Verisschenzko crossed himself.
"Heaven forbid! Think of watching Harietta's instincts coming out in a child! Poor Stanislass is at least saved that!"
"What a terrible thought that would be to one! But no man thinks of such things in selecting a wife!"
"You will not marry yet—no?"
"Certainly not, there is no necessity that I should. Marriage is only an obligation for the heads of families, not for the younger branches."
"But if Sir John Ardayre has no son, you are—in blood—the next direct heir."
"And Ferdinand is the next direct heir-in-law—that makes one sick—"
Verisschenzko poured his friend out a whisky and soda and said smiling:
"Then let us drink once more to the Ardayre son!"
Lady de la Paule really felt proud of her niece; the party at Ardayre was progressing so perfectly. The guests had all arrived in time for the ball at Bridgeborough Castle on the twenty-third of July and had assisted next day at the garden party, and then a large dinner at Ardayre, and now on the last night of their stay Amaryllis' own ball was to take place.
All the other big country houses round were filled also, and nothing could have been gayer or more splendidly done than the whole thing.
John Ardayre had been quite enthusiastic about all the arrangements, taking the greatest pride in settling everything which could add lustre to his Amaryllis' success as a hostess.
The quantities of servants, the perfectly turned-out motors—the wonderful chef—all had been his doing, and when most of the party had retired to their rooms for a little rest before dinner on the twenty-fifth, the evening of the ball, Lady de la Paule and John's friend, Lady Avonwier, congratulated him, as he sat with them, the last ladies remaining, under the great copper beech tree on the lawn which led down to the lake.
"Everything has been perfect, has it not, Mabella?" Lady Avonwier said. "I have even been converted about your marvellous Madame Boleski! I confess I have avoided her all the season, because we Americans are far more exclusive than you English people in regard to whom we know of our own countrywomen, and no one would receive such a person in New York, but she is so luridly stupid, and such a decoration, that I quite agree you were right to invite her, John."
"She seems to me charming," Lady de la Paule confessed. "Not the least pretension, and her clothes are marvellous. You are abominably severe, Etta. I am quite sure if she wanted to she could succeed in New York."
"Mabella, you simple creature! She just cajoles you all the time—she has specialised in cajoling important great ladies! No American would be taken in by her, and we resent it in our country when an outsider like that barges in. But here, I admit, since she provides us with amusement, I have no objection to accepting her, as I would a new nigger band, and shall certainly send her a card for my fancy ball next week."
John Ardayre chuckled softly.
"That sound indicates?"—and Etta Avonwier flashed at him her lovely clever eyes.
John Ardayre did not answer in words, but both women joined in his smile.
"Yes, we are worldlings," Lady Avonwier admitted, "just measuring people up for what they can give us, it is the only way though when the whole thing is such a rush!"
"I am so sorry for the poor husband," and Lady de la Paule's fat voice was kindly. "He does look such a wretched, cadaverous thing, with that black beard and those melancholy black eyes, and emaciated face. Do you think she beats him when they are alone?"
"Who knows? She is so primitive, she may be capable even of that!"
"Her clothes are not primitive," and John Ardayre lighted a cigarette."I don't think she really can be such a fool."
"I never suggested that she was a fool at all!" Lady Avonwier was decisive. "No one can be a fool who is as tenacious as she is—fools are vague people, who let things go. She is merely illiterate and stupid as an owl."
"I like your distinction between stupidity and foolishness!" John Ardayre often argued with Lady Avonwier; they were excellent friends.
"A stupid person is often a great rest and arrives—a fool makes one nervous and loses the game. But who is that walking with Amaryllis at the other side of the lake?"
John Ardayre looked up, and on over the water to the glory of the beech trees on the rising slope of the park, and there saw moving at the edge of them his wife and Verisschenzko, accompanied by two of the great tawny dogs.
"Oh! it is the interesting Russian whom we met in Paris, where all the charming ladies were supposed to be in love with him. He was to have come down for the whole three days. I suppose these Russian and Austrian rumours detained him, he has only arrived for to-night."
* * * * *
And across the lake Amaryllis was saying to Verisschenzko in her soft voice, deep as all the Ardayre voices were deep:
"I have brought you here so that you may get the best view of the house. I think, indeed, that it is very beautiful from over the water, do not you?"
Verisschenzko remained silent for a moment. His face was altered in this last week; it looked haggard and thinner, and his peculiar eyes were concentrated and intense.
He took in the perfect picture of this English stately home, with itsHenry VII centre and watch towers, and gabled main buildings, and theQueen Anne added Square—all mellowed and amalgamated into a whole ofexquisite beauty and dignity in the glow of the setting sun.
