At six o'clock that same evening Colonel Treves issued from the front
door of his fine Tudor residence at Freshwater, and made his way down
the drive. The weather had cleared, there was a golden light in the
west, and the Colonel, wearing a tweed suit, walked briskly towards the
lodge-keeper's cottage. He told himself that he had come there entirely
upon business--merely to give the man certain personal orders. The
truth of the matter was, however, that he could no longer stay in the
house. He was expecting his son; he was looking forward to meeting his
boy Bernard with a keener and happier interest than he had felt for many
years. During recent months all his old love for his only offspring had
returned. He was an old man, and the son who for many years had
disappointed him had now grown to be a real Treves, and a man of honour.
A smile flitted across his fine, kindly face. He believed that he had
at last discovered the reason of Bernard's altered behaviour. The boy
who had been tragically cashiered from the army, who had, indeed, been
almost proved guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, had righted
himself; and not only had he won the confidence of his superiors, but he
had been entrusted with delicate and difficult duties.
When Colonel Treves reached the lodge-keeper's single-storied abode, he
held the man in conversation for some minutes, but his eyes turned
incessantly towards the sloping road that led past his gate. When at
last he saw a khaki-clad figure on a bicycle, he turned to his elderly
employee:
"Adams," he said, "is that Mr. Bernard coming along?"
"Yes, sir," answered the man, after a minute or two's scrutiny.
When John reached the drive, the Colonel was at the gate to meet him.
"Well, Bernard, boy, so there you are," he exclaimed, gripping the young
man's hand. "I just happened to be doing a little business here with
Adams, and caught sight of you. Come in, boy, come in. How do you
think Mr. Bernard's looking, Adams?" he said, turning to the old
servant.
"He's looking fine, sir," answered the man. "I've seldom seen him
looking so well."
"Leave your bicycle with Adams," said the Colonel; "you can take me up
to the house. I am not quite so brisk as I used to be." And he slipped
his arm through John's and went up the drive, talking happily and
cheerfully as he went. John had always felt drawn towards him; it was
impossible for him not to feel admiration and pity for this splendid old
fellow. He experienced a sense of pleasure that his visit could give
the old man such genuine delight.
"Now, Bernard, boy," said the Colonel, "I have a word to say to you
before we go in the house. I have a surprise waiting for you there, but
before we go in I want to ask you one thing?"
"What is it?" John asked quietly.
"It's this, Bernard, boy; you haven't been trusting me. You haven't
relied upon me as a son should rely on his father."
"In what way, sir?"
"You'll find that out, Bernard, boy, when we get indoors," said the
Colonel enigmatically.
John questioned him closely, but he could learn nothing, and presently
Gates, the old butler, drew open the door, greeted John with a smile,
and took his hat and gloves.
"Your suit-case arrived this morning, sir," he informed John. "I have
taken it to your room."
"It's the south room, Bernard, boy," intervened the Colonel; "it's the
first time you've had the honour of sleeping in the room that used to be
your mother's. But this is a special reunion, Bernard. I had to do
something to mark the occasion."
He took John's arm again, and together they ascended to the library, the
room in which John had first made his acquaintance. There was something
on the Colonel's mind which gave him pleasure, and filled him with an
air of humorous mystery.
"When you've seen who's in the library, Bernard," he said, as they drew
near the green baize-covered door, "you'll understand what I mean about
trusting me better in the future."
He drew open the door.
"Come in, Bernard, boy; come in."
John followed him into the big, handsome apartment, with its mullioned
windows and its fine view of the sea. There was some one standing by the
hearth with back to the fire-place, and John suddenly caught his breath
and stood still. Elaine Treves was there, smiling at him, and as he
entered the room she came forward, holding out both hands in greeting.
"Bernard," she exclaimed, a light of happiness radiating her gentle
beauty; "you didn't expect to find me here, did you?"
