THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS.
Dolly's mere appearance in the room would lead Vincent to suspect that
he had been deceived; her first words would almost inevitably expose
the fraud. She was coming up, nevertheless, and Mark felt powerless to
prevent her--he could only indulge himself in inwardly cursing
Caffyn's ingenuity and his own weakness for having brought him to such
a pass as this. Caffyn was shaken for the moment, but he soon
recovered himself. 'Keep cool, will you,' he whispered (he might have
shouted, for Vincent saw and heard nothing just then): 'you stay here
and keep _him_ amused--don't let him go near the window!' Then he
added aloud, 'I'll go and see if I can find that Bradshaw. Almost
certain I didn't bring it with me; but if you saw it there, why'--and
he was gone.
Mark caught up a paper with a rapid, 'Oh! I say, Vincent, _did_ you
see this correspondence about competitive examinations? Of course you
haven't, though--just listen then, it's rather amusing!' and he began
to read with desperate animation a string of letters on a subject
which, in the absence of worthier sport, was just then being trailed
before the public. The newspaper hid his face, and while he read he
could strain his ears for the first sign of Dolly's approach. She had
seen him, he was sure, and she would insist upon coming up--she was so
fond of him! He wished now he had gone down himself instead of leaving
it to Caffyn.
Meanwhile the latter had rushed down in time to wave back the maid who
was coming to the door, and which he opened himself. Dolly was
standing there alone on the doorsteps. She had prepared a polite
little formula for the servant, and was therefore disappointed to see
Caffyn.
'Why, it's _you_!' she said, in rather an injured tone.
'You never expected such luck as that, did you?' said Caffyn. 'Is
there anything I can do for your ladyship?'
'Mabel asked me to drive round this way and ask if Mark has come back.
There's Fräulein in the carriage too, but I wanted to ask all by
myself.'
'Pray step this way,' said Caffyn, leading the way with mock
politeness to a little sitting-room on the ground floor.
'I can't stay long,' said Dolly. 'Mark isn't here--I saw his face at
the window upstairs. Mabel told me to see if he was quite well, and I
want to ask him how he is and where he's been.'
'Afraid you can't see him just now,' said Caffyn, 'he's got some one
with him he hasn't seen for a long time--we mustn't disturb him; tell
Mabel he'll come to-morrow and he's quite well.'
Dolly was preparing to go, when she discovered some portmanteaus and
boxes in a corner. 'What a funny box, with all those red tickets on
it!' she said. 'Oh, and a big white helmet--it's green inside. Is Mark
going to be married in _that_ thing, Harold?'--all at once she stopped
short in her examination. 'Why--why, they've got poor Vincent's name
on them! they _have_--look!' And Caffyn realised that he had been too
ingenious: he had forgotten all about this luggage in showing Dolly to
that room, in his fear lest her voice should be too audible in the
passage.
'There, there--you're keeping Fräulein waiting all this time. Never
mind about the luggage,' he said hurriedly. 'Good-bye, Dolly; sorry
you can't stop.'
'But I _can_ stop,' objected Dolly, who was not easily got rid of at
the best of times. 'Harold, I'm sure that dear Vincent has come alive
again--_he's_ the somebody Mark hasn't seen for a long time.... Oh, if
it really _is_ ... I must go and see!'
Caffyn saw his best course now was the hazardous one of telling the
truth. 'Well,' he said, 'as it happens, you're right. Vincent was
_not_ drowned, and he is here--but I don't advise you to go to see him
for all that.'
'Why?' said Dolly, with her joy suddenly checked--she scarcely knew
why.
'He's in a fearful rage with you just now,' said Caffyn; 'he's found
out about that letter--that letter you burnt.'
'Mabel said I was never to worry about that horrid letter any
more--and I'm not going to--so it's no use your trying to make me,'
said Dolly defiantly. And then, as her fears grew, she added, 'What
about that letter?'
