Blair came back to town, thin, and pale, and haggard, with only one
desire in his heart: to forget the past and kill the present! He had
been wild and reckless as a youth, and it had only been his love for
Margaret that had checked him in his road to ruin.
If she had still been by his side, he would have swung round and
become one of the steadiest of men--she would have been his saving and
guardian angel. But he had lost her, and with her all that had made his
life worth living.
So he came back to the old life in London, hating it with a weariness
bitter as death, and yet not knowing of any other way in which to kill
time and escape from the past.
As Austin Ambrose had said, his friends were glad to see him, but they
were aghast at the change which a few weeks had wrought in the old
light-hearted Blair; and the pace he was going alarmed even the most
reckless of them.
They dared not ask him any questions, for there was something about
him, a touch of savageness and smothered bitterness in his manner which
warned them that any display of curiosity would be resented.
"I can't make Blair out," said Lord Aldmere to Colonel Floyd. It was at
a well-known club which does not open its doors until well-regulated
people have gone to bed. "What he has been doing, Heaven only knows;
but I never saw a man so changed. Why it was only this summer that
he was in the best of form bright as a--a star, don't you know, and
now--look at him!" he concluded, glancing across the room at Blair, as
he sat moodily over the fire, a big cigar in his mouth, his haggard
face drooping on his breast, his sad eyes fixed gloomily on the ground.
"Never saw such a change in a man in all my life."
"He has been ill, you know," said the colonel, eying the drooping,
listless figure with a troubled regard; "had a fever and all that kind
of thing."
"Yes--I know," said the marquis, stammeringly; "but other fellows have
had fevers, and they don't cut up like that. I had the fever--no, I
think it was measles, or mumps, or something, but I pulled round all
right, and was as jolly as a sandboy after all. It isn't the fever
that's done it, Floyd; there's something else, depend upon it. Where
has he been all this time? nobody knows exactly."
"You'd better ask him," said the colonel, with grim irony.
"Ask him!" stuttered the marquis; "I dare say! I expect I should get my
head snapped off! Some fellow said something about Paris yesterday, and
turning to Blair, said: 'But you were there then, weren't you, Blair?'
and Blair just turned and glared at him as if he was going to eat him!
No, by George, you bet I don't ask him anything!"
"Perhaps you'd better not," assented the colonel. "Discretion is the
better part of valor. But he isn't always like this, is he?" he asked,
in an undertone.
"No, not always," replied Aldmere. "He'll wake up presently and pull
himself together, and then he'll go into the dining-room and order some
dinner, and as like as not when it comes he'll march out and leave it!
I've seen him do it two or three times, by Jove! and then later on
he'll take a big drink, and when he's livened up a bit, he'll go down
to the Green Table."
The colonel whistled. The Green Table was the fashionable gaming club,
and the proprietor might appropriately have inscribed over its handsome
stone doorway, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!" for many a man
had found cause to rue the hour in which he passed its portals.
There was no more dangerous place in all London than the Green Table,
and Colonel Floyd's whistle was not by any means superfluous.
"And does he win?" he asked.
"Sometimes, but not often," replied the marquis. "Loses four nights out
of five. Seems to have lost his game, too. You know how good he was at
most things? First rate all round man, you know. But now he seems to
have lost his head, and plays like a man in a dream. I saw him miss two
points at baccarat last night. Poor old Blair!"
"Poor old Blair!" echoed the colonel. "Can't something be done?"
The young marquis shook his head sadly.
"Who could do anything? In the old times, Blair was as good-natured a
fellow as you'd meet in a day's walk; but, by George! as I said, you
dare not speak to him now. If one of us were to drop a word signifying
that he was going to the devil--well, by jingo! he'd send us there
ourselves, and pretty sharp."
"I suppose it was some love affair?" said the colonel, thoughtfully.
"Don't know. Perhaps so. There is one fellow who could tell us, and
that's that fellow Austin Ambrose."
The colonel made a grimace.
