HAROLD CAFFYN MAKES A DISCOVERY.
Harold Caffyn had not found much improvement in his professional
prospects since we first made his acquaintance; his disenchantment was
in fact becoming complete. He had taken to the stage at first in
reliance on the extravagant eulogies of friends, forgetting that the
standard for amateurs in any form of art is not a high one, and he
was very soon brought to his proper level. A good appearance and
complete self-possession were about his sole qualifications, unless we
add the voice and manner of a man in good society, which are not by
any means the distinctive advantages that they were a few years ago.
The general verdict of his fellow-professionals was, 'Clever enough,
but no actor,' and he was without the sympathy or imagination to
identify himself completely with any character and feelings opposed to
his own; he had obtained one distinct success, and one only--at a
_matinée_, when a new comedy was presented in which a part of some
consequence had been entrusted to him. He was cast for a cool and
cynical adventurer, with a considerable dash of the villain in him,
and played it admirably, winning very favourable notices from the
press, although the comedy itself resulted as is not infrequent with
_matinées_, in a dismal fiasco. However, the _matinée_ proved for a
time of immense service to him in the profession, and even led to his
being chosen by his manager to represent the hero of the next
production at his own theatre--a poetical drama which had excited
great interest before its appearance--and if Caffyn could only have
made his mark in it, his position would have been assured from that
moment. But the part was one of rather strained sentiment, and he
could not, rather than would not, make it effective. In spite of
himself, his manner suggested rather than concealed any extravagances
in the dialogue, and, worse still, gave the impression that he was
himself contemptuously conscious of them; the consequence being that
he repelled the sympathies of his audience to a degree that very
nearly proved fatal to the play. After that unlucky first night the
part was taken from him, and his engagement, which terminated shortly
afterwards, was not renewed.
Caffyn was not the man to overcome his deficiencies by hard and
patient toil; he had counted upon an easy life with immediate
triumphs, and the reality baffled and disheartened him. He might soon
have slid into the lounging life of a man about town, with a moderate
income, expensive tastes, and no occupation, and from that perhaps
even to shady and questionable walks of life. But he had an object
still in keeping his head above the social waters, and the object was
Mabel Langton.
He had long felt that there was a secret antagonism on her side
towards himself, which at first he had found amusement in provoking to
an occasional outburst, but was soon piqued into trying to overcome
and disarm, and the unexpected difficulty of this had produced in him
a state of mind as nearly approaching love as he was capable of.
He longed for the time when his wounded pride would be salved by the
consciousness that he had at last obtained the mastery of this wayward
nature, when he would be able to pay off the long score of slights and
disdains which he had come to exaggerate morbidly; he was resolved to
conquer her sooner or later in defiance of all obstacles, and he had
found few natures capable of resisting him long after he had set
himself seriously to subdue them.
But Mabel had been long in showing any sign of yielding. For some time
after the loss of the 'Mangalore' she had been depressed and silent to
a degree which persuaded Caffyn that his old jealousy of Holroyd was
well-grounded, and when she recovered her spirits somewhat, while she
was willing to listen and laugh or talk to him, there was always the
suggestion of an armistice in her manner, and any attempt on his part
to lead the conversation to something beyond mere badinage was sure to
be adroitly parried or severely put down, as her mood varied.
Quite recently, however, there had been a slight change for the
better; she had seemed more pleased to see him, and had shown more
sympathy and interest in his doings. This was since his one success at
the _matinée_, and he told himself triumphantly that she had at last
recognised his power; that the long siege was nearly over.
He would have been much less complacent had he known the truth, which
was this. At the _matinée_ Mabel had certainly been at first surprised
almost to admiration by an unexpected display of force on Caffyn's
part. But as the piece went on, she could not resist an impression
that this was not acting, but rather an unconscious revelation of his
secret self; the footlights seemed to be bringing out the hidden
character of the man as though it had been written on him in
sympathetic ink.
As she leaned back in the corner of the box he had sent them, she
began to remember little traits of boyish malice and cruelty. Had they
worked out of his nature, as such strains sometimes will, or was this
stage adventurer, cold-blooded, unscrupulous, with a vein of
diabolical humour in his malevolence, the real Harold Caffyn?
