CHAPTER XX.
A SURPRISE
THERE was no letter from Sheila in the morning; and Lavender, as soon as the post had come and gone, went up to Ingram’s room and woke him. “I am sorry to disturb you, Ingram,” he said, “but I am going to Lewis. I shall catch the train to Glasgow at ten.”
“And what do you want to go to Lewis for?” said Ingram, starting up. “Do you think Sheila would go straight back to her own people with all this humiliation upon her? And supposing she is not there, how do you propose to meet old Mackenzie?”
“I am not afraid of meeting any man,” said Lavender. “I want to know where Sheila is. And if I see Mackenzie I can only tell him frankly everything that has happened. He is not likely to say anything of me half as bad as what I think of myself.”
“Now listen,” said Ingram, sitting up in bed, with his brown beard and grayish hair in a considerably disheveled condition. “Sheila may have gone home, but it isn’t likely. If she has not, your taking the story up there and spreading it abroad would prepare a great deal of pain for her when she might come back at some future time. But suppose you want to make sure that she has not gone to her father’s house. She could not have got down to Glasgow sooner than this morning by last night’s train, you know. It is to-morrow morning, not this morning, that the Stornoway steamer starts; and she would be certain to go direct to it at the Glasgow Broomielaw and go around the Mull of Cantyre, instead of catching it up at Oban, because she knows the people in the boat, and she and Mairi would be among friends. If you really want to know whether she has gone North, perhaps you could do no better than run down to Glasgow to-day, and have a look at the boat that starts to-morrow morning. I would go with you myself, but I can’t escape the office to day.”
Lavender agreed to do this, and was about to go. But before he bade his friend good-bye he lingered for a second or two in a hesitating way, and then he said: “Ingram, you were speaking the other night of your going up to Borva. If you should go – ”
“Of course I shan’t go,” said the other, promptly. “How could I face Mackenzie when he began to ask me about Sheila? No, I cannot go to Borva while this affair remains in its present condition; and, indeed, Lavender, I mean to stop in London till I see you out of your trouble somehow.”
“You are heaping coals of fire on my head.”
“Oh, don’t look at it that way. If I can be of any help to you, I shall expect, this time, to have a return for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will tell you when we get to know something of Sheila’s intentions.”
And so Frank Lavender found himself once more, as in the old times, in the Euston Station, with the Scotch mail ready to start, and all manner of folks bustling about with that unnecessary activity which betokens the excitement of a holiday. What a strange holiday was his! He got into a smoking-carriage in order to be alone, and he looked out on the people who were bidding their friends good-bye. Some of them were not very pretty, many of them were ordinary, insignificant, commonplace looking folks, but it was clear that they had those about them who loved them and thought much of them. There was one man whom, in other circumstances, Lavender would have dismissed with contempt as an excellent specimen of the unmitigated cad. He wore a white waistcoat, purple gloves, and a green sailor’s knot with a diamond in it, and there was a cheery, vacuous smiling expression on his round face as he industriously smoked a cheroot and made small jokes to the friends who had come to see him off. One of them was a young woman, not very good-looking, perhaps, who did not join in the general hilarity, and it occurred to Lavender that the jovial man with the cheroot was, perhaps, cracking his little jokes to keep up her spirits. At all events he called her “my good lass,” from time to time, and patted her on the shoulder, and was very kind to her. And when the guard came up and bade everybody get in, the man kissed the girl and shook hands with her and bade her good-bye; and then she, moved by some sudden impulse, caught his face in both her hands and kissed him once on each cheek. It was a ridiculous scene. People who wear green ties with diamond pins care nothing for decorum. And yet Lavender, when he averted his eyes from this parting, could not help recalling what Ingram had been saying the night before, and wondered whether this outrageous person with his abominable decorations and his genial grin might not be more fortunate than many a great statesman or warrior or monarch.
He turned around to find the cad beside him; and presently the man, with an abounding good-nature, began to converse with him, and explained that it was ’igh ’oliday with him, for that he had got a pass to travel first class as far as Carlisle. He hoped they would have a jolly time of it together. He explained the object of his journey in the frankest possible fashion, made a kindly little joke upon the hardship of parting with one’s sweetheart, said that a faint heart never won fair lady, and that it was no good crying over spilt milk. She would be all right, and precious glad to see him when he came back in three weeks’ time, and he meant to bring her a present that would be good for sore eyes.
