AT WASTWATER.
In a little private sitting-room of the rambling old whitewashed
building, half farmhouse, half country inn, known to tourists as the
Pillar Hotel, Wastwater, Holroyd and Caffyn were sitting one evening,
nearly a week after their first arrival in the Lake district. Both
were somewhat silent, but the silence was not that contented one which
comes of a perfect mutual understanding, as appeared by the conscious
manner in which they endeavoured to break it now and then, without
much success. By this time, indeed, each was becoming heartily tired
of the other, and whatever cordiality there had been between them was
fast disappearing on a closer acquaintance. During the day they kept
apart by unspoken consent, as Caffyn's natural indolence was enough of
itself to prevent him from being Vincent's companion in the long
mountain walks by which he tried to weary out his aching sense of
failure; but at night, as the hotel was empty at that season, they
were necessarily thrown together, and found it a sufficient
infliction.
Every day Holroyd determined that he would put an end to it as soon as
he could with decency, as a nameless something in Caffyn's manner
jarred on him more and more, while nothing but policy restrained
Caffyn himself from provoking an open rupture. And so Holroyd was
gazing absently into the fire, where the peat and ling crackled
noisily as it fell into fantastic peaks and caves, and Caffyn was idly
turning over the tattered leaves of a visitors' book, which bore the
usual eloquent testimony to the stimulating influence of scenery upon
the human intellect. When he came to the last entry, in which, while
the size of the mountains was mentioned with some approval, the
saltness of the hotel butter was made the subject of severe comment,
he shut the book up with a yawn.
'I shall miss the life and stir of all this,' he observed, 'when I get
back to town again.' Holroyd did not appear to have heard him, and, as
Caffyn had intended a covert sting, the absence of all response did
not improve his temper. 'I can't think why the devil they don't send
me the paper,' he went on irritably. 'I ordered it to be sent down
here regularly, but it never turns up by any chance. I should think
even you must be getting anxious to know what's become of the world
outside this happy valley?'
'I can't say I am particularly,' said Holroyd; 'I'm so used to being
without papers now.'
'Ah,' said Caffyn, with the slightest of sneers, 'you've got one of
those minds which can be converted into pocket kingdoms on an
emergency. I haven't, you know. I'm a poor creature, and I confess I
do like to know who of my friends have been the last to die, or burst
up, or bolt, or marry--just now the last particularly. I wonder what's
going on in the kitchen, eh?' he added, as now and then shouts and
laughter came from that direction. 'Hallo, Jennie, Polly, whatever
your name is,' he said to the red-cheeked waiting-maid who entered
that instant, 'we didn't ring, but never mind; you just come in time
to tell us the cause of these unwonted festivities--who've you got in
your kitchen?'
'It's t' hoons,' said the girl.
'Hounds, is it? jolly dogs, rather, I should say.'
'Ay, they've killed near here, and they're soopin' now. Postman's coom
over fra' Drigg wi' a letter--will it be for wan of ye?' and she held
out an eccentrically shaped and tinted envelope; 'there's a bonny
smell on it,' she observed.
'It's all right,' said Caffyn, 'it's mine; no newspapers, eh? Well,
perhaps this will do as well!' and as the door closed upon the maid he
tore open the letter with some eagerness. 'From the magnificent Miss
Featherstone--I must say there's no stiffness about her style,
though! What should _you_ say when a letter begins like this---- I
forgot, though,' he said, stopping himself, 'you're the kind of man
who gets no love-letters to speak of.'
'None at all,' said Vincent; 'certainly not to speak of.'
'Well, it's best to keep out of that sort of thing, I dare say, if you
can. Gilda tells me that she's been officiating as bridesmaid--full
list of costumes and presents--"sure it will interest me," is she?
Well, perhaps she's right. Do you know, Holroyd, I rather think I
shall go in and see how the jovial huntsmen are getting on in there.
You don't mind my leaving you?'
'Not in the least,' said Holroyd; 'I shall be very comfortable here.'
