“And here we are approaching Aden, your Ladyship,” he concluded. Her big dark eyes had held him enthralled, inspiring him to paint in glorious colors every detail of the remarkable journey. As he drew to a close, her hand fell involuntarily on his knee. A tremor dashed through his veins, and his heart throbbed fiercely.
“How glorious it must be to love like that,” she almost whispered. There was a catch in her voice, as she uttered that soft, dreamy sentence, almost a sigh. She turned her face away suddenly and then arose, crying in tones so low and despairing that he could hardly believe they came from the usually merry lips: “Oh, how I envy her this life and love! How wonderful it all is!”
“It has its drawbacks,” he lamented. “As a brother I am a nonentity, Lady Huntingford; it’s not altogether relishable, you know. It’s a sort of pantomime, for me, by Jove. I’m the fool, and this seems to be the fool’s errand.”
“If you will play a part in the pantomime, Mr. Ridge, let an Englishwoman suggest that you be the harlequin. How I loved the harlequin in the Drury Lane pantomimes at Christmas time! He was always the ideal lover to me, for there was no trick, no prank this bespangled hero could not play to success. He always went incognito, for he wore his narrow mask of black. He performed the most marvellous things for his Columbine,—and was she not a worthy sweetheart? No, no, Mr. Ridge:—not the fool, I pray. Please be the harlequin,” she cried in rare good humor.
“As you like it,” he said, reflecting her spirits. “I am the harlequin and this is, perforce, the harlequin’s errand.” They were silent for a long time, then he said soberly:
“It was such a foolish thing to do, after all.” She looked up at him for a moment, the bitterness fading from her hungry eyes, a smile struggling feebly into power. Then came the radiance of enthusiasm.
“Foolish!” she exclaimed, with eyes sparkling and breast heaving. “It was magnificent! What a brave girl she is! Oh, how clever you both are and how much you will enjoy the memory of this wonderful trip. It will always be fresh and novel to you—you will never forget one moment of its raptures. How I wish I could have done something like this. If I dared, I would kiss that brave, lucky girl a thousand times.”
“But you must not let her suspect,” cautioned he.
“It would ruin everything for her if she even dreamed that you had told me, and I would not mar her happiness for the world. Really, Mr. Ridge, I am so excited over your exploit that I can scarcely contain myself. It seems so improbable, so immense, yet so simple that I can hardly understand it at all. Why is it other people have not found this way to revolutionize life? Running around the world to get married without the faintest excuse save an impulse—a whim. How good, how glorious! It is better than a novel!”
“I hope it is better than some novels.”
“It is better than any, because it is true.”
“I am afraid you are trying to lionize me,” he jested.
“You have faced a British lion,” she said slowly.
“My only regret is that he is old and clawless.”
“We are retracing our steps over dangerous ground,” she said with a catch in her breath.
“You would have me to believe that I am a brave man, so I am determined to court the danger of your displeasure. How did you happen to marry this old and clawless lion?”
She did not exhibit the faintest sign of surprise or discomfiture, certainly not of anger. Instead, she looked frankly into his eyes and answered: “That is what I thought you would ask me. I shall not refuse to answer. I married because I wanted to do so.”
“What!” exclaimed he incredulously. “I had hoped—er—I mean, feared that you had been—ah—sort of forced into it, you know.”
“Since my marriage I have discovered, however, that there is no fool like the ambitious fool,” she went on as if he had not spoken. “Do you understand what I mean?”
“That you married for position?”
“That I married simply to become Lady Huntingford.”
“And you did not love him at all?” There was something like disgust, horror in Hugh’s voice.
“Love him?” she exclaimed scornfully, and he knew as much as if she had spoken volumes. Then her face became rigid and cold. For the first time he saw the hard light of self-mastery in her eyes. “I made my choice; I shall abide by it to the end as steadfastfully as if I were the real rock which you may think me to be. There is nothing for me to tell—nothing more that I will tell to you. Are you not sorry that you know such a woman as I? Have you not been picking me to pieces and casting me with your opinions to the four winds?”
