Lionel Holland was, of course, mistaken in accepting as genuine my
indifference as to whether the Gascoynes were civil to me or no. Since
they had asked me to their house it was necessary I should become as
intimate as possible, and Lionel could not know how I had schemed and
intrigued to make myself acceptable in their sight. I had nibbled all
round their circle, so to speak, unobtrusively attempting to identify
myself as much as possible with the people they knew. This was a
matter of no little difficulty. I was compelled to make it known how
near I stood to the succession. This gave me a certain sort of
position, and at least tolerance, as more or less one of themselves by
the exclusive set in which the Gascoynes moved. They still, however,
showed no sign of great friendliness. Of course, the important person
to conciliate was Lady Gascoyne. She did not belong to the difficult
set by birth, and was naturally nervous of doing anything which might
show her as a novice in the art of social selection. Not that she was
in any way a snob; indeed, far from it.
She evidently liked me. I was the sort of personality that the heiress
of enterprising American ancestors—the wrong word; her forbears could
hardly be described as ancestors—would like. I had, however, so far
not interested Lord Gascoyne, whose sympathies were limited. He had
asked me to the house in a purely formal way, and as a member of the
family who had a right to be so asked.
So far I had, as it were, been conducting reconnaissances round the
network of his character and temperament in order to discover his
vulnerable point. It was extremely difficult. He was one of those
self-contained Englishmen whose sense of duty comes somewhat as a
surprise in conjunction with an apparently unenthusiastic temperament.
The very person to be a royal substitute in a dependency. Enthusiasm
is the greatest curse that can befall a reigning Sovereign, and a
really sincere, enthusiastic monarch is distrusted by no one so much
as by his own subjects. In his presence I at once suppressed the
artistic side of my character, and pretended to a reserve and coldness
in no way natural to me. Such topics as were discussed I treated with
as much pure reason as was consistent with a respect to aristocratic
prejudices, an attitude eminently conciliatory to the English noble,
who is never so happy as when he flatters himself that he is
displaying liberal tendencies. There did not, however, appear to be
any likelihood of my being asked to Hammerton, and even my confession
that I had visited the place as a tourist failed to elicit the desired
invitation. He was, because of his limitations, the most difficult
person I had yet had to deal with. At the same time, my being on
visiting terms with Lord and Lady Gascoyne, and admitted by them to be
a relative, gave me a social status which I had not before possessed.
It was highly necessary to be swift with his lordship. I must say that
I had less compunction about removing him than I had had about any of
the others. He was so entirely impersonal in his relations with the
outer world.
I think his wife was in love with him. He was the sort of man women
love desperately where they love at all; for the simple reason that
they are never permitted to become really familiar. They are always in
the presence of their reigning sovereign. A very wholesome thing for
most women, and especially corrective for an American woman. It had
been, I fancy, a great change for her, inasmuch as before marriage she
had ruled her father absolutely. It was a little surprising that Lord
Gascoyne should have condescended to mingle his blood with what was,
after all, quite a plebeian strain. It was the more surprising as he
was in no need of money, and I discovered afterwards that at his
request her enormous dowry was settled absolutely on her children. I
wondered very much if the dowry would revert to the American relations
should she die childless; also if, in the case of Lord Hammerton
outliving his parents, but dying a minor, the money would pass to the
Gascoyne family. It would certainly be amusing were I to inherit the
American dollars.
The great thing, however, was to secure an invitation to Hammerton. If
I could only render Lord Gascoyne some service, or place him under an
obligation to me in any way, it would probably follow as a matter of
course.
An idea struck me. There was the portrait of Lord George, the one
thing saved from the wreck of my uncle’s home. I knew that Lord
Gascoyne took the greatest pride and interest in the portrait gallery
at Hammerton, and that there was no portrait of Lord George Gascoyne,
my own immediate ancestor, among the family pictures.
Finally, seeing no way of approaching the matter as if by chance, I
wrote and offered him the portrait for the collection at Hammerton,
and he replied asking me to come and see him.
I went, and was shown into his private sanctum. He was, considering
his temperament, quite profuse in his thanks, but would at first not
hear of accepting the portrait as a gift.
“As you say, it is not by a great name,” he said; “but at the same
time it is a very good name, and is worth money, and more than money,
to me.”
I gave him to understand that if he declined it as a gift it would
hurt my feelings, as I should conclude that he did not care about
accepting anything at my hands. This I conveyed to him in as tactful a
way as possible. He saw, however, what I meant, and graciously
accepted the picture.
