CHAPTER XV
It was the night on which Adrien had returned to town. Jessica, ignorant that he had ever left it, had found her way to his chambers, and waited there patiently and hungrily in the hope of once more seeing him. As the clock struck eight she decided that it was useless to remain any longer, and accordingly retraced her steps through the crowded thoroughfares.
Anything would be better than waiting like this, she thought despairingly.
After the silence of the deserted street, the crowds, pushing and jostling her, brought her almost a feeling of satisfaction. Even if she were alone, at least she could not be solitary while the world rushed past her, in its eager search for pleasure.
At one point near Charing Cross a few curious loafers had collected on either side of the brilliantly-lit façade of a theatre, over which, in coloured lights, was the name, "The Casket."
As Jessica stood watching listlessly, indeed almost unconsciously, a handsome motor rolled up before the imposing entrance. The little group surged back before the white-gloved commissionaire, who hurried forward, but the door of the car had already been thrown open by the chauffeur, and a gentleman and lady stepped out.
At the sight of one of them, Jessica's indifference became changed to a feverish eagerness. The colour left her face, her eyes dilated, her lips parted. She swayed back, half fearful, half desirous that he should see her; for it was he, the man for whom she had waited so long, the man she had enshrined within her heart.
Adrien, all his doubts as to the possibility of winning Constance's love returning to him in full force once he had left her presence, had come down to the theatre with two objects. One to distract his thoughts from his hopes and fears, the other to arrange with Jasper for the entire transfer of the theatre to Ada. He meant this to be the last night as far as the Casket and Ada Lester were concerned.
Absorbed in his own reflections, he hardly saw the group of humble spectators, and did not appear to hear their murmurs of recognition, but turned and held out his hand to assist the lady who accompanied him.
Jessica's eyes flashed fiercely as they wandered from his face to that of the woman beside him.
"She is beautiful," she murmured beneath her breath. "She is beautiful, and with him!"
All the love which had been aroused in her passionate heart surged up, and, for the minute, almost turned to jealous hate. "Beautiful, and with him." It was agony to her to see him as he bent down to catch some light words of his companion, whose perfumed satin cloak swept by the crouching girl, as the pair passed into the theatre.
Full well she knew that she herself could never hope to hear his voice, or feel the pressure of his hand; yet it was with the bitterness of death that she saw him pass her by in the company of this beautiful woman. Mingled also with her jealousy was another feeling, that of partial recognition. For the moment--she could not remember where--but at some time in the past, she fancied she had seen that dark, highly-coloured face, and heard the harsh vulgar voice.
As Leroy turned from the motor, she heard him say to the chauffeur:
"Be here at eleven."
"At eleven," she thought, "then I will be here too, and see him once more."
She hung on the outskirts of the group and listened with greedy ears for any chance word that might arise about her idol.
"A reg'lar beauty, I should just think so," said a man, addressing another who had passed a remark on the lady in question. "She's the biggest star on the stage, you bet! Ada Lester knows her value, and ain't likely to forget it neither."
The other man ventured a remark concerning the lady's escort.
"Him? That's Leroy--son of Lord Barminster--the richest of 'em all. She belongs to him, she does; so does the whole theatre. Costs him a pretty penny, you bet. But lor' bless yer, he don't mind! Can't spend his money fast enough. My brother's one of the shifters; and the things he cud tell yer about 'er, and 'er temper, 'ud make yer 'air stand on end."
Jessica moved away, while members of the group aired their knowledge of the rapidly entering, smartly-dressed audience.
"That's Mr. Leroy's friend, Mr. Vermont," commenced the first speaker again. "I've 'eard tell 'e does all the work and pays out all the other one's money; but he ain't no class himself--he's not a real tip-top swell like them others." He pointed to a little group of white-waistcoated, immaculately-dressed men, now standing on the steps of the vestibule. "Lord! this 'ere Casket'll be crammed with all the swells to-night--'cos it's the fashion."
"So Ada Lester is the fashion now, eh?" commented his companion, who had probably known her in her poorer days, and therefore was inclined to be interested in her.
"Not 'arf, she ain't," agreed the man, with the Londoner's pride in laying down the law on the subject. "She's got a house like a duchess, and can eat off gold or silver if she chooses; an' all for her face, for she can't act for nuts. I've seen 'er so I know!" With which lordly criticism, he closed the subject.
As for Jessica, sick at heart with jealousy, she turned up one of the side streets to commence her long wait for Adrien Leroy; while the group dispersed, laughing and chattering.
