If everybody was not enjoying himself at the Villa it certainly was not
the fault of the host, Sir Stephen Orme. Howard, as he drew his chair
up beside Stafford, when the ladies had left the room after dinner, and
the gentlemen had begun to glance longingly at the rare Chateau claret
and the Windermere port, made a remark to this effect:
"Upon my word, Staff, it is the most brilliant house-party which I have
ever joined; and as to your father in his character of host--Well,
words fail to express my admiration."
Stafford glanced at his father at the head of the table and nodded. Sir
Stephen had been the life and soul and spring of the dinner; talking
fashionable gossip to Lady Fitzharford on one side of him, and a "giddy
girl of twenty" on the other; exchanging badinage with "Bertie," and
telling deeply interesting stories to the men; and he was now dragging
reluctant laughter from the grim Baron Wirsch and the almost grimmer
Griffenberg, as he saw with one eye that the wine was circulating, and
with the other that no one was being overlooked or allowed to drop into
dullness.
"A most marvellous man! Nearly all the morning he was closeted with the
financiers; in the afternoon he went for a ride with Lady Clansford; he
was in attendance at the solemn function of afternoon tea; he played
croquet--and played it well--at half-past five; at six I saw him
walking round the grounds with the Effords and the Fitzharfords, and
now he is laughing and talking with the _abandon_ of a boy of
five-and-twenty, while the boy of five-and-twenty sits here as grave
and silent as if he had been working like a horse--or a Sir Stephen
Orme--instead of fooling about the lake with the most beautiful woman
in the party."
"And his friend has spent the day in a deck-chair on the terrace,"
retorted Stafford.
"At any rate, I have been out of mischief," said Howard. Then he
remembered his wager with Maude Falconer, and added, rather
remorsefully: "At least I hope so. By the way, don't you echo my
expression of opinion that Miss Falconer is the most beautiful woman
here--or elsewhere?"
Stafford woke from the reverie into which he nearly always dropped when
Howard was talking, and nodded indifferently.
"Oh, yes; she is lovely, of course."
"How good of you, how kind and gracious!" retorted Howard, ironically.
"So my prince deigns to approve of her? And you also condescended to
admit that she is--er--rather clever?"
"I daresay," said Stafford. "I've seen so little of her. She seems to
me rather _blasé_ and cold."
Howard nodded.
"Yes; but the worst of it is, you can't count upon that kind of girl:
they are apt to warm up sometimes, and quite unexpectedly: and when
they do they--well, they boil like a geyser or a volcano. And
then--well, then it is wise to get out of reach. I once knew a woman
who was considered to be as cold as charity--or a rich relation--but
who caught fire one day and burnt up the man who ignited her. Of course
this is my delicate way of saying: 'Beware, oh, my prince!'"
Stafford smiled. Miss Falconer's nature was a matter of profound
indifference to him. There was only one woman on whom he could bestow a
thought, and he was thinking of her now, wondering when he should see
her, whether he might dare to tell her of his love again, to ask her
for her answer.
Once or twice his father looked across at him, and nodded and smiled as
if he loved to see him, and wanted to speak to him; and Stafford smiled
and nodded back, as if he understood.
When the men rose to go to the drawing-room, Sir Stephen caught him up
at the door, and laid a hand upon his arm.
"Happy, dear boy?" he asked in a low voice, full of affection. "I've
seen scarcely anything of you. No, no, I'm not complaining! It was
understood that you were to have a free hand--but--but I've missed you!
Never mind; this crowd will have gone presently, and then--ah, then
we'll have a jolly time to ourselves! Things are going well," he added,
with a significant smile, as he glanced at Wirsch and Griffenberg, who,
well-fed and comfortable, were in front of them.
"I'm glad, sir," said Stafford.
Sir Stephen smiled, but checked a sigh and a shrug of the shoulders.
"Yes, my little schemes are flourishing; but"--he looked at the
financiers again--"they are rather a hard team to drive!"
