Читать книгу The Scarlet Woman - Joseph Hocking - Страница 6

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The two men lit fresh cigars, and Lancaster looked steadily into the fire for some time without speaking. Presently he put on more coals, for the time was early March and the weather was cold.

“Jack Gray is still a novice, you say?” he remarked at length.

“He has been a novice for two years,” was Carelton’s reply. “As I said, his novitiate expires in a fortnight.”

“Then he must be entering some order.”

“He is. Unless you are successful, he will have taken a Jesuit’s vows in a fortnight.”

“A Jesuit, eh? I suppose the Jesuits supply the brains of the Papacy. Of course, during these two years he will have become imbued with the sophisms of the order.”

“I expect so,” Carelton replied with a sigh.

“In that case he will require no little persuasion to give up the business, even if I am able to get hold of him?”

Carelton nodded.

“I see difficulties,” Lancaster went on. “Assume I am successful in getting an interview with him. Admit, too, that he’s breaking his heart for a girl who is doing ditto for him. I tell him this; I put my case in the strongest possible way. What happens? I have no doubt he’ll be overjoyed for a second; but his joy will be followed by the influences of his order. He will think of all he has been taught these last two years, and he will be enmeshed like a fly in a spider’s web.”

“Possibly, but what are you driving after?”

“This. Two forces will be at work within him. First, there will be the love for the girl, partly destroyed by two years of living death, but fanned into something like life by what I shall tell him. Striving against this will be influences under which he has been living for two years. His mind will have been subjected to the authority of his superiors, his conscience will have become so twisted that he will regard disobedience to them as sin. I say these forces will struggle one against the other.”

“And the first will be the stronger,” cried Carelton eagerly. “Love is the strongest power on earth.”

Lancaster shook his head. “I am not at all sure,” he said. “But here is my difficulty—supposing he doubts Gertrude Winthrop’s love? True, I have your statement that the girl is dying for him; but what proofs have I, if Gray does not believe?”

“Her mother told me.”

“How does she know?”

“Her daughter told her.”

“How? by letter?”

“No. She went to see her.”

“Where?”

“In Ireland.”

“Whew! Both in Ireland, eh?”

“Yes, I think the fact of Jack going there led the girl to go. Well, a few weeks ago, Mrs. Winthrop went to see her daughter. Of course Gertrude is also a novice, but I imagine she is not so closely immured as she will be if she takes vows. In the course of conversation the truth came out. She still loves Jack.”

“But there is nothing to prove this.”

“Prove! What do you mean?”

“This: suppose Jack says to me, ‘I don’t believe Gertrude loves me. Give me some tangible evidence that what you say is true,’ what will my reply be?”

Carelton shook his head, then added quickly, “I believe the fellow will be so overjoyed at the news that he’ll ask for no proofs.”

“Evidently you know nothing of the influences of a Jesuit institution,” replied Lancaster.

“No, I know but little,” was the reply; “do you?”

“Yes, a little; not in detail, but I have read the life of Ignatius Loyola, and I know something of his teachings.”

“But, surely, that is—I hope this will not keep you from going?” cried Carelton.

“Oh, no, I’ll go; but I wish to know how I stand. By the way, where is this convent?”

Carelton told him.

“That’s not far from the place where Jack is,” was Lancaster’s rejoinder.

“No, it’s close by, but they might as well be a thousand miles apart. They will know nothing of the existence of each other. They are ignorant of the fact that each is dying for love of the other.”

“Still, it’s important. Well, now let me be sure that I understand this affair,” and Lancaster laughed like a boy. “Let me set forth the whole business as it appears to me,” and then he repeated point by point all that Carelton had told him.

“You might be a lawyer,” laughed his friend when he had finished.

“I did study law for a while,” replied Lancaster. “I thought I’d be a barrister. Still, I understand the case, don’t I?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then you must be off.”

Carelton looked up questioningly.

“I mean it, my dear boy. Stay, though, I’ll walk to King’s Cross with you, and then I must come back and do a few hours’ work.”

“Work, Lancaster?”

“Yes, I must read up all I can about the Jesuits and their order. I must try and find something of the rules of convents, especially this order to which you say Gertrude Winthrop is attached.”

“I see, yes. What time will you start in the morning?”

Lancaster studied Bradshaw for a few minutes before he replied.

“There is a train from Euston in the morning, which will land me at Holyhead just after four to-morrow afternoon. It catches a boat by which I ought to get to Dublin by about half-past eight.”

