_Which I Dedicate to the Friend Who Asked for it._
I
"Yes, but what's the good of it?" said Cynthia Mortimer gently. "I can
never marry you."
"You might be engaged to me for a bit, anyhow," he urged, "and see how
you like it."
She made a quaint gesture with her arms, as though she tried to lift
some heavy weight.
"I am very sorry," she said, in the same gentle voice. "It's very nice
of you to think of it, Lord Babbacombe. But--you see, I'm quite sure I
shouldn't like it. So that ends it, doesn't it?"
He stood up to his full height, and regarded her with a faint, rueful
smile.
"You're a very obstinate girl, Cynthia," he said.
She leaned back in her chair, looking up at him with clear, grey eyes
that met his with absolute freedom.
"I'm not a girl at all, Jack," she said. "I gave up all my pretensions
to youth many, many years ago."
He nodded, still faintly smiling.
"You were about nineteen, weren't you?"
"No. I was past twenty-one." A curious note crept into her voice; it
sounded as if she were speaking of the dead. "It--was just twelve years
ago," she said.
Babbacombe's eyebrows went up.
"What! Are you past thirty? I had no idea."
She laughed at him--a quick, gay laugh.
"Why, it's eight years since I first met you."
"Is it? Great heavens, how the time goes--wasted time, too, Cynthia! We
might have been awfully happy together all this time. Well"--with a
sharp sigh--"we can't get it back again. But anyhow, we needn't squander
any more of it, if only you will be reasonable."
She shook her head; then, with one of those quick impulses that were a
part of her charm, she sprang lightly up and gave him both her hands.
"No, Jack," she said. "No--no--no! I'm not reasonable. I'm just a
drivelling, idiotic fool. But--but I love my foolishness too well ever
to part with it. Ever, did I say? No, even I am not quite so foolish as
that. But it's sublime enough to hold me till--till I know for certain
whether--whether the thing I call love is real or--or--only--a sham."
There was passion in her voice, and her eyes were suddenly full of
tears; but she kept them upturned to his as though she pleaded with him
to understand.
He looked down at her very kindly, very steadily, holding her hands
closely in his own. There was no hint of chagrin on his clean-shaven
face--only the utmost kindness.
"Don't cry!" he said gently. "Tell me about this sublime foolishness of
yours--about the thing you call--love. I might help you, perhaps--who
knows?--to find out if it is the real thing or not."
Her lips were quivering.
"I've never told a soul," she said. "I--am half afraid."
"Nonsense, dear!" he protested.
"But I am," she persisted. "It's such an absurd romance--this
of mine, so absurd that you'll laugh at it, just at first. And
then--afterwards--you will--disapprove."
"My dear girl," he said, "you have never entertained the smallest regard
for my opinion before. Why begin to-day?"
She laughed a little, turning from him to brush away her tears.
"Sit down," she said, "and--and smoke--those horrid strong cigarettes of
yours. I love the smell. Perhaps I'll try and tell you. But--mind,
Jack--you're not to look at me. And you're not to say a single word till
I've done. Just--smoke, that's all."
She settled herself on the low fender-cushion with her face turned from
him to the fire. Lord Babbacombe sat down as she desired, and took out
and lighted a cigarette.
As the scent of it reached her she began to speak in the high, American
voice he had come to love. There was nothing piercing about it; it was a
clear, sweet treble.
"It happened when I was travelling under Aunt Bathurst's wing. You know,
it was with her and my cousin Archie that I first did Europe. My! It was
a long time ago! I've been round the world four times since then--twice
with poor dear Daddy, once with Mrs. Archie, after he died, and the last
time--alone. And I didn't like that last time a mite. I was like the man
in _The Pilgrim's Progress_--I took my hump wherever I went. Still, I
had to do something. You were big-game shooting. I'd have gone with you
if you'd have had me unmarried. But I knew you wouldn't, so I just had
to mess around by myself. Oh, but I was tired--I was tired! But I kept
saying to myself it was the last journey before--Jack, if you don't
smoke your cigarette will go out. Where was I? I'm afraid I'm boring
you. You can go to sleep if you like. Well, it was on the voyage back.
There was a man on board that every one said was a private detective. It
was at the time of the great Nat Verney swindles. You remember, of
course? And somehow we all jumped to the conclusion that he was tracking
him. I remember seeing him when we first went on board at Liverpool. He
was standing by the gangway watching the crowd with the bluest eyes on
earth, and I took him for a detective right away. But--for all
that--there was something about him--something I kind of liked, that
made me feel I wanted to know him. He was avoiding everybody, but I made
him talk to me. You know my way."
She paused for a moment, and leaning forward, gazed into the heart of
the fire with wide, intent eyes.
The man in the chair behind her smoked on silently with a drawn face.
"He was very horrid to me," she went on, her voice soft and slow as
though she were describing something seen in a vision, "the only man who
ever was. But I--do you know, I liked him all the more for that? I
didn't flirt with him. I didn't try. He wasn't the sort one could flirt
with. He was hard--hard as iron, clean-shaven, with an immensely
powerful jaw, and eyes that looked clean through you. He was one of
those short, broad Englishmen--you know the sort--out of proportion
everywhere, but so splendidly strong. He just hated me for making
friends with him. It was very funny."
An odd little note of laughter ran through the words--that laughter
which is akin to tears.
"But I didn't care for that," she said. "It didn't hurt me in the least.
He was too big to give offence to an impudent little minx like me.
Besides, I wanted him to help me, and after a bit I told him so.
Archie--my cousin, you know; he was only a boy then--was mad on
card-playing at that time. And I was real worried about him. I knew he
would get into a hole sooner or later, and I begged my surly Englishman
to keep an eye on him. Oh, I was a fool! I was a brainless, chattering
fool! And I'm not much better now, I often think."
