Then he reclosed the envelope, and went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just.
Meanwhile Jack strode around the streets of London, his brain in a whirl, half mad with “the desperation of despair,” as a poet has it.
At last he reached home, and found the rooms dark and lonesome, and Leonard in bed.
He sat down and wrote a short note to Lady Bell, telling her that things had turned up which prevented him coming to Earl’s Court – giving no reason, but just simply the fact. Then he turned out, and he walked about till daylight.
When he came in Leonard was at breakfast, and stared aghast at Jack’s haggard face and changed appearance.
“My dear old man,” he commenced, but Jack cut him short.
“Len, I’m the most miserable wretch in existence. Don’t ask me the why and the wherefore; but all is over between me and Una.”
“Impossible!” said Leonard.
“Impossible, but true,” retorted Jack. “All is over between us, and if you value our friendship you will not mention her name again.”
“But – ” said Leonard.
“Enough,” said Jack. “I tell you that it is so.”
“Moss has been here again,” Leonard said.
“I don’t care.”
“But, my dear fellow – ”
“I don’t care,” said Jack, stolidly. “A hundred Mosses wouldn’t matter to me now. Let him do his worst.”
“You don’t know what his worst is,” said Leonard. “He has got you in his power.”
“All right,” said Jack, coolly. “Let him exercise it to his uttermost.”
Leonard had never seen Jack like this.
“Listen to me,” he said. “If Moss does all he can do, he can expel you from any club in London, can make you an utter out-cast. Come, Jack, be reasonable.”
“I can’t be reasonable!” retorted Jack. “I am utterly ruined and undone. With Una everything that is worth living for has gone. I care nothing for Moss or anything he can do.”
CHAPTER XXXIV
“In another hour he will be here,” said Una, as she stood at her dressing-room window, and looked out upon the lawns and park of Hurst, where they stretched down toward the road.
“Another hour!” and at the thought, a smile – yet scarcely a smile, but a suitable light like a sun ray stole over her face.
The great poet Tennyson has, in one of his greatest poems, portrayed a girl who, all unconscious of the bitter moments awaiting her, decked herself in her brightest ribbons to receive her expected lover.
Bright ribbons are out of fashion now, but Una had paid some, for her, extraordinary attention to her toilet. Jack was never tired of calling her beautiful; had even gone so far as to speak of her loveliness, and it had raised no vanity in her; but this evening she felt she would like to appear really and truly beautiful in his eyes, so beautiful that even Lady Bell’s spirited face should be forgotten.
She had chosen the dress he liked best; had selected, with unusual care, a couple of flowers from the costly bouquet, which, morning and evening, was sent to her room from the hot-houses, and had decked herself in the locket and bracelet, and ring which Jack had given her.
Mrs. Davenant had made her many presents of jewelry, some of it costly, and even rare; but she would not wear anything but Jack’s own gifts tonight.
“He will come fresh from Lady Bell’s diamonds and sapphires, and would think little of mine, beautiful as they are; but he will like to see his locket and his bracelet, and will know that I love him best.”
Not once, but twice and thrice she had moved from the window to the glass, and looked into it. Not with any expression of pleased vanity, but rather with merciless criticism. For the first time, she would like to be as beautiful as Jack thought her. For the last few days she had been rather silent, and somewhat pale. Stephen’s cunning hints respecting Jack and Lady Bell had had their effect; but tonight’s expectation, and the nearness of Jack’s approach, had brought a faint rose-like tint to her cheeks, and her eyes shone with the subtle light of love and hope.
Mrs. Davenant looked up at her as she entered the drawing-room and smiled affectionately.
“How well you look tonight, dear,” she said, as she kissed her and drew her down beside her. “I’m inclined to believe Jack, when he says that you grow more beautiful than ever.”
“Hush,” said Una, but with a blush. “Jack says so many foolish things, dear.”
“If he never said anything more foolish than that he would be a wise man,” said Mrs. Davenant. “How long would he be now, dear?”
Una glanced at the clock.
“Just forty minutes,” she said simply.
Mrs. Davenant smiled and patted her hand.
“Counting the very minutes,” she murmured, gently. “What a thing love is! What would life be without it?”
“Death,” said Una, with a grave smile. “Worse than death.”
Mrs. Davenant sighed.
“Jack is a happy man,” she said. “I wonder whether Stephen will come down this evening?”
“Do you not know?” said Una, absently.
“No,” replied Mrs. Davenant. “I thought, perhaps, he might have told you.”
