"I have come from lands fantastic,Which the desert sands environ,Where the Koran's laws adrasticBind the soul in chains of iron."All the land is full of magic,Danger 'neath delight reposes,Love is fierce and dark and tragic.Cypress mingles with the roses."
"I have come from lands fantastic,
Which the desert sands environ,
Where the Koran's laws adrastic
Bind the soul in chains of iron.
"All the land is full of magic,
Danger 'neath delight reposes,
Love is fierce and dark and tragic.
Cypress mingles with the roses."
It was Eustace Gartney in the flesh, returned to quiet old England after his perilous wanderings in distant lands beyond the verge of civilization, and Otterburn felt most unaccountably glad to see him once more. Why this should be the case seems somewhat strange, seeing that they had tired of one another in their former intimacy, and parted with mutual satisfaction, yet in the heart of each there lurked a kindly feeling which cast a certain glamour round their old friendship, and made them mutually glad to meet again.
Otterburn shook the hand of his former Mentor with [* * *] pleasure, thrust him into the most comfortable chair in the room, and prepared to ask a series of breathless [* * *] as to all that had taken place since their parting at [* * *] many months ago. Eustace, on his part, felt a [* * *] this enthusiastic reception, and was glad to think that at least one friend remembered him in a kindly manner.
They had both changed in outward appearance since their last meeting, Gartney being much thinner than formerly, but his face, lean and brown, still retained its dreamy expression, which was, indeed, deepened by his habit of thoughtful self-communings in solitary deserts. For the rest, he was as badly dressed as ever, being now arrayed in a loose suit of grey home-spun, which would have startled the accurately dressed denizens of St. James' Street on the person of any one else but Eustace Gartney. But, then, he was a privileged person, and, as his poetic book of travels had rendered him more famous than ever, his former friends greeted him heartily, all of which greetings, although kindly meant, Eustace estimated in a cynical fashion at their proper value, until genuinely touched by the boyish and demonstrative affection of Otterburn.
That young man, on his part, had wonderfully improved from the slender boy of eighteen months before, for, although the space of time seems short, Macjean was at that age when the change from adolescence to manhood is very sudden and very marked. The semi-uncivilized life he had led had also a great deal to do with the shaping of his physical characteristics, and he was more manly, more self-reliant, and more matured in every way than the unformed youth from whom Eustace had parted. A heavy moustache adorned his upper lip, he carried himself in a dashing, self-confident manner, and the tones of his voice were deeper and more mellow than formerly. Still he retained that boyish, impulsive manner that had so fascinated the cynical man of the world, and Eustace looked upon him approvingly, as he leaned forward in his chair, with eager eyes and parted lips, anxious to hear all about the elder man's adventures.
"What a jolly time you've had, Gartney!" said Otterburn, gaily, "but, by Jove, what a queer fish you are. You started for a month's tour in Cyprus, and you end up by a year and a half's exploration of Arabia."
"The seductive influence of travel drew me onward," replied Gartney, crossing his legs and folding his hands. "After all you might as well have come with me that time at Venice, instead of going off to Central Europe."
"Oh, I've been to America since then."
"Yes, so I heard. Same man you went that Carpathian trip with?"
"Yes. Awfully good sort of fellow, but a mania for wild life. He was here a few minutes ago, wanting me to start off to Africa on another expedition."
"And you, being very comfortably settled here, declined."
"Rather! I like breathing time you know. Will you have a cigarette?" said Angus, holding out his open case.
"No, thank you. I've contracted the vice of pipe-smoking," replied Eustace, producing a well-worn briar-root, and filling it leisurely. "You've got very pleasant rooms here."
"Yes, are they not? I bought the whole box and dice just as they stand from Bamfield. Got them at a bargain, much to the delight of Johnnie."
"Is Johnnie still with you?"
"Of course! he's part and parcel of my life, and circumnavigated the globe with me, like a Scotch Sir Francis Drake. Do you want a light? Here you are."
He struck a match, and handed it to Eustace, who lighted his pipe, and then leaned contentedly back in his chair, listening to the vivacious chatter of the young man.
"Of course you know your book has been a great success," said Otterburn, pointing to a copy on the table, "there it is. I got it as soon as it was published. Some of the critics, however, have been giving it fits, especially the chapter called 'The Puritans of Islam.'"
"Indeed! And what do the critics know about the Wahhabees?" asked Eustace, with calm surprise.
"According to their own showing, everything."
"Ah, we all know the omniscience of critics! They are truly wonderful men, before whose vast experience and knowledge I remain dumb. And the rapidity of their work, their marvellous grasp of every subject in literature, from a Child's Primer to a novel of George Meredith's. Nothing appalls them, nothing daunts them. Oh, what wonderful men they are! truly wonderful, so calm, so learned, so kind-hearted. Why do you know, Macjean, I met a critic once who thought nothing of Dickens as an author! Think of that! Think of the wonderful mind of that man who could afford to speak contemptuously about one of the master spirits of the age."
"Did he write books himself?" asked Otterburn, shrewdly, at which Eustace looked at him in grave reproof.
