and
buy all sorts of pretty things, it gradually dawned on him that he had
undertaken a task entirely beyond his knowledge. For example, he could
purchase any quantity of crimson satin; but how or where was he going to
get it made up into a coverlet, or counterpane, or quilt, or whatever
the thing was called? Then supposing he had the mirror and the lace,
who was going to put the lace round the top of the mirror?--he could not
do that for himself. A little set of ornamental book-shelves he could
buy, certainly; but how was he going to ask for the bows of ribbon, or
the silk drapery, or whatever it was that ought to adorn the brass rods
at the head of the bed? The more he considered the matter the more
clearly he saw that he must consult a woman, and the only woman he could
consult in confidence was his aunt, Mrs. Ellison, who had now returned
to Brighton. And perhaps he strove to conceal from himself what it was
that so easily and naturally drew his thoughts to Brighton; perhaps he
was hardly himself aware how this secret hunger of the soul was minute
by minute and hour by hour increasing in its demands. Maisrie had not
been so long away; but already he felt that one brief glimpse of her, no
matter at what distance, would be a priceless thing. And then again it
would not be breaking any compact. He would not seek to go near her, if
there was this understanding that these two were for the present
separated the one from the other. She would not even know he was in the
town. And surely it would be a new and wonderful experience to look at
Maisrie from afar off, as if she were a stranger.
So instead of going to Regent-street, he went to the nearest post-office
and telegraphed to Mrs. Ellison, asking if she could take him in for a
day or two. Then he walked on home; and by the time he had reached
Grosvenor Place, the answer was there awaiting him; he was to go down at
once. He put a few things in his bag; jumped into a hansom and drove to
Victoria-station; caught the four-thirty train; and eventually arrived
at Brunswick Terrace about six. He guessed that his aunt's afternoon
visitors would be gone; and he would have ample opportunity of a long
talk with her before dinner.
His anticipations proved correct. When he was shown into the big
drawing-room--which looked very snug and warm amid its magnificence--he
found the tall and bright-eyed young widow in sole possession; and she
came forward to welcome him with great complaisance.
"Very sensible of you, Vin. You know I can always make room for you, no
matter who is in the house."
"If I had gone to a hotel, aunt, you would have made an awful row; and I
don't want to quarrel with you just at present: the fact is, I have come
to you for advice and help," said he. "But first--my congratulations!
I was hardly surprised when I got your letter; and I am sure no one can
wish you more happiness than I do----"
"Oh, be quiet," she said; and she took a seat at a little distance from
the fire, by the side of a small table, and put a fan between her eyes
and the crimson-shaded lamp. "Congratulations? Well, I suppose there
are no fools like old fools. But if grown-up people will play at being
children, and amuse themselves by writing things in the sand--did I tell
you how it all happened?--they must take the consequences. And I, who
used to be so content! Haven't I often told you? Perhaps I boasted too
much----"
"Oh, yes, pretend you regret it!" said he. "And you talk of your being
so old--you!--why, what girl of all your acquaintance has half your life
and spirit, or half your good looks, either----"
"Vincent Harris," said she, and she turned round and faced him, "what do
you want?"
He laughed.
"It is a very simple matter, aunt."
And then he began to tell her of the little predicament in which he was
placed; and to beseech her help. Would she come and choose the things
for him? There were plenty of bric-a-brac shops in Brighton: she would
know what was most appropriate: her own house was evidence of her taste.
But his ingenuous flattery was of no avail. Mrs. Ellison's face grew
more and more serious, until at length she exclaimed--
"Why, Vin, this is the very madness of infatuation! And I had been
hoping for far other things. I had imagined from the tone of your last
letter that perhaps there might be a change--that your eyes had been
opened at last. So this is going on just the same as ever?"
"It is going on, as you call it, aunt; and is likely to go on--so long
as I live."
"Then I, for one, wish to have nothing to do with it," she said,
sharply. "And this last proposal is really too audacious. What
business have you with that girl's room?--what right have you to go into
it?"
He was rather taken aback--for a moment.
"Business?--oh, none of course. None whatever--that is to say--oh, yes,
I have, though!--I have a perfect right to go into it. The room is not
hers. It is mine. I have paid for it. When she comes back it will be
hers; and where is the harm of her finding it a little prettier?--that
is all."
