There are hours in our lives which are apparently without importance,
but which, nevertheless, exercise an influence on our destiny.
Little wonder was it that at this instant I stood before my visitor
voiceless in amazement, for in her erect, neat figure I recognised the
broken idol of those long-past summer days--Mary Blain.
Of all persons she was the one I most desired at that moment to meet.
Her letter to me, and her presence in my chambers that evening, were two
facts that appeared pre-arranged with some ulterior motive rather than
mere coincidence. Not an hour before Boyd had made a most puzzling
statement regarding her mother, and here she was, confronting me with
that smile I knew so well, as if anxious to make explanation.
"I believe I've startled you, Frank," she exclaimed, laughing, as she
held out her gloved hand in greeting. "Is it so long since we met?
Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to come here to your chambers, but I
wanted to see you. Mother would be furious if she knew. Why didn't you
answer my letter?"
"Forgive me," I said in excuse. "I've been busy. The life of a daily
journalist leaves so very little time for correspondence," and I invited
her to be re-seated in our only armchair.
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling dubiously.
"You men are always adepts at the art of excuse," she remarked.
She was pretty--yes, decidedly pretty. As I sat looking at her, there
came back to me vivid recollections of a day that was dead, a day when
we had exchanged vows of undying affection and had wandered in secret
arm-in-arm along those quiet leafy lanes. She was a girl then, and I
not much more than a stripling youth. But we had both grown older now,
and other ideas had sprung up in our minds, other jealousies and other
loves. Almost four whole years had passed since I had last seen her.
She had grown a little more plump and matronly, and in her dark,
luminous eyes was a look more serious than in her old hoydenish days at
Harwell. How time flies! It did not seem four years since that autumn
evening when we parted in the golden sunset. Yet how great had the
change been in the fortunes of her purse-proud family, and even in my
own life.
There was no love between us now. None. The days were long-past since
a woman's touch and words would make me colour like a girl. Even this
meeting when she pressed my hand and her eyelids fluttered, did not
re-stir within me the chord of love so long untouched. I had heard of
her only as a flirt and fortune-hunter, and had read in the newspapers a
paragraph announcing her engagement to the elder son of a millionaire
ironfounder of Wigan. Nevertheless, a month ago the papers contained a
further paragraph stating that the marriage arranged "would not take
place." Since we had parted she had evidently been through many love
adventures. Still, she was nevertheless uncommonly good-looking, with a
grace of manner that was perfect.
"I've often wondered, Frank, what had become of you," she said, leaning
her elbow on the table, raising her veil and looking straight into my
eyes. "We were such real good friends long ago that I've never failed
to entertain pleasant recollections of our friendship. Once or twice
I've heard of you through your people, and have now and then read your
articles in the magazines. Somehow I've felt a keen desire for a long
time past to see you and have a chat."
"I feel honoured," I answered, perhaps a trifle sarcastically, for mine
was but a bitter recollection. "It is certainly pleasant to think that
one is remembered after these years." Then, in order to add irony to my
words, I added: "I've heard you are engaged."
"I was," she responded, glancing at me sharply. "But it is broken off."
"You found some one you liked better, I presume? It is always so."
"No, not at all," she hastened to assure me. "The fact is there was
very little love on either side, and we parted quite amicably."
"As amicably as we did ourselves--eh?"
"No, Frank," she said with a sudden seriousness, dropping her eyes to
the table. "Do not refer to that. With years has come wisdom. We were
both foolish, were we not?"
"Perhaps I was when I believed your vow to be a true one," I responded a
trifle bitterly, for I had thought the summer of my life over and at an
end.
"Ah, no!" she cried. "I did not come here to reopen an incident that
has been so long closed. You love another woman, no doubt."
"No," I answered. "I loved you once, until you forsook me. I have not
loved since."
"But I was a mere girl then," she urged. "Ours was but a midsummer
madness--that you'll surely admit."
I was silent. I had believed myself proof against all sentiment in this
respect, for of late I had thought little, if at all, of my lost love.
Yet alone with her at that moment all the bitter past flooded upon me,
my wild passion and my shattered hopes, with a vividness that stirred up
a great bitterness within me. Not that I loved her now. No. On the
contrary, I hated her. She had played others false and treated them
just as she had treated me.
