Geoffrey Hampstead: A Novel

To her the triumph was undiluted. At the close of the race her lungs had refused to work until he passed the winning line, and then her breath came in a gasp, as she became conscious that her eyes were filled with tears of sympathy.

With Nina it was different. That she was intensely interested is true. Everybody was. But, instead of that whirl of sympathetic admiration which Margaret felt, the strongest feeling she had was a desire that Geoffrey would come to her first, would lay, as it were, his honors at her feet – a wish suggesting the complacency with which the tigress receives the victor after viewing with interest the combat.

When Geoffrey rejoined them half an hour afterward he was endeavoring to conceal an unmistakable lameness resulting from striking the hurdle in the race. He had had his leg bathed, which he afterward found had been bleeding freely during the run, and had got into his flannels again. In the mean time a small circle of admirers had grouped themselves about the Dusenalls' carriage.

Jack had been in to see them for a moment with a hymn of praise for Geoffrey on his lips, but Nina made him uncomfortable by treating him distantly, and, although Margaret beamed on him, he departed soon after Geoffrey's arrival, making an excuse of his committee-man's duties.

Geoffrey noticed that, on his reappearing among them, Margaret did not address him, but left congratulations to Nina and the Dusenalls. In the interval after the race she had suddenly begun to consider how great her interest in Geoffrey was. She had known him for over a year. During that time he had ever appeared at his best before her. It was so natural to be civilized and gentle in her presence. And Margaret was not devoid of romance, in spite of her prosaic studies. Her ideality was not checked by them, but rather diverted into less ordinary channels, and she was as likely as anybody else to be captivated by somebody who, besides other qualities, could form a subject for her imaginative powers. Nevertheless, in spite of this sometimes dangerous and always charming ideality, she had acquired the habit of introspection which Mr. Mackintosh had endeavored to cultivate in her. He told her that when she fell in love she "would certainly know it." And it was the remembrance of this sage remark that now caused her to be silent and thoughtful. She was wondering whether she was going to fall in love with Geoffrey, and what it would be like if she did do so, and if she could know any more interest in him if it so turned out that she eventually became engaged to him. Then she looked at Geoffrey, intending to be impartial and judicial, and thought that his looks were not unpleasing, and that his banter with Miss Dusenall was not at all slow to listen to. She was pleased that he did not address her first. She felt that she might have been in some way embarrassed. Sometimes he glanced at her, as if carelessly, and yet she seemed to know that all his remarks were to amuse her, and that he watched her without looking at her. She had never thought of his doing this before.

Bad Margaret! Full of guilt!

Geoffrey was endeavoring to make the plainest Miss Dusenall fix the day for their wedding, declaring that it was she who had promised to marry him if he won at jumping with the pole, and that she alone had nerved him for the struggle, and he went on arranging the matter with a volubility and assurance which she would have resented in anybody else. She had affected to belittle Geoffrey somewhat, not having been much troubled with his attentions, and she was conscious now that this banter on his part was detracting from her dignity. But what was she to do? The man was the hero of the hour, and cared but little for her dignity and mincing ways. She would have snubbed him, only that he carried all the company on his side, and a would-be snub, when one's audience does not appreciate it, returns upon one's self with boomerang violence. After all, it was something to monopolize the most admired man in six thousand people, even if he did make game of her and treat her, like a child.

As for Nina, she answered feebly the desultory remarks of several young men who hung about the carriage, and she listened, while she looked at the contests, to one sound only – to the sound of Geoffrey's voice. From time to time she put in a word to the other girls which showed that she heard everything he said. This sort of thing proved unsatisfactory to the young men who sought to engage her attention. They soon moved off, and then she gave herself up to the luxury of hearing Geoffrey speak. It might have been, she thought, that all his gayety was merely to attract Margaret, but none the less was his voice music to her. Poor Nina! She would not look at him, for fear of betraying herself. She lay back in the carriage and vainly tried to think of her duty to Jack. Then she thought herself overtempted, not remembering the words:

The devil tempts us not – 'tis we tempt him,
Beckoning his skill with opportunity.

