Arthur Rivers had come home on the top of the wave of prosperity; his
little war was over, and if it were not he who had gained the day, he
yet had a large share of its honors. It was he who had made it known to
all the eager critics in England, and given them the opportunity to let
loose their opinion. He had kept the supply of news piping hot, one
supply ready to be served as soon as the other was despatched, to the
great satisfaction of the public and of his “proprietors.” His
well-known energy, daring, and alertness, the qualities for which he had
been sent out, had never been so largely manifested before. He had
thrown himself into the brief but hot campaign with the ardor of a
soldier. But there was more in it than this. It was with the ardor of a
lover that he had labored--a lover with a great deal to make up to bring
him to the level of her he loved. And his zeal had been rewarded. He was
coming home, to an important post, with an established place and
position in the world, leaving his life of adventure and wandering
behind him. They had their charms, and in their time he had enjoyed
them; but what he wanted now was something that it would be possible to
ask Rosalind to share. Had he been the commander, as he had only been
the historian of the expedition; had he brought back a baronetcy and a
name famous in the annals of the time, his task would have been easier.
As it was, his reputation--though to its owner very agreeable--was of a
kind which many persons scoff at. The soldiers, for whom he had done
more than anybody else could do, recommending them to their country as
even their blood and wounds would never have recommended them without
his help, did not make any return for his good offices, and held him
cheap; but, on the other hand, it had procured him his appointment, and
made it possible for him to put his question to Rosalind into a
practical shape and repeat it to her uncle. He came home with his mind
full of this and of excitement and eagerness. He had no time to lose. He
was too old for Rosalind as well as not good enough for her, not rich
enough, not great enough. Sir Arthur Rivers, K.C.B., the conquering
hero--that would have been the right thing. But since he was not that,
the only thing he could do was to make the most of what he was. He could
give her a pretty house in London, where she would see the best of
company; not the gentle dulness of the country, but all the wits, all
that was brilliant in society, and have the cream of those amusements
and diversions which make life worth living in town. That is always
something to offer, if you have neither palaces nor castles, nor a great
name, nor a big fortune. Some women would think it better than all
these; and he knew that it would be full of pleasures and pleasantness,
not dull--a life of variety and brightness and ease. Was it not very
possible that these things would tempt her, as they have tempted women
more lofty in position than Rosalind? And he did not think her relations
would oppose it if she so chose. His family was very obscure; but that
has ceased to be of the importance it once was. He did not believe that
John Trevanion would hesitate on account of his family. If only Rosalind
should be pleased! It was, perhaps, because he was no longer quite young
that he thought of what he had to offer; going over it a thousand times,
and wondering if this and that might not have a charm to her as good,
perhaps better, than the different things that other people had to
offer. He was a man who was supposed to know human nature and to have
studied it much, and had he been writing a book he would no doubt have
scoffed at the idea of a young girl considering the attractions of
different ways of living and comparing what he had to give with what
other people possessed. But there was a certain humility in the way in
which his mind approached the subject in his own case, not thinking of
his own personal merits. He could give her a bright and full and
entertaining life. She would never be dull with him. That was better
even than rank, he said to himself.
Rivers arrived a few days after the Trevanion party had gone to Bonport.
He was profoundly pleased and gratified to find John Trevanion waiting
at the station, and to receive his cordial greeting. “My sister will
expect to see you very soon,” he said. “They think it is you who are the
hero of the war; and, indeed, so you have been, almost as much as Sir
Ruby, and with fewer jealousies; and the new post, I hear, is a capital
one. I should say you were a lucky fellow, if you had not worked so well
for it all.”
“Yes, I hear it is a pleasant post; and to be able to stay at home, and
not be sent off to the end of the earth at a moment’s notice--”
“How will you bear it? that is the question,” said John Trevanion. “I
should not wonder if in a year you were bored to death.”
Rivers shook his head, with a laugh. “And I hope all are well,” he said;
“Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion.”
He did not venture as yet to put the question more plainly.
“We are all well enough,” said John, “though there are always vexations.
Oh! nothing of importance, I hope; only some bother about the children
and Rosalind. That’s why I removed them; but Rex is coming, and another
young fellow, Hamerton--perhaps you recollect him at Clifton. I hope
they will cheer us up a little. There is their train coming in. Let us
see you soon. Good-night!”
