“Admirable, admirable,” said the vicar, complacently. “It reminds me of the palm-house at Kew.”
“It is twenty years since you were at Kew, William; how can you possibly remember what the palm-house is like?” retorted his wife.
“My dear, I have always been noted for the excellence of my memory,” the vicar replied. “I assure you I have the most vivid recollection of the house in question.”
“You mislaid your spectacles this morning, and if I hadn’t seen you put them in your pocket you would never have thought of looking for them there,” said his wife, to whom this fact appeared to be relative to the matter at issue.
From the conservatory to the studio was a natural transition, and the latest work upon the easel was duly inspected and admired.
“I remember your picture in the Academylast year, Mr. Henderson,” said Miss Devereux. “I can assure you that it brought the tears into my eyes.”
“It is very kind of you to say so,” he said, feeling that no compliment that had ever been paid him was so much worth having.
Then a luminous idea occurred to him.
“I wonder if, some day, you would let me paint you a little picture?” he asked, almost timidly.
“I really could not think of such a thing,” his companion replied. “Your time is too valuable to be wasted in that way.”
“I shall paint one, nevertheless,” he replied. “In return, perhaps, you will instruct me in the ways of the Midlandshire hunt?”
“I shall be delighted,” she answered. “You must make Kitty come too.”
Godfrey promised to do so, but for once in his life he was ungallant enough to think that he could dispense with his sister’s society. Presently Miss Devereux’s cart was announced and Kitty and Godfrey accompanied her to the front door. She kissed Kitty and then held out her hand to Godfrey.
“Good-bye, Mr. Henderson,” she said. “Remember that the hounds meet at Spinkley Grove on Thursday, at eleven o’clock,when you will be permitted an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the Master and the Hunt.”
“I shall be there without fail,” he answered, as he helped her into the cart and arranged her rug for her. She thereupon nodded to the groom, who left the ponies’ heads and jumped on to the step behind as the cart passed him, with an adroitness that was the outcome of long practice. A moment later the vehicle had turned the corner of the drive and was lost to view.
“Well?” said Kitty as they turned to go in.
“Well,” Godfrey replied.
“You like her?”
“Very much indeed,” he answered, and as they passed down the hall together he made an important decision to himself. “Provided she will have me,” he said, “I think I have found my wife.”
More than a month had elapsed since Godfrey had made his début as a recognised member of the Midlandshire Hunt. It is also necessary to state that during that period he had seen a good deal of pretty Miss Molly Devereux, who, faithful to the promise she had given him, had shown him a large amount of the country, with the fences, hedges, and ditches thereof. She was also the person who was mainly responsible for the large sum of money he had spent on horseflesh during that time. As a matter of fact, this impressionable young man was head over ears in love, and to prove it, he neglected his work, imperilled his neck, and, as his mother remarked, ran an almost daily risk of coming to an early grave through waiting about on the outskirts of damp coverts, to say nothing of the long, wet rides home on wintry evenings.
“I can not understand why you do it,” said the old lady, who, by the way, was notnearly so obtuse as she pretended to be. “When you first came home from abroad, you declared that the hunting would never possess sufficient attraction to take you out on a damp day. Now you are never happy unless you are in the saddle.”
“It’s a good healthy exercise, mother,” said Kitty, with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eyes. “Besides, Godfrey has taken such a liking to Sir George Penistone, the Master, that he is never happy when he is parted from him.”
Now if there was one person in the country for whom Godfrey entertained a profound distaste, it was for the gentleman in question. Sir George was known to have been desperately in love with Miss Devereux ever since he had left the ’Varsity; but, while he was plucky enough in the saddle, and would ride his horse at anything that an animal could be expected to jump, and at a good many that it could not, he had never been able to screw up his courage sufficiently to broach the subject to her. Finding that he had a rival in the field, however, had given him a fillip, and, in consequence, relations between the two young men were as strained as it was possible for them to be, and yet to allow them to remainon speaking terms. Whether the young lady herself was aware of this is more than I can say; if she were she gave no sign of it, but treated them both with the same impartiality. Certain other ladies of the hunt vowed that she was a heartless flirt, and that she was playing one man off against the other. Such uncharitable sentiments, however, could only be expected from people who would have acted in the same fashion had they been placed in a similar position.
It has been said by a well-known writer, who, for all we know to the contrary, was a crusty old bachelor, and therefore well qualified to speak upon the matter, “that the very uncertainty of love is one of its greatest charms.” I fancy that Godfrey Henderson, at that particular time, would not have agreed with the sage in question. The uncertainty of knowing whether he was loved or not, was making a different man of him. In days that seemed as far removed from the present as if a gulf of centuries lay between, he had been a happy-go-lucky, easy-going fellow, taking the world as he found it, and never allowing himself to be much troubled by anything. Now, however, he had grown preternaturally solemn, was much given to silent communingswith himself, and only brightened up when he was in the presence of the person who was the object of his adoration. Naturally this could not continue for long.
“I’ll speak to her the very first opportunity I get,” he said to himself; “and if she won’t have me, I’ll cut the whole show and go abroad. I could pick up Fensden in Dresden, and we’ll go off to Japan together.”
But when he was given a favourable opportunity of speaking, he found he was unable to bring his courage to the sticking-point, and for the next day or two he called himself by a variety of names that, had they been addressed to him by any one else, he would have considered most objectionable. Regarded dispassionately, in the silent watches of the night, it seemed a small thing to do. He had only to get her alone, to take her hand, if he could manage to obtain possession of it, and then to make his passion known, and ask her to be his wife. Any one could do that, and he had the best of reasons, when he looked round the circle of his married acquaintances, for knowing that it had been carried out successfully on numerous occasions before. Yet when it became necessary to put it into practice he discovered that it demanded a heroismto which the charge of the Light Brigade and the storming of the Redan were as nothing.
“I see that the hounds meet at Churley cross roads on Monday,” said his sister, one morning at breakfast. “Molly wants me to go, but I fear it will be impossible. I suppose it is not necessary to ask if you will be there?”
“I suppose I shall,” Godfrey replied, as if he had not thought very much about the matter.
