THE DEITY CALLED FATE.
"Believe me, sir, the deity called Fate,
Is stronger than the strongest of us all,
Fate! Fortune! Destiny! what name you will!
We are the sport of some malignant power,
Who twists and turns the actions of our lives,
In such strange fashion that our best intents
--Not evil in themselves--breed evil things,
And wreck our fairest ventures, tho' we strive
To bring them holily to some quiet port."
On leaving Miss Corbin's house Errington's first impulse was to drive
straight to the railway station, catch the six-thirty train, and go
down to the Hall at once, in order to explain matters to his wife. A
moment's reflection, however, convinced him that this would be a
foolish thing to do, as he could not possibly reach home before eight
o'clock, and his late arrival at such an hour without being expected
would be sure to cause comment among the servants. They already
guessed more of the strained relations between himself and his wife
than he liked, so in order to avoid the slightest chance of any
further remark being made, he determined to go down to Denfield next
day in the ordinary course of things.
He therefore drove back to his hotel, and while dressing for dinner
pondered deeply as to the best course to pursue with Alizon. On this
night he was engaged to dine with Macjean at the Soudan Hotel, and
recollected that his cousin was to be of the party. Eustace was a man
in whom he had a profound belief, and frequently deferred to his
cousin's judgment in delicate matters, so on this present occasion he
made up his mind to speak to Gartney, whose clear head would doubtless
be able to solve the problem.
It was true that Mrs. Veilsturm expected him to call for her at the
Marlowe Theatre, where she had a box. But the idea of being in her
company again after what had transpired was too much for him, so he
hastily scribbled a note excusing himself on the plea of sudden
indisposition, and sent it off to Park Lane by a special messenger.
"Macjean and Laxton can go to the theatre as arranged," he thought, as
he went slowly down the stairs, "and I'll make Eustace take me to his
rooms, where we can talk over things at our ease."
With this determination he jumped into a hansom and drove off to the
Soudan Hotel in Piccadilly, where he found Otterburn waiting for him
in company with Laxton.
"Where's Gartney?" asked the Master after greeting his friend, "he
promised to be early."
"Eustace's promises are like pie crust," replied Errington, giving his
cloak and hat to the waiter, "made to be broken."
"You look very broken yourself," remarked Macjean meditatively, as the
gaslight fell on Guy's face. "What is the matter? Have you had bad
news? Will you have a glass of sherry?"
"Nothing is the matter," replied the baronet categorically. "I have
not had bad news, and I will take a glass of sherry."
He really felt very worried over the position in which he now found
himself regarding his wife, but it was better he should dine in
company than alone, as a solitary meal would only make matters appear
much worse than they really were. Besides he was going to consult
Eustace, who, he felt certain, would advise him for the best, so he
put the best face he could on the matter, and chatted gaily over his
sherry to the two young men while waiting for his cousin.
Presently Eustace, cool, calm and unconcerned, arrived, with a large
appetite and an apology for being late.
"I've got a man who is in the habit of mislaying things," he explained
as they all sat down to dinner, "he mislaid his brains when he was
born, and hasn't found them yet, so I suffer in consequence. No sherry
for me, thank you! Water, please!"
"Ugh, London water," groaned Laxton, holding up his sherry to the
light.
"Water," remarked Mr. Gartney sententiously, "is the purest of all
elements."
"Not in town," retorted Macjean with a grimace. "I don't believe in
Adam's wine."
"No Scotchman ever did as far as I know," said Eustace drily.
"Presbyterian wine is what you all prefer north of the Tweed."
"And a very good idea too," observed Guy, contributing his quota to
the conversation, "especially on wet days."
"That's why such a lot of whisky is consumed in the Land o' Cakes,"
explained Eustace gravely, "it's always wet up there. Scotch mist and
Scotch whisky invariably go together."
"This," remarked Laxton, alluding to the conversation, "is not a
teetotol meeting."
"No one could possibly accuse it of being that," retorted Gartney,
with a significant glance at the full glasses, "but if you three
gentlemen don't mind talking, I'll eat in the meantime. The Soudan
cook is a good one, the Gartney appetite is a large one, so thank God
for all His mercies and leave me to pay attention to the good things
of this life."
His three friends laughed at his humorous way of putting things, and
devoted themselves to the fish. The conversation went on in a more or
less frivolous fashion, the last scandal, the blunders of the Cabinet,
the new novel of the realistic school, the prospects of a war in the
East--all these were discussed in their turn by the quartette, and
then Laxton began to argue with Otterburn about the African
expedition, so seizing the opportunity Guy bent forward to speak to
Eustace.
"I want to talk to you after dinner," he said in a low voice.
"Certainly," replied Gartney carelessly, "but will you have time? What
about the theatre?"
"I've changed my mind," said Guy quickly, "so I sent an excuse to Mrs.
Veilsturm. Have you anything particular to do? If not we can go to
your rooms. I won't detain you long."
