"What vows you made at the marriage altar,For better and worse, to take your wife;Yet at the moment of need you falter,Quail at rumours of coming strife.Nay, it were wiser to cling and cherish,Altho' things evil be said and done;If in the future you both should perish,Husband and wife should be lost as one."
"What vows you made at the marriage altar,
For better and worse, to take your wife;
Yet at the moment of need you falter,
Quail at rumours of coming strife.
Nay, it were wiser to cling and cherish,
Altho' things evil be said and done;
If in the future you both should perish,
Husband and wife should be lost as one."
Aunt Jelly was looking very pale and ill on the day she elected to see Guy in order to expostulate with him on the wild way in which he was behaving. She was suffering from a very serious disease connected with the heart, and Dr. Pargowker warned her against any undue excitement, as it might prove fatal. He was seated with her now, a fat, oily man of the Chadband species, and talked about her ill-health in his usual unctuous manner.
In her accustomed chair sat Miss Corbin, looking worn with illness, but as grim and defiant as ever, while the doctor standing near her felt her pulse with one hand, and held his watch with the other. Minnie, ever watchful of her patroness's comfort, hovered round like an unquiet spirit, bringing all sorts of unnecessary things, which made Aunt Jelly very irritable and led her to say unpleasant things to Miss Pelch which reduced the poetess to tears.
"Well?" said Miss Corbin sharply, when Dr. Pargowker had finished with her pulse, "what do you say? Is this illness serious?"
The doctor lifted one fat white hand in gentle protest, and resumed his seat with a comfortable sigh.
"No, dearest lady, no," he said in his heavy, soft voice, "do not I beg of you think you are so bad as all that. You remind me, if I may be permitted to make the comparison, of a dear friend of mine who departed----"
"Bother your dear friend!" snapped Aunt Jelly in her grimmest manner. "I didn't ask you here to tell me other people's histories. I want to know about my own state of health."
Dr. Pargowker folded his chubby hands complacently on his rotund stomach and meekly ventured a protest against this language.
"Do not, oh dearest lady," he said unctuously, "do not excite yourself like this. It is bad for you, dearest lady, very bad."
"Very bad, dear Miss Corbin," echoed Minnie tearfully.
"And might lead to complications," pursued the doctor, shaking his head.
"Complications," echoed Miss Pelch, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Minnie," said Aunt Jelly politely, "you're getting a bigger fool every day. Have the goodness to hold your tongue and not talk of things you know nothing about. Dr. Pargowker, if you will kindly leave off nodding your head like a Chinese mandarin, and tell me straight out what you mean, I should feel obliged."
"Dearest lady," growled the doctor, "it is useless to conceal from you the painful fact that you are very ill."
"I know that sir," retorted Aunt Jelly coolly, "go on."
"You must avoid all undue excitement, such as dances, theatres, and seeing friends."
"I haven't been to a dance for the last twenty years," said Miss Corbin wrathfully, "and as for a theatre, I've got no time to waste on that rubbish. What do you mean by talking such nonsense to me?"
"Easily upset, I see," murmured Pargowker, apparently to himself, "very easily upset."
"Wouldn't you like a little pillow for your head, dear Miss Jelly?" said Minnie, holding one over Miss Corbin as though she were going to play Othello to the old lady's Desdemona.
"I'd like a little common sense," retorted Miss Corbin, pushing away the pillow, "but it seems I'm not likely to get it."
"Be calm, dear lady, be calm," observed Dr. Pargowker, nodding his head. "If you will permit me, I will write out a prescription."
"Pen, ink, and paper, Minnie!" ordered Aunt jelly, glaring at the doctor.
The obliging Minnie flew to obtain these necessaries, and having done so, placed them on a little table near the physician, who wheeled his chair round and began to write.
Aunt Jelly and Dr. Pargowker were old friends, and never parted without a fight, which, however, was principally conducted by Miss Corbin, as the doctor resolutely kept his temper, and always left the room as bland, cool, and unruffled as when he entered it. In spite of his round-about way of putting things, Pargowker was really very clever at his profession, and Aunt Jelly reposed the utmost confidence in his power, although she never could resist using her sharp tongue on him when occasion offered, and as it did so now, Aunt Jelly began to talk, showing thereby that she was not so ill as she seemed.
"Lord knows how you get patients," she said, folding her bony hands, "it's all chat with you and nothing else."