"I hate that fellow more than ever," he said. "He's back, too, by
the way. Shouldn't wonder if he has been with Blair all the time,
and isn't, in some way or other, mixed up with the business. I never
thought that fellow up to much."
"Don't see what harm he could be up to," said the young marquis. "And
so the fair Violet won't go down to Scotland this autumn, eh, Floyd?"
"No," said the colonel, ruefully; "and so I can't, either, confound it!
Not that there seems much use in hanging about, for one can't get a
civil word from her lately."
"They say," whispered the marquis, "that she's still sweet on Blair."
The colonel glanced over at him and shrugged his shoulders.
"Then she's wasting that same sweetness on desert air, Aldy, for to my
certain knowledge he hasn't been near Park Lane since he came back.
Hallo, talk of the devil--here is that fellow!"
For Austin Ambrose entered the room in his peculiar noiseless fashion,
and, bestowing a nod upon the colonel and the marquis, crossed the room
to Blair's chair.
Blair looked up as Austin Ambrose greeted him, looked up with that
listless, spiritless glance which speaks so eloquently of the wrecked
hopes and consequent despair.
"Well Blair," said Austin Ambrose, with his slow smile. "Thought I
should find you here! You've dined, of course?"
Blair thought a moment as if he were trying to recollect.
"No, I haven't," he said.
"No?" cheerfully. "Come and have some grilled bones with me."
"I hate grilled bones," was the listless response.
Austin Ambrose laughed and dropped into a chair.
"So do I, if it comes to that, but man must eat to live; but never mind
the bones. Blair," and he leaned forward, "you have seen the evening
paper?"
"No," said Blair, lighting his cigar, which he had allowed to die out.
"No! Then you don't know that Springtime has lost?"
"Has he?" was the indifferent response. "Did I back him?" and he passed
his thin wasted hand over his forehead.
Austin Ambrose raised his eyebrows.
"Did you back him? My dear Blair, what a question! Didn't you tell me
this morning to get what odds I could?"
"Yes, I remember," said Blair, leaning back and gazing into the fire.
"That's the horse you thought so well of, isn't it?"
Austin Ambrose colored faintly.
"Well, I don't know. I would not put it exactly that way. But I did
think he had a chance, and I backed him myself for as much as I could
afford," he said in a much lower tone than Blair had used, for he did
not want the marquis and the colonel to hear them.
"And he lost?" said Blair, indifferently. "Well, somebody must lose,"
and he shrank back in his chair as if he were both weary and cold.
"I suppose the money is all right?--I mean that you have a balance at
the bank?" said Austin Ambrose.
Blair nodded languidly.
"I suppose so. Oh, yes, I think so," he said, carelessly. "If not,
Tyler & Driver will see to it."
Then he relapsed into his old attitude, and into the silence which had
lately become habitual to him. Presently he rose and absently took two
or three turns up and down the room. He was the shadow of his former
self in bulk, but the stalwart frame was there still, and the marquis
and Floyd watched him sadly.
"Going home, Blair?" said the colonel, in that tone of forced
cheerfulness which we use toward a friend that has been stricken down
by illness or a great sorrow.
"Home?" he said, with a little start and suppressed shudder. "Good
heavens, no! What should I do with the rest of the night?"
"It's morning now," said the marquis with a yawn. "Why not go to bed,
old man?"
"No, thank you," said Blair with a grim smile. "Why should I go to bed?"
"Why, to sleep," replied the young lord.
"Yes, but I don't sleep," came the instant retort. "No, I think I'll go
down to the Green Table."
"Oh, hang the Green Table!" exclaimed the colonel. "What's the use of
going to that beastly place?"
"As for that, what's the use of going to any beastly place?" said
Blair, and he rang the bell and asked for his overcoat.
"We'd better go with him, I suppose?" whispered the marquis; and when
the footman had helped Blair on with his coat, they got theirs and
followed him; Austin Ambrose walking by his side, his face calm and
serene with its cool, set smile.
