Kitabı oku: «Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3)», sayfa 2
CHAPTER XXXIV
A TELEGRAM FROM THE MAIL
When the men found themselves alone and somewhat calmed down after the excitement caused by Mrs. Davenport's astonishing announcement, Mr. Paulton and Jerry discussed the proposed step with great minuteness and intelligence, while Alfred sat mute and listless. He pleaded the necessity of his going to bed early on account of to-morrow's journey. In the course of the discussion between the two elder men, Jerry held that if she did take to the stage, she would make one of the most startling successes of the time.
"She has beauty enough," he said, "to make men fools, and fire enough to make them lunatics. What a Lady Macbeth she would be!"
Mr. Paulton was anything but a fogey. He did not forget that he had been once young, nor did he forget that, when young, a pretty face and a fine figure had seemed extremely bewitching things. He was liberal in all his views, except in the matter of betting. To that vice he would give no quarter whatever. He never once sought to restrain his son's reading, and Alfred had a latchkey almost as soon as he was tall enough to reach the keyhole. Although he did not smoke himself, he saw no objection to others, his son included, smoking in suitable places, and with moderation. He did not exclude shilling whist from his code, although he never played. He rarely went out after dinner now, but when he made his mind up to move, he did not think there was anything unbecoming in his visiting a theatre-the front of a theatre, mind you, sir. He supposed and believed there were many excellent men behind the scenes, and he did not feel himself called upon to say that the majority of the ladies were not all that could be desired; but-ah, well, he would be very sorry-it would, in fact, break his heart if either of his daughters-Madge, for instance-went upon the stage.
With the latter part of this somewhat long-winded speech Jerry heartily concurred. He felt furious and full of strength when he fancied Madge behind the curtain, subjected to dictation and uncongenial associations, not to speak of anything more disagreeable still. There were nasty draughts and nasty smells, and nasty ropes and nasty dust, and sometimes the carefully-attuned ear might catch a nasty word. It was blasphemy to think of Madge in such an atmosphere, amid such surroundings. And then fancy any "young man" of fifty-six putting his arm round Madge, and administering even a stage kiss to his darling! The thing was preposterous, and not to be entertained by any sane mind.
Coffee was sent into the dining-room, and the whole household retired early.
Alfred's reflections that night were the reverse of pleasant. He had that day seen the woman he loved. She had come before his eyes as unsought as the flowery pageant of summer. She had filled his heart with tropical heat, had set fancy dancing in his head, and restored strength and vigour to his invalid body. He had, before the moment his eyes rested on her that day, been satisfied with the hope of seeing her in weeks, months. She had come voluntarily, no doubt, without special thought of him, to their home; she had once more accepted their hospitality, and he and O'Brien were to accompany her to Ireland. They would not travel together, but he should know she was near-know she was in the same train, in the same steamboat; they should meet frequently on the journey, and, crowning thought of all, they had one common destination!
He had that day spent some delicious minutes in her company. While she was by he had forgotten his late illness, his present weakness. The immediate moment had been filled with incommunicable joy, and the future with splendid happiness.
What had befallen all this dream of enchantment? Ruin-ruin complete and irreparable! She was, owing to some secret and mysterious cause or other, no longer rich. In her own estimation she was a pauper. That was little. If that was all, it could be borne with a smile-nay, with gratitude; for riches would act as a lure to other men, and he wanted only herself and, if it might come in time, her love.
She had determined to go upon the stage. That was bad-entirely bad; but if this evil resolve stood alone, it might be combated. If she had determined merely with herself to follow the profession of an actress, she might be persuaded to abandon her design. But the unfortunate course she had made up her mind to follow had been suggested by Blake, by an old lover who years ago was dear to her, and now was absolute in her counsels. This put an end to every hope that she could ever be his.
Oh, weary day, and wearier night!
