CHAPTER XXXV.
How many in every age have craved to read the future, to uncover the secrets of the coming years; and to that end have pinned a foolish faith upon the words of fortune-tellers, soothsayers and suchlike blind leaders of the blind. For my part, owing more to a sluggish quality in my blood, probably, than to any special wisdom or strength of mind, I have always felt thankful—since I became capable of reasoned thought—the future was a sealed book to me, or rather a book of which it is ordained I shall turn but one page at a time. To skip, to look on, to take a glance at the end, would be, in my case anyhow, to paralyse will and action by excess of hope or dread. No; depend on it, that is a merciful dispensation which condemns us to make haste slowly in deciphering the story of our lives, learning here a little and there a little, precept upon precept and line upon line. Unquestionably had second-sight been given me as to much which lay ahead, on the glorious June mid-day when I started with Hartover up to town, I should have been utterly unnerved by the prospect of the stern doings I was to witness; and so have proved but a pitiably broken reed on which for him to lean.
I rose early, though still tired; and, somewhat refreshed by a cold bath, dressed and made inquiries regarding Hartover. Finding he still slept, I left a message for him and went out.
I have observed that, in fatigue, the mind is peculiarly responsive to outside influences. It was so with me, as I walked along the familiar streets in the radiant morning sunlight. Never had the inherent poetry of Cambridge, its dignity and repose, appealed to me more forcibly. My filial affection went out to this place which had sheltered my youth and inexperience, nourished my intellect, given me the means of livelihood, given me, also, many friends—went out to its traditions, to its continuity of high endeavour through centuries of scholarship, of religious and of scientific thought. What a roll of honour, what a galaxy of famous and venerable names, it could show!
But I had no time to linger, to-day of all days, over meditations such as these. Not past splendours but very present anxieties claimed me. I hastened my steps, and passed in under the fine Tudor gateway of my own college just as the men—‘a numerous throng arrayed in white’—poured out from chapel, into the sunshine and shadow, the green and grey of the big quadrangle.
My object was to obtain speech of the Master; and I was fortunate enough to catch him as he was entering the Lodge. I begged for ten minutes’ talk with him while he ate his breakfast—a request he granted readily, being curious, as I fancied, to learn my errand and, since I had not kept my chapel, whence I came.
I satisfied him on both points, telling him as much as I deemed expedient about Hartover’s unexpected descent upon me—to all of which he listened with genuine interest and concern.
‘And now, sir,’ I said, in conclusion, ‘the question arises as to whether I can be spared from my college duties until this painful business is placed upon, what at all events approaches, a reasonable and workable footing?’
‘Which signifies, being interpreted—am I prepared to sanction your doing that which you fully intend to do whether I sanction it or not? Eh, Brownlow?’
I acquiesced smiling, relieved to find him in so sympathetic a humour.
‘Very well, then; so be it,’ he said. ‘Having put your hand to this particular plough—at no small personal cost to yourself, quixotic fellow that you are—you are resolved not to look back; and I am the last man to invite you to do so. On the contrary, go on with your ploughing and drive a straight furrow. Only provide, to the best of your ability, against friction and disappointment here. Your absence will necessarily create some. Both I and others shall miss you. You must pay—or rather we, I suppose, must pay—the price of your popularity.’
And he looked at me very kindly, while I reddened at the implied praise.
‘See the amount of friction be as small as possible,’ he went on. ‘And now, as to this erratic young nobleman, Lord Hartover—whose affairs appear to furnish such a promising battlefield to the powers of good and evil—I shall make no attempt to see him, although it would interest me to do so. Knowing all that I do know about him and his family, I should find it almost impossible to ignore personal matters, and equally impossible, in the present crisis, to speak of them without a breach of good taste. I have hardly seen him since the death of his mother, the first Lady Longmoor, when he was a child.—Ah! there was a rare specimen of womanhood, Brownlow, if you like! I stayed at Hover frequently during her all too brief reign. This young man may esteem himself fortunate if he inherits even a tithe of her charm of person and of nature.’
After which pleasantly encouraging words I rose to depart. While, as the Master held out his hand to me⸺
‘Remember I am content to pull the strings unseen,’ he added. ‘Consult me by letter if you need my advice. Count on me in respect of pounds, shillings, and pence, too, if your own funds do not cover the expenditure in which you may find yourself involved. We must prepare for contingencies—Detective Inspector Lavender to wit. With his participation, by the way, I should strongly advise you not to acquaint Lord Hartover unless absolutely compelled. Convict the woman, but, if possible, do so privately. Avoid all appearance of running her down; since, for sentimental if no deeper reasons, it might lead to a breach between yourself and the young man which would be lamentable in the extreme.’
This last bit of advice was sound, but far from easy to follow. The more I thought it over—as we posted those fifty odd miles, by Audley End, Bishop Stortford, Broxbourne and Tottenham, from Cambridge up to town—the more clearly I saw how greatly the fact of my having already called in the help of a detective increased the difficulty of my seeing Mademoiselle Fédore and demanding the explanation Hartover desired. Could I do so without taking Inspector Lavender into my confidence regarding Hartover’s discovery? And could I take Lavender into my confidence without curtailing my own freedom of action and inviting a public exposure of Fédore which must be abhorrent to the dear boy? Here, indeed, was a problem hard of solution! Still it appeared an integral part of the whole, and to the whole I had pledged myself. I must be guided, therefore, by circumstance, dealing with each new phase of this very complicated affair as it presented itself; keeping, meantime, as cool a head and quiet a mind as might be. To meet danger half-way may be less an act of prudence than a waste of energy. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof—and the good thereof likewise, if a man has faith to believe so.
