The tone of the story-teller's voice had grown softer and softer; had dropped lower and lower; then stopped altogether.
The silence caused the woman, whose pent-up emotion had been finding vent in silent tears, to uplift her head. Her very soul was gladdened by the picture upon which her eyes rested.
The man had drawn the coverlet up so that it shielded the wearied little eyes from the light. Her child was asleep! Peacefully sleeping in the arms of Prince Charlie.
She had been kneeling with her face buried in her hands, on the same side of the bed as he sat. Now she had but to bend to reach his disengaged hand. The burning, feverish lips were pressed to it, with all the heartfelt fervour inspired by a mother's gratitude: surely the very strongest inspiration in the world.
Ere she took her lips away he felt, drop—drop—drop.Three tears on his hand! Tears from the eyes of the woman to whom, in her grief, his heart opened. Despite the fact that he had thought it closed against her for ever.
His heart was very full just then. A veritable agony of love was in his eyes as he looked at her. Passionate words were framed in his thoughts; rose to his lips and were choked back.
Except for that strained expression in his eyes, his face was calm as stone; the pallor likened it to marble. But the woman's head was bent; his suffering was unseen by her.
It pained him—her gratitude. He had done so little to deserve it. Indeed would have been a brute had he done less. No thanks were due to him; acceptance of them made him feel himself in a false position. But he could do nothing to restrain her—for fear of waking Gracie.
She moved a little away, glancing again at the sleeping child with a deep sigh of thankfulness. A slight movement of his head, a look in his eyes, beckoned her to come closer.
She understood. Noiselessly walked behind him; stood so, leaning over the bed rail. Her head was close to his, as he asked in an undertone:
"The medicine?"
"She should take it in two hours."
"She must."
He said that in a whisper, with a meaning glance at the child's flushed face.
"Will it be wise to awaken her?"
"Distinctly; in case of fever. Besides, at this stage, the more she sleeps the more easily she will go to sleep again. Poor little mite! This is not half so comfortable a position for her as if she were lying down, but I can't move her till the slumber feeling gets a tighter hold on her. I shall awaken her at medicine time, and she will go to sleep quickly enough by then in any position. Drink?"
"Milk. There is some."
She pointed to a jug standing on a table near by. His eyes followed the direction of her hand; he nodded.
"Good. Now, lie you down on the sofa. Try and get some sleep yourself."
She drew back in astonishment at his suggestion. Shook her head; then expostulated:
"I could not!"
"You must!"
"I cou—"
"You don't want to annoy—to seriously annoy me, do you?"
The voice was very earnest; that voice which she found so wonderfully deep and thrilling. Even in its whisper there was, for her, all the power of great music; even in the lightest words he spoke.
She brushed a tear from her eyes. Once more impulsively bent and kissed the hand which was resting on the rail. He whispered:
"Let me ask you to lie down—to oblige me. Will you do that? You have not slept for long. I, as you know, am a veritable owl; a complete night-bird. My consumption of midnight oil is a standing joke. It is easier for me to keep awake than to go to sleep—oblige me."
All the boy in him had departed for the time. Yet there was no effort, no conscious assumption of manly dignity. On the contrary, it suited him well. Seemed merely another phase of his character.
Her answer was in as earnest a tone as he himself used; strangely earnest considering the smallness of his request; she said:
"I would do anything—anything in the world you asked me."
"Then lie down. Remember that the greatest pleasure you can give me will be to see you asleep. That is not very complimentary to you, is it?"
That was said in an endeavour to makeher smile. He was sorry he had spoken so when he saw how the lips curved. Sad smiles are not pretty things; he continued hastily:
"And you may sleep in peace. Your fears may be at rest; Gracie is doing well. Short as has been her sleep, so far, I feel the temperature is lower—her breathing to be more regular. Now go."
Dutifully, obediently, she went. There are some men who must be obeyed without question. Masters was of those—when he chose. That was not often. He was of so kindly a nature that he never cared to press his authority: unless occasion rendered that course absolutely necessary.
The sofa was on the other side of the room. He furtively watched her for a long time, as she lay there with her eyes wide open. Watched her unavailing fight against sleep; smiled when at last she succumbed, when Nature conquered. She went to sleep: a sound sleep bred of that previous wakefulness and anxiety.
Time passed. The hands of the clock on the mantel crept round slowly minute by minute, twice. Then, very quietly, very gently, he woke the child. She was so sleepy and drowsy that his heart smote him; it seemed almost cruel to rouse her.
The eyes opened widely for a minute in surprise at seeing him there. Then she remembered; the lids half closed again. She stretched her hand a little higher up his shoulder and said:
"You're still here, Prince Charlie."
"Yes, darling. I am going to stop all night. We must not speak loudly; Mamma is asleep; and she is so tired."
"So am I, Prince Charlie. Peepy and thirsty. Will you give me some milk?"
"After this medicine, dear.... There. Now the milk.... My! What a thirsty little girlie. What? More!... We shall have to buy another cow!"
He smoothed her pillow, laid her comfortably down and stroked her brow. Was glad to note how fast the feverishness was leaving her; she was distinctly cooler. In less than a minute she was peacefully asleep again.
A good nurse, was Masters. Many trained to the calling might have taken hints from him. Some men are born that way.
He had in his composition just the right proportions of firmness, kindness, and that constant thoughtfulness for others which go to make up the ideal attendant.
Moreover, he had a way, through some subtle influence of his personality, of makinghis will felt without irritating by its actual expression. He rarely raised opposition; rather it fell away before him.
Gracie was not the only being who succumbed to this man's latent force of character. Most people with whom he came in contact felt its power, wholly unaware of it as he was himself.
Yet another satisfied glance at the sleeping figure, then he made preparations for the night. Quietly drawing off his boots, walked across the room to the fireplace. Converted his fingers into tongs, and so from the coalbox noiselessly replenished the fire. Then he sat down to watch; to watch and think.