"After madness there is always a reaction," I answered, recollecting how
fondly I had once loved her, and how, since the day we parted, my life,
even Bohemian as it must ever be in journalistic London, was
nevertheless loveless and misanthropic, the life of one whose hopes were
shattered and whose joy in living had been sapped. Shenley was but the
tomb of those summer recollections. I never now visited the place.
"But all this is very foolish, Frank," she exclaimed with a calm
philosophical air and a smile probably meant to be coquettish. "Why
recollect the past?"
"When one has loved as I once did, it is difficult to rid oneself of the
memory of its sweetness or its bitterness," I said. "Your visit here
has brought it all back to me--all that I have striven so long and so
strenuously to forget."
She sighed. For a single instant her dark eyes met mine, and then she
avoided my gaze.
"I ventured here," she explained in a low, apologetic tone, "because I
believed that our youthful passion had mutually died, and that I might
renew your acquaintance not as lover but as friend. If, by coming here,
I have pained you, or caused you any particularly unhappy recollections,
forgive me, Frank--forgive me," and she stretched forth her hand and
placed it upon my arm with a gesture of deep earnestness and regret.
"Certainly, I forgive you," I answered, annoyed with myself for having
thus worn my heart on my sleeve. It was foolish, I knew. That idyllic
love of ours was a mere dream of youth, like the other castles in the
air we build when in our teens. It was unwise to have spoken as I had,
for after all, truth to tell, I was at that moment secretly glad of my
freedom. And why? Because the mysterious woman, whose beauty was
perfect, yet whose very existence was an enigma, had awakened within my
soul a new-born love.
Since that bright morning when she had first passed me in St. James's
Park my thoughts had been constantly of her. Although I had not
exchanged a single word with her I loved her, and all thought of this
dark-eyed woman who had once played me false had passed from me.
Thus, angry with myself at having spoken as I had, I strove to remedy
whatever impression my words had made by treating my visitor with a
studied courtesy, at the same time seeking to discover the real motive
of her call. I recollected the mystery, together with the fact that had
been elicited regarding the tenancy of the house, and felt convinced
that her visit was not without some strong incentive. She either came
to me in order to learn something, or else with the object of satisfying
herself upon some point remaining in doubt.
This thought flashing through my troubled brain placed me on the alert,
and as we with mutual eagerness changed the topic of conversation, I sat
gazing into her mobile countenance, filled with ecstatic wonder.
"As you know," she chattered on, quite frankly, in her rather
high-pitched key, "before we left Shenley father had some very heavy
losses in the City. At first we found a smaller house simply horrible,
but now we are quite used to it, and personally I'm happier there,
because we are right on the river and can have such jolly boating."
"But Riverdene is not such a very small place, surely?" I said. Dick,
who knew the river well, had once told me that it was a fine house
situated in one of the most picturesque reaches.
"No," she laughed, "not really so very small, I suppose. But why not
come down and see for yourself? Mother often speaks of you, and you
know you're always welcome."
Now, in ordinary circumstances I should have refused that invitation
point-blank, but when I reflected that I was bound to make certain
inquiries of Mrs. Blain, I, with apparent reluctance, accepted.
"Mother will be most delighted to see you. We have tennis very often,
and boating always. It's awfully jolly. Come down the day after
to-morrow--in the afternoon. I shall tell mother that I met you in the
street and asked you down. She must, of course, never know that I came
here to see you," and she laughed at her little breach of the
_convenances_.
"Of course not. I won't give you away," I said. Then suddenly
recollecting, I added: "May I get you a cup of tea?"
"Oh, no, thanks, really," she answered. "I've been in Regent Street to
do some shopping, and I had tea there. I was on my way home, but
thought that, being alone, I'd venture to try and find you."
"I'm very glad we have met," I said enthusiastically, for, truth to
tell, I saw in her opportune invitation a means by which I might get at
the truth I sought. There was something extremely puzzling in this
allegation that the calm-mannered, affable Mrs. Blain, whom I had known
so well, was the actual tenant of the mysterious house in Phillimore
Place. Then, looking at her steadily, I added: "In future our relations
shall be, as you suggest, those of friendship, and not of affection--if
you really wish."
"Of course," she replied. "It is the only sensible solution of the
situation. We are both perfectly free, and there is no reason whatever
why we should not remain friends--is there?"
"None at all," I said. "Tell your mother that I shall be most delighted
to pay you a visit. You have a boat, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. And a punt, too. This season I've learned to punt quite
well."