A bright, blustering March morning was shining, with a cold glitter over
the square of the well-known B---- Barracks, in that pleasant, rackety
capital, Dublin, nearly three months after the interview last recorded.
Parade had just been dismissed, and the officers of the second battalion
--th Rifles had dispersed to their various occupations or engagements,
with the exception of a small group which gathered round an attractive
fire in the mess-room, and discussed the military and club gossip of the
hour.
"Will you stay for the --th Dragoons' ball, on Thursday, Wilton?" said
one of the younger men to our friend, who was reading a London paper,
and dressed in mufti, evidently a guest.
"And for St. Paddy's on the 17th?" asked the colonel. "It's a dazzling
scene, and no end of fun."
"I promised to dine with the mess of the --th Dragoons to-night,"
returned Wilton; "and I think I should like to see their ball; but I
must be in Scotland before the 17th, so must forego the humors of St.
Patrick's. I see, colonel, my battalion was not to embark until the
25th of February. They cannot reach England for another month. I have a
great mind to exchange into the regiment that is gone out to relieve
them. I do not like soldiering in England--there is always work to be
done in India."
The colonel elevated his brows.
"My dear fellow, you are desperately energetic. I should have thought
that, with your prospects, you had done work enough."
"My prospects have nothing to do with it. I suppose there would be no
difficulty in the matter?" continued Wilton, reflectively, more to
himself than to his listener.
"Difficulty! none whatever. The fighting is over, so no one will be
afraid to stay at home; and I fancy there is a very uncomfortable
transition-state before the Anglo-Indian world."
"I shall ask for extension of leave; I don't fancy joining the depot."
"How long is Moncrief to be away?"
"He has three weeks' leave--urgent private affairs. I am sure to see him
in town, though I shall only pass through," remarked Wilton, and
relapsed into silence, scarcely hearing the arguments of his companion,
who proved to demonstration that Wilton would be a fool to make any
exchange, except, indeed, he could get a chance of returning to his old
friends of the second battalion.
Ralph Wilton was looking thinner and graver than formerly, and there was
an expression of anxiety and irritation in his keen bold eyes. While the
colonel argued, an orderly approached with letters, which his officer
took, and, glancing at the addresses, handed two or three to Wilton.
"This is from Moncrief," said he, opening an envelope directed in a
remarkably stiff, legible hand--"forwarded from Athgarven. He is annoyed
at missing me, and--" Here he stopped, and read on, with knit brows and
fixed attention, then let the hand which held the letter drop, and stood
wrapped in thought.
"No bad news?" asked the colonel.
"Yes--no," he returned, absently. "My dear colonel, I must leave you
to-day. I must go up to town by this evening's mail."
"This is very sudden. Can't you manage a day or two more? Why, you have
only been three weeks with us."
A few words from Wilton convinced his friend and host that, although
indisposed to give a reason for his sudden move, its necessity was
imperative.
The passage in Major Moncrief's letter which had moved Wilton was as
follows:
"Town is very full; the club brimming over; dinners going
a-begging--and, talking of dinners, I met our Monkscleugh acquaintance,
Lady Fergusson, in Regent Street, yesterday. She was in deep mourning;
it seems that unfortunate son and heir died about a month ago. Sir Peter
is in great grief; the establishment at Brosedale broken up, and the
whole family _en route_ for Germany. I wonder what has become of the
pretty lassie you picked up in the snow! I was always afraid of your
getting into some mess with her; but you have more sense than I gave you
credit for."
The Brosedale establishment broken up! and not a line--not a word--from
Ella. Where had she gone? Did she wish to avoid him? In four days more
the three months' absence prescribed by Ella would have expired, and now
he was thrown off the scent. Had she sought and found any new
employment? If in her heart she distrusted his constancy as much as she
professed, she might have done so; or had she returned to that London
landlady whom she had described on the memorable occasion of the
snow-storm? Hold! he had noted the address somewhere. This led to a
vehement search among his papers and memoranda; but in vain. Then he sat
down and thought intensely. Kershaw?--yes, that was the name of the
woman; and Gothic Villa the name of the house at Kensington; but the
street, that he could not recall; nevertheless, he would not leave a
corner of the "old court suburb" unexplored. With this resolution he
started on his journey--the mere movement raised his spirits and
invigorated him; anything was better than the silence and endurance of
the last three months.
