BAFFLED
Mr. Ryfe, we may be sure, did not fail to make his appearance in
Berners Street at an early hour on the following day, as soon indeed
as, according to Mr. Stanmore's information, there was any chance of
finding the painter at home. He felt, and he told himself so more than
once, that he was enacting the part of Mephistopheles, without the
supernatural power of that fatal auxiliary, without even a fair
allowance of time to lure his Faust to perdition. He had undertaken a
task that never would have occurred but to a desperate man, and Tom
was desperate, inasmuch as the one hope on which he set his heart
had crumbled to atoms. He had resolved to bring together in active
hostility two men of the world, versed in the usages of society,
themselves perfectly familiar with the code of social honour, that
they might attempt each other's lives beguiled by a delusion gross and
palpable as the common tricks of any fire-eating conjurer at a fair.
The very audacity of the scheme, however, seemed to afford its best
chance of success, and when that success should have been attained,
Tom's fancy, overleaping all intermediate difficulties, revelled in
the wild possibilities of the future. Of bloodshed he took very little
thought. What cared he, with his sad, sore heart, for the lives of
those prosperous men, gifted with social advantages that had been
denied to himself, and that he felt a proud consciousness he could
have put to a far richer profit? Whether either or both were killed,
whether either or both came home untouched, his object would equally
be gained. Lady Bearwarden's fair fame would equally be dishonoured
before the world. He knew that world well, knew its tyrannical code,
its puzzling verdicts, its unaccountable clemency to the wolf, its
inflexible severity for the lamb, above all, its holy horror of a blot
that has been scored, of a sin, then only unpardonable, that has been
"found out."
Men love the women on whom they set their affections so differently.
For some--and these are great favourites with the sex--attachment
means the desire of a tiger for its prey. With others it is the
gratification a child finds in a toy. A small minority entertain the
superstition of a savage for his idol; a smaller yet offer the holy
homage of a true worshipper to his saint. A woman's heart pines for
unrivalled sovereignty--a woman's nature requires the strong hand of a
master to retain it in bondage. For this, as for every other earthly
state, there is no unalloyed happiness, no perfect enjoyment, no
complete repose. The gourd has its worm, the diamond its flaw, the
rose its earwigs, and
"The trail of the serpent is over them all."
So Tom Ryfe, taking time by the forelock, breakfasted at ten, wrote
several letters with considerable coolness and forethought, all
bearing on the event in contemplation, some providing for a week's
absence abroad, at least, smoked a cigar in Lord Bearwarden's bedroom,
who was not yet up, and towards noon turned out of Oxford Street to
fulfil his mission with Simon Perkins the painter.
His step was lighter, his whole appearance more elate, than usual. The
traces of recent illness and over-night's fatigue had disappeared.
He was above all foolish fancies of luck, presentiments, and such
superstitions--a man not easily acted on by extraneous circumstances
of good or evil, trusting chiefly in his own resources, and believing
very firmly in nothing but the multiplication table; yet to-day he
told himself he "felt like a winner"; to-day victory seemed in his
grasp, and he trod the pavement with the confident port of that pride
which the proverb warns us "goeth before a fall."
He rang the door-bell and was vaguely directed to proceed up-stairs by
the nondescript maid-servant who admitted him. The place was dark, the
day sultry, the steps numerous. Tom climbed them leisurely, hat in
hand, wondering why people couldn't live on the ground-floor, and not
a little absorbed in preparation of such a plausible tale as should
bring the contemplated interview to a warlike termination.
Turning imaginary periods with certain grandiloquent phrases
concerning delicacy of feeling and high sense of honour, he arrived at
the second landing, where he paused to take breath. Tom's illness had
no doubt weakened his condition, but the gasp with which he now opened
his mouth denoted excess of astonishment rather than deficiency of
wind.
Spinning deftly into its place, as if dropped from heaven with a
plumb-line, a wreath of artificial flowers landed lightly on his
temples, while a woman's laugh, soft and silvery, accompanied with its
pleasant music this unexpected coronation.
Tom looked up aghast, but he was not quick enough to catch sight of
more than the hem of a garment, the turn of an ankle. There was a
smothered exclamation, a "my gracious!" denoting extremity of dismay,
a rustle of skirts, the loud bang of a door, and all became still.
"Deuced odd," thought Tom, removing the wreath and wondering where
he should put it, before he made his entrance. "Queer sort of
people these! Painter a regular Don Giovanni, no doubt. So much the
better--all the more likely to go in for the fuss and _éclat_ of a
duel."
