A FORTUNE LOST.
That day settled many things. Alfred had told O'Brien that no matter
how unwise or rash it might seem, he had made up his mind to try his
fate with Mrs. Davenport--not, of course, at that time, perhaps not
very soon, but ultimately, and as soon as possible.
Until that day--until he had seen her moved by the sense of her own
loneliness, until he had seen the tears start into her eyes--he had
not said even to himself that he loved her. He told himself over and
over again that he would risk his prospects, his life, his honour for
her. How his prospects or life could be imperilled he did not know,
did not care. He had a modest fortune of his own, and her husband had
left her the bulk of his great wealth. He would have preferred her
poor rather than rich. But if she would marry him, he would not allow
the fact that she had money to stand in the way of his happiness. She
had for a while, owing to circumstances in which no blame attached to
her, found herself labouring under a hideous suspicion. From the
shadow of that suspicion she had emerged without blemish. She had been
cruelly ill-used by fate, but it had been shown she was blameless.
Where, then, could danger to his honour lie? Her beauty was
undeniable; her family unexceptionable. She had been sold to an old
man by a venal lover. In this lurked no disgrace to her. What could
his father or mother find in her to object to? Nothing--absolutely
nothing. That day his father and mother showed great pleasure in
seeing her again. His father had suggested--nay, arranged--that he
should accompany her on that long journey to Ireland.
When Jerry O'Brien left Carlingford House that afternoon, he had no
intention of asking Madge to be his wife. All the way from Kilbarry to
London he had been assuring himself that nothing could be more
injudicious than to say anything to her on the subject at present. He
believed she was not indifferent to him. Little actions and words of
hers had given him cause to hope. He was sure she preferred him to any
other man in whose society he had ever seen her. She had smiled and
coloured at his approach, and once or twice, when he had ventured to
press her hand, he had suffered no reproach by word or look. All this
made it only the more necessary for him to be on guard and not allow
himself to be betrayed into a declaration until his affairs were
settled. But the opportunity came, and he could not resist the
temptation of telling her he loved her, and of hearing from her that
he was loved by her. It is true no word had been said between them of
an engagement even. The mere formality of speech was nothing.
Practically he had asked her to be his wife, and she had plainly given
him to understand she was willing to marry him.
Madge got back to the house in a state of bewildered excitement. She
confided nothing to her sister, and Edith behaved very well, never
showing even a trace of curiosity or slyness. She persisted in talking
of the most everyday topic. She wondered whether Miss Grant, the
dressmaker, would keep her word?--whether this would be as bad a year
for roses as last? She was of opinion the cold weather would not
return. Nellie Cahill had told her the new play at the Ben Jonson was
a complete failure, in spite of all said to the contrary, and so on.
Madge replied in monosyllables or vacant laughs. When the girls got
home, each went to her own room, and they did not meet again until
dinner time. Madge decided she had no occasion to speak to her mother,
or any one else, about what occurred on the Dulwich Road. It would be
time enough to speak when Jerry said something more definite to her,
or when either her father or mother spoke to her.
Jerry sought Alfred, whom he found alone in the library. He had been
carried beyond himself that afternoon, and did not feel in the
position to administer to his friend a lecture on prudence. Alfred was
of full age, and, in the way of money, independent of his father. Let
him do as he pleased and take his chance, as any other man must in
similar circumstances. He himself, for instance, would take advice in
his love affair from neither Fishery Commissioners nor John O'Hanlon.
"How far did you go?" asked Alfred, who looked flushed, radiant. He
got up and began walking slowly about the room.
"Oh, a little beyond the College. It isn't a very pleasant day out of
doors. We met an old flame of yours--Miss Cahill."
"Miss Cahill an old flame of mine! Why, I never was more than civil to
the girl in all my life! Who invented that story for you?"
"I don't think it was pure invention. Edith mentioned it to us."
"'To us!' Good heavens, you don't mean to say she said anything of the
kind in Miss Cahill's presence?"
"Well, no--not exactly in her presence, but when she was near us. How
did you get on since?"
Jerry's object was to keep the conversation in his own hands, and
prevent Alfred asking questions. To-morrow, when they were both clear
of London, he might take his friend into his confidence, but not now.
"Oh, dully enough," answered Alfred, with a look of disappointment.
"My father went out, my mother is busy about the house, and Mrs.
Davenport is in her room. She will, I hope, be able to come down to
dinner. You don't think, Jerry," he asked, anxiously, while he paused
before his friend, "that her health has suffered by all she has gone
through?"
"No; but I am quite sure your peace of mind has," replied Jerry, with
a dry smile.
With all his desire to be conciliatory, he could not wholly curb his
tongue.
"I," laughed the other, "was never happier in all my life. Why, only
to think that she is under this roof now, and that we are going on a
long journey with her to-morrow, and that I am to be near her for a
whole month! It's too good to be true."
"I hope not."