He had parted with Ella Rivers in a mood curiously compounded of love,
anger, slightly-mortified vanity, but deep admiration. He felt that she
had a right to demand some test of a passion so sudden; and, without
words, her grave candor had impressed upon him the conviction that, in
asking her to share his life, he asked quite as much as he offered--a
conviction not always clear to men, even when in love. Then the respect
which her self-control, her noble simplicity, imposed upon him, deepened
and elevated the character of his affection. Above all, she was still to
be won. She had allowed him to hope; but he dared not flatter himself
that she loved him--and how wonderfully he yearned for her love!--he was
astonished at it himself. All life seemed empty and colorless without
her. About three weeks after he had left Glenraven, he had written to
let her know that he had accepted an invitation to Ireland, where he
intended to make some stay and visit his former brother-officers,
seizing gladly the excuse afforded by this change of locality; but he
had quickly received the following reply:
"You must faithfully keep the promise you have given. Do not in any
way seek me for three or four months. Meantime, I am well and not
unhappy. Whether we meet again or not, I shall ever think of you
kindly. May the good God guide us to what is happiest and best for
both!
"Always your friend,
"ELLA RIVERS."
The small, straight, firm writing was kissed again and again, even while
he chafed against her firmness. This touch of the true magnet had drawn
all the atoms of romance, of nobility, of perception of spiritual and
intellectual light, which lay scattered, not sparingly, among the
coarser material of the man, into symmetrical circles converging to one
centre. He was softened and strengthened. He resolved to obey Ella to
the letter; and his brother-officers noticed that Wilton was much more
ready for balls and dinners and luncheon-parties than formerly; for his
character had been rather that of a "reserved, quiet fellow, with a
devil of a temper when roused." He was, nevertheless, a favorite, as
straightforward, plucky men, who never "shirk their fences" in any
sense, generally are. The neighborhood, too, where Wilton's visit was
made, was unusually wealthy and aristocratic for Ireland, so that he
had ample opportunities for "steeping" himself in the society of people
of his own class. The result, however, was that the impression he had
received sank deeper and more abidingly as time went on. And now, when
this fresh difficulty arose, he sprang forward upon the search with all
the eagerness of a sleuth-hound suddenly released from his chain.
It was in the dim gray of a cold, drizzling morning that Wilton reached
Morley's Hotel. After a bath and breakfast, he sallied forth, in search
of Moncrief. During his long night-journey he had taken counsel with
himself as to how he should proceed. He would learn Lady Fergusson's
present address, and endeavor to ascertain from her what had become of
Ella. How he was to accomplish this without rousing her ladyship's
suspicions, he would leave to the inspiration of the moment; for it was
no part of his scheme to unmask his movements until he could really fix
his plans. This could not be done till he had seen Ella and received a
renewal of her promise; or--terrible alternative--been rejected and
overthrown! Her unaccountable silence was cruel, unfeeling, and a clear
breach of faith. Why had she not written to announce so material a
change of circumstances? Had any of the pestilent political crew that
used to surround her father started up to exercise an evil influence?
The idea fired him with indignation. He had so delighted in thinking of
her as his alone--a hidden jewel, the lustre and value and beauty of
which were for him only! Meditating thus, he reached the frugal major's
lodgings, as he did not wish at present to confront the publicity of a
club. But his friend had not yet emerged from the privacy of his
chamber, and there was only a dingy back-parlor, a sort of general
waiting-room, into which he could be shown. Wilton therefore wrote
hastily on his card, "What is Lady Fergusson's address in town?" and
sent it up to Moncrief; receiving it back again in a few minutes, with
this inscription on the reverse; "Claridge's; but I think they are gone.
Dine with me to-day at the club--seven, sharp."
Leaving word that he could not dine with Major Moncrief, Wilton left the
house in a state of irritability and depression, and bent his steps to
Claridge's; early as it was, he might at least make inquiries there. A
yawning porter, who was sweeping the hall, called a waiter, who informed
him that "Sir Peter and Lady Fergusson, the Misses Saville and suite,"
had started for Paris the day before.
"And suite!" echoed Wilton; "I suppose that includes the governess?"
"Yes, sir; there was a lady as went with the youngest lady in one of
the hotel broughams; she was the governess."
"Was she a tall, thin lady, with spectacles?"
"Just so, sir."
"No other lady with them?"
"No, sir--none."
Nothing more to be learned there! He was quite afloat. No clue to the
girl who he had hoped would be, two days hence, his affianced bride,
beyond the vague address, "Mrs. Kershaw, Gothic Villa, Kensington." He
made his way slowly into Piccadilly and hailed a hansom. Kensington must
be the scene of his research, and the sooner he plunged into it the
better.
How to begin occupied his thoughts as he bowled along. Shops, police,
and postmen, seemed the most likely sources of information; failing
these, he must manage to communicate with Miss Walker, who would
certainly know Ella's whereabouts. However, he had great faith in
himself; it was not the first time he had to hunt up a faint track,
though the difficulties were of a far different character.
"Here we are! Where to now, sir?" cried Cabby, through the hole at the
top.