The Casket was filled now to its utmost capacity. It was the first night of a new piece. The unfortunate comedy which Ada had so strongly condemned had been withdrawn, and a so-called musical farce--consisting of very bad music, and still worse comedy--hastily put on in its stead. As usual, no expense had been spared in the mounting, and Adrien's money had been poured out like water on extraordinary costumes, gorgeous, highly-coloured scenery, and a hundred embellishments for this new piece of elaborate and senseless burlesque,Prince Bon-Bon. But with all its deficiencies as regarded culture, the piece appeared to be a success.
Ada Lester could dance, if she could not act; and she could shout a vulgar patter song, if she could not sing; therefore after a tumultuous first act, during which she had been "Hongkored"--as she expressed it--to her heart's content, she was standing in the wings, with a cigarette between her painted lips, radiant with content and gratified vanity.
"Well, Shelton," said Leroy, as his friend approached him, where he leaned against a stack of scenery. "What do you think of the show this time?"
"As beautiful as it is senseless," was that gentleman's sarcastic reply. "Heaven alone knows what it cost you," he added.
"I certainly don't know myself," admitted Adrien, knocking the ash from his cigarette. "Ask Paxhorn--he wrote the lyrics, and had the management; or better still Vermont, whom I'm going to see myself presently. But this will be a success, Mortimer, and I shall make a fortune."
"Yes," said Shelton quietly, "for Paxhorn and Vermont. Well, it's no business of mine, of course."
He turned to Ada, who had been tapping her foot angrily during this little conversation. "Well, Miss Lester," he said, "haven't you a word for me to-night?"
She glared at him viciously, for Mortimer was not a favourite of hers.
"Yes," she snapped. "I hate the sight of you!"
Both men laughed as though amused.
"That was a fair hit," said Shelton, with mock grief in his voice. "Don't kill me right out, Miss Lester. Let me open a bottle of champagne for you."
"I don't want it," said the popular dancer, her eyes flashing angrily. Then, turning her back on him, she said to Adrien, "Ain't you going to the front to see me dance?"
"I can see you from here," was his answer. "You look charming, my dear Ada; doesn't she, Mortimer?"
"Yes, and as good as she is beautiful," declared that gentleman, making her a low bow.
With a furious glance at him, and a furtive look at Adrien, she passed them, and, accompanied by a burst of music from the orchestra and a storm of clapping from the audience, she commenced her dance.
Shelton watched her with a sneer.
"Hark! how they applaud," he said, glancing up at the crowded and delighted house. "They seem to admire her, anyway. Long live Miss Ada, Queen of dancers. Adrien, why do you put up with that painted vixen?"
Leroy smiled at his sudden change of tone.
"Don't let her hear you," he said. "And don't worry yourself about me, old fellow."
"You're afraid of her," continued his friend. "Oh, yes, you may think it an impertinence if you like, but I know you are. You'd face a cannon's mouth sooner than that woman's angry abuse. You dread a scene as a musician does a false note. For me, I'm sick of the whole world."
"Why do you remain in it, then?" asked Adrien, laughing.
"For the same reason as yourself," replied the cynic. "Neither of us know what the next will be like."
Adrien laughed, but before he could explain to his friend his plan with regard to Ada, a crowd of pretty dancers in silver gauze surrounded him, begging for real bon-bons, instead of the painted property sweets given out to them.
"Do you girls think I am made of bon-bons, like the piece?" he said, waving them back. "Why, you'll make yourselves ill."
"Oh, Mr. Leroy," pouted one, "we've danced so hard, too!"
"Go to Mr. Vermont, then," was the indolent reply; "he'll give you what you want," and with a rush they swept back on to the stage.
"Always Jasper," murmured Shelton sadly, as his friend, with a genial wave of the hand, picked his way past cardboard castles and paper trees, till he disappeared through the door that would lead him to his stage-box.
At eleven o'clock the play was over; the superbly-dressed women, with their escorts, were descending the wide staircase, laughing and discussing the piece, which seemed likely to become the success of the season. Outside, the pavement was filled with the gay, excited crowds. Whistles resounded for taxis hovering in the immediate vicinity, like steel-plated birds of prey. Carriages were being shouted for, and throughout all the bustle and excitement, a slight girlish form doggedly kept its vigil near the main entrance.
The crowd of pleasure-seekers and onlookers had melted away, and the attendants were busy turning out the lights, when the glass doors swung open again, and three or four gentlemen came out, laughing and talking.
"Quite a success," said one of them.
"Yes, indeed," from another. "Paxhorn, I congratulate you again, old man."