So Tom flung his garland aside and prepared to assume a lofty presence
with his hand on the painting-room door, while Nina, blushing to
the roots of her hair, barricaded herself carefully into a small
dressing-closet opening on the studio, in which retreat it was Simon's
habit to wash his hands and smarten himself up when he had done work
for the day.
Poor Nina! To use her own expression, she was "horrified." She expected
Dick Stanmore, and with a girlish playfulness sufficiently denoting the
terms on which they stood, had been lying in wait at the top of the
stairs, preparing to take a good shot, and drop the wreath, one of
Simon's faded properties, on that head which she now loved better than
all the world besides.
The staircase, I have said, was gloomy. Young gentlemen all brush
their hair the same way. The missile was out of her fingers ere a
horrid suspicion crossed her that she had made a mistake; and when Tom
looked up there was nothing for it but _sauve qui peut!_ After all,
one head, perhaps, also, one heart, is very like another; but Nina had
not yet mastered this, the first element of a rational philosophy, and
would have fled, if she could, to the ends of the earth.
In the meantime she took refuge in the little room off the studio,
blushing, palpitating, very much ashamed, though more than half
amused, but firmly resolved not to leave her hiding-place nor face the
visitor, devoutly hoping, at the same time, that he might not stay
long.
Simon was in the act of lifting his Fairy Queen into her usual
position. She had been dethroned the day before, while he worked at a
less congenial task. On his visitor's entrance he put her back with
her face to the wall.
Tom made an exceedingly stiff bow. "Mr. Perkins, I believe?"
"Mr. Ryfe?" replied Simon, in the same half-interrogative tone, with a
very stiff bow too.
"I am here on the part of Lord Bearwarden," said Tom. "And I have been
referred to you by Mr. Stanmore. You expected me, no doubt."
"I had a communication from Mr. Stanmore an hour ago to that effect,"
answered Simon, with a gravity the more profound that he had some
difficulty in repressing a smile. The painter was not without a sense
of humour, and this "communication," as he called it, lay crumpled up
in his waistcoat-pocket while he spoke. It ran thus--
"Dear Simon,--I have had a visit from a man named Ryfe that puzzles me
exceedingly. He comes from Lord Bearwarden, and they want to fasten
some sort of quarrel on me, but why, I cannot imagine. I was obliged
to refer him to you. Of course we'll fight if we must; but try and
make out what they are driving at, and which is the biggest fool of
the two. I think they're both mad! I shall be with you rather later
than usual. In the meantime I leave the whole thing in your hands.
I don't know Bearwarden well, but used to think him rather a good
fellow. The others an _awful_ snob!"
* * * * *
Now I feel that it would be unbecoming on my part to tax a young lady
with so mean an act as that of listening; nevertheless, each of the
gentlemen in the studio thought proper to speak in so loud and indeed
so pompous a voice that Miss Algernon could not avoid overhearing
them. It was surely natural, then, that when Mr. Stanmore's name was
brought into the colloquy she should have drawn nearer the door of
the partition, and--well--not _tried_ to avoid overhearing as much as
possible of their dialogue.
The action of the farce amused her at first. It was soon to become
interesting, exciting, terrible, even to the verge of tragedy.
"That makes my task easier," continued Mr. Ryfe. "He has explained, of
course, the tendency of my instructions, the object of my visit. It
only remains for us to fix time and place."
"He has explained _nothing_," answered the painter. "What is it you
complain of, and of what nature is the dispute between Lord Bearwarden
and my friend?"
Tom assumed an air of extreme candour, and opened his case artfully
enough; but, forgetting that every painter is necessarily a
physiognomist, omitted the precaution of turning his back to the
light.
"You are on intimate terms with Mr. Stanmore, I believe," said he.
"Yet in matters of so delicate a nature men of honour keep their own
counsel very closely. It is possible you may not be aware of much
in his daily life that you would disapprove--much that, under the
circumstances, though I am no rigid moralist, appears inexcusable even
to me."
How white that delicate face turned in the next room! How eagerly
those dark eyes seemed trying to pierce the blank panels of the door!
"I have known Mr. Stanmore several years," answered the painter. "I
have seen him almost every day of late. I can only say you must be
more explicit, Mr. Ryfe. I do not understand you yet."
"Do you mean to tell me you are ignorant of an entanglement, a
_liaison_, a most untoward and unfortunate attachment, existing
between Mr. Stanmore and a lady whose name I fear it will be
impossible to keep out of the discussion?"
A wild misgiving, not altogether painful, shot through the painter
while he thought of Nina; but, watching the speaker's face, as was his
wont, and detecting a disparity of expression between eyes and
mouth, he gathered that the man was trying to deceive him in some
particular--not speaking the whole truth.
Miss Algernon, who could only listen, trembled and turned sick at
heart.