"Well, Jerry, I hope not too; but it seems too good. I know you are
one of those men who never give way to their feelings until they know
exactly whither their feelings are taking them. It isn't every one who
has such complete self-command as you. I am willing to risk everything
in the world for a woman. Some men are too cautious to risk anything."
"There's a good deal of truth and a good deal of rubbish in what you
say," rejoined Jerry, colouring slightly, and concealing his face from
his companion by going to the window and looking out at the evergreens
and leafless trees in the front garden.
Alfred's last speech had not been exactly a chance shot. He more than
guessed Jerry cared a good deal for Madge; but the tone of the other
had exasperated him, and he made an effort to compel silence, if not
sympathy, from him. Jerry was not prepared to retort. He did not want
to deny or assert his own susceptibility to the unconscious arts of
any woman; and, above all, he did not wish Madge's name to be
introduced even casually.
At last dinner came. It was an informal, a substantial, cosy meal. No
special preparations had been made for the guests. There was no
display, no stint, no profusion. Jerry sat beside Madge, and Alfred
between Edith and Mrs. Davenport. Jerry was the most taciturn--Madge
the most demure of the party. Mr. Paulton was chatty, cordial, and
particularly gracious to the widow. Mrs. Davenport was polite,
impassable, absent-minded.
When they were waiting for the joint, Mr. Paulton turned to Jerry, and
said:
"Are you depressed at the prospect of spending a while with an
invalid? To look at you both, one would think it was you, not Alfred,
who wants change of air."
"And so it is," said Jerry, stealing a look at Madge.
In order to divert attention from her, for she felt her face growing
hot, she said:
"I believe the south of Ireland is very mild?"
"Oh, very!" Jerry answered, with startling vivacity. "It's the mildest
climate in the world; but the people are not particularly mild: they
are full of fire and fight. I have no doubt Alfred will come back a
regular Milesian. You know those who live a while in Ireland always
become more Irish than the Irish."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Paulton. "He may become as Irish as he likes
if he at the same time grows as well in health as we like."
"I intend coming back quite a Goliath, mother. I shall eat and drink
everything I see," said Alfred gaily.
"You would find some of the things in the neighbourhood of Kilcash
rather hard to chew. I think Mrs. Davenport will agree with me that it
would take Goliath a long time to make a comfortable meal of the Black
Rock, or to make a comfortable meal on it?"
At the name of the Rock, Mrs. Davenport looked up and shuddered
visibly, and said, as she rested slightly on the back of her chair:
"The Black Rock is a hideous place."
Then, turning to Alfred: "You must not go there."
"I am altogether in the hands of this unprincipled wretch," answered
Alfred, smiling and nodding at Jerry.
"Then," said Jerry, "if you are not very civil--if you show a
disposition to exhibit your Goliath-like prowess on me, I shall take
you to the Black Rock, and first frighten the life out of you, and
then throw you into the Puffing Hole, where, except you are the ghost
of your own grandfather, or something equally monstrous, you will be
promptly smashed into ten billions of invisible atoms."
The rest of the dinner passed off quietly. When the dessert had been
put on the table, and the servants had withdrawn, Mr. Paulton said:
"Mr. O'Brien, I have often heard you talk of this Black Rock and the
Puffing Hole, but I am afraid I never had the industry to ask you for
a description of either. Are they very wonderful?"
"There is nothing wonderful about the Rock, except its extent and
peculiar shape and colour. But the Puffing Hole, although not unique,
is curious and terrible."
"I am doubly interested in them now, since I have the pleasure of
numbering Mrs. Davenport among my friends. What are the Black Rock and
Puffing Hole like?" He smiled, and bent gallantly towards the widow.
"I think," said Jerry, "Mrs. Davenport herself is the best person to
give you a description of either. Her house is near them, and she has
lived, I may say, next door to them for years, and knows more than I
do of the place. To make the matter even, if Mrs. Davenport will do
the description I will do the narrative part of the tale. That is a
fair division."
Mrs. Davenport trembled slightly again, and was about to speak, when
Mr. Paulton said, in a tone of impetuous persuasion:
"Your house near these strange freaks of nature, Mrs. Davenport! Of
course I did not know that, or I should not have dreamed of asking Mr.
O'Brien for an account of them."
The old man's belief was that it would divert Mrs. Davenport's mind
from wholly gloomy subjects if she were only induced to speak of
matters of general interest.
She shook her head sadly.
"It is true my home was for many years at Kilcash House, which is near
the Black Rock. But----"
She paused, and a peculiar smile took possession of her face. All eyes
were fixed on her in expectation. No one cared to speak. What could
that strange break mean? Surely, to describe a scene or phenomenon of
the coast with which she was most familiar could not be very
distressing?
"But," she resumed, "it is my home no longer. It is true I am going
back there for a little time--a few weeks; but that is only to arrange
matters. I have now no home."
