Kitabı oku: «The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance», sayfa 15
He called a passing hansom and got in. In the old days he always thought a good many times before he took a cab. In fact he thought so often that he rarely took one. He got out at London Bridge and took the boat to Greenwich.
He took a seat and looked at the motley crowd around him. He sat between a private soldier and a young girl who looked like a poor milliner. Opposite him was a working-man, with a short clay pipe in his mouth, fast asleep. Forward of the sleeping man was a comely matron, with a rosy child at her side; and aft of the sleeping man was a nondescript long-shore man, half clerk, half tout, whole rogue.
What should he do when he reached Greenwich? Get something to eat at The Ship? Ay, that would be very good. The fresh air of the river cooled him, and he felt the gratifying assurance that when he got to The Ship he should be in a condition to dispose of a nice little dinner in a thoroughly workmanlike manner.
Was this the first time a duke had gone from London Bridge to Greenwich on the fore-deck of a steamboat? (He was smoking still; and no smoking is "allowed abaft the funnel.") He thought it most likely. Would this poor young milliner rather sit beside him or beside that fine young soldier? And what would that poor young milliner think if she knew she was sitting by the side of a real duke, who had a great desire to put his arm round the owner of that pallid face and limp figure, and support her in a fatherly way until they came to their journey's end?
"Will you allow me to offer you a cigar?" said the Duke to the soldier.
"Very much obliged to you, I'm sure, sir," said the soldier, taking one.
"Are you stationed down the river? A light? Here, strike it on the box."
"Thank you. No, sir. I am not stationed down the river. I am going down to see some friends at Greenwich."
"Lady friends, I have no doubt?" said the Duke, with a good-natured smile. The soldier was a fine honest-looking young fellow, and it pleased the Duke to think he had a sweetheart down at Greenwich, who would be glad to see him when he got there, as May was glad to see another person when that person got to Tenby Terrace.
"It's my mother and sister, sir. My mother is sixty-five years of age."
"Ah!" said the Duke, thinking of the poor, young, helpless, deserted mother who bore himself, and who died in an alien land years and years ago.
"Yes, sir. She's an old woman, and I'm going down to see her, and I don't count on seeing her. My sister writes to say the doctor says she can't hold out another few days."
"I am sorry to hear that, I am indeed. And do you think there is no hope?"
"There is no hope, sir. She has been bad a long time, and the doctor said all along she'd never be up and about again."
"Poor old soul!" said the Duke sympathetically. "Now," thought he, "the thing is, would this young soldier resent my offering him a present of a fiver? I am afraid he would. He looks as if he were a lad of the right sort, and I must not even run the chance of offending him. No, no; I mustn't offer him money." He paused awhile in thought, and then spoke:
"By-the-way, did you ever hear of a society called the Soldiers' Kith and Kin Society?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it is a very good society. I would strongly recommend you to join it. You're a young man, and you ought to be a member of it. I am connected with it, and if you will be so kind as to give me your name and the name of where you are quartered, I'll send you some information about the society, and then you can make up your mind about joining it or not."
The young soldier pulled his sister's letter out of the bosom of his jacket, and handed the envelope to the Duke.
"That's where I am quartered; and if you please to send the thing there, I'll get it."
The Duke thrust the envelope into his waistcoat-pocket, and soon afterwards he shook hands with the young soldier on Greenwich pier. He walked into The Ship and ordered dinner. While he was waiting he asked for the means of writing a letter. Having copied the name and address on the envelope the young soldier had given him, he wrote on a sheet of paper: "From the Soldiers' Kith and Kin Society," folded two five-pound notes into the sheet of paper, closed up and stamped the envelope, and on his way back stopped his cab at a post-office and dropped the letter in.
CHAPTER VI.
A SUPPER WITHOUT A HOST
The Duke had been quite right about his appetite. He could have contented himself with a steak, but now he might as well have a nice little dinner, and play with it for an hour or so. He had fricasseed sole, roast lamb, duck and green peas, and cheese fondu. He had a pint bottle of sound claret, and maraschino to finish with; and all the time there was the freshness from the river streaming through the window, and the soft beat of paddle-wheels and the swirl of cool waters at the prows of steamers and of barges.
