Mrs Hargrave sat in her pretty flat in Mount Street, absorbed in deep
thought. On her lap lay an open letter, and it was a passage in that
letter just received which accounted for her preoccupation.
She was a pretty woman, _petite_ and slender, with clear-cut, refined
features and delicate colouring. She had soft, candid blue eyes, and a
wealth of fair hair which was always arranged in the most becoming
fashion.
In a strong and searching light, a keen judge would have guessed her
real age, just a little over the wrong side of thirty. But she was
quite a clever person, and she always avoided strong lights as much as
possible. Under favourable conditions, most people took her to be at
least four or five years younger. She owned herself to twenty-six.
There was no getting at the truth of the matter. Since she first came
to London, four years ago, having been married abroad to her husband,
Jack Hargrave, a young man of good family, but a bit of a _mauvais
sujet_, she had made many acquaintances. But she appeared to have no
old friends who could throw any light on her real age or her
antecedents.
Her husband's relatives received her with scant cordiality, there was
too much reticence about her previous history to incline them in her
favour. As a matter of fact, they were not over-fond of Jack himself.
There had been certain early episodes in his career which had not
endeared him to right-thinking persons.
It was well-known that he was in no sense of the word a wealthy man.
Yet he kept an expensive flat, he was always immaculately dressed, and
his wife, to judge by her costly costumes, must have had a very liberal
allowance.
They entertained a great deal, and they had bridge parties every night
when they were at home. Knowing people whispered amongst themselves
that it was their winnings at bridge which enabled them to make such a
brave show. They were certainly both very skilful players. Not a few
persons thought they were a bit too skilful, too uniformly successful.
Two years after their marriage, Jack Hargrave died suddenly of
pneumonia, the result of a neglected chill. Strange to say, he left no
will. His widow explained this by the fact that he had made all his
property over to her, by deed of gift, soon after their marriage, as he
did not want her to be burdened with death duties.
Things were not altered in any way by Jack's death. His widow kept on
the expensive flat in Mount Street. When a decent period of mourning
had elapsed, she appeared in her usual tasteful costumes, and resumed
her bridge parties.
There was nothing to wonder at in this. If Jack Hargrave had made over
all his property to her, she was as well-off after his death as before.
Rather better, as there was only one to spend the income instead of two.
A certain thing, however, did occur which made some people suspicious.
Her husband's relatives, who had never been more than coldly civil
during Jack's lifetime, now dropped her altogether.
Jack, who was a few years younger than his wife, had been at Eton and
Oxford with Guy Rossett, and they were old friends. When Hargrave
returned from abroad with his pretty bride, he had hunted up Guy and
induced him to become a frequent visitor in Mount Street.
Guy was considerably attracted by the young hostess. Of course, he knew
that his friend was looked at askance by many people, and he knew
nothing more than the rest about Mrs Hargrave's antecedents.
When the fair young widow resumed her normal existence, and her bridge
parties, young Rossett again became a frequent visitor. And now that
there was no obstacle in the shape of a husband, he allowed her to see
that her attraction for him had grown very considerably.
She met him more than half-way. There was no doubt that the attraction
was mutual. But there were other reasons that weighed strongly with
her. Guy had a small allowance from his father, but it was supplemented
by a very handsome one from his great-aunt, an old lady of eighty, who
would also leave him her very considerable private fortune.
In every sense, he was a most eligible person. He was handsome,
distinguished-looking and charming, with the perfect manners of the
young diplomatist. And one day, and it could not be a very long one
now, he would be a rich man by the death of Lady Henrietta.
For many months, Guy Rossett went to the flat in Mount Street, losing a
considerable sum of money at bridge to his hostess and various members
of her circle.
There was a certain strain of caution in him, a certain recognition of
the fact that he would require to know a good deal more than he did
about the charming widow's past, before he committed himself definitely,
that kept the sense of attraction on his side within reasonable bounds.
Still, there is no knowing what might have happened, but for the
occurrence of a certain event. Mrs Hargrave was very charming, very
subtle, equipped with all the wiles of a clever and experienced woman.
One day, his self-control might have given way, her fascination might
have overpowered his prudence, and he would have committed himself
beyond recall.