'I don't quite like leaving you in here with nothing to occupy your
powerful mind, though,' and he left the room. He came back almost
directly, however, with a copy of some paper in his hand: 'Just
remembered it as I was shutting the door,' he said; 'it's only a stale
old Review I happened to have in my portmanteau; but you may not have
seen it, so I ran up and brought it down for you.'
'It's awfully good of you to think of it, really,' said Vincent, much
more cordially than he had spoken of late. He had been allowing
himself to dislike the other more and more, and this slight mark of
thoughtfulness gave him a pang of self-reproach.
'Well, it may amuse you to run through it,' said Caffyn, 'so I got it
for you.'
'Thanks,' said Holroyd, without offering to open the paper. 'I'll look
at it presently.'
'Don't make a favour of it, you know,' said Caffyn; 'perhaps you
prefer something heavier (you've mental resources of your own, I
know); but there it is if you care to look at it.'
'I'd give anything to see him read it!' he thought when he was
outside; 'but it really wouldn't be safe. I don't want him to suspect
my share in the business.' So he went on to the kitchen and was almost
instantly on the best of terms with the worthy farmers and innkeepers,
who had been tracking the fox on foot all day across the mountains.
Vincent shivered as he sat over the fire; he had overwalked himself
and caught a chill trudging home in the rain that afternoon over the
squelching rushy turf of Ennerdale, and now he was feeling too languid
and ill to rouse himself. There was a letter that must be written to
Mabel, but he felt himself unequal to attempting it just then, and was
rather glad than otherwise that the hotel inkstand, containing as it
did a deposit of black mud and a brace of pre-Adamite pens, decided
the matter for him. He took up the Review Caffyn had so considerately
provided for his entertainment and began to turn over the pages, more
from a sense of obligation than anything else. For some time he could
not keep his attention upon what he read.
He had dreamy lapses, in which he stood again on the mountain top he
had climbed that day, and looked down on the ridges of the
neighbouring ranges, which rose up all around like the curved spines
of couching monsters asleep there in the solemn stillness--and then he
came to himself with a start as the wind moaned along the winding
passages of the inn, stealthily lifting the latch of the primitive
sitting-room door, and swelling the carpet in a highly uncanny
fashion.
After one of these recoveries he made some effort to fix his thoughts,
and presently he found himself reading a passage which had a strangely
familiar ring in it--he thought at first it was merely that passing
impression of a vague sameness in things which would vanish on
analysis--but, as he read on, the impression grew stronger at every
line. He turned to the beginning of the article, a notice on a recent
book, and read it from beginning to end with eager care. Was he
dreaming still, or mad? or how was it that in this work, with a
different title and by a strange writer, he seemed to recognise the
creation of his own brain? He was sure of it; this book 'Illusion' was
practically the same in plot and character--even in names--as the
manuscript he had entrusted to Mark Ashburn, and believed a hopeless
failure. If this was really his book, one of his most cherished
ambitions had not failed after all; it was noticed in a spirit of
warm and generous praise, the critic wrote of it as having even then
obtained a marked success--could it be that life had possibilities for
him beyond his wildest hopes?
The excitement of the discovery blinded Vincent just then to all
matters of detail: he was too dazzled to think calmly, and only
realised that he could not rest until he had found out whether he was
deceiving himself or not. Obviously he could learn nothing where he
was, and he resolved to go up to town immediately. He would see Mark
there, if he was still in London, and from him he would probably get
information on which he might act--for, as yet, it did not even occur
to Vincent that his friend could have played a treacherous part.
Should he confide in Caffyn before he went? Somehow he felt reluctant
to do that; he thought that Caffyn would feel no interest in such
things (though here, as we know, he did him an injustice), and he
decided to tell him no more than might seem absolutely necessary.
He rang and ordered the dog-cart to take him to Drigg next day in time
to meet the morning train, and, after packing such things as he would
want, lay awake for some time in a sleeplessness which was not
irksome, and then lost himself in dreams of a fantastically brilliant
future.
When Caffyn had had enough of the huntsmen he returned to the
sitting-room, and was disgusted to find that Holroyd had retired and
left the Review. 'I shall hear all about it to-morrow,' he said to
himself; 'and if he knows nothing--I shall have to enlighten him
myself!'