Yes, this was much better than working seven, eight, or ten hours a day in the top of that dull house in Long Acre, where the smell of varnish, turpentine, and shavings of the factory blended not pleasantly with the dull damp odour native to the street outside. And of those ten hours a day what had come? On an average not more than a dozen shillings a day. A dozen shillings a day! Fancy a dozen shillings a day for all that work-all that plotting and planning, and weighing and considering; and then the hateful slavery of having to bend over a desk until he grew sick of pens, ink, and paper, as a prisoner grows sick of his cell! And then, after the weary writing, the reading over, and scoring out and writing in. After this came the proofs, and after the proofs came the printed and published sheet, and the two blunders or infelicities on each page, or the five in each column, which had after all escaped him! Oh, it was a cruel life now to look back upon; but he had not felt it to be so at the time.
Now here he was, at the pleasant open window. He had had an excellent simple little dinner, and he was smoking a cigar which cost as much as all the bird's-eye he had used in a week of the old time! Every day he could do what he liked, go where he liked, buy what he liked. In a few days, as soon as the novelty had worn off May, he should make her go with him everywhere in the neighbourhood of London. He should map out the little trips they should take. She should travel in the softest of carriages, and taste the daintiest fare, and see the fairest sights. It would be so good to lean back and watch the delight in her bright face, as she came upon some beauty of wood or glen or river! It would be such a happiness to him to see her resting on the most luxurious cushions art could devise! It would be so good to see the servants at every place they stopped eager to anticipate her lightest wish! It would be delightful!
And now he should not abandon writing altogether. Of course he should never run a story in any of the papers again. But he would write a novel in time. He need be in no hurry about it. He would have excellent opportunities of going about and picking up local colour and character. As far as he knew, no English duke had ever written a novel. It would be a novelty to find three volumes at Mudie's and Smith's by the Duke of Shropshire. There would be an enormous demand for it.
Fortunately he had not sold the copyright of anything he had written, so that no one could now advertise a book of his without his consent. He had sold the three-volume right of "The Duke of Fenwick" to Blantyre and Ferguson; but they had no power to put "by the Duke of Shropshire" on the title-page; and even though all the world and his wife knew "Charles Augustus Cheyne," author of "The Duke of Fenwick," was now Duke of Shropshire, the effect was not nearly so striking as if the page showed the title he now bore.
Ah, it was pleasant to be rich at last! He had often dreamed and written of great riches, but never of such a colossal fortune as he now owned. He was not crushed by it, and yet he felt he should have great difficulty in disposing of his revenue. There were, of course, four or five houses to keep in order and readiness; and there were subscriptions and donations to be paid, as a matter of routine. But after this had all been done scarcely any impression had been created on the enormous income. He had no taste for horses or gambling, but he supposed it would be necessary for him to rely on some such means for spending his money.
The seventh Duke had managed to get through his income, but it was by means which the ninth would not follow. He did not believe in keeping up five or six huge establishments, as though a great noble lived in each, and for no other reason than that they might be lent to friends. He was safe from the temptation of lending his houses to any of his old friends, for not one of all the people he knew could afford the mere tips to the servants.
Anyway, it was a very pleasant thing to sit there at ease, smoking the very best cigar, looking at the broad river, and knowing that one's pockets were full of money, and that the moment these pockets were empty they might be filled again and again and again as often as one liked.
A cab was called for him, and he drove the whole way to Long Acre. It was dusk as he came, and that was a mercy, for he passed through repulsive ways and repulsive people. But still the surroundings had no power to depress him; and although he did feel a sense of relief when he found himself crossing Waterloo Bridge, he was not sorry for his drive. When a man of good constitution and equable mind is happy and on excellent terms with himself and the world, there is something cheering and invigorating in the contemplation of large masses' of people, no matter of what social standing those people may be.