"How proud you should be of such possessions, you English. The accumulation of centuries, conserved by freedom from strife. It is no wonder you are so arrogant! You could not be if you had only memories, as we have, of wooden barracks up to a hundred and fifty years ago, and drunkenness and orgies, and beating of serfs. This is the picture our country houses call up—any of the older ones which have escaped being burnt. But here you have traditions of harmony and justice and obligations to the people nobody fulfilled." And then he took his hat off and looked up into the golden sky:
"May nothing happen to hurt England, and may we one day be as free."
A shiver ran through Amaryllis—but something kept her silent; she divined that her friend's mood did not desire speech from her yet. He spoke again and earnestly a moment or two afterwards.
"Lady of my soul—I am going away to-morrow into a frenzied turmoil. I have news from my country, and I must be in the centre of events; we do not know what will come of it all. I come down to-day at great sacrifice of time to bid you farewell. It may be that I shall never see you again, though I think that I shall; but should I not, promise me that you will remain my star unsmirched by the paltriness of the world, promise me that you will live up to the ideal of this noble home—that you will develop your brain and your intuition, that you will be forceful and filled with common sense. I would like to have moulded your spiritual being, and brought you to the highest, but it is not for me, perhaps, in this life—another will come. See that you live worthily."
Amaryllis was deeply moved.
"Indeed, I will try. I have seen so little of you, but I feel that I have known you always, and—yes—even I feel that it is true what you said," and she grew rosy with a sweet confusion—"that we were—lovers—I am so ignorant and undeveloped, not advanced like you, but when you speak you seem to awaken memories; it is as though a transitory light gleamed in dark places, and I receive flashes of understanding, and then it grows obscured again, but I will try to seize and hold it—indeed, I will try to do as you would wish."
They both looked ahead, straight at the splendid house, and then Amaryllis looked at Verisschenzko and it seemed as though his face were transfigured with some inward light.
"Strange things are coming, child, the cauldron has boiled over, and we do not know what the stream may engulf. Think of this evening in the days which will be, and remember my words."
His voice vibrated, but he did not look at her, but always across the lake at the house.
"Whenever you are in doubt as to the wisdom of a decision between two courses—put them to the test of which, if you follow it, will enable you to respect your own soul. Never do that which the inward You despises."
"And if both courses look equally good and it is merely a question of earthly benefit?"
Verisschenzko smiled.
"Never be vague. There is an Arab proverb which says: Trust in God but tie up your camel."
The setting sun was throwing its last gleams upon the windows of the high tower. Nothing more beautiful or impressive could have been imagined than the scene. The velvet lawn sloping down to the lake, with a group of trees to the right among which nestled the tiny cruciform ancient church, while in the distance, on all sides, stretched the vast, gloriously timbered park.
Verisschenzko gazed at the wonder of it, and his yellow-green eyes were wide with the vision it created in his brain.
No—this should never go to the bastard Ferdinand, whose life in Constantinople was a disgrace. This record of fine living and achievement of worthy Ardayres should remain the glory of the true blood.
He turned and looked at Amaryllis at his side, so slender, and strong, and young—and he said:
"It is necessary above all things that you cultivate a steadiness and clearness of judgment, which will enable you to see the great aim in a thing, and not be hampered by sentimental jingo and convention, which is a danger when a nature is as good and true, but as undeveloped, as yours. Whatever circumstance should arise in your life, in relation to the trust you hold for this family and this home, bring the keenest common sense to bear upon the matter, and keep the end, that you must uphold it and pass it on resplendent, in view."
Amaryllis felt that he was transmitting some message to her. His eyes were full of inspiration and seemed to see beyond.
What message? She refrained from asking. If he had meant her to understand more fully he would have told her plainly. Light would come in its own time.
"I promise," was all she said.
They looked at the great tower; the sun had left some of the windows and in one they could see the figure of a woman standing there in some light dressing-gown.
"That is Harietta Boleski," Verisschenzko remarked, his mood changing, and that penetrating and yet inscrutable expression growing in his regard. "It is almost too far away to be certain, but I am sure that it is she. Am I right? Is that window in her room?"
"Yes—how wonderful of you to be able to recognise her at that distance!"
"Of what is she thinking?—if one can call her planning thoughts! She does not gaze at views to appreciate the loveliness of the landscape; figures in the scene are all which could hold her attention—and those figures are you and me."
"Why should we interest her?"
"There are one or two reasons why we should. I think after all you must be very careful of her. I believe if she stays on in England you had better not let the acquaintance increase."
"Very well." Amaryllis again did not question him; she felt he knew best.
"She has been most successful here, and at the Bridgeborough ball she amused herself with a German officer, and left the other women's men alone. He was brought by the party from Broomgrove and was mostempressé;he got introduced to her at once—just after we came in. I expect they will bring him to-night. He and she looked such a magnificent pair, dancing a quadrille. It was quite a serious ball to begin with! None of those dances of which you disapprove, and all the Yeomanry wore their uniforms and the German officer wore his too."
"He was a fine animal, then?"
"Yes—but?"
