WAITING
From Belgrave Square the walk to and from St. Cyprian's ordinarily
takes about fifteen minutes. Allowing, say, another ten on account
of the snowy weather, and it will be seen that the valet should
have returned with George after the lapse of twenty-five minutes.
Twenty-five minutes passed, however, thirty, thirty-five, and yet
George and the valet failed to put in an appearance--a circumstance
that caused the guests to look at each other in wonder.
"What can detain them?" muttered my uncle. "If George is at the church,
why does he not come here? and if he has not yet arrived, why doesn't
Hall hurry back and tell us so, instead of keeping us in this suspense?
Confound the fellow!" he added; "I could have gone and come twice over
in the time that he has taken."
He walked to the window and looked out. The snow was still falling.
So thick and heavy were the whirling flakes that the air was quite
darkened by them. Still the bridegroom came not. The conversation
languished, the guests yawned, and Daphne's face assumed an anxious
look.
"It doesn't matter about going to the church to-day," she said in a
trembling voice, in answer to a question from a friend, "if I only have
George here safe and well. I do wish he would come!" she said, her lip
quivering. "Something must have happened to him."
"No, no, little woman, you mustn't get that idea into your head," her
father said hastily. "His friends in that case would have----"
At last!
There was a ringing of the door-bell, a rush of feet to the hall, and
twenty voices exclaimed:
"Here they are!"
The plural pronoun, however, was not justified by the event, for, on
opening the door, only one person was visible, and that was my uncle's
valet.
"Why, what! How's this? Where's the Captain?" exclaimed my uncle.
"Speak low," he added, pointing to the drawing-room, as a sign he did
not wish Daphne to hear.
"Captain Willard is not at the church, sir," whispered the man.
"Not--at--the--church?" repeated my uncle, pausing with astonishment
between each word.
"No, sir. At least he hadn't arrived by the time I left. I have been
waiting for him, and that's what has made me so long."
"What time did you leave the church?"
"Quarter past ten."
"And he was to have been there at half past nine!" cried my uncle.
"The Vicar wishes to know what you are going to do," said the valet.
"Is he or his curate to come and perform the ceremony here?"
"That's a question that cannot be settled without George," replied
my uncle. "Of course he's only being delayed through the snow. It's
extremely awkward. What _are_ we to do?"
He paused a moment to reflect, and then said:
"Go to the church again. If the Captain is not there tell the verger
to send him on here as soon as he arrives; and ask the Vicar or his
assistant to step over here. Then hasten at once to the _Métropole_,
and _see whether_--whether any accident has happened to my nephew.
Hurry!"
We returned to the drawing-room and explained matters to Daphne, my
uncle striving to put the best complexion he could upon the case.
"It's only the stress of weather that's delaying him," he remarked.
"George very likely spent last night with a friend--a brother officer,
probably--who lives in the suburbs. The cab ordered to convey him this
morning is unable to proceed, and so he's obliged to tramp on foot
through twenty-five inches of snow. No wonder he's late, then. There's
nothing to be alarmed at, little woman."
I leave the reader to imagine my state of excitement. Could it be that
George was actually deserting Daphne? Was Fate after all reserving her
for me?--a thought that caused my blood to course like a swift fire
through vein and artery. I turned my flushed face to the bride. Poor
Daphne! She sat there, silent and pale, with her hand clasping that of
an aged lady-friend who was trying to assure her that there was nothing
to be alarmed at. My selfish heart was touched by the sad picture. Had
the time come for me to give an account of my meeting with George at
Dover? Not yet. I resolved to await the return of the valet first.
Dark, and ever darker grew the gloom outside. It was impossible to
keep up a pretence of conversation. Silence fell over us all, and
soon nothing was to be heard but the sound of the embers glowing and
crackling in the grate, and the painful ticking of the clock on the
mantelshelf. The waxen tapers in the chandeliers twinkled gaily to
their reflections in the mirrors, as if they enjoyed the victory they
were gaining over the daylight without. And still the bridegroom came
not.
Presently there was another furious ring of the bell at the hall door,
and again there was a rush of feet and a score of voices exclaiming
"Here they are!"
