Читать книгу Dutch the Diver; Or, A Man's Mistake - George Manville Fenn - Страница 14

Dutch Pugh seized his hat and coat, and was about to dash into the street, when the remembrance of that evening before the coming of the Cuban came upon him, and he replaced them.

“Stop a moment,” he said hoarsely, as he began to walk up and down once more. “Let me think—let me take matters coolly, or I shall go mad. There, there, this will not do; I’m going up and down here like a wild beast in his cage.”

He made an effort, and forced himself to sit down. “Now,” he said, “let’s see. What does this mean? Here am I, a strong, full-blooded, sane man, and what have I been doing?”

He paused for a moment before answering his question.

“Letting my mind dwell on thoughts that are a disgrace to me, till I imagine—yes, imagine—so vividly that it seems real, all that nonsense. I picture the scene. I magnify a simple piece of cardboard, and make it fit my own vile imaginations till I see what could never have taken place; and on the strength of that, what am I going to do? Why rush off home as jealous and mad as an Othello, ready to distort everything I see, believe what does not exist, and generally play such a part as I should repent to my last day. Poor girl, has it come to this, that I cannot trust you, and am going to play the spy upon your actions?”

“No, hang me if I do. Now, look here, Dutch, this is not manly,” he continued, catechising himself. “You are foolishly jealous of that man, are you not?”

“Yes,” he said, answering his own question. “Now then, why are you jealous? Has your wife ever given you the slightest cause?”

“Never, so help me Heaven.”

“There, then, does not that satisfy you? Why, man, if everyone who has a handsome wife were to act like this, what a world we should have. So much, then, for your wife. Now, then, about this man—what of him? He is polished and refined, and pays your wife attentions. Well, so would any foreigner under the circumstances. Shame, man, shame; he is your guest, the guest, too, of a woman whose truth you know—whose whole life is beyond suspicion. You leave her every day to go here or there, and does she ask you where you have been—what you have done? Does she suspect you? Why, Dutch Pugh, you wretched maniac, if she saw you talking to a score of pretty women how would she act? I’ll tell you. She’d open those sweet, candid eyes of hers, and beam upon you, and no more doubt your truth than that of Heaven.”

“And I’ll not doubt yours, darling,” he muttered, going to the desk, taking out the photograph, kissing it before putting it back; and then, tightening his lips, he took his seat, fixed his attention upon his work, and grew so intent that the next time he looked at his watch it was close upon nine, when, in a calm, matter-of-fact way, he walked all the way home.

In spite of his determination, he could not help seeing that Hester looked pale and troubled when he entered the little drawing-room, and that her manner was strange and constrained. She met his gaze in a timid way, and without doubt her hand trembled.

He would not notice her, though, but began chatting to them, Lauré being in the highest of spirits and relating anecdotes of his travels till Dutch felt in the best of spirits, and it was near midnight when they all rose for bed, Hester looking very pallid though—so much so that Dutch noticed it.

“Are you quite well, dear?” he asked.

She raised her eyes, and was about to speak when she caught Lauré’s eyes fixed upon her in a strange manner, and she replied hastily—

“Oh, yes, dear, quite, quite well?”

“You don’t feel any of your old symptoms?”

“Oh, no,” she replied, smiling. “You are so anxious about me.”

“No wonder,” said Lauré, “with such a pearl of a wife. Well, I must to bed. Good-night, dear host and hostess.”

He advanced to Hester Pugh and kissed her hand, turning directly to Dutch and pressing his so affectionately that the young Englishman returned the grip with such interest that the Cuban winced, and then smiled as he saw in Dutch’s eyes how honest and true was the intent.

“I was sorry to be detained to-night,” continued Dutch frankly; “it must be very dull here. Look here, Hester, I’ve asked John Studwick and his sister and Mr Meldon, a doctor, to dinner on Thursday. Send a letter to Miss Studwick yourself and ask Mr Parkley as well, so as to have a pleasant evening.”

Hester Pugh brightened up directly, and began to talk of the arrangements for the dinner, while the Cuban went off with a peculiar smile upon his face.

“But I don’t know what to say about this, Dutch,” said Hester, playfully, as she made an effort to be gay and shake off the lassitude that seemed to oppress her. “Report says, sir, that Miss Bessy Studwick was very fond of a certain gentleman we know.”

