The Dilemma/Chapter LV
CHAPTER LV.
On leaving the hotel, Yorke hastened to seek out Mackenzie Maxwell and consult with him on the momentous subject with which he was oppressed, and which seemed for the time to dwarf all the other business of life into utter insignificance. Yet he could not help thinking with a sort of languid wonder as he hastened along, how small a part of the interview just ended had been devoted to the astonishing news which led to it. Mrs. Polwheedle had seen Falkland, and was still able to think about her luncheon and her visits; and except for the gratification afforded her by having a listener, nothing had come out of Yorke's compliance with her urgent summons. And he himself too, notwithstanding this revelation, found already his thoughts at times wandering to other things.
At Maxwell's club, where he had not been seen for two days, Yorke obtained the address of his lodgings, and on inquiring at the latter place learned that the doctor had gone out of town, but was expected back that afternoon; and Yorke spent the hours restlessly wandering to and fro between his own club and the house, too anxious and excited to do aught else. At last, as it was growing dark, he was just leaving the house after making another of many fruitless inquiries, when a cab drove up with his friend inside.
Maxwell recognizing Yorke as he stepped out gave him at first a hearty greeting; then as he stopped to pay the driver, an expression of reserve came over him, and he stood hesitating on the pavement, not inviting Yorke to enter the house, but as if waiting for him to go away.
"I understand your doubts," said Yorke presently, approaching him closely and speaking in a low voice; "but there is no secret to be kept from me; I know all."
An expression of surprise and relief came over Maxwell's face, succeeded by one of distrust and anxiety. How much of the awful secret did Yorke know?
"I have seen her" continued the other, "and I have seen him. It was by a strange chance. Will you not lead the way in, that we may speak about this in private?"
Then, seated in the sitting-room whither Maxwell now conducted him, Yorke told him the events of the past evening, and the two friends mutually confessed the relief they found in being able to have this confidence on the subject.
"I can't tell you," said the old doctor, "what a burden this secret has been to me; and when I met you last, I felt that if I did not run away, I should be tempted to make a clear breast of it and consult you. And indeed I should have been well pleased to think that the poor lassie should have another friend at hand, for a friend I know you would be; although, of course, you can't be expected to feel for her as I do, who was like a brother to both father and husband. And I would have asked you at once to come down and see her; but then there was his secret to keep too, so I was obliged to give you the cold shoulder for a bit, d'ye see? But I am truly glad to think that I have some one to talk the matter over with, for you are a man that can be trusted with a secret."
Maxwell then went on to explain the arrangement that had just been made. Comfortable lodgings had been taken for Olivia at a sheltered point on the south coast. Early to-morrow he meant to go down to Shoalbrook, to try and manage that the outcast should have one view of his wife, as Falkland had already explained, before she started with Maxwell for her new home.
And could not he do anything to help the stricken pair? Yorke asked, and explained to his friend how he was staying in the neighbourhood, urging his strong desire to be of service. At least he could come forward to aid with his purse; so much of the distress as money could alleviate he might help to fend off from the unfortunate Olivia.
But Maxwell said that there was no need for that now. No doubt she had been left in terrible straits at one time, before she made herself known to Maxwell; for having been brought up abroad, and the aunt with whom she lived as a girl being dead, she had found herself a stranger in England, friendless and almost without money. But Falkland had enough to keep her from want, and if not, Maxwell himself had more than sufficient for his own simple needs, and was not likely to let the daughter of his old friend suffer, now that her condition was known. No, there was no need of money; "and you, my dear fellow," continued the doctor, "must have plenty of use for all you have got, for you are just at the time of life when a man is likely to have not more than he wants. I suppose you will be having a wife of your own soon. But no doubt the poor girl will be glad to see you now and again, to talk over old times. And perhaps her hus— perhaps Kirke will be coming home, or at any rate sending her some money. He has assigned his half-pay to her already, and it was that she was living upon when she wrote to me — a bare starvation allowance, of course, for one never accustomed to think about money. I don't suppose there is intentional neglect; he seemed always to be very fond of her; it is simply, I suspect, the behaviour of a selfish man, in dreadful embarrassment and at a distance. But we must take care he does not discover the secret; there is no saying how he might take it, or how it might affect his treatment of her. Her best chance of happiness, poor thing, is in being united to him again, horrible though the idea seems. And this is what Falkland, nobly unselfish as ever, himself wishes."
But Maxwell showed great alarm when Yorke told him of his interview with Mrs. Polwheedle. He concurred with the latter in thinking it was hardly to be expected that the secret could now be kept. This new aspect of affairs made them look black indeed. Fresh and greater unhappiness awaited these unfortunate persons if the secrets were divulged. He, too, must see Mrs. Polwheedle, and endeavour to hold her to secrecy.
Thus the two friends discussed the sad history of Falkland and Olivia, not talking quickly, for their hearts were too full, but in undertones, and with frequent gaps between reply and question, looking down as they spoke at the embers of the fire before which they sat in the dark room, as Yorke learned from the good doctor further particulars about Olivia's adventures since she left India. Truly a time of trouble and suffering from first to last, with which she was ill fitted in every sense to struggle.
At last Yorke rose to go. Engrossing though the subject of their conversation was, there must be an end of it. Maxwell had business to do, and he himself must be leaving town. But they were to meet again next morning at the riverside inn.
One question Maxwell put as he was leaving the room. Had Falkland mentioned to Yorke the circumstances of his meeting with himself, and did he describe at all how he had passed the last seven years?
Yorke replied that Falkland mentioned the recognition as having been accidental, and that he had frequently referred to his loss of memory, and the difficulty he found in recalling the past.
Maxwell shook his head sadly. "I may as well tell you the whole truth," he said. "These injuries to the head have affected the brain in more ways than one. When I first met our poor friend he was under restraint abroad. He has been perfectly lucid ever since; but I have reason to believe that the greater part of his time since his return to Europe has been passed in this way in different places. Happily for him he has no recollection of these times. But you have seen for yourself what a mere wreck he is in every way of the noble Falkland whom we once knew. Would to God he had really been taken from us when we thought we had lost him!"
Yorke on leaving Maxwell's lodgings hurried to the station. He would just be in time to catch a train for Hamwell, and the best thing he could do would be to go to "The Beeches." There he would be near to both Olivia and Falkland, and ready to keep his appointment on the morrow; and he remembered, too, what all this time he had almost forgotten, that some explanation was due to his hosts for his sudden disappearance; still more, that a further explanation must be had with Lucy, and an understanding come to with her father. And yet for the time the prospect of having to do this seemed utterly distasteful. The very notion that he should be scheming plans for happiness and wedded life appeared like a sacrilege to the memory of his first love in her lonely wretchedness.
The train passed through Shoalbrook Junction, stopping there for a minute; the carriage was full as usual of business men returning home, each with his little basket of fish or game: some slept, others discussed the evening papers; while hard by, on the bank of the river which flowed swiftly on, were the two unhappy beings whose tragic fate he was watching, unable to avert.