“Me!” said Una, with open eyes. “Oh, no. Why should he?”
“I didn’t know,” said Mrs. Davenant, quietly. “He tells you everything, I think.”
Una smiled.
“He is very good and kind,” she said, still a little absently. “Oh, very kind. No one could have taken more trouble to make me happy.”
“Yes, Stephen likes to see you happy,” said Mrs. Davenant, softly. “Poor Stephen!” and she sighed.
But Una heard neither the expression of pity nor the sigh. She had risen, and was moving about the room with that suppressed impatience which marks the one who wafts an expected joy.
Presently her quick ears heard the rattle of approaching wheels, and with a throbbing heart she looked at the clock. It wanted ten minutes to the appointed time for Jack’s arrival. With a quick flush of gratitude for his punctuality she moved to the door, and stole swiftly and softly to her own room, to regain composure. She heard the carriage pull up and go away to the stables – heard the hurried tread of footsteps in the marble hall – and then, with the faint flush grown into a full-blown blush, went downstairs and entered the drawing-room.
A sudden shock of disappointment chilled her. Stephen was standing before the fire warming his hands, but Jack was not there.
Stephen, in the glass, saw her enter, saw the sudden start and disappearance of the warm flush, and turned to meet her.
He looked tired, pale and worn, and the smile with which he met her was a singular one, one that would have been almost triumphant but for the expression of anxiety underlying it.
“I have got back, you see,” he said. “And are you quite well?”
Una murmured an inaudible response, and he went back to the fire and bent over it, warming his hands, his face grown, if anything, still paler.
“How beautiful she looks!” he thought. “How beautiful! Worth risking all for – all!”
“Won’t you go up and dress, Stephen?” said Mrs. Davenant. “There is a large fire in your room, and in Jack’s too; I have just been into both of them.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, not nervously, but with almost an absent air, and he left the room.
“Stephen looks tired,” said Mrs. Davenant. “I’m afraid he has had some business that has worried him. I can always tell by his face.”
“I am very sorry,” said Una, gently. “Yes, he did look tired and worried,” she added, but with her eyes on the clock. The hands went round to the hour – an hour beyond Jack’s time – and the butler announced dinner.
“Oh, we will wait a little while for Mr. Newcombe!” said Mrs. Davenant, but Una, with a little flush, murmured:
“No, do not, please; Mr. Davenant must want his dinner. Please do not wait;” and Mrs. Davenant, never able to stand out against anyone’s will, rose and put her arm in Una’s and they went into the dining-room. Stephen followed and sat down without making any remark on Jack’s absence; even when Mrs. Davenant said to the butler – “Let them be sure and keep the soup hot for Mr. Newcombe,” Stephen made no observation.
Dish after dish disappeared, and Una made a faint pretence at eating as usual, and joined in the conversation between Stephen and Mrs. Davenant, but her eyes were continually straying toward the clock, her ears straining for the sound of wheels or a galloping horse.
The dinner was a thing of the past, and the soup had been kept hot in vain; no Jack arrived. Gradually silence had fallen on the three, and when Mrs. Davenant rose it was with a sigh of loving sympathy with the troubled heart that ached so near her own.
“I cannot think what has kept him,” she said, when they were alone together in the drawing-room. “If it were anyone but Jack I should feel nervous – but even I cannot feel nervous about him. It is a plain, easy road from Earl’s Court, and he rides like a – a centaur.”
“Perhaps,” said Una, with her eyes fixed on the fire – “perhaps Lady Bell pressed him to stay to dinner, and he will be here presently.”
“That must be it,” said Mrs. Davenant, hopefully. “He will come in directly, making a most tremendous noise, and raging against whatever has been keeping him. Jack’s rages are dreadful while they last – they don’t last long!”
Una smiled, and listened.
Stephen entered – so noiselessly that she almost started – and stooped over his mother.
“There are some things in the breakfast room I brought from London, will you go and see to them?”
Mrs. Davenant rose instantly.
“Una, dear,” she said, “see to the tea, I will be back directly.”
Una nodded, and sat down at the gypsy table. Stephen stood beside the fire, one white hand stretched out to the blaze, his face turned toward her, his eyes watching her under their lowered lids. His heart beat nervously, the task before him seemed to overmaster him, and he shrank from it; with one hand he felt Jack’s letter, lying like an asp in his breast coat pocket.
“There is a cold wind tonight,” he said absently. “Jack said the wind had gone round this morning.”
“Jack,” said Una, raising her eyes, with a sudden flame of color in her face. “Have you seen him? You have been to Earl’s Court?”
