XVI
WINGS
The tale of Germain’s posthumous disposition of his chattels ran, as such tales will, all about town, and lost nothing in the running. Women took it complacently, after their kind. Of course it was odd; and yet, in its way, was it not a tribute? One or two pretty young wives told each other that it was touching; a Miss Lavender shed tears. In the clubs they said plainly that Duplessis had been bought off. Palmer Lovell, with his back to the fireplace, cried out in his strident boy’s voice, “If that’s not compounding a felony, it’s compounding a felon. But what the devil of a right has old Germain, alive or dead, to whip his wife in public?” No clubman had an answer to this. The best thing of all was said by Lord Kesteven in Paris: “God be good to us, what Turks we all are! Here’s old Germain taking the harem-key into the grave with him.”
That keen-faced old lord came to London and called on Mary in Hill-street. He observed her pale in her black weeds, but with a haunted kind of beauty upon her which she had never had before. Her eyes were enormous, he said. She was very quiet in her manner, seemed dazed, but not cowed—apprehensive, you might think. She looked up at him in a mutely expectant way, as if she expected him momentarily to hit her, and was too tired even to flinch at the impending blow. He felt deeply for her—all sorts of things, and after his manner, therefore, was more bluff and direct than usual. “Well, my young friend, and what are you going to do with yourself? I should advise you to get out of this. No woman can be expected to stand it.”
She flushed at the bold attack, but did not avoid it. “I hear nothing of what is being said. I am sure he did not mean to be unkind. That is not like him. I was to blame.”
“I won’t talk about it, or I shall get angry. Cant—in a man’s will—to disguise something worse, and nastier—pouf! Look here, my dear, try France—try Paris. My sister Margaret de Guiche would like you to pay her a visit. She said so. She’s alone, and you need see nobody. De Guiche is in Petersburg. You couldn’t have a better dueña than Margaret. It will be a kindness to her—and a kindness to me. I wish you’d think of it.”
She listened with hanging head, and veiled eyes. Her eyelids, always heavy, seemed now as if they were of intolerable weight. She watched her twisting fingers as she thanked him for the proposal. She would think of it, she told him—she had everything to think of.
“I know that very well,” Kesteven said; “but there are some things which I hope you need not consider. One of them is the great regard I have for you.”
Oh, yes, she was sure of that. He had shown her so much kindness.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he continued; “and I’ll go as far as this. If you decide to renounce your legacy—on reflection—I should claim the privilege of helping you to do it. I can hardly go further—but so far I am ready to go. Remember that. Remember that I am allowed to call myself your friend. Remember, if you choose, that I am five-and-sixty, and take heart—if you need heart.”
It was clear what was implied in this speech; but she did not feel equal to quieting the anxiety which underlay it. She made no remark.
“At any rate,” said his lordship, “I tell you that you may command the Hôtel de Guiche. Margaret may be trusted—and perhaps I need not add that you may trust me, too.” But he couldn’t get her to say more than she would think of it, so took his leave. He kissed her hand.
So far she had not seen Duplessis, nor heard from him; but the sense that an interview with him was impending, was, as it were, swinging like a sword over her head, fretted her nerves so badly that she was incapable of thinking what she could say to him when he came to her—as of course he would—with an offer of instant marriage. That would be, in his view, the only possible answer to the public affront he had received. But as the days went on and he made no sign she began to wonder dimly whether, after all, she might not escape—and from such faint sighings thrown out into the vague she came by degrees to hopes—and from hopes to plans and shifts.
Everything in town conspired together to make her position impossible. The chill reserve of Mrs. James—whose frozen civility was worse than any rebuke; the letters of her parents from Blackheath, kind, repining, half-informed letters which said in effect, We don’t know what is being cried against you, but be sure that we are on your side; and the terrible letters of Jinny (almost Mrs. Podmore by now, and vigorously on the side of decorum)—“the disgrace which has been cast upon our family . . . your unfortunate liaison, . . . One can only hope that you will let them be a warning, child. . . . Let us be thankful that things are no worse . . .”—all this made the poor girl so self-conscious that she could hardly lift her head. She thought that the very servants were judging her—as, no doubt, they were; she felt beaten to the earth; and the fund of common-sense, the fund of charity, which she had at her call—through mere panic—suspended payment.
If she had been left to herself she would have borne her husband no grudge for seeking to tie her publicly to his name. She would have pitied, not blamed him, for supposing that three thousand or thirty thousand a year could have held her. And certainly that midnight confession absolved her in her own conscience. If she had looked back upon her dealings with Duplessis it would have been to see what a little fool she had been—to blush at her ignorance, not at her shame. But now her world insisted on her disgrace; she was made to stand in a sheet like a Jane Shore; the straight, clinging, disgraceful robe imprisoned her body and soul. She felt that she must die if she stayed where she was, a public mock; but until Duplessis delayed so obviously his coming she had felt bound in honour to see him.
To be just to Duplessis, he kept himself away by violence, obeying an instinct—which was a true one. He had no doubt but that she would marry him now—he could not for the life of him see how any two people could otherwise reply to posthumous impudence of the sort. Indeed, he felt in his heart of hearts that she owed him that. But his instinct told him that that could not be put to her for the present, and that to be seen in her society, to visit her, even to write to her, would make her burden heavier to bear. He contented himself by renouncing his legacy in the most precise terms—in a letter to Dockwra the lawyer, and in another to James Germain. If this act came to Mary’s ears, as he hoped it would, no harm would be done to his affair. Rather, she would see in it a plain declaration of his feelings. But, unfortunately for him, it did not. James Germain was at Misperton by this time, and Dockwra communicated directly with him, not through his wife. James Germain, true to his fastidious sense, thought it no business of Mary’s—and was thankful it was none of his.
The delay of a week, ten days, a fortnight, gave her courage. Her feverish dreams, hopes of a release, left her. She knew now that she was to be free, and, once resolved, schemes began to gather in her brain, to develop; her mind went to work, and she became happy. There was no doubt at all where she would go. All her ideas of freedom were centred in one place—Land’s End. The sea, the rocks, the birds—and the low white cottage facing them all—open-doored to them all. Her dream of nearly three years; now to come true! If Senhouse was at the back of her mind, he was kept rigorously there. She felt virginal now when she thought of Senhouse, found herself blushing, and put the image away as not lawful. Freedom from the intolerable eyes about her—the butler’s—her maid’s—Mrs. James’s—this ghastly mummery of clothes and ceremony—she agonized to be quit of it all; but now she intended to be, and could not afford time to agonize. She turned all her quick wits to the work, applied method and deliberation to it, and could almost fix a day, so plain did everything seem.
