Yolande. A novel

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' 1 ^

Chapter II. ^ The Shadow Behind

T^HE head waiter was in the hall, alone, and staring out through the glass door. When he heard some one behind him, he turned quickly, and there w+is a vague alarm in his face.

“ The — lady, sir, has been here again.”

Mr. Winterbourne paid no heed to him, passed him hastily, and went out. The lamplight showed a figure standing there on the pavement — the figure of a tall woman, dark and pale, who had a strange, dazed look in her eyes.

“ I thought I’d bring you out!” she said, tauntingly, and with a slight laugh.

“ What do you want?” he said, quickl3% and under his breath. “ Have 3^ou no shame, woman! Come away. Tell me what you want!”

“ You know what I want,” she said, sullenly. “ I want no more lies.” Then an angrier light blazed up in the impassive, emaciated face. “ Who has driven me to it. if I have to break a window? I want no more lies and hidings. I want you to keep your promise; and if I have to break every window in the House of Commons, I will let everybody know. Whose fault is it?”

But her anger seemed to die away as rapidly as it had arisen. A dull, vague, absent look returned to her face.

“ It is not my fault”

“ What madness have you got hold of now?” he said, in the same low and nervous voice— and all his anxiety seemed to be to get her away from the hotel. “ Come along and teU me what you want. You want mo to keep my promise— to you, in this condition?”

TOLANDE.

“ It is not my fault,” she repeated, in a listless kind of way; and now she was quite obediently and peaceably following him; and he was walking toward Piccadilly, his head bent down.

“I suppose I can guess who sent you,” he said, watching her narrowly. ” 1 suppose it was not for nothing you came to make an exhibition of yourself in the public streets. They asked you to go and get some money?”

This seemed to put a new idea into her head ; perhaps that had been his intent. •

” Yes. I will take them some money, if you like,” she said, absently. ” They are my only friends now — my only friends. They have been kind to me — they don’t cheat me with lies and promises — they don’t put me oti, and turn me away when I ask for them. Yes, I will take them some money.”

And then she laughed — a short, triumphant laugh.

” 1 discovered the way to bring some one out!” she said, apparently to herself.

By this time they had reached the corner of Piccadilly, and, as a four-wheeled cab happened to be passing, he stopped it, and himself opened the door. She made no remonstrance ; she seemed ready to do anything he wished.

” Here is some money. I will pay the driver. ”

She got into the cab quite submissively; and the man was given the address, and paid. Then the vehicle was driven oil; and he w»j& left standing on the pavement, still somewhat bewildered, and not conscious how his hands were trembling.

He stood uncertain only for a second or so; then he walked rapidly back to the hotel. •

“ Has Miss Winterbourne’s maid gone to bed yet?” he asked of the landlady.

“Oh, no, sir; I should think not, sir,” the buxom person answered : she did not observe that his face was pale and his eyes nervuus.

“ Will you please tell her, then, that we shall be going down to Oatlands Park again to-morrow morning? 8he must have everything ready? hut she is not to disturb Miss Winterbourne to-night.”

“ very well, sir. ”

Then he went into the coffee-room, and found the head waiter.

“ Look here,” said he (with his eyes averted), “ I suppose you can get a man to put in a pane of glass in the window of our sitting-room — the first thing in the morning? There has been some accident. I suppose. You can have it done before Miss Winterbourne comes down, I mean?”

He slipped a sovereign into the waiter’s hand.

“ I think so, sir. Oh, yes, sir.”

“You must try to have it done before Miss Winterbourne comes down.”

He stood for a moment, apparently listening if there was any sound up stairs; and then he opened the door again and went out. Very^lowlyhe walked away through the lamp-lit streets, seeing absolQlely nothing of the passers-by, or of the rattling cabs and carand although he bent his steps W estminsterward it was cer-

YOLAKDE.

taialy not the affairs of the nation that had hold of his mind. Rather he was thinking of that beautiful fair young life— that young life 80 carefully and tenderly cherished and guarded, and all unconscious of this terrible black shadow behind it. The irony of it! It was this very night that Yolande had chosen to reveal to him her secret hopes and ambition; she was to be always with him; she was to be “ indispensable;” the days of her banishment were to be now left behind; and these two, father and daughter, were to be inseparable companions henceforth and forever. And his reply? As he walked along the half-deserted pavements, anxiously revolving many things, and dreaming many dreams about what the future might have in store for her, and regarding the trouble and terrib’e care that haunted his own life, the final summing-up of all his doubts and fears resolved itself into this— If only Yolande were married! The irony of it! She had besought him out of her love for him and out of her gratitude for his watchful and unceasing care of her that she should be admitted into a closer companionship; that she should become his constant attendant and associate and friend; and his answer was to propose to hand her over to another guardianship altogether— the guardianship of a stranger. If only Yolande were married !