When he got to Long Acre it was dark. He ran up the long-familiar stairs, and found himself in the old rooms. They had, by his order, been altered greatly since he had last seen them. All the old furniture had been removed, and what had been his sitting room had been converted into a dining-room, and what had been his bedroom into a smoking-room. Two more rooms at the opposite side of the landing had been taken by him. The smaller of these was lined with hat and coat pegs, and the larger discharged the joint offices of larder, wine-cellar, and butler's pantry. In the last room sat two waiters. A third servant took charge of the hat-pegs, and a fourth attended to the door downstairs. None of the men wore livery.
No one had come yet, and the host went into the smoking-room and sat down. He did not expect any man to be punctually there at nine o'clock, and some he did not expect until after the theatres. He had asked about twenty artists-actors, authors, musicians; and although he had got replies from only five, he fully expected all would come. He knew Bohemia seldom troubles itself to answer letters of that kind; it usually hates writing letters, but it comes. All those whom he had invited were old friends; and as he felt quite sure they were men enough to visit him in sickness or in strait, he was equally sure they were not cads enough to stay away in his prosperity.
He now sat thinking of all the dear old faces he should see, and all the kindly hands he should touch, before daylight. He was thinking of the words he should use in the little speech he intended making at some time of that evening.
He should tell them that, when he lived in these very rooms, a few weeks ago, the brougham of the seventh duke had been injured in Piccadilly while he (the speaker) was walking in Piccadilly; that the brougham was brought for repairs to Mr. Whiteshaw, the coach builder, who occupied the lower portion of that house in which they now found themselves; and that Mr. Whiteshaw had remarked to him the identity between the family name of the duke and his own. How he had thought nothing at all of that matter then; and how, if any carriage of the seventh or eighth duke now lay below, it was his (the speaker's), as the seventh duke left all his personal property, except a few money legacies to servants, to his son, the eighth duke, who died intestate, and whose heir-at-law he (the speaker) was.
He would tell them that he never should be able to forget that strange coincidence about the brougham; and that, in order to mark it so that it might always be suggested to their memories, if their memory of this night grew dim, he would arrange that the Cheyne brougham, that day injured, should for ever be kept downstairs; and that the old friends of Charles Augustus Cheyne should always be able to meet one another, and often meet himself, up there where they now sat; and that his object in asking them to come and drink a glass of wine with him and smoke a pipe with him this evening was that they, might found the Anerly Club, in honour of the discovery made by Graham at that village. He would propose their first president should be Edward Graham. He would give them the rooms and pay four servants. All other details they might arrange among themselves, except two: first, that all the men who were now there, or had been asked, to come and could not, should be members of that club, without power to add to their number.
When he came to consider the second condition, he arranged not only the substance of what he had to say, but the words as well.
"And, second, I intend making the bond between this club and me the closest of any but one. I desire that the one bond, which shall be closer than that with this club, may be associated with it, and that you will once give me the privilege of breaking my first condition, that is, when I am married, and propose that my wife may be made an honorary member."
At that moment someone entered the room. He looked up with a smile, thinking it was the first guest. It was the hall-porter, who held out a salver, saying:
"A letter for your grace,"
He took the letter, saw it was Marion's handwriting, and told the man to go.
He broke the envelope and read over the letter slowly twice. When he had considered awhile he went to a table where there were writing materials, and addressed a cover:
"To the First Man who comes to-night."
Then on a sheet of paper he wrote:
"I was the first in, and had been here some time, when I got a note by the last post. Must run away at once, but hope to be back in an hour. Don't wait for me. I am awfully sorry. Show all the fellows this, and tell them, as they will guess, that nothing but matter of the gravest moment could take me away under the circumstances.
"C. A. C."
He drove straight to Tenby Terrace. He ran up the steps, and, when Anne opened the door, asked impetuously:
"Is May in?" He forgot to say "Miss Durrant."
"Oh, a letter has just come saying she will not be back, and we don't know where she is gone to, sir."
