"You look rather serious, oh, my prince!" said Howard, as, some few
hours later, he leisurely climbed into the phaeton beside Stafford. "I
have noticed with inward satisfaction that as we approach the moment of
meeting with your puissant parent, the Sultan, an air of gravity and
soberness has clouded that confoundedly careless, devil-may-care
countenance of yours. I say with inward satisfaction, because, with my
usual candour, I don't mind admitting that I am shivering in my shoes.
The shadow of the august presence is already falling on me, and as the
hour draws near I feel my littleness, my utter insignificance, with an
acuteness which almost compels me to ask you to let me get down and
make my way back to London as best I can."
"Don't be an ass," retorted Stafford, rather absently.
"You ask an impossibility of me, my dear fellow; but I will try and
conceal my asininity as best I can. May I ask, to change the subject,
where you were wandering all the morning?"
Stafford coloured slightly and bestowed minute attention to the off
horse.
"Oh, just prowling round," he replied, leisurely.
"You tempt me to finish the quotation. Did you find anyone to devour?
Apropos, has his majesty, the Sultan, ever mentioned matrimony to you,
Staff?"
Stafford looked round at him for an instant.
"No," he said, curtly. "What the devil made you ask?"
"Merely my incessant speculation as to your future, my dear fellow,"
replied Howard, blandly. "Most fathers are ambitious for their sons,
and I should imagine that Sir Stephen would be extremely so. When a man
is simply a plain 'Mr.,' he longs for the 'Sir;' when he gets the
'Sir,' he wants the 'my Lord' for himself, or for his son and heir.
That is the worst of ambition: you can't satisfy it. I have no doubt in
my mind that at this very moment Sir Stephen is making for a peerage
for himself--or you. He can possibly gain his; but you, having no
brains to speak of--the fact that good-looking men are always deficient
in that respect is a continual and blessed consolation to us plain
ones, Staff--will have to make what the world calls a 'good marriage.'
Doubtless your father already has the future bride in his eye; the
daughter of a peer--high in the government, perhaps in the
cabinet--probably. Probably that is why he has asked you to meet him
here. I hope, for your sake, that she is good-looking. I
fancy"--musingly--"that you would be rather particular. If rumour does
you no injustice, you always have been."
Stafford laughed shortly.
"I've never thought about marrying," he said, rather absently.
"No one does, my dear fellow. It comes, like measles and other
unpleasant things, without thought; and when it comes, it is generally
as unpleasant. Aren't we going at a tremendous rate, Stafford? Don't
think I am nervous; I have ridden beside you too often for that. You
destroyed what nerve I possessed long ago."
"We are late, and it's farther round than I thought," said Stafford.
"The horses are fresh."
"I daresay; very probably Pottinger has given them a double feed; he
would naturally like them to dash up in fine style. But if it's all the
same to you"--as the horses broke into a gallop--"I should prefer to
arrive at your father's 'little place' in a more dignified fashion than
on a stretcher."
Stafford smiled and checked the high-spirited pair.
"You talk of women as if they were a--a kind of plague; you were never
in love, Howard?" he asked.
"Never, thank Heaven!" responded Howard, devoutly. "When I think of it,
I acknowledge that I have much to be thankful for. I was once: she was
a girl with dark eyes--but I will spare you a minute description. I met
her in a country rectory--_is_ that horse, I think you call it the near
one--going to jump over the bank? And one remarkably fine evening--it
was moonlight, I remember--I was on the point of declaring my love; and
then the gods saved me. The thought flashed upon me that, if she said
'yes,' I should have to sit opposite her at dinner for the rest of one
of our lives. It saved me. I said that I thought it was chilly, and
went in and up to bed, grateful for my escape. Why don't you laugh?"
Stafford only smiled in a perfunctory fashion. He was thinking of the
girl he had watched riding off on the unbroken colt; of what it would
seem like if she were seated opposite him, with the candle-light
falling on her soft white dress, with diamonds gleaming in it, diamonds
outshone by the splendour of those dark, violet-grey eyes; of what it
would seem like if he could rise from his seat and go to her and take
her in his arms and look into those dark grey eyes, and say, "You are
mine, mine!" with no one to say him nay.
"It was a lucky escape for her," he said, dreamily.
"It was," assented Howard, solemnly. "Not one man in a thousand can
love one woman all his life; and I've the strongest conviction that I
am not that one. In less than six months I should have grown tired of
her--in less than a year I should have flown from the joys of
matrimony--or killed the partner of those joys. Has Pottinger a wife
and family, my dear Stafford? If so, is it wise to risk his life in
this fashion? I don't care for myself--though still young, I am not
afraid to die, and I would as soon meet it hurled from a phaeton as
not--but may I beg of you to think of Pottinger?"