“Perhaps you’re a married man, sir, and got past all them games?” said the cad, cheerily.
“Yes, I am married,” said Lavender, coldly.
“And you’re going further than Carlisle, you say, sir? I’ll be sworn the good lady is up somewhere in that direction, and she won’t be disappointed when she sees you – oh, no! Scotch, sir?”
“I am not Scotch,” said Lavender, curtly.
“And she?”
Should he have to throw the man out of the window? “Yes.”
“The Scotch are a strange race – very,” said the genial person, producing a brandy flask. “They drink a trifle, don’t they? and yet they keep their wits about them if you’ve dealings with them. A very strange race of people, in my opinion – very. Know the story of the master who fancied his man was drunk? ‘Donald, you’re trunk,’ says he. ‘It’s a tam lee,’ says Donald. ‘Donald, ye ken ye’re trunk,’ says the master. ‘Ah ken ah wish to Kott ah was!’ says Donald. Good story, ain’t it, sir?”
Lavender had heard the remarkable old joke a hundred times, but just at this moment there was something odd in this vulgar person suddenly imitating, and imitating very well, the Highland accent. Had he been way up in the North? or had he merely heard the story related by one who had been? Lavender dared not ask, however, for fear of prolonging a conversation in which he had no wish to join. Indeed, to get rid of the man, he shoved a whole bundle of the morning papers into his hand.
“What’s your opinion of politics at present, sir?” observed his friend, in an off-hand way.
“I haven’t any,” said Lavender, compelled to take back one of the newspapers and open it.
“I think myself they’re in a bad state; that’s my opinion. There ain’t a man among them that knows how to keep down those people; that’s my opinion, sir. What do you think?”
“Oh, I think so, too,” said Lavender. “You’ll find a good article in that paper on University Tests.”
The cheery person looked rather blank.
“I would like to hear your opinion about ’em, sir,” he said. “It ain’t much good reading only one side of a question; but when you can talk about and discuss it, now – ”
“I am sorry I can’t oblige you,” said Lavender, goaded into making some desperate effort to release himself. “I am suffering from a relaxed throat at present. My doctor has warned me against talking too much.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. You don’t seem very well; perhaps the throat comes with a little feverishness, you see – a cold, in fact. Now if I was you I would try tannin lozenges for the throat. They’re uncommon good for the throat; and a little quinine for the general system – that would put you as right as a fiver. I tried it myself when I was down in ‘Ampshire last year. And you wouldn’t find a drop of this brandy a bad thing, either, if you don’t mind rowing in the same boat as myself.”
Lavender declined the proffered flask, and subsided behind a newspaper. His fellow-traveler lit another cheroot, took up Bradshaw, and settled himself in a corner.
Had Sheila come up this very line some dozen hours before? Lavender asked himself as he looked out on the hills and valleys and woods of Buckinghamshire. Had the throbbing of the engine and the rattle of the wheels kept the piteous eyes awake all through the dark night, until the pale dawn showed the girl a wild vision of Northern hills and moors telling her she was getting nearer to her own country? Not thus had Sheila proposed to herself to return home on the first holiday time that should occur to them both. He began to think of his present journey as it might have been in other circumstances. Would she have remembered any of those pretty villages which she saw one early morning long ago, when they were bathed in sunshine and scarcely awake to the new day? Would she be impatient at the delays at the stations, and anxious to hurry on to Westmoreland and Dumfries, to Glasgow and Oban and Skye, and then from Stornoway across the island to the little inn at Garra-na-hina?
Here, as he looked out of the window, the first indication of the wilder country became visible in the distant Berkshire hills. Close at hand the country lay green and bright under a brilliant sun, but over there in the East some heavy clouds darkened the landscape, and the far hills seemed to be placed amid a gloomy stretch of moorland. Would not Sheila have been thrilled by this glimpse of the coming North? She would have fancied that greater mountains lay far behind these rounded slopes hidden in mist. She would have imagined that no human habitations were near those rising plains of sombre hue, where the red deer and the fox ought to dwell. And in her delight at getting away from the fancied brightness of the South, would she not have been exceptionally grateful and affectionate toward himself, and striven to please him with her tender ways?
