CHAPTER XIX

“Will I do?” Myrtile asked demurely.

“You are wonderful!” Gerald exclaimed. “But--what does it mean?”

“I have come to your party,” Myrtile announced, “and even Monsieur

Christopher shall not send me away. I went to Madame Lénore. She

dressed me and she had my hair arranged. It was so droll. When I looked

in the glass I scarcely knew myself. You are pleased?”

“I am more than pleased,” Gerald answered, taking her hand. “But about

this party. I am not sure----”

“You don’t want me?” she whispered.

He could no longer resist the invitation of her lips. After a moment,

however, she sprang away. The violinist in the room beyond had

commenced a waltz. She dragged Gerald through the open door and gave a

little cry of delight when she saw the room.

“Dance with me,” she begged, “just you and I, all alone. Dance with me,

Gerald!”

They moved off to the music. The violinist smiled with pleasure. The

other instruments took up the strain. Myrtile was as light as a feather

in her partner’s arms, her feet flashed or lingered upon the floor like

flecks of sunlight upon a wave-stirred sea. She closed her eyes, half

fainting with the joy of the music, the smooth floor, Gerald’s arms.

Presently he stopped. He was unaccountably out of breath. He took one

of the gold-foiled bottles from the sideboard, opened it and filled

two glasses with the foaming wine. Myrtile’s eyes shone like stars as

she drank.

“Oh, I am happy!” she murmured. “This is wonderful! Promise, Gerald,

that you will never send me away. Promise?”

There was a shriek of voices as the room was invaded. Nadine came

through the door which led from his own suite.

“Gerald,” she cried, “there is a cloak already upon your bed! I am on

fire with jealousy. Who is your early guest?--Ah! A thousand pardons!”

Gerald’s movement had disclosed Myrtile. Nadine, daringly, almost

shamelessly dressed, raised her bare arms.

“Heaven!” she exclaimed. “Gerald has robbed a convent!”

Some men followed, accompanied by a little crowd of girls. Every one

was curious about Myrtile. She shook hands shyly with those whom Gerald

presented to her. When they asked for her name, however, he shook his

head.

“Mademoiselle is our guest for this evening,” he announced. “She is

not, alas! of our world. Let us call her Mademoiselle X.”

“Mademoiselle the Spirit, rather!” a Frenchman exclaimed. “I think that

you have dragged her down from the skies. Present me, Gerald, or I

shall be your enemy for life.”

“The Marquis Chantelaine,” Gerald murmured, “Mademoiselle X. The

Marquis is a shameless fellow, Myrtile, and you must not believe a word

he says.”

“I am shameless or not according to my surroundings,” the Frenchman

declared. “No one could look into the eyes of Mademoiselle and speak

other than the truth.”

Chlotilde pouted.

“Is no one going to say nice things to us others?” she complained.

“Gerald, you ought to have warned us. I would have worn my new gown. It

is exactly the colour of the sky. Even my maid declared that I, too,

slipped down from heaven.”

There was a little chorus of laughter. Cocktails were brought in and

cigarettes lit. Every one gathered around and talked to Myrtile.

She answered them naturally enough, but every now and then with

embarrassment.

“Mademoiselle X may be asked no questions,” Gerald insisted. “Where

she comes from I shall not tell any of you. Whither she goes after

to-night, you will none of you know.”

“Mademoiselle is of the _haut monde_, perhaps?” Nadine whispered

maliciously, under her breath.

“Mademoiselle belongs to a world we are none of us privileged to

enter,” Gerald answered. “It is the one favour I ask, as your host.

Please accept my guest as a butterfly, born this evening, passing away

to-morrow.”

“Oh, là, là!” Chlotilde exclaimed. “We are all like that. Give me

another cocktail, Charles. I have not had a drink all the evening, and

my sylph dance was twice encored.”

They made their way presently to the supper table. Myrtile sat at

Gerald’s right hand, and next her, on the other side, was the Marquis

de Chantelaine. Any form of tête-à-tête conversation, however, was

impossible from the first. They all seemed to be talking together

at the top of their voices in an almost incomprehensible argot, a

jumble of personal quips and sallies. Myrtile listened sympathetically

but understood little. Occasionally she laughed when the others

laughed, but as a matter of fact she needed nothing to complete her

happiness. She was next to Gerald, who whispered every now and then

little words of encouragement in her ear. The Marquis, too, murmured

occasional compliments, but he was man of the world enough partially

to understand the situation, and he restrained his natural instincts

towards unbridled gallantry. Presently Chlotilde jumped up and danced.

Phrynette followed suit and executed a wonderful _pas seul_. There was

a good deal of boisterous applause. Myrtile felt the colour burning in

her cheeks. She glanced towards Gerald. He was laughing, so it must be

all right. Nevertheless, she was relieved when at last Phrynette sat

down.

“I will show you,” Nadine suggested, “how they dance in Algiers.”

There was a little chorus of applause. Gerald alone for a moment looked

doubtful. He glanced towards Myrtile at his side.

“Don’t overdo it, Nadine,” he begged.

Nadine laughed subtly.

“Is it for your ingénue you fear, or yourself?” she asked. “Very well,

I will give you both something to think about.”

She danced at first with all the quivering grace of restrained but

passionate movements. Myrtile watched her with fascinated eyes. Then

she suddenly broke loose. Myrtile looked down at her plate and gripped

Gerald’s hand.

“Remember I warned you, dear,” he whispered. “Don’t watch.”

“Mademoiselle would perhaps care for a little stroll upon the

balcony?” the Marquis whispered in her ear.

Myrtile shook her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured, “I do not wish to leave Gerald. As for the

dancing, it is foolish of me but I have never seen anything like it. It

never seemed to me possible that women could do such things. That is

because I have not lived in the world. I shall progress.”

The dance came to an end amidst uproarious applause. Nadine,

dishevelled and breathless, pirouetted towards the door leading to

Gerald’s suite.

“I shall go into your bedroom and make myself tidy,” she called out.

“You can come and fetch me when you want me,” she added, looking over

her shoulder at her host.

The corks began to fly faster still. Presently, couples stood up and

danced. Then, indeed, happiness began for Myrtile. She danced with

Gerald again and again, danced to music which was indeed of the best,

for Gerald was somewhat of an epicure in such matters, until she forgot

the loud voices, the haze of cigarette smoke, the slightly unsteady

condition of one or two of the guests. To her, so long as it was

Gerald’s arm which controlled her, it was all beautiful. By degrees

she seemed to slip into her place, however incongruous it might be,

in the little company. The first impulse of resentment against her

presence, shown most clearly by Nadine after her prolonged but useless

wait before Gerald’s looking-glass, soon passed away. She was accepted

as one of the kaleidoscopic pictures of Monte Carlo flirtations. She

had come, and there was an end of it. There were other hosts besides

Gerald, other Englishmen crowding all the time into the place. The

very singleness of her devotion made her to some extent a rival to be

accepted philosophically. She at least made not the slightest response

to the advances which were offered her freely enough by the other men

of the party.

It seemed incredible that four o’clock had arrived when Louis presented

himself with many apologies. There was a ball that night at the

Carlton, however, so every one was resigned. They invaded Gerald’s

rooms for their coats and wraps. Myrtile remained talking with the

Marquis, with whom she had been dancing. Her body was still swaying a

little to the rhythm of the music.

“So this is your first night, Mademoiselle?” her companion said softly.

“I shall hope that we may meet many more times.”

“If you are a friend of Gerald’s, I hope that we may,” Myrtile replied.

“You have enjoyed yourself, on the whole?” he asked, looking at her

curiously.

Her ears were straining for Gerald’s voice. She could hear all the time

the shrill laughter of Nadine and her friends.

“I have enjoyed the dancing,” she said.

“But not the dancing of Mademoiselle Nadine?”

Her cheeks were suddenly hot. There was a look of trouble in her eyes

which he had noticed before and wondered at.

“No, I did not like that,” she acknowledged. “I cannot believe that

Gerald liked it, really. It was not beautiful.”

“She is very famous,” the Marquis remarked.

“It was not beautiful,” Myrtile repeated. “It frightened me a little.”

The Frenchman, a little intrigued, smiled.

“I begin to believe,” he said, “that you are really as young as you

look.”

“I am eighteen,” she told him.

“For that moment I was not thinking of your actual years,” he

explained. “How long have you known Lord Dombey?”

“Gerald?” she queried. “Only a very short time. I have never danced

with him before to-day.”

“It seems easy to believe,” he said, “that you slipped down from the

skies, only nowadays Heaven does not part with its children so easily.

Tell me, where did you come from, really?”

“A little farm on the other side of the mountains,” she said. “Gerald

and Monsieur Christopher brought me here. Monsieur Christopher wants me

to go to England, but I hope that Gerald will not let me go.”

“But what shall you do if you stay here?” he asked.

“Gerald will take care of me,” she answered. “I shall be very happy if

he lets me stay.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. He was inclined to be a disbeliever, the

accepted pose towards women at his age, but a little flicker of genuine

feeling disturbed for a moment his placid and cultivated cynicism.

“I am not at all sure,” he said, “if you are what you seem to be, that

it would not be better if you went to England.”

They all came trooping out. Myrtile got up to fetch her own cloak, but

Gerald detained her. She stood by his side, bidding good night to his

guests with him. The Marquis frowned slightly as he made his adieux.

The look in his eyes haunted her for a moment as he turned away.

Then she was conscious of a curious sense of disturbance. Throughout

the dancing she had been soothed into a state of ecstatic happiness.

Suddenly there was a change. She was alone with Gerald and he was

looking at her strangely. Two of the musicians were packing up their

music. Once more the violinist was playing softly, as though to himself.

“You have been happy, Myrtile?” Gerald asked, and his voice seemed to

come from a long way off.

“Wonderfully,” she answered. “I--there is my cloak.”

She moved towards the open door leading into Gerald’s suite. She seemed

suddenly torn by a strange medley of sensations and memories. She saw

Nadine pass through it, dishevelled and indecent, with that backward

glance at Gerald which, even to her ignorance, seemed ugly. She heard

the voices of all of them laughing stridently. Little half-understood

sentences puzzled her. She passed into the sitting room. Gerald

followed, closing the door. The sound of the music came more quietly.

Myrtile felt suddenly faint.

“You are tired!” Gerald exclaimed, bending anxiously over her.

She put her arms around his neck like a child.

“Gerald,” she whispered, “take care of me. I am afraid. Be good to me,

Gerald.”

Their lips met, but there was something absent from the warm joy of

that first kiss. Side by side with her happiness came the feeling of

discordant music all around her. Rank perfumes seemed to hang in the

air. A ribbon from one of Nadine’s discarded garments lay upon the

sofa. Yet when Gerald leaned towards her and his eyes sought for hers,

a strange content seemed to creep like a flood over all these other

things.