Cynthia's hand went up to her eyes. The vision in the fire was all
blurred and indistinct.
Babbacombe was leaning forward, listening intently. The firelight
flickered on his face, showing it very grave and still. He did not
attempt to speak.
Nevertheless, after a moment, Cynthia made a wavering movement with one
hand in his direction.
"I'm not crying, Jack. Don't be silly! I'm sure your cigarette is out."
It was. He pitched it past her into the fire.
"Light another," she pleaded. "I love them so. They are the kind he
always smoked. That's nearly the end of the story. You can almost guess
the rest. That very night Archie did get into a hole, a bad one, and the
only way my friend could lift him out was by getting down into it
himself. He saved him, but it was at his own expense; for it made people
begin to reflect. And in the end--in the end, when we came into harbour,
they came on board, and--and arrested him early in the morning--before I
knew. You see, he--he was Nat Verney."
Cynthia's dark head was suddenly bowed upon her hands. She was rocking
to and fro in the firelight.
"And it was my fault," she sobbed--"all my fault. If--if he hadn't done
that thing for me, no one would have known--no one would have
suspected!"
She had broken down completely at last, and the man who heard her
wondered, with a deep compassion, how often she had wept, in secret and
uncomforted, as she was weeping now.
He bore it till his humanity could endure no longer. And then, very
gently, he reached out, touched her, drew her to him, pillowed her head
on his shoulder.
"Don't cry, Cynthia," he whispered earnestly. "It's heart-breaking work,
dear, and it doesn't help. There! Let me hold you till you feel better.
You can't refuse comfort from an old friend like me."
She yielded to him mutely for a little, till her grief had somewhat
spent itself. Then, with a little quivering smile, she lifted her head
and looked him straight in the face.
"Thank you, Jack," she said. "You--you've done me good. But it's not
good for you, is it? I've made you quite damp. You don't think you'll
catch cold?"--dabbing at his shoulder with her handkerchief.
He took her hand and stayed it.
"There is nothing in this world," he said gravely "that I would so
gladly do as help you, Cynthia. Will you believe this, and treat me from
this stand-point only?"
She turned back to the fire, but she left her hand in his.
"My dear," she said, in an odd little choked voice, "it's just like you
to say so, and I guess I sha'n't forget it. Well, well! There's my
romance in a nutshell. He didn't care a fig for me till just the last.
He cared then, but it was too late to come to anything. They shipped him
back again you know, and he was sentenced to fifteen years' penal
servitude. He's done nearly twelve, and he's coming out next month on
ticket-of-leave."
"Oh, Cynthia!"
Babbacombe bent his head suddenly upon her hand, and sat tense and
silent.
"I know," she said--"I know. It sounds simply monstrous, put into bald
words. I sometimes wonder myself if it can possibly be true--if I,
Cynthia Mortimer, can really be such a fool. But I can't possibly tell
for certain till I see him again. I must see him again somehow. I've
waited all these years--all these years."
Babbacombe groaned.
"And suppose, when you've seen him, you still care?"
She shook her head.
"What then, Jack? I don't know; I don't know."
He pulled himself together, and sat up.
"Do you know where he is?"
"Yes. He is at Barren Hill. He has been there for five years now. My
solicitor knows that I take an interest in him. He calls it
philanthropy." Cynthia smiled faintly into the fire. "I was one of the
people he swindled," she said. "But he paid me back."
She rose and went across the room to a bureau in a corner. She unlocked
a drawer, and took something from it. Returning, she laid a packet of
notes in Babbacombe's hands.
"I could never part with them," she said. "He gave them to me in a
sealed parcel the last time I saw him. It's only a hundred pounds. Yes,
that was the message he wrote. Can you read it? 'With apologies from the
man who swindled you.' As if I cared for the wretched money!"
Babbacombe frowned over the writing in silence.
"Why don't you say what you think, Jack?" she said. "Why don't you call
him a thieving scoundrel and me a poor, romantic fool!"
"I am trying to think how I can help you," he answered quietly. "Have
you any plans?"
"No, nothing definite," she said. "It is difficult to know what to do.
He knows one thing--that he has a friend who will help him when he comes
out. He will be horribly poor, you know, and I'm so rich. But, of
course, I would do it anonymously. And he thinks his friend is a man."
Babbacombe pondered with drawn brows.
"Cynthia," he said slowly, at length, "suppose I take this matter into
my own hands, suppose I make it possible for you to see this man once
more, will you be guided entirely by me? Will you promise me solemnly to
take no rash step of any description; in short, to do nothing without
consulting me? Will you promise me, Cynthia?"
He spoke very earnestly. The firelight showed her the resolution on his
face.
"Of course I will promise you, Jack," she said instantly. "I would trust
myself body and soul in your keeping. But what can you do?"
"I might do this," he said. "I might pose as his unknown friend--another
philanthropist, Cynthia." He smiled rather grimly. "I might get hold of
him when he comes out, give him something to do to keep his head above
water. If he has any manhood in him, he won't mind what he takes. And I
might--later, if I thought it practicable--I only say 'if,' Cynthia, for
after many years of prison life a man isn't always fit company for a
lady--I might arrange that you should see him in some absolutely casual
fashion. If you consent to this arrangement you must leave that entirely
to me."
"But you will hate to do it!" she exclaimed.
He rose. "I will do it for your sake," he said. "I shall not hate it if
it makes you see things--as they are."
"Oh, but you are good," she said tremulously--"you are good!"
"I love a good woman," he answered gravely.
And with that he turned and left her alone in the firelight with her
romance.