"You saida pair—only an animal could make a pair with Harietta!Describe him to me. What was he like? And what uniform did he wear?"
Amaryllis gave a description, of height, and fairness, and of the blue and gold coat.
"He would have been really good-looking, only that to our eyes his hips are too wide."
"It sounds typically German—there are hundreds such there—some ordinaryPrussian Infantry regiment, I expect. You say he was introduced toHarietta? They were not old friends—no?"
"I heard him ask Mrs. Nordenheimer, his hostess, who she was, in his guttural voice, and Mrs. Nordenheimer came up to me and presented him and asked me to introduce him to my guest. So I did. The Nordenheimers are those very rich German Jews who bought Broomgrove Park some years ago. Every one receives them now."
"And how did Harietta welcome this partner?"
"She looked a little bored, but afterwards they danced several times together."
"Ah!"—and that was all Verisschenzko said, but his thoughts ran: "An infantry officer—not a large enough capture for Harietta to waste time on in a public place—when she is here to advance herself. She danced with him becauseshe was obliged to. I must ascertain who this man is."
Amaryllis saw that he was preoccupied. They walked on now and round through the shrubbery on the left, and so at last to the house again. Amaryllis could not chance being late.
Verisschenzko recovered from his abstraction presently and talked of many things—of the friendship of the soul, and how it can only thrive after there has been in some life a physical passionate love and fusion of the bodies.
"I want to think that we have reached this stage, Lady mine. My mission on this plane now is so fierce a one, and the work which I must do is so absorbing, that I must renounce all but transient physical pleasures. But I must keep some radiant star as my lodestone for spiritual delights, and ever since we met and spoke at the Russian Embassy it seems as though step by step links of memory are awakening and comforting me with knowledge of satisfied desire in a former birth, so that now our souls can rise to rarer things. I can even see another in the earthly relation which once was mine, without jealousy. Child, do you feel this too?"
"I do not know quite what I feel," and Amaryllis looked down, "but I will try to show you that I am learning to master my emotions, by thinking only of sympathy between our spirits."
"It is well—"
Then they reached the house and entered the green drawing-room in the Queen Anne Square, by one of the wide open windows, and there Amaryllis held out her two slim hands to Verisschenzko.
"Think of me sometimes, even amidst your turmoil," she whispered, "and I shall feel your ambience uplifting my spirit and my will."
"Lady of my Soul!" he cried, exalted once more, and he bent as though to kiss her hands, but straightened himself and threw them gently from him.
"No! I will resist all temptations! Now you must dress and dine, and dance, and do your duty—and later we will say farewell."
Harietta Boleski stamped across her charming chintz chamber in the great tower. She was like an angry wolf in the Zoo, she burst with rage. Verisschenzko had never walked by lakes with her, nor bent over with that air of devotion.
"He loves that hateful bit of bread and butter! But I shall crush her yet—and Ferdinand Ardayre will help me!"
Then she rang her bell violently for Marie, while she kicked aside Fou-Chow, who had travelled to England as an adjunct to her beauty, concealed in a cloak. His minute body quivered with pain and fear, and he looked up at her reproachfully with his round Chinese idol's eyes, then he hid under a chair, where Marie found him trembling presently and carried him surreptitiously to her room.
"My angel," she told him as they went along the passage, "that she-devil will kill thee one day, unless happily I can place thee in safety first. But if she does, then I will murder for myself! What has caused her fury tonight, some one has spoilt her game."
In the oak-panelled smoking room, deserted by all but these two,Verisschenzko spoke to Stanislass, hastily, and in his own tongue.
"The news is of vital importance, Stanislass. You must return with me to London; of all things you must show energy now and hold your men together. I leave in the morning. You hesitate!—impossible!—Harietta keeps you! Bah!—then I wash my hands of you and Poland. Weakling! to let a woman rule you. Well; if you choose thus, you can go by yourself to hell. I have done with you." And he strode from the room, looking more Calmuck and savage than ever in his just wrath. And when he had gone the second husband of Harietta leant forward and buried his head in his hands.
* * * * *
The picture Gallery made a brilliant setting for that gallant company! A collection of England's best, dancing their hardest to a stirring band, which sang when the tune of some popular Révue chorus came in.
"The Song of the Swan," Verisschenzko thought as he observed it all in the last few minutes before midnight. He must go away soon. A messenger had arrived in hot haste from London, motoring beyond the speed limit, and as soon as his servant had packed his things he must return and not wait for the morning. All relations between Austria and Servia had been broken off, the conflagration had begun, and no time must be wasted further. He must be in Russia as soon as it was possible to get there. He blamed himself for coming down.
"And yet it was as well," he reflected, because he had become awakened in regard to possible double dealing in Harietta. But where were his host and hostess—he must bid them farewell.
John Ardayre was valsing with Lady Avonwier and Harietta Boleski undulated in the arms of the tall German who had come with the party from Broomgrove—but Amaryllis for the moment was absent from the room.