'Well,' said Caffyn, 'it appears that the letter you tore the stamp
off was from Vincent (it had a foreign stamp, I remember), and it was
very important. He never got an answer, and he found out somehow that
it was because you burnt it--and then--my goodness, Dolly, what a rage
he was in!'
'I don't care,' said Dolly. 'Mabel will tell Vincent how it was--_she_
knows.'
'Ah, but you see she _don't_ know,' said Caffyn. 'Do you suppose if
she had known who the letter was from and what it was about she would
have taken it so quietly? Why, she thinks it was only an old envelope
you burnt--I heard her say so--you know she still believes Vincent is
dead. She doesn't know the truth yet, but Vincent will tell her. Are
you coming up to see him?'
'No,' said Dolly, trembling; 'I--I think I won't--not to-day.'
'Wise child!' said Caffyn, approvingly. 'Between ourselves, Dolly,
poor Vincent has come back in such a queer state that he's not fit to
see anyone just yet, and we're dreadfully afraid of his meeting Mabel
and frightening her.'
'Oh, don't let him come--don't!' cried terrified Dolly.
'Well, I tell you what we've done--I got Mark to agree to it--we
haven't told him that you're any of you at home at all; he thinks
you're all away, and he's coming with me into the country to-morrow;
so, unless you tell Mabel you've seen him----'
'Oh, but I won't; I don't _want_ her to know--not now!' said Dolly.
'Oh, and I was so glad when I first heard of it! Is he--is he _very_
angry, Harold?'
'I don't advise you to come near him just yet,' he said. 'You won't
tell Fräulein, of course? I'll see you to the carriage ... how do,
Fräulein? Home, I suppose?' And the last thing he saw was Dolly's
frightened glance up at the window as the carriage drove off. 'She
won't tell _this_ time,' he said to himself.
And indeed poor Dolly was silent enough all the way home, and met
Fräulein Moser's placid stream of talk with short and absent answers.
That evening, however, in the schoolroom, she roused herself to
express a sudden interest in Colin's stamp album, which she coaxed him
to show her.
As he was turning over the pages, one by one, she stopped him
suddenly. 'What is that one?' she said, pointing out a green-coloured
stamp amongst the colonial varieties.
'Can't you read?' said Colin, a little contemptuously, even while
regarding this healthy interest as a decided sign of grace in a girl:
'there's "Ceylon Postage" on the top, isn't there? It isn't rare,
though--twenty-four cents--I gave twopence for it; but I've had much
more expensive ones, only I swopped them. If you _want_ to see a rare
one, here's a Virgin Islands down here----'
'I think I'll see the rest another time, Colin, thanks,' said Dolly;
'I'm tired now.'
'I mayn't have time to show you another day,' said Colin, 'so you'd
better----' But Dolly had gone--her passion for information having
flickered out as suddenly as it rose. She knew that English-looking
green stamp well enough; there had been dreadful days once when it had
seemed always floating before her eyes, the thing which might send her
to prison; she was much older now, of course, and knew better; but,
for all that, it had not quite lost its power to plague her yet.
For, this time at least, she was sure that Harold had not been
teasing; she _had_ burnt the letter, and it came from Ceylon; Vincent
must have written it, and he had come back and meant to scold her--she
had cried so when she heard he was drowned, and now she was afraid to
see him--a shadow she dared not speak of had once more fallen across
her life!
Caffyn came up with a Bradshaw in his hand. 'Had a hunt after it, I
can tell you,' he said; 'and then your old landlady and I had a little
chat--I couldn't get away from her. Aren't you fellows ready for some
dinner?' And the relief with which Mark had seen the carriage roll
away below had really given him something of an appetite.
Before dinner, however, Mark took Caffyn up into his bedroom under the
pretence of washing his hands, but with the real object of preventing
a hideous possibility which--for his fears quickened his
foresight--had just occurred to him. 'If you don't mind,' he began
awkwardly, 'I--I'd rather you didn't mention that I had written--I
mean, that you didn't say anything about "Illusion," you know.'
