ON BOARD THE 'COROMANDEL.'
It was quite dark the next morning when the hammering of the 'boots'
outside the door roused Mark to a miserable sense of the unwelcome
duty before him. He dressed by candlelight, and, groping his way down
the silent staircase, hunted about in the shuttered coffee-room for
the coat and hat he had left there, and went shivering out into the
main street, from which he turned up the hill towards the Hoe. The day
had dawned by that time, and the sky was a gloomy grey, varied towards
the horizon by stormy gleams of yellow; the prim clean streets were
deserted, save by an occasional workman going to his labours with a
heavy tramp echoing on the wet flags. Mark went along by terraces of
lodging-houses, where the placards of 'apartments' had an especially
forlorn and futile look against the drawn blinds, and from the areas
of which the exhalations, confined during the night, rose in
perceptible contrast with the fresh morning air. Then he found
himself upon the Hoe, with its broad asphalt promenades and rows of
hotels and terraces, rain-washed, silent, and cold, and descending the
winding series of steps, he made his way to the Millbay Pier, and
entered the Custom House gates. Waiting about the wharf was a little
knot of people, apparently bound on much the same errand as
himself--although in far higher spirits. Their cheerfulness (probably
a trifle aggravated by the consciousness of being up so early) jarred
upon him, and he went on past them to the place where two small
steamers were lying.
'One of 'em's a-goin' out to the "Coromandel" presently,' said a
sailor in answer to his question; 'you'd better wait till the agent's
down, or you may be took out to the wrong ship--for there's two
expected, but they ain't neither of 'em in yet. Ah!' as a gun was
heard outside, 'that'll be the "Coromandel" signallin' now.'
'That ain't her,' said another man, who was leaning over the side of
one of the tenders, 'that's the t'other one--the "Emu;" the
"Coromandel's" a three-master, _she_ is.'
'Tom knows the "Coromandel,"--don't ye, Tom? Let Tom alone for knowing
the "Coromandel!"' said the first sailor--a remark which apparently
was rich in hidden suggestion, for they both laughed very heartily.
Presently the agent appeared, and Mark, having satisfied himself that
there was no danger of being taken out to the wrong vessel (for, much
as he dreaded meeting Holroyd, he dreaded missing him even more), went
on board one of the tenders, which soon after began to move out into
the dull green water. Now that he was committed to the ordeal his
terrors rose again; he almost wished that he had made a mistake after
all, and was being taken out to meet the wrong P. and O. The horrible
fear possessed him that Holroyd might in some way have learned his
secret on the voyage home. Suppose, for instance, a fellow-passenger
possessed a copy of 'Illusion,' and chanced to lend it to him--what
should he do if his friend were to meet him with a stern and
contemptuous repulse, rendering all conciliation out of the question?
Tortured by speculations like these, he kept nervously away from the
others on board, and paced restlessly up and down near the bows; he
saw nothing consciously then, but afterwards every detail of those
terrible ten minutes came back to him vividly, down to the lights
still hanging in the rigging of the vessels in harbour, and the hoarse
cries of the men in a brown-sailed lugger gliding past them out to
sea. Out by the bar there was a light haze, in the midst of which lay
the long black hull of the 'Coromandel,' and to this the tender worked
round in a tedious curve preparatory to lying alongside. As they
passed under the stern Mark nerved himself to look amongst the few
figures at the gangway for the face he feared--but Holroyd was not
amongst them. After several unsuccessful attempts of a Lascar to catch
the rope thrown from the tender, accompanied by some remarks in a
foreign language on his part which _may_ have been offered in polite
excuse for his awkwardness, the rope was secured at length, the tender
brought against the vessel's side, and the gangway lashed across. Then
followed a short delay, during which the P. and O. captain, in
rough-weather costume, conversed with the agent across the rails with
a certain condescension.
'Thick as a hedge outside,' Mark heard him say; 'haven't turned in all
night. What are we all waiting for now? Here, quartermaster, just ask
the doctor to step forward, will you?'
Somehow, at the mention of the doctor, Holroyd's allusions to his
illness recurred to Mark's mind, and hopes he dared not confess even
to himself, so base and vile were they, rose in his heart.
'Here's the doctor; clean bill of health, eh, doctor?' asked the
agent--and Mark held his breath for the answer.
