"Her name is Laura Treherne," said Leonard.
"Laura Treherne. Never heard the name before."
"Nor I, but it belongs to the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."
"That's because you haven't seen Una Rolfe," put in Jack, coolly. "But I
say, Len, what has come to us? We've both caught the universal epidemic
at the same time. It's nothing wonderful in me, you know--but
you--_you_, who wouldn't look at a woman! Have you got it bad, Len?"
"Very bad, Jack. Yes, the time which Rosseau calls the supremest in
one's life, has come to me. As a novice in the art of love-making, I
come to you for advice."
"Why, it's easy enough in your case. You know where to put your hand
upon the lady. What are you to do? Why, disguise yourself as a sweep,
and go and sweep the chimneys at 24 Cheltenham Square, or pretend you're
the tax collector, or 'come to look at the gas meter.' You've got half a
dozen plans, but I--what am I to do? I've seen the most beautiful
creature in existence, and if I'm not in love with her----"
"I should say you were," said Leonard, gently.
"Yes, I am. I knew it when I found that confounded cottage empty. But
what am I to do? I haven't the faintest clew to her whereabouts. The old
gentleman with the hatchet may have murdered his whole family--her
included--or emigrated to Australia."
"It is very strange. Didn't you notice any sign of a move about the
place the first night you were there?"
"No, none. Everything looked as if it had been going on for a hundred
years--excepting Una--and meant to go on for another hundred. Len, I'm
afraid we've been bewitched. Perhaps it's all a dream; I haven't been
down to Hurst and you haven't been down to Wermesley. We shall wake up
directly--oh, no! The poor squire! Len, it's all true, and we're a
couple of young fools!"
"Speak for yourself, old fellow. I have been a fool until three days
ago, now I am as wise as Solomon, for I have learned what love is."
"So have I--I have also learned the vanity of human wishes, and the next
thing I shall have to learn will be some way of earning a livelihood. I
should prefer an honest one, but--poor men can't afford to be
particular, and honesty doesn't seem to pay now-a-days. I feel so hard
up and reckless that I could become a bank director or a member of
Parliament without feeling a pang of conscience."
Leonard looked up at him, for the vein of bitterness was plainly to be
detected running through Jack's banter; and Leonard knew that when Jack
was bitter--which was but once a year, say--he was reckless.
"We must talk it over. Sit down--get off that table; you're making a
perfect hash of my papers--and let's talk it over. You won't go out
tonight."
"Yes, I shall. I shall go down to the club."
"No, no, keep away from the club tonight, Jack."
"What are you afraid of? Do you think I shall want to gamble? I've no
money to lose."
"That's the very reason you'll want to play. Do keep at home tonight."
"I couldn't do it, old man," he said. "I'm on wires--I'm all on fire. If
I sat here much longer, I should get up suddenly, murder you, and sack
the place. The Savage has got his paint on, and is on the trail."
"Don't be a fool, Jack. You are hot and upset. Keep away from the club
tonight. Well, well--let the _ecarte_ alone, at any rate."
"All right, I'll promise you that. I won't touch a card tonight.
_Ecarte!_ I couldn't play beggar-my-neighbor tonight! Len, I wish you
were a bigger man; I'd get up a row, and have a turn-to with you. Sit
down here! I couldn't do it. I want to be doing something--something
desperate. You can sit here and dream over your complaint; I can't--I
should go mad! Don't sit up for me."
Leonard looked after him as he disappeared into one of the two bedrooms
which adjoined the common sitting-room, and, with a shake of his head,
muttered, "Poor Jack!" and returned to his work.
Jack took a cold bath, dressed himself, and merely pausing to shout a
good-night, as he passed down the stairs, went into the street, and
jumped into a hansom, telling the man to drive to the Hawks' Club.
It was rather early for the "Hawks," and only a few of them had
fluttered in. It was about the last club that such a man as Jack should
have been a member of. It was fast, it was expensive, it was
fashionable, and the chief reason for its existence lay in the fact that
play at any time, and to any extent, could be obtained there.