For hours he sat there without stirring. Made no movement lest he should disturb the sleepers. He was over-anxious perhaps—afraid to make the smallest sound.
His reflections were not altogether in the groove they had followed hitherto. He had felt certainty where now he felt doubt. There were, too, throbbing moments when he doubted not the woman, but himself.
But ever the truth, the bitter truth, rose up before him, like a great black veil. In it was no loophole for charity. Besides, love asks for love—not for compassion. Could she know what was in his mind, she would scornfully refuse his pity. He knew that;had no doubt of it, low as he deemed her to have fallen.
She would reject so poor a substitute for love, and she would be right. There would be no hesitation; he knew that instinctively. He had once seen the blaze of anger in those now closed eyes; the memory remained with him. Yet that substitute was all he had to offer her; all he felt for her now—so he told himself.
Was it? Was it in very truth? He asked himself the question, and his throbbing heart made answer. But his lips formed another reply, although unspoken. They were tightly shut, firmly set. The tenseness was the reply itself.
Yet—he could not help it—he wondered whether it could be possible. That the woman, from whose face he scarcely took his eyes, was what he thought her. Whose emotion and love for her child had been so real and earnest, whose gratitude had shown itself in her humility to him. To him! He who had so grossly insulted her that night on the seat.
Even in sleep, tell-tale sleep, when that watchful control which we may keep on our waking expression is no longer possible, even then the lines of her face were all of purity and gentleness.
The lips were closed in sweet soft curves; a faint flush was on her pale cheeks; her white brow was wholly serene. It was surely as innocent a face as the little one's to which—he saw it now for the first time—it bore so striking a likeness. Was it possible that a woman could sin, or be sinned against, and remain unsullied?
When the time for medicine came round again, he gently touched the child with intent to waken her. Then drew away his hand. He felt that she was so much cooler, the flush had almost gone from her face, that he determined not to disturb her. To let her awaken of her own accord.... So the night passed.
During all those long hours, Masters might have applied wisdom to a grasping of the situation. But it has been well said that wisdom does not pour knowledge from above as the clouds let down rain. It is to be delved for patiently and with hard toil, at the cost of flinty hands and, mayhap, of skinned knuckles.
The eastern sky was painted rosier and rosier; day broke. Still the sleepers slept, and the watcher watched. Never moved he except when need arose to feed the fire.
Seven o'clock. Eight o'clock. Then Gracie woke. Gracie, save for weakness, her own bright, clear-headed, intelligent little self. He was once more making up the fire. Turned round at the sound of her voice, to find her sitting up in bed laughing at him.
"Prince Charlie! I'm ashamed of you! You dir-ty boy! Don't you know what tongs are made for?"
Then she laughed at him again! A faint little laugh though, and so exhausting that after it she fell back on the pillows, scant of breath.
The laugh aroused the mother, trained by love to awaken at the least sound. She sprang to her feet and hastened to the bedside.When she saw the change for the better in her child, the smile on the little face, thankfulness overwhelmed her.
Never had waking moments been more sweet. It was less like waking than like a dream itself. She hugged Gracie to her bosom; just escaped crying over her.
Masters smilingly humoured the child—a little tyranny is a welcome sign in a patient; said, suiting the action to the word:
"Well, I'll use the coal scoop, as you object so to my hands."
"Look at your fingers! Isn't he a dirty boy, mamma? I mustn't let him touch my clean nightgown, must I?"
It was a challenge! Masters saw through the ruse. Her desire was that he should make pretence he wanted to catch hold of her. Then she would struggle to escape him. It was a game she was very fond of—he was to catch her after a long while—and then the romp would begin all over again. Fearing to excite her, he took no notice of the thrown-down glove; merely remarked:
"Well, you look all the better for your sleep." Added, with a smile: "Both of you, I mean."
The mother's heart was too full to speak. Her child was hers once more. Had come back to her from out the Valley of the Shadowof Death. After a long pause she managed to look up at him, tears bedewing her eyes, and inquire:
"And you?"
"Don't worry about me! I am as right as right can be. Just let me go to your bath-room, will you? I shall emerge from it as fresh as the proverbial lark."
"You will stop to breakfast—"
Gracie caught the suggestion in a moment; interposed eagerly:
"Oh, yes, Prince Charlie! You will! Won't you? Have breakfast with me—out of my own tea service."
"Very well. I'll have a bath, and then come and breakfast with you, Gracie—out of your very own cups and saucers and plates. That's understood."
He went to the bath-room. His matutinal cold water sponge was a thing he would have missed dreadfully. During his absence, the doctor paid an early morning visit.
Masters was pleased when he returned to the sick room to see the happy look on the mother's face. Gracie was out of danger the doctor had said. Was going on splendidly—thanks, she said, to——
"To Prince Charlie, mamma! I heard the doctor say so. He's a fairy prince who comes and saves little girls."
Gracie held Prince Charlie with one hand; her mother's with the other, as she spoke:
"Prince Charlie, I want to kiss you."
He submitted to the wish of the little autocrat. Both her arms went round his neck as she gave him what she called her extra nicest.
After that there was a happy breakfast party. The cups were very small; Gracie, propped up with pillows, had to fill them many times. But that was just as well; the greater demand, the greater her pleasure.
The plates, too, were not quite large enough to hold ordinary slices of bread and butter. But then, as Gracie explained, you could hold your bread in your hands, couldn't you?
As for the cups, small cups were very fashionable—mamma had told her so. It wasn't good manners to eat and drink too much; even if you were ever so hungry. But it was quite good form to say the tea was hot even if it was quite cold. That was part of the game.
The child's daily improvement was of the rapid kind. In less than a week she was skipping about the room. In ten days, well wrapped up, was playing—literally skipping—on the sun-lit sands.
And during the ten days? The author and the mother drifted apart! As the child'sconvalescence became assured his visits grew less in number; shorter in length.
