THE RIDDLE RING.

Press, Volume LIII, Issue 9430, 30 May 1896, Page 2

THE RIDDLE RING.

By Justin McCarthy. Author of "Dear Lady Disdain," "Camiola," " The Comet of a Season," " Donna Quixote," '• A Fair Saxon," "The Rival Princees."

CHAPTER XL—The Sweet Sorrow of Parting.

Jim's last nieht in Paris had come. What a time he had had of it in Paris—this time ! How happy hs had been—how miserable he had been $ How delightful, how distressful —how perplexed and utterly futile it had been. Now all was over, and he was going back to London, to Clargee Street and the Voyagers' Club, and he must take up the work—the pro3aic work—of life again, or rather, indeed for the first time and at the beginning , . "Muss selber nun Philister sein," as the German student-song puts it, must come down from his high horse of fancy and imagination and impossible love-making and be himself a Philistine and a worker, like everybody else. And a worker for what ? He could live well enough, he could pay for his daily bread and his club and his clothes, and what did he want else, now that his dreams bad all evaporated ? Or why not go fo some new country ? A new country is anew career. Why not California or Australia or South Africa ? Ah, and the thought flashed suddenly through him, why not hear fully out the schemes of Waley? Why not get to know the mysterious chief, who would doubtless turn out to be not mysterious at all but only some plucky British adventurer with a heart for any fate ? What could suit Jim better in his present mood ? Westward ho—Eastward ho—Northward ho —Southward ho—anywhere ho—it was all one to him. "I am glad to go back to London," he said to himself. " I have no further business here," as indeed he had not.

For days and days, under the charm of Clelia Vine's company, he had forgotten all about the mystery of the ring. Now, he could not tell why, he took it out and studied its hieroglyphic all over again. Was it because it - soothed him to remind himself that others had suffered and were suffering as well as he ? Perhaps that was the reason at the bottom of his consciousness, but on the surface of his consciousness no reason showed iteelf. It seemed to him as if be had taken up the ring by the merest haphazard. But having taken it up, he studied it anew and tried to read its riddle.

■ He put it before him on hi 3 dressing table that last night in Paris, and he began to think—not of it, Jbut of himself. He had been hit very hard this time, he thought. He had been hit two ways—he was bitterly disappointed about Clelia, and he was perhaps to be the source of bitter disappointment to Gertrude, for whom already he felt a warm affection. He could never forget how,-when he was in the depths of his first love-trouble, she came and all unconsciously stepped between him and his fighting soul. He remembered the music of her voice that first night wben he ventured to speak to her. It seemed as if she had come to him and put a friendly hand upon his shoulder and spoken words of encouragement into his ear and told bjm that there was something yet to live for in the world. And now he came to learn that she had grown to care about him—and he must disappoint her.

For he could 'not help himself—he loved Clelia Vine. And Clelia had only encouraged him because she believed that through her he »as seeking to approach Gertrude Morefiel'.t.

There was enough for him to think about without embarrassing himself in fntile and conjectures over the troubles and the disappointments of other and unknown lovers whose very existence he had only come to gue3s at by deciphering the hieroglyphic posey of a ring. But to study the ring mystery, which of late he had nearly forgotten, had a new fascination for him now. He began to feel as if he had been ungrateful to the ring—had renounced his duty to it while he thought he was nappy —had wholly forgotten the woman with the wrecked life whom he created for himself out of his own conjectures during the first days of his visit to Paris. He did not allow himself to think as to how he should meet the Morefields again, or whether he ought to meet them again. He did not even occupy himself much with any conjectures as to the sad story of Clelia's life. What would be the nse? She was gone from him, she could be nothing to him ; the very kindness and very tenderness of her words and her manner to him filled him with a new despair. She was so frank with him, because she never had really cared for him. Her great anxiety about him was to try to get him to offer himself to another woman. He set himself deliberately to study the ring lying before him, and almost began to regard it as a talisman which he ought for ever to have kept with i him, and which he had laid aside and forgotten. The talisman was bound to have its revenge, he thought. At last,- worn out with thinking, he went to bed and fell asleep with the ring under his pillow. He seemed as if he could not sleep without it now—as if he must never part from it again until he had read its mystery, and found out its rightful owner.

