“What is this I hear about Waring?” said General Gaunt, walking out upon
the loggia, where the Durants were sitting, on the same memorable
afternoon on which all that has been above related occurred. The General
was dressed in loosely fitting light-coloured clothes. It was one of the
recommendations of the Riviera to him that he could wear out there all
his old Indian clothes, which would have been useless to him at home. He
was a very tall old man, very yellow, nay, almost greenish in the
complexion, extremely spare, with a fine old white moustache, which had
an immense effect upon his brown face. The well-worn epigram might be
adapted in his case to say that nobody ever was so fierce as the General
looked; and yet he was at bottom rather a mild old man, and had never
hurt anybody, except the sepoys in the Mutiny, all his life. His head
was covered with a broad light felt hat, which, soft as it was, took an
aggressive cock when he put it on. He held his gloves dangling from his
hand with the air of having been in too much haste to put them to their
proper use. And his step, as he stepped off the carpet upon the marble
of the loggia, sounded like that of an alert officer who has just heard
that the enemy has made a reconnaissance in force two miles off, and
that there is no time to lose. “What is this I hear about Waring?” he
said.
“Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs Durant.
“It is a most remarkable story,” said his Reverence, shaking his head.
“But what is it?” asked the General. “I found Mrs Gaunt almost crying
when I went in. What she said was, ‘Charles, we have been nourishing a
viper in our bosoms.’ I am not addicted to metaphor, and I insisted upon
plain English; and then it all came out. She told me Waring was an
impostor, and had been taking us all in; that some old friend of his had
been here, and had told you. Is that true?”
“My dear!” said Mr Durant in a tone of remonstrance.
“Well, Henry! you never said it was to be kept a secret. It could not
possibly be kept a secret--so few of us here, and all so intimate.”
“Then he is an impostor?” said General Gaunt.
“Oh, my dear General, that’s too strong a word. Henry, you had better
tell the General, your own way.”
The old clergyman had been shaking his head all the time. He was dying
to tell all that he knew, yet he could not but improve the occasion.
“Oh, ladies, ladies!” he said, “when there is anything to be told, the
best of women is not to be trusted. But, General, our poor friend is no
impostor. He never said he was a widower.”
“It’s fortunate we’ve none of us girls----” the General began; then with
a start, “I forgot Miss Tasie; but she’s a girl--a girl in ten
thousand,” he added, with a happy inspiration. Tasie, who was still
seated behind the teacups, give him a smile in reply.
“Poor dear Mr Waring,” she said, “whether he is a widower or has a
wife, it does not matter much. Nobody can call Mr Waring a flirt. He
might be any one’s grandfather from his manner. I cannot see that it
matters a bit.”
“Not so far as we are concerned, thank heaven!” said her mother, with
the air of one whose dear child has escaped a danger. “But I don’t think
it is quite respectable for one of our small community to have a wife
alive and never to let any one know.”
“I understand, a most excellent woman; besides being a person of rank,”
said Mr Durant. “It has disturbed me very much--though, happily, as my
wife says, from no private motive.” Here the good man paused, and gave
vent to a sigh of thankfulness, establishing the impression that his
ingenuous Tasie had escaped as by a miracle from Waring’s wiles; and
then he continued, “I think some one should speak to him on the subject.
He ought to understand that now it is known, public opinion requires----
Some one should tell him----”
“There is no one so fit as a clergyman,” the General said.
“That is true, perhaps, in the abstract; but with our poor friend----
There are some men who will not take advice from a clergyman.”
“O Henry! do him justice. He has never shown anything but respect to
you.”
“I should say that a man of the world, like the General----”
“Oh, not I,” cried the General, getting up hurriedly. “No, thank you; I
never interfere with any man’s affairs. That’s your business, Padre.
Besides, I have no daughter: whether he is married or not is nothing to
me.”
“Nor to us, heaven be praised!” said Mrs Durant; and then she added, “It
is not for ourselves; it is for poor little Frances, a girl that has
never known a mother’s care! How much better for her to be with her
mother, and properly introduced into society, than living in that
hugger-mugger way, without education, without companions! If it were not
for Tasie, the child would never see a creature near her own age.”
“And I am much older than Frances,” said Tasie, rather to heighten the
hardship of the situation than from any sense that this was true.