The door of the sitting room was suddenly opened and closed.

Christopher stood there, a little breathless, as though he had run up

the stairs, pale, and with a look in his eyes from which both Gerald

and Myrtile quailed,--Gerald with fuller understanding. His arms

dropped. He was nearer fear than ever before in his life. Christopher

spoke with marvellous calmness.

“Gerald,” he said, “were you thinking of breaking your trust?”

“Yes!” Gerald answered hoarsely. “Drop this Don Quixote business,

Christopher. I’m sick of it.”

Christopher came a step nearer.

“Myrtile is coming back to her lodgings with me,” he announced. “She is

going to England to-morrow morning. Your sister has promised to take

her.”

“But it is impossible!” Myrtile cried passionately.

“It is arranged,” Christopher declared. “I went to your rooms to-night,

Myrtile, to tell you. I received Annette’s lying message. I was told

that you were in bed and asleep. I left a note. Then, for the first

time since I have been here, I went to the Club and stayed late. I

heard your guests downstairs speak of your good fortune, Gerald.”

Gerald laid his hand upon Myrtile’s wrist.

“Well,” he said, “what are you going to do about it?”

“I am going to take Myrtile home,” Christopher insisted.

“I refuse to let her go,” Gerald declared.

Christopher looked for a moment away at Myrtile. She clung to Gerald

like a frightened child.

“Listen,” Christopher went on, “you and I have been friends all our

lives, Gerald. We know one another pretty well. You know of me that I

am a man of my word. I know of you that, though you are selfish and

worship pleasure, you are white enough when the hour strikes. The hour

has struck, Gerald. Let me take Myrtile home.”

“Myrtile shall choose,” Gerald proposed.

“Myrtile shall do nothing of the sort,” was the prompt reply. “You

might as well ask her to choose the right path through a strange city.

Gerald, old chap, don’t take this hardly. I am not here to sling abuse

at you. And Myrtile--just doesn’t understand. Thank God I was in

time!--Myrtile, take your cloak.”

She clung to Gerald’s arm, looking anxiously into his face. Something

else discordant had come into the room, something unbeautiful,

something to be feared. She looked from one to the other of the two

men. Gerald’s fist was clenched. For all his calm, there was a subtle

threat in Christopher’s attitude.

“I don’t want to quarrel,” Christopher went on. “Don’t let it come to

that, Gerald, but you see it is inevitable that Myrtile should leave

with me to-night. I shall not go without her. You know what that means.”

“I am to remember, I suppose,” Gerald said thickly, “that you were the

Varsity boxing champion?”

“Please don’t,” Christopher begged. “Myrtile must come. I can’t always

be in the way. To-night I am. To-night, at any rate, you have a

reprieve.--Myrtile!”

She stooped for her cloak. Christopher arranged it around her

shoulders. His fingers shivered at the touch of the filmy laciness, as

though he loathed it.

“You are ready, Myrtile?” he asked.

She looked once more at Gerald. He seemed so far away. And was it her

fancy, or was there something in his face which she had seen in the

faces of those others?--He lit a cigarette almost ostentatiously.

“You had better go, Myrtile,” he said. “Christopher has the whip hand

of us. We can’t have a row here.”

“Good-by, Gerald,” she faltered. “It isn’t my fault.”

“Of course not,” Gerald answered. “We are all a little overstrung, I

think. Good-by, little one!”

He kissed her almost carelessly and nodded to Christopher. The two left

the room. The music had ceased.

They walked through the empty streets in silence. When they arrived

within a few yards of Myrtile’s lodgings, Christopher slackened his

pace. Myrtile was crying quietly.

“Myrtile,” he begged, “please listen to me.”

“I am listening,” she told him drearily.

“This morning at eight o’clock I shall be here to take you to the

station. Please leave behind the clothes you are wearing, and I will

return them to Madame Lénore. You will go to London, and Lady Mary will

take care of you. Lady Mary is Gerald’s sister. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“Please don’t think of me as an executioner,” Christopher went on, with

a note of unusual feeling in his tone. “Love is a very wonderful thing,

Myrtile, but it is also a very dangerous paradise. If you care for

Gerald, and he cares for you, believe me, some day, you will belong to

one another and you will be happy, but the love which brings happiness

is not of a moment’s growth. It is not a matter of feeling only. To-day

you love Gerald with your whole soul. Gerald has simply a little

affection for you. You are a whim to him, a child whose softness and

prettiness attracts him. The kingdom of love is a wonderful place, but

no two people who are in the position of you and Gerald can enter it

by the lower gates. If you are faithful, remember this. A year or two

of life will bring womanhood to you, and you will understand just what

was lacking to-night, just what, in a corner of your heart, Myrtile,

I believe that you guessed was lacking. That something would have

poisoned even your wonderful happiness. You must wait, dear. Nothing in

the world will keep you and Gerald apart if your love for one another

becomes the love that endures.”

Myrtile crept away without a word. For an hour Christopher waited,

unseen, at the darkened corner of the street. He waited until he saw

the light go out in Myrtile’s room. Then he went back to the hotel,

changed his clothes and rested for a couple of hours. When he returned

to her room, she was waiting for him, dressed in her little blue serge

suit, pale, mutely pathetic. Christopher carried her small bag and they

made their way to the station.

“Myrtile,” he said, as they stood together, watching the train come

round the bay, “this morning I think that you are hating me. You think

me very cruel. Try and not judge me for a year.”

“I think that you mean well,” she sighed, “but you do not understand.”

Christopher put money into her purse and took her up to where Lady

Mary was standing with her little array of dependents. She spoke a few

kindly words to Myrtile, who answered her politely but without any

trace of feeling in her tone. Myrtile sat down on one of the trunks and

looked steadily across at the sleeping white-fronted hotel. Christopher

and Lady Mary walked for a moment apart.

“I don’t know why I am doing this thing for you,” Mary said. “If you

want to know the truth, I dislike the young woman intensely.”

“If you can’t feel that you are doing it for my sake,” Christopher

replied, “think that you are doing it for Gerald’s.”

Lady Mary stared at him for a moment, and Christopher fancied that he

could read in her somewhat haughty look some trace of that patrician

superstition which claimed for its people the bodies and souls of their

satellites.--The train thundered in.

“You will come and see me in London?” she asked, a little softened.

“Directly I return,” he promised. “I shan’t forget this, Mary,” he

added, a little awkwardly. “You’ve been a brick.”

She smiled, curiously gratified at his hesitating words. Christopher

leaned towards Myrtile.

“Good-by, Myrtile,” he said.

She removed her eyes from the window for a moment.

“Good-by, Christopher,” she answered--and looked back again at the

white building, with its irregular front and close-drawn curtains.

Behind one of them Gerald was sleeping. With a cloud of black smoke and

a succession of hoarse, sobbing pants, the long train steamed slowly

out of the station.

BOOK TWO

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I

Gerald had been lunching at the Hyde Park Hotel and was on his way to

pay a call in Curzon Street. Hence his progress through the sun-baked

and dusty park at three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in August.

Christopher, who had been his fellow guest, caught him up just as he

had reached the shelter of the trees. The two young men were apparently

still on the same friendly terms. No one but themselves realised the

slight cloud which had never wholly passed away from between them since

the night in Gerald’s sitting room at the Hôtel de Paris, eighteen

months ago.

“Couldn’t get near you at lunch,” Christopher remarked. “What a squash!”

“Hideous!” Gerald agreed.

“Every one all right at Hinterleys?” Christopher enquired.

“Haven’t heard for over a week. Aren’t they rather expecting you down

there?”

“I’m going to-morrow. Can’t take you, I suppose?”

Gerald shook his head.

“I can’t stand Hinterleys when there’s nothing to do,” he confided. “I

shall be there on the 31st. all right.”

“You’re not going to stay in town till then?”

“I’m off to Bourne End this afternoon,” was the unenthusiastic reply.

“I shall probably stay there a day or two. I ought to have gone up to

Scotland this week, but I have put it off until the end of September.

The Governor forgives a good deal, but he wouldn’t forgive me if I

weren’t at Hinterleys for the 1st.”

Christopher took his friend’s arm lightly. He had made several attempts

to break through the slight restraint that existed between them, and

Gerald’s appearance these days rather troubled him. He was thinner,

his eyes were restless, his manner a little nervous. He was still fit

enough, for he had had a great season at polo, and had played cricket

half a dozen times for his county with almost startling success. Yet

he had not the appearance of being the spoilt child of fortune that he

certainly was.

“I wonder you don’t get fed up with that Bourne End crowd,” Christopher

remarked.

“I very nearly am,” Gerald confessed. “They were much more amusing in

the old days, before they took up marriage as a hobby. Now the most

flagrant little hussy begins to talk about her people in the country

and St. George’s, Hanover Square, if you hold her fingers. It’s all the

fault of these callow youths--Christopher--Great Heavens!”

They had passed the Achilles Statue and were making towards Stanhope

Gate. The crowd here seemed more spiritless than ever. There was a

sprinkling of ladies’ maids, sitting demurely alone, waiting patiently

for the coming of romance; a few young men of doubtful types, a certain

number of loafers pure and simple, and a few reasonable people,

driven out by the craving for air which had some of the qualities of

freshness. In chairs a little way back and apart from the others, two

women, dressed in plain black, were seated. One was elderly, the other

young. Both were weary, both sat there with the air of wishing to

avoid observation. To Christopher they were entirely unfamiliar. His

whole attention was absorbed by Gerald’s strange demeanour. Gerald’s

long fingers had gripped his arm almost painfully. For the first time

for many months, there was real feeling in his face.

“It’s Pauline!” he exclaimed. “Wait for me, Chris.”

Without hesitation, Gerald turned and threaded his way among the

chairs. The two women watched his approach, the older one with stolid

indifference, Pauline apparently with some faint resentment. Gerald,

however, in these last few seconds had become a very determined person.

He stood before them with his hat in his hand. His bow was lower than

is customary amongst English people. His manner could scarcely have

been more respectful if he had been paying his homage at Buckingham

Palace.

“May I be permitted to recall myself to the recollection of Madame de

Ponière?” he begged.

The woman looked at him with unrecognising eyes. The last eighteen

months had dealt hardly with her. The flesh had sagged a little from

her cheek bones, her mouth had become bitter, her throat was thin, her

eyes cold and glassy.

“You do not succeed in doing so, monsieur,” she said coldly.

Pauline intervened. There was some faint note of courtesy in her

manner, nothing whatever of kindliness.

“This young gentleman,” she explained to her aunt,--“Lord Dombey, I

believe his name is--was kind enough to be of assistance to us at Monte

Carlo, on the night when Zubin met with his unfortunate accident.”

Madame de Ponière inclined her head.

“I trust that we tendered our thanks on that occasion,” she observed

icily.