"Of course not," he replied quietly, "he was a most self-denying man. He did write one novel I believe, but it was so far in advance of our present age that the publisher was afraid to print it--fancy that, a publisher afraid! Well, it was so, and now this critic only reviews other people's books--what self-denial. And then his decisions. Why he makes up his mind about a book, that has taken months to write, in five minutes. I've known him analyse a book without cutting the leaves to read it. Of course it is marvellous, simply marvellous, but our age is prolific in such clever men. I've met many such, and always felt like a whipped schoolboy before their calm, clear gaze. If you boil down twenty of our best authors you may make one critic, but then it's quality not quantity."
"I thought you did not like critics?"
"Not like critics, my dear fellow?" said Eustace sweetly, "why they are my dearest friends, my best benefactors. They always read my books, and give half an hour to each, actually a whole half hour. What friendship! And then, you know, they are so kind, they point out all my mistakes, and if I copy any ideas of foreign authors, they always look them up to see if I have done so correctly, and mention it--really mention it--in their articles. If there is anything naughty in my chapters, they reprove me, oh, so kindly, and tell the public where to look for the worst bits. And then they are so modest; they never tell me they wrote these articles, when I meet them in society. I always put my name to my books, they never do to their articles, and yet my books are full of mistakes which they try to correct for me."
"How kind of them?"
"Yes, is it not? I wish I was a critic, Angus, instead of a poor author. I am always wrong, you know, and they are constantly right, but then I don't know so much as they do. When I write a book I've to see things for myself, but they can sit down and correct me without going outside the four walls of their study. What a pity Shakespeare had not critics in his day! They would have pointed out all the defects in Hamlet, and good-naturedly corrected Lear for him. I daresay they would have shown him how to improve his blank verse. It does need improving, you know, because I heard a poet say so the other day. A real poet, much better than Browning or Tennyson, only he wasn't known so well. Just twenty-two years of age, and yet could talk like that--wonderful. But don't speak any more about critics, because I'm so fond of them that I could praise them for hours. Let us talk of meaner things. Tell me all the news of the day, the scandals of the hour, the gossip of the drawing-rooms, and stories of clubs."
"Faith, I don't know that I've much to tell you," said Otterburn candidly. "I've been on the war-path as well as yourself, so am just an ignorant of town as you are."
Gartney smoked on quietly for a few moments, and then suddenly asked the question nearest his heart:
"What about the Erringtons, Macjean?"
"I haven't the least idea," replied Angus carelessly, "as I have not seen them since you did at Como. I believe they are still living at their place in the country, and that Lady Errington has presented her husband with a son and heir."
"Yes, I heard that," said Gartney, with a slight smile. "I wonder if my prophecy has come true?"
"Eh!--what prophecy?"
"About the Incomplete Madonna."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," responded Otterburn indolently, "you said she was unfinished, didn't you? Well, I suppose she's happy now, as she has gained her heart's desire and become a mother."
"I've no doubt she's happy," said Eustace significantly; "but what about her husband?"
"I'm sure I don't know! You seem to take a great interest in the Erringtons?"
Eustace flushed a little under the bronze colour of his skin, and moved uneasily in his seat.
"Do I? A mere whim, I assure you, to see if my prophecy about the incomplete Madonna turns out correct. But never mind, I'm going to call on Aunt Jelly this afternoon, and she'll give me more accurate information than you can. Have you met Aunt Jelly yet?"
"No! You forget I told you I have been away from England also," answered Otterburn stiffly.
"True! I forgot that, but you see my dear relations haven't written a word to me since I've been away, and I'm obliged to ask a stranger for information. Is Aunt Jelly's ward married yet?"
"No; she is still Miss Sheldon."
"You were rather fond of her, were you not?"
"So fond of her that I asked her to be my wife at Como, and she refused me."
"I guessed as much," replied Eustace calmly; "however, that was merely a boyish fancy."
"I beg your pardon. No!"
"Indeed! You don't mean to say you are in love with Victoria Sheldon still?"
Otterburn arose to his feet with an angry laugh, and began to walk slowly to and fro with his hands in his pockets.
"Is there anything so extraordinary in that? I loved Miss Sheldon and she refused to marry me, so I tried to forget her. Well, I haven't forgotten her, and I've come back to Town expressly to ask her to be my wife. I daresay I'm a fool, but you're not in love, and cannot understand the feeling."
"Can I not!" answered Gartney serenely, thinking of Lady Errington, "well, I don't know so much about that. Have you met Miss Sheldon yet?"
"No.
"That doesn't sound like an eager lover."
"I daresay it doesn't," retorted Angus coolly, "but you see I've learnt sense since my first rebuff, and now gang warily, as the Scotch say. I'm not going to let Miss Sheldon see I care two straws about her till I find out the state of her feelings towards me."
"Astute diplomatist!--then I suppose you won't call with me on my respected aunt?"
"And meet Miss Sheldon!--hardly! I'm going to wait till I see her at a fancy-dress ball Mrs. Veilsturm gives shortly."
"Oh!" said Eustace, removing his pipe, "is that lady still in the flesh?"
"Very much so, indeed According to Mr. Adolphus Thambits--of whom you've no doubt heard--her house is quite a fashionable centre."
