"I mean he's a sanguinary old idiot."
"He idolises Lily."
"I know that." Then, after a brief pause he added, "I may appear a
brute, a silly fool and all the rest, but I tell you, Frank, I've acted
for the best."
"I can't see it."
"No, I don't suppose you can, old chap," he answered. "But you will
entirely agree with my course of action some day ere long."
His words puzzled me, for they seemed to contain some hidden meaning.
"Are you absolutely certain that you've no further love for Lil?" I
inquired.
"Absolutely."
"And you are likewise equally certain that it is not the personal charms
of Mary Blain which have led you to take this step?"
"I'm quite certain of it," he answered. "You once loved Mary, remember,
but broke it off. Surely we are all of us at liberty to choose our own
helpmate in life?"
"Of course," I responded. "It was not, however, my fault that we
parted. Mary was infatuated with another."
"That just bears out my argument," he went on. "She didn't love you,
and therefore considered herself perfectly justified in her attachment
with your rival. I don't love Lil."
"But it seems that you have parted from her in a really cruel and
heartless manner. This isn't like you, Dick," I added reproachfully.
"Why are you her champion?" he asked, laughing. "Are you in love with
her?"
"Not at all," I assured him with a smile. "Only I don't like to see a
girl badly treated by any friend of mine."
"Oh, that's good!" he laughed. "You've treated girls badly in your
time, I suppose. Have a peg, old fellow, and let's close the debate."
Then he added, in the language of Parliament, where he so often reported
the speeches of the Irish ranters, "I move that this House do now
adjourn."
"But I don't consider that you've acted with your usual tact in this
affair," I protested, heedless of his words. "You could, of course,
have broken if off in a much more honourable way if you had chosen."
"I've been quite honourable," he declared, in a tone of annoyance. "I
told her plainly that my love had cooled. Hark!" The clock on the inn
hall was striking midnight. "There's no suspension of the twelve
o'clock rule. Shut up, Frank, and be damned to you."
He crossed to the sideboard, mixed a couple of whisky-and-sodas, and
handed me one, saying--
"Thirsty weather this. My mouth's as dry as a kipper."
I willingly admitted that the summer dust of London was conducive to the
wholesale consumption of liquid, but was nevertheless reflecting upon
his remarkable change of manner towards Lily. Something, I believed,
had occurred of which he had not told me.
He stretched himself in the armchair, placed his glass at his elbow, and
began to blow a suffocating cloud from his most cherished briar.
"I wish you'd spend sixpence on a new pipe," I said, coughing.
"This one cost fourpence halfpenny in Fleet Street nearly two years
ago," he answered, without removing it from his lips. "Don't you like
it?"
"My dear fellow, it's awful."
"Ah! So they said at the office the other day. Don't notice it
myself."
"But others do. I'll make you a present of a new one to-morrow."
"Don't want it, old chap. Have a drink yourself with the money. This
one's quite good enough for me. Besides, it'll keep the moths out of
our drawing-room furniture," and he gazed around the shabby apartment,
where, from the leather-covered chairs, the mysterious stuffing was in
many places peeping forth upon the world.
We smoked on. Although I had been considerably annoyed by what he had
told me regarding Lily, his imperturbable good humour caused me to laugh
outright, whereat he observed--
"You're really a very funny beggar, Frank. I like you exceedingly,
except when you try and dwell upon themes you don't understand. Those
who do that are apt to wallow out of their depth. You don't know my
reasons for throwing Lil over; therefore it's impossible for you to
regale me with any good advice. You understand?"
"But what are your reasons?" I inquired.
"You shall know them before long," he assured me. "At present I don't
intend to say anything."
"This is the first time, Dick, we've had secrets from each other," I
observed gravely.
"No," he answered. "You love the mysterious Eva, and have never told me
so. That's a secret, isn't it?"
I was surprised that he had detected my love for her, and rather
alarmed, because if he had noticed it others had doubtless remarked it
also. Therefore I questioned him, but he only laughed, saying--
"Why, anybody who saw you together down at Riverdene couldn't fail to
guess the truth. People have sharp eyes, you know."
I was silent. If this were actually true, then I feared that I had made
a hopeless fool of myself, besides wrecking any chance of eliciting
those facts which I had set my mind upon revealing at any hazard.
Presently he rose, crossing to his writing-table to scribble a letter,
while I, lighting a cigarette, sat silent, still thinking seriously upon
the words he had just uttered.
Through the veil of tobacco smoke I seemed to see that fair, smiling
face gazing at me, ever the same open countenance, the same clear eyes
of childlike blue, the same half-parted mouth that I had first seen on
that fatal night in Phillimore Place. In my dream I thought that she
beckoned me to her, that she invited me to speak with her, and saw in
her eyes a calm, sweet expression--the expression of true womanly love.
It was but the chimera of an instant, a vision produced by my
wildly-disordered brain, yet so vivid it seemed that when it faded I
glanced across to my companion's bent figure, half fearing that he, too,
had witnessed it.
There are times when our imagination plays us such tricks--times when
the constant concentration of the mind reaches its climax and is
reflected down the aimless vista of our vision, causing us to see the
person upon whom our thoughts are centred. Such a moment was this. It
aroused within me an instant and intense longing to walk again at her
side, to speak to her, to hear her sweet, well-modulated voice--nay, to
tell her the deepest secret of my heart.
