Only a woman's heart--indeed;A sacred thing to you, you say,To me, a toy, with which to play.Ah, well, let each hold fast his creed.What matter should it chance to bleed,Is it a man's cut finger?--nay,Only a woman's heart.On ancient tales your fancies feed,When woman ruled in saintly way,But we have changed such things to-day.For, after all, what use to heed?Only a woman's heart.
Only a woman's heart--indeed;A sacred thing to you, you say,To me, a toy, with which to play.Ah, well, let each hold fast his creed.
What matter should it chance to bleed,Is it a man's cut finger?--nay,Only a woman's heart.
On ancient tales your fancies feed,When woman ruled in saintly way,But we have changed such things to-day.For, after all, what use to heed?Only a woman's heart.
Seeing that Reginald had thus escaped him for a time, Mr. Beaumont's temper was none of the sweetest when he arrived back at his chambers. Like most clever men the artist was very proud of his tact and delicacy in dealing with ingenuous youth, and he felt annoyed with himself lest by failing to skilfully angle for this trout, he should have lost his prize by failing in his diplomacy, and thereby shown too plainly the real reasons he had for his apparently disinterested friendship. So, on arrival at his chambers, Mr. Beaumont lighted a cigarette, threw himself moodily into a big arm-chair, and proceeded to mentally review all his conduct towards Reginald since the lad's arrival in town.
Hard as he tried to find some flaw in his own conduct which might have put Blake on his guard, Beaumont was quite unsuccessful in doing so, for his demeanour towards his proposed victim had been all that the most delicate tactician could have desired.
"I can't have frightened him away," he said aloud to himself, "for I acted the disinterested friend to perfection. Hang it! I wonder what took him back to Garsworth. I saw a letter in his hand, so I expect Una Challoner's been writing to him: but that would not do me any harm, for she likes me, and I should think would be rather glad if I looked after the boy in Town. I wonder it that confounded Patience has been talking? I made things all straight before I left Garsworth, but one never knows what may happen, and if Patience got an inkling of my design, she'd move heaven and earth to get the boy back again to her side--humph! I hardly know what to think--that's the worst of dealing with women; they're so crooked, you never know what they're going to do next."
He arose from his seat and walked impatiently up and down the room, seeking some solution of the problem thus presented to him. While doing so, he happened to glance at the mantelpiece, and saw thereon a letter.
"I wish that man of mine wouldn't put the letters there," he grumbled, taking the letter, "I can never find them--but let me see who this is from; Garsworth postmark--don't know the writing--wonder if Una Challoner is--by Jove!" he ejaculated, as he took out the letter and glanced at the signature, "it's from Patience Allerby. I knew she had been up to some mischief. Well! I'll read the letter, and see if I can't foil you, my lady."
Resuming his seat in the arm-chair, he smoothed out the letter carefully as he prepared to read it. The contents, which were as follows, considerably astonished him, and his lips curled with a cynical smile as he glanced down the closely-written page.
"Basil Beaumont,--
"Is it true what Dr. Nestley has told me--that you are in love with Una Challoner? If it is, I will make an end of everything between us, and denounce you, even at the cost of my own liberty. You have ruined my life, but you are not going to ruin that of my son by taking from him the woman he loves.
"Reginald Blake is now in London, and I hear you are constantly by his side. Act honourably by him, or I swear I will punish you for any harm you do to him. By our mutual sin he is now in possession of the Garsworth Estate, and is going to marry the lawful mistress of it. As this is the case, and his marriage to Miss Challoner is the one atonement both of us can make for depriving her of her inheritance, you must let things take their course. You have a desperate woman to deal with in me, and if you harm either Reginald or his promised wife in any way, I swear by all that I hold most sacred that you will stand in the prisoner's dock for conspiracy, even though I have to stand by your side as an accomplice.
"Patience Allerby."
Beaumont laughed sardonically as he finished this letter, and twirling it in his fingers, looked thoughtfully at the carpet.
"I wonder," he said at length, in a low voice, "I wonder if this letter means love of her son, or jealousy of Una; both I expect, for though she hates me like poison, and everything sentimental between us is dead and buried years ago she gets mad as soon as she thinks I admire another woman--strange thing a female heart--whatever ashes of dead loves may remain in it, there is always some live ember hidden beneath--humph! queer thing that the love of twenty years ago should suddenly spring up again to life."
