Then in sheer despair he seized the pen, and wrote in a trembling hand:
“My Dearest:—Since you left me, circumstances have occurred which have changed the current of both our lives. I dare not tell you more, but I pray, I beseech, you not to misjudge me. If you knew the position in which I am placed, you would understand why I am acting thus, and instead of condemning, pity me. Una, from this moment our lives are separate. Heaven send you happiness, and—as I know your true, loving heart—forgetfulness. I cannot tell you more—would to Heaven that I could. From the first I have been unworthy of you; I am more unworthy now than ever. I dare not ask of you to remember me; forget me, Una, forget that such a person as I ever crossed your path. Would to Heaven that we had never met! Don’t think hardly of me, my darling, whatever you may hear. What I am doing is as much for your good as for mine. Good-bye. I shall never cease to remember and love you, whatever happens. Good-bye!
“Jack.”
Blotted and smeared, he enclosed it in an envelope, and dropped it before Gideon Rolfe; then he looked round for his hat.
“A glass of wine, Jack?” murmured Stephen.
But Jack took no more notice than if he had been deaf, and seizing his hat staggered from the room.
Stephen drew a long breath.
“Well, Mr. Rolfe,” he said, “we have conquered. As for this note, I will see that it is delivered at a proper opportunity.”
“Good,” said Gideon Rolfe; then he paused, and frowned sternly. “I am sorry for the young man.”
Stephen smiled, and waved his hand.
“A mere fancy,” he said, lightly. “My dear Jack is apt to take these matters as very serious, but he generally manages to get over them. And now what will you take to drink, Mr. Rolfe?”
Gideon Rolfe waved his hand and put on his hat.
“I leave the letter with you,” he said. “Good-night.”
Stephen filled a wine glass with brandy, and drank it off, his hand shaking. Then he eyed Jack’s letter curiously, and at last held the envelope over the steam of the hot water, and drew it apart.
“A very sensible letter,” he muttered, as he read. “Ambiguous, but all the better for that. Really, anyone reading this, would conclude that Jack had made up his mind to marry Lady Bell, and was ashamed to say so.”
Then he reclosed the envelope, and went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.
Meanwhile Jack strode around the streets of London, his brain in a whirl, half mad with “the desperation of despair,” as a poet has it.
At last he reached home, and found the rooms dark and lonesome, and Leonard in bed.
He sat down and wrote a short note to Lady Bell, telling her that things had turned up which prevented him coming to Earl’s Court—giving no reason, but just simply the fact. Then he turned out, and he walked about till daylight.
When he came in Leonard was at breakfast, and stared aghast at Jack’s haggard face and changed appearance.
“My dear old man,” he commenced, but Jack cut him short.
“Len, I’m the most miserable wretch in existence.Don’t ask me the why and the wherefore; but all is over between me and Una.”
“Impossible!” said Leonard.
“Impossible, but true,” retorted Jack. “All is over between us, and if you value our friendship you will not mention her name again.”
“But——” said Leonard.
“Enough,” said Jack. “I tell you that it is so.”
“Moss has been here again,” Leonard said.
“I don’t care.”
“But, my dear fellow——”
“I don’t care,” said Jack, stolidly. “A hundred Mosses wouldn’t matter to me now. Let him do his worst.”
“You don’t know what his worst is,” said Leonard. “He has got you in his power.”
“All right,” said Jack, coolly. “Let him exercise it to his uttermost.”
Leonard had never seen Jack like this.
“Listen to me,” he said. “If Moss does all he can do, he can expel you from any club in London, can make you an utter out-cast. Come, Jack, be reasonable.”
“I can’t be reasonable!” retorted Jack. “I am utterly ruined and undone. With Una everything that is worth living for has gone. I care nothing for Moss or anything he can do.”
“In another hour he will be here,” said Una, as she stood at her dressing-room window, and looked out upon the lawns and park of Hurst, where they stretched down toward the road.
“Another hour!” and at the thought, a smile—yet scarcely a smile, but a suitable light like a sun ray stole over her face.
The great poet Tennyson has, in one of his greatest poems, portrayed a girl who, all unconscious of the bitter moments awaiting her, decked herself in her brightest ribbons to receive her expected lover.
Bright ribbons are out of fashion now, but Una had paid some, for her, extraordinary attention to her toilet.Jack was never tired of calling her beautiful; had even gone so far as to speak of her loveliness, and it had raised no vanity in her; but this evening she felt she would like to appear really and truly beautiful in his eyes, so beautiful that even Lady Bell’s spirited face should be forgotten.
She had chosen the dress he liked best; had selected, with unusual care, a couple of flowers from the costly bouquet, which, morning and evening, was sent to her room from the hot-houses, and had decked herself in the locket and bracelet, and ring which Jack had given her.
Mrs. Davenant had made her many presents of jewelry, some of it costly, and even rare; but she would not wear anything but Jack’s own gifts tonight.
“He will come fresh from Lady Bell’s diamonds and sapphires, and would think little of mine, beautiful as they are; but he will like to see his locket and his bracelet, and will know that I love him best.”
Not once, but twice and thrice she had moved from the window to the glass, and looked into it. Not with any expression of pleased vanity, but rather with merciless criticism. For the first time, she would like to be as beautiful as Jack thought her. For the last few days she had been rather silent, and somewhat pale. Stephen’s cunning hints respecting Jack and Lady Bell had had their effect; but tonight’s expectation, and the nearness of Jack’s approach, had brought a faint rose-like tint to her cheeks, and her eyes shone with the subtle light of love and hope.
Mrs. Davenant looked up at her as she entered the drawing-room and smiled affectionately.
