Christmas was near at hand; but notwithstanding that nearly everybody
who had a country house, or an invitation to one, was away in the
shires, London was by no means empty. There were still "chariots and
horsemen" in the park; and the clubs were pretty well frequented. Not a
few have come to the conclusion that after all London is at its best and
cheerfulest in mid-winter; and that plum pudding and roast beef can be
enjoyed in a London square as well, if not better, than in the country.
Among these was Lady Bell. Although she had two or three country houses
which she might have filled with guests, she, for sundry reasons,
preferred to remain in Park Lane.
Perhaps, like Leonard Dagle, she thought that there was no place like
London. He would have his idea that there was no place in it like Spider
Court. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter, with perhaps, just a short
interregnum of a fortnight in summer, Leonard stuck to Spider Court; and
on this winter evening he was sitting in his accustomed place, busily
driving the pen.
There was a certain change about Leonard which was worthy of remark. He
looked, not older than we saw him last, but younger. In place of the
weary, abstracted air, which had settled upon him during the long months
of the search of Laura Treherne, there was an expression of hopefulness
and energy which was distinctly palpable. The room too looked changed.
It was neater and less muddled; and though the boxing gloves and
portraits of actresses and fair ladies of the ballet still adorned the
walls, the floor and chairs were no longer lumbered with Jack's boots
and gloves, cigar boxes, and other impedimenta.
Perhaps Leonard missed these untidy objects, for he was wont to look up
from his work and round the room with a sigh, and not seldom would rise
and stalk into the bed-room beyond his own; the bed-room which Jack kept
in a similar litter, but which now was neat and tidy--and unoccupied.
At such times Leonard would sigh and murmur to himself, "Poor Jack!" and
betaking himself to his writing desk again would pull out a locket and
gaze long and earnestly on a face enshrined therein, a face which
strikingly resembled that of Laura Treherne, and so would gain comfort
and fall to work again.
Tonight, he had wandered into the unoccupied room and had glanced at the
portrait two or three times, for he felt lonely and would have given a
five-pound note to hear Jack's tread upon the stairs, and his voice
shouting for the housekeeper to bring him hot water.
"Poor Jack!" he murmured, "where is he now?" For some months had elapsed
since he had found a few lines of sad farewell from Jack lying on his
writing desk, but pregnant with despair and reckless helplessness. And
Jack had gone whither not even Mr. Levy Moss, who sought him far and
wide, could discover; and not Mr. Moss alone, but Lady Bell Earlsley;
fast as she had traveled from Earl's Court to London, she arrived too
late to see Jack, too late to learn from his lips the nature of the
trouble which he had spoken of in his short note to her. And from
Leonard even, she could not learn much. He could only tell her that Jack
and Una's engagement was broken off, and by Jack himself, but for what
reason he could not tell or guess. And with that Lady Bell had to be,
not content, but patient.
"You were his dearest friend," she said to Leonard, "can you not guess
where he has gone?"
And Leonard had shaken his head sorrowfully. "I cannot even guess. He
was utterly miserable and reckless; he once spoke, half in jest, of
enlisting. He was in great trouble."
"Money trouble?" Lady Bell had asked.
"Money trouble," assented Len, and Lady Bell had sunk into Leonard's
chair and wrung her white hands.
"Money! money! how I hate the word! and here I am with more of the vile
stuff than I know what to do with!"
"That would make no difference to Jack," Leonard said, quietly; and Lady
Bell had sighed--she almost sobbed--and gone on her way as near
broken-hearted as a woman could be.
And then she had sought for him as openly as she dared, but with no
result, save discovering that there were hundreds of young men who
answered to Jack's description, and who were all indignant when they
applied in response to the advertisements and found that they were not
the men wanted.
And so the months had rolled on, and the "Savage" was nearly forgotten
at the Club, excepting at odd times when Hetley or Dalrymple remembered
how well he used to tool a team to the "Sheaves," or row stroke in a
scratch eight. My friend, if you want to find out of how little
importance you are in your little world, disappear for a few months, and
when you come back you will find that your place has been excellently
well filled, excepting in the hearts of the one or two faithful men and
women who loved you.