“You must come down and see it hung.”
He could not very well say less, but by the expression of his face I
wondered whether a vague suspicion of my motive had not, even as he
spoke, entered his mind.
However, the invitation was given, and I intended to avail myself of
it. I had no intention of allowing the matter to slip his memory.
“It must be a week-end,” I said smiling, “for, you know, I work hard
all the week.”
“Lady Gascoyne shall write and ask you. She is at Hammerton herself at
present.”
It was quite unnecessary for his lordship to inform me of Lady
Gascoyne’s whereabouts, for I followed the movements of his household
as closely as he did himself.
At Christmas I paid a flying visit to the Gascoynes in the South of
France, and was welcomed with a curious quietness of passion by Miss
Gascoyne, and like a son by her aunt and uncle.
Miss Gascoyne always exalted me, mentally if not morally, and even in
the latter direction she led me out of the limitations I had laid down
for myself, and beyond which it would be dangerous for me to venture.
I am quite capable of great moral enthusiasm, and it has always been
my habit to keep out of the way of those likely to infect me with
strenuousness.
She talked of ideals quite simply and earnestly, and without the least
suggestion of cant, and I was obliged to find some aspirations
suitable to these occasions. Being a woman in love she was content to
warm her romance at a very small fire, and, further, to imagine it a
very big blaze.
I was terribly afraid of being found out by her in any way. I knew
that once we were married she would die rather than admit that she had
made a mistake. Her loyalty would amount to fanaticism, but she was a
woman who could take strong measures before the irrevocable was
accomplished. Her attitude has been that of a medieval saint matched
with a Cenci. She has held her peace, and she has professed to believe
what she knew to be false; whilst at the same time she has suffered
agonies of abasement.
Nearly all women, however, are deceived in love. It is their pastime.
Some never discover the fact, and dream their lives away from their
marriage-day to the grave. If Miss Gascoyne hardly possessed the
phlegmatic instinct which would enable her to join the comfortable
ranks of the latter, she was none the less dwelling in a fool’s
paradise during those winter days on the Riviera. Those who considered
her cold would have been astonished had they known all. She was a
concealed volcano.
I returned to town a little exhausted by the rarified atmosphere of
reverential romance in which I had been living, and looking forward
with a sense of relief to the decadent fascination of Sibella.
Miss Gascoyne with her Utopian dreams about the life of usefulness we
were to lead required the natural antidote, and, strangely enough, the
first whiff of the perfume Sibella used, wafted to me across the room
as she rose to greet me, banished all sensation of ever having been
bored by Edith, for I never admired her so much as when I was in the
company of Sibella. In the same way I never longed for Sibella to such
an extent as when I was with Edith.
Amongst the letters which I found waiting when I reached my rooms
there was an invitation from Lady Gascoyne asking me to give them the
following Saturday to Monday at Hammerton.
From the tone of her letter it was obvious that she had been only too
anxious to second her husband’s invitation. To do her justice, she had
no class prejudices, and such exclusiveness as she displayed arose
from her desire that her husband should think her in every way fitted
to her position.
In my daily letter to Miss Gascoyne I mentioned casually that I had
been invited to Hammerton. I knew that there were few things which
would please her so much.
It was a bitterly cold evening in January when I reached Hammerton
station, and it was snowing fast when we drove across the stone bridge
which spanned the old moat and turned in at the gates.
There was just time to dress for dinner, and, getting into my evening
clothes as quickly as possible, I descended and found that the only
member of the party who had made his appearance was a young American
millionaire who was being introduced to English society. I thought him
particularly stupid and offensive, and was glad when Lord Gascoyne and
the other guests quickly followed and we went to dinner.
We dined in a long, narrow room with a vaulted ceiling and gray
antique stone walls covered with tapestry. The mixture of a feudal
past with modern luxury was exceedingly grateful to a fastidious
taste. The servants came and went through a low arched door, which
must have been built during the early days of the Norman Conquest. The
walls were covered with antique implements of battle, whilst imposing
suits of armour loomed out of the shadows, their polished surfaces
reflecting here and there the blaze from the enormous log-fire in the
vast chimney-place. The party consisted of about half a dozen people
besides myself. There was the young millionaire I have already
mentioned, and who, I believe, was destined by Lady Gascoyne for Lady
Enid Branksome, a pretty, fair-haired girl, who was staying at
Hammerton with her mother. It is surprising, when one comes to think
of it, how few young Americans marry English noblewomen. It would be
interesting to inquire whether this reticence is caused by a
disinclination to live in America—where, of course, precedence and
rank would have to be dropped—or whether the American young man does
not care to buy anything in the shape of a title which is not
hereditary. It would certainly be incongruous for Lady Enid Branksome
to degenerate into plain Mrs. Puttock of Philadelphia. It would seem
almost a murder. The Branksomes, however, were poor, and Mr. Puttock
was a multi-millionaire. He was obviously much taken with Lady Enid,
who, on her side, was evidently torn by the convicting claims of love
and interest; for young Sir Cheveley Drummond was also of the party.
