An Early Train and a Morning's Amusement.
It was still early when he awoke, weary, stiff, and unrefreshed, but
with a conviction in his mind that had grown plain and strong in the
mysterious way notions sometimes seem to gather force in hours of
unconsciousness, and surprise us with their mature vigor when we awake.
"I must go!" he kept muttering to himself; "I must go--go and think. I
dare do nothing now." He hastily packed a hand bag, wrote a note for
Eugene, asking that the rest of his luggage might be forwarded to an
address he would send, went quietly downstairs, and, finding the door
just opened, passed out unseen. He had three miles to walk to the
station, but his restless feet brought him there quickly, and he had
more than an hour to wait for the first train, at half-past eight. He
sat down on the platform and waited. His capacity for thought and
emotion seemed for the time exhausted. His thoughts wandered from one
trivial matter to another, always eluding his effort to fix them. He
found himself acutely studying the gang of laborers who were going by
train to their day's work, and wondering how many pipes each of their
carefully guarded matches would light, and what each carried in his
battered tin drinking-bottle, remembering with a dreary sort of
amusement that he had heard this same incurable littleness of thought
settled on men condemned to death. Still, it passed the time, and he was
surprised out of a sort of reverie by the clanging of the porter's
inharmonious bell.
At the same moment a phaeton was rapidly driven up to the door of the
station, and all the porters rushed to meet it.
"Label it all for London," he heard Eugene's voice say. "Four boxes, a
portmanteau, and a hat-box. No, I'm not going--this lady and gentleman."
Kate, Haddington, and Eugene came through the ticket-office on to the
platform. Stafford involuntarily shrank back.
"Just in time!" Eugene was saying; "though why the dickens you people
will start at such an hour, I don't know. Haddington, I suppose, always
must be in a hurry--never does for a rising man to admit he's got spare
time. But you, Kate! Its positively uncomplimentary!"
He spoke lightly, but there was a troubled look on his face; and as
Haddington went off to take the tickets he drew near to Kate, and said
suddenly:
"You are determined on this, Kate?"
"On what?" she asked coldly.
"Why, to go like this--to bolt--it almost comes to that--leaving things
as they are between us?"
"Why not?"
"And with Haddington?"
"Do you mean to insult me?"
"Of course not. But how do you think it must look to me? What do you
imagine my course must be?"
"Really, Eugene, I see no need for this scene. I suppose your course
will be to wait till I ask you to fulfill your promise, and then to
fulfill it. You have no sort of cause for complaint."
Eugene could not resist a smile.
"You are sublime!" he said. Perhaps he would have said more, but at this
moment, to his intense surprise, his eyes met Stafford's. The latter
gave him a quick look, in obedience to which he checked his exclamation,
and, making some excuse about a parcel due and not arrived,
unceremoniously handed Kate to a carriage, bundled Haddington in after
her, and walked rapidly to the front of the train, where he had just
seen Stafford getting into a third-class compartment.
"What in the world's the meaning of this, my dear old boy?"
"I have left a note for you."
"That will explain?"
"No," said Stafford, with his unsparing truthfulness, "it will not
explain."
"How fagged you look!"
"Yes, I am tired."
"You must go now, and like this?"
"I think that is less bad than anything else."
"You can't tell me?"
"Not now, old fellow. Perhaps I will some day."
"You'll let me know what you're doing? Hallo, she's off! And, Stafford,
nothing ever between us?"
"Why should there be?" he answered, with some surprise. "But you know
there couldn't be."
The train moved on as they shook hands, and Eugene retraced his steps to
his phaeton.
"He's given her up," he said to himself, with an irrepressible feeling
of relief. "Poor old fellow! Now--"
But Eugene's reflections were not of a character that need or would
repay recording. He ought to have been ashamed of himself. I venture to
think he was. Nevertheless, he arrived home in better spirits than a man
has any right to enjoy when he has seen his mistress depart in a temper
and his best friend in sorrow. Our spirits are not always obedient to
the dictates of propriety. It is often equally in vain that we call them
from the vasty deep, or try to dismiss them to it. They are rebellious
creatures, whose only merit is their sincerity.
Sir Roderick Ayre allowed few things to surprise him, but the fact of
any one deliberately starting by the early train was one of the few. In
regard to such conduct, he retained all his youthful capacity for
wonder. Surprise, however, gave way to unrestrained and indecent
exultation when he learned that the early party had consisted of Kate
and Haddington, and that Eugene himself had escorted them to the
station. Eugene was in too good a temper to be seriously annoyed.
