Tommy was smoking, and had fallen into meditative silence.
He did not lack understanding of her feelings—anything she felt was always vivid to him—and on his own account he was no stranger to the thoughts that Airey Newton's propensity bred.
'How much money has he got?' she asked abruptly.
'I mustn't tell you.'
'More than what you said to that man?'
'Yes, more.'
'A lot more?'
Tommy spread out his hands and shrugged his shoulders. She knew all that mattered; it was merely etiquette that forbade an exact statement of figures; the essential harm was done.
'Well, you said you wanted something of me, Tommy.'
'I do. I want your word of honour that you'll never let Airey Newton know that you've found out anything about this.' He put his cigarette back into his mouth and smiled amicably at Peggy.
'I'm going straight to him to tell him I know it all. After that I sha'n't go any more.'
'Peggy, he's very fond of you. He'll hate your knowing, more than anybody else's in the world almost.'
'I shall tell him you're not to blame, of course.'
'I wasn't thinking of that. He's been very kind to you. There was always bread-and-butter!'
This particular appeal miscarried; a subtlety of resentment centred on the bread-and-butter.
'I hate to think of it,' said Peggy brusquely. 'Do you really mean I'm to say nothing?'
'I mean much more. You're still to be his friend, still to go and see him, still to eat bread-and-butter. And, Peggy, you're still to love him—to love him as I do.'
Peggy looked across at him, and looked with new eyes. He had been the dear friend of many sunny hours; but now he wore a look and spoke in tones that the sunny hours had not called forth.
'I stand by him, whatever happens, and I want you to stand by him too.'
'If it came to the point, you'd stand by him and let me go?' she asked with a sudden quick understanding of his meaning.
'Yes,' said Tommy simply. He did not tell her there would be any sacrifice in what she suggested.
'I don't believe I can do it,' moaned Peggy.
'Yes, you can. Be just the same to him, only—only rather nicer, you know. There's only one chance for him, you see.'
'Is there any chance?' she asked dolefully. Her eyes met his. 'Yes, perhaps I know what you mean,' said she.
They were silent a moment. Then he came over to her and took her hand. 'Word of honour, Peggy,' he said, 'to let neither Airey himself nor any of the rest know? You must connive, as I did.'
She turned her eyes up to his in their clouded brightness. 'I promise, word of honour, Tommy,' said she.
He nodded in a friendly way and strolled off to the writing-table. She wandered to the window and looked out on the spacious, solid old square. The summer evening was bright and clear, but Peggy was sad that there were things in the world hard to endure. Yet there were other things too; down in her heart was a deep joy because to-day, although she had lost a dear illusion, she had found a new treasure-house.
'I'm thinking some things about you, Tommy, you know,' she said without turning round. There was a little catch in her voice.
'That's all right. Just let me write a letter, and we'll go and dine.'
She stood still till he rose and turned to see her head outlined against the window. For a moment he regarded it in silence, thinking of the grace she carried with her, how she seemed unable to live with meanness, and how for love's sake she would face it now, and, if it might be, heal it by being one of those who loved. He came softly behind her, but she turned to meet him.
'I suppose we must all cry sometimes, Tommy. Do say it makes the joy better!'
'They always tell you that!' He laughed gently.
'I came here to laugh with you, but now——'
'Laughter's the second course to-day,' said Tommy Trent.
It came then. He saw it suddenly born in her eyes and marked its assault on the lines of her lips. She struggled conscientiously, thinking, no doubt, that it was a shame to laugh. Tommy waited eagerly for the victory of mirth, or even that it might, in a general rout, save its guns and ammunition, and be ready to come into action another day. He had his hope. Peggy's low rich laugh came, against her will, but not to be denied.
'At any rate I show him the better way! I drew another fifty pounds to-day. And he hates it—oh, he hates it, Tommy!'
He laughed too, saying, 'Let's go out and play.'
As they went downstairs she thrust her hand through his arm and kept patting him gently. Then she looked up, and swiftly down again, and laughed a little and patted him again.
'I've half a mind to sing,' said she.
The afternoon had been a bottle of the old mixture—laughter and tears.
There being in London (as Trix had once observed) many cities, if they persecute you in one you can flee unto another, with the reasonable certainty of finding an equally good dinner, company perhaps on the whole not less entertaining, and a welcome warmer for the novelty of seeing you. With these consolations a philosophic fugitive should be content.
But Beaufort Chance had not learnt this lesson, and did not take to the study of it cheerfully. He was indeed not cut by his old friends—things had not been quite definite enough for that—but he was gradually left out of a good many affairs to which he had been accustomed to be a party, and he was conscious that, where he was still bidden, it was from good-nature or the dislike of making a fuss, not from any great desire for his company. He was indifferently consoled by the proffered embraces of that other city which may be said to have had its centre in Mrs. Fricker's spacious mansion. The Frickers had an insight into his feelings, and the women at least made every effort to win his regard as well as to secure his presence. Fricker let matters go their own way; he was a man wise in observing the trend of events. He found it enough to put Chance into one or two business ventures against which there was nothing much to be said; he did not want to damage Chance's reputation any more, since his value would be diminished thereby.
The man knew that he had sunk and was sinking still. The riches for which he had risked and lost so much might still be his, probably more easily than at any previous time.Nothing else was before him, if once he allowed himself to become an associate of Fricker's in business, a friend of the family at Fricker's house. Such a position as that would stamp him. It was consistent with many good things; it might not prevent some influence and a good deal of power, or plenty of deference of a certain sort from certain people. But it defined his class. Men of the world would know how to place him, and women would not be behind them in perception. He saw all this, but he did not escape. Perhaps there was nowhere to escape to. There was another reason. He had encountered a very vigorous will, and that will was determined that he should stay. His name was a little blown upon, no doubt, but it was a good name; he was M.P. still; he might one day inherit a peerage—not of the ultra-grand Barmouth order, of course, but a peerage all the same. The will was associated with a clear and measured judgment, and in obedience to the judgment the will meant to hold fast to Beaufort Chance.