As Stafford entered the drawing-room, he heard Lady Clansford enquiring
for Miss Falconer.
"We want her to sing, Mr. Orme, and I cannot find her."
"I think she is on the terrace," said Bertie, who always seemed to know
where everybody was.
Stafford went out by one of the windows, and saw Maude Falconer pacing
up and down at the end of the terrace. She was superbly dressed, and as
he looked at her, he involuntarily admired the grace of her movements.
Mr. Falconer was walking with bent head and hands behind his back; but
now and again he looked at her sideways with his sharp eyes. Stafford
did not like to interrupt them, and withdrew to the other end of the
terrace, with a cigarette, to wait till they joined him.
"Young Orme has come out to look for you," said Mr. Falconer, without
turning his head.
"I know," she said, though she also had not turned. "They want me to
sing. I will go in directly. You have not answered my question, father.
Is Sir Stephen very rich, or is all this only sham? I have heard you
say so often that display very often only covers poverty."
Falconer eyed her curiously.
"Why do you want to know? What does it matter to you?"
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, resentfully, and he went on:
"Yes, he's rich; confoundedly so. But he is playing a big game, in
which he is running some risks; and he'll want all his money to help
him win it."
"And are you joining him in the game?" she asked.
He looked at her with surprise. There was a note in her voice which he
had never heard before, a note which conveyed to him the fact that she
was no longer a girl, but a woman.
"Upon my soul, I don't know why you ask! Well, well!"--she had
repeated the impatient gesture. "I haven't made up my mind yet. He
wants me to join him. I could be of service to him; on the other hand,
I could--yes, get in his way; for I know some of the points of the game
he is playing. Yes, I could help him--or spoil him."
"And which are you going to do?" she asked, in a low voice, her eyes
veiled, her lips drawn straight.
Falconer laughed grimly. "I don't know. It all depends. Which would you
do?" he asked, half sarcastically.
She was silent for a moment, then she said: "You knew Sir Stephen some
time ago--years ago, father?"
Falconer nodded. "I did," he said, shortly.
"And you were friends, and you quarrelled?"
He looked at her with an air of surprise.
"I saw you both when you stood opposite each other after the carriage
accident," she said, coolly. "I am not blind, and I am not particularly
stupid. It didn't strike me at the time that there had been anything
wrong between you, but I have since seen you look at Sir Stephen,
and--you have an expressive face sometimes, oh, my father!"
He grinned grimly.
"You appear to keep your eyes open, Maude. Yes; there was a row between
us, and there was a grudge--"
--"Which you mean to pay off?" she said, as impassively as if they
were speaking of the merest trivialities.
"Which I could pay off--gratify, if I liked," he admitted.
"How?" she asked.
He did not reply, but glanced at her sideways and bit at the cigar
which he had stopped to light.
"Shall I tell you, if I were a man and I wanted revenge upon such a man
as Sir Stephen Orme, what I should do, father?" she asked, in a low
voice, and looking straight before her as if she were meditating.
"You can if you like. What would you do?" he replied, with a touch of
sarcastic amusement.
She looked round her and over her shoulder. The windows near them were
closed, Stafford with his cigarette was too far off to overhear them.
"If I were a man, rich and powerful as you are, and I owed another a
grudge, I would not rest night or day until I had got him into my
power. Whether I meant to exact my revenge or not, I would wait and
work, and scheme and plot until I had him at my mercy so that I could
say, 'See now you got the better of me once, you played me false once,
but it is my turn now.' He should sue for mercy, and I would grant
it--or refuse it--as it pleased me; but he should feel that he was in
my power; that my hand was finer than his, my strength greater!" He
shot a glance at her, and his great rugged face grew lined and stern.
"Where did you get those ideas? Why do you talk to me like this?" he
muttered, with surprise and some suspicion.
"I am not a child," she said, languidly. "And I have been living with
you for some time now. Sir Stephen Orme is a great man, is surrounded
by great and famous people, while you, with all your money, are"--she
shrugged her shoulders--"well, just nobody."
