Dolly did her best to get Bernard away from the station before Lal came up; but as she had only that morning been preaching the duties of man to unprotected females, and as Bernard’s desires went wholly along with his duty, she could not detach him from Angela. She went away herself, on the pretext of ordering the dog-cart, met Lal in the station yard, looked full in his face, and refused to know him.
Angela was waiting impatiently; Lal had promised to meet her at six o’clock, their train went at six-fifteen, and it was now five minutes past. Lal was always exact in keeping his engagements. Angela felt uneasy, and was cross. Bernard stayed with her till ten minutes after the hour, and then hurried off to consult his sister. Dolly was quite ready to drive back alone; perhaps because the route through Hungrygut Bottom was in her mindas the best way home, and to it Bernard might have demurred on the horse’s account, for it was steep and stony, the roads having been recently repaired. She had an idea that Lal might be waiting in the high-road to see her pass. Bernard, having her consent, hurried back; he was just in time to install Angela in a first-class carriage, with himself as guardian for their half-hour’s journey. Then Angela, discovering that she was shut up alone with Bernard Fane, began to wish herself idiotic, dead, buried, anywhere out of the world, and plunged into a fresh discussion of temperance.
Lal had stood like a statue till Dolly was out of sight, and then tried to follow her. He had not seen which road she took, and his wanderings led him far from the station. At last he bethought him that the horse must be stabled somewhere, and began to inquire; and half an hour later tracked her down at the Railway Hotel. While he was still questioning the waiter, a man passed through the hall and would have gone out had not Lal interrupted himself and sprang forward, crying out, “Meryon!”
The gambler turned round, colouring with pleasure. “I didn’t know you were home!” he said. “I heard you’d got no end of starsand orders, but I didn’t know you were home! I’m so awfully glad.”
“I’m staying with the Mertons; what are you doing?”
“I’m here for the night. Come to my room, will you? There’s heaps I want to know.”
Lal, who had just heard that Dolly had departed full half an hour ago, abandoned his quest for the nonce, and went. Meryon and he had been friends for years, though the guardian angel knew it not; she would have feared the effect of pitch on Lal’s innocence if she had. They met rarely; in the intervals their friendship hibernated, coming out unspoiled when times of refreshing arrived. Meryon wrote never, Lal rarely, and when he did his stiff little letters were mere catalogues of events. But friendship, like the python, can live for years unfed.
Meryon’s room was full of untidy properties tidily arranged. A discreditable old Collard & Collard was its only luxury. He had been playing patience, and the cards were scattered about the table; Lal sat down on a bedroom chair, leaning his elbow on the wash-stand and his chin on his hand, and watched Meryon gather them up.
“You haven’t given up playing, then?” he said.
“No, I never shall now—the cards have got their grip on me. You’re looking sick, Lal,” said the elder man, earnestly; “what’s the matter?”
“I got hurt, you know.”
“Oh yes, I heard about that in the papers. You came back in a regular blaze of glory; I was awfully proud of knowing you. Is your sister all right?”
“Angela? Perfectly—about to marry, I fancy.”
“Is the man a good sort?”
“Oh, very. I think she will be happy.”
“Been doing any more of your own work?”
“At intervals. When the chance comes.”
Meryon jerked the bottom of the pack down on the table, and pressed and patted it straight between his palms. “Try a game of écarté?” he suggested.
Lal shook his head.
“I’ll play without stakes, for once.”
“No. I never play.”
“I don’t see why not. Even father used to play whist in the evenings, he and mother and two of the canons, awfully decent old chaps; and I used to stand behind mother and give her tips. Father was no end of a good player. I don’t see why you won’t, Lal. It’s wonderful how it takes you out of yourself.”
Lal shook his head again. “I never have played and never shall.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Perhaps.”
Meryon looked at him earnestly. “You’re very queer, Lal,” he said. “I believe you’ve got heaps of things in you that no one ever suspects. I believe you’re a born gambler—I hope you won’t mind my saying so. But there’s no harm; you aren’t like me, you’d never give way to it.”
“If I once began I should never stop,” Lal took him up, swiftly. “You’re right; I’m not like you, Meryon. I haven’t your pluck. I had to give up motoring because I could not keep my head while I was driving. I’m as weak as water.”