"I must say, Vin," she continued, in a very reserved fashion, "that the
infatuation of a young man may excuse a good deal; but this is a
little--a little too much. Do you consider it quite nice--quite
becoming? A satin counterpane! I wonder what the girl would think
herself--if she has any refinement of feeling--if she has any
delicacy--"
His face grew very pale.
"'If she has any refinement of feeling--if she has any delicacy,'" he
repeated.
Then he rose.
"It is useless to say anything further, aunt; there is an end this
time."
But she had risen too. He tried to pass her--and failed; nay, she went
to the door, and stood with her back against it, and faced him.
"No, you shall not go," she said. "Why should there be any dissension?
You are my own dear boy; I would do anything for you--except in this one
direction----"
"Except in this one direction!" he repeated, scornfully.
"Why cannot we remain friends," she said, with appealing eyes, "good and
true friends--and agree to leave this one subject alone?"
"This one subject--that is my life!" he said, vehemently. "What folly
you talk! You wish to cut away the very thing I live for; the very
thing that is my life; and to continue your friendship with what
remains--a senseless stick or stone! And why? Because of your insensate
prejudice, your cruel and baseless suspicions. Why do you talk to me as
if I were a boy? I have seen twice as much of the world as you have; I
have had better opportunities of learning how to judge strangers. But
you--you live in a narrow groove--you have your maid to talk to--your
acquaintances to call in the afternoon--your friends to dinner--and what
besides? That is your world. What do you know of the human beings
outside it? Must they all be dishonest--because they have not been
heard of by your handful of a set? Must they all be thieves and
swindlers--because they are not in the Court Directory? But it is
little matter. If this subject is debarred, then all is debarred, as
between you and me. You can go your own way, and I mine. I did expect,
now that you have your own happiness secured, you might show some little
generosity, some little sympathy; but I see it is different; and I will
not allow one who is dearer to me than all the world to be treated with
such enmity, while I am supposed to stand by and accept it as a natural
condition of affairs. I do not; I have had enough; and so here is an
end, as between you and me; and I hope you will have more happiness than
you seem to wish for other people."
Well, Mrs. Ellison was not used to giving way; but she was very fond of
this proud and handsome boy; and she gave just one sob, and tears
gathered in her eyes.
"You are not very kind, Vin," she said.
And what marvellous thing was this that instantaneously smote his heart?
Why, Maisrie had made use of this very expression on the preceding
afternoon! And all of a sudden he seemed to recognise that his
adversary here was a woman; she was akin to his beloved--and therefore
to be treated gently; Maisrie's voice and eyes seemed to be pleading for
her: surely that was enough? He hesitated for a moment: then he said--
"Very well; let it be as you wish. We shall see how we get on, with the
one thing that is of more importance to me than anything else shut out
from mention. But I must say this to you, aunt: I do not see I am doing
anything that the most fastidious person can object to if I put a few
pretty things into the room of the girl who is to be my wife."
"How do you know that she is to be your wife, Vin?" she said, rather
sadly.
"I know," he made answer.
"My poor boy!" she said; and then she took him by the hand and led him
back to the little table at which they had been sitting; and there they
had some further conversation about more or less indifferent things,
with the one all-important subject carefully avoided. And then it was
time for them to go away and dress for dinner.
Lord Musselburgh dined with them that evening, and remained some time
after the other guests had gone. To Vincent it seemed a puzzling thing
that two betrothed people should make so merry. They appeared so well
content with their present estate; they were so assured as to the
future; no anxieties; no conflicting hopes and fears; they were in the
happiest mood. Next morning, too, Lord Musselburgh again made his
appearance; and the three of them went out for a stroll along the
promenade. All the world was shining fair and clear; Mrs. Ellison was
looking her best, and seemed to know it; her fiance was in a gay humour.
Why, they were almost like the 'lover and his lass' of whom Thomas
Morley sang nigh three hundred years ago--those 'pretty country folks'
who lived in a perpetual spring-time, with birds singing
hey-ding-a-ding-a-ding to them through all the jocund hours. The tall
and elegant young widow blushed and laughed like a maid; her eyes were
sarcastic, playful, amused, according to her varying mood; the sunlight
touched her pretty brown hair. There was, indeed, a sort of audacity of
comeliness about her, that set Vincent thinking of a very different kind
of beauty--the beauty that seems to be dowered with a divine and angelic
sadness. He was walking with these two; but he did not take part in
their frolic talk; nor did he pay much attention to the crowd of people,
the butterflies of fashion, who had come out into the pleasant sunshine.