Gartney made a gesture of disgust, and arose to his feet.
"Good Lord! what are we coming to? I thought people would have found out Mrs. Veilsturm and her scamp of a Major long ago. I met them last time I was in London. I suppose they still have the little Sunday evenings, and talk about the West Indian estates?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"Humph! I should not have thought Aunt Jelly would have let her ward visit Mrs. Veilsturm."
"Why not? She is in the odour of sanctity--no one knows her little peccadilloes, or, if they do, don't talk about them. I suppose few people except the initiated know about the real business of those Sunday evenings. Mrs. Veilsturm is all white--on the surface--so not even her dearest friend can throw mud at her."
"You are getting quite eloquent, Otterburn," observed Eustace smiling; "I suppose, when you're married and settled we'll hear of you in Parliament."
"I'm not married and settled yet!--perhaps I never will be," replied Otterburn gloomily.
"You don't seem very hopeful," remarked Eustace, with gentle sarcasm, "but as you won't come to Aunt Jelly's, suppose I play the part of Cupid's messenger, and find out how the land lies with Victoria Sheldon."
"Oh, if you only would," cried Angus eagerly; "but no! I'm afraid there's not much chance for me. I daresay she has forgotten I ever existed."
"Oh, if that is the case I'll soon improve her memory! Cheer up--while there's life there's hope."
"Not always," responded Angus gloomily, "particularly in this case. I called her a coquette last time we parted."
"No doubt she fully deserved the name, if I remember rightly," said Eustace drily, putting on his hat, "and she'll remember you for that out of spite."
"Well, do what you like, Gartney," replied Otterburn, grasping his friend's hand, "I'm awfully glad to see you safe and sound once more. When will you look me up again?"
"I'm not quite sure! I've got to see Aunt Jelly first--my lawyers second--about a dozen tradesmen, to make myself respectable, and then I am going to run down home for a few days."
"I didn't know you had a home."
"Oh, yes!--the cot where I was born, and all that kind of thing. A tumble-down old place, looking out on to the German Ocean."
"Well, don't let me lose sight of you yet," said Macjean, accompanying his guest to the door.
"No!--by-the-way, I'll come back and tell you my impressions of Miss Sheldon, and you can shape your course accordingly--in love with the same woman for eighteen months! Good Lord! what constancy! Ah, Johnnie and how are you?"
"Brawly! Brawly! thank ye for speiring, sir," replied Mr. Armstrong, who stood holding the door open, "may I tac' the leeberty of obsairving, sir, that ye look a wee bit brown, it's the weather na doot."
"Not a bit of it, Johnnie--the sun, my man, the sun."
"Hech! Hech! Au thocht it was the dochter," replied Johnnie, laughing at his own wit.
Eustace did not take offence, as Johnnie's dour ways rather amused him, so he laughed also and departed, while Angus went back to his dressing-room to get ready for paying a round of visits.
"You know the marriage service where it says--'Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder,'That answers for an interfering third,Who sows dissension in a happy home;But wife and husband can do just the same,Unless there's give and take betwixt the pair,Black looks, neglect, hard words, and other ills,Will put asunder A and B new wed,As surely as if C had played the rogue."
"You know the marriage service where it says--'Whom God hath joined let no man put asunder,'That answers for an interfering third,Who sows dissension in a happy home;But wife and husband can do just the same,Unless there's give and take betwixt the pair,Black looks, neglect, hard words, and other ills,Will put asunder A and B new wed,As surely as if C had played the rogue."
Aunt Jelly was a lady whom everyone judged best to leave alone, as she, being of a tart and aggressive nature, was disposed to be exceedingly disagreeable when meddled with. Old Father Time appeared to be of the same opinion, for he never seemed to come near her in any way, and though year after year went by, changing youth to age, dimming bright eyes, whitening heads brown and golden, and turning mellow voices to shrill trebles, Miss Corbin still preserved the same grim appearance, as if she was indeed the granite figure to which so many of her friends likened her. If Time did add another wrinkle in a stealthy way, or make her blood course more slowly through her withered frame, he did it in such a manner that no one, not even the closest observer, could notice it; and Aunt Jelly, straight and defiant as ever, sat grimly silent in her chair, knitting, knitting, knitting, as though she were some immortal hag weaving the destinies of short-lived humanity.
The old lady had heard of Eustace's return from abroad, and was in a high state of indignation that he had not called to see her as soon as he arrived in Town, but having received a note from him saying he would pay her a visit that afternoon, she was now waiting with the firm determination to give him an unpleasant reception.
Victoria had already gone out in the carriage to do some shopping for the old dame, and no one was with Miss Corbin except Minnie Pelch, who, more tearful than ever, was seated at the window, like Sister Anne, watching for the approach of Mr. Gartney.
The room had the same old-fashioned look about it, save that here and there a bunch of flowers or some dainty feminine adornment showed that Victoria Sheldon had striven to make things somewhat more home-like. Aunt Jelly sat in her chair with woolly-haired Coriolanus at her feet, and knitted on in severe silence, only opening her mouth every now and then to speak to the tearful Miss Pelch.
