Chapter SEVENTEEN

Aylmer saw Peyton a few days later, but very little was said on the subject of the Quentins. Aylmer had resolved, after very little reflection, that he would go down to Sherehaven, which was only a short distance from London. Hardly big enough to be called a town, just a straggling sort of place full of rather picturesque cottages, with a few fair-sized houses interspersed, and a long, narrow street that led down to the shore. He had been there once before, on a motor tour, and had halted to take tea at the King’s Head, an old-fashioned hostelry dating back to the fifteenth century, half inn, half hotel.

There could be no confidence, of course, between the two men on the subject of Eileen, owing to the solemn promise to respect her confidence which Aylmer had given her. Without doubt Peyton suspected his feelings for her, and regarded the whole affair with the deepest disapproval. To a clean-minded fellow like himself, the idea of an understanding with a married woman was abhorrent, as it would have been to Aylmer himself.

He could not resist the idea of going down to Sherehaven, although he felt that the visit would not help him very much. But the urge to see the house, where his sweetheart so successfully had hidden herself from him, was irresistible. It could not fail to be with any lover as steadfast and devoted as he was.

It just might be possible that the Quentins were still there, that the statement that he was moving on the following day was only a piece of camouflage, that for some reason or another he did not want anybody to come down to the place, and had forestalled Whitefield’s intention of doing so, if the idea had occurred to the American of making an unannounced visit. But, somehow, Aylmer fancied that Quentin had told the truth.

Supposing, however, that the Quentins were still in residence at Rosebank, which he would find out in five minutes’ conversation with somebody at the King’s Head, how would he act? Would he go boldly to the house and ask for them, or would he not?

As he got into the train, he did not feel himself able to give a definite answer to that question. To beard Quentin, to tell him that he knew the truth, and to tax him with separating Eileen and himself from his own selfish motives, was an unusually drastic proceeding which would require a considerable amount of moral courage, more especially in face of the fact that Eileen herself had acquiesced in the cruel decision, and besought him never to seek her out.

Well, he could not decide now. He would wait till he got to Sherehaven itself, and shape his action according to the information he obtained there. There was a middle course that could be taken. It was a small place, little more than a big village. If the Quentins were still there he only had to put up for a night or two at the King’s Head; and, in the course of his stay, he would be sure to come upon Eileen alone. She was an open-air sort of woman, she would not shut herself up in the house for long, and in such a limited area there was not much chance of their missing each other.

When he got out at the somewhat primitive station and walked down to the King’s Head, a distance of about three-quarters of a mile, he found certain changes, from his recollection of the place some three years ago. The speculative builder had made his appearance on the scene. Close to the railway station itself, a few roads of modest, semi-detached houses had come into being, with a small accompanying colony of shops.

Between here and the beginning of the long, narrow street which led to the sea, he came upon further signs of building enterprise. It was evident there was the beginning of a slight boom in the somewhat sleepy locality. Sherehaven certainly possessed a fine and invigorating air, and no doubt, as the place grew in favor, the train service, which was now bad and infrequent, would be improved.

In the high street itself, if it could be called by such an important name, there were further signs of development, which, to Aylmer’s rather fastidious taste, did not make for improvement, from either an architectural or picturesque point of view. There were only a couple of houses of any pretension in the street--one large and old-fashioned, standing in a fair-sized garden and having a goodly portion of land at the back, enclosed by a fairly high wall; the other a residence of slightly smaller kind with a big forecourt. These were inhabited, respectively, by a retired solicitor and the local doctor, and remained untouched by time.

But a great change had taken place in some half a dozen of the small shops which had been so delightfully in keeping with the old-fashioned atmosphere of the little coast town. In these the iconoclast had worked his sacrilegious will. New stories had been added, new-fashioned kinds of windows had been thrown out, woefully out of keeping with the old-world surroundings.

The King’s Head itself had fallen a victim to the mania for development under a new proprietor. A large dining room, which was very tastefully decorated, had been built out at the back, and the rather wide hall had been converted into a good-sized lounge by the taking in of a small room. Aylmer distinctly remembered the former proprietor, a taciturn and lethargic man, who was quite civil in his slow way, but not the person to attract custom by any qualities of good fellowship.

The present Boniface was of a totally different stamp, alert, obliging, radiating geniality. Aylmer had brought a suitcase with him, as he intended to pass at least one night in the place, if not more. The landlord promised him a most comfortable bed and handed him the refreshment he asked for.

“Some changes have taken place since I was last here, some three years ago,” remarked the young man as he sipped his drink. “Sherehaven looks as if it were booming.”

The genial proprietor smiled. “Well, sir, there is a mild sort of boom. We should go along much faster if we could get a decent train service. But railway companies are so slow, they won’t do anything to help us. Still, the place is looking up. I took the King’s Head a couple of years ago, and in that time I have nearly doubled the trade. But, mind you, I’ve had to spend a lot of money to do it. That new dining room and this lounge have cost me a pretty penny. But it has paid. Most people who come once, come again.”

“The last proprietor was a bit old-fashioned, I should say.”

