THE FUTURE AS IT SEEMED.
When Grey's boat came alongside the little quay he jumped out, and went
hastily to a crowd of people assembled round the bodies and wreckage
landed already.
His manner was highly excited, and the questions put by him came in such
an incoherent torrent the people did not know where to begin the
answers.
Some of the survivors, some of those who had been on the fore-deck,
stood near: these he asked if they knew Mrs. Grey.
Yes, some of them knew Mrs. Grey.
Had they seen her either before or after the boat went down? Did they
see her go aboard? She was to have been on board, and he was to have
gone too, but he had been called away. Then he was to have joined the
steamer off the Island; but she slipped him by, and he was not able to
go on board. Could it be possible no one had seen his wife, Mrs. Grey?
Could no one give him any tale or tidings of his wife?
No. No one could tell him anything about her. No one had seen her; but
then that was not to be wondered at, for all the people who survived had
been on the fore-deck, and from the fore-deck it was impossible, or
nearly impossible, to see the people on the after-deck.
But surely some of those who had been saved knew whether his wife had or
had not gone on board at Daneford? That was simple enough.
They could not say; they only knew they had neither seen her nor heard
of her that evening on the _Rodwell_, or in connection with the
_Rodwell_.
Among that sad group on the shore, Grey was the first who came enquiring
for friend or relative, and those who knew him pitied him with all their
hearts; for they recollected his marriage had been the result of a
love-match, and that he was reputed to be the kindest, most generous,
and most loyal husband in the city. His constant good-humour and kindly
actions, his generosity, and his great importance and usefulness to the
people of Daneford, added in no slight way to increase the sympathy and
respect of those who stood on the little quay that night and heard his
excited questions, and answered him back gently and with tears in their
hearts.
For his own part he had not yet been able to bring the results of the
disaster sharply before his mind. The fact that the disaster had
occurred was never clearly with his apprehension. As soon as he removed
his eyes from the salvage and the dead, and looked out upon the broad
peaceful river, it seemed impossible that at the very spot he had
recently rowed over scores of people lay dead, and among the dead his
wife.
The news of the catastrophe spread quickly, and gradually the crowd
gathered and swelled. From the neighbourhood, some who had friends in
the unlucky boat came, and found their friends alive in houses around
the landing-place. Others found friends or relatives beneath the cloths
which had been spread over the dead. Others were in a condition similar
to Grey: could find no trace of those whom they supposed to be in the
boat at the time she blew up.
Among the last-named searchers was a man who lived on the banks of the
river, and had heard the explosion and hastened to the spot. He had
reason to fear his only son had been in the boat, but he could not to be
certain, as the young man lived at Daneford, and often, though not
invariably, took the boat on a Friday evening. The father was
distracted, and at last came to Grey, whom he knew slightly, and, under
the impression that the banker had been a passenger, asked for tidings
of his son.
After a few half-incoherent replies from Grey, the father gathered the
facts of the latter's case, and found they were both circumstanced in
the same way. For a moment the old man felt utterly helpless and
desperate. Then his mind seemed to clear up suddenly, and, turning to
Grey, he said:
"Neither of us is sure he is a sufferer by this awful calamity, nor can
we be certain as long as we stay here unless our worst fears come true."
He pointed to the river and shuddered. "They have already begun
dragging, but it will be days before all are found, if all are ever
found. Each of us may hope still. Suppose, instead of this sickening
waiting here, we drive back to the city? There we may find those whom we
fear to find here. Is not that better than watching each boat, and
bending over each poor body that is landed?"
"You are right!" cried Grey eagerly, all his faculties suddenly starting
into life, and his mind for the first time seizing upon the idea of
getting certain knowledge speedily. The torpor which had fallen upon his
intellectual faculties at the moment of the explosion left him, and he
not only warmly seconded the old man's plan, but before the other could
speak, had secured and was seated in one of the many flys which had
already begun to arrive with helpers and friends at the scene of the
wreck.
In a few seconds the fly was spinning along in the direction of
Daneford. Both the men in the vehicle were too much occupied with their
own concerns for conversation. Grey's thoughts ran on:
"She is dead. Beyond all doubt she is dead. Poor Bee! poor Bee! I wonder
did she think of me with her last thought. I wonder was she glad or
sorry to go. And now that she is gone, my poor Bee, I don't know how I
feel.
"Poor Bee, I shall miss her. I have been unkind and unjust to her. I
have treated her cruelly, cruelly. My being unkind and scornful to her
did no one any good. It hurt her, and it hurt me. Poor thing!