"I think you must be misinformed, Mr. Ryfe," was Simon's reply.
The other smiled, as pitying such ignorance of social gossip and
worldly scandal.
"Misinformed!" he repeated. "A man is not usually misinformed
who trusts his own eyes. A husband cannot be called unreasonably
dissatisfied whose wife tells him distinctly she is going to one
place, and who sees her an hour after in company with the man he
suspects at another. It is no use beating about the bush. You
cannot ignore such outrages as these. I wish to spare everybody's
feelings--yours, mine, even the lady's, and, above all, my poor
friend's; but I must tell you, point-blank, that the intimacy which
I have reason to believe existed between Mr. Stanmore and Lady
Bearwarden has not been discontinued since her marriage; and I come
to you, as that gentleman's friend, on Lord. Bearwarden's behalf, to
demand the only reparation that can be made for such injuries from man
to man."
The painter opened his eyes, and Tom told himself he had made a good
speech, very much to the point. Neither gentleman heard a faint moan
in the next room, the cry of a gentle heart wounded to the quick.
"You mean they ought to fight," said Simon, still scrutinising the
expression of the other's face.
"Precisely," answered Tom. "We must go abroad, I fancy, for all our
sakes. Can you be ready to start tonight? Tidal train, you know--nice
weather for crossing--breakfast the other side--_demi-poulet_ and
bottle of moderate St. Julien--needn't stop long for that--Belgian
frontier by the middle of the day--no sort of difficulty when once
you're across the water. Shall I say to-morrow afternoon, somewhere
in the neighbourhood of Mouscron? We can all go together, for that
matter, and arrange the exact spot in ten minutes."
Tom spoke as if they were planning a picnic, with nothing whatever to
dread but the chance of rain.
"Stop a moment," said the painter. "Not quite so fast, if you please.
This is a matter of life and death. We can't settle it in five
minutes, and as many words. You call yourself a man of the world, Mr.
Ryfe, and, doubtless, have some familiarity with affairs of this kind,
either from experience or hearsay. Do you seriously believe I am going
to put my friend up as a target for yours to shoot at without some
more definite information, some fuller explanation than you seem
inclined to give? Lady Bearwarden has not left her home. My friend
has been here every day of late with the utmost regularity. It seems
impossible that Lord Bearwarden's suspicions can be well grounded.
There must be some mistake; some misconception. Over-haste in a matter
like this would be irrevocable, and ruinous to everybody concerned."
Nina was listening with all her might. Every word of Tom's answer sunk
into her heart.
"My friend has left _his_ home," said he, in a voice of assumed
feeling. "I was at luncheon with them just before the disclosure
took place. A happier couple you never saw. Lately married--new
furniture--wedding-presents all over the place--delightful house,
overlooking the Park. This paradise is now completely broken up.
I confess I feel strongly on the subject. I know his lordship
intimately. I can appreciate his good qualities. I have also the
honour of Lady Bearwarden's acquaintance. The whole affair is
extremely painful even to me, but I have a duty to perform, and I must
go through with it. Mr. Perkins, we are wasting time, let us come to
the main point at once."
Simon pondered for a minute, during which he made another narrow
scrutiny of Tom Ryfe's face. Then he said, in the tone of a man who
comes to a final decision, "I suppose you are right. I fear there is
but one way out of it."
It did not escape the painter that, notwithstanding his obvious
self-command, the other's countenance brightened far more than was
natural at this admission. A duel in these days is a very serious
matter to every one concerned, and why should this man seem so truly
rejoiced at the progress of an affair that might put his own neck in
danger of a halter?
Simon's natural shrewdness, of which, in common with many other
simple-minded persons, he possessed a considerable share, warned him
there was something more here than appeared at first sight--some
mystery of which time alone was likely to afford the elucidation. Time
he resolved accordingly to gain, and that without putting the other on
his guard.
"But one way out of it," he repeated gravely. "I wish indeed it could
be arranged otherwise. Still this is a serious matter--quite out of my
usual line--I cannot undertake anything decided without advice, nor
entirely on my own responsibility. My intention is to consult with a
friend, an old military man. You shall have my definite answer in a
day or two at farthest."
Again watching Mr. Ryfe's face, Simon observed it cloud with
dissatisfaction, and his suspicions were confirmed. This fire-eater
was evidently only anxious to hurry on the duel with unseemly haste,
and make the principals fight at all risks.
"We object to delay," he exclaimed, "we object to publicity. The thing
is plain enough as it stands. You will only complicate it by bringing
others into council, and in such a case, surely, the fewer people
aware of our intentions the better."