Then something happened which switched away his thoughts for ever from
the flat in Mount Street and its fascinating owner. At a certain
country house he met Isobel Clandon, the daughter of a retired general,
a widower who lived at Eastbourne.
He took her in to dinner the first night of his arrival, and he knew he
had found the woman of his dreams. Isobel was a lovely girl of
twenty-two, a little above the middle height, a vision of beauty and
grace.
Her fresh and virginal charm, her spontaneous gaiety, drove out all
recollection of the more artificial attractions of the older woman. The
one suggested the brightness and freshness of spring, the other fading
tints of summer.
It was love at first sight on both sides, and Guy knew that he had never
really loved before. And Isobel had not even flirted with a man before
she saw him. She came to him whole-hearted, and he came as little
scarred as a man might be who has lived twenty-seven years in the world,
and seen and known many women.
Mrs Hargrave roused herself from her reverie, and took up the letter
for the second time. It was from an intimate acquaintance, and the
envelope bore the Eastbourne post-mark. Again she read that particular
paragraph which had so perturbed her.
"I have at last succeeded in meeting your Miss Clandon at a
garden-party. I made myself as pleasant as I could, and you know I
can make myself pretty well liked when I try. I think she has taken a
fancy to me, and that we shall be great friends presently. I am going
to tea with her to-morrow, and will let you know if I can get anything
definite out of her.
"She is twenty-two, and certainly a lovely girl, also a very charming
one. I introduced Mr Rossett's name, of course, and she just looked
a little shy. But I could not get her to say much, only this, that he
is coming down to Eastbourne directly, and that he has just secured an
important appointment abroad, at the British Embassy in Spain.
"She wears no engagement ring, so they are not publicly betrothed.
But I am sure there is a very good understanding between them."
The widow threw the letter down on her lap, with a fierce exclamation.
"Twenty-two, and a lovely girl," she muttered angrily. "Some pink and
white beauty, I suppose, immature, knowing nothing of life. And these
are the women who catch men of the world with their youth and
innocence."
Her face grew hard, she looked almost plain, and for the moment her
thirty years showed themselves unmistakably.
She tore the offending note into fragments, and threw them into a dainty
little waste-paper basket--everything about the flat was dainty.
"But I will get even with Mr Guy Rossett before long," she cried
vindictively, as she returned to her seat.
It was somewhere about ten o'clock in the morning when she indulged in
these bitter reflections, when she had to admit, in the face of that
letter, that her ambitious schemes had gone astray.
At the same hour, a tall and corpulent gentleman, attired in an elegant
morning coat and silk hat, descended the steps of his house at Walton,
stepped into the Rolls-Royce car waiting for him, drove to the station,
and took the train to London.
He was known in his business, and in the neighbourhood, as Mr Jackson,
although his foreign appearance and swarthy complexion gave the direct
lie to his English name.
Not for him the easy bowler or soft hat, and the lounge suit. He had an
idea that to be successful in business it was necessary to preserve the
old traditions. Financial stability was suggested by the frock coat and
the topper.
He described himself as a financier, and so in a certain sense he was.
But in spite of the name of Jackson, he was a Spaniard by birth, and his
real cognomen was Juan Jaques. As regards his business, he was a
moneylender, pure and simple.
He had a spacious suite of offices in one of the most private-looking
houses in Dover Street. His staff was small, consisting of a
confidential woman secretary who typed his letters, generally suave, but
occasionally menacing; an equally confidential clerk who kept his
accounts; and a smart office boy.
From this agreeable point of vantage, he accommodated young men of good
family, and equally good prospects, when they were temporarily hard up.
He had a very select _clientele_, and, to do him justice, for a
moneylender, he was not extortionate. "Treat your clients fairly, and
they will come again. You make regular customers of them. They don't
go buzzing off to Tom, Dick, and Harry." These were the principles on
which he conducted his very lucrative business.
He was in a very good humour this morning, as he got out of the taxi
which had brought him from Waterloo to his office.
There were very few letters, but their contents pleased him; they
suggested good business. The last one was from Guy Rossett, who
intimated that he would call about twelve o'clock, as he wanted to have
a short chat.
The astute Spaniard, known to all but a very few as the naturalised
Englishman, Jackson, smiled.