"The house will be strange now. The rooms where she has been will feel
so quiet, so useless. What is a house for but a woman? A man does not
want a house of many rooms. Least of all does he want a house of many
rooms haunted by a memory. A man wants only two rooms, one to eat in and
one to sleep in. When a childless man's wife dies he ought to give up
housekeeping. What is the use of hollow rooms all round a man's head?
They are only chilling storehouses of recollection."
Here his mind halted a long time. When he resumed at the point where he
had left off, he added but one more thought:
"I'll sell the Manor."
He paused much longer, said to himself, as though he were familiarising
himself with the whole situation by repeating the words forming the key
to it:
"I'll sell the Manor."
After going over the words so often that they began to lose their
meaning, he started suddenly:
"No. I cannot sell the Manor. I cannot sell the Manor House. A man in my
position must have a house. A man in my position----
"My position! My position! My position!
"Curse it, why can't I keep my head clear? I am not going mad, I should
hope. What an amusing maniac I should make just now! The people would
gather from all sides to hear honest Wat raving about stealing the
property of the baronet. It would be town talk. Never was mad-mad so
mad, they would say. But let me get on----
"Of course a man in my position ought to have a house. I must have a
place to see my friends in. I must entertain a little and----"
His thoughts paused again a while, and then he abandoned thinking on
the line he had been following with the mental exclamation: "No, no! I
must not think of that now. I must not think of that--over the open
grave of poor Bee!"
He shook himself and endeavoured to fix his mind on matters of the hour,
and to keep it free of the future:
"How the purely business aspect of things has altered within these awful
twenty-four hours! Sir Alexander has become powerless to alter that
will, and still lives. The longer he lives now, the better for me. While
he retained his faculties there was always great danger he might make
some change. Now there is no longer any fear of that.
"What a terrible scene that was at the bedside! If I had known anything
of the kind was about to occur, I don't think I should have had the
courage to face it. I fear I would have gone the fatal length before I
would have knowingly encountered it. It was so awful to hold her hand
and swear such things in the face of the facts. But it is all over, and
I am well out of it. Perhaps, after all, it is better the scene should
have taken place.
"I suppose I shall be much at the Castle now. In fact, I don't know who
is to give any orders now if I do not. It will be all thrown on me, I
can plainly see that. Often at the Castle means meeting her often, and
meeting her often means that we shall be good friends.
"How long did we stand hand-in-hand this evening? Not long. I did not
note her beauty then, but now I can call back the face and change the
surroundings----
"No, no! I must not sell the Manor. A man in my position must have a
house for--I may marry again."
He set his teeth and clenched his hands, and drove the nails of his
fingers into his palms. Then he faced the position resolutely:
"A while ago I shirked looking into the future across an open grave. But
my own grave is open too. Can I fill it up? I think I can.
Self-preservation is the first law. I cannot get back my five thousand
pounds from the _Rodwell_. I cannot get back my wife from the Weeslade:
can I get back my life? That is the question of questions, and it is
idle out of feeble sentimentalism to defer looking at such grave
business in a straightforward and candid way.
"I must marry, and I must marry this girl. Nothing else can save me, and
I think nothing can prevent my doing it. I hold the winning cards in my
hand at last, and I mean to win."
The old gentleman here broke in upon the banker's reverie with: "We are
passing your house, Mr. Grey."
"Ah, so we are; thank you. Drop me here; I'll walk up, and you take the
fly on. I hope you will find your son all safe."
"God grant it! I hope you will find your wife at the house."
"Thank you; good-night."
"Good-night."
Grey turned into the Park, and walked slowly in the direction of his
house.
Twice he paused and faced round, as though the place were new to him,
and he wished to fix indelibly on his memory what could be seen in the
dim light. Or was it that he now looked at the Park in a new aspect,
from a new standpoint? Or was it that he wanted to gain time and
composure before reaching the house? He could not have told himself why
he stopped, in fact he was perfectly unconscious of having ceased to
move forward; and although his eyes passed deliberately from tree to
tree, and seemed to be dissatisfied with the want of light, he was not
aware his thought was occupied with the scene. The pause in his walk
indicated merely a pause in his thought. While he moved towards the
house he had but one idea.
"I must marry, and I must marry this girl. Nothing else can save me."
With this thought beating through his brain he shook himself,
straightened his figure, and collected his faculties for meeting the
servants and formally ascertaining his wife had left the house and taken
passage in the ill-fated _Rodwell_.
With a steady stride, and head erect, he walked up to the front door and
into the hall.
