Part 15
But the toils had caught him, though that first glass of whisky that he had drunk with Bastian had also been the last. Village gossip, if it connected his name with that of Bastian as a big drinker, had done him an injustice. He had gone to see Bastian two or three times, and had told him straight out the first time the truth about himself. Bastian had treated the confidence with ready sympathy, and Wilbraham had never seen the whisky bottle while he was with him. He had said that he didn't really care about it himself, which Wilbraham took as a speech of politeness. If there was foundation for village gossip, he must have given cause for it at other times of the day.
Bastian might be able to drink or refrain from drinking at pleasure, but for poor Wilbraham the mischief had been done with that one glass. He had had periods of longing of late years, always at rarer intervals, but none of them had been so strong as this. He was tortured; sometimes he was on the point of asking Bastian for God's sake to give him something. He was drawn there in a way he could not explain; his irritated brain rejected reasoning, and he would not keep away. It was certainly the fact that he had drunk spirits at the cottage that attracted him, and yet he was fighting the desire all the time. But once again he talked to Viola there, and he had thoughts of Harry always before him. When for the last time he saw Bastian and said good-bye to him he knew that the danger of a fall was over.
But the craving had continued. Bastian had been gone nearly a month, and he still felt it, though now it was at last getting weaker. There was no danger of falling at Royd. There was no public house there, no wine or spirits were drunk at the Castle, and he had attained enough mastery of himself to have no temptation to go further where he could get drink.
His own troubles had prevented his mind from being filled with thoughts of Harry, and he was now blaming himself for a possible carelessness towards signs which might have shown him what the boy must have been making up his mind to during the last month. He had seen him sad, after Viola's departure, and he had never mentioned her name to Wilbraham, as he had done once or twice before. So far as Wilbraham knew, no letters passed between them. The post-bag came to the Castle once a day and was unlocked by Lady Brent. It would have been unlike Harry to arrange for letters to be sent to him through a secret source; Wilbraham was pretty sure that he had not done so.
In his effort to distract his mind from the urgency that was riding it, Wilbraham had gone about among the tenantry more than usual. He had kept his ears open for signs that Harry's meetings with Viola had become known, and could find none. He had gone to see Mrs. Ivimey once since Bastian's departure, and she had been loud in her praises of "the young lady." She had even said that if things hadn't been as they were, by which he imagined her to be alluding chiefly to Bastian's drinking habits, she and Sir Harry would have made "a pretty pair." Wilbraham was sure, from her way of saying it, that she had no idea, or suspicion, of their having met. The woods were of great extent, and, apart from a few rarely frequented paths and rides, almost as little known as when they had been primeval forest. A few woodmen were employed in them, but at this time they were at work felling at the other end of the manor. It seemed almost certain that no one had ever seen the two together.
Harry's sadness would pass. He was still a boy, in years hardly more than a child, and Viola was no older. If they were thrown together over years, their young love might ripen into the love of a life-time; as it was, it would probably die down to a fragrant memory--a love-idyll of summer woods, happy and innocent, but no more than the budding of love in the tender hearts of two pretty children. Wilbraham even thought that Harry might have put it aside from him, at least for a time. His poise of mind was so in advance of his years that it would not be surprising if that were so. He had thrown himself ardently into the three months' work asked of him, and if he was no longer merry and light-hearted, as he had been, he seemed to be in full possession of himself and concentrated in purpose. By and by, when Wilbraham had passed through his own troubles, he might talk to him about Viola, and find out how it lay with them. At present there seemed to be nothing to do but to follow Harry's example and concentrate his mind upon the important business in hand, which was Harry's preparation for his coming examination.
So Wilbraham had thought and so he had acted, with a troubled longing for the time when he should once more be free of his own burden. But now he doubted. One thing was fairly clear. By going away Harry would be in touch again with Viola as he could not be at Royd. Wilbraham did not suppose that to be the sole or even the chief reason for his going away, but it had probably counted in his decision.
Harry had ridden off on his horse, before dawn, probably some hours before dawn, for nothing had been seen of him in the country in which he was known. He had worn his oldest riding suit, and as far as could be said had taken scarcely anything with him. His short note to his grandmother, and longer letter to his mother had said that he was going to enlist, and it was supposed that he intended to offer himself and his horse to a cavalry regiment. He begged that no attempt should be made to follow or to stop him doing what he had fully made up his mind to. He would write in a few days, when affairs had been settled for him, but after that he would not write at all until he had won his commission in the field. He made no apology for taking the decision into his own hands, and offered no explanation of it. But it was plain that he meant to run no risk of being prevented from following out the course he had laid down for himself.
