Stafford in Retreat, and Sir Roderick in Action.
When Stafford got into the train on his headlong flight from Millstead
Manor, he had no settled idea of his destination, and he arrived in
London without having made much progress toward a resolution. Not
knowing what he wanted, he could not decide where he was most likely to
find it. Did he want to forget or to think; to repent or to resolve?
This is the alternative that presents itself to a mind puzzled to know
whether its doubt is a concession to sin or a homage to reason. Stafford
had been bred in a school widely different from that which treats all
questions as open, and all to be referred to the verdict of the balance
of expediency. Among other lessons, he had been taught a deep distrust
of the instrument by which he was forced to guide his actions. But no
training had succeeded in eradicating a strong mind's instinct of
self-confidence, and if up till now he had committed no rebellion, it
was because his reason had been rather a voluntary and eager helper than
a captive or slave to the tribunal he distinguished from it by the name
of conscience. With some surprise at himself--a surprise that now took
the place of shame--he recognized that he was not ready to take
everything for granted, that he must know that what he was flying from
was in fact sin, not only that it might be. That it was sin he fully
believed, but he would be sure. So much triumph his passion extorted
from him as he paced irresolutely up and down the square in front of
Euston, after seeing Kate and Haddington safely away, while the porter
and cabman wondered why the traveler seemed not sure where he wanted to
go. Of their wonder and their irreverent suggestions he was supremely
careless.
No, he would not go back at once to his active work. Not only did his
health still forbid that--and, indeed, last night's struggle seemed to
him to have undone most of the good he had gained from the quiet of
Millstead--but, what was more, he believed, above all, in the importance
of the state of the pastor's own soul, and was convinced that his work
would be weak and futile done under such conditions; that in theological
language, there would be no blessing on it. When he had once reached
that conclusion, his path was plain before him. He would go to the
Retreat. This word Retreat has become familiar to those who study
ecclesiastical items in the paper. But the Retreat Stafford had in his
mind was not quite of the common kind. It had been founded by one of the
leaders of his party, and was intended to serve the function of a
spiritual casual ward, whither those who were for the moment at a loss
might resort and find refuge until they had time to turn round. It was
not a permanent home for any one. After his stay, the visitor returned
to the world if he would; if he were finally disabled he was passed on
to a permanent residence of another kind. The Retreat was a temporary
refuge only. Sometimes it was full, sometimes it was empty; save for the
Superintendent, as he was called; for religious terms were avoided, and
a severe neutrality of description forbade the possibility of the
Retreat itself seeming to take any side in the various mental battles
for which it afforded a clear field, remote from interruption and from
the bias alike of the world and of previous religious prepossessions. A
man was entirely left to himself at the Retreat. Save at the dinner
hour, no one spoke to him except the Superintendent. The rule of his
office was that he should always be ready to listen on all subjects, and
to talk on all indifferent subjects. Advice and exhortation were
forbidden to him. If a man wanted the ordinary consolations of religion,
his case was not the special case the Retreat was founded to meet. When
nobody could help a man, and nothing was left for him but to go through
with the struggle in his own soul, then he came to the Retreat. There
he stayed till he reached some conclusion: that is, if he could reach
one within a reasonable time; for the pretense of unconquerable
hesitation was not received. When he arrived at his resolve, he went
away: what the resolve was, and where he was going, whether to High or
Low, to Rome or Islington, to Church or Dissent, or even to Mohammed or
Theosophy, or what not, or nothing, nobody asked. Such a foundation had
struck many devoted followers of the Founder as little better than a
negation or an abdication. The Founder thought otherwise. "If forms and
words are of any use to him, a man will never come," he said; "if he
comes, let him alone." And it may be that this difference between the
Founder and his disciples was due to the fact that the Founder believed
that, given a fair field in any honest mind, his views must prevail,
whereas the disciples were not so strong in faith.
It is very possible the disciples were right, in a way; but still the
Founder's scheme now and then caught a great prize that the disciples
would have lost through their overgreat meddling. The Founder would have
repudiated the idea of differences in value between souls. But men
sometimes act on ideas they repudiate, and with very good results.
Whatever the merits or demerits of the Retreat might be, it was just the
place Stafford wanted. He shrank, almost with loathing, from the
thought of exposing himself to well meant ministrations from men who
were his inferiors: the theory of the equalizing effect of the sacred
office, which appears to be held in great tranquillity by many who see
the absurdity of parallel ideas applied in other spheres, was one of the
fictions that proved entirely powerless over his mind at this juncture.