This had been a great tactical error on Lady Gascoyne’s part, for he
seemed to find greater favour in Lady Enid’s eyes than did the fat,
unhealthy cheeks and vacuous expression of Mr. Puttock of
Philadelphia. At the same time, a glance at Lady Branksome’s face
impressed one with the idea that the Lady Enid would most probably be
made to do what she was told.
I have nearly always found house parties somewhat dull, unless there
happened to be present a personality of new and surprising interest,
and personalities do not frequent country-houses. But for the work I
was engaged on I might have found the Saturday till Monday at
Hammerton as dull as anything of the kind. It was, however, of
absorbing interest to me to be in the house with two people whom I had
decided on removing. The position pleased me. This absolutely modern
company in a medieval castle, and with a medieval criminal in their
midst, was truly interesting. Lady Branksome was evidently doubtful
about me, but noting the Semitic cast of my features, and hearing that
I was on the Stock Exchange, concluded that there could only be one
reason for my being in such company, and that must be enormous wealth.
Having several other daughters just ready to burst from the schoolroom
into the ranks of the marriageable, she was tentatively affable. She
was the sort of woman I always found it very easy to get on with; of
the world, cynical and good-natured, very strong-minded, and willing
to live and let live. She was at the same time most intolerant of
people making fools of themselves, and had no intention of allowing
those who were dependent on her to do so if she could help it.
Providing she was assured that I had no intentions, she would be
perfectly friendly, even when she discovered that I was comparatively
poor. Indeed, I gathered in the course of a conversation with her,
that she had quite a weakness for adventurous young men. Probably it
was because she understood them so well that she was such an expert in
keeping them at a distance. During dinner, however, and pending
inquiries which would no doubt be conducted when the ladies were
alone, she treated me as a person rich enough to be conciliated. A
very different woman was Lady Briardale. However rich a man might be,
he was nothing to her unless he could show a pedigree. She evidently
thought very little of Mr. Puttock, and less of Mr. Rank, who looked a
Jew. She probably regarded it as a slight that she should have been
asked to meet two such absolute nobodies. She had never heard of
anybody called Puttock, or Rank. They were not names at all. They were
merely ciphers by which the lower classes were differentiated one from
the other. She would probably have thought it more convenient if the
lower classes had been known by numbers like cabs and convicts; and,
after all, they were not so interesting as convicts, and not so useful
as cabs in her eyes. She was evidently somewhat annoyed that I should
talk so well, a fact she might have forgiven if others had not paid me
the compliment of listening. Indeed, she became quite civil to
Puttock, who, she perhaps felt, showed himself conscious of his
inferiority by holding his tongue.
Sir Cheveley Drummond, whom I knew to be entertaining, but who was
quite taken up with Lady Enid, completed the party, which did not
promise much amusement.
After dinner we all sat in the picture-gallery. The last time I had
seen it was in company with the gang of excursionists, and I
laughingly recalled the fact to Lady Gascoyne when she was showing me
where the picture of Lord George had been hung. Lady Briardale was
apparently a little astonished when she heard that Lord George was my
ancestor, and that I had presented the picture to the collection. Lady
Branksome had evidently recalled my name.
“I have been wondering, Mr. Rank, where I have heard of you, and I
remember now that it was from my youngest boy. He met you at supper
one evening. I didn’t ask where,” she said parenthetically, “but he
talked of nobody else for days.”
I remembered young Gavan Branksome, a nice, fair-haired youth, who had
attracted my notice by being somewhat like Grahame Hallward.
“I have not seen him since.”
“No; he is in India. Did you like India, Sir Cheveley?” she said
quickly, stopping the love-sick warrior as he was making his way
across the room to Lady Enid.
Poor Sir Cheveley was forced to pause, and whilst Lady Branksome
detained him, Mr. Puttock sank into the seat which Lady Enid had left
vacant for Sir Cheveley.
