Miss Gascoyne refused Mr. Hibbert-Wyllie. I was first made aware of
this fact by the announcement in the _Morning Post_ that he had left
London, and proposed to go for a six weeks’ yachting cruise in the
Mediterranean.
I hastened to call on Mrs. Gascoyne when I knew she would be alone.
“So very extraordinary, Israel,” she said. “I had almost looked upon
the thing as settled, but she refused him point-blank. It’s my first
and last attempt at match-making. I think Mr. Hibbert-Wyllie in his
inmost heart was a little surprised. He took it very well, poor
fellow, although I believe he felt quite broken-hearted. It’s very
strange, for it’s not like Edith to lead a man on and then throw him
over.”
“Did she lead him on?” I asked.
“Surely you must have seen that?”
“Well, I can’t exactly say that I did.”
“But they went everywhere together, picture-galleries, concerts,
theatres, lectures.”
“Who asked him?” I interjected, slily.
Mrs. Gascoyne was one of those straight-dealing folk to whom it was
perfectly possible to point out a mistake in judgment without creating
an unfriendly atmosphere.
“Do you mean to suggest that the mischief has been of my doing,
Israel?”
“Dear lady, I mean to say that in your unselfish anxiety to marry your
niece brilliantly you imagined a state of things which did not exist.”
“Exactly; you mean that I’m a dreadful old mischief-maker.”
“You know I don’t mean that.”
I always adopted in my attitude towards Mrs. Gascoyne a touch of
ingenuousness which I found eminently effective. It impressed her with
a strong belief in my sincerity; in fact, talking to her I have known
myself believe in my own sincerity, so free from guile was her manner
of thought and speech.
A conviction, the result of some reflection, had forced itself upon me
that with my secret inevitably striving to write itself on my face and
manner it would be well to cultivate as much as possible the society
of the simple-minded, in order to borrow something of their mood. Mood
is everything in influencing surroundings. I am still unable to see
why a murderer should not go through life with a perfect inward peace,
providing his associates are the right people. Apart from a certain
love of secret romances, I prefer the society of the simple-minded and
the good; just as in order to preserve a proper balance of mind so
much time should be spent in the country and so much time in town:—a
constant going from the artificial to nature and back again from
nature to the artificial. A right proportion of light and shade is a
great factor in human happiness.
“I trust Edith means to marry,” continued Mrs. Gascoyne. “It would be
a crime if so much charm and character were wasted.”
“Do you think it is necessarily wasted because a woman does not
marry?”
“I am old-fashioned, Israel, and I think a woman’s vocation is
marriage.”
“A great many women must be without a vocation,” I laughed.
“That is no reason why as many as have the opportunity should not
fulfil it. Now, when you marry, Israel——”
At that moment Miss Gascoyne entered the room. She was a little
embarrassed, as if she were aware that I knew all about Wyllie’s
proposal and her refusal.
She was not the woman to dismiss a lover lightly and with a mere
sensation of triumph at her own conquest. She had, I was sure,
suffered in a way which most women would not have done.
With most women the dismissal of a lover brings with it a certain
feeling of power. It is the one moment at which their sex can be truly
said to rule.
Miss Gascoyne’s manner had in it a trace of sadness, probably, I
thought, expressive of regret that she had been unable to accept as a
husband a man whom she thoroughly respected and who perhaps she even
felt was in many ways her natural mate. Perhaps the event had led to a
certain amount of retrospection and analysis of her own feelings.
Lovers are modest, yet at the same time I fancy a favoured lover has
as a rule a very fair impression that he is not distasteful, however
fluttered he may be before he has made sure of his prize. So by some
curious undercurrent flowing between us I gathered that Miss Gascoyne
was more interested in my visits than she had ever been before. I had
nothing very tangible to go on. There was no sudden development of
coquetry, such as a smaller-minded woman would have displayed. She
showed towards me the same even friendship, and we did not see more of
each other. Perhaps I gathered the increasing warmth of her feelings
from a certain relief and gladness at my arrival which even she could
not conceal, or it might have been from a certain deference to my
opinion.
