ON THE LAUFENPLATZ.
Vincent had left the _Gasthaus zur Post_, the old-fashioned inn
outside Klein-Laufingen, at which he had taken up his quarters for the
night, a little before nine, and walked down the street, with his mind
finally made up as to the course he meant to take, although he shrank
from the coming interview almost as intensely as Mark himself. He
passed under the covered way of the bridge, and had nearly reached the
open part, when he recognised the man he was coming to meet standing
in one of the recesses. He noticed him look round in evident fear of
observation--he did not seem, however, to have seen or heard Vincent,
and presently the latter saw him throw his hat away, as if in
preparation for action of some sort. Vincent guessed at once what he
was intending to do; it darted across his mind that this might be the
best solution of the difficulty--he had only to keep silent for a few
seconds. Was it certain even now that he could prevent this
self-destruction if he would? But such inhumanity was impossible to
him. Instinctively he rushed forward out of the shadow and, seizing
Mark by the arm as he sprang upon the parapet, dragged him roughly
back. 'You coward!' he cried, 'you fool! This is the way you keep your
appointment, is it? You can do that afterwards if you like--just now
you will come with me.'
Tragic as a rash act, such as Mark was contemplating, is when
successful, an interruption brings with it an inevitable bathos; when
he first felt that grasp on his arm, he thought himself in the power
of a German policeman, and, prepared as he was a moment before to face
a sudden death, he quailed before the prospect of some degrading and
complicated official process; it was almost a relief to see instead
his bitterest enemy!
He made no attempt at resistance or escape--perhaps life seemed more
tolerable after all now he had been brought back to it; he went meekly
back with Vincent, who still held his arm firmly, and they reached the
Laufenplatz without another word.
The little terrace above the Rhine was almost dark, the only light
came in a reflected form from a street lamp round the corner, and they
had to pick their way round the octagonal stone fountain and between
the big iron salmon cages, to some seats under the five bare elms by
the railings. There Vincent sat down to recover breath, for the scene
he had just gone through was beginning to tell upon him, and he was
overcome by a feeling of faintness which made him unable to speak for
some moments. Meanwhile Mark stood opposite by the railings waiting
sullenly, until Vincent rose at last and came to his side; he spoke
low and with difficulty, but, in spite of the torrent roaring over the
rocks below, Mark heard every word.
'I suppose,' Vincent began, 'I need not tell you why I wished to see
you?'
'No,' said Mark; 'I know.'
'From your manner on the bridge just now,' continued Holroyd,
relentlessly, 'it looked almost as if you wished to avoid a
meeting--why should you? I told you I wished my authorship to be kept
a secret, and you sheltered it with your own name. Very few friends
would have done that!'
'You have the right to indulge in this kind of pleasantry,' said the
tortured Mark; 'I know that--only be moderate if you can. Cut the
sneers and the reproaches short, and give me the finishing stroke; do
you suppose I don't _feel_ what I am?'
'Reproaches are ungenerous, of course,' retorted Holroyd; 'I am coming
to the "finishing stroke," as you call it, in my own time; but first,
though you may consider it bad taste on my part, I want to know a
little more about all this. If it's painful to you, I'm sorry--but you
scarcely have the right to be sensitive.'
'Oh, I have no rights!' said Mark, bitterly.
'I'll try not to abuse mine,' said Vincent, more calmly, 'but I can't
understand why you did this--you could write books for yourself, what
made you covet mine?'
'I'll tell you all there is to tell,' said Mark: 'I didn't covet your
book--it was like this; my own novels had both been rejected. I knew I
had no chance, as things were, of ever getting a publisher to look at
them. I felt I only wanted a fair start. Then Fladgate got it into his
head that I was the author of that manuscript of yours. I _did_ tell
him how it really was, but he wouldn't believe me, and then--upon my
soul, Holroyd, I thought you were dead!'
'And had no rights!' concluded the other drily; 'I see--go on.'
'I was mad, I suppose,' continued Mark; 'I let him think he was
right. And then I met Mabel ... by that time everybody knew me as the
author of "Illusion." I--I could not tell her I was not.... Then we
were engaged, and, four days before the wedding, you came back--you
know all the rest.'
