"Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son habileté."
"Le plus grand art d'un habile homme est celui de savoir cacher son habileté."
Later in the day I was ignominiously recalled to London.
"Useless to remain in Southampton. First note has been changed in London," Sander telegraphed to me.
While lunching at the hotel, I learnt from the waiter that the young French lady had received letters causing her to change her plans, and that she had left hurriedly for Dover, the waiter thought.
Sander came to see me the same evening at my club in London.
"There are at least two in it—probably three," he said. "The note was changed at Cook's office, in the purchase of two tourist tickets to Baden-Baden, which can, of course, be resold or used in part only. It was done by an old man—wore a wig, they tell me—but he was genuine; not a young man in disguise, I mean."
If Mr. Sander knew more he did not take me further into his confidence. He was a pale-faced, slight man, having the outward appearance of a city clerk. But the fellow had a keen look, and there was something in the lines of his thin, determined lips that gave one confidence. I saw that he did not reciprocate this feeling. Indeed, I think he rather despised me for a thick-headed country bumpkin.
He glanced around the gorgeously decorated smoking-room of the club with a look half-contemptuous and half-envious, and sat restlessly in the luxurious arm-chair native to club smoking-rooms, as one cultivating a Spartan habit of life.
"It is probable," he said bluntly, "that you are being watched."
"Yes—I know the bailiffs keep their eye on me."
"I suppose you are not going away to shoot or anything like that?"
"I can go to France and look after Madame de Clericy's property," answered I, and the prospect of a change of scene was not unpleasant to me. For, to tell the truth, I was ill at ease at this time, and while in England fell victim to a weak and unmanly longing to be at Hopton. For, however strong a man's will may be, it seems that one woman in his path must have the power to inspire him with such a longing that he cannot free his mind of thoughtsof her, nor interest himself in any other part of the world but that which she inhabits. Thus, to a grey-haired man who surely might have been wiser, it was actual misery to be in England and not at Hopton, where Alphonse Giraud was no doubt happy enough in the neighbourhood of the woman we both loved.
"IT IS PROBABLE," HE SAID BLUNTLY, "THAT YOU ARE BEING WATCHED.""IT IS PROBABLE," HE SAID BLUNTLY, "THAT YOU ARE BEING WATCHED."
"Yes," said Sander to me, after long thought. "Do that. I shall get on better if you are out of England."
The man's air, as I have said, inspired confidence; and I, seeking an excuse to be moving, determined to obey him without delay. Moreover, I was beginning to realise more and more the difficulties of my task, and the remembrance of what had passed at Hopton made failure singularly distasteful.
The Vicomtesse had property in the Morbihan, to which I could penetrate without great risk of arrest. We had heard nothing from the agent in charge of this estate since the outbreak of war, and it seemed probable that the man had volunteered for active service in one of the Breton regiments, raised in all haste at this time.
Writing a note to Madame, I left England the next day, intending to be absent a week or ten days. My journey was uneventful, and needs not to be detailed here.
During the writer's absence in stricken France, Miss Isabella Gayerson, who seemed as restless as himself, suddenly bethought herself to open her London house and fill it with guests. It must be remembered that this lady was an heiress, and, if report be true, more than one needy nobleman offered her a title and that which he called his heart, only to meet with a cold refusal. I who know her so well can fancy that these disinterested gentlemen hesitated to repeat the experiment. It is vanity that too often makes a woman consent at last (though sometimes Love may awake and do it), and I think that Isabella was never vain.
"I have good reason to be without vanity," she once said in my hearing, but I do not know what she meant. The remark, as I remember, was made in answer to Lucille, who happened to say that a woman can dress well without being vain, and laughingly gave Isabella as an example.
Isabella's chief reason in coming to London during the winter was a kind one—namely, to put a temporary end to an imprisonment in the country which was irksome to Lucille. And I make no doubt the two ladies were glad enough to avail themselves of this opportunity of seeing London. God made the country and men the towns, it is said; and I think they made them for the women.
On returning to London I found letters fromMadame de Clericy explaining this change of residence, and in the same envelope a note from Isabella (her letters were always kinder than her speech), inviting me to stay in Hyde Park Street.
