Denzil Quarrier Part 27

"You won't reject me when I offer good wishes? There is no man living who likes you better than I do, or is more anxious for your happiness.

Shake hands again, old fellow. I must hurry off."

So they parted, and in a couple of hours Glazzard was steaming towards London.

He lay back in the corner of a carriage, his arms hanging loose, his eyes on vacancy. Of course he had guessed Quarrier's opinion of the marriage he was making; he could imagine his speaking to Lilian about it with half-contemptuous amus.e.m.e.nt. The daughter of a man like Mumbray--an unformed, scarcely pretty girl, who had inherited a sort of fortune from some soap-boiling family--what a culmination to a career of fastidious dilettantism! "He has probably run through all his money," Quarrier would add. "Poor old fellow! he deserves better things."

He had come to hate Quarrier. Yet with no vulgar hatred; not with the vengeful rancour which would find delight in annihilating its object.

His feeling was consistent with a measure of justice to Denzil's qualities, and even with a good deal of admiration; as it originated in mortified vanity, so it might have been replaced by the original kindness, if only some stroke of fortune or of power had set Glazzard in his original position of superiority. Quarrier as an ingenuous young fellow looking up to the older comrade, reverencing his dicta, holding him an authority on most subjects, was acceptable, lovable; as a self-a.s.sertive man, given to patronage (though perhaps unconsciously), and succeeding in life as his friend stood still or retrograded, he aroused dangerous emotions. Glazzard could no longer endure his presence, hated the sound of his voice, cursed his genial impudence; yet he did not wish for his final unhappiness--only for a temporary pulling-down, a wholesome castigation of over-blown pride.

The sound of the rus.h.i.+ng wheels affected his thought, kept it on the one subject, shaped it to a monotony of verbal suggestion. Not a novel suggestion, by any means; something that his fancy had often played with; very much, perhaps, as that ingenious criminal spoken of by Serena amused himself with the picture of a wrecked train long before he resolved to enjoy the sight in reality.

"Live in the South," Quarrier had urged. "Precisely; in other words: Keep out of my way. You're a good, simple-hearted fellow, to be sure, but it was a pity I had to trust you with that secret. Leave England for a long time."

And why not? Certainly it was good counsel--if it had come from any one but Denzil Quarrier. Probably he should act upon it after all.

CHAPTER XVII

His rooms were in readiness for him, and whilst the attendant prepared a light supper, he examined some letters which had arrived that evening. Two of the envelopes contained pressing invitations--with reference to accounts rendered and re-rendered; he glanced over the writing and threw them into the fire. The third missive was more interesting; it came from a lady of high social position at whose house he had formerly been a frequent guest. "Why do we never see you?" she wrote. "They tell me you have pa.s.sed the winter in England; why should you avoid your friends who have been condemned to the same endurance? I am always at home on Thursday."

He held the dainty little note, and mused over it. At one time the sight of this handwriting had quickened his pulses with a delicious hope; now it stimulated his gloomy reflections. Such a revival of the past was very unseasonable.

Before going to bed he wrote several letters. They were announcements of his coming marriage--brief, carelessly worded, giving as little information as possible.

The next morning was taken up with business. He saw, among other people, his friend Stark, the picture-collecting lawyer. Stark had letters from Polterham which a.s.sured him that the Liberals were confident of victory.

"Confounded pity that Quarrier just got the start of you!" he exclaimed. "You could have kept that seat for the rest of your life."

"Better as it is," was the cheerful reply. "I should have been heartily sick of the business by now."

"There's no knowing. So you marry Miss Mumbray? An excellent choice, I have no doubt. Hearty congratulations!--Oh, by-the-bye, Jacobs & Burrows have a capital Greuze--do look in if you are pa.s.sing."

Glazzard perceived clearly enough that the lawyer regarded this marriage just as Quarrier did, the _pisaller_ of a disappointed and embarra.s.sed man. There was no more interest in his career; he had sunk finally into the commonplace.

At three o'clock he was at home again, and without occupation. The calendar on his writing-table reminded him that it was Thursday. After all, he might as well respond to the friendly invitation of last evening, and say good-bye to his stately acquaintances in Grosvenor Square. He paid a little attention to costume, and presently went forth.

In this drawing-room he had been wont to s.h.i.+ne with the double radiance of artist and critic. Here he had talked pictures with the fas.h.i.+onable painters of the day; music with men and women of resonant name. The accomplished hostess was ever ready with that smile she bestowed only upon a few favourites, and her daughter--well, he had misunderstood, and so came to grief one evening of mid-season. A rebuff, the gentlest possible, but leaving no scintilla of hope. At the end of the same season she gave her hand to Sir Something Somebody, the diplomatist.

And to-day the hostess was as kind as ever, smiled quite in the old way, held his hand a moment longer than was necessary. A dozen callers were in the room, he had no opportunity for private speech, and went away without having mentioned the step he was about to take. Better so; he might have spoken indiscreetly, unbecomingly, in a tone which would only have surprised and shocked that gracious lady.

He reached his rooms again with brain and heart in fiery tumult. Serena Mumbray!--he was tempted to put an end to his life in some brutal fas.h.i.+on, such as suited with his debas.e.m.e.nt.