Method cautioned her to go slowly to work; the first thing to do was to accustom Mrs. James to her walks abroad. She devoted a week to this—went alone, deeply veiled, into the park every day, and spent gradually increasing hours there, doing nothing more.
Then, one morning, she went circuitously to the Bank in Burlington-gardens, and asked for her pass-book. There was some £300 to her credit—the remains of her pin-money allowance. Two days later she presented a cheque for £300—which left her a balance of £27 10s.—and asked for the money in gold. The porter took the sack to her cab, and she gave the direction “Hill-street”—but once out of hearing she put her hand through the window at the top and gave another order—the Army and Navy Stores.
Leaving her sack of money in the cab, she bought herself a Gladstone bag. Perhaps it is evidence at once of the folly and fortune of women that she was not robbed; she may well have deserved to be, for, being full of her ingenious schemes, she had given no thought to the matter—had neither taken the man’s number, nor told him what she was entrusting to him. She had not so much as troubled to shut the cab door after her. The man himself, with a “Well, I’m damned!” had done that, and it may be that the very magnitude of his opportunities had bereft him of the means of using them; for she found him smiling on the rank when she came out. The bag was handed in to her—uncovered—she gave the new direction “Paddington,” and en route deposited her sack of sovereigns and locked it in the bag.
At Paddington she dismissed the cab, not extravagantly, and disappeared with a porter and the bag. She put it in the cloak-room, took a ticket for it, then went back to Hill-street.
Two things must be done, two letters be written—one to her mother, one to James Germain. He had always been her friend; she was really fond of him, and liked to think that he would regret her loss, while she was bound to guard against his trying to recover her. To her mother she wrote very simply that she was suddenly called away on affairs connected with her husband’s death, and might have to go abroad. It would be difficult to write—but she would send an address as soon as she had one of any permanence. She added, “Darling Mother, be as sure of my love for you and father and all of you, as I am of yours. I promise to tell you how I succeed in my business, or if I fail in it. You will never be out of my thoughts, as you are never out of my prayers. Love me always, in spite of anything that you may hear against me. I have been foolish, very ignorant, and very blind—but no worse, Mother, upon my honour. I am wiser now, and intend to be a good woman. Trust your Mary; who loves you and kisses this paper.”
She wrote in the same strain to the Rector of Misperton. “I am not able to bear the strain of London for the present, and intend to travel for some time before making my plans. I feel the need of quiet, and shall trust in you to do all you can to ensure it to me. After the comforting words you gave me I am sure that you may rely upon my doing nothing which should make me unworthy of them. I am resolved not to see Mr. Duplessis again. I could never be happy with him, nor make him happy after what has passed. If he should inquire for me, pray tell him that this is my sincere conviction, and ask him not to attempt to dissuade me from it. I can never thank you enough for your invariable kindness to me; that must always be one of my happy recollections of the life that I have ended. If I have to begin again without it, it is because I cannot ask you to continue it until I have proved myself more worthy to have it. I am going away now by myself, to work and to learn, and to forget much, but never to forget your kindness. I beg you to, remember sometimes with charity your affectionate friend, Mary S. Germain.”
It was on the tip of her pen to write to Tristram; as she sat hesitating the phrases printed themselves, one after another in her head, and she wrote them down. “You never loved me—but I was proud to be even in your notice. I am greatly to blame for the renewal of what was idle on your part and foolish vanity on mine in the beginning. I can only be glad that my husband, though he knew everything, heard it all again from my own lips—I told him the night he died. I hope that you will be happy and famous, I know that both are in your power. Do not try to find me, I beg of you. Forget me, and love a woman who is more suited to you by birth and education. I know that if you try you can succeed in this. If you have any feeling of regard for me you will do as I ask you now.—Mary S. Germain.”
Two of these letters she posted with her own hand that night. Tristram’s she reserved.
Then she made her last preparations. She packed her jewel-case carefully, tied and sealed it, and addressed it to the bank. She dined in her boudoir and spent the rest of the evening with Bradshaw, planning out her route. Love of secrecy, love of intricacy, which were both characteristic of her, decided her against so simple a course as a journey from Paddington to Penzance. She worked out a way more to her taste: Waterloo to Basingstoke, thence to Swindon, and thence by the Great Western to Exeter, where she would stay for a while. This necessitated an early start in the morning, for she must go to Paddington and recover her three hundred pounds. She would take no luggage whatever, would buy what she wanted in Exeter. Loyalty to Senhusian ethics decided her to this.
Meantime, it was necessary to be rid of her maid for an hour. That she effected by the simple means of sending her with the note to Duplessis, and with her jewel-box, to be taken to the bank, and a receipt obtained. The moment she was alone she dressed herself as she intended to appear—in black jacket and skirt and a grey silk blouse—in hat and veil studiously plain. Then she left the house in Hill-street on foot, got a cab in Davies-street, and was free.
All went well with her as far as Basingstoke; but there she was imprudent. She asked at the office whether she could book through to Penzance, and break her journey for a week, and being told, after some delay, that she could not—“Then Exeter, please,” she said. “Second single to Exeter,” and receiving it, holding it in her mouth, she half turned to get a better light into her purse, and caught sight of Horace Wing—the courtly Horace—who must have heard her. In the shock, as he hastened forward, cap in one hand, golf-clubs dragging by the other, she left her change on the counter, bowed and fairly ran. This was very indiscreet; but she escaped, and the porter came after her with her bag. Horace Wing, after gaping, had a shuddering fit. He did not follow her, and was not able to smile at the encounter for some weeks.
Her carriage was empty: she was alone now, with all her life, like an open sea, in front of her. She sat, looking out towards the West, her hands quiet in her lap; she had no sense of high adventure, no bosom full of hope—peace possessed her altogether. She felt that she could lie her length upon some green bank, sheltered from the wind, and sleep herself to death. Such a feeling as this was so foreign to her nature that she was surprised at herself, asked herself whether some chord in her had not been broken. She was sanguine by temperament and always lived in the future; if on any morning of any week she could not wake up with the sense of an excitement to come, to be waited for, to be felt nearer—that day was so much dead weight, so much space of drab, to be got through, in order that she might live to-morrow. She told herself that she was mortally tired—that her present reward was to be able to live unwatched and unjudged. That was enough for any girl surely—let the morrow’s outlook provide for the morrow.