Caffyn's face remained unchanged. 'Certainly, if you wish it,' he
said; 'but why? Is this more of your modesty?'
'No,' said Mark, weakly, 'no; not exactly modesty; but, the fact is, I
find that Holroyd has been going in for the same sort of thing
himself, and--and not successfully; and so I shouldn't like to----'
'Quite so,' agreed Caffyn. 'Now, really, that's very nice and
considerate of you to think of that, Ashburn. I like to see that sort
of thing in a fellow, you know; shows he isn't spoilt by success!
Well, you can rely on me--I won't breathe a word to suggest your being
in any way connected with pen and ink.'
'Thanks,' said Mark, gratefully; 'I know you won't,' and they went
down.
Mark could not but feel degraded in his own eyes by all this
hypocrisy; but it was so necessary, and was answering its purpose so
well, that his mental suffering was less than might have been
expected.
At dinner he felt himself able, now that his fears were removed, to
encourage conversation, and drew from Holroyd particulars of his
Ceylon life, which supplied them with topics for that evening, and
prevented the meal from becoming absolutely dull, even though it was
at no time remarkable for festivity.
'I tell you what I can't quite understand,' said Caffyn on one
occasion. 'Why did you let us all go on believing that you were
drowned on the "Mangalore" when a letter or two would have put it all
right?'
'I did write one letter home,' said Holroyd, with a faint red tingeing
his brown cheeks. 'I might have written to Mark, I know; but I waited
to hear from him first, and then one thing after another prevented me.
It was only when I sent down to Colombo, months afterwards, for my
heavy baggage, that I heard what had happened to the ship.'
'Well,' observed Caffyn, 'you might have written then.'
'I know that,' said Holroyd: 'the fact is, though, that I never
thought it possible, after going off the ship, as I did at Bombay,
that I could be reported amongst the missing. As soon as I discovered
that that was so, I wrote. No doubt I ought to have written before;
still, when you have a large estate on your hands, and you feel your
health gradually going, and failure coming closer and closer, you
don't feel a strong inclination for correspondence.'
He fell back into a moody silence again. Perhaps, after all, his
silence had arisen from other causes still; perhaps, as his health
declined, he had come to find a morbid satisfaction in the idea that
he was alone--forgotten by those he cared for--until his very
isolation had become dear to him. He had been a fool--he knew that
now--his two friends had mourned him sincerely, and would have been
overjoyed to hear that he was alive. He had wronged them--what if he
had wronged Mabel too? Another had won her, but had not his own false
delicacy and perverted pride caused him to miss the happiness he
hungered for? 'At all events,' he thought, 'I won't whine about it.
Before I go out again I will know the worst. If the other man is a
good fellow, and will make her happy, I can bear it.' But deep down in
his heart a spark of hope glimmered still.
'Well, I must be going,' said Caffyn, breaking in on his reverie.
'I've got to pack before I go to bed. Look here, Vincent' (and he
consulted the Bradshaw as he spoke), 'there's a train at ten in the
morning, from Euston; gets in to Drigg late at night; we can sleep
there, and drive over to Wastwater next day. Will that do you?'
'It's rather sudden,' said Holroyd, hesitating.
'Oh, come, old fellow, you're not going to back out of it now. I've
stayed over a day on the chance of bringing you; you promised to come
just now; there's nothing to keep you, and I've set my heart on having
you.'
'Then I'll come,' said Holroyd. 'We'll meet on the platform
to-morrow.'
Mark breathed more freely again. He accompanied Caffyn down to the
front door, and then, as they stood for a moment in the little passage
dimly lighted by a feeble kerosene lamp on a bracket, each looked at
the other strangely.
'Well,' said Caffyn, with a light laugh, 'I hope you are satisfied:
he'll be well out of the way for at least a fortnight, and, if this
Gilroy business comes off, he may be taken off your hands altogether
before you come back.'
'I know,' said Mark, 'you've been awfully kind about it; the--the only
thing I can't understand is, _why_ you're taking all this trouble.'