That young-old lady was in a state of suppressed excitement at the prospect of seeing Eustace again, as she contemplated making a final assault on him regarding the publication of her poems, but Aunt Jelly had so harassed and worried her, that she was reduced to a state of extreme limpness, and wept in a stealthy manner, making her eyes red, which by no means added to the beauty of her appearance.
The port and sherry decanters were on the table with the usual plate of cake, for though Miss Corbin intended to give Eustace a disagreeable reception she did not think of neglecting the duties of hospitality; fulfilled in her eyes by the production of cake and wine.
"Well," said Miss Corbin sharply, for the seventh time, "is he coming?"
"Not yet," replied Minnie meekly, after the fashion of Sister Anne.
Miss Corbin snorted like an old war-horse, tossed her head in an indignant manner, and resumed her work.
"In my young days," she observed at length in her usual harsh fashion, "the juniors were always civil to the seniors. Civility cost nothing then--now it appears to be unpurchasable. Eh! what do you say, Minnie? Nothing!--it's your sniffling then! how often have I told you to correct that habit. Look again--is he coming?"
"Not yet," answered Miss Pelch once more, "it's only three o'clock."
"I didn't ask you the time," rejoined Aunt Jelly tartly. "I suppose you're going to worry him about that poetry of yours?"
"I'm going to ask him to get it published," said Minnie with tearful dignity, "bound in blue and gold with my portrait at the beginning."
"Poor child," said Aunt Jelly, pausing a moment, "how you do build castles in the air. Well, I hope my nephew will help you to do what you wish. Nobody will read the book except the critics, and they'll abuse you. If they do," continued Miss Corbin, shaking her finger, "don't come to me for sympathy, for I've warned you. Is he coming?"
"Yes!" cried Minnie, in a state of excitement, seeing a hansom rattle round the corner and pull up before the door, "he's in a cab."
"Oh, indeed, couldn't walk I suppose," grumbled Miss Corbin grimly, "better for his pocket and his liver if he did. Hand me that last volume of his rubbish, Minnie, I've got a few words to say about it."
Minnie obediently did as she was told and Aunt Jelly took the heavy book on her knee, while the door was flung open by the butler, who announced in his usual pompous voice:
"Mr. Eustace Gartney."
"How do you do, Aunt Jelly?" said Eustace, walking across to the old lady as if he had only parted with her the day before, "you don't look a day older."
"Humph! I'm sorry I can't return the compliment" replied Miss Corbin, presenting her withered cheek to be saluted. "Arabia hasn't done you much good, at all events."
"You're as candid as ever, I see," said Gartney carelessly, turning to Minnie. "I hope you are well, Miss Pelch."
"Oh quite, thank you, dear Mr. Gartney," answered Minnie, in a state of fluttering excitement. "I'm so delighted to see you back."
"So kind of you," murmured Eustace, taking a seat in the chair Minnie pushed forward for him. "Well, Aunt Jelly, and how has the world been using you?"
"The same as I've been using it," retorted Miss Jelly epigrammatically. "I keep the world at its distance."
"Like oil paintings. They always look best at a distance, you know."
"Don't talk books to me," said the old lady, "I've had quite enough of your smart sayings in this," touching the volume on her lap.
"So I see! I told my publishers to send you a copy. I hope you like it."
"I do very, very much," cried Minnie clasping her hands, "it's simply too lovely for anything."
"The critics don't think so," said Aunt Jelly spitefully.
"And I suppose you agree with the critics," replied Eustace.
"Did you hear me say so?" demanded his aunt fiercely.
"No but----"
"Then don't cry out till you are hurt. Take a glass of wine--Minnie, the wine."
Miss Pelch poured out the wine with trembling hand, so excited she was at the presence of the great author, and Eustace, knowing his aunt's determination on the subject of port, drank it meekly although it was a wine he hated.
"The book," said Miss Corbin, after a pause, "is not at all bad. I daresay there are a good many lies in it, still they're decently told lies. You've improved this time, Eustace."
"Thank you, my dear aunt, I'm glad to have your good opinion, but the critics----"
"Critics," snorted Aunt Jelly scornfully, "do you mean those idiots that scribble for the papers and who would abuse their parents for two pence three farthings? Pooh! I don't call those critics. In the palmy days of theQuarterly Reviewthere were decent reviewers, but now--rubbish! they write nothing but drivel, though to be sure it's drivel they criticise. I'm not talking about your book, Eustace, my dear. It's good!--very good, and I wouldn't say so if I didn't think so."
"No, I'm sure you wouldn't," replied Eustace meekly. "And how are things, aunt?"
"What kind of things, child? Be more explicit."
"Well, my cousin Errington, is he all right?"
"Humph! right enough."
"And his wife?"
"She's a fool," remarked Aunt Jelly politely, at which Eustace felt quite indignant.
"I don't think so."
"What do you know about it?" retorted the old lady sharply. "I tell you she is a fool. Guy was up to see me the other day."
"Well, you can hardly expect me to believe that Guy spoke like that to you about his wife.
"Who said he did, you blind bat? Don't jump to conclusions, Eustace, for you're not clever enough to land at them."
