INEFFECTUAL WOOING
"At last!" Wrayson said to himself, almost under his breath. "Shall we
have a hansom, Louise, or do you care for a walk?"
"A walk, by all means," she answered hurriedly.
"It is not far, is it?"
"A mile--a little more perhaps," he answered.
"You are sure that you are not tired?"
"Tired only of sitting still," she answered. "We had a delightful
crossing. This way, isn't it?"
They left the Grosvenor Hotel, where Louise, with Madame de Melbain, had
arrived about an hour ago, and turned towards Battersea. Louise began to
talk, nervously, and with a very obvious desire to keep the conversation
to indifferent subjects. Wrayson humoured her for some time. They spoke
of the journey, suddenly determined upon by Madame de Melbain on receipt
of his telegram, of the beauty of St. Étarpe, of the wonderful
reappearance of her brother.
"I can scarcely realize even now," she said, "that he is really alive. He
is so altered. He seems a different person altogether."
"He has gone through a good deal," Wrayson remarked.
She sighed.
"Poor Duncan!" she murmured.
"He is very much to be pitied," Wrayson said seriously. "I, at any rate,
can feel for him."
He turned towards her as he spoke, and his words were charged with
meaning. She began quickly to speak of something else, but he
interrupted her.
"Louise," he said, "is London so far from St. Étarpe?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think that you know very well," he answered. "I am sure that you do.
At St. Étarpe you were content to accept what, believe me, is quite
inevitable. Here--well, you have been doing all you can to avoid me,
haven't you?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "St. Étarpe was an interlude. I told you so. You
ought to have understood that."
They entered the Park, and Wrayson was silent for a few minutes. He led
the way towards an empty seat.
"Let us sit down," he said, "and talk this out."
She hesitated.
"I think--" she began, but he interrupted her ruthlessly.
"If you prefer it, I will come to the Baroness with you," he declared.
She shrugged her shoulders and sat down.
"Very well," she said, "but I warn you that I am in a bad temper. I am
hot and tired and dusty. We shall probably quarrel."
He looked at her critically. She was a little pale, perhaps, but there
was nothing else to indicate that she had just arrived from a journey.
Her dress of dull black glace silk was cool and spotless, her hat and
veil were immaculate. Always she had the air of having just come from the
hands of an experienced maid. From the tips of her patent shoes to the
fall of her veil, she was orderly and correct.
"It takes two," he said, "to quarrel. I shall not quarrel with you. All
that I ask from you is a realization of the fact that we are engaged to
be married."
She withdrew the hand which he had calmly possessed himself of.
"We are nothing of the sort," she declared.
He looked puzzled.
"Perhaps," he remarked, "I forgot to mention the matter last time I saw
you, but I quite thought that you would take it for granted. In case I
was forgetful, please let me impress the fact upon you now. We are going
to be married, and very shortly. In fact, the sooner the better."
Of her own free will she laid her hand upon his. He fancied that behind
her veil the tears had gathered in her eyes.
"Dear friend," she said softly, "I cannot marry you! I shall never
marry any one. Will you please believe that? It will make it so much
easier for me."
He was a little taken aback. She had changed her methods suddenly, and he
had had no time to adapt himself to them.
"Don't hate me, please," she murmured. "Indeed, it would make me very
happy if we could be friends."
He laughed a little unnaturally, and turned in his seat until he was
facing her.
"Would you mind lifting your veil for a moment, Louise?" he asked her.
She obeyed him with fingers which trembled a little. He saw then that the
tears had indeed been in her eyes. Her lips quivered. She looked at him
sadly, but very wistfully.
"Thank you!" he said. "Now would you mind asking yourself whether
friendship between us is possible! Remember St. Étarpe, and ask yourself
that! Remember our seat amongst the roses--remember what you will of that
long golden day."
She covered her face with her hands.
"Ah, no!" he went on. "You know yourself that only one thing is possible.
I cannot force you into my arms, Louise. If you care to take up my life
and break it in two, you can do it. But think what it means! I am not
rich, but I am rich enough to take you where you will, to live with you
in any country you desire. I don't know what your scruples are--I shall
never ask you again. But, dear, you must not! You must not send me away."
She was silent. She had dropped her veil and her head had sunk a little.
"If I believed that there was anybody else," he continued, "I would go
away and leave you alone. If I doubted for a single moment that I could
make you happy, I would not trouble you any more. But you belong to me,
Louise! You have taken up your place in my life, in my heart! I cannot
live without you! I do not think that you can live without me! You
mustn't try, dear! You mustn't!"
He held her unresisting hand, but her face was hidden from him.
"What it is that you fancy comes between us I cannot tell," he continued,
more gravely. "Only let me tell you this. We are no longer in any danger
from Stephen Heneage. He has abandoned his quest altogether. He has told
me so with his own lips."
"You are sure of that?" she asked softly.
"Absolutely," he answered.
She hesitated for a moment. He remained purposely silent. He was anxious
to try and comprehend the drift of her thoughts.
"Do you know why?" she asked. "Did he find the task too difficult, or did
he relinquish it from any other motive?"
"I am not sure," Wrayson answered. "I met him the night before last. He
was very much altered. He had the appearance of a man altogether
unnerved. Perhaps it was my fancy, but I got the idea--"
"Well?" she demanded eagerly.
"That he had come across something in the course of his investigations
which had given him a shock," he said. "He seemed all broken up. Of
course, it may have been something else altogether. At any rate, I have
his word for it. He has ceased his investigations altogether, and broken
with Sydney Barnes."
The afternoon was warm, but she shivered as she rose a little abruptly to
her feet. He laid his hand upon her arm.
"Not without my answer," he begged.
She shook her head sadly.
"My very dear friend," she said sadly, "you must always be. That is all!"
He took his place by her side.
"Your very dear friend," he repeated. "Well, it is a relationship I don't
know much about. I haven't had many friendships amongst your sex. Tell me
exactly what my privileges would be."
"You will learn that," she said, "in time."
He shook his head.
"I think not," he declared. "Friendship, to be frank with you, would not
satisfy me in the least."
"Then I must lose you altogether," she murmured, in a low tone.
"I don't think so," he affirmed coolly. "I consider that you belong to me
already. You are only postponing the time when I shall claim you."
She made no remark, and behind her veil her face told him little. A
moment later they issued from the Park and stood on the pavement before
the Baroness' flat. She held out her hand without a word.
"I think," he said, "that I should like to come in and see the Baroness."
"Not now," she begged. "We shall meet again at dinner-time."
"Where?" he asked eagerly.
"Madame desired me to ask you to join us at the Grosvenor," she answered,
"at half-past eight."
"I shall be delighted," he answered, promptly. "You nearly forgot
to tell me."
She shook her head.
"No! I didn't," she said. "I should not have let you go away without
giving you her message."
"And you will let me bring you home afterwards?"
"We shall be delighted," she answered. "I shall be with Amy, of course."
He smiled as he raised his hat and let her pass in.
"The Baroness," he said, "is always kind."
He stood for a moment on the pavement. Then he glanced at his watch and
hailed a cab.
"The Sheridan Club," he told the man. He had decided to appeal to
the Colonel.