If he could, he would back out of going to Ireland; but that was now impossible. Under the pressure of his great joy, he had told O'Brien of his love for Mrs. Davenport, and all arrangements had, at his request, been made for their setting off to-morrow. She must go to-morrow. While there is life there is hope. He was hoping against hope; but accidents did happen in many cases, and might happen in this one. No man was bound to despair; in fact, despair was cowardly and unmanly. It was the duty of every man to hope, and he would hope. He would go to Ireland to-morrow; he would put his chance against Blake's. If this disappointment were to kill him or drive him mad, he might as well enjoy the pleasure of being near her until his health or mind gave way finally.
When he came to this decision he fell asleep.
Next day broke chill and dismal, and none of the folk at Carlingford House seemed lively except Edith. Mrs. Paulton was depressed because her only son was going away from home and into a country of which she had a vague and unfavourable notion. O'Brien was sulky at the thought of being torn from the side of Madge, now that he might talk freely to her of love and their prospects, and the brutal Commissioners. Mrs. Davenport was depressed by a variety of circumstances and considerations, and Alfred had much to make him anything but cheerful. Mr. Paulton's seriousness-that was the strongest word which could fairly be applied to his humour-was due to the dulness of the weather, and a depreciation in the value of some shares held by him.
During the day each of the travellers was more or less busy with preparations. Mrs. Davenport had to go to town early in order to transact business she had neglected the day before. Alfred stayed mostly in his room, and O'Brien, far from sweet-tempered, managed, through the unsought contrivance of Edith, to be a whole hour alone with Madge.
"You know," he said to her, when preliminaries had been disposed of, "it's a beastly nuisance to have to go away from you now. I'd much rather stop, I assure you."
"You are very kind."
"Don't be satirical, Madge. No woman ever yet showed to advantage when satirical. I say it's a great shame to have to go away, particularly when it's only to save appearances; for now that Blake has once more come on the scene, all is up with poor Alfred. Upon my word, Madge, I pity him."
"Do you like her, Jerry?"
"No. I like you. I like you very much. You're not a humbug."
"Is she?"
"No. But she's too awfully serious. I cannot help thinking she ought to do everything to the slow music of kettledrums."
"Why kettle-drums?"
"I don't know. I suppose it's because the concerted kettle-drum is the most bald and arid form of harmonious row. I'm afraid my language is neither select nor expressive. But one can't help one's feelings-particularly when one's feelings make one like you. I really am sorry to have to leave you."
"But you mustn't blame me for that."
"Now you are quite unreasonable. You must know that a man without a grievance is as insipid as a woman without vanity."
"Jerry, I'm not a bit vain; I never was a bit vain. What could I be vain about?"
"Ungrateful girl! Have I not laid my hand and fortune, including the bodies of the murdered Commissioners, at your feet?"
"You are silly, Jerry."
"How am I silly? In having laid my hand and fortune and the bodies-"
"No. In talking such nonsense."
"And you are not vain of having made a conquest of me?"
"Jerry, I'm very fond of you, and I don't like you to talk to me as if you thought I was only a silly girl whom you were trying to amuse with any silly things you could think of. I hope you don't believe I'm a fool?"
"No. You are right, Madge: it's a poor compliment for a man to talk mere tattle to his sweetheart. I wonder, darling, if you would give me a keepsake, now that I am going away?"
"No. I have no faith in keepsakes. I would not take any keepsake from you, because I shall need nothing to remind me of you when you are away."
"Darling, nor I of you. And if things go wrong with me?"
"They can't go wrong with you."
"I mean if I come off worse in these business affairs."
"That will not make any difference in you."
"No. Nor in you, darling?"
"No."
He held her in his arms a while, and said no more. Thus they parted.
It had been arranged that the two men should meet Mrs. Davenport at Euston. They were on the platform when she arrived. To their surprise she was not alone: Blake accompanied her. As soon as they came forward he shook hands with her, raised his hat, and retired.