It was not a cheerful journey, this lonely trip to the North. Lavender got to Glasgow that night, and next morning he went down, long before any passengers could have thought of arriving, to the Clansman. He did not go near the big steamer, for he was known to the captain and the steward; but he hung about the quays, watching each person who went on board. Sheila certainly was not among the passengers by the Clansman.
But she might have gone to Greenock and waited for the steamer there. Accordingly, after the Clansman had started on her voyage, he went into a neighboring hotel and had some breakfast, after which he crossed the bridge to the station and took rail for Greenock, where he arrived some time before the Clansman made her appearance. He went down to the quay. It was yet early morning, and a cool fresh breeze was blowing in across the broad waters of the Frith, where the sunlight was shining on the white sails of the yachts and on the dipping and screaming sea-gulls. Far away beyond the pale blue mountains opposite, lay the wonderful network of sea-loch and island through which one had to pass to get to the distant Lewis. How gladly at this moment would he have stepped on board the steamer with Sheila, and put out on that gleaming plain of sea, knowing that by and by they would sail into Stornoway harbor and find the wagonette there. They would not hasten the voyage. She had never been around the Mull of Cantyre, and so he would sit by her side and show her the wild tides meeting there, and the long jets of white foam shooting up the great wall of rock. He would show her the coast of Ireland; and then they would see Islay, of which she had many a ballad and story. They would go through the narrow sound that is overlooked by the gloomy mountains of Jura. They would see the distant islands, where the chief of Colonsay is still mourned for on the still evenings by the hapless mermaiden, who sings her wild song across the sea. They would keep wide of the dangerous currents of Corryvreckan, and by and by they would sail into the harbor of Oban, the beautiful sea-town where Sheila first got a notion of the greatness of the world lying outside of her native island.
What if she were to come down now from this busy little seaport, which lay under a pale blue smoke, and come out upon this pier to meet the free sunlight and the fresh sea-air blowing all about? Surely at a great distance he could recognize the proud, light step, and the proud, sad face. Would she speak to him, or go past him, with firm lips and piteous eyes, to wait for the great steamer that was now coming along out of the Eastern mist. Lavender glanced vaguely around the quays and the thoroughfares leading to them, but there was no one like Sheila there. In the distance he could hear the throbbing of the Clansman’s engines as the big steamer came on through the white plain. The sun was warmer now on the bright waters of the Frith, and the distant haze over the pale blue mountains beyond had grown more luminous. Small boats went by, and here and there a yachtsman, scarlet-capped and in white costume, was taking a leisurely breakfast on his deck. The sea-gulls circled about, or dipped down on the waters, or chased each other with screams and cries. Then the Clansman sailed into the quay, and there was a flinging of ropes and general hurry and bustle; while people came crowding around the gangways, calling out to each other in every variety of dialect and accent.
Sheila was not there. He lingered about, and patiently waited for the starting of the steamer, not knowing how long she ordinarily remained in Greenock. He was in no hurry, indeed, for after the vessel had gone he found himself with a whole day before him, and with no fixed notion as to how it could be passed. In other circumstances he would have been in no difficulty as to the spending of a bright forenoon and afternoon by the side of the sea. Or he could have run through to Edinburgh and called on some artist friends there. Or he could have crossed the Frith and had a day’s ramble among the mountains. But now that he was satisfied that Sheila had not gone home, all his fancies and hopes went back to London; she was in London. And while he was glad that she had not gone straight to her own people with a revelation of her wrongs, he scarcely dared speculate on what adventures and experiences might have befallen those two girls turned out into a great city, of which they were about equally ignorant.
The day passed somehow, and at night he was on his way to London. Next morning he went down to Whitehall and saw Ingram.
“Sheila has not gone back to the Highlands, so far as I can make out,” he said.
“So much the better,” was the answer.
“What am I to do? She must be in London, and who knows what may befall her?”
“I cannot tell you what you should do. Of course you would like to know where she is; and I fancy she would have no objection herself to letting you know that she was all right, so long as she knew that you would not go near her. I don’t think she has taken so decided a step merely for the purpose of being coaxed back again. That is not Sheila’s way.”