He arose from his seat, and commenced once more to walk up and down the room, soliloquising in a low voice, while outside the fog was growing quite black and a sombre twilight spread through the apartment.
"So it's Nestley I've got to thank for rousing her suspicions. He's been giving Patience his view of my character, which no doubt will coincide with her own--amiable creatures both! She has told Una that there is danger to Reginald in my companionship, so either herself or Una have written to town and frightened my shy bird into taking flight. Bother these women, how dreadfully they do upset one's plans; however, I do not mind, my hold upon Reginald Blake is just as firm at Garsworth as it is in London. As to Patience denouncing me--pish!--melodramatic rubbish--it's too late now to talk such nonsense--if she tells the truth her son loses the property, and she's too fond of him to risk that. As to Blake himself, when he knows I'm his father he'll be glad enough to make terms or lose the property and Una Challoner."
He paused a moment, lighted a cigarette, and going to the window gazed absently out into the black mist which clung around the roofs and chimney-pots of the houses, and hid the brilliantly lighted street below from his gaze.
"Una Challoner," he murmured thoughtfully. "Patience thinks I am in love with her. Curious that I am not: she has everything a woman can have to attract and allure a man, and yet I don't care a bit about her. Had I been in love with her I would not have troubled my head about Reginald but let Una inherit the property, and then it would have been a tug of war between father and son as to who married the heiress! That I have secured the property for our son ought to easily convince Patience that I love money more than Una Challoner, but of course she doesn't see because she is blinded by jealousy--rather complimentary to me I must say, seeing how hard I tried to break her heart in the past."
Turning away from the window with a sigh he lighted the gas, then going over to the mirror placed over the fireplace he looked at himself long and critically.
"You're growing old, my friend," he murmured, "the wine of life is running to the lees with you, and I'm afraid you'll never fall in love again--still it's wonderful how I keep my good looks--my face is my fortune--ah, bah! and what fortune has it brought me? two dismal rooms, a precarious existence, and not a friend in the world."
He laughed drearily at the dismal prospect he had conjured up and pursued his meditation.
"I'll make one more bid for fortune, and I think I hold strong cards. If I win--as I can't help doing--I'll turn over a new leaf and become respectable. But if I lose, and there are always the possibilities of losing, I'll throw up the sponge in England and try my luck in America. If I don't succeed there, perhaps a friendly cowboy will put an end to my wasted life; at present,carpe diem, as our friend the vicar would say, so I'll dine at the club and scribble a letter to Patience Allerby."
He dressed himself slowly, still in a dismal mood, and as he was rattling along in a hansom he gave himself an impatient shake.
"Bah," he muttered with a shiver, "I've got a fit of the blue devils with this weather. Never mind, a good dinner and a bottle of wine will soon put me right."
He had both, and felt so much better that he began to view things in a more rosy light, and wrote a letter to Patience Allerby which entirely satisfied him.
"There," he said gaily, as he dropped it into the box, "I think that will show my lady pretty plainly how I intend to proceed, so now as there's nothing better to do I'll go to the theatre."
And to the theatre he went, trying by every means in his power to shake off by means of this fictitious gaiety the gloomy thoughts which always beset him when he found himself alone.
After great troubles our lives rearrange themselves in new forms, which last only until some later evil arises therefrom to alter them once more, and these latter in their turn are subject to further changes, so that from cradle to tomb our fortunes alter in divers ways every moment of our existence.
After great troubles our lives rearrange themselves in new forms, which last only until some later evil arises therefrom to alter them once more, and these latter in their turn are subject to further changes, so that from cradle to tomb our fortunes alter in divers ways every moment of our existence.
So the prodigal son had returned after his perilous wanderings in far lands, and his home circle killed the fatted calf and made merry in token of rejoicing. When Una saw how haggard the young man was in appearance and how depressed in mind, she felt deeply grateful to Providence that the chance words of Nestley had led her to write the letter which had induced her lover to return. Now that he was once more by her side she determined that nothing should every part them again, and longed eagerly for the marriage to take place which should give her the right to go through life by his side. Doubtless many people would consider such longing hardly compatible with maiden modesty, but Una was too pure and sensible a woman to look at things in such a false light. She ardently loved Reginald and he returned that love, why then should she, for the sake of conventional appearance, risk her life's happiness by delay, seeing that everything was now at stake? No! she was determined to get married to Reginald as soon as possible, so that he would not be lured to destruction by evil counsel and wicked companions. It was not that she mistrusted her lover, for she well knew his straightforward, honourable nature, but it was better to leave nothing to chance, as even the strongest of men is not proof against temptation.