Anne had forgotten to call him even "my lord."
That night the members of the new Anerly Club saw nothing of its founder.
CHAPTER VII.
ADRIFT
When Marion found herself out of the house for the second time on that day, with the letter in her hand addressed to her aunt, she had no idea of what direction she took. It was only a little after five o'clock, and the air was fall of pleasant sunshine. All around her were happy-looking people moving blithely along, each to some known point or other. She was going nowhere; she was simply going away. All places were alike to her, so long as there was no chance of meeting him there. She, whose whole nature yearned to be at his side, was flying from him who, she knew, wished her to remain for him, with him. What was all the world to one without love? How could it be that anything in the world could come between hearts that loved?
She turned east and walked on. She was conscious she knew well the streets through which she passed, but the names of them did not occur to her. After a while she found herself on the Thames Embankment. It was full tide, and the river looked its best. It was the fresh young summer of the year, when all London looks brightest; and no part of London, not even the parks, feels the summer so much as the Embankment; for there is not only the fresh green of the time on the trees of the Embankment and the gardens, but the bright silver of the river of all time sparkling back to the wide expanse of sky. Every wholesome man and woman and child, and beast and bird and insect, that could, came out to pay homage to the sun; all noisome things, human or beneath man in the scheme of Nature, now sought concealment. It made old people young and young people gay, to be abroad.
She had not often been on the Embankment, and the river was a variety to her. Without intruding on her thoughts, it attracted her eye. A full tide between prosperous banks always gives a sense of quietude and peace; but to May's mind the sense of peace did not seem of this world, but of the world beyond. There was a bounteous calm in that river which seemed to invite the weary. When the tide is out, and the sordid lower abutments of bridges and the bedraggled foreshore are visible, the river looks fit to be the friend of only outcasts and felons. But when it is full it seems to have risen up to one as a kind friend capable of assuaging present woes, and of wafting one securely to Elysian Fields.
As May walked along by the parapet, she thought she should like to lay herself down gently on the bosom of the water, and be carried calmly beyond the noises of the world. She had no thought of suicide; what she felt was merely a craving of her physical nature. It was parallel to the desire one experiences, when looking down from a high mountain, to launch oneself into air, and float above the valley below. She did not murmur against Heaven or revile Fate. She would have liked to be at rest; she longed to change utterly the ordinary experiences of life, even if death was the only alternative; but she had no intention or wish to compass her own death.
Big Ben struck seven. The sound startled her.
"That is the Parliament clock," she thought; "and he will often hear that sound when he has ceased to hear my voice for ever."
And then she forgot him for awhile and fell to pitying herself, until the tears rolled down her face under her veil, and she found herself at Blackfriars Bridge. This part of the town she knew nothing of. Whither should she go? All ways were alike to her. She kept on to the right, and crossed the bridge.
She had never been across any London bridge on foot before; she could not remember ever having been across the river at all, except in a train. She had never heard either her aunt or him speak about the Surrey side. It was best for her to go across the water, and to stay there.
To stay there! She had not thought of staying anywhere before; she had come away from home because she had made up her mind not to see Charlie again; but up to that moment she had not thought of staying away from home, or staying anywhere else. Before, leaving Tenby Terrace she had mechanically taken all the money out of her writing-case and put it in her purse. She always had much more money by her than young girls living in houses such as those in the Terrace; for she had an income which was absolutely her own, and her aunt had always insisted on her keeping a small bundle of bank-notes by her. Miss Traynor said: "You should always keep a little money by you; I do. You never know what is going to happen. A bank may break, or your lawyer may die, and you may not be able to get your money for a month, or maybe three months; and then, you see, what a fix you would be in! I do not think it safe to keep large sums of money in the house; but twenty or thirty or forty pounds can do no harm, and make you feel secure, for a time at least, against accident." Miss Traynor little thought, when she gave her niece this advice, that the money would in the end be used for putting space between her and the girl for whose welfare and happiness she would have laid down her life.