Gerald held his ground. Pauline was paler than ever, and thin, but

perhaps he fancied that there was a shade of encouragement in those

soft, weary eyes.

“Madame,” he said, “there was some slight previous acquaintance between

your niece and myself, some trifling service I had been able to render

which gave me the right to perform this further one. It gives me great

pleasure to see you again in my own country.”

The older woman laughed hardly.

“It is difficult to believe,” she scoffed, “that the sight of us could

give pleasure to any one; apart from which fact,” she added rapidly,

“it is not our wish to make or renew acquaintances whilst we are here.”

“Madame,” Gerald replied, “that was your attitude in Monte Carlo, an

attitude which I may say occasioned me the deepest regret. I venture to

hope that I may be able to induce you to modify it.”

“And why should I?” she asked, almost insolently.

“Because I have the sincerest and most profound admiration for

mademoiselle,” Gerald declared stoutly, “and because, in my own

country, there is the possibility that I may be of service to you.”

Madame de Ponière opened a plain pair of lorgnettes and looked for a

moment at Gerald.

“For an Englishman,” she remarked coolly, “you seem to have some

manners. Who is this, Pauline?”

There was the faintest possible indication of a smile on Pauline’s lips.

“His name is Lord Dombey,” she answered demurely. “He is the son of the

Earl of Hinterleys.”

“Dear me!” Madame de Ponière murmured.

“The Earl of Hinterleys,” Pauline continued, “is one of the lesser

English noblemen.”

Notwithstanding his anxiety, Gerald’s sense of humour was touched. If

only his father could have been standing by his side to assist in the

conversation with these two shabbily dressed ladies!

“Our titles are, at any rate, not unduly modern,” he pleaded

deprecatingly. “Besides, is this of any real consequence?”

“What precisely do you want of us?” the older lady asked, after a

slight hesitation.

“The privilege of renewing my acquaintance with you both,” Gerald

replied.

“You have done so,” Madame de Ponière reminded him.

“With permission to pay my respects at your London residence,” he urged.

“We do not receive in London,” was the curt reply.

“I trust,” Gerald persisted, “that you will make an exception in my

favour.”

Pauline suddenly intervened. There was a shade of hauteur in her

manner, but some frankness.

“My dear aunt,” she said, “there are certain things which it is

impossible to conceal. My aunt and I,” she went on, addressing Gerald,

“are living in some impossible rooms in an impossible hotel in South

Kensington. I see no reason, however, why we should not receive you

there, if you are in earnest in your desire to call. We are without

acquaintances in this city.”

Madame de Ponière closed her lorgnettes with a little snap.

“We are staying at Number 28, Erriston Gardens, South Kensington,” she

said. “I believe they call the place the Erriston Gardens Hotel.”

“If you will permit me,” Gerald suggested, “I will bring my sister

to call upon you when she is in town. In the meantime, may I venture

upon a daring suggestion? You are without acquaintances in town; so,

for these few days, am I. Will you do me the great honour of dining at

Ranelagh to-night with me? We shall escape this insufferable heat and

be able to listen to music out of doors.”

“I regret that it is impossible, sir,” Madame de Ponière replied.

Gerald was naturally quick-witted. There were many little things he had

already noted.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, turning to Pauline, “I beg you to intercede

with your aunt. I do not invite you to one of the established

restaurants. The great charm of Ranelagh is its informality. The people

who have been playing tennis and golf stay on to dine, with some

trifling change in their attire. I myself should have to ask you to

excuse my remaining in morning dress. It is a convention of the place.”

“Milord Dombey doubts our wardrobe,” Pauline remarked, with a faint

smile. “No,” she went on hastily, “please do not think we are offended.

I think your discretion is admirable. And, aunt, I beg of you, let us

accept Lord Dombey’s invitation. Think how much we are suffering from

the heat. Think of our stuffy room, our unspeakable dinner! In short, I

insist.”

“If you will allow me, I will call for you at a quarter to eight,”

Gerald proposed, turning to Madame de Ponière.

Madame de Ponière hesitated for another moment. Perhaps it was

something in the almost boyish quality of Gerald’s eagerness which

decided her. This Englishman was at any rate no _boulevardier_.

“We will await you at that hour,” she replied. “I trust,” she added,

after a moment’s pause, “that you will not consider my hesitation in

any way discourteous. There are reasons which make it difficult for my

niece and myself to accept hospitality.”

Gerald bowed low, and, acting on a momentary impulse, raised Madame’s

fingers to his lips. She yielded them naturally enough, but with a

little glance around, almost of fear. Mademoiselle also extended her

finger tips. He took his leave and was received by Christopher, who was

waiting for him, with a gaze almost of astonishment. Gerald was holding

himself differently, his eyes were filled with a lustre which they had

lacked for months, he was smiling again in his old manner.

“My dear fellow,” Christopher exclaimed, “what on earth has happened?”

“That old devil has recognised my existence at last,” Gerald declared.

“I had almost to force myself upon her. Chris, they’re dining with me

to-night!”

“Before you say another word,” Christopher enjoined, “I want you to

look at the man on that seat by the side of the tree. Look at him

carefully, please.”

The two young men slackened their pace. The person whom Christopher had

indicated was a man of medium height, dressed, notwithstanding the heat

of the day, in sombre black clothes, and wearing a black bowler hat. He

was dark, and he was, or affected to be, reading a book. His complexion

was sallow and he wore a slight black moustache. His hair was unusually

long and even covered a portion of his ears.

“Well, I see him,” Gerald admitted. “Not much to look at. Looks like

one of the chaps who go in for this tub-thumping up at the far end.”

“He came from that way,” Christopher said, “but the reason I am

pointing him out to you is because he appeared to recognise your two

friends at the same instant that you did. He was walking down between

that last row of chairs. Directly he saw them, however, he stood quite

still for a moment. He seemed almost as knocked over as you were. Then

he slunk back into that chair and he has been watching them ever since.”

Gerald attached no undue importance to the affair.

“I’ll tell them about it this evening, if I can remember,” he

promised.--“Chris, did you ever know such luck! She is more wonderful

than ever. No wonder I could never get the feeling of her out of my

blood, the thought of her from my brain! Her eyes--Chris, did you ever

see such eyes in your life!”

“Kind of hazel, aren’t they?” Christopher hazarded.

“You ass!” Gerald declared contemptuously. “They’re brown--the most

glorious shade of brown I ever saw. I’m going to call for them in

South Kensington at a quarter to eight, Chris. We’re going to dine at

Ranelagh.”

“So you told me,” Christopher observed, smiling. “What about Bourne

End?”

Gerald’s radiant happiness was not for a moment disturbed. He took

Christopher’s arm.

“Bourne End,” he confided, “has, allegorically speaking, vanished into

the blue horizon. Chris, I know now what has been the matter with me

all these months. I knew it directly I saw her sitting there, tired and

miserable, under the trees. I came up against the real thing and never

knew it. I am in love with Pauline!”

CHAPTER II

Pauline leaned back in her chair with a little murmur of content.

Through the drooping branches of the great plane tree was a fascinating

little vista of scarlet-clad orchestra, of the terrace with its curving

rows of lights, the little groups of people sitting about, the waiters

in their quaint liveries. And beyond, the smooth lawn, the picturesque

front of the house; up above, the deep blue sky, pierced here and there

with an early star. Even the little murmur of conversation seemed to

blend with the strains of the music. A breeze rippled in the tree tops.

After the heat of London, it was a wonderful respite.

“You are very kind,” she murmured to Gerald, “to bring us here.”

“I was very fortunate to meet you,” he declared. “Don’t you think,

after all the discouragement I have received, I was very brave to come

and beard your aunt?”

“Not so very,” she answered. “We were two defenceless women, very sad

and weary with life.”

“I wish,” Gerald said deliberately, “that you would tell me more about

yourselves.”

Pauline glanced across at her aunt, who was leaning back in her chair,

also with the appearance of deep content, her eyes closed, her air of

isolation complete.

“My aunt does not approve of such questions,” she said quietly.

“We speak in English,” Gerald reminded her, “and your aunt does not

understand.”

“My aunt understands English better than you would believe,” Pauline

replied. “There is the fact, also, that I have confidence in her. I

believe that she knows what is best.”

“The best thing for you,” Gerald said firmly, “is to believe in me.”

She looked at him with a slight smile. Her face, however, remained

unsoftened.

“Really? And why should I believe in you? And what is there to believe?”

“That I am deeply interested,” Gerald replied promptly, “in everything

that concerns you; that I wish to be your friend; that I wish----”

She stopped him with a little gesture instinctively mandatory.

“Neither my aunt nor I,” she interrupted, “are in a position to accept

more than the simplest acts of good will from any one. I have tried to

make that clear to you.”

“You have,” Gerald admitted, “but before I accept your decision

finally, I shall expect some further explanation.”

“We do not belong to your world,” Pauline said. “We are what you call,

I think, adventuresses.”

“Of a unique type, then,” Gerald declared, smiling. “It is not the

usual action of such people, having met with a great loss, as you did

at Monte Carlo, to sell their jewellery to pay their bills, and leave

without owing a penny.”

“You are well informed,” Pauline remarked coldly.

“I saw your pearl necklace in Desfordes’, the jeweller’s.”

“I cannot believe that Desfordes----” Pauline began, in some agitation.

“The man told me nothing,” Gerald interrupted. “I recognised the

necklace and I bought it.”

“You bought my necklace?” she repeated incredulously.

“Hoping,” Gerald ventured, “that some day it would be my privilege to

return it to you.”

She was distinctly taken aback.

“You are apparently a rich young man, Lord Dombey, as well as an

impertinent one,” she said. “Are you often subject to these whims?”

“I am well off,” Gerald replied, “that is to say that I have an income

apart from my allowance. For the rest, I have never done anything of

the sort before, because I have never felt the same inclination.”

“I thought that you were rather by way of being the support of the

ladies of the ballet at Monte Carlo,” she observed. “Did you not

entertain them at supper and that sort of thing?”

“I entertained them at supper occasionally,” Gerald admitted, “but that

is the extent of my acquaintance with them.”

“Then there was a child whom you and your friend found at a mountain

farm--she became your ward, did she not?--a pretty child, with large,

affectionate eyes?”

“My family has relieved me of my responsibility in that direction,”

Gerald replied. “She is living down at Hinterleys with my people. My

father will allow no one else to read to him, my sister is devoted to

her, and my friend is in love with her.”

“I still do not understand what made you buy my pearls,” Pauline

remarked, after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “or under what possible

conditions you contemplated returning them to me.”

“I bought them because I am in love with you,” Gerald declared.

She turned her head and studied him deliberately. She was still

lounging in her chair, but she gave him the impression that she was

looking down at him.

“That,” she said quietly, “is a style of conversation which you must

keep for your dancing ladies or your village maidens.”

“It happens to be the truth,” he insisted doggedly.