Even while she was thinking these thoughts she caught herself unawares. She found herself watching the flying landscape anxiously, and smiling as she watched. The open common, the duck-pond, and the white road—yes, and the tilt-cart drawn by a white horse—plodding to the West! Three years ago, almost to a day—she and the tilt-cart had taken that road. And then she had been a bride of an hour—and now she was a widow of an hour. She caught herself blushing, was confused, felt eyes upon her: the carriage seemed full of eyes. For a while, she continued to watch, to watch through the mist in her own eyes—and then she turned suddenly in her place, opened her novel and read diligently in it until the train, stopping at Taunton, showed her that the place of dangerous memories was past.
She would not allow her thoughts to recur to that curious little drama of the mind: in fact, she worked hard to avoid the temptation. She abandoned her novel, opened her purse, and did her accounts. She made lists of necessary purchases, and began to post up the diary with which she had provided herself.
When she reached Exeter she stepped out—Miss Mary Middleham. Her bag bore a label to that effect.
XVII
FIRST FLIGHT
Mrs. Merritt who had been housekeeper to the late Canon Blackrod and now let lodgings in a house of her own, was amiable, and by the possession of that quality was able to keep her curiosity within bounds: but it was her daughter Polly, a Devon maid of apple cheeks and sloe-black eyes, who taught her enthusiasm for her lodger. Polly Merritt adored the quiet and pretty young lady who, though she wore such beautiful clothes, gave herself none of the airs which were clearly within her rights; who would wash her own blouses, trim her own hats, or sit below-stairs chatting affably, while she trimmed one for Polly herself. In such familiar intercourse all the necessary safeguards of landladies were proved to be secure. Miss Middleham, it seemed, was an orphan, by profession a teacher of languages, who had found it necessary to leave her London employment to escape a gentleman’s attentions. Most reasonable, most proper. The gentleman was one indeed, highly connected, in fact, cousin of an Honourable; but impecunious and not very steady. Girls who are orphans must look after themselves: there had been nothing for it but flight. Admirable forethought! Nothing, certainly, but praise could be given to Miss Middleham for conduct so discreet.
“It’ll bring him round, Miss, depend upon it,” Mrs. Merritt had considered. “It’ll make him look nine ways. As good as a slap in the face, any day.”
“Better, I hope,” Mary said.
“Some of ’em wants one thing, some another, Miss. Let him know that you’re in earnest, whatever you do.”
“I am quite in earnest, Mrs. Merritt,” Mary told her; “and I think I have made that plain.”
“Did you tell him so, or write it, Miss?” Polly must ask. “Writing’s better—but it’s dull work.”
“I have done both, Polly. He doesn’t know where I am. I made it quite clear to him that he could not.”
Mrs. Merritt, having observed her guest, passed the back of her hand rapidly across her nose. “To be sure you could, Miss. It’s easy to be seen that God Almighty never gave you that pair of eyes for nothing. To call a man, or send him about his business—ah, I’ll warrant you.”
“Poor fellow,” mused the tender Polly. “I pity him.”
In private conversation afterwards Mrs. Merritt assured her daughter that she need not. We should have the young gentleman here before the swallows were away: let Polly mark her words. Our young lady was a snug young lady—that was a certainty. She was not a girl who would go without letters of a morning for long together. Letters! That sort live on ’em, as a man on his eleven o’clock beer. No, no. She was used to company, any one could see. She was meant to be somebody’s darling. How else did she get her pretty ways—and why to goodness wear her pretty frocks, but for that? Meantime, she had been used to the best, you could see; and she should have it here.
What Mrs. Merritt, however, did not know, and Polly did know, was that another gentleman stood in the background. Here lay the root of Polly’s passionate interest in her friend: a constant appeal to her imagination and judgment and wonder. A gentleman was to be expected; there was always a gentleman. But two gentlemen! One more gentleman, and Polly might have felt the responsibilities of Paris. In fact, she did feel them as things were.
Mary had come to Exeter, meaning no more than a passage-bird’s rest there—a night or two, and away. Her cottage at the Land’s End, solitary vigil face to face with the sea and the rocks, tending of the hidden garden there, a waiting and watching—and a great reward: that had been her fixed intent. Nothing seemed to be in the way. She was free as air: why should she wait?
It is very odd, though, how you cannot carry through these hot-blood thoughts in the cold blood. That momentary shyness which had come upon her in the train, when she had caught herself looking out for a remembered village-green and had been abashed, came upon her the moment she began to think of Cornwall with a view to going there. She found herself trembling, found herself delaying, drawing back. Had she been her old self, never sought and never mated, in this tremulous plight she had remained; but she had learned to face such difficulties, and did not shirk it. The more she thought of it the plainer it became that she could not have the cottage, could not sit down there and wait for Senhouse. Virgin as she was, and virginal as she was now become again, the picture of herself in such an attitude, and in such an act, filled her with shame. And if to picture it was dreadful, what would the day-long reality be but unendurable? But where, then, was her sense of comradeship, of perfect amity between him and her? She did not know. It was gone. And what would he—wondrous, clear-seeing friend—say to her for this prudery? That she did know: she could see him appeal for laughter to the skies. Alas, it could not be helped. She was a maiden, therefore might be wooed. She was a maiden, therefore could not go a-wooing. So he and she might never meet again! Better so—oh, infinitely better—than that they should meet by her act.
Thus it was that Polly Merritt came to learn about the other gentleman. Mary’s perplexities had been stated, and Polly was thrilled.
“Oh, Miss! And he’s never spoken?”
“No,” said Mary. “At least—not about that.”
“What was the nearest he ever got to?”
Mary looked wise. “He told me to go away, once.”
“He did! Why were you to go then?”
“Because—oh, because he could see, I suppose, that I didn’t want to; and——”
“Well?”
“Because—I sometimes fancy—he didn’t want me to. At least, I think he didn’t. He said, ‘You had better go home. I’m a man, you know.’”
Polly opened her eyes wide. “That’s as plain as my nose. I should think so! So, of course——”
“Yes, of course I had to go.” She looked down at her toes, just as if Senhouse had been standing above her, bidding her go.
“I dream sometimes,” she said, “that he comes to me in the night, and looks at me—never speaks, but just looks. Not at me, you know, but through me—right through to the pillow. That’s enough. Then he turns and goes away, and I follow him out of door, into the warm dark—and he turns sharply upon me and is dreadfully angry. I’ve never known him angry; but dreams are like that. I see his face quite changed—wild and cold at once, and terribly stern. And I run away into the empty house, and wish that I were dead. No, no. I could never bear that—to seek him and be spurned. I would sooner never see him again.”