O'Brien and Paulton were greatly taken aback by Blake's presence. They busied themselves about her luggage, and then took seats in the same compartment with her. They were the only passengers in the compartment.
As soon as the train was in motion she leaned forward to O'Brien, and said in a clear, distinct voice, the edge of which was not dulled by the rumble of the wheels:
"You arrived the day before yesterday from Ireland?"
"Yes," he answered, bending forward and looking into her inscrutable eyes.
"You have been at Kilcash?"
"Yes. I was there for about a month."
"Did you hear a ghost story there?"
He started and looked seriously at her.
"Yes, I did. May I ask if you have heard anything about it?"
"Yes. When I got back to Jermyn Street where I stayed, I found a letter there telling me that a ghost, the ghost of a man named Michael Fahey, had been seen in the neighbourhood of Kilcash."
"At the Black Rock. I was going to tell the story yesterday at dinner, but it slipped by."
"Do you know anything of this-apparition?"
"I saw it myself, and two others saw it."
"Where do we stop first?"
"At Rugby."
She took a note-book from her pocket, and wrote something in it. When the writing was finished, she tore out the leaf on which it was, and handed the leaf to O'Brien, saying:
"Will you be kind enough to telegraph this from Rugby for me?"
"It will have to be written on a form," he said, hesitatingly.
"Will you oblige by writing it on a form for me? There is no reason why you shouldn't read it."
When he got out at Rugby he read the message. It was addressed to Blake, and ran:
"Mr. O'Brien saw what I told you. Follow me to Ireland at once."
CHAPTER XXXV
THE TRAVELLERS
It was impossible for O'Brien to tell Alfred the nature of the telegram he had just despatched to Blake. It would not be seemly to whisper or to write, and to leave the compartment with the proclaimed intention of seeking a smoking carriage would be a transparent device. There was nothing for it but to sit still and keep silent.
The three travellers settled themselves in their corners, and pretended to go to sleep. Each had thoughts of an absorbing nature, but none had anything exceptionally happy with which to beguile the dreary midnight journey. It was impossible to see if Mrs. Davenport slept or not. She had, upon settling herself after leaving Rugby, pulled down her thick veil over her face, and remained quite motionless. Young Paulton was not yet as strong as he imagined, and the monotonous sound and motion soon fatigued him, and he fell asleep.
Although O'Brien kept his eyes resolutely shut he never felt more wakeful in his life.
What on earth could this woman want with this man of most blemished reputation and desperate fortune? She had seen him lately, and he had told her something of the mysterious appearance near the Puffing Hole; but it was not until after they had started from Euston that she had made up her mind to summon him to Ireland. What could she want him for? She was, according to her own statement, now no longer rich. She was no longer young. The best years of her beauty had passed away. No doubt she was still an extremely beautiful woman, but the freshness was gone. As far as he knew, Blake was the last man in the world to marry such a woman. And yet there was some secret bond, some concealed link between them. He was not unjust to her. He did not believe she would inveigle any man into a marriage, and he could not understand why this Blake was now even tolerable to her.
However matters might go, it looked as if Alfred were certain to suffer. It was quite plain he was madly in love with her, and that she did not see, or was indifferent to his passion. She was not a coquette. She showed no desire to claim indulgence because of her sex or sorrows, and certainly exacted no privilege as a tribute to her beauty. To him she seemed hard, mechanical, cold. She had, it is true, broken down the day before, but that was under extreme pressure. Usually she was as unsympathetic, self-contained as bronze.
Jerry was not a fool or a bigot, and he allowed to himself, with perfect candour, that although he looked on Alfred's passion as infatuation, he could understand it. He himself was no more in love with her than with the black night through which they were speeding; but if she, at that moment, raised her veil and stood before him and bade him undertake something unpleasant-nay, dangerous-he would essay it. Strength gives command to a man, beauty to a woman, love to either.