“More than that, sir, he was terribly slow and conservative. What was good enough for his father was good enough for him. One of that type, you know. You want a different kind nowadays to make and keep a business.”

Aylmer agreed, and there was more talk about Sherehaven, its wants and its possibilities. Its one great recommendation was its splendid air. No amusements of any kind, not the place for gay people. You must go to the big coast towns if you wanted that sort of thing. But an ideal spot for persons who were a bit run down and wanted rest.

Presently Aylmer inquired if there were any decent lodgings to be had in the neighborhood. He invented a neat little story of an elderly relative who was a bit run down and required a quiet place of the Sherehaven type where she could recuperate. The bustle and noise of an hotel would be too much for her; she would prefer comfortable lodgings with a respectable landlady who could cook suitably for an invalid. Did the landlord know of such? By this harmless subterfuge, he hoped to learn something about Rosebank.

The landlord, who rejoiced in the prosaic name of Smith, was naturally a mine of information, knowing pretty nearly everything about everybody in the small township of Sherehaven. He rattled off half a dozen addresses.

“Of course, here, as in other places, there is accommodation to suit all purses,” he explained in his genial way. “It can be done very cheap amongst the fisherfolk and their like. Your friend would not want anything of that sort; she would like a place fit for gentlefolks.”

Having paid this tribute to his new customer’s obvious station in life, he proceeded to explain further. “Any one of these places I can recommend--cleanliness, attention, and plain cooking. But for something a little bit better, of a higher quality altogether, I should suggest Mrs. Robinson, of Rosebank, one of the few houses on the front, facing the sea.”

Aylmer pricked up his ears. It made things easier that this pleasant-mannered landlord had come to Rosebank without any prompting.

“Mrs. Robinson is a widow, was cook for many years in a noble family, by whom she was allowed a liberal pension. So, she has something to fall back upon, when the times are a bit lean, as they often are in these seasonal places. Still, she is a very thrifty, managing woman and she has done well, never had to ask a favor of anybody. Just the sort of place, I should say, to suit your invalid relative. The house is never full; she rarely takes more than one set of lodgers at the time. And, at the moment, she is empty; she had a married couple for several weeks. They left five or six days ago.”

So Quentin had told the truth in his letter to the American; he had been on the point of leaving Sherehaven. Aylmer looked at his watch. A quarter to six, he would not dine till half-past seven. There were no other visitors staying at the King’s Head, so Mr. Smith had suggested to him a nice little dinner, a fried sole, and lamb cutlets, done in egg and bread-crumb in the good old-fashioned English way, followed by an apple tart. Aylmer agreed; he did not despise the art of the foreign chef, with his daintiness and his cunning sauces, but the good plain fare was an agreeable change.

Presently he bade his pleasant landlord a temporary farewell, announcing his intention of interviewing the worthy Mrs. Robinson and filling up the time to dinner by renewing his acquaintance with the beauties of Sherehaven.

It was not difficult to find Rosebank, the very diminutive parade being limited in extent. There was a small crescent of some twenty houses, half of which bore cards in the windows intimating that lodgings were to be let. The other half, presumably, were tenanted by private persons. At the west end, several yards from the crescent, was a staring block of unfinished buildings, gaunt and windowless, evidently the unsuccessful venture of a much too optimistic speculative builder who had appeared on the scene before Sherehaven was ready for him.

To the east of the rather picturesque crescent, he found Rosebank, a pretty little house of two stories, overhung with luxuriant creepers, its name painted in bold white letters on the green gate. There was an air of cleanliness and neatness about the place which was decidedly attractive. The door was in the center, and there were flower boxes in the windows, on each side. The landlady was evidently a person of refinement.

Still, pretty and picturesque as it was, it was hardly the place that the luxury-loving Quentin would have chosen to spend weeks in. Quentin, who had stayed in the most luxurious hotels in Europe, whose roomy house at Hampstead was all that the most refined taste could make it. What had driven a man of his cosmopolitan tastes here? Was there an imperative necessity to hide himself for a while, or had he sought Sherehaven simply in order that he might practise retrenchment till such time as he found himself again in funds?

Mrs. Robinson opened the door in person, but Aylmer had a vision of a white-capped maid standing in the rear. Obviously, the woman did not belong to the impecunious order of landladies.

The young man explained the reason of his visit, telling her the same tale about an invalid relative that he had told to the landlord of the King’s Head. “Mr. Smith spoke of you in the highest terms, and told me he knew that, at the moment, you were vacant,” he said in conclusion.

Mrs. Robinson showed him the rooms, very cozy, very clean, but also very small. She told him that she occasionally let another bedroom, if there was a very great demand for accommodation, but as a rule she took only one set of lodgers, reserving the other apartments for her own use. No doubt, the liberal pension from the noble family enabled her to jog along in her quiet, thrifty way, without having to fill her house as full of people as it could hold.

The inspection was over, and Aylmer descended into the tiny little sitting room. Again he found himself wondering how the Quentins could have endured even a brief sojourn in such cramped apartments.

His object, of course, was to get her to talk about her previous lodgers. “I suppose you don’t have many people at this time of the year? Your business is just confined to the few summer months?” he remarked.

