Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  It was good that she was ignorant of his approach, for it showed her to him in a fair light straight away — completely natural and unconscious of herself. She had seated herself after her song at a low table, and was making an indolent attack on some trifling work with her scissors. The lamplight, from under its crimson shade, fell upon her hair and face and neck with marvellous results, for it made her beautiful. She was not at all beautiful. She had a peerless complexion, a good nose, matchless teeth; otherwise her features were of no account. But she was exceedingly pretty; and as she sat there with the warm lamplight changing her ordinary light-coloured hair into a ruddy gold fit for any goddess, a much less prejudiced person than Dick Edmonstone might have been pardoned the notion that she was lovely, though she was not.

  When at last he managed to raise his eyes from her they rested upon a face that was entirely strange. A tall, massive man, in evening dress, leaned with an elbow on the chimneypiece, his head lightly resting on his hand, one foot on the edge of the fender. There could be no two opinions as to the beauty of this face — it was handsome and striking to the last degree. Burnt, like Dick’s, to the colour of brick-dust, it was framed in dark curly hair, with beard and whiskers of a fairer hue, while the mouth was hidden by a still fairer, almost golden, moustache. The effect was leonine. Dick caught his profile, and saw that the steady, downward gaze was bent upon the dainty little head that glowed in the lamplight. From his vantage-post outside the window he glanced from observer to observed. They were a sufficiently good-looking pair, yet he overrated the one and underrated the other. He was by no means attracted to this unknown exquisite; there was an ease about his pose which bespoke freedom also; and his scrutiny of the unconscious girl was of a kind that would at least have irritated any man in Dick’s position.

  Dick allowed his attention to rest but briefly upon the third occupant of the room — a man with snowy hair and whiskers, who was apparently dropping off to sleep in a big armchair. Somehow or other, the sight of the men — but particularly of the stranger — acted on his heart like a shower-bath on a man’s head; his pulse slackened, he regained with interest the self-possession with which he had first approached the window. He took three steps forward, and stood in the middle of the room.

  A startled cry escaped the old man and the girl. The man by the fireplace dropped his forearm and turned his head three inches.

  Dick strode forward and grasped an outstretched hand.

  “Colonel Bristo!”

  “Dick Edmonstone! — is it really Dick?” a well-remembered voice repeated a dozen times. “We knew you were on your way home, but — bless my soul! bless my soul!”

  The old soldier could think of nothing else to say; nor did it matter, for Dick’s salute was over and his back turned; he was already clasping the hand of the fair young girl, who had risen, flushed and breathless, to greet him.

  He was speechless. He tried to say “Alice,” but the sound was inarticulate. Their eyes met.

  A clatter in the fender. The tall man’s heel had come down heavily among the fire-irons.

  “Let me introduce you,” said Colonel Bristo to this man and Dick. “You will like to know each other, since you both come from the same country: Mr. Edmonstone, from Australia; Mr. Miles, from Australia! Mr. Miles was born and bred there, Dick, and has never been in England before. So you will be able to compare notes.”

  The two men stared at each other and shook hands.

  V

  THE FIRST EVENING AT GRAYSBROOKE

  “Sit down, boy, sit down,” said Colonel Bristo, “and let us have a look at you. Mind, we don’t know yet that you’re not an impostor. You should have brought proofs.”

  “Here are five-foot-ten of them,” said Dick, laughing.

  “To believe that, we must put you through examination — and cross-examination,” the Colonel added with a glance at his daughter; “although I half believe you really are the man you profess to be. What do you say, Alice?”

  “I have a strong case—” Dick was beginning, but he was cut short.

  “It is Dick,” said the oracle sweetly.

  “You take his word for it?” asked her father.

  “No, I identify him,” Alice answered with a quiet smile; “and he hasn’t altered so very much, when one looks at him.”