But not being an early riser at any time, he overslept himself even
more than usual next day, ignoring occasional noises at his door, the
consequence being that, when he came down to breakfast, it was only to
find a note from Vincent on his plate: 'I find myself obliged to go to
town at once on important business,' he had written. 'I tried to wake
you and explain matters, but could not make you hear. I would not go
off in this way if I could help it; but I don't suppose you will very
much mind.'
Caffyn felt a keen disappointment, for he had been looking forward to
the pleasure of observing the way in which Vincent would take the
discovery; but he consoled himself: 'After all, it doesn't matter,' he
thought; 'there's only one thing that could start him off like that!
What he doesn't know he'll pick up as he goes on. When he knows all,
what will he do? Shouldn't wonder if he went straight for Mark. Somehow
I'm rather sorry for that poor devil of a Mark--he did me a bad turn
once, but I've really almost forgiven him, and--but for Mabel--I think
I should have shipped dear Vincent off in perfect ignorance--dear
Vincent did bore me so! But I want to be quits with charming, scornful
Mabel, and, when she discovers that she's tied for life to a sham, I do
think it will make her slightly uncomfortable--especially if I can tell
her she's indebted to me for it all! Well, in a day or two there will
be an excellent performance of the cottage-act from the "Lady of Lyons"
over there, and I only wish I could have got a seat for it. She'll be
magnificent. I do pity that miserable beggar, upon my soul, I do--it's
some comfort to think that I never did him any harm; he lost me
Mabel--and I kept him from losing her. I can tell him that if he
tries any reproaches!'
Meanwhile Vincent was spinning along in the dog-cart on his way to
Drigg. There had been a fall of snow during the night, and the
mountains across the lake seemed grander and more awful, their rugged
points showing sharp and black against the blue-tinted snow which lay
in the drifts and hollows, and their peaks rising in glittering silver
against a pale-blue sky. The air was keen and bracing, and his spirits
rose as they drove past the grey-green lake, and through the
plantations of bright young larches and sombre fir. He arrived at
Drigg in good time for the London train, and, as soon as it stopped at
a station of importance, seized the opportunity of procuring a copy of
'Illusion' (one of the earlier editions), which he was fortunate
enough to find on the bookstall there. He began to read it at once
with a painful interest, for he dreaded lest he had deluded himself
in some strange way, but he had not read very far before he became
convinced that this was indeed his book--his very own. Here and there,
it was true, there were passages which he did not remember having
written, some even so obviously foreign to the whole spirit of the
book that he grew hot with anger as he read them--but for the most
part each line brought back vivid recollections of the very mood and
place in which it had been composed. And now he observed something
which he had not noticed in first reading the Review--namely, that
'Illusion' was published by the very firm to which he had sent his own
manuscript. Had not Mark given him to understand that Chilton and
Fladgate had rejected it? How could he reconcile this and the story
that the manuscript had afterwards been accidentally destroyed, with
the fact of its publication in its present form? And why was the title
changed? Who was this Cyril Ernstone, who had dared to interfere with
the text? The name seemed to be one he had met before in some
connection--but where? Had not Mark shown him long ago a short article
of his own which had been published in some magazine over that or some
very similar signature? Terrible suspicions flashed across him when
these and many other similar circumstances occurred to him. He fought
hard against them, however, and succeeded in dismissing them as
unworthy of himself and his friend: he shrank from wronging Mark, even
in thought, by believing him capable of such treachery as was implied
in these doubts. He felt sure of his honour, and that he had only to
meet him to receive a perfectly satisfactory explanation of his
conduct in the matter, and then Mark and he would hunt down this
impostor, Cyril Ernstone, together, and clear up all that was
mysterious enough at present. In the meantime he would try to banish
it from his mind altogether, and dwell only on the new prospects which
had opened so suddenly before him; and in this he found abundant
occupation for the remainder of his journey.