He had not enjoyed the pleasure of Guy's acquaintance very long. Mrs
Hargrave had brought the two men together, and the introduction had been
effected through the following circumstances.
At a certain period, Guy had found himself very short of money,
practically due to bridge losses at the flat in Mount Street. He had
rather hesitatingly asked the charming widow if she knew of any decent
moneylender, who would finance him at a rate of interest that was not
too extortionate.
Violet had raised her candid blue eyes--they were her best asset--to
his, with a world of pity in them.
"Oh, Mr Rossett, I am so sorry to hear of this. It is all this
horrible bridge. I always seem lucky, but such a lot of my friends have
bad luck. I think I shall give up these parties, if they are going to
embarrass the people I like."
There was a soft mist in her eyes, as she gave utterance to these noble
sentiments. Guy felt a little thrill pass through him. She was not a
mere worldling, she had her full share of real kindness, of real
womanliness.
"One's own fault, you know," he answered lightly. "I suppose I ought to
be old enough to take care of myself. I needn't play bridge if I don't
want to, need I?"
Mrs Hargrave did not answer for a moment. She seemed struggling with
her remorseful thoughts. Then, after a brief space, inspiration came to
her, and she played a strong and winning card.
She laid her hand upon his arm, and her voice trembled ever so little as
she spoke.
"Mr Rossett, we have been very good friends, have we not? And you were
a pal of dear old Jack's long before I met him."
Rossett nodded. At the moment he had no idea what she was driving at,
or what she was leading up to. And he was pretty quick too.
"Then I want you, for the moment, to think of me as a pal. Fancy for
the time I am Jack, your old friend. What I want to say is this, don't
go to these horrible people. They are sure to rook you. I have a
little money put by--dear old Jack left me comfortably off--and I make
quite a small income out of my winnings. Let me be your banker. Now,
don't be proud."
Guy was profoundly touched, and he thanked her in no measured terms.
But the idea of borrowing money from a woman, even if she were a dear
friend, was too horrible to contemplate for a second. Had there been no
alternative, he would sooner have blown his brains out.
He told her this, and she sighed regretfully, as one amazed at the
obstinacy of a certain type of man. She knew, could she once have got
him to accept this loan, she would be sure of him.
"You see, it is quite impossible," he ended, rather awkwardly. It is
not a pleasant thing to refuse the kindness thrust upon you in the most
graceful way by a charming woman. "Do you happen to know of any of
these sharks?"
Frustrated in her clever little scheme, the fair Violet reflected for a
few seconds. Then she spoke in a hesitating voice, as if she were
trying to recall certain memories of the past.
"Yes, I do know a man who, I believe, is a decent specimen of his kind.
You know, a lot of people wonder that Jack was so well-off. Well, in
the first place, he was awfully clever, and he had two or three good
friends in the City who gave him tips. But he wanted a bit of capital.
He found out this man Jackson, who has offices in Dover Street. Jackson
believed in him, and financed him, of course taking a good share. That
was only natural."
Rossett pricked up his ears. The thing that had puzzled so many people
was already partly explained. Jack had been, as his wife said, a clever
fellow, and a bit of a dark horse. He had been making money in the City
in a subterranean way, with the help of the philanthropic Mr Jackson,
who, no doubt, had looked after his own share of the profits. But why
the deuce had not Jack Hargrave told this openly to his intimates? Then
all _innuendos_ and suspicions would have been silenced at once.
Mrs Hargrave went on in her sweet, low voice. "I don't think I have
ever told this to a soul. You will respect my confidence. I always
thought it a little silly of Jack, but he made a point of keeping the
secret to himself."
"Need you ask the question?" queried Guy Rossett reproachfully.
"No, I am sure I can trust you. Well, this man Jackson; by the way,
that is not his real name, he is a naturalised Spaniard. I see him
sometimes on a few matters in which he is still interested, and which he
looks after for me. I will give you a note to him, and ask him to treat
you very gently."
But, before she moved to her writing-table, she again looked pleadingly
at him.
"Are you sure you will not reconsider my suggestion? Surely you would
rather be indebted to me than to a mere sordid moneylender?"
Again Guy repeated his thanks. But on this point he was adamant;
nothing would move him.