“Charming man, Sir Cheveley,” said Lady Branksome, with almost a laugh
when he finally moved away. “I’ve known him all his life, and he was
always attractive, even when he was sixteen.”
I am sure she was perfectly honest in saying that she liked Sir
Cheveley. She probably liked him as much as, in her heart, she
disliked Mr. Puttock.
Poor Sir Cheveley’s disappointment, however, did not prevent his being
excellent company in the smoking-room.
I sat up in my own room thinking matters over till a late hour. Before
I arrived at Hammerton I had had vague ideas of pushing Lord Gascoyne
down a disused well, or something of that kind, in which an old feudal
castle like Hammerton might be supposed to abound. On consideration,
however, I came to the conclusion that Lord Gascoyne would be a very
difficult person to push anywhere he did not mean to go.
I was naturally afraid of poison in such a case. It would only be
possible to use it whilst I was in the house, and that was dangerous.
My growing proximity to the succession was bringing me nearer and
nearer to the perilous land of motive. Violence, unless I were given
an extraordinarily good opportunity, was out of the question. The
cigar would not do, either, for, strange to say, Lord Gascoyne hardly
smoked at all. Cigars and pipes he never attempted, and I noticed that
as a rule he merely lit a cigarette in order to keep his guests in
countenance.
I had heard of people being made away with when out shooting, but in
my case it would hardly be possible. In the first place, I did not
shoot, having always had a disinclination to the brutal killing of
animals for the sake of pleasure. There remained as far as I could see
only the ordinary means of poisoning, with all their attendant
dangers.
An instantaneous poison would be most convenient, as it was highly
unlikely that I should have sufficient access to Lord Gascoyne to deal
with him slowly.
I rose in the morning with one scheme after another chasing itself
through my brain. Dressing rapidly, I went for a walk before breakfast
round the ancient battlements. These were quite a mile in
circumference, and the climbing of worn steps, hazardous scalings of
the walls from whence to get a better view, and a careful examination
of the various architectural designs of which the building was
constructed, occupied me very pleasantly for a full hour, and it was
half-past nine, the time for breakfast, when I turned to re-enter the
castle. As I descended some steps which led down to the quadrangle, I
was astonished to come face to face with a girl of about nineteen or
twenty and a child. She was obviously a lady, but she had not been at
the dinner-table the evening before, or in the picture-gallery
afterwards. I concluded that she was the little boy’s governess, but
who the child might be I could not imagine. I detected at once that
the girl was beautiful, and when I say I detected I use the word
advisedly, because it was not a beauty which would be immediately
appreciated. The gray eyes, oval face, threaded gold hair, straight
nose, and delicately-cut mouth were almost too frail to impress the
casual observer. I saw at once, however, that she was rarely perfect
in such a type of beauty as I always imagined Burns’ Mary must have
possessed. She wore a quaint hood, almost like a child’s, edged with
some inexpensive gray fur. The little boy looked at me shyly, and I
held out my arms. A smile broke over his face and he offered me his
ball, inviting me to play with him. In less than a minute we were all
three laughing like old friends.
After having made myself sufficiently agreeable, I escaped from the
child, who was clamouring to me to continue the game, and ran down the
steps. I found Lady Gascoyne in sole possession of the breakfast-table.
“I am afraid we are the only early risers, Mr. Rank,” she said.
As a matter of fact, I rather fancied I had caught a glimpse of Lady
Enid going along the road towards Hammerton woods, and I think I was
fairly correct in guessing that she was not walking at such a rapid
pace for the pleasure of her own company. Indeed, I would not have
minded taking long odds that Sir Cheveley was not very far away.
I, of course, said nothing of this to Lady Gascoyne, but mentioned my
meeting with the girl in the gray hood.
Lady Gascoyne smiled.
“Now, isn’t she pretty, Mr. Rank?”
“Almost beautiful,” I hazarded. It is dangerous to be enthusiastic
about another woman, even to the nicest of her sex.
“That shows your good taste. Some people cannot see it.”
“It is the sort of beauty which is very rare, and not exactly showy.”
“She is to my mind wonderful. It does one good to look at her. I
expect you are wondering who the little boy is. It is a sad story. I
had a great school friend whose father was enormously rich. About a
year after her marriage he failed, and her husband’s fortune went in
the same crash. Her husband shot himself, and she died six months
later, leaving her little boy in my care. Oh!” she added quickly,
evidently afraid that my inward comment might be a disparagement on
her dead friend, “she did so at my express desire. We loved one
another so, that it was the most natural thing she could do.”