Then he woke with a great start and a cry. The cry it was that wakened him. For he had had a dream which seemed to him extraordinary now, and yet was as a dream that might well have come before. Was it a mere nightmare, or was it an inspiration ? He thought that he was sitting somewhere with Clelia, long before —before he had ever met her—and he saw on her finger the ring which he now held in his care, and under the pillow. Yes, there it was on her finger, with its enamelled and hieroglyphic letters on the outside ! The M'hole idea broke upon him like a revelation, and yet when lie began to waken up fully, and to get his senses clearly about him he could not think that it was auything but a wild chimera of the night.

All the same it took possession of him. Clelia had been in Paris longer than Mrs Morefield knew of: that he had thought quite certain, even when he did not attach the slightest; importance to the possibility. For soma reason or other the two girls had not allowed Mrs Morefield to know exactly the day on which Miss Vine came to Paris. Thero was not much to go on in that—but there possibly was something. The dream might be explained easily enough. All unconsciously to himself Conrad might have been working the story of Clelia into the mystery of the ring, arid full consciousness may have burst forth in blossom, as it often does in a dream. The idea seized hold of him. Francisco — Rosita — there was nothing to euggest Miss Vine in that. Still, here is a young and beautiful woman with a story of some kind, who was in Paris the day when the ring was thrown away, and whose presence in Paris that day was" known only to her one most intimate friend—surely there was something suggestive in all that. What could he do ? How could he test the truth of any conjecture ? What right had he even to attempt to finl out ? Mrs Morefield had said she never made any attempt to find out Clelia's secret—why should he propose to be less discreet? Oh, yes, he told himself a reason soon enough as he sat up in his bod that perplexed morning. Because he might be able to help her—because he was a man and knew the world—did he, poor fellow ?— and because he could deeire nothing more than to devote himself to-her. service.- Tq do him justice this was the ilppSlmoafc thought in his mind. She was entangled in an linhappy marriage, and of course there was no hope or chance for him —but youth is often very generous in its love, and glories in the idea of suppression and self-sacrifice qmd service rendered to the loved one at the cost of one's own self-effacement and surrender. As men grow older this feeling grows colder, but it is sometimes very fond and true in youth. '