"Thank you," replied the author, his face beaming with satisfaction. "Thanks to Leroy, it will run for a hundred nights, and my name will be made."
"On Bon-bons," sneered Shelton; "what a thing it is to be a popular playwright."
"Better to be a popular dancer," whispered Paxhorn, as the door swung open again, and Adrien came out, with Ada Lester on his arm, Mr. Jasper Vermont following behind them.
"All here?" asked Leroy in his clear voice, as they descended the steps to where the motors stood waiting. "Come along"--turning to the rest of the party--"we are all going to supper to celebrate Ada's triumph. Paxhorn, dismiss your car, old man, and come with us; we want to hear the rustle of your laurels."
Laughingly, they entered the vehicles, while, above all the others, rang the harsh voice of the woman, and Jessica, hearing it, shuddered involuntarily. Then they were gone.
Suddenly, while the girl's eyes were straining after them, the last motor stopped, and Jasper Vermont jumped out and hastened back into the theatre. More out of idle curiosity than anything else, or perhaps again prompted by the guardian angel of Leroy's honour, she waited to see him come out again. In a few minutes he re-emerged, bearing in his hand a small roll of papers, one of which he was reading, with a malicious smile on his face.
Jessica unwittingly stood in his path, and he crashed into her with such force as to knock his hat to the ground. With an oath he struggled to regain it, pushing her roughly aside.
"Out of my way, girl," he exclaimed, thinking she was about to beg from him. "I have nothing for you."
At the sound of his voice Jessica's face whitened, and she turned away, frightened, and trembling; as she did so, her foot struck against something light lying on the kerb. She stooped and found it was a small roll of papers, part of those which had been in the gentleman's hand, and which he had been studying so attentively.
She did not trouble to open it, but slipped it into the bosom of her dress and walked dreamily away.
CHAPTER XVI
"Is it a Rubens, or is it not? That is the question," drawled Frank Parselle, as he dropped his eyeglass.
On an easel in Lady Merivale's drawing-room, stood a picture, before which were grouped a small assembly of her friends, including one or two artists and connoisseurs.
Lord Merivale was also present, having been dragged away from his beloved farm, and worried into the purchase of this picture--the usual "Portrait of a gentleman"--by his beautiful wife. He himself knew nothing whatsoever about it, either as to its value or its genuineness; it was worn and dirty-looking, and, in his opinion, would have been dear at a five-pound note.
"Yes, that is the question," echoed Lord Standon. "It's not a bad face though. I should vote it genuine right enough."
"It's extremely dirty," yawned Lord Merivale, casting a longing look at the green grass of the park opposite and thinking of his new shorthorns in Somersetshire.
"Philistine!" exclaimed his wife, tapping him playfully on the arm. "You are incorrigible. Dirty! why, that is tone."
"Ah," returned her husband, turning away and gazing admiringly at a bull by Potter. He was as wise as he had been before; for the jargon of Art and fashionable society was not one of his accomplishments.
"I tell you who would be a good judge," put in Mr. Paxhorn.
The rest turned inquiring eyes on him.
"Who?" asked Lord Standon.
"Adrien Leroy. He is an artist, though he keeps his talents as secret as if they were crimes. It was he who did the designs for my last book."
A murmur of astonishment ran through the room. Nearly every one knew that it was to the illustrations the book owed the greater portion of its success.
"A modesty quite unfashionable," exclaimed Lady Merivale, whose beautiful face had flushed ever so slightly at the mention of Adrien's name.
"Yes," admitted Paxhorn. "Men have to proclaim their gifts very loudly in the market-place, before they sell their wares nowadays."
"Oh, Adrien is a veritable Crichton," put in Lord Standon. "There is very little he does not know, and even that is made up by the estimable Jasper."
"Yes, I saw them together got half an hour ago," said Paxhorn. "If I had known of this picture, I would have got them to come with me; for Vermont is a genius at settling any question under the sun."
"He's not always right, though," put in Lord Merivale, quietly. "What about that horse of Leroy's? Wasn't it Vermont who was so sure of his winning the race? Yet his Majesty did not win, did he?"
"No, I know that," said Standon, with a rueful smile, as he thought of his added debts.
"That was not Vermont's lack of judgment," put in Paxhorn, who, for private reasons of his own, always stood up for that gentleman. "I am sure the horse would have won had it not been for Adrien's ill-timed generosity."
"What was that?" inquired Lady Merivale, looking keenly over at him.