“He seems a dear little chap.”
“He is a darling, and devoted to Hammerton already. Lord Gascoyne is
so good about it, and lets me have him here always. Miss Lane is his
governess.”
Sir Cheveley Drummond, looking a little conscious, came in at this
moment.
“How energetic everybody is this morning,” said Lady Gascoyne.
Mr. Puttock, who appeared on the scene almost as she spoke, looked
anything but energetic. He looked as effete as only a decadent young
American can look. Lady Enid, who followed, managed to convey with
great art the impression that she had just left her room. Lady
Briardale did not appear, but Lady Branksome, unable to trust Lady
Enid, arrived in good time, although she confided to me later that she
thought breakfasting in public a barbarous practice.
After breakfast, the whole party, with the exception of Sir Cheveley
Drummond, went to church. Poor Sir Cheveley hardly saw the point of
going when he knew perfectly well that he would not be permitted to
share Lady Enid’s hymn-book.
I distinctly heard Lady Briardale say, as we were all waiting in the
hall:
“I should have thought, my dear, that he would have preferred a
synagogue.”
At church a thrill passed through me when I found that I was seated
next to Esther Lane. It was an infinite pleasure to me to be sitting
beside her through the long and stupid sermon. The yellow winter
sunlight fell across the recumbent effigies of dead and gone
Gascoynes, and made the painted window to the east a blaze of colour.
Her presence and the surroundings filled me with a sense of purity and
peace, and I surrendered myself to the primitive emotions. I suppose a
less subtle soul would have been oppressed with a sense of past sins,
and would in such a building have been filled with despair at the
consciousness of irrevocable guilt. I fortunately had schooled myself
to control. The sensation of goodness can, like other things, be
acquired. When I had obtained the prize for which I was striving I had
not the least doubt that I should find it easy to put away from me any
unworthy feeling of regret. Why should I not? The harm was after all
very questionable. It was not as if, so far, I had made widows and
orphans. The amount of suffering I had inflicted was limited, and at
any rate I should not leave poverty, the greatest of all ills, in my
track. Indeed, under the influence of that Sunday morning service I
felt quite regenerated. When we left the church Esther Lane and her
pupil went through the great gates of the castle into the woods
beyond, and I would have given worlds to follow her, but Lady
Branksome told me that she agreed with her son, and that I was
decidedly amusing. She insisted on my going for a walk with her. At
the same time she took good care to see that Mr. Puttock and Lady Enid
were close behind.
In the afternoon I manœuvred a meeting with Esther Lane. I surmised
that she and her pupil would walk away from the castle, and so I kept
watch on the drawbridge. Everybody was more or less occupied. I was
aware that Lady Branksome had, before retiring for her afternoon nap,
left Mr. Puttock in possession of Lady Enid, who had got rid of him
with all the ease imaginable, and was now walking with Sir Cheveley on
the battlements.
Lord Gascoyne had pleaded letters, and I had arranged to fetch him in
an hour or so and go for a tramp.
As Esther Lane and her pupil crossed the drawbridge I was leaning over
the extreme end of the parapet in the most natural manner in the
world. I pretended not to notice them, and only permitted myself to be
aroused from a contemplation of the beautiful scenery which lay below
by the child flinging his arms with a scream of delight round my legs.
She blushed as she apologised for her charge. She was evidently a
little nervous as to what her employers might think if they saw her
walking with one of their guests, and, after a short interchange of
commonplaces, tried to get rid of me. I refused to be shaken off, and
a couple of hundred yards took us out of sight of the castle.
We dropped at once into a style of conversation which was almost
intimate, and although I was with her barely three quarters of an hour
she confided a great deal in me.
Not that there was much to confide. She was the daughter of a
solicitor who had left nothing but debts. Her mother was dead, and she
was absolutely alone in the world. Her only relations were some very
distant cousins who were so poor that it had been impossible for them
to help her in any way.
“I was very lucky,” she said, gratefully, “to get such a good
situation, and it came about in the quaintest way. Lady Gascoyne had
seen all sorts of people with diplomas and recommendations which I had
not got, and she saw me sitting in the waiting-room as she passed out.
I don’t think the agent quite liked her engaging me, but Lady Gascoyne
insisted that I was just the person she wanted, and here I am.”
She smiled contentedly. She evidently considered herself an extremely
fortunate young woman.
She attracted me enormously without in any way usurping the place of
the two women who already counted for so much in my life.
