When Aylmer came down to breakfast, the next morning, later than his
usual custom, he found that his friend Peyton already had breakfasted
and had gone out, leaving word with the waiter that he would be back
in about an hour.
The table where the trio had sat at dinner, the previous night, was
occupied only by Quentin, who beckoned to Aylmer to join him.
“Eileen danced too much last night; she is not very strong and has to
pay the penalty by having her breakfast in bed,” Quentin explained,
“My friend Martyn is always an early bird; comes down before us and
gets out for the morning air as soon as he can. I see you are alone;
Mr. Peyton left when I came in, a few minutes ago. We might as well
join forces, if it is agreeable to you.”
Aylmer, who had taken rather a liking to the man for his dignified
defense of Eileen, against Martyn’s sneering attack, the previous
evening, declared he would be delighted, and took his seat at
Quentin’s table. He said something suitable about Mrs. Quentin’s
fatigue, and expressed the hope that she was not seriously indisposed.
The grave-faced man, whose hair was thinning rapidly at the top,
smiled reassuringly. “Oh, dear no, nothing of that sort--just a little
bit overdoing it the last two nights. One could not call her exactly
robust, but as a rule she has excellent health. The only thing wrong
with her is her heart. That is a trifle weak and pays her out if she
over-exerts herself. She will just have to take things quietly for a
day or two, and she’ll be all right again.”
Quentin was a very slow eater, and Aylmer out of courtesy accommodated
his pace to his. In consequence, they sat a long time at the breakfast
table, and during this period the elder man never allowed the
conversation to flag. When he recalled that conversation, Aylmer came
to the conclusion his new acquaintance had a strong streak of
curiosity in his composition. For during the time he had adroitly
succeeded in inducing the young man to tell him a good deal about
himself and young Peyton, and, in return for these disclosures, had
revealed some portion of his own history, and a little of Martyn’s.
He had begun with a very direct question. “Very nice chap, that young
friend of yours. Looks to me as if he had got the public-school stamp
about him.”
Aylmer explained that his surmise was correct. Peyton had been at
Rugby, and from there had gone straight into his father’s office. A
year ago he had been given a junior partnership, and was now quite
proud of the fact that he was a full-fledged stockbroker.
Mr. Quentin pursued his inquiries. “I know his firm very well by
repute, although I have not had the pleasure of knowing any of the
partners personally. A fine business, I understand, and an
old-established one. I should say you hailed from a public school,
too.”
Aylmer, who was a little amused at the man’s determination to ferret
out everything, modestly stated his credentials--Harrow and Magdalen,
Oxford.
Mr. Quentin nodded his head approvingly on receipt of this
information. “I was right, then. I have rather a knack of classifying
my fellow-creatures. And have you got a snug business, like your
friend? Or, are you a gentleman at large?”
“Very much at large,” laughed Aylmer. “Circumstances have made it
unnecessary for me to work, and I am afraid at heart I am an idle
fellow. I love this roaming about from one place to another, following
just the whim of the moment.”
The elder man’s tones were thoughtful when he spoke again.
“Yes, such a life has many advantages; but, on the whole, I have come
to the conclusion that work is the best thing for a man--a busy life
full of duties to be done, of ambitions to be achieved. I know, I feel
it to be so in my own case.”
Aylmer began to evince a little curiosity on his side. His interest in
the wife had led him to take an interest in the husband.
“Like you, Mr. Aylmer, I am lord of myself--that heritage of woe, as
some poet has put it. My father died before I was of age. I was the
only child, and I came into a quite comfortable income. Like you, I
was of an idle, unambitious temperament, and I thought I could manage
to lounge through life very comfortably. Well, I have had a good many
years of it--I am close upon forty-five, though some people are kind
enough to say I don’t look it--and I have begun to think I should have
been happier on the whole if I had gone into some business or
profession. It is too late now, of course; my habits are too set. But,
there are moments when I find time hangs very heavily on my hands.”
So, he was more than twenty years older than his young wife. Peyton,
that masterful observer, had guessed fifteen. But it was a pardonable
error, for even with the telltale thinness of the hair he did not look
forty-five.
“The worst of it is, I have no hobbies,” remarked Mr. Quentin,
presently. “I have read a good deal, but I find I don’t take the
interest in books I used to do. Theaters bore me; this hotel life is
the same day after day, week after week. I have seen everything worth
seeing in the shape of scenery. I suppose it is inevitable that one
should become a bit blasé when life is a perpetual holiday. By the
way, have you any hobbies?”
“Like you, I read a good deal, and I haven’t yet got to that stage
when the theater bores me. Yes, I have, I think, one especial hobby,
rather a peculiar one. I am a keen student of criminology.”
