‘Oh, Mr Hawthorn, there’s papa!’ Nora cried excitedly. ‘There he is, coming down the gangway.’ And as she spoke, Mr Dupuy’s portly form was seen advancing towards them with slow deliberateness.
For a second, he gazed about him curiously, looking for Nora; then, as he saw her, he walked over towards her in his leisurely, dawdling, West Indian fashion. Nora darted forward and flung her arms impulsively around him. ‘So you’ve come, Nora,’ the old gentleman said quietly, disembarrassing himself with elephantine gracefulness from her close embrace—‘so you’ve come, after all, in spite of my telegram!—How was this, my dear? How was this, tell me?’
‘Yes, papa,’ Nora answered, a little abashed at his serene manner. ‘The telegram was too late—it was thrown on board after we’d started. But we’ve got out all safe, you see.—And Marian—you know—Marian Ord—Mrs Hawthorn that is now—she’s taken great care of me; and, except for the hurricane, we’ve had such a delightful voyage!’
Mr Dupuy drew himself up to his stateliest eminence and looked straight across at Marian Hawthorn with stiff politeness. ‘I didn’t know it was to Mrs Hawthorn, I’m sure,’ he said, ‘that I was to be indebted for your safe arrival here in Trinidad. It was very good of Mrs Hawthorn, I don’t doubt, to bring you out to us and act as your chaperon. I am much obliged to Mrs Hawthorn for her kind attention and care of you on the voyage. I must thank Mrs Hawthorn very sincerely for the trouble she may have been put to on your account.—Good-morning, Mrs Hawthorn!—Good-morning, Mr Hawthorn! Your son, I suppose? Ah, so I imagined.—Good-morning, good-morning.’ He raised his hat with formal courtesy to Marian, and bowed slightly to the son and father. Then he drew Nora’s arm carefully in his, and was just about to walk her immediately off the steamer, when Nora burst from him in the utmost amazement and rushed up to kiss Marian. ‘Papa,’ she cried, ‘I don’t think you understand. This is Marian Ord, don’t you know? General Ord’s daughter, that I’ve written to you about so often. She’s my dearest friend, and now she’s married to Mr Edward Hawthorn—this is he—and Aunt Harriet gave me in charge to her to come across with; and I must just say good-bye to her before I leave her.—Thank you, dear, thank you both so much for all your kindness. Not, of course, that it matters about saying good-bye to you, for you and we will be such very, very near neighbours, and of course we’ll see a great deal of one another.—Won’t we, papa? We shall be near neighbours, and see a great deal of Marian always, now she’s come here to live—won’t we?’
Mr Dupuy bowed again very stiffly. ‘We shall be very near neighbours, undoubtedly,’ he answered with unruffled politeness; ‘and I shall hope to take an early opportunity of paying my respects to—to your friend, General Ord’s daughter.—I am much obliged, once more, to Mrs Hawthorn for her well-meant attentions. Good-morning.—This way, Nora, my dear. This way to the Orange Grove carriage.’
‘Father,’ Edward exclaimed, in doubt and dismay, looking straight down into his father’s eyes, ‘what does it all mean? Explain it all to us. I’m utterly bewildered. Why did you telegraph to us not to come? And why did Nora Dupuy’s father telegraph to her, too, an identical message?’
Mr Hawthorn drew a deep breath and looked back at him with a face full of consternation and pity. ‘He telegraphed to her, too, did he?’ he muttered half to himself in slow reflection. ‘He telegraphed to prevent her from coming out in the Severn! I might have guessed as much—it’s very like him.—My boy, my boy—and my dear daughter—this is a poor welcome for you, a very poor welcome! We never wanted you to come out here; and if we could, we would have prevented it. But now that you’ve come, you’ve come, and there’s no helping it. We must just try to do our best to make you both tolerably comfortable.’
Marian stood in blank astonishment and silent wonder at this strange greeting. A thousand vague possibilities floated instantaneously through her mind, to be dismissed the next second, on closer consideration, as absolutely impossible. Why on earth did this handsome, dignified, courtly old gentleman wish to keep them away from Trinidad? He wasn’t poor; he wasn’t uneducated; he wasn’t without honour in his own country. That he was a gentleman to the backbone, she could see and feel the moment she looked at him and heard him speak. What, then, could be his objection to his son’s coming out to visit him in his own surroundings? Had he committed some extraordinary crime? Was he an ex-convict, or a fraudulent bankrupt, or a defaulting trustee? Did he fear to let his son discover his shame? But no. The bare idea was absolutely impossible. You had only to gaze once upon that fine, benevolent, clear-cut, transparently truthful face—as transparently truthful as Edward’s own—to see immediately that James Hawthorn was a man of honour. It was an insoluble mystery, and Marian’s heart sank within her as she wondered to herself what this gloomy welcome foreboded for the future.
‘Father,’ Edward exclaimed, looking at him once more with appealing eyes, ‘do explain to us what you mean? Why didn’t you want us to come to Trinidad? The suspense is too terrible! We shall be expecting something worse than the reality. Tell us now. Whatever it is, we are strong enough to bear it. I know it can be nothing mean or dishonourable that you have to conceal from us! For Marian’s sake, explain it, explain it!’
The old man turned his face away with a bitter gesture. ‘My boy, my boy, my poor boy,’ he answered slowly and remorsefully, ‘I cannot tell you. I can never tell you. You will find it out for yourself soon enough. But I—I—I can never tell you!’