When Jack entered the cardroom, that apartment was almost empty, but the
suspicious-looking tables were surrounded by chairs stuck up on two
legs, denoting that they were engaged, and those men who were present
were all playing.
Every head was turned as he entered, and a buzz of greeting rose to
welcome him.
"Halloa; you back, Jack!" said a tall, military-looking man, who was
known as the "Indian Nut," because he was one of the most famous of our
Indian colonels. "You're just in time to take a hand at loo."
"No; come and join us," said young Lord Pierrepoint, from another table,
at which nap was being played.
But if you could only wring a promise out of Jack, you could rest
perfectly certain that he would keep it; and he shook his head firmly.
"Nary a card."
"What! Don't you feel well, Jack?"
"No, I'm hungry. I'm going to get something to eat."
"Dear me, I didn't know you did eat, Jack. However, man, come and sit
down, and don't fidget about the room like that."
"Len's right, the club won't do neither. I couldn't hold a card straight
tonight. I'll get some dinner, and go back, and we'll have it all over
again."
It was a wise and virtuous resolution; and, unlike most resolves, Jack
meant to keep it. But alas! before he had got through with his soup, the
door opened and two men strolled in.
They were both young and well-known. The one was Sir Arkroyd Hetley; the
other, the young Lord Dalrymple, whose coronet had scarcely yet warmed
his forehead, as the French say.
Both of them uttered an exclamation at seeing Jack, and made straight
for his table.
"Why, here's the Savage!" exclaimed Dalrymple. "Back to his native
forest primeval."
"Been on the war trail, Jack?" asked Sir Arkroyd. "How are the squaws
and wigwams? Seriously, where have you been, old man?"
"Yes, I have been on the war trail," he said.
"And got some scalps, I hope," said Dalrymple. "What are you
doing--dining? What do you say, Ark, shall we join him? It's so long
since I've eaten anything that I should like to watch a man do it before
I make an attempt."
The footman put chairs and rearranged the table, and the two men chatted
and conned over the _carte_.
"You don't look quite the thing, Jack. Been going it in the forest, or
what?"
"Yes, I've been going it in the forest, Dally."
"Been hunting the buffalo and chumming up with his old friend, Spotted
Bull," said Arkroyd. "Bet you anything he hasn't been out of London,
Dally."
"Take him," said Jack. "I've been out of London on a little matter of
business."
"He's been robbing a bank," said Arkroyd, "or breaking one."
"Neither. Stop chaffing, you two, and tell a fellow what's going on."
"Shall we tell him, Dally? Perhaps he'll try to cut us out. It wouldn't
be a bad idea to start a joint stock company, all club together, you
know, and work it in that way, the one who wins to share with the other
fellows."
"Wins what? What on earth are you talking about? Is it a sweepstake, a
handicap, or what----"
"No, my noble Savage. It's the heiress."
"Oh," said Jack, indifferently, and he sipped his claret critically.
"What has come to you, Jack? Have you decided to cut the world or have
heiresses become unnecessary? Perhaps someone has left you a fortune,
old man; if so, nobody will be more delighted than I shall be--to help
you spend it."
A flush rose to Jack's face, and his eyes flashed. He had been drinking
great bumpers of the Hawks' favorite claret--a heady wine which Jack
should never have touched at any time, especially not tonight.
"No, no one has left me a fortune; quite the reverse. But you'd better
tell me about this heiress, I see, or you'll die of disappointment. Who
is she--where is she?--what is she? Here's her good health, whoever she
is," and down went another bumper of the Lafitte; and as it went down,
it was to Una he drank, not to the unknown one.
"Do you remember Earlsley?" said Arkroyd. "Oh, no, of course not, you
must have been in your cradle in the wigwam in that time. Well; old
Wigsley died and left his money to a fifty-second cousin, who turned out
to be a girl. No one knew anything about her; no one knew where to find
her; but at last there comes a claimant in the shape of a girl from one
of the Colonies--Canada. That isn't a colony, is it, though?