He seemed to see before him a face that, with all its youth, and its
touch of colour, and its grace of outline, was strangely pensive and
wistful. And again he asked himself, as many a time he had asked
himself, what that expression meant: whether it had been brought there
by experience of the many vicissitudes of life, or by loneliness, or
whether it was not something more tragic still--the shadow of an
impending fate. There was more than that he could not understand: her
curious resignation, her hopelessness as to the future, her wish to get
away. And what was it she had concealed from him? And why had she
declared she could not ever be his wife?
"You are very silent, Vin," his fair neighbour said, turning her merry
eyes towards him at last. "Here is Lord Musselburgh declaring that if he
were a Jew he would turn dentist, to have it out with the Christians for
what they did in the Middle Ages. A horrid revenge, wouldn't it
be?--and so mean--under pretence of affording relief. Oh, look at that
girl over there--I do believe the ruff is coming back--we shall all be
Elizabethans by-and-by."
"But what business had women ever with ruffs?" Lord Musselburgh
interposed. "Why, when the dandies and bucks of Henry VIII.'s time
began to make themselves splendid by puffing themselves out round the
neck, of course it was in imitation of the stag--as the stag becomes
when he is supposed to captivate the fancy of the hinds; but you don't
find the hinds with any similar adornments. Such things are proper to
males: why should women try to look magnificent round the back of the
neck? Why should a hen covet a cockscomb? It's all wrong--it's against
natural laws."
"Natural laws in a milliner's shop!" she said. "Oh, do look at those two
Italian girls; what English peasant-girl could choose colour like that?
I _should_ like to speak to them--for a moment."
Lord Musselburgh did not seem inclined to interfere.
"I dare say they may have been long enough in England," said he, "to
have picked up a little of the Italian that English ladies speak. You
may try them."
But she refrained; for at this moment one of the girls began to play a
few bars of _Funiculi-funicula_ evidently as an introduction to the
singing of her companion; whereupon Lord Musselburgh proposed that Mrs.
Ellison should cross over to look at the windows of one or two
jewellers' shops--in which both of them happened to be much interested
just at this time.
The morning went by, and Vincent had caught no glimpse of Maisrie
Bethune or her grandfather; but indeed he had not expected that; the old
man would be busy with his books, and it was not likely that Maisrie
would come wandering by herself through this fashionable throng. When
at last the three friends got back to Brunswick Terrace, it was close on
luncheon-time; though here Mrs. Ellison was much surprised to learn that
Lord Musselburgh had engaged Vincent to lunch with him at the Bedford
Hotel.
"What's the matter?" said she. "Business or billiards?"
"Neither," her fiance made answer, "I only wanted to give you a little
holiday, for an hour or two."
"Not longer, then," she said. "For I am going out driving at three, and
I shall expect you both."
Soon the two young men were seated at a little window-table in the
spacious and cheerful coffee-room; and again Vincent was struck by the
eminently practical manner in which his companion spoke of his
forthcoming marriage. It was going to be, he frankly intimated, a very
useful arrangement for both Mrs. Ellison and himself; and their combined
fortunes would enable them to do what hitherto had been impossible for
either of them. Mrs. Ellison was fond of society; he had always looked
forward to the formation of a political salon when once he got married;
and now he thought he could afford to have a much bigger house, which
would be necessary for that purpose, than his present one in Piccadilly.
Then there were speculations as to whether he, Musselburgh, ought to
accept office--some subsidiary office, of course, as befitting his
years--when his party came into power again: you see, Vin Harris was
being consulted now as if he were a friend of the family. But as for
Vincent's own affairs--not a word: Lord Musselburgh had received a hint;
and he was discretion itself.
And yet if ever in his life the younger of those two friends had need of
a confidant, it was that afternoon; for something then happened that
seemed to strike at the very roots of his being. When it was about time
for them to go along to keep their appointment with Mrs. Ellison,
Vincent was standing in the hall of the hotel, waiting for Lord
Musselburgh, who had momentarily gone upstairs; and he was idly looking
out upon the passing crowd. Idly and absently; there was no one there to
interest him; very different it would be (he was saying to himself)
towards six or seven o'clock, when perhaps Maisrie and her grandfather
would come out for a stroll before going to dine at one of the
restaurants. At present he had no sort of concern with all those people
who went driving and walking past, in the dull wintry sunshine. It was
a pretty show; and that was all.