From visiting three times a day his calls came down to once. His usual hour's visits were curtailed. He stayed but a quarter of that time.
When the child asked a reason, he was busy, he said. But the mother, listening, was not for a moment deceived. Read in his eyes that there had been no removal of his doubt of her. Her pride rose—rose higher and higher and higher day by day.
Her struggle was a hard one, to keep the bitter resentful feeling down. She endeavoured to stifle it with thought of the gratitude she owed him. But it was hard, terribly hard. She was not of a lachrymose temperament at all, but her eyes often tear-filled when she thought of him.
He was cold to her; grew more so; coldly courteous and reserved. Instinctively he feared his own weakness. Kept so close a guard upon himself, so firm a brake upon his feelings, that intercourse with him became depressing and wearying.
There was no longer the old easy flow of talk; words came with difficulty; conversation was an effort on both sides. Forced conversation is usually a failure.
She saw clearly that but for his love for thechild—and that, she knew, was genuine—he would not have come to the house at all. She felt that all the while he spoke to her courteously and politely, he was suspicious of her. She showed nothing of her indignation; that would only have been acknowledgment of the hit.
Suspicious of what? She asked herself; asked not once, but a hundred times a day. Her pride would not allow her to put the question to him; so they drifted further and further apart. To her it seemed as with Ichabod: the glory had departed.
Sorry? She was heart-broken over it. She had not learned to love him: she had cared for him all along. More even than she had known, more than she knew even now. The sweet, helpful gentleness of his care for her child when sick, had shown him in a light in which few women would have failed to admire—nay, more than that: to love him.
He was a veritable Prince to her; she could have worshipped him. Her soul had gone out to him—and his to her—so naturally she had scarce noticed its passage. She felt she had known him all her life; so perfectly their thoughts and views seemed to dovetail one another.
There had been no shaping and moulding and rubbing off of corners; no making ofrough edges to fit evenly; all that is usually the work of time. It is said that there is no soul but somewhere on this crowded earth another soul responds unto its needs. The meeting is still a rarity, but kindly old Time goes on with his everlasting pruning and polishing and planing down to suit mutual requirements.
He has them—has the man with the scythe and hour glass—in his workshop; hundreds and thousands of young couples. He lets them rub along together, Fate having joined them, until the roughnesses are all worn away and it is scarcely noticeable—certainly not by the young people themselves—that they were not expressly made for each other.
The manufactured article produced in that workshop of Old Time is durable and generally gives satisfaction. Looks so much like the real thing that most people want nothing better. Some people prefer it even, take more pride in it.
Besides, the Merchandise Marks Act is not in force in regard to this particular class of goods, so there is not much loss. It all bears the same label, and there is no penalty for deceiving the public. It is all marked—hall marked: Love.
Sometimes, however, it happens that two souls come together whom Nature has reallydesigned and moulded each to each. It is fraught with much sweetness, such a meeting; sweetness as of music. The harmonies are so perfect and so pure, it seems no power in Heaven or Earth could destroy the enduring melody by a jarring note.
The swelling tones would rise and fall and echo, long after the discordance had subsided. Real love is very rare, rarer than gold and diamonds, but it is found sometimes. In out-of-the-way places, too; wholly unsought, conjoining the hearts of man and woman by the closeness and perfection of their union and coincidence.
She had come to think, and he had thought so, too, that God had framed them so, the one to the other. Fight the idea as she would, in her woman's weakness she thought so still. He, in his manly strength, endeavoured to crush the thought as it rose in his bosom.
But it was there to crush.
When the child had passed all the signposts on the road of convalescence, had reached perfect health, Masters ceased his visits to the bungalow. His interest in Gracie induced him not to avoid meeting her on the front.
The child was all warmth and affection and love for the man she was going to marry. The mother hid her aching heart behind a smile: a woman's usual veil. It was not what a novelist describes as a sad sweet smile; it had degenerated into an hysterical, jerky, clattering, little laugh.
The weather continued fine; the author prolonged his stay. For that reason—anyway, for his own satisfaction he set down that as the cause—he stayed on at Wivernsea.
Not a day passed but he met his little sweetheart. Not a day passed but the breach between the man and woman widened. Soonthe conventional greeting at meeting and parting came to be dreaded by each.
They dared not look into each other's eyes. As hands met for those two brief moments, each involuntarily looked away from the other. Fingers were clasped limply; fell away awkwardly. Heartiness, even of the faintest description, was sadly lacking in the shake.
One morning he had a letter from his lawyers. It called for his attendance in London; a question of making an affidavit over some copyright infringement. He resolved to catch the fast train up, and so be able to get back by the fast evening train down.
He was at the station early, having inquiries to make. A parcel of books sent down to him had, by reason of the railway company's vagaries, not reached him. Those inquiries made and satisfied, he purchased newspapers.
Messrs. Smith and Son occupied a space in the booking office. As he dealt with the juvenile representative of the great Strand firm, he was standing with his back to the ticket pigeon-hole. He was presently startled by hearing a voice he recognized, saying:
"First-class, return, London, please."
He turned round sharply, expecting to see the mistress of Ivy Cottage; he could havesworn to her voice anywhere. A woman plainly dressed, almost shabbily, with a long thick veil, stood purchasing the ticket. She repeated the demand; the ticket seller had not caught the words.
Hearing it a second time, Masters had no shadow of doubt about the voice's owner. There were no two voices like it in the world. But the costume amazed him; could only be explained one way.
Not a pleasant way, either. It was a disguise! Masters felt certain of it. She had always been well, expensively dressed. Now, by reason of that, the change was the more striking.
There were three minutes before the train was due; five minutes passed before it arrived. The shabbily-dressed woman paced the platform. Masters watched her from the waiting-room window; five minutes of utter misery.
The station bell rang a second time, the train came in. The veiled woman hurried to a first-class carriage in front of the train. The guard opened a door and she entered one of its compartments. A moment after Masters had entered another.
