Taynton.
"What are you going to do now?" he asked.
"I don't know. Drive to Falmer Park perhaps, and tell Sir Richard you
cannot see him immediately. Will you see him to-morrow?"
"Yes, I will call to-morrow morning. Morris, promise me you will do
nothing rash, nothing that will bring sorrow on all those who love you."
"I shall bring a little sorrow on a man who hates me," said he.
He went out, and Mr. Taynton sat down again, his mouth compressed into
hard lines, his forehead heavily frowning. He could not permanently
prevent Morris from meeting Godfrey Mills, besides, it was his right to
do so, yet how fraught with awful risks to himself that meeting would be!
Morris might easily make a violent, even a murderous, assault on the man,
but Mills was an expert boxer and wrestler, science would probably get
the upper hand of blind rage. But how deadly a weapon Mills had in store
against himself; he would certainly tell Morris that if one partner had
slandered him the other, whom he so trusted and revered, had robbed him;
he would say, too, that Taynton had been cognizant of, and had approved,
his slanders. There was no end to the ruin that would certainly be
brought about his head if they met. Mills's train, too, would have left
London by now; there was no chance of stopping him. Then there was
another danger he had not foreseen, and it was too late to stop that now.
Morris was going again to Falmer Park, had indeed started, and that
afternoon Godfrey Mills would get out of the train, as he had planned, at
the station just below, and walk back over the downs to Brighton. What if
they met there, alone?
For an hour perhaps Mr. Taynton delved at these problems, and at the end
even it did not seem as if he had solved them satisfactorily, for when
he went out of his house, as he did at the end of this time to get a
little breeze if such was obtainable, his face was still shadowed and
overclouded. Overclouded too was the sky, and as he stepped out into the
street from his garden-room the hot air struck him like a buffet; and in
his troubled and apprehensive mood it felt as if some hot hand warned him
by a blow not to venture out of his house. But the house, somehow, in the
last hour had become terrible to him, any movement or action, even on a
day like this, when only madmen and the English go abroad, was better
than the nervous waiting in his darkened room. Dreadful forces, forces of
ruin and murder and disgrace, were abroad in the world of men; the menace
of the low black clouds and stifling heat was more bearable. He wanted to
get away from his house, which was permeated and soaked in association
with the other two actors, who in company with himself, had surely some
tragedy for which the curtain was already rung up. Some dreadful scene
was already prepared for them; the setting and stage were ready, the
prompter, and who was he? was in the box ready to tell them the next line
if any of them faltered. The prompter, surely he was destiny, fate, the
irresistible course of events, with which no man can struggle, any more
than the actor can struggle with or alter the lines that are set down for
him. He may mumble them, he may act dispiritedly and tamely, but he has
undertaken a certain part; he has to go through with it.
Though it was a populous hour of the day, there were but few people
abroad when Mr. Taynton came out to the sea front; a few cabs stood by
the railings that bounded the broad asphalt path which faced the sea, but
the drivers of these, despairing of fares, were for the most part dozing
on the boxes, or with a more set purpose were frankly slumbering in the
interior. The dismal little wooden shelters that punctuated the parade
were deserted, the pier stretched an untenanted length of boards over the
still, lead-coloured sea, and it seemed as if nature herself was waiting
for some elemental catastrophe.
And though the afternoon was of such hideous and sultry heat, Mr.
Taynton, though he walked somewhat more briskly
"What are you going to do now?" he asked.
"I don't know. Drive to Falmer Park perhaps, and tell Sir Richard you
cannot see him immediately. Will you see him to-morrow?"
"Yes, I will call to-morrow morning. Morris, promise me you will do
nothing rash, nothing that will bring sorrow on all those who love you."
"I shall bring a little sorrow on a man who hates me," said he.
He went out, and Mr. Taynton sat down again, his mouth compressed into
hard lines, his forehead heavily frowning. He could not permanently
prevent Morris from meeting Godfrey Mills, besides, it was his right to
do so, yet how fraught with awful risks to himself that meeting would be!
Morris might easily make a violent, even a murderous, assault on the man,
but Mills was an expert boxer and wrestler, science would probably get
the upper hand of blind rage. But how deadly a weapon Mills had in store
against himself; he would certainly tell Morris that if one partner had
slandered him the other, whom he so trusted and revered, had robbed him;
he would say, too, that Taynton had been cognizant of, and had approved,
his slanders. There was no end to the ruin that would certainly be
brought about his head if they met. Mills's train, too, would have left
London by now; there was no chance of stopping him. Then there was
another danger he had not foreseen, and it was too late to stop that now.
Morris was going again to Falmer Park, had indeed started, and that
afternoon Godfrey Mills would get out of the train, as he had planned, at
the station just below, and walk back over the downs to Brighton. What if
they met there, alone?
For an hour perhaps Mr. Taynton delved at these problems, and at the end
even it did not seem as if he had solved them satisfactorily, for when
he went out of his house, as he did at the end of this time to get a
little breeze if such was obtainable, his face was still shadowed and
overclouded. Overclouded too was the sky, and as he stepped out into the
street from his garden-room the hot air struck him like a buffet; and in
his troubled and apprehensive mood it felt as if some hot hand warned him
by a blow not to venture out of his house. But the house, somehow, in the
last hour had become terrible to him, any movement or action, even on a
day like this, when only madmen and the English go abroad, was better
than the nervous waiting in his darkened room. Dreadful forces, forces of
ruin and murder and disgrace, were abroad in the world of men; the menace
of the low black clouds and stifling heat was more bearable. He wanted to
get away from his house, which was permeated and soaked in association
with the other two actors, who in company with himself, had surely some
tragedy for which the curtain was already rung up. Some dreadful scene
was already prepared for them; the setting and stage were ready, the
prompter, and who was he? was in the box ready to tell them the next line
if any of them faltered. The prompter, surely he was destiny, fate, the
irresistible course of events, with which no man can struggle, any more
than the actor can struggle with or alter the lines that are set down for
him. He may mumble them, he may act dispiritedly and tamely, but he has
undertaken a certain part; he has to go through with it.
Though it was a populous hour of the day, there were but few people
abroad when Mr. Taynton came out to the sea front; a few cabs stood by
the railings that bounded the broad asphalt path which faced the sea, but
the drivers of these, despairing of fares, were for the most part dozing
on the boxes, or with a more set purpose were frankly slumbering in the
interior. The dismal little wooden shelters that punctuated the parade
were deserted, the pier stretched an untenanted length of boards over the
still, lead-coloured sea, and it seemed as if nature herself was waiting
for some elemental catastrophe.
And though the afternoon was of such hideous and sultry heat, Mr.
Taynton, though he walked somewhat more briskly
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