This meeting, which to her was all bitter-sweet, to Geoffrey was piquant. To make an impression on the woman he really respected by addressing another he cared nothing about was somewhat amusing to him, but to know that every word he said was being drunk in by a third woman who was as attractive as love itself and who was engaged to be married to another man added a flavor to the entertainment which, if not altogether new, seemed, in the present case, to be mildly pungent.

After this Nina deceived herself less.

CHAPTER VIII

Come o'er the sea,
Maiden with me,
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows.
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same wherever it goes.

Is not the sea
Made for the free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves;
But on the waves
Love and liberty's all our own.

    Moore's Melodies.
Mr. Maurice Rankin was enjoying his summer vacation. Although the courts were closed he still could be seen carrying his blue bag through the street on his way to and from the police court and other places. It is true that, for ordinary professional use, the bag might have been abandoned, but how was he to know when a sprat might catch a whale? – to say nothing of the bag's being so convenient for the secret and non-committal transportation of those various and delectable viands that found their way to his aerial abode at No. 173 Tremaine Buildings. He was now provided by the law printers with pamphlet copies of the decisions in different courts, and a few of these might always be found in his bag. They served to fill out to the proper dimensions this badge of a rank entitling him to the affix of esquire, and they had been well oiled by parcels of butter or chops which, on warm days, tried to lubricate this dry brain food as if for greater rapidity in the bolting of it.

In this way he was passing his summer vacation. Many a time he thought of his father's wealth before his failure and death. Where had those thousands melted away to? Oh, for just one of the thousands to set him on his feet! This perpetual grind, this endless seeking for work, with no more hope in it than to be able to get even with his butcher's bill at the end of the month! To see every person else go away for an outing somewhere while he remained behind began to make him dispirited. The buoyancy of his nature, which at first could take all his trials as a joke, was beginning to wear off. After yielding himself to their peculiar piquancy for six months, these jokes seemed to have lost their first freshness, and he longed to get away somewhere for a little change. The return, then, he thought, would be with renewed spirit.

While thinking over these matters his step homeward was tired and slow. He was by no means robust, and his narrow face had grown more hatchety than ever in the last few hot days. Hope deferred was beginning to tell upon him, but a surprise awaited him.

Jack Cresswell and Charley Dusenall were walking at this time on the other side of the street. They sighted Rankin going along gloomily, with his nose on the ground, well dressed and neat as usual, but weighted down, apparently with business, really with loneliness, law reports, and lamb-chops.

They both pointed to him at once. Jack said, "The very man!" and Charlie said, nodding assent, "Just as good as the next." Jack clapped Charley on the back – "By Jove, I hope he will come! Do him all the good in the world."

Charley was one of those happy-go-lucky, loose-living young men who have companions as long as their money lasts, and who seem made of some transmutable material which, when all things are favorable, shows some suggestion of solidity, but, when acted upon by the acid of poverty, degenerates into something like that parasitic substance remarkable for its receptibility of liquids, called a sponge. He liked Rankin, although he thought him a queer fish, and he would laugh with the others when Rankin's quiet satire was pointed at himself, not knowing but that there might be a joke somewhere, and not wishing to be out of it.

The two young men crossed the road and walked up to Rankin who was just about to enter Tremaine Buildings. Charlie asked him to come on a yachting cruise around Lake Ontario – to be ready in two days – that Jack would tell him all about it, as he was in a hurry. He then made off, without waiting for Maurice to reply.

Jack explained to Rankin that the yacht was to take out a party, with the young ladies under the chaperonage of Mrs. Dusenall, that the two Misses Dusenall, and Nina and Margaret were going, that he and Geoffrey Hampstead and two or three of the yacht-club men would lend a hand to work the craft, and that Rankin would be required to take the helm during the dead calms. As Rankin listened he brightened up and looked along the street in meditation.

"The business," he said thoughtfully, "will perish. Bean can't run my business."