The tables at the gaming club seemed pretty well crowded, but Blair
found a chair presently and began to play. The marquis and Colonel
Floyd stood behind him with Austin Ambrose.
Neither of the men had spoken a word to him, beyond returning his
greeting as he entered the club, but now impelled by his anxiety on
Blair's account, the marquis addressed him.
"I say, Ambrose, you know," he interposed; "poor old Blair is going to
the--de--devil, don't you know!"
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"He was always very wild," he said in an undertone, without removing
his eyes from Blair's cards.
"Wild! Yes; but not like this. What's come to him?--what's happened to
him? He's like a man half off his head, poor old chap. Look how he's
playing now! Why, a child could beat him. And he plays so confounded
high. I've heard there's a lot of money in the family; but, hang it
all, a gold mine couldn't stand it!"
Austin Ambrose heaved a deep sigh.
"I quite understand your feelings, my dear marquis; but what am I to
do? If you think my poor friend is a man to be coaxed or managed, well,
try it."
The marquis swore under his breath.
"I will!" he said, and laying his hand on Blair's shoulder, he said, in
an undertone: "Old fellow, the luck is dead against you to-night; throw
the cards up and come away."
Blair turned as a man might turn from a dream, and looked up at him.
"Oh, is it you, Aldy? I beg your pardon. Want to go? All right, just
wait till I have had another hand. The luck is against me, as you
say, but what does it matter?" and he smiled. "The next best thing to
winning is losing, you know."
"You see!" said Austin Ambrose in a low voice. "What is to be done? I
have tried everything, but it is of no use," then he bent over Blair,
and said:
"Are you coming my way, Blair? I am going now."
"No, I think not," was the listless reply. "Going? Good-night."
The marquis and Colonel Floyd walked out of the club.
"I wonder what that fellow's game is," said the latter, "for, mark my
words, Aldy, he has a game, all these sort of men have. Did you see his
face when poor Blair lost?"
"No, I was watching the cards," said the marquis.
"Well, I wasn't. I was watching our palefaced friend, and if it was
sorrow on his face, then I don't know joy when I see it. I don't know
what his game is, and I can't even guess at it, but if he isn't winning
it, then I'm a Dutchman."
Blair played on until the daylight came in faint streaks through the
Venetian blinds of the card room, and the hour of closing arrived. Then
he rose as listless and weary, as unmoved and calm as when he sat down.
"You have lost," said Austin Ambrose, who still stood beside him.
"Yes, I think so. Oh, yes, heavily."
"Heavily!" echoed Austin Ambrose. "My dear Blair! And you have had a
run of bad luck all the week?"
"Yes, luck has been against me," assented Blair, and he beckoned to a
footman who brought him some champagne.
"You don't know how much you have lost?" continued Austin Ambrose,
watching him as he drank the wine.
"No, not exactly. I told them to send the I O U's to Tyler & Driver's.
Are you going now? I am afraid I have kept you."
"To Tyler & Driver's!" said Austin Ambrose, as he strove to keep
pace with Blair's long strides. "My dear fellow, Tyler told me only
yesterday that you had overdrawn your account, and that he did not know
how to arrange! And that was before this loss on Springtime! And there
are those I O U's to-night! Good heavens, my dear Blair, you will be
utterly ruined."
Blair stopped and took out his cigar-case.
"Got a light?" he said. "Never mind, I've found one. Ruined? Do they
say that? Well, they ought to know," and he laughed grimly. "So they
say I am ruined; well, what does it matter? If I am broke, I am the
only person to whom it will signify. If I were a married man, now,
and had got a wife----" He stopped, and the hand that held his cigar
quivered in the lamplight; "but I haven't, you see. Ruined! Well,
perhaps it's as well. What do fellows do when they go under, Austin?
