BOOK II

“MR. WINGRAVE FROM AMERICA”

“Four years ago tonight,” Aynesworth said, looking round the club

smoking room thoughtfully, “we bade you farewell in this same room!”

Lovell, wan and hollow-eyed, his arm in a sling, his once burly frame

gaunt and attenuated with disease, nodded.

“And I told you the story,” he remarked, “of--the man who had been my

friend.”

“Don’t let us talk of Wingrave tonight!” Aynesworth exclaimed with

sudden emphasis.

“Why not?” Lovell knocked the ashes from his pipe, and commenced

leisurely to refill it. “Why not, indeed? I mean to go and see him as

soon as I can get about a little better.”

“If your description of him,” Aynesworth said, “was a faithful one, you

will find him changed.”

Lovell laughed a little bitterly.

“The years leave their mark,” he said, “upon us all--upon all of us,

that is, who step out into the open where the winds of life are blowing.

Look at me! I weighed eighteen stone when I left England. I had the

muscles of a prize fighter and nerves of steel. Today I turn the scale

at ten stone and am afraid to be alone in the dark.”

“You will be yourself again in no time,” Aynesworth declared cheerfully.

“I shall be better than I am now, I hope,” Lovell answered, “but I

shall never be the man I was. I have seen--God grant that I may some

day forget what I have seen! No wonder that my nerves have gone! I saw

a Russian correspondent, a strong brutal-looking man, go off into

hysterics; I saw another run amuck through the camp, shooting right

and left, and, finally, blow his own brains out. Many a night I sobbed

myself to sleep. The men who live through tragedies, Aynesworth, age

fast. I expect that I shall find Wingrave changed.”

“I would give a good deal,” Aynesworth declared, “to have known him when

you did.”

Lovell nodded.

“You should be able to judge of the past,” he said, “by the present.

Four years of--intimate companionship with any man should be enough!”

“Perhaps!” Aynesworth declared. “And yet I can assure you that I know

no more of Wingrave today than when I was first attracted to him by your

story and became his secretary. It is a humiliating confession, but it

is the truth.”

“That is why you remain with him,” Lovell remarked.

“I suppose so! I have often meant to leave, but somehow, when the time

comes, I stay on. His life seems to be made up of brutalities, small and

large. He ruins a man with as little compunction as one could fancy him,

in his younger days, pulling the legs from a fly. I have never seen him

do a kindly action. And yet, all the time I find myself watching for

it. A situation arises, and I say to myself: ‘Now I am going to see

something different.’ I never do, and yet I always expect it. Am I

boring you, Lovell?”

“Not in the least! Go on! Anything concerning Wingrave interests me.”

“It is four years ago, you know, since I went to him. My first glimpse

of his character was the cold brutality with which he treated Lady Ruth

when she went to see him. Then we went down to his country place in

Cornwall. There was a small child there, whose father had been the

organist of the village, and who had died penniless. There was no one to

look after her, no one to save her from the charity schools and domestic

service afterwards. The church was on Wingrave’s estate, it should

have been his duty to augment the ridiculous salary the dead man had

received. Would you believe it, Wingrave refused to do a single thing

for that child! He went down there like a vandal to sell the heirlooms

and pictures which had belonged to his family for generations. He had no

time, he told me coldly, for sentiment.”

“It sounds brutal enough,” Lovell admitted. “What became of the child?”

“One of her father’s relations turned up after all and took care of

her,” Aynesworth said. “Wingrave knew nothing about that, though. Then

on the voyage across the Atlantic, there was a silly, pretty little

woman on board who was piqued by Wingrave’s indifference and tried to

flirt with him. In a few days she was his slave. She was going home to

her husband, and you would have thought that any decent fellow would

have told her that she was a little fool, and let her go. But not

Wingrave! She was landing with him at New York, but someone amongst the

passengers, who guessed what was up, sent a Marconigram to her husband,

and he met us at the landing stage.”

“Nothing came of that, then?”

“No, but it wasn’t Wingrave’s fault. Then he began dealing with

some shares in a mine--THE mine, you know. They were supposed to be

worthless, and one boy, who was a little young to the game, sold him too

many. Wingrave was bleeding these brokers for hundreds of thousands of

dollars, and the boy came and asked to be let off by paying his whole

fortune to escape being hammered. Wingrave refused. I believe if the boy

hadn’t just been married, he’d have blown his brains out!”

Lovell laughed.

“I don’t envy you your job,” he remarked. “Is there nothing to set down

on the credit side of the ledger?”

“Not much,” Aynesworth answered. “He is a fine sportsman, and he

saved my life in the Rockies, which makes me feel a bit uncomfortable

sometimes. He has a sense of justice, for he heard of this mine from a

man in prison, and he has kept accounts showing the fellow’s share down

to the last halfpenny. But I have never yet known him to speak a kindly

word or do a kindly deed. He seems intent upon carrying out to the

letter his own principles--to make as many people as possible suffer for

his own broken life. Now he is back here, a millionaire, with immense

power for good or for evil, I am almost afraid of him. I wouldn’t be

Lady Ruth or her husband for something.”

Lovell smoked thoughtfully for a time.

“Wingrave was always a little odd,” he remarked, “but I never thought

that he was a bad chap.”

“Go and see him now!” Aynesworth said. “Tell me if you think he wears a

mask or whether he is indeed what he seems.”

The hall porter entered the room and addressed Aynesworth.

“Gentleman called for you, sir,” he announced.

“It is Wingrave,” Aynesworth declared. “Come and speak to him!”

They descended the stairs together. Outside, Wingrave was leaning back

in the corner of an electric brougham, reading the paper. Aynesworth put

his head in at the window.

“You remember Lovell, Mr. Wingrave?” he said. “We were just talking when

your message came up. I’ve brought him down to shake hands with you.”

Wingrave folded his paper down at the precise place where he had been

reading and extended a very limp hand. His manner betrayed not the

slightest interest or pleasure.

“How are you, Lovell?” he asked. “Some time since we met!”

“A good many years,” Lovell answered.

“Finished your campaigning?” Wingrave inquired. “Knocked you about a

bit, haven’t they?”

“They very nearly finished me,” Lovell admitted. “I shall pick up all

right over here, though.”

There was a moment’s silence. Lovell’s thoughts had flashed backwards

through the years, back to the time when he had sat within a few feet

of this man in the crowded court of justice and listened through the

painful stillness of that heavy atmosphere, charged with tragedy, to the

slow unfolding of the drama of his life. There had been passion enough

then in his voice and blazing in his eyes, emotion enough in his

twitching features and restless gestures to speak of the fire below. And

now, pale and cold, the man who had gripped his fingers then and held on

to them like a vise, seemed to find nothing except a slight boredom in

this unexpected meeting.

“I shall see you again, I hope,” Wingrave remarked at last. “By the

bye, if we do meet, I should be glad if you would forget our past

acquaintance. Sir Wingrave Seton does not exist any longer. I prefer to

be known only as Mr. Wingrave from America.”

Lovell nodded.

“As you wish, of course,” he answered. “I do not think,” he added,

“that you need fear recognition. I myself should have passed you in the

street.”

Wingrave leaned back in the carriage.

“Aynesworth,” he said, “if you are ready, will you get in and tell the

man to drive to Cadogan Square? Good night, Mr. Lovell!”

Lovell re-entered the club with a queer little smile at his lips. The

brougham glided up into the Strand, and turned westwards.

“We are going straight to the Barringtons’?” Aynesworth asked.

“Yes,” Wingrave answered. “While I think of it, Aynesworth, I wish you

to remember this. Both Lady Ruth and her husband seem to think it part

of the game to try and make a cat’s paw of you. I am not suggesting that

they are likely to succeed, but I do think it possible that one of

them may ask you questions concerning certain investments in which I am

interested. I rely upon you to give them no information.”

“I know very little about your investments--outside the mine,”

Aynesworth answered. “They couldn’t very well approach a more ignorant

person. Are you going to help Barrington to make a fortune?”

Wingrave turned his head. There was a slight contraction of the

forehead, an ominous glitter in his steel grey eyes.

“I think,” he said, “you know that I am not likely to do that.”

The two men did not meet again till late in the evening. Lady Ruth’s

rooms were crowded for it was the beginning of the political season, and

her parties were always popular. Nevertheless, she found time to beckon

Wingrave to her before they had been in the room many minutes.

“I want to talk to you,” she said a little abruptly. “You might have

come this afternoon as you promised.”

Lady Ruth was a wonderful woman. A well-known statesman had just asked a

friend her age.

“I don’t know,” was the answer, “but whatever it is, she doesn’t look

it.”

Tonight she was almost girlish. Her complexion was delicate and

perfectly natural, the graceful lines of her figure suggested more the

immaturity of youth than any undue slimness. She wore a wonderful collar

of pearls around her long, shapely neck, but very little other jewelry.

The touch of her fingers upon Wingrave’s coat sleeve was a carefully

calculated thing. If he had thought of it, he could have felt the slight

appealing pressure with which she led him towards one of the smaller

rooms.

“There are two chairs there,” she said. “Come and sit down. I have

something to say to you.”

THE SHADOW OF A FEAR

For several minutes Lady Ruth said nothing. She was leaning back in

the farthest corner of her chair, her head resting slightly upon her

fingers, her eyes studying with a curious intentness the outline of

Wingrave’s pale, hard face. He himself, either unconscious of, or

indifferent to her close scrutiny, had simply the air of a man possessed

of an inexhaustible fund of patience.

“Wingrave,” she said quietly, “I think that the time has gone by when I

was afraid of you.”

He turned slightly towards her, but he did not speak.

“I am possessed,” she continued, “at present, of a more womanly

sentiment. I am curious.”

“Ah!” he murmured, “you were always a little inclined that way.”

“I am curious about you,” she continued. “You are, comparatively

speaking, young, well-looking enough, and strong. Your hand is firmly

planted upon the lever which moves the world. What are you going to do?”

“That,” he said, “depends upon many things.”

“You may be ambitious,” she remarked. “If so, you conceal it admirably.

You may be devoting your powers to the consummation of vengeance against

those who have treated you ill. There are no signs of that, either, at

present.”

“We have excellent authority,” he remarked, “for the statement that a

considerable amount of satisfaction is derivable from the exercise of

that sentiment.”

“Perhaps,” she answered, “but the pursuit of vengeance for wrongs of the

past is the task of a fool. Now, you are not a fool. You carry your life

locked up within you as a strong man should. But there are always some

who may look in through the windows. I should like to be one.”

“An empty cupboard,” he declared. “A cupboard swept bare by time and

necessity.”

She shook her head.

“Your life,” she said, “is molded towards a purpose. What is it?”

“I must ask myself the question,” he declared, “before I can tell you

the answer!”

“No,” she said, “the necessity does not exist. Your reckless pursuit of

wealth, your return here, the use you are making of my husband and me,

are all means towards some end. Why not tell me?”

“Your imagination,” he declared, “is running away with you.”

“Are you our enemy?” she asked. “Is this seeming friendship of yours a

cloak to hide some scheme of yours to make us suffer? Or--” She drew a

little closer to him, and her eyes drooped.

“Or what?” he repeated.

“Is there a little left,” she whispered, “of the old folly?”

“Why not?” he answered quietly. “I was very much in love with you.”

“It is dead,” she murmured. “I believe that you hate me now!”

Her voice was almost a caress. She was leaning a little towards him; her

eyes were seeking to draw his.

“Hate you! How impossible!” he said calmly. “You are still a beautiful

woman, you know, Ruth.”

He turned and studied her critically. Lady Ruth raised her eyes once,

but dropped them at once. She felt herself growing paler. A spasm of the

old fear was upon her.

“Yes,” he continued, “age has not touched you. You can still pour, if

you will, the magic drug into the wine of fools. By the bye, I must not

be selfish. Aren’t you rather neglecting your guests?”