Another letter had arrived during his absence. An hour pa.s.sed before he saw it, but when his eye at length fell on the envelope he was roused to attention. He took out a sheet of blue note-paper, covered with large, clerkly writing.

"DEAR SIR,

"We have at length been able to trace the person concerning whom you are in communication with us. He is at present living in Bristol, and we think is likely to remain there for a short time yet. Will you favour us with a call, or make an appointment elsewhere?

"We have the honour to be, dear Sir,

"Yours faithfully, "TULKS & CROWE."

He paced the room, holding the letter behind his back. It was more than three weeks since the investigation referred to had been committed to Messrs. Tulks & Crowe, private inquiry agents; and long before this he had grown careless whether they succeeded or not. An impulse of curiosity; nothing more. Well, yes; a fondness for playing with secrets, a disposition to get power into his hands--excited to activity just after a long pleasant talk with Lilian. He was sorry this letter had come; yet it made him smile, which perhaps nothing else would have done just now.

"To be weak is miserable, doing or suffering." The quotation was often in his mind, and he had never felt its force so profoundly as this afternoon. The worst of it was, he did not believe himself a victim of inherent weakness; rather of circ.u.mstances which persistently baffled him. But it came to the same thing. Was he never to know the joy of vigorous action?--of a.s.serting himself to some notable result?

He could do so now, if he chose. In his hand were strings, which, if he liked to pull them, would topple down a goodly edifice, with uproar and dust and amazement indescribable: so slight an effort, so incommensurable an outcome! He had it in his power to shock the conventional propriety of a whole town, and doubtless, to some extent, of all England. What a vast joke that would be--to look at no other aspect of the matter! The screamings of imbecile morality--the confusion of party zeal--the roaring of indignant pulpits!

He laughed outright.

But no; of course it was only an amusing dream. He was not malignant enough. The old-fas.h.i.+oned sense of honour was too strong in him. Pooh!

He would go and dine, and then laugh away his evening somewhere or other.

Carefully he burnt the letter. To-morrow he would look in at the office of those people, hear their story, and so have done with it.

Next morning he was still in the same mind. He went to Tulks & Crowe's, and spent about an hour closeted with the senior member of that useful firm. "A benevolent interest--anxious to help the poor devil if possible--miserable story, that of the marriage--was to be hoped that the girl would be persuaded to acknowledge him, and help him to lead an honest life--no idea where she was." The information he received was very full and satisfactory; on the spot he paid for it, and issued into the street again with tolerably easy mind.

To-morrow he must run down to Polterham again. How to pa.s.s the rest of today? Pressing business was all off his hands, and he did not care to look up any of his acquaintances; he was not in the mood for talk.

Uncertain about the future, he had decided to warehouse the furniture, pictures, and so on, that belonged to him. Perhaps it would be well if he occupied himself in going through his papers--making a selection for the fire.

He did so, until midway in the afternoon. Perusal of old letters will not generally conduce to cheerfulness, and Glazzard once more felt his spirits sink, his brain grow feverishly active. Within reach of where he sat was a railway time-table; he took it up, turned to the Great Western line, pondered, finally looked at his watch.

At two minutes to five he alighted from a cab at Paddington Station--rushed, bag in hand, to the booking-office--caught the Bristol train just as the guard had signalled for starting.

He was at Bristol soon after eight. The town being strange ground to him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined. Such glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him forth, but neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair, he rambled for an hour or two. His mind was in a condition difficult to account for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had brought him hither, it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and fancies belonging to years long past. He recalled the first lines of a poem he had once attempted; it was suggested by a reading of Coleridge--and there, possibly, lay the point of a.s.sociation. Coleridge: then he fell upon literary reminiscences. Where, by the way, was St. Mary Redcliffe? He put the inquiry to a pa.s.ser-by, and was directed. By dreary thoroughfares he came into view of the church, and stood gazing at the spire, dark against a blotchy sky. Then he mocked at himself for acting as if he had an interest in Chatterton, when in truth the name signified boredom to him. Oh, these English provincial towns! What an atmosphere of deadly dulness hung over them all! And people were born, and lived, and died in Bristol--merciful powers!

He made his way back to the hotel, drank a gla.s.s of hot whisky, and went to bed.

After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wondered awhile where he could be, then asked himself why on earth he had come here. It didn't matter much; he could strike off by the Midland to Polterham, and be there before noon. And again he slept.

When he had breakfasted, he called to the waiter and asked him how far it was to that part of the town called Hotwells. Learning that the road thither would bring him near to Clifton, he nodded with satisfaction.

Clifton was a place to be seen; on a bright morning like this it would be pleasant to walk over the Downs and have a look at the gorge of the Avon.

A cab was called. With one foot raised he stood in uncertainty, whilst the driver asked him twice whither they were to go. At length he said "Hotwells," and named a street in that locality. He lay back and closed his eyes, remaining thus until the cab stopped.

Hastily he looked about him. He was among poor houses, and near to docks; the masts of great s.h.i.+ps appeared above roofs. With a quick movement he drew a coin from his pocket, tossed it up, caught it between his hands. The driver had got down and was standing at the door.

"This the place? Thanks; I'll get out."

He looked at the half-crown, smiled, and handed it to the cabman.

In a few minutes he stood before an ugly but decent house, which had a card in the window intimating that lodgings were here to let. His knock brought a woman to the door.