Why, go abroad, don't they? I'll go abroad. I'll go to Boulogne, and
be a billiard marker, or I'll work my way out to Australia and turn
cattle runner." He stopped abruptly and looked up at the sky, now
streaked with the red rays of the coming sun. "Oh, Austin, if I could
only go to some place where I could forget her! She haunts me--haunts
me day and night! Go where I will, do what I will, I see her before me,
just as she looked as she stood on the hill waving her hand the last
morning"--his voice broke--"the last time I saw her. Oh, my darling, my
darling!"
He stopped with a great sob, and then hurried on, drawing his hat over
his eyes.
Austin Ambrose watched him with keen scrutiny, much as a surgeon might
watch the subject upon which he was experimenting with saw and knife.
"Blair," he said, panting a little, for his victim walked fast. "You
should fight against this weakness. It is ruining you, body and soul.
It is not fair to yourself, or to your best friends. To me, for
instance, or to the earl."
"The earl!" said poor Blair, with a bitter laugh. "What does he care?"
"Or to Violet. Don't be angry, now," for Blair had turned upon him
almost savagely. "She is your friend, and you know it. Why don't you go
and see her?"
"Why? Because I can go and see no one!" groaned the unhappy man. "I
tell you my lost darling haunts me continually. I see her so plainly
sometimes that I can scarcely believe she is really dead!"
Austin Ambrose started, then smiled reassuringly to himself.
"How can I mix with my fellow men in the state I am in? You must give
me time, man!" he cried almost savagely. "Give me time!"
They had reached Blair's chambers by this, and with a nod he turned and
slowly mounted the stairs.
Austin Ambrose, left alone, leant against the lamp-post and, panting
a little, lit a cigar, his cold, gray eyes fixed upon the light that
shone in Blair's window.
"You fool!" he muttered. "You simple fool! I've got you in my net--and
her, too! Give you time! Yes, you shall have time, but whether you take
long or come quickly I have got you!"
For a week after this Austin Ambrose saw nothing of him; he was missed
at his club, and--very much--missed at the Green Tables. No one could
tell where he had gone, but in truth he was wandering with a knapsack
on his back through an out-of-the-way part of the country, solitary and
companionless save by his own sad thoughts.
At the end of the week Violet Graham was sitting moodily by the fire,
thinking of him and of the dark mystery of Margaret Hale's death,
wondering whether all her passionate desires would be fulfilled, when
a servant opening the door quietly, said:
"Lord Leyton."
She started to her feet, the blood coursing through her veins; then,
suddenly remembering Austin Ambrose's advice, sank down again, and,
looking over her shoulder, said, in a low and rather languid voice:
"Oh, is that you, Blair?"
Blair was very much relieved by the manner of his reception. He had
expected, and dreaded, a fuss, and he was grateful to her for sparing
him.
"Yes, it's I," he said, taking her hand, which trembled a little, for
all her efforts to keep it steady. "You didn't expect to see me. I
ought to have called before, but----" he hesitated and looked down, as
men do who are bad at excuses.
"But you are given to leaving undone what you should do, and doing
that which you should leave undone!" she said, with a soft laugh. "Of
course, I am glad to see you. Come nearer the fire. It is an awful
evening, isn't it?"
"Beastly!" he said, and he drew his chair up to the fire.
"You are just in time for tea. Shall we have lights?"
"No," he replied, "unless you want them. I like this firelight."
"It is rather cozy," she said. "I am fond of it myself. Will you ring
the bell?"
He rang the bell, and the servant brought in the tea-tray, with its
little silver kettle, and placed it upon the small table near by.
The fire burned brightly, the kettle sang, the richly yet
tastefully-furnished room was redolent of luxurious comfort, and poor
Blair nestled into his chair, and thought of the "beastly" weather
outside.
Violet stole a glance at him as she busied herself with her tea-making,
and a sharp pang shot through her as she saw in the firelight the pale,
haggard face, which she had last seen so bright and careless.
She was just about to say: "You have been very ill, haven't you?" but
once again she remembered Austin Ambrose's caution, and, instead, she
said:
"Where have you been, Blair?"
He started, and roused himself.
