Halcyone Part 22

"Ah! I must go, dear lover," she said, "though it will only be for some few hours."

But John Derringham held her two hands, detaining her.

"I will make all the arrangements in these next few days," he said. "I am going to Wendover for Whitsuntide. I will get away from there, though, and come across the park and meet you, darling, here at our tree, and we will settle exactly what to do and when to go."

Then, after a last fond, sweet embrace, he let her leave him, and watched her as she glided away among the giant trees, until she was out of sight, a wild glory in his heart.

For love, when he wins after stress, leaves no room but for gladness in his wors.h.i.+per's soul.

CHAPTER XIX

It was John Derringham who was taciturn next morning, not the Professor!

The light of day has a most sobering effect, and while still exalted in a measure by all the strong forces of love, he was enabled to review worldly events with a clearer eye, and could realize very well that he was going to take a step which would not have a forwarding impetus upon his career, even if it proved to be not one of retrogression.

He must give up the thought of using a rich wife as an advancement; but then, on the other hand, he would gain a companion whose divine sweetness would be an enn.o.bling inspiration.

How he could ever have deceived himself in regard to his feelings he wondered now, for he saw quite plainly that he had been drifting into loving her from the first moment he had seen her that Good Friday morning, the foundations having been laid years before, on the day in the tree.

He felt rather uncomfortable about his old master, who he knew would not approve of any secret union with Halcyone. Not that Cheiron would reck much of conventionalities, or care in the least if it were a marriage at a registry-office or not, but he would certainly resent any aspect of the case which would seem to put a slight upon his much-loved protegee or place her in a false position.

He would tell him nothing about it until it was an accomplished fact and Halcyone was his wife--then they would let him into the secret.

All the details of what she would have to say to her aunts in her letter of farewell on leaving them would have to be thought out, too, so that no pursuit or inopportune prying into the truth would be the consequence.

Of any possibility of her stepfather's ultimate interference he did not think, not knowing that she had even any further connection with him. To satisfy in some way the ancient aunts was all that appeared a necessity.

And that was difficult enough. He had certainly undertaken no easy task, but he did not regret his decision. The first and only strong pa.s.sion he had ever known was mastering him.

But there was yet one more unpleasant aspect to face--that was the situation regarding Mrs. Cricklander. He had a.s.suredly not committed himself or even acted very unfairly to her. She had been playing a game as he had been. He did not flatter himself that she really loved him--now that he knew what love meant--and her ambition could be gratified elsewhere; but there remained the fact that he was engaged to stay with her for Whitsuntide, and whether to do so, and plainly show her that he had meant nothing and only intended to be a friend, or whether to throw the visit over, and go to London, returning just to fetch Halcyone about Wednesday, he could not quite decide.

Which would be the best thing to do? It worried him--but not for long, because indecision was not, as a rule, one of his characteristics, and he soon made up his mind to the former course.

He would go to Wendover on Sat.u.r.day, as was arranged, take pains to disabuse his hostess's mind of any illusion upon the subject of his intentions, and, having run over to Bristol this afternoon to give notice to the registrar and procure the license, he would leave with the other guests on the Tuesday, after lunch, having sent his servant up to London in the morning to be out of the way.

Then he would sleep that night in Upminster, getting his servant to leave what luggage he required there--it was the junction for the main line to London, and so that would be easy. A motor could be hired, and in it, on the Wednesday, he would come to the oak avenue gate, as that was far at the other side of the park upon the western road; there he would arrange that Halcyone should be waiting for him with some small box, and they would go over to Bristol, be married, and then go on to a romantic spot he knew of in Wales, and there spend a week of bliss!

By the time he got thus far in his meditations he felt intoxicated again, and Mr. Carlyon, who was watching him as he sat there in his chair reading the _Times_ opposite him, wondered what made him suddenly clasp his hands and draw in his breath and smile in that idiotic way while he gazed into s.p.a.ce!

Then there would be the afterwards. Of course, that would be blissful, too. Oh! if he could only claim her before all the world how glorious it would be--but for the present that was hopeless, and at all events her life with him would not be more retired than the one of monotony which she led at La Sarthe Chase, and would have his tenderest love to brighten it. He would take a tiny house for her somewhere--one of those very old-fas.h.i.+oned ones shut in with a garden still left in Chelsea, near the Embankment--and there he would spend every moment of his spare time, and try to make up to her for her isolation. Well arranged, the world need not know of this--Halcyone would never be _exigeante_--or if it did develop a suspicion, ministers before his day had been known to have had--_cheres amies_.

But as this thought came he jumped from his chair. It was, when faced in a concrete fas.h.i.+on, hideously unpalatable as touching his pure, fair star.

"You are rather restless to-day, John," the Professor said, as his old pupil went hastily towards the open window and looked out.

"Yes," said John Derringham. "It is going to rain, and I must go to Bristol this afternoon. I have to see a man on business."

Cheiron's left penthouse went up into his forehead.

"Matters complicating?" was all he said.

"Yes, the very devil," responded John Derringham.

"Beginning to feel the noose already, poor lad?"

"Er--no, not exactly," and he turned round. "But I don't quite know what I ought to do about her--Mrs. Cricklander."

"A question of honor?"

"I suppose so."

The Professor grunted, and then chuckled.

"A man's honor towards a woman lasts as long as his love. When that goes, it goes with it--to the other woman."

"You cynic!" said John Derringham.

"It is the truth, my son. A man's point of view of such things s.h.i.+fts with his inclinations, and if other people are not likely to know, he does not experience any qualms in thinking of the woman's feelings--it is only of what the world will think of _him_ if it finds him out.

Complete cowards, all of us!"

John Derringham frowned. He hated to know this was true.

"Well, I am not going to marry Mrs. Cricklander, Master," he announced after a while.

"I am very glad to hear it," Cheiron said heartily. "I never like to see a fine s.h.i.+p going upon the rocks. All your vitality would have been drawn out of you by those octopus arms."

"I do not agree with you in the least about any of those points," John Derringham said stiffly. "I have the highest respect for Mrs.

Cricklander--but I can't do it."

"Well, you can thank whichever of your stars has brought you to this conclusion," growled the Professor. "I suppose I'll pull through somehow financially," the restless visitor went on, pacing the floor--"anyway, for a few years; there may be something more to be squeezed out of Derringham. I must see."

"Well, if you are not marrying that need not distress you," Cheiron consoled him with. "Those things only matter if a man has a son."

John Derringham stopped abruptly in his walk and looked at his old master.

His words gave him a strange twinge, but he crushed it down, and went on again:

"It is a curse, this want of money," he said. "It makes a man do base things that his soul revolts against." And then, in his restless moving, he absently picked up a volume of Aristotle, and his eye caught this sentence: "The courageous man therefore faces danger and performs acts of courage for the sake of what is n.o.ble."

And what did an honorable man do? But this question he would not go further into.

"You were out very late last night, John," Mr. Carlyon said presently.

"I left this window open for you on purpose. The garden does one good sometimes. You were not lonely, I hope?"

"No," said John Derringham; but he would not look at his old master, for he knew very well he should see a whimsical sparkle in his eyes.