Polly was deeply moved, but practical. A girl must look ahead—far beyond dreams. “You had best not, Miss,” she said, “if that’s likely to be the way of it. Is he that sort—your hot-and-cold?”
“Oh, I don’t know—how can I tell? That has never been between us, save that once, when he told me to go away. He’s a wonderful talker about all sorts of things; he can make them all extraordinary. I feel, after listening to him, that I understand all life, all experience. Everything seems reasonable. But when it comes to—us—he won’t speak. I believe he can’t. And I understand him better when he doesn’t.”
“So would any one, I should think,” said Polly Merritt. “But how’s he going to look at you if he never sees you, and don’t know where you are?”
“Ah,” said Mary with far-sighted eyes, “I don’t know.”
“You might write to him, I suppose—and slip in your address, by accident like.”
Mary shook her head. “I couldn’t. Besides, he has no address. He just comes and goes—like the wind.”
“Has he no house of his own?”
“No. He lives in a tent—in a cart.”
“What! Like a gipsy? Oh, Miss!” This would never, never do.
But Mary admitted it, thoughtfully. “Yes. I think he might be a sort of gipsy.”
This, to Polly, was final. “I do think you’re better here, Miss Middleham, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Mary.
Polly had veered. “I’ll warrant the other gentleman would have a house to offer you.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But——”
“Ah, that’s just it—that’s just it.”
Mary admitted it. “I suppose it is. But he says that he will never marry. He doesn’t believe in marriage.”
“Ho, indeed!” cried Polly. “Then pray what does he believe in?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
Polly tossed her young head. “It wouldn’t take long for me to be sure.”
Then Mary showed her face, and her eyes shone clear. “I am sure of this, that if he called me I should follow him over the world, however he chose me to be. But I know he never will. He is unlike anybody else—he comes and goes like the wind.”
“Let him, for me,” said Polly, “’specially when he’s going.”
The summer waned and fainted; autumn mists crept about, and found her still in Exeter. Pupils came slowly, but she got one or two, and there was promise of more. The Vicar of the parish helped her. She taught in his Sunday school, did him some visiting, danced with his boys and sang with his girls. Through him she got an engagement in September, in a young ladies’ academy—to teach Italian two days a week. She got to know a few people. There was a gentlemanly young man called Bloxam, who escorted her home from choral evenings; then there was a curate—quod semper, quod ubique—who lent her books and professed himself ready to discuss them afterwards, by correspondence or otherwise.
These things faintly amused her; the simplicity of such devices, for instance, the little buildings-up of the little architects! She felt herself, ruefully, slipping back into the parochial, losing touch with her wide horizons. The tonic properties of freedom, which at first had been as delightful as the mere ease of it, were now staling by use. She began to find herself grow dull. The one fact upon which she could build was that she was again earning her living.
XVIII
ENTER A BIRD-CATCHER
October was in, mild and languorous; the trees dripped all day, the mist seemed unable to lift itself from the low-lying city. Mary grew restless and discontented. The usual things happened, but had ceased to entertain. Mr. Bloxam, after taking her for excursions by water, had one day proposed that she should take tea with his people, prosperous hucksters in the town. She agreed—to find out very soon that she was on exhibition, on approval, you might say. Mrs. Bloxam, the mother, addressed her particular inquiries, Mr. Bloxam, the father, gave her a carnation out of the conservatory. Shortly afterwards Mr. Bloxam, the son, made her another proposition, and was exceedingly surprised that she did not jump at it. Can such things be? he inquired, looking about. She had shaken her head at him very gently when she told him that really she couldn’t. It was charmingly done, with kindness, but complete finality. That he saw.
He told her that his heart was broken, that she saw before her a man beaten down. “It is dreadful,” he said. “My mother liked you so much. She is hard to please. I suppose you wouldn’t care to think it over?”
Again she shook her head. A Mr. Bloxam of Exeter! If he only knew, or could be made to know! “No, no,” she said. “I sha’n’t alter. But I hope we are not to be bad friends.”
Mr. Bloxam had bowed, and said, “I should be most happy”—and one sees what he meant. “My mother, you know, won’t like it. Naturally she is partial. She will say that you led me on.”
“Then she will say what is very untrue,” cried Mary, with flashing eyes, “and I hope you will tell her so. It is very hard if I may not have friends without being accused of ridiculous things.”
“Girls do them, you know,” said Mr. Bloxam dubiously. “I’ve met with several cases.”
“If you are likely to include this among them, I must ask you to let me go,” she said with spirit; “but perhaps you would like to give me some tea first.”
Mr. Bloxam, murmuring about the sacred rites of hospitality, assured her that he would; and they parted on good terms. He told her that he intended to travel; and indeed he did afterwards go to Weston-super-Mare for a month.
The unfortunate but absurd episode taught her to be circumspect with the literary curate. He, however, was of a more cautious temperament, and went away for his holiday with no more pronounced symptom than a promise to send her picture postcards from the Cathedral cities which he purposed visiting. “You may like to have these afterwards,” he darkly said, and then took himself away on a bicycle.
The year was come to a critical point for her. About this time Halfway House would be plodding its way to the West, its owner, loose-limbed and leisurely, smoking on the tilt. Almost any day now it might pass by Exeter, or through it; almost any day she might come plump upon it—and what was to happen to her then? Could she endure the year’s round, or know him by her Cornish sea, in her white cottage on the cliff, and stay here nursing her wound, feeling the throb and the ache? It seemed impossible—and yet women do such things. It was almost the worst of her plight that she knew she could do it. It was in her blood to do it. The poor were like that: dumb beasts.
And now the delicacy which she had felt at first, and which had kept her away from Land’s End, became a tyrant, as the temptations grew upon her. It prevented her riding afield by any road leading into Exeter from the East. She had a bicycle; more, she had a certain way of bringing him directly to her side. He had taught her. The patteran. But no! She couldn’t. So she worked on doggedly, with the fret and fever in her bones; and day by day October slipped into November; the days slipped off as the wet leaves fell.
Early in November, on a day of sunny weather, Polly Merritt announced a visitor, who followed her immediately into the room, his straw hat under his left arm, his right hand held out.
“A gentleman to see Miss Middleham, if you please,” says Polly Merritt, and Mary had sprung up, with her hand to her side.