A week after Reginald arrived they were seated in Dr. Larcher's study talking over the question of the marriage, and the vicar was inclined to agree with their desire that it should be soon, although he was unwilling they should be blamed for undue haste.
"The world, my dear Una, is censorious," he said, wisely, "and as the Squire has only been dead two months it will be as well to wait a little longer."
"I suppose so," replied Una with a sigh, "although I do not see it would mean any disrespect to his memory if we got married at once."
"No doubt, no doubt--still,medio tutissimus ibis, and I think it will be wiser for you both to put off the marriage for at least three months."
"Three months," said Reginald, with a groan, "that's as bad as three years, but I suppose we must--I will stay at Garsworth in the meantime."
"Of course, my dear boy, of course," answered the vicar, crossing his legs and placing his thumbs and forefingers together, "you can take up your old life again."
"Ah, never! never again," said the young man, shaking his head sadly, "the old life is dead and done with. I have eaten of the tree of knowledge, and the fruit is bitter."
"My dear Reginald," said Una, crossing over to him and putting her kind arms round his neck, "you must not be so despondent--it is not your fault."
"The sins of the father are visited on the children," he replied gloomily, "if it had been anything else I would not have minded--but to be what I am--a nobody--entitled to bear no name--it is bitter, very bitter indeed. I've no doubt I should be above such petty pride, still I am but mortal, and disgrace is hard to bear."
"If it is disgrace I will bear it with you," whispered Una, smoothing his hair, "we will be married and go away for a time; you will soon forget the past when we go abroad."
"With your help I hope to," he said, looking affectionately into her clear eyes shining down on him with ineffable love in their azure depths.
"I think," remarked the vicar, touched by the deep sorrow of the young man, "that taking all things into consideration it would be wiser to do as you wish."
"And marry?" cried Reginald eagerly.
"And marry," assented the vicar, nodding good-naturedly; "what says Horace? 'carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.' So taking that advice it will be best for you both to be married quietly next week and go abroad for a time:--when you return Reginald will doubtless find his position easier."
"I hope so," said Blake mournfully, as they arose to go, "but I'm afraid it's hopeless--this discovery has killed all the pleasures of life--my youth is dead."
"The soul is immortal," said Dr. Larcher solemnly, "and on the ruins of your joyous youth, which you regard as dead, you can raise the structure of a nobler and wiser life--it will be hard, but with Una to help you, not impossible--nil mortalibus arduum est."
And they went away from the presence of the old man--he with resignation in his breast, and she with whispering words of comfort on her lips, infinite pity in her eyes, and enduring affection in her heart.
Patience Allerby was delighted when she heard how soon the marriage was to take place, as she dreaded lest through the machinations of Beaumont it should be broken off. Once Reginald was married to Una he would be safe both as regards fortune and position, for nothing Beaumont could reveal concerning the conspiracy would alter the state of affairs and her one aim in life to secure happiness for her son, would thus be accomplished.
At present, however, she dreaded every day either to see Beaumont or hear from him, especially after the warning letter she had written, nor was she disappointed, for a week after Reginald's return she received a letter from her quondam lover informing her that he was coming down in order to have a proper understanding with his son.
"The young rascal has more firmness of purpose than I gave him credit for," he wrote in a cynical vein, "and took less eagerly to the dissipations of London than I should have expected. I am afraid he inherits your cold blood and not the hot temperament of his father, otherwise he would hardly have left the only city fit to live in for a dull hole like Garsworth. However, I see plainly he is a clod and lacks the divine zest necessary to enjoy life, so I suppose he has returned in perfect contentment to marry Una Challoner and live the bovine life of a country squire. So be it! I certainly do not mind, but first he must settle with me. I have placed him in a good position and given him a large income, so for these services I must be recompensed, and am coming down to have an interview with him on the subject. If he is wise he will seek to know no more than he does, but if he inherits your obstinate nature and wants to know all, I am afraid he will have to learn the truth. Even then it will not be too late, for I to will hold my tongue as to his real birth, and leave him in full possession of his wealth provided I am well paid for such silence. Now that you understand the situation you had better prepare him to receive me as one who desires to be friendly--if he treats me as an enemy he will find me a bitter one, so he had better be sensible and come to terms. As to my love for Una Challoner, you ought to know by this time I love no one but
"Yours truly,
"Basil Beaumont."