His face grew dark. She was playing on him as a musician plays on an
instrument with which he is completely familiar.
"What the devil do you mean?" he muttered.
"If I were a man, in your place, I would have the great Sir Stephen at
my feet, to make or to break as I pleased. I would never rest until I
could be able to say: 'You're a great man in the world's eyes, but I am
your master; you are my puppet, and you have to dance to my music,
whether the tune be a dead march or a jig.' That is what I should do if
I were a man; but I am only a girl, and it seems to me nowadays that
men have more of the woman in them than we have."
He stopped and stared at her in the moonlight, a dark frown on his
face, his eyes heavy with doubt and suspicion.
"Look here, my girl," he said, "you are showing up in a new light
to-night. You are talking as your mother used to talk. And you aren't
doing it without a purpose. What is it? What grudge can you, a mere
girl who has only known him for a couple of days, have against Sir
Stephen?"
She smiled.
"Let us say that I am only concerned for my father's wounded pride and
honour," she said. "Or let us say that I _have_ a game of my own to
play, and that I am asking you to help me while you gratify your own
desire for revenge. Will you help me?"
"Tell me--tell me what your game is. Good Lord!"--with a scowl. "Fancy
you having a game: it's--it's ridiculous!"
"Almost as ridiculous as calling me a girl and expecting to see me
playing with a doll or a hoop," she returned, calmly. "But you needn't
reply. I can see you mean to do it, like a good and indulgent father;
and some day, perhaps soon, I will, like a good and dutiful daughter,
tell you why I wanted you to do it. Is that you, Mr. Orme? Will I come
and sing? Oh, yes, if you wish it. Where is the little dog?" she asked,
looking up at him with a new expression in her languorous eyes, as she
glided beside him.
"Asleep on my bed," replied Stafford, with a laugh. "My man has turned
him off and made him a luxurious couch with cushions three or four
times, but he would persist on getting on again, so he'll have to stay,
I suppose?"
"Are you always so good-natured?" she asked, in a low voice. "Or do you
reserve all your tenderness of heart for dogs and horses--as Mr. Howard
declares?"
"Mr. Howard is too often an ass," remarked Stafford, with a smile.
"You shall choose your song, as a reward for your exertions this
afternoon," she said, as he led her to the piano.
Most of the men in the crowd waiting eagerly for the exquisite voice
would have been moved to the heart's core by her tone and the
expression in her usually cold eyes, but Stafford was clothed in the
armour of his great love, and only inclined his head.
"Thanks: anything you like," he said, with the proper amount of
gratitude.
She shot a glance at him and sank into the music-seat languidly. But a
moment afterwards, as if she could not help herself, she was singing a
Tuscan love-song with a subdued passion which thrilled even the _blasé_
audience clustered round her. It thrilled Stafford; but only with the
desire to be near Ida. A desire that became irresistible; and when she
had finished he left the room, caught up his hat and overcoat and went
out of the house.
As he did so, Mr. Falconer walked past him into the smoking-room. Mr.
Griffenberg was alone there, seated in a big arm-chair with a cigar as
black as a hat and as long as a penholder.
Falconer wheeled a chair up to him, and, in his blunt fashion, said:
"You are in this railway scheme of Orme's, Griffenberg?" Mr.
Griffenberg nodded.
"And you?"
"Yes," said Falconer, succinctly. "I am joining. I suppose it's all
right; Orme will be able to carry it through?"
Griffenberg emitted a thick cloud of smoke.
"It will try him a bit. It's a question of capital--ready capital. I'm
helping him: got his Oriental shares as cover. A bit awkward for me,
for I'm rather pushed just now--that estate loan, you know."
Falconer nodded. "I know. See here: I'll take those shares from you, if
you like, and if you'll say nothing about it."
Mr. Griffenberg eyed his companion's rugged face keenly.
"What for?" he asked.
Mr. Falconer smiled.
"That's my business," he said. "The only thing that matters to you is,
that by taking the shares off your hands I shall be doing you a
service."