"We are sufficiently old friends," she wrote, "to allow thus of a general invitation, and if it shares the usual fate of such, the fault will be yours, and not mine."
The letter was awaiting me at the club, and I deemed it allowable to call in response the same afternoon. The news of Lucille's engagement to Alphonse Giraud was ever dangling before my eyes, and I wished to get the announcement swallowed without further suspense.
Alphonse, a perfect squire of dames, was engaged in dispensing thin bread and butter when I entered the room, feeling, as I feel to this day, somewhat out of place and heavy amid the delicate ornaments and flowers of a lady's drawing-room. My reception was not exactly warm, and I was struck by the pallor of Isabella's face, which, however, gave place to a more natural colour before long. Madame alone showed gladness at the sight of me, and held out both her hands in a welcome full of affection. I thought Lucille's black dress very becoming to her slim form.
We talked, of course, of the war, before which all other topics faded into insignificance at thattime—and I had but disquieting news from France. The siege had now lasted seven weeks, and none knew what the end might be. The opportunity awaited the Frenchman, but none rose to meet it. France blundered on in the hands of political mediocrities, as she has done ever since.
I gathered that Alphonse was staying in the house, and wondered at the news, considering that Isabella knew him but slightly. It was the Vicomtesse who gave me the information, with one of her quiet glances that might mean much or nothing. For myself, I confess they usually possessed but small significance—men being of a denser (though perhaps deeper) comprehension than women, who catch on the wing a thought that flies past such as myself, and is lost.
I could only conclude that Isabella was seeking the happiness of her new-found friend in thus offering Giraud an opportunity, which he doubtless seized with avidity.
Isabella was kind enough to repeat her invitation, which, however, I declined with Madame's eye upon me and Lucille's back suddenly turned in my direction. Lucille, in truth, was talking to Alphonse, and gaily enough. He had the power of amusing her, in which I was deficient, and she was always merry.
While we were thus engaged, a second visitorwas announced, but I did not hear his name. His face was unknown to me—a narrow, foxy face it was—and the man's perfect self-assurance had something offensive in it, as all shams have. I did not care for his manner towards Isabella—which is, however, as I understand, quiteà la mode d'aujourd'hui—a sort of careless, patronising admiration, with no touch of respect in it.
He made it quite apparent that he had come to see the young mistress of the house, and no one else, acknowledging the introductions to the remainder of the company with a scant courtesy. He talked to Isabella with a confidential inclination of his body towards her as they sat on low chairs with a small table between them, and it was easy to see that she appreciated the attention of this middle-aged man of the world.
"You see, Miss Gayerson," I heard him say with a bold glance, for he was one of those fine fellows who can look straight enough at a woman, but do not care to meet the eye of a man. "You see, I have taken you at your word. I wonder if you meant me to."
"I always mean what I say," answered Isabella; and I thought she glanced in my direction to see whether I was listening.
"A privilege of your sex—also to mean what you don't say."
At this moment Madame spoke to me, and I heard no more, but we may be sure that his further conversation was of a like intellectual and noteworthy standard. There was something in the man's lowered tone and insinuating manner that made me set him down as a lawyer.
"Do you notice," said Madame to me, "that Lucille is in better spirits?"
"Yes—I notice it with pleasure. Good spirits are for the young—and the old."
"I suppose you are right," said Madame. "Before the business of life begins, and after it is over."
Apropos of business, I gave the Vicomtesse at this time an account of my journey to Audierne, and was able to inform her that I had brought back money with me sufficient for her present wants.
While I was thus talking I heard, through my own speech, that Isabella invited the stranger to dine on the following Thursday.
"I have another engagement," he answered, consulting a small note-book. "But that can be conveniently forgotten."
Isabella seemed to like such exceedingly small social change, for she smiled brightly as he rose to take his leave.
To the Vicomtesse he paid a pretty little compliment in French, anticipating much enjoymenton the following Thursday in improving upon his slight acquaintance. He shook hands with me, his gaze fixed on my necktie. He then bowed to Lucille and Alphonse, who were talking together at the end of the room, and made a self-possessed exit.