“Never mind my guests,” she answered. “I have been wanting to talk to

you alone for days. Why have you done this? Why are you here? What is it

that you are seeking for in life?”

“A little amusement only,” he declared. “I cannot find it except amongst

my own kind.”

“You have not the appearance of a pleasure seeker,” she answered.

“Mine is a passive search,” he said. “I have some years to live--and of

solitude, well, I have tasted at once the joys and the depths.”

“You are not in love with me any longer, are you?” she asked.

“I am not bold enough to deny it,” he answered, “but do not be afraid

that I shall embarrass you with a declaration. To tell you the truth, I

have not much feeling left of any sort.”

“You mean to keep your own counsel, then?” she asked.

“It is so little to keep,” he murmured, “and I have parted with so

much!”

She measured the emotion of his tone, the curious yet perfectly natural

indifference of his manner, and she shivered a little. Always she feared

what she could not understand.

“I had hoped,” she said sadly, “that we might at least have been

friends.”

He shook his head.

“I have no fancy,” he declared, “for the cemeteries of affection. You

must remember that I am beginning life anew. I do not know myself yet,

or you! Let us drift into the knowledge of one another, and perhaps--”

“Well! Perhaps?”

“There may be no question of friendship!”

Lady Ruth went back to her guests, and with the effortless ease of long

training, she became once more the gracious and tactful hostess. But in

her heart, the fear had grown a little stronger, and a specter walked

by her side. Once during the evening, her husband looked at her

questioningly, and she breathed a few words to him. He laughed

reassuringly.

“Oh! Wingrave’s all right, I believe,” he said, “it’s only his manner

that puts you off a bit. He’s just the same with everyone! I don’t think

he means anything by it!”

Lady Ruth shivered, but she said nothing. Just then Aynesworth came up,

and with a motion of her fan she called him to her.

“Please take me into the other room,” she said “I want a glass of

champagne, and on the way you can tell me all about America.”

“One is always making epigrams about America,” he protested, smiling.

“Won’t you spare me?”

“Tell me, then, how you progress with your great character study!”

“Ah!” he remarked quietly, “you come now to a more interesting subject.”

“Yes?”

“Frankly, I do not progress at all.”

“So far as you have gone?”

“If,” he said, “I were to take pen and paper and write down, at this

moment, my conclusions so far as I have been able to form any, I fancy

that they would make evil reading. Permit me!”

They stood for a few minutes before the long sideboard. A footman had

poured champagne into their glasses, and Lady Ruth talked easily enough

the jargon of the moment. But when they turned away, she moved slowly,

and her voice was almost a whisper.

“Tell me this,” she said, “is he really as hard and cold as he seems?

You have lived with him now for four years. You should know that, at

least.”

“I believe that he is,” Aynesworth answered. “I can tell you that much,

at least, without breach of faith. So far as one who watches him can

tell, he lives for his own gratification--and his indulgence in it does

not, as a rule, make for the happiness of other people.”

“Then what does he want with us?” she asked almost sharply. “I ask

myself that question until--I am terrified.”

Aynesworth hesitated.

“It is very possible,” he said, “that he is simply making use of you to

re-enter the world. Curiously enough, he has never seemed to care for

solitude. He makes numberless acquaintances. What pleasure he finds in

it I do not know, but he seldom avoids people. He may be simply making

use of you.”

“What do you think yourself?”

“I cannot tell,” Aynesworth answered. “Indeed I cannot tell.”

She left him a little impatiently, and Aynesworth joined the outside

of the circle of men who had gathered round Wingrave. He was answering

their questions readily enough, if a little laconically. He was quite

aware that he occupied in society the one unique place to which princes

might not even aspire--there was something of divinity about his

millions, something of awe in the tone of the men with whom he talked.

Women pretended to be interested in him because of the romance of his

suddenly acquired wealth--the men did not trouble to deceive themselves

or anyone else. A break up of the group came when a certain great and

much-talked-about lady sent across an imperative message by her cavalier

for the moment. She desired that Mr. Wingrave should be presented to

her.

They passed down the room together a few moments later, the Marchioness

wonderfully dressed in a gown of strange turquoise blue, looking up at

her companion, and talking with somewhat unusual animation. Everyone

made remarks, of course--exchanged significant glances and unlovely

smiles. It was so like the Marchioness to claim, as a matter of course,

the best of everything that was going. Lady Ruth watched them with a

curious sense of irritation for which she could not altogether account.

It was impossible that she should be jealous, and yet it was equally

certain that she was annoyed. If Wingrave resisted his present fair

captor, he would enjoy a notability equal to that which his wealth

already conferred upon him. No man as yet had done it. Was it likely

that Wingrave would wear two crowns? Lady Ruth beckoned Aynesworth to

her.

“Tell me,” she said, “what is Mr. Wingrave’s general attitude towards my

sex?”

“Absolute indifference,” he declared promptly, “unless--”

He stopped short.

“You must go on,” she told him.

“Unless he is possessed of the ability to make them suffer,” he answered

after a moment’s hesitation.

“Then Emily will never attract him,” she declared almost triumphantly,

“for she has no more heart that he has.”

“He has yet to discover it,” Aynesworth remarked. “When he does, I think

you will find that he will shrug his shoulders--and say farewell.”

“All the same,” Lady Ruth murmured to herself, “Emily is a cat.”

Lady Ruth spoke to one more man that night of Wingrave--and that man was

her husband. Their guests had departed, and Lady Ruth, in a marvelous

white dressing gown, was lying upon the sofa in her room.

“How do you get on with Wingrave?” she asked. “What do you think of

him?”

Barrington shrugged his shoulders.

“What can one think of a man,” he answered, “who goes about like an

animated mummy? I have done my best; I talked to him for nearly half an

hour at a stretch today when I took him to the club for lunch. He is

the incarnation of indifference. He won’t listen to politics; women, or

tales about them, at any rate, seem to bore him to extinction; he drinks

only as a matter of form, and he won’t talk finance. By the bye, Ruth,

I wish you could get him to give you a tip. I scarcely see how we are

going to get through the season unless something turns up.”

“Is it as bad as that?” she asked.

“Worse!” her husband answered gloomily. “We’ve been living on our

capital for years. Every acre of Queen’s Norton is mortgaged, and I’m

shot if I can see how we’re going to pay the interest.”

She sighed a little wearily.

“Do you think that it would be wise?” she asked. “Let me tell you

something, Lumley. I have only known what fear was once in my life. I

am afraid now. I am afraid of Wingrave. I have a fancy that he does not

mean any good to us.”

Barrington frowned and threw his cigarette into the fire with a little

jerk.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “The man’s not quite so bad as that. We’ve

been useful to him. We’ve done exactly what he asked. The other matter’s

dead and buried. We don’t want his money, but it is perfectly easy for

him to help us make a little.”

She looked up at him quietly.

“I think, Lumley, that it is dangerous!” she said.

“Then you’re not the clever woman I take you for,” he answered, turning

to leave the room. “Just as you please. Only it will be that or the

bankruptcy court before long!”

Lady Ruth lay quite still, looking into the fire. When her maid came,

she moved on tiptoe for it seemed to her that her mistress slept. But

Lady Ruth was wide awake though the thoughts which were flitting through

her brain had, perhaps, some kinship to the land of dreams.

JULIET ASKS QUESTIONS

“Any place,” the girl exclaimed as she entered, “more unlike a

solicitor’s office, I never saw! Flowers outside and flowers on your

desk, Mr. Pengarth! Don’t you have to apologize to your clients for

your surroundings? There’s absolutely nothing, except the brass plate

outside, to show that this isn’t an old-fashioned farmhouse, stuck down

in the middle of a village. Fuchsias in the window sill, too!”

He placed a chair for her, and laid down the deed which he had been

examining, with a little sigh of relief. It really was very hard work

pretending to be busy.

“You see, Miss Juliet,” he explained with twinkling eyes, “my clients

are all country folk, and it makes them feel more at home to find a

lawyer’s office not very different from their own parlor.”

She nodded.

“What would the great man say?” she inquired, pointing to the rows of

black tin boxes which lined the walls.

“Sir Wingrave Seton is never likely to come here again, I am afraid,”

he answered. “If he did, I don’t think he’d mind. To tell you the truth,

I’m rather proud of my office, young lady!”

She looked around.

“They are nice,” she said decidedly, “but unbusinesslike.”

“You’re going to put up the pony and stay to lunch, of course?” he said.

“I’ll ring for the boy.”

She stopped him.

“Please don’t!” she exclaimed. “I have come to see you--on business!”

Mr. Pengarth, after his first gasp of astonishment, was a different man.

He fumbled about on the desk, and produced a pair of gold spectacles,

which he adjusted with great nicety on the edge of his very short nose.

“On business, my dear!” he repeated. “Well, well! To be sure! Is it Miss

Harrison who has sent you?”

Mr. Pengarth’s visitor looked positively annoyed. She leaned across the

table towards him so that the roses in her large hat almost brushed his

forehead. Her wonderful brown eyes were filled with reproach.

“Mr. Pengarth,” she said, “do you know how old I am?”

“How old, my dear? Why, let me see!” he exclaimed. “Fourteen and--why,

God bless my soul, you must be eighteen!”

“I am nineteen years old, Mr. Pengarth,” the young lady announced with

dignity. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to treat me now--er--with a

little more respect.”

“Nineteen!” he repeated vaguely. “God bless my--nineteen years old?”

“I consider myself,” she repeated, “of age. I have come to see you about

my affairs!”

“Yes, yes!” he said. “Quite natural.”

“For four years,” she continued, “I seem to have been supported by some

relative of my father, who has never vouchsafed to send me a single line

or message except through you. I have written letters which I have

given to you to forward. There has been no reply. Have you sent on those

letters, Mr. Pengarth?”

“Why certainly, my dear, certainly!”

“Can you tell me how it is that I have had no answer?”

Mr. Pengarth coughed. He was not at all comfortable.

“Your guardian, Miss Juliet, is somewhat eccentric,” he answered, “and

he is a very busy man.”

“Can you tell me, Mr. Pengarth, exactly what relation he is to me?”

There was a dead silence. Mr. Pengarth found the room suddenly warm, and

mopped his forehead with a large silk handkerchief.

“I have no authority,” he declared, “to answer any questions.”

“Then can you tell me of your own accord,” she said, “why there is all

this mystery? Why may I not know who he is, why may I not write to him?

Am I anything to be ashamed of, that he will not trust me even with his

name? I am tired of accepting so much and not being able to offer even

my thanks in return. It is too much like charity! I have made up my mind

that if this is to go on, I will go away and earn my own living! There,

Mr. Pengarth!”

“Rubbish!” he exclaimed briskly. “What at?”

“Painting!” she declared triumphantly. “I have had this in my mind for

some time, and I have been trying to see what I can do best. I have

quite decided, now, to be an artist.”

“Pictures,” he declared sententiously, “don’t sell!”

“Mine do,” she answered, smiling. “I have had a check for three guineas

from a shop in London for a little sea piece I did in two afternoons!”

He regarded her admiringly.

“You are a wonderful child!” he exclaimed.

“I am not a child at all,” she interrupted warmly, “and you can just sit

down and write to your silly client and tell him so.”

“I will certainly write to him,” he affirmed. “I will do so today. You

will not do anything rash until I have had time to get a reply?”

“No!” she answered graciously. “I will wait for a week. After

that--well, I might do anything!”

“You wouldn’t leave Tredowen, Miss Juliet!” he protested.

“It would break my heart, of course,” she declared, “but I would do it

and trust to time to heal it up again. Tredowen seems like home to me,

but it isn’t really, you know. Some day, Sir Wingrave Seton may want to

come back and live there himself. Are you quite certain, Mr. Pengarth,

that he won’t be angry to hear that we have been living at the house all

this time?”

“Certain,” Mr. Pengarth declared firmly. “He left everything entirely

in my hands. He did not wish me to let it, but he did not care about its

being altogether uninhabited. The arrangement I was able to make with

your guardian was a most satisfactory one.”