He did not say to himself that fools were fools and blind men blind,
whatever their office, degree, or profession, but he was driven to the
Retreat by a thought that a brutal speaker might have rendered for him
in those words without essential misrepresentation. Above all, he wanted
quiet--time to understand the new forces and to estimate the good or
evil of the new ideas.
Arriving there late in the evening of the same day on which he left
Millstead, for the Retreat was situated on the borders of Exmoor and the
journey from Paddington was long and slow, he was received by the
Superintendent with the grave welcome and studious absence of
questioning that was the rule of the house. The Superintendent was an
elderly man, inclining to stoutness and of unyielding placidity. It was
suspected that the Founder had taken pains to choose a man who would
observe his injunction of not meddling with thorny questions the more
strictly from his own inability to understand them.
"We are very empty just now," he said, with a sigh. Poor man! perhaps
it was dull. "Only two, besides yourself."
"The fewer the better," said Stafford, with a smile, half in earnest,
half humoring the genius of the place.
The Superintendent looked as if he might have said something on the
other side but refrained, and, without more ado, made Stafford at home
in the bare little room that was to serve him for sleeping and living.
Stafford was full of weariness, and sank down on the bed with a sense of
momentary respite. He would not begin to think till to-morrow.
Here we must leave him to wage his uncertain battle. When the visible
and the invisible meet in the shock of strife about the soul of a man,
who may describe the changes and chances of the fight? In the peace of
his chosen solitude would he re-conquer the vision that the clouds had
hidden from him? Or would the allurements of his earthly love be less
strong because its dazzling incitements were no longer actually before
his eyes? He had refused all aid and all alliance. He had chosen to try
the issue alone and unbefriended. Was he strong enough?--strong enough
to think on his love, and yet not to bow to it?--strong enough to
picture to himself all its charms, only to refuse to gather them? Should
he not have seized every aid that counsel and authority could offer him?
Would he not find too late that his true strategy had been to fly, and
not to challenge, the encounter? He had fancied he could be himself the
impartial judge in his own cause, however vast the bribe that lay ready
to his hand. The issue of his sojourn alone could tell whether he had
misjudged his strength.
While Stafford mused and strove the world moved on, and with it that
small fraction of it whose movements most nearly bore on the fortunes of
the recluse.
The party at Millstead Manor was finally broken up by the departure of
the Territons and of Morewood about a week after Stafford left. The
cricket-match came off with great _éclat_; in spite of a steady thirteen
from the Rector, who spent two hours in "compiling" it--to use the
technical term--and of several catches missed by Sir Roderick, who was
tried in vain in all positions in the field, the Manor team won by five
wickets, and Bob Territon felt that his summer had been well spent. Ayre
lingered on with Eugene, shooting the coverts till mid September, when
the latter abruptly and perhaps rudely announced that he could not stand
it any longer, and straightway took himself off to the Continent,
sending a line to Stafford to apprise him of the fact, and another to
Kate, to say he would have no address for the next month.
For a moment Sir Roderick was at a loss. He was tired of shooting; he
hated yachting; the ordinary country-house visit was nothing but
shooting in the daytime and unmitigated boredom in the evening. Really
he didn't know what to do with himself. This alarming state of mind
might have issued in some incongruous activity of a useful sort, had not
he been rescued from it by the sudden discovery that he had a mission.
This revelation dawned upon him in consequence of a note he received
from Lord Rickmansworth. It appeared that that nobleman had very soon
got tired of his moor, had resigned it into the eager hands of Bob
Territon, and was now at Baden-Baden. This was certainly odd, and the
writer evidently knew it would appear so; he therefore appended an
explanation which was entirely satisfactory to Sir Roderick, but which
is, happily, irrelevant to the purposes of this story. What is more to
the purpose, it further appeared that Mrs. Welman, Kate Bernard's aunt,
had discarded Buxton in favor of the same resort, and that Mr.
Haddington, M. P., had also "proceeded" thither.
"They are at the Victoria," wrote Rickmansworth; "I am at the
Badischerhof, and--[irrelevant matter]. I go about a good deal with
them, but it's beastly slow. Haddington is all day in Kate's pocket, and
Kate at best isn't amusing. But what's Lane up to? Do come out here, old
fellow. I'll find you some amusement. Who do you think is here
with--[more irrelevant matter]."
Sir Roderick was influenced in part, no doubt, by the irrelevant matter.
But he also felt that what concerns us concerned him. He had come to a
very definite conclusion that Kate Bernard ought not to marry Eugene
Lane. He was also sure that unless something was done the marriage would
take place. Kate did not care for Eugene, but the match was too good to
be given up. Eugene would never face the turmoil necessary to break it
off.