And then she had seen the injustice of this and felt almost ashamed of
her thoughts, and with the wish to make some sort of reparation, and
perhaps the consciousness that she had not given him many
opportunities of showing her his better side, her manner towards him
had softened appreciably.
Caffyn only saw the effects, and argued favourably from them. 'Now
that fellow Holroyd is happily out of the way,' he thought, 'she
doesn't care for anybody in particular. I've only to wait.'
There were considerations other than love or pride which made the
marriage a desirable one to him. Mabel's father was a rich man, and
Mabel herself was entitled independently to a considerable sum on
coming of age. He could hardly do better for himself than by making
such a match, even from the pecuniary point of view.
And so he looked about him anxiously for some opening more suitable to
his talent than the stage-door, for he was quite aware that at present
Mabel's father, whatever Mabel herself might think, would scarcely
consider him a desirable _parti_.
Caffyn had been lucky enough to impress a business friend of his with
a firm conviction of his talents for business and management, and this
had led to a proposal that he should leave the stage and join him,
with a prospect of a partnership should the alliance prove a success.
The business was a flourishing one, and the friend a young man who had
but recently succeeded to the complete control of it, while Caffyn had
succeeded somehow in acquiring a tolerably complete control of _him_.
So the prospect was really an attractive one, and he felt that now at
last he might consider the worst obstacles to his success with Mabel
were disposed of.
He had plenty of leisure time on his hands at present, and thought he
would call at Kensington Park Gardens one afternoon, and try the
effect of telling Mabel of his prospects. She had been so cordial and
sympathetic of late that it would be strange if she did not express
some sort of pleasure, and it would be for him to decide then whether
or not his time had come to speak of his hopes.
* * * * *
Mrs. and Miss Langton were out, he was told at the door. 'Miss Dolly
was in,' added Champion, to whom Caffyn was well known.
'Then I'll see Miss Dolly,' said Caffyn, thinking that he might be
able to pass the time until Mabel's return. 'In the morning-room is
she? All right.'
He walked in alone, to find Dolly engaged in tearing off the postage
stamp from a letter. 'Hallo, Miss Juggins, what mischief are you up to
now?' he began, as he stood in the doorway.
'It's not mischief at all,' said Dolly, hardly deigning to look up
from her occupation. 'What have you come in for, Harold?'
'For the pleasure of your conversation,' said Caffyn. 'You know you
always enjoy a talk with me, Dolly.' (Dolly made a little mouth at
this.) 'But what are you doing with those scissors and that envelope,
if I'm not indiscreet in asking?'
Dolly was in a subdued and repentant mood just then, for she had been
so unlucky as to offend Colin the day before, and he had not yet
forgiven her. It had happened in this way. It had been a half-holiday,
and Colin had brought home an especial friend of his to spend the
afternoon, to be shown his treasures and, in particular, to give his
opinion as an expert on the merits of Colin's collection of foreign
postage-stamps.
Unhappily for Colin's purpose, however, Dolly had completely enslaved
the friend from the outset. Charmed by his sudden interest in the most
unboyish topics, she had carried him off to see her doll's house, and,
in spite of Colin's grumbling dissuasion, the base friend had gone
meekly. Worse still, he had remained up there listening to Dolly's
personal anecdotes and reminiscences and seeing Frisk put through his
performances, until it was too late to do anything like justice to the
stamp album, over which Colin had been sulkily fuming below, divided
between hospitality and impatience.
Dolly had been perfectly guiltless of the least touch of coquetry in
thus monopolising the visitor, for she was not precocious in this
respect, and was merely delighted to find a boy who, unlike Colin,
would condescend to sympathise with her pursuits; but perhaps the boy
himself, a susceptible youth, found Dolly's animated face and eager
confidences more attractive than the rarest postal issues.
