"It is a great blow," he said to himself. "Poor Madeline! How she mustsuffer!"
Presently he rose and walked--rather unsteadily, for he felt muchupset--to his quarters, and, taking a sheet of notepaper, wrote thefollowing letter to catch the outgoing mail:--
"My dear Madeline,--I have got your letter putting an end to ourengagement. I don't want to dwell on myself when you must have so muchto suffer, but I must say that it has been, and is, a great blow to me.I have loved you for so many years, ever since we were babies, I think;it does seem hard to lose you now after all. I thought that when we gothome I might get the adjutancy of a militia regiment, and that we mighthave been married. I think we might have managed on five hundred a year,though perhaps I have no right to expect you to give up comforts andluxuries to which you are accustomed; but I am afraid that when one isin love one is apt to be selfish. However, all that is done with now,as, of course, putting everything else aside, I could not think ofstanding in your way in life. I love you much too well for that, dearMadeline, and you are too beautiful and delicate to be the wife of apoor subaltern with little beside his pay. I can honestly say that Ihope you will be happy. I don't ask you to think of me too often, asthat might make you less so, but perhaps sometimes when you are quietyou will spare your old lover a thought or two, because I am sure nobodycould care for you more than I do. You need not be afraid that I shallforget you or marry anybody else. I shall do neither the one nor theother. I must close this now to catch the mail; I don't know that thereis anything more to say. It is a hard trial--very; but it is no goodbeing weak and giving way, and it consoles me to think that you are'bettering yourself' as the servants say. Good-bye, dear Madeline. MayGod bless you, is now and ever my earnest prayer.
"J. G. Peritt."
Scarcely was this letter finished and hastily dispatched when a loudvoice was heard calling, "Bottles, Bottles, my boy, come rejoice withme; the orders have come--we sail in a fortnight;" followed by the ownerof the voice, another subaltern, and our hero's bosom friend. "Why,you don't seem very elated," said he of the voice, noting his friend'sdejected and somewhat dazed appearance.
"No--that is, not particularly. So you sail in a fortnight, do you?"
"'You sail?' What do you mean? Why, we _all_ sail, of course, from thecolonel down to the drummer-boy."
"I don't think that I--I am going to sail, Jack," was the hesitatinganswer.
"Look here, old fellow, are you off your head, or have you beenliquoring up, or what?"
"No--that is, I don't think so; certainly not the first--the second, Imean."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I mean that, in short, I am sending in my papers. I like this climate--I, in short, am going to take to farming."
"Sending in your papers! Going to take to farming! And in thisGod-forsaken hole, too. You _must_ be screwed."
"No, indeed. It is only ten o'clock."
"And how about getting married, and the girl you are engaged to, andwhom you are looking forward so much to seeing. Is she going to take tofarming?"
Bottles winced visibly.
"No, you see--in short, we have put an end to that. I am not engagednow."
"Oh, indeed," said the friend, and awkwardly departed.
II
Twelve years have passed since Bottles sent in his papers, and in twelveyears many things happen. Amongst them recently it had happened that ourhero's only and elder brother had, owing to an unexpected developmentof consumption among the expectant heirs, tumbled into a baronetcy andeight thousand a year, and Bottles himself into a modest but to him mostample fortune of as many hundred. When the news reached him he was thecaptain of a volunteer corps engaged in one of the numerous Basuto warsin the Cape Colony. He served the campaign out, and then, in obedienceto his brother's entreaties and a natural craving to see his nativeland, after an absence of nearly fourteen years, resigned his commissionand returned to England.
Thus it came to pass that the next scene of this little history opens,not upon the South African veld, or in a whitewashed house in somehalf-grown, hobbledehoy colonial town, but in a set of the mostcomfortable chambers in the Albany, the local and appropriate habitationof the bachelor brother aforesaid, Sir Eustace Peritt.