"Dear, dear," murmured Pargowker, going on placidly with his writing, "this is bad, very, very bad."
"Are you talking about your prescription, or yourself?" snapped Miss Corbin, dauntlessly. "I daresay they're much of a muchness. If one doesn't kill me, I've no doubt the other will."
"Pardon me, dearest lady," said the doctor, smiling blandly, "you are in error. This prescription will do you a great deal of good. Oh, we will pull you round, yes--yes. I think I may venture to say we will pull you round."
"Pull me round or square, it's easily seen I'm not long for this world," replied Miss Corbin.
"Oh, do not speak like that, Miss Jelly," whimpered Minnie, "you will get quite well, I'm sure of it."
"Aye! aye!" remarked Pargowker, folding up his prescription. "While there's life, there's hope."
"Don't quote your proverbs to me," said Aunt Jelly, determined not to be pleased by anything, "they're nothing but traditional lies; but seriously speaking, doctor, if you can speak seriously, which I'm very much inclined to doubt, I want to see my nephew, Sir Guy Errington, to-day."
"No! dearest lady, no!" said Pargowker, rising from his seat, and raising one hand in protest, "pardon me, no!--the very worst person you could see!"
"If you knew him as well as I do, you might well say that," replied Miss Corbin, malignantly, "but I must see him. It's imperative."
"If you will not excite yourself----"
"I'm not going to excite myself," retorted Aunt Jelly, "but I'm going to excite him."
Dr. Pargowker took up his hat and buttoned his coat with the air of a man who washed his hands of the whole affair.
"If you attend to my orders," he said, speaking more sharply than was usual with him, "you will see no one. But I know you of old, Miss Corbin. You expect to be cured, but won't do what you're told."
"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Aunt Jelly, with feeble merriment. "Have you taken to poetry also? The idea is good, doctor, but the poetry is worse than Minnie's."
"Oh, Miss Jelly!" murmured Minnie, in tearful protest.
"Well, well," said Pargowker, good-humouredly, shaking hands with Miss Corbin, "poetry or not, dear lady, do what I tell you. Keep yourself calm, see no one, take this prescription, and I think, yes, I think you will be quite safe."
"I've no doubt about it," cried Aunt Jelly, as he paused at the door, "safe for the nearest cemetery. Go along with you, doctor. I tell you I've made up my mind to see my nephew. It's a case of life and death."
"Certainly with you, dear lady--certainly with you," said Dr. Pargowker emphatically. "Miss Pelch, will you honour me by seeing me to the door?"
"You want to talk about me behind my back," said Miss Corbin, suspiciously. "It's no use. I'll make Minnie tell me everything." She darted a threatening look at that young lady, which made her shake, and then Minnie disappeared through the door, while the doctor prepared to follow, first giving a parting word to his refractory patient.
"It's no use, dear lady," he said, with playful ponderousness, "calling in the doctor if you don't intend to obey him."
"I never obeyed anyone in my life," said Aunt Jelly, stiffening her back, "and I'm certainly not going to begin with you."
"Dearest Miss Corbin, I am in earnest."
"So am I," retorted the old lady, frowning. "There! there! go away, I'll do everything you tell me, but I must see my nephew to-day."
Dr. Pargowker sighed, yielded to stern necessity, and spoke.
"Well, you can do so, my dear, old friend, but only for five minutes--only for five minutes."
"Quite enough for all I've got to say."
The doctor looked waggishly at Miss Corbin, in order to keep up her spirits, but his face grew very grave as he spoke to Minnie at the door.
"She must not see anyone," he said emphatically, "mind that, Miss Pelch. I was obliged to say she could speak to Sir Guy Errington for five minutes, as she grows so excited over being contradicted. If he does come, let her see him for that time, but don't let her grow excited. I'll call in again to-night, to see how she is."
"Is she very ill?" asked Minnie in dismay.
"So ill," said Pargowker, putting on his hat, "that if she's not kept absolutely quiet, she won't recover."
"Oh!" said Miss Pelch in an alarmed tone, and would have asked more questions, only Dr. Pargowker was already in his brougham, on his way to another patient.
Minnie returned to the drawing-room, with a cheerful face, so as not to let Miss Corbin see her feelings, but that indomitable lady was determined to have the truth, and tackled her at once.
"Well, what did he say?" she demanded, sharply.
