The news of Jimmy's engagement spread rapidly. Dr. Gregg heard it within
twenty-four hours, and mentioned it the same evening to Mrs. Richards,
the lady whose bow Jimmy had failed to acknowledge when he was coming
out of the hotel.
Mrs. Richards shook her head over the tidings. "I cannot say I am
pleased to hear it, Doctor. Mr. Grierson can be very nice, and I am told
he is very clever; but still I am sorry for Miss Farlow. He has an
unfortunate failing."
"Do you mean he drinks?" the doctor asked bluntly.
The lady nodded. "I, myself, have seen him under the influence of
liquor, before mid-day; and my maid tells me it's a common subject of
conversation amongst the lower classes in the town. I understand a great
many writers have the same weakness," she added, grimly.
Dr. Gregg snorted. "Nonsense, madam. When Grierson is married he will be
as steady as your own sons. I know him very well, and have a great
respect for him. The girl ought to be proud. He is going to make a big
name for himself; whilst as for the lower classes in this town, and the
upper classes as well, for that matter, their chief object in life seems
to be to make up and spread lying tales."
"Dr. Gregg, was more brusque than ever to-day," Mrs. Richards remarked
to her husband an hour later. "Really, he is such a bear that if one
could trust Dr. Hart I would have him instead. It's not nice to be
stormed at and practically called a scandalmonger, especially when I
know that what I was saying is true."
Her husband took her complaints lightly, remembering that only a year
before that same bear of a doctor had snatched their youngest child out
of the grip of death, and knowing well that, so long as the old man
remained in practice, his wife would take his word before that of the
most famous specialist in London. "What was the trouble with Gregg this
time, Kate?" he asked, smiling.
"It was over Miss Farlow's engagement," she answered. "I was saying that
I'm sorry for the girl, because I'm sure young Grierson drinks; and the
doctor got rude about it at once."
"Perhaps you were not very wise, because Grierson is a friend of his, as
well as a patient; but still, I am afraid what you said was true. I
don't know the man personally; but Bateman and Knowles and one or two
men who do know him say the same. I hear he's been better lately,
though, since the Grimmers took Drylands. Perhaps he was lonely, or
something like that. He knew very few people then, and it must have been
horribly dull for him."
"I don't see that there is any excuse in that." Mrs. Richards' voice was
unusually severe. "He could have known people if he liked. Mr. Button,
the vicar, called on him; but he's never been to church once in over a
year, at least he never went until Miss Farlow came on the scene."
Her husband smiled. "Perhaps she's converted him," he suggested.
But Mrs. Richards was in earnest. "Conversions of that sort never last,"
she went on. "He will be just as bad again after marriage, when the
novelty has worn off. I am sure I would never allow a man of that sort
to marry one of our daughters."
Mr. Richards smiled again. "You might mislead a stranger by that
statement, Kate, seeing that they are both married already."
Then the dinner gong sounded, and he straightway forgot all about the
matter; but his wife could not get it out of her mind. Her dearest girl
friend had married a man who had turned out to be an incurable
drunkard, and the tragedy of those two ruined lives came back to her
vividly, so vividly in fact that she determined to call at Drylands on
the following day, nominally to offer her congratulations to Vera
Farlow, really to see if she could not whisper a word of warning into
Mrs. Grimmer's ear.
"Mrs. Grimmer is not at home," the servant said, in answer to her
inquiry.
Mrs. Richards began to open her card case, then, acting on a sudden
resolution, she looked up again and asked, "Is Miss Farlow in?"
"Yes, madam," the maid answered.
Mrs. Richards closed her card case with a snap, and followed the maid
into the drawing-room.
Vera looked so happy that for a moment the visitor hesitated, then the
very innocence and gentleness of the girl strengthened her resolution,
clinched it, and she saw her path of duty more clearly than ever.
Deliberately, she sought for an opening.
"Have you known Mr. Grierson long?" she asked.
"Not very long, really," Vera answered. "I met him first nearly two
years ago, at dinner. But after that, I did not see him again until I
came down here with the Grimmers. Still, he's a very old friend of
Ethel's--Mrs. Grimmer, I mean--and his people are parishioners of my
father's."
"Does he often go down to see his people?" Mrs. Richards asked, a new
suspicion breaking on her mind.
Vera shook her head. "He's been so busy, you see; and it's a long way;
in fact, I don't think he has been there for over a year."
Mrs. Richards' last doubt had disappeared now. So Jimmy's people knew of
his failing and would not receive him in their homes. Evidently, it was
time that someone interfered to save this girl.
"It is sometimes a great risk marrying a very clever man. They are not
always too steady."
Vera, who was rather bored with her visitor, was staring out of the
window, wondering where Jimmy was, but now she looked round sharply, a
glint of anger in her eyes.
"I am not afraid of that in Mr. Grierson's case," she answered coldly.