Once more she looked at him, still puzzled, but this time a little more

leniently. His dark eyes were aglow. He was obviously in earnest.

“You must forgive me if I find your methods a little unusual,” she

said. “Do I understand that you are proposing an alliance?”

“I ask you to do me the honour of becoming my wife,” Gerald replied.

Pauline turned to her aunt.

“Aunt,” she said in French, “Lord Dombey desires to marry me. He has

just told me so most eloquently.”

Madame de Ponière’s expression was, for her, almost tolerant.

“Never mind, my dear,” she rejoined, “he is a very amiable young man

and he has given us an excellent dinner.”

Pauline turned back to Gerald, smiling.

“You see, my aunt is quite reasonable about the matter,” she remarked.

“Order some more cigarettes, will you? And some coffee, I think.”

Gerald obeyed promptly. Then he leaned forward.

“Madame de Ponière,” he said, “do I understand that I have your

permission to pay my addresses to your niece?”

“You must not be foolish,” she replied soothingly. “We are exceedingly

obliged to you for giving us dinner in this charming place. It is

really quite a revelation to me. The _suprême de volaille_ reminded

me--but that is not of any import.”

“Mademoiselle de Ponière,” Gerald continued, appealing to Pauline,

“will you be my wife?”

“Monsieur Lord Dombey,” was the prompt but not unkindly reply, “I will

not.”

“Then may I become your suitor,” he pleaded, “hoping that you will

change your mind when you find that I am very much in earnest?”

“It appears to me,” she answered, “that the office would be a thankless

one.”

“I am content to take my chance,” Gerald pronounced. “I can command all

the usual resources which might make life more endurable for you. My

personal devotion you are already assured of.”

“You had better not tempt us too far,” Pauline warned him, a little

bitterly. “The good folk at Monte Carlo were only guessing when they

called us adventuresses, but we are down on our luck just now--we might

accept your offer.”

“I will take my risk,” Gerald declared eagerly. “You have given me no

encouragement. You have no responsibility. As for the rest, we are all

adventurers or adventuresses, more or less. I am in quest of happiness,

and I have met no one else except you who could give it to me.”

There was a touch of real feeling in her eyes as she glanced towards

him, feeling, however, composed of varying elements,--some curiosity,

a tinge of scorn, an iota of compassion. She shrugged her shoulders

slightly beneath her wrap of black lace.

“How long do you remain in London, Lord Dombey?” she enquired.

“As long as I can be of service to you,” was the quick reply. “I was

going down to Hinterleys soon, for want of something better to do. A

day’s visit there will suffice. I shall remain at your service.”

“I am in love with another man,” Pauline assured him.

Gerald considered the matter for a moment.

“I do not believe it,” he declared.

Pauline sighed.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” she reiterated. “He is very bad-tempered,

and if he knows that I am accepting all these attentions from another

man, he will certainly quarrel with you.”

“I will risk it,” Gerald decided.

“How am I to get rid of this persistent young man?” Pauline asked her

aunt.

Madame de Ponière had a great deal to say about the subject in a rapid

undertone. When she had finished, Pauline turned back to her companion.

“My aunt was very much against a renewal of our acquaintance,” she

told him, “but, as she justly remarks, one must live. This evening has

turned our heads a little--a return to the fleshpots, you know, and

that sort of thing. You shall be my suitor if you will, Lord Dombey,

but of one thing you may be very sure--I shall never marry you.”

“There is another thing of which you may be equally sure,” Gerald

rejoined. “I shall never leave off trying to persuade you to.”

“Gallant but pig-headed,” Pauline murmured. “You can judge of my

aunt’s newly found tolerance when I tell you that she permits us to

walk in the rose garden. I want to see whether those delphiniums are

really as blue as they seem to be.”

Gerald sprang eagerly to his feet and they moved off together across

the lawn. He was obliged continually to half pause, to return the

greetings of his many friends. Pauline walked steadily on, looking

neither to the right nor to the left, composed and stately, her

clothes, although they were not in the very latest style, individual

and obviously the creation of an artist. People put their heads

together and whispered. The same question must have been asked a score

of times before they left the little crowd behind them, but no one

knew, no one could even hazard a surmise as to whom Gerald’s companion

might be.

The walk in the rose gardens, although Gerald welcomed with intense

satisfaction this new phase in his relations with Pauline, was in some

ways a disappointment. Pauline looked around her all the time with

serene pleasure. She was fond of flowers, she knew them all by name,

and paused often to admire some wonderfully fine bloom. She acceded

without demur to his suggestion that they should take one of the small

boats moored against the bridge and lay back amongst the cushions

whilst he lazily sculled round the small stretch of water. On the far

side of the island he let the boat drift and laid the oar across his

knees.

“Pauline,” he said, leaning a little forward, “you are adorable.”

“I suppose it goes without saying that you should find me so,” she

answered composedly. “I suppose, also, that I must permit you the

privilege of my Christian name. On the other hand, do not try to get

on too quickly, will you? I must warn you that you have reached the

extreme limit of my complaisance.”

His eyes flashed for a moment. He was much too spoilt to regard her

indifference as anything more than part of the game. It was a duel

between the two, the result of which he scarcely doubted, but with his

usual impetuosity he resented delay.

“You will accept me some day,” he said. “Why not now? We could spend

the honeymoon in Paris and go on to the Italian lakes. Or we could be

married at the Embassy in Paris, if you liked. Enthoven, the first

secretary, is my cousin, and would see things through for us.”

“You are taking base advantage of this lonely spot,” she murmured,

dipping her hand in the water. “I have told you that I am in love with

another man.”

“You will forget him in a week,” Gerald assured her. “I am a most

companionable person.”

“I have no doubt that you have given many people the opportunity of

finding you so,” she replied drily. “However, I am not prepared just

yet for such an experiment.”

“Pauline, do you like me a little?” he asked earnestly.

She looked him in the eyes.

“Not very much,” she admitted frankly. “You see, the nicer part of

me--the part with which I should care--is numb--numbed with misfortune.

The most that I can say is that if you are very kind, I may change--to

some extent. Personally, I think it hopeless.”

“You wouldn’t consider, I suppose,” he suggested, “telling me your

history now that we are on a slightly different footing?”

“Nothing would induce me to do anything of the sort,” she replied. “I

think that we have left my aunt alone quite long enough.”

He took up the scull and dug it into the still, stagnant water. He did

not speak again until they reached the landing stage.

“Where is this other man?” he asked, as he handed her out.

She thought for several moments before she answered. Then she turned

towards him with the air of one who has arrived at a decision.

“The other man,” she declared, “is my brother. He is in prison,

condemned to what you call, I believe, penal servitude.”

CHAPTER III

Lord Hinterleys leaned back in his chair and prepared to enjoy his

greatest treat during the day,--his one glass of vintage port.

“So you did not go to Scotland after all, Gerald?” he remarked, on the

evening of the latter’s arrival at Hinterleys.

“No, I didn’t go, sir,” Gerald replied. “Some old friends of mine

turned up in town. I have been spending a good deal of time with them.”

“I would have preferred hearing that you had been on the moors,” his

father observed, with a glance at his son’s pallid face and careworn

expression. “London in August always seems to me intolerable.”

“It was certainly very hot,” Gerald admitted. “I was on the river a

great deal of the time, though.”

There was a short silence. Lord Hinterleys was, as a rule, a reserved

man, and he very much disliked the task which he had set himself. He

dallied with it for a few moments, looking through the high window,

across the terrace to the gardens below. His face softened as he

glanced at the two girlish figures seated under the cedar tree, where

coffee was being served.

“You have been guilty, I suppose, Gerald,” he said drily, “of the usual

number of indiscretions, but one action of yours which threatened

to come under that heading, I shall always remember with gratitude.

Myrtile is the most wonderful child who ever came to brighten a

somewhat dull household.”

“I am glad you approve of her, sir,” Gerald replied indifferently.

“The more I study her,” Lord Hinterleys went on earnestly, “the more

she fills me with amazement. It seems as though she must be some sort

of a spiritual changeling. I have always been, as you know, rather a

stickler for race. Myrtile is one of those marvellous exceptions which

upset all argument. She is an aristocrat to the finger tips in every

way, small or great, that counts. It seems as though it were absolutely

impossible for her to do an ungracious or ungraceful thing. She has

destroyed every prejudice I ever possessed.”

Gerald was interested at last. It was many years since he had known his

father so enthusiastic.

“I am very glad you kept her here, sir,” he remarked.

“I am more than glad--I am thankful,” was the fervent reply. “I look

forward with a pleasure which I can scarcely describe to the hours

she gives up for my entertainment. When I think that nothing but an

outbreak of scarlet fever in the household to which she was bound was

responsible for her staying here long enough for us to appreciate her,

I can never feel sufficiently thankful. To watch her development, too,

during the last year, has been like watching a beautiful flower.”

“She’s made a conquest of you, at any rate, dad,” Gerald remarked. “I

thought myself that she looked perfectly sweet to-night at dinner time.”

“She has made a conquest of me to an extent which I should never have

believed possible,” Lord Hinterleys admitted, glancing across at his

son. “I have had an elderly man’s desire, Gerald, to welcome home to

Hinterleys the woman whom you might decide to choose for a wife. I

have kept a little list in my mind of the young women at present known

to Society, whom it would give me pleasure to see here. I have never

for one second contemplated the addition to that list of an unknown

person. And yet----”

“There is no question of anything of that sort between Myrtile and me,

sir,” Gerald declared, breaking a somewhat embarrassed pause.

Lord Hinterleys sipped his port and looked once more out of the window.

Gerald, a little startled by his father’s unexpected suggestion, was

suddenly conscious of that one wild moment after his supper party at

the Hôtel de Paris, of Christopher’s stern figure, of that strange

medley of sensations, the flare of passion which seemed to have

perished in the shame of Christopher’s triumph. He, too, looked out of

the window. Myrtile had been a child then. She was a woman now, more

wonderful, more gracious, just as completely virginal. Yet to him she

existed at that moment only as the picture of something that had passed.

“I am afraid,” his father said, a little sadly, “that Myrtile does not

look at it in quite the same way. However, that is nothing. It may

be only a sort of hero worship with her. It was you, I understand,

who took the initiative in bringing her away from her home. Her

indifference to your sex is a little abnormal for her years. Doubtless

it will pass when the right man arrives. I envy that man more than any

other living.”

Lord Hinterleys slowly finished his wine. Gerald produced his cigarette

case.

“You are ready, sir?” he asked. “Will you take my arm?”

“Not for a moment,” was the quiet reply. “You perceive, from my

references to Myrtile, that I am in a confidential frame of mind. I

shall go even further to prove it.”

“You won’t mind my cigarette, sir?”