Mr. Quentin lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Yes, it seems to me
quite a peculiar one; it would make no appeal to me. Personally, I
think all crime is sordid, and I would prefer to shut it out of my
thoughts. I suppose it appeals to you on the scientific side?”
Conversation languished for a little while. During the pause Aylmer
indulged in a few reflections. From what he had said, Quentin did not
seem to be a happy man in spite of his fortunate circumstances.
Surely, the possession of such a beautiful wife ought to have brought
him serene contentment. He wished that he could induce the man to talk
about Eileen, to give him some details of their wooing, of how they
had become acquainted. But, good taste forbade him to steer the
conversation into such delicate channels.
However, he had no hesitation in imitating his companion’s frankness
in the direction of the man whom Peyton had thought was a bit of a
bounder.
So, he put a direct question. “And what about your friend Mr.
Martyn--has he any occupation?”
Quentin laughed pleasantly. “Poor old Martyn, he has had a wonderfully
checkered career. He ran away from home when he was sixteen--a
stepmother made his life unbearable--and, according to his own
account, he has been nearly everything under the sun: bartender,
cattle-puncher, ranch-hand, and all sorts of things. I can’t help
thinking he draws the long bow a bit when he discourses about the
past; but, there is no doubt he has had a tremendously varied
experience. He made good in the gold-fields, got together a nice
little pile, invested it with judgment and a fair slice of good luck,
and from that hour forswore adventure and settled down to a quiet,
uneventful life.”
“Certainly a very romantic history,” was Aylmer’s remark.
Mr. Quentin went on with further details of his friend.
“He comes of a quite respectable family. His father, who died a few
years ago, a merchant of some sort, left a very tidy sum of money
behind him. But, his stepmother, who evidently hated him intensely,
took care that he should have none of it. His name was never mentioned
in the old man’s will. No wonder that he’s hard and cynical, at times.
An experience like his doesn’t tend to soften a man or develop his
finer feelings.”
“Have you known him long?” asked Aylmer.
“The best part of five or six years,” was the answer. “I met him in a
casual sort of way, and somehow took a fancy to him. He is a trifle
rough and unpolished, and although not uneducated--he is a brainy
fellow and has taught himself a lot--not educated in the strict sense
of the term. Only material things interest him; he cares nothing for
art, literature or music. But he is essentially a man, and has lived
in every sense of the term. He has made of his life a very different
thing from my _dolce far niente_ existence.”
Mr. Quentin ended the little history with what seemed like a note of
regret. If he was sincere in what he said, he appeared to brood very
much over what he considered his idle and purposeless existence.
Aylmer found himself wondering if, later on, he would experience the
same sense of disappointment at not having put what talents he
possessed to more strenuous use; if he would grow as weary as this man
seemed to be of a butterfly life.
After breakfast was over they went into the smoking-lounge and chatted
away there on general topics till young Peyton made his appearance,
very fresh and rosy from an invigorating swim. On his appearance
Quentin rose and threw away his half-finished cigarette, saying that
the young men would like to go out together and that it was time he
went to see how his wife was getting on.
As Aylmer and his friend sauntered along, the conversation naturally
turned to the Quentins. Peyton rather sniffed when he was told that
Quentin had revealed himself in the light of a disillusioned and
disappointed character.
“He’s a very agreeable chap,” he said, “but I have a strong notion
that he’s a bit of a _poseur_, and doesn’t mean half he says; just
likes to strike an attitude for the benefit of his audience. A man who
has got plenty of money has no right to get morbid and think he ought
to be leading a different sort of life. I’m not so fond of work and
the Stock Exchange that I wouldn’t change with you or him if I had
half a chance.”
Aylmer smiled indulgently at the younger man, who never had any
hesitation in avowing his real sentiments, and honestly confessed that
he was not greatly in love with work for work’s sake. He looked upon
it as a means to an end, he was always careful to explain. He would
slog away hard while he was young, so that he could make a nice little
pile for his middle age, when he would give up business and enjoy
himself, to make up for his strenuous days of self-denying youth.
Aylmer mentioned to him the fact of Mrs. Quentin’s indisposition. The
young man, who was so observant in small things, looked at his friend
rather intensely.
“I expect it’s quite slight,” he said. “But it strikes me that you
seem a bit worried about it. You won’t mind my saying, old chap, that
I think it would be wise for you to take yourself in hand in that
quarter. She’s a very fascinating young woman, and I can see with half
an eye she has bowled you over.”
“Rubbish,” replied Aylmer a little testily, although he could not
prevent himself from flushing at those direct remarks. Peyton always
went so straight to the point.