"That's true: you shall have 'em," said Mr. Griffenberg; "but I warn
you it's a heavy lot."
"You shall have a cheque to-morrow," said Mr. Falconer. "Where did you
get that cigar: it takes my fancy?"
Mr. Griffenberg produced his cigar case with alacrity: he liked Mr.
Falconer's way of doing business.
At the moment Stafford left the Villa, Ida was standing by the window
in the drawing-room of Heron Hall. On the table beside her lay a book
which she had thrown down with a gesture of impatience. She was too
restless to read, or to work; and the intense quietude of the great
house weighed upon her with the weight of a tomb.
All day, since she had left Stafford, his words of passionate love had
haunted her. They sang in her ears even as she spoke to her father or
Jessie, or the dogs who followed her about with wistful eyes as if they
were asking her what ailed her, and as if they would help her.
He loved her! She had said it to herself a thousand times all through
the long afternoon, the dragging evening. He loved her. It was so
strange, so incredible. They had only met three or four times; they had
said so little to each other. Why, she could remember almost every
word. He loved her, had knelt to her, he had told her so in passionate
words, with looks which made her heart tremble, her breath come fast as
she recalled them. That is, he wanted her to be his wife, to _give
herself_ to him, to be with him always, never to leave him.
The strangeness, the suddenness of the thing overwhelmed her so that
she could not think of it calmly. He had asked her to think of it, to
decide, to give him an answer. Why could she not? She had always,
hitherto, known her own mind. If anyone had asked her a question about
the estate, about the farm, she had known what to answer, important as
the question might have been. But now she seemed as if her mind were
paralyzed, as if she could not decide. Was it because she had never
thought of love; because she had never dreamt that anyone would love
her so much as to want to have her by his side for all his life?
As she looked through the window at the moonlight on the lawn, she
thought of him; called up the vision of his tall, graceful figure and
handsome face--yes; he was handsome, she knew. But she had scarcely
given a thought to his face; and only felt that it was good to have him
near her, to hear him talk in his deep voice, broken sometimes by the
short laugh which sounded almost boyish. It had been good to have him
near her--But then, she had been so lonely, had seen so few
men--scarcely any at all--Suppose when she met him next she said "No,"
told him that she could not love him, and he went away, leaving her
forever; would she be sorry?
She turned away from the window suddenly, nearly stumbling over Donald,
who was lying at her feet, his nose on his paws, his great eyes fixed
sadly and speculatively on her face, and caught up the book. But _his_
face came between her and the page, and she put the book down and went
into the hall.
Her father was in the library, there was no sound in the house to drown
the voice, the passionately pleading voice which rang in her ears.
"I must go out," she said, "I shall be able to think in the air, shall
be able to decide."
She caught up a shawl and flung it carelessly over her head, quite
unconscious that the fleecy, rose-coloured wool made an exquisite frame
for the girlish loveliness of her face, and opening the door, went
slowly down the broken, lichen-covered steps, the two dogs following at
her heels.
She drew in the keen but balmy air with a long breath, and looked up at
the moon, now a yellow crescent in the starry sky; and something in the
beauty of the night, something subtly novel thrilled her with a strange
sense of throbbing, pulsing joy and happiness, underneath which lurked
as subtle a fear and dread, the fear and dread of those who stand upon
the threshold of the unknown; who, in passing that threshold, enter a
world of strange things which they never more may leave.
Love: what was it? Did she feel it? Oh, if she could only tell! What
should she say to him when she met him; and when should she meet him?
Perhaps he had come to regret his avowal to her, had been wearied and
disappointed by her coldness, and would not come again! At the thought
her heart contracted as if at the touch of an icy hand. But the next
moment it leapt with a suffocating sense of mystery, of half-fearful
joy, for she saw him coming across the lawn to her, and heard her name,
spoken as it had never yet been spoken excepting by him; and she stood,
still as a statue, as he held out his hand and, looking into her eyes,
murmured her name again.
"Ida!"