As he passed through the town all his thoughts were of his splendid
fortune. This was the very thing for which he had been hoping, the key
to all his difficulties.
The dusk was creeping down the streets. A silver star hung over the
roofs silhouetted black against the faint blue of the night sky. The
lamps seemed to wage war with the departing daylight; the after-glow of
the setting sun fluttered valiantly for a little, and then, yielding
its place to the stronger golden circles stretching like hanging moons
down the street, vanished.
The shops were closing. Worthley's Hosiery was putting up the shutters
and a boy stood in the doorway, yawning; there had been a sale and the
shop was tired. Midgett's Bookshop at the corner of the High Street
was still open and an old man with spectacles and a flowing beard stood
poring over the odd-lot box at 2d. a volume by the door.
The young man who advised ladies as to the purchase of six-shilling
novels waited impatiently. He had hoped to be off by six to-night. He
had an appointment at seven--and now this old man.... "We close at
six, sir," he said. But the old gentleman did not hear. He bent lower
and lower until his beard almost swept the pavement. Harry passed on.
All these things passed like shadows before Harry; he noticed them, but
they fitted into the pattern of his thoughts, forming a frame round his
great central idea--that at last he had his chance.
There was no fear in his mind that he would not get the letters. There
was, of course, the chance that Clare had been before him, but then, as
Mary had said, she had scarcely had time, and it was not likely that
the girl would give them up easily. It was just possible, too, that
the whole affair was a mistake, that Mrs. Feverel had merely boasted
for the sake of impressing old Mrs. Bethel, that there was little or
nothing behind it, but that was unlikely.
He had formed no definite decision as to the method of his attack; he
must wait and see how the land lay. A great deal depended on the
presence of the mother--the girl, too, might be so many different
things; he was not even certain of her age. If there was nothing in
it, he would look a fool, but he must risk that. A wild idea came into
his head that he might, perhaps, find Clare there--that would be
amusing. He imagined them bidding for the letters, and that brought
him to the point that money would be necessary--well, he was ready to
pay a good deal, for it was Robin for whom he was bidding.
He found the street without any difficulty. Its dinginess was obvious,
and now, with a little wind whistling round its corners and whirling
eddies of dust in the road, its three lamps at long distances down the
street, the monotonous beat of the sea beyond the walls, it was
depressing and sad.
It reminded him of the street in Auckland where he had heard the
strange voice; it was just such another moment now--the silence bred
expectancy and the sea was menacing.
"I shall get the shivers if I don't move," he said, and rang the bell.
The slatternly servant that he had expected to see answered the bell,
and the tap-tap of her down-at-heels slippers sounded along the passage
as she departed to see if Mrs. Feverel would see him.
He waited in the draughty hall; it was so dark that coats and hats
loomed, ghostly shapes, by the farther wall. A door opened, there was
sound of voices--a moment's pause, then the door closed and the maid
appeared at the head of the stairs.
"The missis says you can come up," she said ungraciously.
She eyed him curiously as he passed her, and scented drama in the set
of his shoulders and the twitch of his fingers.
"A military!" she concluded, and tap-tapped down again into the kitchen.
A low fire was burning in the grate and the blind napped against the
window. The draught blew the everlastings on the mantelpiece together
with a little dry, dusty sound like the rustle of a breeze in dried
twigs.
Mrs. Feverel sat bending over the fire, and he thought as he saw her
that it would need a very great fire indeed to put any warmth into her.
Her black hair, parted in the middle, was bound back tightly over her
head and confined by a net.
She shook hands with him solemnly, and then waited as though she
expected an explanation.
Harry smiled. "I'm afraid, Mrs. Feverel," he said, "that you may think
this extraordinary. I can only offer as apology your acquaintance with
my son."
"Ah yes--Mr. Robert Trojan."
Her mouth closed with a snap and she waited, with her hands folded on
her lap, for him to say something further.
"You knew him, I think, at Cambridge in the summer?"
"Yes, my daughter and I were there in the summer."
Harry paused. It would be harder than he expected, and where was the
daughter?
"Cambridge is very pleasant in the summer?" he asked, his resolution
weakening rapidly before her impassivity.
"My daughter and I found it so. But, of course, it depends----"
It depended, he reflected, on such people as his son--boys whom they
could cheat at their ease. He had no doubt at all now that the mother
was an adventuress of the common, melodrama type. He suspected the
girl of being the same. It made things in some ways much simpler,
because money would, probably, settle everything; there would be no
question of fine feelings. He knew exactly how to deal with such
women, he had known them in New Zealand; but he was amused as he
contemplated Clare's certain failure--such a woman was entirely outside
her experience.
He came to the point at once.