  Dick turned his head and met her eyes; they were serene and friendly. “Thank you,” he said to her, with gratitude in his voice. And, indeed, he felt grateful to them all; to the Colonel for his ponderous pleasantry, to Alice for her unembarrassed manner, to Mr. Miles for the good taste he showed in minding his own business. (He had strolled over to the window.)

  “And when did you land?” inquired the Colonel.

  “This morning.”

  “Only this morning!” exclaimed Alice; “then I think it was too good of you to come and see us so soon; don’t you, papa?”

  Very kind of him indeed, papa thought. Dick was pleased; but he thought they might have understood his eagerness. Alice, at any rate, should not have been surprised — and probably was not. “I couldn’t put it off,” he said, frankly.

  There was a slight pause; then the Colonel spoke:

  “That’s kindly said, my boy; and if your mother knew how it does us good to see you here, she would scarcely grudge us an hour or two this evening — though grudge it you may depend she does. As for ourselves, Dick, we can hardly realise that you are back among us.”

  “I can’t realise it at all,” murmured Dick, aloud but to himself.

  “I won’t worry you by asking point-blank how you like Australia,” the Colonel went on, “for that’s a daily nuisance in store for you for the next six months. But I may tell you we expect some tough yarns of you; our taste has been tickled by Miles, who has some miraculous — why, where is Miles?”

  Miles had vanished.

  “What made him go, I wonder?” asked Alice, with the slightest perceptible annoyance. Dick did not perceive it, but he thought the question odd. To disappear seemed to him the only thing a stranger, who was also a gentleman, could have done; he was scarcely impartial on the point, however.

  Alice took up the theme which her father had dropped.

  “Oh, Mr. Miles has some wonderful stories,” said she; “he has had some tremendous adventures.”

  “The deuce he has!” thought Dick, but he only said: “You should take travellers’ tales with a grain of salt.”

  “Thanks,” Alice instantly retorted; “I shall remember that when you tell yours.”

  They laughed over the retort. All three began to feel quite at ease.

  “So you kept up your sketching out there, and drew bush scenes for our illustrated papers?” said the Colonel.

  “Two or three times; more often for the Colonial papers.”

  “We saw them all,” said Alice, graciously— “I mean the English ones. We cut them out and kept them.” (She should have said that she did.)

  “Did you, though?” said Dick, delighted.

  “Yes,” said Alice, “and I have a crow to pick with you about them. That ‘Week in the Sandwich Islands’ — it was yours, wasn’t it?”

  Dick admitted that it was.

  “Oh, and pray when were you in the Sandwich Islands?”

  He confessed that he had never seen them.

  “So you not only cheated a popular journal — a nice thing to do! — but deceived the British public, which is a far more serious matter. What explanation have you to offer? What apology to ‘One who was Deceived’ — as I shall sign my ‘Times’ letter, when I write it?”

  “Alice, you are an inquisitor,” said Colonel Bristo. But Alice replied with such a mischievous, interested smile that Dick immediately ceased to feel ashamed of himself.

  “The fact is,” he owned, “your popular journal doesn’t care a fig whether one has been to a place so long as one’s sketches of it are attractive. I did them a thing once of a bullock-dray stuck up in the mud; and how did it appear? ‘The War at the Cape: Difficult
ies in Reaching the Front.’ And they had altered the horns of my bullocks, if you please, to make ‘em into South African cattle! You see, just then Africa was of more interest to your British public than Australia. Surely you won’t be so hard on me now? You see you have made me divulge professional secrets by your calumnies.”

  Alice said she forgave him, if all that was true; but she added, slyly: “One must take travellers’ tales with a pinch of salt, you know!”

  “Come, Alice,” said her father, “if you insist on pitching into our artist, he shall have his fling at our photographer. Dick, she’s taken to photography — it’s lately become the fashion. Look on that table, under the lamp; you’ll find some there that she was trimming, or something, when you dropped in our midst.”

  “May I look at them?” Dick asked, moving over to Alice.