"Only that you were to keep yourself quiet, dear Miss Jelly," replied Minnie, taking up her work, a green parrot being embroidered on a red tree, against a yellow ground and a purple sky.
"What else?"
"Nothing!"
"Minnie, you are deceiving me," said Aunt Jelly solemnly. "I can see it in your face. Do you think it's right to deceive a dying person?"
"You're not dying," whimpered Minnie, beginning to cry.
"I'm not far off it, at all events," retorted Miss Corbin, with a sigh. "I know my own constitution quite as well as that fool of a doctor, and I'm pretty sure I won't get well this time."
"Oh, but you will--you will," cried Minnie, weeping.
"Pooh! nonsense, child," said Miss Corbin, kindly, "don't waste your tears over an old woman like me. I've had a long life, but by no means a happy one. Quantity not quality, I suppose. If I can only see Victoria engaged to that nice Macjean boy, and persuade my nephew out of his folly, I'll not be sorry to go."
"Dr. Pargowker said you were not to see Sir Guy longer than five minutes, Miss Jelly."
"Quite long enough."
"And were not to excite yourself."
"There, there, Minnie!" said Miss Jelly, impatiently. "I'll take good care of myself, you may be sure. What time did Sir Guy say he would be here?"
"Four o'clock, dear Miss Corbin."
"It's nearly that now," observed Aunt Jelly, looking at the clock. "I hope he won't keep me waiting. Young men are so careless now-a-days. Miss Sheldon has gone out?"
"Yes! to the Academy with Mrs. Trubbles and Mr. Macjean."
"Neither of whom know anything about pictures. It means flirting, not art, I've no doubt. Well! well, we must not be too hard on the young. Let me leave the world in peace, that's all I ask."
Minnie put down her work, and came close to Miss Corbin, whose thin cold hand she took in her own.
"Dear Miss jelly, don't talk like that," she said, softly, "indeed you will get well, I'm sure you will."
"No, child, no!"
"Oh, but, yes," persisted her companion, fondly. "Why, whatever would I do, if you did not live to read my little volume?"
"Oh, it's coming out, then?" said Aunt Jelly, grimly, with a flash of her old spirit.
"Yes, Mr. Gartney has arranged it all. I was going to keep it a secret, but when you talk about dying, I can't," and poor Minnie fairly broke down, which touched Aunt Jelly more than she liked to acknowledge.
"There! there!" she said, touching Minnie's face, with unaccustomed tenderness, "you're a good child, Minnie. Tell me all about this poetry book."
"It's going to be called 'Heart Throbs and Sad Sobs, by Minnie Pelch,'" said the poetess, radiantly, "'dedicated to Miss Angelica Corbin, by her sincere friend, the Authoress.'"
Aunt Jelly was silent for a few minutes, feeling, rather a choking in her throat. She had laughed at poor Minnie's simple rhymes on many occasions, and now the poetess had returned good for evil, paying her the high compliment of inscribing her name on the front of the book. Minnie mistook her silence for indignation at not having asked permission, and tried to pacify the old lady.
"I hope you're not angry," she said, timidly smoothing Aunt Jelly's hand, "but I wanted to surprise you by the dedication. There's a poem about you too, Miss Jelly, and I think it's the best in the book--really the best."
The old lady was so touched by Minnie's poor little attempt to propitiate her, that she could not trust herself to speak, and when she did there were tears rolling down her hard old face, as she bent down and kissed her.
"It's very good of you, child," she said, in a tremulous voice, "and I feel very much honoured, indeed. Perhaps I've not been so kind to you as I ought to have been.
"Oh, but you have!--you have!" cried Minnie, throwing herself on her knees, with tears in her eyes. "If it had not been for you, I would have starved, dear Miss Jelly. Indeed, I would. It is so hard to get paid for poetry. And you have been such a kind, good friend--such a kind good friend!"
"If I have spoken harshly to you, dear, on occasions," said Aunt Jelly, brokenly, "it was from no want of feeling. Age, my dear Minnie, age, and an embittered nature. But the heart was there, my dear, all the time the heart was there."
"I know it was!--I know it was!" wept Minnie, patting the withered hand of her old friend. "I have never doubted that."
"Yes! yes!" muttered the old dame dreamily, "the heart was there."