John's surprise was complete. Thoughts of Elaine had been with him
during the greater part of his ride, but he remembered Treves's secret
in regard to his wife, the fact that he had always kept his marriage
from his father's knowledge. He was therefore astonished to find Elaine
installed under her father-in-law's roof. She looked very much at home,
and John wondered consumedly how she had managed to come there. He also
foresaw new difficulties for himself; nevertheless he was delighted to
see her, her freshness, her beauty, her winning confidence in himself
all tended to please him. It took him very few minutes to observe that
her presence brightened Colonel Treves's home amazingly. It was obvious
to John that she had already won her way into the old fellow's heart,
and as Elaine reached up and shyly kissed him, the Colonel smiled upon
them both with an air of infinite benevolence.
"Now," exclaimed Colonel Treves, rallying John half an hour later, when
Elaine had gone to dress for dinner. "Now do you see why I asked you to
trust me?"
"I think I do," said John, somewhat awkwardly.
"Here, you young rascal, you go and marry a charming girl, who would
bring credit and honour to my family, and you hide her away from me,
pretending all the time that I am the strict and cruel father. That
shows how greatly you misunderstood me, Bernard boy. Why, if I had
chosen a wife for you myself, I couldn't have made as good a choice as
you made in marrying Elaine. She's been here three days, Bernard, and
already I feel towards her as to my own daughter. I always feared you
would make a fool of yourself in marrying." He paused and looked at
John with his dim eyes. "Sometimes, Bernard boy," he said, with a touch
of wistfulness in his tone, "I cannot understand the change that has
come over you, the improvement. But it's the good blood coming out,
eh--the Treves blood. I always hold that blood tells, and in your case
my conviction has been proved more than right. Now, Bernard, how long
can you stay with me this time?"
"Only to-night, sir, I am sorry to say."
"Come, come," protested the old Colonel, "I'd expected a week at least."
As he spoke the door opened, and Elaine entered the room dressed for
dinner. For the first time John saw her in evening apparel. Her dress
was of an inexpensive pale yellow material, muslin or silk, John did not
know which, and did not care. Her dark hair was beautifully coiffeured,
her cheeks glowed with colour, and there was a light of happiness in her
eyes.
Colonel Treves glanced at the clock on his desk.
"Why, it's nearly seven!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late.
I must run away and change. You'll want to get out of those puttees,
Bernard," he said, glancing at John.
"Thank you," said John. "I am in the south room, sir?"
The Colonel nodded, and John, wondering exactly where the south room
might be, went out of the library. He walked along the corridor, and
chanced upon a house-maid.
"Which is my room, please?" he said.
The housemaid preceded him along the passage, and opened a door,
switched on the electric light.
John thanked her, and found himself in an imposing bedroom, beautifully
furnished in the French style. His suit-case had been unstrapped and
was upon a stand at the foot of the bed. Laid neatly out upon the bed
itself were his clothes for the evening. A fine apartment, thought
John, and at that moment a knock fell upon the door.
"Come in," he called. The door opened quietly, and Elaine stepped into
the room. She advanced across the room in the most natural manner in
the world. There was a light in her fine grey eyes, and she was visibly
and quite frankly delighted to be alone with John. John, for his part,
saw in a flash the awkwardness of the position chance had imposed upon
him. In his sudden surprise in finding Elaine under Colonel Treves's
roof he had overlooked a _tete-a-tete_ of this kind. He had indeed
hardly had time to think of the matter at all.
"Bernard, are you really pleased to see me?"
"Delighted," John answered, wondering what other word he could use, for,
as a matter of truth, he was delighted and appalled at the same time.
He felt that the situation involving him would require the utmost
finesse, if he meant to escape satisfactorily. His own nerves were
strung up to a high pitch of tension, and it came as a surprise to him
that Elaine should act as though their presence together in that stately
sleeping apartment was the most natural event in the world.
"Do you like my dress, Bernard?"
She came towards the glittering dressing-table and turned slowly for his
inspection. Her attitude, her confidence were exquisitely attractive to
John. Her wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the
prettiest thing he had ever seen. And once again the splendid rich
duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her cheeks, the fine contours
of her well-turned lips, and the fairness of her skin won his
admiration. But it was not this, it was in no sense her radiant and
girlish beauty that had evoked John's feelings. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth
possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the frankness and generous
natural trust, the appealing femininity, in fact, which is always potent
in the winning of a man's love. For it was love, and love only that
John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who was nothing
to him, and could never be anything.
