Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.
A Rival Encounter.
The day following his visit to Branksome-street, Charley made his way to Crescent Villas, and sent up his card to Mrs Marter.
The footman returned at the end of a few minutes to say that Mrs Marter was not at home.
Was Miss Bedford at home?
Thomas did not know, but he would go and see; which he did, to return shaking his head.
Charley said he would call again, which he did, with precisely the same result.
Nothing daunted, he repeated his calls, till it was perfectly evident that neither Mrs Marter nor Ella would see him; and he was coming away knit of brow one day, when he started with anger on seeing a cab trundle by with Max Bray as its occupant.
It was most repugnant to his feelings to play the spy; but in despite of himself he followed the cab till he saw it stop at Crescent Villas, and Max spring out, run up the steps and ring, to be the next minute admitted, the cab being driven off.
One hour, two hours, three hours, did Charley Vining wait, when, it being evident that Max was dining there, he returned to his hotel; and then, in a state of mental anguish that he could not control, he wrote a long and earnest letter to Ella, imploring her to see him, telling of his sufferings, and of how he had been refused entrance again and again.
He waited three days and there was no response, when he wrote again—a bitter angry letter this time, to have it returned to him unopened by the next post, the direction, he felt sure, being in Max Bray’s handwriting.
Maddened now by the jealous feelings that assailed him, he watched the house till he saw that Max Bray was a constant visitor. Then came a night when a brougham was at the door, and he saw Max hand down two ladies, one of whom was Ella. Then taking his place, the door of the brougham was closed, and it was driven off.
“Follow that fly,” said Charley to a cabman; and the man drew up at last by the Piazza in the Haymarket, and Charley leaped out just in time to see Max disappearing in the stall-entrance of Her Majesty’s Theatre, Mrs Marter upon one arm, Ella upon the other.
Dressed as he was, it was with some difficulty that Charley secured a place where he could, unobserved, watch the movements of the party. Max’s quiet gentlemanly attentions were directed to both alike, the passing of the book of the words, the seeking places, and lastly the replacing of the opera-cloak upon Ella’s gracefully rounded shoulders.
They passed close to him where he stood muffled up and with flashing eyes, Ella’s cloak brushing his coat on the way to the brougham; and then they were driven off.
He wrote again after a sleepless night, telling of what he had seen, and imploring Ella to send him if but a line to assure him that his suspicions were false. “I have fought against them till it seems to me that it would require more than human strength,” he said naïvely, “while now I feel almost driven to believe.”
The same result: the letter returned unopened, and redirected in a hand that he was certain was Max Bray’s.
Furious now with rage, he took a cab and drove to Max’s lodgings in Bury-street, Saint James’s, to arrive in time to see two ladies descend the steps—one of whom was Ella—Max handing them into a waiting brougham, and kissing his hand as they were driven off.
“Ah, Charley Vining, how do?” he exclaimed, smiling pleasantly as he encountered the fierce angry face at his side. “Bai Jove, what a stranger you are! Haven’t set eyes on you for months.”
“I want a few words with you, Max,” said Charley harshly.
“Many as you like. Bai Jove, I don’t care how much any one talks to me, so long as they don’t want me to talk to them! Come upstairs.”
Charley followed him into his sybaritish bachelor rooms, where Max threw himself on a couch.
“Cigar or pipe, Vining—which will you have? I’ve some capital Saint Julien, and a decent bottle or two of hock. Which shall it be? Bai Jove, man, what’s the matter? Anything upset you?”
“Max Bray,” said Charley, striding up to the sofa and towering over its occupant, “I want to know who those ladies were that you handed into that brougham.”
“Bai Jove, mai dear fellow, what an uncouth kind of catechism! And suppose I don’t choose to tell you?”
“Curse you! I’ll wring it out of you!” cried Charley fiercely.
“No, bai Jove, you won’t do anything of the kind,” said Max coolly. “Gentlemen don’t act like confounded cads. Why, man alive, I did not say I would not tell you. I’m open as the day. Do you want to know?”
Charley made an impatient gesture.
“Well, bai Jove, if you must know, one is a friend of mine, Mrs Marter, of Regent’s-park.”
“And the other?” said Charley hoarsely.
“The other,” said Max, quietly lighting a cigar, “is another lady friend of mine—one Miss Bedford.”
Max must have seen those clutching fingers that moved as if about to seize him by the throat; but he did not shrink, he did not waver for an instant, but lit his cigar unmoved, and then sank luxuriously back upon the couch to smoke and stare nonchalantly in his visitor’s face.
That cool matter-of-fact way staggered and disarmed Charley. Had he seen the slightest sign of cowardice, he would have seized Max, and shaken him savagely; but that cool insolence seemed to the stricken man to tell of success and safety of position—the sense of being able to deal pityingly with an unfortunate rival; and it was in altered tones that Charley tore a letter from his breast, and threw it upon the table.
“Who redirected that letter?” he exclaimed.
Max smoked for a few moments in thoughtful silence, then, casting off all affectation, he said quietly:
“Would it not be better to change the subject, Vining? It is not every horse that wins. The favourite is a dangerous nag to place your money on, as you must know. We are old friends, Vining, and I am sorry to run counter to you. Say what you will, I shall not quarrel.”
“Who redirected that letter?” repeated Charley, again more fiercely.
“Bai Jove, Vining, this is going too far!” said Max in injured tones. “You have no right to come to a gentleman and ask him such questions.”
“Who redirected that letter?” Charley cried for the third time.
“Well there, then, if you will have it—I did,” said Max quietly.
“And any others?”
“Yes, all of them.”
“And by whose authority?”
“Bai Jove, it’s too bad!” exclaimed Max—“I will not say another word. I will not be cross-examined like this. You’ve made misery enough, Vining, bai Jove, you have! You throw over poor Laura in the most heartless way; you come between me and some one; and now, when matters are once more running smoothly, you come here more like a mad bull than anything. I don’t care; it’s the truth, and you can’t deny it!”
The moment was critical again; for blind with rage, Charley Vining seized Max by the throat, and placed his knee upon his chest as he lay back on the couch; but again the latter was equal to the position, and he did not attempt to free himself.
“Don’t be a brute, Vining!” he said quietly. “I’m not afraid of you; but you have double my strength.”
Charley started back as he was met by those cool collected words, and catching up his letter, he tore from the place, leaving Max with a quiet contented smile upon his face, smoking till he had finished his cigar, when he threw away the end, rose, rearranged his slightly disordered shirt-front, and rang for a cab, being driven to Austin’s Ticket-Office, where he secured seats for a concert to be held that night at Saint James’s Hall; returned, made a most elaborate toilet, and then, not knowing, but careless, whether or not he was watched, he made his way to Crescent Villas, dined there, and that same evening Charley Vining saw him seated beside Ella Bedford in the reserved scats at the great hall, while, pale and careworn in the balcony, the young man again and again saw Ella smile at something her companion uttered.
“I’ll not give up yet,” said Charley hoarsely. “I made a vow, and I’ll keep to it!”