A TELEGRAM FROM THE MAIL.
When the men found themselves alone and somewhat calmed down after the
excitement caused by Mrs. Davenport's astonishing announcement, Mr.
Paulton and Jerry discussed the proposed step with great minuteness
and intelligence, while Alfred sat mute and listless. He pleaded the
necessity of his going to bed early on account of to-morrow's journey.
In the course of the discussion between the two elder men, Jerry held
that if she did take to the stage, she would make one of the most
startling successes of the time.
"She has beauty enough," he said, "to make men fools, and fire enough
to make them lunatics. What a Lady Macbeth she would be!"
Mr. Paulton was anything but a fogey. He did not forget that he had
been once young, nor did he forget that, when young, a pretty face and
a fine figure had seemed extremely bewitching things. He was liberal
in all his views, except in the matter of betting. To that vice he
would give no quarter whatever. He never once sought to restrain his
son's reading, and Alfred had a latchkey almost as soon as he was tall
enough to reach the keyhole. Although he did not smoke himself, he saw
no objection to others, his son included, smoking in suitable places,
and with moderation. He did not exclude shilling whist from his code,
although he never played. He rarely went out after dinner now, but
when he made his mind up to move, he did not think there was anything
unbecoming in his visiting a theatre--the _front_ of a theatre, mind
you, sir. He supposed and believed there were many excellent men
behind the scenes, and he did not feel himself called upon to say
that the majority of the ladies were not all that could be desired;
but--ah, well, he would be very sorry--it would, in fact, break his
heart if either of his daughters--Madge, for instance--went upon the
stage.
With the latter part of this somewhat long-winded speech Jerry
heartily concurred. He felt furious and full of strength when he
fancied Madge behind the curtain, subjected to dictation and
uncongenial associations, not to speak of anything more disagreeable
still. There were nasty draughts and nasty smells, and nasty ropes and
nasty dust, and sometimes the carefully-attuned ear might catch a
nasty word. It was blasphemy to think of Madge in such an atmosphere,
amid such surroundings. And then fancy any "young man" of fifty-six
putting his arm round Madge, and administering even a stage kiss to
his darling! The thing was preposterous, and not to be entertained by
any sane mind.
Coffee was sent into the dining-room, and the whole household retired
early.
Alfred's reflections that night were the reverse of pleasant. He had
that day seen the woman he loved. She had come before his eyes as
unsought as the flowery pageant of summer. She had filled his heart
with tropical heat, had set fancy dancing in his head, and restored
strength and vigour to his invalid body. He had, before the moment his
eyes rested on her that day, been satisfied with the hope of seeing
her in weeks, months. She had come voluntarily, no doubt, without
special thought of him, to their home; she had once more accepted
their hospitality, and he and O'Brien were to accompany her to
Ireland. They would not travel together, but he should know she was
near--know she was in the same train, in the same steamboat; they
should meet frequently on the journey, and, crowning thought of all,
they had one common destination!
He had that day spent some delicious minutes in her company. While she
was by he had forgotten his late illness, his present weakness. The
immediate moment had been filled with incommunicable joy, and the
future with splendid happiness.
What had befallen all this dream of enchantment? Ruin--ruin complete
and irreparable! She was, owing to some secret and mysterious cause or
other, no longer rich. In her own estimation she was a pauper. That
was little. If that was all, it could be borne with a smile--nay, with
gratitude; for riches would act as a lure to other men, and he wanted
only herself and, if it might come in time, her love.
She had determined to go upon the stage. That was bad--entirely bad;
but if this evil resolve stood alone, it might be combated. If she had
determined merely with herself to follow the profession of an actress,
she might be persuaded to abandon her design. But the unfortunate
course she had made up her mind to follow had been suggested by Blake,
by an old lover who years ago was dear to her, and now was absolute in
her counsels. This put an end to every hope that she could ever be
his.
Oh, weary day, and wearier night!
If he could, he would back out of going to Ireland; but that was now
impossible. Under the pressure of his great joy, he had told O'Brien
of his love for Mrs. Davenport, and all arrangements had, at his
request, been made for their setting off to-morrow. She must go
to-morrow. While there is life there is hope. He was hoping against
hope; but accidents did happen in many cases, and might happen in this
one. No man was bound to despair; in fact, despair was cowardly and
unmanly. It was the duty of every man to hope, and he would hope. He
would go to Ireland to-morrow; he would put his chance against
Blake's. If this disappointment were to kill him or drive him mad, he
might as well enjoy the pleasure of being near her until his health or
mind gave way finally.
When he came to this decision he fell asleep.