“I won’t go near her,” he said; “I only want to know that she is safe and well. I will do whatever she likes, but I must know where she is, and that she has come to no harm.”
“Well,” said Ingram, slowly, “I was talking the matter over with Mrs. Lorraine last night – ”
“Does she know?” said Lavender, wincing somewhat.
“Certainly,” Ingram answered. “I did not tell her. I had promised to go up there about something quite different, when she immediately began to tell me the news. Of course it was impossible to conceal such a thing. Don’t all the servants about know?”
“I don’t care who knows,” said Lavender, moodily. “What does Mrs. Lorraine say about this affair?”
“Mrs. Lorraine says that it serves you right,” said Ingram, bluntly.
“Thank her very much! I like candor, especially in a fair weather friend.”
“Mrs. Lorraine is a better friend to you than you imagine,” Ingram said, taking no notice of the sneer. “When she thought that your going to their house continually was annoying Sheila, she tried to put a stop to it for Sheila’s sake. And now, at this very moment, she is doing her very best to find out where Sheila is; and if she succeeds she means to go and plead your cause with the girl.”
“I will not have her do anything of the kind,” said Lavender, fiercely. “I will plead my own cause with Sheila. I will have forgiveness from Sheila herself alone – not brought to me by any intermeddling woman.”
“You needn’t call names,” said Ingram, coolly. “But I confess I think you are right; and I told Mrs. Lorraine that was what you would doubtless say. In any case she can do no harm in trying to find out where Sheila is.”
“And how does she propose to succeed? Pollaky, the ‘Agony’ column, placards, or a bellman? I tell you, Ingram, I won’t have that woman meddle in my affairs – coming forward as a Sister of Mercy to heal the wounded, bestowing mock compassion, and laughing all the time.”
“Lavender, you are beside yourself. That woman is one of the most good-natured, shrewd, clever, and amiable women I have ever met. What has enraged you?”
“Bah! She’s got hold of you, too, has she? I tell you she is a rank impostor.”
“An impostor!” said Ingram, slowly. “I have heard a good many people called impostors. Did it ever occur to you that the blame of the imposture might possibly lie with the person imposed on? I have heard of people falling into the delusion that a certain modest and simple-minded man was a great politician or a great wit, although he had never claimed to be anything of the kind; and then when they found out that in truth he was just what he had pretended to be, they called out against him as an impostor. I have heard, too, of young gentlemen accusing women of imposture whose only crime was that they did not possess qualities which they had never pretended to possess, but which the young gentlemen fancied they ought to possess. Mrs. Lorraine may be an impostor to you. I think she is a thoroughly good woman, and I know she is a very delightful companion. And if you want to know how she means to find Sheila out, I can tell you. She thinks that Sheila would probably go to a hotel, but that afterward she would try to find lodgings with some of the people whom she had got to know through her giving them assistance. Mrs. Lorraine would like to ask your servants about the women who used to come for this help. Then, she thinks, Sheila would probably get some one of these humble friends to call for her letters, for she would like to hear from her father, and she would not care to tell him that she had left your house. There is a great deal of supposition in all this, but Mrs. Lorraine is a shrewd woman, and I would trust to her instinct in such matters a long way. She is quite sure that Sheila would be too proud to tell her father, and very much averse, also, to inflicting so severe a blow on him.”
“But surely,” Lavender said hastily, “if Sheila wishes to conceal this affair for a time, she must believe it to be only temporary? She cannot propose to make the separation final?”
“That I don’t know anything about. I would advise you to go and see Mrs. Lorraine.”
“I won’t go and see Mrs. Lorraine.”
“Now, this is unreasonable, Lavender, you begin to fancy that Sheila had some sort of dislike to Mrs. Lorraine, founded on ignorance, and straightway you think it is your duty to go and hate the woman. Whatever you may think of her, she is willing to do you a service.”
“Will you go, Ingram, and take her to those servants?”
“Certainly I will, if you commission me to do so,” said Ingram readily.
“I suppose they all know?”
“They do.”
“And every one else?”
“I should think few of your friends would remain in ignorance of it.”
“Ah, well,” said Lavender, “if only I could get Sheila to overlook what is past this once, I should not trouble my dear friends and acquaintances for their sympathy and condolence. By the time I saw them again I fancy they would have forgotten our names.”
