AN UNWELCOME VISITOR
Saton was only a few minutes being whirled down the avenue of Beauleys
and up along the narrow country lane, wreathed with honeysuckle and
wild roses, to Blackbird's Nest. He leaned back in the great car, his
unseeing eyes travelling over the quiet landscape. There was something
out of keeping, a little uncanny, even, in the flight of the motor-car
with its solitary passenger along the country lane, past the hay
carts, and the villagers resting after their long day's toil. The man
who leaned back amongst the cushions, with his pale, drawn face, and
dark, melancholy eyes, seemed to them like a creature from another
world, even as the vehicle in which he travelled, so swift and
luxurious, filled them with wonder. Saton heard nothing of their
respectful good-nights. He saw nothing of their doffed hats and
curious, wondering glances. He was thinking with a considerable amount
of uneasiness of the interview which probably lay before him.
The car turned in at the rude gates, and climbed the rough road which
led to Saton's temporary abode. A servant met him at the door as he
descended, a gray-haired, elderly man, irreproachably attired, whose
manner denoted at once the well-trained servant.
"There is a lady here, sir," he said--"she arrived some hours ago--who
has been waiting to see you. You will find her in the morning-room."
Saton took off his hat, and moved slowly down the little hall.
"I trust that I did not make a mistake, sir, in allowing her to wait?"
the man asked. "She assured me that she was intimately known to you."
"You were quite right, Parkins," Saton answered. "I think I know who
she is, but I was scarcely expecting her to-day."
He opened the door of the morning-room and closed it quickly. The
woman rose up from the couch, where she had apparently been asleep,
and looked at him.
"At last!" she exclaimed. "Bertrand, do you know that I have been here
since the morning?"
"How was I to know?" he answered. "You sent no word that you were
coming. I certainly did not expect you."
"Are you glad?" she asked, a little abruptly.
"I am always glad to see you, Violet," he said, putting his arm around
her waist and kissing her. "All the same, I am not sure that your
coming here is altogether wise."
"I waited as long as I could," she answered. "You didn't come to me.
You scarcely even answered my letters. I couldn't bear it any longer.
I had to come and see you. Bertrand, you haven't forgotten? Tell me
that you haven't forgotten."
He sat down by her side. She was a young woman, and though her face
was a little hardened by the constant use of cosmetics, she was still
well enough looking.
"My dear Violet," he said, "of course I have not forgotten. Only don't
you see how unwise it is of you to come down here? If she were to
know----"
"She will not know," the girl interrupted. "She is safe in London, and
will be there for a week."
"The servants here might tell her that you have been," he suggested.
"You will have to see to it that they don't," she said. "Bertrand, I
am so unhappy. When are you coming back?"
"Very soon," he answered.
"We can spend the evening together, can't we?" she asked, looking at
him anxiously. "My train doesn't go back until nine."
"That is just what we cannot do," he answered. "You did not tell me
that you were coming, and I have to go out to dinner to-night."
"To dinner? Here?" she repeated. "You have soon made friends." And her
face darkened.
"I stayed here when I was a boy," he answered. "There is someone
living here who knew me then."
"Can't you put it off, Bertrand?" she begged. "It is five weeks since
I have seen you. Every day I have hoped that you would run up, if it
was only for an hour. Bertrand dear, don't go to this dinner. Can't we
have something here, and go for a walk in the country before my train
goes, or sit in your study and talk? There are so many things I want
to ask you about our future."
He took her hand and leaned towards her.
"My dear Violet," he said, "you must be reasonable. I dare not offend
these people with whom I have promised to dine, and apart from that, I
think it is very unwise that I should spend any time at all here with
you. You know what sort of a person it is whom we both have to
consider. She would turn us both into the street and treat it all as a
jest, if it pleased her. I tell you frankly, Violet, I have been too
near starvation once to care about facing it again. I am going to send
you back to the station in the car now. You can catch a train to
London almost at once."
Her face grew suddenly hard. She looked older. The light which had
flashed into her face at his coming, was gone. One saw now the
irregularities of her complexion, the over-red lips.
"You dismiss me," she said, in a low tone. "I have come all this way,
have waited all this time, and you throw me a kiss out of pity, and
you tell me to go home as fast as I can. Bertrand, you did not talk
like this a few months ago. You did not talk like this when you asked
me to marry you!"
"Nor shall I talk like it," he answered, "when we meet once more in
London, and have another of our cosy little dinners. But frankly, you
are doing an absolutely unwise thing in staying here. These people are
not my servants. They are hers. They are beyond my bribing. Violet,"
he added, dropping his voice a little, and drawing her into his arms,
"don't be foolish, dear. Don't run the risk of bringing disaster upon
both of us. You wouldn't care to have to do without her now. Nor
should I. It was a little thoughtless of you to come, dear. Do follow
my advice now, and I will try and make it up to you very soon. I shall
certainly be in London next week."
She rested in his arms for a moment with half closed eyes, as though
content with his words and his embrace. Yet, as she disengaged
herself, she sighed a little. She was willing to deceive herself--she
was anxious to do so--but always the doubt remained!
"Very well, Bertrand," she said, "I will go."
"You will just catch a fast train to London," he said, more
cheerfully. "You will change at Mechester, and you will find a
dining-car there. Have you plenty of money?"
"Plenty, thank you," she answered.
He walked with her out into the hall.
"Madame will be so sorry," he said, "to have missed you. The telegram
must have been a complete misunderstanding. Till next week, then."
He handed her into the car, and raising her fingers to his lips,
kissed them gallantly.
"To the station, William," he ordered the chauffeur, "and then get
back for me as quickly as you can."
The car swung off. Saton stood watching it with darkening face. There
was some pity in his heart for this somewhat _passee_ young person,
who had been kind to him during those first few weeks of his
re-entering into life. He recognised the fact that his swift progress
was unfortunate for her. He even sat for a moment or two smoking a
cigarette in his very luxurious dressing-room, fingering the
gold-topped bottles of his dressing-case, and wondering what would be
the most effectual and least painful means of coming to an
understanding with her!