“How well you look tonight, dear,” she said, as she kissed her and drew her down beside her. “I’m inclined to believe Jack, when he says that you grow more beautiful than ever.”
“Hush,” said Una, but with a blush. “Jack says so many foolish things, dear.”
“If he never said anything more foolish than that he would be a wise man,” said Mrs. Davenant. “How long would he be now, dear?”
Una glanced at the clock.
“Just forty minutes,” she said simply.
Mrs. Davenant smiled and patted her hand.
“Counting the very minutes,” she murmured, gently. “What a thing love is! What would life be without it?”
“Death,” said Una, with a grave smile. “Worse than death.”
Mrs. Davenant sighed.
“Jack is a happy man,” she said. “I wonder whether Stephen will come down this evening?”
“Do you not know?” said Una, absently.
“No,” replied Mrs. Davenant. “I thought, perhaps, he might have told you.”
“Me!” said Una, with open eyes. “Oh, no. Why should he?”
“I didn’t know,” said Mrs. Davenant, quietly. “He tells you everything, I think.”
Una smiled.
“He is very good and kind,” she said, still a little absently. “Oh, very kind. No one could have taken more trouble to make me happy.”
“Yes, Stephen likes to see you happy,” said Mrs. Davenant, softly. “Poor Stephen!” and she sighed.
But Una heard neither the expression of pity nor the sigh. She had risen, and was moving about the room with that suppressed impatience which marks the one who wafts an expected joy.
Presently her quick ears heard the rattle of approaching wheels, and with a throbbing heart she looked at the clock. It wanted ten minutes to the appointed time for Jack’s arrival. With a quick flush of gratitude for his punctuality she moved to the door, and stole swiftly and softly to her own room, to regain composure. She heard the carriage pull up and go away to the stables—heard the hurried tread of footsteps in the marble hall—and then, with the faint flush grown into a full-blown blush, went downstairs and entered the drawing-room.
A sudden shock of disappointment chilled her. Stephen was standing before the fire warming his hands, but Jack was not there.
Stephen, in the glass, saw her enter, saw the suddenstart and disappearance of the warm flush, and turned to meet her.
He looked tired, pale and worn, and the smile with which he met her was a singular one, one that would have been almost triumphant but for the expression of anxiety underlying it.
“I have got back, you see,” he said. “And are you quite well?”
Una murmured an inaudible response, and he went back to the fire and bent over it, warming his hands, his face grown, if anything, still paler.
“How beautiful she looks!” he thought. “How beautiful! Worth risking all for—all!”
“Won’t you go up and dress, Stephen?” said Mrs. Davenant. “There is a large fire in your room, and in Jack’s too; I have just been into both of them.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, not nervously, but with almost an absent air, and he left the room.
“Stephen looks tired,” said Mrs. Davenant. “I’m afraid he has had some business that has worried him. I can always tell by his face.”
“I am very sorry,” said Una, gently. “Yes, he did look tired and worried,” she added, but with her eyes on the clock. The hands went round to the hour—an hour beyond Jack’s time—and the butler announced dinner.
“Oh, we will wait a little while for Mr. Newcombe!” said Mrs. Davenant, but Una, with a little flush, murmured:
“No, do not, please; Mr. Davenant must want his dinner. Please do not wait;” and Mrs. Davenant, never able to stand out against anyone’s will, rose and put her arm in Una’s and they went into the dining-room. Stephen followed and sat down without making any remark on Jack’s absence; even when Mrs. Davenant said to the butler—“Let them be sure and keep the soup hot for Mr. Newcombe,” Stephen made no observation.
Dish after dish disappeared, and Una made a faint pretence at eating as usual, and joined in the conversation between Stephen and Mrs. Davenant, but her eyes were continually straying toward the clock, her ears straining for the sound of wheels or a galloping horse.
The dinner was a thing of the past, and the soup had been kept hot in vain; no Jack arrived. Gradually silence had fallen on the three, and when Mrs. Davenant rose it was with a sigh of loving sympathy with the troubled heart that ached so near her own.
“I cannot think what has kept him,” she said, when they were alone together in the drawing-room. “If it were anyone but Jack I should feel nervous—but even I cannot feel nervous abouthim. It is a plain, easy road from Earl’s Court, and he rides like a—a centaur.”
“Perhaps,” said Una, with her eyes fixed on the fire—“perhaps Lady Bell pressed him to stay to dinner, and he will be here presently.”
“That must be it,” said Mrs. Davenant, hopefully. “He will come in directly, making a most tremendous noise, and raging against whatever has been keeping him. Jack’s rages are dreadful while they last—they don’t last long!”
Una smiled, and listened.
Stephen entered—so noiselessly that she almost started—and stooped over his mother.
“There are some things in the breakfast room I brought from London, will you go and see to them?”
Mrs. Davenant rose instantly.
“Una, dear,” she said, “see to the tea, I will be back directly.”
Una nodded, and sat down at the gypsy table. Stephen stood beside the fire, one white hand stretched out to the blaze, his face turned toward her, his eyes watching her under their lowered lids. His heart beat nervously, the task before him seemed to overmaster him, and he shrank from it; with one hand he felt Jack’s letter, lying like an asp in his breast coat pocket.
“There is a cold wind tonight,” he said absently. “Jack said the wind had gone round this morning.”
“Jack,” said Una, raising her eyes, with a sudden flame of color in her face. “Have you seen him? You have been to Earl’s Court?”
Stephen frowned as if angry at making a slip.
“No—no,” he said with gentle hesitation. “No; I saw him in London. He is not at Earl’s Court.”
“Not at Earl’s Court!” said Una, with surprise. “How is that? Oh, he is not ill?”
And her breath came sharply.
Stephen turned to the fire, with knitted brow and compressed lip, and fidgeted with the poker.
