HE was still pondering over the many aspects of the question which, to
his mind, needed solution, when he returned to the Castle, to find Lord
Fotheringay in a chair by the side of a gaunt old man who, at one
period of his life, had probably been tall, but who was now stooped in
a remarkable way. The stranger seemed very old, so that beside him
Lord Fotheringay looked comparatively youthful. Of this fact no one was
better aware than Lord Fotheringay.
Edmund Airey had seen portraits of the new guest, and did not require to
be told that he was Julius Anthony Avon, the historian of certain periods.
The first thought that occurred to him when he saw the two men side by
side, was that Lord Fotheringay would not appear ridiculous merely as
the son-in-law of Mr. Avon. To the casual observer at any rate he might
have posed as the son of Mr. Avon.
He himself seemed to be under the impression that he might pass as
Mr. Avon’s grandson, for he was extremely sportive in his presence,
attitudinizing on his settee in a way that Edmund knew must have been
agonizing to his rheumatic joints. Edmund smiled. He felt that he was
watching the beginning of a comedy.
He learned that Mr. Avon had yielded to the persuasion of Lady Innisfail
and had consented to join his daughter at the Castle for a few days.
He was not fond of going into society; but it so happened that Castle
Innisfail had been the centre of an Irish conspiracy at the early
part of the century, and this fact made the acceptance by him of Lady
Innisfail’s invitation a matter of business.
Hearing the nature of the work at which he was engaged, Lord Fotheringay
had lost no time in expounding to him, in that airy style which he
had at his command, the various mistakes that had been made by several
generations of statesmen in dealing with the Irish question. The
fundamental error which they had all committed was taking the Irish and
their rebellions and conspiracies too seriously.
This theory he expounded to the man who was writing a biographical
dictionary of Irish informers, and was about to publish his seventh
volume, concluding the letter B.
Mr. Avon listened, gaunt and grim, while Lord Fotheringay gracefully
waved away statesman after statesman who had failed signally, by reason
of taking Ireland and the Irish seriously.
There was something grim also in Edmund Airey’s smile as he glanced at
this beginning of the comedy.
That night Miss Stafford added originality to the ordinary terrors of
her recital. She explained that hitherto she had merely interpreted
the verses of others: now, however, she would draw upon her store of
original poems.
Of course, Edmund Airey was outside the drawingroom while this was going
on. So were many of his fellow-guests, including Helen Craven. Edmund
found her beside him in a secluded part of the hall. He was rather
startled by her sudden appearance. He forgot to greet her with one of
the clever things that he reserved for her and other appreciative young
women--for he still found a few, as any man with a large income may, if
he only keeps his eyes open. “What a fool you must think me,” were the
words with which Miss Craven greeted him, so soon as he became aware of
her presence.
Strange to say, he had a definite idea that she had said something
clever--at any rate something that impressed him more strongly than ever
with the idea that she was a clever girl.
And yet she had assumed that he must think her a fool.
“A fool?” said he, “To think you so would be to write myself down one,
Miss Craven.”
“Mr Airey,” said she, “I am a woman. Long ago I was a girl. You will
thus believe me when I tell you that I never was frank in all my life. I
want to begin now.”
“Ah, now I know the drift of your remark,” said he. “A fool. Yes, you
made a good beginning: but supposing that I were to be frank, where
would you be then?”
“I want you to begin also, Mr Airey,” said she.
“To begin? Oh, I made my start years ago--when I entered Parliament,”
said he. “I was perfectly frank with the Opposition when I pointed out
their mistakes. I have never yet been frank with a friend, however. That
is why I still have a few left.”
“You must be frank with me now; if you won’t it doesn’t matter: I’ll be
so to you. I admit that I behaved like an idiot; but you were
responsible for it--yes, largely.”
“That is a capital beginning. Now tell me what you have done or left
undone--above all, tell me where my responsibility comes in.”
“You like Harold Wynne?”
“You suggest that a mere liking involves a certain responsibility?”
“I love him.”
“Great heavens!”
“Why should you be startled at the confession when you have been aware
of the fact for some time?”
“I never met a frank woman before. It is very terrible. Perhaps I shall
get used to it.”
“Why will you not drop that tone?” she said, almost piteously. “Cannot
you see how serious the thing is to me?”
“It is quite as serious to me,” he replied. “Men have confided in
me--mostly fools--a woman never. Pray do not continue in that strain.”
“Then find words for me--be frank.”
“I will. You mean to say, Miss Craven, that I think you a fool because,
acting on the hint which I somewhat vaguely, but really in good faith,
dropped, you tried to impersonate the figure of the legend at that
ridiculous cave. Is not that what you would say if you had the courage
to be thoroughly frank?”
“Thank you,” said she, in a still weaker voice. “It is not so easy being
frank all in a moment.”