“It’s the tall one, mother, not the windy one,” was explained in the kitchen, but Mrs. Merritt, sniffing, had declared they were all the same.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Polly. “But this gentleman talks like asking and having, if you want my opinion.”
The riot in her breast was betrayed by her shining eyes and the quick flood of colour from neck to brows; but he played the man of the world so well that she was able to recover herself.
He made his excuses for breaking in upon her. He had been going through Exeter in any case. It was hardly to be resisted, she would allow. He owned that Horace Wing had given him the clue. “Poor Horace, you hurt him. It took two months’ hard talking in town and at least a month of surmise in Scotland before Horace could find strength enough to own up to the fact that he had met you, that you had bowed—and bolted. He mentioned it with tears in his eyes, as an extreme case. He had heard you book to Exeter—second single.” Then he looked at her and smiled. “But why Miss Middleham?”
“Why not?” she echoed him bravely. “I had to be somebody.”
“Weren’t you person enough?”
“Ah, yes, I was too much of a person, I was almost a personage. I was never happy in that disguise. My clothes never fitted me.”
“You should let other people judge of that. If you would like my opinion of your clothes, for instance——”
She shook her head, without speaking. He tried a more direct attack.
“You forgive me for coming?”
She suspected a tenderness. “Oh, it is very kind of you. I don’t have many visitors. I am glad to see you.”
“That’s good. May I see you again, then, while I can?”
She inquired: “Are you likely to be here long?”
A light hand was necessary now. “Oh, dear no—unfortunately. A day or two at the outside; time to buy cartridges. You remember the Ogmores? I am due at Wraybrook on the seventh. Pheasants. But until then——”
This was the fourth, you see. He would be horribly in the way. “I am occupied a good part of the day,” she told him. “I have pupils.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really! Have you—” he flushed, and leaned forward. “Have you renounced your——?”
“Not in so many words,” she said. “I have simply dropped it. Nobody knows where I am.”
“You knew that I had formally renounced mine?”
She had not known that. There was an implication in it—which she had run here to avoid; and here it was. “Did you?” she said shortly. “I’m not surprised.”
“Of course not,” he agreed. “You could not expect me to do anything else. And you have done precisely the same. That, also, I took leave to expect.” He saw concern gather in her eyes, broke off abruptly, and plunged into gossip. “Does your late world interest you still? Do you want to hear the news? Palmer Lovell’s engagement, for instance? A princess of Italy, I give you my word—a Donna Teresa Scalchi, rather a beauty, and a great shrew. Palmer can bite a bit, too. That will end in tears. And Hertha de Speyne marries abroad. Morosov, an anarchist of sort. They can collect plants in Siberia—” he broke off again, remembering that others had collected plants in Siberia. Watching her, he saw that she remembered it, too. “Oh, and old Constantine and I have kissed; we are fast friends. Once more I write speeches, which he mangles. He’s to be at Wraybrook, waiting for me. He can’t bear me out of his sight—he’s like an elderly wife. Frightful nuisance, of course—but I hope you are pleased.”
She looked at him for a moment. “Of course I am pleased. I always wanted you to succeed.”
He rattled on. She had never seen him in such good spirits or manners. When he left her after an hour she was quite at her ease. He said that, if he might, he would come in the evening, and take her for a walk. It would do her good; and as for him she might have pity upon a fellow at a loose end, with nothing on earth to do but buy cartridges.
When he had gone she sat still, looking at her hands in her lap. Could she maintain herself for three days? Already she felt the fences closing in—she had felt them, as they moved, though never once had she been able to hold up her hand or say, Stop: that you may not assume. Tristram was master of implication, and her master there. Throughout his airy monologue he had taken her for granted—her and her origin, her humility, her subservience to his nod, her false position with Germain, her false position now. Why, his very amiability, his deference to her opinion, his tentative approach—what were these but implications of his passion for her, a passion so strong that it could bend his arrogant back, and show a Tristram Duplessis at the feet of a Mary Middleham? She writhed, she burned to feel these things, and to be powerless against such attack. And he was to come again this evening, and every day for three days he was to come—and no help for her, she must fall without a cry. Yes, without a cry; for she was cut off from her friend, by the very need she had of him. What was she to do? What could she do—but fall?
She struggled. At three o’clock in the afternoon she told Polly Merritt that if the gentleman called again he was to be told that Miss Middleham was not well and had gone to bed. Polly wondered, but obeyed. “Lovers’ tricks!” quoth Mrs. Merritt. “That’ll bring him to the scratch.” It did. He received the news at the door, with an impassive face—all but for his eyes, which, keen and coldly blue, pierced Polly’s sloe-blacks to the brain, and extracted what might be useful to him. “Many thanks, Miss Polly,” he had said presently. “You’re a good friend, I see. Look here, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll bring some flowers round presently, and you shall put ’em in her room, and say nothing about it. Do you see?” Polly saw.
The next day was a busy one for her, and she saw nothing of Tristram until the evening. Then, to her dismay, she found him waiting for her outside the gates of Rosemount Academy, where her Italian lesson had been given. If she bit her lip, she blushed also; and if he remarked but one of these signals it was not her fault. Cavaliers had attended at those gates before—not for her only, but for her among others. Such a cavalier, however, so evidently of the great world, had never yet been looked upon by the young ladies of Rosemount.
“Oh,” cried Mary, startled, “who told you——?”
“Your amiable friend, Miss Polly, betrayed you. I hope you’ll forgive her.”
“I suppose I must. Probably you frightened her out of her wits.” But he swore that they were very good friends indeed. He thought that Miss Polly liked him, upon his word; and Mary could not deny that. Polly undoubtedly did.
His admirable behaviour inspired confidence; inquiries after her health, no reference to ambiguous exotics, no assumptions, no plans for evening walks. He went with her to her door, and left her there with a salute. But before she could get in, while she stood with her hand on the knocker, as if by an after-thought he came back to her from the gate. Jess had summoned him to Wraybrook, he said. He knew that there was something to tell her. Positively he must go the day after to-morrow. Now, was she free to-morrow?
She was; but she hesitated to say so. Well, then, would she give him a great pleasure? Would she come with him to Powderham—explore the park and the shore, have a picnic luncheon and all that sort of thing? Would she? As he stood down there below her, with flushed face and smiling, obsequious eyes, she thought that she really might trust herself, if not him. Polly, opening the door, was nodded to, and told that she need not wait. Polly needed no telling.
