A SNUB FOR A BARONET
Those few moments were full of a strange, intense interest to the three
persons who side by side had watched the entrance of Mr. Bernard
Maddison. To Helen Thurwell, whose whole being was throbbing with a
great quickening joy, they were passed in a strenuous effort to struggle
against the faintness which the shock of this great tumult of feeling
had brought with it. To the artist, who loved her, they brought their
own peculiar despair as he watched the light playing upon her features,
and the new glow of happiness which shone in those sweet, sad eyes. And
to Sir Allan Beaumerville, who had reasons of his own for surprise at
this meeting, they brought a distinct sensation of annoyance.
The artist was the first to recover himself. He knew that the battle was
over for him, that this woman already loved, and that his cause was
hopeless. And with little of man's ordinary selfishness on such
occasions, his first thought was for her.
"You would like to change your seat," he whispered. "Come with me into
the recess yonder. I will show you some engravings."
She flashed a grateful look up at him, and saw that he knew her secret.
"I should like it," she said. "Walk that side of me, please."
They rose and made their way to one of the little screened recesses
which people--especially young people--said made Lady Meltoun's rooms so
delightful. He placed a chair for her, and taking up a book of
engravings buried himself in it.
"Don't speak to me for five minutes, please," he said. "I am looking for
a design."
At the end of that time he closed the book, and looked up at her. There
was no fear of her fainting now. She was very pale, but she seemed quite
calm.
"I am going to speak to Maddison," he said quietly. "Do you--may I bring
him and introduce him to you?"
She looked up at him with luminous eyes.
"If you please. Don't tell him my name, though."
"It shall be as you wish," he answered.
By moving her chair a few inches she could see into the room. He was
still standing by Lady Meltoun's side, listening with an absent smile to
her chatter, and every now and then bowing gravely to the people whom
she introduced to him. The hum of conversation had been renewed, but
many curious glances were cast in his direction, of which he seemed
altogether unconscious. Even had there not been his great fame as a
critic and a writer, and the romance of his strange manner of life to
interest people, his personal appearance alone was sufficient to attract
attention. He was taller by several inches than any man in the room, and
his thin oval face, refined yet strong and full of a subtle artistic
sensibility, was in itself a deeply interesting study. How different he
appeared here in his well-fitting, fashionable clothes, and calm
distinctive manner, and with just that essence of wearied languor in his
dark eyes which men of the world can only imitate! He had changed, and
yet he had not changed, she thought. He was the same, and yet there was
a difference. Presently she saw Mr. Carlyon reach his side, and the
greeting which passed between the two men was marked with a certain
quiet cordiality which bore out Mr. Carlyon's words, that they had once
been fellow-workers. Watching his opportunity, the artist drew him a
little on one side, and made his request. Helen drew back trembling with
expectancy. But a few minutes later Mr. Carlyon came back to her alone.
"I am sorry," he said simply, "but, even to oblige me, Maddison won't
come. I had no idea he was such a misogynist. He is here, he says, to
keep a promise, but he wishes for no acquaintances, and he absolutely
declines to be introduced to any woman, unless it is forced upon him.
What shall I do? Shall I tell him your name?"
She hesitated.
"No, don't tell him that," she said. "Do you remember a few lines of
poetry of his at the end of his last volume of criticisms? There is a
little clump of firs on the top of a bare wind-swept hill, with the moon
shining faintly through a veil of mist, and a man and woman standing
together like carved figures against the sky, listening to the far-off
murmur of the sea."
"Yes, I remember it," he said slowly.
"Then will you tell him that some one--some one who has seen such a
place as he describes, is----?"
"I will tell him," Mr. Carlyon answered. "I think that he will come
now."
He left her again, and went back towards Mr. Maddison. Just as he got
within speaking distance he saw a slight quiver pass across the white
face, as though he had recognized some one in the crowd. Mr. Carlyon
hesitated, and decided to wait for a moment.