The voice of the woman was almost free from emotion. It was slightly
tremulous towards the end; but if she had been reading aloud a passage
she but dimly understood, she could have displayed no less emotion.
"No home!--no home!" said Mr. Paulton, so softly as to be only just
audible. "I was under the impression you had been left Kilcash House."
"Yes, my husband left me Kilcash House and other things--other
valuable things--and a large sum of money. But----"
Again she paused at the ominous "but."
Again all were silent, and now even Mr. Paulton could not light on
words that seemed likely to help the widow over her hesitation.
"But I cannot take anything."
Once more the old man repeated her words: "Cannot take anything! Are
the conditions so extraordinary--so onerous?"
He and O'Brien thought that the principal condition must be forfeiture
in case she married Blake. This would explain much of what was now
incomprehensible.
"There are no conditions whatever in the will," she said in the same
unmoved way.
"No conditions! And yet you have no home, although your late husband
has left you a fine house?"
"Yes, and all that is necessary for the maintenance of that house;
notwithstanding which, I have no home, and am a beggar."
"Mrs. Davenport," cried the old man, with genuine concern, "what you
say is very shocking. I hope it is not true."
"I know this is not the time or place to talk of business. I know my
business can have little or no interest for you."
"Excuse me, my dear Mrs. Davenport, there is nothing out of place
about such talk now, and you really must not say we take but slight
interest in your affairs. On the contrary, we are very much interested
in them. I think I may answer for every member of my family, and say
that beyond our own immediate circle of relatives there is no lady in
whom we take so deep an interest."
The old man was solemn and emphatic.
"I am sure," said Mrs. Paulton, looking round the table, "that my
husband has said nothing but the simple fact."
She turned her eyes upon the widow.
"Mrs. Davenport, I hope you will always allow me to be your friend.
Your troubles have, I know, been very great, and you are now no doubt
suffering so severely that you think the whole world is against you.
We, at all events, are not. Anything we can do for you we will; and,
believe me, Mrs. Davenport, doing anything for you will be a downright
pleasure."
The widow bowed her head for a moment before speaking. It seemed as
though she could not trust her voice. After a brief pause she sat up,
and, resting the tips of the fingers of both hands on the table, said:
"As I told you earlier to-day, I have been alone all my life, and the
notion of fellowship is terrible to me, coming now upon me when my
life is over."
"Indeed you should not talk of your life being over. You are still
quite young. Many a woman does not begin her life until she is older
than you."
"I am thirty-four, and that is not young for one to begin life."
"But, may I ask," said Mr. Paulton, "how it is that the will becomes
inoperative? How is it that you cannot avail yourself of your
husband's bequests?"
"My reasons for not taking my husband's money must, for the present--I
hope for ever--remain with myself. Mr. Blake has told me certain
things, and I have found out others myself. I am now without money--I
do not mean," she said, flushing slightly, "for the present moment,
for a month or two--but I am without any money on which I can rely for
my support. I shall have to begin life again--or, rather, begin it for
the first time. I shall have to work for my living, just as any other
widow who is left alone without provision. This is very plain
speaking, but the position is simple."
"But, my dear Mrs. Davenport, you must not in this way give yourself
up to despair," said Mr. Paulton, as he rose and stood beside her.
"Despair!" she cried, looking up at him with a quick glance of angry
surprise. "Despair! You do not think me so poor a coward as to
despair. How can one who never knew hope know despair? I am in no
trouble about the future. I shall take to a line of life in which
there is room and to spare for such as I."
"Do not do anything hastily, I have a good deal of influence left."
Mrs. Paulton, who saw that Mrs. Davenport was excited, over-wrought,
rose and moved towards the door. The others stood up, excepting Mrs.
Davenport, who, as she was excited and looking up into Mr. Paulton's
face, did not hear the stir or see the move.
"I am most sincerely obliged to you, Mr. Paulton, but I greatly fear
that, much as I know you would wish it, you could not aid me in my
business scheme."
"May I ask what the business is?"
"The stage."
"The stage, Mrs. Davenport! You astound me."
"I have lived alone and secluded all my life. For the future I shall,
if I can, live among thousands of people, whom I will _compel_ to
sympathise with my mimic trials, since I never had any one to
sympathise with my real ones. I shall flee from an obscurity greater
than a cloister's to the blaze and full publicity of the footlights.
You think me mad?"
"No; ill-advised. Who suggested you should do this?"
She glanced around, and saw that the ladies were waiting for her.
"I beg your pardon," she said to them, as she rose and walked towards
the door, which Alfred held open.
She turned back as she went out, and answered Mr. Paulton's question
with the two words:
"Mr. Blake."
Alfred closed the door. The three men looked in amazement at one
another.
"There's something devilish in her or Blake," said the old man.
"Or both," said Jerry O'Brien.
By a tremendous effort, Alfred Paulton sat down and kept still. He did
not say anything aloud, but to himself he moaned:
"If I lose her, my reason will go again--this time for ever!"