“No,” he replied, slowly, and as if uncertain what to say—“he is not ill.”
“Then why did he not go?” asked Una.
Stephen remained silent; and still keeping her eyes fixed on his pale face, she rose and glided to his side.
“You have something to tell me,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, and speaking in a low, panting voice. “What is it? You will tell me, will you not? Has anything happened to Lady Bell? Is she at Earl’s Court?”
“Yes, she is at Earl’s Court,” he said, almost bitterly, “and she is quite well, I believe.”
“Then,” said Una, in a low voice, which she tried vainly to keep steady—“then it is something concerning Jack. Oh, why do you keep me in suspense?”
Her misery maddened him.
“I will tell you that he is quite well,” he said, almost sharply. “I left him in perfect health. I dined with him, and he made an excellent dinner.”
“You are angry with him! What has he done to make you angry?” she asked.
He raised her hand, and let it fall with a gesture of noble indignation.
“What has he done?” he repeated, as if to himself. “I can find no words to describe it adequately. My poor Una!”
And he turned to her, and laid his hand caressingly and pityingly on her arm.
Una, white and cold, was all unconscious of his touch.
Stephen drew her gently to a low seat, and stood over her, his hand resting with the same caressing pity on her arm.
“Yes, I must tell you,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “Would to Heaven I had been spared the task. Dear Una! you will be calm—I know your brave spirit and true, courageous heart. You will summon all your strength to bear the blow it is left for me to deal you—mewho would lay down my life to spare you a moment’s pain!”
She scarcely heeded him. Her eyes, fixed on his face, were dilated with fear and dread, her lips white and apart with suspense.
“Tell me,” she murmured. “It is something to do with Jack?”
“It is,” he said. “It is.”
“He is dead!” she breathed.
And her eyes closed, as a shudder ran through her frame.
“Would to Heaven he had died, ere this night’s work,” said Stephen, in a low, fierce voice. “No; I have told you the truth. I left him well and—Heaven forgive him—happy.”
Una drew a long breath, and smiled wearily.
“What can you have to tell me about him that is so dreadful, if he is alive and happy?”
“He is alive, but he must be dead to you, dear Una,” said Stephen.
“Dead to me!” repeated Una, as if the words had no meaning for her. “Dead to me! I—I do not understand.”
Then, as he stood silent, with a look of gentle pity and sorrow on his pale face, a sharp expression of apprehension flashed across her face.
“Say that again,” she said. “You—you mean to tell me that he has left me?”
Stephen lowered his head.
Una was silent, while the clock ticked three, then three words came swiftly and sharply from her white lips:
“It is false!”
Stephen started.
“Would to Heaven it were,” he murmured.
“Gone! left me without a word,” said Una, with a smile of scorn. “Can you ask—can you expect me to believe it?”
“No,” said Stephen. “No one would believe such base and hideous treachery without proof.”
“Proof!” she echoed, faintly, and with sudden sinking of the heart. “Proof! Give it to me!”
Stephen drew the letter from his pocket slowly and reluctantly.
Una saw it and shivered.
“It is from him; give it to me,” she said.
And she held out her hand.
Stephen took it in his, and held it for a moment.
“Wait—for Heaven’s sake wait,” he murmured, with agitation. “I meant to break it to you—to explain——”
“Give it to me,” was all she said, and she shook his hand off impatiently.
“Take it,” said Stephen, with a tremor in his voice, “take it, and would to Heaven he had found some other messenger to bear it.”
Una took the letter and slowly but steadily carried it to another part of the room.
There she stood and looked at it as if she were waiting to gain strength to open it.
At last, after what seemed an eternity to Stephen, who was watching her in the glass, she broke open the envelope and read.
Not twice, but thrice she read it, as if she meant to engrave every line on her heart, then she thrust the letter in her bosom and came back to the fire.
Stephen turned, and with a low cry of alarm at sight of her altered face, moved toward her; but she put up her hand to keep him back.
Altered! Not only in face but in bravery. A minute ago she had been a gentle-hearted, suffering, tortured girl, now she was an injured, deserted woman.
“Thanks,” she said, and the words fell like ice from her lips. “You spoke of an explanation. Will you tell me all you know, Stephen?”
“Pray—not now,” he murmured. “Tomorrow——”
But she stopped him with a smile, awful to see in its utter despair and unnatural calmness.
“Now, please.”
“It—it is too easy of explanation,” said Stephen hoarsely. “He was tempted and he has fallen. He has bartered his honor for gold. Ask me no more.”
Una drew a long breath.
“It is needless,” she said. “You mean that he has leftme, because I am poor, for Lady Earlsley, who can make him rich.”
Stephen turned away and sighed heavily.
Una looked at him for a moment, then sat down at the tea-table.
“You will have some tea?” she said calmly.
Stephen started and looked at her. She had taken up the cream ewer with an unfaltering hand. Great Heaven! could it be possible that she did not feel it—that she did not really love Jack after all! A wild feeling of exultation rose within his heart.
“Thank Heaven!” he murmured, “you can meet such treachery as it deserves—with scorn and contempt.”
She looked up at him with a strange smile on her cold, white face, and held out a tea-cup. But as he came near her, the cup dropped from her hand with a crash, and she fell back like one stricken unto death.
****
That same evening, Lady Bell stood in the drawing-room of Earl’s Court. She was richly dressed, more richly than was usual with her; upon her white neck and arms sparkled the diamond set which she wore only on the most special occasions. The room was full. Four or five of the country families had been dining with her, and the buzz of conversation and sound of music rose and fell together confusedly.
Surrounded, as usual, by a little circle of courtiers, she reigned, by the right of her beauty, her birth, and her wealth, a queen of society.
