While Mr. Ernest Clifton was thinking over the question, the answer to
which he believed to be vital to his interests, Amber Severn was
hanging on the arm of her father as they strolled together about their
rose-garden under the cool stars of the summer night. She was keeping
the promise she had made to Pierce Winwood and was telling him the
story--it struck her as being curious--which Pierce Winwood had told to
her.
It seemed too that she had not overestimated the element of the curious
which it contained, for before she had gone very far with it her father
who had been, when she begun the narrative, stooping down every now
and again to smell the roses as he moved from bed to bed, was standing
still, quite as engrossed in hearing the story from her as she had been
in hearing it from the Australian.
When she came to the end, he put his hands in his pockets, and drew a
long breath, gazing, not at her face, but in an abstracted way, over
her head into the distance of the shrubbery. There was a silence of
considerable duration before he said,--and once again he seemed to draw
a long breath:
“What did you say is the name of the man--the Australian--I was paying
so little attention to you, I regret to say, when you began your story,
I have actually forgotten it?”
“Pierce Winwood,” replied Amber. “I mentioned the name to you a few days
ago when I told you that I had met him. You said you did not recollect
hearing it before, but I now see that you recall it.”
“You are wrong, my dear; I do not recall anyone of that name,” said
her father. And then he turned away from her, looking up to the topmost
windows of the house, which were glowing one by one, as the servants
switched on the lights in turn, preparing the rooms for the night.
Amber was a little struck at his way of taking the story. It appeared
to her that he must have heard it all before, for he had not given any
exclamation of surprise while she dwelt on some of the details that
seemed to her rather marvellous. His attitude on hearing it to its
close, was, she thought, that of a person whose distant memories have
been awakened.
“What did he say was the name of the man--the man to whom the thing
happened?” he asked, after another and a longer pause.
“He was unable to give me any name--either the name of the man who was
falsely imprisoned or the one who allowed himself to be saved by the
falsehood,” replied Amber.
“Ah... I wonder if he is anxious to find out either of those names.”
“He said nothing about that. He only told me the story because we had
been talking about the romance of the colonies,” said Amber.
“Ah...”
“But now that I come to think of the way he dwelt on some of the details
in the story he must take a more than ordinary amount of interest in the
people of that little drama--the story would make a very good play, I
think.”
“That is just what I have been thinking--a very good play. You really
fancy that he took a personal interest in some of the details?”
“Well, it did not seem so to me at the moment, I must confess; but as I
said just now, the more I think of it the more I feel... but perhaps I
exaggerate... I can only tell you what is my impression now.”
“That is almost certain to be accurate, my dear. I am sure that you have
been led to believe that I heard the story before. Of course I heard it
before. What surprised me was becoming aware of the fact that I was not
alone in my acquaintance with the details of the story--the man who was
innocent suffering for the one who was guilty.”
“The strangest part seems to me to be that of the guilty man being
content to see the innocent suffer. Is it possible that such a man could
exist?”
“There are few men in existence possessing sufficient strength of mind
to stand silently by while some one else--their closest friend--is
suffering in their place.”
“Strength of mind? Strength of--well, they may have strength of
mind,--but what about their hearts? Oh, such men could have no hearts.”
“When men set out in life with a determination that their ambition shall
be realised they find that their best ally is that process of nature
known as atrophy, my dear: they get rid of their hearts to make way for
their ambition. At the same time you should remember that atrophy is
as much a process of nature as those other processes which we associate
with the action of the heart.”
“Oh, yes; I acknowledge that; and our abhorrence of the man with the
atrophied heart is quite as natural as the process known as atrophy.”
Sir Creighton laughed.
“And you will be able to tell Mr. Winwood the names of the people--the
two men: the man with the heart and the man with the ambition?”
continued Amber.
“I could tell him both names; but I am not certain that I should tell
him so much as one of them,” said her father. “At any rate, you are
going to ask him to dinner. By the way, who did you say sat with him at
the little feast to-night--you said he told you the story after dinner?”