And there was silence for a few minutes, only broken by the sobs of Minnie, then Aunt Jelly recovered her usual manner with an effort, and ordered wine and cake to be placed on the table. Miss Pelch had barely time to do this, when there came a ring at the front door, and shortly afterwards Sir Guy Errington entered the room. Aunt Jelly, now quite her own grim self, received her nephew coldly, and then sent Minnie out of the room, as she wanted to talk to Sir Guy in private. Miss Pelch, however, mindful of the doctor's order, did not go far, but waited in the hall, so as to be ready to enter when the five minutes had expired.
Guy looked rather haggard about the face, as he sat down near his elderly relation, which Aunt Jelly put down to fast living, although, in reality, it was due to worrying about his wife. This idea did not make her feel very tenderly towards Errington, and she prepared herself to do battle.
"So you've come at last?" she said, straightening her back, and folding her hands on her knees.
"I came as soon as you sent for me," answered Guy, quietly.
"You should have come without an invitation," said Aunt Jelly, with a frown, "but young men of the present day seem to take a delight in neglecting those nearest and dearest to them."
This was said pointedly, with a view to drawing forth some remark about Alizon, but Guy did not take it in that sense.
"I don't want to neglect you, aunt," he said moodily, "but our conversations are not so pleasant that I should look forward to them."
"I only speak for your good."
"People always do that when they make disagreeable remarks," replied Errington sarcastically. "You're not looking well to-day, Aunt Jelly."
"I don't feel well either," responded his aunt shortly. "I'm dying."
"Oh, no, don't say that," said Guy, heartily shocked at her remark.
"But I will say it," retorted Miss Corbin, nodding her head vigorously, "and I'll say something else too that you won't like."
"I've no doubt you will," answered Guy crossly, rising to his feet. "Look here, Aunt Jelly, you're not well to-day, and if you brought me here to quarrel, I'm not fit for it."
"You're fit for nothing in my opinion except the Divorce Court," said Aunt Jelly viciously. "Sit down."
"I don't know what you mean by talking about the Divorce Court," answered Errington calmly, obeying her command.
"Think and see."
"What's the good of my doing that?" cried Errington angrily, "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't shriek," said Miss Corbin coolly, "it goes through my head."
"I beg your pardon aunt," replied Guy politely, "but if you would tell me what you're driving at I would feel obliged."
Aunt Jelly sat in silence for a moment, rapping the fingers of one hand on the knuckles of the other, then spoke out sharply.
"What's all this talk about you and Mrs. Veilsturm?" Guy sat bolt upright in his chair and stared at her in amazement.
"Oh, is that it?" he said with a short laugh. "Don't worry your head about Mrs. Veilsturm, aunt. All the world can know the relations that exist between us."
"All the world does know."
Errington arose from his seat with a smothered ejaculation, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, began to walk backwards and forwards.
"You needn't use bad language, my dear Guy," said Aunt Jelly, with aggravating placidity. "All I want to know is what you mean by leaving your wife and running after Mrs. Veilsturm?"
"I'm not running after Mrs. Veilsturm," said her nephew angrily, "and I've not left my wife. I'm simply up in Town for a spell, and have called once or twice to see a very pleasant woman."
"A very pleasant woman, indeed," sneered Aunt Jelly scornfully.
"If you think so badly of her, I wonder you let your ward go near her."
"I don't know anything against the woman's character," replied Miss Corbin, "so there's no reason I should keep Victoria away. I daresay she's as bad as the rest of them, and conceals it better. But that's nothing to do with my question. It has come to my ears that you are paying marked attentions to Mrs. Veilsturm, and I want to know if it is true."
"No, it is not true?" answered Errington slowly. "I have been a great deal with Mrs. Veilsturm since I came up to Town, but that was simply because she asked me to visit her, and without being absolutely rude, I could not refuse."
"A very nice explanation," said his aunt disbelievingly, "but do you think it is one your wife will accept?"
"My wife knows nothing about my visits to Mrs. Veilsturm."
"Indeed she does," replied Aunt Jelly coolly. "I wrote and told her all about them."
Guy's face grew as pale as that of a corpse, and he stared at Miss Corbin as if he had been turned into stone. At length, with an effort, he arose to his feet and repeated her answer in a harsh, strained voice.
"You wrote and told her all about them?"
"Yes! I did not think your conduct was right, so, as your wife has most influence with you, I wrote and told her to call you back to Ellington."