"Well, tell me why you speak of Lady Errington like this"
"I take my own time and own way of telling things," replied Miss Jelly deliberately. "Minnie, my dear, go upstairs and look for your poetry, I daresay Mr. Gartney will glance at it before he goes."
Minnie had her precious manuscript in her pocket, but knowing from Miss Corbin's hint that she wanted to discuss private affairs with her nephew, meekly retreated from the room, closing the door quietly after her.
"I don't know what I've done that you should inflict Minnie's poetry on me," said Eustace in an injured tone.
"Pooh, nonsense! don't be selfish. It gives the poor child pleasure to have her milk-and-water rubbish looked at by you. Do a kind action for once in your life, Eustace. I'm sure it's little enough you do for your fellow-creatures."
"They aren't worth it."
"I daresay, but no doubt they make the same remark about you."
"Well, don't bother about my failings, Aunt Jelly," said Eustace impatiently, "tell me about the Erringtons."
"It's just this," observed Miss Jelly, letting her knitting fall on her lap, "you know how fond Guy is of that wife of his, a piece of ice with no more feeling in her than that pair of tongs. Well, since this child was born, she has changed altogether, nothing but love and affection, and the Lord knows what!"
"All the better for Guy, I should say," said Eustace, who knew what was coming.
"All the worse you mean," retorted his aunt. "Bless my soul, I don't mind the woman melting, no one could go on loving such an icicle, but she's melted the wrong way, and every particle of affection she has is given to the child."
"Well that's only natural."
"It's nothing of the sort, sir," objected Aunt Jelly energetically. "Why should a woman love nothing but her child, and take no more notice of her husband than if he was a sign-post? Every woman ought to love her children, certainly, but they owe something to the father of the children as well."
"No doubt! but perhaps Guy exaggerates his wife's neglect."
Aunt Jelly shook her head in a doubtful manner.
"I don't think so," she replied, deliberately, "Guy isn't the man to cry out, unless he's hurt. From what he says, it appears Alizon is always with the child, and the poor lad is left to wander about by himself. Sometimes, she won't even come to meals. Now, that can't possibly be right, can it?"
"No, I suppose not," answered Eustace, after a pause, wondering to himself at finding his prophecy so literally fulfilled, "but, perhaps, the child is ill, and needs care."
"The child is as well as you are," retorted Aunt jelly, snappishly, "though that is not saying much, for you look as if you were sickening for some disease, but in plain words Alizon is neglecting her husband in the most silly manner for the child. If this is the case, how will it end?"
"I'm sure I don't know!"
"You never know anything! Then I'll tell you, they'll learn to do without one another, and that's a bad thing. She'll be all right, because she's got the child, but Guy's got nothing, and he's not the man to put-up with such treatment. If she neglects him, he'll find consolation with some other woman."
"Oh, aunt!"
"I've shocked you, have I?" said the old lady grimly. "Get your nerves better under control, then. I call a spade a spade, and am telling you the truth. If Alizon Errington goes on like this, the first woman that comes along will snap up her husband, and the consequence will be of her own making."
"Well, what's to be done?" demanded Eustace, blankly.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Aunt Jelly, with an air of vexation, resuming her knitting. "I don't want to see the affair end in the Divorce Court, and that's the direction it's going in at present. Guy was up the other day, and told me some long rigmarole about his feelings, so the best thing you can do is to go down to the Hall, and see what you can do."
"I!" cried Eustace, jumping to his feet in a state of agitation. "I can do nothing."
"Take a glass of wine, my dear, take a glass of wine," said Aunt Jelly, sharply. "Your nerves are all crooked. That comes of gadding about the world."
Eustace made no reply to this onslaught, but walked to and fro in silence. He was considerably puzzled how to act in this dilemma, as he had made up his mind not to see Lady Errington, thinking his feelings towards her were too strong for him to keep silence. Curiously enough it never seemed to strike him that as Alizon was neglecting her own husband for the child, it was unlikely she would respond to his passion in any way, seeing that she had neither eyes nor ears for anything save her first-born. Gartney's egotism blinded him on this occasion, as it did on many others, but he felt that he was being forced into a situation, towards the woman he loved, from whence there was no escape. Looking at it in his narrow-minded fashion, it seemed a struggle between love and honour, and he was undecided how to act. All his life, however, he had been accustomed to deny himself nothing, and in this case he carried out his ruling principle of selfishly gratifying himself, so there and then made up his mind to accept Aunt Jelly's mission and go down to Errington Hall.
"Well, Eustace," said Aunt Jelly sharply, quite unaware of the struggle going on in her nephew's mind, "what do you say--will you do a kind action for once in your life?"
Eustace having made up his mind, came slowly back to his elderly relation and resumed his chair.
"I'm sorry you've got such a bad opinion of me, Aunt Jelly," he said coolly, "and I'll have much pleasure in proving you're wrong for once in your life, by going down to Ellington Hall, and having a talk with Guy."
"That's right," replied Miss Corbin, much gratified. "And I suppose you'll have a look at your own place."
"Of course!"
"I thought so, you never did a thing in your life without a double motive," said Aunt Jelly, unjustly. "However, I don't care two straws what you go down for, so long as you try and put things right between those two idiots."