There was no doubt of the fact that the news of Sheila’s flight from her husband’s house had traveled very speedily around the circle of Lavender’s friends, and doubtless in due time it reached the ears of his aunt. At all events, Mrs. Lavender sent a message to Ingram, asking him to come and see her. When he went he found the little dry, hard-eyed woman in a terrible passion. She had forgotten all about Marcus Aurelius and the composure of a philosopher, and the effect of anger on the nervous system. She was bolstered up in bed, for she had had another bad fit, but she was brisk enough in her manner and fierce enough in her language.
“Mr. Ingram,” she said, the moment he had entered, “do you consider my nephew a beast?”
“I don’t,” he said.
“I do,” she retorted.
“Then you are quite mistaken, Mrs. Lavender. Probably you have heard some exaggerated story of all this business. He has been very inconsiderate and thoughtless, certainly, but I don’t believe he quite knew how sensitive his wife was; and he is very repentant now, and I know he will keep his promises.”
“You would apologize for the devil,” said the little old woman, frowning.
“I would try to give him his due, at all events,” said Ingram, with a laugh. “I know Frank Lavender very well – I have known him for years – and I know there is good stuff in him, which may be developed in proper circumstances. After all, what is there more common than for a married man to neglect his wife? He only did unconsciously and thoughtlessly what heaps of men do deliberately.”
“You are making me angry,” said Mrs. Lavender, in a severe voice.
“I don’t think it fair to expect men to be demigods,” Ingram said, carelessly. “I never met any demigods myself; they don’t live in my neighborhood. Perhaps if I had had some experience of a batch of them, I should be more censorious of other people. If you set up Frank for a Bayard, is it his fault or yours?”
“I am not going to be talked out of my common sense, and me on my death-bed,” said the old lady, impatiently, and yet with some secret hope that Ingram would go on talking and amuse her. “I won’t have you say he is anything but a stupid and ungrateful boy, who married a wife far too good for him. He is worse than that – he is much worse than that; but as this may be my death-bed, I will keep a civil tongue in my head.”
“I thought you didn’t like his wife very much?” said Ingram.
“I am not bound to like her because I think badly of him, am I? She was not a bad sort of a girl, after all – temper a little stiff, perhaps; but she was honest. It did one’s eyes good to look at her bright face. Yes, she was a good sort of a creature in her way. But when she ran off from him, why didn’t she come to me?”
“Perhaps you never encouraged her.”
“Encouragement! Where ought a married woman go to but to her husband’s relatives? If she cannot stay with him, let her take the next best substitute. It was her duty to come to me.”
“If Sheila had fancied it to be her duty, she would have come here at any cost.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Ingram?” said Mrs. Lavender, severely.
“Well, supposing she didn’t like you – ” he was beginning to say cautiously, when she sharply interrupted him: “She didn’t like me, eh?”
“I said nothing of the kind. I was about to say that if she had thought it her duty to come here, she would have come in any circumstances.”
“She might have done worse. A young woman risks a great deal in running away from her husband’s home. People will talk. Who is to make people believe just the version of the story that the husband or the wife would prefer?”
“And what does Sheila care,” said Ingram, with a hot flush in his face, “for the belief of a lot of idle gossips and slanderers?”
“My dear Mr. Ingram,” said the old lady, “you are not a woman, and you don’t know the bother one has to look after one’s reputation. But that is a question not likely to interest you. Let us talk of something else. Do you know why I wanted you to come and see me to-day?”
“I am sure I don’t.”
“I mean to leave you all my money.”
He stared. She did not appear to be joking. Was it possible that her rage against her nephew had carried her to this extreme resolve?
“Oh!” he stammered, “but I won’t have it, Mrs. Lavender.”
“But you’ll have to have it,” said the little old woman, severely. “You are a poor man. You could make good use of my money – better than a charity board that would starve the poor with a penny out of each shilling, and spend the other elevenpence in treating their friends to flower-shows and dinners. Do you think I mean to leave my money to such people? You shall have it. I think you would look very well driving a mail-phaeton in the park; and I suppose you would give up your pipes and your philosophy and your bachelor walks into the country. You would marry, of course; every man is bound to make a fool of himself that way as soon as he gets money enough to do it with. But perhaps you might come across a clever and sensible woman, who would look after you and give you your own way while having her own. Only don’t marry a fool. Whatever you do don’t marry a fool, or all your philosophers won’t make the house bearable to you.”