'All well on board.'
'Tumble in, then;' and there was an instant rush across the gangway.
Mark followed some of the crowd down into the saloon, where the
steward was laying breakfast, but he could not see Holroyd there
either, and for a few minutes was pent up in a corner in the general
bustle which prevailed. There were glad greetings going on all around
him, confused questions and answers, rapid directions to which no one
had time to attend, and now and then an angry exclamation over the
eagerly read letters: 'And where's mother living now?' 'We've lost
that 7.40 express all through that infernal tender!' 'Look here, don't
take that bag up on deck to get wet, d'ye hear?' 'Jolly to be back in
the old place again, eh?' 'I wish I'd never left it--that d----d
scoundrel has gone and thrown all those six houses into Chancery!' and
so on, those of the passengers who were not talking or reading being
engaged in filling up the telegraph forms brought on board for their
convenience. Mark extricated himself from the hubbub as soon as he
could, and got hold of the steward. There was a gentleman on board of
the name of Holroyd; he seemed well enough, as far as the steward
knew, though a bit poorly when he first came aboard, to be sure; he
was in his berth just then getting his things together to go ashore,
but he'd be up on deck directly. Half sick and half glad at this
additional delay, Mark left the saloon and lingered listlessly about
above, watching the Lascars hauling up baggage from the hold--they
would have been interesting enough to him at any other time, with
their seamed bilious complexions of every degree of swarthiness, set
off by the touches of colour in their sashes and head coverings, their
strange cries and still more uncouth jocularity--but he soon tired of
them, and wandered aft, where the steamer-chairs, their usefulness at
an end for that voyage, were huddled together dripping and forlorn on
the damp red deck. He was still standing by them, idly turning over
the labels attached to their backs, and reading the names thereon
without the slightest real curiosity, when he heard a well-remembered
voice behind him crying, 'Mark, my dear old fellow, so you've come
after all! I was half afraid you wouldn't think it worth your while. I
can't tell you how glad I am to see you!' And he turned with a guilty
start to face the man he had wronged.
'Evidently,' thought Mark, 'he knows nothing yet, or he wouldn't meet
me like this!' and he gripped the cordial hand held out to him with
convulsive force; his face was white and his lips trembled, he could
not speak.
Such unexpected emotion on his part touched and gratified Holroyd, who
patted him on the shoulder affectionately. 'It's all right, old boy, I
understand,' he said; 'so you _did_ think I was gone after all? Well,
this is a greater pleasure to me than ever it can be to you.'
'I never expected to see you again,' said Mark, as soon as he could
speak; 'even now I can hardly believe it.'
'I'm quite real, however,' said Holroyd, laughing; 'there's more of me
now than when they carried me on board from Colombo; don't look so
alarmed--the voyage has brought me round again, I'm my old self
again.'
As a matter of fact there was a great change in him; his bearded face,
still burnt by the Ceylon sun, was lined and wasted, his expression
had lost its old dreaminess, and when he did not smile, was sterner
and more set than it had been; his manner, as Mark noticed later, had
a new firmness and decision; he looked a man who could be mercilessly
severe in a just cause, and even his evident affection was powerless
to reassure Mark.
The hatches had by this time been closed over the hold again and the
crane unshipped, the warning bell was ringing for the departure of the
tender, though the passengers still lingered till the last minute, as
if a little reluctant, after all, to desert the good ship that had
been their whole world of late; the reigning beauty of the voyage, who
was to remain with the vessel until her arrival at Gravesend, was
receiving her last compliments during prolonged and complicated
leave-takings, in which, however, the exhilaration of most of her
courtiers--now that their leave or furlough was really about to
begin--was too irrepressible for sentiment. A last delay at the
gangway, where the captain and ship's officers were being overwhelmed
with thanks and friendly good-byes, and then the deck was cleared at
last, the gangway taken in and the rail refastened, and, as the
tender steamed off, all the jokes and allusions which formed the
accumulated wit of the voyage flashed out with a brief and final
brilliancy, until the hearty cheering given and returned drowned them
for ever.
