CHAPTER XXVII

A HARD MORSEL

Like the feasts of Apicius, that dinner at the London Tavern was protracted to an unconscionable length. Its dishes were rich, various, and indigestible, nothing being served _au naturel_ and without "garnish" but the brave simplicity of the guests.

"Wines too there were, that would have slain young Ammon,"

and old comrades seldom part under such conditions without the consumption of much tobacco in the small hours. Nevertheless, St. Josephs rose next morning fresh and hopeful as a boy. He ordered his horse for an early canter in the Park, and shared the Row with divers young ladies of tender years but dauntless courage, who crammed their ponies along at a pace that caused manes, and tails, and golden hair to float horizontal on the breeze, defiant even of that mounted inspector, whose heart though professionally intolerant of "furious riding," softened to a pigmy with snub nose and rosy cheeks, on a tiny quadruped as round, as fat, and as saucy-looking as itself.

St. Josephs felt in charity with all mankind, and returned to breakfast so light of heart that he ought to have known, under the invariable law of compensation, some great misfortune was in store.

He had little appetite; happiness, like sorrow, when excessive, never wants to eat; but he dressed himself again with the utmost care, and after exhausting every expedient to while away the dragging hours, started at half-past eleven for the abode of his ladye-love.

Do what he would, it was scarcely twelve when he arrived at her door, where his summons remained so long unanswered, that he had leisure to speculate on the possibility of Miss Douglas being indisposed and not yet awake. So he rang next time stealthily, and, as it were, under protest, but in vain.

The General then applied himself to the area bell. "They'll come directly, now," he argued; "they'll think it's the beer!" And sure enough the street-door was quickly unfastened, with more turning of keys, clanking of chains, and withdrawal of bolts than is usual during the middle of the season, in the middle of the day.

A very grimy old woman met him on the threshold, and peering suspiciously out of her keen, deep-set eyes, demanded his business in a hoarse voice, suggestive of gin.

"Miss Douglas b'aint here," was the startling answer to his inquiries. "She be gone away for good. Hoff this morning, I shouldn't wonder, afore you was out of bed."

"Gone!" he gasped. "This morning! Did she leave no message?"

"None that I knows of. The servants didn't say nothink about it; leastways, not to _me_."

"But she's coming back?"

"Not likely! The maid _did_ suppose as they was a-going for good and all. It's no business of mine. I'm not Miss Douglas's servant. I'm a-taking care of the 'ouse for the landlord, I am. It's time I was a-tidying of it up now."

With this broad hint, she proceeded to shut the door in his face, when the General, recovering his presence of mind, made use of the only argument his experience had taught him was universal and conclusive.

Her frown relaxed with the touch of money on her palm. "You're a gentleman, you are," she observed approvingly. "Won't ye step in, sir? It's bad talking with the door in your 'and."

He complied, and sat down on one of the bare hall-chairs, feeling as he had felt once before, when badly hit, in the Punjaub.

She went on with her dusting, talking all the time. "You see they sent round for me first thing in the morning; and I says to Mrs. Jones--that's my landlady, sir,"--(dropping a curtsey), "'Mrs. Jones,' says I, 'whatever can they be up to,' says I, 'making such an early flitting?' says I--"

"But do you mean they've left no letter?" he interrupted, starting from his seat; "no directions--no address? Are all the servants gone? Has Miss Douglas taken much luggage with her? Did she go away in a cab? Oh, woman! woman! tell me all you know! It's a matter of life and death!"

She looked at him askance, privately opining that, early as it was, the gentleman had been drinking, and sympathising with him none the less for that impression.

"They're off," said she stubbornly; "and they've took everythink along with them--bags and boxes, and what not. There was a man round after the keys--not half an hour gone. I should say as they wasn't coming back, none of 'em, no more."

This redundancy of negatives forcibly expressed her hopelessness of their return, and the General's good sense told him it was time wasted to cross-question his informant any further. Summoning his energies, he reflected that the post-office would be the best place whereat to prosecute inquiries, so he bade the old woman farewell, with all the fortitude he could muster, leaving her much impressed by his manners, bearing, and profuse liberality.

At the post-office, however (an Italian warehouse round the corner), they knew nothing. The General, at his wits' end, bethought him of those livery-stables where Satanella kept her namesake, the redoubtable black mare.

Here his plight excited the utmost interest and commiseration. "Certainly. The General should have all the assistance in their power. Of course, the lady had forgotten to leave her address, no doubt. Ladies _was_ careless, sometimes, in such matters. A _beautiful_ 'orse-woman," the livery-stable keeper understood, "an' kep' two remarkably clever ones for her own riding. Had an idea they went away this very morning. Might be mistaken. John could tell. John was the head-ostler. It was John's business to know." So a bell rang, and John, in a long-sleeved waistcoat, sleeking a close-cropped head, appeared forthwith.

"Black mare and chestnut 'oss," said John decidedly. "Gone this morning; groom took with him saddles, clothing, and everything. Paid up to the end of their week. Looked like travelling--had their knee-caps on. Groom a close chap; wouldn't say where. Wish he (John) could find out. Left a setting-muzzle behind, and would like to send it after him."