He reached Euston too late to do anything that night, and the next
morning his first act, even before going in search of Mark, was to
drive to Kensington Park Gardens with some faint hope of finding that
Mabel had returned. But the windows were blank, and even the front
door, as he stood there knocking and ringing repeatedly, had an air of
dust and neglect about it which prepared him for the worst. After
considerable delay a journeyman plumber unfastened the door and
explained that the caretaker had just stepped out, while he himself
had been employed on a job with the cistern at the back of the house.
He was not able to give Vincent much information. The family were all
away; they might be abroad, but he did not know for certain; so
Vincent had to leave, with the questions he longed to put unasked. At
South Audley Street he was again disappointed. The servant there had
not been long in the place, but knew that Mr. Ashburn, the last
lodger, had gone away for good, and had left no address, saying he
would write or call for his letters. Holroyd could not be at ease
until he had satisfied himself that his friend had been true to him.
He almost hated himself for feeling any doubt on the subject, and yet
Mark had certainly behaved very strangely; in any case he must try to
find out who this Cyril Ernstone might be, and he went on to the City
and called at Messrs. Chilton and Fladgate's offices with that
intention.
Mr. Fladgate himself came down to receive him in the little room in
which Mark Ashburn had once waited. 'You wished to speak to me?' he
began.
'You have published a book called "Illusion,"' said Vincent, going
straight to the point in his impatience. 'I want to know if you feel
at liberty to give me any information as to its author?' Mr.
Fladgate's eyebrows went up, and the vertical fold between them
deepened.
'Information,' he repeated. 'Oh, dear me, no; it is not our practice,
really. But you can put your question of course, if you like, and I
will tell you if we should be justified in answering you,' he added,
as he saw nothing offensive in his visitor's manner.
'Thank you,' said Vincent. 'I will, then. Would you be justified in
telling me if the name of "Cyril Ernstone" is a real or assumed one?'
'A few days ago I should have said certainly not; as it is--I presume
you are anxious to meet Mr. Ernstone?'
'I am,' said Vincent: 'very much so.'
'Ah, just so; well, it happens that you need not have given yourself
the trouble to come here to ask that question. As you are here,
however, I can gratify your curiosity without the slightest breach of
confidence. There is our later edition of the book on that table; the
title-page will tell you all you want to know.'
Vincent's hand trembled as he took the book. Then he opened it, and
the title-page did tell him all. His worst suspicions were more than
verified. He had been meanly betrayed by the man he had trusted--the
man whom he had thought his dearest friend! The shock stunned him
almost as if it had found him totally unprepared. 'It was Mark, then,'
he said only half aloud, as he put the book down again very gently.
'Ah, so you know him?' said Mr. Fladgate, who stood by smiling.
'He was one of my oldest friends,' replied Vincent, still in a low
voice.
'And you suspected him, eh?' continued the publisher, who was not the
most observant of men.
'He took some pains to put me off the scent,' said Vincent.
'Yes; he kept his secret very well, didn't he? Now, you see, he feels
quite safe in declaring himself--a very brilliant young man, sir. I
congratulate you in finding an old friend in him.'
'I am very fortunate, I know,' said Vincent, grimly.
'Oh, and it will be a pleasant surprise for him too!' said Mr.
Fladgate, 'very pleasant on both sides. Success hasn't spoilt him in
the least--you won't find him at all stuck up!'
'No,' agreed Vincent, 'I don't think I shall. And now perhaps you
will have no objection to give me his present address, and then I
need trouble you no longer at present.'
'I see--you would naturally like to congratulate him!'
'I should like to let him know what I think about it,' said Holroyd.
'Exactly--well, let me see, I _ought_ to have his address somewhere. I
had a letter from him only the other day--did I put it on my file? no,
here it is--yes. "Hotel Rheinfall, Gross Laufingen, Switzerland,"--if
you write to your friend any time this month, it will find him there.'
Vincent took the address down in his notebook and turned to go.
'Good day,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'delighted to have been of any service
to you--by the way, I suppose you saw your friend's'--but before he
could allude to Mark Ashburn's marriage he found himself alone,
Vincent having already taken a somewhat abrupt departure.
