The late Stephen Hurd had been a methodical man. Every one of those many packets of foolscap and parchment bore in the left-hand corner near the top a few carefully written words summarizing their contents. It was clear from the first that Wilhelmina had undertaken not an examination but a search. Mortgages, leases, agreements, she left unopened and untouched. One by one she passed them back to the young man who handed them out to her, for replacement. In the end she had retained one small packet of letters only, on the outside of which were simply the initials P. N. These she held for a moment thoughtfully in her hand.
“Do you happen to remember, Mr. Hurd,” she said, “whether this small packet which I have here was amongst the papers which you found had been disturbed after the attack upon your father?”
“I am sorry,” the young man answered, “but it is quite impossible for me to say. I do not remember it particularly.”
Wilhelmina turned it over thoughtfully. It was an insignificant packet to hold the tragedy of a woman’s life.
“You see,” she continued, “that it has the appearance of having been tampered with. There are marks of sealing wax upon the tape and upon the paper here. Then, too,” she continued, turning it over, “it has been tied up hastily, unlike any of the other packets. The tape, too, is much too long. It looks almost as though some letters or papers had been withdrawn.”
“I am afraid I cannot help you at all,” he admitted regretfully. “My father never allowed any one but himself to open that safe. Mine was the out-of-door share of the work—and the rent-book, of course. I kept that.”
She slowly undid the tape. The contents of the packet consisted of several letters, which she smoothed out with her fingers before beginning to read. Stephen Hurd stood with his back towards her, rearranging the bundles of documents in the safe.
“You have no idea then,” she asked softly, “of the contents of this packet?”
He turned deliberately round. He was not in the least comfortable. It was almost as though she could see through his tweed shooting-jacket into that inner pocket.
“May I see which packet you refer to?” he asked.
She showed it to him without placing it in his hand. He shook his head.
“No!” he said, “I have not noticed them before.”
She sighed—or was it a yawn? At any rate, her eyes left his face, for which he was immediately grateful. She began to read the papers, and, having finished his task, he walked towards thewindow and stood there looking out. He stood there minute after minute, hearing only the sound of rustling paper behind. When at last it ceased he turned around.
She had risen to her feet and was slowly drawing on her gloves. The letters had disappeared, presumably into her pocket, but she made no reference to them. When she spoke, her voice was smooth and deliberate as usual. Somehow or other he was at once conscious, however, that she had received a shock.
“I presume, Mr. Hurd,” she said quietly, “that amongst your father’s private papers you did not discover anything—unexpected?”
“I am afraid I scarcely follow you, madam,” he answered.
“I am asking you,” she repeated deliberately, “whether amongst your father’s private papers, which I presume you have looked through, you found anything of a surprising nature?”
He shook his head.
“I found scarcely any,” he answered, “only his will and a memorandum of a few investments. May Iask——”
She turned towards the door.
“No!” she said, “do not ask me any questions. To tell you the truth, I am not yet fully persuaded that the necessity exists.”
“I do not understand,” he protested.
“Forgive me,” he said, with his hand upon the gate.“Forgive me,” he said, with his hand upon the gate. Page117
She shrugged her shoulders. She did not trouble to explain her words. He followed her along the cool, white-flagged hall, hung with old prints and trophies of sport, into the few yards of garden outside,brilliant with cottage flowers. Beyond the little iron gate her carriage was waiting—a low victoria, drawn by a pair of great horses, whose sleek coats and dark crimson rosettes suggested rather a turn in the Park than these country lanes. The young man was becoming desperate. She was leaving him altogether mystified. Somewhere or other he had missed his cue: he had meant to have conducted the interview so differently. And never had she looked so provokingly well! He recognized, with hopeless admiration, the perfection of her toilette—the trim white flannel dress, shaped by the hand of an artist to reveal in its simple lines the peculiar grace of her slim figure; the patent shoes with their suggestion of open-work silk stockings; the black picture hat and veil, a delicate recognition of her visit to a house of mourning, yet light and gossamer-like, with no suggestion of gloom. Never had she seemed so desirable to him, so fascinating and yet so unattainable. He made a last and clumsy effort to re-establish himself.
“Forgive me,” he said, with his hand upon the gate, “but I must ask you what you mean by that last question. My father had no secrets that I know of. How could he, when for the last forty years his life was practically spent in this village street?”
She nodded her head slowly.
“Sometimes,” she murmured, “events come to those even who sit and wait, those whose lives are absolutely secluded. No one is safe from fate, you know.”
“But my father!” he answered. “He had notastes, no interests outside the boundary of your estates.”
She motioned to him to open the gate.
“Perhaps not,” she assented, “yet I suppose that there is not one of us who knows as much of his neighbour’s life as he imagines he does. Good afternoon, Mr. Hurd! My visit has given me something to think about. I may send for you to come to the house before I go away.”
She drove away, leaning back amongst the cushions with half closed eyes, as though tired. The country scenery with its pastoral landscape, its Watteau-like perfections, was wholly unseen. Her memory had travelled back, she was away amongst the days when the roar of life had been in her ears, when for a short while, indeed, the waves had seemed likely to break over her head. An unpleasant echo, this! No more than an echo—and yet! The thought of old Stephen Hurd lying in his grave suddenly chilled her. She shivered as she left the carriage, and instead of entering the house, crossed the lawn to where Gilbert Deyes was lounging. He struggled to his feet at her approach, but she waved him back again.
“Sybarite,” she murmured, glancing around at his arrangements for complete comfort. “You have sent Austin out alone.”
“Dear lady, I confess it,” he answered. “What would you have? It is too fine an afternoon to kill anything.”
She sank into a chair by his side. A slight smile parted her lips as she glanced around. On a table by his side, a table drawn back into the shade of thecedar tree, were several vellum-bound volumes, a tall glass, and a crystal jug half full of some delicate amber beverage, mixed with fruit and ice, a box of cigarettes, an ivory paper-cutter, and a fan.
