Читать книгу Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3) - Dowling Richard - Страница 4

It was impossible for O'Brien to tell Alfred the nature of the telegram he had just despatched to Blake. It would not be seemly to whisper or to write, and to leave the compartment with the proclaimed intention of seeking a smoking carriage would be a transparent device. There was nothing for it but to sit still and keep silent.

The three travellers settled themselves in their corners, and pretended to go to sleep. Each had thoughts of an absorbing nature, but none had anything exceptionally happy with which to beguile the dreary midnight journey. It was impossible to see if Mrs. Davenport slept or not. She had, upon settling herself after leaving Rugby, pulled down her thick veil over her face, and remained quite motionless. Young Paulton was not yet as strong as he imagined, and the monotonous sound and motion soon fatigued him, and he fell asleep.

Although O'Brien kept his eyes resolutely shut he never felt more wakeful in his life.

What on earth could this woman want with this man of most blemished reputation and desperate fortune? She had seen him lately, and he had told her something of the mysterious appearance near the Puffing Hole; but it was not until after they had started from Euston that she had made up her mind to summon him to Ireland. What could she want him for? She was, according to her own statement, now no longer rich. She was no longer young. The best years of her beauty had passed away. No doubt she was still an extremely beautiful woman, but the freshness was gone. As far as he knew, Blake was the last man in the world to marry such a woman. And yet there was some secret bond, some concealed link between them. He was not unjust to her. He did not believe she would inveigle any man into a marriage, and he could not understand why this Blake was now even tolerable to her.

However matters might go, it looked as if Alfred were certain to suffer. It was quite plain he was madly in love with her, and that she did not see, or was indifferent to his passion. She was not a coquette. She showed no desire to claim indulgence because of her sex or sorrows, and certainly exacted no privilege as a tribute to her beauty. To him she seemed hard, mechanical, cold. She had, it is true, broken down the day before, but that was under extreme pressure. Usually she was as unsympathetic, self-contained as bronze.

Jerry was not a fool or a bigot, and he allowed to himself, with perfect candour, that although he looked on Alfred's passion as infatuation, he could understand it. He himself was no more in love with her than with the black night through which they were speeding; but if she, at that moment, raised her veil and stood before him and bade him undertake something unpleasant-nay, dangerous-he would essay it. Strength gives command to a man, beauty to a woman, love to either.

At Chester the three got coffee, and once more took up their corners and affected to sleep or slept.

When they reached the boat at Holyhead, Mrs. Davenport said good-night and descended to the ladies' cabin. The two friends got on the bridge, and as soon as the steamer had started O'Brien took Paulton to the weather bulwark, and told him the substance of the telegram Mrs. Davenport had sent to London.

To O'Brien's astonishment, the younger man made nothing of the matter. It was simply a business affair, he said: nothing of any moment. From all they had heard, Blake knew more than they had supposed of the dead man's affairs; and now that Mrs. Davenport had resolved not to take the fortune her husband had left her, it was almost certain Blake could be of assistance to her.