“Decidedly the Padre ought to talk to him,” said the Anglo-Indian. “He
ought to be made to feel that everybody at the station---- Wife all
right, do you know? Bless me! if the wife is all right, what does the
man mean? Why can’t they quarrel peaceably, and keep up appearances, as
we all do?”
“Oh no--not all; _we_ never quarrel.”
“Not for a long time, my love.”
“Henry, you may trust to my memory. Not for about thirty years. We had a
little disagreement then about where we were to go for the summer. Oh, I
remember it well--the agony it cost me! Don’t say ‘as we _all_ do,’
General, for it would not be true.”
“You are a pair of old turtle-doves,” quoth the General. “All the more
reason why you should talk to him, Padre. Tell him he’s come among us on
false pretences, not knowing the damage he might have done. I always
thought he was a queer hand to have the education of a little girl.”
“He taught her Latin; and that woman of theirs, Mariuccia, taught her to
knit. That’s all she knows. And her mother all the time in such a fine
position, able to do anything for her! Oh, it is of Frances I think
most!”
“It is quite evident,” said the General, “that Mr Durant must
interfere.”
“I think it very likely I shall do no good. A man of the world, a man
like that----”
“There is no such great harm about the man.”
“And he is very good to Frances,” said Tasie, almost under her breath.
“I daresay he meant no harm,” said the General, “if that is all. Only,
he should be warned; and if anything can be done for Frances---- It is a
pity she should see nobody, and never have a chance of establishing
herself in life.”
“She ought to be introduced into society,” said Mrs Durant. “As for
establishing herself in life, that is in the hands of Providence,
General. It is not to be supposed that such an idea ever enters into a
girl’s mind--unless it is put there, which is so often the case.”
“The General means,” said Tasie, “that seeing people would make her more
fit to be a companion for her papa. Frances is a dear girl; but it is
quite true--she is wanting in conversation. They often sit a whole
evening together and scarcely speak.”
“She is a nice little thing,” said the General, energetically--“I always
thought so; and never was at a dance, I suppose, or a junketing of any
description, in her life. To be sure, we are all old duffers in this
place. The Padre should interfere.”
“If I could see it was my duty,” said Mr Durant.
“I know what you mean,” said General Gaunt. “I’m not too fond of
interference myself. But when a man has concealed his antecedents, and
they have been found out. And then the little girl----”
“Yes: it is Frances I think of most,” said Mr Durant.
It was at last settled among them that it was clearly the clergyman’s
business to interfere. He had been tolerably certain to begin with, but
he liked the moral support of what he called a consensus of opinion. Mr
Durant was not so reluctant as he professed to be. He had not much scope
for those social duties which, he was of opinion, were not the least
important of a clergyman’s functions; and though there was a little
excitement in the uncertainty from Sunday to Sunday how many people
would be at church, what the collection would be, and other varying
circumstances, yet the life of the clergyman at Bordighera was
monotonous, and a little variety was welcome. In other chaplaincies
which Mr Durant had held, he had come in contact with various romances
of real life. These were still the days of gaming, when every German
bath had its _tapis vert_ and its little troup of tragedies. But the
Riviera was very tranquil, and Bordighera had just been found out by the
invalid and the pleasure-seeker. It was monotonous: there had been few
deaths, even among the visitors, which are always varieties in their way
for the clergyman, and often are the means of making acquaintances both
useful and agreeable to himself and his family. But as yet there had not
even been many deaths. This gave great additional excitement to what is
always exciting, for a small community--the cropping up under their very
noses, in their own immediate circle, of a mystery, of a discovery
which afforded boundless opportunity for talk. The first thing naturally
that had affected Mr and Mrs Durant was the miraculous escape of Tasie,
to whom Mr Waring _might_ have made himself agreeable, and whose peace
of mind might have been affected, for anything that could be said to the
contrary. They said to each other that it was a hair-breadth escape;
although it had not occurred previously to any one that any sort of
mutual attraction between Mr Waring and Tasie was possible.
