'THERE IS NO LIFE ON EARTH BUT BEING IN LOVE.'
The first faint streak of day parted the eastern clouds when James
Penwyn got back to the 'Waterfowl,' but late as it was, and though a
long day's various fatigues might have invited him to repose, Maurice
Clissold had waited up for his friend. He was walking up and down the
inn parlour, where empty bottles and glasses, cigar ashes, and a broken
clay pipe or two bestrewed the table, and gave a rakish look to the
room. The windows stood wide open to the pale cold dawn, and the air
was chill.
'Not gone to bed yet, Maurice?' exclaimed James, surprised, and perhaps
somewhat embarrassed by this unexpected encounter.
'I was in no humour for sleep. I never can sleep when I have anything
on my mind. I waited up to ask you a question, Jim.'
Something like defiance sparkled in Mr. Penwyn's eyes as he planted
himself upon the arm of the substantial old sofa, and lighted a final
cigar.
'Don't restrain your eloquence,' he said, 'I should hardly have
considered four o'clock in the morning a time for conversation, but if
you think so, I'm at your service.'
'I want to know, in plain words, what you mean by this, James?'
'By what?'
'Your conduct to that girl.'
'I shouldn't think anything so simple needed explanation. I meet a
strolling player and his daughter. The strolling player is something of
a character; the daughter—well, not pretty, perhaps, though she has
lovely eyes, but interesting. I offer them the small attention of a
supper, and, seeing that my friend the player is a trifle the worse for
the champagne consumed, humanity urges me to escort the young lady to
her own door, lest her father should lead her into one of the ditches
which beset the way. I believe that is the sum-total of my offences.'
'It sounds simple enough, Jim,' answered the other, gravely, but not
unkindly, 'and I dare say no harm will come of it if you let things
stop exactly where they are. But I watched you and that poor child
to-night—she is little more than a child, at best—and I saw that you
were doing your utmost, unconsciously, perhaps, to turn her silly head.
I saw you together in the moonlight afterwards.'
'If there was anything sentimental, you must blame the moon, not me,'
said James, lightly.
'And now you talk of spending to-morrow with these people, and taking
them to the races.'
'And I mean to do it. There's a freshness about them that amuses me.
I've been getting rather tired of nature and Greek—though, of course,
we've had an uncommonly jolly time of it together, dear old boy,—and
I find a relief in a glimpse of real life. When you turn mentor, you
make yourself intensely disagreeable. Do you suppose that I harbour one
wicked intention about this girl?'
'No, James, I don't suppose you do. If I thought you were a deliberate
sinner I should leave you to go your own road, and only try to save
the girl. But I know what misery has been wrought in this world by
gentlemanly trifling, and what still deeper wretchedness has been
brought about by unequal marriages.'
'Do you suppose I think of marrying Mr. Elgood's daughter, because
I say a few civil words to her?' cried James, forgetting how much
earnestness there had been in those civil words only an hour ago.
'If you have no such thought you have no right to cultivate an
acquaintance that can only end in unhappiness to her, if not to
yourself.'
James answered with a sneer, to which Clissold replied somewhat warmly,
and there were angry words between the two young men before they parted
in the corridor outside their bedrooms. The people of the house,
already thinking about morning, heard the raised voices and angry
tones—heard and remembered.
It was ten o'clock when James Penwyn went down to breakfast next
morning. The sun was shining in at the open windows—all traces
of last night's revelry were removed—the room was in the nicest
order—the table spread for breakfast, with spotless linen and shining
tea service, but only set for one. James plucked impatiently at the
bellrope. It irked him not to see his friend's face on the other side
of the board. He had come downstairs prepared to make peace on the
easiest terms; ready even to own himself to blame.
'Has Mr. Clissold breakfasted?' he asked the girl who answered his
summons.
'No, sir. He wouldn't stop for breakfast; he went out soon after seven
this morning, with his fishing-rod. And he left a note, please, sir.'
There it was among the shells and shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. A
little pencil scrawl twisted into a cocked hat:—
'DEAR JIM,
'Since it seems that my counsel irritates and annoys you, I take
myself off for a day's fly fishing. You must please yourself about
the races. Only remember, that it is easy for a man to drift upon
quicksands from which he can hardly extricate himself without the
loss of honour or of happiness. The sum-total of a man's life
depends very much upon what he does with the first years of his
manhood. I shall be back before night.
'Yours always,
'M. C.'
James Penwyn read and re-read the brief epistle, musing over it
frowningly. It was rather tiresome to have a friend who took such a
serious view of trifles. Towards what quicksand was he drifting? Was
it a dishonourable thing to admire beautiful eyes, to wish to do some
kindness to a friendless girl, _en passant_? As to the races, he could
not dream of disappointing the people he had invited. Was he to treat
them cavalierly because they were poor? He rang the bell again and
ordered the largest landau or barouche which the 'Waterfowl' could
obtain for him, with a pair of good horses.
'And get me up a picnic basket,' he said, 'and plenty of champagne.'
At two and twenty, with the revenues of Penwyn Manor at his command, a
man would hardly do things shabbily.