We were to dine on the way, and to reach the great house in Grosvenor Square between nine and ten o’clock. There, as I learned from Hartover, he still—when he pleased—occupied a set of rooms upon the ground floor, with a private entrance from the side street, which I well remembered.
‘It isn’t that I have any particular love for being under the family roof,’ he told me. ‘But I saw the Rusher wanted to oust me and collar those rooms for himself, and I did not choose to have it. So I stuck to them. Her Magnificence couldn’t give me notice to quit without appealing to my father, and she really had not the face for that. There are limits to even her audacity! Now she and I are like buckets in a well. When she arrives, I depart and take up my abode elsewhere. Quarrelled with her? Good Lord, no. She is the most impossible person to quarrel with on the face of the earth. As slippery as an eel—I beg your pardon, a mermaid, shall we say? It does sound more polite. But hold her you can’t. She slithers through your fingers, in that fascinating, mocking, laughing way of hers—you know it?’
Did I not?⸺
‘And leaves you, feeling like every sort of fool, cursing, most consumedly, both her and yourself.’
He laughed not quite pleasantly.
‘But, the devil helping me, Brownlow, I’ll be even with her some day yet. When my father dies—always supposing I survive him, which quite conceivably I shall not—her Magnificence and I will square accounts. It’ll be a little scene worth witnessing. I hope, dear old man, you may be present!’
A wish I could not altogether find it in my heart to echo. But, as he fell silent, staring out over the sun-bathed country, through the cloud of dust raised by wheels and horse-hoofs—subtle lines of care and of bitterness deforming the youthfulness of his beautiful face—I was spared the necessity of answering, for which I was glad.
All day—though towards me he had shown himself uniformly courteous and gentle, loving even—the boy’s spirits had fluctuated, his moods being many and diverse. At one time he was full of anecdote and racy talk, at another steeped in gloom or irritably explosive, swearing in most approved fine-gentleman fashion at any and every thing not exactly to his taste. In short, while he avoided any mention of the object of our journey and our conversation of last night, I could not but see these were persistently uppermost in his thought, keeping his nerves cruelly on edge. What wonder, when all his future hung in the balance! How far did he actually love Fédore—how far actually want her proved innocent? I could not tell. His attitude baffled me. Yet it seemed incredible the society of such a woman should continue to satisfy him—that differences of age, station, nationality, education, should not be prolific, at times at all events, of repulsion and something akin to disgust. Quite independent of that matter of the jewels and the ugly suspicions raised by it, must he not have begun by now to measure the enormity of his mistake in marrying her? I, at once, hoped and feared he had. While, as the miles of road fled away behind us beneath the horses’ trotting feet, the sadness of his position grew upon me, until I had much ado to keep my feelings to myself.
Once arrived, Hartover slipped his arm through mine, and we entered the stately house together, while he said, a little huskily:
‘Brownlow, it is good to have you—very good of you to come. Don’t imagine I do not appreciate what you are doing for me because to-day I have not said much about it. Oh! how I wish you could always be with me! Having given Cambridge the slip, you’ll stay now, won’t you, as long as you possibly can?’
Deeply touched by his affection, I was about to assure him I would indeed remain while I was of any real service and comfort to him, when William—grown stout, sleek, but, as I thought, a good deal more trustworthy-looking—came forward with a packet on a salver.
‘What’s that?’ Hartover inquired sharply. ‘Put it down. I cannot be bothered with it now.’
‘I am sorry, my lord,’ the man answered, with evident unwillingness, ‘but I am bound to bring it to your notice. His lordship sent by express this morning from Bath. The messenger is waiting for your acknowledgment.’
Hartover’s hand grew heavy on my arm.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will send my orders presently.’
And he led me into a fine room, opening off the corridor on the left, where supper had been laid for us.
‘As I supposed,’ he went on, after glancing at the contents of the packet. ‘A summons from my father to attend his deathbed—in which last, by the way, I don’t for an instant believe. Brownlow, what am I to do?’
‘What but obey?’
‘To be told, when I get there, either that he has been miraculously restored to health, or that he has changed his mind; in either case that he no longer wishes to see me, and so—practically—have the door slammed in my face? No, I tell you these repeated visits to Bath become a farce, and an impertinent one at that. My father persistently sends for me and as persistently refuses to receive me when I come. Last time I swore, if he sent any more, he would send in vain. Why should I let him make me a laughing-stock, and treat me with less consideration than one of his own valets? Why cannot he be reasonably civil to me? It is intolerable, not to be borne. But his mind—such mind as he ever possessed, no great thing from the first as far as I can discover—has been poisoned against me for years by the gang of hypocrites and toadies which surrounds him. Only just now’—Hartover spread out his hands passionately, his face flushed, his eyes filling with tears—‘think, Brownlow, think how can I leave London? How can I endure the suspense of absence when—when’⸺
For a moment I feared he would give way to one of those fits of ungovernable anger before which I had trembled at Hover of old. But, to my great relief, he mastered himself, after a while growing gentle and composed.
‘You are right, dear old man, as usual,’ he said at last. ‘I will go. Then at least my conscience as a model son will be clear, whatever his lordship’s as a tender father may, or may not, be.’
And so it was settled he should start at cock-crow, leaving me to deal with the unlovely business of Mademoiselle Fédore—an arrangement I found far from unwelcome, since it secured me greater freedom of action than I could have hoped for otherwise.