MISSED FIRE!
It was an evening early in May, and Harold Caffyn was waiting at
Victoria for the arrival of the Dover train, which was bringing back
Mark and Mabel from the Continent. This delicate attention on his part
was the result of a painful uncertainty which had been vexing him ever
since the morning on which he read Vincent's farewell note at
Wastwater. 'It is a poor tale,' as Mrs. Poyser might say, to throw
your bomb and never have the satisfaction of hearing it explode--and
yet that was his position; he had 'shot his arrow into the air,' like
Longfellow; but, less fortunate than the poet, he was anything but
sure that his humble effort had reached 'the heart of a friend.' Now
he was going to know. One thing he had ascertained from the
Langtons--Vincent Holroyd had certainly followed the couple to
Laufingen, and they had seen him there--Harold had found Mrs. Langton
full of the wonderful news of the return of the dead. But nothing had
come of it as yet; if there was a sensation in store for the literary
world, Mabel's letters apparently contained no hint of it, and for a
time Caffyn felt unpleasantly apprehensive that there might have been
a hitch somehow in his admirable arrangements. Then he reflected that
Mabel would naturally spare her mother as long as possible; he would
not believe that after all the trouble he had taken, after Holroyd had
actually hunted down the culprit, the secret could have been kept from
her any longer. No, she must know the real truth, though she might be
proud enough to mask her sufferings while she could. But still he
longed for some visible assurance that his revenge had not
unaccountably failed; and, as he had ascertained that they were to
return on this particular evening, and were not to be met except by
the Langton carriage, it occurred to him that here would be an
excellent opportunity of observing Mabel at a time when she would not
imagine it necessary to wear a mask. He would take care to remain
unseen himself; a single glance would tell him all he needed to know,
and he promised himself enjoyment of a refined and spiritual kind in
reading the effects of his revenge on the vivid face he had loved
once, and hated now with such malignant intensity. The train came in
with a fringe of expectant porters hanging on the footboards, and as
the doors flew open to discharge a crowd, flurried but energetic, like
stirred ants, even Caffyn's well-regulated pulse beat faster.
He had noticed Champion waiting on the platform and kept his eye upon
him in the bustle that followed; he was going up to a compartment
now--that must be Mark he was touching his hat to as he received
directions; Caffyn could not see Mark's face yet as his back was
towards him, but he could see Mabel's as she stepped lightly out on
the platform--there was a bright smile on her face as she acknowledged
the footman's salute, and seemed to be asking eager questions. Caffyn
felt uncomfortable, for there was nothing forced about her smile, no
constraint in her eyes as she turned to Mark when they were alone
again, and seemed to be expressing her eager delight at being home
again. And Mark, too, had the face of a man without a care in the
world--something must have gone wrong, terribly wrong, it was clear!
They were coming towards him; he had meant to avoid them at first, but
now his curiosity would not allow this, and he threw himself in their
way, affecting an artless surprise and pleasure at being the first to
welcome them back. Mark did not appear at all disconcerted to see him,
and Mabel could not be frigid to anybody just then in the flush of
happy expectation, which she did not try to conceal; altogether it was
a bitter disappointment to Caffyn.
He quite gasped when Mark said, with a frank unconsciousness, and
without waiting for the subject to be introduced by him, 'Oh, I say,
Caffyn, what on earth made you think poor old Vincent was going back
to India at once? He's not going to do anything of the kind; he's
wandering about the Continent. We knocked up against him at
Laufingen!'
Caffyn gave a searching look at Mabel's sweet, tranquil face, then at
Mark's, which bore no sign of guilt or confusion. 'Knocked up against
you!' he repeated; 'why--why, didn't he _expect_ to find you there,
then?'
Mabel answered this: 'It was quite an accident that he stopped at
Laufingen at all,' she said; 'he was going on to Italy.'
Caffyn did not give up even then--he tried one last probe: 'Of
course,' he said; 'I forgot, your husband kept him so completely in
the dark about it all--eh, Mark? Why, when you got him to come down to
Wastwater with me, he had no idea what festivities were in
preparation--had he?'
'No, my boy,' said Mark, with a perfectly natural and artistic laugh;
'I really don't believe he had--you mustn't be shocked, darling,' he
added to Mabel; 'it was all for his good, poor fellow. I must tell you
some day about our little conspiracy. It's all very well for you,
though,' he turned to Caffyn again, 'to put it all on to me--you had
more to do with it than I--it was your own idea, you know!'
'Oh!' said Caffyn; 'well, if you like to put it in that way----.' He
lost his self-possession completely--there was something in all this
he could not at all understand.
The fact was that Mark felt himself able now to face the whole world
with equanimity; the knowledge that no one would ever detect him made
him a consummate actor. He had long made up his mind how he would
greet Caffyn when they met again, and he was delighted to find himself
so composed and equal to the occasion.
Caffyn stood looking after the carriage as it drove away with them; he
had quite lost his bearings: the paper in Holroyd's hand, Mark's own
behaviour in so many instances, Vincent's rapid pursuit, had all
seemed to point so clearly to one conclusion--yet what was he to think
now? He began for the first time to distrust his own penetration; he
very much feared that his elaborate scheme of revenge was a failure,
that he must choose some other means of humbling Mabel, and must begin
all over again, which was a distressing thought to a young man in his
situation. He was glad now that he had never talked of his suspicions,
and had done nothing openly compromising. He would not give up even
yet, until he had seen Holroyd, and been able to pump him judiciously;
until then he must bear the dismal suspicion that he had overreached
himself.
One of his shafts at least had not fallen altogether wide, for as Mark
and Mabel were being driven home across the Park, she said suddenly:
'So _Harold_ knew that Vincent was alive, then?'
'Yes,' said Mark, '_he_ knew,' and he looked out of the window at the
sunset as he spoke.
'And you and Harold kept him from hearing of our wedding?' she said.
'Mark, I thought you said that you had told him?'
'Oh, no,' said Mark; 'you misunderstood--there--there were reasons.'
'Tell me them,' said Mabel.
'Well,' said Mark, 'Vincent was ill--anyone could see that what he
wanted was rest, and that the fatigue and--and--the excitement of a
wedding would be too much for him--Caffyn wanted a companion up at
Wastwater, and begged me to say nothing about our marriage just then,
and leave it to him to tell him quietly later on--that's all,
darling.'
'I don't like it, dear,' said Mabel; 'I don't like your joining Harold
in a thing like that. I know you did it all for the best, but I don't
see why you could not have told him; if he was not well enough to come
to the wedding we should have understood it!'
'Perhaps you're right,' said Mark, easily, 'but, at all events, no
harm has come of it to anybody. How they are thinning the trees along
here, aren't they? Just look down that avenue!'
And Mabel let him turn the conversation from a subject she was glad
enough to forget.