Laurence swung himself down from the high, two-wheeled dogcart at the
front door. The sky was lowering, the evening sultry after a burning
day. Down in the south-east a storm was brewing, with low mutterings of
thunder. The air was curiously still, yet now and again, among the thick
foliage of the limes and chestnuts, a few leaves would flutter
tumultuously as though stricken with panic, and then become motionless
as suddenly and causelessly as they had become agitated. Laurence was
late and had driven home rapidly, not sparing his horse--a young,
thorough-bred brown, which he had bought about a fortnight before, and
which was new as yet to harness. It was all of a lather and sweat, and
stood with outstretched neck and open, heavily-breathing nostrils. He
looked at it with a slight sense of compunction, and gave some orders to
the groom. It was a little hard to have pressed the poor beast; but he
had been out all the afternoon, mapping out the projected course of the
light railway to the Hazledown quarries, with Armstrong and an
engineering expert, and he had been kept later than he anticipated. As
it was, he had barely time for a bath, and to dress, before dinner at a
quarter-past eight. His mind still ran upon questions of gradients and
detail of expenditure. He had thrown himself energetically into
practical work. It was best to do so, with the climax of his great
adventure looming so large just ahead. All day he had been conscious of
a quiet, sustained excitement engendered by the double life he was
leading. It stimulated the action of his brain. The engineer had warmly
approved some of his suggestions and adopted them. This pleased
Laurence. It was not a little satisfactory to find himself thus capable
and "on the spot," while interests of so very different a character
formed the under-current of his thought. It fed self-confidence, and
justified his determination of daring action.
After a look, first at the sweating horse and then at the lowering sky,
he hurried into the hall. The storm, if it came up at all, would not
break yet. Probably it would travel along the northern horizon following
the line of the Downs. How hot it was, though! The house felt cool by
comparison with the atmosphere outside. Then, just inside the door, the
two men-servants met him, Renshaw with a salver in his hand.
"A telegram for you, sir," he said--adding--"do you wish dinner put off
for a quarter-of-an-hour or so, sir?"
"No--no," Laurence answered absently, "I shall be down in plenty of
time."
As he spoke he tore open the ugly, orange-coloured envelope. The sheet
of dirty-pink paper within contained but a few words.
"Wanted here immediately. Return next steamer. Virginia."
Laurence bathed, dressed, dined, while at intervals the thunder muttered
far away in the east, and the dark came swiftly as with great strides.
In the centre of the table the cut-glass bowl, upheld by the dancing,
golden figures, again to-night, as on the second night of Laurence's
visit to Stoke Rivers--which now seemed such an incredibly long time
ago--held fantastic, single flowers and sprays of orchids, some mottled,
warty, toad-like, some tiger-coloured striped with black. These last
gave off a heavy, musky scent. The oppressive heat, too, was suggestive
of that earlier evening,--though the windows now stood wide open. But
then, whatever the discomfort of his physical sensations, Laurence had
been light-hearted enough. His life, if not particularly full of
purpose, had at least been free of entanglement. He had neither climbed
heights nor sounded depths. His honour was untarnished, by so much as a
questionable thought. Now the splendour of life had got him, he was in
the full swing of his great opportunity; but his conscience was not
clear as at that former period, and that--which seemed not a little
ironical--though he had lived more austerely than of old, abjuring all
frivolity and denying himself all bodily indulgence.
Laurence juggled neither with himself or with the facts of the case. He
did not whimper or grumble. In accepting the risks of his own action, he
had of necessity accepted this one. It was just the fortune of war--not
an altogether pretty fortune for a man who plumed himself on a nice
taste in matters of honour, perhaps, but that was hardly to the point.
The present position was an inevitable consequence of all which had
preceded it, and was bound to present itself sooner or later. Remorse
and anger were alike futile and out of place. The question resolved
itself into this--what to do next?
Laurence dropped the stump of his cigarette into his finger-bowl, and
sat resting his elbows on the table and his forehead in his hands,
thinking.--For Virginia meant what she said. Of course she did. Virginia
always meant what she said, sometimes a little more--certainly never
less. And her reasons for saying that which she said were always
perfectly convincing to herself. Virginia was never impulsive; her
action was always the outcome of intention. Therefore it was useless to
temporise or ask explanations by means of that far-flashing cable. In
her letters Virginia had lately commented upon the length of his
absence--quite good-temperedly. Virginia was always good-tempered;
partly, perhaps, because she had never had occasion to learn what
opposition meant. This telegram was her ultimatum; but whether delivered
of her own free will and initiative, or in deference to some unusual
circumstance, illness, accident, or sudden financial crisis, he could
not, of course, divine. Yet even so, the position remained very simple.
There were but two paths. One or other he must choose. Either he must
obey her, and that unquestioningly and directly--this was Thursday, the
next American mail left Liverpool at the end of the week--or he must
refuse; and that, he believed, meant a break with Virginia.
Laurence remained very still for a time. A break with Virginia?--Yes;
the storm was working round by the north as he had anticipated.--He had
no complaint to make against Virginia, Heaven forbid! She was just
precisely that which she had always been--in her own sphere and
connection, from the modern and mundane point of view, an eminently and
admirably clever person. He agreed with her disciple, Mrs. Bellingham,
that in social affairs she possessed a _savoir faire_ and intelligence
amounting to positive genius. She was absolutely self-reliant. She had
never been surprised or nonplussed in all her life, and--and--
Laurence rose to his feet, crossed the room and rang the bell. His face
had grown singularly hard. It bore but slight resemblance to that of his
namesake, the gallant and debonair young Laurence Rivers of the Cosway
miniature. Indeed, his eyes were coldly brilliant, his lips almost as
thin as those of Montagu Rivers, his uncle, but lately dead.--Well, he
proposed to enlarge Virginia's experience. He proposed to surprise, to
nonplus her. It was a blackguardly thing to do, and she, of all women,
would be the last to forgive it. So much the better, he did not want her
to forgive it. He proposed to repudiate Virginia, he proposed to desert
her--and then, fortunately, the American divorce laws are easy.