In a very comfortable arm-chair in front of a warm fire (for the monthis November) sits the Bottles of old days--bigger, uglier, shyer thanever, and in addition, disfigured by an assegai wound through the cheek.Opposite to him, and peering at him occasionally with fond curiositythrough an eyeglass, is his brother, a very different stamp of man.Sir Eustace Peritt is a well-preserved, London-looking gentleman, ofapparently any age between thirty and fifty. His eye is so bright, hisfigure so well preserved, that to judge from appearances alone you wouldput him down to the former age. But when you come to know him so as tobe able to measure his consummate knowledge of the world, and tohave the opportunity of reflecting upon the good-natured but profoundcynicism which pleasantly pervades his talk as absolutely as the flavourof lemon pervades rum punch, you would be inclined to assign his natalday to a much earlier date. In reality he was forty, neither more norless, and had both preserved his youthful appearance and gained themellowness of his experience by a judicious use of the opportunities oflife.
"Well, my dear George," said Sir Eustace, addressing hisbrother--determined to take this occasion of meeting after so long atime to be rid of the nickname "Bottles," which he hated--"I haven't hadsuch a pleasure for years."
"As--as what?"
"As meeting you again, of course. When I saw you on the vessel I knewyou at once. You have not changed at all, unless expansion can be calleda change."
"Nor have you, Eustace, unless contraction can be called a change. Yourwaist used to be bigger, you know."
"Ah, George, I drank beer in those days; it is one of things of which Ihave lived to see the folly. In fact, there are not many things of whichI have not lived to see the folly."
"Except living itself, I suppose?"
"Exactly--except living. I have no wish to follow the example of ourpoor cousins," he answered with a sigh, "to whose considerate behaviour,however," he added, brightening, "we owe our present improved position."Then came a pause.
"Fourteen years is a long time, George; you must have had a rough timeof it."
"Yes, pretty rough. I have seen a good deal of irregular service, youknow."
"And never got anything out of it, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes; I have got my bread and butter, which is all I am worth."
Sir Eustace looked at his brother doubtfully through his eyeglass. "Youare modest," he said; "that does not do. You must have a better opinionof yourself if you want to get on in the world."
"I don't want to get on. I am quite content to earn a living, and I ammodest because I have seen so many better men fare worse."
"But now you need not earn a living any more. What do you propose to do?Live in town? I can set you going in a very good lot. You will be quitea lion with that hole in your cheek--by the way, you must tell me thestory. And then, you see, if anything happens to me you stand in for thetitle and estates. That will be quite enough to float you."
Bottles writhed uneasily in his chair. "Thank you, Eustace; but reallyI must ask you--in short, I don't want to be floated or anything of thesort. I would rather go back to South Africa and my volunteer corps. Iwould indeed. I hate strangers, and society, and all that sort of thing.I'm not fit for it like you."
"Then what do you mean to do--get married and live in the country?"
Bottles coloured a little through his sun-tanned skin--a fact that didnot escape the eyeglass of his observant brother. "No, I am not going toget married, certainly not."
"By the way," said Sir Eustace carelessly, "I saw your old flame, LadyCroston, yesterday, and told her you were coming home. She makes acharming widow."
"_What!_" ejaculated his brother, slowly raising himself out of hischair in astonishment. "Is her husband dead?"
"Dead? Yes, died a year ago, a
nd a good riddance too. He appointed meone of his executors; I am sure I don't know why, for we never likedeach other. I think he was the most disagreeable fellow I ever knew.They say he gave his wife a roughish time of it occasionally. Serve herright, too."
"Why did it serve her right?"
Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders.
"When a heartless girl jilts the fellow she is engaged to in order tosell herself to an elderly beast, I think she deserves all she gets.This one did not get half enough; indeed, she has made a good thing ofit--better than she expected."
His brother sat down again before he answered in a constrained voice,"Don't you think you are rather hard on her, Eustace?"
"Hard on her? No, not a bit of it. Of all the worthless women thatI know, I think Madeline Croston is the most worthless. Look how shetreated you."
