The band was playing very softly, very dreamily; it might have been a lullaby. The girl who stood on the balcony of the great London house, with the moonlight pouring full upon her, stooped, and nervously, fumblingly, picked up a spray of syringa that had fallen from among the flowers on her breast.
The man beside her, dark-faced and grave, put out a perfectly steady hand.
"May I have it?" he said.
She looked up at him with the start of a trapped animal. Her face was very pale. It was in striking contrast to the absolute composure of his. Very slowly and reluctantly she put the flower into his outstretched hand.
He took it, but he took her fingers also and kept them in his own.
"When will you marry me, Nina?" he asked.
She started again and made a frightened effort to free her hand.
He smiled faintly and frustrated it.
"When will you marry me?" he repeated.
She threw back her head with a gesture of defiance; but the courage in her eyes was that of desperation.
"If I marry you," she said, "it will be purely and only for your money."
He nodded. Not a muscle of his face moved.
"Of course," he said. "I know that."
"And you want me under those conditions?"
There was a quiver in the words that might have been either of scorn or incredulity.
"I want you under any conditions," he responded quietly. "Marry my money by all means if it attracts you! But you must take me with it."
The girl shrank.
"I can't!" she whispered suddenly.
He released her hand calmly, imperturbably.
"I will ask you again to-morrow," he said.
"No!" she said sharply.
He looked at her questioningly.
"No!" she repeated, with a piteous ring of uncertainty in her voice. "Mr. Wingarde, I say No!"
"But you don't mean it," he said, with steady conviction.
"I do mean it!" she gasped. "I tell you I do!"
She dropped suddenly into a low chair and covered her face with a moan.
The man did not move. He stared absently down into the empty street as if waiting for something. There was no hint of impatience about his strong figure. Simply, with absolute confidence, he waited.
Five minutes passed and he did not alter his position. The soft strains in the room behind them had swelled into music that was passionately exultant. It seemed to fill and overflow the silence between them. Then came a triumphant crash and it ended. From within sounded the gay buzz of laughing voices.
Slowly Wingarde turned and looked at the bent, hopeless figure of the girl in the chair. He still held indifferently between his fingers the spray of white blossom for which he had made request.
He did not speak. Yet, as if in obedience to an unuttered command, the girl lifted her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were full of misery and indecision. They wavered beneath his steady gaze. Slowly, still moving as if under compulsion, she rose and stood before him, white and slim as a flower. She was quivering from head to foot.
The man still waited. But after a moment he put out his hand silently.
She did not touch it, choosing rather to lean upon the balustrade of the balcony for support. Then at last she spoke, in a whisper that seemed to choke her.
"I will marry you," she said—"for your money."
"I thought you would," Wingarde said very quietly.
He stood looking down at her bent head and white shoulders. There were sparkles of light in her hair that shone as precious metal shines in ore. Her hands were both fast gripped upon the ironwork on which she leant.
He took a step forward and was close beside her, but he did not again offer her his hand.
"Will you answer my original question?" he said. "I asked—when?"
In the moonlight he could see her shivering, shivering violently. She shook her head; but he persisted.
His manner was supremely calm and unhurried.
"This week?" he said.
She shook her head again with more decision.
"Oh, no—no!" she said.
"Next?" he suggested.
"No!" she said again.
He was looking at her full and deliberately, but she would not look at him. She was quaking in every limb. There was a pause. Then Wingarde spoke again.
"Why not next week?" he asked. "Have you any particular reason?"
She glanced at him.
"It would be—so soon," she faltered.
"What difference does that make?" A very strange smile touched his grim lips. "Having made up your mind to do something disagreeable, do you find shirking till the last moment makes it any easier—any more palatable? Surely the sooner it's over—"
"It never will be over," she broke in passionately. "It is for all my life! Ah, what am I saying? Mr. Wingarde"—she turned towards him, her face quivering painfully—"be patient with me! I have given my promise."
The smile on his face deepened into something that closely resembled a sneer.
"How long do you want me to wait?" he said. "Fifty years?"
She drew back sharply. But almost instantly he went on speaking.
"I will yield a point," he said, "if it means so much to you. But, you know, the wedding-day will dawn eventually, however remote we make it. Will you say next month?"
The girl's eyes wore a hunted look, but she kept them raised with desperate resolution. She did not answer him, however. After a moment he repeated his question. His face had become stern. The lines about his mouth were grimly resolute.