"Kindly opinion you've got of human nature, Aunt."
"No doubt, I have," retorted Miss Jelly, coolly, "but that's human nature's own fault, not mine."
"Do you remember what wise La Rochefoucauld says?" observed Eustace, thoughtfully. "'Many people judge the world as if they were its judges, and not its denizens.' That is true, I think."
"I don't like your cut and dried wisdom, Mr. Quoter-of-old-saws," replied Aunt Jelly, "there's sure to be a flaw in it somewhere."
Eustace laughed and leaned back in his chair.
"You've got an answer for everything, Aunt Jelly! Well, I'll go down to Errington, and do my best, but I'm doubtful of success. It's foolish work meddling between man and wife."
Miss Corbin sniffed in a doubtful manner, and was about to make some bitter reply, when the door opened and Victoria, bright and piquant as ever, entered the room.
"Here I am, Aunt Jelly," she cried gaily, "with not one of your orders forgotten--Mr. Gartney!"
"How do you do, Miss Sheldon?" said that gentleman rising from his seat, "it's some time since we met."
The memory of their ill-concealed enmity at Como, and of the circumstances under which, she had parted from Otterburn, all rushed suddenly into Victoria's mind, and she blushed deeply, but with her usual self-command she suppressed all other signs of emotion, as she held out her hand frankly to Eustace.
"It's eighteen months since we last saw one another," she said, equably, "and since then, judging from your book, you have been leading a delightfully dangerous life."
"More fool he!" muttered Aunt Jelly disdainfully.
"And you, Miss Sheldon," said Eustace, taking no notice of the old lady's ill-nature, "what kind of a life have you been leading?"
Victoria slipped into a chair, and took off her gloves carelessly, though, truth to tell, her heart was beating somewhat rapidly at this meeting.
"Oh, the usual London life!" she replied nonchalantly. "Theatre, Park, Ball, Church--Church, Ball, Park, Theatre. The only change you can get is to reverse them."
"You young girls don't know how to enjoy yourselves in a rational way," said Miss Corbin, politely; "you ought to marry and settle down."
"That's your advice to everyone, Aunt Jelly," retorted Victoria, her cheeks growing hot; "but you have not practised what you now preach."
"Circumstances alter cases, child," returned Aunt Jelly, composedly. "I had my reasons--you, no doubt, would call them ridiculous reasons--but they were good enough for me."
Victoria did not know of the old love romance between her father and this faded beauty, or she would never have spoken as she did; but as Miss Corbin, with a softened look in her eyes, bent over her work, she felt vaguely that this sharp-tongued woman had suffered, and touched the withered hand with a pretty gesture of penitence.
"I suppose you have quite forgotten Como, Miss Sheldon?" said Eustace, remembering his promise to Otterburn, and artfully trying to find out if she still remembered the boy.
"Oh, no! I liked Como very much! The scenery was delightful."
She spoke quietly enough, but Eustace was an acute observer of human nature, and his keen ear caught an inflection of a tremor in her voice which considerably guided him in framing his next remark.
"Yes, the scenery was charming, was it not?" he remarked significantly; "and the friends we met there also. What a pleasant party we were. The Erringtons, Mrs. Trubbles, yourself and--Macjean."
"And what has become of Mr. Macjean?" she asked in a low voice, taking up Aunt Jelly's ball of wool.
"Oh, Otterburn is in London."
"In London!" she echoed, starting violently.
"Dear me, Victoria," said Aunt Jelly, snappishly, "how nervous you are, child! You've upset my wool all over the place."
Victoria, glad of an excuse to hide her face, bent down to pick up the ball, and Aunt Jelly, having caught Otterburn's name, went on talking.
"Otterburn, eh? I know that name. Wasn't that the young man you flirted with at Como, Victoria?"
"I didn't flirt with him," cried Victoria, raising her head defiantly. "At least," she added, catching sight of Gartney's keen eye fixed on her, "at least, not much."
"That's so like you, child," observed Aunt Jelly, disentangling her yarn, "you will play with fire--some day you'll burn your fingers."
"Perhaps that catastrophe has happened already," said Eustace quickly.
Miss Sheldon laughed in a somewhat artificial manner at this remark, and promptly denied it.
"I'm sure it hasn't," she said, looking straight at Eustace with crimson cheeks. "I take too good care of myself for that. But talking about Mr. Macjean, how is it I have not seen him?"
"I don't know I'm sure," replied Gartney carelessly; "he's only been a short time in Town, you know. I wanted him to come here to-day, but he was engaged."
Victoria felt all her old hatred of Eustace revive as he spoke the last words, as she felt sure he was talking sarcastically, and would have liked to reply sharply, but she could hardly do so without betraying an unwonted interest in Otterburn, which might have placed lynx-eyed Aunt Jelly on thequi vive, so wisely held her tongue.
Eustace himself, being satisfied that Victoria still felt an interest in his young friend, inwardly congratulated himself on the result of his diplomacy, and arose to go.
"Goodbye, Aunt Jelly," he said, kissing his relative. "I'll go down home to-morrow and tell you what I've done on my return."
