On the fifth day after the momentous 1st of April on which he had
recalled Loder and resumed his own life Chilcote left his house and
walked towards Bond Street. Though the morning was clear and the air
almost warm for the time of year, he was buttoned into a long overcoat
and was wearing a muffler and a pair of doeskin gloves. As he passed
along the street he kept close to the house fronts to avoid the sun that
was everywhere stirring the winterbound town, like a suffusion of young
blood through old veins. He avoided the warmth because in this instance
warmth meant light, but as he moved he shivered slightly from time to
time with the haunting, permeating cold that of late had become his
persistent shadow.
He was ill at case as he hurried forward. With each succeeding day
of the old life the new annoyances, the new obligations became more
hampering. Before his compact with Loder this old life had been a net
about his feet; now the meshes seemed to have narrowed, the net itself
to have spread till it smothered his whole being. His own household--his
own rooms, even--offered no sanctuary. The presence of another
personality tinged the atmosphere. It was preposterous, but it was
undeniable. The lay figure that he had set in his place had proved to
be flesh and blood--had usurped his life, his position, his very
personality, by sheer right of strength. As he walked along Bond Street
in the first sunshine of the year, jostled by the well-dressed crowd, he
felt a pariah.
He revolted at the new order of things, but the revolt was a silent
one-the iron of expediency had entered into his soul. He dared not
jeopardize Loder's position, because he dared not dispense with Loder.
The door that guarded his vice drew him more resistlessly with every
indulgence, and Loder's was the voice that called the “Open Sesame!”
He walked on aimlessly. He had been but five days at home, and already
the quiet, grass-grown court of Clifford's Inn, the bare staircase, the
comfortless privacy of Loder's rooms seemed a haven of refuge. The speed
with which this hunger had returned frightened him.
He walked forward rapidly and without encountering a check. Then,
suddenly, the spell was broken. From the slowly moving, brilliantly
dressed throng of people some one called him by his name; and turning he
saw Lillian Astrupp.
She was stepping from the door of a jeweller's, and as he turned she
paused, holding out her hand.
“The very person I would have wished to see!” she exclaimed. “Where have
you been these hundred years? I've heard of nobody but you since you've
turned politician and ceased to be a mere member of Parliament!” She
laughed softly. The laugh suited the light spring air, as she herself
suited the pleasant, superficial scene.
He took her hand and held it, while his eyes travelled from her delicate
face to her pale cloth gown, from her soft furs to the bunch of roses
fastened in her muff, The sight of her was a curious relief. Her cool,
slim fingers were so casual, yet so clinging, her voice and her presence
were so redolent of easy, artificial things.
“How well you look!” he said, involuntarily.
Again she laughed. “That's my prerogative,” she responded, lightly. “But
I was serious in being glad to see you. Sarcastic people are always so
intuitive. I'm looking for some one with intuition.”
Chilcote glanced up. “Extravagant again?” he said, dryly.
She smiled at him sweetly. “Jack!” she murmured with slow reproach.
Chilcote laughed quickly. “I understand. You've changed your Minister of
Finance. I'm wanted in some other direction.”
This time her reproach was expressed by a glance. “You are always
wanted,” she said.
The words seemed to rouse him again to the shadowy self-distrust that
the sight of her had lifted.
“It's--it's delightful to meet you like this,” he began, “and I wish the
meeting wasn't momentary. But I'm--I'm rather pressed for time. You
must let me come round one afternoon--or evening, when you're alone.” He
fumbled for a moment with the collar of his coat, and glanced furtively
upward towards Oxford Street.
But again Lillian smiled--this time to herself. If she understood
anything on earth it was Chilcote and his moods.
“If one may be careless of anything, Jack,” she said, lightly, “surely
it's of time. I can imagine being pressed for anything else in the
world. If it's an appointment you're worrying about, a motor goes ever
so much faster than a cab--” She looked at him tentatively, her head
slightly on one side, her muff raised till the roses and some of the
soft fur touched her cheek.
She looked very charming and very persuasive as Chilcote glanced back.
Again she seemed to represent a respite--something graceful and subtle
in a world of oppressive obligations. His eyes strayed from her figure
to the smart motor-car drawn up beside the curb.
She saw the glance. “Ever so much quicker,” she insinuated; and, smiling
again, she stepped forward from the door of the shop. After a second's
indecision Chilcote followed her.
The waiting car had three seats--one in front for the chauffeur, two
vis-a-vis at the back, offering pleasant possibilities of a tete-a-tete.
“The Park--and drive slowly,” Lillian ordered, as she stepped inside,
motioning Chilcote to the seat opposite.