They were standing face to face, Sir Allan Beaumerville, the
distinguished baronet, who had added to the dignity of an ancient family
and vast wealth, a great reputation as a savant and a _dilettante_
physician, and Mr. Bernard Maddison, whose name alone was sufficient to
bespeak his greatness. In Sir Allan's quiet, courteous look, there was a
slightly puzzled air as though there were something in the other's face
which he only half remembered. In Mr. Maddison's fixed gaze there was a
far greater intensity--something even of anxiety.
"Surely we have met before, Mr. Maddison," the baronet said easily.
"Your face seems quite familiar to me. Ah! I remember now, it was near
that place of Lord Lathon's, Mallory Grange, upon the coast. A terrible
affair, that."
"Yes, a terrible affair," Mr. Maddison repeated.
"And have you just come from ----shire?" Sir Allan asked.
"No; I have been abroad for several months," Mr. Maddison answered.
"Abroad!" Sir Allan appeared a little more interested. "In what part?"
he asked civilly.
"I have been in Spain, and the south of France, across the Hartz
mountains, and through the Black Forest."
"Not in Italy?" Sir Allan inquired.
There was a short silence, and Sir Allan seemed really anxious for the
reply. It came at last.
"No; not in Italy."
Sir Allan seemed positively pleased to think that Mr. Maddison had not
extended his travels to Italy. There was a quiet gleam in his eyes which
seemed almost like relief. Doubtless he had his reasons, but they were
a little obscure.
"Ah! Shall you call upon me while you are in town, Mr. Maddison?" he
asked, in a tone from which all invitation was curiously lacking.
"I think not," Mr. Maddison answered. "My stay here will be brief. I
dislike London."
Sir Allan laughed gently.
"It is the only place in the world fit to live in," he answered.
"My work and my tastes demand a quieter life," Mr. Maddison remarked.
"You will go into the country then, I suppose."
"That is my intention," was the quiet reply.
"Back to the same neighborhood."
"It is possible."
Sir Allan looked searchingly into the other's calm, expressionless face.
"I should have thought that the associations----"
Mr. Maddison was evidently not used to society. Several people said so
who saw him suddenly turn his back on that charming old gentleman, Sir
Allan Beaumerville, and leave him in the middle of a sentence. Lady
Meltoun, who happened to notice it, was quite distressed at seeing an
old friend treated in such a manner. But Sir Allan took it very nicely,
everybody said. There had been a flush in his face just for a moment,
but it soon died away. It was his own fault, he declared. He had
certainly made an unfortunate remark, and these artists and literary men
were all so sensitive. He hoped that Lady Meltoun would think no more of
it, and accordingly Lady Meltoun promised not to. But though, of course,
she and every one else who had seen it sympathized with Sir Allan, there
were one or two, with whom Sir Allan was not quite such a favorite, who
could not help remarking upon the grand air with which Mr. Maddison had
turned his back upon the baronet, and the dignity with which he had left
him.
Mr. Carlyon, who had been watching for his opportunity, buttonholed
Maddison, and led him into a corner.
"I've got you now," he said triumphantly. "My dear fellow, whatever made
you snub poor Sir Allan like that?"
"Never mind. Come and make your adieux to Lady Meltoun, and let us go. I
should not have come here."
"One moment first, Maddison," the artist said seriously. "Do you
remember those lines of yours in which a man and woman stand on a bare
hill by a clump of pines, and watch the misty moonlight cast weird
shadows upon the hillside and over the quivering sea? 'A Farewell,' you
called it, I think?"
"Yes; I remember them."
"Maddison, the woman to whom I wished to introduce you bids you to go to
her by the memory of those lines."
There was very little change in his face. It only grew a little more
rigid, and a strange light gleamed in his eyes. But the hand which he
had laid on Carlyon's arm to draw him towards Lady Meltoun suddenly
tightened like a band of iron, till the artist nearly cried out with
pain.
"Let go my arm, for God's sake, man!" he said in a low tone, "and I will
take you to her."
"I am ready," Mr. Maddison answered quietly. "Ah! I see where she is.
You need not come."
He crossed the room, absolutely heedless of more than one attempt to
stop him. Mr. Carlyon watched him, and then with a sore heart bade his
hostess farewell, and hurried away. He was generous enough to help
another man to his happiness, but he could not stay and watch it.