Brilliant and witty she, so to speak, kept her devoted adherents at bay, her beautiful face lit up with the smile which so many found so falsely fascinating, her eyes shining like the gems in her hair. Never had she appeared so beautiful, so irresistible.
Regarding her even most critically one would have assented to the proposition that certainly if any woman in the world was happy that night it was Lady Isabel Earlsley.
And yet beneath all her brilliance Lady Bell was hiding an aching heart. Half the country was there at her feet, and only one of all her invited guests absent, and he apoor, tireless, ne’er-do-well. But Lady Bell would willingly, joyfully have exchanged them all for that one man, for that scapegrace with the bold, handsome face and frank, fearless eyes.
Since mid-day she had been expecting him. Like Una, her eyes had wandered to the clock, and she had told the minutes over; but he had not come, and now, with that false gayety of despair, she was striving, fighting hard to forget him.
But her eyes and ears refused to obey her will, and were still watching and waiting, and suddenly her glance, wandering over her fan, saw a figure standing in the doorway.
It was not a man’s, it was that of Laura Treherne’s—Mary Burns.
Not one of them around her noticed any difference in her smile or guessed why she dismissed them so easily and naturally. She did not even march straight for the door, but making a circuit, gradually reached the hall.
Pale and calm and self-possessed as usual, the strange maid was waiting for her.
“Well!” said Lady Bell, and her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Has—has he come?”
“No,” said Laura Treherne. “But though your ladyship told me only to let you know of Mr. Newcombe’s arrival, I thought it best to bring you this letter.”
Lady Bell almost snatched it from her hand.
“You did right,” she said.
With trembling hands she broke open the envelope, not noting that it opened easily as if it had been tampered with, and read the note.
“Dear Lady Bell—I am sorry I cannot come as arranged. I am in great trouble, and cannot leave London.
“Yours truly,Jack Newcombe.”
Lady Bell looked at the few lines for full a minute, then she pressed the letter to her lips. As she did so, she saw that the slight figure in its dark dress was still standing in front of her, and she started.
“Why are you waiting?” she said angrily.
Laura Treherne turned to go, but Lady Bell called to her.
“Wait. I beg your pardon. I am going to London tomorrow by the first train. Will you have everything ready?”
Laura Treherne bowed.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And—and—you need not sit up,” said Lady Bell.
“Thanks, my lady,” was the calm response. And the dim figure disappeared in the distance.
Christmas was near at hand; but notwithstanding that nearly everybody who had a country house, or an invitation to one, was away in the shires, London was by no means empty. There were still “chariots and horsemen” in the park; and the clubs were pretty well frequented. Not a few have come to the conclusion that after all London is at its best and cheerfulest in mid-winter; and that plum pudding and roast beef can be enjoyed in a London square as well, if not better, than in the country.
Among these was Lady Bell. Although she had two or three country houses which she might have filled with guests, she, for sundry reasons, preferred to remain in Park Lane.
Perhaps, like Leonard Dagle, she thought that there was no place like London. He would have his idea that there was no place in it like Spider Court. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter, with perhaps, just a short interregnum of a fortnight in summer, Leonard stuck to Spider Court; and on this winter evening he was sitting in his accustomed place, busily driving the pen.
There was a certain change about Leonard which was worthy of remark. He looked, not older than we saw him last, but younger. In place of the weary, abstracted air, which had settled upon him during the long months of the search of Laura Treherne, there was an expression of hopefulness and energy which was distinctly palpable. The room too looked changed. It was neater and less muddled; and though the boxing gloves and portraits ofactresses and fair ladies of the ballet still adorned the walls, the floor and chairs were no longer lumbered with Jack’s boots and gloves, cigar boxes, and other impedimenta.
Perhaps Leonard missed these untidy objects, for he was wont to look up from his work and round the room with a sigh, and not seldom would rise and stalk into the bed-room beyond his own; the bed-room which Jack kept in a similar litter, but which now was neat and tidy—and unoccupied.
At such times Leonard would sigh and murmur to himself, “Poor Jack!” and betaking himself to his writing desk again would pull out a locket and gaze long and earnestly on a face enshrined therein, a face which strikingly resembled that of Laura Treherne, and so would gain comfort and fall to work again.
Tonight, he had wandered into the unoccupied room and had glanced at the portrait two or three times, for he felt lonely and would have given a five-pound note to hear Jack’s tread upon the stairs, and his voice shouting for the housekeeper to bring him hot water.
“Poor Jack!” he murmured, “where is he now?” For some months had elapsed since he had found a few lines of sad farewell from Jack lying on his writing desk, but pregnant with despair and reckless helplessness. And Jack had gone whither not even Mr. Levy Moss, who sought him far and wide, could discover; and not Mr. Moss alone, but Lady Bell Earlsley; fast as she had traveled from Earl’s Court to London, she arrived too late to see Jack, too late to learn from his lips the nature of the trouble which he had spoken of in his short note to her. And from Leonard even, she could not learn much. He could only tell her that Jack and Una’s engagement was broken off, and by Jack himself, but for what reason he could not tell or guess. And with that Lady Bell had to be, not content, but patient.
“You were his dearest friend,” she said to Leonard, “can you not guess where he has gone?”
And Leonard had shaken his head sorrowfully. “I cannot even guess. He was utterly miserable and reckless;he once spoke, half in jest, of enlisting. He was in great trouble.”
“Money trouble?” Lady Bell had asked.
“Money trouble,” assented Len, and Lady Bell had sunk into Leonard’s chair and wrung her white hands.
“Money! money! how I hate the word! and here I am with more of the vile stuff than I know what to do with!”