“Josephine sat beside him. I think mother mentioned it when we
returned,” said Amber.
“Of course she did,” said her father. “I had forgotten for the moment.
And I suppose one may take it for granted that Josephine and he got on
all right?”
“I’m sure they did. I hadn’t a chance of asking her. Oh, of course, they
got on all right; Joe isn’t the girl to let a stranger feel ‘heavy and
ill at ease,’ as the song says.”
“That occurred to me. And the man--would he tell her the story too? Oh,
I don’t suppose that he would have the chance at the dinner table. He
isn’t in the position of the Ancient Mariner.”
“I don’t suppose he would have told me if we hadn’t begun to talk
about Australian romances. He had a groom who used to play polo at
Ranelagh--and a stock rider too. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Very funny. You came to the conclusion that he was a good sort of
chap?”
“You mean Mr. Winwood? Oh, yes, he is very nice.”
“I think you might ask Josephine to come on whatever night you invite
him. Make it a small party, Amber.”
“I’ll make it as small as you please, if you want to talk to him
afterwards. Why should not I ask him to drop in to lunch? that will be
more informal, and besides, we really haven’t a spare evening for three
weeks to come.”
“A capital idea! Yes, ask him to lunch. Only he may not have a spare
morning for as many weeks. Don’t forget Josephine: meantime we’ll go to
our beds and have a sleep or two. Who sat beside you at dinner?”
“Lord Lullworth. A nice--no, he might be nice only that he’s pig-headed.
He ridiculed the school.”
They had walked towards the house, and now they were standing together
at the foot of the flight of steps leading to the door by which they
meant to enter.
“He ridiculed the school, did he? Well, your friend Willie Bateman will
tell us that he could not do more for the school than that. By the way,
did this Mr. Winwood bind you down to secrecy in regard to his story?”
“On the contrary he asked me to tell it to you; but now that I come
to think of it he said he would rather that I didn’t tell it to Mr.
Richmond: you see I suggested before he told it to me that it would
serve--possibly--as an exercise for one of the classes.”
“I think he was right. I would advise you to refrain from telling it
to Mr. Richmond or in fact to any one. I would even go the length of
refraining from telling it to Josephine.”
“What! oh, he did not tell me to keep it such a secret as all that. Why
shouldn’t I tell it to Joe?”
“Why should you tell it to her. It may concern this Mr. Winwood more
closely than you think. You remember what the knowing man says in one of
Angler’s comedies?--‘When any one tells me a story of what happened to a
friend of his, I know pretty well who that friend is.’”
“You mean to say that it is--that it was----”
“I mean to say nothing more, and I would advise you to follow my
example. Good-night, my dear. Don’t give too much of your thought to
the question of who Mr. Winwood’s friend is--or was. He told you he was
dead, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he said that he was dead and that he didn’t even know what his
name was.”
“Ah, well, I have the better of him there. Goodnight.”
He kissed her, and she suffered herself to be kissed by him, but was too
far lost in thought to be able to return his valediction.
She went to her dressing-room; but she heard her father go down the
corridor to his study before she had reached the first lobby. She could
not, however, hear the way he paced the floor of his study for some
minutes before throwing himself upon his sofa, or she might have come
to the conclusion that the story which she had repeated to him concerned
him much more closely than it did.
But he was a scientific man and his methods of thought were scientific.
“A coincidence--a coincidence!” he muttered. “Yes, one of those
coincidences that are carefully arranged for. He never would have told
her the story but for the fact of his hearing that I knew all about it.
It would have been a coincidence if he had told her the story without
knowing who she was.”
He resumed his pacing of the room for some minutes longer, but then,
with an impatient word, he extinguished the lights.
“Psha!” he said. “What does it amount to after all? Not much, only
I never thought it possible that all that old business would ever be
revived. I fancied that it was dead and buried long ago. It’s a pity--a
great pity. Yes, that’s what I think now. But...”