"My being here is easily explained. I learn, Mrs. Feverel, that my son
formed an attachment for your daughter during last summer. He wrote
some letters now in your daughter's possession. His family are
naturally anxious that those letters should be returned. I have come
to see what can be done about the matter." He paused--but she said
nothing, and remained motionless by the fire.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "you would prefer, Mrs. Feverel, to name a
possible price yourself?"
Afterwards, on looking back, he felt that his expectations had been
perfectly justified; she had, up to that point, given him every reason
to take the line that he adopted. She had listened to the first part
of his speech without remark; she must, he reflected afterwards, have
known what was coming, yet she had given no sign that she heard.
And so the change in her was startling and took him utterly by surprise.
She looked up at him from her chair, and the thin ghost of a smile that
crept round the corners of her mouth, faced him for a moment, and then
vanished suddenly, was the strangest thing that he had ever seen.
"Don't you think, Mr. Trojan, that that is a little insulting?"
It made him feel utterly ashamed. In her own house, in her
drawing-room, he had offered her money.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered.
"Yes," she answered slowly. "You had rather misconceived the
situation."
Harry felt that her silences were the most eloquent that he had ever
known. He began to be very frightened, and, for the first time,
conceived the possibility of not securing the letters at all. The
thought that his hopes might be dashed to the ground, that he might be
no nearer his goal at the end of the interview than before, sharpened
his wits. It was to be a deal in subtlety rather than the obvious
thing that he had expected--well, he would play it to the end.
"I beg your pardon," he said again. "I have been extremely rude. I am
only recently returned from abroad, and my knowledge of the whole
affair is necessarily very limited. I came here with a very vague idea
both as to yourself and your intentions. In drawing the conclusions
that I did I have done both you and your daughter a grave injustice,
for which I humbly apologise. I may say that, before coming here, I
had had no interview with my son. I am, therefore, quite ignorant as
regards facts."
He did not feel that his apology had done much good. He felt that she
had accepted both his insult and apology quite calmly, as though she
had regarded them inevitably.
"The facts," she said, looking down again at the fire, "are quite
simple. My daughter and your son became acquainted at Cambridge in May
last. They saw a great deal of each other during the next few months.
At the end of that time they were engaged. Mr. Robert Trojan gave us
to understand that he was about to acquaint his family with the fact.
They corresponded continually during the summer--letters, I believe, of
the kind common to young people in love. Mr. Robert Trojan spoke
continually of the marriage and suggested dates. We then came down
here, and, soon after our arrival, I perceived a change in your son's
attitude. He came to see us very rarely, and at last ceased his visits
altogether. My daughter was naturally extremely upset, and there were
several rather painful interviews. He then wrote returning her letters
and demanding the return of his own. This she definitely refused.
Those are the facts, Mr. Trojan."
She had spoken without any emotion, and evidently expected that he
should do the same.
"I have come," he said, "on behalf of my son to demand the return of
those letters."
"Demand?"
"Naturally. Letters, Mrs. Feverel, of that kind are dangerous things
to leave about."
"Yes?" She smiled. "Dangerous for whom? I think you forget a little,
Mr. Trojan, in your anxiety for your son's welfare, my daughter's side
of the question. She naturally treasures what represents to her the
happiest months of her existence. You must remember that your son's
conduct--shall I call it desertion?--was a terrible blow. She loved
him, Mr. Trojan, with all her heart. Is it not right that he should
suffer a little as well?"
"I refuse to believe," he answered sharply, "that this is all a matter
of sentiment. I regret extremely that my son should have behaved in
such a cowardly and dastardly manner--it has hurt and surprised me more
than I can say--but, were that all, it were surely better to bury the
whole affair as soon as may be. I cannot believe that you are keeping
the letters with no intention of making public use of them."
"Ah," said Mrs. Feverel, "I wonder."
"Hadn't we better come to a clear understanding, Mrs. Feverel?" he
asked. "We are neither of us children, and this beating about the bush
serves no purpose whatever. If you refuse to return the letters, I
have at least the right to ask what you mean to do with them."
"Here is my daughter," she answered, "she shall speak for herself."
He turned round at the sound of the opening door, and watched her as
she came in. She was very much as he had imagined--thin and tall,
walking straight from the hips, giving a little the impression that she
was standing on her toes. Her eyes seemed amazingly dark in the
whiteness of her face. She seemed a little older than he had
expected--perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six.
She looked at him sharply as she entered and then came forward to her
mother. He could see that she was agitated--her breath came quickly,
and her hands folded and unfolded as though she were tearing something
to pieces.
"This," said Mrs. Feverel, "is my daughter, Mr. Trojan. My dear, Mr.
Henry Trojan."
She bowed and sat down opposite her mother. He thought she looked
rather pathetic as she faced him; here was no adventuress, no schemer.