Australia--anywhere--nobody knows, you know. She came over with her
belongings--a rum-looking old fellow, with a white head of long hair,
like, a--a--what's got a long head of white hair, Dally?"
"Try patriarch," murmured the marquis.
"Well, in addition to the money, and there's about a million, more or
less--she's got the most beautiful, that isn't the word, most charming,
fascinating little face you ever saw. If she looks at you, you feel as
if you never could feel an ache or pain again as long as you lived."
"Ark, you've had too much champagne."
"No; 'pon my honor. Isn't it right, Dally?"
"Yes, and if she smiles," said Dalrymple, "you never could feel another
moment's unhappiness. The prettiest mouth--and when it opens, her
teeth----"
"Oh, confound it!" exclaimed Jack, brusquely. "You needn't run over her
points as if she were a horse; I don't want to buy her."
As a matter of fact, he had only caught the last word or two, for while
Arkroyd had been talking he had been thinking of that other beautiful
girl--not a doll, with teeth and a smile, but an angel, pure and
ethereal--a dream--not a fascinating heiress.
"Buy her!" exclaimed Arkroyd. "Listen to him! Don't I tell you she's
worth a million?"
"And I'd make her Countess of Dalrymple tomorrow if she hadn't a penny,
and would have me," said Dalrymple.
"Try her," said Jack, curtly.
"No use, my dear Savage," he said, tugging at his incipient fringe of
down ruefully. "She won't have anything to say to yours truly, or to any
one of us for that matter. She only smiles when we say pretty things,
and shows her teeth at us. Besides, the title wouldn't tempt her. She's
got one already. Don't I tell you she's one of the Earlsley lot? No;
we've all had a try, even Arkroyd. He even went so far as to get a
fellow to write a poem about her in one of the society journals, and
signed it 'A. H.;' but she told him to his face that she didn't care for
poetry. It was a pretty piece, too, wasn't it, Ark?"
"First-rate," said Arkroyd, with as much modesty as if he had written
it. "But it was all thrown away on Lady Bell."
"On whom?" said Jack, waking up again.
"On Lady Bell--Isabel Earlsley is her name. You're wool-gathering
tonight, Jack."
"Oh, Lady Bell, is it?" said Jack, carelessly. "Go ahead. Anything
else?"
"No, that's all, excepting that I'll wager a cool thousand to a china
orange that you'll change your tone when you see her, Savage."
"Perhaps," said Jack, "but your description doesn't move me; not much,
Ark. You're not good at that sort of thing. It isn't in your line. The
only things you seem to have remarked are her smile and her teeth."
"Savage, you are, as usual, blunt, not to say rude. Let us have another
bottle of Cliquot."
Jack shook his head, but another bottle came up, and he sat and took his
share in silence, and, indeed, almost unconsciously. For all the
attention he paid to the chatter of his two friends they might not have
been present.
His thoughts flew backward to the shady grove of Warden Forest, to the
girl who, like a vision of purity and innocence and loveliness, had
floated like a dream across his life.
He gave one passing thought to Len, too, and his story.
It was a strange coincidence that they should both have met their fates
at one and the same time, or nearly so.
He would have thought it stranger still if he could have lifted the veil
of the future and seen how closely the web of his life was woven with
the woof, not only of Una's, but of Laura Treherne, and also of Lady
Bell Earlsley.
All unconscious he had turned a leaf of his life's book, and had begun a
new chapter in which these three women were to take a part.
But he sat and drank the champagne, knowing nothing of this, and--I am
sorry to have to say it--he was rapidly arriving at that condition in
which it is dangerous to be within a mile of that fascinating fluid.
When a man passes from a state of half-feverish restlessness and
dissatisfaction to one of comparative comfort, and that by the aid of
the cheering glass, it is time to put the cheering glass aside and go
home.
Jack did not go home; on the contrary, he went into the billiard-room,
and Cliquot followed, as a matter of course.
For a time Jack had managed to forget everything excepting his promise
to Len; he would not enter the card-room, but he stuck to pool and
champagne.