He had seen at once that she was a genial, talkative sort of woman. There was no difficulty in engaging her in conversation.

“That is mostly the case, sir, but this year I have been very fortunate. I had a dear old lady staying with me for some time. And then, a few weeks ago, when I was thinking it was hardly worth while keeping the bill in the window, a very delightful couple came along, a Mr. and Mrs. Quentin.”

She was fairly started now, a very little encouragement would keep her going. “I have met a Mr. and Mrs. Quentin abroad. I wonder if they are the same? Would you mind describing them to me?” said Aylmer.

She did so, at once. “Mr. Quentin was a dark man, very quiet and rather reserved, I should say about forty years of age, or perhaps a little over. The wife was a beautiful young woman, little more than a girl. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.”

Aylmer drew a deep breath. “Ah! they were not a very happy couple, in your opinion?”

“How could they be, sir, when there was such a disparity in age between them--she a mere girl, and he a middle-aged man, and so quiet and grave? Take my word for it, May and December ought never to mate.”

“Hardly December in his case, was it? You could scarcely describe a man in the forties as in his Autumn much less his Winter,” said Aylmer, suddenly conscious of his own ten years’ seniority.

“Well, perhaps you couldn’t, sir,” replied the garrulous landlady. “But, to my thinking, it’s wrong. Youth should go to youth, not to middle age. There was always a sad, dissatisfied look on her pretty face all the time she was here. Many a time have I gone into her room of a morning--she always had her breakfast in bed--and seen her eyes swollen with crying. She slept over here; Mr. Quentin’s bedroom was on the other side of the passage.”

“Did they quarrel at all?”

“No, I am quite sure they did not; they could not have kept it from me in a small place like this where you can hear every sound. To do him justice, I must say he seemed most attentive and considerate towards her, rather gave me the impression that he was trying his best to make up to her for the injury he had done her by persuading her to such a marriage. But he could never chase that sad look away.”

“How did they amuse themselves while they were here? Sherehaven doesn’t appear to me to be a very gay place.”

Mrs. Robinson smiled. “It’s never that, sir, in the height of the season, and out of it, it is as dull as ditch water. Well, they got through the time somehow. Mr. Quentin stopped in the house a great deal, reading, and writing long letters which he always took to the post himself; I think that was really the only exercise he got. She used to take long walks in the morning and afternoon; one of her favorite excursions was to Ockham Glen, about a mile and a half from here, a very pretty and romantic spot. But I have often seen her come back looking more unhappy than when she went out. She had such a sweet, charming way with her, you couldn’t help getting fond of her. But you have met her, you say?”

“Yes, abroad. I stayed in the same hotel with them for some little time,” was Aylmer’s reply. “I did not notice any signs of depression about her then. She seemed to be in good spirits and ready to take her share in any gaiety that was going forward.”

Mrs. Robinson reflected a few seconds before she spoke again. “It may be that the quiet life here made her melancholy. There was another thing, although perhaps I ought not to mention it. Mr. Quentin was a good lover of the pleasures of the table; he spent a lot of money on food. Well, there’s no harm in that, but he was also a heavy drinker. In the daytime, the whisky decanter was never far from his elbow, and at dinner he used to consume a great deal of wine. Considering the quantity he got through, he carried it fairly well; but there was hardly a night that he did not get pretty mellow. When he was like that, he grew jocular and not a little foolish. Many a time when the maid was out and I have been into the room to clear the things, I have seen him in that condition. I think this weakness of his disgusted her, and that in those moods she hated and despised him.”

Aylmer had heard as much as he wanted, and he thought it time to bring the interview to a close. It was clear that Eileen was very miserable, and, no doubt, on his account. She had not been sad at Ostend. Her altered demeanor must be due to what had happened since.

He felt he had gained the kindly woman’s confidences under false pretenses with that story of an invalid relative. He must make her some amends.

“Well, Mrs. Robinson, about these rooms. They are just the sort of thing that would suit me under similar circumstances; but, as you know, ladies have a knack of suddenly altering their plans. I think the best thing for me to do will be to pay you now a week’s rent in advance for the option on them. Before the week is up I will send you a telegram saying yes or no.”

After a little polite reluctance, the landlady accepted this very gracious offer, and Aylmer went away with the agreeable reflection that he had not wasted his time. In a few days he would send her a wire from London stating his regret that other arrangements had been made.

He stayed the night at the King’s Head, and next morning walked about Sherehaven before he returned to London by the midday train. His journey had not been a failure. He had derived a certain melancholy satisfaction in getting into touch with somebody who had so recently seen and spoken to his dear sweetheart.

There was also a certain sad pleasure in following in the wake of her footsteps in the solitary rambles she had taken to divert her unhappy thoughts. He could picture her walking about that pretty and picturesque road to Ockham Glen, her favorite excursion according to Mrs. Robinson. He could imagine her gazing on the romantic prospect with feelings as miserable as his own, mourning bitterly over the past, chafing at the bonds which, for some inscrutable reason, bound her so firmly to a man she could neither love nor respect, for whom her only feeling could be one of gratitude for the compassion he had shown her in one of the saddest hours of her life.