This brutal letter fell like a lump of ice on the heart of the unhappy Patience as she saw the net gradually closing round her. She knew only too well that Beaumont would do what he said unless some arrangement could be made--and then, as Nestley said he loved Una, he would doubtless want to marry her as well as gain an income, and their son would be left miserable. No, she would not have it, this devil would not be permitted to sin any more and ruin lives with impunity as he had hitherto done. She made up her mind to see him before his interview with Reginald, and make one last appeal to his feelings as a father; if he refused to grant her prayers and keep the boy ignorant of his real birth she would reveal all herself and bear the shame sooner than he should tempt Reginald to a sin. When all was told she would implore Una to still marry her son, and then depart to bury herself in solitude, and expiate her sins by years of repentance.
Events were still in the future, and she knew not how they would turn out, but of one thing she was determined, that Beaumont should not blight and ruin her son's life as he had blighted and ruined her own.
"Is this the end of all the yearsThat thou hast lived, my friend?Of merry smiles and bitter tears,Is this the end?Tho' sad and dark the past appears,God to thy soul will courage send,And Christ will whisper in thine earsThe word which hearts desponding cheers;So rise and to thy work attend.Nor let the wicked ask with jeersIs this the end?"
"Is this the end of all the years
That thou hast lived, my friend?
Of merry smiles and bitter tears,
Is this the end?
Tho' sad and dark the past appears,
God to thy soul will courage send,
And Christ will whisper in thine ears
The word which hearts desponding cheers;
So rise and to thy work attend.
Nor let the wicked ask with jeers
Is this the end?"
A few days after a decision had been arrived at concerning the marriage Basil Beaumont made his reappearance in Garsworth, and took up his old quarters at "The House of Good Living," in order to come to a final understanding with Reginald Blake.
The artist was in an excellent humour, for, according to his own judgment, he was master of the situation. He had only to threaten Reginald with the loss of his newly acquired wealth, and, judging the young man's nature by his own, he felt satisfied that, sooner than surrender Garsworth Grange, the false heir would pay him a handsome income to hold his tongue. With such income he would retire to the Continent and amuse himself for the rest of his life, while, as for Patience, seeing that he had no further use for her, she could make what arrangement she liked with Reginald, and please herself in her manner of living. With all this astute calculation, however, Beaumont made no allowance for the different nature of his son, and did not for a moment think that the young man's nobility of soul would induce him rather to resign everything, at whatever cost, than keep possession of what he knew was not rightfully his own.
He learnt from Kossiter that Reginald and Una were going to be married the next week, and smiled cynically to himself as he thought how easily he could stop the ceremony.
"If Una Challoner only knew the truth," he thought, "I think even her love would recoil from such a trial. Reginald Blake, the wealthy bastard, is one thing; but Reginald Blake, the pauper bastard, is another. Yes, I think I hold the best hand in this game; as to Patience! bah! my cards are somewhat too strong for her to beat."
Mr. Beaumont had only arrived a short time, and was seated before the fire smoking in the dull light of the winter afternoon, preparatory to writing a letter to Reginald. Margery, bright and alert, was clearing away the luncheon, so Mr. Beaumont, wishing to be quite sure of his ground, began to question her concerning the events which had taken place during his absence.
"I hear Miss Challoner is going to be married to Mr. Blake," he said genially; "it's a good match for her."
"And for him, too, sir," retorted Margery indignantly. "Miss Una is as sweet a young lady as you will find anywhere."
"No doubt," answered Beaumont blandly. "They are a charming couple, and certainly deserve the good opinion of everybody; but tell me, Margery, what about Dr. Nestley? I suppose he has gone long ago?"
"No," said Margery, shaking her head, "he is still here."
"In this place?"
"Yes sir, very--very ill."
"Humph!" thought Beaumont, "got the jumps, I expect. What is the matter with him?" he asked aloud.
"He lost his way in the snow storm last week," explained Margery deliberately, "and nearly died, but Farmer Sanders found him on the bridge and brought him here."
"Oh! and is he here still?"
"He is, sir. He was quite delirious, sir--raved awful. Dr. Blank's been attending him, and Miss Mosser."
"The blind organist--why has she turned nurse?"
Margery smiled in a mysterious manner.
"Well, folks say one thing and some folks say another," she replied, folding the table-cloth, "but I think she's in love with him; anyhow, as soon as she heard he was ill she came here like a mad woman, with Miss Busky, and both of 'em have been nursing him ever since."
"How good of them," said Beaumont ironically, "and is he better?"
"He's sensible," answered Margery cautiously, "but very weak. I don't know as he'll live."
"I'd like to see him. You know I'm a friend of his--do you think I could go up to his room?"
"I don't know, sir," returned Margery stolidly. "I'll ask Miss Mosser."
"Do, that's a good girl, he replied, and Margery departed.
"Poor Nestley," muttered Beaumont to himself, lighting another cigarette, "it was rather a shame of me to have led him on like I did, but if I hadn't he would have interfered with my plans concerning old Garsworth, so I had to--self-preservation is the first law of nature. Come in," he called out, as a knock came to the door. "Come in, Margery."
It was not Margery, however, but Cecilia Mosser, who entered, with a pale sad face and a painfully-strained look in her sightless eyes.
"Mr. Beaumont," she said, in her low sweet voice.
"I am here, Miss Mosser," he replied, rising from his seat. "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing," she replied, groping her way to the table and standing beside it. "Are you alone?"
"Quite alone," returned Beaumont politely.
"You wish to see Dr. Nestley?"
"If I may be permitted."
"You will not be permitted," answered Cecilia slowly; "he is still very weak, and the sight of you would make him ill again."
"And why?" asked Beaumont, rather annoyed at the firmness of her tone; "surely a friend----"
"A friend," she interrupted, in a low vibrating tone. "Yes, a friend who is one in name only."
"I don't understand you," said Basil politely. "What do you know of the friendship existing between myself and Dr. Nestley?"
"I know everything--yes everything--in his delirium he revealed more than he would have done----"
"Delirium--pshaw!"
"What he said then was confirmed by his own lips afterwards when he was sensible," she answered in a perfectly cool manner, "and I know how much your friendship has cost him--how you tried to drag him down to the lowest depths of iniquity. God knows for what end----"
Beaumont laughed in a sneering way, and leaned his shoulders comfortably against the mantelpiece.
"You seem to be in the confidence of our mutual friend," he said, in an easy tone. "May I ask why?"
"Because I am going to be his wife," replied Cecilia, while a flood of crimson rushed over the pure white of her face.
"His wife--a blind girl?"
"Blind as I am he loves me," she said indignantly, "and I can protect him against you, Mr. Beaumont."
"Me? I do not wish to harm him."
"No. You could not even if you did wish; he is going to marry me, and I hope to undo all the harm you have done him."
"I wish you joy of your task," he replied with a sneer. "But Dr. Nestley seems to be able to transfer his affections very easily--perhaps you do not know he was in love with Miss Challoner."
"Yes I do," she answered in a low tone, "he told me everything; and we understand one another perfectly. You have done your worst, Mr. Beaumont, and can do no more--he is going to become my husband, and, blind as I am, I hope to be his guardian angel from such men as you."
"These domestic details don't interest me in the slightest," he answered contemptuously, waving his hand. "Will you be kind enough to go, Miss Mosser? I have some letters to write."
"I am going," answered the blind girl, quietly feeling her way to the door. "I only came to tell you that you will never see him again--never!"
"Neither will you," he returned brutally.
The poor girl burst into tears at the unmanly taunt, but hastily dried them, and answered him back proudly.
"I can see him in my own mind, sir," she said indignantly, "and that is all I wish for--his faults have been of your making, and not of his own. I say good-bye to you, sir, and only wish you a better heart, that you may not make a jest of the misfortunes of others."
As she closed the door after her, Beaumont felt rather ashamed of himself, but soon recovered from the feeling, and sat down at the table to write a note to Reginald.
"Bah!" he said, as his pen travelled swiftly over the paper. "What do I care? if he likes to encumber himself with that woman he can do so. I don't suppose I'll ever see him again in this life, nor do I wish to--my business now is with my dear son. I'll get what I want out of him, and then the whole lot of them can go to the devil."
Meanwhile, Cecilia had returned to the sick room, where Miss Busky, still faithful to her blind friend, sat watching by the bedside of the invalid. A pale, sickly light filtered in through the white-curtained windows, mixing with the red glow of the fire, and in this curiously blended twilight could be seen the glimmer of the medicine bottles on the round table by the bed, the deep arm-chair close at hand wherein Miss Busky sat the milky whiteness of the disordered bed-clothes and the subdued shine upon the surface of the furniture. Throughout the room was a complete stillness, unbroken even by the tick of a clock, and nothing was heard but the heavy breathing of the sick man.
As Cecilia entered, Miss Busky arose lightly to her feet and crossed over to her friend, speaking in a subdued whisper.
"Did you see him?" she asked.
"Yes--he will not come up, thank Heaven!--Dr. Nestley suspects nothing?"
"Nothing!--he is asleep--let me place you in the chair--I'm going out for a few minutes."
She led Cecilia forward, and the blind girl-sank into the arm-chair; then, hastily putting on her hat, Miss Busky glided rapidly out of the room, leaving Cecilia seated by the bed, listening to the breathing of the invalid.
So still, so quiet--it might almost have been the silence of the tomb. Then there came the light patter of rain-drops on the windows. The fire had sunk to a dull red glow, and a piece of burning coal dropped, with a singularly distinct noise, on to the fender. Nestley sighed in his sleep--moved uneasily, and then awoke--a fact which the blind girl was aware of immediately, by her acute sense of hearing.
"Cecilia," said the sick man, in a weak voice.
"I am here, dear," she replied softly. "Do you want anything?"
He put out his hand and clasped one of hers in his feeble grasp.
"Only you--only you--I thought you had left me."
"Hush!--you must not speak much," she said, arranging the bed-clothes.
"I have had a dream," whispered the invalid fearfully, "a strange dream--that I was in the coils of a serpent, being crushed to death. But a woman suddenly appeared, and at her touch the serpent vanished and I was free. The woman had your face, Cecilia."
"Hush!--do not speak more--you are too weak--you are in safety now, and no serpent shall touch you while I am by your side."
"You will be my wife?"
"I will be your wife," she replied softly. "I have loved you from the first day I met you, but never thought you would be burdened with such a useless thing as I."
"Not useless, dear. How could I have been so foolish as not to have understood your love before? Thank God for this illness, that has opened my eyes. You have saved my life--my soul."
He stopped, through exhaustion, and lay silently upon his pillow, watching the red flare of the fire glimmer on the pale face of the blind girl. A great feeling of joy and thankfulness came over him, as he felt that all the stormy, tempestuous life of the past was over at last--and beside him sat the one woman who could save his weak nature from yielding to the temptations of the world.
"Madonna, who hath ever stoodAs type of holy motherhood,I pray thee, for thy Son's dear sake,This sorrow from my bosom take.For there are those, with anger wild,Who wound the mother thro' the child.I know that thou wilt pity me,For thy Son hung upon the tree.And as He died to save and bless,Oh, help me, thou, in my distress."
"Madonna, who hath ever stoodAs type of holy motherhood,I pray thee, for thy Son's dear sake,This sorrow from my bosom take.For there are those, with anger wild,Who wound the mother thro' the child.I know that thou wilt pity me,For thy Son hung upon the tree.And as He died to save and bless,Oh, help me, thou, in my distress."
After he had finished a very nice little dinner, with a small bottle of champagne to add zest to it, Mr. Beaumont lighted a cigarette, and sat down comfortably before the fire, in order to wait for Reginald Blake. He had written to the young man, announcing his arrival and asking him to call, so he had no doubt but that he would be favoured with a visit. Having, therefore, arranged his plan of action, he lay back indolently in his chair, making plans for the future, and building air-castles amid the blue spirals of smoke which curled upward from his lips.
About seven o'clock he heard a knock at the door, and in answer to his invitation to enter, a woman made her appearance. Beaumont, who had merely turned his head to greet Reginald, was rather astonished at this unexpected guest, and arose to his feet in order to see who it was. His visitor closed the door carefully after her and stepped forward so that she came within the circle of light cast by the lamp on the table, then, throwing back her veil, looked steadily at the artist.
"Patience!"
"Yes, Patience," she replied, sitting down on a chair near the table. "You did not expect to see me?"
"Well, no," answered Beaumont, indolently leaning against the mantelpiece. "I must confess I did not--but if you want to speak with me, I can spare you very little time, as I am waiting----"
"For Reginald?" she interrupted quickly. "Yes, I know that."
"The deuce you do! What a wonderful woman you are! How did you find out I was here?"
"I left instructions that I was to be informed of your arrival, as I wished to speak with you before you saw our son."
"Indeed! And what do you want to speak to me about?"
"Your letter."
"I think my letter was too clear to require further explanation," he said impatiently. "I told you my intentions."
"You did--and I have come to tell you they will not be carried out."
"Is that so?" said Beaumont, with a sneer. "Well, we'll see. Who will prevent me doing what I like?"
"I will."
"Really--I'm afraid you over-rate your powers, my dear Patience. You are a clever woman, no doubt--a very clever woman--but there are limits."
"As you observe, very truly, there are limits," she retorted fiercely, "and those limits you have overstepped. Do you think I am going to stand by and see you wring money out of my son?"
"Our son," he corrected gently. "You forget I am his father. As to wringing money out of him, that's a very unpleasant way of putting it. I simply propose to appeal to his common sense."
"Sit down," said Patience, suddenly. "I wish to speak to you."
Beaumont shrugged his shoulders, then, pushing the arm-chair to one side, sat down in it so that he faced her fairly, keeping, however, with habitual caution, his face well in the shade.
"By all means," he said amiably. "I always humour a woman when there is nothing to be gained by doing otherwise. Go on, my dear friend, I'm all attention."
The housekeeper was leaning forward, resting her elbows on the table, and he could see her finely-cut, bloodless face--looking as if carved out of marble, in the yellow rays of the lamp-light--with her nostrils dilated, her lips firmly closed, and her black eyes sparkling with suppressed anger.
"I see it's going to be a duel to the death," he said, in a mocking tone, leaning his head against the cushion of the chair. "Well, I do not mind--I'm fond of duels."
"You are a fiend!" she burst out angrily.
"Really! Did you come all this way to impart that information? If so, you have wasted your time. I've heard the same remark so often."
His brutally cool manner had a wonderfully calming effect upon her, for after this one outburst of anger, she appeared to crush down her wrath by a strong effort of will, smiled disdainfully, and went on to speak in a cold, clear voice.
"Listen to me, Basil Beaumont: years ago you did me the worst harm a man can do a woman--you destroyed my life, but thanks to my own cleverness I managed to preserve at least the outward semblance of a pure woman without sacrificing our son in any way, but do you think that has cost me nothing--do you think I did not feel bitter pangs at having to deny my own son, and to veil my maternal longings under the guise of a servant? I did so, not so much to preserve my own good name as to benefit the boy. I wanted him to think he had no heritage of shame, so that he could feel at least pride and self-respect. When I obtained the reward of my sacrifice--when I saw that my son was satisfied with his lot and had talents to make his way in the world you came down for the second time to ruin not my life, but his--the life of an innocent being, who had never done you any harm. I entered into your vile conspiracy because I thought it would benefit my son, and now I repent bitterly that I ever did so. Owing to the foul lie you compelled me to tell, he has gained a fortune, but lost his self-respect. You do not understand the feeling, because your heart these many years has been steeped in wickedness, but think what it has done to our unhappy child--cast a blight upon his life which no money, no position can ever remove--his youth died from the moment I told him that lie, and whose work is it--mine or yours, Basil Beaumont? Mine or yours?"
She paused a moment, moistened her dry lips with her tongue, and then went on speaking rapidly with vehemence.
"And now when the worst is over--when he is firmly settled in possession of that wealth it has cost him his youthful happiness to gain--when he is going to marry the woman he loves, who will be able to comfort him in some measure--you once more return to work ruin for the third time--you demand money to hush up a disgraceful secret--you would not only tell him that he is still a nameless outcast, but you would take all his money from him, yes, and take also the girl who is to be his wife--you would leave him a pauper--an outcast--a miserable being with neither self-respect, nor riches, nor consolation. I implore you for my sake--for his sake--for your own sake, not to do this--our crime has shadowed his young life too much already--tell him no more--go away from this place, and let him have at least one chance of happiness."
She arose to her feet at the last words, and stretched out her arms appealingly towards Beaumont with humid eyes and an imploring expression on her face. The artist sat silent, smiling cynically, with a savage glitter in his eyes, and when she had finished, broke into a hard laugh as he also arose to his feet, flinging his cigarette viciously into the fire.
"A very pretty thing to ask me to do," he said mockingly, "and a very useless request to make. Do you think I care for his feelings or yours?--not the snap of a finger. I put Reginald in possession of the Garsworth estate not for his own sake, but for mine. Had he been wise and allowed me to guide him, he would have known no more than he does now. If he gives me the money I ask, it is even now not too late, but I am not going to spare him, either for his own sake or yours. He will be here soon, and I will tell him everything, so if he does not give me what I ask, I'll ruin him body and soul."
Patience flung herself at his feet, and burst into tears.
"For God's sake, Basil, spare him."
"No."
"He is your child."
"The more reason for him to help me."
"Have you no mercy?"
"None--if it means getting no money."
"For my sake, spare him."
"For your sake least of all."
"You intend to tell him?"
"I do. You can save yourself the trouble of making this melodramatic exhibition. I'm not going to move one hair's breath from the position I have taken up. I want money, and I mean to have it."
Patience sprang to her feet in an access of mad fury and stood before him with clenched hands and blazing eyes.
"Are you not afraid I'll kill you?"
"Not a bit."
"You defy me."
"I do."
She drew a long breath, and snatched up her gloves from the table, her passion subsiding under his cool brutality as a stormy sea subsides when oil is cast upon the waters.
"Very well," she said coolly. "I'll tell everything to Doctor Larcher, and get him to prosecute both of us for conspiracy. I will stand in the dock and you beside me."
Beaumont laughed sneeringly.
"I've no doubt you will stand in the dock," he said with emphasis, "but not me. I have done nothing in the matter, you everything. Who is to prove I hypnotised the old man, and forged the papers making Reginald the heir?--no one. Who is to prove that you falsely passed off your son as the heir?--everyone. You are the sole representative of the conspiracy, and I shall simply deny the whole affair. It will be my word against yours, and with such strong evidence as can be brought against you I fancy you'll get the worst of it."
An expression of terror passed over the face of the unhappy woman as she saw what a gulf was open at her feet. It was true what he said--she was the only one who had spoken--to all outward appearances he had in nowise been implicated in the conspiracy. With a cry of despair, she reeled back against the wall, covering her face with her hands. At that moment Reginald's voice was heard outside, and with a rapid movement, Beaumont sprang forward and caught one of her wrists in his grip.
"Here is Reginald," he said in a harsh whisper, "hold your tongue or it will be the worse for you. I don't want him to see you--hide in here and keep silent. What I intend to do will depend upon the result of this interview."
Patience said nothing, as all power of will seemed to have deserted her, but allowed herself to be dragged towards a door in the wall which communicated with a staircase leading to the upper part of the house. Pushing her in here, Beaumont closed the door, then rapidly returned to the fireplace and flung himself into his chair.
"Act I. has been rather stormy," he said to himself with a sneer. "I wonder what Act II. will be like."
Father!--art thou my father?--pause, good sir,Ere thou profanest thus that holy name.A father should protect and guide his childThrough the harsh tumult of this noisy life,But thou hast stood apart these many yearsAnd left me to the mercy of the world,With all its snares and madd'ning influence,Yet now thou say'st "I am thy father"--nay,No name is that for such a one as thou.
Father!--art thou my father?--pause, good sir,Ere thou profanest thus that holy name.A father should protect and guide his childThrough the harsh tumult of this noisy life,But thou hast stood apart these many yearsAnd left me to the mercy of the world,With all its snares and madd'ning influence,Yet now thou say'st "I am thy father"--nay,No name is that for such a one as thou.