“But surely he will come back himself some time?” she asked,

The lawyer shook his head sorrowfully.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that Sir Wingrave has no affection for the

place whatever.”

“No affection for Tredowen,” she repeated wonderingly. “Do you know what

I think, Mr. Pengarth? I think that it is the most beautiful house in

the world!”

“And yet you talk of leaving it.”

“I don’t want to go,” she answered, “but I don’t want to be accepting

things all my life from someone whose name even I do not know.”

“Well, well,” he said, “you must wait until I have written my letter.

Time enough to talk about that later on. Now, if you won’t stay to

lunch, you must come and see Rachael and have some cake and a glass of

wine.”

“How sweet of you,” she exclaimed. “I’m frightfully hungry. Can I do

anything to stop growing, Mr. Pengarth? I’m getting taller and taller!”

She stood up. She was head and shoulders taller than the little lawyer,

slim as a lath, and yet wonderfully graceful. She laughed down at him

and made a little grimace.

“I’m a giraffe, am I not?” she declared; “and I’m still growing. Do show

me your garden, Mr. Pengarth. I want to see your hollyhocks. Everyone is

talking about them.”

They were joined in a few minutes by a prim, dignified little lady,

ridiculously like Mr. Pengarth, whom he called sister, and she Miss

Rachael. Juliet walked down the garden between them.

“Sister,” Mr. Pengarth said, “Juliet has come today to see me on

business. In effect, she has come to remind me that she is grown up.”

“Grown up,” Miss Rachael protested vigorously, “rubbish!”

“I am nineteen years old,” Juliet declared.

“And what if you are,” Miss Rachael replied briskly. “In my young days

we were in the nursery at nineteen.”

“Quite so,” Mr. Pengarth assented with relief. “You took me by storm

just now, Miss Juliet. After all, you are only a child.”

“I am old enough to feel and to mean all that I said to you, Mr.

Pengarth,” she answered gravely. “And that reminds me, too--there was

something else I meant to ask you.”

“Sister,” Mr. Pengarth said, “have you ordered the wine and the cake?”

“Bless me, no!” Miss Rachael declared. “It shall be ready in five

minutes.”

She entered the house. Mr. Pengarth stooped to pick some lavender.

“The only time I ever saw Sir Wingrave Seton,” she said, “was on the day

before I was told that a relation of my father had been found, who was

willing to take charge of me. There was a younger man with him, someone

very, very different from Sir Wingrave. Do you know who he was?”

“A sort of secretary of Sir Wingrave, I believe, dear. I never met him.

I was, unfortunately, away at the time they came.”

“He was very nice and kind to me,” the girl continued, “just as nice as

Sir Wingrave was horrid. I suppose it was because they came on that day,

but I have always connected him somehow with this mysterious relation of

mine. Mr. Aynesworth didn’t help to find him, did he?”

“Certainly not!” the lawyer answered. “The instructions I had came first

from Mr. Saunders, the vicar of the parish. It was he who appeared to

have made the necessary inquiries.”

“Horrid old man!” she declared. “He used to make me feel that I wanted

to cry every time that I saw him.”

“Miss Rachael is calling us,” the lawyer declared with obvious relief.

“New cake!” Juliet declared, “I can smell it! Delicious!”

LADY RUTH’S LAST CARD

“There are two letters,” Aynesworth announced, “which I have not opened.

One, I think, is from the Marchioness of Westhampton, the other from

some solicitors at Truro. They were both marked private.”

Wingrave was at breakfast in his flat; Aynesworth had been in an

adjoining room sorting his correspondence. He accepted the two letters,

and glanced them through without remark. But whereas he bestowed

scarcely a second’s consideration upon the broad sheet of white paper

with the small coronet and the faint perfume of violets, the second

letter apparently caused him some annoyance. He read it through for a

second time with a slight frown upon his forehead.

“You must cancel my engagements for two days, Aynesworth,” he said. “I

have to go out of town.”

Aynesworth nodded.

“There’s nothing very special on,” he remarked. “Do you want me to go

with you?”

“It is not necessary,” Wingrave answered. “I am going,” he added, after

a moment’s pause, “to Cornwall.”

Aynesworth was immediately silent. The one time when Wingrave had spoken

to him as an employer, was in answer to some question of his as to what

had eventually become of the treasures of Tredowen. He had always since

scrupulously avoided the subject.

“Be so good as to look out the trains for me,” Wingrave continued. “I

cannot go until the afternoon,” he added after a momentary pause. “I

have an engagement for luncheon. Perhaps, if you are not too busy, you

will see that Morrison packs some things for me.”

He moved to the writing table, and wrote a few lines to the Marchioness,

regretting that his absence from town would prevent his dining with

her on the following day. Then he studied the money column in several

newspapers for half an hour, and telephoned to his broker. At eleven

o’clock, he rode for an hour in the quietest part of the park, avoiding,

so far as possible, anyone he knew, and galloping whenever he could. It

was the only form of exercise in which he was known to indulge although

the knowledge of English games, which he sometimes displayed, was a

little puzzling to some of his acquaintances. On his return, he made

a simple but correct toilet, and at half-past one he met Lady Ruth at

Prince’s Restaurant.

Lady Ruth’s gown of dove color, with faint touches of blue, was

effective, and she knew it. Nevertheless, she was a little pale, and her

manner lacked that note of quiet languor which generally characterized

it. She talked rather more than usual, chattering idly about the

acquaintances to whom she was continually nodding and bowing. Her face

hardened a little as the Marchioness, on her way through the room with a

party of friends, stopped at their table.

The two women exchanged the necessary number of inanities, then the

Marchioness turned to Wingrave.

“You won’t forget that you are dining with me tomorrow?”

Wingrave shook his head regretfully.

“I am sorry,” he said, “but I have to go out of town. I have just

written you.”

“What a bore,” she remarked. “Business, of course!”

She nodded and passed on. Her farewell to Lady Ruth was distinctly curt.

Wingrave resumed his seat and his luncheon without remark.

“Hateful woman,” Lady Ruth murmured.

“I thought you were friends,” Wingrave remarked.

“Yes, we are,” Lady Ruth assented, “the sort of friendship you men don’t

know much about. You see a good deal of her, don’t you?”

Wingrave raised his head and looked at Lady Ruth contemplatively.

“Why do you ask me that?” he asked.

“Curiosity!”

“I do,” he remarked; “you should be grateful to her.”

“Why?”

“It may save you a similar infliction.”

Lady Ruth was silent for several moments.

“Perhaps,” she said at last, “I do not choose to be relieved.”

Wingrave bowed, his glass in his hand. His lips were curled into the

semblance of a smile, but he did not say a word. Lady Ruth leaned a

little across the table so that the feathers of her hat nearly brushed

his forehead.

“Wingrave,” she asked, “do you know what fear is? Perhaps not! You are

a man, you see. No one has ever called me a coward. You wouldn’t, would

you?”

“No!” he said deliberately, “you are not a coward.”

“There is only one sort of fear which I know,” she continued, “and that

is the fear of what I do not understand. And that is why, Wingrave, I am

afraid of you.”

He set down his glass, and his fingers trifled for a moment with its

stem. His expression was inscrutable.

“Surely,” he said, “you are not serious!”

“I am serious,” she declared, “and you know that I am.”

“You are afraid of me,” he repeated softly. “I wonder why.”

She looked him straight in the eyes.

“Because,” she said, “I did you once a very grievous wrong. Because I

know that you have not forgiven me. Because I am very sure that all the

good that was in you lies slain.”

“By whose hand?” he asked quietly. “No! You need not answer. You know.

So do I. Yes, I can understand your fear. But I do not understand why

you confess it to me.”

“Nor I,” she answered. “Nor do I understand why I am here--at your

bidding, nor why I keep you always by my side whenever you choose to

take your place there. Are you a vain man, Wingrave? Do you wish to pose

as the friend of a woman whom the world has thought too ambitious to

waste time upon such follies? There is the Marchioness! She would do you

more credit still.”

“Thank you,” he answered. “I like to choose the path myself when I pass

into the maze of follies!”

“You have not yet explained yourself,” she reminded him. “Of all people

in world, you have chosen us for your presumptive friends. Why? You

hate us both. You know that you do. Is it part of a scheme? Lumley is

investing money on your advice, I am allowing myself to be seen about

with you more than is prudent--considering all things. Do you want

to rake out the ashes of our domestic hearth--to play the part

of--melodramatic villain? You are ingenious enough, and powerful

enough.”

“You put strange ideas into my head,” he told her lightly. “Why should

I not play the part that you suggest? It might be amusing, and you

certainly deserve all the evil which I could bring upon you.”

She leaned a little across the table towards him. Her eyes were soft

and bright, and they looked full into his. The color in her cheeks was

natural. The air around him was faintly fragrant with the perfume of her

clothes and hair.

“We couldn’t leave off playing at the game--and act it, could we?” she

murmured. “We couldn’t really--be friends?”

Lady Ruth had played her trump card. She had touched his fingers with

hers, her eyes shone with the promise of unutterable things. But if

Wingrave was moved, he did not show it.

“I wish,” he said, “that I could accept your offer in the spirit

with which you tender it. Unfortunately, I am a maimed person. My

sensibilities have gone. Friendship, in the more intimate sense of

the word, I may never hope to feel again. Enmity--well, that is more

comprehensible; even enmity,” he continued slowly, “which might prompt a

woman to disguise herself as her own lady’s maid, to seek out a tool

to get rid of the man she feared. Pardon me, Lady Ruth, you are eating

nothing.”

She pulled down her veil.

“Thank you, I have finished,” she said in a low tone.

He called for the bill.

“Pray, don’t let my little remark distress you,” he said. “I had almost

forgotten the circumstance until something you said brought it into

my mind. It is you yourself, you must remember, who set the example of

candor.”

“I deserve everything you can say,” she murmured, “everything you can

do. There is nothing left, I suppose, but suffering. Will you take me

out to my carriage? You can come back and have your coffee with the

Marchioness! She keeps looking across at you, and it will please her to

think that you got rid of me.”

He glanced at his watch.

“I am afraid,” he said, rising, “that I must deny myself the pleasure of

seeking the Marchioness again today. I have a train to catch in half an

hour. You are ready?”

“Quite!”

They made their way through the maze of tables towards the door, Lady

Ruth exchanging greetings right and left with her friends, although the

tall, grave-looking man who followed her was by far the greater object

of interest.

“Just like Ruth to keep him in her pocket,” remarked her dearest friend,

looking after them; “they say that he has millions.”

She sighed a little enviously.

“The Barrington menage needs a little backing up,” her companion

remarked. “I should say that he had come just in time. The Marchioness

has her eye upon him too. There may be some fun presently.”

Lady Ruth’s dearest friend smiled.

“I will back Ruth,” she said drily. “Emily is beautiful, but she is too

obvious, and too eager! Ruth’s little ways are more subtle. Besides,

look at the start she has. She isn’t the sort of woman men tire of.”

Lady Ruth held out her hand through the window of her electric coupe.

“Thank you for my luncheon,” she said. “When shall we see you again?”

“In a few days,” he answered, standing bareheaded upon the pavement. “I

shall call directly I return.”

Lady Ruth nodded and leaned back. Wingrave smiled faintly as he turned

away. He had seen the little shudder which she had done her best to

hide!

Lady Ruth found her husband at home, writing letters in his study. She

sank wearily into a chair by his side.

“Been lunching out?” he inquired.

She nodded.

“At Prince’s, with Wingrave.”

He made no remark, but he seemed far from displeased.

“If I’d only had the pluck,” he remarked a little disconsolately, “I

might have made thousands by following his advice this week. It was you

who put me off, too!”

“It turned out all right?” she asked.

“Exactly as he said. I made five hundred! I might just as well have made

five thousand.”

“Can you let me have a couple of hundred?” she asked. “The people are

all bothering so.”