When he had gone, Colin's pent-up indignation burst out on the
unsuspecting Dolly. She had done it on purpose. She knew Dickinson
major came to see his stamps. What did _he_ care about her rubbishy
dolls? And there she had kept him up in the nursery for hours wasting
his time! It was too bad of her, and so on, until she wept with grief
and penitence.
And now she was seizing the opportunity of purchasing his forgiveness
by an act of atonement in kind, in securing what seemed to her to be
probably a stamp of some unknown value--to a boy. But she did not tell
all this to Caffyn.
'Do you know about stamps--is this a rare one?' she said, and brought
the stamp she had removed to Caffyn. The postmark had obliterated the
name upon it.
'Let's look at the letter,' said Caffyn; and Dolly put it in his
hand.
He took it to the window, and gave a slight start. 'When did this
come?' he said sharply.
'Just now,' said Dolly; 'a minute or two before you came. I heard the
postman, and I ran out into the hall to see the letters drop in the
box, and then I saw this one with the stamp, and the box wasn't
locked, so I took it out and tore the stamp off. Why do you look like
that, Harold? It's only for Mabel, and she won't mind.'
Caffyn was still at the window; he had just received a highly
unpleasant shock, and was trying to get over it and adjust himself to
the facts revealed by what he held in his hand.
The letter was from India, bore a Colombo postmark, and was in Vincent
Holroyd's hand, which Caffyn happened to know; if further proof were
required he had it by pressing the thin paper of the envelope against
the inclosure beneath, when several words became distinctly legible,
besides those visible already through the gap left by the stamp. Thus
he read, 'Shall not write again till you----' and lower down Holroyd's
full signature.
And the letter had that moment arrived. He saw no other possible
conclusion than that, by some extraordinary chance, Holroyd had
escaped the fate which was supposed to have befallen him. He was
alive; a more dangerous rival after this than ever. This letter might
even contain a proposal!
'No use speaking to Mabel after she has once seen this. Confound the
fellow! Why the deuce couldn't he stay in the sea? It's just my
infernal luck!'
As he thought of the change this letter would work in his prospects,
and his own complete powerlessness to prevent it, the gloom and
perplexity on his face deepened. He had been congratulating himself on
the removal of this particular man as a providential arrangement made
with some regard to his own convenience. And to see him resuscitated,
at that time of all others, was hard indeed to bear. And yet what
could he do?
As Caffyn stood by the window with Holroyd's letter in his hand, he
felt an insane temptation for a moment to destroy or retain it. Time
was everything just then, and even without the fragment he had been
able to read, he could, from his knowledge of the writer, conclude
with tolerable certainty that he would not write again without having
received an answer to his first letter. 'If I was only alone with it!'
he thought impatiently. But he was a prudent young man, and perfectly
aware of the consequences of purloining correspondence; and besides,
there was Dolly to be reckoned with--she alone had seen the thing as
yet. But then she _had_ seen it, and was not more likely to hold her
tongue about that than any other given subject. No, he could do
nothing; he must let things take their own course and be hanged to
them!
His gloomy face filled Dolly with a sudden fear; she forgot her
dislike, and came timidly up to him and touched his arm. 'What's the
matter, Harold?' she faltered. 'Mabel won't be angry. I--I haven't
done anything _wrong_, have I, Harold?'
He came out of his reverie to see her upturned face raised to his--and
started; his active brain had in that instant decided on a desperate
expedient, suggested by the sight of the trouble in her eyes. 'By
Jove, I'll try!' he thought; 'it's worth it--she's such a child--I may
manage it yet!'
'Wrong!' he said impressively, 'it's worse than that. My poor Dolly,
didn't you really know what you were doing?'
'N--no,' said Dolly; 'Harold, don't tease me--don't tell me what isn't
true ... it--it frightens me so!'
'My dear child, what can I tell you? Surely you know that what you did
was stealing?'
'Stealing!' echoed Dolly, with great surprised eyes. 'Oh, no,
Harold--not _stealing_. Why, of course I shall tell Mabel, and ask her
for the stamp afterwards--only if I hadn't torn it off first, she
might throw it away before I could ask, you know!'
'I'm afraid it was stealing all the same,' said Caffyn, affecting a
sorrowfully compassionate tone; 'nothing can alter that now, Dolly.'