"Oh! a--the nearest butcher's," said Wilton. "Bread and meat and tea,"
he reflected, "the humblest landlady must require;" and, proud of his
own reasoning powers, he dismissed the cab, never remembering--probably
not knowing--the ready-money system, which, paying the amount and
carrying off the article, "leaves not a wrack behind."
The important and substantial butcher, struck by the lordly bearing of
his interrogator, condescended to repeat the words "Gothic Villa" in
several keys, as though the reiteration would evoke knowledge, but ended
with, "Can't say I know any such place, sir.--Here, Smith"--to a
blue-gowned assistant, with rolled-up sleeves, who was adding "one leg
more" to an artistically arranged fringe of legs of mutton which adorned
the cornice--"do you know anything of 'Mrs. Kershaw, Gothic Villa?'"
"Kershaw!" replied the man, pausing--"I seems as if I do, and yet I
don't."
At this maddening reply, Wilton felt disposed to collar him and rouse
his memory by a sound shaking.
"The person I want lets lodgings; and is, I think, elderly."
"No, I don't," repeated the butcher's assistant. "I know Gothic 'all."
"Ay," struck in the master, "and Gothic 'Ouse and Gothic Lodge, but no
willar. I know the place well, sir, and I don't think there is a Gothic
Willer in it. P'r'aps it's lodge, not willer, you are looking for?"
"Then who lives at these other Gothics?"
"Oh, Mr. Reynolds, the great ironmonger, has the 'all; and the honorable
Mrs. Croker lives at the lodge."
"Well, neither of these names can possibly be converted into Kershaw. I
am sorry I troubled you."
"No trouble at all, sir."
Patiently, though anxiously, Wilton went from butcher to baker, from
baker to butterman, from butterman to milkshop, until he suddenly
exclaimed at his own stupidity, as his eye was caught by a conspicuous
brass plate bearing the inscription, "Mr. Mayers, Gas-Inspector." "By
Jove!" cried Wilton, aloud, "that is the fellow to know every house in
the parish. Why did I not think of a gas-inspector before?"
He rang, and a smart young woman appeared at the door in a few moments.
In his uncertainty whether he was speaking to the wife or the handmaid
of Mayers, Wilton politely raised his hat, and asked if he could see the
master of the house.
"I am very sorry, sir, he is out, and will not be here till tea-time."
"And when will that be?" asked the anxious querist, smiling blandly.
"Oh, not till half-past five. Could I give any message?" replied the
lady, much impressed by the grand air and chivalrous courtesy of her
interlocutor.
"I am afraid I must trouble Mr. Mayers myself. I shall not detain him
beyond a moment or two, if he will be so good as to see me about
half-past five."
"Yes, sir; he will be in then and very happy to see you."
"Perhaps you happen to know where Gothic Villa is in this neighborhood.
I am looking for a Mrs. Kershaw, Gothic Villa."
"Kershaw? Gothic Villa? No, indeed, I do not. I have very few
acquaintances here; you see people are rather mixed in Kensington."
"I will not keep you standing--at five-thirty, then," returned Wilton,
raising his hat, and smiling as he said to himself, "Madame the
gas-inspectress is exclusive. Such caricatures ought to cure the follies
they travesty." He looked at his watch. Two hours and a half to spare.
What should he do? Make any further search, or rely on the
gas-inspector? Yes; he would be sure to know. So, after a moment's
thought, he again called a hansom, and rattled back to the club; but
Major Moncrief was not there. Hastily scribbling an invitation to
breakfast next day, he went on to his hotel to snatch a mouthful of
luncheon or dinner, or both, for he still hoped to spend the remainder
of the evening exchanging vows, explanations--perhaps kisses--with Ella
Rivers. He had by some unreasonable process of thought convinced himself
that she could have taken refuge in no other haven than the somewhat
unromantic dwelling of Mrs. Kershaw.
As the half-hour struck, Wilton rang again at the gas-inspector's house.
He was received by the same lady most graciously, and ushered into an
oppressively smart front parlor, profusely decorated with
anti-macassars, and mats, and table-covers.
"Mr. Mayers will be here directly; he has only just come in. What a
disagreeable day it has been--drizzle, drizzle, the whole time! I
couldn't venture out," simpered Mrs. Mayers, who was disposed to improve
the occasion by a little conversation with her "stylish visitor," as she
described him to her husband. Wilton assented rather absently, and then,
to his great relief, Mr. Mayers came in. After a few words of apology,
Wilton put the oft-repeated question.
"Kershaw, Gothic Villa?" repeated Mr. Mayers, meditating. "Yes, of
course, I know wellnigh every house; and it so happened I was at Mrs.