He began to feel that his son had behaved brutally, outrageously.
Mrs. Feverel rose. "I will leave you, my dear. Mr. Trojan will tell
you for what he has come."
She moved slowly from the room and Harry drew a breath of relief at her
absence. There was a moment's pause. "I hope you will forgive me,
Miss Feverel," he said gently. "I'm afraid that both your mother and
yourself must regard this as impertinent, but, at the same time, I
think you will understand."
She seemed to have regained her composure. "It is about Robin, I
suppose?"
"Yes. Could you tell me exactly what the relations between you were?"
"We were engaged," she answered simply, "last summer at Cambridge. He
broke off the engagement."
"Yes--but I understand that you intend to keep his letters?"
"That is quite true."
"I have come to ask you to restore them."
"I am sorry. I am afraid that it is a waste of time. I shall not go
back on my word."
He could not understand what her game was--he was not sure that she had
a game at all; she seemed very helpless, and, at the same time, he felt
that there was strength behind her answers. He was at a loss; his
experience was of no value to him at all.
"I am going to beg you to alter your decision. I am pleading with you
in a matter that is of the utmost importance to me. Robin is my only
son. He has behaved abominably, and you can understand that it has
been rather a blow to me to return after twenty years' absence and find
him engaged in such an affair. But he is very young, and--pardon
me--so are you. I am an older man and my experience of the world is
greater than yours; believe me when I say that you will regret
persistence in your refusal most bitterly in later years. It seems to
me a crisis--a crisis, perhaps, for all of us. Take an older man's
word for it; there is only one possible course for you to adopt."
"Really, Mr. Trojan," she said, laughing, "you are intensely serious.
Last week I thought that my heart was broken; but now--well, it takes a
lot to break a heart. I am sure that you will be glad to hear that my
appetite has returned. As to the letters--why, think how pleasant it
will be for me to sentimentalise over them in my old age! Surely, that
is sufficient motive."
She was trying to speak lightly, but her lip quivered.
"You are running a serious risk, Miss Feverel," he answered gravely.
"Your intention is, I imagine, to punish Robin. I can assure you that
in a few years' time he will be punished enough. He scarcely realises
as yet what he has done. That knowledge will come to him later."
"Poor Robin!" she said. "Yes, he ought to feel rather a worm now; he
has written me several very agitated letters. But really I cannot help
it. The affair is over--done with. I regard the letters as my
personal property. I cannot see that it is any one else's business at
all."
"Of course it is our business," he answered seriously. "Those letters
must be destroyed. I do not accuse you of any deliberate malicious
intentions, but there is, as far as I can see, only one motive in your
keeping them. I have not seen them, but from what I have heard I
gather that they contain definite promise of marriage. Your case is a
strong one."
"Yes," she laughed. "Poor Robin's enthusiasm led him to some very
violent expressions of affection. But, Mr. Trojan, revenge is sweet.
Every woman, I think, likes it, and I am no exception to my sex.
Aren't you a little unfair in claiming all the pleasure and none of the
pain?"
"No," he answered firmly. "I am not. It is as much for your own sake
as for his that I am making my claim. You cannot see things in fair
proportion now; you will bitterly regret the step you contemplate
taking."
"Well, I am sure," she replied, "it is very good of you to think of me
like that. I am deeply touched--you seem to take quite a fatherly
interest." She lay back in her chair and watched him with eyes half
closed.
He was beginning to believe that it was no pose after all, and his
anger rose.
"Come, Miss Feverel," he said, "let's have done with playing--let us
come to terms. It is a matter of vital importance that I should
receive the letters. I am ready to go some lengths to obtain them.
What are your terms?"
She flushed a little.
"Isn't that a little rude, Mr. Trojan?" she said. "It is of course the
melodramatic attitude. It was not long ago that I saw a play in which
letters figured. Pistols were fired, and the heroine wore red plush.
Is that to be our style now? I am sorry that I cannot oblige you.
There are no pistols, but I will tell you frankly that it is no
question of terms. I refuse, under any circumstances whatever, to
return the letters."
"That is your absolute decision?"
"My absolute decision."
He got up and stood, for a moment, by her chair.
"My dear," he said, "you do not know what you are doing. You are
disappointed, you are insulted--you think that you will have your
revenge at all costs. You do not know now, but you will discover
later, that it has been no revenge at all. It will be the most
regretted action of your life. You have a great chance; you are going
to throw it away. I am sorry, because you are not, I think, at all
that sort of girl." He paused a moment. "Well, there is no more to be
said. I am sorry as much for your sake as my own. Good-bye."
He moved to the door. The disappointment was almost more than he could
bear. He did not know how strong his hopes had been; and now he must
return with things as they were before, with the added knowledge that
his son had behaved like a cad, and that the world would soon know.