  “Certainly; but they’re very bad, I’m afraid; and since you artists scorn photography — as so inartistic, you know — I suppose you will be a severe critic.”

  “Not when this is the subject,” said Dick, in a low voice, picking up a print; “how did you manage to take yourself?”

  He was sitting beside her at the little table, with the lamp between them and the Colonel; he instinctively lowered his voice, and a grain of the feeling he had so far successfully repressed escaped into his tone.

  “Someone took off the cap for me.”

  “Oh. Who?”

  “Who? Oh, I get anybody to take the cap off when I am so vain as to take myself — anybody who is handy.”

  “Mr. Miles, for instance?” It was a stray question, suggested by no particular train of thought, and spoken carelessly; there was no trace of jealousy in the tone — it was too early for that; but Alice looked up, quick to suspect, and answered shortly:

  “Yes, if you like.”

  Dick was genuinely interested, and noticed in her tone nothing amiss. Several of the photographs turned out to be of Alice, and they charmed him.

  “Did Mr. Miles take all these?” he asked, lightly; he was forced to speak so before her father: the restraint was natural, though he marvelled afterwards that he had been able to maintain it so long.

  Alice, however, read him wrong. She was prepared for pique in her old lover, and imagined it before it existed. She answered with marked coldness:

  “A good many of them.”

  This time Dick detected the unpleasant ring in her words — he could not help but detect it. A pang shot to his heart. His first (and only) impression of Miles, which had fled from his mind (with all other impressions) while talking to her, swiftly returned. He had used the man’s name, a minute ago, without its conveying anything to his mind; he used it now with a bitterness at heart which crept into his voice.

  “And don’t you return the compliment? I see no photographs of Mr. Miles here; and he would look so well in one.”

  “He has never been taken in his life — and never means to be. Now, Dick, you have seen them all,” she added quite softly, her heart smiting her; and with that she rolled all the prints into one little cylinder. Dick was in that nervous state in which a kind word wipes out unkindness the moment it is spoken, and the cloud lifted at once from his face. They were silent for more than a minute. Colonel Bristo quietly left the room.

  Then a strange change came over Dick. While others had been in the room, composure had sat naturally upon him; but now that they were alone together, and the dream of his exile so far realised, that armour fell from him, and left his heart bare. He gazed at his darling with unutterable emotion; he yearned to clasp her in his arms, yet dared not to profane her with his touch. There had been vows between them when they parted — vows out of number, and kisses and tears; but no betrothal, and never a letter. He could but gaze at her now — his soul in that gaze — and tremble; his lips moved, but until he had conquered his weakness no words came. As for Alice, her eyes were downcast, and neither did she speak. At length, and timidly, he took her hand. She suffered this, but drew ever so slightly away from him.

  “Alice,” he faltered, “this is the sweetest moment of my life. It is what I have dreamt of, Alice, but feared it might never come. I cannot speak; forgive me, dear.”

  She answered him cunningly:

  “It is very nice to have you back again, Dick.”

  He continued without seeming to hear her, and his voice shook with tenderness: “Here — this moment — I can’t believe these years have been; I think we have never been separated — —”

  “It certainly doesn’t seem four years,” said Alice sympathetically, but coolly.

  Dick said nothing for a minute; his eyes hung on her downcast lids, waiting for an answering beam of love, but one never came.

  “You remember,” he said at last, in a calmer voice, “you remember the old days? and our promises? and how we parted?” He was going on, but Alice interrupted him by withdrawing her hand from his and rising from her chair.

  “Dick,” said she, kindly enough, “don’t speak of them, especially not now — but don’t speak of them at all. We can’t have childhood over again; and I was a child then — of seventeen. I am grown up now, and altered; and you — of course you have altered too.”

  “Oh Alice!” — the turning of the door handle made him break off short, and add in a quick whisper, “I may speak to you to-morrow?”