In his heart, however, he knew that it would require an extraordinary force to keep him away. On Friday he did not go, for the reason that he had incidentally learned that a certain lady would be in town at her dressmaker’s. The same day he discovered that his old friend and schoolfellow, James Bradford, to wit, had returned from America, en route to the Continent, and the inference was that if they did not lunch together, they would be scarcely likely to meet again for some considerable time. What, therefore, was more fitting than that he should catch the 10.18 train at Detwich, and set off for the Metropolis? His mother and sister said nothing, except to wish him a pleasant journey. Whenthey were alone together afterward, however, Mrs. Henderson turned to her daughter.
“Poor boy,” she said, “I never thought he would take it as seriously as he is doing. I have never seen a harder case.”
To which her daughter replied somewhat enigmatically:
“I wish I knew what she intends doing.”
Despite the eagerness Godfrey had shown to renew his acquaintance with his friend, Mr. James Bradford, he did not appear to derive such a vast amount of satisfaction from their meeting as the trouble he had taken to bring it about would have implied.
“I never saw such a change in a man in my life,” said Mr. James Bradford afterward, when Godfrey had left the club. “He fidgeted about all the time we were at lunch, and examined his watch at least twice in every five minutes. Coming into money doesn’t appear to agree with him. It’s a pity, for he used to be such a good chap.”
On leaving Pall Mall Godfrey took a cab to Bond Street, and for upward of an hour paced religiously up and down that fashionable thoroughfare. Then, taking another cab, he drove to Euston, where he spent atleast three-quarters of an hour inspecting the various trains that passed in and out of the station, pottering about the bookstalls, and glaring at the travellers who approached him. As every one is aware who lives in the neighbourhood, there is only one good train in the afternoon that stops at Detwich, hence his reason for going to the station at that hour. As the time approached for that train to leave, he grew more and more nervous, and when the train itself at length backed into the station to take up its passengers, his anxiety became almost pitiable to watch. Placing himself near the bookstall, he scrutinized every passenger who approached him. At last he became aware of two figures, who were making their way leisurely along the platform in search of an empty carriage. One was Lady Devereux, tall, gray-haired, and eminently dignified; her companion there is no need to describe. It struck Godfrey, as he watched her, that never in his life had he seen so pretty a face or figure. Nerving himself to carry out the operation he had in mind, he strolled down the platform, then turning, walked back along the train, glancing into the various carriages as he passed, until he reached that in which the two ladies were seated. Then, as ifhe were more than surprised at seeing them, he lifted his hat.
“How do you do, Lady Devereux?” he said. “This is an altogether unexpected meeting!” Then, having saluted the younger lady, he inquired whether they would permit him to travel down with them.
“Do so, by all means,” Lady Devereux replied. “Molly and I have been obliged to put up with each other’s company since the early morning. But how is it that you are not hunting to-day, Mr. Henderson?”
“An old friend has just returned from America,” Godfrey remarked, “and he invited me to lunch with him. Otherwise I should have been out, of course.”
Whether Miss Molly believed this statement or not I can not say, but I do not think it probable. One thing was plain; on this particular occasion she had made up her mind not to be gracious to the poor young man, and when he endeavoured to draw her into conversation, she answered him shortly, and then retired into the seclusion of her newspaper.
Why she should have treated him so it is impossible to say, but there could be no sort of doubt that she was offended at something.In consequence the poor fellow was about as miserable a specimen of the human race as could have been found in England that day. When Detwich was reached, he saw the two ladies to their carriage, and bade them good-bye. Then, mounting to the box of his own dog-cart, he sent the horse flying down the street at a pace that, had he not been well known, would in all probability have secured him an interview with a magistrate.
“And what sort of journey did you have?” inquired his mother, as she gave him a cup of tea on his arrival at the house.
“Very pleasant,” he answered, though his looks belied his assertion.
“And would you care, as you said the other day, to go back to live in London?” asked mischievous Miss Kitty.
“I think London is one of the most detestable places on earth,” he replied, stirring his tea as though he were sweeping the Metropolis into the sea.
“And did you see any one you knew while you were in town?” inquired his mother.
“A lot of people I don’t care a scrap about,” he answered.
Feeling that he was not in a fit humour for society, he took himself off to his studio,where he threw himself into an easy chair, and lit the largest pipe in his possession. This he smoked as savagely as if it were responsible for his troubles. By the time the dressing-bell rang, he was more than ever determined to set off for Japan. So strong, however, was the chain which bound him, that, on second thoughts, he came to the conclusion that he would postpone his departure until after the meet at the Churley cross roads on the following Monday. In consequence he spent a miserable Saturday, and it was not until he came out of church on Sunday morning that he was anything like his old self. All through the service he had been paying a greater amount of attention to a neat little toque, and the back of a very shapely head, a few seats in front of him, than was altogether proper in a place of worship. According to custom, the two families united in the porch.
“Good-morning, Mr. Henderson,” said Molly, as they shook hands, and then, after they had passed outside and the usual commonplaces had been exchanged, she continued: “What do you think of the state of the weather?”
There was more in her speech than met the eye. What she really meant was: “Doyou think we shall be able to hunt to-morrow? If so, I am prepared to be kind to you once more.”
Godfrey replied that there had been signs of frost early in the morning, but he rejoiced to see that they were going off.
“We shall see you to-morrow, I suppose?” she said, as they passed through the lych-gate out into the high road.
“Of course,” he answered. “Provided old Benbow doesn’t break his neck in the meantime, I shall be there.”
“I am so glad,” she answered, and then, as though she felt that she had said too much, she devoted her conversation during the rest of the walk to Kitty, leaving Godfrey to discuss parish affairs with her father.
She had said enough, however, in that short time to transport Godfrey into the seventh heaven of delight; and I venture to think that if any one had been foolish enough to suggest a trip to Japan to him at that moment, it would have been at the peril of his or her life.
I must leave you to imagine with what attention he studied the appearance of the sky during the next eighteen hours. The barometer in the hall was tapped with a regularitythat was sufficient to disorganize its internal economy forever and a day. Before he retired to rest, he took careful stock of the heavens, and was relieved to find that there was no sign of frost in the air. Next morning he was up betimes, took his tub with the air of a man from whom great things are expected, and made a heartier breakfast than he had done for some weeks past. He looked a handsome figure in pink as his mother was careful to inform him.