His purchases at the bookstall lay on the seat beside him all the way to London; he did not read a line of them. For two wholehours he sat stonily looking out of the window, thinking. Thinking, as well as the numb feeling of wretchedness and horror holding him would allow.
It was the first really cold day of the approaching winter. With a view to travelling in comfort, Masters had unpacked, and was wearing a long heavy ulster. It changed his appearance altogether. He knew that, and, bred of the knowledge, there came a desire to track the woman in the other compartment.
With his coat-collar up, she would not be likely to recognize him. It would be possible to follow her and see what this mysterious disguise and flight to London meant; whether she was really as black as his suspicion painted her, as appearances represented her.
Was it a gentlemanly thing to do?... He did not pause to answer his own question. Curiosity and the desire, the necessity, to either set at rest or confirm his fears outweighed everything. Any certainty is better than suspense; we always say so and feel it so—until that certainty is known.
His mind was quickly made up: to follow her. Besides, how could he tell but what she might have need of him; the disguise led to the thought of such a possibility. Masters' was a fertile brain; a dozen such possibilitiesentered his mind at once. Disguise very frequently meant danger. If that were the case it was his duty, as a man, to shield her.
He would not fail her—so he argued with himself. A desire to do any particular thing causes us to find reasons for its justification; excellent reason. He had made up his mind to follow her.
At Charing Cross the woman in the front part of the train alighted.... Got into a hansom cab.... Masters got into another. A disturbing recollection came to him of a private detective in one of his own books who had acted in similar fashion. But he was not deterred by it.
"Where to, sir?"
Through the trap in the cab roof the inquiry came. Looking up he answered the driver:
"Keep that hansom in sight. I want to see, and not be seen—do you understand?"
"I'm fly."
As the Jehu answered he shut one eye. Then, as he closed the trap, said to himself:
"Man from the Yard—what's she been a-doin' of, I wonder?"
The first cab went over Westminster Bridge, turned into Lambeth, pulled up outside a corner public house. The second cab slowed down and passed the first at walking pace. The woman was paying her fare. Then sheentered a door on the glass panels of which were inscribed the words:
BOTTLE AND JUG DEPARTMENT
BOTTLE AND JUG DEPARTMENT
Masters' cabman knew his business; promptly reined in his horse just round the corner.
"That do you, sir?"
He put the question as Masters alighted, and was feeling in his trousers pocket; the driver continued:
"She's gone into theGreen Dragonround the corner, she has. We passed the pub a minute agone."
Masters winced. Then reflected that the cabman was only fulfilling his duty zealously. Rewarded him with a half-sovereign.
"Going back, sir?"
Golden fares are rare enough to be worth looking after for a return journey.
"Perhaps—I don't know."
"I'll be stopping here, sir—here, for half-an-hour if you should want me, sir."
Masters nodded.... Passed through a door brass-plated with the words:
HOTEL ENTRANCE.
HOTEL ENTRANCE.
A flight of stairs faced him. To the left was another door, glass-lettered with the word:
SALLOON.
SALLOON.
Into the saloon Masters went. Squarepanels of bevelled ground glass pivoted on their centres along the top of the bar, shielding the occupants of the saloon from the gaze of those in the opposite bar.
As he entered, Masters heard the woman he had followed enquiring over the bar:
"Mr. Rigby? He is staying here—he expects me."
The hesitation in the enquiring voice made the barman look up. Nervousness in women is rather an uncommon thing to find in the bar of a Surrey-side public-house.
"Oh, yes. But you've come in the wrong way. Round the corner and in at the hotel entrance. You'll find him on the second floor, room 15."
She went out. The bar-tender crossing to him, Masters called for a whisky and soda. Tasted, then tilted the glass, and let the contents be soaked up by the sawdust on the floor. It was not a drink which he thought likely to benefit him. The Lambeth blend of whisky did not somehow seem to tickle his palate.
Watching through the saloon door, he presently saw the veiled woman come in through the hotel entrance, and ascend the stairs. Allowing half-a-minute to elapse, he passed out and followed in her steps. As he commenced the ascent of the secondflight he heard a door close; guessed it to be the door of room No. 15.
Reaching the passage on the second floor he noted that the door of room No. 14 was shut. No. 15 was shut too. No. 16 was open. He paused on its threshold. Cast an eye round; not a soul was in the passage; entered. Then the door of No. 16 was shut too; shut, and the key turned on the inside.
A hurried glance satisfied him that it was an unoccupied room. He was glad of that; an explanation that he had entered to wash his hands would suffice, should need of such excuse arise. All the rooms, he guessed, were bedrooms on that floor.
A door was in the dividing wall of Nos. 15 and 16. To that Masters applied his ear. A sense of the contemptibility of the action was strong upon him; yet he could not refrain from acting so.
Something crossed his mind about the end justifying the means. It was a principle he had always violently combated; practice and theory are sometimes at variance. Shame was merged into a feeling of gladness: that there was no key in the lock; it made hearing easier. And he meant to go the whole length; to listen.
As he did so, reflected that such a despicable act as eavesdropping would have beenimpossible to him a month ago. Suggested to himself that she had brought him to it.
That is men's way—even the best of them.
The man she had inquired for in the bar, Rigby—he guessed it was he—was speaking. A husky-toned voice, but the listener could plainly catch the words:
"There! Don't cry, old girl. I have broken my promise to you, I know. You thought I had gone out of England, and I haven't. Well, I am going—going early to-morrow."
"Dick!"
"Gospel truth, old girl. When I said good-bye last time, I meant it. But I got in with the boys and it was the old story. You know; I needn't tell you. I don't blame the boys; they think it a lark, that's all. First one comes and then the other, and each one doesn't know how far I've gone already. I have myself to blame; no one else. I have been lying here over a fortnight with the D.T.'s—came out of them two days ago.Doctor says I shall be able to go abroad to-morrow. He's a good sort; says the Mediterranean cruise will be the thing to set me on my legs. You said so; he says so. He has been kind enough to see to things, booked my berth, and I am going to-morrow from St. Katharine's dock onLa Mascotte.