“You know that I can’t,” he answered irritably. “I had to send the lot

to Lewis, and then it wasn’t a quarter of what he is pressing for. We

shall never get through the season, Ruth, unless--”

She raised her eyes.

“Unless what?”

“Unless something turns up!”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Lady Ruth rose to her feet and

stood facing the fireplace with her back to him.

“Lumley,” she said, “let’s face it!”

He gave a little start.

“Face what?” he inquired.

“Ruin, the Bankruptcy Court, and all the rest of it!” she declared, a

note of defiance creeping into her tone.

Her husband’s face was white with astonishment. He stared across at her

blankly.

“Are you mad, Ruth?” he exclaimed. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“Quite well,” she answered. “I’m a little sick of the whole show. The

tradespeople are getting impertinent. I don’t even know where to get

flowers for dinner tonight or where to go for my Ascot gowns. It must

come sooner or later.”

“You’re talking like a fool,” he declared harshly. “Do you know that I

should have to give up my seat and my clubs?”

“We could live quietly in the country.”

“Country be--hanged!” he exclaimed savagely. “What use is the country to

you and me? I’d sooner put a bullet through my brain. Ruth, old lady,”

he added more gently, “what’s gone wrong? You’re generally such a well

plucked’un! Have you--had a row with Wingrave?” he asked, looking at her

anxiously.

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing! I’ve lost my nerve, I suppose!”

“You want a change! It isn’t so very long to Cowes now and, thank

heavens, that’ll cost us nothing. We’re going on Wingrave’s yacht,

aren’t we?”

“Yes! We did accept.”

Barrington fidgeted for a moment with a paper knife.

“Ruth,” he asked, “what’s wrong between you and Wingrave?”

“Nothing,” she answered; “I’m afraid of him, that’s all!”

“Afraid of him! Afraid of Wingrave!” he repeated.

“Yes! I do not think that he has forgotten. I think that he means to

make us suffer.”

Barrington was almost dignified.

“I never heard such nonsense in my life, Ruth!” he exclaimed. “I have

watched Wingrave closely, and I have seen no trace of anything of

the sort. Nonsense! It is worse than nonsense! You must be getting

hysterical. You must get all this rubbish out of your head. To tell you

the truth--”

“Well?”

“I was thinking that you might ask Wingrave to help us a bit. I don’t

believe he’d hesitate for a moment.”

Ruth looked her husband in the face. There was a curious expression in

her eyes.

“Do you think that it would be wise of me to ask him?” she demanded.

“Why not?” he answered. “You can take care of yourself. I can trust

you.”

“I told you that I was afraid of Wingrave,” she reminded him. “I can

take care of myself as a rule--and I do--as you know. I have elected to

be one of the unfashionables in that respect. But to ask Wingrave for

money is more than I dare do.”

“Then I shall ask him myself,” Barrington declared.

She picked up her gloves and turned to leave the room.

“I should prefer even that,” she said.

GUARDIAN AND WARD

“Up to the present, then,” Wingrave remarked, “the child has no idea as

to who has been responsible for the charge of her?”

“No idea at all, Sir Wingrave,” the lawyer declared. “Your wishes have

been strictly carried out, most strictly. She imagines that it is some

unknown connection of her father. But, as I explained to you in my

letter, she has recently exhibited a good deal of curiosity in the

matter. She is--er--a young lady of considerable force of character for

her years, and her present attitude--as I explained in my letter--is a

trifle difficult.”

Wingrave was sitting in the lawyer’s own chair. Mr. Pengarth, who was a

trifle nervous, preferred to stand.

“She shows, I think, a certain amount of ingratitude in forcing this

journey and explanation upon me,” Wingrave declared coldly. “It should

have been sufficient for her that her benefactor preferred to remain

anonymous.”

“I regret, Sir Wingrave, that I must disagree with you,” Mr. Pengarth

answered boldly. “Miss Juliet, Miss Lundy I should say, is a young lady

of character--and--er--some originality of disposition. She is a great

favorite with everyone around here.”

Wingrave remained silent. He had the air of one not troubling to reply

to what he considered folly. Through the wide open window floated in the

various sounds of the little country town, the rumbling of heavy carts

passing along the cobbled streets, the shrill greetings of neighbors and

acquaintances meeting upon the sidewalk. And then the tinkling bell of a

rubber-tired cart pulling up outside, and a clear girlish voice speaking

to some one of the passers-by.

Wingrave betrayed as much surprise as it was possible for him to show

when at last she stood with outstretched hand before him. He had only an

imperfect recollection of an ill-clad, untidy-looking child, with pale

tear-stained cheeks, and dark unhappy eyes. The march of the years had

been a thing whose effects he had altogether underestimated. The girl

who stood now facing him was slight, and there was something of the

child left in her bright eager face, but she carried herself with all

the graceful assurance of an older woman. Her soft, dark eyes were

lit with pleasure and excitement, her delicately traced eyebrows and

delightful smile were somehow suggestive of her foreign descent. Her

clothes were country-made, but perfect as regarded fit and trimness,

her beflowered hat was worn with a touch of coquettish grace, a trifle

un-English, but very delightful. She had not an atom of shyness or

embarrassment. Only there was a great surprise in her face as she held

out her hands to Wingrave.

“I know who you are,” she exclaimed. “You are Sir Wingrave Seton. To

think that I never guessed.”

“You remember seeing me, then?” he remarked, and his tone sounded all

the colder after the full richness of her young voice.

“I just remember it--only just,” she answered. “You see you did not

take much notice of me that time, did you? But I have lived amongst your

ancestors too long to make any mistake. Why have you stayed away from

Tredowen so long?”

“I have been abroad,” Wingrave answered. “I am not fond of England.”

“You had trouble here, I know,” she said frankly. “But that is all past

and over. I think that you must forget how beautiful your home is or

you would never bear to live away from it. Now, please, may I ask you a

question?”

“Any that you think necessary,” Wingrave answered. “Spare me as much as

possible; I am not fond of them.”

“Shall I leave you two together for a little time?” Mr. Pengarth

suggested, gathering up some papers.

“Certainly not,” Wingrave said shortly. “There is not the slightest

necessity for it.”

Mr. Pengarth resumed his seat.

“Just as you please,” he answered. “But you must sit down, Juliet.

There, you shall have my clients’ chair.”

The girl accepted it with a little laugh. There was no shadow of

embarrassment about her manner, notwithstanding the cold stiffness of

Wingrave’s deportment. He sat where the sunlight fell across his chair,

and the lines in his pale face seemed deeper than usual, the grey hairs

more plentiful, the weariness in his eyes more apparent. Yet she was not

in the least afraid of him.

“First of all, then, Sir Wingrave, may I ask you why you have been so

extraordinarily kind to me?”

“There is nothing extraordinary about it at all,” he answered. “Your

father died and left you friendless in a parish of which I am Lord of

the Manor. He received a starvation pittance for his labors, which it

was my duty to augment, a duty which, with many others, I neglected. I

simply gave orders that you should be looked after.”

She laughed softly.

“Looked after! Why, I have lived at Tredowen. I have had a governess, a

pony to drive. Heaven knows how many luxuries!”

“That,” he interrupted hastily, “is nothing. The house is better

occupied. What I have done for you is less in proportion than the

sixpence you may sometimes have given to a beggar for I am a rich, a

ridiculously rich man, with no possible chance of spending one-quarter

of my income. You had a distinct and obvious claim upon me, and, at no

cost or inconvenience to myself, I have endeavored, through others, to

recognize it.”

“I will accept your view of the situation,” the girl said, still

smiling, but with a faint note of disappointment in her tone. “I do not

wish to force upon you expressions of gratitude which you would only

find wearisome. But I must thank you! It is in my heart, and I must

speak of it. There, it is over, you see! I shall say no more.”

“You are a sensible young lady,” Wingrave said, making a motion as

though to rise. “I have only one request to make to you, and that is

that you keep to yourself the knowledge which Mr. Pengarth informs me

that you insisted upon acquiring. You are nearly enough of age now, and

I will make you your own mistress. That is all, I think.”

The smile died away from her lips. Her tone became very earnest.

“Sir Wingrave,” she said, “for all that you have done for me, I am, as

you know grateful. I would try to tell you how grateful, only I know

that it would weary you. So we will speak only of the future. I cannot

continue to accept--even such magnificent alms as yours.”

“What do you mean, child?” he asked, frowning across at her.

“I mean,” she said, “that now I am old enough to work, I cannot accept

everything from one upon whom I have no claim. If you will help me a

little still, I shall be more than grateful. But it must be in my own

way.”

“You talk about work,” he said. “What can you do?”

“I can paint,” she answered, “fairly well. I should like to go to London

and have a few lessons. If I cannot make a living at that, I shall try

something else.”

“You disappoint me,” Wingrave said. “There is no place for you in

London. There are thousands starving there already because they can

paint a little, or sing a little, or fancy they can. Do you find it dull

down here?”

“Dull!” she exclaimed wonderingly. “I think that there can be no place

on earth so beautiful as Tredowen.”

“You are happy here?”

“Perfectly!”

“Then, for heaven’s sake, forget all this folly,” Wingrave said hardly.

“London is no place for children. Miss Harrison can take you up for a

month when you choose. You can go abroad if you want to. But for the

rest--”

She rose suddenly, and sweeping across the office with one graceful

movement, she leaned over Wingrave’s chair. Her hands rested upon

his shoulders, her eyes, soft with gathering tears, pleaded with his.

Wingrave sat with all the outward immobility of a Sphinx.

“Dear Sir Wingrave,” she said, “you have been so generous, so kind, and

I may not even speak of my gratitude. Don’t please think me unreasonable

or ungracious. I can’t tell you how I feel, but I must, I must, I must

go away. I could not live here any longer now that I know. Fancy for

a moment that I am your sister, or your daughter! Don’t you believe,

really, that she would feel the same? And I think you would wish her to.

Don’t be angry with me, please.”

Wingrave’s face never changed; but his fingers gripped the arms of his

chair so that a signet ring he wore cut deep into his flesh. When he

spoke, his tone sounded almost harsh. The girl turned away to dash the

tears from her eyes.

“What do you think of this--folly, Pengarth?”

The lawyer looked his best client squarely in the face. “I do not call

it folly, Sir Wingrave. I think that Miss Lundy is right.”

There was a pause. Her eyes were still pleading with him.

“Against the two of you,” Wingrave remarked, “I am, of course,

powerless. After all, it is no concern of mine. I shall leave you,

Pengarth, to make such arrangements as Miss Lundy desires!”

He rose to his feet. Juliet now was pale. She dashed the tears from her

eyes and looked at him in amazement mingled with something which was

almost like despair.

“You don’t mean,” she exclaimed, “you are going away without coming to

Tredowen?”

“Why not?” he asked. “I never had any intention of going there!”

“You are very angry with me,” she cried in despair. “I--I--”

Her lip quivered. Wingrave interposed.

“I shall be happy to go and have a look at the place,” he said

carelessly, “if you will drive me back. I fancy I have almost forgotten

what it is like.”

She looked at him as at one who had spoken irreverently. Her eyes were

full of wonder.

“I think that you must have indeed forgotten,” she said, “how very

beautiful it is. It is your home too! There is no one else,” she added

softly, “who can live there, amongst all those wonderful things, and

call it really--home!”

“I am afraid,” he said, “you will find that I have outlived all

sentiment; but I will certainly come to Tredowen with you!”

GHOSTS OF DEAD THINGS

“It was here,” she said, as they passed through the walled garden

seawards, “that I saw you first--you and the other gentleman who was so

kind to me.”

Wingrave nodded.

“I believe that I remember it,” he said; “you were a mournful-looking

object in a very soiled pinafore and most untidy hair.”

“I had been out on the cliffs,” she reminded him, “where I am taking you

now. If you are going to make unkind remarks about my hair, I think that

I had better fetch a hat.”