"Will you say next month, Nina?" he said. "It shall be the last day of it if you wish. But—next month."
His tone was inexorable. He meant to win this point, and she knew it.
Her breath came quickly, unevenly; but in face of his mastery she made a great effort to control her agitation.
"Very well," she said, and she spoke more steadily than she had spoken at all during the interview. "I will marry you next month."
"Will you fix the day?" he asked.
She uttered a sudden, breathless laugh—the reckless laugh of the loser.
"Surely that cannot matter!" she said. "The first day or the last—as you say, what difference does it make?"
"You leave the choice tome?" he asked, without the smallest change of countenance.
"Certainly!" she said coldly.
"Then I choose the first," he rejoined.
And at the words she gave a great start as if already she repented the moment of recklessness.
The notes of a piano struck suddenly through the almost tragic silence that covered up the protest she had not dared to utter. A few quiet chords; and then a woman's voice began to sing. Slowly, with deep, hidden pathos, the words floated out into the night; and, involuntarily almost, the man and the girl stood still to listen:
Shadows and mist and night,Darkness around the way,Here a cloud and there a star,Afterwards, Day!Sorrow and grief and tears,Eyes vainly raised above,Here a thorn and there a rose;Afterwards, Love!
Shadows and mist and night,Darkness around the way,Here a cloud and there a star,Afterwards, Day!
Sorrow and grief and tears,Eyes vainly raised above,Here a thorn and there a rose;Afterwards, Love!
The voice was glorious, the rendering sublime. The spell of the singer was felt in the utter silence that followed.
Wingarde's eyes never left his companion's face. But the girl had turned from him. She was listening, rapt and eager. She had forgotten his very presence at her side. As the last passionate note thrilled into silence she drew a long breath. Her eyes were full of tears.
Suddenly she came to earth—to the consciousness of his watching eyes—and her expression froze into contemptuous indifference. She turned her head and faced him, scorning the tears she could not hide.
In her look were bitter dislike, fierce resistance, outraged pride.
"Some people," she said, with a little, icy smile, "would prefer to say 'Afterwards, Death!' I am one of them."
Wingarde looked back at her with complete composure. He also seemed faintly contemptuous.
"You probably know as much of the one as of the other," he coolly responded.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]
I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness to the Author—I regret to say unknown to me—of the little poem which I have quoted in this story.
I desire to acknowledge my indebtedness to the Author—I regret to say unknown to me—of the little poem which I have quoted in this story.
"So Nina has made up her mind to retrieve the family fortunes," yawned Leo, the second son of the house. "Uncommonly generous of her. My only regret is that it didn't occur to her that it would be a useful thing to do some time back. Is the young man coming to discuss settlements to-night?"
"What a beast you are!" growled Burton, the eldest son.
"We're all beasts, if it comes to that," returned Leo complacently. "May as well say it as think it. She has simply sold herself to the highest bidder to get the poor old pater out of Queer Street. And we shall, I hope, get our share of the spoil. I understand that Wingarde is lavish with his worldly goods. He certainly ought to be. He's a millionaire of the first water. A thousand or so distributed among his wife's relations would mean no more to him than the throwing of the crusts to the sparrows." He stopped to laugh lazily. "And the wife's relations would flock in swarms to the feast," he added in a cynical drawl.
Burton growled again unintelligibly. He strongly resented the sacrifice, though he could not deny that there was dire need for it.
The family fortunes were at a very low ebb. His father's lands were mortgaged already beyond their worth, and he and his brother had been trained for nothing but a life of easy independence.
There were five more sons of the family, all at various stages of education—two at college, three at Eton. It behooved the only girl of the family to put her shoulder to the wheel if the machine were to be kept going on its uphill course. Lord Marchmont had speculated desperately and with disastrous results during the past five years. His wife was hopelessly extravagant. And, of late, visions of the bankruptcy court had nearly distracted the former.
It had filtered round among his daughter's admirers that money, not rank, would win the prize. But somehow no one had expected Hereford Wingarde, the financial giant, to step coolly forward and secure it for himself. He had been regarded as out of the running. Women did not like him. He was scarcely ever seen in Society. And it was freely rumoured that he hated women.
Nina Marchmont, moreover, had always treated him with marked coldness, as if to demonstrate the fact that his wealth held no attractions for her. On the rare occasions that they met she was always ready to turn aside with half-contemptuous dislike on her proud face, and amuse herself with the tamest of her worshippers rather than hold any intercourse with the fabulous monster of the money-markets.
Certainly there was a surprise in store for the world in which she moved. It was also certain that she meant to carry it through with rigid self-control.
Meeting her two brothers at lunch, she received the half-shamed congratulations of one and the sarcastic comments of the other without the smallest hint of discomfiture. She had come straight from an interview with her father whom she idolized, and his gruff: "Well, my dear, well; delighted that you have fallen in love with the right man," and the unmistakable air of relief that had accompanied the words, had warmed her heart.
She had been very anxious about her father of late. The occasional heart attacks to which he was subject had become much more frequent, and she knew that his many embarrassments and perplexities were weighing down his health. Well, that anxiety was at least lightened. She would be able to help in smoothing away his difficulties. Surely the man of millions would place her in a position to do so! He had almost undertaken to do so.
The glad thought nerved her to face the future she had chosen. She was even very faintly conscious of a mitigation of her antipathy for the man who had made himself her master. Besides, even though married to him, she surely need not see much of him. She knew that he spent the whole of his day in the City. She would still be free to spend hers as she listed.
And so, when she saw him that evening, when his momentous interview with her father was over, she was moved to graciousness for the first time. A passing glimpse of her father's face assured her that all had gone well, aye, more than well.
As for Wingarde, he waived the money question altogether when he found himself alone with hisfiancée.
"Your father will tell you what provision I am prepared to make for you," he coldly said. "He is fully satisfied—on your behalf."
She felt the sting of the last words, and flushed furiously. But she found no word of indignation to utter, though in a moment her graciousness was a thing of the past.
"I have not deceived you," she said, speaking with an effort.
He gave her a keen look.
"I don't think you could," he rejoined quietly. "And I certainly shouldn't advise you to try."
And then to her utter surprise and consternation he took her shoulders between his hands.
"May I kiss you?" he asked.
There was not a shade of emotion to be detected in either face or voice as he made the request. Yet Nina drew back from him with a shudder that she scarcely attempted to disguise.
"No!" she said vehemently.
He set her free instantly, and she thought he smiled. But the look in his eyes frightened her. She felt the mastery that would not compel.
"One more thing," he said, calmly passing on. "It is usual for a girl in your position to wear an engagement ring. I should like you to wear this in my honour."
He held out to her on the palm of his hand a little, old-fashioned ring set with rubies and pearls. Nina glanced at him in momentary surprise. It was not in the least what she would have expected as the rich man's first gift. Involuntarily she hesitated. She felt that he had offered her something more than mere precious stones set in gold.
He waited for her to take the ring in absolute silence.
"Mr. Wingarde," she said nervously, "I—I am afraid it is something you value."
"It is," he said. "It belonged to my mother. In fact, it was her engagement ring. But why should you be afraid?"
For the first time there was a note of softness in his voice.
Nina's face was burning.
"I would rather have something you do not care about," she said in a low tone.
Instantly his face grew hard.
"Give me your hand!" he said shortly. "The left, please!"
She gave it, the flush dying swiftly from her cheeks. She could not control its trembling as he deliberately fitted the ring on to the third finger.
"Understand," he said, "that I wish this ring and no other to be the token of your engagement to me. If you object to it, I am sorry. But, after all, it will only be in keeping with the rest. I must go now as I have an appointment to keep. Your father has asked me to lunch on Sunday and I have accepted. I hope you will pay me the compliment of being at home."
The first of June fell on a Saturday that year, and a good many people remained in town for it in order to be present at the wedding of Lord Marchmont's only daughter to Hereford Wingarde, the millionaire.
Comments upon Nina's choice had even yet scarcely died out, and Archie Neville, her faithful friend and admirer, was still wondering why he and his very comfortable income had been passed over for this infernal bounder whom no one knew. He had proposed to Nina twice, and on each occasion her refusal had seemed to him to be tinged with regret. To use his own expression, he was "awfully cut up" by the direction affairs had taken. But, philosophically determined to make the best of it, he attended the wedding with a smiling face, and even had the audacity to kiss the bride—a privilege that had not been his since childhood.
Hereford Wingarde, standing by his wife's side, the recipient of congratulations from crowds of people who seemed to be her intimate friends, but whom he had never seen before, noted that salute of Archie Neville's with a very slight lift of his black brows. He noted also that Nina returned it, and that her hand lingered in that of the young man longer than in those of any of her other friends. It was a small circumstance, but it stuck in his memory.
A house had been lent them for the honeymoon by one of Nina's wealthy friends in the Lake District. They arrived there hard upon midnight, having dined on board the train.
A light meal awaited them, to which they immediately sat down.
"You are tired," Wingarde said, as the lamplight fell upon his bride's flushed face and bright eyes.
His own eyes were critical. She laughed and turned aside from them.
"I am not at all tired," she said. "I am only sorry the journey is over. I miss the noise."
He made no further comment. He had a disconcerting habit of dropping into sudden silences. It took possession of him now, and they finished their refreshment with scarcely a word.
Then Nina rose, holding her head very high. He embarrassed her, and she strongly resented being embarrassed.
Wingarde at once rose also. He looked more massive than usual, almost as if braced for a particular effort.
"Going already?" he said. "Good-night!"
"Good-night!" said Nina.
She glanced at him with momentary indecision. Then she held out her hand.
He took it and kept it.
"I think you will have to kiss me on our wedding night," he said.
She turned very white. The hunted look had returned to her eyes. She answered him with the rapidity of desperation.
"You can do as you like with me now," she said. "I am not able to prevent you."
"You mean you would rather not?" he said, without the smallest hint of anger or disappointment in his tone.
She started a little at the question. There was no escaping the searching of his eyes.
"Of course I would rather not," she said.
He released her quivering hand and walked quietly to the door.
"Good-night, Nina!" he said, as he opened it.
She stood for a moment before she realized that he had yielded to her wish. Then, as he waited, she made a sudden impulsive movement towards him.
Her fingers rested for an instant on his arm.
"Good-night—Hereford!" she said.
He looked down at her hand, not offering to touch it. His lips relaxed cynically.
"Don't overwhelm me!" he said.
And in a flash she had passed him with blazing eyes and a heart that was full of fierce anger. So this was his reception of her first overture! Her cheeks burnt as she vowed to herself that she would attempt no more.
She did not see her husband again that night.
When they met in the morning, he seemed to have forgotten that they had parted in a somewhat strained atmosphere. The only peculiarity about his greeting was that it did not seem to occur to him to shake hands.
"There is plenty to do if you're feeling energetic," he said. 'Driving, riding, mountaineering, boating; which shall it be?"
"Have you no preference?" she asked, as she faced him over the coffee-urn.
He smiled slightly.
"Yes, I have," he said. "But let me hear yours first!"
"Driving," she said at once. "And now yours?"
"Mine was none of these things," he answered. "I wonder what sort of conveyance they can provide us with? Also what manner of horse? Are you going to drive or am I? Mind, you are to state your preference."
"Very well," she answered. "Then I'll drive, please, I know this country a little. I stayed near here three years ago with the Nevilles. Archie and I used to fish."
"Did you ever catch anything?" Wingarde asked, with his quiet eyes on her face.
"Of course we did," she answered. "Salmon trout—beauties. Oh, and other things. I forget what they were called. We had great fun, I remember."
Her face flushed at the remembrance. Archie had been very romantic in those days, quite foolishly so. But somehow she had enjoyed it.
Wingarde said no more. He rose directly the meal was over. It was a perfect summer morning. The view from the windows was exquisite. Beyond the green stretches of the park rose peak after peak of sunlit mountains. There were a few cloud-shadows floating here and there. In one place, gleaming like a thread of silver, he could see a waterfall tumbling down a barren hillside.
Suddenly, through the summer silence, an octave of bells pealed joyously.
Nina started
"Why, it's Sunday!" she exclaimed. "I had quite forgotten. We ought to go to church."
Wingarde turned round.
"What an inspiration!" he said dryly.
His tone offended her. She drew herself up.
"Are you coming?" she asked coldly.
He looked at her with the same cynical smile with which he had received her overture the night before.
"No," he said. "I won't bore you with my company this morning."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"As you please," she said, turning to the door.
He made no rejoinder. And as she passed out, she realized that he believed she had suggested going to church in order to escape an hour of his hated society. It was but a slight injustice and certainly not wholly unprovoked by her. But, curiously, she resented it very strongly. She almost felt as if he had insulted her.
She found him smoking in the garden when she returned from her solitary expedition, and she hoped savagely that he had found his own society as distasteful as she did; though on second thoughts this seemed scarcely possible.
She decided regretfully, yet with an inner sense of expediency, that she would spend the afternoon in his company. But her husband had other plans.
"You have had a hot walk," he said. "You had better rest this afternoon. I am going to do a little mountaineering; but I mean to be back by tea-time. Perhaps when it is cool you will come for a stroll, unless you have arranged to attend the evening service also."
He glanced at her and saw the indignant colour rise in her face. But she was too proud to protest.
"As you wish," she said coldly.
Conversation during lunch was distinctly laboured. Wingarde's silences were many and oppressive. It was an unspeakable relief to the girl when at length he took himself off. She told herself with a wry smile that he was getting on her nerves. She did not yet own that he frightened her.
The afternoon's rest did her good; and when he returned she was ready for him.
He looked at her, as she sat in the garden before the tea-table in her muslin dress and big straw hat, with a shade of approval in his eyes.
He threw himself down into a chair beside her without speaking.
"Have you been far?" she asked.
"To the top of the hill," he answered. "I had a splendid view of the sea."
"It must have been perfect," she said.
"You have been there?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she answered, "long ago; with Archie."
Wingarde turned his head and looked at her attentively. She tried to appear unconscious of his scrutiny, and failed signally. Before she could control it, the blood had rushed to her face.
"And you found it worth doing?" he asked.
The question seemed to call for no reply, and she made none.
But yet again she felt as if he had insulted her.
She was still burning with silent resentment when they started on their walk. He strolled beside her, cool and unperturbed. If he guessed her mood, he made no sign.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked presently.
"It is the road to the wishing-gate," she replied icily. "There is a good view of the lake farther on."
He made no further enquiry, and they walked on in dead silence through exquisite scenery.
They reached the wishing-gate, and the girl stopped almost involuntarily.
"Is this the fateful spot?" said Wingarde, coming suddenly out of his reverie. "What is the usual thing to do? Cut our names on the gate-post? Rather a low-down game, I always think."
She uttered a sudden, breathless laugh. "My name is here already," she said, pointing with a finger that shook slightly at some minute characters cut into the second bar of the gate.
He bent and looked at the inscription—two names cut with infinite care, two minute hearts intertwined beneath.
Nina watched him with a scornful little smile on her lips.
"Artistic, isn't it?" she said.
He straightened himself abruptly, and their eyes met. There was a curious glint in his that she had never seen before. She put her hand sharply to her throat. Quite suddenly she knew that she was afraid of this monster to whom she had given herself—horribly, unreasonably afraid.
But he did not speak, and her scare began to subside.
"Now I'm going to wish," she said mounting the lowest bar of the gate.
He spoke then, abruptly, cynically.
"Really," he said, "what can you have to wish for now?"
She looked back at him defiantly. Her eyes were on a level with his. Because he had frightened her, she went the more recklessly. It would never answer to let him suspect this power of his.
"Something that I'm afraid you will never give me," she said, a bitter ring in her voice.
"What?" he asked sharply.
"Among other things, happiness," she said. "You can never give me that."
She saw him bite his lip, but he controlled himself to speak quietly.
"Surely you make a mistake," he said, "to wish for something which, since you are my wife, can never be yours!"
She laughed, still standing on the gate, and telling herself that she felt no fear.
"Very well," she said, "I will wish for a Deliverer first."
"For what?"
His naked fist banged down upon the gate-post, and she saw the blood start instantly and begin to flow. She knew in that moment that she had gone too far.
Her fear returned in an overwhelming flood. She stumbled off the gate and faced him, white to the lips.
A terrible pause followed, in which she knew herself to be fighting him with every inch of her strength. Then suddenly, without apparent reason, she gave in.
"I was joking," she said, in a low voice. "I spoke in jest."
He made her a curt bow, his face inflexibly stern.
"It is good of you to explain," he said. "With my limited knowledge of your character and motives, I am apt to make mistakes."
He turned from her abruptly with the words, and, shaking the blood from his hand, bound the wound with his handkerchief.
"Shall we go on?" he said then.
And Nina accompanied him, ashamed and afraid. She felt as if at the last moment she had asked for quarter; and, contemptuously, because she was a woman, he had given it.
After that moment of madness by the wishing-gate Nina's wanton desire to provoke to wrath the monster to whom she was chained died a sudden and unnatural death. She was scrupulously careful of his feelings from that day forward, and he treated her with a freezing courtesy, a cynical consideration, that seemed to form a barrier behind which the actual man concealed himself and watched.
That he did watch her was a fact of which she was miserably conscious. She knew with the certain knowledge of intuition that he studied her continually. She was perpetually under the microscope of his criticism, and there were times when she told herself she could not bear it. He was too much for her; too pitiless a tyrant, too stern a master. Her life was becoming insupportable.
A fortnight of their honeymoon had passed away, when one morning Wingarde looked up with a frown from a letter.
"I have had a summons to town," he said abruptly.
Nina's heart leapt at the words, and her relief showed itself for one unmanageable second in her face.
He saw it, and she knew he saw it.
"I shall be sorry," he said, with cutting sarcasm, "to curtail your enjoyment here, but the necessity for my presence is imperative. I should like to catch the two-thirty this afternoon if you can be ready by then."
Nina's face was burning. She held herself very erect.
"I can be ready before then if you wish," she said stiffly.
He rose from the breakfast-table with a curt laugh. As he passed her he flicked her cheek with the envelope he held in his hand.
"You are a dutiful wife, my dear," he said.
She winced sharply, and bent her head over her own letters.
"I do my best," she said, after a moment.
"I am sure of it," he responded dryly.
He paused at the door as if he expected her to say more. More came, somewhat breathlessly, and not upon the same subject.
Nina glanced up with sudden resolution.
"Hereford," she said, "can you let me have some money?"
She spoke with the rapidity of nervousness. She saw his hand leave the door. His face remained quite unmoved.
"For yourself?" he asked.
Considering the amount of the settlement he had made upon her, the question was absurd. Nina smiled faintly.
"No," she said, "not for myself."
He took a cheque-book from his pocket and walked to a writing-table.
"How much do you want?" he asked.
She hesitated, and he looked round at her.
"I—I only want to borrow it," she said haltingly. "It is rather a big sum."
"How much?" he repeated.
"Five thousand pounds," she answered, in a low voice.
He continued to look at her for several seconds. Finally he turned and shut up his cheque-book with a snap.
"The money will be placed to your credit to-morrow," he said. "But though a financier, I am not a money-lender. Please understand that! And let your family understand it, too."
And, rising, he walked straight from the room.
No further reference was made to the matter on either side. Nina's pride or her courage shrank from any expression of gratitude.
In the afternoon with intense thankfulness she travelled southward. Never were London smoke and dust more welcome.
They went straight to Wingarde's great house in Crofton Square. Dinner was served immediately upon their arrival.
"I must ask you to excuse me," Wingarde said, directly dessert was placed upon the table. "I have to go out—on business. In case I don't see you again, good-night!"
He was on his feet as he spoke. In her surprise Nina started up also.
"At this hour!" she exclaimed. "Why, it is nearly eleven!"
"At this hour," he grimly responded, "you will be able to dispense with my society no doubt."
His tone silenced her. Yet, as he turned to go, she looked after him with mute questioning in her eyes. She had a feeling that he was keeping something from her, and—perhaps it was merely the natural result of womanly curiosity baffled—she was vaguely hurt that he did not see fit to tell her whither his business was taking him.
A few words would have sufficed; but he had not chosen to utter them, and her pride was sufficient to suppress any display of interest in his affairs. She would not court the snub that she felt convinced he would not hesitate to administer.
So he left her without explanation, and Nina went drearily to bed. On the following morning, however, the sun shone upon her, and she went downstairs in better spirits.
The first person she encountered was her husband. He was sauntering about the morning-room in his overcoat, a cup of strong tea in his hand.
He greeted her perfunctorily, as his fashion was.
"Oh, good-morning!" he said. "I have only just got back. I was detained unavoidably. I am going upstairs for an hour's rest, and then I shall be off to the City. I don't know if you would care to drive in with me. I shall use the car, but it will then be at your service for the rest of the day."
"Have you been working all night?" Nina asked incredulously.
He nodded.
"It was unavoidable," he said again, with a touch of impatience. "You had better have a second brew of tea, this is too strong for you."
He set down his cup and rang the bell.
Nina stood and looked at him. He certainly did not look like a man who had been up all night. Alert, active, tough as wire, he walked back to the table and gathered together his letters. A faint feeling of admiration stirred in her heart. His, strength appealed to her for the first time.
"I should like to drive into the City with you," she said, after a pause.
He gave her a sharp glance.
"I thought you would be wanting to go to the bank," he remarked coolly.
She flushed and turned her back upon him. It was an unprovoked assault, and she resented it fiercely.
When they met again an hour later she was on the defensive, ready to resist his keenest thrust, and, seeing it, he laughed cynically.
"Armed to the teeth?" he asked, with a careless glance at her slim figure and delicate face.
She did not answer him by so much as a look. He handed her into the car and took his seat beside her.
"Can you manage to dine out with some of your people to-night?" he asked. "I am afraid I shall not be home till late."
"You seem to have a great deal on your hands," she remarked coldly.
"Yes," said Wingarde.
It was quite obvious that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence, and Nina was stubbornly determined to betray no interest. Then and there she resolved that since he chose to give himself up entirely to the amassing of wealth, not hesitating to slight his wife in the process, she also would live her separate life wholly independent of his movements.
She pretended to herself that she would make the most of it. But deep in her heart she hated him for thus setting her aside. His action pierced straight through her pride to something that sheltered behind it, and inflicted a grevious wound.
"Jove! Here's a crush!" laughed Archie Neville. "Delighted to meet you again, Mrs. Wingarde! How did you find the Lakes?"
His good-looking, boyish face was full of pleasure. He had not expected to meet her. Nina's welcoming smile was radiant.
"Oh, here you are, Archie!" she exclaimed, as they shook hands. "Someone said you were out of town, but I couldn't believe anything so tragic."
"Quite right," said Archie. "Never believe the worst till there is positively no alternative. I'm not out of town, and I'm not going to be. It's awfully nice to see you again, you know! I thought the sun had set for the rest of the season."
Nina uttered a gay little laugh.
"Oh, dear, no! We certainly intended to stay longer, but Hereford was summoned back on business, and I really wasn't sorry on the whole. I did rather regret missing all the fun."
Archie laughed.
"Hereford must be doing dark deeds then," he said, "of which he keeps the rest of the world in complete ignorance. The markets are dead flat just now—nothing doing whatever. It's enough to make you tear your hair."
"Really!" said Nina. "He gave me to understant that it was something urgent."
And then she became suddenly silent, meeting Archie's eyes, and aware of the surprise he was too much of a gentleman to express. With a cold feeling of dissatisfaction she turned from the subject.
"It's very nice to be back again among my friends," she said. "Can't you come and dine to-morrow and go to the theatre afterwards?"
Archie considered a moment, and she knew that when he answered he was cancelling other engagements.
"Thanks, I shall be delighted!" he said, "if I shan't bede trop."
There was a touch of mockery in Nina's smile.
"We shall probably be alone," she said. "My husband's business keeps him late in the City. We have been home a week, and he has only managed to dine with me once."
"Isn't he here to-night?" asked Archie.
She shook her head.
"What an infernal shame!" he exclaimed impulsively. "Oh, I beg your pardon! That was a slip."
But Nina laid her hand on his sleeve.
"You needn't apologize," she said, in a low voice. "One can't have everything. If you marry—an outsider—for his money, you have to pay the penalty."
Archie looked at her with further indiscretion upon the tip of his tongue. But he thought twice and kept it back.
"I say, you know," he said awkwardly, "I—I'm sorry."
"Thank you," she said gently. "Well, you will come to-morrow?"
"Of course," he said. "What theatre shall we go to? I'll bring the tickets with me."
The conversation drifted away into indifferent topics and presently they parted. Nina was almost gay of heart as she drove homeward that night. She had begun to feel her loneliness very keenly, and Archie's society promised to be of value.
Her husband was waiting for her when she returned. As she entered her own sitting-room, he started up abruptly from an arm-chair as if her entrance had suddenly roused him from sleep. She was considerably surprised to see him there, for he had never before intruded without her permission.
He glanced at the clock, but made no comment upon the lateness of the hour.
"I hope you have enjoyed yourself," he said somewhat formally.
The words were as unexpected as was his presence there. Nina stood for a moment, waiting for something further.
Then, as he did not speak, she shrugged her shoulders and threw back her cloak.
"It was a tremendous crush," she said indifferently. "No, I didn't enjoy it particularly. But it was something to do."
"I am sorry you are feeling bored," he said gravely.
Nina sat down in silence. She did not in the least understand what had brought him there.
"It is getting rather late," she remarked, after a pause. "I am just going to have a cup of tea and then go to bed."
A little tea-tray stood on the table at her elbow. A brass kettle was fizzing cheerily above a spirit stove.
"Do you want a cup?" she asked, with a careless glance upwards.
He had remained standing, looking down at her with an expression that puzzled her slightly. His eyes were heavy, as if they wanted sleep.
"Thank you," he said.
Nina threw off her wraps and sat up to brew the tea. The light from a rose-shaded lamp poured full upon her. She looked superb and she knew it. The knowledge deprived her for once of that secret sense of fear that so brooded at the back of her intercourse with this man. He stood in total silence behind her. She began to wonder what was coming.
Having made tea, she leant back again with her hands behind her head.
"I suppose we must give it two minutes to draw," she remarked, with a smothered yawn. "Isn't it frightfully hot to-night? I believe there is thunder about."
He made no response, and she turned her eyes slowly upon him. She knew he was watching her, but a curious sense of independence possessed her that night. He did not disconcert her.
Their eyes met. Hers were faintly insolent. His were inscrutable.
At last he spoke.
"I am sorry you have not enjoyed yourself," he said, speaking rather stiffly. "Will you—by way of a change—come out with me to-morrow night? I think I may anyhow promise you"—he paused slightly—"that you shall not be bored."
There was a short silence. Nina turned and moved the cups on the little tray. She did not, however, seem embarrassed.
"I happen to be engaged to-morrow evening," she said coldly at length.
"Is it important?" he asked. "Can't you cancel the engagement?"
She uttered a little, flippant laugh. She had not hoped for such an opportunity as this.
"I'm afraid I really can't," she said. "You should have asked me earlier."
"What are you going to do?"
There was a new note in his voice—a hint of mastery. She resented it instantly.
"That is my affair," she said calmly, beginning to pour out the tea.
He looked at her as if he scarcely believed his ears. He was silent for some seconds, and very quietly she turned to him and handed him a cup.
He took it from her and instantly set it aside.
"Be good enough to answer my question!" he said.
She heard the gathering sternness in his tone, and, tea-cup in hand, she laughed. A curious recklessness possessed her that night. She felt as if she had the strength to fling off the bands of tyranny. But her heart had begun to beat very fast. She realized that this was no mere skirmish.
"Why should I answer you?" she asked, helping herself to some more cream with a hand that was slightly unsteady in spite of her effort to control it. "I do not see the necessity."
"I think you do," he rejoined.
Nina said no more. She swallowed her tea, nibbled at a wafer with a species of deliberate trifling calculated to proclaim aloud her utter fearlessness, and at length rose to go.
In that moment her husband stepped forward and took her by the shoulders.
"Before you leave this room, please," he said quietly.
She drew back from him in a blaze of indignant rebellion.
"I will not!" she said. "Let me go instantly!"
His hold tightened. His face was more grim than she had ever seen it. His eyes seemed to beat hers down. Yet when he spoke he did not raise his voice.
"I have borne a good deal from you, Nina," he said. "But there is a limit to every man's endurance."
"You married me against my will," she panted. "Do you think I have not had anything to endure, too?"
"That accusation is false," he said. "You married me of your own accord. Without my money, you would have passed me by with scorn. You know it."
She began to tremble violently.
"Do you deny that?" he insisted pitilessly.
"At least you pressed me hard," she said.
"I did," he replied. "I saw you meant to sell yourself. And I did not mean you to go to any scoundrel."
"So you bought me for yourself?" she said, with a wild laugh.
"I did." Wingarde's voice trembled a little. "I paid your price," he said, "and I have taken very little for it. You have offered me still less. Now, Nina, understand! This is not going on for ever. I simply will not bear it. You are my wife, sworn to obey me—and obey me you shall."
He held her fast in front of him. She could feel the nervous strength of his hands. It thrilled her through and through. She felt like a trapped animal in his grasp. Her resistance began to waver.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I am going to conquer you," he said grimly.
"You won't do it by violence," she returned quickly.
Her words seemed to pierce through a weak place in the iron armour in which he had clad himself. Abruptly he set her free.
The suddenness of his action so surprised her that she tottered a little. He made a swift move towards her; but in a second she had recovered herself, and he drew back. She saw that his face was very pale.
"Are you quite sure of that?" he asked.
She did not answer him. Shaking from head to foot, she stood facing him. But words would not come.
After a desperate moment the tension was relaxed. He turned on his heel.
"Well, I have warned you," he said, and strode heavily away.
The moment she ceased to hear his footsteps, Nina sank down into a chair and burst into tears.