"Dick!"
"I am speaking honest, old girl; I am going. I might have gone without writing to you to come up and see me, and you would have been spared this, but I couldn't. I felt that I wanted to say good-bye, old girl, because—because you've been so good to me—more than I deserve. Because," there was a quaver in the speaker's voice, "because I believe it will be the last time."
"Dick!"
The listener, a fierce pain at his heart, heard the catch in her voice, the gasping way in which she ejaculated the name. The man continued:
"It is possible to travel too far on the downward road. So far that you get lost for ever and ever in the valley. I have been down a great big distance. There is a presentiment in possession of me that, somehow, I shall never come back to England. That I shall never come back to worry you again!"
"Dick! Dick! Dick!"
The listening man could hear the heart-breaking sound; the woman's sobs as she spoke. Despite Rigby, despite all, his heart went out to her. Involuntarily he stretched out his arms. They fell to his side again, empty. There was the door between.
"Don't cry. After all, it is perhaps for the best. See what a failure I am. If I drink myself to death perhaps it would be best. Pity it takes so long, that's all. See how like a blackguard I have behaved to you."
The listener could not see, but he knew her actions to be expostulating.
"Ah, it's so; it's so.... I know; I'm sober now. When I come out of it I lie thinking, thinking, thinking. Realize then what a foul beast I have made of myself. When I think how I have behaved to you—to you, my staunch, devoted, dear old pal, the one soul who has stuck to me through thick and thin, I hate myself, I hate myself; and I wonder you don't hate me too."
"You know I love you, Dick. You know that no soul in the whole world loves you as I do."
"Somehow I'd rather see you fly into a rage and call me all the evil names you could invent than look at me so lovingly and sadly; I would indeed. I should feel more that I had deserved to lose you; it would hurt less.But I know you love me; that is one reason why I have determined on trying this Mediterranean trip. Do you know, before I sat down to write to you yesterday, I made a balance of my hands. Held the pen in one and a razor in the other——"
"Dick! Dick! Oh, for God's sake don't talk so!"
"You would never have known, Mab. I am staying here in the name of Rigby. You don't read the police intelligence in the papers. If you had, you would never have linked an account of a drunkard's suicide in a Lambeth hotel with me. You would have thought me on blue water, keeping my promise to you."
The man at the door could hear the sounds of her grief still. It was agony to him; he ground his teeth. That she should suffer so, and he so close, so helpless to help her!
"The pen won the day, Queenie." The speaker was trying to infuse a note of cheeriness. "Don't cry, old girl; there is nothing to cry about after all. I'm here right enough. I wrote you to come up; to say good-bye to the man who has wronged you so. If I live through the trip I shall come back a better, sounder, healthier man. With the courage to fight this drink devil for life or death, for all I am worth."
"And, please God, conquer him, Dick!"
"And what about yourself, little woman? Have you been ill? You look worn out, worn and thinner. You haven't been worrying about me?"
"No, Dick; about Grace. She has been ill; dying once, I thought, but thank God she is as well to-day as ever she was."
"Our little Gracie has been as ill as all that? Poor little soul! And I've been drinking from morning till night, selfish brute that I am, without any thought for you or her. Good God! Why was I born—answer me that?"
The listening man had started back, horrified at the speaker's use of the word, Our. So stupefied was he that he hardly heard the latter part of the man's speech. So, then, this drink-sodden being, posturing under the name of Rigby, was the father of Gracie! Of the little girl he had helped to nurse back to life.
He shook off the numbness which had gripped him; there was more to hear. The thread was taken up again; the mother was speaking:
"——for us to love each other dearly, Dick, all through our lives. Let that be reason enough. Banish those presentiments of yours, dearest. Go bravely on this voyage. Itmust benefit you, give you strength—moral strength."
"I am a pretty nice sort of beauty to be thinking of moral strength——"
"Don't turn away from me like that; I can't bear it! Pray for strength, Dick; pray for it! Oh, come back to me, Dick dear, your old, old self. My heart aches for you all the while you are away from me. Come back to me, Dick, come back to my loving arms, stronger and better—yourself."
"I'm going to, old girl—going to try hard this time. I can be stronger when I am away from the boys. On boardLa Mascottethere won't be a soul I shall know. It will be torture for me to travel in solitude, for I don't expect such a wreck as I am will make friends. I carry my story written on my face; every man can read it first glance. At the same time, there will be safety in it. From the time I set foot on deck till the time I come back—if ever I come back——"
"Dick!"
"I'll only take claret; will not touch a drop of spirits; so help me God!"
The listener thought he heard a sigh, a despondent sigh, as the man uttered this resolution; probably it had been so resolved before. But it might have been fancy; thedividing door was too thick for him to hear with certainty.
"God will help you, Dick. He must. I believe you, Dick, I believe you. You mean well, and you will succeed. You will come back, and we shall be happy. My dear, dear old Dick; happy again, I know it."
"We will hope so, Queenie."
"Another man, Dick! A strong, healthy and well man. And what I am praying to see, Dick—for I think the tie will help you to keep straight—well and able to marry."
There ensued a moment's silence. The listener's imagination supplied the gap. What he had seen at the back of the bungalow at Wivernsea helped him thereto. He heard the passionate sobbing; the impact of their lips. Then he heard no more.
A great blurring veil seemed to come over sight, hearing, even faculty; to enshroud him. He staggered away as if physically injured. What he had heard hurt so.
On the other side of the door were Gracie's mother, Gracie's father. And they were talking of his coming back from a voyage well enough to marry.
His thoughts went away. Were of that sweet, innocent little child down at Wivernsea. As she came before him he almost groaned;it was too terrible, too horrible. Poor little Gracie!