They moved up Bond Street smoothly and rapidly. Lillian was absorbed
in the passing traffic until the Marble Arch was reached; then, as they
glided through the big gates, she looked across at her companion. He
had turned up the collar of his coat, though the wind was scarcely
perceptible, and buried, himself in it to the ears.
“It is extraordinary!” she exclaimed, suddenly, as her eyes rested on
his face. It was seldom that she felt drawn to exclamation. She was
usually too indolent to show surprise. But now the feeling was called
forth before she was aware.
Chilcote looked up. “What's extraordinary?” he said, sensitively.
She leaned forward for an instant and touched his hand.
“Bear!” she said, teasingly. “Did I rub your fur the wrong way?” Then,
seeing his expression, she tactfully changed her tone. “I'll explain. It
was the same thing that struck me the night of Blanche's party--when you
looked at me over Leonard Kaine's head. You remember?” She glanced away
from him across the Park to where the grass was already showing greener.
Chilcote felt ill at ease. Again he put his hand to his coat collar.
“Oh yes,” he said, hastily--“yes.” He wished now that he had questioned
Loder more closely on the proceedings of that party. It seemed to him,
on looking back, that Loder had mentioned nothing on the day of their
last exchange but the political complications that absorbed his mind.
“I couldn't explain then,” Lillian went on. “I couldn't explain before a
crowd of people that it wasn't your dark head showing over Leonard's red
one that surprised me, but the most wonderful, the most extraordinary
likeness--” She paused.
The car was moving slower; there was a delight in the easy motion
through the fresh, early air. But Chilcote's uneasiness had been
aroused. He no longer felt soothed.
“What likeness?” he asked, sharply.
She turned to him easily. “Oh, a likeness I have noticed before,” she
said. “A likeness that always seemed strange, but that suddenly became
incredible at Blanche's party.”
He moved quickly. “Likenesses are an illusion,” he said, “a mere
imagination of the brain!” His manner was short; his annoyance seemingly
out of all proportion to its cause. Lillian looked at him afresh in
slightly interested surprise.
“Yet not so very long ago, you yourself--” she began.
“Nonsense!” he broke in. “I've always denied likenesses. Such things
don't really exist. Likeness-seeing is purely an individual matter--a
preconception.” He spoke fast; he was uneasy under the cool scrutiny of
her green eyes. And with a sharp attempt at self-control and reassurance
he altered his voice. “After all, we're being very stupid!” he
exclaimed. “We're worrying over something that doesn't exist.”
Lillian was still lazily interested. To her own belief, she had seen
Chilcote last on the night of her sister's reception. Then she had
been too preoccupied to notice either his manner or his health, though
superficially it had lingered in her mind that he had seemed unusually
reliant, unusually well on that night. A remembrance of the impression
came to her now as she studied his face, upon which imperceptibly and
yet relentlessly his vice was setting its mark--in the dull restlessness
of eye, the unhealthy sallowness of skin.
Some shred of her thought, some suggestion of the comparison running
through her mind, must have shown in her face, for Chilcote altered his
position with a touch of uneasiness. He glanced away across the long
sweep of tan-covered drive stretching between the trees; then he glanced
furtively back.
“By-the-way,” he said, quickly, “you wanted me for something?” The
memory of her earlier suggestion came as a sudden boon.
She lifted her muff again and smelled her roses thoughtfully. “Oh, it
was nothing, really,” she said. “You sarcastic people give very shrewd
suggestions sometimes, and I've been rather wanting a suggestion on
an--an adventure that I've had.” She looked down at her flowers with a
charmingly attentive air.
But Chilcote's restlessness had increased. Looking up, she suddenly
caught the expression, and her own face changed.
“My dear Jack,” she said, softly, “what a bore I am! Let's forget
tedious things--and enjoy ourselves.” She leaned towards him caressingly
with an air of concern and reproach.
The action was not without effect. Her soothing voice, her smile, her
almost affectionate gesture, each carried weight. With a swift return of
assurance he responded to her tone.
“Right!” he said. “Right! We will enjoy ourselves!” He laughed quickly,
and again with a conscious movement lifted his hand to his muffler.
“Then we'll postpone the advice?” Lillian laughed, too.
“Yes. Right! We'll postpone it.” The word pleased him and he caught at
it. “We won't bother about it now, but we won't shelve it altogether.
We'll postpone it.”
“Exactly.” She settled herself more comfortably. “You'll dine with
me one night--and we can talk it out then. I see so little of you
nowadays,” she added, in a lower voice.