The distance to Churley cross roads from the Hall is little more than a mile, so that the half-hour he had allowed himself to get there, enabled him to jog along without hurrying his horse. It was what might be described as a perfect hunting morning. A slight mist hung in places upon the fields; it was, however, being quickly dispersed by the sunshine. A pleasant breeze was driving the clouds across the sky, throwing delightful shadows upon the meadows, and crisping the surface of the river as he passed over the old stone bridge. When he reached the cross roads he had still some ten minutes in hand; but as there were several others as early as himself, this fact did not weigh heavily upon his mind. Meanwhile he kept a sharp eye onthe road down which he had come, and when he espied the stout figure of the old baronet on his famous hunter, with his daughter beside him, mounted on a somewhat vicious-looking chestnut, he rode forward to receive them.
“A capital day,” said the old gentleman, when they had exchanged the usual salutations. “We could scarcely have a better. Strangely enough, as I was saying to Molly just now, in fifty years I’ve never known a wet Churley Cross Meet.”
“What do you think of my new horse, Mr. Henderson?” inquired his daughter, when the latter had remarked upon the strangeness of the coincidence. “Papa bought him for me on Saturday.”
“He must be very nearly thoroughbred,” Godfrey replied, not caring to add that he did not altogether like the look of the animal in question. There was a nasty flicker in the horse’s eyes, of which, to Godfrey’s thinking, he showed a great deal too much white. There could be no denying his make and shape, however. “You’ll be showing us a clean pair of heels to-day.”
“I’ll be bound she will,” said the old baronet, upon whom the horse had evidentlymade a favourable impression. “They tell me he won a decent steeplechase last season; and Seth Warton, of whom I got him, says he is the best he has had in his stable for many a long day. That says something.”
“I sincerely hope he may prove to be all you could wish,” said Godfrey; and at that moment the Master came forward to bid them good-morning.
“I think we’ll try the Spinney first, Sir Vivian,” he said. “I hear good reports in that direction. A new horse, Miss Devereux, and I should say a fast one. Have pity on us all!”
As if to prove that his manners were not so good as his looks, the animal in question made as if he would rear, and for a moment Godfrey’s heart seemed to stand still.
“I don’t like the look of him,” he said to himself. “Heaven send he does her no mischief.”
But he was not permitted much time to think of such a thing, for the Master had given the signal, and already a general move was being made in the direction of the Spinney. Godfrey settled himself down by Miss Devereux’s side, leaving the old gentlemanfree to discuss the prospects of the day with the local doctor, a sportsman of some celebrity in the neighbourhood.
“Miss Devereux,” said Godfrey, as they approached the wood, “at the risk of offending you, I must say that I don’t altogether care about the look of that horse. I should say, from his appearance, handsome as it is, that he possesses more than a touch of temper. I do hope you will be careful what you do with him to-day.”
“You needn’t be afraid,” she answered, as she flashed a sharp glance at him. “I think we understand each other perfectly. He hasn’t been with hounds for some time, and he’s naturally a little excited. It will wear off, however, before the day is done.”
“I sincerely hope it may,” Godfrey continued. “In the meantime I can not help wishing that we could exchange mounts.”
“You think that you could manage him better than I?” she said. “If that is a challenge we will see. Now, let us watch what goes on, for I want to be well away.”
At that moment three blasts of the horn were heard from the right, and, before Godfrey could have counted twenty, the hounds were out of cover and streaming away in thedirection of the village—only to change their course after the first quarter of a mile.
“It looks as if we were in for a fast thing,” said Miss Devereux; and the words had scarcely left her lips when the chestnut gave a violent plunge in the air and was off at a racing pace.
“If he goes on like that, the brute will pull her arms out, if he doesn’t do anything worse,” Godfrey muttered to himself.
But so far the girl had got him well in hand. Sitting back in the saddle, she let him have his head, taking a gradual pull at him as they neared the first hedge. Whatever his other faults may have been, he was certainly a jumper, for he cleared the obstacle in unmistakable style. As she had said a few moments before, there could be no doubt that they were in for a fast thing. The hounds were racing as if their one desire was to run Master Reynard to earth before he could get into the next field. Godfrey’s own horse, to use a phrase that his mother could never understand, “was going strong,” but he could not live in the same county with the chestnut. In spite of Miss Devereux’s undoubted skill in the saddle, the horse was gradually becoming the master. At the third fence, an ugly-lookingpost and rail, with a bad approach, he took off too soon, giving his rider the chance of an extremely nasty fall. She saved the situation, however, by a miracle. They had reached the top of the hill, and were descending into the valley on the other side, when Godfrey, whose horse was doing its best, realized that something very serious was the matter ahead. The chestnut had undeniably got out of hand, and, scared by some sheep, was edging toward the left.
“It is just what I expected,” he said to himself as he rode along some half-a-dozen lengths behind the other. “She is losing control over him. I must follow at all costs.”
Digging his spurs into the horse’s side, he endeavoured to race up to the animal in front of him. He was too late, however. The chestnut had got the bit in his teeth, and, swerving to the left, was galloping in the direction of a small wood. Observing this, Godfrey turned his horse’s head and made after him. Fortunately, the paddock over which they were galloping was a large one; but the chestnut was going at such a pace that he very soon crossed it. Skirting the wood, he began to descend the hill on the other side. Then he disappeared altogetherfrom view. When Godfrey reached the top of the rise, he scarcely dared to look about him; but when he did so, he saw that the horse had altered his original course, and was making his way again across the angle, as if he desired to reach the line the hounds were still following. In a flash Godfrey realized the situation and took in the fact that the animal was unconsciously making direct for a large chalk pit, and that unless something were done at once to prevent him, nothing could save both horse and rider from a terrible death.
“God help me to save her!” he cried. “God help me to save her!”