“Pray don’t leave me,” he answered. “I should certainly lose my way.

Your hair in those days was, I fancy, a little more--unkempt!”

She laughed.

“It used to be cut short,” she said. “Hideous! There! Isn’t that

glorious?”

She had opened the postern gate in the wall, and through the narrow

opening was framed a wonderful picture of the Cornish sea, rolling

into the rock-studded bay. Its soft thunder was in their ears; salt

and fragrant, the west wind swept into their faces. She closed the gate

behind her, and stepped blithely forward.

“Come!” she cried. “We will climb the cliffs where we left you alone

once before.”

Side by side they stood looking over the ocean. Her head was thrown

back, her lips a little parted. He watched her curiously.

“You must have sea blood in your veins,” he remarked. “You listen as

though you heard music all the time.”

“And what about you?” she asked him, smiling. “You are the grandson of

Admiral Sir Wingrave Seton who commanded a frigate at Trafalgar, and an

ancestor of yours fought in the Armada.”

“I am afraid,” he said quietly, “that there is a hiatus in my life

somewhere. There are no voices which call to me any more, and my family

records are so much dead parchment.”

Trouble passed into her glowing face and clouded her eyes.

“Ah!” she said, “I do not like to hear you talk so. Do you know that

when you do, you make me afraid that something I have always hoped for

will never come to pass?”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I have always hoped,” she said, “that some day you would come once more

to Tredowen. I suppose I am rather a fanciful person. This is a country

of superstitions and fancies, you know; but sometimes when I have been

alone in the picture gallery with all that long line of dark faces

looking down upon me from the walls, I have felt like an interloper.

Always they seem to be waiting! Tonight, after dinner, I will take you

there. I will try and show you what I mean.”

He shook his head.

“I shall never come back,” he said, “and there are no more of my name.”

She hesitated. When at last she spoke, the color was coming and going in

her cheeks.

“Sir Wingrave,” she said, “I am only an ignorant girl, and I have no

right to talk to you like this. Please be angry with me if you want to.

I deserve it. I know all about--that ten years! Couldn’t you forget it,

and come back? None of the country people round here, your own people,

believe anything evil about you. You were struck, and you struck back

again. A man would do that. You could be as lonely as you liked here,

or you could have friends if you wished for them. But this is the place

where you ought to live. You would be happier here, I believe, than in

exile. The love of it all would come back, you would never be lonely.

It is the same sea which sang to you when you were a child, and to your

fathers before you. It would bring you forgetfulness when you wanted it,

or--”

Wingrave interrupted her. His tone was cold, but not unkind.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “it is very good of you to be so

sympathetic, but I am afraid I am not at all the sort of person you

imagine me to be. What I was before those ten years--well, I have

forgotten. What I am now, I unfortunately know. I am a soured,

malevolent being whose only pleasure lies in the dealing out to others

some portion of the unhappiness which was dealt out to me.”

“I do not believe it,” she declared briskly.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Nevertheless, it is true,” he declared coolly. “Listen! More or less

you interest me. I will tell you something which I have never yet

told to a single human being. I need not go into particulars. You will

probably believe a broad statement. My ten years’ imprisonment was more

or less an injustice!”

“Sir Wingrave!”

He checked her. There was not a tremor in his tone. The gesture with

which he had repelled her was stiff and emotionless.

“I went into prison one man, I came out another. While I live, I

shall never be able to think kindly again of a single one of my fellow

creatures. It was not my fault. So far as our affections are concerned,

we are machines, all of us. Well, my mainspring has broken.”

“I don’t believe it,” she declared.

“It is, nevertheless, true,” he affirmed calmly. “I am living in exile

because I have no friends, because friends have become an impossibility

to me. I shall not tell you any more of my life because you are young

and you would not believe me if I did. Some day,” he added grimly, “you

will probably hear for yourself.”

“I shall never believe anything,” she declared, “which I do not choose

to believe. I shall never believe, for instance, that you are quite what

you think yourself.”

“We will talk of other things,” he said. “Five years ago, you showed

Aynesworth where the seagulls built.”

“And now I will show you,” she exclaimed, “if you are sure that your

head is steady enough. Come along!”...

It was after dinner that she took him into the picture gallery. Miss

Harrison, very much disturbed by the presence of the master of Tredowen,

and still more so by the hint which she had already received as to

coming changes, followed them at a little distance.

“I am so sorry,” Juliet said, “that we have no cigars or cigarettes.”

“I seldom smoke,” Wingrave answered.

“If only we had had the slightest idea of your coming,” Miss Harrison

said for the tenth time, “we would have made more adequate preparations.

The wine cellar, at least, could have been opened. I allowed Mr. and

Mrs. Tresfarwin to go for their holiday only yesterday, and the cellars,

of course, are never touched.”

“Your claret was excellent,” Wingrave assured her.

“I am quite sure,” Miss Harrison said, “that claret from the local

grocer is not what you are accustomed to--”

“My dear madam,” Wingrave protested, “I seldom touch wine. Show me which

picture it is, Juliet, that you--ah!”

She had led him to the end of the gallery and stopped before what seemed

to be a plain oak cupboard surrounded by a massive frame. She looked at

him half fearfully.

“You want to see that picture?” he asked.

“If I might.”

He drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and calmly selected one. It was

a little rusty, but the cupboard turned at once on its hinges. A woman’s

face smiled down upon them, dark and splendid, from the glowing touch

of a great painter. Juliet studied it eagerly, and then stole a sidelong

glance at the man by her side. He was surveying it critically and

without any apparent emotion.

“Herkomer’s, I think,” he remarked. “Quite one of his best.”

“It is your mother?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“I’m not great at genealogy,” he said, “but I can go as far back as

that. She was by way of being a great lady, the daughter of the Duke of

Warminster.”

“You were an only son,” she said softly. “She must have been very fond

of you.”

“Customary thing, I suppose,” he remarked. “Lucky for her, under the

circumstances, that she died young.”

He closed the oaken door in front of the picture, and locked it.

“I should like to see the armory,” he said; “but I really forget--let me

see, it is at the end of the long gallery, isn’t it?”

She led him there without a word. She was getting a little afraid of

him. They inspected the library and wandered back into the picture

gallery. It was she, now, who was silent. She had shown him all her

favorite treasures without being able to evoke a single spark of

enthusiasm.

“Once,” she remarked, “we all had a terrible fright. We were told that

everything was going to be sold.”

He nodded.

“I did think of it,” he admitted; “but there seemed to be no hurry. All

these things are growing into money year by year. Some day I shall send

everything to Christie’s.”

She looked at him in horror.

“You cannot--oh, you cannot mean it?” she cried.

“Why not? They are no use to me.”

“No use?” she faltered.

“Not a bit. I don’t suppose I shall see them again for many years. And

the money--well, one can use that.”

“But I thought--that you were rich?” she faltered.

“So I am,” he answered, “and yet I go on making more and more, and I

shall go on. Money is the whip with which its possessor can scourge

humanity. It is with money that I deal out my--forgive me, I forgot that

I was talking aloud, and to a child,” he wound up suddenly.

She looked at him, dry-eyed, but with a strained look of sorrow

strangely altering her girlish face.

“You must be very unhappy,” she said.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “I am one of those fortunate persons

who have outlived happiness and unhappiness. I have nothing to do but

live--and pay off a few little debts.”

He rose directly afterwards, and she walked with him out to the gardens

whence a short cut led to the village.

“I have not tried again to make you change your mind,” he said as they

stood for a moment on the terrace. “If my wishes have any weight with

you, I trust that you will do nothing without consulting Mr. Pengarth.”

“And you--” she faltered, “are you--never in London? Sha’n’t I see you

again any time?”

“If you care to, by all means,” he answered. “Tell Mr. Pengarth to let

me have your address. Goodbye! Thank you for taking care of my treasures

so well.”

She held his cold hand in hers and suddenly raised it to her lips. Then

she turned away and hurried indoors.

Wingrave stood still for a moment and gazed at his hand through the

darkness as though the ghosts of dead things had flitted out from the

dark laurel shrubs. Then he laughed quietly to himself.

SPREADING THE NETS

“By the bye,” the Marchioness asked him, “have you a Christian name?”

“Sorry,” Wingrave answered, “if I ever had, I’ve forgotten it.”

“Then I must call you Wingrave,” she remarked. “I hate calling anyone I

know decently well Mr. anything.”

“Charmed,” Wingrave answered; “it isn’t a bad name.”

“It isn’t,” she admitted. “By the bye,” she continued, looking at him

critically, “you are rather a surprising person, aren’t you?”

“Glad you’ve found it out,” Wingrave answered. “I always thought so.”

“One associates all sorts of terrible things with

millionaires--especially African and American ones,” she remarked. “Now

you could pass anywhere for the ordinary sort of decent person.”

Wingrave nodded.

“I was told the other day,” he remarked reflectively, “that if I would

only cultivate two things, I might almost pass as a member of the

English aristocracy.”

“What were they?” she asked rashly.

“Ignorance and impertinence,” he answered.

The Marchioness was silent for a moment. There was a little more color

than usual in her beautiful cheeks and a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

“You can go home, Mr. Wingrave,” she said.

He rose to his feet imperturbably. The Marchioness stretched out a long

white hand and gently forced him back again.

“You mustn’t talk like that to me,” she said quietly. “I am sensitive.”

He bowed.

“A privilege, I believe, of your order,” he remarked.

“Of course, if you want to quarrel--” she began.

“I don’t,” he assured her.

“Then be sensible! I want to talk to you.”

“Sensible, alone with you!” he murmured. “I should establish a new

record.”

“You certainly aren’t in the least like a millionaire,” she declared,

smiling at him, “you are more like a--”

“Please go on,” he begged.

“I daren’t,” she answered, shaking her head.

“Then you aren’t in the least like a marchioness,” he declared. “At

least, not like our American ideas of one.”

She laughed outright.

“Bring your chair quite close to mine,” she ordered, “I really want to

talk to you.”

He obeyed, and affected to be absorbed in the contemplation of the

rings on the hand which a great artist had called the most beautiful in

England. She withdrew it a little peevishly, after a moment’s pause.

“I want to talk about the Barringtons,” she said. “Do you know that they

are practically ruined?”

“I heard that Barrington had been gambling on the Stock Exchange the

last few days,” he answered.

“He has lost a great deal of money,” she answered, “and they were almost

on their last legs before. Are you going to set them straight again?”

“No idea,” he answered. “I haven’t been asked, for one thing.”

“Ruth will ask you, of course,” the Marchioness said impatiently. “I

expect that she is waiting at your flat by now. I want to know whether

you are going to do it.”

The hand was again very close to his. Again Wingrave contemplated the

rings.

“I forgot that you were her friend, and are naturally anxious,” he

remarked.

“I am not her friend,” the Marchioness answered, “and--I do not wish you

to help them.”

Wingrave was silent. The hand was insistent, and he held it for a moment

lightly, and then let it go.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “The Barringtons have been

very hospitable to me.”

“Rubbish!” the Marchioness answered. “You have done quite enough for

them already. Of course, you are a man--and you must choose. I am sure

that you understand me.”

He rose to his feet.

“I must think this out,” he said. “The Barringtons have a sort of claim

on me. I will let you know which way I decide.”

She stood close to him, and her hand fell upon his shoulder.

“You are not going!” she exclaimed. “I have told them that I am at home

to no one, and I thought that you would stay and entertain me. Sit down

again, Wingrave!”

“Sorry,” he answered, “I have a lot to do this afternoon. I came

directly I had your note; but I have had to keep some other people

waiting.”

“You are going to see Lady Ruth!”

“Not that I know of,” he declared. “I have heard nothing from her. By

the bye, I lost some money to you at bridge the other evening. How much

was it? Do you remember?”

She looked at him for a second, and turned away.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked.

“If you please. Put the amount down on a piece of paper, and then I

sha’n’t forget it.”