Stephen frowned as if angry at making a slip.
“No – no,” he said with gentle hesitation. “No; I saw him in London. He is not at Earl’s Court.”
“Not at Earl’s Court!” said Una, with surprise. “How is that? Oh, he is not ill?”
And her breath came sharply.
Stephen turned to the fire, with knitted brow and compressed lip, and fidgeted with the poker.
“No,” he replied, slowly, and as if uncertain what to say – “he is not ill.”
“Then why did he not go?” asked Una.
Stephen remained silent; and still keeping her eyes fixed on his pale face, she rose and glided to his side.
“You have something to tell me,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, and speaking in a low, panting voice. “What is it? You will tell me, will you not? Has anything happened to Lady Bell? Is she at Earl’s Court?”
“Yes, she is at Earl’s Court,” he said, almost bitterly, “and she is quite well, I believe.”
“Then,” said Una, in a low voice, which she tried vainly to keep steady – “then it is something concerning Jack. Oh, why do you keep me in suspense?”
Her misery maddened him.
“I will tell you that he is quite well,” he said, almost sharply. “I left him in perfect health. I dined with him, and he made an excellent dinner.”
“You are angry with him! What has he done to make you angry?” she asked.
He raised her hand, and let it fall with a gesture of noble indignation.
“What has he done?” he repeated, as if to himself. “I can find no words to describe it adequately. My poor Una!”
And he turned to her, and laid his hand caressingly and pityingly on her arm.
Una, white and cold, was all unconscious of his touch.
Stephen drew her gently to a low seat, and stood over her, his hand resting with the same caressing pity on her arm.
“Yes, I must tell you,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “Would to Heaven I had been spared the task. Dear Una! you will be calm – I know your brave spirit and true, courageous heart. You will summon all your strength to bear the blow it is left for me to deal you – me who would lay down my life to spare you a moment’s pain!”
She scarcely heeded him. Her eyes, fixed on his face, were dilated with fear and dread, her lips white and apart with suspense.
“Tell me,” she murmured. “It is something to do with Jack?”
“It is,” he said. “It is.”
“He is dead!” she breathed.
And her eyes closed, as a shudder ran through her frame.
“Would to Heaven he had died, ere this night’s work,” said Stephen, in a low, fierce voice. “No; I have told you the truth. I left him well and – Heaven forgive him – happy.”
Una drew a long breath, and smiled wearily.
“What can you have to tell me about him that is so dreadful, if he is alive and happy?”
“He is alive, but he must be dead to you, dear Una,” said Stephen.
“Dead to me!” repeated Una, as if the words had no meaning for her. “Dead to me! I – I do not understand.”
Then, as he stood silent, with a look of gentle pity and sorrow on his pale face, a sharp expression of apprehension flashed across her face.
“Say that again,” she said. “You – you mean to tell me that he has left me?”
Stephen lowered his head.
Una was silent, while the clock ticked three, then three words came swiftly and sharply from her white lips:
“It is false!”
Stephen started.
“Would to Heaven it were,” he murmured.
“Gone! left me without a word,” said Una, with a smile of scorn. “Can you ask – can you expect me to believe it?”
“No,” said Stephen. “No one would believe such base and hideous treachery without proof.”
“Proof!” she echoed, faintly, and with sudden sinking of the heart. “Proof! Give it to me!”
Stephen drew the letter from his pocket slowly and reluctantly.
Una saw it and shivered.
“It is from him; give it to me,” she said.
And she held out her hand.
Stephen took it in his, and held it for a moment.
“Wait – for Heaven’s sake wait,” he murmured, with agitation. “I meant to break it to you – to explain – ”
“Give it to me,” was all she said, and she shook his hand off impatiently.
“Take it,” said Stephen, with a tremor in his voice, “take it, and would to Heaven he had found some other messenger to bear it.”
Una took the letter and slowly but steadily carried it to another part of the room.
There she stood and looked at it as if she were waiting to gain strength to open it.
At last, after what seemed an eternity to Stephen, who was watching her in the glass, she broke open the envelope and read.
Not twice, but thrice she read it, as if she meant to engrave every line on her heart, then she thrust the letter in her bosom and came back to the fire.
Stephen turned, and with a low cry of alarm at sight of her altered face, moved toward her; but she put up her hand to keep him back.
Altered! Not only in face but in bravery. A minute ago she had been a gentle-hearted, suffering, tortured girl, now she was an injured, deserted woman.
