OLD ACQUAINTANCES
Rochester was walking slowly along the country lane which led from the
main road to Beauleys, when the hoot of a motor overtaking him caused
him to slacken his pace and draw in close to the hedge-side. The great
car swung by, with a covered top upon which was luggage, a chauffeur,
immaculate in dark green livery, and inside, two people. Rochester
caught a glimpse of them as they passed by--the woman, heavily muffled
up notwithstanding the warm afternoon, old and withered; the man,
young, with dark, sallow complexion, and thoughtful eyes. They were
gone like a flash. Yet Rochester stood for a moment in the road
looking after them, before he turned into a field to escape the cloud
of dust. The man's face was peculiar, and strangely enough it
was familiar. He racked his brains in vain for some clue to its
identity--searched every corner of his memory without success.
Finally, with a little shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the
subject.
He was soon to be reminded of it, though, for when he reached home, he
was told at once that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the study.
Then Rochester, with a little gasp of surprise, recalled that likeness
which had puzzled him so much. He knew who his visitor was! He walked
toward the study, filled with a curious--perhaps, even, an ominous
sense of excitement!...
They were face to face in a few seconds. The man was unchanged. The
boy alone was altered. Rochester's hair was a little grayer, perhaps,
but his face was still smooth. His out-of-door life and that wonderful
mouth of his, with its half humorous, half cynical curve, still kept
his face young. To the boy had come a change much more marked and
evident. He was a boy no longer--not even a youth. He carried himself
with the assured bearing of a man of the world. His thick black hair
was carefully parted. His clothes bore the stamp of Saville Row. His
face was puzzling. His eyes were still the eyes of a dreamer, the eyes
of a man who is content to be rather than to do. Yet the rest of his
face seemed somehow to have suffered. His cheeks had filled out. His
mouth and expression were no longer easy to read. There were things in
his face which would have puzzled a physiognomist.
Rochester had entered the library and closed the door behind him. He
nodded toward the man who rose slowly to greet him, but ignored his
outstretched hand.
"I am sure that I cannot be mistaken," he said. "It is my young friend
of the hillside."
"It is he," Saton answered. "I scarcely expected to be remembered."
"One sees so few fresh faces," Rochester murmured. "You have kept the
condition, then? I must confess that I am glad to see you. I shall
hope that you will have a great deal that is interesting to tell me.
At any rate, it is a good sign that you have kept the condition."
"I have kept the condition," Saton answered. "I was never likely to
break it. I have wandered up and down the world a good deal during the
past five years, and I have met many strange sorts of people, but I
have never yet met with philanthropy on such a unique scale as yours."
"Not philanthropy, my young friend," Rochester murmured. "I had but
one motive in making you that little gift--curiosity pure and simple."
"Forgive me," Saton remarked. "We will call it a loan, if you do not
mind. I am not going to offer you any interest. The five hundred
pounds are here."
He handed a little packet across to Rochester, who slipped it
carelessly into his pocket.
"This is romance indeed!" he declared, with something of the old
banter in his tone. "You are worse than the industrious apprentice.
Have I, by chance, the pleasure of speaking to one of the world's
masters--a millionaire?"
The young man laughed. His laugh, at any rate, was not unpleasant.
"No!" he said. "I don't suppose that I am even wealthy, as the world
reckons wealth. I have succeeded to a certain extent, although I came
very, very near to disaster. I have made a little money, and I can
make more when it is necessary."
"Your commercial instincts," Rochester remarked, "have not been
thoroughly aroused, then?"
The young man smiled.
"Do I need to tell you," he asked, "that great wealth was not among
the things I saw that night?"
"That was a marvelous motor-car in which you passed me," remarked the
other.
"It belongs to the lady," Saton said, "who brought me down from
London."
Rochester nodded.
"It will be interesting to me," he remarked, "later on, to hear
something of your adventures. To judge by your appearance, and your
repayment of that small amount of money, you have prospered."
"One hates the word," Saton murmured, with a sudden frown upon his
forehead. "I suppose I must admit that I have been fortunate to some
extent. I am able to repay my debt to you."
"That," Rochester interrupted, "is a trifle. It was not worth
considering. In fact I am rather disappointed that you have paid me
back."
"I was forced to do it," Saton answered. "One cannot accept alms."
Rochester eyed his visitor a little thoughtfully.
"A platitude merely," he said. "One accepts alms every day, every
moment of the day. One goes about the world giving and receiving. It
is a small point of view which reckons gold as the only means of
exchange."
The young man bowed.
"I am corrected," he said. "Yet you must admit that there is something
different in the obligation which is created by money."
"Mine, I fear," Rochester answered, "is not an analytic mind. A blunt
regard to truth has always been one of my characteristics. Therefore,
at the risk of indelicacy, I am going on to ask you a question. I
found you on the hillside, a discontented, miserable youth, and I did
for you something which very few sane people would have been inclined
even to consider. Years afterwards--it must be nearly seven, isn't
it?--you return me my money, and we exchange a few polite platitudes.
I notice--or is it that I only seem to notice--on your part an entire
lack of gratitude for that eccentric action of mine. The discontented
boy has become, presumably, a prosperous citizen of the world. The two
are so far apart, perhaps----"
Saton threw out his hands. For the first time, there flashed into his
face something of the boy, some trace of that more primitive, more
passionate hold upon life. He abandoned his measured tones, his calm,
almost studied bearing.
"Gratitude!" he interrupted. "I am not sure that I feel any! In those
days I had at least dreams. I am not sure that it was not a devilish
experiment of yours to send me out to grope my way amongst the
mirages. You were a man of the world then. You knew and understood.
You knew how bitter a thing life is, how for one who climbs, a
thousand must fall. I am not sure," he repeated, with a little catch
in his throat, "that I feel any gratitude."
Rochester nodded thoughtfully. He was not in the least annoyed.
"You interest me," he murmured. "From what you say, I gather that your
material prosperity has been somewhat dearly bought."
"There isn't much to be wrung from life," Saton answered bitterly,
"that one doesn't pay for."
"A little later on," Rochester said, "it will give me very much
pleasure to hear something of your adventures. At present, I fear that
I must deny myself that pleasure. My wife has done me the honor to
make me one of her somewhat rare visits, and my house is consequently
full of guests."
"I will not intrude," the young man answered, rising. "I shall stay in
the village for a few days. We may perhaps meet again."
Rochester hesitated for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth
twitched. There was humor in this situation, after all, and in the
thing which he proposed to himself.
"You must not hurry way," he said. "Come and be introduced to some of
my friends."
If Rochester expected any hesitation on the part of his visitor, he
was disappointed. The young man seemed to accept the suggestion as the
most natural in the world.
"I shall be very glad," he said calmly. "I shall be interested, too,
to meet your wife. At the time when I had the pleasure of seeing you
before, you were, I believe, unmarried."
Rochester opened the door, and led the way out into the hall without a
word.