All the blood in his body seemed to surge up into his head with the violent effort he made to suppress his anger. Had it been any one else but this feeble old woman, he would have simply let his passion master him, but in this case, with such an adversary he could do nothing.
"God forgive you, Aunt Jelly," he said at length, "you've done a cruel thing," and he turned and walked slowly to the door.
"I have done what was right," said Miss Corbin bravely. "You were deceiving your wife, and I was determined she should know of your deception."
Sir Guy turned towards her as he paused at the door, and when she finished speaking, answered her slowly and deliberately.
"You are quite wrong. I was not deceiving my wife, as I can prove to you. As you know, my wife has treated me very cruelly during the last year, and neglected me in every way, giving all her love to the child. Eustace came down the other day, and advised me to leave my wife for a few weeks, thinking she would not be so indifferent on my return. I took his advice and came up to Town. Eustace took me to Mrs. Veilsturm, and finding her a very pleasant woman, I simply went there in order to amuse myself. But as for caring about her, I love and respect my wife and my name too much to degrade myself so far. Unluckily, until the other day, I did not remember that Alizon disliked Mrs. Veilsturm, because she was mixed up with her father in some way, and forbade her to visit at the Hall. Had I remembered this, I would not have gone there, but it's too late now to think of it. By believing all these malicious stories, which I give you my word of honour have no foundation, and writing to her, she will believe that I went to see this woman on purpose, and she will never forgive me. I am going down to the Hall by to-night's train, and will try and explain everything to her, but I'm afraid she will not believe me. No doubt you acted for the best, Aunt Jelly, but in doing so you have simply ruined my life."
"Guy! Guy!" moaned the old woman, who had listened to all this with a sense of stunned amazement. "Forgive me! I did it for the best, but I will write again and tell her how wrong I have been."
"It is too late," he replied sadly, "too late."
"No, it's not too late, Guy. But forgive me! forgive me!"
Errington looked at her coldly.
"If my wife forgives me I will forgive you," he answered, and left the room.
Aunt Jelly stared at the closed door, and strove to call him back, but her voice died in her throat, a mist came before her eyes, and overwhelmed by the fatal discovery she had made, and the excitement she had undergone, she fell back in a dead faint.
"Believe me, sir, the deity called Fate,Is stronger than the strongest of us all,Fate! Fortune! Destiny! what name you will!We are the sport of some malignant power,Who twists and turns the actions of our lives,In such strange fashion that our best intents--Not evil in themselves--breed evil things,And wreck our fairest ventures, tho' we striveTo bring them holily to some quiet port."
"Believe me, sir, the deity called Fate,Is stronger than the strongest of us all,Fate! Fortune! Destiny! what name you will!We are the sport of some malignant power,Who twists and turns the actions of our lives,In such strange fashion that our best intents--Not evil in themselves--breed evil things,And wreck our fairest ventures, tho' we striveTo bring them holily to some quiet port."
On leaving Miss Corbin's house Errington's first impulse was to drive straight to the railway station, catch the six-thirty train, and go down to the Hall at once, in order to explain matters to his wife. A moment's reflection, however, convinced him that this would be a foolish thing to do, as he could not possibly reach home before eight o'clock, and his late arrival at such an hour without being expected would be sure to cause comment among the servants. They already guessed more of the strained relations between himself and his wife than he liked, so in order to avoid the slightest chance of any further remark being made, he determined to go down to Denfield next day in the ordinary course of things.
He therefore drove back to his hotel, and while dressing for dinner pondered deeply as to the best course to pursue with Alizon. On this night he was engaged to dine with Macjean at the Soudan Hotel, and recollected that his cousin was to be of the party. Eustace was a man in whom he had a profound belief, and frequently deferred to his cousin's judgment in delicate matters, so on this present occasion he made up his mind to speak to Gartney, whose clear head would doubtless be able to solve the problem.
It was true that Mrs. Veilsturm expected him to call for her at the Marlowe Theatre, where she had a box. But the idea of being in her company again after what had transpired was too much for him, so he hastily scribbled a note excusing himself on the plea of sudden indisposition, and sent it off to Park Lane by a special messenger.
"Macjean and Laxton can go to the theatre as arranged," he thought, as he went slowly down the stairs, "and I'll make Eustace take me to his rooms, where we can talk over things at our ease."
