Aylmer saw Peyton a few days later, but very little was said on the
subject of the Quentins. Aylmer had resolved, after very little
reflection, that he would go down to Sherehaven, which was only a
short distance from London. Hardly big enough to be called a town,
just a straggling sort of place full of rather picturesque cottages,
with a few fair-sized houses interspersed, and a long, narrow street
that led down to the shore. He had been there once before, on a motor
tour, and had halted to take tea at the King’s Head, an old-fashioned
hostelry dating back to the fifteenth century, half inn, half hotel.
There could be no confidence, of course, between the two men on the
subject of Eileen, owing to the solemn promise to respect her
confidence which Aylmer had given her. Without doubt Peyton suspected
his feelings for her, and regarded the whole affair with the deepest
disapproval. To a clean-minded fellow like himself, the idea of an
understanding with a married woman was abhorrent, as it would have
been to Aylmer himself.
He could not resist the idea of going down to Sherehaven, although he
felt that the visit would not help him very much. But the urge to see
the house, where his sweetheart so successfully had hidden herself
from him, was irresistible. It could not fail to be with any lover as
steadfast and devoted as he was.
It just might be possible that the Quentins were still there, that the
statement that he was moving on the following day was only a piece of
camouflage, that for some reason or another he did not want anybody to
come down to the place, and had forestalled Whitefield’s intention of
doing so, if the idea had occurred to the American of making an
unannounced visit. But, somehow, Aylmer fancied that Quentin had told
the truth.
Supposing, however, that the Quentins were still in residence at
Rosebank, which he would find out in five minutes’ conversation with
somebody at the King’s Head, how would he act? Would he go boldly to
the house and ask for them, or would he not?
As he got into the train, he did not feel himself able to give a
definite answer to that question. To beard Quentin, to tell him that
he knew the truth, and to tax him with separating Eileen and himself
from his own selfish motives, was an unusually drastic proceeding
which would require a considerable amount of moral courage, more
especially in face of the fact that Eileen herself had acquiesced in
the cruel decision, and besought him never to seek her out.
Well, he could not decide now. He would wait till he got to Sherehaven
itself, and shape his action according to the information he obtained
there. There was a middle course that could be taken. It was a small
place, little more than a big village. If the Quentins were still
there he only had to put up for a night or two at the King’s Head;
and, in the course of his stay, he would be sure to come upon Eileen
alone. She was an open-air sort of woman, she would not shut herself
up in the house for long, and in such a limited area there was not
much chance of their missing each other.
When he got out at the somewhat primitive station and walked down to
the King’s Head, a distance of about three-quarters of a mile, he
found certain changes, from his recollection of the place some three
years ago. The speculative builder had made his appearance on the
scene. Close to the railway station itself, a few roads of modest,
semi-detached houses had come into being, with a small accompanying
colony of shops.
Between here and the beginning of the long, narrow street which led to
the sea, he came upon further signs of building enterprise. It was
evident there was the beginning of a slight boom in the somewhat
sleepy locality. Sherehaven certainly possessed a fine and
invigorating air, and no doubt, as the place grew in favor, the train
service, which was now bad and infrequent, would be improved.
In the high street itself, if it could be called by such an important
name, there were further signs of development, which, to Aylmer’s
rather fastidious taste, did not make for improvement, from either an
architectural or picturesque point of view. There were only a couple
of houses of any pretension in the street--one large and
old-fashioned, standing in a fair-sized garden and having a goodly
portion of land at the back, enclosed by a fairly high wall; the other
a residence of slightly smaller kind with a big forecourt. These were
inhabited, respectively, by a retired solicitor and the local doctor,
and remained untouched by time.
But a great change had taken place in some half a dozen of the small
shops which had been so delightfully in keeping with the old-fashioned
atmosphere of the little coast town. In these the iconoclast had
worked his sacrilegious will. New stories had been added,
new-fashioned kinds of windows had been thrown out, woefully out of
keeping with the old-world surroundings.