On the tender, such acquaintances as Holroyd had made during the
voyage gave Mark no chance of private conversation with him, and even
when they had landed and cleared the Custom House, Mark made no use of
his opportunity; he knew he must speak soon, but he could not tell him
just then, and accordingly put off the evil hour by affecting an
intense interest in the minor incidents of the voyage, and in
Vincent's experiences of a planter's life. It was the same in the
hotel coffee-room, where some of the 'Coromandel's' passengers were
breakfasting near them, and the conversation became general; after
breakfast, however, Mark proposed to spend some time in seeing the
place, an arrangement which he thought would lead the way to
confession. But Holroyd would not hear of this; he seemed possessed by
a feverish impatience to get to London without delay, and very soon
they were pacing the Plymouth railway platform together, waiting for
the up train, Mark oppressed by the gloomy conviction that if he did
not speak soon, the favourable moment would pass away, never to
return.
'Where do you think of going to first when you get in?' he asked, in
dread of the answer.
'I don't know,' said Holroyd; 'the Great Western, I suppose--it's the
nearest.'
'You mustn't go to an hotel,' said Mark; 'won't you come to my rooms?
I don't live with my people any longer, you know, and I can easily put
you up.' He was thinking that this arrangement would give him a little
more time for his confession.
'Thanks,' said Holroyd gratefully; 'it's very kind of you to think of
that, old fellow; I will come to you, then--but there is a house I
must go to as soon as we get in: you won't mind if I run away for an
hour or two, will you?'
Mark remembered what Caffyn had said. 'There will be plenty of time
for that to-morrow, won't there?' he said nervously.
'No,' said Holroyd impatiently; 'I can't wait. I daren't. I have let
so much time go by already--you will understand when I tell you all
about it, Mark. I can't rest till I know whether there is still a
chance of happiness left for me, or--or whether I have come too late
and the dream is over.'
In that letter which had fallen into Caffyn's hands Holroyd had told
Mabel the love he had concealed so long; he had begged her not to
decide too hastily; he would wait any time for her answer, he said, if
she did not feel able to give it at once; and in the meantime she
should be troubled by no further importunities on his part. This was
not, perhaps, the most judicious promise to make; he had given it from
an impulse of consideration for her, being well aware that she had
never looked upon him as a possible lover, and that his declaration
would come upon her with a certain shock. Perhaps, too, he wanted to
leave himself a margin of hope as long as possible to make his exile
endurable; since for months, if no answer came back to him, he could
cheat himself with the thought that such silence was favourable in
itself; but even when he came to regret his promise, he shrank from
risking all by breaking it. Then came his long illness, and the
discovery at Newera Ellia; for the first time he thought that there
might be other explanations of the delay, and while he was writing the
letter which had come to Mark, he resolved to make one more appeal to
Mabel, since it might be that his first by some evil chance had failed
to reach her. That second appeal, however, was never made. Before he
could do more than begin it, the fever he had never wholly shaken off
seized him again and laid him helpless, until, when he was able to
write once more, he was already on his way to plead for himself. But
the dread lest his own punctilious folly and timidity had closed the
way to his heart's desire had grown deeper and deeper, and he felt an
impulse now which was stronger than his natural reserve to speak of it
to some one.
'Yes,' he continued, 'she may have thought I was drowned, as you did;
perhaps she has never dreamed how much she is to me: if I could only
hope to tell her that even now!'
'Do you mind telling me her name?' said Mark, with a deadly foreboding
of what was coming.
'Did I never speak of the Langtons to you?' said Holroyd. 'I think I
must have done so. She is a Miss Langton. Mabel, her name is' (he
dwelt on the name with a lover's tenderness). 'Some day if--if it is
all well, you may see her, I hope. Oddly enough, I believe she has
heard your name rather often; she has a small brother who used to be
in your form at St. Peter's; did I never tell you?'
'Never,' said Mark. He felt that fate was too hard for him; he had
honestly meant to confess all up to that moment, he had thought to
found his strongest plea for forbearance on his approaching marriage.
How could he do that now? what mercy could he expect from a rival? He
was lost if he was mad enough to arm Holroyd with such a weapon; he
was lost in any case, for it was certain that the weapon would not lie
hidden long; there were four days still before the wedding--time
enough for the mine to explode! What could he do? how could he keep
the other in the dark, or get rid of him, before he could do any harm?