“Thanks,” she said, and the words fell like ice from her lips. “You spoke of an explanation. Will you tell me all you know, Stephen?”
“Pray – not now,” he murmured. “Tomorrow – ”
But she stopped him with a smile, awful to see in its utter despair and unnatural calmness.
“Now, please.”
“It – it is too easy of explanation,” said Stephen hoarsely. “He was tempted and he has fallen. He has bartered his honor for gold. Ask me no more.”
Una drew a long breath.
“It is needless,” she said. “You mean that he has left me, because I am poor, for Lady Earlsley, who can make him rich.”
Stephen turned away and sighed heavily.
Una looked at him for a moment, then sat down at the tea-table.
“You will have some tea?” she said calmly.
Stephen started and looked at her. She had taken up the cream ewer with an unfaltering hand. Great Heaven! could it be possible that she did not feel it – that she did not really love Jack after all! A wild feeling of exultation rose within his heart.
“Thank Heaven!” he murmured, “you can meet such treachery as it deserves – with scorn and contempt.”
She looked up at him with a strange smile on her cold, white face, and held out a tea-cup. But as he came near her, the cup dropped from her hand with a crash, and she fell back like one stricken unto death.
****
That same evening, Lady Bell stood in the drawing-room of Earl’s Court. She was richly dressed, more richly than was usual with her; upon her white neck and arms sparkled the diamond set which she wore only on the most special occasions. The room was full. Four or five of the country families had been dining with her, and the buzz of conversation and sound of music rose and fell together confusedly.
Surrounded, as usual, by a little circle of courtiers, she reigned, by the right of her beauty, her birth, and her wealth, a queen of society.
Brilliant and witty she, so to speak, kept her devoted adherents at bay, her beautiful face lit up with the smile which so many found so falsely fascinating, her eyes shining like the gems in her hair. Never had she appeared so beautiful, so irresistible.
Regarding her even most critically one would have assented to the proposition that certainly if any woman in the world was happy that night it was Lady Isabel Earlsley.
And yet beneath all her brilliance Lady Bell was hiding an aching heart. Half the country was there at her feet, and only one of all her invited guests absent, and he a poor, tireless, ne’er-do-well. But Lady Bell would willingly, joyfully have exchanged them all for that one man, for that scapegrace with the bold, handsome face and frank, fearless eyes.
Since mid-day she had been expecting him. Like Una, her eyes had wandered to the clock, and she had told the minutes over; but he had not come, and now, with that false gayety of despair, she was striving, fighting hard to forget him.
But her eyes and ears refused to obey her will, and were still watching and waiting, and suddenly her glance, wandering over her fan, saw a figure standing in the doorway.
It was not a man’s, it was that of Laura Treherne’s – Mary Burns.
Not one of them around her noticed any difference in her smile or guessed why she dismissed them so easily and naturally. She did not even march straight for the door, but making a circuit, gradually reached the hall.
Pale and calm and self-possessed as usual, the strange maid was waiting for her.
“Well!” said Lady Bell, and her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Has – has he come?”
“No,” said Laura Treherne. “But though your ladyship told me only to let you know of Mr. Newcombe’s arrival, I thought it best to bring you this letter.”
Lady Bell almost snatched it from her hand.
“You did right,” she said.
With trembling hands she broke open the envelope, not noting that it opened easily as if it had been tampered with, and read the note.
“Dear Lady Bell – I am sorry I cannot come as arranged. I am in great trouble, and cannot leave London.
“Yours truly,Jack Newcombe.”
Lady Bell looked at the few lines for full a minute, then she pressed the letter to her lips. As she did so, she saw that the slight figure in its dark dress was still standing in front of her, and she started.
“Why are you waiting?” she said angrily.
Laura Treherne turned to go, but Lady Bell called to her.
“Wait. I beg your pardon. I am going to London tomorrow by the first train. Will you have everything ready?”
Laura Treherne bowed.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And – and – you need not sit up,” said Lady Bell.
“Thanks, my lady,” was the calm response. And the dim figure disappeared in the distance.
CHAPTER XXXV
Christmas was near at hand; but notwithstanding that nearly everybody who had a country house, or an invitation to one, was away in the shires, London was by no means empty. There were still “chariots and horsemen” in the park; and the clubs were pretty well frequented. Not a few have come to the conclusion that after all London is at its best and cheerfulest in mid-winter; and that plum pudding and roast beef can be enjoyed in a London square as well, if not better, than in the country.