To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress suited her to
perfection.
"You said when we first met, Bernard, that this primrose colour suited
me best, so I put it on to-night."
"Only to please me?" asked John.
Elaine nodded.
"Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard," she went on. "I
think he is wonderful; just the beau ideal of a fine, upright soldier.
I cannot understand how you could ever have doubted his generosity."
"I didn't doubt him," John answered. "I only misunderstood him, and
acted like a fool."
"But in regard to our marriage. If you had told him months ago, I am
sure he would have been just as pleased as he is now. Why didn't you,
Bernard?"
"I don't know," John answered. "But I am sure he would have been
pleased if I had been sensible enough to trust him."
Elaine seated herself upon an ottoman, an old-fashioned circular piece
of furniture which decorated the middle of the apartment. For a minute
she let her eyes wander over the refined luxury of the room, then said
quietly and thoughtfully:
"So this used to be your mother's room, Bernard?"
John drew in his breath slowly. "Yes," he answered, and, as he spoke,
he felt suddenly and acutely the falsity of his position. He was upon
dangerous ground, and he felt again intense dislike at having to deceive
this woman, who was everything in the world to him.
"I think it was so dear of your father," resumed Elaine thoughtfully,
"to let us have this room." John cast a swift look in her direction.
"He could not have paid us a greater compliment," Elaine went on.
She was entirely absorbed in her thoughts. To her it was the most
natural thing in life that the Colonel should honour his son and his
son's wife by allotting to them this fine apartment. In doing so he was
tacitly informing the young couple that Elaine in her turn was to be the
lady of the house. But so far as John was concerned, Elaine's quiet
acceptance of himself and of this fact filled him with consternation.
He felt himself enmeshed and hopelessly bewildered. This was not his
room only, but Elaine's. It had not entered his mind to look into the
wardrobe; he had not even noticed the pair of ladies' gloves which lay
upon the dressing-table. But now as he turned away, so that Elaine might
not read his glance, his eyes fell upon her gloves for the first time.
A moment of acute crisis had arisen. Nevertheless he still fenced,
peeking a way out of the situation.
"I cannot understand," he said, "how you managed to get into touch with
my father after all."
Elaine laughed brightly.
"I have been wondering when you would ask that, Bernard. It was all
owing to the old butler, Mr. Gates. He came to 65, Bowles Avenue. It
seems that you gave that address once at the Savoy Hotel in case Mr.
Dacent Smith sent for you suddenly. Gates went to the Savoy to find
you, to give you a message from your father, and the Savoy people gave
him my address. I answered the door to Gates myself, and in the course
of his inquiries about you, I told him who I was. He had never heard of
me before and was very much surprised. Naturally, when he came back
here, he told your father."
"I see," said John, "and my father invited you here?"
Elaine nodded.
"Not only invited me, but he has been absolutely charming to me."
"I don't see anything very extraordinary in that," returned John.
"Oh, but I might have been the most horrid sort of creature. He knew
nothing whatever about me."
"He only needed to look at you," John answered, "to see that--that I had
made an ideal marriage."
"I have made him tell me everything about your boyhood, Bernard."
John winced. He had no wish to discuss a boyhood that was naturally a
blank to him.
"I believe I know more about your schoolboy days than you do yourself,"
smiled Elaine.
"I shouldn't wonder," said John with a smile.
Despite himself, against caution and his better judgment, he was
beginning to enjoy the scene. He was still at the dressing-table, and
in the depths of the mirror he could see behind him Elaine's reflection,
a delicate and beautiful picture, seated on the ottoman behind him,
looking at him with admiring and loving eyes, believing in him, and
trusting him.
"Bernard!" Her tone was low and intimate.
"Yes."
"Come and sit beside me."
"Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've--I've got a letter to
write." He was quick at inventing excuses.
"You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother to write a letter,
after not seeing me for so long." She rose and came towards him. He
felt foolish and awkward when she took his hand in hers, led him to the
ottoman and seated him beside her. "Tell me what you have been doing
all these long days."