“Poor Bessy!” said Dutch, thoughtfully.

“Poor Bessy, sir. Then it is all true?”

“What—about Bessy Studwick, darling? Well, I think it was. It sounds conceited of me to say so, but I believe it was the case. But,” he added, drawing her to him, “this certain gentleman only had one heart, and a certain lady took possession of it all. Hester, my darling, I never in my life had loving thought about more than one woman, and her I love more dearly every day.”

She closed her eyes, and the tears gathered beneath her lids as he pressed her to his heart and sighed gently.

Miss Studwick’s name was mentioned no more that night.

The time passed quickly, away, and the Thursday came. Dutch had been so fully occupied, and so determined not to listen to the promptings of his fancy, as he called it, that he refused to take any notice of the way in which the Cuban had settled down in his house. From being all eager now to get the expedition fitted out, and ready to be pettish and impatient with Mr Parkley and Dutch for their careful, deliberate preparations, he seemed now quite careless, pleading indisposition, and spending the greater part of his time at the cottage.

The dinner passed off most pleasantly, and the table was made bright by the magnificent flowers the Cuban had purchased as his offering to the feast, and by the rich fruit Mr Parkley had added in his rough pleasant way, coming down to the cottage with a heavy basket on his arm, and smiling all round as he dabbed his lace and head, hot with the exertion.

To the great delight of Dutch, he saw that quite a liking had sprung up between his wife and Bessy Studwick, both evidently trying hard to let him see that they indulged in no thoughts of the past; while the Cuban ceased his attentions to Hester, and taking Bessy down to dinner, heaped his foreign, nameless little results of polish upon the tall, Juno-like maiden.

The only person in the party who looked grave was John Studwick, who watched all this with uneasy glances, though it must be said that he seemed just as much annoyed when Mr Meldon, the young doctor, was speaking to his sister. He lacked no attentions, though, himself, for, compassionating the state of the invalid’s health, both Dutch and Hester tried hard to make the meeting pleasant to him.

“The little wife looks ill, Pugh,” said Mr Parkley, as they went in to dinner. “You ask Mr Meldon his opinion about her by-and-by. Our coming worries her.”

“I’ll ask her if she’s poorly or worried,” said Dutch smiling. “Hester!”

She came up to him looking pale and startled, but he did not notice it.

“Mr Parkley thinks you wish all the visitors anywhere,” said Dutch playfully.

“He does not,” said Hester, placing her hand on Mr Parkley’s arm. “He knows he is always so very welcome here.”

She went in with him to dinner, and evidently exerted herself greatly to chase away the cloud that shadowed her, devoting herself to her guests, but in spite of her efforts her eyes were more than once directed partially to where Lauré was chatting volubly with Bessy Studwick, and, meeting his, remained for a few moments as if fascinated or fixed by his gaze.

Later on in the evening, when they were all in the drawing-room, Hester seemed quite excited, and full of forced gaiety, while Lauré was brimming with anecdote, chatting more volubly than ever. Before long he was asked to sing, and Hester sat down to the piano.

While he was singing in a low, passionate voice some Spanish love song, and those near were listening as if enthralled, Dutch felt his arm touched, and John Studwick motioned him to follow into the back drawing-room, and then, seeing it was impossible to speak there, Dutch led the way into the little dining-room, where, with the rich tones of the Cuban’s voice penetrating to where they stood, the invalid, who seemed greatly excited, caught his host by the arm.

“Dutch Pugh,” he said, “I like you because you’re so frank and manly, and that’s why I speak. I shan’t go out with this expedition if that half Spanish fellow is going too. I hate him. Look how he has been pestering Bessy all the evening. I don’t like it. Why did you ask him here?”

“My dear fellow,” exclaimed Dutch, “be reasonable. You expressed a wish to meet him.”

“So I did. Yes, so I did, but I don’t like him now. I don’t like his ways. Pugh, if I was a married man, I would not have that fellow in my house for worlds.”

“My dear John Studwick,” said Dutch, uneasily, “this is foolish. He is a foreigner, and it is his way.”

“I don’t like his way,” cried the young man, whose cheeks were flushed and eyes unnaturally bright. “If he won Bessy from me, I should kill him. I was afraid of you once, but that’s passed now.”