"He gave the jockey a ten-pound note the night before the race; and, of course, the fellow got drunk and pulled the 'King' up at the last fence."
"And lost his life, did he not?" asked one of the artists.
Lord Standon nodded, thoughtfully. He was attached to his friend Leroy, and did not see why he should be blamed unnecessarily.
"Yes," he replied; "the strangest part of it all was the way the poor fellow raved at Vermont."
"What do you mean?" asked Lady Merivale, sharply.
"We were all standing round him," explained Lord Standon, "and when Vermont came up the man seemed to go off his head, and practically said he had sold the race. Of course, it was all nonsense, though I believe Lord Barminster is having some inquiries made."
"But why should Vermont have sold the race? Really, it's too absurd," put in Paxhorn scornfully. "Especially as he'd backed him for five hundred pounds himself. It's hardly likely he'd do such a thing for his own sake, apart from his sense of honour, and his friendship for Leroy."
Lady Merivale glanced sceptically at the speaker. Her faith in Jasper's sense of honour was not very strong. Then she gave a deep sigh.
"Why, Eveline," said her husband, looking up, "you seem quite grieved. Not on your own account, I hope?" The idea of his wife betting was very repugnant to him, and Lady Merivale always endeavoured to keep her little flutters, whether on 'Change or on the turf, entirely to herself. She laughed lightly, therefore, as she answered:
"Oh, no, indeed; I lost a dozen of gloves, that was all." A vision of the cheque for five hundred pounds, which she had drawn, arose before her as she spoke.
"I'm afraid it will take a little more than that to settle Leroy's book," said Lord Merivale carelessly.
At this moment the door opened and Adrien Leroy himself was announced. There was the usual buzz of welcome, and her ladyship's eyes flashed just one second, as he bent over her hand.
"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Leroy," she said. "You can settle a knotty question for us. This is my latest acquisition. Now have I been deceived, or have I not? Is it a Rubens?"
Adrien smiled at the two artists, who were slight acquaintances of his.
"You ask me while such judges are near? Cannot you decide, Alford--nor you, Colman?"
"Well, I say it is," said the first.
"While I think it is forgery," laughed the second; and thereupon ensued a lengthy and detailed criticism.
Adrien bent nearer to the picture under examination; then he said quietly:
"Where two such lights cannot discover the truth, who may? I agree with you, Alford, and so I do with you, Colman. Both your arguments are so convincing that if Rubens had painted it, and were present, to hear you, Colman, he'd be persuaded he hadn't; and if he had not painted it, you, Alford, could almost convince him that he had."
There was a general smile at the artists' expense; and Adrien continued:
"Rubens' touch"--examining the face--"but--what is this?" He pointed to a small weapon thrust into the girdle of the figure.
"That is a dagger," said Alford. "Here, where are the glasses?"
"Thanks," said Adrien, "but I don't require them. It is a dagger, and a Florentine one at that. Ah! Lady Merivale, I'm afraid your picture is more a specimen of what a modern impostor can rise to than that of an old master. That dagger is of comparatively modern fashion, certainly not earlier than the eighteenth century, while Rubens died in 1640."
The two artists stared, as well they might, but were neither sufficiently acquainted with Leroy to express their surprise at his knowledge, nor had knowledge enough themselves to challenge his dates.
It was Lord Standon who spoke first.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Adrien going in for history! Who would have thought it? My dear fellow, why not give a lecture?"
"On the vanity of human hopes and the folly of friendship?" inquired Adrien, so coldly as to startle both the company and Lord Standon himself, who not being in Lady Constance's confidence, was naturally at a loss for the reason of this sudden anger on the part of Leroy. He drew back in surprise, but any further reference to the matter was stopped by the entry of Jasper Vermont. As a matter of fact, he had arrived just in time to overhear Adrien's last words.
"What's that?" he cried, after he had greeted Lady Merivale. "Was that Leroy declaiming against the world? It's for those in his position to bewail its vanities, while poor dev--I beg your pardon, Lady Merivale--poor men like myself can only cry for them."
Adrien smiled.
"Quite right, Jasper. I'm wrong, as usual.
"Mr. Vermont," said Lord Merivale, "you remind me of the clown in the beloved pantomime of my youth."
"An innocent memory that, at least, my lord," returned Vermont, who never stayed his tongue in the matter of a repartee for lord or commoner. "May I ask why?"
"You always enter the room with a joke or an epigram," was the answer.
Mr. Vermont smiled.
"'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,'" he quoted lightly, as he turned his attention to the unfortunate "Portrait of a gentleman." "Ah, what have we here--another picture? An old master, I presume?"
The artists looked pleased; it would seem as if even the great connoisseur himself was liable to make mistakes.
"It is ugly enough, in all conscience," he continued bluntly. "For my part, I am an utter philistine, and like my art to be the same as my furniture--new, pretty to look at, and comfortable, and, for the life of me, I can't fall in love with a snub-nosed Catherine de Medici, or a muscular apostle. What is this?" He bent down to read the title. "Ah! 'Portrait of a gentleman of the sixteenth century.' Very valuable, I daresay, Lady Merivale?"
Lady Merivale, who looked upon Mr. Vermont as one of her ancestors would have regarded the Court jester, smiled indifferently.
"It all depends on the point of view," she said. "I have paid three hundred pounds for it."
Mr. Vermont looked up with an air of innocent surprise; but a keen observer might have been tempted to regard it as one of satirical enjoyment.
"Three hundred pounds! I daresay these gentlemen, good judges all, have declared it a bargain?" He motioned to the little group on the other side of Lord Merivale.
"Not at all," returned his hostess. "On the contrary, Mr. Leroy declares it an imposture."
Vermont raised his eyebrows.
"Indeed," he said. "How did he detect the fraud?"
"By the one weak point," said Colman. "That dagger; Rubens never lived to see such a dagger as that, so could not possibly have painted it!"
Mr. Vermont smiled, an approving smile that seemed to mock the picture as if it were a living thing.
"Capital," he said. "The rogue who palmed this forgery on you was evidently not a student of the antique. Poor fellow, how was he to guess who was to be his judge? You will, of course, institute proceedings against him, or send the picture back?"
"Impossible," said Lord Merivale, with a rueful smile; "I wrote the cheque last night; by this time it will have been cashed, and so the swindle is complete."
"Dear! dear!" ejaculated Mr. Vermont, in tones of the deepest commiseration, though he smiled as he added: "There's only one thing to be said, my lord. If that picture is clever enough to deceive such great experts, surely it has achieved its object. It certainly looks old enough to satisfy the most exacting of second-hand furniture shops."
He turned to Lady Merivale.
"Before I forget," he said, "let me discharge the object of my visit. Melba sings to-morrow at the Duke of Southville's party."
Her ladyship's face lighted up with real gratitude. Music was her one sincere passion; and, as she had been unable to hear that divine songstress during the season owing to various engagements, this news was welcome.
"Thank you," she said warmly. "How good of you to find out for me. It was kept such a secret. How did you discover it?"
"Ah!" said Mr. Vermont, raising his eyebrows. "If I tell you that, it would be bad policy. I may have discovered it so easily that my services as a solver of mysteries would sink to insignificance, or again I may have had to commit a crime; in either case, it is best to 'draw a veil of silence,' shall we say; sufficient be it that Melba sings, and Lady Merivale deigns to listen."
"Flatterer," she said lightly, as he rose, hat in hand. He glanced across at Adrien, who was talking to Lord Merivale. "I am off on another mission," he said, lowering his voice. "I fancy my friend must be thinking of his honeymoon."
Lady Merivale started violently. "What do you mean?" she asked, striving to maintain her usual cool, indifferent tones.
He looked down at her in innocent surprise.
"I am commissioned to buy a residence in the Swiss Lakes district for Leroy; and as I happen to know Lady Constance Tremaine is devoted to mountaineering--most exhausting work, I consider--well, there is only one construction to be laid. But, of course, this is in strictest confidence; you will not betray me, I know."
"Of course not," said her ladyship mechanically; her mind was working rapidly, so that she hardly heard the rest of Jasper's purring speech; and that gentleman, highly pleased at the pain he had so evidently inflicted, made a parting epigram and left his poison to do its work in Lady Merivale's mind.
One by one, the others followed; and Lord Merivale, with an apology to Leroy, returned to his study and theAgricultural Gazette, having his wife and Adrien alone.
With flushed face and outstretched hands, she turned to him reproachfully.
"I thought you had forgotten me."
"Impossible," he murmured, as he raised her hand to his lips. "I have been so bothered with various business matters, and have had so many engagements----"
"But yet had the time to go to the theatre with that awful creature," she retorted. "Then you have been spending a day or two at Barminster." She bit her lip savagely in her jealous pain and wounded vanity. "Adrien," she entreated, "tell me it isn't true."
"To what do you refer?" he asked steadily.
He knew that the struggle had commenced, and he was determined to bring this mock phantasy of love to an end. If he could not marry the one woman who had shown him what love really meant, he would at least have done with this foolish dalliance.
"Your engagement to that pink-and-white cousin--Lady----"
"Be silent," he commanded, more sternly than he had ever spoken to any man, woman or child in his life. His face had paled; his eyes were like steel. The very thought of hearing her name reviled by the jealous woman before him filled him with wrath.
She stood silent, but with flashing eyes, her breast heaving with excitement.
"It is true, then?" she panted. "You are going to marry her--tell me the truth----"
"I did not say so," he returned, slowly and painfully.
"Then you don't love her. Ah, I knew it!" she cried triumphantly.
He did not reply; and she read in his silence the confirmation of her fears.
"Adrien, is it possible--you love her, and she----"
"Eveline," he said, "for the sake of our past friendship"--she started at the words--"do not say any more. You know we have only played with the divine passion. It has beguiled many a pleasant hour, but I do not think it has been anything more than a pastime."
"Not to you," she said almost sullenly. "But how dare you doubt my feelings? How dare you insult me?"
"I did not mean to hurt you," he said gently, and her voice softened at his tone.
"Ah, Adrien," she cried beseechingly, "you do hurt me when you treat me like this. Try and forget her, unless"--she broke off abruptly--"unless you are really going to marry her. Is that so?"
"I told you," he answered wearily. "I shall never marry Constance. She is engaged to another."
"Thank Heaven!" was her, ladyship's mental ejaculation, but she said nothing aloud.
Leroy roused himself. "I must go," he said.
"So soon?" she asked tremulously. "Where are you going?"
"To the theatre."
She frowned, and, seeing it, he stopped to explain.
"It is no longer mine," he said with a faint smile.
"Not yours!" she cried in surprise.
"No, it belongs to Miss Lester."
Her quick intellect grasped his meaning at once.
"Henceforth, you mean to retire from the gay world, then?" she said, with a faint sneer, adding quickly, as his face darkened, "Ah, forgive me, if am bitter! I hate to see you unhappy. Try and forgive my ill-humour."
"You are, as ever, my queen," he said, "and can, therefore, do no wrong."
Lifting her hand to his lips, he turned and strode hastily from the room.
CHAPTER XVII
Adrien Leroy dined alone that night--a most unusual occurrence; but the scene with Lady Merivale moved him, and still troubled his mind. He had hitherto only regarded his love-making with her as part in the comedy of life, wherein he played the lover, to her lead; doffing and donning the character at will. That she had taken either him or herself seriously had never entered into his mind. Believing also in the hopelessness of his love for Lady Constance, he regretted bitterly having allowed his secret to escape him; yet so unaccustomed was he to the conventional and inevitable lying of the world in which he moved so serenely, that it had never occurred to him to deny the charge, and swear everlasting devotion to the countess alone.
Norgate, who waited on him as usual, noticed his abstraction.
"We're getting tired of London again," said that astute servant to himself, as he changed the dishes. "We're thinking of going East again or my name ain't what it is." For Adrien had spent the preceding year in Persia.
After dinner Leroy lingered in the comfortable, luxurious room, as if loth to start out again on the weary round of amusement. To youth and the uninitiated, pleasure, as represented by balls, theatres or feasting, seems to be an everlasting joy; but to those born in the midst of it, trained and educated only to amuse or to be amused, it becomes work, and work of a most fatiguing nature. To dance when one wishes to rest; to stand, hour after hour, receiving guests with smile and bows, when one would gladly be in bed; to eat, when one has no appetite for food; all this, continued day in day out, is no longer a pleasure--it becomes a painful duty.
Unlike the majority of his set, Adrien Leroy was never lonely; indeed, solitude to him was a pleasure, and one--the only one--which was difficult to obtain. Endued with a fine intellect and highly cultivated mind, even at college he had succeeded in studying when his companions had spent their time in "ragging," and other senseless occupations of a like nature. Thrown on his own resources, therefore, Leroy could have become a power in almost any of the artistic professions. Instead, his time, his youth and his faculties were being wasted in the ordinary pursuits of the people amongst whom he lived. Had he been a poorer man, he might have risen to any height by virtue of his own talents; but, lapped in luxury, lulled by the homage of society, he remained dissatisfied, discontented, and apathetic.
The clock, striking eight, aroused him. Throwing aside the cigar which had burnt itself out, he rose. He had promised Jasper to come down to the Casket Theatre; and, however weary he might be of the tinsel and glitter, yet he never thought of making an excuse, or of breaking his word.
He was about to set forth, when Norgate announced "Lord Standon," and though Adrien's greeting was as courteous as usual, the old genial warmth was gone. Lord Standon perceived this, and knew that he had not been mistaken in his belief that he had somehow angered Adrien.
Directly Norgate had closed the door behind him, therefore, he dashed, as was his wont, straight to the heart of things.
"Leroy," he said abruptly, "what's wrong with you?"
Adrien stared at him.
"Wrong!" he echoed. "What on earth do you mean? What should be wrong?"
"I don't know," returned the other bluntly; "but I seem to have rubbed you up the wrong way somehow----"
"Nonsense," said Leroy, trying hard to resume his usual warmth of manner. "What a ridiculous idea! Have you dined, or shall I ring?" He crossed the room almost hurriedly.
"No, no, thanks," interrupted Lord Standon. "I'm just off again; it was only a passing idea. Sorry to have mentioned it."
He turned, as if to go; and Leroy made no attempt to restrain him.
"I have to congratulate you, I suppose, on your engagement?" he said coldly, when the young man had almost reached the door.
Lord Standon turned sharply, and stared at him. He grasped the situation at once, but was still greatly puzzled, for he knew Leroy was but slightly acquainted with Lady Muriel Branton.
"Thanks, old man," he returned, rather awkwardly. "But it's a dead secret, really; I suppose Lady Constance told you?"
Leroy frowned.
"Yes," he said simply, "Why not?"
"Oh, no reason at all," said Lord Standon, flushing like a boy; "only it's got to be kept quiet, you know--my affairs are in such a beastly state."
"I wonder you----" commenced Leroy.
"Dared to ask her," put in Standon, laughing a little confusedly. "Yes, it was a bit of cheek on my part, but 'faint heart never won fair lady,' you know, and by Jove! if I hadn't, some other lucky devil might have slipped in and carried her off by sheer force!"
Leroy winced; for he himself would have endeavoured to "slip in and carry her off" had it not been for his friend.
"I don't see the need of secrecy," he said coldly. "Have you spoken to her guardian?" meaning, of course, Lord Barminster.
Unfortunately, to Lord Standon, being in love, there was only one woman in the world, and therefore only one guardian, and that one, her father, the Earl of Croywood.
"Good gracious, no!" he exclaimed. "He's such an old curmudgeon--that until I get over that beastly race----" He broke off, scarlet with confusion. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had completely forgotten that he was speaking to the owner of the unlucky horse.
Leroy was pale with anger; the reference to the race annoyed him, but still more the expression of "curmudgeon" as applied to his father. Naturally, if he had stopped to consider, he would have realised that there must be some mistake; for Standon would hardly have spoken thus of Lord Barminster in his son's presence. But what lover ever does use his common sense? He drew himself up sternly, and Standon could have kicked himself for his unfortunate speech.
"I don't mean--that is--it's not your fault----" he stammered.
"Thank you," said Leroy ironically.
"Oh, you know what I mean. Don't pull me up like that, Adrien. I wasn't thinking of its being you--and you know what it is when a fellow's in love with the sweetest, dearest----"
Leroy turned sharply. It was more than any one could be expected to bear; insult to his father, blame to his horse, and now praise of the woman he himself loved.
"Excuse me, Standon," he interrupted curtly, "I'm afraid I must ask you to spare me your rhapsodies--I am due at the theatre." It was Standon's turn to be offended, and his good-tempered face hardened.
"Certainly. Pray accept my apologies for having detained you. Good-night," he said coldly, and before Leroy could even answer, he was gone.
Adrien strode restlessly up and down. For the first time in all his easy-going life trouble had touched him. He determined to forget it at whatever cost; so telling Norgate not to wait up for him, he set out for the Casket. It was such a lovely night that he dismissed the motor which was awaiting him, deciding to walk across the park to Victoria Street, and call in on Shelton, who had a flat there.
The park was beautifully silent, and still stood open to the public. Absorbed in his reflections, therefore, he left the main track and wandered down one of the by-paths, in which stood several wooden benches. Big Ben struck the half-hour. There was just time for another cigar, and Leroy sat down. He was in no humour yet to endure the heat of the theatre, or the chaff and vulgarity of Ada Lester.
He lost count of time, in the pleasant quietude of the spot; and his cigar was burnt down to an inch when, with a half-sigh, he arose to exchange the hard seat amidst the cool trees for a lounge and a crowd of ballet girls at the theatre.
As he picked up his stick, he heard a footstep behind him, and turning, saw an ill-dressed, sullen-looking man. The light from one of the lamps near by shone full on him; and something about the stout, shambling figure, or the dirty evil-browed face, seemed dimly familiar.
To his surprise, the man nodded at him with a sulky frown, and said, in a thick voice:
"Good-evening! Don't remember me, I s'pose?"
"No, I do not," admitted Leroy, as he scanned the bleared, swollen countenance before him.
"Ah! you swells 'as bad memories; I ain't forgotten you, so don't you think it!"
Leroy gazed at him calmly; he thought the man was intoxicated.
"Do you want anything of me?" he asked, as he pulled on his glove.
"That depends," responded the man, moving forward so that he stood right in Adrien's path. "You're Mr. Leroy, ain't you?"
"I am," said Leroy. "What is it you want?"
"I wants to ask you a question," returned the other, bringing his face closer to Adrien, who recoiled involuntarily--the very smell of the fustian clothes offending his delicate nostrils.
The man noticed this, and frowned even more heavily.
"You're a gentleman," he said, "leastways I s'pose you calls yourself such--p'raps you'll act like one."
"Kindly make haste and tell me what you want, my good fellow," said Adrien impatiently. He did not know but that this was a preliminary to an attempt to rob him, and he was in no mood for a brawl.
"Oh, I'll be quick enough for you," was the sullen reply. "You don't remember me, you say; p'raps you'll remember my name--Wilfer--Johann Wilfer."
"Johann Wilfer," repeated Adrien, thoughtfully and slowly, wondering where he had heard the name before.
"Yes, Johann Wilfer, Picture Restorer, Cracknell Court, Soho."
"Oh!" said Adrien, as a burst of memory dawned on him. "I remember you now. What is it you want? But tell me first, has the girl Jessica returned yet?"
"That's just like you swells," growled the man. "Nothing like getting your word in first. Has she returned to me? You know jolly well she ain't. She won't come back to me till you've done with 'er, I'll be bound."
Adrien started, as the significance of the accusation dawned on him. He had thought more than once of the girl, with her dark eyes and silken hair. What had become of her? What, alas! could have been her fate, if she had not returned to this man, her guardian?
"What do you mean?" he said now, sternly.
"What I say," retorted Mr. Wilfer. "She ain't returned to me, an' that's my question to you. Where is she, an' what 'ave you done with her?"
"How should know what has become of her?" answered Leroy, genuinely startled. "Do you dare to insinuate that I know where she is? I have neither seen her nor heard of her."
"That's a lie," said the man shortly.
Leroy surveyed him for a moment.
"You are impertinent," he said, in his clear tones. "Stand aside, and let me pass."
Mr. Wilfer thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood his ground.
"That won't go down with me," he said insolently. "I want to know where my niece is; and by Heaven, I'll know too!"
Leroy stopped short.
"She was your niece, you say?"
"She was," said the man, "though it's no business of yours; she belonged to me."
"So I presume, or you would not have ill-treated her," retorted Adrien dryly. "When did you see her last?"
"Over a month ago--as well you know," returned Wilfer coarsely. "She ran off the morning you came gallivanting after her."
Adrien could have knocked the man down, but he restrained the longing, and said instead:
"I thought you told me she'd robbed you, and had run away? That was a lie, I suppose?"
"'Course it was. Who wouldn't lie to save his gal from such as you fine gentlemen? I know yer, so it's no use coming this talky-talky surprise with me. You just tell me where she is."
"I tell you," reiterated Adrien, "I have never seen the child since the night I took her from the cold. Stand out of my path, or I shall hand you over to the police."
Mr. Wilfer laughed.
"So that's your answer, is it? Call away, my fine gentleman, call away."
He glanced round the deserted path from the corner of his shifty eyes; then, with a snarl of a savage beast, he sprang upon Leroy, and strove to bring him to the ground.
But he was no match for Adrien, who beneath all his listless mannerism possessed a grasp of steel and the strength of a gladiator. Almost shuddering at the touch of the man's greasy clothes, Leroy seized his arms, and lifting him off the ground as though he were a terrier, gave him a good shake; then he dropped him, lightly and easily, over the park railings, which edged the by-path, where they stood.
Johann Wilfer was too astonished for a moment to do anything but recover his breath, and Leroy, settling his disarranged cuffs, walked calmly away.
With a furious oath Wilfer sprang up, jumped back over the railings, and was about to pursue Leroy, when from behind him a hand was put on his collar, and he was borne rapidly and silently to the ground.
Meanwhile, Adrien, all unconscious of his deliverance from further disturbance, pursued his way to the theatre.