And then Caffyn's suggestions came back to him. Was it possible to
make use of Caffyn's desire for a travelling companion, and turn it to
his own purpose? If Caffyn was so anxious to have Holroyd with him in
the Lakes, why not let him? It was a desperate chance enough, but it
was the only one left to him; if it failed, it would ruin him, but
that would certainly happen if he let things take their course; if it
succeeded, Mabel would at least be his. His resolution was taken in an
instant, and carried out with a strategy that gave him a miserable
surprise at finding himself so thorough a Judas. 'By the way,' he
said, 'I've just thought of something. Harold Caffyn is a friend of
mine. I know he wants to see you again, and he could tell you all you
want to hear about--about the Langtons, I've heard _him_ mention them
often enough; you see you don't even know where they are yet. I'll
wire and ask him to meet us at my rooms, shall I?'
'That's a capital idea!' cried Holroyd. 'Caffyn is sure to know; do it
at once, like a good fellow.'
'You stay here then, and look out for the train,' said Mark, as he
hurried to the telegraph office, leaving Holroyd thinking how
thoughtful and considerate his once selfish friend had become. Mark
sent the telegram, which ended, 'He knows nothing as yet. I leave him
to you.'
When he returned he found that Holroyd had secured an empty
compartment in the train which was preparing to start, and Mark got in
with a heavy apprehension of the danger of a long journey alone with
Holroyd. He tried to avoid conversation by sheltering himself behind a
local journal, while at every stoppage he prayed that a stranger might
come to his rescue. He read nothing until a paragraph, copied from a
London literary paper, caught his eye. 'We understand,' the paragraph
ran, 'that the new novel by the author of "Illusion," Mr. Cyril
Ernstone (or rather Mr. Mark Ashburn, as he has now declared himself),
will be published early in the present spring, and it is rumoured that
the second work will show a marked advance on its predecessor.' It was
merely the usual puff preliminary, though Mark took it as a
prediction, and at any other time would have glowed with anticipated
triumph. Now it only struck him with terror. Was it in Holroyd's paper
too? Suppose he asked to look at Mark's, and saw it there, and
questioned him, as of course he would! What should he say? Thinking to
avoid this as far as possible, he crumpled up the tell-tale paper and
hurled it out of window; but his act had precisely the opposite
effect, for Holroyd took it as an indication that his companion was
ready for conversation, and put down the paper he had been pretending
to read.
'Mark,' he began with a slight hesitation, and with his first words
Mark knew that the question was coming which he dreaded more than
anything; he had no notion how he should reply to it, beyond a
general impression that he would have to lie, and lie hard.
'Mark,' said Holroyd again, 'I didn't like to worry you about it
before, I thought perhaps you would speak of it first; but--but have
you never heard anything more of that ambitious attempt of mine at a
novel? You needn't mind telling me.'
'I--I _can't_ tell you,' Mark said, looking away out of the window.
'I don't expect anything good,' said Holroyd; 'I never thought--why
should I be such a humbug! I _did_ think sometimes--more lately
perhaps--that it wouldn't be an utter failure. I see I was wrong.
Well, if I was ambitious, it was rather for her than myself; and if
she cares for me, what else matters to either of us? Tell me all about
it.'
'You--you remember what happened to the first volume of the "French
Revolution"?' began Mark.
'Go on,' said Holroyd.
'It--the book--_yours_, I mean,' said Mark (he could not remember the
original title), 'was burnt.'
'Where? at the office? Did they write and tell you so? had they read
it?'
Mark felt he was among pitfalls.
'Not at the office,' he said; 'at my rooms--my old rooms.'
'It came back, then?'
'Yes, it came back. There--there was no letter with it; the girl at
the lodgings found the manuscript lying about. She--she burnt it.'
The lies sprang in ready succession from his brain at the critical
moment, without any other preparation than the emergency--as lies did
with Mark Ashburn; till lately he had hoped that the truth might come,
and he loathed himself now for this fresh piece of treachery, but it
had saved him for the present, and he could not abandon it.
'I thought it would at least have been safe with you,' said Holroyd,
'if you--no, my dear fellow, I didn't mean to reproach you. I can see
how cut up you are about it; and, after all, it--it was only a
rejected manuscript--the girl only hastened its course a little.