And then the other aspects of the case became apparent. Mr Durant felt
now that to pass it over, to say nothing about the matter, to allow
Waring to suppose that everything was as it had always been, was
impossible. He and his wife had decided this without the intervention of
General Gaunt; but when the General appeared--the only other permanent
pillar of society in Bordighera--then there arose that consensus which
made further steps inevitable. Mrs Gaunt looked in later, after dinner,
in the darkening; and she, too, was of opinion that something must be
done. She was affected to tears by the thought of that mystery in their
very midst, and of what the poor (unknown) lady must have suffered,
deserted by her husband, and bereft of her child. “He might at least
have left her her child,” she said, with a sob; and she was fully of
opinion that he should be spoken to without delay, and that they should
not rest till Frances had been restored to her mother. She thought it
was “a duty” on the part of Mr Durant to interfere. The consensus was
thus unanimous; there was not a dissentient voice in the entire
community. “We will sleep upon it,” Mr Durant said. But the morning
brought no further light. They were all agreed more strongly than ever
that Waring ought to be spoken to, and that it was undeniably a duty for
the clergyman to interfere.
Mr Durant accordingly set out before it was too late, before the mid-day
breakfast, which is the coolest and calmest moment of the day, the time
for business, before social intercourse is supposed to begin. He was
very carefully brushed from his hat to his shoes, and was indeed a very
agreeable example of a neat old clerical gentleman. Ecclesiastical
costume was much more easy in those days. It was before the era of long
coats and soft hats, when a white tie was the one incontrovertible sign
of the clergyman who did not think of calling himself a priest. He was
indeed, having been for a number of years located in Catholic countries,
very particular not to call himself a priest, or to condescend to any
garb which could recall the _soutane_ and three-cornered hat of the
indigenous clergy. His black clothes were spotless, but of the ordinary
cut, perhaps a trifle old-fashioned. But yet neither _soutane_ nor
_berretta_ could have made it more evident that Mr Durant, setting out
with an ebony stick and black gloves, was an English clergyman going
mildly but firmly to interfere. Had he been met with in the wilds of
Africa, even there mistake would have been impossible. In his serious
eye, in the aspect of the corners of his mouth, in a certain air of
gentle determination diffused over his whole person, this was apparent.
It made a great impression upon Domenico when he opened the door. After
what had happened yesterday, Domenico felt that anything might happen.
“Lo, this man’s brow, like to a title leaf, foretells the nature of the
tragic volume,” he said to Mariuccia--at least if he did not use these
words, his meaning was the same. He ushered the English pastor into the
room which Mr Waring occupied as a library, with bated breath. “Master
is going to catch it,” was what, perhaps, a light-minded Cockney might
have said. But Domenico was a serious man, and did not trifle.
Waring’s library was, like all the rooms of his suite, an oblong room,
with three windows and as many doors, opening into the dining-room on
one hand, and the ante-room on the other. It had the usual
indecipherable fresco on the roof, and the walls on one side were half
clothed with bookcases. Not a very large collection of books, and yet
enough to make a pretty show, with their old gilding, and the dull white
of the vellum in which so many were bound. It was a room in which he
spent the most of his time, and it had been made comfortable according
to the notions of comfort prevailing in these regions. There was a
square of carpet under his writing-table. His chair was a large old
_fauteuil_, covered with faded damask; and curtains, also faded, were
festooned over all the windows and doors. The _persiani_ were shut to
keep out the sun, and the cool atmosphere had a greenish tint. Waring,
however, did not look so peaceful as his room. He sat with his chair
pushed away from the table, reading what seemed to be a novel. He had
the air of a man who had taken refuge there from some embarrassment or
annoyance; not the tranquil look of a man occupied in so-called studies
needing leisure, with his note-books at hand, and pen and ink within
reach. Such a man is usually very glad to be interrupted in the midst of
his self-imposed labours, and Waring’s first movement was one of
satisfaction. He threw down the book, with an apology for having ever
taken it up in the half-ashamed, half-violent way in which he got rid of
it. Don’t suppose I care for such rubbish, his gesture seemed to say.
But the aspect of Mr Durant changed his look of welcome. He rose
hurriedly, and gave his visitor a chair. “You are early out,” he said.
“Yes; the morning, I find, is the best time. Even after the sun is down,
it is never so fresh in the evening. Especially for business, I find it
the best time.”
“That means, I suppose,” said Waring, “that your visit this morning
means business, and not mere friendship, as I had supposed?”
“Friendship always, I hope,” said the tidy old clergyman, smoothing his
hat with his hand; “but I don’t deny it is something more serious:
a--a--question I want to ask you, if you don’t mind----”
Just at this moment, in the next room there rose a little momentary and
pleasant clamour of voices and youthful laughter; two voices
certainly--Frances and another. This made Mr Durant prick up his ears.
“You have--visitors?” he said.
“Yes. I will answer to the best of my ability,” said Waring, with a
smile.