“Your capacity for making yourself comfortable,” she remarked, “amounts almost to genius.”
“Let it go at that,” he answered. “I like the sound of the word.”
“I want you to go to Paris for me,” she said abruptly.
He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and looked at her thoughtfully. Not a line of his face betrayed the least sign of surprise.
“To-morrow?” he asked.
“Yes!”
“I can get up in time for the two-twenty,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I wonder whether it will be too late for the Armenonville!”
She laughed quietly.
“You are a ‘poseur,’” she declared.
“Naturally,” he admitted. “We all are, even when the audience consists of ourselves alone. I fancy I’m rather better than most, though.”
She nodded.
“You won’t mind admitting—to me—that you are surprised?”
“Astonished,” he said. “To descend to the commonplace, what on earth do you want me to go to Paris for?”
“I will tell you,” she answered. “Forget for a moment the Paris that you know, and remember the Paris of the tourist.”
“Painful,” he answered; “but it is done.”
“TheHôtel de Luxe!”
“I know it well.”
“There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who hang about the hall and the boulevard outside—guides they call themselves.”
“‘Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,’” he quoted. “Yes; I know them.”
“There is, or was, one,” she continued, “who goes by the name of Thomas Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an accent.”
“I should know the beast anywhere,” he declared.
“Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don’t lose sight of him—and write to me.”
“To-morrow night,” he said, “I will renew my youth. I will search for him on the boulevards, and see the sights which make a gay dog of the travelling Briton.”
She nodded.
“You’re a good sort, Gilbert,” she said simply. “Thanks!”
High up on the seventh floor of one of London’s newest and loftiest buildings, a young man sat writing in a somewhat barely furnished office. He wrote deliberately, and with the air of one who thoroughly enjoyed his occupation. The place had a bookish aspect—the table was strewn with magazines and books of reference; piles of literature of a varied order stood, in the absence of bookshelves, against the wall. The young man himself, however, was the most interesting object in the room. He was big and dark and rugged. There was strength in his square-set shoulders, in the compression of his lips, even in the way his finger guided the pen across the paper. He was thoroughly absorbed in his task. Nevertheless he raised his head at a somewhat unusual sound. The lift had swung up to his floor, he heard the metal gate thrown open. There was a knock at the door, and Macheson walked in.
“Victor, by glory!”
Down went the pen, and Richard Holderness stood up at his desk with outstretched hands. Machesongrasped them heartily and seated himself on the edge of the table.
“It’s good to see you, Dick,” he declared, “like coming back to the primitive forces of nature, unchanged, unchanging. The sight of you’s enough to stop a revolution.”
“You’re feeling like that, are you?” his friend answered, his eyes fixed upon Macheson’s face. “Yes, I see you are. Go ahead! Or will you smoke first?”
Macheson produced his pipe, and his host a great tin of honeydew. Macheson helped himself slowly. He seemed to be trying to gain time.
“Blessed compact, ours,” the giant remarked, leaning back in his chair. “No probing for confidences, no silly questions. Out with it!”
“I’ve started wrong,” Macheson said. “I’ll have to go back on my tracks a bit anyway.”
Holderness grunted affably.
“Nothing like mistakes,” he remarked. “Best discipline in the world.”
“I started on a theory,” Macheson continued thoughtfully. “It didn’t pan out. The people I have been trying to get at are better left alone.”
“Exactly why?” Holderness asked.
“I’ll tell you,” Macheson answered. “You know I’ve seen a bit of what we call village life. Their standard isn’t high enough, of course. Things come too easily, their noses are too close to the ground. They are moderately sober, moderately industrious, but the sameness of life is at work all the time. It makes machines of the factory hands, animals of the country folk. I knew that before I started. Ithought I could lift their heads a little. It’s too big a task for me, Dick.”
“Of course,” Holderness assented. “You can’t graft on to dead wood.”
“They live decent lives—most of them,” Macheson continued thoughtfully. “They can’t understand that any change is needed, no more can their landlords, or their clergy. A mechanical performance of the Christian code seems all that any one expects from them. Dick, it’s all they’re capable of. You can’t alter laws. You can’t create intelligence. You can’t teach these people spirituality.”
“As well try to teach ’em to fly,” Holderness answered. “I could have told you so before, if it had been of any use. What about these Welshmen, though?”
“It’s hysteria,” Macheson declared. “If you can get through the hide, you can make the emotions run riot, stir them into a frenzy. It’s a debauch. I’ve been there to see. The true spiritual life is partly intellectual.”
“What are you going to do now?” Holderness asked.
“I don’t know,” Macheson answered. “I haven’t finished yet. Dick, curse all women!”
The giant looked thoughtful.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
Macheson swung himself from the table. He walked up and down the room.
“It isn’t serious,” he declared. “It isn’t even definite. But it’s like a perfume, or a wonderful chord of music, or the call of the sea to an inland-bred viking! It’s under my heel, Dick, but I can’tcrush it. I came away from Leicestershire because I was afraid.”
“Does she—exist?” Holderness asked.
“Not for me,” Macheson declared hurriedly. “Don’t think that. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but for our compact.”
Holderness nodded.
“Bad luck,” he said. “This craving for something we haven’t got—can’t have—I wish I could find the germ. The world should go free of it for a generation. We’d build empires, we’d reconstruct society. It’s a deadly germ, though, Victor, and it’s the princes of the world who suffer most. There’s only one antidote—work!”
“Give me some,” Macheson begged.
The giant looked at him thoughtfully.
“Right,” he answered, “but not to-day. Clothes up in town?”
Macheson nodded.
“We’ll go on the bust,” Holderness declared. “I’ve been dying for a spree! We’ll have it. Where are you staying?”
“My old rooms,” Macheson answered. “I looked in on my way from the station and found them empty.”