"I am the man," said Sir Roderick to himself. "I couldn't catch the
parson, but if I can't catch Miss Kate, call me an ass!"
And he took train to Baden, sending off a wire to Morewood to join him
if he could, for a considerable friendship existed between them.
Morewood, however, wouldn't come, and Ayre was forced to make the
journey in solitude.
"I thought I should bring him!" exclaimed Lord Rickmansworth
triumphantly, as he received his friend on the platform, and conducted
him to a very perfect drag which stood at the door. "Oh, you old thief!"
Rickmansworth was a tall, broad, reddish-faced young man, with a jovial
laugh, infinite capacity for being amused at things not intrinsically
humorous, and manners that he had tried, fortunately with imperfect
success, to model on those of a prize-fighter. Ayre liked him for what
he was, while shuddering at what he tried to be.
"I didn't come on that account at all," he said, "I came to look after
some business."
"Get out!" said the Earl pleasantly; "do you think I don't know you?"
Ayre allowed himself to yield in silence. His motives were a little
mixed; and, anyhow, it was not at the moment desirable to explain them.
His vindication would wait.
In the afternoon he paid his call on Mrs. Welman. She was delighted to
see him, not only as a man of social repute, but also because the good
lady was in no little distress of mind. The arrangement between Kate and
Eugene was, as a family arrangement, above perfection. Mrs. Welman was
not rich, and like people who are not rich, she highly esteemed riches;
like most women, she looked with favor on Eugene; the fact of Kate
having some money seemed to her, as it does to most people, a reason for
her marrying somebody who had more, instead of aiding in the beneficent
work of a more equal distribution of wealth. But Kate was undeniably
willful. She treated her engagement, indeed, as an absolutely binding
and unbreakable tie--a fact so conclusively accomplished that it could
almost be ignored. But she received any suggestion of a possible excess
in her graciousness toward Haddington and her acceptance of his society,
as at once a folly and an insult; and as she was of age and paid half
the bills, all means of suasion were conspicuously lacking. Mrs. Welman
was in a position exactly the reverse of the pleasant one; she had
responsibility without power. It is true her responsibility was mainly
a figment of her own brain, but its burden upon her was none the less
heavy for that.
It must be admitted that Ayre's dealings with her were wanting in
candor. Under the guise of family friendship, he led her on to open her
mind to him. He extracted from her detailed accounts of long excursions
into the outskirts of the forest, of numberless walks in the shady
paths, of an expedition to the races (where perfect solitude can always
be obtained), and of many other diversions which Kate and Haddington had
enjoyed together, while she was left to knit "clouds" and chew
reflections in the Kurhaus garden. All this, Ayre recognized, with
lively but suppressed satisfaction, was not as it should be.
"I have spoken to Kate," she concluded, "but she takes no notice; will
you do me a service?"
"Of course," said Ayre; "anything I can."
"Will you speak to Mr. Haddington?"
This by no means suited Ayre's book. Moreover, it would very likely
expose him to a snub, and he had no fancy for being snubbed by a man
like Haddington.
"I can hardly do that. I have no position. I'm not her father, or uncle,
or anything of that sort."
"You might influence him."
"No, he'd tell me to mind my own business. To speak plainly, my dear
lady, it isn't as if Kate couldn't take care of herself. She could stop
his attentions to-morrow if she liked. Isn't it so?"
Mrs. Welman sadly admitted it was.
"The only thing I can do is to keep an eye on them, and act as I think
best; that I will gladly do."
And with this very ambiguous promise poor Mrs. Welman was forced to be
content. Whatever his inward view of his own meaning was, Ayre certainly
fulfilled to the letter his promise of keeping an eye on them. Kate was
at first much annoyed at his appearance; she thought she saw in him an
emissary of Eugene. Sir Roderick tactfully disabused her mind of this
notion, and, without intruding himself, he managed to be with them a
good deal, and with Haddington alone a good deal more. Moreover, even
when absent, he could generally have given a shrewd guess where they
were and what they were doing. Without altogether neglecting the other
claims at which Rickmansworth had hinted, and which resolved themselves
into a long-standing and entirely platonic attachment, he yet devoted
himself with zest and assiduity to his self-imposed task.