“Good,” replied Carelton. “You evidently believe in despatch. You have nothing to hinder you.”

“One of the advantages of being a bachelor,” laughed Lancaster. “If I were a married man like you, I should be detained several days before starting. Oh, those Romanists are wise people; there’s a great deal to be said for the celibacy of the clergy.”

“Be careful you don’t get converted,” was Carelton’s rejoinder.

“Oh, nothing’s impossible,” was the reply; “and I don’t know but I might do worse. Anyhow, I thank you, Carelton. I suppose I’ve no right to be on this business, but I’ve not been so excited for many a day. I am actually eager to start; my pulses are stirred, man, and I would not have missed this opportunity for a great deal. There, I am ready to go with you, and the walk will do me good.”

The two men went away together, and in a few minutes left the square in which Lancaster lived, and found their way into Gower Street.

“How do your trains run, Carelton?” asked Lancaster presently.

“I’ve plenty of time to catch the next from the suburban platform,” was the reply.

When they reached Euston Road they again talked of the mission Lancaster had undertaken.

“You say you are sure the superior of the monastery where Gray is has been warned against you?” asked Lancaster.

“Certain,” was the reply. “This confessor of Horace’s is a very clever fellow, and from hints which Mrs. Gray has let fall, I am sure I am a marked man.”

“In that case it is lucky we have never been seen together.”

“It is, indeed. All the same I am sure you would never be suspected of aiding me in such a seemingly Quixotic work.”

“No; why?”

“Oh, you know you are regarded as cold-blooded and cynical. Mrs. Gray would never believe you capable of interesting yourself.”

“I am surprised at myself,” replied Lancaster—“by Jove! there is a priest of some sort walking ahead of us.”

They turned in at King’s Cross Station and made their way towards the suburban platform.

“Turn back!” cried Carelton presently. “That’s Father Ritzoom on the platform.”

“Father Ritzoom! who’s he?”

“The priest we saw. The prime mover of the whole business, or I’m much mistaken. Don’t let him see us together. His mind is like a corkscrew; he can thread his way into any scheme or plot.”

“But I should like to see his face.”

“Don’t try, old fellow. There, he’s turned round. Don’t let him recognise you. He knows I am trying to get Jack Gray away from Ireland, and he will suspect any one he sees with me.”

“Very well, I’ll go; but I should like to have a closer look at him. These mysterious fellows always interest me. There, I’ll respect your fears. Good-night.”

“Good-night, old chap. God bless you for taking this matter up. I am sure you will be glad some day. Be sure you write to me regularly and let me know how matters are going on.”

On leaving the station Lancaster turned to have another look at the priest, but he had disappeared. Either he had gone into a waiting-room, or had entered one of the trains.

“The affair is promising, very promising,” cried the young man gaily. “I can see a fortnight’s good fun.”

Arrived at his house, he ransacked his shelves for certain books he wanted, and then read closely until the small hours of the morning.

Presently he rose with a yawn, “I must go to bed,” he said, “I am never worth a straw when I don’t get my sleep. Upon my word, I believe I am excited.” Nevertheless, fifteen minutes later Norman Lancaster was fast asleep.

The next morning the wind blew cold and winterly. Although March had come, occasional showers of sleet and snow swept across the city. “It’ll be a cheerless journey,” thought the young man as he got into a hansom, and told the cabby to drive to Euston. “What a fool I am! I don’t know what possessed me to promise Carelton to undertake such a hare-brained business. But there, a fellow is bound to make an ass of himself sometimes.”

He saw no one that he knew at the station, and having provided himself with a generous stock of literature, he took his seat in the corner of an empty carriage, and wrapped himself up warmly.

“I wish this affair had come off in summer instead of now,” thought Norman as he lit a cigar; “I should have extracted a little more fun from it.”

By the time the train reached Holyhead the whole landscape was covered with snow, and the wind blew half a gale. This did not trouble Norman, who knew that the boats were good, and that a fire would be burning in the saloon. When he left the train, however, he found that many of the passengers were exceedingly anxious. They questioned the sailors concerning the sea outside, whether the passage would be rough, how long they would be on the way, and whether they would be in danger of being wrecked. The sailors’ replies were by no means reassuring.

“There’s a ’igh sea, ma’am,” was the unvarying reply, for with true politeness they gave their answer to the ladies; “it’ll be a dirty crossin’, for we shall ’ave a ’ead wind. Most likely we sh’ll be more’n an ’our late at North Wall.”

Norman could not help laughing as he saw the disconsolate look on the questioners’ faces. Evidently they dreaded a rough sea.