With this determination he jumped into a hansom and drove off to the Soudan Hotel in Piccadilly, where he found Otterburn waiting for him in company with Laxton.
"Where's Gartney?" asked the Master after greeting his friend, "he promised to be early."
"Eustace's promises are like pie crust," replied Errington, giving his cloak and hat to the waiter, "made to be broken."
"You look very broken yourself," remarked Macjean meditatively, as the gaslight fell on Guy's face. "What is the matter? Have you had bad news? Will you have a glass of sherry?"
"Nothing is the matter," replied the baronet categorically. "I have not had bad news, and I will take a glass of sherry."
He really felt very worried over the position in which he now found himself regarding his wife, but it was better he should dine in company than alone, as a solitary meal would only make matters appear much worse than they really were. Besides he was going to consult Eustace, who, he felt certain, would advise him for the best, so he put the best face he could on the matter, and chatted gaily over his sherry to the two young men while waiting for his cousin.
Presently Eustace, cool, calm and unconcerned, arrived, with a large appetite and an apology for being late.
"I've got a man who is in the habit of mislaying things," he explained as they all sat down to dinner, "he mislaid his brains when he was born, and hasn't found them yet, so I suffer in consequence. No sherry for me, thank you! Water, please!"
"Ugh, London water," groaned Laxton, holding up his sherry to the light.
"Water," remarked Mr. Gartney sententiously, "is the purest of all elements."
"Not in town," retorted Macjean with a grimace. "I don't believe in Adam's wine."
"No Scotchman ever did as far as I know," said Eustace drily. "Presbyterian wine is what you all prefer north of the Tweed."
"And a very good idea too," observed Guy, contributing his quota to the conversation, "especially on wet days."
"That's why such a lot of whisky is consumed in the Land o' Cakes," explained Eustace gravely, "it's always wet up there. Scotch mist and Scotch whisky invariably go together."
"This," remarked Laxton, alluding to the conversation, "is not a teetotol meeting."
"No one could possibly accuse it of being that," retorted Gartney, with a significant glance at the full glasses, "but if you three gentlemen don't mind talking, I'll eat in the meantime. The Soudan cook is a good one, the Gartney appetite is a large one, so thank God for all His mercies and leave me to pay attention to the good things of this life."
His three friends laughed at his humorous way of putting things, and devoted themselves to the fish. The conversation went on in a more or less frivolous fashion, the last scandal, the blunders of the Cabinet, the new novel of the realistic school, the prospects of a war in the East--all these were discussed in their turn by the quartette, and then Laxton began to argue with Otterburn about the African expedition, so seizing the opportunity Guy bent forward to speak to Eustace.
"I want to talk to you after dinner," he said in a low voice.
"Certainly," replied Gartney carelessly, "but will you have time? What about the theatre?"
"I've changed my mind," said Guy quickly, "so I sent an excuse to Mrs. Veilsturm. Have you anything particular to do? If not we can go to your rooms. I won't detain you long."
Eustace flashed a keen look on his cousin, and paused a moment before replying:
"I was going to look in at one or two drawing-rooms to-night," he said at length, "but as my engagements really aren't very particular, I'll not trouble about them, so I will be at your disposal."
"Thank you," answered Guy, drawing a long breath.
"Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Well that is as it turns out. I saw Aunt Jelly to-day."
"Ah!" said Eustace in a significant tone, knowing that an interview with Aunt Jelly always meant trouble of some sort. "I think I can understand. However, let us go on with our meal. Pleasure and appetite first, business and Aunt Jelly afterwards. What are those two boys fighting about?"
The two boys were still engaged in the African argument, and had arrived at a dead lock, each being firmly convinced in his own mind that his view of the subject was the right one.
"You're all wrong, I tell you," said Otterburn hotly, "you're talking just like you did at Montana. Africa isn't America."
"Nobody said it was," returned Laxton ungracefully, "but I daresay the sport is very much the same in both places. Africa is not a new planet."
"You might as well say that potting walrus in the Arctic regions is the same as jungle shooting in India."
"It's merely a matter of temperature," declared Laxton decidedly.
"Oh, if you pin your faith to the thermometer, I've nothing more to say," replied Otterburn, throwing himself back in his chair with the air of a man who has crushed his opponent.
"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about," observed Eustace leisurely, "and judging from what I've overheard you both seem to be in the same predicament."
