Ingram heard him out, and said with some precision, “Do you mean to say that you fancy all this trouble is to be got over that way? Do you know so little of Sheila, after the time you have been married to her, as to imagine that she has taken this step out of some momentary caprice, and that a few words of apology and promise will cause her to rescind it? You must be crazed, Lavender, or else you are actually as ignorant of the nature of that girl as you were up in the Highlands.”
The young man seemed to calm down his excitement and impatience, but it was because of a new fear that had struck him, and that was visible in his face.
“Do you think she will never come back, Ingram?” he said, looking aghast.
“I don’t know; she may not. At all events, you may be quite sure that, once having resolved to leave your house, she is not to be pacified and cajoled by a few phrases and a promise of repentance on your part. That is quite sure. And what is quite as sure, is this, that if you knew just now where she was, the most foolish thing you could do would be to go and see her.”
“But I must go and see her—I must find her out, Ingram,” he said, passionately. “I don’t care what becomes of me. If she won’t go back home, so much the worse for me; but I must find her out, and know that she is safe. Think of it, Ingram! Perhaps she is walking about the streets somewhere at this moment; and you know her proud spirit. If she were to go near the river——”
“She won’t go near the river,” said Ingram, quietly, “and she won’t be walking about the streets. She is either in the Scotch mail-train, going up to Glasgow, or else she has got some lodgings somewhere, along with Mairi. Has she any money?”
“No,” said Lavender. And then he thought for a minute. “There was some money her father gave her in case she might want it at a pinch; she may have that—I hope she has that. I was to have given her money to-morrow morning. But hadn’t I better go to the police-stations, and see, just by way of precaution, that she has not been heard of? I may as well do that as nothing. I could not go home to that empty house—I could not sleep.”
“Sheila is a sensible girl: she is safe enough,” said Ingram. “And if you don’t care about going home, you may as well remain here. I can give you a room up-stairs when you want it. In the meantime, if you will pull a chair to the table and calm yourself, and take it for granted that you will soon be assured of Sheila’s safety, I will tell you what I think you should do. Here is a cigar to keep you occupied; there are whiskey and cold water back there if you like. You will do no good by punishing yourself in small matters, for your trouble is likely to be serious enough, I can tell you, before you get Sheila back, if ever you get her back. Take the chair with the cushion.”
It was so like the old days when these two used to be companions! Many and many a time had the younger man come down to these lodgings, with all his troubles and wild impulses and pangs of contrition ready to be revealed. And then Ingram, concealing the liking he had for the lad’s generous waywardness, his brilliant and facile cleverness and his dashes of honest self depreciation, would gravely lecture him and put him right and send him off comforted. Frank Lavender had changed much since then. The handsome boy had grown into a man of the world: there was less self-revelations in his manner, and he was less sensitive to the opinions and criticisms of his old friend; but Ingram, who was not prone to idealism of any sort, had never ceased to believe that this change was but superficial, and that, in different circumstances and with different aims, Lavender might still fulfill the best promise of his youth.
“You have been a good friend to me, Ingram,” he said, with a hot blush, “and I have treated you as badly as I have treated—by Jove! what a chance I had at one time!”