If evil thoughts and evil passions could have a tangible effect upon
the physical atmosphere, the air of Marston Loring’s room, an hour
later, should have been thick and heavy. He was sitting thrown back in
an easy-chair, his evening coat replaced by a smoking jacket, a glass
of whisky and seltzer-water close to his hand. There were also cigars
on the table, but he was not smoking. He was staring straight before
him into vacancy. His face was pale and set with vindictive passion,
to the existence of which in his nature the general callousness of his
expression gave no clue.
It was many years since Marston Loring had felt as he felt to-night. It
was many years since he had been foiled and thwarted--“made a fool of,”
as he himself would have said; and all that was blackest and worst in
the man was roused by the process. His life, ever since he had realised,
at the age of twenty-five, that there were prizes in the world which some
men obtained and other men failed to obtain, had been ruled by a series
of carefully made and elaborately worked out calculations. Everything he
had done, and everything he had not done, had been included in one or
other of these calculations; carefully designed to meet certain ends,
all of which met and culminated in the one great end of existence as he
conceived it--material prosperity and position.
He had been, perhaps, as vicious a youth as could have been found in
London, and he had not ceased to be vicious as a man. But he so managed
his vices that even the reputation which clung to him had contributed
to his success. The question of marriage he had discussed with himself
on more than one occasion, always solely from the point of view of
expediency. And just about the time when Mrs. Romayne made her appearance
in London society he had come to the conclusion that, given the right
sort of woman, the step might possibly prove advantageous. He had been
considerably struck by Mrs. Romayne from the first; she was the kind of
woman he greatly admired, and he was well aware that to be on terms of
intimacy with such a social power was an excellent thing for a man in his
position; a position which, as he was also well aware, was by no means
so secure as most people supposed. It was from this point of view that
he had cultivated Julian, and, at first, from this point of view only.
The idea of Mrs. Romayne as a possible wife occurred to him later. But
when it did occur, it developed into active intention with considerable
rapidity.
He had looked at the question from every possible point of view, and
decided that nothing could suit him better. He had no taste for young
women. He admired Mrs. Romayne as much as it was possible to him to
admire any one; she was “the kind of woman he could get on with,” he told
himself. She possessed exceptional advantages in the matter of social
standing, and she had money. Her eager cultivation of him during the
autumn that followed her first season in town convinced him that with
a little trouble she could be brought to forget the disadvantage of his
comparative poverty; and he would have proposed to her in the ensuing
winter had not his voyage to the Cape prevented. He had come back with
the prospect of a fortune of his own. But the fact made no difference
to his matrimonial plans. Where there is money more money is always to
be desired. Mrs. Romayne’s fortune was no longer absolutely necessary
to him, but it had not ceased to be desirable, and her other advantages
remained intact. She had received him with enthusiasm, she had cultivated
him assiduously; she had absolutely led him on, as it seemed to Loring.
He, in common with the rest of the world, regarded her relations with
her son as the merest pose, and her appeal for his help with Julian had
seemed to him simply the most transparent of subterfuges. He had no more
doubted that she would accept him than he had doubted his own existence.
And now his plans were frustrated, his calculations were falsified, and
his very practical and material castles in the air were laid in the dust.
He was refused.
He roused himself at last, and the faintest suggestion of a cruel smile
curved his thin lips. He lifted the glass by his side, drank off its
contents, and then turned out the lamp and went into the inner room.
His face was quite itself the next morning; the scowl and the cruelty
had alike disappeared; and it was with an even less cynical smile than
usual that he looked up from his morning paper at a few minutes past
ten o’clock, as the door opened with a hasty knock, and Julian Romayne
appeared.
“Good morning, dear boy!” said Loring pleasantly.
“Morning, old man!” responded Julian.
He was looking rather pale and anxious, and he went on quickly:
“Nothing wrong with ‘Welcomes,’ I hope?”
Loring smiled again.
“Nothing in the world, as far as I know,” he said gaily. “What a nervous
fellow you are!”
“What an unreasonable fellow you are!” retorted Julian, the cloud
vanishing from his face as if by magic. “What do you mean by dragging a
poor wretch down here at this hour in the morning, whether he will or no?
What’s up?”
It was some legal business, it appeared; and Loring proceeded to go into
it with great circumstance. It sounded very important as he put it, but
Julian took his leave, declaring gaily that he “didn’t see where the
urgency came in.”
“You’re such an abominably hard-working fellow!” he said lightly.
“Perhaps!” returned Loring. “It’s not such a bad principle, and it’s an
excellent character to have, let me tell you. By-the-bye, Julian,” he
continued, as the young man turned away with a laugh, and laid his hand
on the door, “how would you like to have a few more Welcomes?”
He rose as he spoke, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece with his
back to the empty grate, confronting Julian as the young man turned
sharply towards him.
“What do you mean?” said Julian. “Are there any in the market?”
“Well, yes,” said Loring quietly. “The fact is, there’s a certain
shooting in Scotland which I have coveted for years. It’s for sale
now, and on uncommonly reasonable terms. Of course, it’s appalling
extravagance on my part, for the shares are going up every day. But I am
going to sell a thousand pounds’ worth of Welcomes to-day and buy that
moor.”
“It is extravagance!” said Julian, and there was an eager light in his
blue eyes.
“Like to have the shares?” said Loring imperturbably.
Julian hesitated.
“I should like them, of course,” he said, rather breathlessly. “So would
lots of other fellows. But, you see, my thousands, what there were of
them, are all locked up in the Welcome already.”
“You wouldn’t think it worth while to borrow, I suppose?” enquired Loring
carelessly.
“There’s a little difficulty known as security.”
“For some fellows, of course,” was the answer. “But not for you. You’ve
got money coming to you.”
Julian coloured a dull red, and looked down at the carpet, moving his
foot to and fro uneasily.
The idea of raising money on a reversion for such a purpose was for the
moment inexpressibly repugnant to him.
“The shares are going up every day,” said Loring; “you ought to make
a good thing of it; and you’ll sell at the end of this week, I take
it? However, of course, I don’t want to press you. They’ll go off fast
enough.”
Julian lifted his head suddenly, and drove his clenched hand deep down
into his pocket.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “All right, Loring, I’ll take them.”
“To-day?” said Loring suavely.
“To-day!” returned Julian, almost fiercely.
He turned and left the room abruptly, without another word. And Loring,
with the smile of the night before touching his lips once more, took up
his paper again. Apparently he had forgotten the letter he had received
from South Africa on the previous day, and the news it contained.