She crossed the room to her desk, and returned with a folded envelope.

He stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket.

“I shall be at the opera tonight,” she said. “Will you come there and

tell me what--which you decide?”

“With pleasure,” he answered, “if I can get away from a stupid dinner in

time.”

She let him go reluctantly. Afterwards she passed into her own room,

and stood looking at herself in the pier glass. Artists and the society

papers called her the most beautiful woman in England; fashion had

placed her upon such a pinnacle that men counted it a distinction to be

seen speaking to her. She dealt out her smiles and favors like Royalty

itself; she had never once known a rebuff. This afternoon she felt that

she had received one. Had she been too cold or too forward? Perhaps she

had underestimated the man himself. She rang for her maid.

“Celeste,” she said, “I shall wear my new Paquin gown tonight at the

opera, and my pearls.”

“Very good, your ladyship.”

“And I am going to lie down for an hour or two now. Don’t let me be

disturbed. I want to look my best tonight. You understand?”

“Perfectly, your ladyship.”

The Marchioness rested, but she did not sleep. She was thinking of

Wingrave!

It was not Lady Ruth, but her husband, who was waiting to see Wingrave

on his return. Aynesworth was talking to him, but at once withdrew.

Wingrave nodded with slightly upraised eyebrows. He never shook hands

with Barrington.

“You wanted to see me?” he inquired, carelessly turning over a little

pile of letters.

Barrington was ill at ease. He hated himself and he hated his errand.

“Yes, for a moment or two--if you’re not busy,” he said. “May I smoke?

I’m nervous this morning.”

“Help yourself,” Wingrave said shortly. “Cigarettes and cigars on the

sideboard. Touch the bell if you’ll take anything to drink.”

“Thanks--Aynesworth gave me a brandy and soda. Capital fellow,

Aynesworth!”

“Have another,” Wingrave said shortly.

He crossed the room to the sideboard. Wingrave glanced up from his

letters, and smiled coldly as he saw the shaking fingers.

“I don’t often indulge like this,” Barrington said, turning away from

the sideboard with a tumbler already empty in his hands. “The fact is,

I’ve had rather a rude knock, and Ruth thought I’d better come and see

you.”

Wingrave remained a study of impassivity. His guest’s whole demeanor,

his uneasy words and nervous glances were an unspoken appeal to be

helped out in what he had come to say. And Wingrave knew very well

what it was. Nevertheless, he remained silent--politely questioning.

Barrington sat down a little heavily. He was not so carefully dressed

as usual; he looked older, his appearance lacked altogether that air of

buoyant prosperity which was wont to inspire his friends and creditors

with confidence.

“I’ve been a fool, Wingrave,” he said. “You showed me how to make a

little money a few weeks ago, and it seemed so easy that I couldn’t

resist having a try by myself, only on rather a larger scale. I

lost! Then I went in again to pull myself round, and I lost again. I

lost--more than I can easily raise before settlement.”

“I am sorry,” Wingrave said politely. “It is very unwise to meddle in

things you know so little about.”

For a moment the worm turned. Barrington rose to his feet, and with

a deep flush upon his cheeks moved towards the door. But his spark of

genuine feeling died out almost as soon as it had been kindled. Outside

that door was ruin; within, as he very well knew, lay his only chance of

salvation. He set down his hat, and turned round.

“Wingrave,” he said, “will you lend me some money?”

Wingrave looked at him with upraised eyebrows.

“I,” he remarked, “lend you money? Why should I?”

“Heaven knows,” Barrington answered. “It is you who have chosen to

seek us out. You have forced upon us something which has at least the

semblance of friendship. There is no one else whom I could ask. It isn’t

only this damned Stock Exchange transaction. Everything has gone wrong

with me for years. If I could have kept going till next July, I should

have been all right. I have made a little success in the House, and I

am promised a place in the next government. I know it seems queer that

I should be asking you, but it is that--or ruin. Now you know how things

are with me.”

“You are making,” Wingrave said quietly, “a mistake. I have not

pretended or given the slightest evidence of any friendship for

yourself.”

Barrington looked at him with slowly mounting color.

“You mean--”

“Precisely,” Wingrave interrupted. “I do not know what I might or might

not do for Lady Ruth. I have not considered the subject. It has not, in

fact, been presented to me.”

“It is the same thing,” Barrington declared hoarsely.

“Pardon me--it is not,” Wingrave answered.

“What I ask you to do,” Barrington said, “I ask on behalf of my wife.”

“As an ambassador,” Wingrave said coldly, “you are not acceptable to

me. It is a matter which I could only discuss with Lady Ruth herself. If

Lady Ruth has anything to say to me, I will hear it.”

Barrington stood quite still for several moments. The veins on his

forehead stood out like tightly drawn cords, his breath came with

difficulty. The light in his eyes, as he looked at Wingrave, was almost

murderous.

“If Lady Ruth desires to see me,” Wingrave remarked slowly, “I shall be

here at nine o’clock this evening. Tomorrow my movements are uncertain.

You will excuse me if I hurry you away now. I have an engagement which

is already overdue.”

Barrington took up his hat and left the room without a word. Wingrave

remained in his chair. His eyes followed the departing figure of his

visitor. When he was absolutely sure that he was alone, he covered his

face with one hand. His engagement seemed to have been with his thoughts

for he did not stir for nearly an hour later. Then he rang the bell for

Aynesworth.

IN THE TOILS

Wingrave did not speak for several moments after Aynesworth had entered

the room. He had an engagement book before him and seemed to be deep in

its contents. When at last he looked up, his forehead was furrowed with

thought, and he had the weary air of a man who has been indulging in

unprofitable memories.

“Aynesworth,” he said, “be so good as to ring up Walters and excuse me

from dining with him tonight.”

Aynesworth nodded.

“Any particular form of excuse?” he asked.

“No! Say that I have an unavoidable engagement. I will see him tomorrow

morning.”

“Anything else?” Aynesworth asked, preparing to leave the room.

“No! You might see that I have no visitors this evening. Lady Ruth is

coming here at nine o’clock.”

“Lady Ruth is coming here,” Aynesworth repeated in a colorless tone.

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Aynesworth shrugged his shoulders, but made no remark. He turned towards

the door, but Wingrave called him back.

“Your expression, Aynesworth,” he said, “interests me. Am I or the lady

in question responsible for it?”

“I am sorry for Lady Ruth,” Aynesworth said. “I think that I am sorry,

too, for her husband.”

“Why? She is coming of her own free will.”

“There are different methods of compulsion,” Aynesworth answered.

Wingrave regarded him thoughtfully.

“That,” he said, “is true. But I still do not understand why you are

sorry for her.”

“Because,” Aynesworth said, “I know the history of a certain event, and

I know you. It is, I suppose, for this end that you made use of them.”

Wingrave nodded.

“Quite right,” he declared. “I think that the time is not far off when

that dear lady and I can cry quits. This time, too, I see nothing to

impair my satisfaction at the probable finale. In various other cases,

as you might remember, I have not been entirely successful.”

“It depends,” Aynesworth remarked drily, “upon what you term success.”

Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.

“I think,” he said coldly, “that you are aware of what my feelings and

desired course of action have been with regard to those of my fellow

creatures with whom I have happened to come into contact. It seems to me

that I have been a trifle unfortunate in several instances.”

“As for instance?” Aynesworth asked.

“Well, to take a few cases only,” Wingrave continued, “there was the

child down at Tredowen whom you were so anxious for me to befriend. Of

course, I declined to do anything of the sort, and she ought, by rights,

to have gone to some charitable institution, founded and supported by

fools, and eventually become, perhaps, a domestic servant. Instead

of which, some relation of her father turns up and provides for her

lavishly. You must admit that that was unfortunate.”

“It depends upon the point of view,” Aynesworth remarked drily.

“Personally, I considered it a most fortunate occurrence.”

“Naturally,” Wingrave agreed. “But then you are a sentimentalist. You

like to see people happy, and you would even help to make them so if you

could without any personal inconvenience. I am at the other pole. If I

could collect humanity into one sentient force, I would set my heel upon

it without hesitation. I try to do what I can with the atoms, but I have

not the best of fortune. There was Mrs. Travers, now! There I should

have been successful beyond a doubt if some busybody hadn’t sent that

cable to her husband. I wonder if you were idiot enough to do that,

Aynesworth?”

“If I had thought of the Marconigram,” Aynesworth said, “I am sure I

should have done it. But as a matter of fact, I did not.”

“Just as well, so far as our relations are concerned,” Wingrave said

coldly. “I did manage to make poor men of a few brokers in New York,

but my best coup went wrong. That boy would have blown his brains out,

I believe, if some meddling idiot hadn’t found him all that money at the

last moment. I have had a few smaller successes, of course, and there

is this affair of Lady Ruth and her estimable husband. You know that he

came to borrow money of me, I suppose?”

“I guessed it,” Aynesworth answered. “You should be modern in your

revenge and lend it to him.”

Wingrave smiled coldly.

“I fancy,” he said, “that Lumley Barrington will find my revenge modern

enough. I may lend the money they need--but it will be to Lady Ruth! I

told her husband so a few minutes ago. I told him to send his wife to

me. He has gone to tell her now!”

“I wonder,” Aynesworth remarked, “that he did not thrash you--or try

to.”

Again Wingrave’s lips parted.

“Moral deterioration has set in already,” he remarked. “When he pays

his bills with my money, he will lose the little he has left of his

self-respect.”

Aynesworth turned abruptly away. He was strongly tempted to say things

which would have ended his connection with Wingrave, and as yet he was

not ready to leave. For the sake of a digression, he took up a check

book from the table.

“There are three checks,” he remarked, “which I cannot trace. One

for ten thousand pounds, another for five, and a third for a thousand

pounds. What account shall I put them to?”

“Private drawing account,” Wingrave answered. “They represent a small

speculation. By the bye, you’d better go and ring up Walters.”

“Do you wish the particulars entered in your sundry investment book?”

Aynesworth asked.

Wingrave smiled grimly.

“I think not,” he answered. “You can put them to drawing account. If

you want me again this evening, I shall dine at the Cafe Royal at eight

o’clock, and shall return here at five minutes to nine.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Lady Ruth was punctual. At a few minutes past nine, Morrison announced

that a lady had called to see Mr. Wingrave by appointment.

“You can show her in,” Wingrave said. “See that we are not disturbed.”

Lady Ruth was scarcely herself. She was dressed in a high-necked muslin

gown, and she wore a hat and veil, which somewhat obscured her features.

The latter she raised, however, as she accepted the chair which Wingrave

had placed for her. He saw then that she was pale, and her manner

betrayed an altogether unfamiliar nervousness. She avoided his eyes.

“Did you expect me?” she asked.

“Yes!” he answered, “I thought that you would come.”

Her foot, long and slender, beat impatiently upon the ground. She looked

up at him once, but immediately withdrew her eyes.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked in a low tone.

“My dear Lady Ruth!” he protested.

“If you want to play at being friends,” she said, “for heaven’s sake

call me Ruth. You found it easy enough once.”

“You are very kind,” he answered. “Ruth, by all means.”

“Now will you answer my question?” she said. “Do you mean--to help us?”

“Us--no!” he answered; “you--perhaps yes!” he added.

Then she looked at him, and found herself puzzled by the perfect

impassivity of his features. Surely he would drop the mask now. He had

insisted upon her coming!

“Perhaps?” she repeated. “What then--are the conditions?”

He bent over towards her. Curiously enough, there was, mingled with

many other sensations, a certain sense of triumph in the thought, it was

almost a hope, that at last he was going to betray himself, that he was

going to admit tacitly, or by imputation, that her power over him was

not wholly dead. It was a terrible situation--in her heart she felt so,

but it had its compensations. Wingrave had been her constant attendant

for months. He had seen her surrounded by men, all anxious to secure a

smile from her; he had seen her play the great lady in her own house,

and she played it very well. She knew that she was a past mistress in

the arts which fascinate his sex, she understood the quiet speeches, the

moods, every trick of the gamester in emotions, from the fluttering

of eyelids to the unchaining of the passions. And he had loved her.