"If I could only know who the beast is before I go, and where she has met him previously!" Verisschenzko's thoughts ran. "It is more than ever necessary that I master her—and there is so little time."
He waited for a few seconds, the dance was almost done, and when the last notes of music ceased and the throng of people swept towards him, he fixed Harietta with his eye.
Her evening so far had not been agreeable. She had not been able to have a word with Stépan, who had been far from her at the banquet before the ball. She was torn with jealousy of Amaryllis; and the advent of Hans, when she would have wished to have been free to re-grab Verisschenzko, was most unfortunate. It had not been altogether pleasant, his turning up at Bridgeborough, but at any rate that one evening was quite enough! She really could not be wearied with him more!
His new instructions to her from the higher command were most annoyingly difficult too—coming at a time when her whole mind was given to consolidating her position in England,—it was really too bad!
If only the tiresome bothers of these stupid old quarrelsome countries did not upset matters, she just meant to make Stanislass shut up his ugly old Polish home, and settle in some splendid country house like this, only nearer London. Now that she had seen what life was in England, she knew that this was her goal. No bothersome old other language to be learned! Besides, no men were so good-looking as the English, or made such safe and prudent lovers, because they did not boast. If any information she had been able to collect for Hans in the last year had helped his Ober-Lords to stir up trouble, she was almost sorry she had given it—unless indeed, ructions between those ridiculous southern countries made it so that she could remain in England, then it was a good thing. And Hans had assured her that England could not be dragged in. Then she laughed to herself as she always did if Hans coerced her—when she recollected how she had given his secrets away to Verisschenzko and that no matter how he seemed to compel her obedience, she was even with him underneath!
She looked now at the Russian standing there, so tall and ugly, and weirdly distinguished, and a wild passionate desire for him overcame her, as primitive as one a savage might have felt. At that moment she almost hated her late husband, for she dared not speak to Verisschenzko with Hans there. She must wait until Verisschenzko spoke to her. Hans could not prevent that, nor accuse her of disobeying his command. So that it was with joy that she saw the Russian approach her. She did not know that he was leaving suddenly, and she was wondering if some meeting could not be arranged for later on, when Hans would be gone.
"Good evening, Madame!" Verisschenzko said suavely. "May I not have the pleasure of a turn with you; it is delightful to meet you again."
Harietta slipped her hand out of Hans' arm and stood still, determined to secure Stépan at once since the chance had come.
Verisschenzko divined her intention and continued, his voice serious with its mock respect:
"I wonder if I could persuade you to come with me and find your husband. You know the house and I do not. I have something I want to talk to him about if you won't think me a great bore taking you from your partner," and he bowed politely to Hans.
Harietta introduced them casually, and then said archly:
"I am sure you will excuse me, Captain von Pickelheim. And don't forget you have the first one-step after supper!" So Hans was dismissed with a ravishing smile.
Verisschenzko had watched the German covertly and saw that with all his forced stolidity an angry gleam had come into his eyes.
"They have certainly met before—and he knows me—I must somehow make time," then, aloud:
"You are looking a dream of beauty to-night, Harietta," he told her as they walked across the hall. "Is there not some quiet corner in the garden where we can be alone for a few minutes. You drive me mad."
Harietta loved to hear this, and in triumph she raised her head and drew him into one of the sitting-rooms, and so out of the open windows on into the darkness beyond the limitations of the lawn.
Twenty minutes afterwards Verisschenzko entered the house alone, a grim smile of satisfaction upon his rugged countenance. Jealousy, acting on animal passion, had been for once as productive of information as a ruby ring or brooch—and what a remarkable type Harietta! Could there be anything more elemental on the earth! Meanwhile this lady had gained the ball-room by another door, delighted with her adventure, and the thought that she had tricked Hans!
"Have you seen our hostess, Madame?" the Russian asked, meeting Lady de la Paule. "I have been looking for her everywhere. Is not this a charming sight?"
They stayed and talked for a few minutes, watching the joyous company of dancers, among whom Amaryllis could now be seen. Verisschenzko wished to say farewell to her when the one-step should be done. They would all be going into supper, and then would be his chance. He could not delay longer—he must be gone.
He was paying little attention to what Lady de la Paule was saying—her fat voice prattled on:
"I hope these tiresome little quarrels of the Balkan peoples will settle themselves. If Austria should go to war with Servia, it may upset my Carlsbad cure."
Then he laughed out suddenly, but instantly checked himself.
"That would be too unfortunate, Madame, we must not anticipate such preposterous happenings!"
And as he walked forward to meet Amaryllis his face was set:
"Half the civilised world thinks thus of things. The sinister events in the Balkans convey no suggestions of danger, and only matter in that they could upset a Carlsbad cure! Alas! how sound asleep these splendid people are!"