“Capital! We’re close together. Come on! We’ll do the West End like two gay young bucks. Five o’clock, isn’t it? We’ll walk up Regent Street and have an ‘apéritif’ at Biflore’s. Wait till I brush my hat.”
Macheson made no difficulties, but he was puzzled. Holderness he knew well enough had no leanings towards the things which he proposed with so muchenthusiasm. Was it a pilgrimage they were to start upon—or what? After all, why need he worry? He was content to go his friend’s way.
So they walked up Regent Street, bright with the late afternoon sunshine, threading their way through the throngs of sauntering men and women gazing into the shops—and at one another! At Biflore’s Macheson would have felt out of his element but for Holderness’ self-possession. He had the air of going through what might have been an everyday performance, ordered vermouth mixed, lit a cigarette, leaned back at his ease upon the cushioned seat, and told with zest and point a humorous story. There were women there, a dozen or more, some alone, some in little groups, women smartly enough dressed, good-looking, too, and prosperous, with gold purses and Paris hats, yet—lacking something. Macheson did not ask himself what it was. He felt it; he knew, too, that Holderness meant him to feel it. The shadow of tragedy was there—the world’s tragedy....
They went back to their rooms to dress and met at a popular restaurant—one of the smartest. Here Macheson began to recover his spirits. The music was soft yet inspiring, the women—there were none alone here—were well dressed, and pleasant to look at, the sound of their laughter and the gay murmur of conversation was like a delightful undernote. The dinner and wine were good. Holderness seemed to know very well how to choose both. Macheson began to feel the depression of a few hours ago slipping away from him. Once or twice he laughed softly to himself. Holderness looked at him questioningly.
“You should have been with me for the last fortnight, Dick,” he remarked, smiling. “The lady of the manor at Thorpe didn’t approve of me, and I had to sleep for two nights in a gamekeeper’s shelter.”
“Didn’t approve of you to such an extent?” Holderness remarked. “Was she one of those old country frumps—all starch and prejudice?”
Then for a moment the heel was lifted, and a rush of memory kept him dumb. He felt the tearing of the blood in his veins, the burning of his cheeks, the wild, delicious sense of an exaltation, indefinable, mysterious. He was tongue-tied, suddenly apprehensive of himself and his surroundings. He felt somehow nearer to her—it was her atmosphere, this. Was he weaker than his friend—had he, indeed, more to fear? He raised his glass mechanically to his lips, and the soft fire of the amber wine soothed whilst it disquieted him. Again he wondered at his friend’s whim in choosing this manner of spending their evening.
“No!” he said at last, and he was surprised to find his voice composed and natural, “the mistress of Thorpe is not in the least that sort. Thorpe is almost a model village, and of course there is the church, and a very decent fellow for vicar. I am not at all sure that she was not right. I must have seemed a fearful interloper.”
Holderness stretched his long limbs under the table and laughed softly.
“Well,” he declared, “it was a hare-brained scheme. Theoretically, I believe you were right. There’s nothing more dangerous than content. Sortof armour you can’t get through.... Come, we mustn’t miss the ballet.”
They threaded their way down the room. Suddenly Macheson stopped short. He was passing a table set back in a recess, and occupied by two persons. The girl, who wore a hat and veil, and whose simple country clothes were conspicuous, was staring at him with something like fear in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted, she was leaning forward as though to call her companion’s attention to Macheson’s approach. Macheson glanced towards him with a sudden impulse of indignant apprehension. It was Stephen Hurd, in irreproachable evening clothes save only for his black tie, and his companion was Letty.
Macheson stopped before the table. He scarcely knew what to say or how to say it, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Hurd’s curt nod.
“So you are up in town, Letty,” he said gravely. “Is your mother with you?”
The girl giggled hysterically.
“Oh, no!” she declared. “Mother can’t bear travelling. A lot of us came up this morning at six o’clock on a day excursion, six shillings each.”
“And what time does the train go back?” Macheson asked quickly.
“At twelve o’clock,” the girl answered, “or as soon afterwards as they can get it off. It was terribly full coming up.”
Macheson was to some extent relieved. At any rate there was nothing further that he could do. He bent over the girl kindly.
“I hope you have had a nice day,” he said, “andwon’t be too tired when you get home. These excursions are rather hard work. Remember me to your mother.”
He exchanged a civil word with the girl’s companion, who was taciturn almost to insolence. Then he passed on and joined Holderness, who was waiting near the door.
“An oddly assorted couple, your friends,” he remarked, as they struggled into their coats.
Macheson nodded.
“The girl was my landlady’s daughter at Thorpe, and the young man’s the son of the agent there,” he said.
“Engaged?” Holderness asked.
“I’m—afraid not,” Macheson answered. “She’s up on an excursion—for the day—goes back at twelve.”
“I suppose he’s a decent fellow—the agent’s son?” Holderness remarked. “She seems such a child.”
“I suppose he is,” Macheson repeated. “I don’t care for him very much, Dick; I suppose I’m an evil-minded person, but I hate leaving them.”
Holderness looked back into the restaurant.
“You can’t interfere,” he said. “It’s probably a harmless frolic enough. Come on!”
“
No stalls left,” Holderness declared, turning away from the box office at the Alhambra. “We’ll go in the promenade. We can find a chair there if we want to sit down.”
Macheson followed him up the stairs and into the heavily carpeted promenade. His memory of the evening, a memory which clung to him for long afterwards, seemed like a phantasmagoria of thrilling music, a stage packed with marvellously dressed women, whose movements were blended with the music into one voluptuous chorus—a blaze of colour not wholly without its artistic significance, and about him an air heavy with tobacco smoke and perfumes, a throng of moving people, more women—many more women. A girl spoke to Holderness,—a girl heavily rouged but not ill-looking, dressed in a blue muslin gown and large black hat. Holderness bent towards her deferentially. His voice seemed to take to itself its utmost note of courtesy, he answered her inquiry pleasantly, and accepted a glance at her programme. The girl looked puzzled, but they talked together for several moments of casual things. Then Holderness lifted his hat.