He himself realised this side of the matter less clearly than he saw the rest. He knew that the business association and the dinners bound him more and more tightly; he had not understood yet that his flirtation with Connie Fricker was likely to commit him in an even more irrevocable and wholesale way. In this Miss Connie was clever; she let an air of irresponsibility soften his attentions into a mere pastime, though she was careful to let nothing more palpable confirm the impression. She made no haste to enlist her mother's aid or to invoke a father primed with decisive questions. She had attractions for Beaufort Chance, a man over whom obvious attractions exercised their full force. She let them have their way. She liked him, and she liked being flirted with. The cool head was quite unseen, far in the background; but it was preparing a very strong position whenever its owner liked to fall back there.
Beaufort Chance, misled by the air of irresponsibility, kissed and laughed, as many men do under such circumstances; Connie was not critical of the quality of kisses, andthe laughter was to go on just so long as she pleased. It was among the visions which inspire rather than dissipate the energy of strong natures, when Connie Fricker saw herself, now become Beaufort's wife and perhaps my lady, throwing a supercilious bow to Mrs. Trevalla, as that lady trudged down Regent Street, seeking bargains in the shops and laden with brown-paper parcels containing the same. Such a turn of fortune as would realise this piquant picture was still possible, notwithstanding Trix's present triumph.
There were dangers. If Mrs. Fricker, with that strict sense of propriety of hers and her theory of its necessity for social progress, came round a corner at the wrong moment, there would be a bad half-hour, and (worse still) the necessity for a premature divulging of plans. Those plans Mrs. Fricker would manage to bungle and spoil; this was, at least, her daughter's unwavering conviction. So Connie was cautious, and urged Beaufort to caution. She smiled to see how readily he owned the advisability of extreme caution. He did not want to be caught, any more than she. She knew the reason of his wish as well as of her own. She played her hand well and is entitled to applause—subject to the accepted reservations.
Meanwhiledelenda eratTrix. That was well understood in the family, and again between the family and Beaufort Chance. The ladies hinted at it; Fricker's quiet smile was an endorsement; every echo of Trix's grandeur and triumph—far more any distant glimpse obtained of them in actual progress—strengthened the resolution, and enhanced the pleasure of the prospect. Censure without sympathy is seldom right. At last Trix had, under irresistible pressure, obeyed Mervyn to the full. She saw no more of the Frickers; she wrote only on business to Mr. Fricker. The Fricker attitude cannot be called surprising; the epithet is more appropriate to Trix Trevalla's, even though it be remembered that she regarded it as only temporary—just till she was well out of Glowing Stars. She pleaded that her engagement kept her so busy. Other people could be busy too.
Lady Blixworth's doors were still open to Beaufort Chance, and there, one evening, he saw Trix in her splendour. Mervyn was in attendance on her; the Barmouths were not far off, and were receiving congratulations most amiably. In these days Trix's beauty had an animation and expressed an excitement that gave her an added brilliance, though they might not speak of perfect happiness. Lady Blixworth was enjoying a respite from duty, and had sunk into a chair; Beaufort stood by her. He could not keep his eyes from Trix.
'Now, I wonder,' said Lady Blixworth with her gentle deliberation, 'what you're thinking about, Beaufort! Am I very penetrating, or very ignorant, or just merely commonplace, in guessing that Trix Trevalla would do well to avoid you if you had a pistol in your hand?'
'You aren't penetrating,' said he. She had stood by him, so he endured her impertinence, but he endured it badly.
'You don't want to kill her?' she smiled. 'That would be too gentle? Oh, I'm only joking, of course.' This excuse was a frequent accompaniment of her most pointed suggestions.
'She'll have a pretty dull time with Mervyn,' he said with a laugh.
'I suppose that idea always does console the other men? In this case quite properly, I agree. She will, Beaufort; you may depend on that.' Her thoughts had gone back to that Sunday at Barslett.
Glentorly came up the stairs. She greeted him without rising; his bow to Beaufort Chance was almost invisible; he went straight across to Trix and Mervyn. Lady Blixworth cast an amused glance at her companion's lowering face.
'Why don't you go and congratulate her?' she asked. 'I don't believe you ever have!'
'I suppose I ought to,' he said, meeting her malicious look with a deliberate smile.
A glint of aroused interest came into her eyes. Would he have the courage?
'Well, you can hardly interrupt her while she's with Mortimer and George Glentorly.'
'Can't I?' he asked with a laugh. 'Sit here and you shall see.'
'I'd no idea it could be amusing in my own house,' smiled Lady Blixworth. 'Well, I'm sitting here!'
What he saw had roused Beaufort's fury again. Everything helped to that—the sight of Trix, Mervyn's airs of ownership and lofty appropriation of her, the pompous smiles of the Barmouths, most of all, perhaps, that small matter of Lord Glentorly's invisible bow. And he himself was there on the good-natured but contemptuous sufferance of his old friend and malicious mocker, Lady Blixworth. But he had a whip; he was minded at least to crack it over Trix Trevalla.
She was standing by the two men, but they had entered into conversation with one another, and for the moment she was idle. Her eyes, travelling round the room, fell on Beaufort Chance. She flushed, gave him a hurried bow, and glanced in rapid apprehension at Mervyn. He and Glentorly were busy agreeing that they were, jointly and severally, quite entitled to be relied on by the country, and Mervyn saw nothing. Trix's bow gave Beaufort Chance his excuse. Without more ado he walked straight and boldly across the room to her. Still the other two men did not see him. Trix edged a pace away from them and waited his coming; she was in as sore fear as when he had snatched her letter from her in her drawing-room. Her breath came fast; she held her head high.
'You must let an old friend congratulate you, Mrs. Trevalla,' said Beaufort. He spoke low and smiled complacently as he held out his hand.
Trix hated to take it; she took it very graciously, with murmured thanks. She shot an appealing glance past him towards where her hostess sat. Lady Blixworth smiled back, but did not move an inch.
'Though your old friends have seen very little of you lately.'
'People in my position must have allowances made for them, Mr. Chance.'
'Oh, yes; I wasn't complaining, only regretting. Seen anything of our friends the Frickers lately?'
The question was a danger-signal to Trix. He was prepared to pose as the Frickers' friend if only he could tar her with the same brush; that boded mischief.
Fricker's name caught Lord Glentorly's ear; he glanced round. Mervyn still noticed nothing.
'I haven't seen them for a long while,' answered Trix in steady tones, her eyes defying him.
He waited a moment, then he went on, raising his voice a little.
'You must have heard from Fricker anyhow, if not from the ladies? He told me he'd written to you.'
Mervyn turned round sharply. Emerging from the enumeration of the strong points of his Chief and himself, he had become conscious that a man was talking to Trix and saying that some other man had written to her. He looked questioningly at Glentorly; that statesman seemed somewhat at a loss.
'Yes,' Chance went on, 'Fricker said he'd been in correspondence with you about that little venture you're in together. I hope it'll turn up trumps, though it's a bit of a risk in my opinion. But it's too bad to remind you of business here.'
Mervyn stepped forward suddenly.
'If you've any business with Mrs. Trevalla, perhaps she'll avail herself of my help,' he said; 'although hardly at the present moment or here.'
Beaufort Chance laughed. 'Dear me, no,' he answered. 'We've no business, have we, Mrs. Trevalla? I was only joking about a little flutter Mrs. Trevalla has on under the auspices of our common friend—Fricker, you know.'
'I have not the pleasure of knowing Mr. Fricker,' said Mervyn coldly.
'He's at a disadvantage compared with us, isn't he, Mrs. Trevalla?'
Mervyn turned from him in a distaste that he took no pains to conceal, and fixed his eyes on Trix's face. Was it possible—really possible—that she could be charged with having 'a flutter' under the auspices of Fricker, and stand dumb before the accusation?
Trix laughed nervously, and at last managed to speak.
'That's all very ancient history, Mr. Chance. You should have your gossip more up to date.'
'Then you've sold your Glowing Stars?' he retorted quickly. He desired the pleasure of making her lie and of knowing the degradation that she felt.
There was just an instant's pause. Then Lord Glentorly struck in.
'I don't know whether all this is your business,' he said to Beaufort, 'but I do know it isn't mine. If Mrs. Trevalla allows, we'll drop the subject.'
'It's very dull anyhow,' stammered Trix.
'I touched on it quite accidentally,' smiled Beaufort. 'Well, all good wishes again, Mrs. Trevalla.'
With a bow of insolent familiarity he turned on his heel and began to walk back towards Lady Blixworth. After a moment's hesitation Mervyn followed him. Trix darted to Glentorly.
'Take me somewhere,' she whispered. 'Take me away somewhere for a minute.'
'Away from that fellow, yes,' he agreed with a disgusted air.
Trix seemed to hear him imperfectly. 'Yes, yes, away from Mortimer,' she whispered.
The swiftest glance betrayed Glentorly's surprise as he obeyed her; she put her arm in his and he led her into the next room, where a sideboard with refreshments stood.
'What does the fellow mean?' he asked scornfully.
'It's nothing. Give me a little champagne,' said Trix.
Beaufort Chance lounged up to Lady Blixworth.
'Well, you saw me making myself pleasant?' His manner was full of a rude coarse exultation.
Lady Blixworth put up her long-handledpince-nezand regarded him through it.
'She hasn't quite cut me, you see,' he went on.
'I beg your pardon, Chance, may I have a word with you?' Mervyn came up and joined them.
Lady Blixworth leant back and looked at the pair. She had never thought Mervyn a genius, and she was very tolerant; yet she had at that moment the fullest possible realisation of the difference between the two: it was between barbarism and civilisation. Both might be stupid, both might on occasion be cruel. But there was the profound difference of method.
'A word with me, Mervyn? Of course.'
'By ourselves, I mean.' His stiffness vigorously refused the approaches of Beaufort's familiarity.
'Oh, all right, by ourselves,' agreed Beaufort with a contemptuous laugh.
Lady Blixworth decided not to indulge her humour any longer; she was distrustful of what might happen.
'You can have your talk any time,' she said, rising. She spoke carelessly, but she knew how to assert her right to social command in her own house. 'Just now I want Mortimer to take me to have something cool. Good-night, Beaufort.' She gave him her hand. He took it, not seeing what else to do. Mervyn had fallen back a step as his bow acknowledged the hostess's command.
'Good-night, Beaufort,' said Lady Blixworth, smiling again.
She left him there, and walked off with Mervyn.
'If you must talk to him, wait,' she advised, laughing. 'Or write to him—that's better. Or let it alone—that's best of all. But at any rate I don't want what the papers call afracas, and I call a shindy, in my house. With your people here too!' The Barmouths' presence would make a shindy seem like sacrilege.
'You're quite right,' he said gravely.
She glanced at him in pity and in ridicule. 'Heavens, how you take things, Mortimer!' she murmured. 'You might have seen that he only wanted to be nasty.'
'He shall have no more opportunities of obtruding himself on Trix.'
'Poor Trix!' sighed Lady Blixworth. It was not quite clear what especial feature of Trix's position she was commiserating.
'I shall speak plainly to him.'
'That's just why I wouldn't let it occur in my house.'
'Why do you have him here?'
'I believe that in the end it's through a consciousness of my own imperfections.' She felt for and with her companion, but she could not help chaffing him again. 'He's had rather hard lines too, you know.'
'He's not had half what he's deserved. I want to see Trix.'
'Oh, put that off too!' She had sighted Trix and Glentorly, and a dexterous pressure of her arm headed him in the opposite direction. 'You must feed me first, anyhow,' she insisted.
Understanding that he had been in effect dismissed from the house, knowing at least that with his hostess's countenance withdrawn from him he would find little comfort there, Beaufort Chance took his departure. His mood was savage: he had gratified revenge at the cost of lowering himself farther; if he had done his best to ruin Trix, he had done something more for himself in the same direction. Yet he had enjoyed the doing of it. A savage triumph struggled with the soreness in him. He had come back to Lady Blixworth to boast to her; Mervyn had spoilt that scheme. He felt the need of recounting his exploit to somebody who would see the glory of it. Connie Fricker had told him that they were going to the opera, and that she supposed there would be some supper afterwards, if he liked to drop in. Almost unconsciously his steps turned towards the house.
Luck favoured him, or so he thought. Fricker and his wife had been dropped at a party on the way home; Connie had no card for it, and was now waiting for them alone—or, rather, was using her time in consuming chicken and champagne. He joined in her meal, and did full justice to one ingredient of it at least. With his glass in his hand he leant back in his chair and began to tell her how he had served Trix Trevalla. Whatever the reality might have been there was no doubt who came out triumphant in the narrative.
Connie had finished her chicken. She leant her plump bare arms on the table and fixed applauding eyes on him.
'Splendid!' she said with a glint of teeth. 'I should love to have seen that.'
'I gave her a bit more than she reckoned on,' he said, lighting his cigar and then tossing off the last of his glass of wine. 'I gave it her straight.' He looked across at Connie. 'That's the only way with women,' he told her.
Miss Connie mingled admiration and a playful defiance in her smile. 'You ought to have married her, then you'd have had your chance,' she suggested.
'Precious glad I didn't!' said Beaufort. 'Good for her, but poor fun for me, Connie.'
Connie got up and came round the table. 'You're spilling all your ash on the tablecloth.' She gave him an ash-tray from the mantel-piece. 'Use that, silly,' said she, patting his shoulder, and she went on, 'Any woman could manage you all right, you know. Oh, I don't mean a goose like Trix Trevalla, but——'
'A clever girl like yourself, eh?'
'Well, that's the last thing I was thinking about. Still, as far as that goes, I expect I could.'
He slewed his chair half round and looked up at her. Her rollicking defiance, with its skilful hint of contempt, worked on his mood. He forgot his daylight reluctance to commit himself.
'We'd see about that, Miss Connie,' he said.
'Oh, I shouldn't be afraid!' she laughed. She spoke the truth; she was not the least afraid of Beaufort Chance, though she was more than a little afraid of Mrs. Fricker. She was at the same time fully aware that Chance would like to think that she was in her heart rather afraid; she gauged him nicely, and the bravado of her declaration was allowed to be hinted at by a fall and a turning-away of her eyes. With a confident laugh he slipped his arm round her waist; she drew away; he held her strongly.
'Be quiet,' he said imperiously.
She stood still, apparently embarrassed but yet obedient.
'Why did you try to get away?' he asked almost threateningly.
'Well, I'm quiet enough now,' she pleaded with a low laugh.
His self-complacency was restored; the buffets of the evening were forgotten. He remembered how he had served Trix Trevalla; he forgot what that pleasure had entailed on himself. Now he was showing this girl that she was no match for him. He held her in his grasp while he smoked.
'This is rather dull for me,' suggested Connie after a while. 'I hope you like it, Mr. Chance?'
'It'll last just as long as I do like it,' he told her.
A bell sounded; they heard the hall door opened and voices in the hall.
'Listen! Let me go! No, you must. It's papa and mamma.'
'Never mind. Stay where you are.'
'What do you mean? Nonsense! I must——!' In genuine alarm Connie wrenched herself away, ran to the door, listened, gave Beaufort a wise nod, and sat down opposite to him. He laughed at her across the table.
After a pause a footman came in.
'I was to tell you that Mrs. Fricker has gone straight upstairs, miss. She'd like to see you for a minute in her room when you go up, miss.'
'All right. Say I'll be there in five minutes. Where's papa?'
'Mr. Fricker's gone into the study, miss.'
'We're in luck,' said Beaufort, when the door was closed.
'I must go in a minute or two. I expect mamma doesn't like me being here with you. It's not my fault. I didn't know you were coming. I didn't let you in.'
'Of course it's not your fault. We'll tell mamma so.'
'I think you'd better go,' suggested Connie; he treated Mrs. Fricker with too much flippancy.
'Yes, I will. I'll join your father and have a whisky-and-soda. But say good-night first, Connie.'
'Oh, well, be quick then,' said Connie.
Now, as it happened, through an oversight, there was no whisky-and-soda in the study. Mr. Fricker discovered this disconcerting circumstance when he had got into his smoking-jacket and slippers. He swore gently and walked out, his slippers passing noiselessly over the rich carpets of his passages. He opened the door of the dining-room and came in. To his amazement his daughter whirled quickly across his path, almost cannoning into him; and there, whence she came, Beaufort Chance stood, looking foolish and awkward. Connie was flushed and her hair untidy.
'Good evening, Beaufort. I was looking for whisky-and-soda, Connie dear.'
A few more remarks were interchanged, but the talk came chiefly from Beaufort, and consisted of explanations why he had not gone before, and how he was just going now. Then he did go, shaking hands with them both, not looking either of them in the face.
'You can find your own way?' Fricker suggested, as he picked a chicken's leg. 'Give me a little more soda, Connie.'
She obeyed him, and, when they were alone, came and stood on the opposite side of the table. Fricker ate and drank in undisturbed composure. At last he observed:—
'I thought your mother wanted you. Hadn't you bettergo up to her, Connie?' He glanced round at the clock and smiled at his daughter in his thoughtful way.
'Of course you can tell her; but you'll spoil it all, if you do,' Connie burst out. She seemed ready to cry, being sadly put out by her father's premature discovery, and undisguisedly alarmed as to what view might be taken of the matter.
'Spoil it all?' repeated Fricker meditatively. 'All what? Your fun, my dear?'
Connie had no alternative but to play her trumps.
'It's more than fun,' she said. 'Unless I'm interfered with,' she added resentfully.
'Your mother's ideas are so strict,' smiled Fricker, wiping his mouth and laying aside his napkin. 'If she'd come in when I did—eh, Connie?' He shook his head and delicately picked his teeth.
'It's all right if—if you let me alone.' She came round to him. 'I can take care of myself, and——' She sat on the arm of his chair. 'It wouldn't be so bad, would it?' she asked.
'Hum. No, perhaps it wouldn't,' admitted Fricker. 'Do you like him, Connie?'
'We should manage very well, I think,' she laughed, feeling easier in her mind. 'But if you tell mamma now——'
'We upset the apple-cart, do we, Connie?' He fell into thought. 'Might do worse, and perhaps shouldn't do much better, eh?'
'I daresay not. And'—an unusual timidity for the moment invaded Miss Connie's bearing—'and I do rather like him, papa.'
Fricker had the family affections, and to him his daughter seemed well-nigh all that a daughter could be expected to be. She had her faults, of course—a thing not calculated to surprise Fricker—but she was bright, lively, pretty, clever, dutiful, and very well behaved. So long as she was also reasonable, he would stretch a point to please her; he wouldat least make every consideration on her side of the case weigh as heavily as possible. He thought again, reviewing Beaufort Chance in the new light.
'Well, run it for yourself,' he said at last.
Connie bent down and kissed him. She was blushing and she looked happy.
'Now run off upstairs.'
'You won't tell mamma?'
'Not if you can go on managing it all right.'
Connie kissed him again. Then she, in her turn, looked at the clock.
'May I say that Mr. Chance has been gone ever so long, and that you made me stay with you?'
'Yes,' said Fricker, rather amused.
'Good-night, you darling,' cried Connie, and danced out of the room.
'Rum creatures!' ejaculated Fricker. 'She's got a head on her shoulders, though.'
On the whole he was well pleased. But he had the discernment to wonder how Beaufort Chance would feel about the matter the next morning. He chuckled at this idea at first, but presently his peculiar smile regained its sway—the same smile that he wore when he considered the case of Trix Trevalla and Glowing Stars.
'What Beaufort thinks of it,' he concluded as he went up to bed, 'won't be quite the question.'
He found Mrs. Fricker not at all displeased with Connie.
Trix Trevalla was at Barslett. To say that she was in prison there would be perhaps a strong expression. To call her sojourn quarantine is certainly a weak one; we are not preached at in quarantine. Mervyn came down twice a week; the Barmouths themselves and Mrs. Bonfill completed the party. No guests were invited. Trix was to stay a month. A tenant had offered for the flat—it was let for the month. Trix was to stay at Barslett with the Barmouths and Mrs. Bonfill—a Mrs. Bonfill no longer indulgent or blinded by partiality—hopeful still, indeed, but with open eyes, with a clear appreciation of dear Trix's failings, possessed by an earnest desire to co-operate with the Barmouths in eradicating the same.
No ordinary pressure had brought Trix to this. It dated from Beaufort Chance's attack: that had rendered her really defenceless. She remembered how she drove away with the Barmouths and Mervyn, the ominous heavy silence, the accusing peck of a kiss that her future mother-in-law gave her when they parted. Next morning came the interview with Mervyn, the inevitable interview. She had to confess to prevarication and shuffling; nothing but his grave and distressed politeness saved her the word 'lie.' Her dealings with Fricker were wrung from her by a persistent questioning, a steady adherence to the point that neither tears nor wiles (she tried both) could affect. She had no strength left at the end. She wrote to Fricker to sell her Glowing Stars, to send the money to the bank, to close the transaction finally. Shedid not know where she would be left; she obeyed, and, broken in spirit, she consented to be deported to Barslett as soon as her letter was posted. Mrs. Bonfill was procured; the Barmouths made the sacrifice (the expression was Lady Barmouth's own); Mervyn arranged to run down. Never were more elaborate or imposing means taken to snatch a brand from the burning.
Yet only at Barslett did the real discipline begin; from morning prayers at nine to evening lemonade at ten-thirty, all day and every day, it seemed to last. They did not indeed all belabour her every day; the method was more scientific. If Lord Barmouth was affable, it meant a lecture after lunch from his wife; when Mrs. Bonfill relaxed in the daytime, it foreboded a serious affectionate talk with Mervyn in the evening. One heavy castigation a day was certain—that, and lots of time to think it over, and, as an aggravation, full knowledge of the occurrence manifest in the rest of the company. Who shall say that Beaufort Chance had not taken rich revenge?
Trix tried to fight sometimes, especially against Mrs. Bonfill. What business was it of Mrs. Bonfill's? The struggle was useless. Mrs. Bonfill established herself firmlyin loco parentis. 'You have no mother, my dear,' she would reply with a sad shake of her head. The bereavement was small profit to poor Trix under the circumstances. Yet she held on with the old tenacity that had carried her through the lodging-houses, with the endurance which had kept her alive through her four years with Vesey Trevalla. This state of things could not last. With her marriage would come a change. At any rate the subject of her sins must show exhaustion soon. Let her endure; let her do anything rather than forfeit the prospects she had won, rather than step down from the pedestal of grandeur on which she still sat before the world. What does the world know or reck of thorns in exalted cushions? The reflection, which ought to console only the world, seems to bring a curious comfort to the dignified sufferers on the cushions also.
Another hope bore her up. Beneath the Barmouth stateliness was a shrewdness that by no means made light of material things. When she was being severely lectured she had cried once or twice, 'Anyhow I shall make a lot of money!' Fresh reproofs had followed, but they had sounded less convinced. Trix felt that she would be a little better able to stand up for herself if she could produce thousands made under the hated auspices of Fricker; she would at least be able to retire from her nefarious pursuits without being told that she was a fool as well as all the rest of it. She waited still on Fricker.
'I shall never do it again, of course,' she said to Mrs. Bonfill, 'but if it all goes well I do think that no more need be said about it.'
Mrs. Bonfill made concessions to this point of view.
'Let us hope it will be so, my dear. I think myself that your faults have been mainly of taste.'
'At any rate I'm not silly,' she protested to Mervyn. 'You mayn't like the man, but he knows his business.'
'I certainly hope you won't have to add pecuniary loss to the other disagreeable features of the affair,' said Mervyn; and a few minutes later, apparently as an afterthought, he asked her carelessly how much she would make on the best hypothesis. Trix named a moderate figure but a substantial one.
'And I suppose the rogue'll make twice as much himself!' There was reluctant envy in Mervyn's tone. It gave Trix courage. Could she brandish winnings in their faces, she felt sure that the lecturers would be less severe and she less helpless before them.
Meanwhile, with the impulse to make a friend among her gaolers, with her woman's instinct for the likeliest, she was all dutifulness and affection towards Barmouth. She made way with him. The success helped her a little, but less than it would have because of his reverence for his son.
'How such an affectionate well-mannered young womancould be led so far astray is inexplicable to me—inexplicable,' he observed to Mrs. Bonfill.
Mrs. Bonfill endorsed his bewilderment with a helpless wave of her hand.
'There is good in her,' he announced. 'She will respond to Mortimer's influence.' And the good gentleman began to make things a little easier for Trix within the narrow sphere of his ability. Nobody, of course, had ever told him that the sphere was narrow, and he had not discovered it; his small semi-surreptitious indulgences were bestowed with a princely flourish.
Lady Barmouth was inexorable; she was Mervyn's outraged mother. She had, moreover, the acuteness to discern one of the ideas that lay in Trix's mind and stiffened it to endurance.
'Now is the time to mould her,' she said to Mrs. Bonfill. 'It would not perhaps be so easy presently.'
Mrs. Bonfill knew what 'presently' meant, and thought that her friend was probably right.
'But once we imbue her with our feeling about things, she will keep it. At present she is receptive.'
'I think she is,' agreed Mrs. Bonfill, who had just an occasional pang of pity for Trix's extreme receptivity and the ample advantage taken of it.
Trix had received a brief note from Fricker, saying that he was doing his best to carry out her instructions, and hoped to be able to arrange matters satisfactorily, although he must obviously be hampered in some degree by the peremptory nature of her request. Trix hardly saw why this was obvious, but, if obvious, at any rate it was also quite inevitable. She certainly did not realise what an excellent excuse she had equipped Mr. Fricker with if he sold her shares at a loss. But apparently he had not sold them, at least no news came to that effect; hope that he was waiting to effect a greatcoupstill shot in one encouraging streak across the deadly weariness of being imbued with the Barmouth feeling about things. Not once a day, but onceevery hour at least, did she recall that unregenerate impulse of Lady Blixworth's, confessed to at this very Barslett, and accord it her heartiest sympathy.
'But I will stick to it,' she said to herself grimly. Her pluck was in arms; her time would come; for the present all hung on Fricker.
It was a beautiful July evening when his letter came. Trix had just escaped from a long talk with Mervyn. He had been rather more affectionate, rather less didactic than usual; something analogous to what the law calls a Statute of Limitations seemed gradually to be coming into his mind as within the sphere of practical domestic politics; not an amnesty, that was going too far, but the possibility of saying no more about it some day. Trix was hopeful as she wandered into the garden, and, sitting down by the fountain, let the gentle breeze blow on her face. It comforted her still to look at thefaçadeand the gardens; she got from the contemplation of them much the same quality of pleasure as Airey Newton drew from the sight of his safe and his red-leather book.
A footman brought her two letters. One was from Peggy Ryle, a rigmarole of friendly gossip, ending with, 'We're all having a splendid time, and we all hope you are too. Everybody sent their love to you last night at supper.' With a wistful smile Trix laid this letter down. What different meanings that word 'splendid' may bear, to be sure!
The other letter—it was from Fricker! Fricker at last! A hasty glance round preceded the opening of it. It was rather long. She read and re-read, passing her hand across her brow; indeed she could hardly understand it, though Fricker was credited by his friends with an unrivalled power of conveying his meaning with precision and nicety. He had tried to obey her instructions. Unfortunately there had been no market. Perforce he had waited. He had been puzzled, had Fricker, and waited to make inquiries. Alas! the explanation had not been long in coming. First, the lode had suddenly narrowed. On the top of this calamity had comea fire in the mine, and much damage to the property. The directors had considered whether it would not be wise to suspend operations altogether, but had in the end resolved to go on. Mr. Fricker doubted their wisdom, but there it was. The decision entailed a call of five shillings per share—of course Mrs. Trevalla would remember that the shares were only five shillings paid. The directors hoped that further calls would not be necessary; here Fricker was sadly sceptical again. Meanwhile, there was no chance of selling; to be plain, Glowing Star shares would not just now be a welcome gift to anyone, let alone an eligible purchase. So, since sale was impossible, payment of the call was inevitable. Then came the end. 'Of course, mines are not Consols; nobody knows that better than yourself. I regret the unlucky issue of this venture. I cannot help thinking that things would have gone better if we had been in closer touch, and I had enjoyed more ready access to you. But I was forced to doubt my welcome, and so was, perhaps, led into not keeping you as thoroughlyau faitwith what was going on as I should have liked. I cannot blame myself for this, however much I regret it. I gather that you do not intend to undertake any further operations, or I would console yourself and myself by saying "Better luck next time!" As matters stand (I refer, of course, to your last letter to me), I can only again express my regret that Glowing Stars have been subject to such bad luck, and that I find myself, thanks to your own desire, not in a position to help you to recoup your losses.' A postscript added, 'For your convenience I may remind you that your present holding is four thousand shares.'
The last part of the letter was easier to understand than the first. It needed no re-reading. 'You've chosen to drop me. Shift for yourself, and pay your own shot.' That was what Mr. Fricker said when it was translated into the terse brevity of a vulgar directness. The man's cold relentlessness spoke in every word. Not only Beaufort Chance, not only the Barmouths and Mrs. Bonfill, not only Mortimer Mervyn, had lessons to teach and scourges wherewith to enforce them.Fricker had his lesson to give and his scourge to brandish too.
Again Trix Trevalla looked round, this time in sheer panic. She crumpled up Fricker's letter and thrust it into her pocket. She saw Peggy Ryle's in her lap—Peggy who was having a splendid time! Trix got up and fairly ran into the house, choking down her sobs.
Ten minutes later Mervyn strolled out, looking for her. He did not find her, but he came upon an envelope lying on the ground near the fountain—a long-shaped business envelope. It was addressed to Mrs. Trevalla, and at the back it bore an oval impressed stamp 'S. F. & Co.'
'Ah, she's heard from Fricker! That's the end of the whole thing, I hope!' He felt glad of that, so glad that he added in a gentle and pitying tone, 'Poor little Trix, we must keep her out of mischief in future!' He looked at his watch, pocketed the envelope (he was a very orderly man), paced up and down for a few minutes, and then went in to dress for dinner. As he dressed a pleasant little idea came into his head; he would puzzle Trix by his cleverness; he meditated what, coming from a less eminent young man, would have been called 'a score.'
At dinner Trix was bright and animated; Mervyn's manner was affectionate; the other three exchanged gratified glances—Trix was becoming imbued with the Barmouth feeling about things, even (as it seemed) to the extent of sharing the Barmouth ideas as to a merry evening.
'You're brilliant to-night, Trix—brilliant,' Lord Barmouth assured her.
'Oh, she can be!' declared Mrs. Bonfill, with a return to the 'fond mother' style of early days.
Lady Barmouth looked slightly uneasy and changed the subject; after all, brilliancy was hardly Barmouthian.
When the servants had gone and the port came (Mervyn did not drink it, but his father did), Mervyn perceived his moment: the presence of the others was no hindrance; had not Trix's punishment been as public as her sin? If shewere forgiven, the ceremony should certainly be in the face of the congregation.
'So you heard from Mr. Fricker to-day?' he said to Trix.
He did not mean to trap her, only, as explained, to raise a cry of admiration by telling how he came to know and producing the envelope. But in an instant Trix suspected a trap and was on the alert; she had the vigilance of the hunted; her brain worked at lightning speed. In a flash of salvation the picture of herself crumpling up the letter rose before her; the letter, yes, but the envelope? In the result Mervyn's 'score' succeeded to a marvel.
'Yes, but how did you know?' she cried, apparently in boundless innocent astonishment.
'Ah!' said he archly. 'Now how did I know?' He produced the envelope and held it up before her eyes. 'You'd never make a diplomatist, Trix!'
'I dropped it in the garden!'
'And, as I was naturally looking for you, I found it!'
He was not disappointed of his sensation. The thing was simple indeed, but neat.
'I notice everything too—everything,' observed Lord Barmouth, with the air of explaining an occurrence otherwise very astonishing.
'It's quite true, Robert does,' Lady Barmouth assured Mrs. Bonfill.
'Wonderful!' ejaculated that lady with friendly heartiness.
Lord Barmouth cleared his throat. 'So far as possible from that quarter, good news, I hope?'
Trix had postponed making up her mind what to say; she did not mean to mention Fricker's letter till the next morning, and hoped that she would see her way a little clearer then. She was denied the respite. They all waited for her answer.
'Oh, don't let's talk business at dinner! I'll tell you about it afterwards,' she said.
Mervyn interposed with a suave but peremptory request.
'My dear, it must be on our minds. Just tell us in a word.'
Her brain, still working at express speed, seeming indeed as though it could never again drop to humdrum pace, pictured the effect of the truth and the Barmouth way of looking at the truth. She had no hope but that the truth—well, most of the truth anyhow—must come some day; but she must tell it to Mervyn alone, at her own time; she would not and could not tell it to them all there and then.
'It's very good,' she said coolly. 'I don't understand quite how good, but quite good.'
'And the whole thing's finished?' asked Mrs. Bonfill.
'Absolutely finished,' assented Trix.
Lord Barmouth sighed and looked round the table; his air was magnanimous in the extreme.
'I think we must say, "All's well that ends well!"' Trix was next him; he patted her hand as it lay on the table.
That was going just a little too far.
'It ends well—and it ends!' amended Mervyn with affectionate authority. Lady Barmouth nodded approval to Mrs. Bonfill.
'Oh, yes, it ends,' said Trix Trevalla.
Her face felt burning hot; she wondered whether its colour tallied with the sensation. Despair was in her heart; she had lied again, and lied for no ultimate good. She rather startled Lady Barmouth by asking for a glass of port. Lord Barmouth, in high good-humour, poured it out gallantly, and then, with obvious tact, shifted the talk to a discussion of his son's public services, pointing out incidentally how the qualities that had rendered these possible had in his own case displayed themselves in a sphere more private, but not, as he hoped, less useful. Mervyn agreed that his father had been quite as useful as himself. Even Mrs. Bonfill stifled a yawn.
The end of dinner came. Trix escaped into the garden, leaving the ladies in the drawing-room, the men still at the table. Her brain was painting scenes with broad rapid strokes of the brush. She saw herself telling Mervyn, she saw his face, his voice, his horrified amazement. Then came she herself waiting while he told the others. Next there was the facing of the family. What would they do? Would they turn her out? That would be a bitter short agony. Or would they not rather keep her in prison and school her again? She would come to them practically a pauper now. Besides all there had been against her before, she would now stand confessed a pauper and a fool. One, too, who had lied about the thing to the very end! In the dark of evening the great house loomed like a very prison. The fountains were silent, the birds at rest; a heavy stillness added to the dungeon-like effect. She walked quickly, furiously, along one path after another, throwing uneasy glances over her shoulder, listening for a footfall, as though she were in literal truth being tracked and hunted from her lair. The heart was out of her: at last her courage was broken. What early hardships, what Vesey Trevalla, what Beaufort Chance himself could not do, that Fricker and the Barmouths had done—Fricker's idea of what was necessary in business relations and the Barmouth way of feeling about things. There was no fight left in Trix Trevalla.
Unless it were for one desperate venture, the height of courage or of cowardice—which she knew not, and it signified nothing. She had ceased to think. She had little but a blind instinct urging her to hide herself.
'This is very fortunate, Mortimer,' observed Barmouth over his port. He did not take coffee; Mervyn did.
'The best possible thing under the circumstances. I don't think I need say much more to her.'
'I think not. She understands now how we feel. Perhaps we could hardly expect her to realise it until she had enjoyed the full opportunities her stay here has given her.' Who now should call him narrow-minded?
'I have very little fear for the future,' said Mervyn.
'You have every reason to hope. I wonder—er—how much she has made?' Mervyn frowned slightly. 'Well, well, it's better to win than lose,' Barmouth added, with a propitiatory smile.
'Of course. But——'
'You don't like the subject? Of course not! No more do I. Shall we join the ladies? A moment, Mortimer. Would you rather speak to her yourself? Or should your mother——?'
'Oh, no. There's really nothing. Leave it to me.'
Lady Barmouth and Mrs. Bonfill were drinking tea from ancestral china.
'Mortimer is quiet, but he's very firm,' Lady Barmouth was saying. 'I think we need fear no—no outbreaks in the future.'
'A firm hand will do no harm with Trix. But with proper management she'll be a credit to him.'
'I really think we can hope so, Sarah. Where is she, by the way?'
'She's gone to her room. I don't think she'll come down again to-night from what my maid said just now when I met her.' Mrs. Bonfill paused and added, 'She must have been under a strain, you know.'
'She should have been prepared for that. However Mortimer doesn't go to town till the afternoon to-morrow.' There would be plenty of time for morals to be pointed.
Mervyn seemed hardly surprised at not finding Trix. He agreed that the next day would serve, and took himself off to read papers and write letters; by doing the work to-night he would save a post. Lord Barmouth put on a woollen cap, wrapped a Shetland shawl round his shoulders, and said that he would go for a stroll. This form of words was well understood; it was no infrequent way of his to take a look round his domains in the evening; there were sometimes people out at night who ought to be indoors, and, on the other hand, the fireside now and then beguiled anight-watchman from his duties. Such little irregularities, so hard to avoid in large establishments, were kept in check by Lord Barmouth's evening strolls—'prowls' they were called in other quarters of the house than those occupied by the family itself. The clock struck ten as the worthy nobleman set forth on his mission of law, order, and, it may happily be added, personal enjoyment. He was armed with a spud and a bull's-eye lantern.
The night-watchman was asleep by the fire in the engine-room. Justification number one for the excursion. Her ladyship's own maid was talking to Lord Mervyn's own man in a part of the premises rigorously reserved for the men who lived over the stables. Justification, cumulative justification, number two. Lord Barmouth turned into the shrubbery, just to see whether the little gate leading on to the high road was locked, according to the strict orders given. It was not locked. Justification, triumphant and crowning justification, number three!
'It's scandalous—scandalous,' murmured Lord Barmouth in something very like gratification. Many people would miss their chief pleasure were their neighbours and dependants void of blame.
He turned back at a brisk pace; he had no key to the gate himself, the night-watchman had; the night-watchman did not seem to be in luck's way to-night. Lord Barmouth's step was quick and decisive, his smile sour; leaving that gate unlocked was a capital offence, and he was eager to deal punishment. But suddenly he came to a pause on the narrow path.
Justification number four! A woman came towards him, hurrying along with rapid frightened tread. She was making for the gate. The nefariousness of the scheme thus revealed infuriated Barmouth. He stepped aside behind a tree and waited till she came nearer. She wore a large hat and a thick veil; she turned her head back several times, as though to listen behind her. He flashed his lantern on her and saw a dark skirt with a light silk petticoat showing aninch or two below. He conceived the gravest suspicions of the woman—a thing that perhaps need not be considered unreasonable. He stepped out on the path, and walked towards her, hiding the light of the lantern again.
'Who are you, ma'am? What are you doing here? Where do you come from?' His peremptory questions came like pistol-shots.
She turned her head towards him, starting violently. But after that she stood still and silent.
'I am Lord Barmouth. I suppose you know me? What's your business here?'
She was silent still.
'Nonsense! You have no business here, and you know it. You must give me an account of yourself, ma'am, or I shall find a way to make you.'
She gave an account of herself; with trembling ungloved hands she raised her veil. He turned his lantern on her face and recoiled from her with a clumsy spring.
'You?' he gasped. 'You? Trix? Are you mad? Where are you going?'
Her face was pale and hard-lined; her eyes were bright, and looked scarcely sane in the concentrated glare of the lantern.
'Let me pass,' she said in a low shaken voice.
'Let you pass! Where to? Nonsense! You're——'
'Let me pass,' she commanded again.
'No,' he answered, barring her path with his broad squat form. Decision rang in his tones.
'You must,' she said simply. She put out her arms and thrust at him. He was heavy to move, but he was driven on one side; the nervous fury in her arms sent him staggering back; he dropped his lantern and saved himself with his spud.
'Trix!' he cried in helpless rage and astonishment.
'No, no, no!' she sobbed out as she darted past him, pulling her veil down again and making for the gate. She ran now, sobbing convulsively, and catching up her skirtshigh over her ankles. The manner of her running scandalised Lord Barmouth hardly less than the fact of it.
'Trix! Trix!' he shouted imperiously, and started in pursuit of her. She did not turn again, nor speak again. She rushed through the gate, slamming it behind her. It swung to in his face as he came up. Snatching it open, he held it with his hand; she was ten or fifteen yards down the road, running with a woman's short, shuffling, flat-footed stride, but making good headway all the same; still he heard her sobs, more convulsive now for shortness of breath.
'Good God!' said Lord Barmouth, helplessly staring after her.
Justifications one, two, and three were driven clean out of his head. Justification number four made matter enough for any brain to hold—and the night-watchman was in luck's way after all.
He stood there till he could neither hear nor see her; then, leaving the gate ajar, he wrapped his shawl closer round him, picked up his lantern, and walked slowly home. An alarm or a pursuit did not occur to him. He was face to face with something that he did not understand, but he understood enough to see that at this moment nothing could be done.
The greatfaçadeof the house was dark, save for two windows. Behind one Mervyn worked steadily at his papers. Behind the other lights flared in the room that had belonged to Trix—flared on the disorder of her dinner-gown flung aside, her bag half-packed and thus abandoned, Fricker's letter torn across and lying in the middle of the floor.
Barmouth must be pardoned his bewilderment. The whole affair was so singularly out of harmony with the Barmouth feelings and the Barmouth ways.