Next day broke chill and dismal, and none of the folk at Carlingford
House seemed lively except Edith. Mrs. Paulton was depressed because
her only son was going away from home and into a country of which she
had a vague and unfavourable notion. O'Brien was sulky at the thought
of being torn from the side of Madge, now that he might talk freely to
her of love and their prospects, and the brutal Commissioners. Mrs.
Davenport was depressed by a variety of circumstances and
considerations, and Alfred had much to make him anything but cheerful.
Mr. Paulton's seriousness--that was the strongest word which could
fairly be applied to his humour--was due to the dulness of the
weather, and a depreciation in the value of some shares held by him.
During the day each of the travellers was more or less busy with
preparations. Mrs. Davenport had to go to town early in order to
transact business she had neglected the day before. Alfred stayed
mostly in his room, and O'Brien, far from sweet-tempered, managed,
through the unsought contrivance of Edith, to be a whole hour alone
with Madge.
"You know," he said to her, when preliminaries had been disposed of,
"it's a beastly nuisance to have to go away from you now. I'd much
rather stop, I assure you."
"You are very kind."
"Don't be satirical, Madge. No woman ever yet showed to advantage when
satirical. I say it's a great shame to have to go away, particularly
when it's only to save appearances; for now that Blake has once more
come on the scene, all is up with poor Alfred. Upon my word, Madge, I
pity him."
"Do you like her, Jerry?"
"No. I like you. I like you very much. You're not a humbug."
"Is she?"
"No. But she's too awfully serious. I cannot help thinking she ought
to do everything to the slow music of kettledrums."
"Why kettle-drums?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's because the concerted kettle-drum
is the most bald and arid form of harmonious row. I'm afraid my
language is neither select nor expressive. But one can't help one's
feelings--particularly when one's feelings make one like you. I really
am sorry to have to leave you."
"But you mustn't blame me for that."
"Now you are quite unreasonable. You must know that a man without a
grievance is as insipid as a woman without vanity."
"Jerry, I'm not a bit vain; I never was a bit vain. What could I be
vain about?"
"Ungrateful girl! Have I not laid my hand and fortune, including the
bodies of the murdered Commissioners, at your feet?"
"You are silly, Jerry."
"How am I silly? In having laid my hand and fortune and the
bodies----"
"No. In talking such nonsense."
"And you are not vain of having made a conquest of me?"
"Jerry, I'm very fond of you, and I don't like you to talk to me as if
you thought I was only a silly girl whom you were trying to amuse with
any silly things you could think of. I hope you don't believe I'm a
fool?"
"No. You are right, Madge: it's a poor compliment for a man to talk
mere tattle to his sweetheart. I wonder, darling, if you would give me
a keepsake, now that I am going away?"
"No. I have no faith in keepsakes. I would not take any keepsake from
you, because I shall need nothing to remind me of you when you are
away."
"Darling, nor I of you. And if things go wrong with me?"
"They can't go wrong with you."
"I mean if I come off worse in these business affairs."
"That will not make any difference in you."
"No. Nor in you, darling?"
"No."
He held her in his arms a while, and said no more. Thus they parted.
It had been arranged that the two men should meet Mrs. Davenport at
Euston. They were on the platform when she arrived. To their surprise
she was not alone: Blake accompanied her. As soon as they came forward
he shook hands with her, raised his hat, and retired.
O'Brien and Paulton were greatly taken aback by Blake's presence. They
busied themselves about her luggage, and then took seats in the same
compartment with her. They were the only passengers in the
compartment.
As soon as the train was in motion she leaned forward to O'Brien, and
said in a clear, distinct voice, the edge of which was not dulled by
the rumble of the wheels:
"You arrived the day before yesterday from Ireland?"
"Yes," he answered, bending forward and looking into her inscrutable
eyes.
"You have been at Kilcash?"
"Yes. I was there for about a month."
"Did you hear a ghost story there?"
He started and looked seriously at her.
"Yes, I did. May I ask if you have heard anything about it?"
"Yes. When I got back to Jermyn Street where I stayed, I found a
letter there telling me that a ghost, the ghost of a man named Michael
Fahey, had been seen in the neighbourhood of Kilcash."
"At the Black Rock. I was going to tell the story yesterday at dinner,
but it slipped by."
"Do you know anything of this--apparition?"
"I saw it myself, and two others saw it."
"Where do we stop first?"
"At Rugby."
She took a note-book from her pocket, and wrote something in it. When
the writing was finished, she tore out the leaf on which it was, and
handed the leaf to O'Brien, saying:
"Will you be kind enough to telegraph this from Rugby for me?"
"It will have to be written on a form," he said, hesitatingly.
"Will you oblige by writing it on a form for me? There is no reason
why you shouldn't read it."
When he got out at Rugby he read the message. It was addressed to
Blake, and ran:
"_Mr. O'Brien saw what I told you. Follow me to Ireland at once_."