“Not in the least.--Gerald, I do not, as a rule, interfere in such

matters, as you know, but I take a certain natural interest, I think,

in your associates and your affairs generally. It has come to my

knowledge through various channels that you have spent the greater part

of the last month with two ladies bearing a French name--an aunt and a

niece, I believe--both unknown to English Society.”

“That is true, sir,” Gerald admitted.

“Furthermore,” Lord Hinterleys continued, “although again I am a little

outside my province, I must confess that I was somewhat disturbed to

hear from Mr. Bendover that you had offered for sale a portion of the

Lutsall property and were considering a mortgage upon Rhysalls.”

“I do not know why Mr. Bendover should have troubled you with these

details,” Gerald said, a little uneasily, “but in the main they are

correct.”

“I make you an allowance, as you know,” his father continued, “as my

only son and the heir to Hinterleys, of five thousand a year, which

I can well afford to do. You have yourself something like the same

amount, I believe. You occupy a portion of Hinterleys House in town,

and you have the use of my servants there. Your polo ponies, by express

arrangement, have always been charged to my own stable expenses. You

must forgive my feeling some surprise, therefore, at the fact that you

have found it necessary to raise these large sums of money.”

Gerald was silent for a moment, conscious of and inwardly resenting his

father’s anxious scrutiny. Something of the bitterness which he was

feeling showed itself, perhaps, in his tone.

“I needed the money, dad,” he said. “It will probably all come back to

me, or its value.”

“If the necessity is occasioned by your losses at cards or on the

turf,” Lord Hinterleys continued, “I should prefer making you some

advance myself, to having you part with land which belonged to your

great-grandmother, or executing a mortgage upon any part of your

property.”

“I have needed the money for quite a different purpose,” Gerald

explained, “a purpose which precluded my applying to you. There are

other people involved.”

“I see,” Lord Hinterleys concluded drily. “We will leave the matter

where it is, then, for the present.--If you will give me your arm now,

we will take our coffee in the gardens.”

“Sorry, dad, to seem mysterious and uncommunicative, and that sort of

thing,” Gerald apologised, with an attempt at levity. “I’m not quite

off my head, I can assure you.”

“You have never presented yourself to my mind, Gerald,” his father

admitted, “as being a likely tool for the adventurers or harpies of

the world. I shall continue to believe that you are able to take care

of yourself, although I am bound to say that I regret your lack of

confidence.”

“I shall be in a position to tell you the whole story very shortly,”

Gerald promised. “The element of secrecy about it at present has

nothing to do with me.”

They made their way through the window, on to the terrace, down the

steps and across the lawn to the cedar tree. Myrtile was standing

behind the coffee tray, and Gerald, remembering his father’s recent

words, gazed at her with a new, though somewhat languid interest. She

was wearing a simple frock of grey muslin, her hair was parted in the

middle and drooped low over her ears. The thinness of a year ago had

given place to the slender perfection of early womanhood. She had the

air of being wholly and gracefully at her ease, yet the sweetness of

her smile, a certain ever-present but unobtrusive desire to please,

seemed like the hallmarks of her constant but unexpressed gratitude.

Lady Mary, sunburnt and amiable, lolled in a hammock, with a cigarette

between her teeth. There was a telegram upon her knee. She seemed

content with life.

“Have you heard the news?” she asked. “Christopher has been invited to

stand for West Leeds. It is a certain seat and he has accepted. He is

coming down to-morrow afternoon.”

“Good old Chris!” Gerald murmured. “Though what on earth he wants to

spend half his time pottering about the House of Commons for, I can’t

imagine.”

“Your friend Christopher Bent,” Lord Hinterleys observed, “finds his

pleasures, without a doubt, somewhat interfered with by the possession

of some out-of-date principles. He will be very welcome here.--My

coffee and the evening paper, if you please, Myrtile.”

Myrtile’s attention had momentarily wandered. Her eyes were fixed upon

Gerald, who was looking paler and more tired than ever in the clear

evening twilight.

“You found it hot in the city?” she asked softly, as she poured out the

coffee.

He frowned impatiently. There is nothing which irritates a selfish man

more than the evidences of an affection which he does not covet.

“If it was, I don’t deserve any sympathy,” he replied. “I was only

there because it amused me.”

He threw himself into a chair, declined coffee with unnecessary

abruptness, and asked for brandy. Myrtile, with a little pain at

her heart, no infrequent visitor there, took her place apart from

the others, near Lord Hinterleys, and, spreading out the newspaper,

commenced her evening task.

CHAPTER IV

The world seemed a very good place to Lady Mary as, from the depths

of her chair under the cedar tree on the following afternoon, she

watched Christopher, conducted as far as the terrace by the butler,

descend the steps lightly and move across the lawn towards her. He had

been away for a holiday earlier in the summer and was still healthily

tanned. His grey tweeds became him. He walked with the dignity and

assurance of a man whose life is being worthily lived. It was a long

way across the lawn, and the girl who waited for his coming had time

for a crowd of pleasant thoughts as she watched the approach of the

man on whom she had set her heart. Everything that he did and had

done in life appealed to her. She even appreciated now the reticence

which he had shown in their many conversations, the absence of any

indications of more than ordinary interest in her. He had sentiment

enough,--that was proved by the tenderness for Myrtile to which he

had confessed that night at Monte Carlo, a night which she had always

remembered as one of the unhappiest of her life. She had long since

been convinced, both by his manner and Myrtile’s, that the tenderness,

such as it had been, had become merged in a purely fraternal and kindly

regard. Of his reticence towards herself she thought nothing. He was

possessed, as she well knew, of a very high sense of honour, and she

had always felt that, however greatly she might have desired to hear

his declaration, he would say nothing until he had passed definitely

out of the somewhat miscellaneous category of rising young men into the

position of one whose future is assured. To-day he was the youngest K.

C., and a seat in Parliament was almost within his reach. She thought

of her own fortune with a deep sense of pleasure. It was larger than he

imagined, larger than any one else except herself and her father knew.

Christopher would be free to make the best of himself, free for all

time from any shadow of financial worry. How well he looked, how strong

and eager! She held out both her hands as he drew near, and her smile

of welcome made her for a moment radiantly beautiful.

“How delightful to see you, Christopher!” she exclaimed. “And what

wonderful news! It’s just what you wanted, isn’t it, and just what we

all wanted for you.”

He took her hands and stood smiling down at her. Her heart was

beginning to beat more quickly. She hoped that he would suggest walking

in the gardens.

“It is a wonderful stroke of fortune, isn’t it?” he agreed. “It all

came about through going down to help Andrew Hodgson at the Darlington

election. I knew I’d got on pretty well with the speech-making down

there, but I never thought it would lead to this.”

He did not sit down, nor did he suggest the gardens. He had looked

around for a moment, almost as though disappointed to find her alone.

Still her heart did not misgive her. She thought him a little nervous,

and she smiled tolerantly.

“You were a dear to telegraph to me at once,” she said. “I can’t tell

you how interested and flattered I was.”

“I wanted you all to know,” he declared, looking around once more. “How

is every one?”

“In excellent health, thank you,” she answered. “Father is having

his usual afternoon sleep. Gerald has been here, but, as I dare say

you know, he went away this morning. We must talk about him later,

Christopher. I am rather worried--but that can wait. Will you sit down,

or would you like to see how wonderful the gardens are?”

He looked at her a little apologetically, yet without the slightest

idea of how great an apology was needed.

“I wondered,” he said, “if I could see Myrtile.”

“Myrtile?” Mary repeated.

He assented a little sheepishly, yet with a rather engaging smile.

“I wanted to see her and tell her about it,” he confided. “She won’t

understand just what it means, perhaps, but she’s so much more of a

woman now.”

His voice seemed to come from a long way off. It seemed all part of a

horrible nightmare, something unreal, some black thought, the figment

of a nocturnal fancy.--Then she was conscious of his standing before

her, waiting, expectant, with the eagerness of a lover in his eyes.

“Myrtile went down to gather some roses,” she told him. “You will find

her at the end of the pergola.”

He was gone almost before the words had left her lips, gone with some

sort of mumbled excuse, unconscious of the tragedy he had created,

clumsily oblivious of the fierce struggle which had kept her calm and

collected. She turned her head and watched him go, watched his long,

eager footsteps, saw his tall figure stoop as he entered the pergola.

Her fingers tore at the sides of her chair. She looked at the distance

between her and the terrace steps. If only she could escape! Her limbs

for the time seemed powerless. She sat there with all the healthy

colour drained from her cheeks, her fixed eyes seeing nothing but

the ruin of her confident hopes. There were three old ladies in the

family of Hinterleys--one her father’s sister, the others a little more

distantly related--prim beings, full of the weaknesses and prejudices

evolved by their unlived lives. She remembered now how she had shrunk,

even in her school days, from the thought of ever finding herself in

a similar situation. But she was suddenly face to face with it now.

She could see herself growing old, marching down the avenues of time,

preserving in a certain measure, perhaps, her dignity, but growing day

by day a little more jealous and narrow, a little more captious of the

happiness of others. There was only one Christopher, and he was there

at the bottom of the pergola with Myrtile. Even in her bitterness she

did not blame him for a moment. There were a hundred different ways

in which she might have misunderstood him. She had made the foolish

mistake of many ignorant young women. She had mistaken companionship,

and the desire for companionship, on his part, for the subtler and

rarer gift which she herself had been so ready to offer. Christopher,

she remembered, had even warned her, more than a year ago, at the villa

in Monte Carlo that night when they had paced the terrace together. She

had refused to take him seriously, and he had never once reverted to

the subject. It had seemed to her, indeed, that he had almost avoided

Myrtile during his visits to Hinterleys, and she had commended him for

his discretion. Myrtile was sweet and full of charm, but what use could

she be as a wife to an ambitious man like Christopher? How she herself

could have helped with her sympathy, her social influence, her tact,

to say nothing of her great fortune! It was amazing what follies a man

could commit for the sake of a fancy! She could call it nothing else.

Presently she rose calmly to her feet and walked towards the house.

Soon it swallowed her up, the key was turned in the door of her room,

the long minutes that passed were her own. She never counted them then,

she never dwelt on them afterwards. The period of her agony was, in

fact, short enough. Her pride came to her rescue. When her maid tapped

on the door she had already bathed her eyes, and there remained nothing

to denote her suffering but a little tired look about her mouth and a

slight weariness of gait. She opened the door at once.

“Mr. Bent is obliged to go back to town almost immediately, your

ladyship,” the maid announced. “He has asked specially whether he could

see you for a moment.”

“Tell Mr. Bent that I shall be down in five minutes,” her mistress

enjoined.

The maid departed, and Mary turned once more anxiously to the mirror.

This was a trial which she had scarcely expected. Her fingers passed

over her face, anxious to smooth out its lines. Her lips moved, as

though she were uttering a prayer. She was, indeed, appealing to

herself, to the strength and pride of her young womanhood. When she

entered the library where Christopher was waiting for her, she knew

that she was free from all trace of disturbance.