“My dear girl, you're unfair!” Chilcote's spirits had risen; he spoke
rapidly, almost pleasantly. “It isn't I who keep away--it's the stupid
affairs of the world that keep me. I'd be with you every hour of the
twelve if I had my way.”
She looked up at the bare trees. Her expression was a delightful mixture
of amusement, satisfaction, and scepticism. “Then you will dine?” she
said at last.
“Certainly.” His reaction to high spirits carried him forward.
“How nice! Shall we fix a day?”
“A day? Yes. Yes--if you like.” He hesitated for an instant, then again
the impulse of the previous moment dominated his other feeling. “Yes,”
he said, quickly. “Yes. After all, why not fix it now?” With a sudden
inclination towards amiability he opened his overcoat, thrust his hand
into an inner pocket, and drew out his engagement-book--the same
long, narrow book fitted with two pencils that Loder had scanned so
interestedly on his first morning at Grosvenor Square. He opened it,
turning the pages rapidly. “What day shall it be? Thursday's full--and
Friday--and Saturday. What a bore!” He still talked fast.
Lillian leaned across. “What a sweet book!” she said. “But why the blue
crosses?” She touched one of the pages with her gloved finger.
Chilcote jerked the book, then laughed with a touch of embarrassment.
“Oh, the crosses? Merely to remind me that certain 'appointments must be
kept. You know my beastly memory! But what about the day? Shall we fix
the day?” His voice was in control, but mentally her trivial question
had disturbed and jarred him. “What day shall we say?” he repeated.
“Monday in next week?”
Lillian glanced up with a faint exclamation of disappointment. “How
horribly faraway!” She spoke with engaging petulance, and, leaning
forward afresh, drew the book from Chilcote's hand. “What about
to-morrow?” she exclaimed, turning back a page. “Why not to-morrow? I
knew I saw a blank space.”
“To-morrow! Oh, I--I--” He stopped.
“Jack!” Her voice dropped. It was true that she desired Chilcote's
opinion on her adventure, for Chilcote's opinion on men and manners had
a certain bitter shrewdness; but the exercise of her own power added a
point to the desire. If the matter had ended with the gain or loss of
a tete-a-tete with him, it is probable that, whatever its utility, she
would not have pressed it, but the underlying motive was the stronger.
Chilcote had been a satellite for years, and it was unpleasant that any
satellite should drop away into space.
“Jack!” she said again, in a lower and still more effective tone; and,
lifting her muff, she buried her face in her flowers. “I suppose I shall
have to dine and go to a music-hall with Leonard--or stay at home by
myself,” she murmured, looking out across the trees.
Again Chilcote glanced over the long, tan-strewn ride. They had made the
full circuit of the park.
“It's tiresome being by one's self,” she murmured.
For a while he was irresponsive, then slowly his eyes returned to her
face. He watched her for a second, and, leaning quickly towards her, he
took his book and scribbled something in the vacant space.
She watched him interestedly; her face lighted up, and she laid aside
her muff.
“Dear Jack!” she said. “How very sweet of you!”
Then, as he held the book towards her, her face fell. “Dine 33 Cadogan
Gardens, 8 o'c. Talk with L.,” she read. “Why, you've forgotten the
essential thing!”
He looked up. “The essential thing?”
She smiled. “The blue cross,” she said. “Isn't it worth even a little
one?”
The tone was very soft. Chilcote yielded.
“You have the blue pencil,” he said, in sudden response to her mood.
She glanced up in quiet pleasure at her Success, and, with a charming
affectation of seriousness, marked the engagement with a big cross. At
the same moment the car slackened speed, as the chauffeur waited for
further orders.
Lillian shut the engagement-book and handed it back. “Where can I drop
you?” she asked. “At the club?”
The question recalled him to a sense of present things. He thrust the
book into his pocket and glanced about him.
They had paused by Hyde Park corner. The crowd of horses and carriages
had thinned as the hour of lunch drew near, and the wide roadway of the
park had an air of added space. The suggested loneliness affected
him. The tall trees, still bereft of leaves, and the colossal gateway
incomprehensively stirred the sense of mental panic that sometimes
seized him in face of vastness of space or of architecture. In one
moment, Lillian, the appointment he had just made, the manner of its
making--all left him. The world was filled with his own personality, his
own immediate inclinations.
“Don't bother about me!” he said, quickly. “I can get out here. You've
been very good. It's been a delightful morning.” With a hurried pressure
of her fingers he rose and stepped from the car.
Reaching the ground, he paused for a moment and raised his hat; then,
without a second glance, he turned and walked rapidly away.
Lillian sat watching him meditatively. She saw him pass through
the gateway, saw him hail a hansom, then she remembered the waiting
chauffeur.