The light was burning on the clock-tower, and so he knew the House was still silting; but he had no longer any intention of joining in any debate that might be going forward. When he passed into the House (and more than ever he seemed to wish to avoid the eyes of strangers) it was to seek out his friend, John Shorllands, wlmse rough common sense and blunt counsel had before now stood him in good stead and served to brace up his unstrung nerves. The tall, corpulent, big-headed ironmaster — who also represented a northern constituency — he at length found in the smoking-room, with two or three companions, who were seated round a small table, and busy •with cigars and brandy and soda. Winterbourne touched his friend lightly on the shoulder.

” Can you come outside for a minute?”

” All right.”

It was a beautiful, clear, mild night; and seated on the benches on the Terrace there were several groups of peopje — among them two or three ladies, who had, no doubt, been gla^, t ;» leave the sluffy Chamber to have tea or lemonade brought lo'!*lhfcm in the open, while they chatted with their friends and regarded the silent, dark river and the lights of the EmPankment and Westminster Bridge. As Winterbourne passed them, he could not but think of Yolande’s complaint that she had never even once been in the House of Commons. These were, no doubt, the daughters or wives or sisters of members; why should not Yolande also be silting there? It would have been pleasant for him to come out and talk to her — pleasanter than listening to a dull debate. Would Yolande have wondered at the strange nighi -picture — the broad black river, all quivering with golden reflections; the lights on the bridge; the shadowy grandeur of this great building reaching far overhead into the starlit skies? Others were there; why not she?

The Terrace of the House of Commons is at night a soiTiewhat dusky promenade- when there does not happen to be modnlight;

YOLIKDE.

but John Shortlands had sharp eyes; and he instantly guessed from his friend’s manner that something had happened.

“ More troubJe?” said he, regarding him.

“Yes,” said the other. “Well, I don’t mind— I don’t mind, as far as T am concerned. It is no new thing.”

But he sighed, in spite of his resigned way of speech.

“I have told you all along. Winterbourne, that you brought it on yourself. You should ha’ taken the bull by the horns ”

“ It is too late to talk of it — never mind that now,” he said, impatiently. “ It is about Yolande 1 want to speak to you.”

“ Yes?”

Then he hesitated. In fact, his lip trembled for the briefest part of a second.

“ You won’t guess what I am anxious for now,” he said, with a sort of uncertain laugh. “ You wouldn’t guess it in a month, Shortlands. 1 am anxious to see Yolande married.”

“Faith, that needn’t trouble you,” said the big ironmaster bluntly. “ There’ll be no difficulty about that. Yolande has grown into a thundering handsome girl. And they say,” he added, jocosely, “ that her father is pretty well off.” .

They were walking up and down, slowly; Mr. Winterbourne’s face absent and hopeless at times, at limes almost piteous, and again lightening up as he thought of some brighter future for his daughter.

“ She cannot remain longer at any school,” he said, at length, “ and I don’t like leaving her by herself at Oatlands Park or any similar place. Poor child! Do you know what her own plans are? She wants to be my private secretary. She wants to share the life that I have been leading all these years ”

“ And so she might have done, my good fellow, if there had been anv common sense among the lot o' ye ”

^'It is too late to speak of that now.” the other repeated, with a sort of nervous fretfulness. “ But indeed it is hard on the poor girl. She seems to have been thinking seriously about it. And she and 1 have been pretty close companions, one way or another, of late years. Well, if 1 could only see her safely married and settled — perhaps living in the country, where I could run down for a day or so — her name not mine — perhaps w^ith a j’oung family to occupy her and make her hap|^— well, then, I think I should be able to put up with the loss of my private secretary. 1 wonder what she will sa}' when I propose it. She will be disappointed — perhaps she will think I don’t care for her— when there is just not another creature in the world I do care for— she may think it cruel and unnatural ”

“ Nonsense, nonsense, man. Of course a girl like Yolande will get married. Your private secretary! How long would it last? Does she look like the sort of girl who ought to be smothered up in correspondence or listening to debates? And if you’re in such a mighty hurry to get rid of her— if you want to get her married at once. I’ll tell you a safe and sure way — send her for a voyage on board a P. and O. steamer.”

But this was just somewhat too blunt; and Yolande’s father said, angrily,

“ I don’t want to gel rid of her. And I am not likely to send her

YOLANDE.

any^^here; hitherto we have traveled together — and we have found it answer well enough, 1 can tell you. Yolande isn’t a bale of goods, to be disposed of to the first bidder. If it comes to that, perhaps she will not marry any one.”