Stafford laughed.
"The horses are all right," he said. "They are only fresh, and want to
go."
He could not have driven slowly, for his mind, dwelling on the girl in
the well-worn habit, was electric.
"I have spared you, hitherto, any laudation of the scenery, my dear
Staff," said Howard, pleasantly, "but permit me to remark that it
really is very beautiful. Trust the great and powerful Sir Stephen to
choose the best nature and art can produce! What is this?"
"This" proved to be a newly built lodge which appeared on the left of
the road. Stafford slowed up, and a lodgekeeper came and flung open the
new and elaborately wrought iron gates.
"This the way to--to Sir Stephen's house?" asked Stafford.
The man touched his hat reverentially.
"Yes, sir," he replied. "Sir Stephen's arrived. Came an hour ago."
Stafford nodded, and drove on.
The road was certainly a new one, but it was lined with rhododendrons
and costly shrubs, and it wound and wound serpentine fashion through
shrubberies and miniature plantations which indicated not only
remarkably good taste, but vast expenditure. At intervals the trees had
been felled to permit a view of the lake, lying below, like a sapphire
glowing in the sunlight.
Presently they came in sight of the house. It was larger than it had
looked in the distance; a veritable palace. An architect had received
_carte-blanche_, and disporting himself right royally, had designed a
façade which it would be hard to beat: at any rate, in England.
Stafford eyed it rather grumpily. Most Englishmen dislike ostentation
and display; and to Stafford the place seemed garish and "loud." Howard
surveyed it with cynical admiration.
"A dream of Kubla Kahn--don't know whether I've got the name right:
poem of Coleridge's, you know--but of course you don't know; you don't
go in for poetry. Well I'm bound to admit that it's striking, not to
say beautiful," he went on, as the horses sprang up the last ascent and
rattled on in an impatient, high-spirited trot along the level road to
the terrace fronting the entrance.
As Stafford pulled up, a couple of grooms came forward; the hall
door--enamelled in peacock blue--opened and a butler and two footmen in
rich maroon livery appeared. They came down the white marble steps in
stately fashion and ranged themselves as if the ceremony were of vast
importance, and as Howard and Stafford got down they bowed with the air
of attendants receiving royalty.
As Stafford, flinging the reins to one of the grooms, got down, he
caught sight of a line of liveried servants in the hall, and he frowned
slightly.
Like most young Englishmen, he hated ostentation, which he designated
as "fuss."
"Rub 'em down well, Pottinger," he said, and he leisurely patted the
horses while the gorgeous footmen watched with solemn impressiveness.
"We've brought 'em along pretty well," he said, turning to Howard, who
stood beside him with a fine and cynical smile; then he went up the
white marble steps slowly, carefully ignoring the footmen who had drawn
themselves into a line as if they were a guard of honour, specially
drilled to receive him.
Followed by Howard, his cynical smile still lingering about his thin
lips, Stafford entered the hall.
It was Oriental in shape and design, with a marble fountain in the
centre, and carved arches before the various passages. The principal
staircase was also of white marble with an Indian carpet of vivid
crimson. Palms reared their tall and graceful heads at intervals,
shading statuary in the prevailing white marble. Hangings of rose
colour broke the sameness and accentuated the purity of the predominate
whiteness.
Howard looked round with an admiration which obliterated his usual
cynicism.
"Beautiful!" he murmured.
But Stafford frowned. The luxury, the richness of the place, though
chaste, jarred on him; why, he could not have told.
Suddenly, as they were making their way through the lines of richly
liveried servants, a curtain at one of the openings was thrown aside,
and a gentleman came out to meet them.
He was rather a tall man, with white hair, but with eyebrows and
moustache of jet-black. His eyes were brilliant but sharp, and he moved
with the ease and alertness of youth.
There was something in his face, in its expression, which indicated
strength and power; something in his manner, in his smile, peculiarly
electric and sympathetic.
Howard stopped and drew back, but Stafford advanced, and Sir Stephen
caught him by the hand and held it.
"My dear Stafford, my dear boy!" he said, in a deep but musical voice.
"I expected you hours ago; I have been waiting! But better late than
never. Who is this? Your friend, Mr. Howard? Certainly! How do you do,
Mr. Howard! Welcome to our little villa on the lake!"