To the ordinary observer it would have appeared almost incredible that
this queenly, beautiful creature of good birth should prefer a
stockbroker’s clerk to Mr. Hibbert-Wyllie, one of the richest men in
England, and connected with half the peerage. Busybodies would have
argued that her pride, her sense of family, had always been stronger
than her affections; which would have shown how very wrong busybodies,
who are necessarily limited to a judgment based on the superficial,
can be.
I had taken Grahame Hallward to see the Gascoynes, at Mr. Gascoyne’s
special invitation. The latter had met him with me in the City, and
had conceived a great liking for him.
“You can always tell a man by his friends, Israel,” he had said to me,
“and young Hallward seems an altogether delightful fellow.”
I could not forbear smiling. As a rule, it may be true that birds of a
feather flock together, and that a man can be judged by the company he
keeps, but at the same time it is curious what a man will put up with
in the friend of his heart. The friendship of Grahame Hallward and
myself was not dependent on any strong community of tastes and
interests. It was the outcome of his own loyal nature, which, having
made a friend, held to him. Mrs. and Miss Gascoyne liked him from the
first.
He grasped the situation between Miss Gascoyne and myself at once, and
he was the one person with whom I permitted myself to discuss it. He
was enthusiastic in his admiration.
“She is a queenly woman, Israel. Have you known her long?”
“About a year.”
“Well, you’re a lucky chap.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mustn’t I discuss the matter? Tell me to shut up, and I will.”
“You know I will discuss anything with you.”
He gave me an affectionate look.
“Are you struck, Israel?”
“All of a heap.” I always adopted a fresh, breezy way of talking with
Grahame. I think that is why he believes in my innocence to this day,
and also why he is suffering so much. He never saw the corners of my
character, although he had known me so many years. I always appeared
to him frank and affectionate.
“She’ll suit you better than Sibella would have done.”
Had I been without the ambitions I was possessed of, Miss Gascoyne
would have done nothing of the kind. Sibella’s decadent temperament
would have furnished me with far more entertainment. But Edith
Gascoyne was on the road to my objective. She was the most natural
mistress in the world for Hammerton Castle.
“It’s all rot my thinking of such a thing,” I said, true to the
character in which I instinctively appeared before Grahame. “She’s got
money of her own, and I’m a beggarly stockbroker’s clerk with three
hundred and fifty a year.”
“Judging by Mr. Gascoyne’s manner, I should say he meant you to be a
little more than that one of these days.”
“Oh, I’m not such a hypocrite as to pretend that it doesn’t look as if
he meant to do something for me, but I may have ever so long to wait
till then.”
“Don’t you make any money on your own account?”
“Oh, a bit—nothing to speak of.”
Grahame must have mentioned Miss Gascoyne to Sibella, because the next
time I called she asked me why I had never spoken of her.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” I answered, carelessly.
I was glad that Grahame had saved me the trouble of breaking the fact
of her existence to Sibella. I was on perfectly good terms with the
latter now, and she had quite overcome any scruples about deceiving
“poor Lionel.” She had in fact not known her own decadence till I had
exploited it for her. She was revenged by my becoming intensely
jealous of her. After all, she was meeting daily a great number of men
who were willing to dance attendance on her till further notice, and
it was impossible and unnatural that she should not find some of them
attractive, and having been taught infidelity she might profit only
too well by the instruction. I behaved with the greatest discretion. I
had no mind to have all my plans upset by a divorce case. Mr. Gascoyne
would inevitably have shown me the door, whilst my chances with Miss
Gascoyne would have disappeared entirely. No, if I could not give up
so delirious a vice as Sibella it behoved me to be very careful, and I
think I can flatter myself that Lionel never had the least suspicion.
I suppose a guilty wife must always be in dread of disclosing her
secret in the hours of sleep, like the lady in the opera, but I don’t
think Sibella was sufficiently disturbed by the consciousness of sin
to have her very sound slumbers interrupted.