” Perhaps,” said the other, calmly.

” I don’t know that I may not throw Slagpool over and quit the country altogether,” he exclaimed, with a momentary recklessness. ” Why shouldn’t I? Yolande is fond of traveling. She has been four times across the Atlantic now. She is the best companion 1 know; I tell you 1 don’t know a better companion. And I’m sick of the way they’re going on here.” (He nodded in the direction of the House.) “ Government? They don’t govern; they talk. A Parliamentary victory is all they think about; and the country going to the mischief aH the time. No matter, if they get their majority, and if they can pose before the wmrld as the most moral and exemplary government that ever existed. I wonder they don’t give up Gibraltar to Spain; and hand over Malta to Italy; and then they ought to let Ireland go, because she wants to go; and certainly they ought to yield up India, for India was stolen; and then they might reduce the army and the navy, to set an example of disarmament; so that at last the w’orld might see a spectacle!— a nation permitted to exist by other nations because of its uprightness and its noble sentiments. Well, that has nothing to do with Yolande; except that I think she and 1 could gel on very well even if we left England to pursue its course of high morality. We could look on — and laugh, as the rest of the world are doing.”

“My dear fellow.” said Shortlands, who had listened to all this high treason with calmness; “ you could no more get on without the excitement of worrying the Government than without meat and drink. What wmuld it conie to? You would be in Colorado, let us say; and some young fellow in Denver, come in from the plains, would suddenly discover that Y’'olande would be an adorning feature for his ranch; and she would discover that he was the handsomest young gentleman she ever saw; and then where would you be? Y^ou wouldn’t be much good at a ranch. The morning papers would look tremendous empty without the usual protest against the honorable member for Slagpool so grossly misrepresenting the action of the Government. My good fellow, we can’t do without you in fJie House; we might as well try to do without the Speaker.”

For a few seconds they wmlked up and down in silence; at last Winterbourne said with a sigh —

“ Well, 1 don’t know what may happen; but in the meantime 1 think I shall take Y’^olande away for another long trip some, where ”

“ Again? Already?”

“ 1 don’t care where; but the moment I find myself on the deck of a ship, and Yolande bcsiae me, then I feel as if all care had dropped aw’ay from me. 1 feel safe; I can breathe freely. Oh, b}" the w^ay! I meant to ask if you knew anything of a Colonel Graham? You have been so often to Scotland shooting. I thought you might know,”

“ But there are so many Grahams ”

“ Invcrstroy, I think, is the name of his place.”

YOLANDE.

“ Oh, that Graham. Yes, 1 should think so — a lucky beggar. Inverstroy fell plump into his hands some three or four years ago — quite unexpectedly — one of the finest estates in Invernesshire. I don’t think India will see him again.”

” His wife seems a nice sort of woman,” said Mr. Winterbourne, with the slightest touch of interrogation.

” I don’t know her. She is his second "wife. She is a daughter of Lord Lynn.”

*' They are down at Oatlands just now. Yolande has made their acquaintance, and they have been very kind to her. Well, this Colonel Graham was saying the other evening that he felt as though he had been lonff enough in the old country, and would like to lake a P. and O. trip as far as Malta, or Suez, or Aden, just to renew his acquaintance with the old route. In fact, they proposed that Yolande and 1 should join them.”

” The rery thing!” said John Shortlands, facetiously. ‘‘ What did I say? A P. and O. voyage will marry off anybody who is willing to marry.”

** 1 meant nothing of the kind,” said the other, somewhat out of temper: ‘‘Yolande may not marry at all. If I went with these friends of hers it would not be ‘ to get rid of her,’ as you say.”

” My dear fellow, don’t quarrel with me,” said his friend, with more consideration than was habitual with him. ” 1 really understand your position very well. You wish to see Yolande married and settled in life and removed from— from certain possibilities. But you don’t like the sacrifice; and I don’t wonder at that; I admit it will be rather rough on you. But it is the way of the world; other people’s daughters get married. Indeed. Winterbourne, 1 think it would be better for both of you. You would have less anxiety. And I hope she’ll find a young fellow who is worthy of Imr; for she is a thundering good girl, that’s what I think; and whoever he is he’ll get a prize— though I don’t imagine you will be over well disposed toward him, old chap.”

‘‘ If Yolande is happ}^ that will be enough for me,” said the other, absently, as Big Ben overhead began to toll the hour of twelve.

