Trent, on leaving the hotel, turned for almost the first time in his life westwards. For years the narrow alleys, the thronged streets, the great buildings of the City had known him day by day, almost hour by hour. Its roar and clamour, the strife of tongues and keen measuring of wits had been the salt of his life. Steadily, sturdily, almost insolently, he had thrust his way through to the front ranks. In many respects those were singular and unusual elements which had gone to the making of his success. His had not been the victory of honied falsehoods, of suave deceit, of gentle but legalised robbery. He had been a hard worker, a daring speculator with nerves of iron, and courage which would have glorified a nobler cause. Nor had his been the methods of good fellowship, the sharing of “good turns,” the camaraderie of finance. The men with whom he had had large dealings he had treated as enemies rather than friends, ever watching them covertly with close but unslackening vigilance. And now, for the present at any rate it was all over. There had come a pause in his life. His back was to the City and his face was set towards an unknown world. Half unconsciously he had undertaken a little voyage of exploration.
From the Strand he crossed Trafalgar Square into Pall Mall, and up the Haymarket into Piccadilly. He was very soon aware that he had wandered into a world whose ways were not his ways and with whom he had no kinship. Yet he set himself sedulously to observe them, conscious that what he saw represented a very large side of life. From the first he was aware of a certain difference in himself and his ways. The careless glance of a lounger on the pavement of Pall Mall filled him with a sudden anger. The man was wearing gloves, an article of dress which Trent ignored, and smoking a cigarette, which he loathed. Trent was carelessly dressed in a tweed suit and red tie, his critic wore a silk hat and frock coat, patent-leather boots, and a dark tie of invisible pattern. Yet Trent knew that he was a type of that class which would look upon him as an outsider, and a black sheep, until he had bought his standing. They would expect him to conform to their type, to learn to speak their jargon, to think with their puny brains and to see with their short-sighted eyes. At the “Criterion” he turned in and had a drink, and, bolder for the wine which he had swallowed at a gulp, he told himself that he would do nothing of the sort. He would not alter a jot. They must take him as he was, or leave him. He suffered his thoughts to dwell for a moment upon his wealth, on the years which had gone to the winning of it, on a certain nameless day, the memory of which even now sent sometimes the blood running colder through his veins, on the weaker men who had gone under that he might prosper. Now that it was his, he wanted the best possible value for it; it was the natural desire of the man to be uppermost in the bargain. The delights of the world behind, it seemed to him that he had already drained. The crushing of his rivals, the homage of his less successful competitors, the grosser pleasures of wine, the music-halls, and the unlimited spending of money amongst people whom he despised had long since palled upon him. He had a keen, strong desire to escape once and for ever from his surroundings. He lounged along, smoking a large cigar, keen-eyed and observant, laying up for himself a store of impressions, unconsciously irritated at every step by a sense of ostracism, of being in some indefinable manner without kinship and wholly apart from this world, in which it seemed natural now that he should find some place. He gazed at the great houses without respect or envy, at the men with a fierce contempt, at the women with a sore feeling that if by chance he should be brought into contact with any of them they would regard him as a sort of wild animal, to be humoured or avoided purely as a matter of self-interest. The very brightness and brilliancy of their toilettes, the rustling of their dresses, the trim elegance and daintiness which he was able to appreciate without being able to understand, only served to deepen his consciousness of the gulf which lay between him and them. They were of a world to which, even if he were permitted to enter it, he could not possibly belong. He returned such glances as fell upon him with fierce insolence; he was indeed somewhat of a strange figure in his ill-fitting and inappropriate clothes amongst a gathering of smart people. A lady looking at him through raised lorgnettes turned and whispered something with a smile to her companion—once before he had heard an audible titter from a little group of loiterers. He returned the glance with a lightning-like look of diabolical fierceness, and, turning round, stood upon the curbstone and called a hansom.
A sense of depression swept over him as he was driven through the crowded streets towards Waterloo. The half-scornful, half-earnest prophecy, to which he had listened years ago in a squalid African hut, flashed into his mind. For the first time he began to have dim apprehensions as to his future. All his life he had been a toiler, and joy had been with him in the fierce combat which he had waged day by day. He had fought his battle and he had won—where were the fruits of his victory? A puny, miserable little creature like Dickenson could prate of happiness and turn a shining face to the future—Dickenson who lived upon a pittance, who depended upon the whim of his employer, and who confessed to ambitions which were surely pitiable. Trent lit a fresh cigar and smiled; things would surely come right with him—they must. What Dickenson could gain was surely his by right a thousand times over.
He took the train for Walton, travelling first class, and treated with much deference by the officials on the line. As he alighted and passed through the booking-hall into the station-yard a voice hailed him. He looked up sharply. A carriage and pair of horses was waiting, and inside a young woman with a very smart hat and a profusion of yellow hair.
“Come on, General,” she cried. “I've done a skip and driven down to meet you. Such jokes when they miss me. The old lady will be as sick as they make 'em. Can't we have a drive round for an hour, eh?”
Her voice was high-pitched and penetrating. Listening to it Trent unconsciously compared it with the voices of the women of that other world into which he had wandered earlier in the afternoon. He turned a frowning face towards her.
“You might have spared yourself the trouble,” he said shortly. “I didn't order a carriage to meet me and I don't want one. I am going to walk home.”
She tossed her head.
“What a beastly temper you're in!” she remarked. “I'm not particular about driving. Do you want to walk alone?”
“Exactly!” he answered. “I do!”
She leaned back in the carriage with heightened colour.
“Well, there's one thing about me,” she said acidly. “I never go where I ain't wanted.”
Trent shrugged his shoulders and turned to the coachman.
“Drive home, Gregg,” he said. “I'm walking.”
The man touched his hat, the carriage drove off, and Trent, with a grim smile upon his lips, walked along the dusty road. Soon he paused before a little white gate marked private, and, unlocking it with a key which he took from his pocket, passed through a little plantation into a large park-like field. He took off his hat and fanned himself thoughtfully as he walked. The one taste which his long and absorbing struggle with the giants of Capel Court had never weakened was his love for the country. He lifted his head to taste the breeze which came sweeping across from the Surrey Downs, keenly relishing the fragrance of the new-mown hay and the faint odour of pines from the distant dark-crested hill. As he came up the field towards the house he looked with pleasure upon the great bed of gorgeous-coloured rhododendrons which bordered his lawn, the dark cedars which drooped over the smooth shaven grass, and the faint flush of colour from the rose-gardens beyond. The house itself was small, but picturesque. It was a grey stone building of two stories only, and from where he was seemed completely embowered in flowers and creepers. In a way, he thought, he would be sorry to leave it. It had been a pleasant summer-house for him, although of course it was no fit dwelling-house for a millionaire. He must look out for something at once now—a country house and estate. All these things would come as a matter of course.
He opened another gate and passed into an inner plantation of pines and shrubs which bordered the grounds. A winding path led through it, and, coming round a bend, he stopped short with a little exclamation. A girl was standing with her back to him rapidly sketching upon a little block which she had in her left hand.
“Hullo!” he remarked, “another guest! and who brought you down, young lady, eh?”
She turned slowly round and looked at him in cold surprise. Trent knew at once that he had made a mistake. She was plainly dressed in white linen and a cool muslin blouse, but there was something about her, unmistakable even to Trent, which placed her very far apart indeed from any woman likely to have become his unbidden guest. He knew at once that she was one of that class with whom he had never had any association. She was the first lady whom he had ever addressed, and he could have bitten out his tongues when he remembered the form of his doing so.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said confusedly, “my mistake! You see, your back was turned to me.”
She nodded and smiled graciously.
“If you are Mr. Scarlett Trent,” she said, “it is I who should apologise, for I am a flagrant trespasser. You must let me explain.”
The girl had moved a step towards him as she spoke, and a gleam of sunlight which had found its way into the grove flashed for a moment on the stray little curls of her brown-gold hair and across her face. Her lips were parted in a delightful smile; she was very pretty, and inclined to be apologetic. But Scarlett Trent had seen nothing save that first glance when the sun had touched her face with fire. A strong man at all times, and more than commonly self-masterful, he felt himself now as helpless as a child. A sudden pallor had whitened his face to the lips, there were strange singings in his ears, and a mist before his eyes. It was she! There was no possibility of any mistake. It was the girl for whose picture he had gambled in the hut at Bekwando—Monty's baby-girl, of whom he had babbled even in death. He leaned against a tree, stricken dumb, and she was frightened. “You are ill,” she cried. “I'm so sorry. Let me run to the house and fetch some one!”
He had strength enough to stop her. A few deep breaths and he was himself again, shaken and with a heart beating like a steam-engine, but able at least to talk intelligently.
“I'm sorry—didn't mean to frighten you,” he said. “It's the heat. I get an attack like this sometimes. Yes, I'm Mr. Trent. I don't know what you're doing here, but you're welcome.”
“How nice of you to say so!” she answered brightly. “But then perhaps you'll change your mind when you know what I have been doing.”
He laughed shortly.
“Nothing terrible, I should say. Looks as though you've been making a picture of my house; I don't mind that.”
She dived in her pocket and produced a card-case.
“I'll make full confession,” she said frankly. “I'm a journalist.”
“A what!” he repeated feebly.
“A journalist. I'm on the Hour. This isn't my work as a rule; but the man who should have come is ill, and his junior can't sketch, so they sent me! Don't look as though I were a ghost, please. Haven't you ever heard of a girl journalist before?”
“Never,” he answered emphatically. “I didn't know that ladies did such things!”
She laughed gaily but softly; and Trent understood then what was meant by the music of a woman's voice.
“Oh, it's not at all an uncommon thing,” she answered him. “You won't mind my interviewing you, will you?”
“Doing what?” he asked blankly.
“Interviewing you! That's what I've come for, you know; and we want a little sketch of your house for the paper. I know you don't like it. I hear you've been awfully rude to poor little Morrison of the Post; but I'll be very careful what I say, and very quick.”
He stood looking at her, a dazed and bewildered man. From the trim little hat, with its white band and jaunty bunch of cornflowers, to the well-shaped patent shoes, she was neatly and daintily dressed. A journalist! He gazed once more into her face, at the brown eyes watching him now a little anxiously, the mouth with the humorous twitch at the corner of her lips. The little wisps of hair flashed again in the sunlight. It was she! He had found her.
She took his silence for hesitation, and continued a little anxiously.
“I really won't ask you many questions, and it would do me quite a lot of good to get an interview with you. Of course I oughtn't to have begun this sketch without permission. If you mind that, I'll give it up.”
He found his tongue awkwardly, but vigorously.
“You can sketch just as long as ever you please, and make what use of it you like,” he said. “It's only a bit of a place though!”
“How nice of you! And the interview?”
“I'll tell you whatever you want to know,” he said quietly.
She could scarcely believe in her good fortune, especially when she remembered the description of the man which one of the staff had given. He was gruff, vulgar, ill-tempered; the chief ought to be kicked for letting her go near him! This was what she had been told. She laughed softly to herself.
“It is very good indeed of you, Mr. Trent,” she said earnestly. “I was quite nervous about coming, for I had no idea that you would be so kind. Shall I finish my sketch first, and then perhaps you will be able to spare me a few minutes for the interview?”
“Just as you like,” he answered. “May I look at it?”
“Certainly,” she answered, holding out the block; “but it isn't half finished yet.”
“Will it take long?”
“About an hour, I think.”
“You are very clever,” he said, with a little sigh.
She laughed outright.
“People are calling you the cleverest man in London to-day,” she said.
“Pshaw! It isn't the cleverness that counts for anything that makes money.”
Then he set his teeth hard together and swore vigorously but silently. She had become suddenly interested in her work. A shrill burst of laughter from the lawn in front had rung sharply out, startling them both. A young woman with fluffy hair and in a pale blue dinner-dress was dancing to an unseen audience. Trent's eyes flashed with anger, and his cheeks burned. The dance was a music-hall one, and the gestures were not refined. Before he could stop himself an oath had broken from his lips. After that he dared not even glance at the girl by his side.
“I'm very sorry,” he muttered. “I'll stop that right away.”
“You mustn't disturb your friends on my account,” she said quietly. She did not look up, but Trent felt keenly the alteration in her manner.
“They're not my friends,” he exclaimed passionately “I'll clear them out neck and crop.”
She looked up for a moment, surprised at his sudden vehemence. There was no doubt about his being in earnest. She continued her work without looking at him, but her tone when she spoke was more friendly.
“This will take me a little longer than I thought to finish properly,” she said. “I wonder might I come down early to-morrow morning? What time do you leave for the City?”
“Not until afternoon, at any rate,” he said. “Come to-morrow, certainly—whenever you like. You needn't be afraid of that rabble. I'll see you don't have to go near them.”
“You must please not make any difference or alter your arrangements on my account,” she said. “I am quite used to meeting all sorts of people in my profession, and I don't object to it in the least. Won't you go now? I think that that was your dinner-bell.”
He hesitated, obviously embarrassed but determined. “There is one question,” he said, “which I should very much like to ask you. It will sound impertinent. I don't mean it so. I can't explain exactly why I want to know, but I have a reason.”
“Ask it by all means,” she said. “I'll promise that I'll answer it if I can.”
“You say that you are—a journalist. Have you taken it up for a pastime, or—to earn money?”
“To earn money by all means,” she answered, laughing. “I like the work, but I shouldn't care for it half so much if I didn't make my living at it. Did you think that I was an amateur?”
“I didn't know,” he answered slowly. “Thank you. You will come to-morrow?”
“Of course! Good evening.”
“Good evening.”
Trent lifted his hat, and turned away unwillingly towards the house, full of a sense that something wonderful had happened to him. He was absent-minded, but he stopped to pat a little dog whose attentions he usually ignored, and he picked a creamy-white rose as he crossed the lawn and wondered why it should remind him of her.
Trent's appearance upon the lawn was greeted with a shout of enthusiasm. The young lady in blue executed a pas seut, and came across to him on her toes, and the girl with the yellow hair, although sulky, gave him to understand by a sidelong glance that her favour was not permanently withdrawn. They neither of them noticed the somewhat ominous air of civility with which he received their greetings, or the contempt in his eyes as he looked them silently over.
“Where are the lost tribe?” he inquired, as the girls, one on either side, escorted him to the house.
They received his witticism with a piercing shriek of laughter.
“Mamma and her rag of a daughter are in the drawing room,” explained Miss Montressor—the young lady with fluffy hair who dressed in blue and could dance. “Such a joke, General! They don't approve of us! Mamma says that she shall have to take her Julie away if we remain. We are not fit associates for her. Rich, isn't it! The old chap's screwing up his courage now with brandy and soda to tell you so!”
Trent laughed heartily. The situation began to appeal to him. There was humour in it which he alone could appreciate.
“Does he expect me to send you away?” he asked.
“That's a cert!” Miss Montressor affirmed. “The old woman's been playing the respectable all day, turning up the whites of her eyes at me because I did a high kick in the hall, and groaning at Flossie because she had a few brandies; ain't that so, Flossie?”
The young lady with yellow hair confirmed the statement with much dignity.
“I had a toothache,” she said, “and Mrs. Da Souza, or whatever the old cat calls herself, was most rude. I reckon myself as respectable as she is any day, dragging that yellow-faced daughter of hers about with her and throwing her at men's heads.”
Miss Montressor, who had stopped to pick a flower, rejoined them.
“I say, General,” she remarked, “fair's fair, and a promise is a promise. We didn't come down here to be made fools of by a fat old Jewess. You won't send us away because of the old wretch?”
“I promise,” said Trent, “that when she goes you go, and not before. Is that sufficient?”
“Right oh!” the young lady declared cheerfully. “Now you go and prink up for dinner. We're ready, Flossie and I. The little Jew girl's got a new dress—black covered with sequins. It makes her look yellower than ever. There goes the bell, and we're both as hungry as hunters. Look sharp!”
Trent entered the house. Da Souza met him in the hall, sleek, curly, and resplendent in a black dinner-suit. The years had dealt lightly with him, or else the climate of England was kinder to his yellow skin than the moist heat of the Gold Coast. He greeted Trent with a heartiness which was partly tentative, partly boisterous.
“Back from the coining of the shekels, my dear friend,” he exclaimed. “Back from the spoiling of the Egyptians, eh? How was money to-day?”
“An eighth easier,” Trent answered, ascending the stairs.
Da Souza fidgeted about with the banisters, and finally followed him.
“There was just a word,” he remarked, “a little word I wanted with you.”
“Come and talk while I wash,” Trent said shortly. “Dinner's on, and I'm hungry.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Da Souza murmured, closing the door behind them as they entered the lavatory. “It is concerning these young ladies.”
“What! Miss Montressor and her friend?” Trent remarked thrusting his head into the cold water. “Phew!”
“Exactly! Two very charming young ladies, my dear friend, very charming indeed, but a little—don't you fancy just a little fast!”
“Hadn't noticed it,” Trent answered, drying himself. “What about it?”
Da Souza tugged at his little black imperial, and moved uneasily about.
“We—er—men of the world, my dear Trent, we need not be so particular, eh?—but the ladies—the ladies are so observant.”
“What ladies?” Trent asked coolly.
“It is my wife who has been talking to me,” Da Souza continued. “You see, Julie is so young—our dear daughter she is but a child; and, as my wife says, we cannot be too particular, too careful, eh; you understand!”
“You want them to go? Is that it?”
Da Souza spread out his hands—an old trick, only now the palms were white and the diamonds real.
“For myself,” he declared, “I find them charming. It is my wife who says to me, 'Hiram, those young persons, they are not fit company for our dear, innocent Julie! You shall speak to Mr. Trent. He will understand!' Eh?”
Trent had finished his toilet and stood, the hairbrushes still in his hands, looking at Da Souza's anxious face with a queer smile upon his lips.
“Yes, I understand, Da Souza,” he said. “No doubt you are right, you cannot be too careful. You do well to be particular.”
Da Souza winced. He was about to speak, but Trent interrupted him.
“Well, I'll tell you this, and you can let the missis know, my fond father. They leave to-morrow. Is that good enough?”
Da Souza caught at his host's hand, but Trent snatched it away.
“My dear—my noble—”
“Here, shut up and don't paw me,” Trent interrupted. “Mind, not a word of this to any one but your wife; the girls don't know they're going themselves yet.”
They entered the dining-room, where every one else was already assembled. Mrs. Da Souza, a Jewess portly and typical, resplendent in black satin and many gold chains and bangles, occupied the seat of honour, and by her side was a little brown girl, with dark, timid eyes and dusky complexion, pitiably over-dressed but with a certain elf-like beauty, which it was hard to believe that she could ever have inherited. Miss Montressor and her friend sat on either side of their host—an arrangement which Mrs. Da Souza lamented, but found herself powerless to prevent, and her husband took the vacant place. Dinner was served, and with the opening of the champagne, which was not long delayed, tongues were loosened.
“It was very hot in the City to-day,” Mrs. Da Souza remarked to her host. “Dear Julie was saying what a shame it seemed that you should be there and we should be enjoying your beautiful gardens. She is so thoughtful, so sympathetic! Dear girl!”
“Very kind of your daughter,” Trent answered, looking directly at her and rather inclined to pity her obvious shyness. “Come, drink up, Da Souza, drink up, girls! I've had a hard day and I want to forget for a bit that there's any such thing as work.”
Miss Montressor raised her glass and winked at her host.
“It don't take much drinking, this, General,” she remarked, cheerily draining her glass! “Different to the 'pop' they give us down at the 'Star,' eh, Flossie? Good old gooseberry I call that!”
“Da Souza, look after Miss Flossie,” Trent said. “Why don't you fill her glass? That's right!”
“Hiram!”
Da Souza removed his hand from the back of his neighbour's chair and endeavoured to look unconscious. The girl tittered—Mrs. Da Souza was severely dignified. Trent watched them all, half in amusement, half in disgust. What a pandemonium! It was time indeed for him to get rid of them all. From where he sat he could see across the lawn into the little pine plantation. It was still light—if she could look in at the open window what would she think? His cheeks burned, and he thrust the hand which was seeking his under the table savagely away. And then an idea flashed in upon him—a magnificent, irresistible idea. He drank off a glass of champagne and laughed loud and long at one of his neighbour's silly sayings. It was a glorious joke! The more he thought of it, the more he liked it. He called for more champagne, and all, save the little brown girl, greeted the magnum which presently appeared with cheers. Even Mrs. Da Souza unbent a little towards the young women against whom she had declared war. Faces were flushed and voices grew a little thick. Da Souza's arm unchidden sought once more the back of his neighbour's chair, Miss Montressor's eyes did their utmost to win a tender glance from their lavish host. Suddenly Trent rose to his feet. He held a glass high over his head. His face was curiously unmoved, but his lips were parted in an enigmatic smile.
“A toast, my friends!” he cried. “Fill up, the lot of you! Come! To our next meeting! May fortune soon smile again, and may I have another home before long as worthy a resting-place for you as this!”
Bewilderment reigned. No one offered to drink the toast. It was Miss Montressor who asked the question which was on every one's lips.
“What's up?” she exclaimed. “What's the matter with our next meeting here to-morrow night, and what's all that rot about your next home and fortune?”
Trent looked at them all in well-simulated amazement.
“Lord!” he exclaimed, “you don't know—none of you! I thought Da Souza would have told you the news!”
“What news?” Da Souza cried, his beady eyes protuberant, and his glass arrested half-way to his mouth.
“What are you talking about, my friend?”
Trent set down his glass.
“My friends,” he said unsteadily, “let me explain to you, as shortly as I can, what an uncertain position is that of a great financier.”
Da Souza leaned across the table. His face was livid, and the corners of his eyes were bloodshot.
“I thought there was something up,” he muttered. “You would not have me come into the City this morning. D—n it, you don't mean that you—”
“I'm bust!” Trent said roughly. “Is that plain enough? I've been bulling on West Australians, and they boomed and this afternoon the Government decided not to back us at Bekwando, and the mines are to be shut down. Tell you all about it if you like.”
No one wanted to hear all about it. They shrunk from him as though he were a robber. Only the little brown girl was sorry, and she looked at him with dark, soft eyes.
“I've given a bill of sale here,” Trent continued. “They'll be round to-morrow. Better pack to-night. These valuers are such robbers. Come, another bottle! It'll all have to be sold. We'll make a night of it.”
Mrs. Da Souza rose and swept from the room—Da Souza had fallen forward with his head upon his hands. He was only half sober, but the shock was working like madness in his brain. The two girls, after whispering together for a moment, rose and followed Mrs. Da Souza. Trent stole from his place and out into the garden. With footsteps which were steady enough now he crossed the velvety lawns, and plunged into the shrubbery. Then he began to laugh softly as he walked. They were all duped! They had accepted his story without the slightest question. He leaned over the gate which led into the little plantation, and he was suddenly grave and silent. A night-wind was blowing fragrant and cool. The dark boughs of the trees waved to and fro against the background of deep blue sky. The lime leaves rustled softly, the perfume of roses came floating across from the flower-gardens. Trent stood quite still, listening and thinking.
“God! what a beast I am!” he muttered. “It was there she sat! I'm not fit to breathe the same air.”
He looked back towards the house. The figures of the two girls, with Da Souza standing now between them, were silhouetted against the window. His face grew dark and fierce.
“Faugh!” he exclaimed, “what a kennel I have made of my house! What a low-down thing I have begun to make of life! Yet—I was a beggar—and I am a millionaire. Is it harder to change oneself? To-morrow”—he looked hard at the place where she had sat—“to-morrow I will ask her!”
On his way back to the house a little cloaked figure stepped out from behind a shrub. He looked at her in amazement. It was the little brown girl, and her eyes were wet with tears.
“Listen,” she said quickly. “I have been waiting to speak to you! I want to say goodbye and to thank you. I am very, very sorry, and I hope that some day very soon you will make some more money and be happy again.”
Her lips were quivering. A single glance into her face assured him of her honesty. He took the hand which she held out and pressed her fingers.
“Little Julie,” he said, “you are a brick. Don't you bother about me. It isn't quite so bad as I made out—only don't tell your mother that.”
“I'm very glad,” she murmured. “I think that it is hateful of them all to rush away, and I made up my mind to say goodbye however angry it made them. Let me go now, please. I want to get back before mamma misses me.”
He passed his arm around her tiny waist. She looked at him with frightened eyes.
“Please let me go,” she murmured.
He kissed her lips, and a moment afterwards vaguely repented it. She buried her face in her hands and ran away sobbing. Trent lit a cigar and sat down upon a garden seat.
“It's a queer thing,” he said reflectingly. “The girl's been thrown repeatedly at my head for a week and I might have kissed her at any moment, before her father and mother if I had liked, and they'd have thanked me. Now I've done it I'm sorry. She looked prettier than I've ever seen her too—and she's the only decent one of the lot. Lord! what a hubbub there'll be in the morning!”
The stars came out and the moon rose, and still Scarlett Trent lingered in the scented darkness. He was a man of limited imagination and little given to superstitions. Yet that night there came to him a presentiment. He felt that he was on the threshold of great events. Something new in life was looming up before him. He had cut himself adrift from the old—it was a very wonderful and a very beautiful figure which was beckoning him to follow in other paths. The triumph of the earlier part of the day seemed to lie far back in a misty and unimportant past. There was a new world and a greater, if fortune willed that he should enter it.
Trent was awakened next morning by the sound of carriage wheels in the drive below. He rang his bell at once. After a few moments' delay it was answered by one of his two men-servants.
“Whose carriage is that in the drive?” he asked. “It is a fly for Mr. Da Souza, sir.”
“What! has he gone?” Trent exclaimed.
“Yes, sir, he and Mrs. Da Souza and the young lady.”
“And Miss Montressor and her friend?”
“They shared the fly, sir. The luggage all went down in one of the carts.”
Trent laughed outright, half scornfully, half in amusement.
“Listen, Mason,” he said, as the sound of wheels died away. “If any of those people come back again they are not to be admitted—do you hear? if they bring their luggage you are not to take it in. If they come themselves you are not to allow them to enter the house. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir.
“Very good! Now prepare my bath at once, and tell the cook, breakfast in half an hour. Let her know that I am hungry. Breakfast for one, mind! Those fools who have just left will get a morning paper at the station and they may come back. Be on the look-out for them and let the other servants know. Better have the lodge gate locked.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man who had been lamenting the loss of an easy situation and possibly even a month's wages, hastened to spread more reassuring news in the lower regions. It was a practical joke of the governor's—very likely a ruse to get rid of guests who had certainly been behaving as though the Lodge was their permanent home. There was a chorus of thanksgiving. Groves, the butler, who read the money articles in the Standard every morning with solemn interest and who was suspected of investments, announced that from what he could make out the governor must have landed a tidy little lump yesterday. Whereupon the cook set to work to prepare a breakfast worthy of the occasion.
Trent had awakened with a keen sense of anticipated pleasure. A new and delightful interest had entered into his life. It is true that, at times, it needed all his strength of mind to keep his thoughts from wandering back into that unprofitable and most distasteful past—in the middle of the night even, he had woke up suddenly with an old man's cry in his ears—or was it the whispering of the night-wind in the tall elms? But he was not of an imaginative nature. He felt himself strong enough to set his heel wholly upon all those memories. If he had not erred on the side of generosity, he had at least played the game fairly. Monty, if he had lived, could only have been a disappointment and a humiliation. The picture was hers—of that he had no doubt! Even then he was not sure that Monty was her father. In any case she would never know. He recognised no obligation on his part to broach the subject. The man had done his best to cut himself altogether adrift from his former life. His reasons doubtless had been sufficient. It was not necessary to pry into them—it might even be unkindness. The picture, which no man save himself had ever seen, was the only possible link between the past and the present—between Scarlett Trent and his drunken old partner, starved and fever-stricken, making their desperate effort for wealth in unknown Africa, and the millionaire of to-day. The picture remained his dearest possession—but, save his own, no other eyes had ever beheld it.
He dressed with more care than usual, and much less satisfaction. He was a man who rather prided himself upon neglecting his appearance, and, so far as the cut and pattern of his clothes went, he usually suggested the artisan out for a holiday. To-day for the first time he regarded his toilet with critical and disparaging eyes. He found the pattern of his tweed suit too large, and the colour too pronounced, his collars were old-fashioned and his ties hideous. It was altogether a new experience with him, this self-dissatisfaction and sensitiveness to criticism, which at any other time he would have regarded with a sort of insolent indifference. He remembered his walk westward yesterday with a shudder, as though indeed it had been a sort of nightmare, and wondered whether she too had regarded him with the eyes of those loungers on the pavement—whether she too was one of those who looked for a man to conform to the one arbitrary and universal type. Finally he tied his necktie with a curse, and went down to breakfast with little of his good-humour left.
The fresh air sweeping in through the long, open windows, the glancing sunlight and the sense of freedom, for which the absence of his guests was certainly responsible, soon restored his spirits. Blest with an excellent morning appetite—the delightful heritage of a clean life—he enjoyed his breakfast and thoroughly appreciated his cook's efforts. If he needed a sauce, Fate bestowed one upon him, for he was scarcely midway through his meal before a loud ringing at the lodge gates proved the accuracy of his conjectures. Mr. Da Souza had purchased a morning paper at the junction, and their host's perfidy had become apparent. Obviously they had decided to treat the whole matter as a practical joke and to brave it out, for outside the gates in an open fly were the whole party. They had returned, only to find that according to Trent's orders the gates were closed upon them.
Trent moved his seat to where he could have a better view, and continued his breakfast. The party in the cab looked hot, and tumbled, and cross. Da Souza was on his feet arguing with the lodge-keeper—the women seemed to be listening anxiously. Trent turned to the servant who was waiting upon him.
“Send word down,” he directed, “that I will see Mr. Da Souza alone. No one else is to be allowed to enter. Pass me the toast before you go.”
Da Souza entered presently, apologetic and abject, prepared at the same time to extenuate and deny. Trent continued his breakfast coolly.
“My dear friend!” Da Souza exclaimed, depositing his silk hat upon the table, “it is a very excellent joke of yours. You see, we have entered into the spirit of it—oh yes, we have done so indeed! We have taken a little drive before breakfast, but we have returned. You knew, of course, that we would not dream of leaving you in such a manner. Do you not think, my dear friend, that the joke was carried now far enough? The ladies are hungry; will you send word to the lodge-keeper that he may open the gate?”
Trent helped himself to coffee, and leaned back in his chair, stirring it thoughtfully.
“You are right, Da Souza,” he said. “It is an excellent joke. The cream of it is too that I am in earnest; neither you nor any of those ladies whom I see out there will sit at my table again.”
“You are not in earnest! You do not mean it!”
“I can assure you,” Trent replied grinning, “that I do!”
“But do you mean,” Da Souza spluttered, “that we are to go like this—to be turned out—the laughing-stock of your servants, after we have come back too, all the way?—oh, it is nonsense! It's not to be endured!”
“You can go to the devil!” Trent answered coolly. “There is not one of you whom I care a fig to see again. You thought that I was ruined, and you scudded like rats from a sinking ship. Well, I found you out, and a jolly good thing too. All I have to say is now, be off, and the quicker the better!”
Then Da Souza cringed no longer, and there shot from his black eyes the venomous twinkle of the serpent whose fangs are out. He leaned over the table, and dropped his voice.
“I speak,” he said, “for my wife, my daughter, and myself, and I assure you that we decline to go!”