He met Amaryllis and briefly told her that he must go. She left her partner and came with him to the foot of the staircase, which led to his room.
"Good-bye, and God keep you," she said feelingly, but she noticed that he did not even offer to take her hand.
"All blessings, my Star," and his voice was hoarse, then he turned abruptly and went on up the stairs. But when he reached the landing above he paused, and looked down at her, moving away among the throng.
"Sweet Lady of my Soul," he whispered softly. "After Harietta I could not soil—even thy glove!"
Events moved rapidly. Of what use to write of those restless, feverish days before the 4th of August, 1914? They are too well known to all the world. John, as ever, did his duty, and at once put his name down for active service, cajoled a medical board which would otherwise probably have condemned him and trained with the North Somerset Yeomanry in anticipation of being soon sent to France. But before all this happened, the night War was declared; he remained in his own sitting-room at Ardayre, and Amaryllis wondered, and towards dawn crept out of bed and listened in the passage, but no sound came from within the room.
How very unsatisfactory this strange reserve between them was becoming! Would she never be able to surmount it? Must they go on to the end of their lives, living like two polite friendly acquaintances, neither sharing the other's thoughts? She hardly realised that the War could personally concern John. The Yeomanry, she imagined, were only for home defence, so at this stage no anxiety troubled her about her husband.
The next day he seemed frightfully preoccupied, and then he talked to her seriously of their home and its traditions, and how she must love it and understand its meaning. He spoke too of his great wish for a child—and Amaryllis wondered at the tone almost of anguish in his voice.
"If only we had a son, Amaryllis, I would not care what came to me. A true Ardayre to carry on! The thought of Ferdinand here after me drives me perfectly mad!"
Amaryllis knew not what to answer. She looked down and clasped her hands.
John came quite close and gazed into her face, as if therein some comfort could be found; then he folded her in his arms.
"Oh! Amaryllis!" he said, and that was all.
"What is it? Oh! what does everything mean?" the poor child cried. "Why, why can't we have a son like other people of our age?"
John kissed her again.
"It shall be—it must be so," he answered—and framed her face in his hands.
"Amaryllis—I know you have often wondered whether I really loved you. You have found me a stupid, unsatisfactory sort of husband—indeed, I am but a dull companion at the best of times. Well, I want you to know that I do—and I am going to try to change, dear little girl. If I knew that I held some corner of your heart it would comfort me."
"Of course, you do, John. Alas! if you would only unbend and be loving to me, how happy we could be."
He kissed her once more. "I will try."
That afternoon he went up to London to his medical board, and Amaryllis was to join him in Brook Street on the following day.
She was stunned like every one else. War seemed a nightmare—an unreality—she had not grasped its meaning as yet. She thought of Verisschenzko and his words. What was her duty? Surely at a great crisis like this she must have some duty to do?
The library in Brook Street was a comfortable room and was always their general sitting-room; its windows looked out on the street.
That evening when John Ardayre arrived he paced up and down it for half an hour. He was very pale and lines of thought were stamped upon his brow.
He had come to a decision; there only remained the details of a course of action to be arranged.
He went to the telephone and called up the Cavalry Club. Yes, CaptainArdayre was in, and presently Denzil's voice said surprisedly:
"Hullo!"
"I heard by chance that you were in town. I suppose your regiment will be going out at once. It is your cousin, John Ardayre, speaking, we have not met since you were a boy. I have something rather vital I want to say to you. Could you possibly come round?"
The two voices were so alike in tone it was quite remarkable, each was aware of it as he listened to the other.
"Where are you, and what is the time?".
"I am in our house in Brook Street, number 102, and it is nearly seven.Could you manage to come now?"
There was a second or two's pause, then Denzil said:
"All right. I will get into a taxi and be with you in about five minutes," and he put the receiver down.
John Ardayre grew paler still, and sank into a chair. His hands were trembling, this sign of weakness angered him and he got up and rang the bell and ordered his valet who had come up with him, to bring him some brandy.
Murcheson was an old and valued servant, and he looked at his master with concern, but he knew him too to make any remark. If there was any one in the world beyond the great surgeon, Lemon Bridges, who could understand the preoccupations of John Ardayre, Murcheson was the man.
He brought the old Cognac immediately and retired from the room a moment or two before Denzil arrived. Very little trace of emotion remained upon the face of the head of the family when his cousin was shown in, and he came forward cordially to meet him. Standing opposite one another, they might have been brothers, not cousins, the resemblance was so strong! Denzil was perhaps fairer, but their heads were both small and their limbs had the same long lines. But where as John Ardayre suggested undemonstrative stolidity, every atom of the younger man was vitally alive.
His eyes were bluer, his hair more bronze, and exuberant perfect health glowed in his tanned fresh skin.
Both their voices were peculiarly deep, with the pronunciation of the words especially refined. John Ardayre said some civil things with composure, and Denzil replied in kind, explaining how he had been most anxious to meet John and Amaryllis and heal the breach the fathers had made.
John offered him a cigar, and finally the atmosphere seemed to be unfrozen as they smoked. But in Denzil's mind there was speculation. It was not for just this that he had been asked to come round.
John began to speak presently with a note of deep seriousness in his voice. He talked of the war and of his Yeomanry's going out, and of Denzil's regiment also. It was quite on the cards that they might both be killed—then he spoke of Ferdinand, and the old story of the shame, and he told Denzil of his boyhood and its great trials, and of his determination to redeem the family home and of the great luck which had befallen him in the city after the South African War—and how that the thought of worthily handing on the inheritance in the direct male line had become the dominating desire of his life.
At first his manner had been very restrained, but gradually the intense feeling which was vibrating in him made itself known, and Denzil grew to realise how profound was his love for Ardayre and how great his family pride.
But underneath all this some absolute agony must be wringing his soul.
Denzil became increasingly interested.
At last John seemed to have come to a very difficult part of his narration; he got up from his chair and walked rapidly up and down the room, then forced himself to sit down again and resume his original calm.
"I am going to trust you, Denzil, with something which matters far more than my life." John looked Denzil straight in the eyes. "And I will confide in you because you are next in the direct line. Listen very carefully, please, it concerns your honour in the family as well as mine. It would be too infamous to let Ardayre go to the bastard, Ferdinand, the snake-charmer's son, if, as is quite possible, I shall be killed in the coming time."
Denzil felt some strange excitement permeating him. What did these words portend? Beads of perspiration appeared on John's forehead, and his voice sunk so low that his cousin bent forward to be certain of hearing him.
Then John spoke in broken sentences, for the first time in his life letting another share the thoughts which tortured him, but the time was not for reticence. Denzil must understand everything so that he would consent to a certain plan. At length, all that was in John's heart had been made plain, and exhausted with the effort of his innermost being's unburdenment, he sank back in his chair, deadly pale. The quiet, waiting attitude in Denzil had given way to keenness, and more than once as he listened to the moving narration he had emitted words of sympathy and concern, but when the actual plan which John had evolved was unfolded to him, and the part he was to play explained, he rose from his chair and stood leaning on the high mantelpiece, an expression of excitement and illumination on his strong, good-looking face.
"Do not say anything for a little," John said. "Think over everything quietly. I am not asking you to do anything dishonourable—and however much I had hated his mother I would not ask this of you if Ferdinand were my father's son. You are the next real heir—Ferdinand could not be; my father had never met the woman until a month before he married her, and the baby arrived five months afterwards, at its full time. There was no question of incubators or difficulties and special precautions to rear him, nor was there any suggestion that he was a seven months' child. It was only after years that I found out when my father first saw the woman, but even before this proof there were many and convincing evidences that Ferdinand was no Ardayre."
"One has only to look at the beast!" cried Denzil. "If the mother was a Bulgarian, he's a mongrel Turk, there is not a trace of English blood in his body!"
"Then surely you agree with me that it would be an infamy if he should take the place of the head of the family, should I not survive?"
Denzil clenched his hands.
"There is no moral question attached, remember," John went on anxiously before he could reply. "There is only the question of the law, which has been tricked and defamed by my father, for the meanest ends of revenge towards me—and now we—you and I—have the right to save the family and its honour and circumvent the perfidy and weakness of that one man. Oh!—can't you understand what this means to me, since for this trust of Ardayre that I feel I must faithfully carry on, I am willing to—Oh!—my God, I can't say it. Denzil, answer me—tell me that you look at it in the same way as I do! You are of the family. It is your blood which Ferdinand would depose—the disgrace would be yours then, since if Ferdinand reigned I would have gone."
The two men were standing opposite one another, and both their faces were pale and stern, but Denzil's blue eyes were blazing with some wonderful new emotion, as they looked at John.
"Very well," he said, and held out his hand. "I appreciate the tremendous faith you have placed in me, and on my word of honour as an Ardayre, I will not abuse it, nor take advantage of it afterwards. My regiment will go out at once, I suppose, the chances are as likely that I shall be killed as you—"
They shook hands silently.
"We must lose no time."
Then John poured out two glasses of brandy, and the toast they drank was unspoken. But suddenly Denzil remembered as a strange coincidence that he was drinking it for the third time.
* * * * *
Amaryllis arrived from Ardayre the next afternoon, after John's medical board had been squared into pronouncing him fit for active service—and he met his wife at the station and was particularly solicitous of her well-being. He seemed to be unusually glad to see her, and put his arm round her in the motor driving to Brook Street. What would she like to do? They could not, of course, go to the theatre, but if she would rather they could go out to a restaurant to dine—there were going to be all kinds of difficulties about food. Amaryllis, who responded immediately to the smallest advance on his part, glowed now with fond sweetness. She had been so miserable without him; so crushed and upset by the thought of war, and his possible participation in it. All the long night, alone at Ardayre, she had tried to realise what it all would mean. It was too stupendous, she could not grasp it as yet, it was just a blank horror. And now to be in the motor and close to him, and everything ordinary and as usual seemed to drive the hideous fact further and further away. She would not face it for to-night, she would try to be happy and banish the remembrance. No one knew what was happening, nor if the Expeditionary Force had or had not crossed to France. John asked her again what she would like to do.
She did not want to go out at all, she told him; if the kitchenmaid and Murcheson could find them something to eat she would much rather dine alone with him, like a regular old Darby and Joan pair—and afterwards she would play nice things to him, and John agreed.
When she came down ready for dinner, she was radiant; she had put on a new and ravishing tea-gown and her grey eyes were shining with a winsome challenge, and her beautiful skin was brilliant with health and freshness. A man could not have desired a more delectable creature to call his own.
John thought so and at dinner expanded and told her so. He was not a practised lover; women had played a very small part in his life—always too filled with work and the one dominating idea to make room for them. He had none of the tender graciousness ready at his command which Denzil would very well have known how to show. But he loved Amaryllis, and this was the first time he had permitted the expression of his emotion to appear.
She became ever more fascinating, and at length unconscious passion grew in her glance. John said some rather clumsy but loving things, and when they went back to the library he slipped his arm round her, and drew her to his side.
"I love to be near you, John," she whispered; "I like your being so tall and so distinguished-looking. I like your clothes—they are so well made—" and then she wrinkled her pretty nose—"and I adore the smell of the stuff you put on your hair! Oh! I don't know—I just want to be in your arms!"
John kissed her. "I must give you a bottle of that lotion—it is supposed to do wonders for the hair. It was originally made by an old housekeeper of my mother's family in the still room, and I have always kept the receipt—there are cloves in it and some other aromatic herbs."
"Yes, that is what I smell, like a clove carnation—it is divine. I wonder why scents have such an effect upon one—don't you? Perhaps I am a very sensuous creature—they can make me feel wicked or good—some scents make me deliciously intoxicated—that one of yours does—when I get near you—I want you to hold me and kiss me—John."
Every fibre of John Ardayre's being quivered with pain. The cruel, ironical bitterness of things.
"I've never smelt this same scent on any one else," she went on, rubbing her soft cheek up and down against his shoulder in the most alluring way. "I should know it anywhere for it means just my dear—John!"
He turned away on the pretence of getting a cigarette; he knew that his eyes had filled with tears.
Then Murcheson came into the room with the coffee, and this made a break—and he immediately asked her to play to him, and settled himself in one of the big chairs. He was too much on the rack to continue any more love-making then; "what might have been" caused too poignant anguish.
He watched her delicate profile outlined against the curtain of green silk. It was so pure and young—and her long throat was white as milk. If this time next year she should have a child—a son—and he, not killed, but sitting there perhaps watching her holding it. How would he feel then? Would the certainty of having an Ardayre carry on heal the wild rebellion in his soul?
"Ah, God!" he prayed, "take away all feeling—reward this sacrifice—let the family go on."
"You don't think you will have really to go to the war, do you, John?" Amaryllis asked after she left the piano. "It will be all over, won't it, before the New Year, and in any case the Yeomanry are only for home defence, aren't they?" and she took a low seat and rested her head against his arm.
John stroked her hair.
"I am afraid it will not be over for a long time, Amaryllis. Yes, I think we shall go out and pretty soon. You would not wish to stop me, child?"
Amaryllis looked straight in front of her.
"What is this thing in us, John, which makes us feel that—yes, we would give our nearest and dearest, even if they must be killed? When the big thing comes even into the lives which have been perhaps all frivolous like mine—it seems to make a great light. There is an exaltation, and a pity, and a glory, and a grief, but no holding back. Is that patriotism, John?"
"That is one name for it, darling."
"But it is really beyond that in this war, because we are not going to fight for England, but for right. I think that feeling that we must give is some oblation of the soul which has freed itself from the chains of the body at last. For so many years we have all been asleep."
"This is a rude awakening."
They were silent for a little while, each busy with unusual thoughts.
There was a sense of nearness between them—of understanding, new and dangerously sweet.
Amaryllis felt it deliciously, sensuously, and took joy in that she was touching him.
John thrust it away.
"I must get through to-night," he thought, "but I cannot if this hideous pain of knowledge of what I must renounce conquers me—I must be strong."
He went on stroking her hair; it made her thrill and she turned and bit one of his fingers playfully with a wicked little laugh.
"I wish I knew what I am feeling, John," she whispered, and her eyes were aflame, "I wish I knew—"
"I must teach you!" and with sudden fierceness he bent down and kissed her lips.
Then he told her to go to bed.
"You must be tired, Amaryllis, after your journey. Go like a good child."