"Good-bye," he said again and turned round towards her.
She rose from her chair and tried to smile. She said something that he
could not catch, and then, suddenly, to his intense astonishment, she
flung herself back into her chair again, hid her face in her hands, and
burst into uncontrollable tears. He stood irresolute, and then came
back and waited by the fireplace. He thought it was the most desolate
thing that he had ever known--the flapping of the blind against the
window, the dry rustling of the leaves on the mantel-piece, only
accentuated the sound of her sobbing. He let her cry and then, at
last--"I am a brute," he said. "I am sorry--I will go away."
"No." She sat up and began to dry her eyes with her handkerchief.
"Don't go--it was absurd of me to give way like that; I thought that I
had got over all that, but one is so silly--one never can tell----"
He sat down again and waited.
"You see," she went on, "I had liked you, always, from the first moment
that I saw you. You were different from the others--quite
different--and after Robin had behaved--as he did--I distrusted every
one. I thought they were all like that, except you. You do not know
what people have done to us here. We have had no friends; they have
all despised us, especially your family. And Robin said--well, lots of
things that hurt. That I was not good enough and that his aunt would
not like me. And then, of course, when I saw that, if I kept the
letters, I could make them all unhappy--why, of course, I kept them.
It was natural, wasn't it? But I didn't want to hurt you--I felt that
all the time; and when I saw you here when I came in, I was afraid,
because I hardly knew what to do. I thought I would show you that I
wasn't weak and foolish as you thought me--the kind of girl that Robin
could throw over so easily without thinking twice about it--and so I
meant to hold out. There--and now, of course, you think me hateful."
He sat down by her and took her hand. "It's all rather ridiculous,
isn't it?" he said. "I'm old enough to be your father, but I'm just
where you are, really. We've all been learning this last
fortnight--you and Robin, and I--and all learning the same thing. It's
been a case," he hesitated for a word, "of calf-love, for all three of
us. Don't regret Robin; he's not worth it. Why, you are worth twenty
of him, and he'll know that later on. I'm afraid that sounds
patronising," he added, laughing. "But I'm humble really. Never mind
the letters. You shall do what you like with them and I will trust
you. You are not," he repeated, "that sort of girl. Why, dash it!" he
suddenly added, "Robin doesn't know what he has lost."
"Ah!" she said, blushing, "it wouldn't have done. I can see that
now--but I can see so many things that I couldn't see before. I wish I
had known a man like you--then I might have learnt earlier; but I had
nobody, nobody at all, and I nearly made a mess of things. But it
isn't too late!"
"Too late! Why, no!" he answered. "I'm only beginning now, and I'm
forty-five. I, too, have learned a lot in this fortnight."
She looked at him anxiously for a moment. "They don't like you, do
they? Robin and the others?"
"No," he answered; "I don't think they do."
"I know," she said quickly; "I heard from Robin, and I'm sorry. You
must have had a bad time. But why, if they have been like that, do you
want the letters? They have treated us both in the same way."
"Why, yes," he answered. "Only Robin is my son. That, you see, is my
great affair. I care for him more than for anything in the world, and
if I had the letters----"
"Why, of course," she cried, "I see--it gives you the pull. Why, how
blind I've been! It's splendid!" She sprang up, and went to a small
writing-desk by the window; she unlocked a drawer and returned with a
small packet in her hand. "There," she said, "there they are. They
are not many, are they, for such a big fuss? But I think that I meant
you to have them all the time--from the first moment that I saw you. I
had hoped that you would ask for them----"
He took the letters, held them in his hand for a moment, and then
slipped them into his pocket.
"Thank you," he said, "I shall not forget."
"Nor I," she answered. "We are, I suppose, ships that pass in the
night. We have just shared for a moment an experience, and it has
changed both of us a little. But sometimes remember me, will you?
Perhaps you would write?"
"Why, of course," he answered, "I shall want to know how things turn
out. What will you do?"
"I don't know. We will go away from here, of course. Go back to
London, I expect--and I will get some work. There are lots of things
to do, and I shall be happy."
"I hope," he said, "that the real thing is just beginning for both of
us."
She stood by the window looking out into the street. "It makes things
different if you believe in me," she said. "It will give one courage.
I had begun to think that there was no one in the world who cared."
"Be plucky," he said. "Work's the only thing. It is because we've
both been idle here that we're worried. Don't think any more of Robin.
He isn't good enough for you yet; he'll learn, like the rest of us; but
he'll have to go through something first. You'll find a better man."
"Poor Robin," she said. "Be kind to him!"
He took her hand for a moment, smiled, and was gone. She watched him
from the window.
He looked back at her and smiled again. Then he passed the corner of
the street.
"So that's the end!" She turned back from the window. "Now for a
beginning!"