For this was beginning to exercise his mind at last.
'Oh,' said Caffyn, 'is _that_ it? Well, I don't mind telling you--I
like you, my boy, and if anything I can do will save you a little
worry and give me a companion in my loneliness into the bargain (mind,
I don't say that hasn't something to do with it), why, I'm delighted
to do it. But if you'd rather see some more of him before he goes out
again, there's no hurry. Gilroy will wait, and I won't say any more
about it.'
'It--it seems a good opening,' said Mark hastily, not without shame at
himself; 'perhaps the sooner it is arranged the better, don't you
think?'
Caffyn laughed again. 'You old humbug!' he said. 'Why don't you tell
the truth? You've found out he's a defeated rival, and you don't care
about having him sitting sighing on the door-step of that little house
in--where is it?--on Campden Hill! Well, don't be alarmed; I think
he'll go, and I promise you I won't try to prevent him if he's keen on
it.'
He laughed aloud once or twice as he walked home. Mark's tender
solicitude for his friend's future tickled his sense of humour. 'And
the funniest thing about it is,' he thought, 'that I'm going to help
the humbug!'
Mark was up early the next morning, and hurried Holroyd over his
breakfast as much as he dared. He had a ghastly fear of missing the
train, in consequence of which they arrived at Euston at least half an
hour before the time of starting. Caffyn was not on the platform, and
Mark began to dread his being too late. 'And then,' he thought with a
shudder, 'I shall have him on my hands for another whole day. Another
day of this would drive me mad! And I _must_ see Mabel this morning.'
The luggage had been duly labelled, and there was nothing to do but to
wander up and down the platform, Mark feeling oppressed by a sinking
premonition of disaster whenever he loosed his hold of Holroyd's arm
for a moment. He was waiting while the latter bought a paper at the
bookstall, when suddenly he felt himself slapped heavily on the back
by some one behind him, and heard a voice at whose well-known accents
he very nearly fell down with horror. It was his terrible uncle!
''Ullo, you know, this won't do, young fellow; what's all this?' he
began, too evidently bursting with the badinage which every Benedick
must endure. 'Why, you ain't going for your honeymoon before the
wedding?--that's suspicious-lookin', that is!'
'No, no, it's all right,' said Mark, trembling; 'how do you do, uncle?
I--I'd rather you didn't talk about--about that here--not quite so
loud!'
'Well, I don't know what there is in that to be ashamed of,' said his
uncle; 'and if I mayn't be allowed to talk about a wedding--which but
for me, mind yer, would a' been long enough in coming about--p'raps
you'll tell me who is; and, as to talking loud, I'm not aware that I'm
any louder than usual. What are you looking like that for? Hang me if
I don't think there's something in this I ought to see to!' he broke
out, with a sudden change of face, as his shrewd little eyes fell on
Holroyd's rug, which Mark was carrying for the moment. 'Mark, for all
your cleverness, you're a slippery feller--I always felt that about
you. You're up to something now--you're meaning to play a trick on one
that trusts you, and I won't have it--do you hear me?--I tell you I
won't have it!'
'What do you mean?' faltered Mark. For the instant he thought himself
detected, and did not pause to think how improbable this was.
'_You_ know what I mean. I'm not going to stand by and see you ruin
yourself. You shan't set a foot in the train if I have to knock you
down and set on you myself! If' (and his voice shook here)--'if you've
got into any mess--and it's money--I'll clear you this time, whatever
it costs me, but you shan't run away from that dear girl that you're
promised to--I'm d----d if you do!'
Mark laughed naturally and easily enough.
'Did you think I was going to run away then--from _Mabel_?'
'You tell me what you're doing 'ere at this time o' day, then,' said
his uncle, only partially reassured. 'What's that you're carrying?'