Eustace flashed a keen look on his cousin, and paused a moment before
replying:
"I was going to look in at one or two drawing-rooms to-night," he said
at length, "but as my engagements really aren't very particular, I'll
not trouble about them, so I will be at your disposal."
"Thank you," answered Guy, drawing a long breath.
"Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Well that is as it turns out. I saw Aunt Jelly to-day."
"Ah!" said Eustace in a significant tone, knowing that an interview
with Aunt Jelly always meant trouble of some sort. "I think I can
understand. However, let us go on with our meal. Pleasure and appetite
first, business and Aunt Jelly afterwards. What are those two boys
fighting about?"
The two boys were still engaged in the African argument, and had
arrived at a dead lock, each being firmly convinced in his own mind
that his view of the subject was the right one.
"You're all wrong, I tell you," said Otterburn hotly, "you're talking
just like you did at Montana. Africa isn't America."
"Nobody said it was," returned Laxton ungracefully, "but I daresay the
sport is very much the same in both places. Africa is not a new
planet."
"You might as well say that potting walrus in the Arctic regions is
the same as jungle shooting in India."
"It's merely a matter of temperature," declared Laxton decidedly.
"Oh, if you pin your faith to the thermometer, I've nothing more to
say," replied Otterburn, throwing himself back in his chair with the
air of a man who has crushed his opponent.
"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about," observed
Eustace leisurely, "and judging from what I've overheard you both seem
to be in the same predicament."
"We'll discuss it later on," said Otterburn gaily. "What a pity I
can't come out with you to Africa, Laxton, and settle the argument
that way."
"Well, why don't you come?" demanded Laxton quickly.
Otterburn reddened and laughed in an embarrassed fashion, while
Eustace threw a roguish glance at him, and made answer for the bashful
lover.
"Don't you bother your head, Laxton There are more important things
than shooting expeditions in this world--at least, Otterburn thinks
so."
Laxton was quite in the dark regarding the meaning of these mystic
utterances, when it suddenly dawned on him that the lady whom
Otterburn had spoken about in America might have something to do with
the turn the conversation had taken, and lifted his glass with a smile
as he looked towards Macjean.
"To the health of the something more important than shooting
expeditions," he said gravely, and finished the wine.
"Thank you," responded Otterburn laughing. "May I some day drink the
same health to you?"
"Never!"
"Never's a long time."
"And talking about time," remarked Guy, glancing at his watch, "if you
two boys have any idea of the theatre to-night you'll have to be off."
"Aren't you coming too?" chorussed Otterburn and his comrade.
"No! I received an important piece of news to-night, about which I
wish to speak to my cousin."
"What will Mrs. V. say?" asked Laxton gaily.
"Who can foretell a woman's remarks?" said Eustace quizzically, seeing
that Guy was disinclined to speak.
"Depends upon how much you know of the woman," responded Otterburn
smartly.
"Woman," retorted the cynic, "is an unknown quantity."
"What about quality?"
"This conversation," said Eustace, looking at his glass of water, "is
getting problematic. After dinner is a bad time to solve puzzles,
therefore--coffee."
It seemed a good suggestion, so they all adjourned to the
smoking-room, and indulged in further conversation while they enjoyed
their coffee and cigarettes. Shortly afterwards Otterburn and his
friend departed for the Marlowe Theatre, while Eustace in company with
Guy went off to his rooms in Half Moon Street, Piccadilly.
Used as he was to hardships in foreign lands, Eustace always took care
to make up for his deprivations by making himself very comfortable at
home, consequently his rooms left nothing to be desired in the way of
luxury. His valet was well accustomed to his master coming in at all
kinds of unexpected times, consequently when they arrived the room
was well lighted, the chairs disposed in tempting corners, and a
spirit-stand with glasses and soda-water stood ready for any thirsty
soul.
Eustace placed his cousin in a well-cushioned chair, gave him an
excellent cigar, then, lighting one himself, took his seat opposite to
Guy and prepared to play the part of father confessor.
It was a hot night and the windows were standing slightly open,
letting in the pleasant, confused noise of the street, with its
rattling of cabs, voices of people, and footfalls of innumerable
pedestrians. The faint sound of a barrel organ playing the last new
tune, "Oh, she's left me for another," came softly to their ears, and
they sat smoking silently for a few moments until Errington spoke.
"I told you I saw Aunt Jelly to-day."
"Yes and what did she say?"
"A good many disagreeable things," replied Guy bitterly; "according to
her showing, I must be a singularly wicked man."
"Aunt Jelly," observed Eustace philosophically, "knows very little
about the actual world, and having lived apart from her fellow
creatures for many years, has formed in her own mind an ideal life to
which she expects all her friends and relations to conform.
Unfortunately, the majority of nineteenth century people are neither
Lucreces nor Bayards, consequently Aunt Jelly, in Pharisee fashion,
rails at the world and says, 'Thank God, I'm not as other women are.'"
"She is as other women are in the matter of listening to gossip," said
Guy emphatically, "for she tells me it is common talk that I have left
my wife for the superior attractions of Mrs. Veilsturm."