Thi3 was the feeling that filled Jim Conrad's mind. All hope for himself muat die. But he might be able to serve and to help her. How he did not even stop to consider. It was the early hour of a lovely autumnal morning in Paris, and the snn was streaming in at the windows, and all the world was young again, and anything seemed possible to the generous and half-poetic mind. Jim had now a sudden wild insane longing to see Miss Vine—if she must be called Miss Vine—once again before he went back to London and to his new life. Bat he did not want to see her in the presence of the More- , fields, and he had yet to pay his formal j visit of farewell to the Moretields—and he did not want a common farewell to all. How times had changed for him since that day— the other day—ages ago—a few weeks ago —since first he mot the Morefields at the table d'hote! All the world had changed for him since then. Aud he had a strange foreshadowing creepiug over him that the change which had been was as nothing to the change that would be. In the mind and in the heart, in the spirit; and in the sense, of this healthy, vigorous, plucky, wellread, well-cultured young man, there was what Hamlet calls "a kind of fighting" that sometimes, he could not tell wherefore, made him wish that he were a, woman and could relieve his feelings by what women call "a good cry." But in place of having a good cry Jim had a bad breakfast—not that the food of the Grand Hotel was bad, but that the appetite somehow would not come just then for any food. Then he wandered out and found his way to the Bois de Boulogne and to the accustomed place. He leaned over the railings and looked at the still somewhat far distant spot where he had picked up the ring—the ill-gifted ring as lie assumed it to be. His dream had naturally revived his interest in the ring, ami he thought he would go and stand, as nearly as his memory would allow him, on the very spot where he •had found it. "I want to see it for the last time," he said to himself, "for I shall never come to Paris again." Alas, how easily fond youth tells* , itself in its hearttrouble that it will never come to this, that, or the other particular place again! Just as he was about to scramble over the railings he happened to look round—and light came into the avenue—for there was Clelia Vine walking slowly and all alone on the footpath and coming towards him. Suddenly, irresistibly, the thought of his dream flashed up in his mind. He went to meet her. The unexpected meeting seemed to have embarrassed them both. She was the first to recover her self-possession. "So early !" she said, with a kindly smile, and something very b'ke a blush. "I often walk here in the morning," he answered, rather stupidly. " Don't you ? " "Sometimes—yes—not often—seldom indeed—only when the mood takes mc." ' ' The mood ? What mood ? " "Why, that mood," she answered, now with self-possession quite recovered. "The mood to walk out early, and to walk here." " Oh, yes," he said, blankly, "quite so." Then he hurriedly added, "lam leaving for London to-night, you know." " As if I didn't know! Aβ if I hadn't driven yon away!" " Oh—no—you haven't driven mc away." TZ" Well—of course you will see Mrs Morefield and Gertrude before you leave Paris ?" "Yes, indeed yes—l could not possibly leave without saving good-bye to them. I owe them too much of kindness," " Yon apeak very solemnly," she said, with a somewhat melancholy smile. "It is not likely that you are to say a farewell of them for ever." '' Well-—I don't know+-I have vague ideas of going into some quite new far-off country and striking out some new path—but never mind abont that just now. What way are yon walking V "I was thinking of turning back," she said, sadly. For she knew what was meant by the longing to go off to the far foreign country. "May I walk a little with you? lam not going back to the hotel just yet." "Oh, yes—l shall be delighted. At least, I don't quite know about being delighted—for lam sorry to hear you talk about throwing yourself away on some itrange and far-off oountry."

" One must do something." " One needn't do that*" They how turned round and began to walk slowly towards the Arch of Triumph and the city. They, walked for a few paces in silence. Conrad had much to say or thought he had, but the words froze upon his lips. A woman less sincere than Glelia would have aflfeeted not to notice his embarrassment. She came to the point at once. "You have something to say to mc, Mr Conrad ? I know you have." " Not? very much-— or to any great purpose; bufc " . "Yes, tell mc." She spoke encouragingly, winningly. . " Is there anything I could help you in ?" he asked, bluntly. " You ? Oh, no, there is nothing ! Nothing at all." "Why not?" " Because—what could you do ? " "Ah, well, that is exactly what I do not know j but you might perhape be able to tell mc." "Oh, no, there is nothing. You see I have good friends." " Women—yes." "Come, now, don't let Gertrude hear you speak in that contemptuous tone about woman and tlieir help ! "* " Indeed, I had not the faintest notion of the kind. Only there are things in which a man can help a woman better than a woman can. Don't you remember the story of the woman's rights woman in America who happened to get left alone in a log-house on the frontier of an Indian territory ? " "•No—what was the matter with her ?" " Well, she confessed to her secret heart that when it came to a question of loading and discharging a shot-gun she kinder prei ferred to have a man around." Clelia smiled a sort of thanks-for-kind-inquiries smile. "Yes," she answered; "bnt there is no need of a shot-gun in this case." " No, I suppose not; but you would understand my illustration all the same." " My dear friend, of course I understand j your illustration. I think I understand you and your illustration too. But in plain words you can do nothing for mc. Nothing in life can ever be well with mc again " "Oh, pray don't talk like that!" he exclaimed, passionately, in protest against this sentence of despair. "What is the use of not saying it? I don't say it to every one. I say it only to you—and to Gertrude. I have never said it even to Mrs Morefield, whom I love with quite a tender affection. Nothing in life can ever be well with mc again." "I do not even know your trouble," he said, rather sullenly. " You do not—why should you be troubled with it—you cannot help mc out of my trouble." "Is your husband living?" he asked, abruptly. " He is—at least I suppose he is " " Do you hope he is ?" . The words escaped him before he quite understood what tlieir effect on her would bo. She drew herself back with the appearance of a certain shock. "My husband is my husbaud !" she said, coldly. "I am übt likely to wish for his death." "No—no —of course not," poor Jim said, disconsolately. " I didn't mean that at all !" "Then I wonder, Mr Conrad, what did you mean ?" " I really don't know. IJiad a vague but very strong sense of wishing to serve you somehow ; and I suppose I wanted first of all to get at the facts of your story." "You can't get at the facts of my story, or any of them," she said ; " unless 1 choose to tell you ; and I shall not tell you, for it would not do mc any good or you any good. Now, Mr Conrad, listen to mc. You have been very kind, and sympathetic, and sweet to mc. I value—oh, you do not know how much—your kindness and your sweetness and your sympathy. But it is only a waste of your time to try to help mc in any way. There are others whom, you might help—you can't help mc. You do not kuow anything about mc." - " Suppose I should ever 1 should ever come to guess something about you." ..".... " You could not," she said, composedly; "it is impossible." , . . . ''Impossible ! oh, nothing in life is impossible. I may know yet." ; " About mc ?" "-About you-ryou—you.!" ' She stopped short. "You have told ine," she said, "that you will never try to find out." "Yes, I have told you that, and of course I shall never try to find out. But suppose I were, by some strange fate, intermixed somehow in your life ? " " That I hope, Mr Conrad—" "Mr Conrad ! You called mc Jim only yesterday." She smiled a sweet pleading* smile. "Then I was saying good-bye." if Now you are really saying good-bye." " Very well then, if it pleases you—Jim." "Yes—go on." " What were we. saying ? Oh, yes, you said that you might by some strange fate be intermixed somehow in my life." "Yes—well?" " Well, I hope you will never be, for your sake, and for mine. There, good-bye.' ? That parting was over.

