"Where's my picture?" Ora demanded, looking round.
"Strictly concealed," Ashley assured her.
"I wonder I've never come here before," she reflected, sitting down in his arm-chair.
"Well, on the whole, so do I," said Ashley, laughing still.
She was taking a careful and interested view of the room. The steps overhead went on.
"I think it would be very nice," she said at last, "except for Metcalfe Brown."
"There's always something one could do without," observed Ashley Mead.
"I like you in that coat. Oh, well, I like you in any coat. But I never saw you ready for work before. Ashley, who is Metcalfe Brown? And how I wish he'd sit still!"
"He's a clerk," said Ashley; his smile persisted, but his brows were knit in a humorous puzzle.
A pause followed. Ora looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked at him again. Ashley said nothing.
"You might ask me something," she murmured reproachfully. He shook his head. She rose and came behind him; laying a hand on his shoulder she looked round in his face; mirth and appeal mingled as of old in the depths of her eyes. "Am I very dreadful?" she whispered. "Are you quite tired of me, Ashley?"
There was a sound from above as though a man had thrown himself heavily on a sofa or a bed.
"Bother Metcalfe Brown," whispered Ora. "Ashley, I couldn't help it. I was afraid."
"You needn't have been afraid with me," he said in a low voice.
"But—but you wouldn't have stayed. I was so frightened. You know what I told you; I remembered it all. He'd had too much to drink; he wasn't generally cruel, but that made him. Ashley dear, say you forgive me?"
The dim sound of a quavering voice reached them through the ceiling. For an instant Ora raised her head, then she bent down again to Ashley.
"Because I'm going away, to Devonshire," she went on. "And I mayn't see you for ever so long, unless you'll come and see me; and Irene Kilnorton says yououghtn't to. But you must. But still it will be days! Oh, how shall I pass days without you? So do forgive me before I go."
"Forgive you!" said he with a little laugh.
"Ah, you do," she sighed. "How good you are, Ashley." She pressed his shoulder with her hand. "I couldn't go on living if it wasn't for you," she said. "Everybody else is so hard to me. I ran away last night because I couldn't bear to lose you!" She paused and moved her face nearer his, as she whispered, "Could you bear to lose me?"
Mr. Metcalfe Brown tumbled off the bed and seemed to stagger across the room towards the mantel-piece.
"No," said Ashley Mead.
"But I'm going away; my boxes are on the cab outside. I daren't stop now he's come; I might meet him; he might—no, I daren't stay." Her voice fell yet lower as she asked, "What did he say? Where is he? What have you done with him?"
Ashley gently raised her hand from his arm, rose, and walked to the fireplace. He looked at her as she bent forward towards him in the tremulous eagerness of her questioning, with fear and love fighting in her eyes, as though she looked to him alone both for safety and for joy. And, as it chanced, Mr. Metcalfe Brown made no sound in the room above; it was possible altogether to forget him.
Ora took the chair that Ashley had left and sat looking at him. For a moment or two he said nothing; it was the pause before the plunge, the last hasty reckoning of possibilities and resources before a great stake. Then he set all on the hazard.
"You needn't have run away," he said in a cool, almost bantering tone. "Fenning didn't turn up at all."
Mr. Metcalfe Brown walked across the room and threw himself into a chair; at least the sounds from above indicated some such actions on his part.
"I don't know why, but he didn't," said Ashley with a momentary glance at the ceiling—rather as though he feared it would fall on him.
"Not come?" she whispered. "Oh, Ashley!" She seemed for a moment to hold herself in the chair by the grasp of her hands on its arms. Then she rose and moved slowly towards him. "He didn't come?"
"Not a sign of him."
"And—and he won't, will he?"
"I don't expect so," said Ashley, smiling.
Ora seemed to accept his answer as final. She stood still, for a moment grave, then breaking into a gurgle of amused delighted laughter. Ashley glanced again at the ceiling; surely a man who had ever heard that laugh must remember it! But had the man upstairs? Was not that laugh made and kept for him himself from the beginning of the world? So his madness persuaded him.
"Rather funny, wasn't it? So I came back alone by the slow train—a very slow train it was, without you."
Ora's mood was plain enough. She was delighted, and she was hardly surprised. No instability of purpose and no change of intention were out of harmony with her idea of her husband. There was no telling why he had not come, but there was nothing wonderful in his not coming. She spread her arms out with a gesture of candid self-approval.
"Well, I've done my duty," said she.
"Yes," said Ashley, smiling. He was relieved to find his word taken so readily. "But do you think you're doing it by staying here?"
"How rude you are! Why shouldn't I?"
"It's irregular. And somebody might come." He paused and added, "Suppose Metcalfe Brown dropped in?"
"What would he think?" cried Ora with sparkling eyes. "Is he a very steady young man?"
"I don't know; he's got a picture signed 'Yours ever, Daisy,' on his mantel-piece."
Ora's eyes shewed no recognition of "Daisy."
"The girl he's engaged to, I suppose," she said rather scornfully; high and unhappy passion is a little contemptuous of a humdrum engagement.
"Perhaps," said Ashley cautiously.
"Oh, he's moving about again; and he's singing! I wish we could hear better!" For the sound of the voice was very muffled. "I know that tune though. Where have I heard it before?"
"Everybody used to torture one with it a few years ago; somebody sang it at the Alhambra."
"Oh, yes, I went with—I went once and heard it."
The voice died down in a gentle grumble. The little puzzled frown with which Ora had listened also passed away.
"Going to Devonshire?" asked Ashley Mead.
"To Devonshire? No," said Ora decisively. "Why should I go away now?"
"You must go away from here."
"Must I, Ashley?"
"Yes, you must. Consider if Metcalfe Brown—"
"Oh, bother your Metcalfe Brown! There's always somebody like that!"
"Yes, generally. Come, I'll take you to your cab—"
"But you'll come and see me to-morrow?"
"Yes, I'll come to-morrow."
"Oh, isn't everything perfect? What's that? He must be throwing the fire irons about!"
"Never mind him. Come along."
"I don't mind him. I don't mind anybody now. How could I ever have thought of bringing—of doing what I did? Why did you let me, Ashley? But it's all right now, isn't it?"
"Come down quietly; Metcalfe Brown'll hear us."
"I don't care."
"Oh, but you must. Consider my reputation!"
"Very well, I'll be quiet," said Ora with another low and joyous laugh.
They stole downstairs together. Metcalfe Brown was quiet; he did not open his door, look out, glance down the well of the stairs and see who was Ashley Mead's companion; he sat with his pipe in his mouth and his glass by his side, while Ora escaped in safety from the house.
The cabman had employed his leisure first in recollecting how his fare's face came to be familiar to him, secondly (since he had thus become interested in her), in examining the luggage labels on the three large boxes. There was a friendliness, and also a confidence, in his manner as he leant down from his box and said,
"Paddington, Miss Pinsent?"
"Paddington! No," said Ora. Ashley began to laugh. Ora laughed too, as she gave her address in Chelsea.
"Where I took you up, miss?" asked the cabman.
"Yes," said Ora, bright with amusement. "It really must seem rather funny to him," she said in an aside to Ashley, as she got in. The cabman himself was calling the affair "a rum start," as he whipped uphis horse. To Ashley Mead it seemed very much the same.
There were, however, two people who were not very seriously surprised, Janet the respectable servant and Mr. Sidney Hazlewood the accomplished comedian. They received Ora, at the house in Chelsea and at the theatre respectively, with a very similar wrinkling of the forehead and a very similar sarcastic curving of the lips; to both of them the ways of genius were well known. "Mr. Fenning hasn't come after all," said Ora to Janet, while to Mr. Hazlewood she observed "I felt so much better that I've come after all." Janet said, "Indeed, ma'am." Mr. Hazlewood said, "All right," and sent word to the understudy that she was not wanted. On the whole her sudden change of plan seemed to Ora to cause less than its appropriate sensation—except to the cabman, whose demeanour had been quite satisfactory.
As Mr. Hazlewood was dressing for his part, it chanced that Babba Flint came in, intent on carrying through an arrangement rich, as were all Babba's, in prospective thousands. When the scheme had been discussed, Hazlewood mentioned Ora's wire of the morning and Ora's appearance in the evening. Babba nodded comprehendingly.
"Something to do with the husband perhaps," Hazlewood hazarded. "Not that it needs any particular explanation," he added, hiding his wrinkle with some paint.
"Husband, husband?" said Babba in a puzzle. "Oh, yes! By Jove, he was to come yesterday! Hasn't turned up, of course?"
"Haven't seen or heard anything of him."
"Of course not," said Babba placidly. "I knew hewouldn't. I told Bowdon he wouldn't, but Bowdon wouldn't bet. Give me a wire, though."
Hazlewood's dresser was ready with a telegraph-form and Babba, in the wantonness of exuberant triumph, sent a message to Bowdon's house asserting positively that Mr. Fenning had not come. That evening Bowdon dined with Irene, and the telegram, forwarded by messenger, reached him there. After dinner Alice ran in to give news of a rather better character concerning her father. She also heard the contents of Babba Flint's message. Ora's underlying desire for a sensation would have been satisfied. They were all amazed.
"This morning she thought he had come," Irene persisted. "I wonder if Ashley Mead knows anything about it. Have you seen him, Alice?"
"No; he telegraphed that he couldn't possibly come to Kensington Palace Gardens to-day, but would early to-morrow."
Alice's tone was cold; Ashley ought to have gone to Kensington Palace Gardens that day, she thought.
"It's very odd, isn't it, Frank?" asked Irene.
"It's not our affair," said Bowdon; he was rather uncomfortable.
"Except," said Irene with a glance at Alice and an air of reserved determination, "that we have to consider a little what sort of person she really is. I don't know what to make of it, do you, Alice?"
No less puzzled was Ashley Mead as he kept guard on the man to whom he had transferred the name of Metcalfe Brown, and wondered how he was to persevere in his assertion that the man had not come. For here the man was, and, alas, by now the man was peevishly anxious to see his wife; from no affection, Ashley was ready to swear, but, as it seemed, in a sort offretful excitement. No doubt even to such a creature the present position was uncomfortable; possibly it appeared even degrading.
"We'll settle about that to-morrow," said Ashley Mead; and in spite of a pang of self-reproach he added, "Have a little drop more whiskey?"
For to-night must be tided over; and whiskey was the only tide that served.
Kensington Palace Gardens, whither Ashley Mead hastened early on Tuesday morning, was not the same place to him as it had been. The change went deeper than any mere shadow of illness or atmosphere of affliction. There was alienation, a sense of difference, the feeling of a suppressed quarrel. The old man knew him, but greeted him with a feeble fretfulness, Lady Muddock was distantly and elaborately polite, even in Bob a constraint appeared. Alice received him kindly, but there was no such gladness at his coming as had seemed to be foreshadowed by her summons of him. Was she resentful that he had not come the day before? That was likely enough, for his excuses of pressing business did not sound very convincing even to himself. But here again he sought a further explanation and found it in a state of things curiously unwelcome to him. It may be easy to abdicate; it is probably harder to stand by patiently while the new monarch asserts his sway and receives homage. Bertie Jewett was in command at Kensington Palace Gardens; when Sir James could talk he called Bertie and conferred with him; on him now Lady Muddock leaned, to him Bob abandoned the position by birth his own; it was his advice which Alice repeated, his opinions which she quoted to Ashley Mead as they took a turn together inthe garden. Both business and family, the big house and the big block, owned a new master; Bertie's star rose steadily.
Ashley was prepared with infinite scorn. He watched the upstart with an eye acute to mark his lapses of breeding, of taste, and of tact, to discern the vulgarity through affected ease, the coarseness of mind beneath the superficial helpfulness. Something of all these he contrived to see or to persuade himself that he saw, but a whole-hearted confident contempt denied itself to him. There is a sort of man intolerable while he is making his way, while he pushes and disputes and shoulders for place; the change which comes over him when his position is won, and what he deems his rights acknowledged, is often little less than marvellous. It is as though the objectionable qualities, which had seemed so ingrained in him and so part of him that they must be his from cradle to grave and perhaps beyond, were after all only armour he has put on or weapons he has taken into his hand of his own motion, to do his work; the work done they are laid aside, or at least so hidden as merely to suggest what before they displayed offensively. So concealed, they are no longer arrogant or domineering, but only imply a power in reserve; they do no more than remind the rash of what has been and may be again. In part this great transformation had passed over Bertie Jewett; the neat compact figure, the resolute eye, the determined mouth, the brief confident directions, wrung even from Ashley admiration and an admission that, if (as poor old Sir James used to say) the "stuff" was in himself, it was in Bertie also, and probably in fuller measure. Neither business nor family would lack a good counsellor and a bold leader; neither family nor business would suffer by the substitutionof Bertie for himself. Watching his successor, he seemed to himself to have become superfluous, suddenly to have lost his place in the inmost hearts of these people, and to have fallen back to the status of a mere ordinary friendship.
Was that in truth Alice's mood towards him? It was not, but his jealous acuteness warned him that it soon might be. She did not tell him now that she disliked Bertie Jewett; she praised Bertie with repentant generosity, seeking opportunities to retract without too much obtrusiveness the hard things she had said, and fastening with eager hand on all that could be commended. Ashley walked by her, listening.
"Where we should be without him now I don't know," she said. "I can't do much, and Bob—well, Bob wants somebody to guide him."
"I hope you'll let me be of any use I can," he said; in spite of himself the words sounded idle and empty.
"You're most kind, Ashley, always, but I don't think there's anything we need trouble you about for the present. We don't expect any immediate change in father."
"When I said I wouldn't have anything to do with the business, I didn't include Kensington Palace Gardens in the word."
"Oh, I know you didn't. Indeed I'll ask you for help when I want it."
He was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, "You agreed with me about the business. Do you still think I was right?"
"I'm more than ever sure of it," she answered with a direct gaze at him. "I grow surer of it every day. It wasn't the least suited to you; nor you to it, you know." She smiled as she spoke the last words.
"And Jewett's in his element?"
"I hear he's wonderfully able, and he's very nice and considerate about everything too. Oh, no, you'd never have done for it."
What she said was what she had always said; she had always been against his selling the ribbons, had thought that he was too good to sell ribbons and loved him for this very thing. But the same words may carry most different implications; was not the idea in her head now that, if it would not have been good for him to sell the ribbons, neither would it have been good for the ribbons nor for the family whose prosperity depended on them? Her smile had been indulgent rather than admiring; he accused her of reverting to the commercial view of life and of suffering a revival of the family prejudices and of the instinct for getting and reverencing wealth. He felt further from her and detected a corresponding feeling in her. He studied her in the light of that unreasonable resentment with which Bertie Jewett inspired him; he saw that she read him in the light of her judgment of Ora Pinsent; and he knew tolerably well what she thought and said of Ora Pinsent. They were further apart. Yet at the end old kindliness revived and he clasped her hand very heartily.
"I'm always at your orders," he said. "Always."
She smiled; did she intend to remind him that the day before he had neglected her summons? His conscience gave her smile that meaning, and he could not tell her that he had been obliged to play jailer to Mr. Fenning—for Mr. Fenning had not come! But her smile was not reproachful; it was still indulgent. She seemed to expect him to say such things, to know he would, to accept them as his sincere meaning at the time, but not to expect too much from them, not totake them quite literally, not to rely on them with the simple ample faith that the words of a solid trustworthy man receive. The love that has lived on admiration may live with indulgence; she seemed still to love him although now with opened eyes. And when he was gone, she turned back to the business of life with a sigh, to business and Bertie Jewett. Back she went to work, and in her work Ashley Mead had no longer a place.
At this time, among his conquests—and they were over himself as well as others—Bertie Jewett achieved a complete victory over Irene Kilnorton's old dislike of him. He was so helpful, so unobtrusive, so strong, so different from feather-headed people who were here one moment and elsewhere the next, whom you never knew where to have. She had what was nearly a quarrel with Bowdon because he observed that, when all was said and done, Bertie was not a gentleman.
"Nonsense, Frank," she said tartly. "He only wants to go into society a little more. In all essentials he's a perfect gentleman."
Bowdon shook his head in impenetrable, silent, male obstinacy. He was not apt at reasons or definitions, but he knew when he did and when he did not see a gentleman before him; he and his ancestors had spent generations in acquiring this luxury of knowledge. His shake of the head exasperated Irene.
"I like him very much," she said. "He has just the qualities that made me like you. One can depend on him; he's not harum-scarum and full of whims. You can trust yourself with men like that."
"I hope I'm not as dull as I sound, my dear," said Bowdon patiently.
"Dull! Who said you were dull? I said I couldtrust you, and I said I could trust Bertie Jewett. Oh, I don't mean to say he's fascinating like Ashley Mead. At least I suppose Ashley is fascinating to most people."
"Most women anyhow," murmured Bowdon.
"I consider," said Irene solemnly, "that Ora Pinsent has done him infinite harm."
"Poor Miss Pinsent!"
"Oh, yes, of course it's 'Poor Miss Pinsent'! If you'd been in the Garden of Eden you'd have said nothing but 'Poor Eve'! But, Frank—"
"Yes, dear."
"I believe Alice is getting tired of him at last."
Here was a useful conquest—and a valuable ally—for Bertie Jewett. Bowdon perceived the bent of Irene's thoughts.
"Good God!" he muttered gently, between half-opened lips. Then he smiled to himself a little ruefully. Was Alice also to seek a refuge? Remorse came hard on the heels of this ungracious thought, and he kissed Irene gallantly.
"Suppose," he suggested, "that you were to be content with looking after your own wedding for the present and leave Miss Muddock to look after hers."
Irene, well pleased, returned his kiss, but she also nodded sagaciously, and said that if he waited he would see.
Bowdon was now so near his marriage, so near inviolable safety, that he allowed himself the liberty of thinking about Ora Pinsent and consequently of Ashley Mead. That the husband had not come—Babba's triumphant telegram was still in his pocket—surprised as much as it annoyed him. In absence from Ora he was able to condemn her with a heartiness which hisfiancéeherself need not have despised; that his condemnation could not be warranted to outlast a single interview with its object was now no matter to him, but merely served to explain the doings of Ashley. Ashley was hopelessly in the toils, this was clear enough. Strangely hovering between self-congratulation on his own escape and envy of the man who had not run away, Bowdon asked what was to be the end, and, as a man of the world, saw but one end. Ashley would pay dear and would feel every penny of the payment. His was a nature midway between Ora's and Irene's, perhaps it had something even of Alice Muddock's; he had a foot in either camp. Reason struggled with impulse in him, and when he yielded he was still conscious of what he lost. He could not then be happy, and he would hardly find contentment in not being very unhappy. He must be tossed about and torn in two. Whither would he go in the end? "Anyhow I'm safe," was Bowdon's unexpressed thought, given new life and energy by the news that Ora Pinsent's husband had not come. For now the tongues would be altogether unchained, and defence of her hopeless. Had she ever meant him to come, ever believed that he was coming, ever done more than fling a little unavailing dust in the world's keen eyes? The memory of her, strong even in its decay, rose before him, and forbade him to embrace heartily what was Irene's and would be everybody's theory. But what other theory was there?
Bowdon was living in his father's house in Park Lane, and these meditations brought him to the door. A servant awaited him with the news that Ashley was in the library and wanted to see him. The business of their Commission brought Ashley often, and it was with only a faint sense of coincidence that Bowdon went in tomeet him. Ashley was sitting on a sofa, staring at the ceiling. He sprang up as Bowdon entered; there was a curious nervousness in his air.
"Here you are, Bowdon!" he cried. Bowdon noticed, without resenting, the omission of his title; hitherto, in deference to seniority and Bowdon's public position, Ashley had insisted on saying "Lord Bowdon." He inferred that Ashley's mind was busy.
"Here I am, Ashley. What do you want? More witnesses, more reports, what is it?"
"It's not the Commission at all."
"Take a cigar and tell me what it is."
Ashley obeyed and began to smoke quickly; he stood now, while Bowdon dropped into a chair.
"In about a month I shall have seven hundred pounds coming in," said Ashley. "Just now I've only a hundred at the bank."
"Present economy and the prospect of future recompense," said Bowdon, smiling.
"I want five hundred now, to-day. They'll give it me at the bank if I get another name. Will you—?"
"I won't give you my name, but I'll lend you five hundred."
Ashley looked down at him. "Thank you," he said. "Do you trust your servant?"
"More than you, Ashley, and I'm lending you five hundred."
"Then send him round to the bank."
"My good fellow, I can write a cheque."
"No, I want five hundred-pound notes—new ones," said Ashley, with his first glimmer of a smile.
"Very well," said Bowdon. He went to the table, wrote a cheque, rang the bell, and, when his personal servant had been summoned, repeated Ashley's request."Very good, my lord," said the man, and vanished. Bowdon lit a cigarette and resumed his seat.
"It's for—," Ashley began.
"As you like about that," said Bowdon. "Only why were they to be new hundred-pound notes?"
"In order to appeal to the imagination. I'm going to tell you about it."
"As long as it's because you want and not because I want, all right."
"I believe I'm going to do a damned rascally thing."
"Can't you keep it to yourself then?" asked Bowdon, with a plaintive intonation and a friendly look. "At present I've lent you five hundred. That's all! They can't hit me."
"I want somebody to know besides me, and I've chosen you."
"Oh, all right," muttered Bowdon resignedly.
Ashley walked twice across the room and came to a stand again opposite his friend.
"The notes are for Miss Pinsent's husband," said he.
Bowdon looked up quickly.
"Hullo!" said he, with lifted brows.
"I mean what I say; for Fenning."
"As the price of not coming?"
"Who told you he hadn't come?"
"Babba Flint; but it's all over the place by now."
"Babba's wrong," said Ashley. "He came on Sunday night. The notes are to bribe him to go away again."
There was a pause; then Bowdon said slowly:
"I should like to hear a bit more about this, if you don't mind, Ashley. The money's yours. I promised it. But still—since you've begun, you know!"
"Yes, I know," said Ashley quickly. "Look here, I'll tell you all about it."
The hands ticked the best part of the way round the clock while Ashley talked without pause and uninterrupted, save once when the notes were brought in and laid on the table. He told how the man had come, what the man was, how Ora had fled from him, and how, while the man moved about in the room above, he himself had told her that the man had not come. He broke off here for an instant to say, "You can understand how I came to tell her that?" On receiving Bowdon's assenting nod he went on to describe how for two days he had kept his prisoner quiet; but now he must take some step. "I must take him to her, or I must murder him, or I must bribe him," he ended, with the laugh that accompanies what is an exaggeration in sound but in reality not beyond truth.
"I don't like it," said Bowdon at the end.
"You haven't seen him as I have," was Ashley's quick retort. To him it seemed all sufficient.
"Used to beat her, did he?" Bowdon was instinctively bolstering up the case. Ashley hesitated a little in his answer.
"She said he struck her once. I'm bound to say he doesn't seem violent. Drink, I suppose. And she—well, it might seem worse than it was. Why the devil are we to consider him? He's impossible anyhow."
"I wasn't considering him. I was considering ourselves."
"I'm considering her."
"Oh, I know your state of mind. Well, and if he takes the money and goes?"
"She'll be quit of him. It'll be as it was before."
"Will it?" asked Bowdon quietly. The two menregarded one another with a long and steady gaze. Ashley's eyes did not shirk the encounter.
"I mean that," he said at last. "But—." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. He would do his best, but he could answer for nothing. He invited Bowdon to take his stand by him, to fix his attention only on saving her the ordeal which had proved beyond her strength, just to spare her pain, to ask nothing of what lay beyond, not to look too anxiously at the tools they were using or the dirt that the tools might leave on their hands. Bowdon gained a sudden understanding of what Irene Kilnorton had meant by saying that Ora did Ashley infinite harm; but above this recognition and in spite of it rose his old cry so scorned by Irene, "Poor Ora Pinsent!" To him as to Ashley Mead the thought of carrying this man to Ora Pinsent and saying, "You sent for him, here he is," was well nigh intolerable.
They were both men who had lived, as men like them mostly live, without active religious feelings, without any sense of obligation to do good, but bound in the strictest code of honour, Pharisees in the doctrine and canons of that law, fierce to resent the most shamefaced prompting of any passion which violated it. A rebel rose against it—was it not rebellion?—drawing strength from nowhere save from the pictured woe in Ora Pinsent's eyes. They sat smoking in silence, and now looked no more at one another.
"It's got nothing to do with me," Bowdon broke out once.
"Then take back your money," said Ashley with a wave of his hand towards the notes on the table.
"You're on the square with me, anyhow," said Bowdon with a reluctant passing smile. He wished thatAshley had been less scrupulous and had taken his money without telling him what use he meant to put it to.
"I tell you what, you'd better come and see the fellow," said Ashley. "That'll persuade you I'm right, if anything will."
Bowdon had become anxious to be persuaded that the thing was right, or at least so excusable as to be near enough to the right, as to involve no indefensible breach of his code, no crying protest from his honour; if the sight of the man would convince him, he was ready and eager to see the man. Besides, he had a curiosity. Ora had married the man; this adventitious interest hung about Jack Fenning still.
"Pocket the notes, and come along," he said, rising.
They were very silent as they drove down to Ashley's rooms. The affair did not need, and perhaps would not bear, much talking about; if one of them happened to put it in the wrong way they would both feel very uncomfortable; it could be put in a right way, they said to themselves, but so much care was needed for this that silence seemed safer. Bowdon was left in Ashley's rooms while Ashley went upstairs to fetch Mr. Fenning, whom he found smoking his pipe and staring out of the window. Ashley had made up his mind to carry matters with a high hand.
"I want you downstairs a minute or two," he said curtly.
"All right; I shall be jolly glad of a change," said Jack, with his feeble smile. "It's pretty slow here, I can tell you."
"Hope you won't have much more of it," Ashley remarked, as he led the way downstairs.
To suggest to a man that he is of such a dispositionas to be ready to surrender his claim to his wife's society, take himself off for good, and leave her fate in the hands of gentlemen who are not related to her in consideration of five hundred pounds, is to intimate that you hold a very peculiar opinion of him. Even with Jack Fenning Ashley felt the difficulties of the position. Bowdon gave him no help, but sat by, watching attentively. The high-handed way was the only way; but it seemed rather brutal to bully the creature.
Ashley began. In a pitiless fashion he hinted to Jack what he was, and hazarded the surmise that he set out to rejoin his wife for much the same reason which Babba Flint had thought would appeal to him. Bowdon waited for the outbreak of anger and the flame of resentment. Jack smiled apologetically and rubbed his hands against one another.
The other two exchanged a glance; their work grew easier; it seemed also to grow more disgusting. The man was passive in their hands; they had it all to do; the responsibility was all theirs.
"We propose, Mr. Fenning, that you should return to America at once, without seeing Miss Pinsent or informing her of your arrival. You have lost time and incurred expense—and—er—no doubt you're disappointed. We shall consider all this in a liberal spirit." Ashley's speech ended here; he was inclined to add, "I'll deal with you as one scoundrel with another."
"Go back now, without seeing her?" Was there actually a sparkle of pleasure, or relief, or thankfulness in his eye? Ashley nodded, took out the notes, and laid them on the table. Bowdon shifted his feet, lit a cigarette, and looked away from his companions out of the window.
"I have here five hundred pounds. If you'll take the first boat and slip away without letting your—er—visit be known to anybody, I'll hand them over to you, when you step on board."
Jack shook his head thoughtfully. "You see I'm out of a place," he said. "I threw up my position to come."
He was haggling about the price, nothing else; Bowdon got up and opened the window.
"I made a sacrifice for the sake of returning to Miss Pinsent; my expenses have been—"
"For God's sake, how much do you want?" said Bowdon, turning round on him.
"There's a little spec I know of—" began Jack, with a confidential smile.
"How much?" said Ashley.
"I think you ought to run to a thousand, Mr. Mead. A thousand's not much for—"
"Doing what you're doing? No, it's damned little," said Ashley Mead.
"Give him the money, Ashley," said Bowdon from the window.
"All right, I'll give it you when I see you on board. Mind you hold your tongue while you're here!"
Jack was smiling happily; he seemed like a man who has brought off a greatcoupwhich was almost beyond his hopes, in which, at least, he had never expected to succeed so readily and easily. Looking at him, Ashley could not doubt that if he and Bowdon had not furnished means for the "little spec" Ora Pinsent would have been asked to supply them.
"I shall be very glad to go back. I never wanted to come. I didn't want to bother Miss Pinsent. I've my own friends." There was a sort of bravado about himnow. "Somebody'll be glad to see me, anyhow," he ended with a laugh.
"No doubt," said Ashley Mead; his tone was civil; he loathed Mr. Fenning more and more, but it was not the moment for him to get on moral stilts. Bowdon was as though he had become unconscious of Jack's proximity.
"There's a boat to-morrow; I'll try for a passage on that."
"The sooner the better," Ashley said.
"Yes, the sooner the better," said Fenning. He looked doubtfully at the two men and glanced across to a decanter of whiskey which stood on a side table.
"Then we needn't say any more," Ashley remarked, hastily gathering the crisp notes in his hand; Jack eyed them longingly. "I'll see you again to-night. Good-bye." He nodded slightly. Bowdon sat motionless. Again Jack looked at both, and his face fell a little. Then he brightened up; there was whiskey upstairs also. "Good afternoon," he said, and moved towards the door; he did not offer to shake hands with Bowdon; he knew that Bowdon would not wish to shake hands with him; and the knowledge did not trouble him.
"Oh, Ashley, my boy, Ashley!" groaned Bowdon when the door closed behind Mr. Fenning.
"He came to blackmail her."
"Evidently. But—I say, Ashley, was he always like that?"
"Of course not," said Ashley Mead almost fiercely. "He must have been going down hill for years. Good God, Bowdon, you know the change liquor and a life like his make in a man."
"Yes, yes, of course," muttered Bowdon.
"SOMEBODY'LL BE GLAD TO SEE ME ANYHOW," HE ENDED WITH A LAUGH
"Thank heaven we've saved her from seeing him as he is now!"
"I'm glad of that too." Bowdon rose and flung the window open more widely. "Tell you what, Ashley," he said, "it seems to me the room stinks."
Ashley made no answer; he smiled, but not in mirth.
There was a knock at the door. Ashley went to open it. Jack Fenning was there.
"I beg pardon, Mr. Mead," he said, "but if you'll give me a sheet of paper, I'll write for the passage; and I may have to pay something extra for going back by this boat."
"I'll look after that. Here's paper." And he hustled Mr. Fenning out.
At the moment a tread became audible on the stairs. Ashley stood where he was. "Somebody coming," he said to Bowdon. "Hope he won't catch Fenning!" Then came voices. The two men listened; the door was good thick oak, and the voices were dim. "I know that voice," said Ashley. "Who the deuce is it?"
"It's a man, anyhow," said Bowdon. He had entertained a wild fear that the visitor might be Ora herself; the scheme of things had a way of playing tricks such as that.
"Well, good-bye," said the voice, not Jack Fenning's. They heard Jack going upstairs; at the same moment came the shutting of his door and a knock at Ashley's. With a glance at Bowdon, warning him to be discreet, Ashley opened it. Mr. Sidney Hazlewood stood on the threshold.
"Glad to find you in," he said, entering. "How are you, Bowdon? I want your advice, Mead. Somebody's stealing a piece of mine and I thought you'd be able to tell me what to do. You're a lawyer, you see."
"Yes, in my spare time," said Ashley. "Sit down."
Hazlewood sat and began to take off his gloves.
"You've got a queer neighbour upstairs, that fellow Foster," he said. "He told me he'd made your acquaintance too."
"He's only here for a day or two, and I had to be civil."
"Funny my meeting him. I used to come across him in the States. Don't you be too civil."
"I know he's no great catch," said Ashley.
"He lived by his wits out there, and very badly at that. In fact he'd have gone under altogether if he'd been left to himself."
Ashley felt that Bowdon's eyes were on him, but Bowdon took no share in the talk.
"Who looked after him then?" he asked.
"His wife," said Hazlewood. "She used to walk on, or get a small part, or sing at the low-class halls, or anything you like. Handsome girl in a coarse style. Daisy Macpherson, that's what they called her. She kept him more or less going; he always did what she told him." He paused, and added with a reflective smile, "I mean she said she was his wife, and liked to be called Mrs. Foster in private life."
This time neither Bowdon nor Ashley spoke. Hazlewood glanced at them and seemed to be struck with the idea that they were not much interested in Foster and the lady who was, or said she was, his wife.
"But I didn't come to talk about that," he went on rather apologetically. "Only it was odd my meeting the fellow."
"Oh, I don't know," said Ashley carelessly. "What's the play, Hazlewood, and who's the thief?"
For Ora Pinsent the clouds were scattered, the heavens were bright again, the sun shone. The dread which had grown so acute was removed, the necessity for losing what had come to be so much to her had passed away. And all this had fallen to her without blame, without calling for abasement or self-reproach. Nay, in the end, on a view of the whole case, she was meritorious. She had summoned her husband back; true, at the last moment she had run away from him and shirked her great scenes; but if he had really come (she told herself now) she would have conquered that momentarily uncontrollable impulse and done her duty. After a few days' quiet in the country she would have gained strength and resolution to carry out her programme of renunciation and reformation. But he had not come and now he would not come; not even a message came. He refused to be reformed; there was no need for anybody to be renounced. She had done the right thing and by marvellous good fortune had escaped all the disagreeable incidents which usually attend on correct conduct. None could blame her; and she herself could rejoice. She had offered her husband his due; yet there was nothing to separate her from Ashley or to break the sweet companionship. At last fate had shewn her a little kindness; the world unbenttowards her with a smile, and she, swiftly responsive, held out both her hands to it in welcome for its new benevolence. Trouble was over, the account was closed; she was even as she had been before the hateful letter came from Bridgeport, Connecticut. In very truth now she could hide the letter among the roses and let it lie there forgotten; the realities had fallen into line with the symbols. As for the people who were to have been edified by the reformation and comforted by the renunciation, why, Irene and Alice Muddock had both been so inexplicably harsh and unkind and unsympathetic that Ora did not feel bound to make herself miserable on their account. Irene had got her husband, Alice did not deserve the man whom Ora understood her to want. It happened that she herself was made for Ashley and Ashley for her; you could not alter these things; there they were. She lay back on the sofa with her eyes on the portrait in the silver frame, and declared that she was happier than she had been for years. If only Ashley would come! For she was rather hurt at Ashley's conduct. Here was Thursday morning and he had not been to see her. He had written very pretty notes, pleading pressing engagements, but he had not come. She was a little vexed, but not uneasy; no doubt he had been busy. She would, of course, have excused him altogether had she known that it was only on Wednesday evening that he was free from his burden and back in town, after seeing his passenger safely embarked on the boat which was to carry him and his thousand pounds back to Bridgeport, Connecticut, or somewhere equally far from the town where she was.
Although Ashley did not come, she had a visitor, and although the visitor was Babba Flint, he came notmerely in curiosity. His primary business was connected with a play. He had the handling (such was his expression) of a masterpiece; the heroine's part was made for Ora, the piece would do great things here, but, Babba asserted, even greater in America. The author wanted Ora to play in it—authors have these whims—and, if she consented, would offer his work to Mr. Hazlewood; but Hazlewood without Ora would not serve the turn.
"So I ran round to nobble you," said Babba. "You know Sidney wants to go to the States, if he can get plays. Well, mine (he had not actually written it) is a scorcher."
"Should I have to go to America?" asked Ora apprehensively.
"It's absurd you haven't been before." He proceeded to describe Ora's American triumph and the stream of gold which would flow in. "You take a share," he said. "I can offer you a share. Sidney would rather have you on a salary, but take my advice and have a share."
The conversation became financial and Ora grew apparently greedy. As Alice Muddock had noticed, she had the art of seeming quite grasping and calculating. But about going to America she gave no answer. The matter was not urgent; the thing would not become pressing for months. On being cross-questioned Babba admitted that the masterpiece was not yet written; the idea was there and had been confided to Babba; he was thunderstruck with it and advised an immediate payment of two hundred pounds. Then the masterpiece would get itself written; all wheels must be oiled if they are to run.
"And if you take half, you'll make a fortune," said Babba.
Making a fortune for a hundred pounds was the kind of operation which attracted Ora.
"I'll write you a cheque now," she said.
Babba smiled in a superior manner.
"There isn't all that hurry, as long as you're on," he observed. "Won't you give me a kiss for putting you on?"
"If it goes as you say, I'll give you a kiss—a kiss for every thousand I make," said Ora, laughing.
"There won't be any of me left," groaned Babba, with a humorous assumption of apprehension. He paused for a moment, glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and added, "But what would Mr. Fenning say?"
Ora sat on her sofa and regarded him. She said nothing; she was trying to look grave, resentful, dignified—just as Alice Muddock would look; she knew so well how vulgar Babba was and how impertinent. Alas that he amused her! Alas that just now anybody could amuse and delight her! Her lips narrowly preserved their severity, but her eyes were smiling. Babba, having taken a survey of her, fell into an appearance of sympathetic dejection.
"Awfully sorry he didn't come!" he murmured; "I say, don't mind me if you want to cry."
"You're really atrocious," said Ora, and began to laugh. "Nobody but you would dare," she went on.
"Oh, I believe in him all right, you know," said Babba, "because I've seen him. But most people don't, you know. I say, Miss Pinsent, it'd have a good effect if you advertised; lookbonâ fide, you know."
"You mustn't talk about it, really you mustn't," saidOra, with twitching lips. It was all wrong (Oh, what would Alice Muddock say?), but she was very much amused. If her tragedy of renunciation would turn to a comedy, she must laugh at the comedy.
"Keep it up," said Babba, with a grave and sincere air of encouragement. "Postpone him, don't give him up. Let him be coming in three months. It keeps us all interested, you know. And if you positively can't do anything else with him, divorce him."
Ora's eyes turned suddenly away.
"Anyhow don't waste him," Babba exhorted her. "I tell you there's money in him."
"Now you must stop," she said with a new note of earnestness. It caught Babba's attention.
"Kick me, if you like," said he. "I didn't know you minded, though."
"I don't think I did, much," said Ora. Then she sat up straight and looked past Babba with an absent air. She had an idea of asking him what he thought of her in his heart. He was shrewd under his absurdities, kind under his vulgarity; he had never made love to her; in passing she wondered why. But after all nobody thought Babba's opinion worth anything.
"Do you remember meeting Miss Muddock here?" she enquired.
"Rather," said Babba. "I know her very well. Now she's a good sort—reminds you of your mother grown young."
"Well, she thought you detestable," said Ora. The praise of Alice was not grateful to her, although she acknowledged the aptness of Babba's phrase.
"Yes, she would," said he cheerfully. "I've got to shoulder that, you know. So have we all, if it comes to that."
"We all! What do you mean?" Ora did not seem amused now.
"Oh, our sort," said Babba. "I'll leave you out, if you particularly wish it."
"Just tell me what you mean."
"Can't, for the life of me," said Babba. "Have a cigarette?" He held out his case; Ora took a cigarette. They both began to smoke. "But we give her fits," he went on in a meditative tone, as of a man who recognised facts, although he disclaimed all power of explaining them. "I tell you what, though—" he resumed; but again he paused.
"Well?" said Ora irritably.
"That's the sort to marry," said Babba, and put his cigarette in his mouth with a final air.
"Ask her, then," said Ora, with an uncomfortable laugh.
"I think I see myself!" smiled Babba. "How should we mix?"
Ora rose from the sofa and walked restlessly to the window. Her satisfaction with the world was shadowed. She decided to tell Babba nothing of what Alice Muddock, nothing of what Irene Kilnorton, had said to her. For, strange as it seemed, Babba would understand, not ridicule, appreciate, not deride, be nearer endorsing than resenting. He would not see narrow, ignorant, uncharitable prejudice; it appeared that he would recognise some natural inevitable difference, having its outcome in disapproval and aloofness. Was there this gulf? Was Babba right in sitting down resignedly on the other side of it? Her thoughts flew off to Ashley Mead. On which side of the gulf was he? And if on the other than that occupied by "our sort," would he cross the gulf? How would he cross it?
"Well, you'll bear the matter of the play in mind," said Babba, rising and flinging away his cigarette.
"Oh, don't bother me about plays now," cried Ora impatiently.
Babba stood hat in hand, regarding her critically. He saw that she was disturbed; he did not perceive why she should be. The change of mood was a vagary to be put up with, not accounted for; there was need of Mr. Hazlewood's philosophy. He fell back on raillery.
"Cheer up," he said. "He'll turn up some day."
"Stop!" said Ora, with a stamp of her foot. "Go away."
"Not unpardoned?" implored Babba tragically. Ora could not help laughing, as she stretched out her hand in burlesque grandeur, and allowed him to kiss it.
"Anyhow, we'll see you through," he assured her as he went out, casting a glance back at the slim still figure in the middle of the room.
Partly because he had not come sooner, more from the shadow left by this conversation, she received Ashley Mead when he arrived in the afternoon with a distance of manner and a petulance which she was not wont to show towards him. She had now neither thanks for his labours in going to meet Mr. Fenning nor apologies for her desertion of him; she gave no voice to the joy for freedom which possessed her. Babba Flint had roused an uneasiness which demanded new and ample evidence of her power, a fresh assurance that she was everything to Ashley, a proof that though she might be all those women said she was, yet she was irresistible, conquering and to conquer. And her triumph should not be won by borrowing weapons or tactics from the enemy. She would win with her own sword, in her own way, as herself; shehad rather exaggerate than soften what they blamed in her; still she would achieve her proof and win her battle.
There seemed indeed no battle to fight, for Ashley was very tender and friendly to her; he appeared, however, a little depressed. Pushing her experiment, she began to talk about Irene and Alice, and, as she put it, "that sort of woman."
"But they aren't at all the same sort of woman," he objected, smiling.
"Oh, yes, they are, if you compare them with me," she insisted, pursuing the path which Babba's reflections had shewn her.
"Well, they've certain common points as compared with you, perhaps," he admitted.
"They're good and I'm not."
"You aren't alarmingly bad," said Ashley, looking at her. He was wondering how she had come to marry Fenning.
"Look at my life and theirs!"
"Very different, of course." They had never been joined in bonds of union with Fenning.
She leant forward and began to finger the flowers in her vase.
"It would have been better," she said, "if Jack had come. Then you could have gone back. I know you think you're bound not to go back now."
He took no notice of her last words, and asked no explanation of what "going back" meant.
"I'd sooner see you dead than with your husband," he said quietly.
Forgetting the flowers, she bent forward with clasped hands. "Would you, Ashley?" she whispered. The calm gravity of his speech was sweet incense to her.Speaking like that, he surely meant what he said! "How could you help me to bring him back, then?"
"I hadn't quite realised the sort of man he must be."
"Oh!" This was not just what she wanted to hear. "There's nothing particular the matter with him," she said.
"The things you told me—"
"I daresay I was unjust. I expect I exasperated him terribly. I used rather to like him—really, you know."
"You wouldn't now," said Ashley with a frown. The remark seemed to shew too much knowledge. He added, "I mean, would you?"
"Now? Oh, now—things are different. I should hate it now." She rose and stood opposite to him. "What's the matter?" she asked. "You're not happy to-day. Is anything wrong?"
He could not tell her what was wrong, how this man whom she had so unaccountably brought into her life seemed first to have degraded her and now to degrade him. To tell her that was to disclose all the story. He could throw off neither his disgust with himself nor his discontent with her. She had not asked him to borrow money and bribe Jack Fenning to go away; it was by no will of hers that he had become a party to the sordid little drama which Hazlewood's information enabled him to piece together. All she saw was that he was gloomy and that he did not make love to her. He should have come in a triumph of exultation that their companionship need not be broken. Her fears were ready with an explanation. Was Babba Flint right? Was the companionship unnatural, incapable of lasting, bound to be broken? She looked down on him, anger and entreaty fighting in her eyes.
"I believe you're sorry he didn't come," she said, ina low voice. "Do you want to get rid of me? You've only to say so, if that's what you want."
"I'm not sorry he didn't come," said Ashley, with a smile.
"Now you're amused. What at?"
"Oh, the way things happen! Among all the things I thought you might say to me, I never thought of your telling me that I was sorry he hadn't come." He raised his eyes to hers suddenly. "Do you know anything about what he does out there?" he asked.
"No; he never wrote, except that once. I don't want to know; it doesn't matter to me."
"One letter in five years—isn't it five?—isn't much."
"Oh, why should he write? We separated for ever."
"But then he proposed to come."
"Dear me, don't be logical, Ashley. You see he didn't come. I suppose he had a fit of something and wrote then." She paused, and added with a smile, "Perhaps it occurred to him that I used to be attractive."
"And then he forgot again?"
"I suppose so. Why do you talk about him? He's gone!" She waved her hand as though to scatter the last mist of remembrance of Jack Fenning.
"Perhaps he wanted to get some money out of you," said Ashley.
"You aren't flattering, Ashley."
"Ah, my dear, a man who does what I do may say what I say."
Something in his words or tone appealed to her. She knelt down by his chair and looked up in his face.
"You do all sorts of things for me, don't you?"
"All sorts."
"And you hate a good many of them?"
"Some."
"And your friends hate all of them for your sake! I mean Irene, and Miss Muddock, and so on. Ashley, would you do anything really bad for me?"
"I expect so."
"I don't care; I should like it. And when you'd done it I should like to go and tell Alice Muddock all about it."
"She wouldn't care." His voice sounded sincere, not merely as though it gave utterance to the proper formal disclaimer of an unloved lady's interest in him. Ora did not miss the ring of truth.
"Has she begun not to care?" she asked.
"If you choose to put it in that way, yes," he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "You see, we go different ways."
The talk seemed all of different ways and different sorts to-day.
"Yes, I know," she answered, drawing a little back from him, but not rising from her knees. Ashley was not looking at her, but, resting his head on his hands, gazed straight in front of him; he was frowning again. "What are they saying about Jack not coming?" she asked suddenly.
"What they would," said Ashley, without turning his head. "You know; I needn't tell you."
"Oh, yes, I know. Well, what does it matter?"
"Not a ha'penny," said Ashley Mead. It was not what they said that troubled him; what they said had nothing to do with what he had done.
"Ashley," she said, with an imperative note in her voice, "I know exactly what I ought to do; I've read it in a lot of books." Her smile broke out for a moment."Most books are stupid—at least the women in them are. I was stupid before—before Jack didn't come, and I thought I'd do it. Well, I won't. I don't believe you'd be happier. I won't give you up, I won't let you go."
Ashley turned on her with a smile.
"Nothing equals the conceit of women," he said. "They always think they can settle the thing. Whatever you say, I've not the least intention of being given up." It crossed his mind that to allow himself to be given up now would be a remarkable piece of ineptitude, when he had sacrificed a thousand pounds, and one or two other things, in order to free himself and her from the necessity of their renunciation.
"Wouldn't you go if I told you?"
"Not I!"
"Well then, I've half a mind to tell you!" Her tone was gay; Babba Flint's inexplicable convictions and voiceless philosophy were forgotten. The man she loved loved her; what more was there to ask? She began to wonder how she had strayed from this simple and satisfactory point of view; didn't it exhaust the world? It was not hers to take thought for him, but to render herself into his hands. Not ashamed of this weakness, still she failed to discern that in it lay her overwhelming strength. She stretched out her hands and put them in his with her old air of ample self-surrender, of a capitulation that was without condition because the conqueror's generosity was known of all. "What are we worrying about?" she cried with a low merry laugh. "Here are you, Ashley, and here am I!" And now she recollected no more that this kind of conduct was exactly what seemed horrible to Alice Muddock and wantonly wicked to Irene Kilnorton.In this mood her fascination was strongest; she had the power of making others forget what she forgot. Ashley Mead sat silent, looking at her, well content if he might have rested thus for an indefinite time, with no need of calculating, of deciding, or of acting. As for her, so for him now, it was enough. With a light laugh she drew her hands away and sprang to her feet. "I wish I hadn't got to go to the theatre," she exclaimed. "We'd dine somewhere together. Oh, of course you're engaged, but of course you'd break it. You'd just wire, 'Going to dine with Ora Pinsent,' and they'd all understand. They couldn't expect you to refuse that for any engagement; you see, they know you're rather fond of me. Besides they'd all do just the same themselves, if they had the chance." So she gave rein to her vanity and her triumph; they could not but please him since they were her pæan over his love for her.
Till the last possible moment he stayed with her, driving with her to the theatre again as in the days when the near prospect of the renunciation made indiscretion provisional and unimportant. He would not see her act; it was being alone with her, having her to himself, which was so sweet that he could hardly bring himself to surrender it. To see her as one of a crowd had not the virtue that being alone with her had; it brought back, instead of banishing, what she had made him forget—the view of the world, what she was to others, and what she was to himself so soon as the charm of her presence was removed. He left her at the door of the theatre and went off to keep his dinner engagement. With her went the shield that protected him from reflexion and saved him from summing up the facts of the situation.
Morality has curious and unexpected ways of justifyingitself, even that somewhat specialised form of morality which may be called the code of worldly honour. This was Ashley Mead's first reflexion. A very stern character is generally imputed to morality; people hardly do justice nowadays to its sense of humour; they understood that better in the old days. "The Lord shall have them in derision." Morality is fond of its laugh. Here was his second thought, which came while a vivacious young lady gave him her opinion of the last popular philosophical treatise. To take advantage of Mr. Hazlewood's carelessly dropped information, to follow up the clue of the good-for-nothing Foster and the masterful Daisy Macpherson, to set spies afoot, to trace the local habitation of the "little spec," and to find out who formed the establishment that carried it on—all this would be no doubt possible, and seemed in itself sordid enough, with its sequel of a divorce suit, and the notoriety of the proceedings which Miss Pinsent's fame would ensure. Yet all this might possibly have been endured with set teeth and ultimately lived down, if only it had chanced that Mr. Hazlewood had been to hand with his very significant reminiscences before Lord Bowdon and Ashley Mead had made up their minds that Jack Fenning must be got out of the way, and that a thousand pounds should buy his departure and bribe him not to obtrude his society upon the lady who was his wife. That Mr. Hazlewood came after the arrangement was made and after the bargain struck was the satiric touch by which morality lightened its grave task of business-like retribution. What, if any, might be the legal effect of such a transaction in the eyes of the tribunal to which Miss Pinsent must be persuaded to appeal, Ashley did not pretend to know and could not bring himself seriouslyto care. The impression which it would create on the world when fully set forth (and he knew Jack Fenning too well to suppose that it would not be declared if it suited that gentleman's interest) was only too plain. The world perhaps might not understand Bowdon's part in the affair; probably it would content itself with surmises about something lying in the past and with accompanying sympathetic references to poor Irene Kilnorton; but its judgment of himself, of Jack Fenning, and of Ora Pinsent was not doubtful. Would the world believe that Ora knew nothing about the manner of Jack's coming and the manner of Jack's going? The world was not born yesterday! And about Ashley Mead the world would, after a perfunctory pretence of seeking a charitable explanation, confess itself really unable to come to any other than one conclusion. The world would say that the whole thing was very deplorable but would not attempt to discriminate between the parties. "Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other." That would be the world's verdict, and, having arrived at it, it would await the infinitely less important judgment of the Court with a quiet determination not to be shaken in its view of the case.
To pursue a path that ended thus was to incur penalties more degrading and necessities more repugnant than could lie in an open defiance of this same world with its sounding censures and malicious smiles. To defy was in a way respectable; this would be to grovel, and to grovel with no better chance than that of receiving at last a most contemptuous pardon. "Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other." He would be paired off with Jack Fenning, Ora coupled with the masterful Daisy Macpherson. Let them fight it out among themselves—while decent people stood aloof with theirnoses in the air, their ears open, and their lips as grave as might be. Such was the offer of peace which morality, certainly not serious beyond suspicion, made to Ashley Mead; if he would submit to this, his offence touching that matter of the thousand pounds and the burking of Mr. Fenning's visit should be forgotten. Better war to the death, thought Ashley Mead.
But what would Bowdon say? And what would be the cry that echoed in the depths of Ora's eyes?
He asked the question as he looked at her picture. Suddenly with an oath he turned away; there had come into his mind the recollection of Jack Fenning's ardent study of Miss Macpherson's face.