'Yes, I know the rest,' cried Vincent, passionately; 'you came to meet
me--how overcome you were! I thought it was joy, and thanked Heaven,
like the fool I was, that I had anyone in the world to care so much
about me! And you let me tell you about--about _her_; and you and
Caffyn between you kept me in the dark till you could get me safely
out of the way. It was a clever scheme--you managed it admirably. You
need not have stolen from anyone with such powers of constructing a
plot of your own! There is just one thing, though, I should like to
have explained. I wrote Mabel a letter--I know now that she never
received it--why?'
'How can I tell?' said Mark. 'Good God! Holroyd, you don't suspect me
of _that_!'
'Are you so far above suspicion?' asked Vincent; 'it would only be a
very few more pages!'
'Well, I deserve it,' said Mark, 'but whether you believe me or not, I
never saw a letter of yours until the other day. I never imagined you
were alive even till I read your letter to me.'
'That must have been a delightful surprise for you,' said Vincent;
'you kept your head though--you did not let it interfere with your
arrangements. You have married her--_you_--of all the men in the
world! Nothing can ever undo that now--nothing!'
'I have married her,' said Mark; 'God forgive me for it! But at least
she cares for no one else, Holroyd. She loves me--whatever I am!'
'You need not tell me that,' interrupted Vincent; 'I know it. I have
seen it for myself--you have been clever even in that!'
'What do you mean?' asked Mark.
'Do you know what that book of mine was to me?' continued Vincent,
without troubling to answer; 'I put all that was best of myself into
it, I thought it might plead for me some day, perhaps, to a heart I
hoped to touch; and I come back to find that you have won the heart,
and not even left me my book!'
'As for the book,' said Mark, 'that will be yours again now.'
'I meant to make it so when I came here,' Vincent answered. 'I meant
to force you to own my rights, whatever the acknowledgment cost
you.... But I know now that I must give that up. I abandon all claim
to the book; you have chosen to take it--you can keep it!'
The revulsion of feeling caused by so unexpected an announcement
almost turned Mark's head for the moment; he caught Vincent by the arm
in his excitement. 'What,' he cried, 'is this a trick--are you in
earnest--you will spare me after all? You must not, Vincent, I can't
have it--I don't deserve it!'
Vincent drew back coldly: 'Did I say you deserved it?' he asked, with
a contempt that stung Mark.
'Then I won't accept it, do you hear?' he persisted; 'you shall not
make this sacrifice for me!'
Holroyd laughed grimly enough: 'For you!' he repeated; 'you don't
suppose I should tamely give up everything for _you_, do you?'
'Then,' faltered Mark, 'why--why----?'
'Why am I going to let you alone? Do you remember what I told you on
that platform at Plymouth?--_that_ is why. If I had only known then, I
would have fought my hardest to expose you, if it was necessary to
save her in that way--for her sake, not mine. I don't suppose there
ever was much hope for me. As it is, you have been clever enough to
choose the one shield through which I can't strike you--if I ever
thought more of that wretched book than of her happiness, it was only
for a moment--she knows nothing as yet, and she must never know!'
'She will know it some day,' said Mark, heavily.
'Why should she know?' demanded Vincent, impatiently; 'you don't mean
that that infernal Caffyn knows?'
'No, no,' replied Mark, in all sincerity; 'Caffyn doesn't know--how
could he? But you can't hide these things: you--you may have talked
about it yourself already!'
'I have not talked about it!' said Vincent, sharply; 'perhaps I was
not too proud of having been gulled so easily. Can't you understand?
This secret rests between you and me at present, and I shall never
breathe a word of it--you can feel perfectly safe--you are Mabel's
husband!'
It is to be feared that Vincent's manner was far enough from the
sublime and heroic; he gave up his book and his fame from the
conviction that he could not do otherwise; but it was not easy for all
that, and he did not try to disguise the bitter contempt he felt for
the cause.
Mark could not endure the humiliation of such a pardon--his spirit
rose in revolt against it.
'Do you think I will be forgiven like this?' he cried, recklessly. 'I
don't want your mercy! I won't take it! If you won't speak, I shall!'
Vincent had not expected any resistance from Mark, and this outburst,
which was genuine enough, showed that he was not utterly beneath
contempt, even then.
Holroyd's manner was less harsh and contemptuous when he next spoke:
'It's no use, Ashburn,' he said firmly; 'it's too late for all that
now--you _must_ accept it!'