All too soon I was obliged to leave her and hurry back to Lord
Gascoyne, whom I found waiting for me.
It was the first opportunity I had had of really impressing him, and I
did not waste my time. I took such an absorbing interest in everything
about me that I fancy he was surprised to find himself talking so much
and so intimately.
I was perfectly ready to enter into the subjects which interested him
most. He was evidently deeply imbued with a belief in the divine right
of aristocracy, and with no superficial sense of its responsibilities.
He was above all things a serious man, with little sense of humour. I
imagined that Lady Gascoyne must find him dull, but his qualities were
essentially those which command women’s respect and hold them with a
certain kind of fear.
As is the case with his class—a class which the popular organs are
fond of describing as irresponsible and brainless—his knowledge and
grasp of life were very extensive. His individual sympathies may not
have been very great, but he had a general sense of justice which
marked him out as an administrator, from many who were perhaps much
his intellectual superiors. What he knew was of use to him.
I was surprised at my own capacity for conciliating him. I accompanied
him with ease into the region of politics. He was evidently impressed,
and it was satisfactory to feel him gradually treating me with less
and less formality.
“Your race gave us one of our greatest statesmen,” he said, “for I do
not believe that anyone has understood real statesmanship better than
Disraeli.”
“Some people seem to think he was insincere,” I replied, “but I don’t
believe it. His cynicism was simply the complement of a mind with a
singularly large outlook.”
So subtle an appreciation impressed the man whose own nature was all
in a straight line. The curves of a less direct character appealed to
him as insight.
In listening to him, however, I could not help reflecting that his
kind, whatever the moralist may pretend, is far more vulgar than the
abnormal. The orchid is the most fascinating of flowers in all its
varieties, but it is rare; or do we only call that type normal which
prevails for the moment? Which is the more moral man—he who by reason
of a lack of imagination ranges himself as the mercenary of tradition
and convention, or he who rebels and finds himself wounded and struck
at wherever he turns? Not that I can claim to be a martyr to moral
restlessness, although at one time I sincerely believe I had in me the
makings of a reformer. Nevertheless, there is always something a
little vulgar about the man who ranges himself definitely on one side.
We returned to the castle on very good terms indeed. The rest of the
party were at tea in the long picture-gallery. I like, even at this
unpleasant crisis, to linger over the memory of the picture-gallery at
Hammerton on that Sunday afternoon in midwinter. The long, straight
windows through which the frosty sunset flushed the gilded frames and
old tapestries, the firelight playing on the silver of the tea-table
drawn up before Lady Gascoyne—for there were no servants to desecrate
the most convivial of all meals—made up a delightful picture, whilst
the child Walter Chard, in his sailor clothes, ran from one group to
the other as happy and unconscious as if he had a prescriptive right
to the enchantment of the castle.
I was delighted on our assembling for dinner to find that Esther Lane
was of the party. She was dressed simply in gray, with a couple of
blush roses at her bosom. Lady Enid was talking to her when I came in.
It fell to my lot to take her in to dinner, and we thoroughly enjoyed
ourselves. She was quite unconscious amongst these great folk, and
unaffectedly joyous. I almost fancied that Lady Gascoyne looked at me
once or twice with the faintest sign of surprise. I sincerely hoped
she would not inform Miss Lane of the fact that I was engaged,
although it was more than probable. Esther Lane was one of those women
who are, to a certain extent, lacking in the natural defences of their
sex as a result of their own honesty and simplicity. That she was
prepared to be interested in me was obvious, and I made the most of my
time. After dinner she played to us. It was not a brilliant
performance, but she was accurate and had feeling, and she touched the
keys wooingly and caressingly, making the piano sing, a gift rare even
among some so-called finished performers. If people cannot make
instruments sing they had better leave them alone. Afterwards I played
and sang, and she declared herself ashamed of her own performance.
Music had the advantage of giving us an excuse for remaining at the
piano together, and later, when everybody else settled down to cards
some way off, we were left trying over one song after the other. When
I murmured that it seemed as if we had known each other all our lives
she blushed.
Later, in the smoking-room, Sir Cheveley said he was quite astonished
to find how pretty she was. It was a fact which he declared had grown
on him gradually.
The next morning I returned to town, but I had made such good use of
my time that I carried with me an invitation to return in a fortnight,
and it was Lord Gascoyne who brought it me from his wife.
He had made quite a friend of me. It was not probable that he had ever
had a friend with anything of the bizarre about him before.