Now, for the first time. May realised the fact that it would be necessary for her to find some place in which she might live. She had been in her time very little from home, and felt miserably uncomfortable at the notion of having to take lodgings for herself in London. She had no plan, no scheme. She did not think of the future; she did not try to see a week in advance-she wished only to hide herself. She made no calculation as to how long she should be from home, how long her money would last. She had, like a pursued hare, the simple instinct of flight, with the desire for concealment; all else was absolutely indifferent to her. If she had her choice between life and death, she would have chosen the latter.
The idea of leaving London never crossed her mind. She had often heard that, for the purpose of concealment, there was no place so good as London. She had now been walking two hours, and all that time she had been putting space between her and Knightsbridge; and yet all around her were thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles hurrying up and down. There was no fear of anyone being able to track her through all those winding ways, all this streaming multitude.
It was necessary for her to get somewhere to sleep that night. She was now in the Kennington Road. The noise of the tramcars and omnibuses and cabs, and carts and vans and drays, almost overwhelmed her. She was beginning to feel tired. She turned into a quiet-looking side-street; up and down this street she walked more than once before she could make up her mind to knock at any door of a house in which she saw that lodgings were to be let. At last she selected a neat-looking house, with flower-pots on the window-sill and immaculate steps. She knocked. Yes, there were lodgings to be let in that house; would the lady walk in? She was shown into a clean, cheaply-furnished back parlour, which looked into a dark yard twenty feet square. It was the landlady herself who let in May. She was a stout, undersized, pleasant-looking woman of middle age. She had two bedrooms and a sitting-room to let. This was the sitting-room; the bedrooms were up-stairs. Would the lady like to see the bedrooms? – they were comfortable and well furnished. Would not the lady walk up? This was the better bedroom of the two, in the front; this was the smaller one in the back. What accommodation did the lady require? The gentleman could have breakfast and tea or supper in, and dinner of a Sunday. Oh, it wasn't for gentlemen, wasn't it? It was the lady herself? So sorry; but she never took lady lodgers-only gentlemen. Her servant would not stay if lady lodgers were admitted. It was very wrong in a servant to have such notions; but her servant was a very good one, and it was next to impossible to get a good servant, and she could not afford to lose this one. Good-afternoon.
May went down the whitened steps with a heavy heart. She had never tried to find lodgings before; she had not known there was any difficulty in the way of getting them. It was necessary, however, that she should try again. She looked at her watch, half in fear. Half-past seven. Not any time to be lost; it was getting late.
She selected another house in the same street. A tall thin woman, who suggested a remote connection with better days, and a present connection with a temper, opened the door. May's first question was: Did they accommodate lady lodgers in that house? They did. Would the lady like to see the room?
With a sigh of relief May went in. She explained that she wanted only one room-a bedroom. Very well. This way; this was the bedroom. The lady would dine out? Oh yes. May would have undertaken to do anything now, that she might be at liberty to lock the door, sit down by herself and cry. The rent was ten shillings a week, inclusive. May did not know that the room would have been dear at seven-and-six; and of what "inclusive" meant she had no idea. Was ten shillings a week satisfactory? Yes, perfectly. And the lady would pay a week's rent in advance to secure the room? May took out her purse and proffered a sovereign. And when did the lady wish to occupy the room? To-night-now. To-night! How could that be? Of course references should be exchanged. Did the lady know anyone in the immediate vicinity to whom a reference might be made? No, May knew no one in the vicinity. Was it-was it necessary there should be a reference? Oh, absolutely; all respectable houses require references. Ah, in that case May must try elsewhere.
"Well, I'm sure; just to think you fancied they'd take anyone into a respectable house without a reference!" cried the tall slim woman, in a tone of exasperation, as she allowed May to find the front door and let herself out.