He took the letter of introduction to Mr Jackson. This gentleman was
affability itself. Mrs Hargrave's introduction was quite sufficient.
Guy was too much a gentleman to put searching questions as to Jackson's
private knowledge of the Hargraves, husband and wife.
On his side, Mr Jackson had the private _dossier_ of every eligible
young man, from the moneylender's point of view, entered in his
reference book. He knew all about the Earl of Saxham, and the Lady
Henrietta. Young Mr Rossett was quite a desirable client. He was
pleased to add him to his list.
As a matter of fact, the loan was quite a small one, and was granted on
reasonable terms. There was no speculative element in the transaction.
Guy was a young man who might make a mistake now and again, but he would
never kick over the traces for long, and he was as straight as a die.
On this particular morning, Mr Jackson received him with the greatest
affability.
"Delighted to see you, Mr Rossett. Too early for a drink, I am afraid,
but have a cigar."
He pushed across a box of cigars that even a Spanish Jew could not have
bought under half a crown apiece.
"Now, what is it, Mr Rossett? Just a little more ready, I suppose?"
Guy bit off the end of the very excellent cigar with a composed air. He
had not the appearance of a suppliant for financial favours.
"Not quite as bad as that, Mr Jackson. But I have a bill for six
hundred due next month. It would be a great convenience to me if you
would renew half when it falls due, of course on the usual terms."
For a moment, Mr Jackson's face fell. He had hoped he was going to get
deeper into the young man's ribs, looking forward to that blessed day
when Lady Henrietta's fortune would wipe off all arrears.
Then, the next moment, he cheered up. Guy was not going to be a very
big customer, but he was a safe one. A young man who could pay off half
of his indebtedness was to be trusted. Not much waiting, just quick
profits.
It took them a few moments to discuss the details of the extension of
the loan. When these had been settled, Mr Jackson consulted his watch.
"I think, Mr Rossett, we might venture upon a small bottle now, what do
you think?"
Guy really did not want anything to drink at this comparatively early
hour of the morning. But, in view of further favours, it would not be
politic to check his host's hospitable impulses.
The moneylender produced a very excellent small bottle of _veuve
cliquot_. The two men sat chatting for some time. Suddenly, the
telephone bell rang.
What was whispered down it seemed to agitate Mr Jackson a little.
Rossett could, of course, only catch his disjointed replies.
"Actually left the house, you say, on the way. Ought always to give me
notice. Might be too busy. Well, it can't be helped. Good-bye."
As a matter of fact, it was Mrs Hargrave's maid who had rung up to tell
him that her mistress was on her way to his office. He knew enough to
be sure that a meeting between Violet and Rossett would be very
disturbing to both, hence his discomfiture.
Mount Street to Dover Street in a taxi is not a very far cry. If Guy
Rossett did not swallow his champagne and clear out in a few seconds,
the meeting was inevitable. The only apartments were the outer office,
the waiting-room, and his own sanctum, and they all led into each other.
Guy, not being thirsty, drank his wine very leisurely. Then he rose to
go, but some minutes had elapsed, and at the moment he rose the office
boy brought in a slip of folded paper, on which was written Mrs
Hargrave's name.
"Many thanks for meeting me in this little matter, Mr Jackson. Well,
for the present, good-bye." And poor Guy Rossett, fondly thinking that
he had laid the ghosts of the past, emerged from Jackson's room to be
confronted with Violet Hargrave, seated in one of those luxurious easy
chairs which the hospitable foreigner provided for his waiting clients.
He put the best face he could on the situation, and advanced with
outstretched hand.
"An unexpected pleasure, Mrs Hargrave," he cried in a very uncertain
voice. A more embarrassed specimen of a budding diplomatist could not
have been observed.
The pretty widow ignored the outstretched hand. She looked at him
steadily, and the blue eyes were no longer soft and limpid, but hard as
steel.
"I think," she said in a voice that was as hard as her glance, "you are
indulging in the language of diplomacy, which is usually used to
disguise one's real thoughts."
Rossett turned red, and began, in his agitation, to stammer forth lame
and foolish excuses.