"Oh, all sorts of things," John answered.
"Did you ever think of me?"
"Often," John answered, truthfully.
"Have you been loving me? Look into my eyes and say it, Bernard."
John turned his face towards hers. He saw love in her eyes; love that
was offered to himself alone; and as he sustained the radiant tenderness
of her gaze a wild impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds.
He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly that he was
not her husband. Nevertheless he longed to tell her that she was the
one woman in all the world for him, that she had won his deepest love,
and that he was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk everything
if----. Then suddenly he caught himself up. His lips were sealed. As
an honourable man, even if he admitted his true identity, he must not
utter his love.
"Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?" There was a puzzled
and anxious light in her eyes.
"Was I?"
"You suddenly drew your brows together and looked at me so furiously
that I thought I must have offended you."
"You could never offend me."
"I don't think you love me after all." She was holding his hand in
hers, looking wistfully up into his face. "Do you?"
John slid his fingers away from her touch and rose. He began to pace the
floor uneasily. As always, he was seeking a way out, racking his brains
for a solution. But there was only one method of escape, and that lay in
sudden and ignominious flight.
"Look here, Elaine!" he said, suddenly and brutally. "It has occurred to
me that I ought to go away again to-night, immediately after dinner!"
She rose and looked at him with startled eyes. John went on, clumsily:
"Something important has turned up!"
"Oh, but, Bernard, that would be too cruel. I have hardly seen you!"
She came to him quickly and laid her hands on his shoulders. There was
entreaty in her fine eyes, upraised to his. "You'll stay just
to-night," she implored, wistfully, "just for my sake."
John put her away from him almost roughly; his voice was hoarse and low.
"It's impossible, Elaine!"
She stood for a moment regarding him with steady gaze. A long, tense
silence lay between them. Then she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity
that somehow wrung John's heart.
"Then all your protestations of love for me mean nothing at all!"
"They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone.
"And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?"
"I don't mean to act cruelly."
"If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay. It isn't the first
time, Bernard, that you--you've humiliated me!"
John looked into her face that had grown suddenly tragic. He saw in a
moment how completely justified she was in her attitude. He had
protested his love for her only a few minutes earlier, and had then
snatched at something that must have seemed to her the thinnest of
excuses for hurrying away--for leaving her.
"If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay." Her voice was very low.
"However, I have suffered the humiliation of your refusal. I shall not
make the same mistake again." She turned and walked slowly towards the
door. John saw that she could scarcely restrain her tears; her head was
uplifted--she was superb in her dignity. For the life of him John could
not refrain from striding a few paces towards her.
"Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with emotion. "Don't
misjudge me. And as for humiliating you, I'd do anything in the world
rather than do that! Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"
She turned quietly and looked at him.
"I have every proof of it! In London you refused to stay with me; it is
the same here. Your words say one thing--your actions another!"
"You will be able to make some excuse to your father for not occupying
the same room with me----"
In that moment, with her face pale, her head erect, a strange light in
her eyes, she was more than ever beautiful. In John's eyes she was the
fairest and finest-looking woman that ever breathed. Something made him
put out his hand and grip her fingers.
"Elaine!"
She strove with surprising strength to release herself.
"No, Bernard, don't!"
Then John's elaborate and well-sustained defences fell. He forgot
everything in a sudden wild rush of passion.
"I don't love you, Elaine?" he cried.
"You never loved me----" she began. And in that moment John's arms
swept about her. He forgot everything--the world faded. He and the
fairest of women--the woman of his love--were together, and he was
kissing her as he had never kissed any woman.... Elaine's weak protests
faded; astonishment swept over her, and gave place to a wonderful and
radiant happiness.
"My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how much I loved you!"
"Bernard--Bernard--Bernard!" she whispered. Then, to her infinite
astonishment, John wrenched himself free; he put his hands to his brows,
and fell back several paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow
between the eyes.
"Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly pale, his eyes
wild--"forget that I held you in my arms! Forget what I said! Forget
everything!" His voice rose almost to a shout.
A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and had drawn the door
behind him.