“That would make no difference to Jack,” Leonard said, quietly; and Lady Bell had sighed—she almost sobbed—and gone on her way as near broken-hearted as a woman could be.
And then she had sought for him as openly as she dared, but with no result, save discovering that there were hundreds of young men who answered to Jack’s description, and who were all indignant when they applied in response to the advertisements and found that they were not the men wanted.
And so the months had rolled on, and the “Savage” was nearly forgotten at the Club, excepting at odd times when Hetley or Dalrymple remembered how well he used to tool a team to the “Sheaves,” or row stroke in a scratch eight. My friend, if you want to find out of how little importance you are in your little world, disappear for a few months, and when you come back you will find that your place has been excellently well filled, excepting in the hearts of the one or two faithful men and women who loved you.
The world went on very well without Jack, and only two or three hearts ached, really ached, at his absence—Len, honest Len, in his den in Spider Court; Lady Bell, in Park Lane; and that other tender, loving, and tortured heart in the old new house at Hurst.
Leonard often thought of that tender heart, and sighed over it as he sighed for Jack. It was still a mystery to him, their separation; he knew that Una was still at the Hurst, but that was all. No news of her ever reached him. At times he ran across Stephen in London, and exchanged a word or a bow with him, and had noticed that he was looking better and sleeker, and less pale—more flourishing in fact, than he had done for some time.
He, too had come to Spider Court, and expressed profoundgrief at Jack’s disappearance, and had gone away after wringing Leonard’s hand sympathetically.
Leonard sat thinking over this far more than was good to the work he had in hand, when he heard the door open, and half starting, said absently:
“Nothing more wanted tonight, Mrs. Brown.”
But a step, certainly not Mrs. Brown’s, crossed the room, and a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw Jack’s face above him.
“Jack!” he exclaimed, clutching him as if he expected to see him disappear again. “It is you, really you? Great Heaven!”
There was reason for the exclamation; for though it was Jack, he was so altered as to have rendered the description of him in the advertisements quite useless. Thin, pale, careworn, it was no more the old Jack than the living skeleton is Daniel Lambert.
“Great Heaven! Is it really you, Jack?”
“Yes, it is I! what is left of me, Len. You—you are looking well, old man. And the old room; how cheery it seems.”
And he laughed—the shadow of the old laugh—even more pitiable than tears.
“For Heaven’s sake be quiet; don’t speak just yet,” said Len, with a husky voice. “Sit down. You’ve frightened me, Jack. Have you been ill?”
“Slightly,” said Jack, with a smile.
“And where have you been? Tell me all about it—no, don’t tell me anything yet.”
And he went to the cupboard, and brought out the whisky, and mixed a stiff glass.
“Now, then, old man, where’s the cigars? here—here’s a light. Now then—no; take off your boots. I’ll tell Mrs. Brown to air the bed and get your dressing-gown. And what about supper?”
And with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, Len turned from the room.
“Staunch as a woman, tender as a man.” It was a wise saying, whoever wrote it.
Jack sipped his whisky and water, and smoked his cigar,and pulled himself together, which was just what Len wanted to get him to do; and then Len came back.
“Now then, old man, out with it. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been to America,” said Jack. “Don’t ask me any particulars, Len; I wouldn’t tell you much if you did. I’ve been nearly out of my mind half the time, and down with one of their charming fevers the remainder. You won’t get enough information out of me to write even a magazine article, old man.”
And he smiled, with a faint attempt at badinage.
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Len, again; “and—and is that all?”
“That’s all it amounts to,” said Jack, wearily. “You want to know how I came back, and why? Well, I can scarcely tell why. I got so sick of trying to get knocked on the head, and failing miserably, that I got disgusted with the country, weary of wandering about, and resolved that it would be better to come and give Levy Moss his revenge. He’s still alive, I hope?”
“And you got back?” said Len.
“I worked my passage over,” said Jack, curtly. “I was a bad hand, and caught cold on the top of the last affair, and just managed to pull myself together to reach London, and here I am. Not very lucid, Len, is it? But there’s no more to tell.”
Leonard looked at him with infinite pity, and mixed another glass of whisky.
“Poor old Jack,” he murmured.
“And now it’s your turn,” said Jack, lighting another cigar. “Tell me all the news, Len, about yourself first. How are Hetley, and Dalrymple, and the rest of them? But yourself first, Len. You look well—better than when I left. Things have gone right with you.”
“Then you have not forgotten?” said Len, gratefully.
“It is not likely,” he said, quietly. “I have thought of you many a night as I lay burning with that confounded fever. Are you married?” and he looked round the room as if he expected to see Mrs. Dagle in some dim corner.
Leonard blushed.
“Nonsense! No, Jack, I’m not married. But—I’m very happy, old man—should have been quite happy, but for missing you.”
Jack nodded.
“I’m glad of that. Glad it has all worked round, and that you have missed me, too. Where is she—Laura Treherne? You see I remember her name.”
Leonard hesitated, and looked troubled.
“I—I’m afraid I mustn’t tell you. You see, Jack, there’s still some kind of mystery hanging about this love affair of mine. It is Laura’s wish that I should keep silent as to her whereabouts. I give you my word I don’t understand why. But I don’t want to talk of myself and my affairs, Jack. There is something and someone else you want to hear about.”
Jack looked up with a sudden start, and held up his hand.
“No, not a word!” he said. “Don’t tell me a word. I—that affair is over—dead and buried. Don’t speak her name, Len, for Heaven’s sake. Let that rest forever between us.”
Len sighed.
“Tell me more about yourself,” said Jack, impatiently, as if anxious to get away from the other subject. “There is some mystery, secret, you say.”