“My friend and I are tired,” he said. “We are going to look for a seat.”
She bowed and they strolled on down the promenade, finding some chairs at the further end. The dresses of the women brushed their feet and the perfume from the clothes was stronger even than the odour from the clouds of tobacco smoke which hung about the place. Macheson, in whom were generations of puritanical impulses, found himself shrinking back in his corner. Holderness turned towards him frowning.
“No superiority, Victor,” he said. “These are your fellow-creatures. Don’t look at them as though you’d come down from the clouds.”
“It isn’t that,” Macheson answered, “it’s a matter of taste.”
“Taste! Rot!” Holderness answered. “The factory girl’s hat offends my taste, but I don’t shrink away from her.”
A girl, in passing, stumbled against his foot. Holderness stood up as he apologized.
“I am really very sorry,” he said. “No one with feet like mine ought to sit down in a public place. I hope you haven’t torn your dress?”
“It really doesn’t matter,” the girl answered. “I ought to have looked where I was going.”
“In which case,” Holderness remarked, with a laugh, “you could not have failed to see my feet.”
There were two empty chairs at their table. The girl glanced towards them and hesitated.
“Do you mind if we sit down here for a minute,” she asked, “my friend and I? We are rather tired.”
He drew the chairs towards them.
“By all means,” he answered courteously. “Your friend does look tired.”
The party arranged itself. Holderness called to a waiter and gave an order.
“My friend and I,” he remarked, indicating Macheson, who was fiercely uncomfortable and struggling hard not to show it, “are disappointed that we could not get stalls. We wanted to see La Guerrero and this wonderful conjurer.”
“The place is full every night,” the girl answered listlessly. “La Guerrero comes on at ten o’clock, you can see her from the front of the promenade easily. You don’t often come here, do you?”
“Not very often,” Holderness answered. “And you?”
“Every night,” the girl answered in a dull tone.
“That must be monotonous,” he said kindly.
“It is,” she admitted.
They talked for a few minutes longer, or rather it was Holderness who mostly talked, and the others who listened. It struck Macheson as curious that his friend should find it so easy to strike the note of their conversation and keep it there, as though without any definite effort he could assume control over even the thoughts of these girls, to whom he talked with such easy courtesy. He told a funny story and they all laughed naturally and heartily. Macheson had an idea that the girls had forgotten for the moment exactly where they were. Something in their faces, something which had almost terrified him at their first coming, had relaxed, if it had not passed wholly away. At the sound of a fewbars of music one of them leaned almost eagerly forward.
“There,” she said, “if you want to see La Guerrero you must hurry. She is coming on now.”
The two young men rose to their feet. One of the girls looked wistfully at Holderness, but nothing was said beyond the ordinary farewells.
“Thank you so much for telling us,” Holderness said. “Come along, Victor. It is La Guerrero.”
Macheson breathed more freely when once they were in the throng. They watched the Spanish dancer with her exquisite movements, sinuous, full of grace. Holderness especially applauded loudly. Afterwards they found seats in the front and remained there for the rest of the performance.
Out in the street they hesitated. Holderness passed his arm through his companion’s.
“Supper!” he declared. “This way! Did you know what a man about town I was, Victor? Ah! but one must learn, and life isn’t all roses and honey. One must learn!”
They threaded their way through the streets, crowded with hansoms, electric broughams, and streams of foot passengers. Holderness led the way to a sombre-looking building, and into a room barely lit save for the rose-shaded lamps upon the tables. Macheson gasped as he entered. Nearly every table was occupied by women in evening dress, women alone—waiting. Holderness glanced around quite unconcernedly as he gave up his coat and hat to a waiter.
“Feeling shy, Victor?” he asked, smiling. “Never mind. We’ll find a table to ourselves all right.”
They sat in a corner. The girls chattered and talked across them—often at them. A Frenchwoman, superbly gowned in white lace, and with a long rope of pearls around her neck, paused as she passed their table. She carried a Pomeranian under her arm and held it out towards them.
“See! My little dog!” she exclaimed. “He bite you. Messieurs are lonely?”
“Alas! Of necessity,” Holderness answered in French. “Madame is too kind.”
She passed on, laughing. Macheson looked across the table almost fiercely.
“What are you doing it for, Dick?” he exclaimed. “What does it mean?”
His friend looked across at him steadfastly.
“Victor,” he said, “I want you to understand. You are an enthusiast, a reformer, a prophet of lost causes. I want you to know the truth if you can see it. There are many sides to life.”
“What am I to learn of this?” Macheson asked, almost passionately.
“If I told you,” Holderness answered, “the lesson would only be half learnt. Sit tight and don’t be a fool. Drink your wine. Mademoiselle in violet there wants to flirt with you.”
“Shall I ask her to join us?” Macheson demanded with wasted satire.
“You might do worse,” Holderness answered calmly. “She could probably teach you something.”
It was a dull evening, and many of the tables remained unoccupied—save for the one waiting figure. The women, tired of looking towards the door, were smoking cigarettes, twirling their bracelets,yawning, and looking around the room. Many a mute invitation reached the two young men, but Holderness seemed to have lost his sociability. His face had grown harder and he seemed glad when their meal was over and they were free to depart. In the hall below they had to wait for their overcoats. Macheson strolled idly towards the entrance of another supper room on the ground floor, and looked in. An exclamation broke from his lips. He turned towards Holderness.
“You see the time,” he exclaimed, “and they are here! Those two!”
Holderness nodded gravely.
“The girl has been crying,” he said, “and there is an A B C on the table. It’s up to you, Victor. We may both have to take a hand in the game. No! I wouldn’t go in. Wait till they come out!”
They stood in the throng, jostled, cajoled, besought. At last the two rose and came towards the door. Letty had dried her eyes, but she looked still pale and terrified. Hurd, on the contrary, was flushed as though with wine. Macheson took her by the arm as she passed.
“Letty,” he said gravely, “have you missed your train?”
She gave a stifled cry and shrank back, when she saw who it was. However, she recovered herself quickly.
“Mr. Macheson!” she exclaimed. “How you startled me! I didn’t expect—to see you again.”
“About this train, Letty?” he repeated.
“Mr. Hurd’s watch stopped,” she declared, her eyes filling once more with tears. “He thought itwas eleven o’clock,—and it was ten minutes past twelve. I don’t know what mother will say, I am sure.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She looked round nervously.
“Mr. Hurd is going to take me to some friends of his,” she answered. “You see it was his fault, so he has promised to see mother and explain.”
Hurd pushed angrily forward.
“Look here,” he said to Macheson, “have you been following us about?”
“I have not,” Macheson answered calmly. “I am very glad to have come across you, though.”
“Sorry I can’t return the compliment,” Hurd remarked. “Come, Letty.”
A girl who was passing tapped him on the arm. She was dressed in blue silk, with a large picture hat, and she was smoking a cigarette.
“Hullo, Stephen!” she exclaimed. “Edith wants to see you. Are you coming round to-night?”
Hurd muttered something under his breath and moved away. Letty looked at him with horror.
“Stephen!” she exclaimed. “You can’t—you don’t mean to say that you know—any of these?”
She was trembling in every limb. He tried to pass his arm through hers.
“Don’t be a fool, Letty,” he said. “It’s time we went, or my friends will have gone to bed.”
She looked at him with wide-open eyes. Her lips were quivering. It was as though she saw some new thing in his face.
“Your friends,” she murmured, “are they—that sort? Oh! I am afraid.”
She clung to Macheson. People were beginning to notice them. He led her out into the street. Hurd followed, angrily protesting. Holderness was close behind.
“I say, you know,” Hurd began, with his arm on Macheson’s shoulder. Macheson shook it off.
“Mr. Hurd,” he said, “at the risk of seeming impertinent, I must ask you precisely where you intend taking this girl to-night?”
“What the devil business is it of yours?” Hurd answered angrily.
“Tell me, all the same,” Macheson persisted.
Hurd passed his arm through Letty’s.
“Come, Letty,” he said, “we will take this hansom.”
The girl was only half willing. Macheson declined to let them go.
“No!” he said, “I will have my question answered.”
Hurd turned as though to strike him, but Holderness intervened, head and shoulders taller than the other.
“I think,” he said, “that we will have my friend’s question answered.”
Hurd was almost shaking with rage, but he answered.
“To some friends in Cambridge Terrace,” he said sullenly. “Number eighteen.”
“You will not object,” Macheson said, “if I accompany you there?”
“I’ll see you damned first,” Hurd answered savagely. “Get in, Letty.”
The girl hesitated. She turned to Macheson.
“I should like to go to the station and wait,” she declared.
“I think,” Macheson said, “that you had better trust yourself to me and my friend.”
“I am sure of it,” Holderness added calmly.
She put her hand in Macheson’s. She was as pale as death and avoided looking at Hurd. He took a quick step towards her.
“Very well, young lady,” he said. “If you go now, you understand that I shall never see you again.”
She began to cry again.
“I wish,” she murmured, “that I had never seen you at all—never!”
He turned on his heel. A row was impossible. It occurred to him that a man of the world would face such a position calmly.
“Very good,” he said, “we will leave it at that.”
He paused to light a cigarette, and strolled back down the street towards the restaurant which they had just left. Letty was crying now in good earnest. The two young men looked at one another in something like dismay. Then Holderness began to laugh quietly.
“You’re a nice sort of Don Quixote to spend an evening with,” he remarked softly.
The girl was still crying, softly but persistently. She caught hold of Macheson’s arm.
“If you please, I think I had better go back to Stephen,” she said. “Do you think I could find him?”
“I think you had much better not, Letty,” he answered. “He ought not to have let you miss your train. My friend here and I are going to look after you.”
“It’s very kind of you,” the girl said listlessly, “but it doesn’t matter much what becomes of me now. Mother will never forgive me—and the others will all know—that I missed the train.”
“We must think of some way of putting that all right,” Macheson declared. “I only wish that I had some relations in London. Can you suggest anything, Dick?”
“I can take the young lady to some decent rooms,” Holderness answered. “The landlady’s an old friend of mine. She’ll be as right as rain there.”
The girl shook her head.
“I’d as soon walk about the streets,” she saidpathetically. “Mother’ll never listen to me—or the others. Some of them saw me with Stephen, and they said things. I think I’ll go to the station and wait till the five o’clock train.”
They were walking slowly up towards Piccadilly. A fine rain had begun to fall, and already the pavements were shining. Neither of them had an umbrella, and Letty’s hat, with its cheap flowers and ribbon, showed signs of collapse. Suddenly Macheson had an idea.
“Look here,” he said, “supposing you spent the night at Miss Thorpe-Hatton’s house in Berkeley Square—no one could say anything then, could they?”
The girl looked up with a sudden gleam of hope.
“No! I don’t suppose they could,” she admitted; “but I don’t know where it is, and I don’t suppose they’d take me in anyway.”
“I know where it is,” Macheson declared, “and we’ll see about their taking you in. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton may be there herself. Stop that fourwheeler, Dick.”
They climbed into a passing cab, and Macheson directed the driver. The girl was beginning to lose confidence again.
“The house is sure to be shut up,” she said.
“There will be a caretaker.” Macheson declared hopefully. “We’ll manage it, never fear. I believe Miss Thorpe-Hatton is there herself.”
Letty was trembling with excitement and fear.
“I’m scared to death of her,” she admitted. “She’s so beautiful, and she looks at you always as though you were something a long way off.”
Macheson was suddenly silent. A rush of memories surged into his brain. He had sworn to keep away! This was a different matter, an errand of mercy. Nevertheless he would see her, if only for a moment. His heart leaped like a boy’s. He looked eagerly out of the window. Already they were entering Berkeley Square. The cab stopped.
Macheson looked upwards. There were lights in many of the windows, and a small electric brougham, with a tall footman by the side of the driver, was waiting opposite the door.
“The house is open,” he declared. “Don’t be afraid, Letty.”
The girl descended and clung to his arm as they crossed the pavement.
“I shall wait here for you,” Holderness said. “Good luck to you, and good night, young lady!”
Macheson rang the bell. The door was opened at once by a footman, who eyed them in cold surprise.
“We wish to see Miss Thorpe-Hatton for two minutes,” Macheson said, producing his card. “It is really an important matter, or we would not disturb her at such an hour. She is at home, is she not?”
The footman looked exceedingly dubious. He looked from the card to Macheson, and from Macheson to the girl, and he didn’t seem to like either of them.
“Miss Thorpe-Hatton has just returned from the opera,” he said, “and she is going on to the Countess of Annesley’s ball directly. Can’t you come again in the morning?”
“Quite impossible,” Macheson declared briskly. “I am sure that Miss Thorpe-Hatton will see me for a moment if you take that card up.”
The footman studied Macheson again, and was forced to admit that he was a gentleman. He led the way into a small morning-room.
“Miss Thorpe-Hatton shall have your card, sir,” he said. “Kindly take a seat.”
He left the room. Macheson drew up a chair for Letty, but she refused it, trembling.
“Oh! I daren’t sit down, Mr. Macheson,” she declared. “And please—don’t say that I was with Mr. Hurd. I know he wouldn’t like it.”
“Probably not,” Macheson answered, “but what am I to say?”
“Anything—anything but that,” she begged.
Macheson nodded his promise. Then the door opened, and his heart seemed to stand still. She entered the room in all the glory of a wonderful toilette; she wore her famous ropes of pearls, the spotless white of her gown was the last word from the subtlest Parisian workshop of the day. But it was not these things that counted. Had he been dreaming, he wondered a moment later, or had that strange smile indeed curved her lips, that marvellous light indeed flowed from her eyes? It was the lady of his dreams who had entered—it was a very different woman who, with a slight frown upon her smooth forehead, was looking at the girl who stood trembling by Macheson’s side.
“It is Mr. Macheson, is it not?” she said calmly, “the young man who wanted to convert my villagers.And you—who are you?” she asked, turning to the girl.
“Letty Foulton, if you please, ma’am,” the girl answered.
“Foulton! Letty Foulton!” Wilhelmina repeated.
“Yes, ma’am! My brother has Onetree farm,” the girl continued.
Wilhelmina inclined her head.
“Ah, yes!” she remarked, “I remember now. And what do you two want of me at this hour of the night?” she asked frigidly.
“If you will allow me, I will explain,” Macheson interrupted eagerly. “Letty came up from Thorpe this morning on an excursion train which returned at midnight.”
Wilhelmina glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to one.
“Well?”
“She missed it,” Macheson continued. “It was very careless and very wrong, of course, but the fact remains that she missed it. I found her in great distress. She had lost her friends, and there is no train back to Thorpe till the morning. Her brother and mother are very strict, and all her friends who came from Thorpe will, of course, know that—she remained in London. The position, as you will doubtless realize, is a serious one for her.”
Wilhelmina made no sign. Nothing in her face answered in any way the silent appeal in his.
“I happened to know,” he continued, “that you were in London, so I ventured to bring her at once to you. You are the mistress of Thorpe, and in our recent conversation I remember you admitted acertain amount of responsibility as regards your people there. If she passes the night under your roof, no one can have a word to say. It will save her at once from her parent’s anger and the undesirable comments of her neighbours.”
Wilhelmina glanced once more towards the clock.
“It seems to me,” she remarked, “that a considerable portion of the night has already passed.”
Both Macheson and the girl were silent. Wilhelmina for the first time addressed the latter.
“Where have you been spending the evening?” she asked.
“We had dinner and went to a place of entertainment,” she faltered. “Then we had supper, and I found out how late it was.”
“Who is we?”
The girl’s face was scarlet. She did not answer. Wilhelmina waited for a moment and then shrugged her shoulders.
“You are to be congratulated,” she said, with cold irony, “upon your fortunate meeting with Mr. Macheson.”
She had touched the bell, and a footman entered.
“Reynolds,” she said, “show this young person into the housekeeper’s room, and ask Mrs. Brown to take charge of her for the night.”
The girl moved forward impulsively, but something in Wilhelmina’s expression checked her little speech of gratitude. She followed the man from the room without a word. Wilhelmina also turned towards the door.
“You will excuse me,” she said coldly to Macheson. “I am already later than I intended to be.”
“I can only apologize for disturbing you at such an hour,” he answered, taking up his hat. “I could think of nothing else.”
She looked at him coldly.
“The girl’s parents,” she said, “are respectable people, and I am sheltering her for their sake. But I am bound to say that I consider her story most unsatisfactory.”
They were standing in the hall—she had paused on her way out to conclude her sentence. Her maid, holding out a wonderful rose-lined opera cloak, was standing a few yards away; a man-servant was waiting at the door with the handle in his hand. She raised her eyes to his, and Macheson felt the challenge which flashed out from them. She imagined, then, that he had been the girl’s companion; the cold disdain of her manner was in itself an accusation.
His cheeks burned with a sort of shame. She had dared to think this of him—and that afterwards he should have brought the girl to her to beg for shelter! There were a dozen things which he ought to have said, which came flashing from his brain to find themselves somehow imprisoned behind his tightly locked lips. He said nothing. She passed slowly, almost unwillingly, down the hall. The maid wrapped her coat around her—still he stood like a statue. He watched her pass through the opened door and enter the electric brougham. He watched it even glide away. Then he, too, went and joined Holderness, who was waiting outside.
“Hail, succourer of damsels in distress!” Holdernesscalled out, producing his cigar-case. “Jolly glad you got rid of her! It would have meant the waiting-room at St. Pancras and an all-night sitting. Smoke, my son, and we will walk home—unless you mind this bit of rain. Was her ladyship gracious?”
“She was not,” Macheson answered grimly, “but she is keeping the girl. I’d like to walk,” he added, lighting a cigar.
“A very elegant lady,” Holderness remarked, “but I thought she looked a bit up in the air. Did you notice her pearls, Victor?”
Macheson nodded.
“Wonderful, weren’t they?”
“Yes. She wears them round her neck, and these—these wear always their shame,” he added, pushing gently away a woman who clutched at his arm. “Funny thing, isn’t it? What are they worth? Ten thousand pounds, very likely. A lot of money for gewgaws—to hang upon a woman’s body. Shall we ever have a revolution in London, do you think, Victor?”
“Who knows?” Macheson answered wearily. “Not a political one, perhaps, but the other might come. The sewers underneath are pretty full.”
They passed along in silence for a few minutes. Neither the drizzling rain nor the lateness of the hour could keep away that weary procession of sad, staring-eyed women, who seemed to come from every shadow, and vanish Heaven knows where. Macheson gripped his companion by the arm.
“Holderness,” he cried, “for God’s sake let’sget out of it. I shall choke presently. We’ll take a side street.”
But Holderness held his arm in a grip of iron.
“No,” he said, “these are the things which you must feel. I want you to feel them. I mean you to.”
“It’s heart-breaking, Dick.”
Holderness smiled faintly.
“I know how you feel,” he declared. “I’ve gone through it myself. You are a Christian, aren’t you—almost an orthodox Christian?”
“I am not sure!”
“Don’t waste your pity, then,” Holderness declared. “God will look after these. It’s the women with the pearl necklaces and the scorn in their eyes who’re looking for hell. Your friend in the electric brougham, for instance. Can’t you see her close her eyes and draw away her skirts if she should brush up against one of these?”
“It’s hard to blame her,” Macheson declared.
Holderness looked down at him pityingly.
“Man,” he said, “you’re a long way down in the valley. You’ll have to climb. Vice and virtue are little else save relative terms. They number their adherents by accident rather than choice.”
“You mean that it is all a matter of temptation?”
Holderness laughed. They had passed into the land of silent streets. Their own rooms were close at hand.
“Wait a little time,” he said. “Some day you’ll understand.”
“
You are quite sure,” the girl said anxiously, “that Miss Thorpe-Hatton wants to see me? You see there’s a train at ten o’clock I could catch.”
The housekeeper looked up from the menu she was writing, and tapped the table impatiently with her pencil.
“My dear child,” she said, “is it likely I should keep you here without orders? We have sent a telegram to your mother, and you are to wait until the mistress is ready to see you.”
“What time does she generally get down?” Letty asked.
“Any time,” Mrs. Brown answered, resuming her task. “She was back early last night, only stayed an hour at the ball, so she may send for you at any moment. Don’t fidget about so, there’s a good girl. I’m nervous this morning. We’ve twenty-four people dining, and I haven’t an idea in my head. I’m afraid I shall have to send for François.”
“Is François the man-cook who comes down to Thorpe?” Letty asked.
Mrs. Brown nodded.
“Thechefyou should call him,” she answered. “A very clever man, no doubt, in his way, but takes a lot of keeping in order.”
“Do you have to look after all the servants?” Letty asked. “Doesn’t Miss Thorpe-Hatton ever order anything?”
Mrs. Brown looked pityingly at her guest.
“My dear child,” she said, “I doubt if she could tell you to three or four how many servants there are in the house, and as to ordering anything, I don’t suppose such a thought’s ever entered into her head. Here’s James coming. Perhaps it’s a message for you.”
A footman entered and greeted Letty kindly.
“Good morning, young lady!” he said. “You are to go into the morning-room at once.”
Letty rose with alacrity.
“Is—is she there?” she asked nervously.
“She is,” the man answered, “and if I were you, miss, I wouldn’t do much more than just answer her questions and skedaddle. I haven’t had any conversation with her myself, but mademoiselle says she’s more than a bit off it this morning. Slept badly or something.”
“Don’t frighten the child, James,” Mrs. Brown said reprovingly. “She’s not likely to say much to you, my dear. You hurry along, and come back and have a glass of wine and a biscuit before you go. Show her the way, James.”
“If you please, miss,” the man answered, becoming once more an automaton.
Letty was ushered into a small room, full, it seemed to her as she entered, of sunshine and flowers.Wilhelmina, in a plain white-serge gown, with a string of beads around her neck of some strange-coloured shade of blue, was sitting in a high-backed easy-chair. A small wood fire was burning in the grate, filling the room with a pleasant aromatic odour, and the window leading into the square was thrown wide open.
On a table by her side were a pile of letters, an ivory letter-opener, several newspapers, and a silver box of cigarettes. For the moment, however, none of these things claimed her attention. The lady of the house was leaning back in her chair, and her eyes were half closed. If she had not been sitting with her back to the light, Letty might have noticed the dark rings under her eyes. It was true that she had not slept well.
Letty advanced doubtfully into the room. Wilhelmina turned her head.
“Oh, it is you,” she remarked. “Come up to the table where I can see you.”
“Mrs. Brown told me that you wished to see me before I went,” the girl said hesitatingly.
Wilhelmina was silent for a moment. She was looking at the girl. Yes! she was pretty in a rustic, uncultured way. Her figure was unformed, her hands and feet what might have been expected, and it was obvious that she lacked taste. Were men really attracted by this sort of thing?
“Yes!” Wilhelmina said, “I wish to speak to you. I am not altogether satisfied about last night.”
Letty said nothing. She went red and then white. Wilhelmina’s examination of her was merciless.
“I wish to know,” Wilhelmina said, “who your companion was—with whom you had dinner and supper. I look upon that person as being responsible for your lost train.”
Letty prayed that she might sink into the ground. Her worst imaginings had not been so bad as this. She remained silent, tongue-tied.
“I’m waiting,” Wilhelmina said mercilessly. “I suppose it is obvious enough, but I wish to hear from your own lips.”
“I—he—I don’t think that he would like me to tell you, ma’am,” she faltered.
Wilhelmina smiled—unpleasantly.
“Probably not,” she answered. “That, however, is beside the question. I wish to know.”
The girl was desperate. It was indeed a quandary with her. To offend the mistress of Thorpe was something like sacrilege, but she knew very well what Stephen would have had her do.
“If you please, ma’am,” she said at last, “I can’t.”
Wilhelmina said nothing for a moment, only her eyebrows were slowly lifted.
“If you do not,” she said, calmly, “I must write to your mother and tell her what I think of your behaviour last night. I do not care to have people near me who are disobedient, or—foolish.”
The girl burst into tears. Wilhelmina watched her with cold patience.
“I presume,” she said, “that it was Mr. Macheson. You do not need to mention his name. You need only say ‘Yes!’”
The girl said nothing.
“Mr. Macheson lodged with your mother, I believe?” Wilhelmina continued.
“Yes!” the girl whispered.
“And you waited upon him?”
“Yes!”
The girl lifted her head.
“Mr. Macheson always behaved like a gentleman to me,” she said.
Wilhelmina regarded her contemptuously.
“Your ideas of what constitutes gentlemanly behaviour are probably primitive,” she said. “I do not think that I need trouble you for any direct answer. Still, it would be better for you to give it.”
The girl was again silent. There was a knock at the door. The footman ushered in Stephen Hurd.
He entered confident and smiling. He was wearing a new grey tweed suit, and he was pleased with himself and the summons which had brought him to London. But the sight of the girl took his breath away. She, too, was utterly taken by surprise, and forgot herself.
“Stephen!” she exclaimed, taking a quick step towards him.
“You! You here!” he answered.
It was quite enough! But what puzzled Letty was that Wilhelmina did not seem in the least angry. There was a strange look on her face as she looked from one to the other. Something had sprung into her eyes which seemed to transform her. Her voice, too, had lost all its hardness.
“How do you do, Mr. Hurd?” she said. “I hopeyou have come to explain how you dared let this child lose her train last night.”
“I—really I—it was quite a mistake,” he faltered, darting an angry glance at Letty.
“You had supper with her,” Wilhelmina said, “and you knew what time the train went.”
“She met some other friends,” Stephen answered. “She left me.”
Wilhelmina smiled. She had found out all that she wanted to know.
“Well,” she said, “I won’t inquire too closely into it this time, only I hope that nothing of the sort will occur again. You had better have lunch with Mrs. Brown in the housekeeper’s room, Letty, and I’ll send you over to St. Pancras for the four o’clock train. I’ll give you a letter to your mother this time, but mind, no more foolishness of this sort.”
The girl tried to stammer out her thanks, but she was almost incoherent. Wilhelmina dismissed her with a smile. Her manner was distinctly colder when she turned to Hurd.
“Mr. Hurd,” she said, “I hope you will understand me when I say that I do not care to have my agent, or any one connected with the estate, play the Don Juan amongst my tenants’ daughters.”
He flushed up to the eyes.
“It was idiotic of me,” he admitted frankly. “I simply meant to give the child a good time.”
“She is quite pretty in her way,” Wilhelmina said, “and her parents, I believe, are most respectable people. You were perhaps thinking of settling down?”
He looked at her in amazement.
“What, with Letty Foulton!” he exclaimed.
“Why not?” she asked.
He drew a breath through his teeth. He could scarcely trust himself to speak for anger.
“You—are not serious?” he permitted himself to ask.
“Why not?” she demanded.
Hurd struggled to express himself with dignity.
“I should not consider such a marriage a suitable one, even if I were thinking of marrying at all,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows.
“No? Well, I suppose you know best,” she said carelessly. “Is there anything fresh down at Thorpe?”
She was angry about that fool of a girl, he told himself. A good sign. But what an actress! His conceit barely kept him up.
“There really isn’t anything I couldn’t arrange with Mr. Fields,” he admitted. “I thought, perhaps, as I was up, you might have some special instructions. That is why I sent to ask if you would see me.”
He looked at her almost eagerly. After all, she was the same woman who had been kind to him at Thorpe. And yet, was she? A sudden thought startled him. She was changed. Had she guessed that he knew her secret?
“No!” she said deliberately. “I do not think that there is anything. If you could find out Mr. Macheson’s address I should be much obliged.”
Hurd was puzzled. This was the second time. What could she have to say to Macheson?
“He was here last night, but I forgot to ask him,” she continued equably.
“Macheson, here!” he exclaimed.
“It was he who brought the girl, Letty,” she said.
He was silent for a moment.
“He’s a queer lot,” he said. “Came to Thorpe, of all places, as a sort of missioner, and he was about town last night most immaculately got up; nothing of the parson about him, I can assure you.”
“No!” she answered quietly. “Well, if you can discover his address, remember I should be glad to hear it.”
He took up his hat reluctantly. He had hoped at least that he might have been asked to luncheon. It was obvious, however, that he was expected to depart, and he did so. On the whole, although he had escaped from an exceedingly awkward situation, he could scarcely consider his visit a success. On his way out he passed Deyes, stepping out of a cab piled up with luggage. He nodded to Hurd in a friendly manner.
“Miss Thorpe-Hatton in?” he asked.
“Just left her,” Hurd answered.
Deyes passed on, and was received by the butler as a favoured guest. He was shown at once into the morning-room.