At Chester the three got coffee, and once more took up their corners and affected to sleep or slept.
When they reached the boat at Holyhead, Mrs. Davenport said good-night and descended to the ladies' cabin. The two friends got on the bridge, and as soon as the steamer had started O'Brien took Paulton to the weather bulwark, and told him the substance of the telegram Mrs. Davenport had sent to London.
To O'Brien's astonishment, the younger man made nothing of the matter. It was simply a business affair, he said: nothing of any moment. From all they had heard, Blake knew more than they had supposed of the dead man's affairs; and now that Mrs. Davenport had resolved not to take the fortune her husband had left her, it was almost certain Blake could be of assistance to her.
After a little while it was agreed that the bridge was too cold for Alfred, so both men went below and lay down. O'Brien fell asleep, and did not awake until he was called close to Kingstown.
It was a dreary, cold, bleak morning, with thin sunlight. There had been rain in the night, and everything looked chill and depressing. The passage had been smooth, and none of the three had suffered by it beyond the spiritless depression arising from imperfect rest and fatigue.
When they alighted at Westland Row, Jerry suggested that they should send on their luggage to the King's Bridge terminus, and seek breakfast.
"Not my luggage," said Mrs. Davenport; "I am not going to Kilcash to-day. Kindly get me a cab. I will stay at the 'Tourists' Hotel.' I have telegraphed, as you know, to Mr. Blake to come over, and will send him word to meet me there. I am extremely obliged to both of you for all your kindnesses on the way."
Alfred started, and Jerry looked surprised.
"You are," the latter said, "quite sure you prefer staying here. Of course I do not presume to interfere; but perhaps it might be more convenient for you, Mrs. Davenport, if Mr. Blake followed you to Kilcash?"
"I am quite sure," she said, decisively, "that it would be best for me to stay in Dublin for the present."
"If you simply wanted rest, we could wait for you a day or two," said Alfred, out of whose face all look of animation had gone.
"Thank you, I am not in the least tired; and if you will get me a cab, and tell the man to drive me to the 'Tourists', you will greatly oblige me."
Nothing more was to be done or said. Her luggage was put on a cab, she again thanked the two friends, and saying she hoped to have an opportunity of soon seeing them at Kilcash House, said goodbye to them, and drove away.
Alfred and Jerry O'Brien got breakfast, drove to the King's Bridge terminus, and started for the South in no very good humour.
"It's always the way," thought the latter, despondingly. "Only for the infernal Commissioners and O'Hanlon's craze about his brain-bless the mark! – I need not have left London last month. Only for Alfred's infatuated impatience and his father's vicarious gallantry, I might be there now; and here are the Commissioners gone to sleep, O'Hanlon's head good for nothing, any number of future bills of costs, and we deserted by the object of young love and elderly gallantry! Upon my word, it's too bad. If O'Hanlon had only had the good sense to murder the Commissioners while suffering from temporary or permanent insanity, and Blake owned the good taste to run away with the widow-why, then, things would be wholesome and comfortable. As it is, they are simply-beastly."
The two friends arrived late that night at the "Strand Hotel," Kilcash, and went to bed almost immediately. Neither rose early next morning, but when they did get up, they found the weather magically improved. A few high silver clouds floated against the deep blue screen of sky, beyond which one knew the stars lay; for the grass and bare branches of trees flashed and blazed, not with the yellow light of the gaudy sun, but with rays that seemed glorious memories of midnight stars. The sea in the bay was calm as a lake, and joined upon the level margin of the sand smoothly, like a steady white flame spreading out from a dull-red lake of fire. The doors of the cottages were open, and people were abroad. Thin wreaths of smoke went up from hushed hearths. Hundreds of gulls sailed slowly up and down across the mouth of the bay. Now a dog barked, now a cock crew, now a wild bird whistled.