Underneath it all, he must love her now. She was determined that he

should tell her so. It was genuine excitement which throbbed in her

pulses, a genuine color which burned in her cheeks.

“The conditions?” he repeated. “You believe, then, that I mean to make

conditions?”

She raised her eyes to his, eloquent eyes she knew, and looked at him.

The mask was still there--but he had moved a little nearer to her.

“I do not know,” she said softly. “You must tell me.”

There was a moment’s silence. She had scarcely given herself credit for

such capacity for emotion. He was on his feet. Surely the mask must go

now! And then--she felt that it must be a nightmare. It was incredible!

He had struck a match and was calmly lighting a cigarette.

“One,” he said coolly, “is that Mademoiselle Violet employs no more

amateur assassins to make clumsy attempts upon my life.”

She sat in her place rigid--half frozen with a cold, numbing fear. He

had sent for her, then, only to mock her. She had failed! They were not

even to have the money! Speech was quite impossible. Then he continued.

“I will take your assent for granted,” he said. “Do you know how much

you require to free yourself?”

“About eight thousand pounds!” she answered mechanically.

He sat down and wrote a check, which he laid before her.

“You will have to endorse that,” he remarked in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Your name at the back will do instead of a receipt.”

She sprang to her feet.

“Keep your money,” she cried. “I will not touch it. Please open the door

for me! I am going.”

“By all means--if you wish it,” he answered undisturbed. “At the same

time, I am curious to know why you came here at all if you did not

intend to accept it.”

She faced him, hot and angry.

“I did intend to accept it,” she declared. “It is that or ruin. But you

are too cruel! You make it--impossible.”

“You surprise me,” he answered. “I suppose you know best.”

“For heaven’s sake tell me,” she cried passionately, “what has come to

you, what manner of a man are you? You loved me once! Now, even, after

all these years, you cannot deny it. You have gone out of your way to

be with me, to be my companion wherever we are. People are beginning to

smile when they see us together. I don’t mind. I--for God’s sake tell

me, Wingrave! Why do you do it? Why do you lend me this money? What can

I do for you? What do you want me to be? Are you as cold as a stone?

Have you no heart--no heart even for friendship!”

“I would not seek,” he answered, “to buy--your friendship with a check!”

“But it is yours already,” she cried, holding out her hands. “Give me

a little kindness, Wingrave! You make me feel and seem a perfect idiot.

Why, I’d rather you asked me anything that treated me like this.”

“I was under the impression,” Wingrave remarked, “that I was behaving

rather well. I wonder what would really satisfy you!”

“To have you behave as you are doing, and want to behave differently,”

she cried. “You are magnificent--but it is because you are indifferent.

Will you kiss me, Wingrave?”

“With pleasure!” he answered.

She drew away from him quickly.

“Is it--another woman?” she asked. “The Marchioness?”

Her eagerness was almost painful. He did not answer her at once. She

caught hold of his wrist and drew him towards her. Her eyes searched his

face.

“The Marchioness,” he said, “is a very beautiful woman. She does not,

however, affect the situation as between you and me.”

“If she dared!” Lady Ruth murmured. “Wingrave, won’t you try and be

friends with me?”

“I will try--certainly,” he answered. “You would be surprised, however,

if you could realize the effect of a long period of enforced seclusion

upon a man of my--”

“Don’t!” she shrieked; “stop!”

“My temperament, I was about to say,” he concluded. “There was a time

when I am afraid I might have been tempted, under such circumstances as

these, to forget that you were no longer free, to forget everything that

except we were alone, and that you--are as beautiful as ever you were!”

“Yes!” she murmured, moving imperceptibly a little nearer towards him.

He picked up the check and gave it to her.

“I am no actor,” he said, looking at her steadily. “At present, I make

no conditions. But--”

She leaned towards him. He took her face between his hands and kissed

her on the lips.

“I may make them later,” he said. “I reserve my right.”

She looked at him for a moment, and dropped her veil.

“Please take me down to my carriage,” she asked.

THE INDISCRETION OF THE MARCHIONESS

“I am perfectly certain,” Juliet declared, “that we ought not to be

here.”

“That,” Aynesworth remarked, fanning himself lightly with his pocket

handkerchief, “may account for the extraordinary sense of pleasure which

I am now experiencing. At the same time, I can’t see why not.”

“I only met you this afternoon--a few hours ago. And here we are,

absolutely wedged together on these seats--and my chaperon is dozing

half the time.”

“Pardon me,” Aynesworth objected, “I knew you when you were a child.”

“For one day!”

“Nevertheless,” Aynesworth persisted, “the fact remains. If you date our

acquaintance from this afternoon, I do not. I have never forgotten the

little girl in short frocks and long black hair, who showed me where the

seagulls built, and told me Cornish fairy stories.”

“It was a very long time ago,” she remarked.

“Four years,” he answered; “for you, perhaps, a long time, because

you have changed from a child--into a woman. But for a man approaching

middle age--as I am--nothing!”

“That is all very well,” she answered, “but I am not sure that we ought

to be in the gallery at Covent Garden together, with a chaperon who will

sleep!”

“She will wake up,” he declared, “with the music.”

“And I,” she murmured, “will dream. Isn’t it lovely?”

He smiled.

“I wonder how it really seems to you,” he remarked. “We are breathing an

atmosphere hot with gas, and fragrant with orange peel. We are squashed

in amongst a crowd of people of a class whom I fancy that neither you

nor I know much about. And I saw you last in a wilderness! We saw only

the yellow sands, and the rocks, and the Atlantic. We heard only

the thunder of the sea and the screaming of seagulls. This is very

different.”

“Wonderfully, wonderfully different,” she answered. “I miss it all! Of

course I do, and yet one is so much nearer to life here, the real life

of men and women. Oh, one cannot compare it. Why should one try? Ah,

listen!”

The curtain went up. The music of the orchestra subsided, and the music

of the human voice floated through the Opera House--the human voice,

vibrant with joy and passion and the knowledge which lies behind the

veil. Juliet found no time to talk then, no time to think even of her

companion. Her young cheeks were flushed, her eyes were bright with

excitement. She leaned a little forward in her place, she passed with

all the effortless facility of her ingenuous youth, into the dim world

of golden fancies which the story of the opera was slowly unfolding.

Beside her, Mrs. Tresfarwin dozed and blinked and dozed again--and on

her left Aynesworth himself, a little affected by the music, still found

time to glance continually at his companion, so radiant with life and

so fervently intent upon realizing to the full this, the first of its

unknown joys. So with crashing of chords and thunder of melody the act

went on. And when it was over, Juliet thought no more of the Cornish

sea and the lullaby of the waves. A new music was stirring in her young

blood.

They were in the front row of the gallery, and presently she leaned over

to gaze down at the panorama below, the women in the boxes and stalls,

whose bare shoulders and skillfully coiffured hair flashed with jewels.

Suddenly her hand fell upon Aynesworth’s arm.

“Look!” she cried in some excitement, “do you see who that is in the box

there--the one almost next to the stage?”

Aynesworth, too, uttered a little exclamation. The lights from beneath

were falling full upon the still, cold face of the man who had just

taken a vacant chair in one of the boxes.

“Wingrave!” he exclaimed, and glanced at once at his watch.

“Sir Wingrave Seton,” she murmured. “Isn’t it strange that I should see

him here tonight?”

“He comes often,” Aynesworth answered. “Music is one of his few

weaknesses.”

There was a movement in the box, and a woman’s head and shoulders

appeared from behind the curtain. Juliet gave a little gasp.

“Mr. Aynesworth,” she exclaimed, “did you ever see such a beautiful

woman? Do tell me who she is!”

“A very great lady in London society,” Aynesworth answered. “That is

Emily, Marchioness of Westchester.”

Juliet’s eyes never moved from her until the beautiful neck and

shoulders were turned away. She leaned over towards her companion, and

she did not again, for some few minutes, face the house.

“She is the loveliest woman I ever saw in my life,” Juliet said with

a little sigh. “Is she a great friend of Sir Wingrave Seton, Mr.

Aynesworth?”

“He has no friends,” Aynesworth answered. “I believe that they are very

well acquainted.”

“Poor Sir Wingrave!” Juliet murmured softly.

Aynesworth looked at her in some surprise.

“It is odd that you should have recognized him from up here,” he

remarked thoughtfully. “He has changed so much during the last few

years.”

Juliet smiled, but she did not explain. She felt that she was obeying

Wingrave’s wishes.

“I should have recognized him anywhere,” she answered simply. “I wonder

what they are talking about. She seems so interested, and he looks so

bored.”

Aynesworth looked at his watch. It was barely ten o’clock.

“I am very glad to see him here this evening,” he remarked.

“I should like so much,” she said, still gazing at them earnestly, “to

know that they are talking about.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“So you will not tell me,” the Marchioness murmured, ceasing for a

moment the graceful movements of her fan, and looking at him steadily.

“You refuse me this--almost the first thing I have ever asked you?”

“It is scarcely,” Wingrave objected, “a reasonable question.”

“Between you and me,” she murmured, “such punctiliousness is scarcely

necessary--is it?”

He withstood the attack of those wonderful eyes lifted swiftly to his,

and answered her gravely.

“You are Lady Ruth’s friend,” he remarked. “Probably, therefore, she

will tell you all about it.”

The Marchioness laughed softly, yet with something less than mirth.

“Friends,” she exclaimed, “Lady Ruth and I? There was never a woman in

this world who was less my friend--especially now!”

He asked for no explanation of her last words, but in a moment or two

she vouchsafed it. She leaned a little forward, her eyes flashed softly

through the semi-darkness.

“Lady Ruth is afraid,” she said quietly, “that I might take you away

from her.”

“My dear lady,” he protested, “the slight friendship between Lady Ruth

and myself is not of the nature to engender such a fear.”

She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. Her hands were toying with the

rope of pearls which hung from her neck. She bent over them, as though

examining the color of the stones.

“How long have you known Ruth?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her steadfastly. He could not be sure whether it was his

fancy, or whether indeed there was some hidden meaning in her question.

“Since I came to live in England,” he answered.

“Ah!”

There was a moment’s silence. Then with a little wave of her hands and a

brilliant smile, she figuratively dismissed the subject.

“We waste time,” she remarked lightly, “and we may have callers at

any moment. I will ask you no more questions save those which the

conventions may permit you to answer truthfully. We can’t depart from

our code, can we, even for the sake of an inquisitive woman?”

“I can assure you--” he began.

“But I will have no assurances,” she interrupted smilingly. “I am going

to talk of other things. I am going to ask you a ridiculous question.

Are you fond of music?--seriously!”

“I believe so,” he answered. “Why?”

“Because,” she answered, “I sometimes wonder what there is in the world

that interests you! Certainly, none of the ordinary things seem to.

Tonight, almost for the first time, I saw you look a little drawn out

of yourself. I was wondering whether it was the music or the people. I

suppose, until one gets used to it,” she added, looking a little wearily

around the house, “an audience like this is worth looking at.”

“It certainly is not the people,” he said. “Do you make as close a study

of all your acquaintances?”

“Naturally not,” she answered, “and I do not class you amongst my

acquaintances at all. You interest me, my friend--very much indeed!”

“I am flattered,” he murmured.

“You are not--I wish that you were,” she answered simply. “I can

understand why you have succeeded where so many others have failed.

You are strong. You have nerves of steel--and very little heart. But

now--what are you going to do with your life, now that wealth must even

have lost its meaning to you? I should like to know that. Will you tell

me?”

“What is there to do?” he asked. “Eat and drink, and juggle a little

with the ball of fate.”

“You are not ambitious?”

“Not in the least.”

“Pleasure, for itself, does not attract you. No! I know that it does

not. What are you going to do, then?”