For a moment after he realized the true state of affairs Godfrey was spellbound with terror. Was it just possible that he would be able to head the horse off from the pit? If he could not, then it would be the end of all things as far as Miss Devereux was concerned. With the cold sweat of terror on his brow he watched the girl he loved racing down the slope on the maddened horse. He saw that she was making a brave fight to bring him to a standstill; but even at that distance he could tell that her effort was in vain. A moment later the animal had once more changed his course and had dashed toward a hedge. He scarcely rose at it; as a natural consequence he struck it, toppled over, and then both horse and rider disappeared together. Fearful at what he might find, Godfrey galloped toward the spot, jumped the gate that separated it from the neighbouring field, and looked about him for what he should see.The horse was lying stretched out upon the ground, and one glance was sufficient to show him that its neck was broken. In the dry ditch below the hedge he could catch a glimpse of a black figure. He sprang from his horse and approached it. Lifting her head he supported her in his arms, and as he did so a little sigh escaped from her lips.
“God be thanked, she is still alive!” he muttered to himself, and then he replaced her head upon the bank.
Taking off his coat he made it into a ball. He placed it beneath her head, and then set off in search of water. When he had procured a little in his hat he returned and bathed her forehead and temples with it. After a while she opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“I feel better now,” she answered, in reply to his inquiries. “Where is the horse?”
“Close beside you,” he said, and then going to his own animal he took his flask from the holster and filled the little cup with sherry.
“Drink this,” he said. “It will do you good.”
The wine revived her, and in a few minutes she was so far recovered as to be able to sit up and discuss matters with him.
“I am quite well now,” she said. “But how am I to get home? Poor papa! What a state he will be in when he hears! Since my horse is dead I suppose I must try to walk.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” Godfrey replied, firmly. “I will lift you into the saddle and you must try and ride my horse. If we can find a village near here, you can remain there until a carriage is sent from the Court to fetch you.”
“As I have proved myself incompetent I suppose I must obey you,” she answered, with a touch of her old spirit. “But what is to be done with my own poor beast?”
“I will arrange about him when I have attended to your comfort,” he said, and then assisted her to rise and lifted her into the saddle. For the first hundred yards or so they walked almost in silence. She was the first to speak.
“Mr. Henderson,” she said, looking down at him, “I owe you an apology. I was rude to you the other day, and I laughed at you when you told me this morning that you did not like my new horse. Events have proved that you were right. Will you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive,” he answered; “but you can have no idea how nervous Iwas this morning when I saw how that brute behaved.”
“Why should you have bothered yourself about me?” she asked, not, however, with quite her usual confidence.
Here was the very opportunity he had been looking for so long. He felt that he must take possession of it at once.
“Because I love you,” he answered. “You must have known that I have been in love with you ever since I first saw you, Molly. Don’t you believe me?”
“Yes, I know it,” she replied, looking at him with the love-light shining in her own eyes.
“And your answer, Molly? What can you say to me?”
“Only that I love you too,” she murmured.
I do not know what my spinster readers will think, but the fact remains that the paddock they were crossing was a large one, some twenty acres in extent. It was almost in the centre of this open space that he proposed to her, and she, brazen creature, at his suggestion, I will admit, stooped from her saddle and permitted him to kiss her where all the world might see.
It was between three and four o’clock that afternoon when Godfrey reached home. He had waited at the little village inn until the carriage, which he had sent for to convey her home, arrived from the Court. Then, when he had promised to ride over in the morning in order to interview her father, he watched her drive off and had afterward departed himself to his own abode.
“Well, Godfrey, and what sort of a day have you had?” asked Miss Kitty, as they stood in the drawing-room before the fire.
“Splendid,” he answered. “I was awfully cut up at one time, but on the whole it has been one of the best days in my life.”
“You seem to have enjoyed it. Where did you find?”
“At Churley Spinney,” he answered.
“And you killed at——?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” was the reply.
“How long did you run?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“You don’t seem to have been very observant. Whatdoyou know?”
“I only know that I am engaged to Molly Devereux. For the present that seems to me to be quite sufficient.”
In a moment her arms were round his neck.
“You dear boy, I can not tell you how thankful I am.”
Nor was Mrs. Henderson’s pleasure the less sincere.
To say that Godfrey Henderson was a happy man after his acceptance by Miss Molly would be too mild an expression altogether. It is my opinion that for the next few days he could not have been said to be properly responsible for his actions. He behaved like an amiable lunatic, spent the greater part of his time, when he was not with hisfiancée, planning alterations to a house which was already perfect, and vowed many times a day that he was not nearly good enough for one so angelic. Every one, with the exception of Sir George Penistone, perhaps, was delighted with the match. The worthy old baronet gave his consent immediately almost before it was asked in point of fact, and vowed that the two properties would run splendidly together. A county dinner was given to celebrate the engagement. There were folks who prophesied that the wedding festivities would be on a scale seldom witnessed even by Midlandshire, which as all the world knows,or should know, is the most hospitable county in the three kingdoms. The engagement was to be a very short one, and the happy couple were to leave directly after the marriage ceremony for the South of France.
“You are quite sure that you are not anxious to change your mind?” said Molly to her lover one evening, when they were riding home from hunting. “Remember, there is still time.”
“If it were not so light, and I had not the best of reasons for knowing that old Farmer Giles is behind us, and has his eyes glued upon our backs, I would find a means of making you repent of that speech.” Then he added more seriously: “Darling, whatever may happen in the future, whatever troubles may be in store for us, you will always believe that I love you, will you not?”
“Always,” she answered. “Happen what may, I shall never doubt that. But what makes you suddenly so solemn?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Somebody walking over my grave, I suppose.”
She gave a little cry of pain.
“For pity’s sake don’t talk like that!” she cried. “You have no idea how it hurts me.”
“In that case I will never do so again,” he said. “Forgive me and forget that I said it, dear.” Then to change the conversation, he added: “I expect this will be our last day’s hunting together before we are married. We shall both be too busy to be able to spare the time.”
“I have no idea how I am going to get through all I have to do,” she said. “I shall practically live in shops for the next month, and I do detest shopping. Mamma, on the other hand, seems to revel in it. I fancy she would like to have a wedding to arrange every month in the year. By the way, Godfrey, have you decided who is going to be your best man?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Victor Fensden. He is my oldest friend, and I heard from him only this morning that he will be delighted to officiate in that capacity. He is in Paris just now, but returns to England at the end of the week, when I have invited him to come down here for a few days. I hope you will like him.”