When they returned to the hotel, they found Mrs. Quentin sitting alone
in the lounge. She looked a trifle pale, but was in quite good
spirits, and answered their inquiries after her health in her usual
bright manner.
“Oh, there’s really nothing the matter with me. I have just overdone
it a tiny bit these last two evenings, and my tiresome heart has an
unpleasant way of reminding me when I do silly things. I am going to
be very quiet for the rest of the day; I wouldn’t even go out with my
husband and Mr. Martyn. And to-night I shall not have a single dance.
So it’s no use your asking me, Mr. Aylmer, for I shall be adamant.”
Aylmer protested that he would not think of doing anything which might
retard her recovery, and took a seat beside her. He had not quite made
up his mind as to whether he was going to stay or beat a precipitate
retreat. But, so long as he was here he could not deny himself the
happiness of basking in the sunshine of her presence. Peyton, seeing
how matters stood, left them after a few minutes. He was not the sort
of fellow to spoil sport anyway. He had given his friend a warning. If
Aylmer did not choose to take it, that was his own affair.
“An awfully nice boy that,” remarked Mrs. Quentin when Peyton was out
of earshot. “You seem very great friends. Have you known him long? Or,
is it just a casual acquaintance?”
The young man enlightened her as to the relations between them. Yes,
they were very good pals in spite of the ten years’ difference in
their ages. He had known Claude since he and his father came to
England, Aylmer senior and Peyton’s father being distantly connected
by marriage. Claude frequently had spent a part of his holidays with
the Aylmers when a boy, and the friendship between them had continued
until the present time.
“In spite of his youth Claude has got a fair share of brains, and he
takes a very common sense view of life. I don’t suppose he is
particularly fond of work; but, his father is very satisfied with the
way he is shaping, he tells me, and is sure he will turn into a
first-class man of business when he has had a bit more experience,”
said Aylmer in conclusion.
A little while later he told Mrs. Quentin how he had enjoyed a long
talk with her husband that morning, and of his apparent regret that he
led such an idle life.
She indulged in a faint smile. “Oh, that is rather a pose of his. My
husband could never have been a worker in the real sense of the term,”
she said. “Not for such as he laborious days and the strenuous life of
a business man. If fate had destined him to such a career, he would
have abhorred drudgery and wanted to get rich quickly, with the result
that he would have plunged into all sorts of doubtful and risky
schemes.
“He hasn’t the dogged temperament necessary for commercial success.
And, between you and me, he would much rather live on what he has than
make five times as much by steady application and industry. But I know
he cheats himself into the belief that he was born to be one of the
workers of the world, and he tries to impress everybody with the
fact.” She added, with what seemed a touch of bitterness: “If he were
sincere in what he says, it would have been easy enough for him to
take on a more strenuous life at any time within the last twenty
years. A man who has got any capital can soon find an opening. That he
has not done so is sufficient proof that he is contented as he is.”
“And I suppose you are equally contented?” He put the question
carelessly, but he was very curious to know what were her real
sentiments on the subject.
She shrugged her shapely shoulders slightly. “Oh yes, I think I am
quite happy as I am. When I was a girl, I fancy I had different
ideals, that inclined to a husband who was ambitious in the best sense
of the term, who would carve out a career for himself. But those were
idle dreams, and fate willed it otherwise.”
“And was the hero of those youthful dreams always a man older than
yourself?” asked Aylmer.
“Always,” she answered, “though perhaps not quite old enough to be my
father as Mr. Quentin really is, although he does not look his full
age.”
He would have liked to question her further, but she saved him the
trouble by volunteering a rather frank explanation of her marriage.
“Mine has been a rather strange life. My father died a couple of years
after my birth, leaving very little money behind him. It had been a
love-match, against the wishes of my mother’s family, and they
disowned her in consequence. Poor and friendless, as she was, she was
too proud to beg for assistance from them, she preferred to fight for
herself and her helpless child. She had made the acquaintance of Mr.
Quentin during her short married life, and there is no doubt he had
formed a strong attachment for her. When she was left a widow, she
turned to him as practically the only friend she had in the world. He
was ready to make her his wife, but she had no love to give him, it
was all buried in her husband’s grave. He turned out a true and
faithful friend, in spite of the fact that she would not reward his
devotion in the way he wished. She had always been very fond of the
stage, and she had one accomplishment; she was a splendid dancer.”
“When you spoke of dancing being in your blood, you were thinking of
her. You inherited her gift.”
Mrs. Quentin nodded her graceful head. “Yes, it was her wish that I
should follow in her footsteps. But, alas! I had no confidence in
myself, nothing would have induced me to face the footlights; if I had
found myself before an audience I should have been paralyzed. My dear
mother, fortunately for us, had not my nervous temperament. Mr.