"We'll discuss it later on," said Otterburn gaily. "What a pity I can't come out with you to Africa, Laxton, and settle the argument that way."
"Well, why don't you come?" demanded Laxton quickly.
Otterburn reddened and laughed in an embarrassed fashion, while Eustace threw a roguish glance at him, and made answer for the bashful lover.
"Don't you bother your head, Laxton There are more important things than shooting expeditions in this world--at least, Otterburn thinks so."
Laxton was quite in the dark regarding the meaning of these mystic utterances, when it suddenly dawned on him that the lady whom Otterburn had spoken about in America might have something to do with the turn the conversation had taken, and lifted his glass with a smile as he looked towards Macjean.
"To the health of the something more important than shooting expeditions," he said gravely, and finished the wine.
"Thank you," responded Otterburn laughing. "May I some day drink the same health to you?"
"Never!"
"Never's a long time."
"And talking about time," remarked Guy, glancing at his watch, "if you two boys have any idea of the theatre to-night you'll have to be off."
"Aren't you coming too?" chorussed Otterburn and his comrade.
"No! I received an important piece of news to-night, about which I wish to speak to my cousin."
"What will Mrs. V. say?" asked Laxton gaily.
"Who can foretell a woman's remarks?" said Eustace quizzically, seeing that Guy was disinclined to speak.
"Depends upon how much you know of the woman," responded Otterburn smartly.
"Woman," retorted the cynic, "is an unknown quantity."
"What about quality?"
"This conversation," said Eustace, looking at his glass of water, "is getting problematic. After dinner is a bad time to solve puzzles, therefore--coffee."
It seemed a good suggestion, so they all adjourned to the smoking-room, and indulged in further conversation while they enjoyed their coffee and cigarettes. Shortly afterwards Otterburn and his friend departed for the Marlowe Theatre, while Eustace in company with Guy went off to his rooms in Half Moon Street, Piccadilly.
Used as he was to hardships in foreign lands, Eustace always took care to make up for his deprivations by making himself very comfortable at home, consequently his rooms left nothing to be desired in the way of luxury. His valet was well accustomed to his master coming in at all kinds of unexpected times, consequently when they arrived the room was well lighted, the chairs disposed in tempting corners, and a spirit-stand with glasses and soda-water stood ready for any thirsty soul.
Eustace placed his cousin in a well-cushioned chair, gave him an excellent cigar, then, lighting one himself, took his seat opposite to Guy and prepared to play the part of father confessor.
It was a hot night and the windows were standing slightly open, letting in the pleasant, confused noise of the street, with its rattling of cabs, voices of people, and footfalls of innumerable pedestrians. The faint sound of a barrel organ playing the last new tune, "Oh, she's left me for another," came softly to their ears, and they sat smoking silently for a few moments until Errington spoke.
"I told you I saw Aunt Jelly to-day."
"Yes and what did she say?"
"A good many disagreeable things," replied Guy bitterly; "according to her showing, I must be a singularly wicked man."
"Aunt Jelly," observed Eustace philosophically, "knows very little about the actual world, and having lived apart from her fellow creatures for many years, has formed in her own mind an ideal life to which she expects all her friends and relations to conform. Unfortunately, the majority of nineteenth century people are neither Lucreces nor Bayards, consequently Aunt Jelly, in Pharisee fashion, rails at the world and says, 'Thank God, I'm not as other women are.'"
"She is as other women are in the matter of listening to gossip," said Guy emphatically, "for she tells me it is common talk that I have left my wife for the superior attractions of Mrs. Veilsturm."
Eustace looked up suddenly in dismay.
"My dear fellow, you must be making a mistake."
"I'm making no mistake," returned Guy doggedly. "Aunt Jelly says it is common talk. Have you heard anything about it?"
"You know I never pay attention to gossip," said Gartney evasively, "I don't even listen to it, but you may be certain that anyone who poses as thecher amiof Mrs. Veilsturm won't escape calumny."
"I don't pose as thecher amiof Mrs. Veilsturm," said Errington fiercely. "I don't care two straws about her."
"Actions speak louder than words. You certainly have acted as if you did."
"Good Heavens, Eustace, you surely don't believe all these lies?" retorted Guy wrathfully, rising from his chair.