“I am certain to like any friend of yours,” she replied. “I shall be very interested in Mr. Fensden. I came across a volume of his poems the other day. It was very strangelybound and illustrated in an extraordinary manner by himself.”
“That’s his own idea. And did you like the poetry?”
“Well, if I must be candid, and I’m sure you won’t mind, I must confess that I did not understand much of it. It seems so confused. Not a bit like Tennyson, or Keats, or Shelley.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Godfrey. “Fensden is very clever, too clever for me, I’m afraid. One or two literary people rave about his work, I know, but for my part I like less words and a little more human nature. Give me 'Gunga Din,’ or the 'Charge of the Light Brigade,’ for my money, and anybody else can have all the nymphs and satyrs, and odes to Bacchus and Pan that were ever crammed into the realms of poetry.”
Loath as I am to say it, such was the infatuation of this girl that she positively agreed with him. Fate, with that characteristic kindness for which it is celebrated, had been good enough to endow them with minds of similar calibre, which, of course, was very desirable, and just as it should be.
On the Wednesday morning following the conversation I have just described Molly andher mother departed for London, where the former was to be handed over to the tender care of Madame Delamaine and her assistants. They were to be away for three days, returning home on the Friday evening, and, as a little compensation for their absence, it was agreed that Godfrey should meet them in town on the Thursday and take them to a theatre.
Accordingly the morning train conveyed him to the Metropolis. He had the pleasure of the vicar’s society on the way up, and the latter, not being restrained by his wife, was able to give him his opinion on matters in general and the immediate stress on politics in particular. In consequence, as Godfrey admitted afterward, he spent two such hours of boredom as he hopes never to experience again. On his arrival in London he drove to his tailors and ordered his wedding garments, going on afterward to a well-known firm of jewellers in Regent Street, from whom he bought a wedding-ring with as much care as he would have given to the purchase of Crown jewels, and a diamond necklace with little more concern than if it had been a pair of gloves. From Regent Street he drove to his club for luncheon. He was late, but that didnot matter, for he felt that the morning had been well spent. On entering the dining-room he looked about him for a vacant table. He had chosen one, and was proceeding toward it when a well-known voice behind him said:
“Come and sit here, Godfrey.”
He turned round to find himself face to face with no less a person than Victor Fensden.
“My dear old fellow, this is indeed a surprise,” he said as he shook hands. “I thought you were still in Paris. How long have you been in London?”
“I crossed this morning,” Victor replied. “I am tired of travelling and want to settle down.”
“And you have enjoyed yourself?”
“Fairly well,” Victor replied. “I have met a lot of people whom I hope never to see again, and have tasted, I should say, every example of villainous cookery in Europe. I am thinking of bringing out a new guide book, which I shall name 'The Tourist’s Vade Mecum’; or, 'Wherenotto go in Europe.’”
Considering that it was to Godfrey’s generosity that he owed the long holiday he hadbeen able to take, this was scarcely a grateful speech, but the latter did not comment on it. He was too happy himself and too glad to see his friend once more to take offence. He noticed that in his dress Victor was even more artistic than before. His hair was a shade longer, his tie a trifle larger (he wore it tied in a bow with ends flying loose), and the general tone of his costume a little more pronounced.
“And the future Mrs. Henderson?” he said, airily. “How is she? As you may suppose, I am all anxiety to make her acquaintance.”
“You will do so on Saturday,” Godfrey replied, “for I presume you are coming down to me then?”
“I shall be delighted,” said Fensden. “An English country house will be soothing after the caravansaries I have been domiciled in lately. I never knew how much I detested my brother Briton until I met him in a foreign hotel.”
The sneer on his face as he said this was not pretty to watch.
“And now that you are at home once more, I presume you will resume your old habit of searching the slums for foreign eatinghouses?” said Godfrey, with a laugh. “Do you remember how and where we met Teresina?”
“Perfectly,” Victor replied shortly, and then changed the conversation by inquiring how long Godfrey intended remaining in town.
“I go back to-morrow morning,” was the other’s reply. “And now that I come to think of it, why shouldn’t you come down with me? It would be just the thing for you. We shall be very pleased to see you if you care to come.”
“Impossible,” the other answered. “I have such a lot to do. I could not possibly manage it before Saturday.”
“Let it be Saturday then,” said Godfrey, with an imperturbable good humour that contrasted very strongly with the other’s peevishness. “There’s a first-rate train which gets you down in time for afternoon tea. I’ll meet you at the station.”
When Godfrey had finished his lunch he paid a visit to his saddler and his bootmaker, and then to fill in the time, inspected the stables of a well-known horse-dealer. He would have liked to go round to Eaton Square where Molly and her mother werestaying with an old maiden aunt, but he thought better of it, and contented himself by strolling down Bond Street on the off-chance that he might meet them. He was not successful, however, so he returned to his hotel to dress and dine.
At ten minutes to eight he was to be seen standing in the vestibule of the Lyceum, waiting for the ladies to put in an appearance. When their carriage drove up he hastened forward to greet them, and conducted them forthwith to the box he had engaged. Nothing that could tend to their comfort had been omitted by this extravagant young man, and he found his reward in the tender little squeeze Molly gave his hand when he removed her cloak. During the evening he did not concern himself very much with the play; he watched his future wife’s pretty face and the expressions that played upon it. As soon as they were married he was determined to paint a life-size portrait of her, which he prophesied to himself would be the best piece of work he had ever accomplished. But even the happiest evenings must come to an end, and this particular one was no exception to the rule. When the curtain fell on the last act, he re-cloaked his two charges, and escorted themdownstairs once more. Then, bidding them wait in the vestibule, he himself went out in search of their carriage. When he had placed them in it, he bade them good-night, and came very near being knocked over by a hansom as he watched them disappear in the traffic.
The night was bitterly cold, and snow was falling. Reflecting that it would be wiser not to stand still, he turned up the collar of his coat, and wondered what he should do next. Should he go back to his hotel and to bed, or should he stroll on to his club and see who was there? He eventually decided in favour of the hotel, and accordingly set off along the Strand in the hope that he might presently be able to pick up a cab.
He had reached Exeter Hall, when, with a cry of astonishment, he found himself standing face to face with the one person of all others he had least expected to see in England. It was Teresina!