“Christopher, you don’t mean that you are going to leave us at once?”

she protested. “And where is Myrtile? I expected to see you both

together.”

“I left Myrtile where I found her,” Christopher answered, a little

harshly. “Will you keep my secret, please, Mary, and forget my visit?”

“Forget your visit?” she repeated wonderingly.

“Myrtile does not care for me,” Christopher explained, “not in the way

I want her to. It is the same with her now as from that first moment. I

thought it was a fancy of which she might have been cured. I find it is

nothing of the sort.”

At that moment Mary hated herself, hated the joy which swelled up in

her heart, hated the sudden passionate rush of blood through all her

veins, the sense of grotesque, immeasurable relief. She hated the lying

words she spoke.

“Oh, Christopher, I am so sorry!” she said. “I do not understand, but I

am very, very sorry.”

“Myrtile loves Gerald,” he continued. “She will love him all her days.

She is one of those strange creatures who will never change, to whom

love is just one final thing for good or for evil. She loved Gerald

when she stepped into the car and we carried her with us along the road

around the end of which she had woven all her dreams. She cares for him

so much that I am not sure whether, at the bottom of her pure heart,

she does not hate me because I once kept them apart.”

She laid her hand upon his arm. That sense of sickening joy had gone.

She was a woman again, feeling nothing but sorrow for the suffering of

her man.

“Christopher dear,” she begged, “Myrtile will see the truth in time.

Gerald cares nothing for her, nothing for anybody except himself and

his own pleasures. She will understand this presently. Remember,

although she has grown so sensible and so gracious in her attitude

towards life, she is really only a child.”

“In one way she will always be a child,” he answered sadly. “Her love

will last her time, whether Gerald ever returns it or not.”

“There is still your work,” she went on, “great, wonderful work waiting

for you. And your friends. Don’t take this so hardly, Christopher.”

He looked down at her with a very forced smile.

“Oh, I shall get over it,” he assured her. “I am not the first man who

has had to face this sort of thing. It is odd, though, that it should

have happened to me. Whatever thoughts I may have had in the past about

marriage were so different.”

“Isn’t it just possible, perhaps,” she ventured, “that those other

thoughts were the wisest?”

“Wisdom has so little to do with life, really,” he answered drearily.

“I should have planned it differently if I could.--Well, I had to see

you, Mary. You’ve been perfectly sweet, as I knew you would be. I want

to get off without seeing a soul now, if I can. You won’t mind?”

“Of course not! You wouldn’t like me to speak to Myrtile?”

“Absolutely useless,” he replied. “She was really shocked when she

knew why I had come. I believe it seems to her a trifle irreligious to

discuss the possibility of her caring for any one except Gerald. No,

I’m not going to encourage any false hopes, Mary. I’ve had my answer

and there’s an end of it. What I want to do is to get away.”

“That you can do and shall,” she assented. “I did so want to hear about

Leeds, but that must be another time. You won’t keep away from us

because of this, Christopher?”

“Of course not,” he promised half-heartedly. “I’ll write, if I may.

There are heaps of things I want to tell you. You won’t mind?”

She smiled and let him open the door, taking him by a devious way to

the courtyard where his car was still standing.

“There,” she directed, “you can go out by the south drive, across the

deer park, and you won’t meet a soul.”

He held her hand tightly for a moment at parting.

“God bless you, Mary!” he said. “You’re a wonderful pal.”

“Thank you,” she answered simply.

CHAPTER V

“Well, thank heavens you haven’t forgotten how to hold your gun

straight!” Lord Hinterleys remarked, a few days later, laying his hand

affectionately upon his son’s shoulder. “It is always a treat to see

you shoot, Gerald. I used to fancy myself when I was your age, but I

could never have touched your performance to-day.”

“You mustn’t forget the difference in the guns, dad,” Gerald reminded

him, “and the powder. You were pretty useful yourself at those last two

drives.”

Lord Hinterleys mounted his pony.

“I brought down a beautiful high one at Smith’s corner,” he

admitted.--“Are you sure, you people, that you wouldn’t like to have a

car sent down? I shall be home in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour,

and Oliver could be here with the shooting brake whilst you are having

a cup of tea with Mrs. Amos.”

No one, it appeared, was tired. Gerald shouldered his gun and passed

his arm through Myrtile’s.

“Come along,” he invited, “we’ll go home through the forty-acre wood.

It isn’t more than a mile. It seems to me we’ve been standing about all

day.”

“I should like it very much,” Myrtile assented joyfully.

“We are all coming presently,” Mary remarked. “Amos is just making up

the bag. Dad wants the exact figures. Don’t you want some tea, Myrtile?

Lady Hadley and I are going to have some.”

Myrtile shook her head.

“I do not care for tea very much, as you know,” she said, “and I should

like to walk with Gerald.”

“Showing thereby your good taste, my child,” Gerald observed, as they

strolled off, “and also a wise regard for your digestion.”

“One sees so little of you nowadays,” Myrtile sighed. “You are all the

time in London.”

“You’re not going to lecture me?”

“That would not be for me,” she said gravely. “If you think it well to

be there, it is well. I am only glad that you are here to-day. It has

made your father so happy.”

They crossed the meadow and entered the little wood. The path here

was so narrow that Gerald took Myrtile’s arm again. He was quite

unconscious that at his touch she shivered with emotion.

“Myrtile,” he confided, “I saw Chris yesterday.”

“Yes?”

“Poor old chap,” Gerald went on, “he looked absolutely done in. I made

him come and have some dinner with me. I don’t think he meant to tell

me, but it all came out in time. He told me about his visit here.”

She walked on, her head uplifted, her face a little tense.

“Yes?” she murmured.

“I’d no idea,” Gerald continued, “that he was seriously in love with

you, Myrtile. He’s such a sober sort of chap really--no lady friends,

you know, or anything of that sort. When he takes a fancy to any one,

it’s a serious affair.”

“He is not like you, Gerald,” she said quietly.

“You’re quite right, he isn’t,” Gerald acknowledged frankly. “We all

have our different hobbies. I candidly admit that the society of your

sex has been one of mine. Christopher has never been like that, though.

You are his first love, Myrtile.”

“It is a great pity,” she declared.

“You used to seem very fond of him,” Gerald hazarded, “and he certainly

looked after you jolly well at Monte Carlo.”

“Do you mean,” Myrtile asked calmly, “when he came to your room in the

Hôtel de Paris, after the supper party?”

Gerald was completely taken aback. She had turned and was looking at

him with her large, serious eyes. She was deliberately forcing upon him

the memory of an episode which he had slurred over in his mind.

“I wasn’t thinking of that altogether,” he replied, with a certain rare

awkwardness. “All the same----”

“All the same, what, please?” she insisted, after a moment’s pause. “I

should like you to finish your sentence.”

“Well, from old Chris’s point of view, he was doing the chivalrous

thing, and all that,” Gerald explained clumsily. “He must have thought,

of course, that I was going to be a perfect brute.”

“Were you not?” she asked.

He was amazed at her coolness. She, whose purity seemed rather to

increase with her larger knowledge of the world, seemed to be forcing

him to speak of those very ugly moments.

“I am afraid that I can’t say what would have happened,” he admitted.

“I was very much attracted by you, and you hadn’t the faintest idea

what it all meant. So, you see, you do owe him a very great debt of

gratitude, Myrtile.”

“I do not think so,” she replied.

Gerald was more startled than ever. Her deliberate speech seemed to him

almost a challenge.

“You are about the only person in the world who would say that,” he

observed.

“Perhaps so,” she admitted. “Perhaps, too, I am the only one who is in

a position to know.”

Gerald was poignantly interested. He looked down at her face, calm

and serious. There was no added colour in her cheeks, no sign of any

confusion.

“You mean that you are sorry that Christopher interfered? That you

would have risked my forgetting--all that I ought to have remembered?”

“I am sorry that Christopher interfered,” she said distinctly. “At

that moment I loved you, and I did not know that it was wicked for me

to love you. If afterwards you had got tired of me, as you would have

done, then I should have killed myself when I understood. But I should

have been happy first.”

“But aren’t you happy now?” he asked.

“I am very contented,” she answered, “and I am very, very grateful.

I think that no one in the world has ever received such wonderful

kindness as I have. But happiness, it seems to me, is a thing apart.

It is a great and a wonderful and a rare gift. I do not think that

very many people possess it, although they think they do. I should

have possessed it, for however short a time, if Christopher had not

interfered.”

Gerald was staggered. It seemed to him that this girl, walking so

sedately by his side, had suddenly become his monitress; was trying to

explain to him, as though he were a pupil, great and elemental things.

“Myrtile,” he declared, “you surprise me very much. I never dreamed

that you would feel like that. Supposing, then, I were to say to

you--‘Come away from here with me to-morrow; come up to London and be

my companion there’?”

“You could not do that,” she said simply. “You could not offer me so

terrible and so ugly an insult. Surely you understand that then I did

not know that you did not love me?”

“I see,” he murmured.

“I loved you,” she went on, her eyes lifted a little to the interlacing

boughs of the trees under which they were passing, “when you came like

a prince to the gate where I stood shaking with terror, and laughed

at my fears. I loved you when you pointed to the end of the road and

promised to take me there. I loved you in those first few moments, and

just as it seemed to me then that I had loved you before I was born,

so I know that I shall love you after I die. That is just the kind of

wisdom which even children have. Where I was simple and ignorant was

that I did not understand that love could be one-sided. I thought that

love belonged to two people. Now I know very differently.”

“Myrtile----” he began.

She checked him gravely.

“To-day,” she continued, “there is more for me to say than for you,

because I am rather glad that you should understand. Only you must not

talk to me about Christopher. I am very sorry, but I think that he is

foolish. I was a peasant child and I knew nothing. But a wise, clever

man like Christopher should understand. It seems to me absurd that he

should think it possible that I might love him. It is so absurd that

I do not believe his love is a real thing. I think that he will soon

forget.”

“What is to become of you, then, Myrtile?” Gerald demanded.

She looked up at him with a smile.

“What happens to all those others,” she asked, “who go through life as

I shall go through it? They are very content. Very many pleasant things

come their way. They are spared a great deal of suffering. So it will

be with me. Now that we have had this talk, Gerald, I can speak to

you, perhaps, a little more frankly. I watch you so closely that I see

things which others might not notice. You were without actual happiness

before because you did not understand what happiness was. Now you are

unhappy. That is so sad.”

“Yes,” Gerald admitted, “I am unhappy.”

“There is some one for whom you care?”

He had no idea of evading the issue. He replied at once, simply and

directly.

“It is Mademoiselle de Ponière, whom I met at Monte Carlo, and who used

to go out with me in the car. I have met her again.”

“And yet you are not happy?”