“Yes,” said Leonard, humoring him, “there is a mystery and secret, which, much as I love her, and I hope and believe she loves me, Laura will not trust—well, I will not say ‘trust’—which she does not feel authorized to confide to me.”
“I remember,” said Jack, “your telling me that she had some task, or mission, or something to accomplish—sounds strange.”
“Yes,” said Leonard, with a sigh, “and that mission is still unaccomplished, and blocks the marriage. But I am content to wait and trust, and I am happy.”
Jack sighed.
“You deserve to be, old fellow!” he said.
“No, I don’t!” exclaimed Leonard, remorsefully, “for flaunting my happiness in your face, Jack. And now,here’s the supper,” he added, as a waiter from a neighboring chop-house brought in a tray.
Jack sat down, and Leonard waited upon him, hanging over him, and watching him as if every mouthful he ate did him, Leonard, good; meanwhile chatting cheerfully.
“London pretty full, Jack; lots of people up this year.”
“Yes,” said Jack, then he looked up. “I suppose I shan’t be able to show up, because of Moss, Len?”
“Oh, he won’t know you are here! And we’ll cut it. We’ll go down to the country somewhere, Jack, before anyone sees you. You haven’t met anyone, have you?”
“Met them, no. But I have seen Stephen.”
“Stephen Davenant?”
“Yes, I saw him, but I don’t think he saw me. He is looking well.”
Leonard nodded.
“He did not see you—but it wouldn’t have mattered.”
“No,” said Jack, with a sigh. “Len, this is the first ‘square meal,’ as they say over the sea, that I’ve enjoyed since I left. I’m very tired.”
“I can see that,” said Leonard. “Go off to bed, old man. We’ll have no more questions tonight.”
Jack rose and took his candle.
“Yes, one more,” he said, as he held Leonard’s hand, tightly. “Is—is she well, Len?”
Leonard nodded.
“Yes, I think so——”
“That’s all,” said Jack, resolutely. “Good-night, Len, good-night,” and he turned away quickly.
Leonard stole into Jack’s room several times that night and looked down upon the tired, weary face, still handsome for all its lines and haggardness, handsomer some might have thought, for suffering sets a seal of dignity upon a man’s face if there be sterling stuff in him. Leonard looked down at it pityingly.
“Poor old man; he has had a hard time of it if any man has.”
Jack turned up at breakfast time looking much refreshed.
“First good night’s rest I’ve had since—oh, too longto remember, Len. Dreamed that all that has happened was only a dream, and that I was waking up and going to see——” he broke off suddenly and sighed.
Leonard was delighted to see him so much better.
“We’ll leave town directly, Jack,” he said. “I’ve just done my usual batch of work, and am free. We’ll spend our Christmas at some old inn——”
Jack looked at him gratefully.
“You’re a staunch old man, Len,” he said, quietly. “You’d sacrifice your sweetheart to your friend.”
Len colored.
“I’m sure she’d be the first to urge us to go,” he said. “Laura is so unselfish.”
“She shan’t be sacrificed for me,” said Jack. “No, Len, I’ll go off by myself, before anyone knows I’m back—hallo! what’s that?”
It was a footstep on the stairs, Len motioned for Jack to retreat into the bedroom, and only just in time, for, barely stopping to knock, Mr. Levy Moss opened the door.
“Good-morning, Mr. Dagle,” said Moss, his eyes roaming about the room. “Here I am again, you see, Mr. Dagle; and where is Mr. Newcombe? He’s here, I know.”
“If you know so much you’ve no need to ask,” said Leonard. “Who told you he was here?”
Levy Moss winked one bleared eye cunningly.
“I’m smart, Mr. Dagle; I keep my eyes open and my feet a-moving.”
“Just so,” said Leonard, “and if you’ll be good enough to move them out of my room I shall be obliged. Please observe that these aremyrooms, Mr. Moss, and not Mr. Newcombe’s, and that I am not desirous of further visits from you.”
“You’re sharp, too, Mr. Dagle,” said Moss; “but Mr. Newcombe’s here; you don’t want two cups and saucers, and two plates, you know, for your breakfast, eh?”
“Get out!” said Len, who, when he was roused was, like most quiet men, rather hot-headed. “Get out! and,by the way, if you meet Mr. Newcombe, I’d advise you to keep clear of him; he’s back from America and carries two revolvers and a bowie knife, and I needn’t tell you, who know him so well, that he’d as soon put a bullet through your head or stick the knife in between your ribs as look at you—far rather, perhaps.”
Moss turned pale.
“I hope Mr. Jack won’t do anything rash.”
“I won’t answer for him. They don’t think much of killing your sort of people on the other side, Moss. Get out,” and Mr. Moss shuffled out; Leonard bolting the door after him.
Jack came in and sat down quietly and gravely.
“I’ve frightened him,” said Leonard, smiling. “He’ll keep clear of you for a day or two. But how did he know you were back? He couldn’t have been keeping watch for all these months.”
“I don’t know; someone must have seen me, and told him; I don’t know who, Len. I’m going out.”
“Now, Jack?” said Leonard, fearfully.
Jack smiled.
“No, Len; I won’t cut it again without telling you and saying ‘good-by.’ I’m only going for a walk; and I’ll be back to dinner.”
Leonard looked after him, still rather anxiously; there was a look of determination on the pale, thoughtful face which alarmed him.
Jack walked to Regent street—please mark that he didn’t call a hansom; though Len had pressed some money upon him—and then into Piccadilly, and still with the thoughtful look of determination on his face, into Park Lane, and ascended the steps of Lady Bell’s villa.
A footman, who knew not Jack, opened the door, and Jack, who had not any cards, gave his name, which the footman gave to Lady Bell’s maid as “Mr. Bluecut.”