"Who is it?" said Daphne, trembling like a leaf.
"I think," replied I, "that I can hear them saying a name that sounds
very like Chunda."
"Chunda? That's George's native servant. Ask him to come here, Frank."
The visitor, having shaken the snow from his garments, was
conducted--almost pushed--into the drawing-room, and turned out to be a
dusky Hindoo in English garb. He was followed by my uncle's valet, who
had met him on the way.
"Chunda," said Daphne, addressing the Hindoo, "where is Captain
Willard?"
"I do not know, Miss Daphne," returned he, in a tone in which surprise
and perplexity were blended. "Is he not here? He has been absent from
the hotel all night."
"Absent from the hotel all night?"
"Yes, Miss Daphne. He left the _Métropole_ about seven o'clock last
night, saying he was going to spend the evening in Belgrave Square, and
would be back about eleven. He never came back."
"Then he must be at Sydenham," said Daphne.
"So I thought," continued the Hindoo; "and as he had told me that he
had some orders which he particularly wished me to attend to before
the wedding took place, I set off for Sydenham, and waked up the
housekeeper. But the Captain wasn't there, she said. I walked back to
London--cold work it was, too, through the snow. But the Captain was
not at the hotel when I got there; and had not been in while I was
there, the hall-porter said. I found his bed untouched. I waited some
time, and then, thinking there must be something wrong, I came here."
The artist now stepped forward into the circle which had been gradually
forming around the Hindoo.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I must make a statement now that I would
have made before but for the fear of agitating Miss Leslie; it is this:
Last night, about twelve o'clock, happening to be at Charing Cross
Station, I saw Captain Willard take the express for Dover. Before
I could get near enough to speak with him the train was off. I was
surprised to see him taking such a journey only a few hours before
his intended wedding. 'But perhaps,' I thought, 'he has some urgent
business to do at Dover connected with the marriage, and will return by
an early train.'"
"It is true," I said in a voice too low to reach Daphne's ear. "As I
was landing from the packet-boat this morning I saw George on the pier
at Dover, but not to speak to. He avoided me--fled from me, in fact."
My wondering uncle gazed at Angelo and myself, as if not quite
comprehending the import of our words.
"Do you mean to say that George has deserted her?" he gasped. "I will
not believe it."
Once more the hall-bell rang, causing an additional wave of excitement
to pass over the company. Alas! it was not George who rang, but that
bearer of joy and sorrow, the postman, with a letter directed to "Miss
D. Leslie."
"It is George's handwriting," said Daphne. "Read it for me, papa."
My uncle took the letter, and turned it over as suspiciously as
Cardinal de Medici may have done with an epistle from Pope Borgia in
the old Italian days when clerical dignitaries enlivened the monotony
of their ecclesiastical duties by taking off their enemies with poison
concealed in a glove, a flower, or a letter. At length, breaking the
seal amid a deep silence, he proceeded to unfold the letter, and as he
mastered its contents his face darkened.
"What does George say?" asked Daphne, with her hand pressed to her
beating heart.
"He says," replied her father, not wishing to let the whole truth burst
on her at once, "that he regrets having to defer his wedding for a few
days, but as soon as----"
"That's not it! You are deceiving me, papa! Give me the letter. I will
have it--it is mine!"
With difficulty she rose to her feet, trembling all over, and before
my uncle could prevent her she had snatched the letter from him, and,
oblivious of the company, read out each word aloud:
"DEAREST DAPHNE--Break not your heart over what is as
sad to me as you. That has occurred which compels me to leave you
forever. What the terrible circumstance is that forces me to this
step I dare not say. It has occurred only within the past hour. I
can never hope to look upon your face again. We must part forever.
By the time you receive this I shall be crossing the Channel. Do
not seek for me: you will never find me. In some secluded part of
Europe I shall live out my days a lonely recluse. Try to believe
that this is all for the best, and forget that there ever lived
such a one as
"GEORGE WILLARD."