"That's right, Eustace," said Aunt Jelly, much pleased; "have a glass of wine before you go?"
"No, thank you," replied Gartney, walking to the door, "one glass is enough for me."
"Weak head," muttered Aunt Jelly, "just like your father."
"Better than a weak character," retorted Eustace, gaily. "Au revoir, Miss Sheldon. I'll tell Mr. Macjean I've seen you."
"No, don't," said Victoria hastily, then, feeling that she had committed an error, strove to mend it. "I mean yes, of course I'll be very pleased to see Mr. Macjean again."
"I've no doubt you will," muttered Eustace to himself, as he got into his cab; "she's still in love with him, so Otterburn has only to ask and to have."
Mr. Gartney would hardly have been so confident had he seen Victoria at that moment, for she had ran hastily up to her room and was lying on her bed in a passion of tears.
"He wouldn't come and see me, I suppose," she said viciously. "Oh, very well, I'll punish him for this. He's forgotten all about me, but I'll make him propose again if it's only for the pleasure of refusing him."
"Curs'd by Superstition eerie,Grim it stands a ruin dreary,Round it spread the marshes lonely,Haunted by dim shadows only,Shadows of an evil seeming,Such as rise in ghastly dreaming,Overhead the sky of crimson,Reddens slowly from the dim sun,Silently the sluggish watersUndermine the tower which totters,And the ocean's sullen boom,Prophesies the coming doom,When the house shall sudden sink,Shattered o'er destruction's brink,And the dark night's gloomy pallEvermore brood over all."
"Curs'd by Superstition eerie,Grim it stands a ruin dreary,Round it spread the marshes lonely,Haunted by dim shadows only,Shadows of an evil seeming,Such as rise in ghastly dreaming,Overhead the sky of crimson,Reddens slowly from the dim sun,Silently the sluggish watersUndermine the tower which totters,And the ocean's sullen boom,Prophesies the coming doom,When the house shall sudden sink,Shattered o'er destruction's brink,And the dark night's gloomy pallEvermore brood over all."
Eustace, with his whimsical fancy for bestowing appropriate names on all things, had christened his ancestral residence Castle Grim, and he certainly could not have hit upon a happier title for such a dreary place.
Standing on the verge of wide-spreading marshes, it faced towards the sea, which was only a little distance away, and the salt winds from the ocean roared day and night round the lonely house. For it was lonely, no habitation being within miles, owing to the malaria which arose from the marshes making the whole neighbourhood unhealthy to live in. Gartney had another residence, much more comfortable, situated in the midland shires, but, with his usual fantastic nature, preferred when staying in the country to inhabit this semi-ruinous mansion.
Whoever built it must have been fond of solitude, and much given to self-communings of a dreary nature, for certainly no one with a healthy mind could have found pleasure in contemplating the melancholy stretches of the marshes and in hearkening to the sullen roar of the surges breaking on the sandy shore. Few of the Gartney family had stayed in it since its erection, and it was reserved for Eustace, in whom the melancholy nature of some far-off ancestor was revived, to make it a habitable residence.
Perhaps the weirdness of the place had a fascination for his poet nature, or the dismal fenlands pleased his distorted imagination, but at all events, Eustace was rarely in England without paying a visit to Castle Grim, and staying there a few days, before his departure to distant lands.
Other people not being so fond of this awesome place, Gartney could get no ordinary servants to stay in it, and consequently it was left to the care of an aged pair, man and wife, who did not mind where they lived so long as they had a roof to cover them, food to eat, and a chance of earning a decent income. They looked after the crazy old place thoroughly, and when their master paid it a visit contrived to make him pretty comfortable considering all things. But as a rule, they lived a Robinson Crusoe-like life, seeing no one from week's end to week's end, save when they went into Denfield for provisions.
Mr. and Mrs. Javelrack, the guardians of this unpleasant mansion, had received a telegram from its owner, telling them that he was coming, and consequently the male Javelrack had driven to the Denfield Station for his master, while the female Javelrack set the rooms in order and prepared a meal for Mr. Gartney.
Eustace had not brought his valet to Castle Grim, as that worthy would immediately have given notice had he been asked to stay in such a nerve-shaking place. So he drove away from the station slowly in the dog-cart with his quaint old retainer beside him, and his portmanteau behind.
It was a very decent dog-cart taking it all round, and the horse in the shafts was not by any means a bad specimen of his kind, as Gartney allowed the Javelracks a decent sum yearly to keep up the place, and they made amends for their lonely life by surrounding themselves with all the luxuries they were able. Report said they were misers, and perhaps there was some truth in the rumour, but whenever Eustace came down, he always found things in order, so he never troubled his head to ascertain what proportion of the income he allowed they had spent on the place, or what portion they stowed away in odd corners. Indeed, if he had found that these two old servants were spending as little as they could without being found out, and putting the rest by for a rainy day, he would not have been particularly annoyed, for they were only within their rights in having some pleasure in Castle Grim.
