The hours of his father’s absence in London were full of an insupportable suspense to Rufus Black. He was tempted to hurry up to town by the next train, and only his weakness and cowardice prevented him from flying to the succor of his wronged young wife. His terror of his father was a lion in his way. And the act of perjury he had committed in declaring himself of age when obtaining his marriage license—an act more of thoughtlessness and boyish ardor than of deliberate lying—arose now between him and poor Lally like a wall of iron. He had erred, and must accept the consequences, but he thought to himself that he would give all his hopes of heaven if Lally might have been spared his punishment.
Anguished and despairing, he put on his hat and hurried out into the street, eager for fresh air and for action. He passed out of the little hamlet, seeing no one, and wandered into the open country, where a noble park bordered one side of the road, and fair green fields stretched far away upon the other. Both park and fields belonged to the domain of Hawkhurst, but Rufus Black was unconscious of the fact until he came out in full view of the great gray stone house throned upon the broad ridge of ground, and set in its parks and gardens like some rare jewel in its setting.
Then he recognized the place, and muttered moodily:
“So, this is what I am to sell my soul for? A goodly price, no doubt, and more than it is worth. The owner of all this wealth cannot go begging for a husband, be she ugly as Medusa. Perhaps, after all, I have been troubling myself for nothing. She may not choose to accept a shabby young man, without a penny in his pocket, and with a gloomy face. If she refuses me, I dare say that father will let me go back to Lally.”
This thought afforded him some comfort, and he plodded on, seeking relief from his troubles in exertion. He cared not whither he went, and his surprise was great when at last, arousing from his abstraction, he found himself in the streets of Canterbury.
He was near an inn of the humbler sort, and, with a sudden recklessness as to what became of him, he turned into the low barroom and demanded a private parlor. A bare little apartment on the upper floor, overlooking the inn stables, was assigned him. The floor was uncovered, and a deal table, rush-bottomed chair and rickety lounge made up the sum of the furniture.
Rufus called for brandy and water, tossing a shilling to the frowsy waiter. A decanter of brandy and a bottle of water were brought to him, and he entered upon a solitary orgie. He had not been used to drink, and the fiery liquid mounted to his brain, inducing stupidity and drunkenness. For an hour or two he drank with brief intermission, but sleep overpowered him, and his head fell upon the table and he snored heavily. With his red face, dishevelled hair and stertorous breathing, his unmistakable aspect of drunkenness, he presented a terrible contrast to the hopeful boy artist with his honest eyes and loving soul, who had made the dingy lodging in New Brompton a very paradise to poor Lally.
The day wore on. A waiter looked in upon the poor wreck, once or twice, and went away each time chuckling. In the latter part of the afternoon Rufus awakened, and came to himself. Ashamed and conscience-stricken, his first thought being of what Lally would think of him, he summoned a waiter and demanded strong coffee and food. These were furnished him, and having partaken of them he settled his bill, and set out to walk back to Wyndham.
“It makes no difference what becomes of me now,” he said to himself, as he strode along the return route. “I have started down hill, and I may as well keep on descending.”
He had accomplished half the distance between Canterbury and his destination, when a four-wheeled cab, traveling briskly, came up behind him, compelling him to take to the side path. The next moment the cab stopped, and Craven Black’s head was protruded from the open window, and Craven Black’s smooth voice called: