“Rather handsome!” said he, with a soft little laugh not altogether complimentary to me. “Yes, I should almost go as far myself. Still I don’t see how you know; you haven’t so much as seen her, my dear fellow.”
“Haven’t we been walking up and down outside this lighted veranda for the last ten minutes?”
Bob emitted a pitying puff. “Wait till you see her in the sunlight! There’s not many of them can stand it, as they get it up here. But she can — like anything!”
“She has made an impression on you, Bob,” said I, but in so sedulously inoffensive a manner that his self-betrayal was all the greater when he told me quite hotly not to be an ass.
Now I was more than ten years his senior, and Bob’s manners were as charming as only the manners of a nice Eton boy can be; therefore I held my peace, but with difficulty refrained from nodding sapiently to myself. We took a couple of steps in silence, then Bob stopped short. I did the same. He was still a little stern; we were just within range of the veranda lights, and I can see and hear him to this day, almost as clearly as I did that night.
“I’m not much good at making apologies,” he began, with rather less grace than becomes an apologist; but it was more than enough for me from Bob.
“Nor I at receiving them, my dear Bob.”
“Well, you’ve got to receive one now, whether you accept it or not. I was the ass myself, and I beg your pardon!”
Somehow I felt it was a good deal for a lad to say, at that age, and with Bob’s upbringing and popularity, even though he said it rather scornfully in the fewest words. The scorn was really for himself, and I could well understand it. Nay, I was glad to have something to forgive in the beginning, I with my unforgivable mission, and would have laughed the matter off without another word if Bob had let me.
“I’m a bit raw on the point,” said he, taking my arm for a last turn, “and that’s the truth. There was a fellow who came out with me, quite a good chap really, and a tremendous pal of mine at Eton, yet he behaved like a lunatic about this very thing. Poor chap, he reads like anything, and I suppose he’d been overdoing it, for he actually asked me to choose between Mrs. Lascelles and himself! What could a fellow do but let the poor old simpleton go? They seem to think you can’t be pals with a woman without wanting to make love to her. Such utter rot! I confess I lose my hair with them; but that doesn’t excuse me in the least for losing it with you.”
I assured him, on the other hand, that his very natural irritability on the subject made all the difference in the world. “But whom,” I added, “do you mean by ‘them’? Not anybody else in the hotel?”
“Good heavens, no!” cried Bob, finding a fair target for his scorn at last. “Do you think I care twopence what’s said or thought by people I never saw in my life before and am never likely to see again? I know how I’m behaving. What does it matter what they think? Not that they’re likely to bother their heads about us any more than we do about them.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I certainly don’t care,” declared my lordly youth, with obvious sincerity. “No, I was only thinking of poor old George Kennerley and people like him, if there are any. I did care what he thought, that is until I saw he was as mad as anything on the subject. It was too silly. I tell you what, though, I’d value your opinion!” And he came to another stop and confronted me again, but this time such a picture of boyish impulse and of innocent trust in me (even by that faint light) that I was myself strongly inclined to be honest with him on the spot. But I only smiled and shook my head.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” I assured him.
“But I tell you I would!” he cried. “Do you think there’s any harm in my going about with Mrs. Lascelles because I rather like her and she rather likes me? I won’t condescend to give you my word that I mean none.”
What answer could I give? His charming frankness quite disarmed me, and the more completely because I felt that a dignified reticence would have been yet more characteristic of this clean, sweet youth, with his noble unconsciousness alike of evil and of evil speaking. I told him the truth — that there could be no harm at all with such a fellow as himself. And he wrung my hand until he hurt it; but the physical pain was a relief.
Never can I remember going up to bed with a better opinion of another person, or a worse one of myself. How could I go on with my thrice detestable undertaking? Now that I was so sure of him, why should I even think of it for another moment? Why not go back to London and tell his mother that her early confidence had not been misplaced, that the lad did know how to take care of himself, and better still of any woman whom he chose to honour with his bright, pure-hearted friendship? All this I felt as strongly as any conviction I have ever held. Why, then, could I not write it at once to Catherine in as many words?
Strange how one forgets, how I had forgotten in half an hour! The reason came home to me on the stairs, and for the second time.
It had come home first by the light of those two matches, struck outside in the dark part of the deserted terrace. It was not the lad whom I distrusted, but the woman of whose face I had then obtained my only glimpse — that night.
I had known her, after all, in India years before.
CHAPTER IV
A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE
Once in the Town Hall at Simla (the only time I was ever there) it was my fortune to dance with a Mrs. Heymann of Lahore, a tall woman, but a featherweight partner, and in all my dancing days I never had a better waltz. To my delight she had one other left, though near the end, and we were actually dancing when an excitable person came out of the card-room, flushed with liquor and losses, and carried her off in the most preposterous manner. It was a shock to me at the time to learn that this outrageous little man was my partner’s husband. Months later, when I came across their case in the papers, it was, I am afraid, without much sympathy for the injured husband. The man was quite unpresentable, and I had seen no more of him at Simla, but of the woman just enough to know her by matchlight on the terrace at the Riffel Alp.
And this was Bob’s widow, this dashing divorcée! Dashing she was as I now remembered her, fine in mould, finer in spirit, reckless and rebellious as she well might be. I had seen her submit before a ball-room, but with the contempt that leads captivity captive. Seldom have I admired anything more. It was splendid even to remember, the ready outward obedience, the not less apparent indifference and disdain. There was a woman whom any man might admire, who had had it in her to be all things to some man! But Bob Evers was not a man at all. And this — and this — was his widow!
Was she one at all? How could I tell? Yes, it was Lascelles, the other name in the case, to the best of my recollection. But had she any right to bear it? And even supposing they had married, what had happened to the second husband? Widow or no widow, second marriage or no second marriage, defensible or indefensible, was this the right friend for a lad still fresh from Eton, the only son of his mother, who had sent me in secret to his side?
There was only one answer to the last question, whatever might be said or urged in reply to all the rest. I could not but feel that Catherine Evers had been justified in her instinct to an almost miraculous degree; that her worst fears were true enough, so far as the lady was concerned; and that Providence alone could have inspired her to call in an agent who knew what I knew, and who therefore saw his duty as plainly as I already saw mine. But it is one thing to recognise a painful duty and quite another thing to know how to minimise the pain to those most affected by its performance. The problem was no easy one to my mind, and I lay awake upon it far into the night.
Tired out with travel, I fell asleep in the end, to awake with a start in broad daylight. The sun was pouring through the uncurtained dormer-window of my room under the roof. And in the sunlight, looking his best in knickerbockers, as only thin men do, with face greased against wind and glare, and blue spectacles in rest upon an Alpine wideawake, stood the lad who had taken his share in keeping me awake.
He had a note in his hand and I thought by his manner there was something that he wished and yet hesitated to tell me. I accordingly asked him what it was.
“It’s what we were speaking about last night!” burst out Bob. “That’s why I’ve come to you. It’s these silly fools who can’t mind their own business and think everybody else is like themselves! Here’s a note from Mrs. Lascelles which makes it plain that that old idiot George is not the only one who has been talking about us, and some of the talk has reached her ears. She doesn’t say so in so many words, but I can see it’s that. She wants to get out of our expedition to Monte Rosa hut — wants me to go alone. The question is, ought I to let her get out of it? Does it matter one rap what this rabble says about us? I’ve come to ask your advice — you were such a brick about it all last night — and what you say I’ll do.”
I had begun to smile at Bob’s notion of “a rabble”: this one happened to include a few quite eminent men, as you have seen, to say nothing of the average quality of the crowd, of which I had been able to form some opinion of my own. But I had already noticed in Bob the exclusiveness of the type to which he belonged, and had welcomed it as one does welcome the little faults of the well-night faultless. It was his last sentence that made me feel too great a hypocrite to go on smiling.
“It may not matter to you,” I said at length, “but it may to the lady.”
“I suppose it does matter more to them?”
The sunburnt face, puckered with a wry wistfulness, was only comic in its incongruous coat of grease. But I was under no temptation to smile. I had to confine my mind pretty closely to the general principle, and rather studiously to ignore the particular instance, before I could bring myself to answer the almost infantile inquiry in those honest eyes.
“My dear fellow, it must!”
Bob looked disappointed but resigned.
“Well, then, I won’t press it, though I’m not sure that I agree. You see, it’s not as though there was or ever would be anything between us. The idea’s absurd. We are absolute pals and nothing else. That’s what makes all this such a silly bore. It’s so unnecessary. Now she wants me to go alone, but I don’t see the fun of that.”
“Does she ask you to go alone?”
“She does. That’s the worst of it.”
I nodded, and he asked me why.
“She probably thinks it would be the best answer to the tittle-tattlers, Bob.”
That was not a deliberate lie; not until the words were out did it occur to me that Mrs. Lascelles might now have another object in getting rid of her swain for the day. But Bob’s eyes lighted in a way that made me feel a deliberate liar.
“By Jove!” he said, “I never thought of that. I don’t agree with her, mind, but if that’s her game I’ll play it like a book. So long, Duncan! I’m not one of those chaps who ask a man’s advice without the slightest intention of ever taking it!”
“But I haven’t ventured to advise you,” I reminded the boy, with a cowardly eye to the remotest consequences.
“Perhaps not, but you’ve shown me what’s the proper thing to do.” And he went away to do it there and then, like the blameless exception that I found him to so many human rules.
I had my breakfast upstairs after this, and lay for some considerable time a prey to feelings which I shall make no further effort to expound; for this interview had not altered, but only intensified them; and in any case they must be obvious to those who take the trouble to conceive themselves in my unenviable position.
And it was my ironic luck to be so circumstanced in a place where I could have enjoyed life to the hilt! Only to lie with the window open was to breathe air of a keener purity, a finer temper, a more exhilarating freshness, than had ever before entered my lungs; and to get up and look out of the window was to peer into the limpid brilliance of a gigantic crystal, where the smallest object was in startling focus, and the very sunbeams cut with scissors. The people below trailed shadows like running ink. The light was ultra-tropical. One looked for drill suits and pith headgear, and was amazed to find pajamas insufficient at the open window.
Upon the terrace on the other side, when I eventually came down, there were cane chairs and Tauchnitz novels under the umbrella tents, and the telescope out and trained upon a party on the Matterhorn. A group of people were waiting turns at the telescope, my friend Quinby and the hanging judge among them. But I searched under the umbrella tents as well as one could from the top of the steps before hobbling down to join the group.
“I have looked for an accident through that telescope,” said the jocose judge, “fifteen Augusts running. They usually have one the day after I go.”
“Good morning, sir!” was Quinby’s greeting; and I was instantly introduced to Sir John Sankey, with such a parade of my military history as made me wince and Sir John’s eye twinkle. I fancied he had formed an unkind estimate of my rather overpowering friend, and lived to hear my impression confirmed in unjudicial language. But our first conversation was about the war, and it lasted until the judge’s turn came for the telescope.
“Black with people!” he ejaculated. “They ought to have a constable up there to regulate the traffic.”
But when I looked it was long enough before my inexperienced eye could discern the three midges strung on the single strand of cobweb against the sloping snow.
“They are coming down,” explained the obliging Quinby. “That’s one of the most difficult places, the lower edge of the top slope. It’s just a little way along to the right where the first accident was.... By the way, your friend Evers says he’s going to do the Matterhorn before he goes.”
It was unwelcome hearing, for Quinby had paused to regale me with a lightning sketch of the first accident, and no one had contradicted his gruesome details.
“Is young Evers a friend of yours?” inquired the judge.
“He is.”
The judge did not say another word. But Quinby availed himself of the first opportunity of playing Ancient Mariner to my Wedding Guest.
“I saw you talking to them,” he told me confidentially, “last night, you know!”
“Indeed.”
He took me by the sleeve.
“Of course I don’t know what you said, but it’s evidently had an effect. Evers has gone off alone for the first time since he has been here.”
I shifted my position.
“You evidently keep an eye on him, Mr. Quinby.”
“I do, Clephane. I find him a diverting study. He is not the only one in this hotel. There’s old Teale on his balcony at the present minute, if you look up. He has the best room in the hotel; the only trouble is that it doesn’t face the sun all day; he’s not used to being in the shade, and you’ll hear him damn the limelight-man in heaps one of these fine mornings. But your enterprising young friend is a more amusing person than Belgrave Teale.”
I had heard enough of my enterprising young friend from this quarter.
“Do you never make any expeditions yourself, Mr. Quinby?”
“Sometimes.” Quinby looked puzzled. “Why do you ask?” he was constrained to add.
“You should have volunteered instead of Mrs. Lascelles to-day. It would have been an excellent opportunity for prosecuting your own rather enterprising studies.”
One would have thought that one’s displeasure was plain enough at last; but not a bit of it. So far from resenting the rebuff, the fellow plucked my sleeve, and I saw at a glance that he had not even listened to my too elaborate sarcasm.
“Talk of the — lady!” he whispered. “Here she comes.”
And a second glance intercepted Mrs. Lascelles on the steps, with her bold good looks and her fine upstanding carriage, cut clean as a diamond in that intensifying atmosphere, and hardly less dazzling to the eye. Y
et her cotton gown was simplicity’s self; it was the right setting for such natural brilliance, a brilliance of eyes and teeth and colouring, a more uncommon brilliance of expression. Indeed it was a wonderful expression, brave rather than sweet, yet capable of sweetness too, and for the moment at least nobly free from the defensive bitterness which was to mark it later. So she stood upon the steps, the talk of the hotel, trailing, with characteristic independence, a cane chair behind her, while she sought a shady place for it, even as I had stood seeking for her: before she found one I was hobbling toward her.
“Oh, thanks, Captain Clephane, but I couldn’t think of allowing you! Well, then, between us, if you insist. Here under the wall, I think, is as good a place as any.”
She pointed out a clear space in the rapidly narrowing ribbon of shade, and there I soon saw Mrs. Lascelles settled with her book (a trashy novel, that somehow brought Catherine Evers rather sharply before my mind’s eye) in an isolation as complete as could be found upon the crowded terrace, and too intentional on her part to permit of an intrusion on mine. I lingered a moment, nevertheless.
“So you didn’t go to that hut after all, Mrs. Lascelles?”
“No.” She waited a moment before looking up at me. “And I’m afraid Mr. Evers will never forgive me,” she added after her look, in the rich undertone that had impressed me overnight, before the cigarette controversy.
I was not going to say that I had seen Bob before he started, but it was an opportunity of speaking generally of the lad. Thus I found myself commenting on the coincidence of our meeting again — he and I — and again lying before I realised that it was a lie. But Mrs. Lascelles sat looking up at me with her fine and candid eyes, as though she knew as well as I which was the real coincidence, and knew that I knew into the bargain. It gave me the disconcerting sensation of being detected and convicted at one blow. Bob Evers failed me as a topic, and I stood like the fool I felt.
“I am sure you ought not to stand about so much, Captain Clephane.”
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 288