Another young fellow, Hamerton! Then it was not to meet him, Rivers,
that Trevanion was waiting. There was no special expectation of him. It
was Rex, the schoolboy, and young Hamerton who was to cheer them
up--Rex, a sulky young cub, and Hamerton, a thick-headed rustic. John
went off quite unconscious of the arrow he had planted in his friend’s
heart, and Rivers turned away, with a blank countenance, to his hotel,
feeling that he had fallen down--down from the skies into a bottomless
abyss. All this while, during so many days of travel, he had been coming
towards her; now he seemed to be thrown back from her--back into
uncertainty and the unknown. He lingered a little as the train from
Paris came in, and heard John Trevanion’s cheerful “Oh, here you are!”
and the sound of the other voices. It made his heart burn to think of
young Hamerton--the young clodhopper!--going to her presence, while he
went gloomily to the hotel. His appearance late for dinner presented a
new and welcome enigma to the company who dined at the _table d’hôte_.
Who was he? Some one fresh from India, no doubt, with that bronzed
countenance and hair which had no right to be gray. There was something
distinguished about his appearance which everybody remarked, and a
little flutter of curiosity to know who he was awoke, especially among
the English people, who, but that he seemed so entirely alone, would
have taken him for Sir Ruby himself. Rivers took a little comfort from
the sense of his own importance and of the sensation made by his
appearance. But to arrive here with his mind full of Rosalind, and to
find himself sitting alone at a foreign _table d’hôte_, with half the
places empty and not a creature he knew, chilled him ridiculously--he
who met people he knew in every out-of-the-way corner in the earth. And
all the time Hamerton at her side--Hamerton, a young nobody! There was
no doubt that it was very hard to bear. As soon as dinner was over he
went out to smoke his cigar and go over again, more ruefully than ever,
his prospects of success. It was a brilliant moonlight night, the trees
in the hotel garden standing, with their shadows at their feet, in a
blackness as of midnight, while between, every vacant space was full of
the intense white radiance. He wandered out and in among them, gloomily
thinking how different the night would have been had he been looking
down upon the silver lake by the side of Rosalind. No doubt that was
what she was doing. Would there be any recollection of him among her
thoughts, or of the question he had asked her in the conservatory at the
Elms? Would she think he was coming for his answer, and what in all this
long interval had she been making up her mind to reply?
He was so absorbed in these thoughts that he took no note of the few
people about. These were very few, for though the night was as warm as
it was bright, it was yet late in the season, and the rheumatic people
thought there was a chill in the air. By degrees even the few figures
that had been visible at first dwindled away, and Rivers at last awoke
to the consciousness that there was but one left, a lady in black, very
slight, very light of foot, for whose coming he was scarcely ever
prepared when she appeared, and who shrank into the shadow as he came
up, as if to avoid his eye. Something attracted him in this mysterious
figure, he could not tell what, a subtile sense of some link of
connection between her and himself; some internal and unspoken
suggestion which quickened his eyes and interest, but which was too
indefinite to be put into words. Who could she be? Where had he seen
her? he asked, catching a very brief, momentary glimpse of her face; but
he was a man who knew everybody, and it was little wonder if the names
of some of his acquaintances should slip out of his recollection. It
afforded him a sort of occupation to watch for her, to calculate when in
the round of the garden which she seemed to be making she would come to
that bare bit of road, disclosed by the opening in the trees, where the
moonlight revealed in a white blaze everything that passed. He was for
the moment absorbed in this pursuit--for it was in reality a pursuit, a
sort of hunt through his own mind for some thread of association
connected with a wandering figure like this--when some one else, a
new-comer, came hastily into the garden, and established himself at a
table close by. There was no mistaking this stranger--a robust young
Englishman still in his travelling dress, whom Rivers recognized with
mingled satisfaction and hostility. He was not then spending the evening
with Rosalind, this young fellow who was not worthy to be admitted to
her presence. That was a satisfaction in its way. He had been received
to dinner because he came with the boy, but that was all. Young Hamerton
sat down in the full moonlight where no one could make any mistake about
him. He recognized Rivers with a stiff little bow. They said to each
other, “It is a beautiful night,” and then relapsed respectively into
silence. But in the heat of personal feeling thus suddenly evoked,
Rivers forgot the mysterious lady for a moment, and saw her no more.
After some time the new-comer said to him, with a sort of reluctant
abruptness, “They are rather in trouble over there,” making a gesture
with his hand to indicate some locality on the other side of the darkly
waving trees.
“In trouble--”
“Oh, not of much importance, perhaps. The children--have all
been--upset; I don’t understand it quite. There was something that
disturbed them--in the hotel here. Perhaps you know--”
“I only arrived this evening,” Rivers said.