He had arranged everything with his guests. The Dempsons and the
Elgoods lodged in the same house, an ancient dwelling not far from the
archway at the lower end of the city. Mr. Penwyn was to call for them
in a carriage at twelve o'clock, and they were to drive straight to the
racecourse.
James breakfasted slowly, and with little appetite. He missed the
companion whose talk had been wont to enliven all their meals. He
thought it unkind of Maurice to leave him—was at once angry with
his friend, and with himself for his contemptuous speeches of last
night. He left his breakfast unfinished at last, and went out into the
garden, and down by the narrow river, which had a different look by
day. It was beautiful still—the winding stream with its sedgy banks,
and far-off background of low hills, and the grave old city in the
middle distance—but it lacked the magic of night—the mystic charms of
moonbeam and shadow.
The scene—even without the moonlight—put him painfully in mind of
last night, when Justina and he had sat side by side on the bench by
yonder willow.
'Why shouldn't I marry her if I love her?' he said to himself; 'I am
my own master. Who will ask Squire Penwyn for his wife's pedigree? It
isn't as if she were vulgar or ignorant. She speaks like a lady, and
she seems to know as much as most of the girls I have met.'
He strolled up and down by the river, smoking and musing until the
carriage was ready. It was a capacious vehicle, of the good old Baker
Street Repository build, a vehicle which looked as if it had been a
family travelling carriage about the period of the Bourbon Restoration,
and had done the tour of Europe, and been battered and bruised a good
deal between the Alps and the Danube. There was a vast amount of
leather in its composition, and more iron than sticklers for absolute
elegance would desire, whereby it jingled considerably in its progress.
But it was roomy, and, for a racecourse, that was the main point.
James drove to the dingy old street where the players lodged, an
old-fashioned street, with queer old houses, more picturesque than
clean. The players' lodgings were above a small shop in the chandlery
line, and as there was no private door, James had to enter the realms
of Dutch cheese, kippered herrings, and dip candles—pendent from the
low ceiling like stalactites—in quest of his new acquaintance.
The ladies were ready, but Mr. Elgood was still in his shirt-sleeves,
and his countenance had a warm and shiny look, as if but that moment
washed. Justina came running down the stairs and into the shop,
where James welcomed her warmly. She was quite a transformed and
glorified Justina—decked in borrowed raiment, which Mrs. Dempson had
good-naturedly supplied for the occasion. 'There is no knowing what may
come of to-day's outing,' the leading lady had remarked significantly.
'Mr. Penwyn is young and foolish, and seems actually taken with
Justina—and it would be such a blessing if she could marry well, poor
child, seeing that she has not a spark of talent for the profession.'
Justina wore a clean muslin dress, which hardly reached her ankles, a
black silk jacket, and a blue crape bonnet, not too fresh, but quite
respectable—a bonnet which had been pinned up in paper and carefully
kept since last summer.
'I shall trim it up with a feather or two and wear it for light comedy
by and by,' said Mrs. Dempson, as she pulled the bonnet into shape upon
Justina's head.
The girl looked so happy that she was almost beautiful. There was a
soft bloom upon her cheek, a tender depth in the dark blue eyes, a
joyous, smiling look that charmed James Penwyn, who liked people to be
happy and enjoy themselves when he was in a humour for festivity.
'How good of you to be ready!' cried James, taking her out to the
carriage, 'and how bright, and fresh, and gay you look!' Justina
blushed, conscious of her borrowed bonnet. 'I've got a nice old
rattletrap to take us to the racecourse.'
'Oh, beautiful!' exclaimed Justina, gazing at the patriarchal tub with
respectful admiration.
'Are the others ready?'
'Father's just putting on his coat, and the Dempsons are coming
downstairs.'
The Dempsons appeared as she spoke. Mrs. Dempson superb in black moire
antique and the pinkest of pink bonnets, and a white lace shawl, which
had been washed a good many times, and had rather too much darning
in proportion to the pattern, but, as Mrs. Dempson remarked, 'always
looked graceful.' It was her bridal veil as Pauline Deschappelles. She
wore it as Juliet—and as Desdemona before the senate.
'Now, then,' cried James, as Mr. Elgood appeared, still struggling with
his coat. The carriage was packed without further delay. Mrs. Dempson and
Justina in the seat of honour, Mr. Penwyn and Mr. Dempson opposite them,
Mr. Elgood on the box. He had declared his preference for that seat.
Off they went, oh! so gaily, Justina thought, the landlady gazing at them
from her shop door, and quite a cluster of small children cheering their
departure. 'As if it had been a wedding,' Mrs. Dempson said archly.
Away they went through the quaint old city which wore its holiday look
to-day. Crowds were pouring in from the station; coffee-houses and
eating-houses had set forth a Rabelaisian abundance in their shining
windows; taverns were decorated with flags and greenery; flies, driven
by excited coachmen with ribbons on their whips, shot up and down the
streets. All was life and brightness; and Justina, who had rarely
ridden in a carriage, felt that just in this one brief hour she could
understand how duchesses and such people must feel.