Mrs. Brent had been full of lamentations. Lady Brent had taken it very calmly, though the shock it was to her had been apparent in the seriousness and sadness of her manner. A few inquiries were made as to whether Harry had been seen riding away, and then they had waited for his promised letter.
It came on the fourth day, with a London postmark. He had been accepted for enlistment. He was in barracks, well and happy. His letter--to his mother--was of the shortest, but contained expressions of affection which did something to soothe her trouble.
On the outside his action was that of a spirited boy who had made up his mind to go off and fight and was not to be hampered by the fears and objections of his elders. But to Wilbraham there was more in it than that. He thought that Harry might have made up his mind to the course he had taken if he had not met Viola, but that he would not have carried it out in quite the same way. Then, his mother and grandmother would have been the only people whom he had to consider. Now they hardly counted. He had acted, if not with want of kindness, still with something of the insensibility of youth towards the claims of its elders. They would not hear from him again for months, perhaps for years--though a lapse of years seemed unlikely at that time. But Viola would hear from him. It was hard on the older people who loved him. Wilbraham knew that it was bearing hardly upon Lady Brent.
"I might find out something about him if I went to London," Wilbraham said, after neither of them had spoken for a time.
She looked up at him quickly, and laid down her work. "I should be so glad to know where he is," she said. "I should like him to know--if it were only possible to get it to him--that I should make no effort now to go against him. I could, you know. It would not be difficult to find him; at least, it would not be impossible. But I shall take no steps to override his will. If he knew that, surely he would not want to keep himself cut off from us! He could write, and before he was sent abroad he could come here for a few days. Oh, if only you could find out where he is, and let him know that!"
"I'll go up and try, if you like," said Wilbraham.
It had surprised him a little that she had not asked how or where he would try. He would go straight to Bastian, whose address he knew, and see Viola. In making the offer he had half intended, if she pressed him, to unburden himself to her about Viola. He did not know whether he was relieved or disappointed that she asked him no questions. She seemed to be too excited to think about it, though she did say, later on, that he could go to Mr. Gulliver, the Brent solicitor, but that if he did so Mr. Gulliver was to be told not to interfere with Harry's actions.
"The sooner the better," said Wilbraham. "I'd better go up to-morrow."
She made no demur, and was silent for a time. Then she looked at him kindly, and said: "There's no danger for you now, is there?"
He was overcome with a wave of self-pity, brought out by the sympathy of her tone. "I've been through a bad time," he said. "I think it's coming to an end. I don't think there's any danger now."
"I've seen it, of course," she said, "and have been very sorry for you."
He had not thought that she had noticed. Some explanation seemed due to her. "I did drink some spirits," he said, with a gulp. "Just once. I thought I was safe, but it brought on the craving. I've had my lesson. I know that I'm different from other men now. It's not in my power to be temperate. It has to be nothing at all from now onwards."
"I think it's the only way," she said. "And for years together here you haven't missed it, have you?"
"No," he said. "It was very wrong to do it at all. I'm ashamed of myself--after you've done what you have for me."
One thing she had done was to go without wine at table, except on the rare occasions on which there had been guests at the Castle. That had been for his sake, and he knew it well enough, though she had never mentioned it. She deserved his confidence.
"It was when I went to see Bastian--the artist," he said. "After the first time I told him how it was with me, and he never drank anything himself while I was with him."
"In the village they say he was a heavy drinker."
It surprised him to hear that she had heard about Bastian. When he had told her that there was no necessity to ask him to the Castle, she had seemed to lose all interest in him, and had never mentioned his name since.
"I should think he drinks a lot," he said. "He did when I was with him. But he seems to be one of those men who don't get caught by it. To say he is a heavy drinker would be rather unfair. He has his young daughter to look after, and I think he'd be careful what he did for her sake. He's a gentleman, though he seems to have come down in the world, and a man of refinement."
He was feeling his way towards a confession. She had been so kind to him, and so wonderful in her understanding of what had impelled Harry to the course he had taken, though it had hit her hard, that his inclination was to tell her, and trust her to take the view of it that he had taken himself. But there was a fence to take before he could make a clean breast of it. He had given no promise to Harry, but Harry had trusted him to keep his secret. It might be right to tell Lady Brent of what had happened, but Harry would not think so. It wanted just the slight pressure, unconscious on her part, of what it would bring forth, to overcome his reluctance to give away Harry's secret.
So he gave her an opening to ask him about Bastian, and about Viola. But she did not take it. She seemed to be thinking of something else. "It would be sad," she said, half indifferently, "if his drinking were to affect a young daughter. I think I should like you to go to London to-morrow. It would be a great comfort to poor Charlotte to know where Harry is; and to me, too. And to be able to get messages to him."