Daphne would have fallen to the floor if some one had not caught her in
his arms. She lay cradled within the artist's embrace, her fair face
resting on his breast, and his arms wound round her slender figure.
Brief as was this embrace, it was nevertheless of sufficient duration
to make me hate him--for a time, at least.
Tenderly he laid the figure of my cousin on an ottoman. The ladies of
the assembly crowded round, and applied such remedies as were at hand
to restore her from her swoon. Angelo stood by the couch with folded
arms, gazing at the prostrate form with a wistful look.
"Beautiful! What a model for an artist!" he murmured.
He must have had a strange taste in the selection of his subjects if
he could have found pleasure in painting Daphne as she was just then.
Her face had parted with its bright, fresh beauty, and had assumed the
sharp and careworn look of age. Her bridal dress seemed almost to have
lost its sheen: the white flowers in her hair to have become emblems of
death.
Presently the artist raised his eyes with a light as of triumph in
them; they met mine, and for a few seconds we stood looking at each
other; and then I learned that some one besides myself had been wishing
that George would never return. At length Daphne opened her eyes and
spoke:
"It can't be true, it can't be true! George would never treat me like
this. Oh, what shall I do?" and at last she broke down in a passion of
tears, terrible to witness, and we men, conscious of our impotence in
face of such overwhelming grief, stole from the room and left her to
the women.
Much as the guests would have liked to relieve my uncle of the
embarrassment of their presence in these unforeseen circumstances of
sorrow, they were prevented from doing so by the storm, which, having
raged for many hours, rendered locomotion out of doors extremely
difficult. My uncle made no excuses for his withdrawal from the
company, and as soon as I could do so, I too followed him to his
library, where I found him sitting with Angelo Vasari.
"I suppose," the latter was saying, "that Captain Willard is not very
well known in Paris or London?"
A curious question this! What could it possibly matter to the artist
whether George was or was not well known in Paris or London? Yet here
he was putting the question with a similar show of eagerness as when
asking me to study the twelve facial sketches.
"I doubt," replied my uncle, "whether there are six people in Europe
who know him--know him intimately, that is. As a young man he graduated
at Upsala----"
"In Sweden, you know," I interjected, for the enlightenment of the
artist, who seemed to resent this attempt of mine to teach him
geography.
"And then," continued my uncle, "after a brief interval in England
he sailed for India, where he has been ever since till the last two
months."
"And it was during that brief interval in England, I suppose," said
Angelo, "that he became engaged to Miss Leslie?"
"Just so."
"And Captain Willard did not return to England, you say, till the
preparations for his marriage brought him over?"
"You have it. Daphne and I took a voyage to India last winter, and
spent several weeks with George at Poonah; and a very happy time we had
of it, too. None could ever have guessed that their engagement would
come to such an ending as this."
"_Ah!_"
My uncle's replies seemed to have given great satisfaction to the
artist.
"You are quite a prophet," I said to the latter. "Your wedding gift,
the picture, seems like a prediction of what happened to-day. Were you
prepared for the event?"
"To a certain extent--yes," replied Angelo.
"Had you any reason for your belief other than George's strange
appearance at Charing Cross last night?"
"Well, a day or two after I was introduced to Captain Willard, I
congratulated him on his approaching marriage. His face changed at once
from gay to grave. 'Don't allude to it,' he said; 'it may, perhaps,
never take place.' I thought this strange language from one who had
come all the way from India to be married, and asked him to explain
himself, but he was silent. Since then, on one or two occasions when I
have alluded to the wedding he would become melancholy in an instant;
and I began to surmise that all was not right."
"Your surmises were only too well founded," I said.
And I began to tell the story of my night adventure. For a long time
we sat discussing the affair, and devising all kinds of theories to
account for George's flight.
"I can't understand it at all," said my perplexed uncle. "There was
nothing strange or unusual in his manner last night when he left us. He
talked in the most natural way of the wedding--said he would be at the
church by 9:30 prompt. And yet he must have written that letter soon
after he parted from us, for he left here about ten o'clock, and it is
dated, you see, just an hour later."