Quentin worked very hard on her behalf, and at length he succeeded in
getting her into musical comedy. She was nothing of an actress; but
she could dance exquisitely, and she earned enough by that one gift to
keep the wolf from the door. Then, when I was fifteen, she died. She
had managed to save a little, but it was very little, for she never
earned a big salary. The interest on what she left brought in about
fifty pounds a year; so, for the second time I was thrown practically
upon the world.”
Aylmer looked his sympathy. In spite of her brightness and vivacity,
it appeared that this charming girl had had her full share of trouble.
“On her death-bed my poor dear mother confided me to Mr. Quentin as a
sacred trust. And very nobly he acquitted himself of the obligation he
had accepted out of his deep love for her. After I had finished the
education he generously provided for me, he put me to board in the
house of some friends of his, paying for my maintenance, and doing
everything he could to make my life easy for me. And so--and so,” she
ended with a little catch in her voice, “it came about that the
peculiar relationship between us drifted into marriage. I felt towards
him the greatest gratitude, and not a little affection; he was the
only friend I had in the world, and he was very fond of me. That is
the history of my life so far, and during the three years of my
married life he always has shown me the greatest kindness and
consideration.”
So they had “drifted into marriage,” to use her own expression, as the
easiest way out of a rather difficult situation. Aylmer did not
suppose that Quentin loved the daughter as he had loved the mother,
and she had only admitted affection, not love. He suspected it was a
very placid relationship on both sides; that the feelings of the man
were more those of a parent than a husband, and hers more of a
daughter than a wife. She seemed so full of life, so born for
enjoyment, that he found himself rather pitying her. Even if she did
prefer men older than herself, there could have been no romance in
this union with one old enough to be her father. Ten years would
surely have been sufficient disparity.
Aylmer stayed on for another couple of days, and on neither of the
evenings did Mrs. Quentin join the dancers. He understood her
abstention the first night, she had given him fair warning that she
was not going to run any risk of a relapse. But, on the second evening
she seemed fully recovered, and he experienced a keen sense of
disappointment, when, in response to his suggestion, she announced
that she would be content with looking on. By then he had almost
definitely made up his mind to leave Ostend. But, he had hoped to take
away with him the memory of a last dance with her.
He wondered for a moment if her health was the real cause of her
refusal, or whether she was obeying a secret instruction of her
husband; if Quentin had displayed a fit of jealousy of a man a good
deal younger than himself, and had compelled her to abstain from
dancing altogether so that she should not dance with him.
Small things are often great factors in clinching a determination.
After that refusal on what he was sure were insufficient grounds, he
told himself that he was now eager to leave, to remove himself from
the sphere of her fascinations. He would stay one more day and night
at the most, taking Peyton with him, or leaving him at the hotel,
according to the young man’s choice.
And then, on the next morning, an incident occurred that made him
change his mind. In the lounge, after breakfast, he saw Mrs. Quentin
and Martyn engaged closely in conversation. There was nobody else in
the apartment, and the man looked up quickly as Aylmer came in. There
was an angry gleam in his eyes, as if he resented the fact of their
being disturbed.
At least that was the impression made on Aylmer by that sudden hostile
glance. Taking the hint, he left them and went up to his own room. In
that moment, brief as it was, he had noticed that the young woman
seemed very agitated, and on Martyn’s face was a cold, hard
expression. It looked very much, he thought, as if they were indulging
in a quarrel.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he came down again, into the
lounge, on his way out of the hotel. Martyn had left, and Mrs.
Quentin, apparently oblivious of observation, was sitting alone with
her handkerchief pressed to her face. He could see, by the movement of
her shoulders, that she was crying.
His natural impulse was to steal away; she would hardly care that he
should be a spectator of her sudden distress. But, as he tried to
carry out his intention, she suddenly dropped her handkerchief and,
recognizing him, greeted him with a wan smile. It was a most awkward
situation. He could not think of anything fitting to say, and yet it
was impossible to ignore her agitated condition.
His words came nervously, in a stammer.
“Mrs. Quentin, I am so distressed to see you like this. Can I do
anything, be of any help?”
Her self-control seemed suddenly to return to her, the recollection of
where she was, in a public apartment open to all comers. She rose,
evidently with the intention of going to her own room, in order to
remove the telltale traces of her emotion. But before she left, she
threw him a grateful glance out of the tearful eyes and she spoke
these remarkable words:
“It is very sweet of you, and I should judge you are the kind of man
who is always chivalrous to a woman. But you cannot help me.” As she
moved away, she added in a tone that seemed one almost of despair:
“Nobody can help me.”