Trembling fingers unlocked the door; he got downstairs somehow; down to the level of the bar. Called for brandy there, and, regardless of its quality, swallowed it.
It was a mechanical act. Instinct told him that he needed brandy, and he wanted to be doing something; inaction at that moment was maddening.
He walked outside.
The cabman was of a speculative nature. Had hung on the chance of Masters' needing to return. Half-sovereign fares are not picked up every hour in the day; the man who dispensed them was worth waiting for.
"Where to, sir?"
The query called down through the trap in the cab roof. The reply was:
"Back again."
Directions so given, because, for the moment, the fare could think of nowhere else.... The cool air blowing on his face gradually brought him back to his usual clear perception of things; he remembered.
The woman he loved so, was lost and dead to him; he quite realized that. Knew too that he loved her still; would do anything to ensure or bring about her happiness.Pity—heart-felt, whole-souled pity—was mingled with his feeling for her now.
Pondering over his position, he came to think of her as more sinned against than sinning. Almost joined in the prayer that the man she loved—whose existence was a bar to his own success—might return well enough to marry.
For Gracie's sake too—sweet, winsome little Gracie! If the man returned well enough to marry it would silence tongues. Surely it was a good prayer.
Then Gracie would grow up knowing nothing of her childhood. No bar sinister would, anyway, be apparent on her escutcheon. She could travel her road in life without a dark shadow o'erhanging it.
If he returned well enough to marry! Why shouldn't he? Or was he, in the solitude which he feared, likely to become despondent again? Was he not more liable to be so, in abstinence from those accustomed stimulants? Despondent even to the clutching of a razor again?
What manner of man was he that had stolen the heart of Gracie's mother? What manner of man was he who could have led astray so pure, so loving a soul?
Surely Rigby had spoken rightly; it were best for such a man no longer to cumberthe earth. And yet—that was not the only consideration. There was another. Two: Gracie and her mother.
The man had said that he feared solitude. Had spoken of his personal appearance with loathing. Had feared that no soul would wish to speak to him; that Drink was written on his face. Even allowing for exaggeration, there must be a basis of truth.
Was it wise to let him spend that voyage alone? Was it not possible to send with him a companion? One who would interest him; divert his thoughts; take him out of himself?
A companion to do this for her sake—for her child's sake. Why not himself? What was there in it after all? Not even self-sacrifice. Masters felt that a voyage would do him good. That to stop in England just then, where he was, would stifle him. Let him go on to the broad ocean where he would be able to breathe.
His work he could take with him. Write as well, better, on the ship than in his own rooms. Why not? There was a soul to help to save! There was a woman to be made happy! A child to be taken out of the range of the pointed finger of shame! Why not?
If it were true, as the mother said, that he had saved the child's life, was it to besaved only that she should suffer misery thereafter? Undeserved misery in all the future years? Should he not prevent that if he could?
Himself! Who better fitted? His heart and soul would be in the act. He would be working for those he loved! What a triumph if he could restore this man to her Well Enough To Marry. Why not?
Resolution: he would go. Yes, he would go on to the boat: it was the only way. The cab passed a bill-poster's hoarding. A drama being played in London just then was:The Only Way. The mind of the man in the cab had run in keeping with the theatre announcement. He thought of Sidney Carton.
He would go! The hero of thatTale of Two Citieswas not the only man who had made sacrifices for the woman he loved; although his own sacrifice was hardly worth such a name. In his heart he wished it greater.
The thought trembled through his mind, result of the years of journalistic labour, that his cruise would serve in affording a supply of copy. He hated himself for the thought; it seemed to sully the purity of his motive, his love. He wanted to give to the woman he loved whole-souled service. Yet was weak enough to want an excuse.
Sidney Carton, when his good work was accomplished, died on the scaffold. When Masters had accomplished his good work—well, there would be time enough to think of that later.
Life was worth living just then: for her sake. It would have little value to him after; after its work was over. Then he would be content, wishful to rest.
The cab had reached Parliament Street. The fare's hand went through the roof trap; the driver reined up.
"There is a passenger—ship's passenger—agent's, somewhere round here," he called up to the bending-down driver, "Cockspur Street, I think; do you know it?"
"So many about, sir. Might you happen to know the name, sir?"
"M'no. Yes! I have just remembered it: Sewell and Crowther."
"Oh, yes; I know the place, sir. Do you want to drive there?"
"Please."
"Right, sir."
A few minutes later the cab stopped and he was alighting at the passenger agents' door. Entering, he said to the counter clerk:
"You are booking forLa Mascotte, leaving for the Mediterranean, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir; we're the agents."
"Have you any berths left?"
"Oh, yes, sir, a number. It's an off time of the year, and we do not fill up from London. We are stopping at coast stations. We shall fill up from those."
"Let me see a plan of the ship."
"Yes, sir.... That's it. Which class—which part of the boat do you want, sir?"
Masters ignored the question. Pointing to the pen and ink list of names, inquired:
"These are the names of those who have already booked their passages?"
"Yes, sir."
Having located what he wanted he turned to the plan of the ship again, saying:
"This is a two-berthed cabin. One berth is taken, I see. Is the other vacant?"
"Yes, sir. But you can book one in an empty cabin if you like. You will have more room, unless we fill up."
"Thank you. I prefer this one. I think I happen to know the Mr. Rigby who has the other half."
"Oh, I see, sir—friend of yours—of course, companionship. I beg your pardon."
Masters paid his passage money; booked in the name of Charleigh; inquired the time of sailing on the morrow.
"Tide serves at noon, sir. The vessel will go out on top of the water."
"From St. Katharine's?"
"Yes, sir.... Good-day, sir, and thank you.... Not that way, sir.... This door on the left.
"Good-day."
The cabman was waiting. Stooped down from his perch to receive instructions.
"The Telegraph Office, Charing Cross."