Kershaw's a week or ten days back. Why, it is in H---- Street, not far
from Holland Park. You must turn right from this, then first to your
right, and third to the left. Gothic Villa is down the end of the
street, opposite a dead wall."
With many thanks and apologies, Wilton bowed himself out, and walked
away rapidly, his heart beating high at the idea of the meeting so near
at hand.
Gothic Villa was not a lively residence; and, what was worse, it looked
untidy. The box borders looked as if lately trodden down in patches; the
bell was broken, and the gate hung awry, refusing, after the fashion of
crooked things, to do one thing or the other--to open wide or shut
close. Wilton felt unutterably shocked at the melancholy, sordid aspect
of the place. The bell being broken, he felt at a loss how to summon the
garrison; but while he hesitated, two little girls, in short frocks,
dingy stockings, and battered hats, came up bowling their hoops, and
began rattling their hoop-sticks noisily against the railings, whereupon
the front-door was flung suddenly wide open, and a grimy servant began
to shout some objurgations to the juveniles.
"Pray, does Mrs. Kershaw live here?" asked Wilton, advancing to the
door.
"No; there's no such name here."
For a moment Wilton felt annihilated.
"She used to live here?"
"P'r'aps so; we've not been here above a week, and I wish we was out of
it."
"And do you know where Mrs. Kershaw is gone?"
"No, that I don't."
After a little talking, she suggested that "missus" might know; but that
potentate, on being appealed to, confessed ignorance, stating, however,
that "master" might know; but "master" was absent, and would not be back
till to-morrow morning. More Wilton could not extract; and he most
reluctantly left the long-sought villa, informing the inmates that he
would call next day, hoping that "master" might be able to supply the
desired information.
Still, with unshaken perseverance, Wilton lingered about. He stopped the
postman, but he had had no letter since the new people moved in for Mrs.
Kershaw. She had very few letters at any time--still she had some. There
was another postman that took the noonday delivery, he might know. When
did he go round? Oh, from twelve to twelve-thirty. He might know, and he
mightn't. Addresses were not given to the letter-carriers, but left at
the district office.
"Ah! then I may probably find this Mrs. Kershaw's whereabouts at the
post-office?"
"No, no, sir," said the man; "they won't give you no addresses at the
office, and the letters is sent on to the district where the party has
moved; so it's a chance if any of us knows."
"At any rate, I shall be here to-morrow to meet the twelve o'clock man;
meantime I am obliged to you."
So saying, Wilton deposited a judicious tip in the carrier's willing
hand, and made for the main road, hoping that a favorable report of him
would be given to the other carrier, and predispose him to be
communicative.
It was long before Wilton forgot the oppressive monotony of that
evening. He could not bring himself to seek out Moncrief. He would have
him at breakfast, and that was bad enough. He strolled into the Adelphi,
and felt savage at the pathos of the play, and the fun of the
afterpiece. He left before it was finished, and returned to the
coffee-room. He tried to sketch out an advertisement addressed to Mrs.
Kershaw, but intended for Ella. He vexed himself with all kinds of
conjectures, and finally retired, hoping for oblivion in sleep, which
did not come for some weary hours; and his last waking thought was that
to-morrow would be the 19th of March, the day of the tryst, which he had
so often pictured to himself. And here he was in total ignorance of
Ella's dwelling--not a step nearer to the desired interview. The
following day was not much brighter than the one just described, and
Wilton rose with an unspeakable loathing for breakfast and
Moncrief--especially Moncrief.
However, both had to be endured. The major was considerably puzzled by
his entertainer's preoccupation and testiness. Every subject seemed
distasteful, every person more or less offensive.
"What's come to you, lad?" asked the old soldier. "Are you in debt
again? I thought you had left that class of troubles behind you; and you
seem to have been quiet and steady enough of late."
"No, I am not in debt."
"Well, I do not think you are in love; and love, or money, is at the
bottom of most troubles--eh?"
An inaudible muttering was the only reply.
"A--idiot?" repeated the major, thinking he caught the sound. "No, by no
means. I never said so, though there have been times when I was afraid
you would act like one. Have you seen the viscount?"
"No."
"I suppose you are going to call on him?"
"No, I am not."
"Then you are rather an idiot. Why will you throw away fortune?"
"I am not throwing it away. He is out of town."
"Why don't you go and pay him a visit?"
"I cannot; he has not asked me."
"Not asked you--bosh!--"
"Moncrief," interrupted Wilton, "will you take some more kidney, or ham,
or coffee, or anything?"
"No, thank you; I have breakfasted well."
"Then go, will you? like a good fellow. You are partly right. I am in a
pickle. You shall know all about it one of these days, but I cannot tell
you just now. I have an appointment at--that is, I must be at Kensington
at twelve."
"At twelve! Bless my soul, man, it is scarcely half-past ten now."