He looked round hastily, and then asked:
"James, where is your mistress?"
The man blinked in surprise at seeing his master and being asked such a
question. Mrs. Grey had told the servants that morning she and Mr. Grey
were going to Seacliff that evening, and now here was his master come
back alone, and asking in a startling manner where the mistress was. He
had better be guarded in his reply. "I don't know, sir," was his answer.
"Is she in the house, James?"
"No, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite sure."
"When did she go out?"
"I did not see her go out, sir; but at luncheon she said she was going
out, and I have not seen her since."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"Yes, sir. She said if anyone called I was to tell them she had gone to
Seacliff with you this evening."
"Are you quite sure of all this?"
"Quite sure, sir. The cook was in the dining-room at the time, and heard
the mistress tell me. Mistress had the cook up to give her orders about
to-morrow."
"James, you will never see your poor mistress again. The _Rodwell_ blew
up, and she was not among the saved."
"Good God!" exclaimed the old soldier, starting back and involuntarily
bringing his hand to his forehead, as though he found himself thrust
into the presence of the general of the enemy. He fell back two paces,
and, dropping his hand to his mouth, uttered a sob. "Good God!"
exclaimed the near-sighted servant, whose heart was full of dumb
gratitude and desolate sense of loss. "The last words she said to me
were, 'Thank you for the flowers, James; I know it was you put them
fresh in the vases. Thank you, James.' That's what she said to me as she
went down the passage to her own room. When she was in the passage she
turned back, and said so that I shouldn't forget it, 'Thank you, James;
and recollect if anyone calls I'll be back to-morrow.' And now to think
that she is dead!" He had forgotten the presence of his master, who
stood irresolute a moment, and then with a heavy sigh walked into the
inner hall and disappeared up the gloomy unlit staircase.
Neither master nor mistress having been expected home, there was no
light in any of the rooms or passages on the first floor. With heavy
slow step Mr. Grey proceeded to his own bedroom and lit the gas.
How cold and dreary and desolate it looked!
He poured out some water and bathed his face. This revived and
invigorated him. Then he rang the bell. The chambermaid answered it.
"Jane, I suppose you have heard the awful news from James?"
"Yes, sir." The girl burst out crying.
"Do you know the exact time at which your poor mistress left the house
for the boat?"
"No, sir. None of us saw her go; but none of us were in the front of the
house after luncheon. We dined at three, just after the mistress had her
luncheon; and we all think she must have gone out while we were sitting
down."
"That will do, Jane, thank you."
"Thank you, sir; and if you please, sir, we're all very sorry for her
and for you," crying. "She was a good kind mistress, and never took any
of us up short, or refused us anything in reason."
"She was a good kind mistress, Jane. I am very much obliged to you and
to them. Tell all of them below that."
The girl withdrew, weeping bitterly.
Once more he was alone.
Until now there had lingered in his mind a haunting doubt. He could not
believe the evidence before him. Now all was simple and intelligible.
He commenced to pace the room. At first his step was firm and slow. He
was weighing mighty thoughts.
Gradually the past seemed to fall from him like a cope of lead. He
folded his arms on his breast. He threw up his head into the air, as in
fancy he stepped across the threshold of his new life. The colour came
into his cheeks and the sparkle into his eye. He strode beneath
triumphal arches, and heard the shouts of surging multitudes in his
ears.
Yes, the past was now vanished into the darkness, which need never again
be explored, be visited, be contemplated. Let the past bury its dead.
Let him look at the future.
It was brighter now than ever. The position of the Bank was secure above
all chances of assault. He should marry that girl, and by that marriage
cover up for ever the crime he had committed. The reputation of her
fortune would enormously increase the security and business of the Bank.
Then--long-deferred ambition--then he might enter Parliament. The best
society would gradually open to him. He should be successful in the
House; he should possibly rise to place; if this happened, considering
he should have the reputation of great wealth, and for a wife the
beautiful daughter of a baronet, of a race that went back to the
Conquest, what more possible than that there should in a few years, in
Debrett, be the name of Sir Henry Walter Grey, Bart.?
The prospect was not unreasonable. What intoxicating probabilities were
these!
He would like a little brandy now. He did not care to go downstairs for
it, or to ring again. There was some, no doubt, in the tower cupboard.
Yes, that would do. Here was the key in his pocket.
With a radiant face and an elastic step he left the room, carrying a
lighted candle in his hand.
He stalked back in a few minutes, holding the candle out at arm's length
before him.
"The other key is at the other side of the door. The door is locked on
the inner side, and my wife is there!"