MAKING READY FOR THE ROAD.
Having reached his hotel, Captain Ryecroft seeks neither rest nor sleep,
but stays awake for the remainder of the night.
The first portion of his time he spends in gathering up his
_impedimenta_, and packing. Not a heavy task. His luggage is light,
according to the simplicity of a soldier's wants; and as an old
campaigner, he is not long in making ready for the _route_.
His fishing tackle, guncase and portmanteau, with an odd bundle or two
of miscellaneous effects, are soon strapped and corded--after which he
takes a seat by a table to write out the labels.
But now a difficulty occurs to him--the address. His name, of course;
but what the destination? Up to this moment he has not thought of where
he is going; only that he must go somewhere--away from the Wye. There is
no Lethe in that stream for memories like his.
To his regiment he cannot return, for he has none now. Months since he
ceased to be a soldier, having resigned his commission at the expiration
of his leave of absence--partly in displeasure at being refused
extension of it, but more because the attractions of the "Court" and the
grove had made those of the camp uncongenial. Thus his visit to
Herefordshire has not only spoilt him as a salmon-fisher, but put an end
to his military career.
Fortunately he was not dependent on it; for Captain Ryecroft is a rich
man. And yet he has no home he can call his own; the last ten years of
his life having been passed in Hindostan. Dublin is his native place;
but what would or could he now do there? his nearest relatives are dead,
his friends few, his schoolfellows long since scattered--many of them,
as himself, waifs upon the world. Besides, since his return from India,
he has paid a visit to the capital of the Emerald Isle; where, finding
all so changed, he cares not to go back--at least, for the present.
Whither then?
One place looms upon the imagination--almost naturally as home
itself--the metropolis of the world. He will proceed thither, though not
there to stay. Only to use it as a point of departure for another
metropolis--the French one. In that focus and centre of gaiety and
fashion--Maelstrom of dissipation--he may find some relief from his
misery, if not happiness. Little hope has he; but it may be worth the
trial, and he will make it.
So determining, he takes up the pen, and is about to put "London" on the
labels. But as an experienced strategist, who makes no move with undue
haste and without due deliberation, he sits a while longer considering.
Strange as it may seem, and a question for psychologists, a man thinks
best upon his back; better still with a cigar between his
teeth--powerful help to reflection. Aware of this Captain Ryecroft
lights a "weed," and looks around him. He is in his sleeping apartment,
where, beside the bed, there is a sofa--horsehair cushion and squab hard
as stones--the orthodox hotel article.
Along this he lays himself, and smokes away furiously. Spitefully, too;
for he is not now thinking of either London or Paris. He cannot yet. The
happy past, the wretched present, are too soul-absorbing to leave room
for speculations of the future. The "fond rage of love" is still active
within him. It is to "blight his life's bloom," leaving him "an age all
winters?" Or is there yet a chance of reconciliation? Can the chasm
which angry words have created be bridged over? No. Not without
confession of error--abject humiliation on his part--which in his
present frame of mind he is not prepared to make--will not--could not.
"Never!" he exclaims, plucking the cigar from between his lips, but soon
returning it, to continue the train of his reflections.
Whether from the soothing influence of the nicotine, or other cause, his
thoughts after a time became more tranquillized--their hue sensibly
changed, as betokened by some muttered words which escape him.
"After all, I may be wronging her. If so, may God forgive, as I hope He
will pity me. For if so, I am less deserving forgiveness, and more to be
pitied than she."
As in ocean's storm, between the rough, surging billows, foam-crested,
are spots of smooth water, so in thought's tempest are intervals of
calm. It is during one of these he speaks as above; and continuing to
reflect in the same strain, things, if not quite _couleur de rose_,
assume a less repulsive aspect. Gwen Wynn may have been but
dissembling--playing with him--and he would now be contented,
ready--even rejoiced--to accept it in that sense; ay, to the abject
humiliation that but the moment before he had so defiantly rejected. So
reversed his sentiments now--modified from mad anger to gentle
forgiveness--he is almost in the act of springing to his feet, tearing
the straps from his packed paraphernalia, and letting all loose again!
But just at this crisis he hears the town clock tolling six, and voices
in conversation under his window. It is a bit of a gossip between two
stable-men--_attaches_ of the hotel--an ostler and fly-driver.
"Ye had a big time last night at Llangorren?" says the former
inquiringly.
"Ah! that ye may say," returns the Jarvey, with a strongly accentuated
hiccup, telling of heel-taps. "Never knowed a bigger, s'help me. Wine
runnin' in rivers, as if 'twas only table-beer--an' the best kind o't
too. I'm so full o' French champagne, I feel most like burstin'."
"She be a grand gal, that Miss Wynn. An't she?"
"In course is--one of the grandest. But she an't going to be a _girl_
long. By what I heerd them say in the sarvints' hall, she's soon to be
broke into pair-horse harness."
"Wi' who?"
"The son o' Sir George Shenstone."
"A good match they'll make, I sh'd say. Tidier chap than he never
stepped inside this yard. Many's the time he's tipped me."
There is more of the same sort, but Captain Ryecroft does not hear it;
the men have moved off beyond ear shot. In all likelihood he would not
have listened had they stayed. For again he seems to hear those other
words--that last spiteful rejoinder, "Yes; let it."
His own spleen returning, in all its keen hostility, he springs upon his
feet, hastily steps back to the table, and writes on the slip of
parchment,--
_Mr. Vivian Ryecroft,_
_Passenger to London._
_G.W.R._
He cannot attach them till the ink gets dry; and, while waiting for it
to do so, his thoughts undergo still another revulsion, again leading
him to reflect whether he may not be in the wrong, and acting
inconsiderately--rashly.
In fine, he resolves on a course which had not hitherto occurred to
him--he will write to her. Not in repentance, nor any confession of
guilt on his part. He is too proud, and still too doubting for that.
Only a test letter to draw her out, and, if possible, discover how she
too feels under the circumstances. Upon the answer--if he receive
one--will depend whether it is to be the last.
With pen still in hand, he draws a sheet of note-paper towards him. It
bears the hotel stamp and name, so that he has no need to write an
address--only the date.
This done, he remains for a time considering--thinking what he should
say. The larger portion of his manhood's life spent in camp, under
canvas--not the place for cultivating literary tastes or epistolary
style--he is at best an indifferent correspondent, and knows it. But the
occasion supplies thoughts; and as a soldier accustomed to prompt
brevity, he puts them down--quickly and briefly as a campaigning
despatch.
With this, he does not wait for the ink to dry, but uses the blotter. He
dreads another change of resolution. Folding up the sheet, he slips it
into an envelope, on which he simply superscribes--
_Miss Wynn,_
_Llangorren Court_.
Then rings a bell--the hotel servants are now astir--and directs the
letter to be dropped into the post-box.
He knows it will reach her that same day at an early hour, and its
answer him--should one be vouchsafed--on the following morning. It might
that same night at the hotel where he is now staying; but not the one to
which he is going--as his letter tells, the "Langham, London."
And while it is being slowly carried by a pedestrian postman along hilly
roads towards Llangorren, he, seated in a first-class carriage of the
G.W.R., is swiftly whisked towards the metropolis.