She hurried out of that street; she had not the courage to try at any other house there. She thought she should not have the courage to try anywhere else. She had already thought of going to an hotel, but had dismissed the idea. She had a great fear of being discovered; and an hotel was too open. Besides, she could not bring herself to face an hotel alone; there was something repugnant to her feelings in being without a friend or protector in a house the front door of which was always kept open. Besides, who could tell but, by one of those coincidences there is no foreseeing, some acquaintance of hers might light on that very hotel, and meet her in one of the passages? But if people objected to ladies as lodgers, and if those who did not object to ladies would take no one in who could not give a reference, how could she hope to find a resting-place for her weary limbs, a covering for her aching head that night? She could give no reference; for to do so would be, of course, instantly to betray herself.
What was she to do now? Whither should she turn? In a little while it would be dark. It was dreadful to be alone in London, cut off from all friends, having no home, no roof to cover her, and find the shades of night coming on. How peaceful and secure now seemed that small house over there in Knightsbridge, where but a few hours ago she had seen him, had heard his great kind voice, had felt his strong protecting arm round her! She had but to hold up her hand, get into the nearest cab, and in an hour she would be safe under that protecting roof.
Should she go back? Those houses in which she had sought shelter were hideous in her eyes, and the women repulsively vulgar. Should she go back and throw herself at her aunt's feet, and cry herself into her aunt's forgiveness? No, no, that would never do. She had resolved to sacrifice herself for him she loved, and she would do so, no matter how great the pain, no matter how great the humiliation she should endure. In the sum of her great sacrifice, what did these mean houses, these vulgar women, count for? Nothing. Why should she make great difficulties out of small? She had had the courage to write that letter to him, to renounce her love, to give up the one dream of her young life: was she now going to blench when confronted by trivial details such as would not daunt one out of ten of the women moving round her, passing up and down this road? No. She had been brave in the great thing, she would be indifferent in the small. She would be brave. She would hold on. She would lie down in the road and die rather than go back, rather than imperil his future happiness by once more placing herself under the influence of his presence, which she felt certain would be too strong for any resolution she might make.
She once more found herself walking down a side street, looking up at the windows for a card. This was a much better street than the last one. The roadway was wider, and the houses more respectable and better kept. She was now glad she had not succeeded in getting a place in the former street.
This one looked much better, and as though the people who lived in the houses could not be so vulgar.
She went down all one side, and saw no card in any window. She thought she had discovered one at the opposite side, but she could not be quite sure. She crossed. Yes, there was a card in one window, in only one. She knocked. A servant opened the door. Did they take lady lodgers? Oh yes; would the lady be kind enough to step into the front room and see the mistress?
In the front room May found a little old widow sitting at work. She greeted the entrance of the young girl with a benevolent smile, and bade her be seated. May was delighted she had come so far. This woman was much superior to either of the others. She had not the look of common prosperity of the first, nor of broken-down respectability of the second. Fate may make a lady poor, but it never can make her shabby-genteel. Though she may sink to pauperism, she can never fall so low as gentility. A lady once is a lady for ever; and the little old widow before May was evidently not only a lady, but a kindly and considerate old soul as well. May resolved, if possible, to cast her lot here.
After a few preliminary words, the landlady said:
"Yes, my dear, I not only take in ladies, but I do not take in gentlemen. I know how hard ladies, who wish to be quiet, find it to get lodgings in London, and so I have made up my mind to take in no gentlemen."
"Oh, then," said May piteously, "I may stay with you, may I not?"
"Well, my dear," said the old woman smiling encouragingly, "that will be as you please, I daresay. I have no doubt we should get on together. Of course you would like to see the room; we have only one to be let."
She half rose from her chair.
"No, no," cried May. "Pray sit down. Do not disturb yourself. I am sure I shall like it."
"Then, my dear," said the old lady, smiling again, but looking curiously at the worn face and bright eyes and weary figure of this young girl, who was willing to take a room without seeing it, "there are, you know, a few business arrangements to be considered. We shall have to charge you seven shillings and sixpence a week for your room. You will dine in or out, as you please."
"I am sure I am very much obliged to you. I had no idea-" here she paused. She thought it just as well not to say any more.