There the fare despatched a wire to his Wivernsea landlady; telling her to pack everything of his in his portmanteaux, and send them up by the afternoon train to the care of the Cloak Room, Charing Cross.
Then he drove to his publishers. He would be away some time, and there were certain business arrangements to be made.... Then to his flat in Shaftesbury Avenue. He slept there the night.
More correctly, he spent the night there. Spent it in pacing to and fro, recalling all the events of that long last month. All the happiest days; all the most miserable ones.
He was heart-full of pity for the woman, poor soul! Wished he could wipe away the bitterness of his words that night on the seat at Wivernsea. That was impossible. But he could try to make amends.
In the early morning—dawn just lightening the sky—he wrote a note to Gracie's mother: directed it to Ivy Cottage. Just a purely formal little letter, saying he was called away on urgent business and would not return to Wivernsea again.
As coming from an author it was a disappointing note; there was nothing clever in it. Most authors' notes, perhaps because literary fireworks are supposed to be contained in them, are disappointing.
He sent his fondest love to his little sweetheart Gracie, and expressed a sincere hope for her mother's future happiness. That letter later on in the morning he dropped into a post office.
Gracie's mother, who had journeyed home by the previous evening's train, read it, dry-eyed.
The dryness which burns.
Masters gathered in his luggage from Charing Cross cloak room; reached St. Katharine's Docks with it; got aboardLa Mascotte.
He was first in the cabin; was arranging his things in an orderly way when Mr. Rigby came aboard. The second tenant of the cabin looked every bit of the wreck he had painted himself.
The author, quick of observation, gauged him to be a man of twenty-five or thereabouts. Younger possibly, but dissipation is an artist who graves deep lines; wrinkles are ageing things. Still of fine physique, but dull-eyed, heavy, face bluish and swollen.
Masters, sweeping a comprehensive glance round, brushed up the new comer with it; said generally:
"I am first to take possession. It seems we are to be close companions on this voyage; too close, in one sense."
He referred to the size of the cabin; then stretching out his hand, continued:
"Let me introduce myself. William Charleigh, journalist. I sincerely hope we shall be very good friends whilst we are together."
The gloom on Dick's face lighted; his colourless horizon seemed brightened; it was as if the sun had suddenly popped out. This cheerful, strong-looking man making overtures of friendship, dissipated all his fearsomeness of solitude on the voyage. Eagerly gripping the hand held out, he shook it long and earnestly; saying:
"I reciprocate that! Thanks! My name's Rigby. Nothing by profession and very little better by nature. I have just come out of—out of an illness. I am taking the trip in the hope of—of getting well."
"No trip like it!" Masters' response was cheerily uttered. "Take my word for that. I took the voyage some years ago, and it pulled me off the grave's brink."
"Really! You look so strong and well I should not have thought you'd had an illness in all the days of your life."
Lies, white lies, came to Masters' lips with the readiness of fiction flowing from his pen; he said:
"I went to the dogs and the dogs nearly didfor me. That's an unpleasant way they have when you get inside the kennel. It's a mere shave I'm here talking to you. I pulled up just in time."
"No!"
There were both astonishment and eagerness in Dick's question; both of the most intense kind. Masters' lying was very successful. He was acting so with a view to drawing his companion out.
If a confession could be got from the sick man it would help. Dick would rely for strength and help on the man he had confessed to. That was only human nature.
If you tell a man your troubles he is more than likely to want to tell you his own. A keen observer was Masters; knew that confidence begets confidence. So himself became very confidential.
"It is a fact," he continued. "Like a great number of others, I liked society, and cards, and wine, and—well, I am quite cured now, so I don't mind confessing it. I sacrificed at the shrine of Bacchus too often, and Bacchus resented it. The drink god is an ungrateful sort of deity, isn't he? He sent me visions of snakes and other creepy-crawlies. When I came out of the land of visions I was the most washed-out wreck you ever saw. The doctor gave me up."
"No?"
Dick ejaculated the word almost breathlessly. His own doctor had not gone so far as that. There was more than a chance of hope, after all! He listened.
"Fact. When I heard that, I was on the verge of suicide. Then they put me on a boat doing the Mediterranean trip; just as this one is. This brings back old times, and—well, here I am, you see; I am all right now."
"And the doctor, you say—but how did you—did you conquer your craving?"
"Sheer force of will. I took an oath that whilst I was on the ship I wouldn't touch a drop."
"I have done that, too!"
"You?"
Masters started round in astonishment: really a clever piece of acting.
"Yes.... Well, the cat's out of the bag now. Thank God I haven't got a temperance crank for a companion on the voyage. I have done what you have done, and I am setting out to do now what you did: coming away to get shut of it all. To try and break myself free from the curse."
"You'll do it!"
The flushed face flushed still deeper; deepened to purple, at the assurance. Butthe dulled eyes had quite an eager light in them, as the speaker pressed his question:
"You think I will? You really think I will? That I have strength enough?"
"Of course! It's the despondent times you have to fear; just don't fear them. Just hang on to me when you feel them coming. Don't get by yourself; it's like taking one's pill uncoated; cling to me like a barnacle. I'll help you to kill your blue devils!"
"You will? By God!" He spoke almost breathlessly; the proffered help was so sweet: hit him in the face. "You're a brick! And a stranger, too; never set eyes on me before!"
"Never. Quite right; never set eyes on you before! But remember, we've been burnt in the same fire. A fellow-feeling makes us—you know the rest."
"By Jove! You are wondrous kind. Do you know, I funked this voyage; funked it believing there was death aboard—overboard—for me. Imagined every soul would read the story in my face and shun me. People are so apt to judge the quality of a pasture by the length of the grass."
"Rot!"
Masters was shuddering inwardly as he looked at his companion. This bloated youth,who looked five-and-twenty, yet spoke with the boyishness of eighteen. He dived into his secret apprehension; shuddered to think that the woman he loved should be linked to such a drink-sodden wretch. Thought of her induced him to lower the sail of his dignity.