“Teresina!” he ejaculated, in surprise. “What on earth does this mean? How long have you been in England?”
“Nearly a month,” she answered, looking away as if she desired to avoid his eyes.
“And why did you not let me know thatyou were coming?” he asked, reproachfully. “You must surely remember that you promised to do so?”
“I did not like to trouble you,” she replied, still in the same curiously hard voice. “You were not in London, and I thought you would be too busy to have time to spare for me.”
“You know that is not true,” he answered. “I should be a mean brute if I did not find time to look after my friends. Where are you living? In the old house?”
She paused for a moment before she replied. He noticed her embarrassment, but did not put the right construction upon it.
“Near the Tottenham Court Road,” she said at last. “I don’t think you would know the street if I told you.”
“And your mother, how is she?”
He saw the look of pain which spread over her face, and noticed that her eyes filled with tears.
“My mother is dead!” she answered, very quietly. “She died in Naples two months ago.”
“And you are alone in the world? My poor child! This will never do. You must let me help you if I can.”
“No, no!” she cried, this time almostfiercely. “I do not require any help. I can support myself quite well.”
“I shall have to be convinced of that before I let you go,” he answered. “London is not the sort of place for a young girl to be alone in, particularly when one is a foreigner and poor.”
“You were always kind to me,” she replied, “but I can not let you do more. Besides you are going to be married. Is that not so?”
“It is quite true,” he answered; “but how did you hear of it?”
She looked confused for a moment.
“I can not tell you,” she replied. “Perhaps I saw it in the newspapers. You are famous, and they write about you. Now I must be getting home.”
An empty cab happened to pass at that moment, and Godfrey hailed it.
“Get in,” he said, when the vehicle had drawn up beside the pavement. “I am going to see you home. This is not the hour for you to be alone in the streets.”
“No, no,” she protested, even more vehemently than before. “I can not let you do this. I can walk quite well. It is not far, and I have often done it.”
“Teresina, you must do as I tell you,” said Godfrey, firmly. “I insist that you get in and that you give me your address.”
She hesitated for a moment before she replied. Then she said:
“No. 16, Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road.”
Having given the address to the driver, Godfrey took his place beside the girl. He was thankful, indeed, that he had met her, but the circumstances under which he had found her distressed him more than he was able to say. As they drove along he endeavoured to elicit some information from her concerning her present life. She was not communicative, however. That there was some mystery at the back of it all, he could see, and the more he thought of it, the more unhappy he became. Poor little Teresina! He remembered her as she was when she had first sat to him for the picture which had made his name; and as he looked out upon the falling snow and the miserable streets with the dark figures scurrying along the pavement on either hand, and thought of her future, his heart sank within him. He wondered whether he could persuade her to accept a sufficient sum of money from him to enable her to return to her owncountry and to live in comfort there? He was rich, and after all it was not only his duty but his pleasure to help an old friend. As she seemed so distressed at meeting him, he resolved to say nothing on the subject then, however; nevertheless, he was determined in his own mind that he would write to her on the morrow and make the offer, whether she accepted it or not. At last they came to a part of the Strand which was more brilliantly illuminated than elsewhere. As they came within the circle of the light, Teresina put up her hand to push back her hair, and Godfrey noticed that she wore a wedding-ring upon her third finger. This gave him food for reflection.
“Teresina,” he said, “why did you not tell me that you were married? I thought you said you were alone in the world.”
“My husband is dead,” she answered, with what was almost a note of despair in her voice.
“Your husband dead, and your mother dead too?” he repeated, almost incredulously. “Teresina, my dear child, are you telling me the truth?”
“Why should you doubt me?” she cried. “You have no reason for doing so.”
“Because I feel that you are hiding somethingfrom me,” he said. “Is it any use my imploring you to confide in me? You know that I am your friend, and that I would help you to the best of my ability.”
“I know you would,” she answered. “You were always a good and kind friend to me. All I ask of you now, however, is to leave me alone. I am unhappy enough as it is. Do not seek to add to my misery.”
“Heaven knows I have no desire to do that,” said Godfrey. “But if you think I am going to leave you, as you are now, you are much mistaken. If you would only be brave and tell me everything, it might simplify matters.”
“Impossible,” she cried. “Have I not told you there is nothing to tell? Oh, why did I not go another way home!”
“Because it was to be,” he answered. “You were in trouble, Providence sent me to help you. Believe me, that is the explanation.”
A few moments later the cab turned from the Tottenham Court Road into a narrower and darker street. Half-way down this dingy thoroughfare it came to a standstill—before a house on the right-hand side. It was by no means a cheerful dwelling, and at that hourit was wrapped in complete darkness. They descended from the cab, and Godfrey, who had no desire that the cabman should overhear his conversation with Teresina, paid him off with a liberallargesse, and allowed him to go on his way rejoicing.
“Is it any use my again asking you to tell me your trouble?” he said to the girl beside him, when the vehicle had disappeared and a policeman had passed, after taking a long survey of them.
“Not in the least,” she answered. “Please do not ask me.”
“In that case, will you make me a promise, Teresina? If you will do so, I will ask no further questions for the present.”
“What is it I am to promise?”
“That you will not leave this house without first letting me know whither you are going?”
“I will do that,” she answered. “I will let you know when I leave this house.”
“Here is my card then. You had better take care of it. A letter or telegram will always find me. And now good-night, my poor girl. Remember, I am your friend.”
“Good-night, and may God blessyou.”
So saying, she disappeared into the house,while he, in his turn, after taking the bearing of the house, in case he should want to find it again, set off in the opposite direction to that by which he had entered the street.
Meanwhile Teresina, choking down her sobs, climbed the stairs to the room she occupied in that ramshackle tenement. Unlocking the door, she entered and started to cross the floor in search of a box of matches she remembered having left upon the chimney-piece. She had not advanced more than three steps, however, before she was seized by the throat from behind, while at the same time a keen-bladed knife was driven, as far as the handle, between her shoulders, only to be withdrawn and thrust in again and again, until she fell with a little gasp upon the floor.
When her assassin had made sure that she was dead, he lit the gas and knelt beside her for a few minutes. Then he rose, placed something in a box upon the table, turned off the gas once more, picked up the box, and went out, relocking the door behind him.