“Do you think it’ll be better in the morning?” they asked.

“Very likely it will,” replied the sailors encouragingly.

“Would you advise me to go across to-night?” asked a middle-aged lady, whose teeth rattled “like a loose casement in the wind.”

“Well, mum, if you are not a good sailor you’ll ’ave a baddish time to-night,” was the comforting response, whereupon she told a porter to take her luggage to the nearest and best hotel.

Her example was quickly followed, for the little knot of people around the gangway speedily dispersed, and many made their way towards the refreshment room, evidently glad to find a leader brave enough to confess herself a coward.

Norman heard some one laugh close behind him.

“These people evidently believe in your excellent English proverb,” said a voice.

Norman turned, and saw a somewhat uncommon looking man. He was tall and largely built, while his height and breadth were seemingly increased by the long, heavy ulster he wore. His hair was raven black, and his chin, which was closely shaven, presented a blue appearance far more common among Italians than Englishmen. His lips, which were also shaven, were rather thick and somewhat sensual. His eyes were deep set and as black as his hair; the protruding forehead and black eyebrows adding to the somewhat repellent expression of his face. His voice, however, was soft and musical, and was not at all suggestive of the man’s stern strength.

“What is the proverb to which you refer?” asked Lancaster.

“Oh, a well worn one, as most of your proverbs are: ‘Discretion is the better part of valour.’ Doubtless, however, it is a very convenient maxim,” and he laughed again as he saw how few intended boarding the boat.

“And you intend going across?” asked Norman.

“Oh, yes. And you?”

For answer the young man presented his ticket to the official and walked down the gangway. “I am influenced by another saying, whether English or no, I am not sure,” he said, as the other again stood by his side.

“Let’s hear it.”

“ ‘Needs must, when the devil drives.’ ”

“I think you can claim that as English, too,” replied the other; “but it strikes me that you are not troubled much by maxims.”

Evidently the man desired to be friendly, and, as Lancaster felt glad of company, he took no notice of the freedom of the remark, except to ask why he had formed such an opinion of him.

“I judge you to be a good sailor,” was the reply. “You are perfectly indifferent to a rough sea, and are not easily thwarted in your purposes.”

“Who is this fellow?” thought Lancaster, as he went down to the saloon. “Anyhow he desires to be friendly, and as I shall probably never see him after to-night, I may as well talk with him as another.”

“Dinner, sir?” asked the waiter.

“What do you say?” asked the stranger.

“Certainly,” replied Norman. “I imagine we shall not reach Dublin much before midnight, and I feel hungry.”

They accordingly sat down at the same table, the stranger divesting himself of his ulster and hat, thereby revealing more clearly the proportions of the man. Norman noticed that his head was large, and of that shape which is often designated as square. He wore a suit of blue-black cloth, rather rough in texture, the coat being short and double-breasted, thus accentuating his great breadth of chest and squareness of shoulder.

“He might be a naval captain but for his lack of moustache,” thought Norman, “or he might be a political refugee, or a foreign spy. I don’t think he’s English, although he speaks our language perfectly. Upon my word, I feel curious about him.”

“Apparently you do not feel troubled about a head wind nor a rough sea,” he said aloud, as his companion attacked the dinner with evident relish.

“No, a rough sea does not trouble me. I don’t know what illness of any sort means.”

“You are young yet,” ventured Norman.

“Yes; how old should you think?”

Lancaster looked at him closely and knew not what to answer. He might be only thirty-five, he might be fifty-five. Not a grey hair appeared among his black locks, and his face was free from wrinkles. The fact that he was clean-shaven, too, made him look younger than if he had allowed his beard to grow; nevertheless, his eyes, black and brilliant as they were, did not suggest youth, while the whole expression of the face spoke of years and experience.

“I’ll not venture a guess,” replied Lancaster.

The man laughed as though he were pleased.

“You English are cautious,” he said; “indeed, discretion is a characteristic of your race. That fact was revealed just now when so many decided to wait until to-morrow morning rather than face a choppy sea. I think, as a nation, you owe much of your success to the fact; all the same, you are——”

He stopped suddenly and looked straight at Lancaster’s eyes.

“What?” asked the young man, feeling that the other awaited the question.

“Cautious in the wrong place.”

“Yes; why?”

“Oh, the reasons are too numerous to mention,” and he went on with his dinner.

For a moment Lancaster felt like defending his nation, but he had an idea that his companion was trying to make him communicative, so he turned the conversation into a slightly different channel.