He could not trust himself to hear Mark talked of in this pleasant
vein any longer. It had required some effort on his part to restrain
himself when he first knew the truth, and only the consciousness that
his unsupported assertions would do no good had kept him silent. He
would wait to make his claim until he could bring evidence that could
not be disregarded--he would go to Mark Ashburn and force him to give
him an acknowledgment which would carry conviction to every mind.
He would go at once. Mark had evidently gone to this place, Gross
Laufingen, with the idea of avoiding him--he would follow him there!
He lost no time in making inquiries, and soon learnt that Gross
Laufingen was about two hours' journey from Basle, and that by leaving
London next morning he would catch the fast train through from Calais
to Basle, and arrive there early on the following day. He made all
necessary arrangements for starting, and wrote to Caffyn to say that
he was going abroad, though he did not enter into further details, and
on receiving this letter Caffyn took the opportunity of gratifying
his malicious sense of humour by despatching (at considerable trouble
and expense to himself, for Wastwater is far enough from any telegraph
poles) the message Mark had received from little Max's hand on the
mount.
Vincent set out on his journey with a fierce impatience for the end,
when he would find himself face to face with this man whom he had
thought his friend, whose affectionate emotion had touched and cheered
him when they met at Plymouth, and who had been deliberately deceiving
him from the first.
All the night through he pictured the meeting to himself, with a stern
joy at the thought of seeing Mark's handsome false face change with
terror at the sight of him--would he beg for mercy, or try to defend
himself? would he dare to persist in his fraud? At the bare thought of
this last possibility a wave of mad passion swept over his brain--he
felt that in such a case he could not answer for what he might say or
do.
But with the morning calmer thoughts came: he did not want
revenge--only justice. Mark should restore everything in full--it was
his own fault if he had placed himself in such a position that he
could not do that without confessing his own infamy. If there was any
way of recovering his own and sparing Mark to some extent in the eyes
of the world, he would agree to it for the sake of their old
friendship, which had been strong and sincere on his own side at
least; but no sentimental considerations should stand between him and
his right.
Basle was reached in the early morning, and the pretty city was
flushed with rose, and the newly risen sun was sparkling on the
variegated roofs and cupolas as he drove across the bridge to the
Baden station. He felt jaded and ill after a journey in which he had
slept but little, and, finding that he would not be able to go on to
Laufingen for some time, was obliged to recruit himself by a few
hours' sleep at an hotel.
It was past midday when he awoke, and the next train, which started
late in the afternoon, brought him to Laufingen, just as the last
sunset rays were reddening the old grey ruin on the hill, and the
towns and river below showed themselves in an enchanted atmosphere of
violet haze.
Leaving his luggage at the station until he should have found a place
to stay at for the night, Vincent walked down to the bridge, intending
to go to the Rheinfall Hotel and inquire for Mark. There is a point
where the covered portion of the bridge ends, and the structure is
supported by a massive stone pier, whose angles, facing up and down
the river and protected by a broad parapet, form recesses on either
side of the roadway. Here he stopped for a moment, fascinated by the
charm of the scene, and, leaning upon the ledge, watched the last
touches of scarlet fading out of the slate-coloured cloud-masses in
the west. He was roused from this occupation by a voice which called
his name in a low tremulous tone which sent the blood rushing back to
his heart, and as he turned to see a graceful figure just passing out
from under the arched roof towards him, he recognised Mabel Langton.
The dying light fell full on her face, which had an expression half of
awe, half of incredulous joy--she came towards him, holding out two
eager hands, and the awe vanished, but the joy grew more assured.
'Vincent!' she cried. 'Is it really you? you have come back to us--or
am I dreaming?'
He had met her at last, and in this place to which he had come
anticipating nothing but pain and contest ... she had not forgotten
him--the glad shining in her sweet eyes told him that, and a great and
glorious hope sprang up within him.
In her presence he forgot his wrongs, he forgot the very object of a
journey which had thus led him to her side, all his past feelings
seemed petty and ignoble, and fame itself a matter of little worth; he
took her small gloved hands and stood there, resting his eyes on the
dear face which had haunted his thoughts through all his weary exile.
'Thank God,' he murmured, 'it is no dream--this time!'