Trent, on leaving the hotel, turned for almost the first time in his
life westwards. For years the narrow alleys, the thronged streets, the
great buildings of the City had known him day by day, almost hour by
hour. Its roar and clamour, the strife of tongues and keen measuring
of wits had been the salt of his life. Steadily, sturdily, almost
insolently, he had thrust his way through to the front ranks. In many
respects those were singular and unusual elements which had gone to
the making of his success. His had not been the victory of honied
falsehoods, of suave deceit, of gentle but legalised robbery. He had
been a hard worker, a daring speculator with nerves of iron, and courage
which would have glorified a nobler cause. Nor had his been the methods
of good fellowship, the sharing of “good turns,” the camaraderie of
finance. The men with whom he had had large dealings he had treated as
enemies rather than friends, ever watching them covertly with close but
unslackening vigilance. And now, for the present at any rate it was all
over. There had come a pause in his life. His back was to the City and
his face was set towards an unknown world. Half unconsciously he had
undertaken a little voyage of exploration.
From the Strand he crossed Trafalgar Square into Pall Mall, and up the
Haymarket into Piccadilly. He was very soon aware that he had wandered
into a world whose ways were not his ways and with whom he had no
kinship. Yet he set himself sedulously to observe them, conscious that
what he saw represented a very large side of life. From the first he
was aware of a certain difference in himself and his ways. The careless
glance of a lounger on the pavement of Pall Mall filled him with a
sudden anger. The man was wearing gloves, an article of dress which
Trent ignored, and smoking a cigarette, which he loathed. Trent was
carelessly dressed in a tweed suit and red tie, his critic wore a silk
hat and frock coat, patent-leather boots, and a dark tie of invisible
pattern. Yet Trent knew that he was a type of that class which would
look upon him as an outsider, and a black sheep, until he had bought his
standing. They would expect him to conform to their type, to learn to
speak their jargon, to think with their puny brains and to see with
their short-sighted eyes. At the “Criterion” he turned in and had a
drink, and, bolder for the wine which he had swallowed at a gulp, he
told himself that he would do nothing of the sort. He would not alter
a jot. They must take him as he was, or leave him. He suffered his
thoughts to dwell for a moment upon his wealth, on the years which had
gone to the winning of it, on a certain nameless day, the memory of
which even now sent sometimes the blood running colder through his
veins, on the weaker men who had gone under that he might prosper. Now
that it was his, he wanted the best possible value for it; it was the
natural desire of the man to be uppermost in the bargain. The delights
of the world behind, it seemed to him that he had already drained. The
crushing of his rivals, the homage of his less successful competitors,
the grosser pleasures of wine, the music-halls, and the unlimited
spending of money amongst people whom he despised had long since palled
upon him. He had a keen, strong desire to escape once and for ever from
his surroundings. He lounged along, smoking a large cigar, keen-eyed and
observant, laying up for himself a store of impressions, unconsciously
irritated at every step by a sense of ostracism, of being in some
indefinable manner without kinship and wholly apart from this world, in
which it seemed natural now that he should find some place. He gazed
at the great houses without respect or envy, at the men with a fierce
contempt, at the women with a sore feeling that if by chance he should
be brought into contact with any of them they would regard him as a
sort of wild animal, to be humoured or avoided purely as a matter of
self-interest. The very brightness and brilliancy of their toilettes,
the rustling of their dresses, the trim elegance and daintiness which he
was able to appreciate without being able to understand, only served
to deepen his consciousness of the gulf which lay between him and them.
They were of a world to which, even if he were permitted to enter it,
he could not possibly belong. He returned such glances as fell upon him
with fierce insolence; he was indeed somewhat of a strange figure in
his ill-fitting and inappropriate clothes amongst a gathering of smart
people. A lady looking at him through raised lorgnettes turned and
whispered something with a smile to her companion--once before he had
heard an audible titter from a little group of loiterers. He returned
the glance with a lightning-like look of diabolical fierceness, and,
turning round, stood upon the curbstone and called a hansom.