The world went on very well without Jack, and only two or three hearts
ached, really ached, at his absence--Len, honest Len, in his den in
Spider Court; Lady Bell, in Park Lane; and that other tender, loving,
and tortured heart in the old new house at Hurst.
Leonard often thought of that tender heart, and sighed over it as he
sighed for Jack. It was still a mystery to him, their separation; he
knew that Una was still at the Hurst, but that was all. No news of her
ever reached him. At times he ran across Stephen in London, and
exchanged a word or a bow with him, and had noticed that he was looking
better and sleeker, and less pale--more flourishing in fact, than he had
done for some time.
He, too had come to Spider Court, and expressed profound grief at
Jack's disappearance, and had gone away after wringing Leonard's hand
sympathetically.
Leonard sat thinking over this far more than was good to the work he had
in hand, when he heard the door open, and half starting, said absently:
"Nothing more wanted tonight, Mrs. Brown."
But a step, certainly not Mrs. Brown's, crossed the room, and a heavy
hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw Jack's face above
him.
"Jack!" he exclaimed, clutching him as if he expected to see him
disappear again. "It is you, really you? Great Heaven!"
There was reason for the exclamation; for though it was Jack, he was so
altered as to have rendered the description of him in the advertisements
quite useless. Thin, pale, careworn, it was no more the old Jack than
the living skeleton is Daniel Lambert.
"Great Heaven! Is it really you, Jack?"
"Yes, it is I! what is left of me, Len. You--you are looking well, old
man. And the old room; how cheery it seems."
And he laughed--the shadow of the old laugh--even more pitiable than
tears.
"For Heaven's sake be quiet; don't speak just yet," said Len, with a
husky voice. "Sit down. You've frightened me, Jack. Have you been ill?"
"Slightly," said Jack, with a smile.
"And where have you been? Tell me all about it--no, don't tell me
anything yet."
And he went to the cupboard, and brought out the whisky, and mixed a
stiff glass.
"Now, then, old man, where's the cigars? here--here's a light. Now
then--no; take off your boots. I'll tell Mrs. Brown to air the bed and
get your dressing-gown. And what about supper?"
And with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, Len turned from the room.
"Staunch as a woman, tender as a man." It was a wise saying, whoever
wrote it.
Jack sipped his whisky and water, and smoked his cigar, and pulled
himself together, which was just what Len wanted to get him to do; and
then Len came back.
"Now then, old man, out with it. Where have you been?"
"I've been to America," said Jack. "Don't ask me any particulars, Len; I
wouldn't tell you much if you did. I've been nearly out of my mind half
the time, and down with one of their charming fevers the remainder. You
won't get enough information out of me to write even a magazine article,
old man."
And he smiled, with a faint attempt at badinage.
"Great Heaven!" exclaimed Len, again; "and--and is that all?"
"That's all it amounts to," said Jack, wearily. "You want to know how I
came back, and why? Well, I can scarcely tell why. I got so sick of
trying to get knocked on the head, and failing miserably, that I got
disgusted with the country, weary of wandering about, and resolved that
it would be better to come and give Levy Moss his revenge. He's still
alive, I hope?"
"And you got back?" said Len.
"I worked my passage over," said Jack, curtly. "I was a bad hand, and
caught cold on the top of the last affair, and just managed to pull
myself together to reach London, and here I am. Not very lucid, Len, is
it? But there's no more to tell."
Leonard looked at him with infinite pity, and mixed another glass of
whisky.
"Poor old Jack," he murmured.
"And now it's your turn," said Jack, lighting another cigar. "Tell me
all the news, Len, about yourself first. How are Hetley, and Dalrymple,
and the rest of them? But yourself first, Len. You look well--better
than when I left. Things have gone right with you."
"Then you have not forgotten?" said Len, gratefully.
"It is not likely," he said, quietly. "I have thought of you many a
night as I lay burning with that confounded fever. Are you married?" and
he looked round the room as if he expected to see Mrs. Dagle in some dim
corner.
Leonard blushed.
"Nonsense! No, Jack, I'm not married. But--I'm very happy, old
man--should have been quite happy, but for missing you."
