“Our mind receives but what it holds—no more.”
PEOPLE whom everybody considers tender-hearted and good-natured do not
like to wake up to the fact that they are neither. It takes a good deal
to wake them up to it, and they are apt to be indignant and incredulous
even then. Gladys had always been considered particularly, gracefully
unselfish. People might think her a little astonishing and
unconventional, but this they put down to her American training; as for
being underhand, cruel and grasping, no one would have dreamed it of
her, and she least of all of herself. Love is a teacher of many lessons,
and tears away all screens; there is no room left for anything but the
real.
Love and pain together are the two world forces for sincerity, and
Gladys’ sincerity was not pleasant to look at. She was possessed with
the one desire—Jack. She wanted him; she hated everything and everybody
else. Right and wrong became two faint, inadequate words; she would have
stopped at nothing to gain her ends.
Even the dramatic instinct which had carried her through emotional
friendships made her attractive and alluring to those to whom she was
utterly indifferent, devout and regular in her religious attendances,
eager and sympathetic over the miseries of the poor, they were all swept
away. She planned, plotted, schemed and lived to meet and win Jack
Hurstly.
For the sake of meeting him she made friends to a far greater extent
with Edith le Mentier. She smiled in tender graciousness upon Alec
Bruce, she treated Sir Arthur Dallerton when she met him with the
greatest interest and respect.
It was through him she learned first that Muriel was not going to India,
second that her engagement with Jack Hurstly was “off,” after that she
ceased to take any interest in him at all. People said it was time she
was married.
It took Jack a long time to realize that Muriel meant what she said. He
wrote again, and it was not till she stopped answering him that he began
to believe her. The key he held to the woman riddle says that “A woman
who goes on saying no is easier to turn than the woman who says
nothing.” India and the old influences of the regiment had undone a good
deal of her training.
Jack told himself he was a fool to have loved her, and agreed with the
world’s verdict that she “really went too far.” In fact the world turned
its back on her. She had had two good marriages in her hand and thrown
them away; her society was a strain; she did unheard-of things; she was
really better in the slums.
Everybody told him he was well out of it, and though he was outwardly
indignant at their judgment it took the edge off his sorrow. He grew
rapidly strong, and hunted more than ever. He was not to be invalided
home, and he had been very badly treated. He looked upon this as virtual
absolution for whatever dissipations he might be led into. Even in the
nineteenth century few men have found a better excuse than “The woman
Thou gavest me.”
One evening as Jack sat smoking in his quarters, wondering lazily what
sort of a drink it would be most possible to enjoy, a knock at the door
aroused him from his thoughts, and gave entrance to a favorite young
subaltern.
“Hullo, Musgrave!—come in!” he said with warmth. “Have a drink?” he
added as the young fellow sank into a chair. Musgrave shook his head.
“Anything up?” Jack asked with surprise.
“Nothing particular,” said Jim Musgrave. “My aunt’s coming out here,
though. I shall have to sit up for her.”
“Oh! I say that’s bad,” said his friend sympathetically.
“She’s going to bring a mighty pretty girl out with her, though, to jam
the powder,” said the nephew irreverently. “The fact of the matter is I
believe it’s for the girl’s sake she’s coming. There’s an awful dearth
going on in London—herds of pretty girls and nothing to gain by it, you
know—I don’t know what England’s coming to—we’re so scarce—they say
the returns after the season are something awful!” Jack laughed grimly.
“I’m one of them,” he said. “I didn’t make myself scarce enough it
seems. Who’s your aunt, by-the-bye? Perhaps I know her.”
“Mrs. Huntly. Her husband was a fellow of ‘ours,’ you know; but he got
on the shelf, and they gave him some appointment at home to hush him
asleep with. We have an awfully short day, haven’t we? And a beastly hot
one!” The young man’s eyes grew wistful, for he loved his profession;
and he had not been out long enough to grow stale, or to have his
ambitions adjust themselves to lower standards. Jack sighed.
“It’s a bit too long for some of us,” he said; and he dutifully thought
of Muriel, till the remembrance of a polo match transformed them both
into enthusiasts, and the talk grew unintelligibly technical.
It was not until Jim Musgrave rose to go back to his own quarters that
Jack remembered to tell him that his aunt was an old friend of his, and
to ask if the pretty girl was her cousin, Miss Travers.
“By Jove, do you know her?” shouted the surprised Jim. Jack nodded.
“Good-night!” he said briefly, and Jim took his dismissal, wondering how
well his friend had known Miss Travers. Jack remembered the look in
Gladys’ eyes, and resolutely pretended that it meant nothing;
nevertheless he was not altogether sorry he was going to see her again.
He told himself it was because she was Muriel’s great friend.
Then he went out to have a final look at the pony; it was necessary that
it should be really fit for to-morrow’s match.