After leaving Teresina, Godfrey made his way back to his hotel. As he strode along he meditated as to what he should do to help her. That the girl was in serious trouble, he had not the least doubt; but since she would not allow him to assist her in any form, what could he do?
He had been through a good deal that day, and by the time he reached his hotel he was quite worn out. The night porter who admitted him noticed his haggard appearance.
“You don’t look very well, sir,” he said, sympathetically; “is there anything I can do for you?”
“If you could manage to get me a brandy and soda, I should be very much obliged,” Godfrey said, as he dropped into one of the seats in the hall.
“I will do so with pleasure, sir,” the man replied, and disappeared at once in search ofthe refreshment, which he very soon brought back. Godfrey drank it off, and then announced his intention of proceeding at once to bed.
“Poor little Teresina!” he said to himself as he wound up his watch; “poor little girl, it seems a shame that she should suffer so!”
Little did he guess that at that moment Teresina’s troubles were over, that she would never know sorrow or poverty again.
Next morning he returned to Detwich by an early train. Though he had only been absent from it a little more than twenty-four hours, it seemed to him that he had been away for years.
“You look tired out, Godfrey,” said his mother, as they stood together in the hall.
“I did not have a very good night last night,” he said, “and I had a hard day’s running about yesterday. That is all. You needn’t worry about me, mother; I’m as strong as a horse.”
He went on to tell his mother of his meeting with Fensden, and informed her that the latter intended coming to stay with them next day.
“That will be very nice,” she said. “Youwill enjoy having him. I shall put him up in the south wing in order that he may be near you. The wall-papers are more subdued there. I know, of old, how he notices these things.”
“I don’t think he will bother himself very much about wall-papers,” said Godfrey, with a laugh. “He declares that he is so tired of travelling that the quiet of an English country house will brace him up again.”
“I have no doubt it will,” said the old lady: “I remember when your father took me to Paris for our honeymoon, the mere sound of the French language gave me a headache. I never hear it now without thinking of that time. And now tell me about Molly. Did she enjoy the play you took her to see?”
“Immensely,” he replied. “She sent her love to you, and bade me tell you that she would be very pleased to come over to meet Fensden on Saturday. I only hope that she won’t be knocked up by all this shopping.”
His mother shook her head.
“I don’t think you need have any fear on that score,” she said. “When a girl is about to be married to the man of her heart, the collection of hertrousseaubecomes a labour oflove. She will make a beautiful bride, worthy of my boy. I can’t say more than that.”
“You shouldn’t say so much,” said Godfrey. “If your boy were to believe all the compliments you pay him, he would become insufferably conceited. And now I must go round and see how things have been progressing in my absence.”
The following morning witnessed Molly’s arrival at the Hall. It was the first time she had stayed there since her engagement, and in consequence she was received with rapturous delight by her lover. Though they had only been parted for a day, they seemed to have a hundred things to tell each other. There were, moreover, certain important matters to be discussed connected with the internal arrangements of the house of which she was so soon to be mistress. I believe, so infatuated was the young man that, had she expressed a desire to have the whole fabric pulled down, and rebuilt in another fashion, he would have set about the work at once.
“You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like to have done?” he asked, when they had made the tour of inspection, and were approaching to the drawing-room once more.
“You have done too much already,” she replied, looking affectionately at her lover. “I very much doubt if ever there was a girl so spoilt as I. You will have to make up for it by ruling me with a rod of iron afterward.”
“God forbid that I should ever do that,” he said seriously. “I hope I shall always be an indulgent husband to you.”
“Not too indulgent,” she said. “For my own sake, you must not be. I don’t want to be like a spoilt child.”
“You will never be that,” he said. “To me you will always be the most——”
“Hush!” she said, holding up her finger in warning. “I think we must make it a rule to avoid every sort of compliment. I have had more than is good for me already.”
“I shall find it difficult to obey you, but I will try,” he returned. “And now come with me to the studio; I have one thing left to show you.”
“What is that?”
“You must wait and see for yourself,” he replied, and led the way through the conservatory to the room of which he had spoken. They found the easel covered with a cloth. This he drew aside.
“It is my present to you,” he said, referring to the picture he had revealed, “to be hung in your own room.”
“Oh, Godfrey, how good of you! What a splendid likeness!”
It was, in fact, a portrait of himself upon which he had been working hard ever since his engagement had been announced. He had intended it as a surprise, and in the pleasure he gave her, he felt that he had been amply repaid for the labour it had cost him.
“I shall treasure it all my life long,” she said, and rewarded him in a manner that would have turned many folks green with envy.
“And now,” she said, when she had gazed her full upon it, “I want you to show me a photograph of your friend, Mr. Fensden, if you have one. Remember I have no idea what he is like.”
“That can very easily be remedied,” he said. “I have a photo which was taken in Rome, and a small portrait that I painted myself.”
So saying, he crossed the room to his writing-table, and, having opened a drawer, took from it a packet of cabinet photographs. They were, for the most part, likenesses of oldfriends, and when he had selected one of Victor from the number, he placed it before her.
“So that is Mr. Fensden?” she said, seating herself in what he called his business chair.
For some moments she studied it attentively. Then she replaced it on the writing-table.
“Well, now that you have seen the portrait, what do you think of him?” Godfrey asked, as he turned over some canvases on the other side of the room.
“I scarcely know what to say,” she replied, slowly. “It is a refined face, a clever one, if you like; but, if I may be allowed to say what I think, there is something in it, I can not tell what, that I do not care about. I fancy the eyes are set a little too close together.” Then she added more quickly: “I hope I have not offended you, dear. I should not have spoken so candidly.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” he inquired. “Perhaps, now you speak of it, the eyes are a little too close together. But you must wait until you have seen the man himself before you judge him. I assure you he can be a charming companion.”
“I gathered as much from his photograph,” she answered, taking it up and lookingat it again, “At what time does he arrive to-day?”
“In time for afternoon tea,” said Godfrey. “I am going to drive in to meet him.”