“I am not happy,” Gerald acknowledged, “because I have not the least

idea whether she cares for me or not. She is very mysterious. She has

troubles which she will not let me share.”

It seemed to him that Myrtile smiled. They were out of the wood now and

crossing the park.

“All that you tell me is very strange,” she confessed. “I do not

pretend to understand it. One hears, Gerald, that in your way you have

cared for very many women. That is rather a pity, but, if it is true,

you perhaps do not know your own mind. Are you sure that you love this

young lady?”

“I only know that she makes me feel and suffer as no one else in the

world has ever done,” he answered a little drearily.

They were approaching the house now. Myrtile laid her fingers timidly

upon his arm.

“It seems to me, Gerald,” she said, with a rather pathetic smile, “that

we have changed rôles. You asked me to walk home with you that you

might talk to me about Christopher, and now we have finished all that

and it is your own affairs only which remain.”

“There is nothing about my affairs which even lends itself to

discussion,” Gerald sighed.

“Not at present,” Myrtile assented, “but in the end there must come

happiness, because where there is love there is always happiness.--May

I say one word more?”

“Go ahead,” he answered.

“It is of your father. Why is he so troubled about you?”

Gerald frowned.

“I am afraid, Myrtile,” he said, “that that is a matter which I cannot

altogether explain to you.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted. “I must dare to say this,

though, because, you see, I am with your father many hours in the day,

and he is not so strong as he was and so he shows his mind more easily.

Something about you is worrying him. That is not right, is it?”

Gerald was silent for a moment. A telegraph boy, who had been riding

down the drive which curved through the park, seeing them, had

dismounted from his bicycle and was crossing the turf towards them with

an orange-coloured envelope in his hand. Gerald took it from him, tore

it open, and read the few lines which it contained. Then he gave the

boy a coin and dismissed him. He looked once more at the message.

“It is good news?” Myrtile enquired gravely.

“Good enough,” Gerald answered. “I have been living in a miserable

state of uncertainty. Now it will all be cleared up.”

“There will be no more trouble, then?”

“I cannot say that,” he replied, “but at least there will be action.

Next week will see the beginning of the elucidation. I leave for Russia

on Tuesday.”

CHAPTER VI

The change in Pauline’s manner, when Gerald was ushered by an

untidy-looking waiter into her sitting room on the following afternoon,

was almost electrifying. In place of her usual languid greeting, she

sprang lightly to her feet and gave him both her hands. The slight

sullenness had all gone from her face. There was no living person just

then who would not have found her beautiful.

“You received my telegram?” she demanded eagerly.

“And I came to you at once,” was the prompt reply.

She drew him down to her side upon the sofa. Her manner and tone

displayed an animation entirely new to her.

“Reusser returned the night before last,” she said. “He seems to

have had a comparatively easy journey, and he reports conditions

over there very much more lenient in many ways. He had no difficulty

in landing, or in making his way wherever he wished to go. On the

other hand, the stories he brings back as to the distress and misery

everywhere are simply shocking. The country bleeds to death. There are

few trains running, no order, no discipline, despotic and arbitrary

police surveillance everywhere. But there is also corruption. People,

especially the official classes, are looking everywhere for the means

to live. A merchant who was imprisoned only a month or so ago on a

charge of murder, to which he actually pleaded ‘Guilty’, was set free

the day before Reusser left. It cost him little more than five thousand

roubles.”

“Did this man Reusser discover where your brother was?” Gerald asked.

“For ten thousand roubles,” she answered, “he could have searched every

police register in Russia. Paul is at the Fortress of St. Maria, at a

small town called Sokar, about three hundred miles south of Petrograd.

It is a bad journey, of course, but the place is accessible. The

Governor of the prison is a Major Krossneys. He is half an Austrian and

half a Pole. When he is sober, he is simply greedy. When he is drunk,

he is reckless. He is to be managed with ease, but always it is to be

remembered that Paul is his chief prisoner. If Paul were to escape,”

she went on thoughtfully, “he would, without a doubt, lose his post,

certainly his promotion; he might even have to flee the country. To buy

him would probably cost a sum of money sufficient to support him for

the rest of his life. There are still people who would tear Paul to

pieces if they knew who he was.”

“This Major Krossneys,” Gerald enquired, “does he speak French?”

“Fortunately, yes,” was the eager assent. “Tell me, Gerald, what do you

think of it all?”

“Just this,” he replied. “I shall sail on Tuesday. There is a steamer

from Hull. In less than two months I will bring your brother back.”

Her eyes shone. She seemed to be trembling in every limb. There was

ecstasy in her face, passion on her quivering lips. Yet even as he drew

a little nearer to her, Gerald was drearily conscious that she had

almost forgotten his presence. It was the thought of her brother which

had wrought this transformation.

“If I bring him back to you, Pauline----” he began.

She suddenly seized him by the shoulders.

“Bring him back!” she interrupted passionately. “I make no bargain. I

give no promise--you should know better than to ask for any such. All

that I can tell you is that I would give my soul to see him again.”

Gerald clenched his hands almost in pain.

“Pauline,” he pleaded, “for heaven’s sake, soften just a little. You

keep me all the time in torment. Paul shall be set free--I swear it. If

it costs me my fortune, my liberty, even my life, he shall be set free.

But I’m doing it for love of you. My love is choking me. Soften for one

moment. Remember what you will be to me some day. Give me at least a

memory to take with me.”

She laid her hand upon his. It seemed to him that it was as cold as the

snows. Her eyes looked into his. They were soft and beautiful, full of

colour and sweetness, yet they looked him through as though he were a

denizen of some other world.

“When I give, I give all,” she said. “You do not understand the people

of my race. We cannot give in driblets--a kiss here, a caress there,

the promise of more to-morrow. God never made us Russians like that.

When I give, it will be the full glory of love. Bring Paul back to me

and you may know what that can mean.”

Gerald rose to his feet.

“I should go to my task a stronger man,” he complained, a little

bitterly, “if you could throw me the dole one might give to a beggar.”

She gave him her finger tips. She was standing by his side, so near

that the desire to hold her in his arms and take from her lips the one

kiss he craved was almost irresistible. At that moment he almost hated

her.

“Haven’t you even the grace to pretend?” he muttered.

She laughed, wringing her fingers slightly as though his lips had

seared them.

“You have been spoilt,” she murmured. “The women you have played with

have been your too willing slaves. A trifle of homage, a trifle of

philandering, a few shadowy caresses--that is all you have known of

love.--Wait!”

Gerald spent that afternoon in the City, the next few days in making

restless preparations for his absence from London. On the afternoon of

the last day, he was permitted to see Reusser, and he recognised in

him at once the man whom he had seen watching over Madame de Ponière

and her niece in Hyde Park. The meeting took place in the sitting room

of the South Kensington hotel. Reusser, who leaned heavily upon two

sticks, was brought thither by a tall youth, his son, who waited for

him outside the door. He was as thin as a skeleton, his cheeks were

sunken, and every now and then his voice seemed to die away.

“It is my first day out of the hospital,” he told Gerald

apologetically. “I caught cold on the way back, and my lungs are not

good. Please ask what questions you desire. I am subject to attacks of

weakness.”

“I understand,” Gerald said, “that you reached Sokar?”

“I reached it,” he admitted, “but, alas! I was powerless to act. I

took with me every penny of money we could scrape together, but by

the time I reached the city I was penniless. I lodged at the house of

a saddler, whose name you will find in the book I have given you.

He took me to look at the fortress. He showed me the room where the

brother of Mademoiselle lies. He told me much about Major Krossneys,

the commandant of the fortress. But of what avail was it? We had not

enough money between us to pay for a bottle of wine.”

“How do you propose,” Gerald enquired, “that I approach Krossneys?”

“The way is arranged,” Reusser replied eagerly. “There is a woman

living in the town, half German, half English. Her name is Elsa

Francks. To-day Krossneys is her slave. You go first to her. Her

address is in the little book you have. She speaks English and French,

besides her own language; even some Russian. Talk to her frankly. She

will bring you to Krossneys. There is one thing, though. You must go as

an American. No one will do anything to help you, although they are all

greedy for money, if they think that you are English. It will be quite

easy, that. There are many Americans in Russia, prospecting. There is a

great oil field on the plains south of Kreussner. Some say there is oil

there; others deny it. That is how your bribes must be worked. You will

buy property. It will be worth nothing. You will find that Krossneys

has land to sell; so has Elsa.”

“I understand,” Gerald said.

“You leave to-morrow?”

“At ten o’clock from King’s Cross,” Gerald assented. “The boat leaves

at night.”

Reusser raised his right hand.

“The Father of God speed you!” he said. “Speed is very necessary. The

Government has kept that young man alive, hoping that some day he would

be useful as a bribe or a hostage, but there are still many fanatics

in Russia, haters of his race, who would tear him limb from limb if

they knew.”

“I shall be in Petrograd in a fortnight,” Gerald declared, “and at

Sokar, I hope, a few days later.”

Reusser once more raised his hand and muttered inaudible words.

Nevertheless, though his strength seemed departed, he tried to kneel

when Pauline came into the room. She raised him to his feet and called

to his son.

“All is well,” she said, dismissing them. “Take care of your strength,

Reusser. You must be one of the first to welcome him.”

The man bowed his head and prayed silently. Then his son led him away.

Gerald also rose to his feet. He had nerved himself for this interview.

“I shall have the pleasure of wishing Madame farewell?” he asked.

“My aunt sends you her excuses and her prayers,” Pauline replied. “She

is too agitated to risk a meeting. You do not quite know what this

means to us.”

“I know,” Gerald said, “what its results may mean to me.”

She looked at him a little sadly.

“My unhappy country,” she sighed, “is to-day only a furnace of woe

and suffering, yet in the jumble of it there are a few millions still

who would kneel through the night and pray for you, if they knew your

mission. I bid you farewell, Gerald, and every throb of my body will

live with you. I have sworn that no word of love shall pass my lips,

nor any feeling of love linger in my heart, so long as my brother lies

in that fortress. But I am here. I would give you anything that would

speed you on your journey. It is for you to choose.”

She stood perfectly passive, her arms hanging by her sides. Her eyes

looked sadly into his, her lips were composed and still. For a moment

the fires burned in his blood. He took a quick step forward. She

waited, unmoved, yet without shrinking. So they faced one another for a

moment. She extended her hand. Gerald seized it, then dropped it.

“I shall do my best,” he promised hoarsely. “Good-by!”

She listened to his departing footsteps; she even moved to the window,

watched him leave the hotel and step into his waiting automobile. He

was well enough to look at, good-looking as ever in his slim, lithe

way, and with his fine carriage. Nevertheless, there was neither love

nor pride in her eyes as she watched him. There was something else,

which seemed to point back down the avenues of the history of her

family, something, perhaps, which had sounded the knell of their doom,

generations before. It was there in her lips, in her eyes, spelled out

in her fixed stare,--the cruelty of a race whose heart is given only to

passion.