Among these was Lady Bell. Although she had two or three country houses which she might have filled with guests, she, for sundry reasons, preferred to remain in Park Lane.
Perhaps, like Leonard Dagle, she thought that there was no place like London. He would have his idea that there was no place in it like Spider Court. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter, with perhaps, just a short interregnum of a fortnight in summer, Leonard stuck to Spider Court; and on this winter evening he was sitting in his accustomed place, busily driving the pen.
There was a certain change about Leonard which was worthy of remark. He looked, not older than we saw him last, but younger. In place of the weary, abstracted air, which had settled upon him during the long months of the search of Laura Treherne, there was an expression of hopefulness and energy which was distinctly palpable. The room too looked changed. It was neater and less muddled; and though the boxing gloves and portraits of actresses and fair ladies of the ballet still adorned the walls, the floor and chairs were no longer lumbered with Jack’s boots and gloves, cigar boxes, and other impedimenta.
Perhaps Leonard missed these untidy objects, for he was wont to look up from his work and round the room with a sigh, and not seldom would rise and stalk into the bed-room beyond his own; the bed-room which Jack kept in a similar litter, but which now was neat and tidy – and unoccupied.
At such times Leonard would sigh and murmur to himself, “Poor Jack!” and betaking himself to his writing desk again would pull out a locket and gaze long and earnestly on a face enshrined therein, a face which strikingly resembled that of Laura Treherne, and so would gain comfort and fall to work again.
Tonight, he had wandered into the unoccupied room and had glanced at the portrait two or three times, for he felt lonely and would have given a five-pound note to hear Jack’s tread upon the stairs, and his voice shouting for the housekeeper to bring him hot water.
“Poor Jack!” he murmured, “where is he now?” For some months had elapsed since he had found a few lines of sad farewell from Jack lying on his writing desk, but pregnant with despair and reckless helplessness. And Jack had gone whither not even Mr. Levy Moss, who sought him far and wide, could discover; and not Mr. Moss alone, but Lady Bell Earlsley; fast as she had traveled from Earl’s Court to London, she arrived too late to see Jack, too late to learn from his lips the nature of the trouble which he had spoken of in his short note to her. And from Leonard even, she could not learn much. He could only tell her that Jack and Una’s engagement was broken off, and by Jack himself, but for what reason he could not tell or guess. And with that Lady Bell had to be, not content, but patient.
“You were his dearest friend,” she said to Leonard, “can you not guess where he has gone?”
And Leonard had shaken his head sorrowfully. “I cannot even guess. He was utterly miserable and reckless; he once spoke, half in jest, of enlisting. He was in great trouble.”
“Money trouble?” Lady Bell had asked.
“Money trouble,” assented Len, and Lady Bell had sunk into Leonard’s chair and wrung her white hands.
“Money! money! how I hate the word! and here I am with more of the vile stuff than I know what to do with!”
“That would make no difference to Jack,” Leonard said, quietly; and Lady Bell had sighed – she almost sobbed – and gone on her way as near broken-hearted as a woman could be.
And then she had sought for him as openly as she dared, but with no result, save discovering that there were hundreds of young men who answered to Jack’s description, and who were all indignant when they applied in response to the advertisements and found that they were not the men wanted.
And so the months had rolled on, and the “Savage” was nearly forgotten at the Club, excepting at odd times when Hetley or Dalrymple remembered how well he used to tool a team to the “Sheaves,” or row stroke in a scratch eight. My friend, if you want to find out of how little importance you are in your little world, disappear for a few months, and when you come back you will find that your place has been excellently well filled, excepting in the hearts of the one or two faithful men and women who loved you.
The world went on very well without Jack, and only two or three hearts ached, really ached, at his absence – Len, honest Len, in his den in Spider Court; Lady Bell, in Park Lane; and that other tender, loving, and tortured heart in the old new house at Hurst.
Leonard often thought of that tender heart, and sighed over it as he sighed for Jack. It was still a mystery to him, their separation; he knew that Una was still at the Hurst, but that was all. No news of her ever reached him. At times he ran across Stephen in London, and exchanged a word or a bow with him, and had noticed that he was looking better and sleeker, and less pale – more flourishing in fact, than he had done for some time.
He, too had come to Spider Court, and expressed profound grief at Jack’s disappearance, and had gone away after wringing Leonard’s hand sympathetically.
Leonard sat thinking over this far more than was good to the work he had in hand, when he heard the door open, and half starting, said absently:
“Nothing more wanted tonight, Mrs. Brown.”