Eustace looked up suddenly in dismay.
"My dear fellow, you must be making a mistake."
"I'm making no mistake," returned Guy doggedly. "Aunt Jelly says it is
common talk. Have you heard anything about it?"
"You know I never pay attention to gossip," said Gartney evasively, "I
don't even listen to it, but you may be certain that anyone who poses
as the _cher ami_ of Mrs. Veilsturm won't escape calumny."
"I don't pose as the _cher ami_ of Mrs. Veilsturm," said Errington
fiercely. "I don't care two straws about her."
"Actions speak louder than words. You certainly have acted as if you
did."
"Good Heavens, Eustace, you surely don't believe all these lies?"
retorted Guy wrathfully, rising from his chair.
"I never said I did," answered his cousin coolly, "but I'm looking at
it now from the world's point of view. Mrs. Veilsturm has certainly
made a dead set at you, and you, thinking it was natural amiability,
have played into her hands. You, no doubt, call it friendship, but the
world doesn't."
"It is friendship. Indeed, hardly that as far as I am concerned, as I
don't care if I never saw Mrs. Veilsturm again. She has taken an
unaccountable fancy to me, and I'm no Joseph where a pretty woman is
concerned, but as for leaving my dear wife for a meretricious woman
like that--Good God!"
"Well, let the world talk as it likes, so long as it isn't speaking
the truth," said Eustace impatiently. "Who cares? If you expect
justice from your fellow creatures, you won't get it. As to Aunt
Jelly, old women are privileged gossips. It don't matter to you."
"But it does matter to me, I tell you," cried Guy violently, walking
to and fro, "she has written all about these lies to my wife."
The barrel organ outside was still grinding out the popular tune,
being now assisted by the shrill voice of a girl singing the words of
the song.
"Oh, she's left me for another,
Mary Anne! Mary Anne!
And she said he was her brother,
Mary Anne.
It may be true, for all I know,
But would she kiss her brother so,
And would she leave me for him? No!
Mary Anne, Mary Anne!"
The regular beat of the melody seemed to repeat itself everlastingly
in Gartney's ears as he sat there in silence wondering over the
statement Errington had made. If Alizon knew all, she would never
forgive her husband and then--was it Fate that so persistently
smoothed the road for his evil doing? He felt dull and stupid at the
unexpected announcement he had heard, and, after a pause, lifted his
heavy eyes to Guy.
"Well," he said drearily, "and what do you intend to do?"
Errington sat down heavily in his chair and stretched out his hands
with a weary gesture.
"I don't know what to do," he answered in a dull voice. "I suppose the
best thing will be for me to go down and explain matters to Alizon."
"But will she accept your explanation?"
"No!"
"Then why make it?"
"A drowning man will grasp at a straw. I must do something! I can't
let my wife think I have wilfully wronged her. Good heavens! surely
she must know I love her dearly."
"I should think it is very probable she does," answered Eustace
slowly, "besides, I think Lady Errington is too sensible a woman to
give ear to lying reports. Tell her all you have told me, and I'm
certain you will have no difficulty in making your peace with her."
"Do you think so?" asked Guy, his sad face brightening, "but no, I'm
afraid not. You remember the story I told you about Mrs. Veilsturm's
card being returned."
Eustace nodded.
"That is the difficulty. If it had been any other woman than Mrs.
Veilsturm--but as it is, she'll think I did it wilfully."
"Surely not."
"My dear fellow, you've never loved a statue," said Errington
bitterly, rising to his feet and putting on his cloak, "but it's no
use talking any more. Aunt Jelly has done more harm than she knows of.
I'll go down to the Hall to-morrow, and tell Alizon everything. If she
believes my explanation, well and good, if she does not----"
"Well?" asked Eustace, seeing his cousin hesitated.
"Well!" repeated the other harshly, "I shall come back to London and
Mrs. Veilsturm."
He was gone before Eustace could offer a word of remonstrance on the
folly of such a determination, and then Gartney returned to his seat
with an air of utter lassitude.
"Kismet," he said to himself, after a long pause. "It is Destiny."
Was it indeed Destiny that had interfered for the third time? Was it
fixed by Fate that he should be Lady Errington's lover, and lose his
honourable name for her sake? It seemed like it, seeing that all
barriers he had set up against this illicit love, were swept away by
the actions of other people, and the field left open to him. Still,
Alison had not yet had her interview with Guy, and, as she must know
how much he loved her, surely she would accept his explanation of the
lying reports concerning his infatuation for Mrs. Veilsturm.
If she did so, all would be well with them both, but if she refused to
believe his story, and dismissed him coldly, then----
Eustace arose to his feet, and walking over to the window, looked out
into the hot night. Below, the glare and glitter of gas-lamps--above,
the luminous light of the stars--and far in the east, rising over the
sombre masses of clouds, burned an evil planet, which was dreaded of
old by the Chaldeans.
The man looking at it with troubled eyes felt the twin powers of good
and evil strive in his heart.
And the star gleamed steadily in the thunderous sky.