Читать книгу The Scarlet Woman - Joseph Hocking - Страница 5

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The three great working forces of life are ambition, necessity, and love. Lacking any one of these, man is wanting in motive power; lacking all of them, he generally becomes drift, swept hither and thither by the waves of life. Norman Lancaster possessed none of them. Certainly he was not ambitious, as the word is usually understood. He desired neither fame nor position. He had no need to put forth effort in order to obtain life’s necessities. Fortunately, or unfortunately for him, he possessed more money than he needed. As for love, his friends declared that he was a stranger to this the greatest passion of which the human heart is capable, and which makes or mars the life of the world. This may explain why, when he returned to London, after some months’ absence, he seemed so bored.

“I think I have tried everything now,” he said, as, with a sigh, he threw himself into an armchair and cut the end of a cigar. He smoked silently a few minutes, then went on thinking.

“The world’s a pretty weary business,” he continued presently, “and that old cynic was right when he said that life was ‘short and dirty.’ All places are alike, and people are uniformly dull. I did think that African trip would have interested me, but it proved as tame as everything else. I wish I could hit upon something that would really interest me—something new—something that would yield freshness and sweetness. But Solomon was right: ‘There is nothing new under the sun.’ ”

There was nothing in Lancaster’s appearance suggestive of pessimism. He was rather a good-looking fellow, who had barely reached the prime of life. True, there was a lack of earnestness in his eyes, but otherwise he appeared healthy and vigorous. His surroundings, moreover, were not those of a man unable to command the world’s good things. The room was replete with all the comforts, not only of a man of wealth, but of culture and taste. For a bachelor’s snuggery it was more than usually elegant. Pictures, statuary, books, all revealed the educated, refined man.

The truth was, Lancaster was suffering from surfeit. At twenty-one he had become possessed of an ample fortune, and almost ever since his main object had been to obtain happiness, which, as a consequence, had fled from him. Unlike many others in his position, his tastes led him away from the ordinary pursuits of a gay young man about town. Coarseness and vulgarity he detested; society, as it is usually understood, was to him poor and tame, and work for work’s sake he did not enjoy.

He had tried most things, but had extracted very little pleasure from them. He had painted pictures, written a book, gone into Parliament, travelled, and dabbled both in science and philosophy, but at the age of thirty-three he had come to the conclusion that life was a weary business, and he earnestly longed for a new sensation. Presently he heard a knock at the door, and a servant entered bringing a card.

“Tom Carelton,” he said aloud, as he read it. “All right; show him in. Tom is a good fellow,” he continued, when the girl had gone, “and he may have some news worth communicating.”

“Ah, Lancaster!” cried the young man who entered, “I’m glad to see you. I heard you had come home, and took my chance of finding you in.”

“I am glad you have come,” replied Lancaster. “I think I have a fit of the blues, and cheerful fellows like you are always welcome. Say, old chap, how do you manage to keep such a smiling face?”

“Haven’t time to get low-spirited,” replied the other. “There’s nothing like work to make the world bright. Providence seems to have a grudge against those who have nothing to do.”

“I think you are right,” replied Lancaster grimly.

“You see,” went on Carelton gaily, although a close observer might have seen an anxious look in his eyes, “I am obliged to keep my nose to the grindstone. I have a wife and youngsters.”

“How many youngsters have you?”

“Three.”

“And still keep happy?”

“Yes; that is——”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing! I pay my way, and find life a jolly business.”

“I wonder,” said Lancaster, “had I been obliged to grind hard for a bit of bread and cheese, and had a wife and children to keep, if I should find the world a bit more cheerful?”

“Still on those lines, Lancaster? Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“I know I ought; in fact, I think I am. There is something wrong in my make-up, I expect.”

“And yet when we were students together you were as gay as a lark.”

“Yes, I was; we all were, in fact. But now I come to look at you more closely, you don’t appear quite so gay as usual.”

“No?”

“Are you bothered, old man?” And there was a look of kindness in Lancaster’s eyes.

“Yes; a bit.”

“But you said just now that nothing was wrong at home.”

“Oh, no! nothing of that nature.”

“Then I suppose you are troubling about the welfare of other people, as usual.”

Carelton did not reply for some seconds; then he burst out suddenly—

“Do you remember Jack Gray, Lancaster?”

“Yes; a little. I knew his eldest brother Horace well, but Jack belonged to a younger generation. Still, I used to know him; a bookish, sensitive fellow, rather given to brooding.”

“That is so; but as good a fellow as ever breathed.”

“He’s all right, I hope?”

“No; he’s all wrong.”

“Not gone to the dogs, surely? Why, I thought him of a religious turn of mind.”