The other drew a long breath. Was it of relief? Perhaps he had spoken
only to discover whether his rival had been long enough in the
neighborhood to have secured any advantage. “We brought over the old
nurse with us--the woman, you know, who-- Oh, I forgot, you don’t know,”
Hamerton added, hastily. This was said innocently enough, but it
offended the elder suitor, jealous and angry after the unreasonable
manner of a lover, that any one, much less this young fellow, whose
pretensions were so ridiculous, should have known her and her
circumstances before and better than himself.
“I prefer not to know anything that the Trevanions do not wish to be
known,” he said sharply. It was not true, for his whole being quivered
with eagerness to know everything about them, all that could be told;
but at the same time there was in his harsh tones a certain justness of
reproach that brought the color to young Hamerton’s face.
“You are quite right,” he said; “it is not my business to say word.”
And then there was silence again. It was growing late. The verandas of
the great hotel, a little while ago full of chattering groups, were all
vacant; the lights had flitted up-stairs; a few weary waiters lounged
about the doors, anxiously waiting till the two Englishmen--so culpably
incautious about the night air and the draughts, so brutally indifferent
to the fact that Jules and Adolphe and the rest had to get up very early
in the morning and longed to be in bed--should come in, and all things
be shut up; but neither Hamerton nor Rivers thought of Adolphe and
Jules.
Finally, after a long silence, the younger man spoke again. His mind was
full of one subject, and he wanted some one to speak to, were it only
his rival. “This cannot be a healthy place,” he said; “they are not
looking well--they are all--upset. I suppose it is bad for--the
nerves--”
“Perhaps there may be other reasons,” said Rivers. His heart stirred
within him at the thought that agitation, perhaps of a nature kindred to
his own, might be affecting the one person who was uppermost in the
thoughts of both--for he did not doubt that Hamerton, who had said
_them_, meant Rosalind. That she might be pale with anticipation,
nervous and tremulous in this last moment of suspense! the idea brought
a rush of blood to his face, and a warm flood of tender thoughts and
delight to his heart.
“I don’t know what other reasons,” said Hamerton. “She thinks-- I mean
there is nothing thought of but those children. Something has happened
to them. The old nurse, the woman-- I told you--came over with us to take
them in hand. Poor little things? it is not much to be wondered at--” he
said, and then stopped short, with the air of a man who might have a
great deal to say.
A slight rustling in the branches behind caught Rivers’ attention. All
his senses were very keen, and he had the power, of great advantage in
his profession, of seeing and hearing without appearing to do so. He
turned his eyes, but not his head, in the direction of that faint sound,
and saw with great wonder the lady whom he had been watching, an almost
imperceptible figure against the opaque background of the high shrubs,
standing behind Hamerton. Her head was a little thrust forward in the
attitude of listening, and the moon just caught her face. He was too
well disciplined to suffer the cry of recognition which came to his lips
to escape from them, but in spite of himself expressed his excitement in
a slight movement--a start which made the rustic chair on which he was
seated quiver, and displaced the gravel under his feet. Hamerton did not
so much as notice that he had moved at all, but the lady’s head was
drawn back, and the thick foliage behind once more moved as by a breath,
and all was still. Rivers was very much absorbed in one pursuit and one
idea, which made him selfish; but yet his heart was kind. He conquered
his antipathy to the young fellow who was his rival, whom (on that
ground) he despised, yet feared, and forced himself to ask a question,
to draw him on. “What has happened to the children,” he said; “are they
ill?” There was a faint breeze in the tree-tops, but none down here in
the solid foliage of the great bushes; yet there was a stir in the
laurel as of a bird in its nest.
“They are not ill, but yet something has happened. I believe the little
things have been seeing ghosts. They sent for this woman, Russell, you
know--confound her--”
“Why confound her?”
“Oh, it’s a long story--confound her all the same! There are some women
that it is very hard for a man not to wish to knock down. But I suppose
they think she’s good for the children. That is all they think of, it
appears to me,” Roland said, dejectedly. “The children--always the
children--one cannot get in a word. And as for anything else--anything
that is natural--”
This moved Rivers on his own account. Sweet hope was high in his heart.
It might very well be that this young fellow could not get in a word.
Who could tell that the excuse of the children might not be made use of
to silence an undesired suitor, to leave the way free for-- His soul
melted with a delicious softness and sense of secret exultation. “Let us
hope their anxiety may not last,” he said, restraining himself, keeping
as well as he could the triumph out of his voice. Hamerton looked at him
quickly, keenly; he felt that there was exultation--something
exasperating--a tone of triumph in it.