  “Very well,” she answered indifferently, as there entered upon them a little old lady in rustling silk and jingling beads — an old lady with a sallow face and a piercing black eye, who welcomed Dick with a degree of fussy effusiveness, combined with a look and tone which discounted her words.

  “Delighted to see you back, Mr. Richard — a pleasure I have often looked forward to. We don’t welcome conquering heroes every day,” were in themselves sufficiently kindly words, but they were accompanied by a flash of the beady eyes from Dick to Alice, and a scrutiny of the young fellow’s appearance as searching as it was unsympathetic; and when a smile followed, overspreading her loose, leathery, wrinkled skin, the effect was full of uncanny suggestion.

  “Yes, it is jolly to be back, and thanks very much,” said Dick civilly; “and it is charming to find you still here, Mrs. Parish.”

  “Of course I am still here,” said the leathery little lady brusquely: as if Colonel Bristo could live without his faithful domestic despot, as if Graysbrooke could stand without its immemorial housekeeper! This Mrs. Parish was ugly, vain, and old, and had appeared as old and as vain and as ugly when, more than twenty years ago, she first entered the Colonel’s service. She had her good points, however, and a sense of duty according to her lights. Though it be no extravagant praise, she was a better person at heart than on the surface.

  She now inquired with some condescension about Dick’s Australian life, and how he liked it, and where he had been, and how he should like living altogether out there. She congratulated him on his success (she called it “luck”), which she declared was in the mouths of everybody. On that he felt annoyed, and wondered if she knew any details, and what figure she would bid for some — of, say, his first year — in the local gossip market.

  “Of course you will go back,” said the old woman with conviction; “all lucky Colonists do. You will find England far too dull and slow for you.” At this point Colonel Bristo and Mr. Miles came back, chatting. “I was saying,” Mrs. Parish repeated for their benefit, “that of course Mr. Richard will soon return to Australia; he will tire of England in six weeks; it is always the way. Mr. Miles is the happy exception!” with a smile upon that gentleman which strove to be arch — with doubtful success.

  “I never said I meant to make ‘Home’ my home,” said the Australian, with the drawl of his race, but in tones mellow and musical. His long frame sank with graceful freedom into a chair beside Mrs. Parish, and his clear blue eyes beamed upon them all — all except Dick, whom he forgot to notice just then.

  “I don’t think Dick means to go back,” said the Colonel cheerily. “That would be treating us all abominably; in fa
ct, we could never allow it — eh, Dick?”

  Dick looked gravely at the carpet.

  “I mean to settle down in England now,” said he; and he could not refrain from a sly glance at Alice. Her eyes, bent thoughtfully upon him, instantly filled with mischief.

  “You mean to stay at home, yet sketch the ends of the earth; is that it?” Her tone changed swiftly to one of extreme kindness. “Well, it would be dreadful if you didn’t stop at home now. Whatever you do” (he changed colour; she added calmly), “think of Mrs. Edmonstone and Fanny!”

  A little later, Alice and her father told Dick all the news of themselves that they could think of — how they had been in Italy last year, and in Scotland the year before, and how they had taken a shooting-box in Yorkshire for this year. And Alice’s manner was very courteous and kindly, for she was beginning to reproach herself for having been cruel to him on this his first evening, and to wonder how she could have had the heart. She asked him if he had forgotten how to dance, and said he must begin learning over again at once, in order to dance at her ball — her very own party — on the second of July.

  Poor Dick’s spirits once more rose high, though this time an uneasy sediment remained deep in his heart. Without the least intention in the world, Alice was beginning a very pretty game of coquetry with her sweetheart — alas! her quondam sweetheart. While they talked, Mr. Miles, at the other side of the room, kept up an entertaining conversation with Mrs. Parish. At the same time he observed Dick Edmonstone very narrowly — perhaps more anxiously than he need have regarded an old friend of his friends’; though perhaps with no more than a social lion’s innate suspicion of his kind. At last Dick rose to go.