But of a sudden his heart stood still; and his startled vision beheld
what seemed incredible, and yet was there, and actual, and beyond any
doubt. Ere he was aware, a vehicle had driven by--a tall dog-cart, with
two figures in front and one behind; but another glance revealed to him
that the one behind was old George Bethune: who could mistake at any
distance the powerful and striking head, the shaggy eyebrows, the
flowing white hair? And the two in front?--one was a young man, to
Vincent unknown: the other--a terrible misgiving told him that was
Maisrie, though they were now some way off. What did it all mean? He
had never heard of their knowing anyone in Brighton. They had come down
for seclusion, for work; yet here they were in the midst of the
fashionable crowd; and a young man--a stranger--was making ostentatious
display of his acquaintance with them. A thousand wild surmises, the
offspring of a very madness of jealousy, sprang into his brain. Why had
the old man so clearly intimated to him that he was not wanted--that
they wished to go to Brighton by themselves? And who was this person
who was making such open parade of his intimacy with them? Alas! there
was no answer to these burning and bewildering questions; and he stood
there breathless, alarmed, yet not daring to ask the cause of his alarm.
Lord Musselburgh came along the hall.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Vin----"
"Oh, don't mind that," the young man said, striving to conceal his
agitation. "The fact is--I--I don't think I will go driving this
afternoon: will you make my excuses to my aunt----?"
"What's the matter?" said Musselburgh, regarding him. "You look as if
you had seen a ghost or a creditor: what is it, man?"
"Never mind--never mind--it is nothing," Vin said, hastily. "I will see
you later on. Will you make my excuses--thanks!"
The hall porter swung the door open; and before his astonished companion
could remonstrate, he had passed out and down the stone steps. He
crossed over, to lose himself in the throng on the opposite promenade.
The dog-cart would be coming by again: he would see who this new friend
was. Could he not hide somewhere?----he felt like a spy, like a traitor,
with all those dire imaginings surging through his brain. And sudden
wrath, too: he would demand to know by what right any stranger was
allowed to make Maisrie Bethune so conspicuous. Why, it was too
public!--it was a boast; and hardly decent, either; ought not respect
for age and white hair to have placed the old man in front, instead of
inviting all the world to witness the flattering of a young girl? And
as for Maisrie--well, even in his wildest and blackest surmises he could
think no serious harm of Maisrie; but she was too yielding; she was too
generous with her favours; she ought to make distinctions; she ought not
to permit this great, idle crowd to draw false conclusions. It was ill
done of her--behind his back: had she so soon forgotten that he had
pledged his life to her not so very many hours ago?
By-and-bye he knew rather than saw that they were returning. He was on
the seaward side of the road; there were a good many people passing to
and fro; moreover, he was partly concealed by an open fly that stood
close to the railings. The tall dog-cart came swiftly along: an
unprejudiced spectator would have said that the young man who was
driving was rather a good-looking young fellow, of the pink and white
type, with a small yellow moustache carefully waxed at the ends, and
clear grey eyes. He wore a buff-coloured coat, with a velvet collar of
similar hue; he had a flower in his button-hole. Then, again, his
turn-out was faultless--a neatly-appointed cart--a beautiful,
high-stepping roan. All this was visible at a glance.
But it was on Maisrie Bethune that Vincent's gaze was bent; and as she
drew near, his heart was smitten at once with remorse and with
gratitude. Had he expected, then, that she would be smirking and smiling
and coquetting with this new acquaintance? On the contrary, Maisrie sate
there grave and silent and reserved; her eyes were neither observant nor
conscious: once or twice they were turned towards the sea. To Vincent
she seemed so distinguished-looking, so refined, and noble, and
self-possessed, as contrasted with that fresh-complexioned country clown
who had the monstrous audacity to claim her as his companion! Then, as
the dog-cart went by, he caught sight of George Bethune. He was sitting
rather side-ways, to permit of his addressing an occasional remark to
the young gentleman who was driving: no doubt that was why Maisrie was
allowed to remain silent. Perhaps she was thinking--of someone whom she
thought to be far away----?
Strangely enough, as soon as they had disappeared from view, his doubts
and imaginings grew black again. For a moment, that vision of Maisrie's
sweet face had charmed him out of himself; but now these hideous
questions rushed back upon him, demanding an answer where there was no
answer. He did not attempt to reason himself out of this paroxysm of
jealousy; that would have been useless; he could but submit to this
gnawing torture of anxiety and suspense, while walking up and down, and
waiting, and fearing to find them coming within sight once more.