"Eustace," broke in his brother almost sharply, "if you don't mind, Iwish you would not talk of her like that to me. I can't--in short, Idon't like it."
Sir Eustace's eyeglass dropped out of Sir Eustace's eye--he hadopened it so wide to stare at his brother. "Why, my dear fellow," heejaculated, "you don't mean to tell me you still care for that woman?"
His brother twisted his great form about uncomfortably in the low chairas he answered, "I don't know, I'm sure, about caring for her, but Idon't like to hear you say such things about her."
Sir Eustace whistled softly. "I am sorry if I offended you, old fellow,"he said. "I had no idea that it was still a sore point with you. Youmust be a faithful people in South Africa. Here the 'holy feelings ofthe heart' are shorter lived. We wear out several generations of them intwelve years."
III
Bottles did not go to bed till late that night. Long after Sir Eustace--who, always careful of his health, never stopped up late if he couldavoid it--had vanished, yawning, his brother sat smoking pipe after pipeand thinking. He had sat many times in the same way on a wagon-box inthe African veld, or up where the moonlight turned the falls of theZambesi into a rushing cataract of silver, or alone in his tent when allthe camp was sleeping round him. It was a habit of this queer, silentman to sit and think for hours at night, and arose to a greatextent from an incapacity to sleep, that was the weak point in hisconstitution.
As for his meditations, they were various, but mostly the outcome of acurious speculative side to his nature, which he never revealed to theoutside world. Dreams of a happiness of which heretofore his hard lifehad given him no glimpse; semi-mystical, religious meditations uponthe great unknown around us; and grand schemes for the regeneration ofmankind--all formed part of them.
But there was one central thought, the fixed star of his mind, roundwhich all the others continually revolved, taking their light and colourfrom it, and that was the thought of Madeline Croston, the woman to whomhe had been engaged. Years and years had passed since he had seenher face, and yet it was always present to him. Beyond the occasionalmention of her name in some society paper--several of which, by theway, he took in for years and conscientiously searched on the chanceof finding it--till this evening he had never even seen it or heardit spoken; and yet with all the tenacity of his strong, deep nature heclung to her dear memory. That she had left him to marry another manweighed as nothing in the balance of his love. Once she had lovedhim, and thereby he was repaid for the devotion of his life. He hadno ambitions. Madeline had been his great ambition; and when that hadfallen, all the others had fallen with it, even to the dust. He simplydid his duty, whatever it might be, as well as in him lay, without fearof blame or hope of praise--shunning men, and never, if he could avoidit, speaking to a woman, content to earn his livelihood, and for therest rendered colourless by his secret and pathetic passion.
And now it appeared that Madeline was a widow, which meant--and hisheart beat fast at the thought--that she was a free woman. Madeline wasa free woman, and he was within a few minutes' walk of her. No thousandsof miles of ocean rolled between them now. He rose, went to the table,and consulted a Red book that lay on it. There was the address--a housein Grosvenor Street. Overcome by an uncontrollable impulse, he went outof the room. Going to his own he found his mackintosh and a round hat,and softly left the house. It was then past two in the morning, pouringwith rain, and blowing hard.
He had been a little in London as a lad and remembered the mainthoroughfares, so had no great difficulty in finding his way upPiccadilly till he came to Park Lane, into which the Red book told himGrosvenor Square opened. But to find Grosvenor Street itself was a moredifficult matter, and at such a time on such a night there was naturallynobody to ask--least of all a policeman. At last he found it, andhurried on down the street with a quickening pulse. What he was hurryingto he could not tell, but that over-mastering impulse forced him onquicker and quicker yet.