The King’s Head itself had fallen a victim to the mania for
development under a new proprietor. A large dining room, which was
very tastefully decorated, had been built out at the back, and the
rather wide hall had been converted into a good-sized lounge by the
taking in of a small room. Aylmer distinctly remembered the former
proprietor, a taciturn and lethargic man, who was quite civil in his
slow way, but not the person to attract custom by any qualities of
good fellowship.
The present Boniface was of a totally different stamp, alert,
obliging, radiating geniality. Aylmer had brought a suitcase with him,
as he intended to pass at least one night in the place, if not more.
The landlord promised him a most comfortable bed and handed him the
refreshment he asked for.
“Some changes have taken place since I was last here, some three years
ago,” remarked the young man as he sipped his drink. “Sherehaven looks
as if it were booming.”
The genial proprietor smiled. “Well, sir, there is a mild sort of
boom. We should go along much faster if we could get a decent train
service. But railway companies are so slow, they won’t do anything to
help us. Still, the place is looking up. I took the King’s Head a
couple of years ago, and in that time I have nearly doubled the trade.
But, mind you, I’ve had to spend a lot of money to do it. That new
dining room and this lounge have cost me a pretty penny. But it has
paid. Most people who come once, come again.”
“The last proprietor was a bit old-fashioned, I should say.”
“More than that, sir, he was terribly slow and conservative. What was
good enough for his father was good enough for him. One of that type,
you know. You want a different kind nowadays to make and keep a
business.”
Aylmer agreed, and there was more talk about Sherehaven, its wants and
its possibilities. Its one great recommendation was its splendid air.
No amusements of any kind, not the place for gay people. You must go
to the big coast towns if you wanted that sort of thing. But an ideal
spot for persons who were a bit run down and wanted rest.
Presently Aylmer inquired if there were any decent lodgings to be had
in the neighborhood. He invented a neat little story of an elderly
relative who was a bit run down and required a quiet place of the
Sherehaven type where she could recuperate. The bustle and noise of an
hotel would be too much for her; she would prefer comfortable lodgings
with a respectable landlady who could cook suitably for an invalid.
Did the landlord know of such? By this harmless subterfuge, he hoped
to learn something about Rosebank.
The landlord, who rejoiced in the prosaic name of Smith, was naturally
a mine of information, knowing pretty nearly everything about
everybody in the small township of Sherehaven. He rattled off half a
dozen addresses.
“Of course, here, as in other places, there is accommodation to suit
all purses,” he explained in his genial way. “It can be done very
cheap amongst the fisherfolk and their like. Your friend would not
want anything of that sort; she would like a place fit for
gentlefolks.”
Having paid this tribute to his new customer’s obvious station in
life, he proceeded to explain further. “Any one of these places I can
recommend--cleanliness, attention, and plain cooking. But for
something a little bit better, of a higher quality altogether, I
should suggest Mrs. Robinson, of Rosebank, one of the few houses on
the front, facing the sea.”
Aylmer pricked up his ears. It made things easier that this
pleasant-mannered landlord had come to Rosebank without any prompting.
“Mrs. Robinson is a widow, was cook for many years in a noble family,
by whom she was allowed a liberal pension. So, she has something to
fall back upon, when the times are a bit lean, as they often are in
these seasonal places. Still, she is a very thrifty, managing woman
and she has done well, never had to ask a favor of anybody. Just the
sort of place, I should say, to suit your invalid relative. The house
is never full; she rarely takes more than one set of lodgers at the
time. And, at the moment, she is empty; she had a married couple for
several weeks. They left five or six days ago.”
So Quentin had told the truth in his letter to the American; he had
been on the point of leaving Sherehaven. Aylmer looked at his watch.
A quarter to six, he would not dine till half-past seven. There were
no other visitors staying at the King’s Head, so Mr. Smith had
suggested to him a nice little dinner, a fried sole, and lamb cutlets,
done in egg and bread-crumb in the good old-fashioned English way,
followed by an apple tart. Aylmer agreed; he did not despise the art
of the foreign chef, with his daintiness and his cunning sauces, but
the good plain fare was an agreeable change.