'This? My friend's rug. I'm seeing a friend off--that's all. If you do
not believe me, I'll show you the friend.' As he looked back at the
bookstall he saw something which stiffened him once more with helpless
horror: the man at the stall was trying to persuade Holroyd to buy a
book for the journey--he was just dusting one now, a volume in a
greenish cover with bold crimson lettering, before recommending it;
and the book was a copy of the latest edition of 'Illusion,' the
edition which bore Mark's name on the title-page! In his despair Mark
did the very last thing he would otherwise have done--he rushed up to
Holroyd and caught his arm. 'I say, old fellow, don't let them talk
you into buying any of that rubbish. Look here, I--I want to introduce
you to my uncle!'
'I wasn't asking the gentleman to buy no rubbish,' said the man at the
bookstall, resenting the imputation. 'This is a book which is 'aving a
large sale just now: we've sold as many as'--but here Mark succeeded
in getting Vincent away and bringing him up to Mr. Lightowler.
'How are you, sir?' began that gentleman, with a touch of
condescension in his manner. 'So it's only you that's goin' off? Well,
that's a relief to my mind, I can tell yer; for when I saw Mark 'ere
with that rug, I somehow got it into my mind that _he_ was goin' to
make a run for it. And there 'ud be a pretty thing for all
parties--hey?'
'Your nephew very kindly came to see me off, that's all,' said
Holroyd.
'Oh,' said Uncle Solomon, with a tolerant wave of his hand, 'I don't
object to that, yer know, I've no objections to that--not that I don't
think (between ourselves, mind yer) that he mightn't p'raps he better
employed just now;' and here, to Mark's horror, he winked with much
humorous suggestiveness at both of them.
'That is very likely,' said Holroyd.
'What I mean by saying he might be "better employed,"' continued Uncle
Solomon, 'is that when----'
'Yes, yes, uncle,' Mark hastened to interpose, 'but on special
occasions like these one can leave one's duties for a while.'
'Now there I think you make your mistake--you make too sure, Mark. I
tell you (and I think your friend 'ere will bear me out in this) that,
in your situation, it don't _do_ to go leaving 'em in the lurch too
often--it don't _do_!' Mark could stand no more of this.
'A _lurch_ now,' he said--'what an odd expression that is! Do you
know, I've often tried to picture to myself what kind of a thing a
lurch may be. I always fancy it must be a sort of a deep hole. Have
_you_ any idea, Vincent?' Mark would have been too thankful to have
been able to drop his uncle down a lurch of that description
occasionally, particularly when he chose, as he did on this occasion,
to take offence at his nephew's levity.
'Lurch is a good old English word, let me tell yer, Mr. Schoolmaster
that was,' he broke in; 'and if I'd done as many a man in my position
would, and left _you_ in the lurch a few months ago, where would you
ha' been?--that's what I'd like to know! For I must tell yer, Mr.
Holroyd, that that feller came to me with a precious long face, and
says he, "Uncle," he says, "I want you to----"'
Mark felt that in another moment the whole story of his uncle's
intervention at Kensington Park Gardens would burst upon Holroyd with
the force of a revelation, and he was at the end of his resources.
_Where_ was Caffyn all this time? How could he be so careless as to be
late?
'I--I don't think it's quite fair to tell all that,' he expostulated
weakly.
'Fair!' said Uncle Solomon. 'I made no secrecy over it. I did nothing
to be ashamed of and hush up, and it's no disgrace to you that I can
see to be helped by an uncle that can afford it. Well, as I was
saying, Mark came to me----'
Here a small Juggernaut car in the shape of a high-piled truck came
rolling down on them with a shout of, 'By your leave there, by your
leave!' from the unseen porter behind. Mark drew Vincent sharply
aside, and then saw Caffyn coming quickly towards them through the
crowd, and forgot the torpedo his uncle was doing his best to launch:
he felt that with Caffyn came safety. Caffyn, who had evidently been
hurrying, gave a sharp glance at the clock: 'Sorry to be late,' he
said, as he shook hands. 'Binny fetched me a hansom with a wobbling
old animal in it that ran down like a top when we'd got half-way; and
of course the main road was up for the last mile--however, I've just
done it. Come along, Holroyd, I've got a carriage.' And the three men
went off together, leaving Mr. Lightowler behind in a decidedly huffy
frame of mind.