In its prosecution he contrived to make use of Rickmansworth to some
extent. The young man was a hospitable soul, delighting in parties and
picnics. Only consent to sit with him on his four-in-hand and let him
drive you, and he cheerfully feasted you and all your friends. His
acquaintance was large, and not, perhaps, very select. But Ayre
insisted on the proper distinctions being observed, and was indebted to
Rickmansworth's parties for many opportunities of observation. He was
sure Haddington meant to marry Kate if he could; the scruples which had
in some degree restrained his actions, though not his designs, at
Millstead, had vanished, and he was pushing his suit, firmly and
daringly ignoring the fact of the engagement. Kate did nothing to remind
him of it that Ayre could see, but her behavior, on the other hand,
convinced him that Haddington was to her only a second string, and that,
unless compelled, she would not let Eugene go. She took occasion more
than once to show him that she regarded her relation to Eugene as fully
existent. No doubt she thought there was a chance that such words might
find their way to Eugene's ears. It is hardly necessary to say they did
not.
Watch as he might Ayre's chance was slow in coming. He knew very well
that the fact of a young lady, deserted by him who ought to have been in
attendance, consoling herself with a flirtation with somebody else, was
not enough for him to go upon. He must have something more tangible than
that. He did not, indeed, look for anything that would compel Eugene to
act; he had no expectation and, to do him justice, no hope of that, for
he knew Eugene would act on nothing but an extreme necessity. His hope
lay in Kate herself. On her he was prepared to have small mercy;
against her he felt justified in playing the very rigor of the game. But
for a long while he had no opportunity of beginning the rubber. A
fortnight wore away, and nothing was done. Ayre determined to wait on
events no longer; he would try his hand at shaping them.
"I wonder if Rick is too great a fool?" he said to himself meditatively
one morning, as he crossed one of the little bridges, and took his way
to the Kurhaus in search of his friend. "I must try him."
He found Lord Rickmansworth alone, but quite content. It was one of his
happy characteristics that he existed with delight under almost any
circumstances. One of his team was lame, and a great friend of his was
sulky and had sent him away, and yet he sat radiantly cheerful, with a
large cigar in his mouth and a small terrier by his side, subjecting
every lady who passed to a respectful and covert but none the less
searching and severe examination.
"I say, Rick, have you seen Haddington lately?"
"Yes; he's gone down the road with Kate Bernard to play tennis, or some
such foolery."
"With Kate?"
"Rather! Didn't expect anything else, did you?"
"Does he mean to marry that girl?" asked Ayre, with a face of great
innocence, much as if it had just occurred to him.
"Well, he can't, unless she chucks old Eugene over."
"Will she, do you think?"
"Well, I'm afraid not. I've got some money on that they're never
married, but I don't see my way to handling it."
"Much?"
"Well, no; about twopence-halfpenny--a fancy bet."
"I'm glad it's nothing, because I want you to help me, and you couldn't
have if you had anything on; besides, you shouldn't bet on such things."
"Oh, I'm not going to meddle with the thing. It's enough work to prevent
one's self getting married, without troubling about other people. But I
rather like you telling me not to bet on it!"
"She wouldn't suit Eugene."
"No; lead him the devil of a life."
"She don't care for him."
"Not a straw."
"Then, why don't she break it off?"
"Ah, you innocent?" said Rickmansworth, with a broad grin. "Never heard
of such a thing as money in the case, did you? Where have you been these
last five-and-forty years?"
"Your raillery's a little fatiguing, Rick, if you don't mind my saying
so."
"Say anything you like, old chap, as long as it isn't swearing. That's
_verbot_ here--penalty one mark--see regulations. You must go outside,
if you want to curse, barring of course you're a millionaire and like to
make a splash."
"Rick, Rick, you do not amuse me. I do not belong to the Albatross
Club."
"No; over age," replied his companion blandly, and chuckled violently.
"I like to score off old Ayre, you know," he said, in reporting the
episode afterward. "He thinks himself smart."
"But look here. I want you to do this: you go to Haddington and stir him
up; tell him to bustle along; tell him Kate is fooling him, and make him
put it to her--yes or no."
"Why? it's not my funeral!"
"Is that your latest American? I wish you'd find native slang; we used
in my day; but I'll tell you why. It's because she's keeping him on till
she sees what Eugene'll do. She's treating Eugene shamefully."
"Oh, stow all that! Eugene is not so remarkably strict, you know." And
Lord Rickmansworth winked.
"Well, we'll leave that out," said Ayre smiling. "Tell him it's treating
_him_ shamefully."
"That's more the ticket. But what if she says 'No'?"
"If she says 'No' right out, I'm done," said Ayre. "But will she?"
"The devil only knows!" said Lord Rickmansworth.
"Do you think you won't bungle it?"
"Do you take me for an ass? I'll make him move, Ayre; he shall give her
a chaste salute before the day's out. Old Eugene's no better than he
should be, but I'll see him through."
Ayre thought privately that his companion had perhaps other motives than
love for Eugene: perhaps family feelings, generally dormant, had
asserted themselves; but he had the wisdom not to hint at this.