Presently he bade his pleasant landlord a temporary farewell,
announcing his intention of interviewing the worthy Mrs. Robinson and
filling up the time to dinner by renewing his acquaintance with the
beauties of Sherehaven.
It was not difficult to find Rosebank, the very diminutive parade
being limited in extent. There was a small crescent of some twenty
houses, half of which bore cards in the windows intimating that
lodgings were to be let. The other half, presumably, were tenanted by
private persons. At the west end, several yards from the crescent, was
a staring block of unfinished buildings, gaunt and windowless,
evidently the unsuccessful venture of a much too optimistic
speculative builder who had appeared on the scene before Sherehaven
was ready for him.
To the east of the rather picturesque crescent, he found Rosebank, a
pretty little house of two stories, overhung with luxuriant creepers,
its name painted in bold white letters on the green gate. There was an
air of cleanliness and neatness about the place which was decidedly
attractive. The door was in the center, and there were flower boxes in
the windows, on each side. The landlady was evidently a person of
refinement.
Still, pretty and picturesque as it was, it was hardly the place that
the luxury-loving Quentin would have chosen to spend weeks in.
Quentin, who had stayed in the most luxurious hotels in Europe, whose
roomy house at Hampstead was all that the most refined taste could
make it. What had driven a man of his cosmopolitan tastes here? Was
there an imperative necessity to hide himself for a while, or had he
sought Sherehaven simply in order that he might practise retrenchment
till such time as he found himself again in funds?
Mrs. Robinson opened the door in person, but Aylmer had a vision of a
white-capped maid standing in the rear. Obviously, the woman did not
belong to the impecunious order of landladies.
The young man explained the reason of his visit, telling her the same
tale about an invalid relative that he had told to the landlord of the
King’s Head. “Mr. Smith spoke of you in the highest terms, and told me
he knew that, at the moment, you were vacant,” he said in conclusion.
Mrs. Robinson showed him the rooms, very cozy, very clean, but also
very small. She told him that she occasionally let another bedroom, if
there was a very great demand for accommodation, but as a rule she
took only one set of lodgers, reserving the other apartments for her
own use. No doubt, the liberal pension from the noble family enabled
her to jog along in her quiet, thrifty way, without having to fill her
house as full of people as it could hold.
The inspection was over, and Aylmer descended into the tiny little
sitting room. Again he found himself wondering how the Quentins could
have endured even a brief sojourn in such cramped apartments.
His object, of course, was to get her to talk about her previous
lodgers. “I suppose you don’t have many people at this time of the
year? Your business is just confined to the few summer months?” he
remarked.
He had seen at once that she was a genial, talkative sort of woman.
There was no difficulty in engaging her in conversation.
“That is mostly the case, sir, but this year I have been very
fortunate. I had a dear old lady staying with me for some time. And
then, a few weeks ago, when I was thinking it was hardly worth while
keeping the bill in the window, a very delightful couple came along, a
Mr. and Mrs. Quentin.”
She was fairly started now, a very little encouragement would keep her
going. “I have met a Mr. and Mrs. Quentin abroad. I wonder if they are
the same? Would you mind describing them to me?” said Aylmer.
She did so, at once. “Mr. Quentin was a dark man, very quiet and
rather reserved, I should say about forty years of age, or perhaps a
little over. The wife was a beautiful young woman, little more than a
girl. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.”
Aylmer drew a deep breath. “Ah! they were not a very happy couple, in
your opinion?”
“How could they be, sir, when there was such a disparity in age
between them--she a mere girl, and he a middle-aged man, and so quiet
and grave? Take my word for it, May and December ought never to mate.”
“Hardly December in his case, was it? You could scarcely describe a
man in the forties as in his Autumn much less his Winter,” said
Aylmer, suddenly conscious of his own ten years’ seniority.
“Well, perhaps you couldn’t, sir,” replied the garrulous landlady.