His large mouth spread over his face as he yielded himself to the warmth of the sunny vista before him. Already he felt himself dancing over the waves. Suddenly, as they stood at the entrance to Tremaine Buildings, he caught Jack by the arm and whispered – so that clients, thronging the streets might not overhear:

"The business," he whispered. "What about it?" He drew off at arm's length and transfixed Jack with his eagle eye. Then, as if to typify his sudden and reckless abandonment of all the great trusts reposed in him, he slung the blue bag as far as he could up the stairs while he cried that the business might "go to the devil."

"Correct," said Jack. "It will be all safe with him. You know he is the father of lawyers. But I say, old chap, I am awfully glad you are coming with us. You see, the old lady has to get those girls married off somehow, and several fellows will go with us who are especially picked out for the business. Then, of course, the Dusenall girls want 'backing,' and they thought Nina and I could certainly give them a lead. And Nina would not go without Margaret. I rather think, too, that Geoffrey would not go without Margaret. Wheels within wheels, you see. Have you not got a lady-love, Morry, to bring along? No? Well, I tell you, old man, I expect to enjoy myself. I've been round that lake a good many times, but never with Nina."

Jack blushed as he admitted so much to his old friend, and after a pause he went on, with a young man's facile change of thought, to talk about the yacht.

"And we will just make her dance, and don't you forget it."

"But, my dear fellow, won't she object?"

"Object? No – likes it. She is coming out in a brand-new suit. Wait till you see her. She'll be a dandy."

"I can quite believe that she will appear more beautiful than ever," said Maurice, rather mystified.

"She is as clean as a knife, clean as a knife. I tell you, Morry, her shape just fills the eye. She – "

"Oh, yes, I understand. You are speaking of the yacht. I thought when you said you would make her dance that you referred to Miss Lindon. Excuse my ignorance of yachting terms. I know absolutely nothing about them."

"Never mind, old man, you might easily make the mistake. Talking of dancing now, I had a turn with her the other day and I will say this much – that she can waltz and no mistake. You could steer her with one finger."

"And shall we rig this spinnaker boom on her?" asked Rankin, with interest. "What is a spinnaker boom? I have always wanted to know."

"Spinnaker on who? or what?" cried Jack, looking vexed. "Don't be an ass, Rankin."

"My dear fellow – a thousand pardons – I certainly presumed you still spoke of the yacht. It is perfectly impossible to understand which you refer to."

"Well, perhaps it is," replied Jack; "I mix the two up in my speech just as they are mixed up in my heart, and I love them both. So let us have a glass of sherry to them in my room."

"I think," said Rankin, smiling, with his head on one side, "that to prevent further confusion we ought to drink a glass to each love separately, in order to discriminate sufficiently between the different interests."

"Happy thought," said Jack. "And just like you robbers. Every interest must be represented. Fees out of the estate, every time."

After gulping down the first glass of sherry in the American fashion, they sat sipping the second as the Scotch and English do. It struck Rankin as peculiar that Mr. Lindon allowed Nina to go off on this yachting cruise when he must know that Jack would be on board. He asked him how he accounted for his luck in this respect.

Jack said: "I can not explain it altogether to myself. The old boy sent her off to Europe to get her away from me, and that little manœuvre was not successful in making her forget me. I think that now he has washed his hands of the matter, and lets her do entirely as she pleases – except as to matrimony. They don't converse together on the subject of your humble servant. He is fond of Nina in his own way – when his ambition is not at stake. One thing I feel sure of, that we might wait till crack of doom before his consent to our marriage would be obtained. I never knew such a man for sticking to his own opinion."

"But you could marry now and keep a house, in a small way," said Rankin.

"Too small a way for Nina. She knows no more of economy than a babe. No; I may have been unwise, from a practical view, to fall in love with her, but the affair must go on now; we will get married some way or other. Perhaps the old boy will die. At any rate, although I have no doubt she would go in for 'love in a cottage,' I don't think it would be right of me to subject her to the loss of her carriage, servants, entertainments, and gay existence generally. Of course she would be brave over it, but the effort would be very hard upon the dear little woman."