"Who is your friend?" I asked Isabella bluntly, when the door was closed.
"A Mr. Devar. Does he interest you?"
There was something in Isabella's tone that betokened a readiness, or perhaps a desire, to fight Mr. Devar's battles. Had I been a woman, or wiser than I have ever proved myself, I should, no doubt, have ignored this challenge instead of promptly meeting it by my answer:
"I cannot say he does."
"You seem to object to him," she said sharply. "Please remember that he is a friend of mine."
"He cannot be one of long standing," I was foolish enough to answer. "For he is not an East Country man, and I never heard of him before."
"As a matter of fact," said Isabella, "I met him at a ball in town last week, and he asked permission to call."
I gave a short laugh, and Isabella looked at me with calm defiance in her eyes. It was, of course, no business of mine, which knowledge probably urged me on to further blunders.
Isabella's mental attitude was a puzzle to me.She was ready enough to supply information respecting Mr. Devar, whose progress towards intimacy had, to say the least of it, been rapid. But she supplied, as I thought, from a small store. She alternately allayed and aroused an anxiety which was natural enough in so old a friend, and to a man who had moved among adventurers nearly all his life. Alfred Gayerson, her brother and my earliest friend, was now in Vienna. Isabella had no one to advise her. She was, I suppose, a forerunner of the advanced young women of to-day, who, with a diminutive knowledge of the world culled from the imaginative writings of females as ignorant, are pleased to consider themselves competent to steer a clean course over the shoals of life.
Isabella had had, as I understood, a certain experience of the ordinary fortune-hunters of society—pleasant enough fellows, no doubt, but lacking self-respect and manhood—and it seemed extraordinary that her eyes should be closed to Mr. Devar's manifold qualifications to the title.
"Perhaps," she said at length, "you also will do us the pleasure of dining with us on Thursday, as you appear to be so deeply interested in Mr. Devar despite your assurances to the contrary."
"I shall be most happy to do so," answered I—ungraciously, I fear—and there arose a sudden light, almost of triumph, to her usually repressed glance.
Alphonse Giraud acceded to my suggestion that he should walk with me towards my club. His manner towards me had been reserved and unnatural, and I wished to get to the bottom of his feeling in respect to one whom he had always treated as a friend. Isabella was the only person to suggest an objection to my proposal, reminding Alphonse, rather pointedly, that he had but time to dress for dinner.
"Well," I said, when we were turning into Piccadilly, "Miste has begun to give us a scent at last."
"It is not so much in Monsieur Miste as in the money that I am interested," answered Giraud, swinging his cane, and looking about him with a simulated interest in his surroundings.
"Ah!"
"Yes; and I am beginning to be convinced that I shall never see either."
"Indeed."
"Let us quit an unpleasant subject," said the Frenchman, after a pause, and in the manner of one seeking to avoid an impending quarrel. "What splendid horses you have in England! See that pair in the victoria? one could not tell them apart. And what action!"
"Yes," I answered, lamely enough; "we have good enough horses."
And before I could return to the subject, which no longer drew us together, but separated us, he dragged out his watch and hurriedly turned back, leaving me with a foolish and inexplicable sense of guilt.
"L'amour du mieux t'aura interdit le bien."
"L'amour du mieux t'aura interdit le bien."
"Do I look as if I had come out of Paris in a balloon?" said John Turner, in answer to my suggestion that he had made use of a method of escape at that time popular. "No, I left by the Creteil gate, without drum or trumpet, or anything more romantic than alaissez-passersigned by Favre. There will be the devil to pay in Paris before another week has passed, and I am not going to disburse."
"In what way will he want paying?" I asked.
"Well," answered John Turner, dragging at the knees of his trousers, which garments invariably incommoded his stout legs, "Well, the Government of National Defence is beginning to show that it has been ill-named. Before long they will be replaced by a Government of National Ruin. The ass in the streets is wanting to bray in the Hôtel de Ville, and will get there before he has finished."
"You are well out of it," said I, "and do not seem to have suffered by the siege."