“And your race, your nation, what are their characteristics?” he asked.

“I have no race, no nation.”

“No?”

“I am cosmopolitan. When I am in Spain I am a Spaniard, in Italy I am an Italian, in France a Frenchman.”

“And in England?”

“Oh, in England I am nothing.”

“Why?”

“The English are so narrow, so insular. They believe in nothing outside their little foggy island”; and again he fixed his searching eyes on Lancaster’s face.

The young man laughed, but gave no other reply.

The man was evidently somewhat disappointed at the other’s reticence. “Don’t you think so?” he said presently.

“I have never paid much attention to the subject,” replied Lancaster.

“Wherever your countrymen go,” he went on, “they look at everything through their befogged glasses, and they think nothing any good which is not English.”

“Such a feeling is necessary to enthusiasm,” replied Norman, suppressing a yawn, “and enthusiasm seems an essential to progress.”

“Therefore you are no patriot.”

“No? why?”

“Because you have no enthusiasm.”

“It is dangerous to judge hastily.”

“Not a bit of it. Hasty judgments are in nine cases out of ten right. As I said, you English are cautious in the wrong place. Besides, your statement that the insular feeling is necessary to enthusiasm is wrong. It may be necessary to fanaticism, which is different from enthusiasm. Real enthusiasm is the outcome of being possessed by a great ideal.”

“Which may be a fad,” suggested Norman.

“A great ideal which is universal in its application, which is wider than nations or sects, which embraces all truth, moral as well as national,” he went on, without noticing the interruption.

“That’s as vague as a cloud,” replied Norman.

“No,” said the other; “not when the ideal becomes embodied in some system.”

“For example?” suggested Norman.

Again the man rested his piercing eyes on Lancaster’s face and hesitated. Evidently here was a man over whom he could exercise no great influence; one who knew when to be silent, and who did not easily lose his head.

“I do not think you quite understand me,” he replied at length; “but in proof of what I said about your race, take yourself as an example. Here are you, evidently a man of wealth and leisure. You have the means and the opportunity of going all over the world, but, like the rest of the English, you stick to these little Islands. I daresay you know your own country almost inch by inch, while I expect you have been to Ireland dozens of times. Meanwhile you have paid only a flying visit to the other countries of the world?” and he waited as if expecting an answer.

“I suppose this is his way of asking me if I’ve been to Ireland before,” thought Norman; “well, it will do no harm to tell him.”

“Is that not so?” he asked presently.

“You are wrong,” replied Norman, “I have never yet been to Ireland, and I’ve spent years in countries other than my own.”

“For pleasure?”

“Yes,” replied Norman, somewhat resenting his freedom in asking questions, although the pleasant smile and soft voice made anger almost impossible.

“But surely you are not going to Ireland for pleasure at this time of the year?” he suggested.

“Yes, I am, purely for pleasure. But the same question might be applicable to yourself. Do you go on the same errand?”

“I do nothing for pleasure,” was the reply, “that is, it is never my motive; yet all I do brings me pleasure.”

“I wish I knew your secret,” laughed Lancaster.

“My secret is easily revealed,” was the reply. “I have my ideal. It is universal, it embraces all truth, and it has become concrete.”

“That seems an impossibility. Pray tell me what it is.”

“You would not pretend to teach Euclid to the lad who had not mastered the elements of arithmetic,” was the reply.

This was evidently said with a purpose. “I am sure he does not mean to be rude,” mused Norman; “the fellow has some meaning in trying to draw me out. He wants to throw me off my guard. Why, I wonder?”

He looked into the stranger’s face. A smile played around the thick, strong lips, a look of eager questioning was in his eyes.

“I think even a cosmopolitan can be cautious in the wrong place,” said Lancaster quietly.

This reply evidently disappointed the other, while it heightened his feelings of respect for his companion. Before he could speak again, however, a young man came up to the table.

“Can I have a word with you, please, father?” he said in low tones. For the first time the stranger’s face flushed, he appeared angry at the interruption, and gave the questioner a look which was not at all pleasant. Nevertheless, he spoke quietly.

“Certainly, I’ll come with you.”

Lancaster looked at the newcomer’s face. It belonged to a young fellow apparently about eight-and-twenty. It was difficult to tell with any degree of certainty, however. He was much muffled, and the lower part of his face was hidden.

He called him “father,” thought the young man, as they walked away together, but if those two are father and son, all Nature is a liar. By Jove! I’ll find out before we get to Ireland; I feel more and more curious about my cosmopolitan friend.