Carlyle rewrote his work; but then I'm not Carlyle. We won't say
anything any more about it, eh, old fellow? It's only one dream over.'
Mark was seized with a remorse which almost drove him to confess all
and take the consequences; but Holroyd had sunk back to his position
by the window again, and there was a fixed frown on his face which,
although it only arose from painful thought, effectually deterred Mark
from speaking. He felt now that everything depended on Caffyn. He sat
looking furtively at the other now and then, and thinking what
terrible reproaches those firm lips might utter; how differently the
sad, kind eyes might regard him before long, and once more he longed
for a railroad crash which would set him free from his tangled life.
The journey ended at last, and they drove to South Audley Street.
Vincent was very silent; in spite of his philosophical bearing, he
felt the blow deeply. He had come back with ideas of a possible
literary career before him, and it was hard to resign them all at
once. It was rather late in the afternoon when they arrived, and
Caffyn was there to receive them; he was delighted to welcome Holroyd,
and his cordiality restored the other to cheerfulness; it is so
pleasant to find that one is not forgotten--and so rare. When Vincent
had gone upstairs to see his sleeping-room, Caffyn turned to Mark:
there was a kind of grin on his face, and yet a certain admiration
too.
'I got your telegram,' he said. 'So--so you've brought yourself to
part with him after all?'
'I thought over what you said,' returned Mark, 'and--and he told me
something which would make it very awkward and--and painful for him,
and for myself too, if he remained.'
'You haven't told him anything, then, still?'
'Nothing,' said Mark.
'Then,' said Caffyn, 'I think I shall not be alone at Wastwater after
all, if you'll only let me manage.'
Was Mark at all surprised at the languid Harold Caffyn exerting
himself in this way? If he was, he was too grateful for the phenomenon
to care very much about seeking to explain it. Caffyn was a friend of
his, he had divined that Holroyd's return was inconvenient: very
likely he had known of Vincent's hopeless attachment for Mabel, and he
was plainly anxious to get a companion at the Lakes; anyone of these
was motive enough. Soon after, Holroyd joined them in the
sitting-room. Caffyn, after more warm congratulations and eager
questioning, broached the Wastwater scheme. 'You may as well,' he
concluded, 'London's beastly at this time of year. You're looking as
if the voyage hadn't done you much good, too, and it will be grand on
the mountains just now; come with me by the early train to-morrow,
you've no packing to do. I'm sure we shall pull together all right.'
'I'm sure, of that,' said Vincent; 'and if I had nothing to keep me in
town--but I've not seen the Langtons yet, you know. And, by-the-bye,
you can tell me where I shall find them now. I suppose they have not
moved?'
'Now I've got you!' laughed Caffyn; 'if the Langtons are the only
obstacle, you can't go and see them, for the very good reason that
they're away--abroad somewhere!'
'Are they all there?'
'Every one of 'em; even the father, I fancy, just now.'
'Do you know when they're likely to be back?'
'Haven't heard,' said Caffyn calmly; 'they must come back soon, you
see, for the lovely Mabel's wedding.'
Mark held his breath as he listened; what was Caffyn going to say
next? Vincent's face altered suddenly.
'Then Mabel--Miss Langton, is going to be married?' he asked in a
curiously quiet tone.
'Rather,' said Caffyn; 'brilliant match in its way, I understand. Not
much money on his side, but one of the coming literary fellows, and
all that kind of thing, you know; just the man for that sort of girl.
Didn't you know about it?'
'No,' said Holroyd uneasily; he was standing with his elbow on the
mantelpiece, with his face turned from the other two; 'I didn't
know--what is his name?'
'Upon my soul I forget--heard it somewhere.--Ashburn, you don't happen
to know it, do you?'
'I!' cried Mark, shrinking; 'no, I--I haven't heard.'
'Well,' continued Caffyn, 'it isn't of much consequence, is it? I
shall hit upon it soon, I dare say. They say she's deucedly fond of
him, though. Can't fancy disdainful Miss Mabel condescending to be
deucedly fond of any one--but so they tell me. And I say, Holroyd, to
come back to the point, is there any reason why you should stay in
town?'
'None,' said Holroyd, with pain ringing in his voice, 'none in the
world why I should stay anywhere now.'
'Well, won't you come with me? I start the first thing to-morrow--it
will do you good.'