Now was the time when Mr Durant realised the difficult nature of his
mission. At home in his own house, especially in the midst of the
consensus of opinion, with everybody encouraging him and pressing upon
him the fact that it was “a duty,” the matter seemed easy enough. But
when he found himself in Waring’s house, looking a man in the face with
whose concerns he had really no right to interfere, and who had not at
all the air of a man ready to be brought to the confessional, Mr
Durant’s confidence failed him. He faltered a little; he looked at his
very unlikely penitent, and then he looked at the hat which he was
turning round in his hands, but which gave him no courage. Then he
cleared his throat. “The question is--quite a simple one,” he said.
“There can be no doubt of your ability--to answer. I am sure you will
forgive me if I say, to begin with----”
“One moment. Is this question--which seems to trouble you--about my
affairs or yours?”
Mr Durant’s clear complexion betrayed something like a flush. “That is
just what I want to explain. You will acknowledge, my dear Waring, that
you have been received here--well, there is not very much in our
power--but with every friendly feeling, every desire to make you one of
us.”
“All this preface shows me that it is I who have been found wanting.
You are quite right; you have been most hospitable and kind--to myself,
almost too much so; to my daughter, you have given all the society she
has ever known.”
“I am glad, truly glad, that you think we have done our part. My dear
friend, was it right, then, when we opened our arms to you so
unsuspectingly, to come among us in a false character--under false
colours?”
“Stop!” said Waring, growing pale. “This is going a little too far. I
suppose I understand what you mean. Mannering, who calls himself my old
friend, has been here; and as he could not hold his tongue if his life
depended upon it, he has told you---- But why you should accuse me of
holding a false position, of coming under false colours--which was what
you said----”
“Waring!” said the clergyman, in a voice of mild thunder, “did you never
think, when you came here, comparatively a young, and--well, still a
good-looking man--did you never think that there might be some
susceptible heart--some woman’s heart----”
“Good heavens!” cried Waring, starting to his feet, “I never supposed
for a moment----”
“----Some young creature,” Mr Durant continued, solemnly, “whom it
might be my duty and your duty to guard from deception; but who
naturally, taking you for a widower----”
Waring’s countenance of horror was unspeakable. He stood up before his
table like a little boy who was about to be caned. Exclamations of
dismay fell unconsciously from his lips. “Sir! I never thought----”
Mr Durant paused to contemplate with pleasure the panic he had caused.
He put down his hat and rubbed together his little fat white hands. “By
the blessing of Providence,” he said, drawing a long breath, “that
danger has been averted. I say it with thankfulness. We have been
preserved from any such terrible result. But had things been differently
ordered--think, only think! and be grateful to Providence.”
The answer which Waring made to this speech was to burst into a fit of
uncontrollable laughter. He seemed incapable of recovering his gravity.
As soon as he paused, exhausted, to draw breath, he was off again. The
suggestion, when it ceased to be horrible, became ludicrous beyond
description. He quavered forth “I beg your pardon” between the fits,
which Mr Durant did not at all like. He sat looking on at the hilarity
very gravely without a smile.
“I did not expect so much levity,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” cried the culprit, with tears running down his
cheeks. “Forgive me. If you will recollect that the character of a gay
Lothario is the last one in the world----”
“It is not necessary to be a gay Lothario,” returned the clergyman.
“Really, if this is to continue, it will be better that I should
withdraw. Laughter was the last thing I intended to produce.”
“It is not a bad thing, and it is not an indulgence I am given to. But I
think, considering what a very terrible alternative you set before me,
we may be very glad it has ended in laughter. Mr Durant,” continued
Waring, “you have only anticipated an explanation I intended to make.
Mannering is an ass.”
“I am sure he is a most respectable member of society,” said Mr Durant,
with much gravity.
“So are many asses. I have some one else to present to you, who is very
unlike Mannering, but who betrays me still more distinctly. Constance, I
want you here.”
The old clergyman gazed, not believing his eyes, as there suddenly
appeared in the doorway the tall figure of a girl who had never been
seen as yet in Bordighera--a girl who was very simply dressed, yet who
had an air which the old gentleman, acquainted, as he flattered himself,
with the air of fine people, could not ignore. She stood with a careless
grace, returning slightly, not without a little of that impertinence of
a fine lady which is so impressive to the crowd, his salutation. “Did
you want me, papa?” she quietly asked.