“He’s not gone to the bad in the usual way; as you say, he’s of a different nature.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“How do you know there’s a woman?”

“Oh, there always is,” replied Lancaster. “Do I know her?”

“Only a little, but you have seen her—Gertrude Winthrop. You met her at Brighton once.”

“Oh, yes; I remember. A poetical creature. Awfully religious, too. I used to think she was in love with a Roman Catholic priest. She tried very hard one night to prove to me that all who remained outside the Roman fold would provide fuel for the bottomless pit.”

“Yes; there’s the crux of the whole mischief.”

“How?”

“Well, Jack Gray fell in love with her, and they were engaged.”

“The girl has turned out a jilt, I suppose?”

“No—at least, not in the orthodox way. They quarrelled about something, and Jack believed that she had thrown him over for some other fellow. Well, he was awfully cut up. You know what an intense nature he has. He can never do anything by halves. As you may be aware, he is a Roman Catholic, and in his despair he determined to enter the Roman priesthood.”

“A good idea,” laughed Lancaster. “Do you know, I’ve often thought of trying to find out the secret of Romanism. After all, there is something fascinating in the thought of submitting yourself to an infallible authority. Once that is done, there is no more doubt, no more fear or worry. Confess, do penance, say prayers, receive absolution, and then take your ease.”

“The thing is to find the infallible authority,” replied Carelton.

“Yes; of course, I should kick over the traces in a week, but at the first blush it’s fascinating. I almost envy Jack Gray. He must be experiencing a new sensation.”

“He entered a monastery because he believed Gertrude Winthrop had jilted him. Well, she has done nothing of the sort. She’s as fond of him as he is of her. Indeed, she has taken a similar course, and will shortly take vows.”

“Well, let them.”

“They will both destroy their lives if they do. Jack is a brilliant fellow; he would make his mark anywhere. He has money, too, and is well connected. If he is allowed to take vows, he will lose his money, and his career will be ruined.”

“Well, what can be done?”

“It has just come to my knowledge that Gertrude is in reality breaking her heart for Jack, while I am sure that if Jack knew of it, he would immediately give up all idea of the priesthood, and come back to life.”

“You are sure the girl is really in love with him?” asked Lancaster drily.

“I am sure she is.”

“Then why does she not let him know?”

“For several reasons. First, she is in a Roman Catholic institution as a novice—whatever that may mean—and she believes that Jack has ceased to care for her. Moreover, she is closely guarded by her superiors, and, consequently, even if she desired to convey any news to her lover, it would be extremely difficult.”

“But why does not some one write to Jack and tell him the truth?” asked Lancaster quickly.

“The same objections are in force in his case,” was Carelton’s reply. “His father is dead, and his mother has been persuaded by the priests that it is Jack’s duty to take orders. As a consequence, she takes care not to tell him anything that might have a tendency to alter his purpose.”

“But you could write?”

“Useless, my boy; all the letters would be intercepted, read, and destroyed. The institution into which he has gone has very strict rules. I do not know much about these places myself, but I have discovered that no communication can reach him without his superior’s consent.”

“But Horace could visit his brother, surely?”

“Horace is a strict Catholic, and also believes it Jack’s duty to become a successor of the Apostles. Oh, I’ve pleaded with Horace, but I can make no headway with him—not a bit. As you know, the Romanists are desirous of converting England, and they believe that Jack would greatly help them. Most of the Catholic priests come from the people, and hosts of them have but little education. Jack is well connected; he has a number of influential friends among the Protestants; he is a scholarly fellow, too; and they believe he would have considerable influence in circles which at present the ordinary priest cannot enter. Indeed, I am told that Jack is intended as a missionary to the cultured classes in England. He has a good old name, has hosts of friends, besides being handsome and agreeable. There is no doubt about it, he would have tremendous influence, especially among women. As a consequence, every effort is being made to retain him.”

“Well, my boy, I can suggest a solution of the business.”

“What?” asked Carelton eagerly.

“Go to this monastery, wherever it is, get admission, and tell him.”

“Impossible again. The truth is, I have appealed to a priest who, I believe, is Horace Gray’s confessor. I have told him that Jack’s life will be wrecked by becoming a priest. I showed him how he would be far happier married, and would also attain to a high position, either in politics or literature, if he got rid of these foolish ideas and came back to the world again.”

“I see. Well, what success did you have?”

“Oh, I bungled the business. The fellow told me that no vocation was so high as that of the priest’s; that all careers paled into insignificance when compared with that of a missioner of the one true faith of the world. He would not hear of the claims of love; it was the snare of the devil, he said. Jack was called of God to enter the priesthood, and any one who tried to hinder him, or did anything to shake his decision, would be an enemy to truth.”