They did not return. Shortly after four the dusk began to fall; by
half-past five black night had enveloped sky and sea, and the town was
all ablaze with golden stars. There were hardly any carriages now; the
people had betaken themselves to the other side of the road, to look in
at the glaring shop-windows on their way home. Vincent found himself
more alone than ever; and knew not what to do or which way to turn. In
his present frame of mind he dared not go near the house in Brunswick
Terrace; he could not submit to cross-examining eyes. It would drive
him mad to talk, while those rankling conjectures were busy at his
heart. He wanted to see Maisrie again; and yet dreaded to see her, lest
he should find her once more in the society of that man.
But about half-past six his aimless perambulation of the streets became
circumscribed. He drew nearer to the neighbourhood of the restaurants.
If old George Bethune had brought his London habits down with him, as
many people did, would not he soon make his appearance, along with his
granddaughter? Here in East-street, for example, were _cafes_, both
French and Italian, where they could have a foreign dinner if they
chose. Would he venture to address them? Would he confess he had seen
them driving--in the hope they might volunteer information for which he
dared not ask? He could not tell; his brain was in a bewilderment of
anxiety and unreasoning misery; and this grew worse, indeed, as the slow
minutes went by, and there was no sign of the two figures for whom he
was so eagerly watching.
And then a sickening thought occurred to him. What if those two had been
invited to dine at a hotel by the country clod--by the young man from
the plough--by the rustic dandy with the velvet collar? At the Old
Ship, most likely--a private room--a profusion of flowers--plenty of
champagne--Hodge Junior gay and festive--cigarettes between the
courses--Arry having learnt so much from the cheap society journals; and
will not Miss Bethune be persuaded to join? Ah, well, perhaps after
dinner, when the liqueurs come to be handed round? There is a piano in
the room: will Miss Bethune oblige with an accompaniment?--here is a
smart little thing--"Kiss me on the sly, Johnnie!"--the latest draw at
the music halls....
Seven by the big clock over the stationer's shop; and still no sign of
them. Clearly they were not coming to any restaurant hereabouts. So at
length he left East Street, and went down to the King's-road, and
wandered slowly along, glancing furtively into this or that
hotel--especially where some coffee-room window happened to have been
left with the blind up. It was a vain quest, and he was aware of it;
but something, he knew not what, drew him on. And meanwhile his mind
was busy with pictures--of a private room, and flowers, and three
figures seated at table. _Ach weh! mein Liebchen war die Braut!_
At a quarter to eight, Lord Musselburgh was shown into Mrs. Ellison's
drawing-room.
"Haven't you seen anything of Vin?" she said, with astonished eyes.
"No--nor you?"
"Nothing at all--and now he won't have time to dress for dinner."
"I shouldn't wonder if he did not turn up for dinner," Musselburgh said.
"Something very peculiar happened to him to-day--I could not precisely
gather what--but he was obviously upset."
"Yes," said Mrs. Ellison, and her face was graver than its wont.
"Something has indeed happened to him to-day--though he himself is not
aware of it as yet."
She went to a little cabinet, and took from it two letters.
"I thought you ought to see both of these," said she. "One is from my
brother-in-law; I got it just a minute or two after you left. The other
is my answer; I will have it posted as soon as you have read it."
He took the first letter, which was from Vincent's father, and read it
carefully through, without a word of comment. Then he took the other,
which ran as follows:--
"DEAR HARLAND,
"It is very terrible; but I half suspected as much; and terrible as it
is there is nothing to be done but to tell Vin the whole truth, and at
once. Telegraph for him to-morrow morning--on business of importance;
if he wants to come down again, I shall be ready with such consolation
as I can think of. I fancy from one or two things that those people are
here in Brighton just now: all the more reason why you should summon him
home at once. Poor boy, it will be a sad awakening. But he is young;
he will get over it; and perhaps be none the worse in the end for this
cruel experience of the deceit and wickedness of the world. Let me know
how he takes it.
"Yours affectionately,
"MADGE."
No, Vincent did not come in to dinner that evening. He was still
walking up and down the King's-road, glancing now and again, but with a
sort of hopelessness, at any little group of people that might appear at
the hall-door of this or that hotel; and all the while there was a fire
eating at his heart.