*CHAPTER XIX*
*WILBRAHAM IN LONDON*
In the region that lies to the north of Regent's Park there are quiet little streets, aside from the ugly crowded main thoroughfares, which date back from the time, not so very long since, when there were pleasant suburbs here, and the open country lay within a walk of the centre of London. Wilbraham found himself unexpectedly in one of them in his search for the address that Bastian had given him, and, as he waited for admission at the door upon which he had knocked, looked about him with a sense of relief. He had expected something almost approaching squalor, and at least noise and unrest. But it was not painful to think of the girl whom Harry loved living in one of these quiet little houses.
They were all alike, built at a time when some of the quality of eighteenth century architecture, which hung about the simplest building, had disappeared, but had not yet given way to the deadness and ugliness that followed it. Nothing could have been simpler than this regular street of small houses, each with one window and a door on the ground floor, two windows on the first, two windows on the second, and a basement with a narrow area; but their very monotony was restful, and they indicated a respectability that was almost aggressive. The paint was nowhere shabby, the brass door handles shone, and here and there the dirty brick of one of the houses had been cleaned and the mortar pointed. They were not beneath the occupation of people who took a pride in the appearance of their dwellings, and might even have money enough to have the faces of them washed and their interiors modernized before they made their homes in them.
As Wilbraham stood at the top of the few steps that led to the entrance, a door to the area beneath him opened and a woman looked up at him, and then immediately disappeared. Mrs. Ivimey's sister, evidently, by the likeness. Somehow the fact of this relationship had been forgotten. Here was a link with Royd. If Harry had been to the house, or should come there--! He had no time to formulate his thoughts before she opened the door to him.
He introduced himself to her at once, before asking for Bastian. She was a clean neat woman and gave him smiling respectful welcome when he told her who he was. "It's many years since I was down in those parts, sir," she said. "But I hear sometimes from my sister, and Mr. Bastian, the gentleman who lodges with me, has been there lately and told me a good deal about it."
"It's him I've come to see," said Wilbraham. "Is he in?"
"Miss Viola is in, sir," she said. "I dare say you saw her when she was at Royd."
"Yes," said Wilbraham. "I should like to see her now, if you'll tell her who I am."
Here was a lucky chance. It was Viola he wanted to see, and apart from her father, if possible. Mrs. Clark led him at once upstairs, talking volubly as she did so. But she did not mention Harry. Wilbraham thought she would have done so if he had been to the house.
She showed him into a room on the first floor, after knocking at the door and receiving no answer. "I expect Miss Viola is upstairs," she said, opening the door. "I don't think she's gone out again. If you'll kindly step in, sir, I'll go and tell her you're here."
Wilbraham entered the room with some curiosity. It was larger than he had anticipated, extending to the whole width of the house and lit by the two windows. Its main furniture was good and solid, of about the date of the house, when furniture had lost its simplicity of line and ornament, but still showed some pride of craftsmanship. Except for an upright piano with a front of faded fluted red silk, which might or might not have belonged to the tenants, it was all probably the property of the landlady, and the nondescript wall paper and dark green curtains were also probably her taste and not theirs. But the books in shelves on either side of the fireplace, the pictures on the walls and the clutter of photographs and little objects for use or ornament on the mantelpiece and elsewhere about the room struck a different note. No attempt had been made to make it other than it was by nature, but it had the air of a permanent home, occupied by people of some refinement.
Viola's work-basket was on a small table by the wall, and there were other signs of feminine occupancy in the room. It looked cozy enough, with a bright fire burning, the curtains drawn and the gas lit; for it was getting dark outside. Bastian evidently made use of the large shabby easy chair by the fire, for there was a tobacco jar and an array of pipes on the table by its side, and a book or two. With his daughter sitting opposite to him, on a winter evening, it was possible to imagine him taking pleasure in his home life. It would be quieter and less marked by poverty than Wilbraham had pictured it. A faint odour of the tobacco that Bastian used hung about, but there were flowers in a vase on Viola's table, and fruit in a plaited basket on the sideboard. The sideboard, apt to be so much in evidence in furnished lodgings, had none of the paraphernalia of meals on it in the way of cruets or bottles. In fact, there were no bottles to be seen anywhere. Wilbraham noticed that at once, for his own trouble had made him acutely sensitive; he had no fears now of succumbing to a temptation to drink, but the signs of drinking by Bastian would have affected him unhappily. He was inclined to believe that he had to some extent misread Bastian, on his first acquaintance with him. It could not be his habitual custom to drink as much as he had done on that afternoon, or Viola would be more affected by it than she was. She had none of the air of a girl whose life had been saddened by a father's gross intemperance; and if Bastian had been kept down in the world by this failing of his, as he had said he had, his poverty was shown by this room to be more relative than actual.