Suddenly he halted, and examined the number of one of the houses by thefaint and struggling light from the nearest lamp. It was _her_ house;now there was nothing between them but a few feet of space and fourteeninches of brickwork. He crossed over to the other side of the street,and looked up at the house, but could scarcely make it out through thedriving rain. There was no light in the house, and no sign of life aboutthe street. But there were both light and life in the heart of thiswatcher. All the pulses of his blood were astir, keeping time with thecommotion of his mind. He stood there in the shadow, gazing at the murkyhouse, heedless of the bitter wind and pelting rain, and felt his lifeand spirit pass out of his control into an unknown dominion. The stormthat raged around him was nothing to the convulsion of his inner self inthat hour of madness, which was yet happiness. Yet as it had arisen thussuddenly, so with equal swiftness it died away, and left him standingthere with a chill sense of folly in his mind and of the bitter weatherin his body; for on such a night a mackintosh and a dress coat were notadapted to keep the most ardent lover warm. He shivered, and turning,made his way back to Albany, feeling heartily ashamed of himself andhis midnight expedition, and heartily glad that no one knew of it excepthimself.
On the following day Bottles--for convenience' sake we still call himby his old nickname--was obliged to see a lawyer with reference to themoney which he had inherited, and to search for a box which had goneastray aboard the steamer; also to buy a tall hat, such as he had notworn for fourteen years; so that between one thing and another it washalf-past four before he got back to the Albany. Here he donned the newhat, which did not fit very well, and a new black coat which fittedso well that it seemed to cut into his large frame in every possibledirection, and departed, furiously struggling with a pair of gloves,also new, for Grosvenor Street.
A quarter of an hour's walk, for he knew the road this time, brought himto the house. Glancing for a while at the spot where he had stood on theprevious night, he walked up the steps and pulled the bell. Thoughhe looked bold enough outwardly--indeed, rather imposing thanotherwise--with his broad shoulders and the great scar on his bronzedface, his breast was full of terrors. In these, however, he had notmuch time to indulge, for a footman, still decked in the trappings ofvicarious grief, opened the door with the most startling promptitude,and he was ushered upstairs into a small but richly furnished room.
Madeline was not in the room, though to judge from the lace handkerchieflying on the floor by a low chair, and the open novel on a little wickertable alongside, she had not left it long. The footman departed, saying,in a magnificent undertone, that "her ladyship" should be informed, andleft our hero to enjoy his sensations. Being one of those people whomsuspense of any sort makes fidgety, he employed himself in looking atthe pictures and china, even going so far as to walk to a pair of veryheavy blue velvet curtains that apparently communicated with anotherroom, and peep through them at a much larger apartment of which thefurniture was done up in ghostly-looking bags.
Retreating from this melancholy sight, finally he took up a positionon the hearthrug and waited. Would she be angry with him for coming? hewondered. Would it recall things she had rather forget? But perhaps shehad already forgotten them--it was so long ago.
Would she be very muchchanged? Perhaps he should not know her. Perhaps--but here he happenedto lift his eyes, and there, standing between the two blue velvetcurtains, was Madeline, now a woman in the full splendour of aremarkable beauty, and showing as yet, at any rate in that dull Novembertwilight, no traces of her years. There she stood, her large dark eyesfixed upon him with a look of wistful curiosity, her shapely lips justparted to speak, and her bosom gently heaving, as though with trouble.
Poor Bottles! One look was enough. There was no chance of his attainingthe blessed haven of disillusionment. In five seconds he was fartherout to sea than ever. When she knew that he had seen her she dropped hereyes a little--he saw the long curved lashes appear against her cheek,and moved forward.
"How do you do?" she said softly, extending her slim, cool hand.
He took the hand and shook it, but for the life of him could think ofnothing to say. Not one of the little speeches he had prepared wouldcome into his mind. Yet the desperate necessity of saying somethingforced itself upon him.
"How do you do?" he ejaculated with a jerk. "It--it's very cold, isn'tit?"
This remark was such an utter and ludicrous _fiasco_ that Lady Crostoncould not choose but laugh a little.
"I see," she said, "that you have not got over your shyness."
"It is a long while since we met," he blurted out.
Smith and the Pharaohs, and other Tales Page 8