He was in extremely low spirits and very bad temper, and while waiting for his tea and eggs, he drew from his pocket a notice, cut from a newspaper two days old, which set forth that on a given date, Stella, only daughter of Sir Philip Cranstoun, J. P., of the Chase, Surrey, and Cranstoun Hall, Aberdeenshire, was married to Viscount Carthew, eldest son of the Earl of Northborough, by the Rev. Canon Wrextone, assisted by the Rev. John Turner.
Hilary had read the words until long ago he had known them by heart. He had even, sorely against his will, written down to Northborough Castle to congratulate his friend in as few words as possible on his marriage, and to inform him that he purposed starting for Canada at least two months earlier than he had originally intended. In this letter he had mentioned the name of the hotel at which he was staying. Until now he had been anxious to keep his address a secret from his friend, from a feeling that he had not acted fairly by Lord Carthew in the matter of Stella Cranstoun; but now, since she had elected to marry her wealthy and titled suitor, Hilary’s conscience was clear. There was no longer any need for mystery, and he therefore told Lord Carthew, in his extremely brief congratulatory letter, that he was staying in this place for a few days, settling his affairs, before going north to take leave of his parents, on setting out for his new home across the sea.
He was conscious of a feeling of disloyalty in that he could not banish from his mind those two short love-scenes which had passed between himself and Stella. He told himself again and again that she was now his friend’s wife, and that she was most certainly a coquette, who had been amusing herself at his expense. “She would presently, if I were still in England, ask her husband to invite me to stay at one of their country seats,” he told himself, bitterly. “That’s how flirts always behave toward their old sweethearts when they’ve married another fellow. Ask them to stay, that he may see and envy the other fellow’s happiness. See them make love to their husbands at him, and call him by his Christian name when they are alone. ‘Dear Jack,’ or ‘dear Hilary, it wasn’t my fault I didn’t marry you, you know. I am very happy now, of course, but I was forced into it, and—you don’t bear me any grudge, do you?’ Then if they can, and if the husband is fool enough to stand it, they make a tame cat of the old sweetheart, and do their best to prevent him from marrying any one else, sacrificing his life’s happiness on the altar of their own petty, miserable vanity.”
With which cynical, if partially true, reasoning he strove to allay the gnawing bitterness at his heart, and to forget the passionate love which Stella had so suddenly aroused there.
He was very “hard hit,” for certain. Stella’s shining dark-blue eyes seemed to be gazing at him from every corner, and with her voice they haunted his dreams, from which he awoke with outstretched arms to meet the empty air. He had never meant to fall in love with her or with anybody, and it angered him to think that even incessant occupation and bodily activity could not stifle the constant pain at his heart. To a man of his essentially manly and practical nature, it seemed little short of contemptible to be thus dominated by a hopeless feeling of love for a woman, particularly now that she had become the wife of his friend; and he longed, with all his soul, for the moment when he should set sail for Canada, and, among new work and new surroundings, forget this foolish infatuation.
So he sat, brooding, over the breakfast-table, in a moody frame of mind with which, until the past few days, he had been totally unacquainted, until the voice of the elderly, greasy-looking English waiter recalled him to his immediate surroundings.
“A gentleman, sir, to see you on very pressing business. ’Ere is ’is card, sir.”
A touch of unwonted reverence in the man’s voice and manner attracted Hilary’s attention. He took up the card and read thereon, with great surprise, the name of Lord Carthew.
But two days married, and already in London visiting his bachelor friends! Hilary had read in an evening paper that the bridal pair intended spending a few days at the Earl of Northborough’s seat in the Isle of Wight before undertaking a lengthened cruise in the Mediterranean. A presentiment of something wrong filled his mind as he told the waiter to show the gentleman in.
It was half-past eight o’clock, and as yet Hilary was the sole occupant of the coffee-room. There were no strangers present to note the pale and worried appearance of the man who only two days before had made a love-match with a beautiful and accomplished lady.