'I shall not,' said Mark again. 'I've been a scoundrel, I know, but
I'll be one no longer; I'll tell the truth and give you back your own.
I will do what's right at last!'
'Not in that way,' said Vincent; 'I forbid it. I have the right to be
obeyed in this, and you shall obey me. Listen to me, Ashburn; you
can't do this--you forget Mabel. You have made her love you and trust
her happiness to your keeping; your honour is hers now. Can't you see
what shame and misery you will plunge her in by such a confession? It
may clear your conscience, but it must darken her life--and that's too
heavy a price to pay for such a mere luxury as peace of mind.'
'How can I go on deceiving her?' groaned Mark; 'it will drive me mad!'
'It will do nothing of the sort!' retorted Holroyd, his anger
returning; 'I know you better--in a couple of days it won't even
affect your appetite! Why, if I had not come over here, if I had gone
out again to India as you hoped I should, you were prepared to go on
deceiving her--your mind kept its balance well enough then!'
Mark knew this was true, and held his tongue.
'Think of me as safe in India, then,' Vincent continued more quietly.
'I shall trouble you quite as little. But this secret is mine as well
as yours--and I will not have it told. If you denounce yourself now,
who will be the better for it? Think what it will cost Mabel.... You
_do_ love her, don't you?' he asked, with a fierce anxiety; 'you--you
have not married her for other reasons?'
'You think I am too bad even to love honestly,' said Mark, bitterly;
'but I do.'
'Prove it then,' said Vincent. 'You heard her pleading on the bridge
for the woman who would suffer by her husband's shame; she was
pleading for herself then--and not to me only, to you! Have pity on
her; she is so young to lose all her faith and love and hope at once.
You can never let her know what you have been; you can only try to
become all she believes you to be.'
In his heart, perhaps, Mark was not sorry to be convinced that what he
had resolved to do was impossible. The high-strung mood in which he
had been ready to proclaim his wrong-doing was already passing away.
Vincent had gained his point.
'You are right,' Mark said slowly; 'I _will_ keep it from her if I
can.'
'Very well,' Vincent answered, 'that is settled then. If she asks you
what has passed between us, you can say that I have told you my story,
but that you are not at liberty to speak of it. Mabel will not try to
know more. Stay, I will write a line' (and he went to the corner of
the street and wrote a few words on a leaf from his notebook). 'Give
that to her,' he said as he returned. 'And now I think we've nothing
more to say.'
'Only one other thing,' stammered Mark; 'I must do this.... When
they--they published your book they paid me.... I never touched the
money. I have brought it with me to-night; you must take it!' and he
held out a small packet of notes.
Vincent turned haughtily away. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'it is not mine;
I will have nothing to do with it. Under the circumstances, you can't
expect me to touch that money. Keep it; do what you choose with it.'
'I choose this, then!' said Mark, violently, and tearing the notes up,
he flung them over the railings to drift down on the rocks or into the
tossing grey foam beyond.
'You need not have done that,' said Holroyd, coldly; 'there were the
poor. But just as you please!' and he made a movement as if to go.
Mark stopped him with a gesture.
'Are you going like this?' he said, and his voice trembled. 'If you
knew all I felt, even you might pity me a little! Can't you forgive?'
Vincent turned. 'No,' he said, shortly, 'I can't. I put temptation in
your way, and though I never dreamed then that it could be a
temptation to you, I could have forgiven you for giving way to it when
you believed me dead. But I came back, and you went on with it; you
lied to me--more, you dared to marry _her_, without a care for the
shame and sorrow, which was all you had to bring her. If I said I
forgave you for that, it would be a mockery. I don't, and I can't!'
'I see,' said Mark. 'When we meet again we are to be strangers, then?'
'No,' said Vincent; 'if we meet we must do so as ordinary
acquaintances--for Mabel's sake. But there are no appearances to keep
up here. Can't you see I want to be left to myself?' he asked, with a
sudden burst of nervous irritation.
'Have your way then?' said Mark, and left him there by the railings.