“But you never do the things, you only want to and don’t let yourself. I call that being strong, not weak. That’s just what I like. You’re so excitable, you have to keep tight hold of yourself for fear you should go to the bad, and yet you never do anything you shouldn’t.”
Lal only shrugged his shoulders. Meryon, who was still standing, dropped the cards and put his hand on Lal’s arm. “Whatisthe matter?” he said, tenderly. “What’s worrying you, old fellow?”
Lal did not answer, because he was incapable of explaining. It was necessary for his interlocutor to drag the truth out of him by questions. Dolly had found out this; but whereas Lal’s desire had been to escape from her, he was anxious to make confession to Meryon.
“I say, old fellow, is it a girl?” questioned the gambler.
“Yes.”
“Then, of course, it’s serious; it would be with you. Won’t she have you?”
“I haven’t asked her.”
“Have you had a quarrel?”
“I have just met her, and she cut me dead. Heaven knows why; I don’t.”
Meryon, by a string of questions, contrived to elicit the story of Lal’s courtship. The cause of Dolly’s coldness puzzled him, as it had puzzled Lal, but after several abortive inquiries he hit at last on the right track.
“I don’t see what could have happened while the meeting was going on to make her change so. What were you doing all the time?”
“Business.”
“What, your own sort of business?”
Lal nodded.
“Whereabouts?”
“Oh, in the town.”
“Tell me where, old fellow—that is, if you don’t mind me meddling.”
“At the Sailors’ Arms; you know the place.”
“It’s a hell of a hole,” said Meryon, soberly. “Did you go in?”
“For a few minutes.”
“I say, it’s on the way from the Corn Exchange to the station. I say, do you think she could have seen you?”
Lal was silent. Remembering that Dolly had noticed the place before, he thought it possible.
“It’s all very well to say girls don’t mind that sort of thing—like a man to sow his wild oats, and all that; but they do mind, the nicest of them. And she’d think you must be such an awful humbug, too. You know, old fellow, the thing for you to do is to go and ask her, and tell her right away.”
“I could not possibly do it, and I would not for the world if I could,” said Lal, with great decision.
“Why not?”
Lal shrugged his shoulders.
“I expect you mean you’re too shy, and don’t like talking about that sort of thing to a girl. Is that it?”
“I dare say.”
“Old fellow, can’t you get over that?”
“Icannot,” said Lal, impatiently. “What,tell Miss Fane that I—that the girl—Besides, she doesn’t care a straw for me. I shall ask her if she’ll have me, and then go. Angela, at least, will be heartily glad.”
“Is her name Fane? Not Dolly Fane, by any chance?”
“Yes, it is. Do you know her?”
“I took her in to dinner once at the Mertons,” said Meryon. After a pause he went on: “Do you know, Lal, there’s two other men after her. De Saumarez, who I’ve told you about, is one, and Farquhar, the M.P.”
“Of course she likes one of them,” said Lal, after another pause. “I hope it isn’t Farquhar. I dislike that fellow.”
“I thought he was all that’s virtuous. You never caught him out in any tricks, did you?”
“Not I! But I’d rather she married a gentleman.”
“I always thought he was an awful swell,” said Meryon, meekly.
Lal coloured and laughed, and glanced up through his eyelashes. “I am a conceited, dogmatic prig; how can you possibly tolerate me, Meryon?” he said. “I’ve talked about myself long enough; now let’s hear what you’ve been doing.”
They talked on for an hour or more, andthen Meryon persuaded Lal to play to him, listening the while in quiet, uncritical enjoyment, and caressing the black kitten asleep on his knee. Meryon always stipulated for a piano in his room when his resources could be stretched to cover such a luxury. He was very fond of strumming out airs from the overtures and selections which he heard from bands at casinos; he had an ear for melody, but had never learned music. Lal, on the contrary, was a practised pianist; he played correctly, an achievement rare in these days; his execution was sure and delicate, his touch very clear, bright, and firm. He was very careful to hide this talent of his in a napkin. Meryon had come to hear of it by accident. Lal sat down and very quietly played through first a sonata by Mozart, then acouranteof Bach’s. His taste was for the orderly, old-fashioned music; he hated Wagner, and thought even Mendelssohn too fond of innovations. Did not he say of himself that he was dogmatic? But he gave Meryon great pleasure.