“Come, Mrs. Mary,” he urged her, “what do you say? Will you let me look after you for this once? Will you please to remember that never once since we have known each other—how many years?—have we had a whole day together? Extraordinary fact.”
“It’s quite true,” she reflected, “we never have. Once we very nearly did, though.”
“Twice,” he corrected her; but she could not admit that. Well, which was her instance?
It was long ago, when she had been at Misperton—had been some six months there. One Midsummer Day—surely he remembered! He had promised to take her to Glastonbury; the dog-cart was to meet them at Clewgate station——
“Ah, yes,” he cried—“And I called for you—and you were ready—in a brown holland frock——”
“Had I a brown holland? I remember that I was quite ready. And then a note came down from Mrs. James——”
“Beloved Mrs. James——”
“And you pretended to be angry——”
“Pretended! Oh, my dearest friend—I swore.”
“I know you did. And I——”
“You pretended to cry——”
“No, no, there was no pretence. I did cry.”
“Mary,” he said, “why did you cry?”
She recovered herself. “Because I was very young, and very stupid.”
“Now for my instance,” he said. “Not so very long ago, you were to go to Blackheath—by train; and I went to Charing Cross station.” But, with a flaming face, and real trouble in her eyes, she stopped him.
“Please, don’t—you hurt me. I think that you forget.”
He begged her pardon so sincerely that she could not refuse the morrow’s appointment.
They met at the station—she in a straw hat and linen frock—for the weather was wonderful; he in flannels. The perils of adventure glittered in her eyes; he played the courtier, sure now of his game. She begged for third-class tickets, but he compromised for second—and flagrantly bribed the guard to keep the carriage. It was impossible that she should avoid the knowledge that she was practically in possession—impossible that she should not see the approving smiles of the bystanders. “A pretty girl and her sweetheart”; simple comedy, of never-ending charm. Abhorrent to the Senhouses of this world, but not to be extirpated until Birnam come to Dunsinane.
Softly the knowledge brooded upon her, softly virginal she sat, very much aware. The epicure returned to Master Tristram, who by a whisper could have had her, but refrained. He sat by her, but respectfully—he discoursed at large. Powderham Castle—he spoke of that. It was a pity that the fine place could not be seen; but the Courteneys had let it, and he didn’t know the people. It was full, he happened to have heard. He believed that Bramleigh was staying there. He forgot if she knew Bramleigh; a quaint little man. But probably she wouldn’t want to be bothered with a lot of people; so they must be contented with the park. Thus Tristram discoursed; and at his discretion sat she, saying little, looking at him never, heeding every shade of inflection, and every hair’s breadth of movement of his. They reached the station; he helped her to descend.
All seemed well with Tristram’s wooing. His lady was in a pensive mood, softly receptive of his implications. The temptation to paint in bolder masses was not resisted, nor that more subtle form of art—the silent art. Speechless they loitered together; and sometimes their hands touched, and sometimes he hovered over her, as if protecting her with wings. Her eyes were veiled; she appeared sleek as a dove under his hand. Once he breathed her name—“Mary, oh, Mary—”; but he saw her shiver and stiffen, and knew that she was still to be won. So be it! But he could not give over the delicious chase. To have her thus wide-eyed, quivering, straining beside him—like a greyhound taut at his leash; he was beside himself with longing, and like a fool gave way.
“My dearest—” he began, but she checked him with a fierce cry—“No, no!—Not that—” and though he could see nothing but the sharp outline of her cheek and chin he knew that she was watching something. He looked about him vaguely. What on earth—? The sea—a narrow strip of blue tumbling water, spuming where it touched the yellow sands—the flecked, pale sky—the gorse—larks above it—in a far corner a gipsy’s tent, and a white horse foraging—. What on earth—?
He drew back. She seemed to start forwards as if to escape from him—but then she turned suddenly, and he saw that she was pale, that she trembled, and that there was real trouble in her eyes.
“I am tired,” she said, “very tired. May we go home now?”
“Of course—what a brute I am. But I thought that you— Won’t you tell me what has tired you all at once?”
“I don’t know—it came over me—suddenly. But I do want to go home, please—immediately.” Her eyes were full—brimming. He was touched.
“Come then, we’ll go to the station. It’s no great distance. Unless you would rather sit——”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly! No, no, indeed, I must go home. My head aches dreadfully. I think a sunstroke—perhaps. I can hardly stand up——”
He saw that that was true. “Come,” he said, “take my arm. We’ll go at once.”
When they had turned back she seemed to recover. She walked, at any rate, as fast as he did—set the pace. But she would not talk any more. In the train she sat apart, looking out of the window—and after a time he let her alone.
At Exeter when he put her in the fly and would have followed her, she put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t come with me. I shall be myself directly. I beg you not to come. And don’t think me ungrateful—indeed, you have been kindness itself. I’m very much ashamed of myself——”
“I’ll see you to-morrow—to say good-bye. You will let me do that? I must know how you are, you see.”
“Yes—come to-morrow if you will. Good-bye. I am much better. I shall be quite well. But come, of course, if you had rather.”
“Of course I shall come.” He lifted his hat, bowed, and turned away. She watched him walk towards his hotel. Then, with a face of flame, she turned to her own affair.
This was to be her last bid for freedom; her last chance. If she was to be the crying shame of her sex, it must be so. Come what might, she must call for help.
She stayed the fly at the door, paid the man, and watched him turn and go galloping down the hill. Then she turned to her affair—across Exeter it took her, to the Honiton road.
She walked the whole way, some two miles out of the city, beyond the suburbs to where the open country began. And here she laid her patteran, with branches of crimson maple, torn from the sunny side of the hedge. At the corners of two by-roads she laid them—one to the South, one to the North. Not satisfied with that, she went North herself to the Cullompton road, and laid two patterans more. Her cheeks burned like fire, and in her heart was a bitter pain; she felt that she had unsexed herself, was bedraggled and bemired. But her need had racked her—you can’t blame the wretch writhing there if he call upon his God.
XIX
HEARTACHE AND THE PHILOSOPHER
Love, which had given her heart wings to soar, clogged Senhouse about the feet, hobbled him and caused him to limp. If she had never loved before, she had played with love; but to him the woe was new. One need not inquire into his relations with women, or believe him immune, to understand that. It was so entirely new to him that he refused to believe in it. She was present with him, though with her face veiled, night and day; the thought of her was joy; his ledge of calochortus took a value in his eyes because she had looked at them, knelt among them, stroked and fondled one, at least. He mocked at himself for searching out and cherishing the marks of her feet, for stooping to touch what seemed to be the printings of her knees; and yet, when he went down the Pillar and stood among other precious growths of his, he saw them a huddle of wet weeds.