Eustace wrapped himself well up in his ulster, for the winds blew very keenly across the marshes, and as the horse was restive, they soon left the village behind and were moving rapidly across the straight road which stretched a narrow white thread until it vanished on the verge of the horizon. The gables of Errington Hall showed whitely above the sombre woods around it, but after a rapid glance at the roof which covered the woman he loved, Gartney shook the reins impatiently to make the horse go faster, and stared resolutely at the red glare of the sky lowering over the wild waste landscape.
"I'll see her to-morrow," he thought, as the hoofs of the horse beat steadily on the hard white road, "and then I can see for myself how things stand between her and Guy."
Some long sombre clouds lowered heavily over the crimson of the horizon as if Night, like some dark-winged bird, was waiting to settle down on the chill earth, and a keen cold wind, blowing sharply from the distant ocean, brought the salt odours of the sea to their nostrils.
Javelrack, his huge form bowed by age and rheumatism caught from the marsh mists, sat grimly silent beside his master with his large, hairy, brown hands clasped on his lap, and his mahogany-coloured face with its wiry black beard, so screwed up with facing the cutting wind, that under his weather-stained brown hat he looked like a fantastic Chinese idol. Eustace, wrapped up in his own thoughts, paid no attention to his silent companion, but, bowing his head against the blast, indulged in visions of Alizon Errington.
A dreary country, with the wide spreading marshes stretching on either side for miles, and the long straight road running through the heart of the swamp. Sluggish, slimy pools of oily stillness, fringes of stately reeds swaying to and fro in the blast, smooth patches of green grass, pleasing to the eye but treacherous to the unwary foot. Here and there a broken-down fence, deeply implanted in weeds of luxuriant growth, bordering deep ditches of black earth filled with stagnant water, on which floated green slime, rows of depressed-looking willows, and on occasions the gaunt stump of a tree sticking up as if to mark the site of a submerged forest.
Then suddenly against the dull red of the sky a misshapen pile of gables and chimneys on the verge of a slight rise, girdled by a gaunt ring of leafless trees. Beyond, heaps of wind-blown sand covered with sparse vegetation standing as a barrier between the marshes and the ocean, which tossed in waves of blood under the evil red sky as it moaned in a querulous voice on the starved-looking strip of sandy beach. And this was Castle Grim.
Eustace stopped the tired horse at the door of the house (or rather the horse stopped of its own accord), and giving the reins to Javelrack, jumped down. At the door he was met by Mrs. Javelrack, large and gaunt as her husband, with the same embrowned face and the same distorted features, suggestive of Chinese deities. Indeed, as the male Javelrack took the portmanteau into the house and stood by his wife, they looked like two ogres inhabiting Castle Grim, who were prepared to make a meal of Eustace as soon as he was safely within the walls.
The male ogre, however, took his master's portmanteau into his bedroom, and then coming out again, took the dog-cart round to the stables, while Mrs. Javelrack, her face twisted into a hideous grin meant for a smile, brought hot water for the weary traveller.
"Don't be long with the dinner, Mrs. Javelrack," called Eustace as she closed the door.
"No sir," croaked Mrs. Javelrack in a hoarse voice, as if she had been a frog out of the marsh, "it 'ull be ready as soon as you, sir."
Mr. Gartney washed himself in the warm water, which took away the smarting feeling in his face caused by the keen salt wind, and having changed his clothes sauntered into the one habitable room of the place, which did for dining-room, drawing-room, and music-room, for Eustace had sent down a very good piano, which stood in one corner.
"Humph! rather spoilt by the damp," he said to himself; as he ran his lithe fingers over the keys, "or perhaps the amiable Mrs. Javelrack has been trying to cultivate music."
The ogress brought in the dinner and waited on Eustace in a ponderous manner, giving him all the news of the neighbourhood, which was remarkably scant, and talked all through the meal in a subdued roar. When Eustace had finished, she removed the dishes, brought in some coffee, and, after making up the fire, retired to the kitchen and the company of Mr. Javelrack. Gartney heard them chatting even through the thick walls, for the dampness of the marshes had made them both somewhat deaf, and consequently they shouted so loudly at one another, that it was difficult at times to tell whether it was the ocean roaring or the ogres conversing.
It was a very comfortable room, having been furnished by Eustace according to his own ideas, and the walls, instead of being papered, were hung with dull red cloth after the fashion of tapestry, which waved at intervals as the searching winds crept in shrilly through crack and cranny. A wide fireplace in which blazed a large coal fire between the grotesque brass dogs, several comfortable arm-chairs, and on one side, a small book-case containing a selection of Gartney's favourite authors. At the distant end of the room a grand piano, with the music piled neatly beside it, a cumbersome, old-fashioned sofa, and a deep, square window with diamond panes, and a quaint oaken seat set in its depths.
Eustace drew an arm-chair close to the fire and near to the small table upon which Mrs. Javelrack had placed his coffee, produced his pipe, and was soon puffing away in a most comfortable manner. He picked up a slim volume of poems entitled "Rose dreamings," and turned over the pages listlessly as he sipped his coffee, feeling a drowsy sensation steal over him. A verse in the poem called "Temptation," however, roused him from this lethargic state, and throwing down the book, he paced restlessly up and down the room repeating the four lines quietly to himself: