On Monday morning Wyndham returned to town. His father had strained a
point to give his only son the season in London, and Gerald was paying
part of the expenses by coaching one or two young fellows for the next
Cambridge term. He had just concluded his own University course, and
was only waiting until his twenty-third birthday had passed, to be
ordained for the curacy which his father was keeping for him. Gerald's
birthday would be in September, and the rectory girls were looking
forward to this date as though it were the beginning of the millennium.
"Even the cats won't fight, nor the dogs bark when Gerald is in the
room," whispered little Joan. "I 'spect they know he don't like it."
Wyndham returned to London feeling both low and excited. His
conversation with Lilias and the rather pallid look of her face, the
black shadows under her eyes, and the pathetic expression which the
shedding of so many tears had given to them, could not cure him nor
extinguish the flame which was burning into his heart, and making all
the other good things of life seem but as dust and ashes to his taste.
He arrived in town, went straight to his lodgings, preparatory to
keeping his engagement with one of his young pupils, and there saw
waiting for him a letter in the firm upright handwriting of Mortimer
Paget. He tore the envelope open in feverish haste. The lines within
were very few:--
DEAR WYNDHAM.
Val and I were disappointed at your not putting in an appearance at
her dinner-party last night, but no doubt you had good reasons for
going into the country. This note will meet you on your return.
Can you come and lunch with me in the City on Monday at two
o'clock? Come to my place in Billiter-square. I shall expect you
and won't keep you waiting. I have a matter of some importance I
should like to discuss with you.--Yours, my dear Wyndham,
sincerely,
"MORTIMER PAGET."
Wyndham put the letter into his pocket, flew to keep his appointment
with his pupil, and at two o'clock precisely was inquiring for Mr.
Paget at the offices of the shipping firm in Billiter-square.
Mortimer Paget was now head of the large establishment. He was the sole
surviving partner out of many, and on him alone devolved the carrying
out of one of the largest business concerns in the city.
Wyndham never felt smaller than when he entered those great doors, and
found himself passed on from one clerk to another, until at last he was
admitted to the ante-room of the chief himself.
Here there was a hush and stillness, and the young man sank down into
one of the easy chairs, and looked around him expectantly. He was in
the ante chamber of one of the great kings of commerce, the depressing
influence of wealth when we have no share in it came over him. He
longed to turn and fly, and but that his fingers, even now, fiddled
with Mr. Paget's very pressing note he would have done so. What could
the great man possibly want with him? With his secret in his breast,
with the knowledge that he, a poor young expectant curate, had dared to
lift up his eyes to the only daughter of this great house, he could not
but feel ill at ease.
When Wyndham was not at home with any one he instantly lost his charm.
He was painfully conscious of this himself, and felt sure that he would
be on stilts while he ate his lunch with Mr. Paget. Nay more, he was
almost sure that that astute personage would read his secret in his
eyes.
A clerk came into the room, an elderly man, with reddish whiskers,
small, deep-set eyes, and thin hair rapidly turning white. He stared
inquisitively at young Wyndham, walked past him, drew up the blinds,
arranged some papers on the table, and then as he passed him again said
in a quick, half-frightened aside:
"If I was you, young man, I'd go."
The tone in which this was said was both anxious and familiar. Wyndham
started aside from the familiarity. His face flushed and he gazed
haughtily at the speaker.
"Did you address me?" he said.
"I did, young man, don't say nothing, for the good Lord's sake, don't
say nothing. My name is Jonathan Helps. I have been here man and boy
for close on forty years. I know the old house. Sound! no house in the
whole city sounder, sound as a nut, or as an apple when _it's rotten at
the core_. You keep that to yourself, young man--why I'd venture every
penny I have in this yer establishment. I'm confidential clerk here!
I'm a rough sort--and not what you'd expect from a big house, nor from
a master like Mr. Paget. Now, young man, you go away, and believe that
there ain't a sounder house in all the city than that of Paget, Brake
and Carter. I, Jonathan Helps, say it, and surely I ought to know."
An electric bell sounded in the other room. Wiping his brow with his
handkerchief as though the queer words he had uttered had cost him an
effort, Helps flew to answer the summons.
"Ask Mr. Wyndham to walk in and have lunch served in my room," said an
authoritative voice. "And see here. Helps, you are not to disturb us on
any excuse before three o'clock."
Shutting the door behind him, Helps came back again to Gerald's side.
"If you don't want to run away at once you're to go in there," he
said. "Remember, there isn't a sounder house in all London than that of
Paget, Brake and Carter. Paget's head of the whole concern now. Don't
he boss it over us though! Oh, you're going in?--you've made up your
mind not to run away. Surely in vain is the net spread in the sight of
any bird. Good Lord, if that ain't the least true word that David ever
writ. Well, here you are. Don't forget that this house is sound--sound
as an apple when it is--Mr. Wyndham, sir."
"You seem to have got a very extraordinary clerk," said Gerald, when he
had shaken hands with his host, who had expressed himself delighted to
see him.
"Helps?" responded Mr. Paget. "Yes, poor fellow--has he been
entertaining you--telling you about the soundness of the house, eh?
Poor Helps--the best fellow in the world, but just a little--a very
little--touched in the head."
"So I should think," said Gerald, laughing; "he compared me to a bird
in the fowler's net, and all kinds of ridiculous similes. What a snug
room you have here."
"I am glad you think it so. I have a still snugger room at the other
side of this curtain, which I hope to introduce to you. Come along and
see it. This was furnished at Val's suggestion. She comes here to have
lunch with me once a week. Friday is her day. Will you come and join us
here next Friday at two o'clock?"
"I--I shall be delighted," stammered Wyndham.
"She has good taste, hasn't she, little puss? All these arrangements
are hers. I never saw any one with a better eye for color, and she has
that true sympathy with her surroundings which teaches her to adapt
rooms to their circumstances. Now, for instance, at Queen's Gate we are
all cool greys and blues--plenty of sunshine comes into the house at
Queen's Gate. Into this room the sun never shows his face. Val
accordingly substitutes for his brightness golden tones and warm
colors. Artistic, is it not? She is very proud of the remark which
invariably falls from the lips of each person who visits this sanctum
sanctorum, that it does not look the least like an office."
"Nor does it," responded Gerald. "It is a lovely room. What a beautiful
portrait that is of your daughter--how well those warm greys suit her
complexion."
"Yes, that is Richmond's, he painted her two years ago. Sit down at
this side of the table, Wyndham, where you can have a good view of the
saucy puss. Does she not look alive, as if she meant to say something
very impertinent to us both. Thanks, Helps, you can leave us now. Pray
see that we are not disturbed."
Helps withdrew with noiseless slippered feet. A curtain was drawn in
front of the door, which the clerk closed softly after him.
"Excellent fellow, Helps," said Mr. Paget, "but mortal, decidedly
mortal. If you will excuse me, Wyndham. I will take the precaution of
turning the key in that door. This little room, Val's room, I call it,
has often been privileged to listen to state secrets. That being the
case one must take due precautions against eaves-droppers. Now, my dear
fellow, I hope you are hungry. Help yourself to some of those
cutlets--I can recommend this champagne."
The lunch proceeded, the elder man eating with real appetite, the
younger with effort. He was excited, his mind was full of trouble--he
avoided looking at Valentine's picture, and wished himself at the other
side of those locked doors.
"You don't seem quite the thing," said Mr. Paget, presently. "I hope
you have had no trouble at home, Wyndham. Is your father well? Let me
see, he must be about my age--we were at Trinity College, Cambridge,
some time in the forties."
"My father is very well, sir," said Gerald. "He is a hale man, he does
not look his years."
"Have some more champagne? I think you told me you had several
sisters."
"Yes, there are seven girls at home."
"Good heavens--Wyndham is a lucky man. Fancy seven Valentines filling a
house with mirth! And you are the only son--and your mother is dead."
"My mother is not living," responded Wyndham with a flush. "And--yes, I
am the only son. I won't have any more champagne, thank you, sir."
"Try one of these cigars--I can recommend them. Wyndham, I am going to
say something very frank. I have taken a fancy to you. There, I don't
often take fancies. Why, what is the matter, my dear fellow?"
Gerald had suddenly risen to his feet, his face was white. There was a
strained, eager, pained look in his eyes.
"You wouldn't, if you knew," he stammered. "I--I have made a fool of
myself, sir. I oughtn't to be sitting here, your hospitality chokes me.
I--I have made the greatest fool of myself in all Christendom, sir."
"I think I know what you mean," said Mr. Paget, also rising to his
feet. His voice was perfectly calm, quiet, friendly.
"I am not sorry you have let it out in this fashion, my poor lad. You
have--shall I tell you that I know your secret, Wyndham?"
"No, sir; don't let us talk of it. You cannot rate me for my folly more
severely than I rate myself. I'll go away now if you have no objection.
Thank you for being kind to me. Try and forget that I made an ass of
myself."
"Sit down again, Wyndham. I am not angry--I don't look upon you as a
fool. I should have done just the same were I in your shoes. You are in
love with Valentine--you would like to make her your wife."
"Good heavens, sir, don't let us say anything more about it."
"Why not? Under certain conditions I think you would make her a
suitable husband. I guessed your secret some weeks ago. Since then I
have been watching you carefully. I have also made private inquiries
about you. All that I hear pleases me. I asked you to lunch with me,
to-day, on purpose that we should talk the matter over."
Mr. Paget spoke in a calm, almost drawling, voice. The young man
opposite to him, his face deadly white, his hands nervously clutching
at a paper-knife, his burning eyes fixed upon the older man's face,
drank in every word. It was an intoxicating draught, going straight to
Gerald Wyndham's brain.
"God bless you!" he said, when the other had ceased to speak. He turned
his head away, for absolute tears of joy had softened the burning
feverish light in his eyes.
"No, don't say that, Wyndham," responded Mr. Paget, his own voice for
the first time a little shaken. "We'll leave God altogether out of this
business, if you have no objection. It is simply a question of how much
a man will give up for love. Will he sell himself, body and soul, for
it? That is the question of questions. I know all about you, Wyndham; I
know that you have not a penny to bless yourself with; I know that you
are about to embrace a beggarly profession. Oh, yes, we'll leave out
the religious aspect of the question. A curacy in the Church of England
is a beggarly profession in these days. I know too that you are your
father's only son, and that you have seven sisters, who will one day
look to you to protect them. I know all that; nevertheless I believe
you to be the kind of man who will dare all for love. If you win
Valentine, you have got to pay a price for her. It is a heavy one--I
won't tell you about it yet. When you agree to pay this price, for the
sake of a brief joy for yourself, for necessarily it must be brief; and
for her life-long good and well-being, then you rise to be her equal in
every sense of the word, and you earn my undying gratitude, Wyndham."
"I don't understand you, sir. You speak very darkly, and you hint at
things which--which shock me."
"I must shock you more before you hold Valentine in your arms. You have
heard enough for to-day. Hark, someone is knocking at the door."
Mr. Paget rose to open it, a gay voice sounded in the passage, and the
next moment a brilliant, lovely apparition entered the room.
"Val herself!" exclaimed her father. "No, my darling. I cannot go for a
drive with you just now, but you and Mrs. Johnstone shall take Wyndham.
You will like a drive in the park, Wyndham. You have got to scold this
young man, Val, for acting truant on Saturday night. Now go off, both
of you, I am frightfully busy. Yes, Helps, coming, coming. Valentine,
be sure you ask Mr. Wyndham home to tea. If you can induce him to dine,
so much the better, and afterwards we can go to the play together."