The outlook was a bad one. He tried to paint, and smeared out everything he tried; to write, and had nothing to say. He slept badly. And yet he could not leave the north; for he had an appointment in October which would take him to Penrith. A learned man from Baden was coming out to meet him, with proposals in his pocket of Grand Ducal dimensions; two years’ plant-hunting in the Caucasus, and three years’ gardening—with the Schwarzwald for his garden. So far the Grand Ducal Government was prepared to go upon report. The thing had been a year coming to a head, for Senhouse was a difficult man to inoculate with other people’s ideas; but to such a head it was now brought, and he felt that, whatever else he did, he must by all means meet Herr Doktor Löffner.
What was he to do, then, between June and October? Characteristically, with the south calling him, he went north. He shipped at Leith and went to Iceland with Bingo and a saddle-bag for all his luggage. He traversed that island from end to end; and though he could not tire himself, he got his sleeping powers back, began to paint and to believe in his painting, to botanize and to be sure it was worth while. He knew next to nothing of Danish, and was driven in upon himself for company. Upon that fare he throve. He moped no more, forgot Mary for whole hours together, and believed himself cured. In September he returned to Leith and went afoot down to Penrith to meet the Herr Doktor.
Their greeting was cordial. “Oh, man of silences, oh, thou unlettered one, do I find thee in truth?”
“My dear Doctor Löffner, you do indeed. Come into the yard and I’ll show you some things worth having.”
“Where have you been, my friend?”
“Iceland.”
“Iceland! Ach, then you haf—? No, you haf not—? Never in the worlt!”
“I’m not sure. But I rather think that I have.” What he had was some earth and broken limestone in a sponge-bag—so far as could be seen. But there was enough beside to occupy the pair of them until dinner. Before that meal was ready the Doctor had fallen weeping on Senhouse’s neck, had clasped him to his breast. “Thou hast it—thou hast it—oh, wonder-child!”—and then, as he wiped the dew from his glasses, with a startling lapse into idiom—“I say! Dot was cholly.”
The dinner was very gay; Bingo had an indigestion.
Next morning, the great man was taken out and about to view the various fields of tillage; the ledge where calochortus had been fair in Mary’s eyes, the larkspur slope, and what could be done with Alpines upon a Cumberland moraine. He was more than amazed, he was convinced. “You are chust the man for us. We pick you up cheap, I consider, for ten thousand mark.” Senhouse was not concerned to affirm or deny; but he insisted upon it that he was selling his liberty very cheaply indeed. “And I wouldn’t do it, you know, for a hundred thousand,” he said, “if it weren’t for the two years in the Caucasus. You have me there, I own. I’ve hungered after that for years, and now I’ll take it as it comes to me. There must be irises there which neither Leichtlin nor Korolkov have spotted—I’m certain of it.”
“And you are the man to spod them,” said Herr Löffner with deep feeling. “Bod, mind you, we haf them wid you in Schwarzwald.”
“Honour among thieves,” said Senhouse. “Depend upon me.”
Herr Löffner passed by the proposal that he should be taken to the Dukeries to see the cyclamen, or to Wales for the peonies, or to Cornwall for the Ramondias; but he could not resist the promise of Syrian irises growing wild on Dartmoor. That he must see before he died; and he would take Kew and necessary business there on the way. Agreed; they would start in the morning by the express from Carlisle.
This they did; Löffner, Senhouse, and Bingo journeyed to London, and put up at the Grand Hotel, which was chosen by the savant solely on account of its name. “I feel grand to haf got you my Senhouse,” said he; “let us therefore go to the grandest hotel we can find.” It was not in his friend’s power to correct this simplicity; and the Grand Hotel was too grand for him.
In the “lounge” of this palace—“all looking-glasses and whisky,” as he described it—it was necessary for him to spend certain moments while Herr Löffner briskly inspected rooms, menus, and lists of wines. Briskly, but with method, he went to work. Senhouse, having discovered that most of the plants were imitation and the others dying, flung himself upon a plush settee and picked up journal after journal, in the hope of finding one which did not contain either photographs of ladies or advertisements. He was grumbling over an evening sheet when his friend joined him and, sighing his content at a good dinner ahead of him, produced and lighted a cigar. Senhouse found himself reading for a second time a paragraph of a leading article which began thus:—
“Ever since the by-election in Farlingbridge, caused by the death of Mr. Germain, the Government has been losing seats with a steadiness as reasonable as reason can require.” Midway through his second reading he stiffened and sat up.
“Excuse me, Löffner,” he said, “but I must leave you for an hour or so.”
Herr Löffner beamed and bowed. “I am sorry, but submit. Only—you must promise me to come back, or I lose you, du wilder Mann.”
Senhouse was not vague; on the contrary, he was remarkably collected. “Yes, I’ll come back. But this is a matter of losing myself—or the reverse, as the case may be.” He nodded, and walked straight out of the hotel into the street. Bingo, stepping delicately, with ears set back and muzzle to earth, followed close to his right heel. He shared his master’s contempt of London, but added fear.
The hour was late for callers, since it was now half-past seven, but he knew nothing of hours. He went directly to Hill-street and rang the bell. After a long interval a caretaker released many a bolt and peered round the edge of the door. A respectable, grey-haired lady, very anxious.
“Mrs. Germain?” said Senhouse. He almost heard her sigh.
“Out of town, sir.”
“So I see. But where is she?” Bingo lifted his head high, snuffed the air, misliked it, and yawned.
The elderly lady had no more doubts. “She would be at Southover House, Sir. The family is expected on the 15th for a few days, on their way abroad.”
Senhouse jerked away all this surplusage. “The family? What family? It is Mrs. John Germain, I mean.”
Whatever caution may have lingered in the caretaker now disappeared, in the occasion of a treasured wonder to be revealed. “Oh, Sir, we don’t know anything about her. It’s all a mystery, Sir, and has been since Mr. John—passed away.”
“What do you mean by that?” she was asked.
Her cue! “She’s not been seen or heard of, Sir—not by her own family nor by ours. She went away by herself in July—after the event. Sir—and here’s October come round, and never heard of yet.”
Senhouse betrayed nothing; but his mind moved like lightning. “Tell me exactly what you mean,” he bade her; and she did, omitting nothing. He listened, made no comments, and gave no chances.