"I never said I did," answered his cousin coolly, "but I'm looking at it now from the world's point of view. Mrs. Veilsturm has certainly made a dead set at you, and you, thinking it was natural amiability, have played into her hands. You, no doubt, call it friendship, but the world doesn't."
"It is friendship. Indeed, hardly that as far as I am concerned, as I don't care if I never saw Mrs. Veilsturm again. She has taken an unaccountable fancy to me, and I'm no Joseph where a pretty woman is concerned, but as for leaving my dear wife for a meretricious woman like that--Good God!"
"Well, let the world talk as it likes, so long as it isn't speaking the truth," said Eustace impatiently. "Who cares? If you expect justice from your fellow creatures, you won't get it. As to Aunt Jelly, old women are privileged gossips. It don't matter to you."
"But it does matter to me, I tell you," cried Guy violently, walking to and fro, "she has written all about these lies to my wife."
The barrel organ outside was still grinding out the popular tune, being now assisted by the shrill voice of a girl singing the words of the song.
"Oh, she's left me for another,Mary Anne! Mary Anne!And she said he was her brother,Mary Anne.It may be true, for all I know,But would she kiss her brother so,And would she leave me for him? No!Mary Anne, Mary Anne!"
"Oh, she's left me for another,
Mary Anne! Mary Anne!
And she said he was her brother,
Mary Anne.
It may be true, for all I know,But would she kiss her brother so,And would she leave me for him? No!
Mary Anne, Mary Anne!"
The regular beat of the melody seemed to repeat itself everlastingly in Gartney's ears as he sat there in silence wondering over the statement Errington had made. If Alizon knew all, she would never forgive her husband and then--was it Fate that so persistently smoothed the road for his evil doing? He felt dull and stupid at the unexpected announcement he had heard, and, after a pause, lifted his heavy eyes to Guy.
"Well," he said drearily, "and what do you intend to do?"
Errington sat down heavily in his chair and stretched out his hands with a weary gesture.
"I don't know what to do," he answered in a dull voice. "I suppose the best thing will be for me to go down and explain matters to Alizon."
"But will she accept your explanation?"
"No!"
"Then why make it?"
"A drowning man will grasp at a straw. I must do something! I can't let my wife think I have wilfully wronged her. Good heavens! surely she must know I love her dearly."
"I should think it is very probable she does," answered Eustace slowly, "besides, I think Lady Errington is too sensible a woman to give ear to lying reports. Tell her all you have told me, and I'm certain you will have no difficulty in making your peace with her."
"Do you think so?" asked Guy, his sad face brightening, "but no, I'm afraid not. You remember the story I told you about Mrs. Veilsturm's card being returned."
Eustace nodded.
"That is the difficulty. If it had been any other woman than Mrs. Veilsturm--but as it is, she'll think I did it wilfully."
"Surely not."
"My dear fellow, you've never loved a statue," said Errington bitterly, rising to his feet and putting on his cloak, "but it's no use talking any more. Aunt Jelly has done more harm than she knows of. I'll go down to the Hall to-morrow, and tell Alizon everything. If she believes my explanation, well and good, if she does not----"
"Well?" asked Eustace, seeing his cousin hesitated.
"Well!" repeated the other harshly, "I shall come back to London and Mrs. Veilsturm."
He was gone before Eustace could offer a word of remonstrance on the folly of such a determination, and then Gartney returned to his seat with an air of utter lassitude.
"Kismet," he said to himself, after a long pause. "It is Destiny."
Was it indeed Destiny that had interfered for the third time? Was it fixed by Fate that he should be Lady Errington's lover, and lose his honourable name for her sake? It seemed like it, seeing that all barriers he had set up against this illicit love, were swept away by the actions of other people, and the field left open to him. Still, Alison had not yet had her interview with Guy, and, as she must know how much he loved her, surely she would accept his explanation of the lying reports concerning his infatuation for Mrs. Veilsturm.
If she did so, all would be well with them both, but if she refused to believe his story, and dismissed him coldly, then----
Eustace arose to his feet, and walking over to the window, looked out into the hot night. Below, the glare and glitter of gas-lamps--above, the luminous light of the stars--and far in the east, rising over the sombre masses of clouds, burned an evil planet, which was dreaded of old by the Chaldeans.
The man looking at it with troubled eyes felt the twin powers of good and evil strive in his heart.
And the star gleamed steadily in the thunderous sky.