Opposite Alfred, as he stood at his window, drinking in the peace of the scene, rose the sloping sides of the bay. On them were sheep grazing. Here the salt blasts from the Atlantic would let no wheat or oats, or grain of any other kind, prosper. Nothing would grow but short, poor grass, on which sheep picked up an humble livelihood. The harvest fields of Kilcash were beyond the bay, out there on the blue depths of the ocean, that great cosmopolitan common of the races of man.
Little labour was ever to be done in Kilcash. Its farms, its workshops, its mines were in the sea. No child, until he himself went to sea, ever saw his father work. The men came home not merely to their houses, but to the village to rest. When they had hauled up their boats, and carried away the nets and sails and oars and masts, their labours were at an end. The women bore the fish up to the Storm Wall, whence it was thrown into carts and creels, and driven off to Kilbarry. The visitors who came to the place in summer did not work. They came avowedly to do nothing-to idle through the sunny weather, to play at fishing, play at boating, play at swimming, to make grave business of doing nothing.
"I feel it doing me good already," said Alfred, as he threw up the window and spread his chest broad to take a full inspiration of the invigorating, balsamic air.
After a late breakfast the two friends strolled out.
"What shall we do to-day?" said Jerry, lighting a cigar.
"What is there to be done?" asked Alfred, by way of reply.
"Nothing," answered Jerry, throwing away the match-"absolutely nothing. It is because there is nothing to be done here I thought the place would do you good."
"Not by way of change?" said Alfred, with a smile.
"Well, doing nothing at Kilcash is very different from doing nothing in London. There you get up, eat breakfast, look at the morning papers, yawn over a book; write three notes to say you have no time to write a letter; wonder what the earlier portion of the day was intended for; resolve to go to bed early that night so as to find out the secret; dress; go out nowhere, anywhere; make a call on a person whom you don't want to see, and who doesn't want to see you; curse yourself for being so stupid as to look him up, and him for being so stupid as not to amuse you; buy a hairbrush you don't want; wonder where people can be going in hansoms at such an hour, and can't find out for the life of you where you could go in a hansom at that time, except to the British Museum, or Tower, or National Gallery, or some other place no respectable person ever yet went to; drop into a club for luncheon, and find that no one you ever saw before lunches at the club, and that those who do are intensely disagreeable; stroll into the park; pick up two dear old boys, who have been looking for you everywhere to tell you about something or other that makes you swear; back to the club to dinner, where you meet every man you care for, and dine; after dinner go somewhere or other-to Brown's, for instance, or to the theatre, or to see the performing Mastodon; afterwards cards or billiards, and bed at half-past two or three."
"That's rather a full and exhausting programme for an idle day. It isn't much good here. What do you do here a day you do nothing?"
"Nothing. Whether it's a busy or an idle day with you here, you can't do anything, except you get books and go in for the exact sciences. You couldn't buy a morning paper here for a sovereign, or a pack of cards for a hundred pounds. The hotel does not take in a paper at this time of the year, and only three come to the village-one each to the clergymen, and one to the police barracks. The garrison of the barracks is six men and a bull-terrier. There's no one to look at here, and no one to call on, except the echoes, which at this time of the year are uncommonly surly, not to say scurrilous. There is no fish, as the fish have all gone away on business; they come here only to stare at the summer visitors. The only thing one can do here is smoke-provided you don't buy the tobacco in the village."
"And walk?" asked Alfred. "Cannot one walk here?"
"Yes, mostly. Not always, though; for when it rains here you have to swim, and when it blows here, you have to fly."
"But to-day, for instance, we can walk."
O'Brien looked aloft, looked down in the light wind, and then out to sea.
"Yes, I think it will keep fine."
"Well, then, let us walk."
"But I forgot to tell you there is no place to walk to."
"Oh, yes, there is. I know more of the neighbourhood than you, short a time as I have been here."
"Where?"
"Kilcash House. Jerry, don't laugh or don't abuse me. I can't help it. Let me see where she lived-where she will live again."