Then he asked her, “Do you know Mr. Duplessis’s address?”
She did not.
“His club?” She said she would call her husband.
The husband in his shirt-sleeves was all for speculation upon the affair—speculation at large, illustrated by reminiscences. Duplessis was a good gambit; but the moment he had opened by saying that many a time had he stood behind Mr. Duplessis’s chair at the Reform he found himself rehearsing to his wife things that she had heard but an hour ago. Senhouse had snapped out his “Reform! Thanks,” and gone his way.
At the Reform—Bingo coiled on the steps, with one eye wary for peril—he learned that Duplessis was in Devonshire. “Wraybrook Park, near Honiton,” was his address. He returned to the hotel and found Herr Löffner immovable in his place, and still with a cigar. But he was deplorably hungry, and leapt to his feet the moment he saw Senhouse.
“Thank God for you,” he warmly said. “Come and dine.”
“I can’t dine, Löffner. You must hoard your thanksgiving. I’m going down to Devonshire.” The savant gazed at him.
“To Devonshire—without dinner! That is not possible, my friend. To begin, it is bad for you—secondly, it is late.”
“Oh,” said Senhouse, “I’m a night-bird, you know. I don’t want you to come with me—in fact, I’d rather you didn’t. You’ve got lots to do at Kew, and can meet me there. But I must be off in half an hour. I shall catch the 9.25.”
Herr Löffner looked at his watch, then at his friend’s dog, then at his friend. Smiles played about his face and eyes. “What mischief do you meditate? What dark work?” he said; and you could hear the enthusiasm gurgling beneath, like flood water in a drain. But Senhouse was unfathomable, and for once not smiling.
“It’s serious work I’m after. Life-and-death work, I believe. My trip to the Caucasus hangs on it—and all my trips to come.”
“Herr Je! Du lieber——!”
“I know. It’s a queer thing. Nothing seemed to hang upon anything this morning, and now everything upon one thing. It’s no good, my dear man, I can’t explain. Trust me, I’ll telegraph to you from Exeter and wait for you there.”
“Bod—” said Herr Löffner out of his chest. “If you haf here a life-and-death-works—I cannot understand. If you make of it life-works, you telegraph and I come. But if it is a death-works—what then?”
“It won’t be,” said Senhouse. “It can’t be. Good-bye.” Herr Löffner went to his dinner.
At Wraybrook Park his lean face was announced to Duplessis at half-past ten in the morning, at the breakfast-table, by a respectful butler. It was not told him that it had awaited him since eight o’clock.
“Some one to see me—in the drive?” he had asked, suspecting nothing. “Why in the drive?”
“The gentleman preferred to be outside, Sir. He had a dog with him.”
Duplessis stared at his plate. “All right. I’ll come in a minute,” he said, and resumed his meal.
At eleven he came out of the front door, cigar in mouth, and saw immediately what was in store for him. The carriage drive at Wraybrook sweeps round the lake, which is the great feature of the place. On the edge of that he had seen in a moment the tall man in grey, bareheaded, talking with one of the gardeners, and had flushed. His eyes narrowed, and glittered; he paused perceptibly, then drew a breath and went down over the lawn.
Bingo, sitting up on his haunches, gave a short yap of warning, then apologized to his master. Senhouse finished what he had to say to the gardener, nodded and went up to meet his man.
They encountered without recognition: Bingo, with lifted forefoot, reserved his judgment. His custom was to run in and apply the test of nose to calf; but in this case he stayed behind.
“You wish to see me, I’m told.” Duplessis spoke first.
“Yes,” said Senhouse, “I do. I have to trouble you. I have just heard of John Germain’s death.”
In some sort Duplessis had been prepared for this—but in no way which could have been explained. He was able to take it quietly.
“News travels slowly your way,” he said. “Germain died in July.”
“So I have learned; but it must have been sudden. I happen to know that he was quite well at the beginning of that month; and had not the least reason to expect any such thing.”
“Why should you?” Duplessis was rather famous for impertinence.
Senhouse said, “I’ll tell you. I saw Mrs. Germain early in July”—Duplessis grew red—“In fact, she must have gone directly from the North, where I met her, to her husband’s bedside.”
“I think I’ll interrupt you for one moment,” Duplessis said. “You are probably as interested in saving time as I am. Therefore the sooner I know how I can serve you the better for both of us.” Bingo who had been looking with gloomy interest at the root of his tail, here attacked it with ferocity. Senhouse laughed.
“I’ll tell you. Mrs. Germain has disappeared.”
Duplessis asked, “Do you want me to find her for you?”
“I want you,” said Senhouse, “to tell me where she is.”
Duplessis looked him full in the face. “Really, I don’t know what business you have to ask me that.”
“Then I’ll tell you, if you please,” said Senhouse. “When she left the North she did not, I believe, go directly to London. She went to Blackheath, to her people. There she saw you.”
“Who told you that, Sir?” Duplessis was angry.
“She told me that she should see you there. It had not been her intention; but she changed her mind.”
“Then I have to thank you, Mr. Senhouse, for an insufferable interference in my affairs,” said Duplessis.
“I advised her to see you—yes. Come, now,” he said with a change of tone which Duplessis found hard to bear, “you have had your innings, I was careful not to touch on that. You have had more than one, if I don’t mistake you. I think now that I go in.”
Duplessis was not the man to give candour for candour. His eyes were steady on his enemy. “I don’t give ladies’ addresses without their leave, you know.”
“You may assume it here. When I saw Mrs. Germain in Cumberland she gave me to understand that she might wish to see me again.”
“If she had wished it,” said Duplessis, “I suppose she would have told you where she was. Apparently she does not wish it.”
“Obviously you do not,” Senhouse replied; “and I have reasons for putting your wish and her action together. And, as a matter of fact, she could not let me know anything, because I have no certain address.”
“Your addresses are nothing whatever to me,” said Duplessis. “I decline to tell you anything.”
“Very well,” said Senhouse slowly. “Then you must get what good you can out of that.”
Duplessis turned on his heel and walked away. Bingo, sleek and swift, ran after him and sniffed daintily at his calves. Curiosity, so to speak, was behind him, drove his tail in between his legs. It wanted but a spark to kindle the smouldering young man, and here it was. He turned again, blazing. “Call in your cur, will you? They don’t allow dogs here.”
“Bingo, heel,” said Senhouse, and watched him, smiling quietly.