"And he must have posted it before midnight, too," said Angelo, "or it
would not have arrived here by the morning post. Strange things must
have happened in those two hours to change the current of his life."
Shortly afterwards he rose, saying with a smile, "Art is long, and time
is fleeting."
"Il Divino cannot leave his easel, you see," remarked my uncle, after
the departure of the artist, "not even for one day."
"Il Divino? Who's he?" I returned stupidly.
"Angelo, to be sure."
"Is that his _nom--de--de_--brush?" I couldn't think of the French
word, so I used the English one instead.
"It's a nickname his enemies have given him by antiphrasis, because
he's so unlike Raphael."
"Can't leave his easel," I said, repeating my uncle's words. "Do you
mean to say he is going to work on a gloomy day like this? Why, he
won't be able to see, let alone paint."
"_Nulla dies sine lineâ_, you know. He lives in his studio, and can
hardly be persuaded to leave it. It's a marvel he remained here so long
this morning. He's dying to make a name."
"Do you think he will?"
"Can't say, I'm sure. It will not be for want of toil and study if he
doesn't. He is occupied now on a great work which he fondly hopes will
reverse the previous judgment of art-critics respecting his abilities."
"What is this great work?"
"'The Fall of Cæsar' I think he calls it, or 'The Triumph of Cæsar,'
or--or something of the sort. I know it's a classical subject."
And after this we relapsed into silence.
I shall never forget the melancholy and gloom of that day as we sat,
my uncle and I, in the darkening room, each occupied with his own
thoughts. The non-return of my brother did not afford me the happiness
I had expected, for it was counterbalanced by Daphne's exquisite grief,
which was a source of real pain to me. Having wished so earnestly
that the marriage might not come off, I felt as if I were in some way
responsible for my brother's non-appearance.
Next day I took an early train for Dover, with the intention of calling
at the strange house, and of questioning its silver-haired occupant,
who, I was now inclined to believe, knew more of the mystery than he
had cared to reveal. Not till I had reached the Kentish sea-town was it
suddenly forced upon me that in my haste and excitement I had forgotten
to note the name of the street in which the strange house was situated;
nor did I even know which way to turn on leaving the station.
The cranial development known to phrenologists as the bump of locality
is not my strong point. For several hours I walked the streets of the
town, knocking at the door now of this house and now of that, vainly
believing that at last I had discovered what I sought. I lived at the
hotel a week, and spent a considerable portion of each day in the
streets, and on the pier and cliffs, thinking I might meet the old man
taking his walks abroad; but all my endeavors to discover him were
attended with failure. The silver-haired old man, the mysterious house,
the veiled lady, my brother George--all were gone, and seemed now to
have had no more reality than the shadows of a dream. Once they were,
now they are not.
I will not weary the reader with an account of the investigations
carried on for many weeks by my uncle and myself. It will be sufficient
to say that our endeavors to discover the cause of George's flight and
to trace his whereabouts were fruitless.
"Heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
Daphne's morning, however, was a long time in coming and my uncle
proposed to hasten its advent by foreign travel.
"A Continental tour will do her good," he remarked to me. "We will
visit France, Spain, Italy. The glitter of foreign cities will perhaps
help to remove her grief. You must come with us, Frank; we shall need
you. A young fellow like you will be able to enliven and interest her
more than any lady companion could do--certainly more than her old
father, who is often prosy and dull, I fear. Being her cousin, you can
talk to her with a freedom and an ease that in any other young man
would be familiarity. And for heaven's sake try to make her forget her
grief. Her sad face and thin wasted figure cut me to the heart. You do
not mind giving up Heidelberg for a time?"
It would require no great sacrifice on the part of any young man to
leave the cloisters of a university in order to escort a beautiful
girl through Europe, so I gladly assented to my uncle's proposition,
resolving, for my own sake, to try to make Daphne forget her grief.
She yielded a willing acquiescence to the project of a Continental
tour. Poor girl! She was in so dull and passive a state of mind that
if we had proposed a voyage of discovery to the North Pole she would
have offered no objection. So, late in March, we left England, and by
the end of the summer had signed our names in half the hotel books of
Europe.