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last,” he said. “Little Amy is like a
little ghost herself; but how can it be otherwise in such an unnatural
state of affairs--the mother gone, and all the responsibility put upon
one--upon one who-- For what is Mrs. Lennox?” he cried, half angrily; “oh
yes, a good, kind soul--but she has to be taken care of too--and all
upon one--upon one who--”
“You mean Miss Trevanion?”
“I don’t mean--to bring in any names. Look here,” cried the young man,
“you and I, Rivers--we are not worthy to name her name.”
His voice was a little husky; his heart was in his mouth. He felt a sort
of brotherly feeling even for this rival who might perhaps, being clever
(he thought), be more successful than he, but who, in the meantime, had
more in common with him than any other man, because he too loved
Rosalind. Rivers did not make any response. Perhaps he was not young
enough to have this feeling for any woman. A man may be very much in
love--may be ready even to make any exertion, almost any sacrifice, to
win the woman he loves, and yet be unable to echo such a sentiment. He
could not allow that he was unworthy to name her name. Hamerton scarcely
noticed his silence, and yet was a little relieved not to have any
response.
“I am a little upset myself,” he said, “because you know I’ve been mixed
up with it all from the beginning, which makes one feel very differently
from those that don’t know the story. I couldn’t help just letting out a
little. I beg your pardon for taking up your time with what perhaps
doesn’t interest you.”
This stung the other man to the quick. “It interests me more, perhaps,
than you could understand,” he cried. “But,” he added, after a pause,
“it remains to be seen whether the family wish me to know--not certainly
at second-hand.”
Hamerton sprang to his feet in hot revulsion of feeling. “If you mean me
by the second-hand,” he said; then paused, ashamed both of the good
impulse and the less good which had made him thus betray himself. “I beg
your pardon,” he added; “I’ve been travelling all day, and I suppose I’m
tired and apt to talk nonsense. Good-night.”
Jules and Adolphe were glad. They showed the young Englishman to his
room with joy, making no doubt that the other would follow. But the
other did not follow. He sat for a time silently, with his head on his
hand. Then he rose, and walking to the other side of the great bouquet
of laurels, paused in the profound shadow, where there stood, as he
divined rather than saw, a human creature in mysterious anguish,
anxiety, and pain. He made out with difficulty a tall shadow against the
gloomy background of the close branches. “I do not know who you are,” he
said; “I do not ask to know; but you are deeply interested in what
that--that young fellow was saying?”
The voice that replied to him was very low. “Oh, more than interested;
it is like life and death to me. For God’s sake, tell me if you know
anything more.”
“I know nothing to-night--but to-morrow-- You are the lady whom I met in
Spain two years ago, whose portrait stands on Rosalind Trevanion’s
writing-table.”
There was a low cry; “Oh! God bless you for telling me! God bless you
for telling me!” and the sound of a suppressed sob.
“I shall see her to-morrow,” he said. “I have come thousands of miles to
see her. It is possible that I might be of use to you. May I tell her
that you are here?”
The stir among the branches seemed to take a different character as he
spoke, and the lady came out towards the partial light. She said firmly,
“No; I thank you for your kind intentions;” then paused. “You will think
it strange that I came behind you and listened. You will think it was
not honorable. But I heard their name, and Roland Hamerton knows me.
When a woman is in great trouble she is driven to strange expedients.
Sir,” she cried, after another agitated pause, “I neither know your name
nor who you are, but if you will bring me news to-morrow after you have
seen them--if you will tell me--it will be a good deed--it will be a
Christian deed.”
“Say something more to me than that,” he cried, with a passion that
surprised himself; “say that you will wish me well.”
She moved along softly, noiselessly, with her head turned to him, moving
towards the moonlight, which was like the blaze of day, within a few
steps from where they had been standing. The impression which had been
upon his mind of a fugitive--a woman abandoned and forlorn--died out so
completely that he felt ashamed ever to have ventured upon such a
thought. And he felt, with a sudden sense of imperfection quite
unfamiliar to him, that he was being examined and judged. He felt, too,
with an acute self-consciousness, that the silver in his hair shone in
the white light, and that the counterbalancing qualities of fine outline
and manly color must be wanting in that wan and colorless illumination.
He could not see her face, except as an abstract paleness, turned
towards him, over-shadowed by the veil which she had put back, but which
still threw a deep shade; but she gazed into his, which he could not but
turn towards her in the full light of the moon. The end of the
examination was not very consolatory to his pride. She sighed and turned
away. “The man whom she chooses will want no other blessing,” she said.
A few minutes after Jules and Adolphe were happy, shutting up the doors,
putting out the lights, betaking themselves to the holes and corners
under the stairs, under the roofs, in which these sufferers for the good
of humanity slept.