"Perhaps he is one of the exceptions, that is, if the rule itself is not
one of those silly ideas people get hold of and insist on believing in
for no reason at all, except perhaps because they're jealous."
Mrs. Richards coloured slightly, but she did not take offence. Rather,
her heart went out in sympathy to this girl whose loyalty was likely to
be so ill repaid.
"My dear," she said very gently, "I came intending to warn you, because
I was afraid no one else would have the courage to tell you. No, don't
jump up. Let me finish. I am afraid, in fact, I am sure, that Mr.
Grierson has that very failing we referred to. It is a matter of common
knowledge here; and, though he may keep steady whilst you are about, I
am sorry to say that the very first day after you went away last time, I
myself saw him the worse for liquor."
Vera's first impulse was to do something theatrical, to ring for the
servants to turn this abominable woman out, to rush out herself and find
Jimmy and implore him to avenge the insult; but something in Mrs.
Richards' manner checked her, and in the end she listened in silence,
sitting very still with her hand in her lap.
When the other had done, she made one attempt at disbelief. "It's not
true, it's not true," she murmured, then she went on, "Oh, say it isn't
true. Do say so. Why did you come and tell me when I was so happy?"
There were tears in Mrs. Richards' eyes as she answered. "My dear, it's
better to know now than when it's too late, when your life is ruined. If
you want confirmation you had better make other inquiries. Ask Mr.
Grierson himself. He cannot deny it."
To Vera's own astonishment, she let the visitor kiss her before they
parted; in fact, she returned the kiss; and yet, when looking back on it
afterwards, it seemed quite natural, for no one could have doubted the
honesty of Mrs. Richards' purpose, even if they had doubted her
statements. But Vera doubted neither. She knew the accusation was true;
and when on Jimmy coming in a few moments later and finding her red-eyed
and white-faced, she taxed him with it, he recognised the futility of
denial, though he pleaded extenuating circumstances.
"I was miserable and lonely, and until I met you everything seemed to
have gone to pieces. It will never happen again, darling, really it
won't. You know that, don't you? surely you know it." He was fighting,
not only for her love, but for his whole future, his position in
society, the respect of his own class. If he lost her, he felt he would
lose everything else which a Grierson holds dear. He would never have
the heart to make another try.
"I don't know," she sighed at last. "I had such faith in you, and this
has been such an awful shock. Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, I could never have
believed it."
Even in his misery, it struck him that she had believed it, very
readily, and a hint of anger came into his bearing. After all, his
promise of reformation, or rather the fact that he had already reformed,
should have some weight with her. But she was judging him by the past,
in which she had had no part. Still, he spoke gently, pleadingly.
"Vera, dear, you must forgive me. It will never happen again now that I
have you to look after me. You will keep me straight."
But he struck the wrong chord, and she looked up almost indignantly.
"You ought to be manly enough to keep straight by yourself, you ought
never to have sunk as you have done. There can be no excuse for it, none
whatever."
"And no forgiveness?" he asked very quietly. She covered her face with
her hands again. "Oh, I don't know, I don't know. Everything seems so
dreadful, and I shall be afraid to trust you. Go away now, and let me
think it over quietly."
"Very well. I will come back after dinner. Meet me down by the
summer-house." There was something masterful in his tone, and for a
moment she felt inclined to obey; then her sense of injury came to her
aid, and she shook her head.
"No, to-morrow morning at the earliest. I cannot decide so quickly."
Jimmy took his hat off the table. "Good-bye, then. I will come
to-morrow morning." And he left the room without another word. As the
door closed behind him, Vera stood up, straightened her hair in front of
the glass on the mantelpiece, dabbed the tears out of her eyes with her
handkerchief, and then went upstairs, holding her head rather erect, but
otherwise showing no sign of emotion.
Jimmy filled his pipe whilst he went down the front steps, and as he
rammed the tobacco into the bowl he noticed, with a cynical little
smile, that his hand was perfectly steady. In his heart he did not
believe that the quarrel would prove final, that she would break off the
engagement on the grounds of his past failings. It was just a passing
cloud, he told himself. Both of them would have been more upset had
their love affair come to a sudden and abrupt close. He remembered how
he had felt when he had parted from Lalage, the fever and the agony of
it, the sense of utter desolation and hopelessness. And from that he
came to think of Lalage herself. She had never turned on him because he
drank. Far otherwise. The knowledge had made her more tender, more
watchful over his comfort, more anxious to shield him from worries which
might drive him into the power of his enemy. She had never blamed him,
even by implication. And why? He knew the answer only too well. Because
she had loved him. Now the fever, which the parting from Vera had failed
to arouse, came on him again. His pipe went out, and, unconsciously, he
quickened his steps, as was his way when deeply stirred.
Lalage loved him. Lalage loved him too well to turn on him. The words
drummed through his brain with maddening persistency; and then, as a
corollary to them, came the questions, "Did Vera love him well enough to
take the risk, to give him a chance to run straight? Was he always to be
the Black Sheep, and herd with others of his kind?"