I AM TEMPTED
Early on the following morning I mounted for the last time into the
high dog-cart, which had been kept in the coach-house at the "cottage"
for my use, and was driven rapidly away with my back to Devereux Court.
It was a grey, misty morning, and a watery sun was shining feebly down
from a cloud-strewn sky. It had been raining, and innumerable
glistening drops of moisture were hanging and falling from the
well-nigh leafless trees. A desolate morning; with a slight vapoury
mist rising from the ground and chilling the air. But my thoughts were
not of the weather, for I was taking my last lingering farewell of
Devereux Court. As we turned the corner and lost sight of it for a
while, a stronger ray of sunlight than any which had as yet succeeded
in piercing the bank of clouds reached its windows, and transformed its
whole appearance. A thousand rays of light seemed to be smiling down
at me from the massive stretching front and the frowning towers, all
the brighter from the contrast with the black woods above and around.
I was young and impressionable to anything in nature, especially with
my heart so full as it was then, and, with a sudden start, I rose up
and waved my hat in an answering farewell Then I sat down and would not
look round again lest the light should have died out from the
diamond-framed windows, and the gloom from the threatening clouds reign
there instead. I was superstitious, perhaps--but I wanted to carry
away with me in my heart the memory of Devereux Court, as I had seen it
a moment ago, with its dark grey front softened and its windows
sparkling gaily in that chance flickering ray of sunlight. And so I
would not look round, even when John slackened at the top of the last
hill, and, pointing with his whip, "reckoned that this wur the last I
should see of t'ould place, and rare sorry he wur too," he added, with
grateful recollections of a piece of gold at that moment reposing
snugly in his waistcoat pocket.
But I would not look, and, a little offended, he touched the old hunter
with his whip, and before long we reached the station of Devereux.
In six hours I was in London, friendless, and I had well-nigh said,
purposeless, for, after I had written out and myself taken to the
office of the _Times_, a brief but imploring message to my father, I
knew not which way to turn or what to do with myself. London
disgusted, sickened me, and at every step I took I felt myself longing
the more for a strong fresh breeze from a Yorkshire moor, and for the
sight of a country lane and a few ruddy-cheeked, good-natured country
folk, instead of this never-ceasing stream of pale-faced anxious men
and over-dressed artificial women, and this interminable succession of
great dirty buildings. I felt awkward, too, and ill at ease, for
though in the country there had never seemed to be anything
extraordinary in my stature, here, as I walked down the Strand with my
hands behind my back, I seemed head and shoulders above everybody else,
and people looked up at me wonderingly and made laughing remarks to one
another, some of which I could not help but overhear. At last, in
despair, it occurred to me that my country costume had something to do
with it; so I went to a tailor's in Bond Street, and, with a sigh,
abandoned my loose shooting jacket and breeches and brown deer-stalker
for a black frock coat, dark grey trousers, and tall hat. The change
was an effectual one, however, for though people still stared at me, it
was no longer as though I were some wild animal.
One afternoon during the second week of my stay in London I turned with
a crowd of other loungers into the Park, and there, to my surprise, I
saw Maud. She was sitting in a victoria by herself, leaning back
amongst the cushions with pale face and a light in her cold blue eyes
which seemed to speak of indifference to everything and everybody
around her. As fate would have it there was a block just then, and her
carriage, with its pair of restless fuming bays, came almost to a
standstill close to where I was leaning over the railing. I would have
drawn back, but I could not. I seemed fascinated, and I remained there
with my eyes fixed upon hers, and from that moment I was a believer in
animal magnetism, for suddenly she looked languidly up, and her eyes
rested deliberately upon the little crowd of black-coated loungers of
whom I was one. She saw me, she singled me out from the rest in a
moment, and instantly the proud, bored look left her face, and she
leaned forward in her carriage towards me with her lips parted in a
slight smile. I obeyed her imperious little gesture, and, stepping
over the railings, stood by her side hat in hand.
She laid an exquisitely gloved little hand in mine for a moment, and
then leaned back, looking at me with the old look, half mocking, half
tender, altogether bewildering.
"Saul amongst the prophets!" she laughed. "Since when, might I ask,
has Mr. Arbuthnot become an acclimatised Londoner? Really you ought to
feel flattered that I recognised you," she added, looking at my black
coat and hat and the gardenia in my buttonhole; I had bought it only
because other men were wearing them, and I wished to look as little
singular as possible.
Bandying words with Maud was beyond me. I rested my foot on the step
of her carriage, and pretended to be carefully examining it, for into
her eyes I dared not look.
"I am only waiting in London until I have news from abroad," I
answered. "When did you come from Devereux?"
"Only yesterday. And I had not thought to see you so soon," she said,
in an altered tone.
Why was I standing there at Maud's feet? Why had I come into the Park
at all? I, who was so little of a man that, amidst all this great
crowd of people I was obliged to struggle hard to keep an unmoved
countenance and a measured tone. I felt bitterly angry with myself as
I answered, with averted face--
"Nor I you. I had forgotten that Devereux was not your home. You live
here, do you not?"
She smiled indulgently at my ignorance.
"We are generally here for the season," she said. "We have a house in
Mayfair. Will you come and see me?"
I shook my head, and answered bluntly--
"Thank you, no, Miss Devereux."
She leaned forward in her carriage, with a sudden increase of animation
in her manner.
"You are a Don Quixote, Hugh," she said, half angrily, half
reproachfully. "How can you be so foolish as to believe that rubbish
about my father! Wait till you hear how people talk of him, and then
you will know how stupidly mistaken you have been. And he likes you so
much, too. You might come and see us whenever you liked, if you would
only not be so silly."
"How do you do, Miss Devereux?"
She turned round quickly, and saw Lord Annerley, who had ridden up to
the other side of the carriage.
"Lord Annerley! Really, how very surprising! I thought that you had
gone off to break the bank at Monaco. Francis said so."
"I had meant to go," he began, twirling his little waxen moustache with
his small hand, of which he seemed inordinately proud; "but something
kept me in London."
He looked down at her boldly in a manner which he, no doubt, considered
fascinating. Resisting a strong inclination to throw the little cad,
with his irreproachable tailor-like get-up into the mud, I raised my
hat to Maud, and turned away. But she called me back.
"You have not answered me, Mr. Arbuthnot. Is it to be no or yes?"
"I am sorry, Miss Devereux, that I have nothing to add to my previous
answer," I said stiffly, for her beautiful smiling face seemed to me
like the face of a temptress just then.
"Just as you wish, of course," she answered coldly, with a slight
haughty inclination of her head. "And now, Lord Annerley," I heard her
add, in a very altered tone, "I hear that you have a new team. Do tell
me all about them. Are they greys or mixed?"
I walked away, nor did I enter the Park again whilst I was in London.