I was jealous of her, and however much I might upbraid myself for such
a weakness I was unable to control it. Woman-like, she very soon
discovered the fact, and I was somewhat at her mercy.
Sooner or later, she must inevitably learn all about Miss Gascoyne’s
existence, and I was glad that Grahame had broken the ice.
“She is very beautiful, is she not?”
“I believe she is considered lovely.”
“Then I can’t understand your not having mentioned her.”
There was a touch of asperity in Sibella’s voice.
“Why should I mention her?”
“Because as far as I can make out you are there constantly.”
“It is to my advantage to make myself agreeable to Mr. and Mrs.
Gascoyne, and,” I added hastily, for I never appeared as acting from
interested motives more than I could help, “I am very fond of them.”
“And very fond of Miss Gascoyne.”
Sibella’s was not the nature to exercise much control over rising
jealousy.
“What nonsense! As far as that goes, you would not have much to
complain of if I were to marry Miss Gascoyne.”
She looked at me with frightened eyes.
“If I thought you meant that——” she faltered.
“Well, you must remember that you and I might have fulfilled our
natural destiny and married.”
Sibella laughed in a not altogether nice way.
“That would have been a very pleasant arrangement. We should have been
so comfortably off, shouldn’t we?”
It gave me an advantage to pretend that it was a cause of eternal
grief to me that we were not married, so I answered:
“Well, I’ve no doubt we could have scraped along.”
“Scraped along!” And she laughed again, but she was not nearly so
amused as I was at hearing myself use such an expression. “I can’t
imagine either of us, Israel, scraping along. We should have hated
each other in a week.”
“We should never have done that, Sibella. We have a sub-consciousness
of each other’s weaknesses, and we know each other’s good points
better than anyone else could. We should always love each other.”
“I think, Israel, if I had not been so sure that you loved me, I
should not have risked marrying Lionel. I could never have believed
that good looks could bore one so soon.”
“I believe that good-looking people who are stupid get on one’s nerves
sooner than plain people who are stupid. The latter do feel that they
must make an effort. The former are supremely well contented, and
seldom take the trouble to make themselves agreeable.”
“Lionel is not only stupid, he is a little vulgar.”
Sibella’s frank recognition of the faults of her belongings had always
been in striking contrast to Grahame’s loyalty, which would allow no
disparagement of anyone he was allied to.
“I suppose we shall settle down one of these fine days,” continued
Sibella. “We shall get tired of scheming for interviews, and plotting
and planning our lives so as to make them fit with a secret.”
“My dear Sibella, I had no idea you were such a philosopher. I thought
your reflections never carried you further than the moment.”
“Oh, I didn’t think it out myself. I read it in a book, but I feel it
to be true, all the same.”
“You mean we shall tire of each other?”
“Yes.”
“Then we shall be tired of each other, and in that condition of
affairs there is no pain.”
Sibella’s two blue lakes—in which to those who could read there swam
any amount of moral fishiness—brimmed over.
“Don’t talk like that, Israel. I do love you, although you may not
believe it. If I had known all I know now about my feelings before I
got married I do not think I could have been induced to marry Lionel.”
And she wept.
I took her in my arms and kissed the moist rose of her lips and
caressed her yellow hair. Most men dislike seeing a woman in tears; to
the artist in romance it has its value if he keep his real sympathies
well in the background.
“I should like to know the Gascoynes, Israel.”
This had been inevitable. I had not the least wish for Sibella and
Edith to be made known to each other. Not that in the case of such
diverse characters there was likely to be the least exchange of
confidences, but they were certainly better apart. I could not imagine
Miss Gascoyne approving of Sibella; I could not conceive Sibella
understanding Miss Gascoyne, or thinking her other than somewhat of a
prig.
I betrayed not the least perturbation at her request, however.
“Of course you must meet,” I said, “but you know how I hate
premeditated introductions. They are never a success.”