By this time the Terrace was quite deserted; and after some little further chat (Mr. Winterbourne had lost much of his nervousness now, and of course all his talking was about Yolande, and her ways, and her liking for travel, and her anxiety to get rid of her half* French accent, and so forth), they turned into the House, where they separated, Winterbourne taking his seat below the gangway on the Government side, John Shortlands depositing his magnificent bulk on one of the Opposition benches.

There was a general hum of conversation. There was also, as presently appeared, some laborious discourse going forward on the part of a handsorne-looking elderly gentleman — a gentleman who, down in the country, was known to be everything that an Englishman could wish to be; an efficient magistrate, a plucky rider to hounds, an admirable husbarid and father, and a firm believer in the Articles of the Church of England. Unhappily, alas, he had acquired some other beliefs. He had got it into his head that he was an orator; and as he honestly did believe that talking was of value to the IState— that it was a builder-up and maintainer of em-

YOLAKDE.

pire— he was now most seriously engaged in clothing some rather familiar ideas in long and Latinized phrases, the while the House murmured to itself about its own affairs, and the Speaker gazed blankly into space, and the reporters in the Gallery thought of their courting days, or of their wives and children, or of their supper, and wondered when they were to get home to bed. TJie speech had a half-somnolent effect; and those who were so inclined had an excellent opportunity for the dreaming of dreams.

What dreams, then, were likely to visit the brain of the member for Slagpool, as he sat there with his eyes distraught? His getting up some fateful evening to move a vote of want of confidence in the Government? His appearance on the platform of the Slagpool Mechanics’ Institute, with the great mass of people rising and cheering and waving their handkerchiefs? Or perhaps some day — for who could tell what changes the years might bring? — his taking his place on the Treasury bench there?

He had got hold of a blue-book. It was the Report of a Royal Commission; but of course all the cover of the folio volume w^as not printed over — there were blank spaces. And so (while those laborious and ponderous sentences were being poured out to inattentive ears) the member for Slagpool began idly and yet throughtfuHy to pencil certain letters up at one corner of the blue cover. He was a long time about it; perhaps he saw pictures as he slowly and contemplatively formed each letter; perhaps no one but himself could have made out what the uncertain penciling meant. But it was not of politics he was thinking. The letters that he had faintly penciled there — that he was still wistfully regarding as though they could show him things far aw^ay— formed the word TOLxiNDE. It was like a lover.

Chapter III. Prepakations For Flight

Next morning bis nervous anxiety to get Yolande away at once out of London was almost pitiable to witness, through he strove as well as he could to conceal it from her. He had a hundred excuses. Oatlands was becoming very pretty at that time of the year. There was little of importance going ou in the House. London was not good for the roses in her cheeks. He himself would be glad of a breathe up St. George’s Hill, or a quiet stroll along to Cherlsey. And so forth; and so forth.

Yolande was greatly disappointed. She had been secretly nursing the hope that at last she might be allowed to remain in London, in some capacity or another, as I he constant companion of her father. She had enough sense to see that the time consumed in his continually coming to stay with her in the country must be a serious thing for a man in public life. She was in a dim sort of w'ay afraid that these visits might become irksome to him, even although he himself should not be aware of it. Then she had her ambitions, too. She had a vague impression that the country at large did not quite understand and appreciate her father; that the people did not know him as she knew him, How could they, if he were to be forever forsaking

YOLANDE.

his public duties in order to gad about with a girl Just left school. Never before (Yolande was convinced) had the nation such urgent need of ids services. There were a great many things wrong which lie could put right; of that she had no manner of doubt. The Government was making a tyrannical use of a big majority to go their own way, not heeding the warnings and protests of independent members; this amongst many other things ought to be attended to. And it was at such a time, and just when she had revealed to him her secret aspiration that she might perhaps become his private secretary, that he must needs tell her to pack up, and insist on quitting London with her. Yolande could not understand it; but she was a biddable and obedient kind of creature; and so she look her place in the tour-wheeled cab without any word of complaint.

And yet, when once they were really on their way from London — when the railway carriage was fairly out of the station— her father’s manner seemed to gain so much in cheerfulness that she could hardly be sorry they had left. She had not noticed that he had been more anxious and nervous that morning than usual; but she could not fail to remark how much brighter his look was now they were out in the clear air. And when Yolande saw her father’s eyes light up like this— as they did occasionally— she was apt to forget about the injury that was being done to the affairs of the empire. They had been much together, these two; and anything appertaining to him was of keen interest to her; whereas the country at large was something of an abstraction; and the mechanical majority of the Government— for which she had a certain measure of contempt — little more than a name.

“ Yolande,” said he (they had the compartment to themselves), “ I Lad a talk with John Shortlands last night.”

*' Yes, papa?”