“But, to my thinking, it’s wrong. Youth should go to youth, not to
middle age. There was always a sad, dissatisfied look on her pretty
face all the time she was here. Many a time have I gone into her room
of a morning--she always had her breakfast in bed--and seen her eyes
swollen with crying. She slept over here; Mr. Quentin’s bedroom was on
the other side of the passage.”
“Did they quarrel at all?”
“No, I am quite sure they did not; they could not have kept it from me
in a small place like this where you can hear every sound. To do him
justice, I must say he seemed most attentive and considerate towards
her, rather gave me the impression that he was trying his best to make
up to her for the injury he had done her by persuading her to such a
marriage. But he could never chase that sad look away.”
“How did they amuse themselves while they were here? Sherehaven
doesn’t appear to me to be a very gay place.”
Mrs. Robinson smiled. “It’s never that, sir, in the height of the
season, and out of it, it is as dull as ditch water. Well, they got
through the time somehow. Mr. Quentin stopped in the house a great
deal, reading, and writing long letters which he always took to the
post himself; I think that was really the only exercise he got. She
used to take long walks in the morning and afternoon; one of her
favorite excursions was to Ockham Glen, about a mile and a half from
here, a very pretty and romantic spot. But I have often seen her come
back looking more unhappy than when she went out. She had such a
sweet, charming way with her, you couldn’t help getting fond of her.
But you have met her, you say?”
“Yes, abroad. I stayed in the same hotel with them for some little
time,” was Aylmer’s reply. “I did not notice any signs of depression
about her then. She seemed to be in good spirits and ready to take her
share in any gaiety that was going forward.”
Mrs. Robinson reflected a few seconds before she spoke again. “It may
be that the quiet life here made her melancholy. There was another
thing, although perhaps I ought not to mention it. Mr. Quentin was a
good lover of the pleasures of the table; he spent a lot of money on
food. Well, there’s no harm in that, but he was also a heavy drinker.
In the daytime, the whisky decanter was never far from his elbow, and
at dinner he used to consume a great deal of wine. Considering the
quantity he got through, he carried it fairly well; but there was
hardly a night that he did not get pretty mellow. When he was like
that, he grew jocular and not a little foolish. Many a time when the
maid was out and I have been into the room to clear the things, I have
seen him in that condition. I think this weakness of his disgusted
her, and that in those moods she hated and despised him.”
Aylmer had heard as much as he wanted, and he thought it time to bring
the interview to a close. It was clear that Eileen was very miserable,
and, no doubt, on his account. She had not been sad at Ostend. Her
altered demeanor must be due to what had happened since.
He felt he had gained the kindly woman’s confidences under false
pretenses with that story of an invalid relative. He must make her
some amends.
“Well, Mrs. Robinson, about these rooms. They are just the sort of
thing that would suit me under similar circumstances; but, as you
know, ladies have a knack of suddenly altering their plans. I think
the best thing for me to do will be to pay you now a week’s rent in
advance for the option on them. Before the week is up I will send you
a telegram saying yes or no.”
After a little polite reluctance, the landlady accepted this very
gracious offer, and Aylmer went away with the agreeable reflection
that he had not wasted his time. In a few days he would send her a
wire from London stating his regret that other arrangements had been
made.
He stayed the night at the King’s Head, and next morning walked about
Sherehaven before he returned to London by the midday train. His
journey had not been a failure. He had derived a certain melancholy
satisfaction in getting into touch with somebody who had so recently
seen and spoken to his dear sweetheart.
There was also a certain sad pleasure in following in the wake of her
footsteps in the solitary rambles she had taken to divert her unhappy
thoughts. He could picture her walking about that pretty and
picturesque road to Ockham Glen, her favorite excursion according to
Mrs. Robinson. He could imagine her gazing on the romantic prospect
with feelings as miserable as his own, mourning bitterly over the
past, chafing at the bonds which, for some inscrutable reason, bound
her so firmly to a man she could neither love nor respect, for whom
her only feeling could be one of gratitude for the compassion he had
shown her in one of the saddest hours of her life.