Thus it was that without invitation, or without previous introduction to
Lady Glaslyn, I called at the Hollies on the following afternoon. A
neat maid showed me into a cosy, rather small sitting-room, and for a
few moments I remained there in expectancy. Although the house was not
a large one it bore no stamp of the _nouveau riche_. It was exceedingly
well-furnished, and surrounded by spacious grounds, wherein were a
number of old yews and beeches. Old-fashioned, queer in its bygone
taste, it had stood there on the broad highway from historic Hampton to
London for probably a century and a half, being built in the days when
the villadom of Fulwell had not yet arisen, and Twickenham was still a
quiet village with its historic ferry, and where the stage-coaches
changed horses at that low-built old hostelry, the _King's Head_. The
place stood back from the dusty-high road, half-hidden from the curious
gaze, yet, surrounded as it now was by smaller houses, some of them mere
cottages, while a few cheap shops had also sprung up in the vicinity,
the place was not really a desirable place of abode. The district had
apparently sadly degenerated, like all places in the immediate vicinity
of the Metropolis.
Before long the door opened, and Eva, looking cool and sweet in a
washing dress of white drill, and wearing a straw hat with black band,
entered and greeted me cordially.
"Mother is out," she said. "I'm so awfully sorry, as I wanted to
introduce you. She's gone over to Riverdene, and I, too, was just about
to follow her. If you'd been five minutes later I should have left."
"I'm lucky then to have just caught you," I remarked. "But if you're
going to Riverdene, may I not accompany you?"
"Most certainly," she answered. "Of course I shall be delighted," and
the light in her clear blue eyes told me that she was not averse to my
company. She ordered a glass of port for me, and then said, "It's a
whole week since you've been down there. Mary has several times
mentioned you, and wondered whether you'd grown sick of boating."
"I've been rather busy," I said apologetically.
"Busy with murders and all sorts of horribles, I suppose," she observed
with a smile.
"Yes," I answered, regarding her closely. "Of late there have been one
or two sensational mysteries brought to light!"
"Mysteries!" she exclaimed, starting slightly. "Oh, do tell me about
them. I'm always interested in mysteries."
"The facts are in the papers," I answered, disinclined to repeat stories
which had already grown stale. "The mysteries to which I referred were
very ordinary ones, containing no features of particular interest."
"I'm always interested in those kind of things," she said. "You may
think me awfully foolish, but I always read them. Mother grows so
annoyed."
"It's only natural!" I answered. "We who are engaged on newspapers,
however, soon cease to be interested in the facts we print, but of
course, if they didn't interest the public our papers wouldn't have any
circulation."
She glanced at me, and a vague thought possessed me, for the look in her
eyes was one of suspicion.
When she had drawn on her gloves we together went forth through the
garden and down to the road. Suddenly it occurred to me that we might
go by train to Shepperton, and thence take a boat and row up to
Riverdene. This I suggested, and she gladly welcomed the proposal,
declaring that it would be much more pleasant than driving along the
dusty, shadowless road from Shepperton to Laleham.
Half an hour later we were afloat at Shepperton, and although the
afternoon sun was blazing hot, it was nevertheless delightful on the
water. With her lilac sunshade open she lolled lazily in the stern,
laughing and chatting as I pulled regularly against the stream. Her
conversation was always charming, and her countenance, I thought,
fresher and more beautiful at that hour than I had ever before seen.
About her manner was an air of irresponsibility, and when she laughed it
was so gay a laugh that one would not dream that she had a single care
in all the world. She was dainty from the crown of her hat to the tip
of her white _suede_ shoe, and as I sat in the boat before her, I felt
constrained to take her in my arms and imprint a fervent kiss of love
upon those sweet lips, arched and well-formed as a child's.
My position, however, was, to say the least, an exceedingly strange one.
I was actually loving a woman whom I suspected to be guilty of some
unknown but dastardly crime. Dozens of times had I tried to impress
upon myself the utter folly of it, but my mind refused to be convinced
or set at rest. I loved her; that was sufficient. Nothing against her
had been proved, and until that had been done, ought not I, in human
justice, to consider her innocent?
Indeed, it was impossible to believe that this bright-eyed, pure-faced
girl before me, light-hearted, and graceful in every movement, had
actually secretly visited that dark little den in the Walworth Road and
purchased a drug for the purpose of taking the life of one of her
fellow-creatures. Yet she wore at her throat the small enamelled brooch
with its five of diamonds, the ornament described by old Lowry, the
ornament which she had told me she had purchased as a souvenir at one of
the fashionable jewellers in the Montagne de la Cour in Brussels.
We had passed both locks, and were heading up to Laleham, when we
suddenly glided into the cool shade of some willows, the boughs of which
overhung the stream. The shadow was welcome after the sun glare, and
resting upon the oars I removed my hat.
"Yes," she said, noticing my actions, "we've come up unusually quick.
Let's stay here a little time, it is so pleasant. The breeze seems
quite cool."
Let it be punt, canoe or skiff, what more delightful than to moor
oneself snugly in the leafy shade, and with a pleasant companion "laze"
away the hours until the time comes to take up the sculls and gently
pull against the placid stream. Everything was so peaceful, so quiet,
the ripple of the sculls alone breaking the stillness. Yet, after all,
what a change has come over the river in recent years! Good "pitches"
for anglers and quiet nooks for the lazy were, ten years ago, to be
discovered in every reach. Now they must be diligently sought for, and
when found a note must be made of them. Warning boards notifying that
landing or mooring alongside is prohibited were almost unknown, now they
greet one in every direction. It is a pity; nevertheless there are
still many real joys in river life.
So we remained there beneath the willows, where the water was white with
lilies and the bank with its brambles was covered with wild flowers, and
as I "lazed" I looked into those clear blue eyes wherein my gaze became
lost, for she held me in fascination. I loved her with all my soul.