CHAPTER XH.—Back to London.

Jim Conrad found himself again in London. He had been there for several weeks. It Was late in the year, and there was a dull Blight fog, not disguising, but.only confusing, reality, and even Piccadilly looked dismal, and Jim's heart" went metaphorically down to his boots. He shivered mentally over the prospects of the winter. He had been hurt very badly he told himself over and over again, and all there was left for him was to get over it as goon as he possibly could. Life looked very dreary before him, and the only prospect that snemed to attract him was that of going away to some new country on some new enterprise, and not coming back any more. When one is very young one has such dreams. Later oh, men learn that they generally come back from all sorts of p ! aces, and that London does not care whether they come or whether they go! That, too, is somewhat of a healthful, invigorating experience, which helps to knock the nonsense out of one. But the experience had not yet come to Jim Conrad, and so he brooded over his personal trouble in his own sort of-way.

Of course he was far too manly and too well trained a youth to show any of his troubles to the outer world. For .all his boyish nature, he hod a good deal of the reflective social philosopher about him, and he was quite possessed of the fact that nobody cares a straw for the love troubles of anybody else. Jim could remember some terrible bores, who used to inflict upon him all the story of their own griefs and failures in love. These were certainly many shades less exasperating than the class of cads, wellborn or lowly, who came on him with long tales of their triumphs and conquests in love. For such as these Jim had nothing but contempt, and could not even put on an appearance of patience and sympathy. But the poor fellows who liked to tell of their misfortunes ought by that very right, that sacred right of misfortune, to have some claim to be heard by compassionate ears. Yet all the same, Jim found them bores, and he was sure they would in their turn find him a bore if he were to ask them to listen to bis tale of woe. So he kept his tale of woe to himself; and he suffered much, but without any. parade of his sufferings. He did not choose that any daws should peck at his heart. Therefore he did not wear it on his sleeve. He quite appreciated his own experiences. He thoroughly understood the vast difference between the sort of sentimentaliem in which he had spontaneously, indulged himself towards his good-for-nothing hrst love, and the deep unsought-for passion with which lie wae filled for Clelia Vine. In truth, a young man's first love, like a young woman's, is in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred a mere phantom and ecstacy. The young man, or the young woman, is longing to be in love with somebody, and the first alluring figure which comes in the way seems heavensent to be the object of homage. Jim now smiled half pitifully, half contemptuously, at his factitious and fanciful attempt at love-making, and thought to himself often, even in his present distress, how lucky it was for him that the girl had found a better match, and had frankly thrown him over. Suppose it had been his fate to marry that girl! He wonld rather, a thousand times rather, have his present disappointment than that sort of success. And yet what a short time had passed since his Rosaline seemed all' sufficing to him !— the time before he met Juliet—Clelia Vine ! — Clelia Vine. The name Bent a sort of pang