"I know it makes me look an ass," he said, as they smoked the
after-breakfast pipe, "but I suppose that's all in the day's work."
"No doubt. It is the day's work," said Ayre; "but, oh, diplomatic young
man, why didn't you tell us at breakfast that the pope had also gone?"
"Oh, you know that?"
"Of course. My man Timmins brings me what I may call a way-bill every
morning, and against Stafford's name was placed '8.30 train.'"
"Useful man, Timmins," said Eugene. "Did he happen to add why he had
gone?"
"There are limitations even to Timmins. He did not."
"You can guess?"
"Well, I suppose I can," answered Ayre, with some resentment.
"He's given it up, apparently."
"I don't know."
"He must have. Awfully cut up he looked, poor old chap! I was glad Kate
and Haddington didn't see him."
"Poor chap! He takes it hard. Hallo! here's the _fons et origo mali_."
Morewood joined them.
"I have been," he said gravely, "rescuing my picture. That insipid
lunatic had wrapped it up in brown paper, and put it among his socks in
his portmanteau. I couldn't see it anywhere till I routed out the
portmanteau. If it had come to grief I should have entered the Academy."
"Don't give way so," said Ayre; "it's unmanly. Control your emotions."
Eugene rose.
"Where are you going?"
Eugene smiled.
"This," said Ayre to Morewood, with a wave of his hand, "is an abandoned
young man."
"It is," said Morewood. "Bob Territon is going rat-hunting, and proposes
we shall also go. What say you?"
"I say yes," said Sir Roderick, with alacrity. "It's a beastly cruel
sport."
"You have lost," said Morewood, as they walked away together.
"Wait a bit!" said his companion. "But, young Eugene! It's a pity that
young man has no morals."
"Is that so?"
"Oh! not _simpliciter_, you know. _Secundum quid_."
"_Secundum feminam_, in fact?"
"Yes; and I brought him up, too."
"'By their fruits ye shall know them.' But here's Bob and the terriers."
"Don't you fellows ever have a sister," said Bob, as he came up;
"Claudia's just savage because the pope's gone. Can't get her morning
absolution, you know."
"Are absolution and ablution the same word, Morewood?" asked Ayre.
"Don't know. Ask the Rector. He's sure to turn up when he hears of the
rats."
"I think they must be--a sort of spiritual tub. But Morewood will never
admit he's been educated. It detracts from his claim to genius."
Eugene, freed from this frivolous company, was not long in discovering
Claudia's whereabouts. He felt like a boy released from school and,
turning his eyes away from future difficulties, was determined to enjoy
himself while he could. Claudia was seated on the lawn in complete
idleness and, apparently, considerable discontent.
"Do your guests always scurry away without saying good-by to anybody,
Mr. Lane?" she asked.
"I hope that you, at least, will not. But didn't Kate say good-by, or
Haddington?"
"I meant Father Stafford, of course."
"Oh, he had to go. He sent an apology to you and all the party."
"Did he tell you why he had to go?"
"No," said Eugene, regarding her with covert attention.
"It's a pity if he's unaccountable. I like him so much otherwise."
"You don't like unaccountable people?"
Claudia seemed quite willing to let Stafford drop out of the
conversation.
"No," she said; "I tolerate you, Mr. Lane, because I always know exactly
what you'll do."
"Do you?" he asked, only moderately pleased. A man likes to be thought a
little mysterious. No doubt Claudia knew that.
"I don't think you know what I am going to do now."
"What?"
"I'm going to ask you if you know why Father Stafford--"
"Oh, please excuse me, Mr. Lane. I can't speculate on your friend's
motives. I don't profess to understand him."
This might be indifference; it sounded to Eugene very like pique.
"I thought you might know."
"Mr. Lane," said Claudia, "either you mean something or you don't. If
the one, you're taking a liberty, and one entirely without excuse; if
the other, you are simply tedious."
"I beg your pardon," said Eugene stiffly.
Claudia gave a little laugh.
"Why do you make me be so aggressive? I don't want to be. Was I awfully
severe?"
"Yes, rather."
"I meant it, you know. But did you come quite resolved to quarrel? _I_
want to be pleasant." And Claudia raised her eyes with a reproachful
glance.
"In anger or otherwise, you are always delightful," said Eugene
politely.
"I accept that as a diplomatic advance--not in its literal sense. After
all, I must be nice to you. You're all alone this morning."
"Lady Claudia," said he gravely, "either you mean something or you do
not. If the one--"
"Be quiet this moment!" she said, laughing.
He obeyed and lay back in his low chair with a sigh of content.