"Lately, do you mean?" he said, looking at the fire still. "I have been
wandering about Somersetshire."
"Not shooting with a party?"
"No," he answered. "I have been alone. Just tramping round to--to kill
time. I have been rather seedy, you know, but I am all right now," he
added, quickly, as if he feared she might question him.
All right! Her heart ached, but she forced a smile.
"You don't take any care of yourself, Blair," she said, lightly, though
her soul was filled with bitterness at the thought that it was the loss
of that "other woman" which had wrought such havoc with him. "Here is
your tea; I think I remember how you like it."
"It is first rate," he said. "You always used to make good tea, Vi."
The color mounted to her face at the sound of the familiar name. How
long it was since she had heard him use it.
"Did I? It is about the only thing I can do properly."
Then she went on talking in a light and cheerful tone, the sort of talk
that exacts almost nothing from the listener--gossip about places and
people he knew, the last scandal of the five o'clock teas, pleasant
chat, to which he could listen or not, just as he chose. And Blair did
not listen all the time, but sat looking at the fire, with his teacup
in his hand, and marveling in a dreamy fashion at the faithfulness of
women.
This girl--the most hunted heiress in London, pretty, accomplished,
every way desirable, whom he had neglected, almost deserted--received
him as if he had been most devoted and steadfast. It was wonderful!
His heart smote him, and he felt drawn toward her in a curious kind of
way.
After all, it is to the women men go when trouble smites them. There is
no heart so tender, no sympathy so sure as that of a woman.
"Oh, woman, in our hours of ease.
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please--
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!"
What a brute he had been not to come near her all this time! he
thought, and under the impulse of his self-reproach he felt inclined to
tell her all.
"Vi," he said, abruptly, breaking into the middle of some story she was
telling him.
"Well?" she said, turning her face to him, with a sudden light in her
eyes, a light of hope and expectancy.
"I want to tell you," he said, passing his hand across his brow, "you
know I have been in trouble lately. You may have heard something of it
from Austin----"
"From Austin Ambrose?" she said. "No. Why should he tell me?"
"I didn't know. I thought perhaps he would. Vi, I have had a rough time
of it--a very rough time of it. I don't think any man has suffered
more than I have, during these last few months."
He leant forward in his chair, and put up his hand, so that it hid his
face from her.
"Tell me, Blair," she said. "Poor Blair!" and stretching out her hand
she laid it, softly as a feather, upon his.
Something in her voice, or perhaps it was the touch of her hand,
reminded him of Margaret so keenly that he shuddered and his face went
white.
She felt the shudder, and her acute sense saw the danger.
"Stop, Blair," she murmured. "Perhaps it is better that you should not
tell me. Whatever it is--and it must have been something terrible--it
will be well that you should forget it; and you won't forget it any the
sooner by talking of it. No, don't tell me! But I am very sorry, Blair,
very--very." Her face paled, and her lips, which were very close to his
face as she bent forward, quivered. "I think I would go through a great
deal to save you from pain, Blair. We are such old friends, are we not?"
"Yes--yes," he said, brokenly, and he put out his hand, and took hers
and pressed it. "Yes, you were always good to me--too good, Vi. I don't
deserve that you should be so kind now, after leaving you all this
time!"
"Never mind that," she murmured, and her voice was as soft and tender
as only a woman's can be to the man she loves. "Don't let us think of
that. I will be as kind as you like, Blair!"
The poor fellow's wounded heart was aching; his strength, mental and
physical, broken down by illness and the long, dreary tramp; something
suspiciously like tears shone in his eyes, and he raised her hand to
his lips in speechless gratitude for her kindness and gentleness.
"Oh, not my hand, dear!" she murmured, and slipping down at his knees,
she put up her lips.
Blair bent down and kissed her, as he was bound to do. He could not
have done otherwise, and by that kiss he sealed his fate. And yet, even
as he gave it, the sweet face of Margaret rose as plainly before him as
if it were she and not Violet Graham who knelt at his feet.