through him. Clelia Vine ? Was Vine her name; now? No, he supposed not, he assumed not. She had probably, for whatever reason, gone back to her maiden name. Mrs Morefield always called her Clelia Vine, and yet did not know that she ever had been" married. Should he ever come to know her name ? Should he ever come to know her husband ? It would be strange if he did come to meet him without knowing in the lea3t who he was. Biich things were very possible in a place like London, where everybody comes and whence everybody goes, and where, roughly speaking, nobody really knows anything about anybody.

Meanwhiile Gonrad went about in his usual way. He frequented the Voyagers' Club. He looked into a theatre now and then ; he read the morning and the evening papers ; he strolled sometimes in the lonely and spectral Row. Not many of his more intimate friends were yet in town. . There were hardly any doors open to him. As he put it himself, there was hardly a house where, if he knocked, there was any chance of the latch being lifted. But there were still, or already, a good many of his chance and bachelor friends knocking about town, and on the whole Jim had a fairly good time. He tried over and over again to settle down and begin his first novel, but his mind did not seem to bite into any subject. If he had been really hard-up, he would probably have found a story long before. But if a young man has enough to live upon for the present without recourse to literature, ho is apt to be very fastidious about his first choice of a literary venture. Jim had a vague notion still that he ought to write something about the ring, but it was only a vague notion and had not consolidated or crystallised itself at all so far. It shoxild be sivid that he had shown the ring to a London goldsmith and jeweller, with whom his family had long been acquainted, and whom he felt that he could trust, and from this authority he learned that the ring was undoubtedly of an English family pattern, but was apparently made in India, of delicate-fingered Indian workmanship. Some member of an English household, being in India, had probably had a family ring duplicated under the hands of Indian artificers. This may have brought Conrad a little nearer to the gate of the mystery, but it certainly did not fuvnißh him with any elite or thread to guide his way in that direction. It did not seem to eive any vitality to his dream in Paris—that last night there. Hβ was beginning to be in a sort of way impatient with the ring, in the mood of Alexander when he relieved his mind about the plagning Gordian knot. He sometimes could have found it in his heart to throw the ring into the Thames or the Serpentine.

Jim's rooms at Clarges street were on the second floor. The sitting-room had a balcony, and looked on the street. The rooms were modest, like their owner's means. Still they had what might be called an air of expectancy about them. The younger son of a younger son, if he feels himself conscious of any capacity in himself at all, is always bound to be expectant. Such a youth cannot but think that he will some day or other add to his gift of birth his gift of brains. Now Jim Conrad had got into the confirmed habit of believing that he had in him that which passeth show—in other words, that he had a literary endowment which would one day be materialised into cheques. Therefore he had set out his sitting-room and bedroom with a certain appearance of luxury. He was fond of great books in precious editions, with uncut leaves and approved bindings. He was fond of first editions, and other such costly and keenly-competed for possessions. Perhaps he did not greatly care to read the books which he had thus stored up in the precious packets—at all events, if he read the texts of the authors—and he sometimes did—he wisely preferred to read them in cheap editions. His sitting-room contained some good etchings and some fine prints. Albo there were some coloursketches given him by professional painters and others, mostly perhaps by amateur artists who were friends of his, and among hia book« were counted, it should-be said, many presentation copies, chiefly it is true, by authors who had not as yet achieved supreme distinction. Oh the whole, there was a look of ease and even of luxury about the rooms which might have beguiled many a fond creditor, and have suggested the idea of great expectations. (To be continued.)