A sense of depression swept over him as he was driven through the
crowded streets towards Waterloo. The half-scornful, half-earnest
prophecy, to which he had listened years ago in a squalid African
hut, flashed into his mind. For the first time he began to have dim
apprehensions as to his future. All his life he had been a toiler, and
joy had been with him in the fierce combat which he had waged day by
day. He had fought his battle and he had won--where were the fruits
of his victory? A puny, miserable little creature like Dickenson could
prate of happiness and turn a shining face to the future--Dickenson who
lived upon a pittance, who depended upon the whim of his employer, and
who confessed to ambitions which were surely pitiable. Trent lit a fresh
cigar and smiled; things would surely come right with him--they must.
What Dickenson could gain was surely his by right a thousand times over.
He took the train for Walton, travelling first class, and treated with
much deference by the officials on the line. As he alighted and passed
through the booking-hall into the station-yard a voice hailed him. He
looked up sharply. A carriage and pair of horses was waiting, and inside
a young woman with a very smart hat and a profusion of yellow hair.
“Come on, General,” she cried. “I've done a skip and driven down to meet
you. Such jokes when they miss me. The old lady will be as sick as they
make 'em. Can't we have a drive round for an hour, eh?”
Her voice was high-pitched and penetrating. Listening to it Trent
unconsciously compared it with the voices of the women of that other
world into which he had wandered earlier in the afternoon. He turned a
frowning face towards her.
“You might have spared yourself the trouble,” he said shortly. “I didn't
order a carriage to meet me and I don't want one. I am going to walk
home.”
She tossed her head.
“What a beastly temper you're in!” she remarked. “I'm not particular
about driving. Do you want to walk alone?”
“Exactly!” he answered. “I do!”
She leaned back in the carriage with heightened colour.
“Well, there's one thing about me,” she said acidly. “I never go where I
ain't wanted.”
Trent shrugged his shoulders and turned to the coachman.
“Drive home, Gregg,” he said. “I'm walking.”
The man touched his hat, the carriage drove off, and Trent, with a grim
smile upon his lips, walked along the dusty road. Soon he paused before
a little white gate marked private, and, unlocking it with a key which
he took from his pocket, passed through a little plantation into a large
park-like field. He took off his hat and fanned himself thoughtfully as
he walked. The one taste which his long and absorbing struggle with the
giants of Capel Court had never weakened was his love for the country.
He lifted his head to taste the breeze which came sweeping across from
the Surrey Downs, keenly relishing the fragrance of the new-mown hay and
the faint odour of pines from the distant dark-crested hill. As he came
up the field towards the house he looked with pleasure upon the great
bed of gorgeous-coloured rhododendrons which bordered his lawn, the dark
cedars which drooped over the smooth shaven grass, and the faint flush
of colour from the rose-gardens beyond. The house itself was small, but
picturesque. It was a grey stone building of two stories only, and from
where he was seemed completely embowered in flowers and creepers. In a
way, he thought, he would be sorry to leave it. It had been a pleasant
summer-house for him, although of course it was no fit dwelling-house
for a millionaire. He must look out for something at once now--a country
house and estate. All these things would come as a matter of course.
He opened another gate and passed into an inner plantation of pines and
shrubs which bordered the grounds. A winding path led through it, and,
coming round a bend, he stopped short with a little exclamation. A girl
was standing with her back to him rapidly sketching upon a little block
which she had in her left hand.
“Hullo!” he remarked, “another guest! and who brought you down, young
lady, eh?”
She turned slowly round and looked at him in cold surprise. Trent knew
at once that he had made a mistake. She was plainly dressed in white
linen and a cool muslin blouse, but there was something about her,
unmistakable even to Trent, which placed her very far apart indeed from
any woman likely to have become his unbidden guest. He knew at once that
she was one of that class with whom he had never had any association.
She was the first lady whom he had ever addressed, and he could have
bitten out his tongues when he remembered the form of his doing so.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said confusedly, “my mistake! You see,
your back was turned to me.”
She nodded and smiled graciously.
“If you are Mr. Scarlett Trent,” she said, “it is I who should
apologise, for I am a flagrant trespasser. You must let me explain.”