There seemed nothing to be done here, and the General was fain to retrace his steps, hurt, anxious, angry, and more puzzled when he reached home than he had ever been in his life.

For an hour or two, the whole thing seemed so impossible, and the absurdity of the situation struck him as so ridiculous, that he sat idly in his chair to wait for tidings. In this nineteenth century, he told himself, people could not disappear from the surface of society, and leave no sign. Rather, like the sea-bird diving in the waves, if they go down in one place, they must come up in another. There were no kidnappings now, no sendings off to the Plantations, no forcible abductions of ladies young or old. Then his heart turned sick, and his blood ran cold, while he recalled more than one instance in his own experience, where individuals had suddenly vanished from their homes and never been heard of again.

Stung to action by such thoughts, he collected his ideas to organise a comprehensive system of pursuit, that should embrace enquiries at all the railway-stations, cab-stands, and turnpikes in and about the metropolis, with the assistance of Scotland Yard in the background. Then he remembered how an old brother-officer had told him, only the other day, of a similar search made by himself, and attended with success. So he resolved to consult that comrade without delay. It was now two o'clock. He would find him eating luncheon at his club. In five minutes, the General was in a hansom cab, and in less than ten, leaped out on the steps of that military resort.

Had he gone there an hour ago, it would have spared him a good deal of mental agitation, though perhaps any amount of anxiety would have been preferable to the dull, sickening resignation which succeeded a blow that could no longer be modified, parried, nor escaped. In after-times, the General looked back to those ten minutes in the hansom cab as the close of an era in his life. Henceforth, every object in nature seemed to have lost something of its colouring, and the sun never shone so bright again.

In the hall an obsequious porter handed him a letter. He staggered when he recognised the familiar handwriting on the envelope, and drew his breath hard for the effort before he tore it open.

There were several pages, some of them crossed. He retired to the strangers'-room, and sat down to peruse the death-warrant of his happiness.

"You will forgive me," it began, "because you are the kindest, the best, the most generous of men; but I should never forgive myself the blow I feel I am now inflicting, were it not that I regard your pride, your character, your high sense of honour, before your happiness. General, I am unfit to be your wife; not because my antecedents are somewhat obscure--_you_ know my history, and that I have no reason to be ashamed of it; not because I undervalue the happiness of so high and enviable a lot--any woman, as I have told you more than once, would be proud of your choice; but because you deserve, and could so well appreciate, the unalloyed affection, the utter devotion, that are not mine to give. _Your_ wife should have no thought but for you, no hopes independent of you, no memories in which you do not form a part. She should be wrapped up in your existence, identified with you, body and soul. All this I am _not_. I never have been--I never can be now. Had I entertained a lower opinion of your merits, admired and _cared for_ you less, I would have kept my promise faithfully, and we might have jogged on like many another couple, comfortably enough. But _you_ ought to win more than mere _comfort_ in married life. You merit, and would expect, _happiness_. How could I bear to see my hero disappointed? For you are my hero--my _beau-idéal_ of a gentleman--and my standard is a very high one, or you and I had never been so unhappy as I firmly believe we both are at this moment. It is in vain to regret, and murmur, and speculate on what might have been, if everything, including one's own identity, were different. There is but one line to take now, even at the eleventh hour. Some day you will acknowledge that I was right. We must never meet again. I have taken such precautions as can baffle, I do believe, even your energy and resource. You have often said nobody was so determined when I had made up my mind. I am resolved that you shall never find out what has become of me; and I entreat you--I adjure you--if you love me--nay, as you love me--not to try! So now, farewell--a long farewell, that it pains me sore to say. I shall never forget you. In all my conflict of feelings, in all my self-reproach and bitter sorrow, when I think of your pain, I cannot bring myself to wish we had never met. I am proud of your notice and your regard--proud to remain under obligations to you--proud to have loved you so far as my false, wicked nature had the power. Even now I can say, though you put me out of your heart, do not let me pass entirely from your memory. Think sometimes, and not unkindly, of your wilful, wayward--

"Blanche."

So it was all over.

"It's a good letter," murmured the General; "but I prefer the one Julia wrote to Juan." Then he read it through again, and found, as is usually the case, that the second perusal reversed his impression of the first. Did she _really_ mean he was to abstain from all attempt to follow her? He examined the envelope; it bore the stamp of the General Post Office; the contents certainly afforded him no clue, yet, judging by analogy, he argued that no woman would lay such stress on the precautions she had taken if she did not wish their efficacy to be proved. When he found, however, that nothing short of police-detectives and newspaper advertisements would avail him, he took a juster view of her intentions, and in the chivalry of his nature resolved that under this great affliction, as in every other condition of their acquaintance, he would yield implicitly to her wish.

So he went back into the world, grave, kindly, and courteous as before. There were a few more grey hairs in his whiskers, and he avoided ladies' society altogether; otherwise, to the unobservant eye, he was little altered; but a dear old friend whom he had nursed through cholera at Varna, and dragged from under a dead horse at Lucknow, took him into a bay-window of the club-library, and thus addressed him--

"My good fellow, you're looking shamefully seedy. Idleness never suited you. Nothing like work to keep old horses sound. Why don't you apply for employment? There's always something to do in the East."