CHAPTER VII

Christopher was warmly welcomed at Hinterleys when he made his promised

appearance there, about a fortnight after Gerald’s departure. He would

have preferred postponing his visit altogether but for Gerald’s urgent

request, made on the night before he had started for abroad. It all

seemed very natural, however. Myrtile welcomed him without a shade of

embarrassment, Lady Mary with her usual delightful friendliness, and

Lord Hinterleys with more than his usual hospitality.

“Any news from the traveller?” Christopher asked, as they sat round the

fire in the hall, before going up to change.

“Just a telegram yesterday from Petrograd,” Mary replied,--“‘_Arrived

safely. Love._’”

“Satisfactory so far as it goes,” Christopher remarked.

“So far as it goes,” Lord Hinterleys grumbled, “but what on earth

Gerald wants to go over to that barbarous country for, at this time of

the year, I can’t possibly imagine. Who are these friends of his, Bent?

Do you know anything about them?”

“Very little,” Christopher admitted. “I gather that they are Russian

_emigrées_, but really I don’t know a thing more about them. Gerald

seems to have made their acquaintance at Monte Carlo, when they were

occupying the next villa to yours.”

“I saw them out driving once or twice,” Lord Hinterleys ruminated.

“The girl was beautiful and looked well-born. The aunt might have been

any one.”

“I think there is no doubt that they are aristocrats,” Christopher

pronounced.

“Wasn’t there something rather strange about the way they left Monte

Carlo?” Mary enquired, from the depths of her easy-chair.

“Strange but not discreditable,” he hastened to assure her. “Their

steward had brought them out a large sum of money, which appears to

have been all that they possessed in the world, and instead of handing

it over, he gambled at the tables, lost it and committed suicide. The

two women apparently sold all their jewellery, scrupulously paid their

debts and disappeared. I believe Gerald discovered them living at a

cheap hotel in South Kensington.”

“Don’t like the type,” Lord Hinterleys muttered.

“The girl is very attractive,” Myrtile ventured. “I used to see her

driving sometimes with Gerald.”

“All the same, I can’t see why Gerald wants to go mixing himself up

in their affairs,” his father observed pettishly, “especially in the

middle of the shooting season.”

“He expects to be back before you shoot the coverts,” Mary reminded

him. “I don’t know the reason for his journey to Russia any more than

you do, but I don’t imagine he’ll want to stop there any longer than he

can help.”

“I should think not,” Lord Hinterleys grumbled,--“a country of madmen

and anarchists. I expect he’s there on some fool’s errand.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mary declared, laying down the book which

she had been studying at intervals, “if Gerald didn’t know perfectly

well what he was doing--if he hadn’t, in fact, stumbled upon some

sort of a romance. The only time I have ever seen these two women,

except in the distance at Monte Carlo, was at Ranelagh on a quiet day

after the season was over; I expect Gerald had given them vouchers.

They were walking about the gardens, and I was with Susan Armitage.

Lord Armitage, as you know, was on the Staff at Petrograd in the

old days. We met them crossing the lawn and I heard Susan give a

little exclamation. Then she stopped quite short and stood almost to

attention, looking steadfastly at the girl. I am perfectly certain that

she was going to curtsey. I could see it in her eye. And I am perfectly

certain, too, that this Madame de Ponière and her niece knew who she

was. They took not the slightest notice, however, so Susan unbent and

came along.”

“But surely you asked her who they were?” Lord Hinterleys enquired.

“Of course I did,” Mary assented. “Susan, however, was exceedingly

mysterious. Since Jack began to fancy himself a diplomatist, she apes

all his little ways. ‘I may be mistaken, my dear,’ she said. ‘In any

case, the ladies did not desire to be recognised.’ I pressed her hard,

but she wouldn’t even tell me who she thought they were. Before that I

had asked Gerald if he would like me to go and see them, but he told me

they were in great trouble and were not receiving anybody at present.”

“This is all very well and charitable and that sort of thing,” her

father remarked, “but I don’t quite see why Gerald should have had to

raise thirty thousand pounds within the last few weeks.”

“Frankly, I cannot think that these two women are responsible for it,”

Mary declared. “Gerald told me, the day before he left, that they were

still living in that poky little South Kensington place.”

“Young men are much better married, anyway,” Lord Hinterleys growled.

“Why don’t you get married, Christopher? You could afford to, and a man

like you, with a political future, needs a wife.”

Christopher smiled imperturbably.

“Give me time, sir,” he begged. “It’s different with Gerald. He has the

estates, and very little else to think about.”

“Gerald’s an ass,” was the irritable reply. “He’s too fond of women

to understand them, or even to realise when he comes across the right

thing.”

“Gerald may have his faults,” his sister observed, “but at least he has

spared us the usual musical comedy infliction. There goes the gong.

Christopher, come into my room for a moment and I’ll show you those

photographs.”

They trooped up the great oak staircase, and Mary led their guest into

her own little boudoir. She closed the door carefully behind them.

“Christopher,” she said, “I am so glad you came. Honestly, I am anxious

about Gerald. He came to see you, didn’t he, the night before he

sailed?”

“He did,” was the cautious admission.

“He must have told you a little more than he told us,” she went on.

“Very little,” Christopher assured her. “He mumbled something about

Russia being an uncertain country just now, and got me round to his

rooms to witness his will. Of course, I don’t think there was any

secret that he was going over on business connected with these two new

friends of his. What that business is, though, I haven’t the slightest

idea.”

“Honest?”

“Honest! If I were to make a guess, I should say he was going over to

see if he could do anything about their estates, if they have any. On

the other hand, if he’d been doing that, I should have expected him to

have taken a lawyer.”

“Gerald in matters of business,” his sister sighed, “is a perfect

idiot. I hope he isn’t going to get himself into trouble.”

“Well, they can’t eat him,” Christopher declared consolingly, “and

they seem to have left off murdering people, at any rate for the

present. Besides, they have common sense enough to know that molesting

Englishmen is an expensive amusement, even in Russia.”

“You’re a dear, cheering-up sort of person,” Mary said gratefully.

“And, Christopher, I haven’t had an opportunity of saying so before,

but I am still very sorry.”

“Thank you, Mary.”

“You’ll have another try, I suppose? You’re a tenacious person.”

He shook his head.

“Never,” he answered firmly. “Myrtile is a strange little creature, but

she was cast in the mould of all good women. She loves Gerald, and so

long as she lives she will never love anybody else.”

“And Gerald----” Mary murmured.

“Gerald will never love any one,” Christopher interrupted, “not unless

something changes him--trouble or some great disaster. It’s quite

hopeless, Mary, and I know it. I have sealed the chamber down tight,

and here I am, as you see, very much as usual.”

She pressed his arm.

“Dear old Christopher!--You’ll find you’re in the oak room at the end

of the corridor, as usual. Howson, Gerald’s servant, is down here doing

nothing. He will look after you. After dinner you must tell me about

the election. I am so interested, and so is dad, when he can spare a

moment from thinking about his pheasants. He is certain to insist upon

Myrtile’s reading to him after dinner, and you and I will knock the

balls about in the billiard room.”

Christopher would have been less than human if he had not realised the

pleasure of having a very charming and attractive young woman, who was

also his hostess, keenly interested in the one subject which was just

then absorbing the whole of his time and attention. Mary knew a great

deal about politics, and her shrewd comments were not only sympathetic

but at times fairly helpful. They were left undisturbed throughout

the whole of the evening in the billiard room, and Christopher was

surprised at the ease with which he forgot that slim, frail figure

with the haunting eyes and tremulous smile, who had sat opposite him

at dinner. There is something about inevitability which sets its mark

upon all enterprise and sensation. He knew perfectly well that Myrtile

would never alter. She was as far removed from him as though she had

become a beautiful picture or an exquisite piece of statuary. The

conviction itself had a certain soothing effect. No man was ever known

to sigh his heart out for the unattainable. With the merest chance

of some alteration in her feelings, he would have been a persistent

and unchanging lover. There was no chance, and he knew it. The

disappointment was there, a dull pain in his heart whenever he thought

of certain chambers in the building of that house of his future. But it

was a pain of the past, a pain from which frequent escape was at least

possible. He found the coming of the footman with whisky and soda that

night unwelcome and surprising.

“Eleven o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Why, what has become of the evening?”

“Flatterer!” she laughed. “Never mind, I was just thinking the same

myself. One game of billiards, and then to bed. You’ll have a long day

to-morrow, for you’re walking in the morning, at any rate, and dad

always relies upon you to do the outsides.--Here’s Myrtile come to wish

us good night.”

“Haven’t you people played yet?” Myrtile enquired, looking at the

unused table in surprise.

“Not yet,” Christopher replied. “Lady Mary and I have been talking

politics.”

Myrtile made a little grimace.

“Politics!” she sighed. “Lord Hinterleys has tried to explain English

politics to me, but I think that I am stupid. I do not think that I

have ever heard of anything quite so dull.--Good night to you both. I

am going to bed.”

She waved her hand and disappeared. Mary looked after her thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” she said, “Myrtile presents herself to one as a problem. I

wonder whether it is really for their happiness to transplant any one.”

“Don’t you think that Myrtile is happy?” Christopher asked.

Mary shook her head.

“No girl is really happy without love in her life,” she declared. “You

can realise for yourself how little chance Myrtile has of ever being

rewarded for her devotion.”

He frowned.

“Poor child!” he said. “But aren’t you a little sweeping, Mary? There

are lots of girls who seem to get everything they want in life, and

to be perfectly happy without a man--without caring for any one in

particular, that is. Yourself, for instance?”

Mary selected a cue with great care.

“I suppose I am an exception,” she admitted. “Come along, I’ll play you

one fifty up before I go to bed.”

CHAPTER VIII

Gerald, worn out with long and comfortless travel, pulled the long,

iron bell outside the closed door of Elsa Francks’ house in Sokar, with

a sense of relief that the first part of his quest was accomplished.

The street was one which formerly had been possessed of some

pretensions. The houses were tall, solidly built, and had apparently

been occupied by a wealthy class of merchant. They were now mostly let

out in tenements. Exactly opposite where Gerald stood waiting, men

and women--shrunken-looking creatures, most of them--were continually

passing in and out of a broad entrance, from which the gates had been

done away with altogether, with sacks or baskets of partly finished

boots, and the sound of fitful hammering seemed to denote a factory

devoid of machinery. In the centre of the road were some rusty rails,

around which some grass was growing,--the remains of an electric car

service. Most of the houses seemed empty or over-full,--locked and

barred, with broken window frames and closed shutters, or converted

into tenement houses. The long street, full of holes and strewn

with all manner of refuse, ended in a steep hill. Way beyond it,

the so-called fortress, a sinister, grey building of many stories,

glittered in the afternoon sun.