Wilbraham dismissed the unpleasant question of intemperance, in relief at the signs of comfort and refinement that he saw about him. The table in the middle of the room was laid for tea, as if that was the chief evening meal here. Wilbraham hoped that Bastian would not come in for it until he had talked to Viola.
He made his way to the mantelpiece, upon which were a good many photographs. The photographs in a room tell you more than anything about its occupants.
Something was told in this instance by the fact that they were all a good many years old. It meant, for one thing, that Viola and her father must have lived here for some time, and for another that they could have made few friends of late years.
Wilbraham's eye was caught by one of Bastian as a very young man in a group with three others, taken by a Cambridge photographer. His first thought as he looked at it, was to wonder whether he himself had changed so much in twenty years. Bastian appeared as a young man fashionably dressed and judging by his smile pleased with the world in general and with his own lot in it in particular. He had been more than usually good-looking in those days. There was another one of him on a horse, taken at about the same time, but not at Cambridge. Wilbraham wished afterwards that he had noticed the name and habitation of the photographer. Bastian had never told him from what part of the country he came, or anything about his early home and upbringing. But it was evident that he came from what it is customary to call "good people." It was hardly fair to keep Viola in ignorance of her parentage, which might possibly prove to be of some importance to her.
There was a photograph of Viola herself at the age of about ten--a pretty child, but without the exceptional beauty into which she had grown. In a large frame was one of her mother, and there were others of her at different stages. Wilbraham examined them with some attention. She was certainly beautiful, with the same sort of beauty as Viola's, though Wilbraham thought that if he had not known the facts about her he would yet have detected an absence of race, which seemed to him to be apparent in Viola, and perhaps also in her father. He tried to find in her support for Bastian's praise of her character and temperament, but all he could have said was that there was nothing to show that she had not deserved it. She smiled sweetly in these photographs, some of which were in theatrical costume; she was young and beautiful and happy, and her early death added pathos to these presentments of her.
There were other photographs of girls and young women carelessly propped up on the mantelpiece, some of them hidden. They were probably mostly theatrical friends of Mrs. Bastian's, and it seemed likely that she had lived in these rooms, or they would not have been left there. Wilbraham's eyes roamed over them without interest, but just as he was about to turn away were caught by the signature of one of them. "With love from Lottie" in a sprawling hand. It was of Mrs. Brent, taken in that youth of which she was still proud but which she had left behind her.
Wilbraham looked at it fascinated. For some reason or other Mrs. Brent had never shown him a photograph of herself taken during her stage career. For the moment he was more interested in seeing her as she had been than in the fact of finding her photograph here--Harry's mother, in Viola's room.
The photograph made her almost as pretty as Mrs. Bastian. She was a gay light-hearted girl too. Harry's father might be excused for having fallen in love with her. And there was a look of Harry in her young face, which Wilbraham had never noticed in the flesh. He wondered whether Viola had noticed the likeness, which seemed to him quite plain. But probably she did not look at these old photographs to notice anything about them at all once in six months, though she saw them every day.
Viola came in as he was standing looking at them. He thought she looked more beautiful than ever, as she greeted him with a smile and a blush. Her entrance into the room seemed to bring light with it, and softness and charm. Its commonplace features sank into the background; the flowers became of more importance than anything, and the books and the music.
Wilbraham had seen Viola in a pretty simple frock suitable for the country, but although her clothes now had the same air of simplicity to his unsophisticated eyes, they were even to him something exceptional. One would not have expected a girl who lived in that room to enter it dressed as she was. The calling in which she earned her living stood her in good stead. Wilbraham had not been told what it was, and had the idea of her doing something or other with a typewriter. He thought that the figure she presented was owing to her taste, and did not know that it would also have meant a good deal of money if there had been nothing more than her taste to account for it. What he did feel was that she might have entered any rich room in London as she was and been taken for granted as belonging to it. She was worthy of Harry even in this respect, which would probably weigh more with the world even than it weighed with him.
"Father will be in in about half an hour," she said. "You will stay and have some tea with us, won't you? I'm sure he will be glad to see you."
He had been looking at her searchingly. She gave him the impression of being older than when he had seen her at Royd, a woman full grown and no longer half a child, though the delicacy and freshness of youth still marked her. She had, in fact, ceased to arrange her hair as still growing girls wear it, and there was some to him indefinable difference in her clothes.
He said he would stay until her father came in, and she motioned him to her father's chair, and sat down in her own on the other side of the fire, facing him.