"If you can frighten him, he'll press it on."
"Do you think I might lie a bit?"
"No, I shouldn't lie. It's awkward. Besides, you know you wouldn't do
it, and you couldn't if you tried."
"I'll stir him up," reiterated Rickmansworth. "Give me my prayer-book
and parasol, and I'll go and find him."
Ayre ignored what he supposed to be the joke buried in this saying, and
saw his friend off on his errand, repeating his instructions as he went.
What Lord Rickmansworth said to Mr. Haddington has never, as the
newspapers put it, transpired. But ever since that date Sir Roderick has
always declared that Rick is not such a fool as he looks. Certainly the
envoy was well pleased with himself when he rejoined his companion at
dinner, and after imbibing a full glass of champagne, said:
"To-night, my worthy old friend, you will see."
"Did he bite?"
"He bit. That fellow's no fool. He saw Kate's game when I pointed it
out."
"Will he stand up to her?"
"Rather! going to hold a pistol to her head."
"I wonder what she'll say?"
"That's your lookout. I've done my stage."
Ayre was nearer excitement than he had been for a long while. After
dinner he could not rest. Refusing to accompany Rickmansworth to the
entertainment the latter was bound for, he strolled out into the quiet
walks outside the Kurhaus, which were deserted by visitors and peopled
only by a few frugal natives, who saved their money and took the music
of the band from a cheap distance. But surely some power was fighting
for him, for before he had gone a hundred yards he saw on one of the
seats in front of him two persons whom the light of the moon clearly
displayed as Kate and Haddington. At Baden there is a little
hillside--one path runs at the bottom, another runs along the side of
the hill, halfway up. Ayre hastily diverted his steps into the upper
path. A minute's walk brought him directly behind the pair. Trees hid
him from them; a seat invited him. For a moment he struggled. Then,
_rubesco referens_, he sat down and deliberately listened. With the
sophisms by which he sought to justify this action, we have no concern;
perhaps he was not in reality much concerned about them. But what he
heard had its importance.
"I have been more patient than most men," Haddington was saying.
"You have no right to speak in that way," Kate protested; "it's--it's
not respectful."
"Kate, have we not got beyond respect?"
"I hope not," said Sir Roderick to himself.
"I mean," Haddington went on, "there is a point at which you must face
realities. Kate, do you love me?"
Ayre leant forward and peered through the bushes.
"I will not break my engagement."
"That is no answer."
"I can't help it. I have been taught--"
"Oh, taught! Kate, you know Lane; you know what he is. You saw him with
Lady--"
"You're very unkind."
"And for his sake you throw away what I offer?"
"Won't you be patient?"
"Ah, you admit--"
"No, I don't!"
"But you can't deny it. Now you make me happy."
The conversation here became so low in tone that Ayre, to his vast
disgust, was unable to overhear it. The next words that reached his ear
came again from Haddington.
"Well, I will wait--I will wait three months. If nothing happens then,
you will break it off?"
A gentle "Yes" floated up to the eavesdropper.
"Though why you want him to break it off rather than yourself, I don't
know."
"He doesn't appreciate her morality," reflected Ayre, with a chuckle.
"Kate, we are promised to one another? secretly, if you like, but
promised?"
"I'm afraid it's very wrong."
"Why, he deliberately insulted you!"
The tones again became inaudible; but after a pause there came a sound
that made Ayre almost jump.
"By Jove!" he whispered in his excitement. "Confound these trees! Was it
only her hand, or--"
"Then I have your promise, dear?"
"Yes; in three months. But I must go in. Aunt will be angry."
"You won't let him win you over?"
"He has treated me badly; but I don't want it said I jilted him."
They had risen by now.
"You ask such a lot of me," said Haddington.
"Ah! I thought you said you loved me. Can't you wait three months?"
"I suppose I must. But, Kate, you are sincere with me? Tell me you love
me."
Again Ayre leant forward. They had began to walk away, but now
Haddington stopped, and laying his hand on Kate's arm, detained her.
"Say you love me," he said again.
"Yes, I love you!" said Kate, with commendable confusion, and they
resumed their walk.
"What is her game?" Ayre asked himself. "If she means to throw Eugene
over, why doesn't she do it right out? I don't believe she does. She's
afraid he'll throw her over. And, by Jove! she fobbed that fool off
again! We're no further forward than we were. If he makes trouble about
this she'll deny the whole thing. Miss Bernard is a lady of talent.
But--no, can I? Yes, I will. Rather than let her win, I'll step in. I'll
go and see her to-morrow. We shall neither of us be in a position to
reproach the other. But I'll see what I can do. But Haddington! To think
she should get round him again!"