Jack walked into the drawing-room, every article of which was familiar to him; and sat down in the chair which he had so often drawn close to Lady Bell’s, only a few months back; and yet how long, long ago it seemed.
Presently the door opened, and Lady Bell came in.
He saw her in the glass before she saw him.
Tastefully and simply dressed, she looked, if anything, more beautiful than ever, but not so bright and restless; Jack noticed that. There was an undefinable change about her, just as if she had gone through some trouble, or had done battle with some grief.
Suddenly she looked round and saw him, and stopped; one hand holding a chair, her face going from white to crimson.
Jack rose.
“I’ve startled you; I’m very sorry.”
Lady Bell recovered herself, and went to him with outstretched hand and a look in her dark eyes that she tried to keep out of them.
“Jack,” she said, almost involuntarily.
“Yes, it’s I; like the bad penny, back again, Lady Bell.”
And he sat down and laughed.
She sank into a chair beside him, and looked at his careworn face.
“Where have you been?” she asked, softly.
“To America,” said Jack.
“You have been ill?” she said, still more softly.
Jack nodded.
“Yes. I’m all right now. And you? You don’t look quite the thing?”
“Do I not?” she said, with a smile. “I am quite well. And is that all you are going to tell me of your wanderings?”
“No. I’ll tell you everything some other time,” said Jack, quietly.
“You are not going away again, then?” she asked, looking at him, and then away from him.
Jack flushed.
“That depends,” he said, quietly.
“Depends on what?” she asked.
“On you,” he said.
Lady Bell started, and the crimson flush flooded her face and neck. Her lips trembled, and she looked away.
“On me?” she murmured, faintly.
“On you,” said Jack, earnestly. “Lady Bell, I have come back to ask you to be my wife.”
She was silent; her face turned from him, so that he could not see the tears that welled up in her eyes.
Jack took her hand.
“Lady Bell, I know that I am not worthy of you—know it quite well. There isn’t a man in the world who is; I, least of all. I know, too, what the world would say if you should answer ‘Yes.’ It will impute all sorts of base motives to me. But, as Heaven is my witness, it is not for your wealth that I ask you to be my wife. I am poor, and in all sorts of trouble; but if you were poorer than I am I would still ask you.”
“You would?” she murmured.
“Yes,” he said, quietly. “Yes, I can say that, though I tell you in the same breath that I am, at this moment, being hunted for money. And I think you will believe me.”
She made a gesture of assent with her hand.
“Dear Lady Bell,” he continued, “during the last few months I have been looking back to those happy days we spent together; and when a man’s down with the fever he looks back with keen and wise insight into the turn of things, and knows when he was happy in the past, and with whom; and I swore that, if ever I pulled through and got back, I would ask you if you did not think we might be as happy in the future as in the past. Dear Bell, I would try and make you happy. Will you be my wife?”
Trembling in every limb, she sat silent, and with averted face. Then, suddenly and yet slowly, she turned her eyes upon him—eyes full of ineffable love and sadness.
Slowly, softly, she put her other hand in his, and smiled at him.
“You ask me to be your wife, Jack?”
“I do,” he said. “Your answer, dear Bell?”
“Is—No,” she said.
Jack started, and his eyes fell before the deep love and tenderness in hers. He would have drawn his hand away, but she still held it gently.
“Do you ask me why, Jack? I will tell you. It is because you do not love me.”
He looked up with a start, and turned pale.
Lady Bell shook her head gently.
“Do not speak—it is useless. Besides, you would not tell me a lie, Jack. Listen; I, too, have been looking back; I, too, have learned a lesson—a truth—while you have been away. And that truth is, that others may love as truly and deeply as myself; and that others may find it as impossible to forget——”
Jack, pale and agitated, stopped her.
“The past is buried,” he said, hoarsely—“let it rest.”
“It is not buried—it cannot be. See! it revives—springs up, even without the mention of her name. Jack, you do not love me—you cannot; for all your love has been given, is still given, to Una.”
“For Heaven’s sake!” he implored, rising and pacing the room.
Lady Bell looked at him.
“Ah, how you love her still, Jack! See how right I was; and yet you would come to me.”
And the tears fall slowly.
“Forgive me,” said Jack, bending over her humbly, imploringly—“forgive me! You—you are right. But I swear I thought it was over for me. You knew me better than I knew myself.”
“Yes, for a good reason, Jack,” she murmured; “for I love you.”
Jack winced.
“I have been a brute!” he murmured.
“No, Jack,” she said—and she put her hand on his arm and looked up at him with a smile—“you meant well and honestly. You did not know how it stood with you. I could not have loved you so well if you had been false—if you had forgotten her. I have been thinking it out, Jack; and I know now that to love once—as you and I love—is to love forever.”
“But it is past,” he said, “utterly, irrevocably past. You do not know the barrier that stands immovably between her and me.”
“Do I not?” she murmured, inaudibly. “Be it what it will, your love and hers stand firm on either side of it. But no more of that, Jack. I am glad you have come to me—very, very glad. And though I cannot be your wife, Jack”—with what tenderness and sadness those two words were breathed—“I can be your friend. I want you to promise me something.”
Jack pressed her hand. He could not trust himself to speak.
“I want you to promise that you will not go away again, that you will not leave London whatever happens—mind, whatever happens—without letting me know! I may ask that much, Jack?”
“You may ask anything,” he said, huskily; “I will do anything you ask of me—simply anything.”
“I think you would,” she said. “Then I have your promise? And, Jack, this must make no difference between us; you will come and see me?”
“I do not deserve to come within a mile of you.”
She smiled.
“And so punish me for not saying ‘yes,’” she said, with a little attempt at archness. “That would be hard for me, Jack. I should lose lover and friend as well.”