Molly made a littlemoue; with the selfishness of love, she did not approve of Godfrey leaving her, if only for so short a time. And, if the truth be confessed, I fear she was a little jealous of the man who was to be responsible for his absence. It is not always that a sweetheart is any too well disposed toward her lover’s bachelor friends. For some reason, Fensden’s photograph had prejudiced her against him. She was resolved to be just; but she felt convinced in her own mind that she would never be able to say that she really liked or trusted the man. She did not tell Godfrey this.
In accordance with the arrangements he had made, that afternoon, at about three o’clock, Godfrey drove off to the station to meet his friend. He was looking forward to seeing him, if only that he might show him how great was the difference between the sketch the other had drawn of his future wife that night in the desert, and the reality. I fancy if England had been searched through that day, a happier young man than the masterof Detwich would have been difficult to find. Yet, though he could not guess it, the climax of his life was only a few hours’ distant.
As he drove along, he thought of Molly and the happiness that was to be his portion in the future. Then his thoughts turned to Teresina. While he had prospered in the world, she had lost what little happiness she had ever possessed. He determined to discuss her affairs with Fensden on the first available opportunity, when doubtless the latter would be able to suggest a way in which he might assist her. By the time he had arrived at this reflection, he had reached the station, and the groom was standing at the horse’s head. Having placed the reins under the patent clip, he descended from the cart and went on to the platform. The station-master saluted him respectfully, and informed him that the train had already been signalled. Indeed, the words had scarcely left that functionary’s lips before a whistle was heard in the cutting, and a moment later it came into view. As the train swept past him Godfrey caught a glimpse of the man he had come to meet, gathering together his travelling things, in a first-class carriage.
“How are you, my dear old fellow?” he cried, as he turned the handle of the door. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you! I am afraid you have had a cold journey. Let me take some of your things.”
Victor graciously permitted the other to assist him with his luggage, and then he himself descended from the carriage. They shook hands and afterward strolled in the direction of the gate. Victor was attired in a magnificent travelling ulster, and a neat deer-stalker’s hat. An orange-coloured tie peeped from the opening under his beard, and his hands were as daintily gloved as a lady’s. Altogether, as he walked down the platform, he presented as artistic a figure as Detwich had seen for a very long time.
“What have you been doing since I saw you?” Godfrey inquired as they took their places in the dog-cart.
“Repairing the ravages of time and Continental travel,” Victor replied, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added politely: “I hope Miss Devereux is well?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Godfrey, “and most anxious to see you. She has read your poems and has seen your portrait; all sherequires now is to be introduced to the original.”
“In that case I fear she will be disappointed,” said Victor, with what was almost a sneer in his voice. “Since she is with you, I presume your mother and sister are at the Hall. Do they look forward to the idea of turning out?”
“They are a pair of foolish women who would do anything, or give up anything in order to make me happy,” the other replied. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know that they altogether mind. They both prefer London, and when they return from their travels, I believe it is their intention to take a flat and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of Kensington.”
“While you are assimilating the bucolic virtues. Well, it’s a pretty picture, and if I had fifteen thousand a year and a fine estate I might be tempted to do the same. As I haven’t the money or the property I remain what I am.”
“And that is?”
“A trifler,” Victor replied, with unusual bitterness. “One who might have done and who did not—who dropped the substance in an attempt to grasp the shadow.”
“Nonsense,” said Godfrey, who did not like to hear his friend abuse himself in this fashion. “If you are going to talk like that I shall have to prescribe a long dose of country air.”
Then, in an attempt to change the other’s thoughts, he talked of their travels together, and of the curious characters they had met, which lasted until they had passed through the lodge gates and were well on their way across the park. Even in the sombreness of winter the place looked very beautiful, and Victor expressed himself delighted with it.
“I had no idea it was so fine,” he said, as they swept round the drive and came into view of the house. “I can very well understand your liking for a country life when you possess an estate like this. Your uncle did you a kind action when he made you his heir.”
“Nobody is more sensible of that fact than I am,” Godfrey replied. “I only wish I could let the old fellow know how grateful I am. I often think that during his lifetime he was disappointed in me because I took to painting instead of becoming a country gentleman. I wonder what he would say if he could see me now? I don’t know what you may think, butto my mind there are times when one likes to imagine that the dead are near us.”
Victor gave a violent start, followed by a shiver.
“Good Heavens! What an idea!” he cried. Then, dropping back into his old cynical tone, he continued: “I am afraid that if your idea were possible our human affairs would become somewhat complicated. For my own part I am quite content that the matter should stand as it is.”
As he finished speaking they drew up before the steps and the two men descended from the cart. The ladies were waiting in the hall to receive them.
“How do you do, Mr. Fensden?” said Mrs. Henderson, coming forward to meet him. “It is a long time since we have met, and you have been a great traveller in the meantime.”
“Thanks to your son,” said Victor as he took her hand. “How do you do, Miss Kitty? Events advance too quickly with all of us, but they seem to have taken giant strides with you.”
“You mean that when last we met I was still on the other side of that line which is only crossed by a girl when she performs the mysteriousoperation called 'putting her hair up,’” answered that sharp-tongued young lady.
“Now, Victor,” said Godfrey, when Kitty had been annihilated, “let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Devereux.”
The couple bowed to each other, and Victor offered her his congratulations.
“And now you must come and have your tea,” said Mrs. Henderson, hospitably. “You must need it, I am sure, after your long journey.”
“Or perhaps you would prefer something more substantial,” put in Godfrey. “I noticed that you shivered as we came up the drive.”
“I really think I should,” said Victor. “After the warmth of the East our English winters are not to be trifled with.”
Godfrey led the way to the dining-room and placed the spirit-stand before his friend.
“I don’t think I have ever been so cold in my life before,” said Victor, as he poured out an amount of brandy for himself that made Godfrey open his eyes in astonishment, for he had always looked upon the other as an exceedingly temperate man.
“Now, tell me, would you prefer to seeyour room first?” Godfrey inquired, when the other had tossed off his refreshment, “or shall we join the ladies?”
“Perhaps I had better make myself presentable first,” Victor answered, glancing complacently at himself in the mirror above the chimney-piece.
Godfrey accordingly led the way to the room which had been set apart for his friend’s use, and to which the latter’s luggage had been conveyed. It was a pleasant apartment, looking out on what was called the Ladies’ Garden, and thence across the park to a high and wooded hill. Victor went to the window and studied the prospect.