He remained for a minute or two in the dark, but whatever his thoughts
were he did not utter them. He went silently upstairs to his room.
*****
When Amber saw Josephine a couple of days later and asked her to drop in
to lunch on the following Friday, Josephine said she would be delighted;
but when Amber mentioned immediately afterwards, that Pierce Winwood
would probably be the only stranger of the party she was rather
surprised to notice a little flush upon Josephine’s face followed by a
little drawing down of the corners of her mouth, and the airiest shadow
of a frown--perhaps a pout.
“Did you say Friday?” Josephine asked in a tone that suggested a vocal
sequence to the tiny frown that might have been a pout.
“Yes, I said Friday and you said you would come. Don’t try to make out
now that you misunderstood me,” cried Amber.
“I’m not going to try. Only----”
“Only what? Why should you dislike meeting Mr. Winwood? Did you expect
me to ask Guy Overton or Mr. Richmond--or was it Arthur you had set your
heart on? Didn’t you find Mr. Win-wood entertaining?”
“Entertaining? Entertaining?” Josephine looked at her strangely for a
few moments and then gave a laugh. “Entertaining?” she said again.
“I really never gave a thought to the question as to whether he was
entertaining or the reverse. The men who entertain one are not always
the people one wants to meet again. I think that there’s hardly any one
so dull as the man who tries to be entertaining.”
“Then what have you against Mr. Winwood?” asked Amber.
“Did I say that I had somewhat against him?” cried Josephine quickly and
with quite unnecessary vehemence. “Now, don’t say that I suggested to
you that I disliked this Mr. Winwood. I was only--only surprised. Why
should you ask me to meet him again? There was no need for me ever
to meet him again. People come together at dinner or at a dance and
separate and--and--that’s all right. Why shouldn’t this Mr. Winwood be
allowed to drift away after this comfortable and accommodating manner?”
Amber stared at her. Her face was almost flushed with the vehemence of
her words, and there was a strange sparkle in her eyes. Amber stared
at this inexplicable display of feeling. She wondered what on earth had
come over her friend Josephine, and had opened her mouth to say so, when
Josephine prevented her speaking.
“Now, don’t say--what you’re going to say,” she cried, lifting up both
her hands in an exaggerated attitude of protest which, however, but
imperfectly concealed the increased flush upon her face. “Don’t say that
I’m an idiot, my beloved girl, because I happen to have--to have taken
an unaccountable dislike to your Mr. Winwood. I haven’t--I give you
my word I haven’t in reality--as a matter of fact I think that I could
almost like him, if I did not--that is to say, _if_ I did not--do the
other thing. There you are now.”
“What’s the other thing?” asked Amber.
“Good gracious! what’s the opposite to liking a man?”
“Loving a man,” cried Amber.
Josephine’s flush vanished. It was her turn to stare. She stared as a
cold search-light stares.
Then she said coldly:
“I dislike your Mr. Winwood--I--I--I wonder if I don’t actually hate
him. Yes, I feel that I must actually hate him or I shouldn’t be looking
forward to meeting him so eagerly as I do. That’s the truth for you, my
dear Amber--the truth--whatever that may mean.”
“I wish you were not coming on Friday,” said Amber, after a long,
thoughtful and embarrassing pause.
“So do I. But I swear to you that nothing shall prevent my lunching with
you on Friday,” cried Josephine.
And then after a moment of gravity which Amber thought might be
simulated in a kind of spirit of parody of her own gravity, Josephine
burst out laughing and then hurried away.
Amber felt completely puzzled by her attitude. She did not know what to
make of her flushing--of her frowning--of her pouting--least of all of
her outburst of laughter.
She thought over what Josephine had said; but, of course, that was no
assistance to her.
If one cannot arrive at any satisfactory interpretation of a girl’s
flushing and frowning and laughing one is not helped forward to any
appreciable extent by recalling her words.
Amber wished with all her heart that her father had not suggested to her
the asking of Josephine to this confidential little lunch which he had
projected.