"I have been awfully busy lately, you know, not had time for anything in
the social line. The truth is, Mrs Hargrave, I have just woke up to
the fact that I have been wasting a good part of my life. I am really
going in now for work, hard work, and ambition."
She swept him with a contemptuous glance.
"Is this supposed to be an apology for your despicable conduct as
regards myself?"
"As you please to take it, Mrs Hargrave." Knowing he was utterly in
the wrong, he took refuge in a sort of sullen dignity.
Her voice grew more scornful as she answered in her clear, vibrant
tones.
"I should not like to detain you even for a moment, when you have such a
laudable object in view. If you are going to atone for those wasted
years, you will have a tremendous lot of leeway to make up. You cannot
spare a second. Good day." He could not rally under her sharp tongue
and keen woman's wit. He bowed, and was about to move away when she
stopped him with an imperious gesture.
"One moment of your valuable time, if you please, Mr Rossett. You are
fond of running away when the situation becomes a little inconvenient to
yourself. But on this, I hope, our last meeting, I wish to say a few
words to you, which it is well you should hear. May I presume to
trespass on your time for a few seconds longer?"
There was still in her tones the same bitter note of sarcasm. But by
this time, Guy had recovered himself a little, and was able to muster a
remnant of dignity.
"My time is at your disposal," he replied quietly.
"You have not acted the part of a gentleman, Mr Rossett. You were
supposed to be my husband's friend; you pretended to be mine. Certain
events occurred, the nature of which it is easy to guess, which caused
you to think my friendship was no longer desirable. That is the truth,
is it not? Be frank for once, if a diplomatist can ever be frank."
She dominated the situation. Rossett could only stammer forth a
shamefaced admission that it was the truth.
"You admit it. Would you not have played a more manly part, if you had
come to me with a frank and proper explanation of those events?"
"That is just what I ought to have done," said Guy Rossett humbly. He
had never admired her more than now. Up to the present moment he had no
idea that this dainty, slender woman, more or less of a butterfly, had
such spirit in her fragile frame.
"Instead of that," pursued Violet Hargrave in her inflexible, vibrating
tones, "you adopt a device pursued by many men I know, by the type of
man who lacks moral courage. I am afraid I shall hurt you a little now,
but I don't mind because you have hurt me, and I want to cry quits. You
adopted the coward's device of running away from the woman to whom you
were afraid to tell the truth."
Rossett was utterly beaten. He could not say a word in self-defence.
He stood speechless under the lash of her scorn, her not unjustifiable
indignation. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
"I will keep you no longer, Mr Rossett. For some years we were rather
intimate friends. To-day we are strangers. As a stranger, I will bid
you good-bye."
And Guy Rossett was happy to escape. He had never felt more humiliated
in his life.
He put himself into a taxi, and drove straight to the St James's Club,
beloved of diplomatists. He ruminated ruefully over his discomfiture at
the hands of the sharp-tongued Mrs Hargrave.
"Some women have the knack of making a man feel like a worm," he thought
bitterly. "Mary has it in her quiet, incisive way. Violet has it to
perfection."
The young widow entered the sanctum of the moneylender. Outwardly, her
demeanour was calm, but in her breast a volcano was raging. Her pride
had been humbled, her hopes ruthlessly crushed. She was raging with all
the resentful impotence of the woman scorned.
Jackson met her with outstretched hands, and took both of hers.
"My poor little Violet," he said kindly. "I can see you are very upset;
at least, it is plain to me who have known you from a baby. If you had
only told your maid to 'phone me up before you started, I would have
delayed you, and prevented this."
She sank down on a chair with a little weary sigh. "You have always
been my best friend, Juan. Heaven knows what I should have done or
where I should have been without you."
"Tut, tut." The "financier" was very human where women were concerned.
"And you are fond of this fellow, eh, apart from other considerations?"
"I was, Juan, but now I hate him," was the uncompromising reply.
"Still, on the whole, I am not sure I would have missed that little talk
with him. Clever young man of the world as he is, ready and quick as he
was, I cut him to the quick. I made him feel very small."
Jackson chuckled. "I will wager you gave him a good dressing down, when
you once started. Well now, my child, I guess you want to see me on
something important."
"Something very important," was the reply.
The two drew their chairs closely together, and conversed in low tones,
using the Spanish language.