“I am not likely to marry anybody, Mrs. Lavender,” said Ingram, carelessly.
“Is there no woman you know whom you would care to marry?”
“Oh,” he said, “there is one woman – yes – who seems to me about everything a man could wish, but the notion of my marrying her is absurd. If I had known in time, don’t you see, that I should ever think of such a thing, I should have begun years ago to dye my hair. I can’t begin now. Gray hair inspires reverence, I believe, but it is a bad thing to go courting with.”
“You must not talk foolishly,” said the little old lady, with a frown. “Do you think a sensible woman wants to marry a boy who will torment her with his folly and his empty head and his running after a dozen different women? Gray hair! If you think gray hair is a bad thing to go courting with, I will give you something better. I will put something in your head that will make the young lady forget your gray hair. Oh, of course you will say that she cannot be tempted, and that she despises money. If so, how much the better? but I have known more women than you, and my hair is grayer than yours, and you will find that a little money won’t stand in the way of your being accepted.”
He had made some gesture of protest, not against her speaking of the possible marriage, which scarcely interested him so remote was the possibility, but against her returning to this other proposal. And when he saw the old woman really meant to do this thing, he found it necessary to declare himself explicitly on the point.
“Oh, don’t imagine, Mrs. Lavender,” he said, “that I have any wild horror of money, or that I suppose any one else would have. I should like to have five times or ten times as much as you seem generously disposed to give me. But here is the point, you see. I am a vain person. I am very proud of my own opinion of myself, and if I acceded to what you propose – if I took your money – I suppose I should be driving about in that fine phæton you speak of. That is very good. I like driving, and I should be pleased with the appearance of the trap and the horses. But what do you fancy I should think of myself – what would be my opinion of my own nobleness and generosity and humanity – if I saw Sheila Mackenzie walking by on the pavement, without any carriage to drive in, perhaps without a notion as to where she was going to get her dinner? I should be a great hero to myself then, shouldn’t I?”
“Oh, Sheila again!” said the old woman in a tone of vexation. “I can’t imagine what there is in that girl to make men rave so about her. That Jew-boy is become a thorough nuisance; you would fancy she had just stepped down out of the clouds to present him with a gold harp, and that he couldn’t look up to her face. And are you just as bad. You are worse, for you don’t blow it off in steam. Well, there need be no difficulty. I meant to leave the girl in your charge. You take the money and look after her; I know she won’t starve. Take it in trust for her, if you like.”
“But that is a fearful responsibility, Mrs. Lavender,” he said in dismay. “She is a married woman. Her husband is the proper person – ”
“I tell you, I won’t give him a farthing!” she said, with a sudden sharpness that startled him – “not a farthing! If he wants money let him work for it, as other people do; and then, when he has done that, if he is to have any of my money, he must be beholden for it to his wife and to you.”
“Do you think that Sheila would accept anything that she would not immediately hand over to him?”
“Then he must come first to you.”
“I have no wish to inflict humiliation on any one,” said Ingram, stiffly. “I don’t want to play the part of a little Providence, and mete out punishment in that way. I might have to begin with myself.”
“Now, don’t be foolish,” said the old lady, with a menacing composure. “I give you fair warning; the next fit will do for me. If you don’t care to take my money, and keep it in trust for this girl you profess to care so much about, I will leave it to found an institution, mind you. I mean to teach people what they should eat and drink, and the various effects of food on various constitutions.”
“It is an important subject,” Ingram admitted.
“Is it not? What is the use of giving people laborious information about the idle fancies of generations that lived ages before they were born, while you are letting them poison their system, and lay up for themselves a fearfully painful old age, by the continuous use of unsuitable food? That book you gave me, Mr. Ingram, is a wonderful book, but it gives you little consolation if you know another fit is coming on. And what is the good of knowing about Epictetus and Zeno and the rest if you’ve got rheumatism? Now, I mean to have classes to teach people what they should eat and drink; and I’ll do it if you won’t assume the guardianship of my nephew’s wife.”