“And yet you say the fellow is breaking his heart for this girl?”

“Horace admitted it.”

“While she—Gertrude Winthrop—still loves him?”

“I am sure of it. I tell you it maddens me when I think of it. Jack is such a good fellow. Up to the time of his becoming engaged to Gertrude, although always religiously inclined, he paid but little attention to any of the churches. During the first months of his engagement he was as gay as a lark. He had marked out his career, too; indeed, he was the accepted candidate for a constituency in Devonshire, and there was every probability of his entering Parliament at the next election. He is a brilliant speaker, has an intimate knowledge of current questions, and I am perfectly certain that in a few years he would have been a Cabinet minister. Gertrude, too, would have been a help to him, and he might have been happy and useful, while as a Romish priest—God help him!”

“Oh, I don’t see that. Think of Newman, Manning, and others. Career!—from one standpoint the Catholic priesthood is unrivalled.”

“I don’t pretend to be a theologian, but a Catholic priest, if he be true to his vows, is a dead man. I know Jack, and love him—love him as a brother—and I tell you, while they may twist his conscience into believing that he will be doing the will of God by taking the course suggested, he will be wrecking his life, blotting out all happiness, and blighting not only his own existence, but that of Gertrude as well.”

“Well, personally,” yawned Lancaster, “I don’t care much about these things. All the same, the affair savours of romance. I wish something would happen to me like this. As far as I can see, nothing is worth being interested in.”

“Unless Jack is acquainted of Gertrude’s feelings towards him in a fortnight, it will be too late.”

“Too late! How?”

“He will have bound himself.”

“And taken life-long vows to celibacy and all the rest of the paraphernalia?”

“Yes.”

“It would be a pity, wouldn’t it?” said Lancaster, like one musing. “And yet I don’t know. After all, ’twill be a new sensation for him, and the life of the world offers precious little.”

“You say that because you are cold-blooded,” cried Carelton; “because you’ve never known what it is to love and be loved by a true woman. You don’t know what it is to have children climb on your knee. If you did you would talk differently.”

“Perhaps I should,” replied Lancaster, speaking slowly. “No, I don’t think I was ever in love. It’s a curious confession, I know, but I don’t think I ever was. I did have some flirtations once, but—no, I was never really in love. I wish I could feel what such fellows as you tell me a man ought to feel. I should find some pleasure in life, then. I daresay, too, that, like you, I should be maddened at the position of Jack Gray.”

“No man knows what it is to live until he has been really in love,” replied Carelton. “I tell you, Lancaster, that the greatest, purest joy in life, humanly speaking, is to feel a pure woman’s lips against yours—the lips of the one woman in the world to you, and to hear her confess her love for you.”

“Women tell that story to so many men,” remarked Lancaster drily.

“Not all women,” replied Carelton. “I know that love is abused, but it’s the joy of life still. Take it away and life is one-sided, poor, almost worthless, to millions. That is why I am so grieved about poor Jack.”

“Where is this monastery in which you say he is immured?” asked Lancaster presently.

“In Ireland.”

“In Ireland, eh? What part?”

Carelton told him.

For some time both men were silent. Carelton smoked steadily, but he noticed that Lancaster’s cigar had gone out.

“Would it really make you happy if Gray came back to life again?” asked Lancaster presently.

“It would indeed,” replied the other, “but I almost give up hope. It is not an affair that one can talk about, and I know of no one who would undertake the mission.”

“I’ll go, if you like,” said Lancaster.

“You?”

“Yes. Won’t I do?”

“Do? of course. But do you really mean it?”

“Yes.”

“But, mind you, it is a difficult business. I know that, because I’ve tried to find out the exact facts of the case.”

“So much the better. I’ll go, anyhow.”

“I say, Norman, old chap, you are a good fellow!”

“Not a bit of it. I’m going because it interests me; it promises a new sensation. I’ve nothing to keep me here in London; I’ve no ties. My housekeeper is a distant relative and a most trustworthy old lady. Besides, the idea of outwitting those priests, and seeing the look on Jack Gray’s face when I tell him that the girl loves him, will be worth going to Ireland for. I’ve never been to the Emerald Island, either—I never thought it worth while; but—yes, the affair is full of promise. I’ll go.”

“And—and you’ll do your best?”

Carelton seemed so surprised at Lancaster’s promise that he scarcely knew what he was saying.

“Of course I’ll do my best. I’ll carry the thing through, too, see if I don’t!” He started up and walked to and fro in the room with an eager look in his eyes. “By Jove! Carelton, I’m glad you came; you’ve given me something to do.”

“When can you start?”

“To-morrow morning. But I must not go blindfolded; I must ask you a few questions first.”

“What do you wish to know?” asked Carelton.