'Mabel won't be angry with me for that, I know,' said Dolly; 'she will
see how it was really.'
'If it was only Mabel,' said Caffyn, 'we should have no reason to
fear; but Mabel can't do anything for you, poor Dolly! It's the _law_
that punishes these things. You know what law is?--the police, and the
judges.'
The piteous change in the child's face, the dark eyes brimming with
rising tears, and the little mouth drawn and trembling, might have
touched some men; indeed, even Caffyn felt a languid compunction for
what he was doing. But his only chance lay in working upon her fears;
he could not afford to be sentimental just then, and so he went on,
carefully calculating each word.
'Oh, I won't believe it,' cried Dolly, with a last despairing effort
to resist the effect his grave pity was producing; 'I can't. Harold,
you're trying to frighten me. I'm not frightened a bit. _Say_ you are
only in fun!'
But Caffyn turned away in well-feigned distress. 'Do I look as if it
was fun, Dolly?' he asked, with an effective quiver in his low voice;
he had never acted so well as this before. 'Is that this morning's
paper over there?' he asked, with a sudden recollection, as he saw the
sheet on a little round wicker table. 'Fetch it, Dolly, will you?'
'I must manage the obstinate little witch somehow,' he thought
impatiently, and turned to the police reports, where he remembered
that morning to have read the case of an unhappy postman who had
stolen stamps from the letters entrusted to him.
He found it now and read it aloud to her. 'If you don't believe me,'
he added, 'look for yourself--you can read. Do you see now--those
stamps were marked. Well, isn't _this_ one marked?'
'Oh, it is!' cried Dolly, 'marked all over! Yes, I do believe you now,
Harold. But what shall I do? I know--I'll tell papa--he won't let me
go to prison!'
'Why, papa's a lawyer--you know that,' said Caffyn; 'he has to _help_
the law--not hinder it. Whatever you do, I shouldn't advise you to
tell him, or he would be obliged to do his duty. You don't want to be
shut up for years all alone in a dark prison, do you, Dolly? And yet,
if what you've done is once found out, nothing can help you--not your
father, not your mamma--not Mabel herself--the law's too strong for
them all!'
This strange and horrible idea of an unknown power into whose clutches
she had suddenly fallen, and from which even love and home were unable
to shield her, drove the poor child almost frantic; she clung to him
convulsively, with her face white as death, terrified beyond tears.
'Harold!' she cried, seizing his hand in both hers, 'you won't let
them! I--I can't go to prison, and leave them all. I don't like the
dark. I _couldn't_ stay in it till I was grown up, and never see Mabel
or Colin or anybody. Tell me what to do--only tell me, and I'll do
it!'
Again some quite advanced scoundrels might have hesitated to cast so
fearful a shadow over a child's bright life, and the necessity annoyed
Caffyn to some extent, but his game was nearly won--there would not be
much more of it.
'I mustn't _do_ anything for you,' he said; 'if I did my duty, I
should have to give you up to---- No, it's all right, Dolly, I should
never dream of doing that. But I can do no more. Still, if you choose,
you can help _yourself_--and I promise to say nothing about it.'
'How do you mean?' said Dolly; 'if--if I stuck it together and left
it?'
'Do you think that wouldn't be seen? It would, though! No, Dolly, if
anyone but you and I catches sight of that letter, it will all be
found out--must be!'
'Do you mean?--oh, no, Harold, I couldn't _burn_ it!'
There was a fire in the grate, for the morning, in spite of the
season, had been chilly.
'Don't suppose _I_ advise you to burn it,' said Caffyn. 'It's a bad
business from beginning to end--it's wrong (at least it isn't right)
to burn the letter. Only--there's no other way, if you want to keep
out of prison. And if you make up your mind to burn it, Dolly, why you
can rely on me to keep the secret. _I_ don't want to see a poor
little girl shut up in prison if I can help it, _I_ can tell you. But
do as you like about it, Dolly; I mustn't interfere.'