Mark's first feelings as he walked slowly back up the little street
where the little shops were all shuttered and dark now, were by no
means enviable; he felt infinitely mean and small in his own eyes, and
shrank from entering Mabel's presence while his nerves were still
crawling under the scorching contempt of Vincent's dismissal. If,
during the interview, there had been moments when he was deeply
contrite and touched at the clemency so unexpectedly shown him, the
manner of his pardon seemed to release him from all obligations to
gratitude--he had only been forgiven for another's sake; and for a
time he almost loathed so disgraceful an immunity, and felt the deep
humiliation of a sentence that condemned him 'to pay the price of lies
by being constrained to lie on still.' But by degrees, even in that
short walk, his elastic temperament began to assert itself; after all,
it might have been worse. He might by now have been drifting, dead and
disfigured, down the river to Basle; he might have been going back to
Mabel with the fearful necessity upon him of telling her all that
night. One person knew him, and despised him for what he was; but that
person would never tell his secret. That painful scene which had just
passed would never have to be gone through again; he could think of it
as a horrible dream. Yes, he was safe now, _really_ safe this time.
His position was far more secure than when he had read that telegram
of Caffyn's; and here he wondered, for the first time, whether Caffyn
had been deliberately misled or only mistaken in sending such a
delusive message. But that did not very much matter now, and he soon
abandoned speculation on the subject. He had much to be thankful for;
his future was free from all danger. He had had a severe lesson, and
he would profit by it; henceforth (with the one necessary reservation)
he would be honest and true--Mabel should never repent her trust in
him. 'Sweet Bells Jangled' would be before the world by the time they
returned, and after that he feared nothing. And so, though he was
subdued and silent on his return, there was no other trace in his
manner of what he had suffered during the last hour. He found Mabel by
the window of their sitting-room, looking out at the houses across
the river, which were now palely clear in the cold moonlight, their
lights extinguished, and only a pane glittering here and there in some
high dormer window, while the irregular wooden, galleries and hanging
outhouses were all thrown up vividly by the intense shadows.
'What a very long time you have been away!' she said; 'but I know
Vincent can be very pleasant and interesting if he likes.'
'Very,' said Mark, and gave her Holroyd's note.
'I leave here early to-morrow for Italy,' she read, 'and may not see
you again for some little time. I have told your husband my story,
but, on consideration, have thought it best to pledge him to tell no
one--not even you. But the man who injured me shall be safe for your
sake.'
'You _did_ persuade him, then!' she said, looking up gratefully to
Mark. 'Oh, I am glad! How good you are, and how well you must have
spoken, dear, to make him give up his idea of punishing the man! So
Vincent is going away at once. Do you know I am afraid I am rather
glad?'
And Mark made no answer; what was there to say?
* * * * *
Vincent stood there by the railings on the Laufenplatz for some time
after Mark had left him; he was feeling the reaction both in mind and
body from his recent conflict. 'How will it all end?' he asked himself
wearily. 'Can any good come from letting this deceit go on? Is he
strong enough to carry out his part? If not, the truth will only come
at last, and be even more cruel when it does come.' Yet he had done
what still seemed the obvious and only thing to do, if Mabel's
happiness was considered. He was ashamed even that he had not seen it
earlier, and trembled as he remembered that only a providential chance
had restrained him from some fatal disclosure to Mabel that afternoon
on the bridge. But at least he had acted for the best, and he would
hope for it.
Thinking thus, he recrossed the river to Klein-Laufingen, where a
mounted German officer, many sizes too big for the little street, was
rousing it from its first slumber as he clattered along, with his
horse's hoofs striking sparks from the rough cobbles, and passed under
the old gateway, where his accoutrements gleamed for an instant in the
lamplight before horse and rider vanished in the darkness beyond.
Vincent passed out, too, out on the broad white road, and down the
hill to his homely _Gasthaus_. He felt weak and very lonely--lonelier
even than when he had parted from Mabel long ago on the eve of his
Ceylon voyage. He could hope then; now he had lost her for ever!
Still, one of his wishes had been granted--he had been able to be of
service to her, to make some sacrifice for her dear sake. She would
never know either of his love or his sacrifice, and though he could
not pretend that there was no bitterness in that, he felt that it was
better thus. 'After all,' he thought, 'she loves that fellow. She
would never have cared for me.' And there was truth in this last
conclusion. Even if Mabel and Mark had never met, and she could have
known Vincent as he was, the knowledge might not have taught her to
love. A woman cannot give her heart as a _prix Montyon_, or there
might be more bachelors than there are.