Later, Lal went home; and Meryon, after seeing him off by one train, waited on the platform and himself followed by the next. From Monkswell station he walked to Fanes, but Dolly had not yet come in, nor had Bernard. Meryon would not wait; he strolledup the Swanborough road in the hope of meeting her. Nor was he disappointed. A mile up the road he saw a girl leading a horse down the hill, and by her supple, slim young figure and the brightness of her hair he recognised Miss Fane. The steepness of Hungrygut Bottom plus the violent snortings of a steam-roller had again proved too much for the nerves of the chestnut; he bolted down the hill and almost kicked the cart to pieces before Dolly, who had jumped out, could catch and quell him. She left the dog-cart for repair at Dove Green, the next village, and led Vronsky home. Her dark cloth dress had a long skirt, which she held up gracefully, like a French girl, with curved wrist and prettily bent hand. She came on, looking straight before her; her lips were hard and her face was hard; no melting mood was hers. Irony, and a stiff-necked refusal to bend before the blast were Dolly’s armour against trouble; she was bitterly humiliated, and would not cede an inch to humiliation. Certain constricting bands seemed to have closed round her heart; she had not spent so long a day since she was seven and waited outside her mother’s room for the news of her death.
“Let me lead the horse, won’t you?” said Meryon, turning to walk with her. Meryonwas polite by instinct, as Dolly was graceful.
“Thanks, no; he bites.”
“I suppose you got smashed up. I hope you weren’t hurt.”
“Not in the least, thank you.”
This was unpromising. Meryon despaired of introducing his subject tactfully; he was not, therefore, discouraged, but plunged straight into it.
“I’ve just been seeing Lal Laurenson,” he said. “I beg your pardon, I hope you won’t think it awful cheek of me to shove my oar in, but I can’t help it. I’ve been friends with Laurenson ever since we were at Eton together. He’s been so awfully good to me, I can’t help speaking now. You cut him in Swanborough this afternoon.”
“I did.”
“What for?”
“I am not going to tell you. I mean,” said Dolly, “I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t explain my reason. I had one.”
“Was it because you saw him in at the Sailors’ Arms?”
Dolly hesitated for a minute; then she answered: “Yes.”
“I’m awfully glad—I thought that was it. I can explain why he was there.”
“Wait,” said Dolly. “Who told you this?”
“I got it out of Laurenson. I met him at the Railway Hotel, where he was asking for you.”
“Does he know you have come to me?”
“Him? Rather not; I came right away without telling; he wouldn’t have let me if he’d known. He said he’d never explain, himself, and he wouldn’t; he can’t bear talking about it.”
“I can believe it.”
“No, really you’re quite wrong, you are indeed, Miss Fane. Laurenson isn’t like that. He went there after a girl. She had run away from her home and he wanted her to go back. He goes in for that kind of thing. He and Miss Laurenson have got a Home in London which they run out of their own money, but it’s Lal that has to do with working it; he’s better than a parson, for he doesn’t ever preach, he just lives. If he’d been anywhere in Europe that time I had to break my promise, I’d never have given way as I did and become the beast I am. He’d have seen me through. He respects you, and you simply can’t help being what he thinks. He never told me about that Home, I just found it out. I’ve been over it with him. I never shall forget it.”
“Do you know the name of the girl he saw at the Sailors’ Arms?”
“Hilda Davis. She comes from here.”
“I see. Thank you,” said Dolly. “Yes; I am glad to know.”
Meryon stopped. “I’m glad you don’t think it was cheek of me. I’d better go back now; I’ll just catch my train.”
“Did you come here simply to tell me this?” said Dolly. “You’re a good friend.”
“There wasn’t anything in it. I didn’t think you’d snub me; and if you had I’d have been bound to tell you just the same. Laurenson’s been no end good, being friends with an outsider like me,” said Meryon, with simplicity.
Poor outsider! From a great way off his tired eyes had seen the bright circle of happiness; he came to the light, passed through it, and so out into the cold and lonely twilight, where his own lot was cast. He was made for the life of a home: sociable, contented, affectionate, fond of quiet pleasures, a lover of little children. But the tyrannous demon who had ruled him would grant no peace; Meryon was driven out into the wilderness, where he lived and where he died.