Sibella, woman-like, looked unconscious of any reticence on my part on
the subject, but I felt that she suspected it. Well, she had been made
aware of Miss Gascoyne’s existence in as tactful a manner as possible.
“What would you do if I were to marry, Sibella?” This was a question I
was very fond of asking her.
“I don’t know; it all depends on whom you married, and whether you
married for love, or——”
“Or interest, you mean. I could not do the former very well, as I am
in love with you, but you must admit it would be foolish not to do the
latter.”
“I suppose there is something in marrying for love,” said Sibella, a
little gloomily.
“In the poorer classes I should think it meant everything. In the case
of the well-to-do it is nothing like so important.”
“I thought I was in love with Lionel.”
“Yes, Sibella, to do you justice I believe you did.”
“And when I discovered that I was not it was too late to draw back.”
Like all people in love we derived a never-ending pleasure from going
backwards and forwards over the whole psychological battle-ground of
our romance.
Lionel was often out of the way. He aspired to lead the life of a very
smart young man indeed. He confided to me that it was somewhat of a
mystery to him that in all the years he had been about town he had
only lately succeeded in getting into the particular set he desired to
mix with. He was a member of one or two extremely select clubs,
although the absolute holy of holies he could not enter, despite the
fact that Sir Anthony was still as far off Sibella as he had ever
been—at least, such was my impression. The infatuated baronet was
prepared to thrust Lionel down the throats of his most intimate
circle.
Sir Anthony might have a curious pronunciation of the Queen’s English,
which dispensed with final “g’s,” and clipped the majority of words in
an altogether surprising manner; he might wear checks which to a chess
enthusiast would at once have suggested a problem; he might have a
partiality for spats and white bowlers; he might even swear
occasionally in the presence of women, but in spite of all these
things he remained undeniably a gentleman; for being a gentleman has
nothing to do with grammar or morals. In time a street urchin may
acquire the one, and a Nonconformist parson may have the other, but
the fact of being a gentleman resides in the individual’s
consciousness. Therefore it is useless for those to whom public
companies and cheeses and cheap teas have stood for the goose with the
golden eggs to watch my lord’s peculiarities or the characteristics of
even plain John Brown, gentleman. They never can be gentlemen. Their
sons may. Their sons’ sons surely will be, but they themselves will
feel conscious that they are not the right article till their dying
day. They may be the best of fellows, the most upright of men, the
most polished of speakers, but they will hear it whispered behind
their backs every now and then that “Hang it all, the man’s not a
gentleman, you know!”
And I am convinced that had I, Israel Rank, been completely a
gentleman on both sides I could never have penned the above snobbish
paragraph. It is the reticence of gentlemen, and their lack of
statement of claim, that keeps up all the barriers and holds democracy
at bay.
Lionel Holland might have felt more secure if his father had sent him
to Eton and Oxford, which he could well have afforded to do, but to
old Mr. Holland these were almost mythical places. Lionel himself
spoke with characteristic unkindness of his father for not having done
so. He was, fortunately for himself, impervious to many slights and
snubs which would have driven a more self-respecting youth back into
his own circle.
When I had first advised him to go in for politics I did not imagine
the matter would have been so easily arranged. Another and a cleverer
man, equally rich, might have waited for years for such an
opportunity. The seat he was selected to contest happened, however, to
be in that part of the country in which lay Sir Anthony Cross’s
estate, and what with Sir Anthony’s own influence and the influence of
the people around with whom he was connected by ties of marriage or of
interest, he was practically able to secure Lionel’s election. If the
latter had the least notion of Sir Anthony’s real motive for all this
attention he was evidently prepared to accept it, and laugh in his
sleeve at the fool who was carrying his pigs to such a bad market. The
son of the man who had risen to wealth from the position of a street
boy had plenty of shrewd cunning, and could bide his time. Men of high
and noble honour and unstainable integrity do not make fortunes, or at
least very rarely, and the valuable qualities of those who do are not
as a rule lost in a generation.