Jack nodded.
"I'm glad of that. Glad it has all worked round, and that you have
missed me, too. Where is she--Laura Treherne? You see I remember her
name."
Leonard hesitated, and looked troubled.
"I--I'm afraid I mustn't tell you. You see, Jack, there's still some
kind of mystery hanging about this love affair of mine. It is Laura's
wish that I should keep silent as to her whereabouts. I give you my word
I don't understand why. But I don't want to talk of myself and my
affairs, Jack. There is something and someone else you want to hear
about."
Jack looked up with a sudden start, and held up his hand.
"No, not a word!" he said. "Don't tell me a word. I--that affair is
over--dead and buried. Don't speak her name, Len, for Heaven's sake. Let
that rest forever between us."
Len sighed.
"Tell me more about yourself," said Jack, impatiently, as if anxious to
get away from the other subject. "There is some mystery, secret, you
say."
"Yes," said Leonard, humoring him, "there is a mystery and secret,
which, much as I love her, and I hope and believe she loves me, Laura
will not trust--well, I will not say 'trust'--which she does not feel
authorized to confide to me."
"I remember," said Jack, "your telling me that she had some task, or
mission, or something to accomplish--sounds strange."
"Yes," said Leonard, with a sigh, "and that mission is still
unaccomplished, and blocks the marriage. But I am content to wait and
trust, and I am happy."
Jack sighed.
"You deserve to be, old fellow!" he said.
"No, I don't!" exclaimed Leonard, remorsefully, "for flaunting my
happiness in your face, Jack. And now, here's the supper," he added, as
a waiter from a neighboring chop-house brought in a tray.
Jack sat down, and Leonard waited upon him, hanging over him, and
watching him as if every mouthful he ate did him, Leonard, good;
meanwhile chatting cheerfully.
"London pretty full, Jack; lots of people up this year."
"Yes," said Jack, then he looked up. "I suppose I shan't be able to show
up, because of Moss, Len?"
"Oh, he won't know you are here! And we'll cut it. We'll go down to the
country somewhere, Jack, before anyone sees you. You haven't met anyone,
have you?"
"Met them, no. But I have seen Stephen."
"Stephen Davenant?"
"Yes, I saw him, but I don't think he saw me. He is looking well."
Leonard nodded.
"He did not see you--but it wouldn't have mattered."
"No," said Jack, with a sigh. "Len, this is the first 'square meal,' as
they say over the sea, that I've enjoyed since I left. I'm very tired."
"I can see that," said Leonard. "Go off to bed, old man. We'll have no
more questions tonight."
Jack rose and took his candle.
"Yes, one more," he said, as he held Leonard's hand, tightly. "Is--is
she well, Len?"
Leonard nodded.
"Yes, I think so----"
"That's all," said Jack, resolutely. "Good-night, Len, good-night," and
he turned away quickly.
Leonard stole into Jack's room several times that night and looked down
upon the tired, weary face, still handsome for all its lines and
haggardness, handsomer some might have thought, for suffering sets a
seal of dignity upon a man's face if there be sterling stuff in him.
Leonard looked down at it pityingly.
"Poor old man; he has had a hard time of it if any man has."
Jack turned up at breakfast time looking much refreshed.
"First good night's rest I've had since--oh, too long to remember, Len.
Dreamed that all that has happened was only a dream, and that I was
waking up and going to see----" he broke off suddenly and sighed.
Leonard was delighted to see him so much better.
"We'll leave town directly, Jack," he said. "I've just done my usual
batch of work, and am free. We'll spend our Christmas at some old
inn----"
Jack looked at him gratefully.
"You're a staunch old man, Len," he said, quietly. "You'd sacrifice your
sweetheart to your friend."
Len colored.
"I'm sure she'd be the first to urge us to go," he said. "Laura is so
unselfish."
"She shan't be sacrificed for me," said Jack. "No, Len, I'll go off by
myself, before anyone knows I'm back--hallo! what's that?"
It was a footstep on the stairs, Len motioned for Jack to retreat into
the bedroom, and only just in time, for, barely stopping to knock, Mr.
Levy Moss opened the door.