There was the hope, the chance, of reformation. When Rigby set foot on the vessel it had been with despair at his heart; he had attended the funeral of hope long ago. Things were different now. As for Masters, he realized that the man was young; might perhaps still meet with salvation.
But it was a thin reed on which to rely: his youth; a two-edged fact: might cut either way. Masters was quite aware of that as he uttered the reassuring monosyllable. Spoke in a forced tone of conviction; there is a limit to suffering; none to fear.
The odds, too, are against a drunkard's reformation; all Lombard Street to a China orange. Anyway, it was a fact he was going to do his level best to turn things to good account. The youngster must be spurred on; not to advance is to retreat. Not only is courage needed in facing a difficulty, but the ability to grapple with it; if looked in the face too long, it is apt to stare us out of countenance.
"I believe you." Rigby spoke with gratefulfervour. "Anyway, I am not going to face the future gloomily now!"
"That's half the battle. After all, life's only a journey; it's more or less our own fault if we don't make a pleasure excursion of it."
"I believe that."
"I know it. Remember, I have been in the battle, and came out upper dog. So long as you win the race, what does it matter whether you had a good start or not?"
"Anyway, I shall keep you to your word. If I feel that awful thirst coming on me; feel, as I have felt, that Hell's got its doors gaping wide open for me, I shall worry you."
"You won't; not worry me. Come that moment you hear the hinges start creaking, and we'll try, try together, to keep the doors shut."
"That you should take all this trouble——"
"Trouble be hanged! Don't you know how easy it is to poke another man's fire?"
Masters' eyes looked honestly into Dick's; he was very honest of purpose. Wanted, with all his soul, to keep those doors closed. For the sake of the woman whose trust had been betrayed; for the sake of the little one. He knew how facile is the descent into Hell. Knew, too, that a man ambitious to make a fool of himself never lacks help.
How shines a good deed in this bad world! The goodness of his own was illuminating Masters' eyes at that moment. And he had no fear of the proverb: that if he conferred a favour he might expect ingratitude. Plainly, Rigby was not built on those lines.
Dick was not much of a psychologist or mind reader. Saw only the honest eyes bright with enthusiasm; found them inspiriting; knew nothing of the inner thought prompting this extraordinary kindness.
His was not an inquiring nature; in his happy-go-lucky way he accepted Fate unquestionably. Help had come in his way, and he snapped at it as suddenly as if it were a dish of snapdragon. In response to Masters' words, he mentally thanked his stars, physically held out his hand. In silence, gratefully gripped his companion; was too thankful to speak.
Masters resumed his assumption of cheerfulness. Knew the difficulty he had to face before he spoke: putting seed into the ground does not make a harvest certain; said:
"Now, there is another thing to discuss: about the grub."
"My dear old chap!" Earnestness, conviction in his tone. "I feel as if I shouldn't touch food again for months."
"I know. That's not an unusual symptom."Masters affected to laugh. "I felt like that. And if you go to the saloon table you'll feel like it for quite a while. Look here now!" He spoke suddenly, as if inspired with an idea. "Will you leave your commissariat to me?"
"To you! But why on earth, now, should you be troubled to——"
Masters let a shade of annoyance creep over his face. There was no misreading it. Assuming, too, a tone of regret; he said:
"You mean that? That you would rather I did not interfere?"
The facial expression and voice had the desired effect. Cheated the younger man—surely he must be very young!—into expostulating:
"My dear old chap! For Heaven's sake don't think I mean anything of that sort! I'll do whatever you say."
So he would; that was plainly evident. The strong will had conquered the weaker. Masters felt overjoyed at his success. Most hearts have secret drawers in them containing some good traits: if we can only find the spring.
Moreover, strange as it seemed, Masters was conscious of the birth of a liking for his young companion. He was surprised, too, to realize that he was but a boy. Had thought himfive-and-twenty at first; now imagined him to be not much over one-and-twenty years of age—if that.
It was, in a measure, a welcome surprise. His imagination had portrayed Rigby as a hardened debauchee; sunken in vice as sodden in drink. Mingled with the surprise, too, was a feeling of wonder that Gracie's mother should, with one younger than herself——But there, he told himself, there was no accounting for these things; there was no logic or reason in them.
"Very well, then"—Masters speaking, his face cleared of its cloud—"I'll arrange with the steward and the cook. Fresh milk, while it lasts, and beef tea right away till you feel you can compass solidity little and often; that is my prescription."
"You are a good old chap!"
Almost tears in his eyes as he spoke. He had not counted on making friends at all, and here, the moment he set foot on the boat, was one to hand. And such a one! A perfect prince of good fellows.
"For some days," Dick continued, "I shall keep almost to this cabin. Lying down will rest me. Moreover, I am not anxious to show up to the crowd."
Again that purple flush. Masters, considerately, was not looking. Was engaged hangingup his belongings and stowing them away in the limited space at his disposal. It was work which afforded occasion for a considerable display of invention and ingenuity.
The cabin of a three thousand ton vessel, or of an Atlantic liner for that matter, offers little luxury in the way of wardrobe accommodation. Masters, though his personal luggage did not rival in extent that of Beau Brummel, yet found himself in difficulties. He turned to his companion; said:
"I shall be inside a lot too. As a matter of fact, I'm finishing a book; have a lot of writing to do. So you won't be altogether alone."
"That's jolly!"
"Lend a hand here, old fellow, will you? See if we can shove this portmanteau under."
Dick was only too glad to be of service; willingly rendered aid in the stowing away of things. Later followed suit with his own stuff. Masters was intent on keeping his companion occupied even with the smallest matters.
That was the beginning of things. The author felt that he had got the bit in his companion's mouth; that it rested with him which road was taken; depended on his skillas a rider. Still there was every care and caution to be exercised.