Dolly could bear it no more; she snatched the flimsy foreign paper,
tore it across and flung it into the heart of the fire. Then, as the
flames began to play round the edges, she repented, and made a wild
dart forward to recover the letter. 'It's Mabel's,' she cried; 'I'm
afraid to burn it--I'm afraid!'
But Caffyn caught her, and held her little trembling hands fast in his
cool grasp, while the letter that Holroyd had written in Ceylon with
such wild secret hopes flared away to a speckled grey rag, and floated
lightly up the chimney. 'Too late now, Dolly!' he said, with a ring of
triumph in his voice. 'You would only have blistered those pretty
little fingers of yours, my child. And now,' he said, indicating the
scrap of paper which bore the stamp, 'if you'll take my advice, you'll
send that thing after the other.'
For the sake of this paltry bit of coloured paper Dolly had done it
all, and now that must go!--she had not even purchased Colin's
forgiveness by her wrong--and this last drop in her cup was perhaps
the bitterest. She dropped the stamp guiltily between two red-hot
coals, watched that too as it burnt, and then threw herself into an
arm-chair and sobbed in passionate remorse.
'Oh, why did I do it?' she wailed; 'why did you make me do it,
Harold?'
'Come, Dolly, I like that,' said Caffyn, who saw the necessity for
having this understood at once. '_I_ made you do nothing, if you
please--it was all done before I came in. I may think you were very
sensible in getting rid of the letter in that way--I do--but you did
it of your own accord--remember that.'
'I was quite good half an hour ago,' moaned the child, 'and now I'm a
wicked girl--a--a thief! No one will speak to me any more--they'll
send me to prison!'
'Now don't talk nonsense,' said Caffyn, a little alarmed, not having
expected a child to have such strong feelings about anything. 'And
for goodness' sake don't cry like that--there's nothing to cry about
_now_.... You're perfectly safe as long as you hold your tongue. You
don't suppose I shall tell of you, do you?' (and it really was highly
improbable). 'There's nothing to show what you've done. And--and you
didn't mean to do anything bad, I know _that_, of course. You needn't
make yourself wretched about it. It's only the way the law looks at
stealing stamps, you know. Come, I must be off now; can't wait for
Mabel any longer. But I must see a smile before I go--just a little
one, Juggins--to thank me for helping you out of your scrape, eh?'
(Dolly's mouth relaxed in a very faint smile.) 'That's right--now
you're feeling jolly again; cheer up, you can trust me, you know.' And
he went out, feeling tolerably secure of her silence.
'It's rough on her, poor little thing!' he soliloquised as he walked
briskly away; 'but she'll forget all about it soon enough--children
do. And what the deuce could I do? No, I'm glad I looked in just then.
Our resuscitated friend won't write again for a month or two--and by
that time it will be too late. And if this business comes out (which I
don't imagine it ever will) _I've_ done nothing anyone could lay hold
of. I was very careful about that. I must have it out with Mabel as
soon as I can now--there's nothing to be gained by waiting!'
_Would_ Dolly forget all about it? She did not like Harold Caffyn, but
it never occurred to her to disbelieve the terrible things he had told
her. She was firmly convinced that she had done something which, if
known, would cut her off completely from home and sympathy and love;
she who had hardly known more than a five minutes' sorrow in her happy
innocent little life, believed herself a guilty thing with a secret.
Henceforth in the shadows there would lurk something more dreadful
even than the bogeys with which some foolish nursemaids people shadows
for their charges--the gigantic hand of the law, ready to drag her off
at any moment from all she loved. And there seemed no help for her
anywhere--for had not Harold said that if her father or anyone were
to know, they would be obliged to give her up to punishment.
Perhaps if Caffyn had been capable of fully realising what a deadly
poison he had been instilling into this poor child's mind, he might
have softened matters a little more (provided his object could have
been equally well attained thereby), and that is all that can be said
for him. But, as it was, he only saw that he must make as deep an
impression as he could for the moment, and never doubted that she
would forget his words as soon as he should himself.
But if there was some want of thought in the evil he had done, the
want of thought in this case arose from a constitutional want of
heart.