“You are the truest-hearted woman in the world,” said Jack, deeply moved.
“Except one,” said Lady Bell. “There, go now, Jack, and come to dinner tonight, and bring Leonard Dagle with you—another true heart.”
“I will,” said Jack, simply. And he held out his hand.
She held out both of hers, and looked at him with a strange, wistful yearning in her eyes.
“Jack,” she breathed, softly, “will you kiss me for the first and last time?”
Jack drew her toward him and kissed her. Then, with a little sigh, she left him. How Jack got out he knew not, for his eyes were strangely dim and useless.
A dim light was burning in the drawing-room of the Hurst. Outside, the storm was raging wild and pitiless, making the warm room seem like a harbor of refuge. Beside the fire sat Mrs. Davenant, half dozing over a piece of finest needlework for the village working club. She was alone in the room, and every now and then glanced anxiously toward the door. Presently it opened, and the tall figure of Stephen entered and crossed over to her.
“Mother,” he said, and there was a tremulous ring in his voice and a quiver in his lips that were in marked contrast to his usual smooth calm.
Mrs. Davenant looked up with a glance of alarm. “Una!” she exclaimed.
“Hush!” he said, laying his hand on her shoulder. “Una,” and his voice dwelt on the name. “Una is asleep. She has gone to her own room for a little while. Mother,” he said, slowly, “she has consented.”
Mrs. Davenant looked up and trembled: “Oh, Stephen!”
He nodded, and stood before the fire, looking up with a smile of undisguised triumph and joy. “Yes, she has consented. It was—well, hard work; but my love overmastered her. I told her that you agreed with me that the sooner the marriage took place the better. You do, do you not?”
“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Davenant.
“She wants change; nothing but entire change of life and thought will do her good. Mother, if she remained here, if something were not done, she would”—he paused, and went on hoarsely, “she would die!”
Mrs. Davenant shuddered and her eyes filled. “My poor, poor Una!” she murmured.
Stephen moved impatiently. “She will not need your pity, mother. A few weeks hence and you will have no reason to pity her. I’ll stake my life that I bring her back here with the roses in her cheeks, with the smile in her eyes, as of old. Mother, you do not know what such love as mine can do!” and his voice trembled with suppressed passion.
Mrs. Davenant looked up at him, tearfully.
“You—you are much changed, Stephen,” she murmured.
“I am,” he said, with a curt laugh. “I am changed, am I not? I scarcely know myself. And she has done it. She! My beautiful queen, my lily! Yes, she shall be happy, if man can make her.” He was silent a moment, dwelling on his love and future, and looked, as he spoke, much changed. Then he awoke at a question from his mother.
“When is it to be, Stephen?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, quietly.
“Tomorrow!” gasped. Mrs. Davenant. “Impossible!”
“Not at all,” he said, curtly. “Remember, I told you not to be surprised, that it would come suddenly.”
“But——”
He made a movement of impatience.
“Do you think I have not made preparations? See,” and he took a paper from his pocket, “I have had the license for a week past. It is no ordinary marriage. We want no bridesmaid and wedding favors. She would not have them—or me, if you insisted upon it. It is principally on the condition that the ceremony shall be quite private—secret almost—that she has consented.”
Mrs. Davenant stared at the fire.
Stephen smiled.
“You do not understand me, even yet, mother,” he said. “Did you ever know anything fail me?”
Mrs. Davenant shuddered, or was it the play of the fire-light?
“Never,” she said, in a low voice.
Stephen smiled again.
“I have seen this coming, have seen my way to it for months past; I have swept every barrier away——” He stopped suddenly and bit his lip—“and now for our plans, mother. Try and collect yourself; this has surprised and upset you,” he said, sharply.
Mrs. Davenant sat up and looked at him attentively.
“Tomorrow we start, without fuss or bother, for Clumley. I have ordered them to take a pair of horses to thehalf-way house, so that we can change without loss of time. I have also sent a letter to the clergyman telling him to be prepared for us, and keep his own counsel. We shall reach Clumley, traveling easily, by half-past ten. There will be no wedding breakfast—thank Heaven! no fuss or ceremony. We shall go straight from the church to London, and thence to Paris. Excepting ourselves and clergyman no one can know anything of the matter until the marriage is over, then——” and he drew a long breath and smiled.
Mrs. Davenant, pale and trembling, stared up at him.
“And—and Una? Does she agree to all this?”
“Una agrees to everything,” he said, impatiently. “She herself stipulated that it should be done quietly, and”—with a smile—“if this is not quietly, I do not know what is. And now, my dear mother, go and make what preparations are absolutely necessary, and make them yourself, and unaided. Remember there must be no approach to any wedding party. We are only going to take an outing for a day or two. You understand?”
“I understand,” she faltered; “and when will you be back, Stephen?” she asked, pitiably. “I—I—you won’t be away long, Stephen? I shall miss her so.”
Stephen patted her on the shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid, mother. We shall not be away too long. I am too proud of my beautiful bride to hide her away. I want to see her here, mistress of the Hurst. My wife! my wife! Hush! here she comes. Do not upset her.”
And, with a quick, noiseless step, he went out as Una entered.
Framed in the doorway, she stood for a moment like a picture. Paler and slighter than in the old days, she had lost none of her beauty. Stephen had cause to be proud of his bride. There would be no lovelier woman in Wealdshire than the future mistress of the Hurst. And yet, if Jack could have seen her that moment, what agony her face would have cost him; for his eyes, quickened by his passionate love, would have read and understood that subtle change that had fallen on the beautiful face; wouldhave read the settled melancholy which sat enthroned on the dark eyes, and gave them the dreamy, far-away look which never left them for a moment.