“But, my dear boy,” said Dutch, laying his hand on his shoulder, “you must expect your sister to form an attachment some day.”

“Yes, some day,” said the young man. “Some day; but let her wait till I’m gone. I couldn’t bear to have her taken from me now. She is everything to me.”

“My dear Studwick, don’t talk like that.”

“Why not?” he replied with a strange look. “Do you think I don’t know? I shall only live about six months: nothing will save me.”

“Nonsense, man! That sea trip will set you right again. Come, let’s get back into the drawing-room.”

He led the way back, and, seeking his opportunity, whispered to Bessy Studwick that her brother was low-spirited, and taking her from the Cuban’s side, he made John Studwick happy by bringing her to him.

The Cuban’s eyes flashed, and he arose and crossed the room, so that when Dutch looked in that direction it was to see that he whispered something to Hester, who glanced across at him where he was standing by Bessy.

The next minute he was seized by Mr Parkley, who backed him up into a corner, where he seized one particular button on the young man’s breast—a habit he had, going to the same particular button as a small pig seeks the same single spot when in search of nutriment.

“Dutch,” said Mr Parkley, as soon as they were alone, and while he was busily trying with his left hand to screw the button off, “Dutch, shake hands.”

The young man did so wonderingly.

“That’s right: no one’s looking. That chap’s going to sing another song, and little Hester’s getting ready the music. See here, Dutch, you won’t be offended at what I say?”

“Offended? Absurd!”

“Old, tried, staunch friend, you know. Wouldn’t say a word to hurt you, and I love that little girl of yours like a father—just as if she was my own flesh and blood.”

“And I’m sure Hester loves and respects you, Mr Parkley.”

“Yes, yes, of course; and that’s what makes me so wild about it.”

“I don’t understand you, Mr Parkley,” said Dutch, uneasily.

“There, that’s what I was afraid of when I spoke. But I must say it now, Pugh. I’m afraid I made a mistake in asking you to invite that Cuban hero. I’ll tell him to come and stay with me.”

“Indeed, I beg you will do no such thing, Mr Parkley,” said Dutch hotly, as his face burned with mortification. “I understand what you mean, sir, and can assure you that your suspicions are unjust.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say so, Pugh, I am indeed,” said Mr Parkley earnestly. “Don’t be angry with me, my dear boy. I’m getting old—stupid, I suppose. There, don’t take any more notice of what I said.”

Under these circumstances it was hard work for Dutch Pugh to preserve an unclouded face before his guests, but he strove hard—the harder that he was annoyed at people for having the same fancies as those he had tried so hard to banish. It was, then, with no small feeling of pleasure that he welcomed the time when his guests departed, but even then he was not to be spared a fresh wound, for on taking Bessy Studwick down to the fly she said to him in a low voice:

“Dutch, I have been trying so hard to-night to love your wife. I do so hope you will be very happy.”

“Thank you, Bessy, thank you,” he said warmly. “I’m sure you wish me well.”

“I do, I do, indeed,” she whispered earnestly, “and therefore I say I do not like your new friend, that foreign gentleman. He is treacherous: I am sure he is. Good-night.”

“Good-night!” said Dutch to himself as he stood on the gravel path with the gate in his hand listening to the departed wheels; and then in spite of his determination the flood of evil fancies came rolling back, sweeping all before it.

“They all see it, and think me blind,” he groaned as he literally reeled against the gate. “Those thoughts, then, were a warning—one I would not heed. Hester—Hester—my love,” he moaned as he pressed his hands to his forehead. “Oh, my God, that it should come to this!”

He stood leaning against the gate post for a few minutes in a stunned, dazed way, but recovering himself he clenched his hands and exclaimed through his teeth:

“I will not believe it. She could not be no false.”

He strode in, apparently quite calm, to find Hester standing by the fire-place, looking very scared and pale, while Lauré, who had thrown himself back upon the couch, began to laugh in a peculiar way.

“Ah, you English husbands,” he said, banteringly, “how you do forsake your beautiful wives. But there, the fair visitor was very sweet and gracious. I almost fell in love myself.”

Dutch Pugh’s eyes flashed for a moment, but he said nothing, only glanced at his wife, who met his look in a troubled way, and then let her eyes fall to the carpet, while Lauré went on talking in a playful, bantering manner.