"Yes; never mind Stafford and never mind Kate. Why should we? They're
not here."
"My silence is not to be taken for consent," said Claudia, "only it's
too fine a day to spend in trying to improve you or, indeed, anybody
else. But I shall not forget any of my friends."
Now up to this point Eugene had behaved tolerably well. It is, however,
a dangerous thing to set yourself deliberately to study a lady's
attractions. Like all other one-sided views of a subject, it is apt to
carry you too far. The sun and the wind were playing about in Claudia's
hair, her eyes were full of light, and her whole air, in spite of a
genuine effort after demureness, conveyed to any self-respecting man an
irresistible challenge to make himself agreeable if he could. Eugene's
notions of making himself agreeable were, as may have been gathered,
liberal; they certainly included more than can be considered strictly
incumbent on young men in society. And, besides being polite, Eugene was
also curious. It is one thing to silently suffer under a passion which a
sense of duty forbids; such a position has its pleasures. The situation
is altered when the idea dawns upon you that there is no reciprocity of
graceful suffering; that, in fact, the lady may prefer somebody else.
Eugene wanted to know where he stood.
"Shall you be sorry to leave here?" he asked.
"My feelings will be mixed. You see, Rickmansworth has actually
consented to take me with him to his moor, and that will be great fun."
"Why, you don't go killing birds?"
"No, I don't kill birds."
"There'll be only a pack of men there."
"That's all. But I don't mind that--if the scenery is good."
"I believe you're trying to make me angry."
"Oh, no! I know Sir Roderick doesn't let you be angry. It's not good
form."
"Have you no heart, Claudia?"
"I don't know. But I have a prefix."
"Have you, after ten years' friendship?"
Claudia laughed.
"You make me rather old. Were we friends when I was ten?"
"Oh, bother dates! I don't count by time?"
"Really, Mr. Lane, if you were anybody else I should call this absurd.
It would be flattering you and myself to call it wrong."
"Why?"
"Because that would imply you were serious."
"Would it be wrong if I were?"
"Well, it would be generally considered so, under the circumstances."
"I don't care about that. I have endured it long enough. Oh, Claudia!
don't you see?"
"I suppose so," thought Claudia, "I ought to crush him at this point. I
think I'll wait a little bit, though."
"See what?" she said.
"Why, that--that--"
"Well?"
"Hang it! why is it always so abominably absurd? Why, that I love the
ground you tread on, Claudia? Is this wretched thing to keep us apart!"
"Mr. Lane, you're magnificent; but isn't there a trifling assumption in
your last remark?"
"How?"
"Well, you seemed--perhaps you didn't mean it--to imply that only that
'wretched thing' kept _us_ apart. That's rather taking me for granted,
isn't it?"
"Ah! you know I didn't mean it. But if things were different, could
you--"
"A conditional proposal is a new fashion. Is that one of Sir Roderick's
ideas?"
Eugene was at last angry. He was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"I see. I must congratulate you."
"On what?"
"On having bagged a brace--without accident to yourself. But I have had
enough of it."
And without waiting for a reply to this very rude speech, he rose and
flung himself across the lawn into the house.
Claudia seemed less angry than she ought to have been. She sat with a
little smile for a moment, then she threw her hat in the air and caught
it, then lay back, sighed gently, and murmured:
"Heigho! a brace means two, doesn't it? Who's the other? Oh! Mr.
Haddington, I suppose. I didn't think he knew. Poor Eugene! He's very
angry, or he'd never have been so rude. 'Bagged a brace!'"
And she actually laughed again, and then said "Heigho!" again.
Just at this moment Ayre came up the drive, looking very hot and very
disgusted. Seeing Claudia, he came and sat down.
"Bob's rat-hunting's a mere fraud," he said. "I was there half an hour,
and we only bagged a brace."
"What a curious coincidence!" exclaimed Claudia.
"How a coincidence!"
"Oh, nothing. Bagging a brace means killing two, doesn't it?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Oh, I wanted to know."
Ayre looked at her.
"Where's Eugene?"
"He was here just now, but he's gone into the house."
Ayre stroked his mustache meditatively.
"Did you want him?"
"No, not particularly. I thought I should find him here."
"You would if you'd come a little sooner."
"Ah! I'll go and find him."
"Yes, I should."
And off he went.
"It is really very pleasant," said Claudia, "to prevent Sir Roderick
finding out things that he wants to find out. I think it does me
credit--and it annoys him so very much. I will go and have a nice drive
with Mrs. Lane, and see some old women. I feel as if I ought to do
something proper."
And perhaps it was about time.