"I cannot help that," answered the painter, in a tone of decision. "My
mind is made up, and I see my way clearly enough. You shall have our
answer within forty-eight hours at farthest. I repeat, this is a
matter in which I will not move an inch without the utmost certainty."
Tom began to lose his temper. "Your scruples will bring about a
flagrant scandal," he exclaimed. "Lord Bearwarden is determined not to
be cheated out of his redress. I know his intentions, and I know his
character. There will be a personal collision, to the disgrace of
every one concerned!"
"Then I shall recommend Stanmore to walk about With a thick stick,"
answered Simon coolly. "I often carry one myself, Mr. Ryfe," he added
in a tone of marked significance, "and should not scruple to use it on
occasion to the best of my abilities."
The painter, though a small, slight man, was utterly fearless.
Looking Tom Ryfe straight in the eyes while he made this suggestive
observation, the latter felt that nothing was to be gained by
bullying, and the game was lost.
"I am surprised," he replied loftily, but with a ceremonious bow, as
reminding the other that his character of ambassador was sacred. "I am
disappointed. I wash my hands of the disagreeable results likely
to arise from this unfortunate delay. I wish you good-morning, Mr.
Perkins. I leave you my address, and I trust you will lose no time in
making me acquainted with the result of your deliberations."
So Tom walked down-stairs with great dignity, though he smothered more
than one bitter curse the while, passing without so much as a glance
the rejected garland, lying where he had thrown it aside before he
entered on his unsuccessful mission.
Had he been a little less stately in manner, a little more rapid of
movement, he might have overtaken the very lady of whom he obtained a
glimpse during his ascent. Nina Algernon was but a few paces ahead of
him, scouring along at a speed only accomplished by those who feel
that goad in the heart which stimulates exertion, far more effectually
than the "spur in the head," proverbially supposed to be worth "two in
the heels.'" Nina had overheard enough from her hiding-place to make
her angry, unhappy, and anxious in the highest degree. Angry, first
of all, with herself and him, to think that she could have set her
affections on one who was untrue; unhappy, to feel she still cared for
him so much; anxious to gather from the cold-blooded courtesies of the
odious Mr. Ryfe that a life so dear to her was in danger, that
perhaps she might never see Dick Stanmore again. With this ghastly
consideration, surged up fuller than ever the tide of love that had
been momentarily obstructed, forcing her into action, and compelling
her to take immediate steps for ascertaining his perfidy, while, at
the same time, she warded off from him the penalties it entailed.
"He'll know I love him then," thought poor Nina. "But I'll never see
him, nor speak to him, again--never--never! How _could_ he? I wonder
why men are so bad!"
To this end, acting on an impulse as unreasonable as it was
essentially feminine, she resolved to seek Lady Bearwarden without
delay, and throwing herself on the mercy of that formidable rival,
implore advice and assistance for the safety of the man they both
loved.
So she fled down-stairs, and was out of the house like a lapwing, just
as Tom Ryfe's warlike colloquy with the painter came to a close.
Simon, missing her, after he had taken leave of his visitor, was not
therefore disturbed nor alarmed by her absence. He accounted for it
on the very natural supposition that she had met Dick Stanmore at
the door, and pressed him into her service to act as convoy in some
shopping expedition, before she sat down to her daily duty as a model
for the Fairy Queen, now completed, all but a few folds of drapery,
and a turn of the white hand.
Till she came back, however, the great work must remain at a
standstill, and Simon had leisure to reflect on his late conversation
with Mr. Ryfe, which astonished and perplexed him exceedingly.
Neither his astonishment, nor his perplexity, were decreased, to
learn, on Dick's arrival, that he had no knowledge of Miss Algernon's
movements--had not met her--had not seen her since yesterday,
certainly expected to find her here, and was to the full as anxious
and uncomfortable as the painter himself.
"This other business will keep cold," said Dick, in a great heat and
fuss. "I don't care whether it will or not. It _must_! But we can't
have Miss Algernon wandering about London by herself. We can't, at
least _I_ can't, be easy a moment till I know what has become of her.
You stay here, Simon, in case she should come back. After all, she may
be shopping in the next street. I'll rush down to Putney at once, and
find out if she's gone home. Don't be afraid. I won't alarm the old
ladies. If she's not there I'll be back immediately. If she comes in
while I'm gone, wait for me, or leave a line. Old man, if anything
goes wrong with that darling, I--I've nothing left to live for in the
world!"
Even while he spoke, he was on the stairs, and Simon, left in the
painting-room, shook his head, and pondered.
"They'll never make me believe that cock-and-bull story about Lady
Bearwarden. Ah, Nina! I begin to think this man loves you almost as
well as I could have done!"