But a step, certainly not Mrs. Brown’s, crossed the room, and a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw Jack’s face above him.
“Jack!” he exclaimed, clutching him as if he expected to see him disappear again. “It is you, really you? Great Heaven!”
There was reason for the exclamation; for though it was Jack, he was so altered as to have rendered the description of him in the advertisements quite useless. Thin, pale, careworn, it was no more the old Jack than the living skeleton is Daniel Lambert.
“Great Heaven! Is it really you, Jack?”
“Yes, it is I! what is left of me, Len. You – you are looking well, old man. And the old room; how cheery it seems.”
And he laughed – the shadow of the old laugh – even more pitiable than tears.
“For Heaven’s sake be quiet; don’t speak just yet,” said Len, with a husky voice. “Sit down. You’ve frightened me, Jack. Have you been ill?”
“Slightly,” said Jack, with a smile.
“And where have you been? Tell me all about it – no, don’t tell me anything yet.”
And he went to the cupboard, and brought out the whisky, and mixed a stiff glass.
“Now, then, old man, where’s the cigars? here – here’s a light. Now then – no; take off your boots. I’ll tell Mrs. Brown to air the bed and get your dressing-gown. And what about supper?”
And with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, Len turned from the room.
“Staunch as a woman, tender as a man.” It was a wise saying, whoever wrote it.
Jack sipped his whisky and water, and smoked his cigar, and pulled himself together, which was just what Len wanted to get him to do; and then Len came back.
“Now then, old man, out with it. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been to America,” said Jack. “Don’t ask me any particulars, Len; I wouldn’t tell you much if you did. I’ve been nearly out of my mind half the time, and down with one of their charming fevers the remainder. You won’t get enough information out of me to write even a magazine article, old man.”
And he smiled, with a faint attempt at badinage.
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Len, again; “and – and is that all?”
“That’s all it amounts to,” said Jack, wearily. “You want to know how I came back, and why? Well, I can scarcely tell why. I got so sick of trying to get knocked on the head, and failing miserably, that I got disgusted with the country, weary of wandering about, and resolved that it would be better to come and give Levy Moss his revenge. He’s still alive, I hope?”
“And you got back?” said Len.
“I worked my passage over,” said Jack, curtly. “I was a bad hand, and caught cold on the top of the last affair, and just managed to pull myself together to reach London, and here I am. Not very lucid, Len, is it? But there’s no more to tell.”
Leonard looked at him with infinite pity, and mixed another glass of whisky.
“Poor old Jack,” he murmured.
“And now it’s your turn,” said Jack, lighting another cigar. “Tell me all the news, Len, about yourself first. How are Hetley, and Dalrymple, and the rest of them? But yourself first, Len. You look well – better than when I left. Things have gone right with you.”
“Then you have not forgotten?” said Len, gratefully.
“It is not likely,” he said, quietly. “I have thought of you many a night as I lay burning with that confounded fever. Are you married?” and he looked round the room as if he expected to see Mrs. Dagle in some dim corner.
Leonard blushed.
“Nonsense! No, Jack, I’m not married. But – I’m very happy, old man – should have been quite happy, but for missing you.”
Jack nodded.
“I’m glad of that. Glad it has all worked round, and that you have missed me, too. Where is she – Laura Treherne? You see I remember her name.”
Leonard hesitated, and looked troubled.
“I – I’m afraid I mustn’t tell you. You see, Jack, there’s still some kind of mystery hanging about this love affair of mine. It is Laura’s wish that I should keep silent as to her whereabouts. I give you my word I don’t understand why. But I don’t want to talk of myself and my affairs, Jack. There is something and someone else you want to hear about.”
Jack looked up with a sudden start, and held up his hand.
“No, not a word!” he said. “Don’t tell me a word. I – that affair is over – dead and buried. Don’t speak her name, Len, for Heaven’s sake. Let that rest forever between us.”
Len sighed.
“Tell me more about yourself,” said Jack, impatiently, as if anxious to get away from the other subject. “There is some mystery, secret, you say.”
“Yes,” said Leonard, humoring him, “there is a mystery and secret, which, much as I love her, and I hope and believe she loves me, Laura will not trust – well, I will not say ‘trust’ – which she does not feel authorized to confide to me.”
“I remember,” said Jack, “your telling me that she had some task, or mission, or something to accomplish – sounds strange.”
“Yes,” said Leonard, with a sigh, “and that mission is still unaccomplished, and blocks the marriage. But I am content to wait and trust, and I am happy.”