“I am truly sorry for you,” was all that he could say.
“You mean that you despise me,” she cried bitterly. “Men usually think that of such women as I. They do not give us a hearing with the heart, only with the cruel, calculating brain. Think of it, Mr. Ridge, I have never known what it means to love. I have been loved; but in all my life there has been no awakening of a passion like that which sends Grace Vernon around the world to give herself to you. I know that love exists for other people. I have seen it—have almost felt it in them when they are near me. And yet it is all so impossible to me.”
“You are young—very young,” he said. “Love may come to you—some day.”
“It will be envy—not love, I fear. I threw away every hope for love two years ago—when I was transformed from the ambitious Miss Beresford to Lady Huntingford, now thoroughly satiated. It was a bad bargain and it has wounded more hearts than one. I am not sorry to have told you this. It gives relief to—to something I cannot define. You despise me, I am sure—”
“No, no! How can you say that? You are paying the penalty for your—of your—”
“Say it! Crime.”
“For your mistake, Lady Huntingford. We all make mistakes. Some of us pay for them more bitterly than others, and none of us is a judge of human nature except from his own point of view. I am afraid you don’t feel the true sympathy I mean to convey. Words are faulty with me tonight. It shall be my pleasure to forget what you have confessed to me. It is as if I never had heard.”
“Some men would presume greatly upon what I have told to you. You are too good, I know, to be anything but a true friend,” she said.
“I think I understand you,” he said, a flush rising to his temples. After all, she was a divine creature. “You shall always find me the true friend you think I am.”
“Thank you.” They were silent for a long time, gazing out over the sombre plain of water in melancholy review of their own emotions. At last she murmured softly, wistfully, “I feel like an outcast. My life seems destined to know none of the joys that other women have in their power to love and to be loved.” The flush again crept into his cheek.
“You have not met the right man, Lady Huntingford,” he said.
“Perhaps that is true,” she agreed, smiling faintly.
“The world is large and there is but one man in it to whom you can give your heart,” he said.
“Why should any man desire possession of a worthless bit of ice?” she asked, her eyes sparkling again.
“The satisfaction of seeing it melt,” he responded.
She thought long over this reply.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CONFESSION OF VEATH
“Hugh, have you observed anything strange in Mr. Veath lately?”
The interrogation came suddenly from Grace, the next morning, on deck. They had been discussing the plans for a certain day in May, and all the time there was evidence of trouble in her eyes. At last she had broached a subject that had been on her mind for days.
“Can’t say that I have.” The answer was somewhat brusque.
“I am convinced of one thing,” she said hurriedly, coming direct to the point. “He is in love with me.”
“The scoundrel!” gasped Hugh, stopping short and turning very white. “How dare he do such—”
“Now, don’t be absurd, dear. I can’t see what he finds
in me to love, but he has a perfect right to the emotion, you know. He doesn’t know, dear.”
“Where is he? I’ll, take the emotion out of him in short order. Ah, ha! Don’t look frightened! I understand. You love him. I see it all. It’s as—”
“Stop! You have no right to say that,” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing dangerously. His heart smote him at once and he sued humbly for pardon. He listened to her views concerning the hapless Indianian, and it was not long before he was heart and head in sympathy with Veath.
“Poor fellow! When I told him last night that I was to be married within a year he actually trembled from head to foot. I never was so miserable over a thing in my life,” she said dismally. “Really, Hugh, I can’t bear to think of him finding out how we have played with him.”
“Shall I tell him all about it?” asked he in troubled tones.
“Then I should not be able to look him in the face. Dear me, elopements have their drawbacks, haven’t they?”