'It's kind of you to ask,' said Vincent, 'but I can't desert Ashburn
in that way after he took the trouble to come down and meet me; we've
not seen one another for so long,--have we, Mark?'
Caffyn smiled in spite of himself. 'Why, didn't he tell you?' he said;
'he's arranged to go abroad himself in a day or two.'
Vincent glanced round at Mark, who stood there the personification of
embarrassment and shame. 'I see,' he said, with a change in his voice,
'I shall only be in the way here, then.' Mark said nothing--he could
not. 'Well, Caffyn, I'll come with you; the Lakes will do as well as
any other place for the short time I shall be in England.'
'Then you haven't come home for good?' inquired Caffyn.
'For good? no--not exactly,' he replied bitterly; 'plantation life has
unsettled me, you see. I shall have to go back to it.'
'To Ceylon!' cried Mark, with hopes that had grown quite suddenly. Was
it, could it be possible that the threatened storm was going to pass
away--not for a time, but altogether?
'Anywhere,' said Holroyd! 'what does it matter?'
'There's a man I know,' observed Caffyn, 'who's going out to a coffee
estate somewhere in Southern India, the Annamalli Hills, I think he
said; he was wanting some one with a little experience to go out with
him the other day. He's a rattling good fellow too--Gilroy, his name
is. I don't know if you'd care to meet him. You might think it good
enough to join him, at all events for a trial.'
'Yes,' said Holroyd, listlessly, 'I may as well see him.'
'Well,' said Caffyn, 'he's at Liverpool just now, I believe. I can
write to him and tell him about you, and ask him to come over and meet
us somewhere, and then you could settle all about it, you know, if you
liked the look of him.'
'It's very good of you to take all this trouble,' said Vincent
gratefully.
'Bosh!' said Caffyn, using that modern form for polite repudiation of
gratitude--'no trouble at all; looks rather as if I wanted to get rid
of you, don't you know--Gilroy's going out so very soon.'
'Is he?' said Vincent. He had no suspicions; Mabel's engagement seemed
only too probable, and he knew that he had never had any claim upon
her; but for all that, he had no intention of taking the fact entirely
upon trust; he would not leave England till he had seen her and
learned from her own lips that he must give up hope for ever; after
that the sooner he went the better.
'You needn't go out with him unless you want to--you might join him
later there; but of course you wouldn't take anything for granted,
nothing. Still, if you _did_ care to go out at once, I suppose you've
nothing in the way of preparations to hinder you, eh?'
'No,' said Vincent; 'it would only be transferring my trunks from one
ship to another; but I--I don't feel well enough to go out just yet.'
'Of course not,' said Caffyn; 'you must have a week or two of mountain
air first, then you'll be ready to go anywhere; but I must have you at
Wastwater,' he added, with a laughing look of intelligence at Mark,
whose soul rose against all this duplicity--and subsided again.
How wonderfully everything was working out! Unless some fatality
interposed between then and the next morning, the man he dreaded would
be safely buried in the wildest part of the Lake District--he might
even go off to India again and never learn the wrong he had suffered!
At all events, Mark was saved for a time. He was thankful, deeply
thankful now that he had resisted that mad impulse to confession.
Vincent had dropped into an arm-chair with his back to the window,
brooding over his shattered ambitions; all his proud self-confidence
in his ability to win fame for the woman he loved was gone now; he
felt that he had neither the strength nor the motive to try again.
If--if this he had heard was true, he must be an exile, with lower
aims and a blanker life than those he had once hoped for.
All at once Mark, as he stood at the window with Caffyn, stepped back
with a look of helpless terror.
'What the deuce is it now?' said the other under his breath.
Mark caught Caffyn's elbow with a fierce grip; a carriage had driven
up; they could see it plainly still in the afternoon light, which had
only just begun to fade.
'Do you see?' muttered Mark thickly. 'She's in it; she looked up--and
saw _me_!'
Caffyn himself was evidently disturbed. 'Not, not Mabel?' he
whispered. 'Worse! it's Dolly--and _she'll_ come up. She'll see
_him_!'
The two stood there staring blankly at each other, while Holroyd was
still too absorbed to have the least suspicion that the future
happiness or misery of himself and others was trembling just then in
the balance.