“I have no idea,” he answered. “Won’t you direct me?”

“Yes, I will,” she answered, “if you will pay my price.”

He looked at her more intently. He himself had been attaching no

particular importance to this conversation, but he was suddenly

conscious that it was not so with the woman at his side. Her eyes were

shining at him, soft and full and sweet; her beautiful bosom was rising

and falling quickly; there had come to her something which even he was

forced to recognize, that curious and voluptuous abandonment which a

woman rarely permits herself, and can never assume. He was a little

bewildered. His speech lost for a moment its cold precision.

“Your price?” he repeated. “I--I am stupid. I’m afraid I don’t

understand.”

“Marry me,” she whispered in his ear, “and I will take you a little

further into life than you could ever go alone You don’t care for me, of

course--but you shall. You don’t understand this world, Wingrave, or how

to make the best of it. I do! Let me be your guide!”

Wingrave looked at her in grave astonishment.

“You are not by any chance--in earnest?” he asked.

“You know very well that I am,” she answered swiftly. “And yet you

hesitate! What is it that you are afraid of? Don’t you like to give up

your liberty? We need not marry unless you choose. That is only a matter

of form nowadays at any rate. I have a hundred chaperons to choose from.

Society expects strange things from me. It is your companionship I want.

Your money is fascinating, of course. I should like to see you spend it,

to spend it with both hands. Don’t be afraid that we should be talked

about. I am not Lady Ruth! I am Emily, Marchioness of Westchester, and I

live and choose my friends as I please; will you be chief amongst them?

Hush!”

For Wingrave it was providential. The loud chorus which had heralded

the upraising of the curtain died away. Melba’s first few notes were

floating through the house. Silence was a necessity. The low passion of

the music rippled from the stage, through the senses and into the hearts

of many of the listeners. But Wingrave listened silent and unmoved. He

was even unconscious that the woman by his side was watching him half

anxiously every now and then.

The curtain descended amidst a thunder of applause. Wingrave turned

slowly towards his companion. And then there came a respite--a knock at

the door.

The Marchioness frowned, but Wingrave was already holding it open.

Lady Ruth, followed by an immaculate young guardsman, a relative of her

husband, was standing there.

“Mr. Wingrave!” she exclaimed softly, with upraised eyebrows, “why have

you contrived to render yourself invisible? We thought you were alone,

Emily,” she continued, “and took pity on you. And all the time you had a

prize.”

The Marchioness looked at Lady Ruth, and Lady Ruth looked at the

Marchioness. The young guardsman was a little sorry that he had come,

but Lady Ruth never turned a hair.

“You must really have your eyes seen to, dear,” the Marchioness remarked

in a tone of tender concern. “When you can’t see such an old friend as

Mr. Wingrave from a few yards away, they must be very bad indeed.

How are you, Captain Kendrick? Come and tell me about the polo this

afternoon. Sorry I can’t offer you all chairs. This is an absurd box--it

was only meant for two!”

“Come into ours,” Lady Ruth said; “we have chairs for six, I think.”

The Marchioness shook her head.

“I wish I had a millionaire in the family,” she murmured. “All the same,

I hate large parties. I am old-fashioned enough to think that two is a

delightful number.”

Lady Ruth laid her hand upon Wingrave’s arm.

“A decided hint, Mr. Wingrave,” she declared. “Come and let me introduce

you to my sister. Our box is only a few yards off.”

“I AM MISANTHROPOS, AND HATE MANKIND”

Wingrave had just come in from an early gallop. His pale cheeks were

slightly flushed, and his eyes were bright. He had been riding hard to

escape from disconcerting thoughts. He looked in at the study, and found

Aynesworth with a mass of correspondence before him.

“Anything important?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Aynesworth answered. “The letters marked private I have sent

up to your room. By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell you.”

Wingrave closed the door.

“Well?” he said.

“I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night,” Aynesworth

said, “with a--person who saw you only once, soon after I first came

to you--before America. You were some distance away, and yet--my friend

recognized you.”

Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.

“That, of course, is possible,” he answered. “It really does not matter

so very much unless they knew me--as Wingrave Seton!”

“My friend,” Aynesworth said, “recognized you as Sir Wingrave Seton.”

Wingrave frowned thoughtfully for a moment.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“A most unlikely person,” Aynesworth remarked smiling. “Do you remember,

when we went down to Tredowen just before we left for America, a little,

long-legged, black-frocked child, whom we met in the gardens--the

organist’s daughter, you know?”

“What of her?” Wingrave asked.

“It was she who was with me,” Aynesworth remarked. “It was she who saw

you in the box with the Marchioness of Westchester.”

Aynesworth was puzzled by the intentness with which Wingrave was

regarding him. Impenetrable though the man was, Aynesworth, who had not

yet lost his early trick of studying him closely, knew that, for some

reason or other, his intelligence had proved disturbing.

“Have you then--kept up your acquaintance with this child?” he demanded.

Aynesworth shook his head.

“She is not a child any longer, but a very beautiful young woman,” he

said. “I met her again quite by accident. She is up in London, studying

art at the studio of an old friend of mine who has a class of girls. I

called to see him the other afternoon, and recognized her.”

“Your acquaintance,” Wingrave remarked, “has progressed rapidly if she

accepts your escort--to the gallery of the Opera!”

“It was scarcely like that,” Aynesworth explained. “I met her and Mrs.

Tresfarwin on the way there, and asked to be allowed to accompany them.

Mrs. Tresfarwin was once your housekeeper, I think, at Tredowen.”

“And did you solve the mystery of this relation of her father who turned

up so opportunely?” Wingrave asked.

Aynesworth shook his head.

“She told me nothing about him,” he answered.

Wingrave passed on to his own room. His breakfast was on the table

awaiting him, and a little pile of letters and newspapers stood by his

plate. His servant, his head groom, and his chauffeur were there to

receive their orders for the morning. About him were all the evidences

of his well-ordered life. He sent both the men away and locked the

door. It was half an hour before he touched either his breakfast or his

letters....

He lunched at Westchester House in obedience to a somewhat imperative

summons. There were other guests there, whom, however, he outstayed. As

soon as they were alone, his hostess touched him on the arm and led him

to her own room.

“At last!” she exclaimed, with an air of real relief. “There, sit down

opposite to me, please--I want to watch your face.”

She was a little paler than usual, and he noticed that she had avoided

talking much to him at luncheon time. And yet he thought that he had

never seen her more beautiful. Something in her face had altered. He

could not tell what it was for he was not a man of much experience as

regarded her sex. Yet, in a vague sort of way, he understood the

change. A certain part of the almost insolent quietness, the complete

self-assurance of her manner, had gone. She was a little more like an

ordinary woman!

“Lady Ruth proved herself an excellent tactician last night,” she

remarked. “She has given me an exceedingly uncomfortable few hours. For

you, well for you it was a respite, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know that I should call it exactly that,” he answered

thoughtfully.

She looked at him steadfastly, almost wistfully.

“Well,” she said, “I am not going to make excuses for myself. But the

things which one says naturally enough when the emotions provoke them

sound crude enough in cold blood and colder daylight. We women are

creatures of mood, you know. I was feeling a little lonely and a little

tired last night, and the music stole away my common sense.”

“I understand,” he murmured. “All that you said shall be forgotten.”

“Then you do not understand,” she answered, smiling at him. “What I said

I do not wish to be forgotten. Only--just at that moment, it sounded

natural enough--and today--I think that I am a little ashamed.”

He rose from his seat. Her eyes leaped up to his expectantly, and the

color streamed into her cheeks. But he only stood by her side. He did

nothing to meet the half-proffered embrace.

“Dear Lady Emily,” he said, “all the kind things that you said were

spoken to a stranger. You did not know me. I did not mean anyone to know

me. It is you who have commanded the truth. You must have it. I am not

the person I seem to be. I am not the person to whom words such as yours

should have been spoken. Even my name is an assumed one. I should prefer

to leave it at that--if you are content.”

“I am not content,” she answered quietly; “I must hear more.”

He bowed.

“I am a man,” he said, “who spent ten years in prison, the ten best

years of my life. A woman sent me there--a woman swore my liberty away

to save her reputation. I was never of a forgiving disposition, I was

never an amiably disposed person. I want you to understand this. Any of

the ordinary good qualities with which the average man may be endowed,

and which I may have possessed, are as dead in me as hell fire could

burn them. You have spoken of me as of a man who failed to find a

sufficient object in life. You were wrong. I have an object, and I do

my best to live up to it. I hate the whole world of men and women who

laughed their way through life whilst I suffered--tortures. I hate the

woman who sent me there. I have no heart, nor any sense of pity. Now

perhaps you can understand my life and the manner of it.”

Her hands were clasped to the side of her head. Something of horror had

stolen into the steadfast gaze with which she was still regarding him.

Yet there were other things there which puzzled him.

“This--is terrible!” she murmured. “Then you are not--Mr. Wingrave at

all?”

He hesitated. After all, it was scarcely worth while concealing anything

now.

“I am Sir Wingrave Seton,” he said. “You may remember my little affair!”

She caught hold of his hands.

“You poor, poor dear!” she cried. “How you must have suffered!”

Wingrave had a terrible moment. What he felt he would never have

admitted, even to himself. Her eyes were shining with sympathy, and it

was so unexpected. He had expected something in the nature of a cold

withdrawal; her silence was the only thing he had counted upon. It was a

fierce, but short battle. His sudden grasp of her hands was relaxed. He

stood away from her.

“You are very kind,” he said. “As you can doubtless imagine, it is a

little too late for sympathy. The years have gone, and the better part

of me, if ever there was a better part, with them.”

“I am not so sure of that!” she whispered.

He looked at her coldly.

“Why not?”

“If you were absolutely heartless,” she said, “if you were perfectly

consistent, why did you not make me suffer? You had a great chance! A

little feigned affection, and then a few truths. You could have dragged

me down a little way into the pit of broken hearts! Why didn’t you?”

He frowned.

“One is forced to neglect a few opportunities!”

She smiled at him--delightfully.

“You foolish man!” she murmured. “Some day or other, you will turn out

to be a terrible impostor. Do you know, I think I am going to ask you

again--what I asked you last night?”

“I scarcely think that you will be so ill-advised,” he declared coldly.

“Whether you believe it or not, I can assure you that I am incapable of

affection.”

She sighed.

“I am not so sure about that,” she said with protesting eyebrows, “but

you are terribly hard-hearted?”

He was entirely dissatisfied with the impression he had produced. He

considered the attitude of the Marchioness unjustifiably frivolous. He

had an uneasy conviction that she was not in the least inclined to take

him seriously.

“I don’t think,” he said, glancing at the clock, “that I need detain you

any longer.”

“You are really going away, then?” she asked him softly.

“Yes.”

“To call on Lady Ruth, perhaps?”

“As it happens, no,” he answered.

Suddenly her face changed--she had remembered something.

“It was Lady Ruth!” she exclaimed.

“Exactly!” he interrupted.

“What a triumph of inconsistency!” she declared scornfully. “You are

lending them money!”

“I am lending money to Lady Ruth,” he answered slowly.

Their eyes met. She understood, at any rate, what he intended to convey.

Certainly his expression was hard and merciless enough now!

“Poor Ruth,” she murmured.

“Some day,” he answered, “you will probably say that in earnest.”

JULIET GAINS EXPERIENCE

“Of course,” Juliet said, “after Tredowen it seems very small, almost

poky, but it isn’t, really, and Tredowen was not for me all my days. It

was quite time I got used to something else.”

Wingrave looked around him with expressionless face. It was a tiny

room, high up on the fifth floor of a block of flats, prettily but

inexpensively furnished. Juliet herself, tall and slim, with all the

fire of youth and perfect health on her young face, was obviously

contented.

“And your work?” he asked.

She made a little grimace.

“I have a good deal to unlearn,” she said, “but Mr. Pleydell is very

kind and encouraging.”