Meanwhile Arthur—his heart, despite of pretty Honor’s absence, lighter than it had been for months—wended his way with the brisk step which is so sure a sign of youth and good spirits to not-far-distant Stanwick-street. As he approached the house he experienced a slight feeling of depression at the thought that it no longer contained the lovely woman by whom he fondly believed that his passion was more than beginning to be reciprocated. It was a melancholy fact, too, that as matters at present stood between him and John Beacham, there seemed little hope of resuming those friendly relations with the Paddocks which had been so fraught with happiness to himself, and, as he hoped, to the wife of his trusting friend. To the chapter of accidents only could Arthur—with the sanguine expectations of youth (of youth especially when backed by good looks and a winning tongue)—look, with any well-grounded hope, that his luck would in this instance befriend him, and point the way for further attempts to—what? Why to ruin, soul and body, the still innocent creature, the possession of whose beauty would soon be to him a worthless toy, and who, but for his selfish pursuit, might still be a valued wife and a happy woman in the sphere in which Providence had placed her.
As Arthur Vavasour stood on the doorstep of the house which only a few short hours before contained the being who possessed the terrible power of inducing within him the forgetfulness of his most sacred duties, keen regret for her loss was within his breast a stronger sensation than the satisfaction with his present lot, as regarded the relief from his dishonouring obligations which, in some natures, might have superseded all other and less commonplace considerations.
“He will know nothing more about her,” was the thought that most occupied Arthur Vavasour when the door opened, and Lydia, more off-hand even and coquettishly dressed than usual, stood before him with the handle in her hand, barring, as it almost seemed—though that could hardly be, so intimate was Arthur in that unaspiring lodging-house—his further passage to the Colonel’s presence.
“There’s a note for you, sir,” the parlour-maid said, in answer to Arthur’s look of surprised inquiry; “they’ve gone out of town, both of ’em, and the Colonel said I was to give you the letter when you comed. I’ll run and fetch it if you’ll be so good as wait.” And so saying Lydia skipped away down the “back stairs” leading to the regions below; while Arthur, with a vague sense of uneasiness creeping slowly over him, silently, but not over patiently, awaited her return.
CHAPTER XIV.
ARTHUR FINDS HIMSELF DONE.
The letter produced, after five minutes’ delay, by the faithful Lydia, ran as follows:
“My dear Vavasour,—You will be surprised to find that I have absquattulated. Beggars mustn’t be choosers, and I should have been only too glad if circumstances had allowed of my remaining in England; but the fact is, I made a bad business of my book—hedged, and that kind of thing; so, having no chance left but to sell Rough Diamond, I did it on the nail. My beastly creditors have made London too hot to hold me, and as debts are transferable in these days, and be hanged to them! I must keep dark for the present, or they’ll have me in quod in some confounded foreign place or other. Of course you are an exception; and when I am settled anywhere you shall hear from me. The missus desires to be kindly remembered. Nothing new about Honor—the man is a brute. Ta-ta, old fellow, and believe me yours truly,
“F. Norcott.”
Arthur, after making himself master of the contents of this flippant epistle, stood for a moment like one turned, after the manner of Lot’s wife of old, into a statue.