Other passengers joined them, Veath and Lady Huntingford among them. In the group were Captain Shadburn, Mr. and Mrs. Evarts, Mr. Higsworth and his daughter Rosella, Lieutenant Hamilton—a dashing young fellow who was an old and particularly good friend of Lady Huntingford. Hugh noted, with strange satisfaction, that Hamilton seemed unusually devoted to Miss Higsworth. In a most casual manner he took his stand at the rail beside her Ladyship, who had coaxed Captain Shadburn to tell them his story of the great typhoon.
Presently, a chance came to address her.
“Grace tells me that your name is an odd one, for a girl—woman, I mean—Tennyson. Were you named for the poet?”
“Yes. My father knew him well. Odd, isn’t it? My friends call me Lady Tennys. By the way, you have not told Grace what I told you last night on deck, have you?” she asked.
“I should say not. Does she suspect that you know her secret and mine?” he asked in return.
“She does not dream that I know. Ah, I believe I am beginning to learn what love is. I worship your sweetheart, Hugh Ridgeway.”
“If you could love as she loves me, Lady Huntingford, you might know what love really is.”
“What a strange thing it must be that you and she can know it and I cannot,” she mused, looking wistfully at the land afar off.
At Aden everybody went ashore while the ship coaled at Steamer Point, on the western side of the rock, three miles from the town proper. Multitudes of Jewish ostrich-feather merchants and Somali boys gave the travellers amusement at the landing and in the coast part of the town. The Americans began to breathe what Hugh called a genuinely oriental atmosphere.
They were far from Aden when night came down and with it the most gorgeous sunset imaginable. Everybody was on deck. The sky was aflame, the waters blazed and all the world seemed about to be swept up in the wondrous conflagration. Late in the afternoon a bank of clouds had grown up from the western line, and as the sun dropped behind them they glowed with the intensity of fiercely fanned coals of huge dimensions. At last the fiery hues faded away, the giant holocaust of the skies drew to an end, and the soft afterglow spread across the dome, covering it with a tranquil beauty more sublime than words can paint.
Grace looked eagerly among the impressed spectators for Henry Veath. Somehow she longed for him to see all this beauty that had given her so much pleasure. He was not there and she was conscious of a guilty depression. She was sitting with Hugh and Lady Huntingford when, long afterward, Veath approached.
“I’d like a word with you, Hugh,” he said after the greetings, “when the ladies have gone below.”
“It is getting late and I am really very tired,” said Grace. It was quite dark, or they could have seen that her face was pale and full of concern. She knew instinctively what it was that Veath wanted to say to Hugh. Then she did something she had never done before in the presence of another. She walked quickly to Hugh’s side, bent over and kissed his lips, almost as he gasped in astonishment.
“Good-night, dear,” she said, quite audibly, and was gone with Lady Huntingford. The astounded lover was some time in recovering from the surprise inspired by her unexpected act. It was the first time she had ever been sisterly in that fashion before the eyes of others.
“I hope I have said nothing to offend them,” said Veath miserably. “Was I too abrupt?”
“Not in the least. They’ve seen enough for one night anyhow, and I guess they were only waiting for an excuse to go below,” replied Hugh. To himself he said, “I wonder what the dickens Grace did that for? And why was Lady Huntingford so willing to leave?”
Veath sat nervously wriggling his thumbs, plainly ill at ease. His jaw was set, however, and there was a look in his eyes which signified a determination to brave it out.
“You know me pretty well by this time, Hugh,” he said. Hugh awoke from his abstraction and displayed immediate interest. “You know that I am straightforward and honest, if nothing else. There is also in my make-up a pride which you may never have observed or suspected, and it is of this that I want to speak before attempting to say something which will depend altogether upon the way you receive the introduction.”
“Go ahead, Henry. You’re serious tonight, and I can see that something heavy is upon your mind.”
“It is a very serious matter, I can assure you. Well, as you perhaps know from my remarks or allusions on previous occasions, I am a poor devil. I have nothing on earth but the salary I can earn, and you can guess what that will amount to in Manila. My father educated me as best he could, and I worked my way through college after he had given me to understand that he was unable to send me there himself. When I was graduated, I accepted a position with a big firm in its engineering service. Within a year I was notified that I could have a five months’ lay-off, as they call it. At the end of that period, if matters improved, I was to have my place back. Out of my wages I saved a couple of hundred dollars, but it dwindled as I drifted through weeks of idleness. There was nothing for me to do, try as I would to find a place. It was a hard pill to swallow, after four years of the kind of work I had done in college, but I had to throw every plan to the winds and go to the Philippines. My uncle, who is rich, sent me money enough to prepare for the voyage, and here I am, sneaking off to the jungles, disgusted, discouraged and disappointed. Tonight I sit before you with less than one hundred dollars as the sum total of my earthly possessions.”
“By George, Veath, just let me know how much you need—” broke in Hugh warmly, but the other silenced him, smiling sadly.
“I’m greatly obliged to you, but I don’t believe it is money that I want now—at least, not borrowed money. When you told me that your sister was to become a missionary, I inferred that you were not burdened with worldly goods, and I felt at home with you both—more so than I should, I believe—”
“Oh, the devil!”
“But a few days ago your sister told me that she is not to be a missionary and that she is rich enough to make this trip to the Orient for mere pleasure—oh, well, you know better than I how rich you both are.” His voice was low and unsteady. “I don’t know why you should have told me that she—she was to be a missionary.”
“It was—I did it for a little joke on her, honestly I did,” mumbled Hugh.
“And it was a serious one for me. Before I knew of her real position she seemed more approachable to me, more as if I could claim her friendship on the grounds of mutual sympathy. I was deceived into believing our lots not vastly unequal, and I have suffered more than I can tell you by the disparity which I now know exists.”
“But what difference can it make whether we are rich or poor? We can still be friends,” said Hugh eagerly.
“It was when I believed your sister to be a missionary that I learned to love her better than all else in this world. Now do you understand?”
“Great Scott!” gasped his listener, starting from his chair. Now he realised that she had not been mistaken in her fears. “Does she know this?” he managed to ask.
/> “No, and I dare not tell her—I cannot. I had to tell some one, and to whom should I confess it if not to the brother of the woman I love? It is no disgrace, no dishonor to her. You cannot blame me for being honest with you. Some day after you have gone back to America you can tell her that I love her and always will. She has intimated to me that she is to marry another man, so what chance is there for a poor wretch like me? I don’t see how I have endured the awakening from the dreams I have had. I even went so far as to imagine a little home in Manila, after I had won her from the mission field and after I had laid by the savings of a year or two. I had planned to fairly starve myself that I might save enough to make a home for her and—and—” but he could say no more. Hugh heard the sob and turned sick at heart. To what a pass their elopement had come!
Above all things, how could he comfort the unfortunate man? There was no word of encouragement, no word of hope to be given. The deepest pity he had ever felt went out to Henry Veath; the greatest remorse he had ever known stung his soul. Should he tell Veath the truth? Could he do it?
“Do you see my position?” asked Veath steadily, after a long silence. “I could never hope to provide for her as she has been accustomed to living, and I have too much pride to allow my wife to live other than the way in which I would have to live.”
“She may not love you,” said Hugh, suddenly hopeful.
“But I could win her love. I’m sure I could, Hugh. Even though she is pledged to another man, I could love her so powerfully that a new love would be inspired in her for me. You don’t know how I love her. Hugh, you are not angry with me for having told you this?”
“Angry? Great Heavens, no! I’m heartbroken over it,” cried Hugh. There were traces of tears in his eyes.
“You know how hopeless it is for me,” went on Veath, “and I hope you will remember that I have been honest and plain with you. Before we part in Manila I may tell her, but that is all. I believe I should like to have her know that I love her. She can’t think badly of me for it, I’m sure.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 175