” And if England slept well from that time until this morning it was because she little knew the fate that was in store for her. Think of this, child; 1 half threatened to throw up ray place in Parliament altogether — letting the country go to the mischief if it liked; and then the arrangement would be that you and I, Yolande — now just consider this— that you and I should start away together, and roam all over the world, looking at everything, and amusing ourselves — going just where we liked — no one to interfere with us— you and 1 all by ourselves — now, Yolande!”

She had clasped her hands with a quick delight.

‘‘ Oh, papa, that would indeed ”

But she stopped; and instantly her face grew grave again,

“Oh, no.” she said, “no; it would not do. Last night, papa,

you were reproachful of me ”

“ ‘ Reproachful of me!’ ” he repeated, mockingly.

“Reproachful to me?” she said, with inquiring eyes. But he himself was not ready with the correct phrase; and so she went on: “ Last night you were reproachful that I had taken up so much of your time; and though it was all in fun, still it was true; and now I am no longer a schoolgirl; and I wish to help you if I can; and

not be merely tiresome and an incumbrance ”

“You are so much of an incumbrance, Yolande!” he said, with a laugh.

TOLAJ^DE.

"Yes,” slie said, gravely, ‘‘you would tire of me if we went away like that. In time you would tire. One would tire of always hciiig amused; all the people, that we see have work to do; and some day— it might be a long lime— but some day you would think of Parliament, and you would think you had given it up forme ”

‘‘ Don’t make such a mistake!” said be. ” Do not consider yourself of such importance, miss. If I threw over Slagpool, and stalled as a wandering Jew — I mean we should be two wanuering Jews, you know, Yolande— it would be quite as much on my own account as yours ”

‘‘You would become tired of being amused. You could not always travel,” she said. She put her hand on his hand. ‘‘Ah, 1 see what it is,” she said, with a little laugh. ‘‘ You are concealing. That is your kindness, papa. You think I am too much alone; it is not enough that you sacrifice to-da}^ to-morrow, next day, to me; but you wish to make a sacrifice altogether; and you pretend you are tired of politics. Put you cannot make me blind to it. 1 see — oh. quite clearly I can see through your pretense!”

He was scarce!}' listening to her now.

‘‘ I suppose,” he said, absently, ‘‘ it is one of those fine things that are loo fine ever to become true. Fancy now— the two of us just wandering away where we pleased— nesting a day, a week, a month, when we came to some beautiful place— all by ourselves in the wide world.”

‘‘ I have often noticed that, papa,” she said, ‘‘ that you like to talk about being away — about being remote ”

*‘ But we should not be like the Wandering Jew in one respect,” he said, almost to himself. " The years would tell. There would be a difference. Something might happen to one of us.”

And then, apparently, a new suggestion entered his mind. He glanced at the girl opposite him — timidly and anxiously.

‘‘ Yolande,” said he, ‘‘ I — I wonder now— I suppose at your age — well, have you ever thought of gelling married?”

She looked up at him with her clear, frank eyes, and when she was slarlled like that her mouth had the slight pathetic, droop, already noticed, that made her face so sensitive and charming.

‘‘ Why, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times!” she exclaimed, still with her soft clear eyes wondering.

His eyes were turned away. He appeared to attach no importance to this confession.

‘‘Of course,” she said, " when I say I have thought hundreds of fimes of getting married it is about not getting married that 1 mean. Xo. That is my resolution. Oh, many a time I have said that to myself. 1 shall not marry — never — no one.”

In spite of himself his face suddenly brightened up ; and it was quite cheerfully that he went on to say —

” Oh, but, Yolande, that is absurd. Of course you will marry. Of course you must marry.”

‘‘ When yoiT put me away, papa.”

” When I put you away!” he repeat6d, with a laugh.

” Yes,” she continued quite simply. ‘‘That was what madame used to say. She used to say ‘ If your papa marries again, that is what you must expect. It will be better for you to leave the house,

YOLAKDE.

But your papa is rich; you will have a good portion; then you will find some one to marry you, and give you also an establishment/ ‘ Very well,’ I said, ‘ but that is going too far. madame; and until my papa tells me to go away from him I shall not go away, and there is not any necessity that 1 shall many any one.’ ”

“ I wish madame had minded her own affairs,” Mr, Winterbourne said angrily. ” I am nol likely to marry again, 1 shall not marry again. Put that out of your head, Yolande— at once, and for always. But as for you— well, don’t you see. child— I — 1 can’t live forever; and you have got no very near relatives; and besides, liv- 'ing with relatives isn’t always the pleasantest of things; and 1 should like to see your future quite settled. I should like to know that — that ”