"Next to being a soldier it is good to be a banker in time of war," said Turner, pulling down his waistcoat, which, indeed, had been in no way affected by the privations currently reported to be the lot of the besieged Parisians.
"What about Miste?" he added, abruptly.
"I have seen his back again, I do not believe the man has a face."
And I told my astute friend of my failure to catch Charles Miste at the Bank of England.
"Truth is," commented the banker, "that Monsieur Miste is an uncommonly smart rogue. You must be careful—when he does show you his face, have a care. And if you take my advice you will leave this little business to the men who know what they are about. It is not every one who knows the way to tackle a fellow carrying a loaded revolver. By the way, do you carry such a thing yourself?"
"Never had one in my life."
"Then buy one," said Turner. "I always wear one—in a pocket at the back, where neither I nor any one else can get at it. Sorry you could not come to luncheon," he continued. "I wanted to have a long talk with you."
He settled himself in the large arm-chair, which he completely filled. I like a man to be bulky in his advancing years.
"WAITER, TAKE THIS GENTLEMAN'S ORDER. YOU YOUNG FELLOWS CANNOT SMOKE WITHOUT DRINKING, NOWADAYS—HORRID BAD HABIT. WAITER, BRING ME THE SAME.""WAITER, TAKE THIS GENTLEMAN'S ORDER. YOU YOUNG FELLOWS CANNOT SMOKE WITHOUT DRINKING, NOWADAYS—HORRID BAD HABIT. WAITER, BRING ME THE SAME."
"Take that chair," he said, "and this cigar. Isuppose you want something to drink. Waiter, take this gentleman's order. You young fellows cannot smoke without drinking, nowadays—horrid bad habit. Waiter, bring me the same."
When we were alone, John Turner sat smoking and looking at me with beady, reflective eyes.
"You know, Dick," he said at length, "I have got you down in my will."
"Thanks—but you will last my time."
"Then it is no good, you think?" he inquired, with a chuckle.
"Not much."
"You want it now?" he suggested.
"No."
"Your father's son," commented my father's friend. "Stubborn and rude. A true Howard of Hopton. I have got you down in my will, however, and I'm going to interfere in your affairs. That is why I sent for you."
I smoked and waited.
"I take it," he went on in his short and breathless way, "that things are at a standstill somewhat in this position. If you marry Isabella Gayerson, you will have with her money, which is a tidy fortune, four thousand a year. If you don't have the young woman, you can live at Hopton, but without a sou to your name. You want to marry Mademoiselle, who thinks you are too old and too big ascoundrel. That is Mademoiselle's business. Giraud junior is also in love with Mademoiselle Lucille, who would doubtless marry him if he had the wherewithal. In the mean time she is coy—awaiting the result of your search. You are seeking Giraud's money, so that he may marry Mademoiselle of the bright eyes—you understand that, I suppose?"
"Thoroughly."
"That is all right. It is best to have these affairs clearly stated. Now, why the devil do you not ask Isabella to marry you—"
"To begin with, she would not have me," I interrupted.
"Nice girl, capable of a deep and passionate affection—I know these quiet women—two thousand five hundred a year."
"She wouldn't have me."
"Then ask her, and when she has refused you, fight the validity of your father's will."
"But she might not refuse me," said I. "She hates me, though! I know that. There is no one on earth with such a keen scent for my faults."
"Ye-es," said Turner slowly. "Well?"
"She might think it her duty to accept me on account of the will."
"Have you ever known a woman weigh duty against the inclination of her own heart?"
"I know little about women," replied I, "and doubt whether you know more."
"That is as may be. And you wouldn't marry Isabella for two thousand a year?"
"Not for twenty thousand," replied I, half in my wineglass.
"Virtuous young man! Why?"
I looked at Turner and laughed.
"A slip of a French girl," he muttered contemptuously. "No bigger round than the calf of my leg."
And I suppose he only spoke the truth.
He continued thus to give me much good advice, to which, no doubt, had I been prudent, I should have listened with entire faith. But my friend, like other worldly wiseacres, had many theories which he himself failed to put into practice. And as he spoke there was a twinkle in his eye, and a tone of scepticism in his voice, as if he knew that he was but whistling to the wind.
Then John Turner fell to abusing Miste and Giraud and the late poor Vicomte as a parcel of knaves and fools.
"Here am I," he cried, "with a bundle of my signatures being hawked about the world by a thief, and cannot stop one of them. Every one knows that my paper is good; the drafts will be negotiatedfrom pillar to post like a Bank of England note, and the account will not be closed for years."
It was a vexatious matter for so distinguished a banker to be mixed in, and I could give him but little comfort. While I was still with him, however, a letter was brought to me which enlightened us somewhat. This communication was from my agent Sander, and bore the Brussels postmark.
"This Miste," he wrote, "is no ordinary scoundrel, but one who will want most careful treatment, or we shall lose the whole amount. I have now arrived at the conclusion that he has two accomplices, and one of these in London; for I am undoubtedly watched, and my movements are probably reported to Miste. Yourself and Monsieur Giraud are doubtless under surveillance also. I am always on Miste's heels, but never catch him up. It seems quite clear, from the inconsequence of his movements, that he is endeavouring to meet an accomplice, but that my presence so close upon his heels repeatedly scares them apart. He receives letters and telegrams at the Poste Restante, under the name of Marcel. So close was I upon his track, that at Bruges I caused him to break his appointment by a few hours only. He sent off a telegram, and made himself scarce only two hours before my arrival. This is a large affair, and we must have great patience. In the mean time, I think itprobable that Miste will not endeavour to cash any more drafts. He only wants sufficient for current expenses, and will probably endeavour to negotiate the whole amount to some small foreign government in guise of a loan."
"That is what he will do," affirmed John Turner. "Persia or China of a needy South American state."
It pleased me at times to think that I could guess Lucille's thoughts, and indeed she made it plain at this time that she cherished some grudge against me. It was, I suppose, only natural that she should suspect me of lukewarmness in a search which, if successful, would inevitably militate to my own discomfiture. Alphonse Giraud was doubtless awaiting, with a half-concealed impatience, the moment when he might honourably press his suit. Thus, Charles Miste held us all in the hollow of his hand, and the news I had received was as important to others as to myself.
I therefore hurried to Hyde Park Street, and had the good fortune to find all the party within. I made known the contents of Sander's letter, adding thereto, for the benefit of the ladies, John Turner's comments and my own suspicions.
"We shall catch him yet!" cried Alphonse, forgetting in the excitement of the moment the dignified reserve which had of late stoodbetween us. "Bravo, Howard! we shall catch him yet."
He wrung my hand effusively, and then, remembering himself, glanced at Isabella, as I thought, and lapsed into attentive and suspicious silence.
Having made my report I withdrew, and at the corner of the street was nearly run over by a private hansom cab, at that time a fashionable vehicle among men about town. I caught a glimpse of a courteous gloved hand, and Mr. Devar's face wreathed in the pleasantest of smiles.
"You omitted to tell me at what hour you dine," was the remark with which Mr. Devar made his entrance. He refused to accept a chair, and took his stand on the hearth-rug without monopolising the fire, and with perfect ease and a word for every one.
"As I drove here I passed your friend Mr. Howard," he said presently, and Isabella said "Ah!"
"Yes, and he looked somewhat absorbed."
Mr. Devar waited, and after a pause, kindly continued to interest himself in so unworthy a subject.
"Did you not tell me," he remarked, "that Mr. Howard is engaged on some—er—quixotic enterprise—the search for a fortune he has lost?"
"The fortune is Monsieur Giraud's," said the lady of the house.
Devar turned to Alphonse with a bow appropriately French.
"Then I congratulate Monsieur on his—possibilities."
His manner of speech was suggestive of a desire to conceal a glibness which is usually accounted a fault.
"And I hope that Mr. Howard's obvious absorption was not due to—discouragement."
"On the contrary," answered Isabella, "Mr. Howard has just given us a most hopeful report."
"Has he caught the thief?"
"No; but his agent, a Mr. Sander, writes from Brussels that he has traced the thief to the Netherlands, and there seems to be some probability that he will be taken."
"My experience of thieves," said Mr. Devar airily, "has been small. But I imagine they are hard to take when they once get away. Mr. Howard is, I fear, wasting his time."
Isabella answered nothing to this, though her pinched lips seemed to indicate a doubt whether such a waste was in reality going forward.
"Our neighbour's enterprise usually appears to be a waste of time, does it not?" he said, with the large tolerance of a man owning to many failings.
Alphonse shrugged his shoulders and spread outhis hands with a gesture of helplessness, further accentuated by the bandage on his wrist.
"I do not so much want to catch the thief as to possess myself of the money," he said.
"You are charitable, Monsieur Giraud."
"No—I am poor."
Devar laughed in the pleasantest manner imaginable.
"And of course," he said, indicating the Frenchman's maimed hand, which was usually in evidence, "you are unable to undertake the search yourself?"
"As yet."
"Then you intend ultimately to join in the chase—you are a great sportsman, I hear?"
The graceful compliment was not lost upon Alphonse, who beamed upon his interlocutor.
"In a small way—in a small way," he answered. "Yes, when they strike a really good scent I shall follow, wounds or no wounds."
At this Mr. Devar expressed some concern, and made himself additionally agreeable. He refused still to be seated, saying that he had but come to ascertain the dinner hour on the following Thursday. Nevertheless, he prolonged his stay and made himself vastly fascinating.
"Le doute empoisonne tout et ne tue rien."
"Le doute empoisonne tout et ne tue rien."
As I walked through the park towards Isabella's house on the evening of the dinner-party, Devar's hansom cab dashed past me and stopped a few yards farther on. The man must have had sharp eyes to recognise me in a London haze on a November evening. Devar leapt from his cab and came towards me.
"Shall I walk with you or will you drive with me?" he said.
Placed between two evil alternatives, I suggested that it would be better for his health to walk with me—hoping, although it was a dry night, that his shiny boots were too precious or tight for such exercise. Mr. Devar, however, made a sign to the groom to follow, and slipped his hand engagingly within my arm.
"Glad of the chance of a walk," he said. "Wish I was a free man like you, Howard, London would not often see me!"
"What would?" I asked, for I like to know where vermin harbours.
"Ah!"—he paused, and, as I thought, glanced at me. "The wide world. Should like, for instance, a roving commission such as yours—to look for a scoundrel with a lot of money-bags, who may be in London or Timbuctoo."
I walked on in silence, never having had quick speech or the habit of unburthening my soul to the first listener.
"Not likely to stay in London in November if he is a man of sense as well as enterprise," he added, jerking up the fur collar of his coat.
We walked on a little farther.
"Suppose you have no notion where he is?" said my bland companion, to which I made no articulate reply.
"Doyou know?" he asked at length, as one in a corner.
"Do youwantto know?" retorted I.
"Oh—no," with a laugh.
"That is well," said I finally. And we walked on for a space in silence, when my companion changed the conversation with that ease of manner under the direct snub which only comes from experience. Mr. Devar was certainly a good-natured person, for he forgave my rudeness as soon as it was uttered.
I know not exactly how he compassed it, but he restored peace so effectually that before we reached Hyde Park Street he had forced me to invite him to lunch with me at my club on the following Saturday. This world is certainly for the thick-skinned.
We entered Isabella's drawing-room, therefore, together, and a picture of brotherly love.
"Force of good example," explained Mr. Devar airily. "I saw Howard walking and walked with him."
There were assembled the house-party only, Devar and I being the guests of the evening. Isabella frowned as we entered together. I wondered why.
Devar attached himself to Alphonse Giraud, whom he led aside under pretext of examining a picture.
"Monsieur Giraud," he then said to him in French, "as a man of affairs I cannot but deplore your heedlessness."
He was a much older man than Giraud, and had besides the gift of uttering an impertinence as if under compulsion.
"But, my dear sir—" exclaimed Alphonse.
"Either you do not heed the loss of your fortune or you are blind."
"You mean that I cannot trust my friend," said Alphonse.
Mr. Devar spread out his hands in denial of any such meaning.
"Monsieur Giraud," he said, "I am a man of the world, and also a lawyer. I suppose I am as charitable as my neighbours. But it is never wise to trust a single man with a large sum of money. None of us knows his own weakness. Put not thy neighbour into temptation."
Which sounded like Scripture, and doubtless passed as such. Mr. Devar nodded easily, smiled like an advertisement of dentifrice, and moved back to the centre of the room. It naturally fell to him to offer his arm to the hostess, while Madame accompanied me to the dining-room. Alphonse and Lucille paired off, as it seemed to me, very naturally.
As we passed down the stairs I fell into thought, and made a mental survey of all these people as they stood in respect to myself. Alphonse had progressed, as was visible on his telltale face, from suspicion to something near hostility. Isabella—always a puzzle—was more enigmatic than ever; for she showed herself keenly alive to my faults, and made no concealment of her distrust, though she threw open her house to me with a persistent and almost anxious hospitality. Here was nofriend. Had I, in Isabella, an enemy? Of Devar, all that I could conclude was that he was suspicious. His interest in myself was less gratifying than the deepest indifference. In Madame de Clericy I had one who wished to be my friend, but her attitude towards me was inscrutable. She seemed to encourage Alphonse. Did she, like the rest of them, suspect me of seeking to frustrate his suit by withholding his fortune? She merely looked at me, and would say no word. And of Lucille, what could I think but that she hated me?
At dinner we spoke of the siege, and of those sad affairs of France which drew all men's thoughts at this time. Mr. Devar was, I remember, well informed on the points of the campaign, and seemed to talk of them with equal facility in French and English; but I disliked the man, and determined to make my thoughts known to Isabella.
It was no easy matter to outstay Mr. Devar, but, asserting my position as an old friend, this was at last accomplished. When we were left alone, Alphonse must have divined my intention in the quick way that was natural to him; for he engaged Lucille and her mother in a discussion of the latest news, which he translated from an evening paper. Indeed, Lucille and he put their heads together over the journal, and seemed to find it damnably amusing.
"Isabella," I said, "will you allow me to make some inquiries concerning this man Devar before you ask him to your house again?"
"Are you afraid that Mr. Devar will interfere with your own private schemes?" she replied, in that tone of semi-banter which she often assumed towards me when we were alone.
"Thanks—no. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, so far as Mr. Devar is concerned. It is—if you will believe it—in regard to yourself that I have misgivings. I look upon myself as in some sort your protector."
She looked at me, and gave a sudden laugh.
"A most noble and competent protector!" she said, in her biting way, "when you are always fortune-hunting, or else in France taking care of beauty in distress."
She glanced across the room towards Lucille in a manner strangely cold.
"Why do you encourage this man?" I asked, returning to the subject from which Isabella had so easily glided away. "He is not a gentleman. Seems to me the man is a—dark horse!"
"Well, you ought to know," said Isabella, with a promptness which made me reflect that I was no match for the veriest schoolgirl in a warfare of words.
"A MOST NOBLE AND COMPETENT PROTECTOR!" SHE SAID, IN HER BITING WAY, "WHEN YOU ARE ALWAYS FORTUNE-HUNTING, OR ELSE IN FRANCE TAKING CARE OF BEAUTY IN DISTRESS.""A MOST NOBLE AND COMPETENT PROTECTOR!" SHE SAID, IN HER BITING WAY, "WHEN YOU ARE ALWAYS FORTUNE-HUNTING, OR ELSE IN FRANCE TAKING CARE OF BEAUTY IN DISTRESS."
"I did not understand," continued Isabella,looking at me under her lashes, "that you looked upon yourself as my protector. It is rather an amusing thought!"
"Oh! I do not pretend to competence," answered I; "I know you to be cleverer, and quite capable of managing your own affairs. If there was anything you wanted, no doubt you could get it better without my assistance than with it."
"No doubt," put in Isabella, with a queer curtness.
"But my father looked upon you rather in the light I mentioned. He was very fond of you, and thought much of your welfare, and—"
"You think the burden should be hereditary," she interrupted again, but she smiled in a manner that softened the acerbity of her words.
"No, Dick," she said, "you are better at your fortune-hunting."
"It is not for myself," I said too hurriedly; for Isabella had always the power to make me utter hasty words, involving me in some quarrel in which I invariably fared badly.
"Who knows?"
"You think that if the fortune fell into my hands, the temptation would be too strong for a poor man like myself?" I inquired.
"Poor by choice!" The words were hardly audible, for Isabella was busying her fingers withsome books that lay on the table between us. It may have been the effect of the lamp shade, but I thought her colour heightened when I glanced at her face.
"It is hard to believe that you are honestly seeking a fortune, which, when found, will enable another man to marry Lucille," she said significantly, without looking at me. And I suppose she knew that which was in my heart.
"Some day," I retorted, "you will have to apologise for having said that!"
"Then others will need to do the same! Lucille herself does not believe in you."
"Yes," I answered, "others will have to do the same, and thank you for it."
"Lucille will not," answered Isabella, with a note of triumph in her voice, "for she had reason to distrust you in Paris."
"You seem to be on very confidential terms with Mademoiselle."
"Yes," she answered, looking at me with quiet defiance.
"Is the confidence mutual, Isabella?" asked I, rising to go; and received no answer.
When I bade good-night to Madame de Clericy, she was standing alone at the far end of the room.
"Ah! mon ami," she said, as she gave me her hand, "I think you are blinder than other men.Women are not only clothes. We have feelings of our own, which spring up without the help of any man—in despite of any, perhaps—remember that."
Which I confess was Greek to me, and sent me on my way with the feeling of a hunter who, in following one all-absorbing quarry through the forest, and hearing on all sides a suppressed rustle or hushed movement, pauses to wonder whence they come and what they mean.
"Tell me," said Alphonse, who helped me with my heavy coat, "if you have news of Miste or propose to follow him. I will accompany you."
He said it awkwardly, after the manner of one avowing an unworthy suspicion of which he is ashamed. So Alphonse Giraud was to follow me and watch my every movement, treating me like a servant unworthy of trust. I made answer, promising to advise him of any such intention; for Giraud's company was pleasant under any circumstances, and there would be some keen sport in running Miste to earth with him beside me.
Thus I came away from Isabella's house with the conviction that she and no other was my most active enemy. It was Isabella who had poisoned Giraud's mind against me. He was too simple and honest to have conceived unaided such thoughts as he now harboured. Moreover, he was, like many good-hearted people, at the mercy of every windthat blows, and, like the chameleon, took his colour from his environments.
It was to no other than Isabella that I owed Lucille's coldness, and I shrewdly suspected some ulterior motive in the action that transferred the home of the distressed ladies—for a time at least—from my house at Hopton to her own house in London. Madame de Clericy and Lucille were no longer my guests, but hers; and each day diminished their debt towards me and made them more beholden to Isabella.
"I know," Lucille had said to me one day, "that you despise us for being happier in London than at Hopton; we are conscious of your contempt."
And with a laugh she linked arms with Madame de Clericy, who hastened to say that Hopton was no doubt charming in the spring.
I had long ago discovered that Lucille ruled her mother's heart, where, indeed, no other interest entered. This visit to Isabella's town house had, it appears, been arranged by the two girls, Madame acquiescing, as she acquiesced in all that was for her daughter's happiness.
In whatsoever line I moved, Isabella seemed to stand in my path ready to frustrate my designs and impede my progress. And Isabella Gayerson had been my only playmate in childhood—the companion of my youth, and, if the matter had rested with me, might have remained the friend of my whole lifetime.
As I walked down Oxford Street (for in those days I could not afford a cab, my every shilling being needed to keep open Hopton and pay the servants there) I pondered over these things, and quite failed to elucidate them. And writing now, after many stormy years, and in quiet harbour at Hopton, I still fail to understand Isabella; nor can I tell what it is that makes a woman so uncertain in her friendships.
Then my thoughts returned to Mr. Devar, where the necessity for action presented difficulties more after my own heart.
I went to the club and there wrote a letter to Sander, who was still in the Netherlands, asking him if he knew aught of a gentleman calling himself Devar, who appeared to me to be no gentleman, who spoke French like any Frenchman, and had the air of a prosperous scoundrel.