“No, not if one has accustomed oneself to--let us say good manners,” he
added.
“When I started for the boats after you had all left for that nonsense
at the village, I felt certain that you were my friend as well as Harold
Wynne’s, and that you had good reason for believing that he would be
about the cave shortly after our hour of dining. I’m not very romantic.”
“Pardon me,” said he. “You are not quite frank. If you were you would
say that, while secretly romantic, you follow the example of most young
women nowadays in ridiculing romance.”
“Quite right,” she said. “I admitted just now that I found it difficult
to be frank all in a moment. Anyhow I believed that if I were to play
the part of the Wraith of the Cave within sight of Harold Wynne, he
might--oh, how could I have been such a fool? But you--you, I say, were
largely responsible for it, Mr. Airey.” She was now speaking not merely
reproachfully but fiercely. “Why should you drop those hints--they
were much more than hints--about his being so deeply impressed with the
romance--about his having gone to the cave on the previous evening, if
you did not mean me to act upon them?”
“I did mean you to act upon them,” said he. “I meant that you and
he should come together last night, and I know that if you had come
together, he would have asked you to marry him. I meant all that,
because I like him and I like you too--yes, in spite of your frankness.”
“Thank you,” said she, giving him her hand. “You forgive me for being
angry just now?”
“The woman who is angry with a man without cause pays him the greatest
compliment in her power,” he remarked. “Fate was against us.”
“You think that she is so very--very pretty?” said Miss Craven.
“She?--fate?--I’ll tell you what I think. I think that Harold Wynne has
met with the greatest misfortune of his life.”
“If you believe that, I know that I have met with the greatest of my
life.”
The corner of the hall was almost wholly in shadow. The settee upon
which Mr. Airey and Miss Craven were sitting, was cut off from the rest
of the place by the thigh hone of the great skeleton elk. Between the
ribs of the creature, however, some rays of light passed from one of
the lamps; and, as Mr. Airey looked sympathetically into the face of his
companion, he saw the gleam of a tear upon her cheek.
He was deeply impressed--so deeply that some moments had passed before
he found himself wondering what she would say next. For a moment he
forgot to be on his guard, though if anyone had described the details
of a similar scene to him, he would probably have smiled while remarking
that when the lamplight gleams upon a tear upon the cheek of a young
woman of large experience, is just when a man needs most to be on his
guard, He felt in another moment, however, that something was coming.
He waited for it in silence.
It seemed to him in that pause that he was seated by the side of someone
whom he had never met before. The girl who was beside him seemed to
have nothing in common with Helen Craven. So greatly does a young woman
change when she becomes frank.
This is why so many husbands declare--when they are also frank--that
the young women whom they marry are in every respect different from the
young women who promise to be their wives.
“What is going to happen?” Helen asked him in a steady voice.
“God knows,” said he.
“I saw them together just after they left you this morning,” said she.
“I was at one of the windows of the Castle, they were far along the
terrace; but I’m sure that he said something to her about her eyes.”
“I should not be surprised if he did,” said Edmund. “Her eyes invite
comment.”
“I believe that in spite of her eyes she is much the same as any other
girl.”
“Is that to the point?” he asked. He was a trifle disappointed in her
last sentence. It seemed to show him that, whatever Beatrice might be,
Helen was much the same as other girls.
“It is very much to the point,” said she. “If she is like other girls
she will hesitate before marrying a penniless man.”
“I agree with you,” said he. “But if she is like other girls she will
not hesitate to love a penniless man.”
“Possibly--if, like me, she can afford to do so. But I happen to know
that she cannot afford it. This brings me up to what has been on my mind
all day. You are, I know, my friend; you are Harold Wynne’s also. Now,
if you want to enable him to gratify his reasonable ambition--if you
want to make him happy--to make me happy--you will prevent him from ever
asking Beatrice Avon to marry him.”
“And I am prepared to do so much for him--for you--for her. But how can
I do it?”
“You can take her away from him. You know how such things are done. You
know that if a distinguished man such as you are, with a large income
such as you possess, gives a girl to understand that he is, let us say,
greatly interested in her, she will soon cease to be interested in any
undistinguished and penniless son of a reprobate peer who may be before
her eyes.”
“I have seen such a social phenomenon,” said he. “Does your proposition
suggest that I should marry the young woman with ‘a gray eye or so’?”
“You may marry her if you please--that’s entirely a matter for yourself.
I don’t see any need for you to go that length. Have I not kept my
promise to be frank?”
“You have,” said he.
She had risen from the settee. She laid her hand on one of his that
rested on a projection of the old oak carving, and in another instant
she was laughing in front of Norah Innisfail, who was rendered even more
proper than usual through having become acquainted with Miss Stafford’s
notions of originality in verse-making.