'Good-bye, Mark,' said Vincent affectionately before he got in. 'We've
not had time to see much of one another, have we? I can't say how glad
I am, though, even to have had that. I shall try not to leave England
without seeing you once more; but, if we don't meet again, then
good-bye and God bless you, old boy! Write to me from abroad, and tell
me where you are. We mustn't lose touch of one another again--eh?'
'Good-bye,' said Caffyn, in a hurried voice before he followed. 'I've
got your Swiss address, haven't I? and if--if anything happens, you
shall hear from me.'
The next minute Mark stood back, and as the long line of
chocolate-and-white carriages rolled gently past he caught his last
sight of Vincent's face, with the look on it that he could not hope to
see again. He saw Caffyn too, who gave him a cool side-jerk of the
head at parting, with a smile which, when Mark recollected it later,
seemed to account for some of the uneasiness he felt. But, after all,
this desperate plan had prospered, thanks to Caffyn's unconscious
assistance. If Vincent had been gagged and bound and kept in a dungeon
cell till the wedding was over, he could hardly be more harmless than
he would be at Wastwater. Two more days--only two more--and the
calamity he dreaded even more than exposure would be averted for
ever--none but he would call Mabel Langton his wife! Thinking this as
he left the platform, he ran up against his uncle, whom he had
completely forgotten: he was harmless now as a safety match bereft of
its box, and Mark need fear him no longer. 'Why, there you are,
uncle--eh?' he said, with much innocent satisfaction. 'I couldn't
think where you'd got to.'
'Oh, I dessay,' growled Mr. Lightowler, 'and your friend nearly lost
the train lookin' for me, didn't he? I'm not to be got over by soft
speakin', Mark, and I'm sharp enough to see where I'm not wanted. I
must say, though, that that feller, if he's one of your friends, might
a' shown me a little more common respect, knowing 'oo I was, instead
o' bolting away while I was talkin' to him, for all the world as if he
wanted to get rid of me.'
Mark saw that his uncle was seriously annoyed, and hastened to soothe
his ruffled dignity--a task which was by no means easy.
'It isn't as if I needed to talk to him either,' he persisted. 'I've a
friend of my own to see off, that's why I'm here at this time
(Liverpool _he's_ goin' to),' he added, with some obscure sense of
superiority implied in this fact; 'and let me tell you, he's a man
that's looked up to by every one there, is Budkin, and'll be mayor
before he dies! And another thing let me say to you, Mark. In the
course of my life I've picked up, 'ere and there, some slight
knowledge of human character, and I read faces as easy as print. Now I
don't like the look of that friend of yours.'
'Do you mean Caffyn?' asked Mark.
'I don't know _him_; no, I mean that down-lookin' chap you introduced
to me--'Olroyd, isn't it? Well, don't you have too much to do with
him--there's something in his eye I don't fancy; he ain't to be
trusted, and you mind what I say.'
'Well,' said Mark, 'I can promise you that I shall see no more of him
than I can help in future, if that's any relief to your mind.'
'You stick to that then, and--'ullo, there is Budkin come at last! You
come along with me and I'll introduce you (he's not what you call a
refined sort of feller, yer know,' he explained forbearingly, 'but
still we've always been friends in a way); you can't stop? Must go
back to Miss Mabel, hey? Well, well, I won't keep yer; good-bye till
the day after to-morrow then, and don't you forgit what you'd 'a been
if you'd been thrown on the world without an uncle--there'd be no
pretty Miss Mabel for you then, whatever you may think about it, young
chap!'
When Mark made his appearance at Kensington Park Gardens again, Dolly
watched his face anxiously, longing to ask if Vincent had really gone
at last, but somehow she was afraid. And so, as the time went by, and
no Vincent Holroyd came to the door to denounce her, she took comfort
and never knew how her fears were shared by her new brother-in-law.