She pouted. She was all vibrating with some totally new and overmastering emotion. She wanted to stay and be made love to. She wanted—she knew not what, only everything in her was thrilling with passionate warmth.
"Must I? It is only ten."
"I have a frightful lot of business things to write tonight, Amaryllis. Go now and sleep, and I will come and wake you about twelve!" He looked lover-like. She sighed.
"Ah! if you would only come now!"
He kissed her almost roughly again and led her to the door. And he stood watching her with burning eyes as she went up the stairs.
Then he came back and rang the bell.
"I shall be very late, Murcheson—do not sit up, I will turn out the lights. Good-night."
"Very good, Sir John."
And the valet left the room.
But John Ardayre did not write any business letters; he sank back into his great leather chair—his lips were trembling, and presently sobs shook him, and he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
Just before twelve had struck, he went out into the hall, and turned off the light at the main. The whole house would now be in absolute darkness but for an electric torch he carried. He listened—there was not a sound.
Then he crept quietly up to his dressing room and returned with a bottle of the clove-scented hair lotion.
"What a mercy she spoke of it," his thoughts ran. "How sensitive women are—I should never have remembered such a thing."
Yes—now there was a sound.
* * * * *
Midnight had struck—and Amaryllis, sleeping peacefully, had been dreaming of John.
"Oh! dearest," she whispered drowsily, as but half awakened, she felt herself being drawn into a pair of strong arms—"Oh!—you know I love that scent of cloves—Oh!—I love you, John!"
When Amaryllis awoke in the morning her head rested on John's breast, and his arm encircled her. She raised herself on her elbow and looked at him. He was still asleep—and his face was infinitely sad. She bent over and kissed him with shy tenderness, but he did not move, he only sighed heavily as he lay there.
Why should he look so sad, when they were so happy?
She thought of loving things he had said to her at dinner—and then the afterwards!—and she thrilled with emotion. Life seemed a glorious thing and—But John was sad, of course, because he must go away. The recollection of this fact came upon her suddenly like a blast of cold air. They must part. War hung there with its hideous shadow, and John must be conscious of it even in his dreams, that was why he sighed.
The irony of things—now—when—Oh! how cruel that he must go.
Then John awoke with a shudder, and saw her there leaning over him with a new soft love light in her eyes, and he realised that the anguish of his calvary had only just begun.
She was perfectly exquisite at breakfast, a fresh and tender graciousness radiated in her every glance; she was subtle and captivating, teasing him that he had been so silent in the night. "Why wouldn't you talk to me, John? But it was all divine, I did not mind." Then she became full of winsome ways and caresses, which she had hitherto been too timid to express; and every fond word she spoke stabbed John's heart.
Could she not come and stay somewhere near so as to be with him while he was in training? It was unbearable to remain alone.
But he told her that this would be impossible and that she must go back to Ardayre.
"I will get leave, if there is a chance, dear little girl."
"Oh! John, you must indeed."
After he had gone out to the War Office, she sang as she undid a bundle of late roses he had sent her from Soloman's, on his way.
She must herself put them in water; no servant should have this pleasing task. Was it the thought of the imminence of separation which had altered John into so dear a lover? She went over his words there in the library. She relived the joy of his sudden fierce kiss, when he had said that he must teach her as to what her emotions meant.
Ah! how good to learn, how all glorious was life and love!
"Sweetheart," the word rang in her ears. He had never called her that before! Indeed, John rarely ever used any term of endearment, and never got beyond "Dear" or "Darling" before. But now it was an exquisite remembrance! Just the murmured word "Sweetheart!" whispered softly again and again in the night.
John came back to lunch, but two of the de la Paule family dropped in also, and the talk was all of war, and the difficulty of getting money at the banks, and how food would go on, and what the whole thing would mean.
But over Amaryllis some spell had fallen—nothing seemed a reality, she could not attend to ordinary things, she felt that she but moved and spoke as one still in a dream.
The world, and life, and death, and love, were all a blended mystery which was but beginning to unravel for her and drew her nearer to John.
The days went on apace.
John in camp thanked God for the strenuous work of his training that it kept him so occupied that he had barely time to think of Amaryllis or the tragedy of things. When he had left her on the following afternoon, the seventh of August, she had returned to Ardayre alone and began the knitting and shirt-making and amateurish hospital committees which all well-meaning English women vaguely grasped at before the stern necessities brought them organised work to do. Amaryllis wrote constantly to John—all through August—and many of the letters contained loving allusions which made him wince with pain.
Then the awful news came of Mons, then the Marne—and the Aisne—awful and glorious, and a hush and mourning fell over the land, and Amaryllis, like every one else, lost interest in all personal things for a time.
A young cousin had been killed and many of her season's partners and friends, and now she knew that the North Somerset Yeomanry would shortly go out and fight as they had volunteered at once. She was very miserable. But when September grew, in spite of all this general sorrow, a new horizon presented itself, lit up as if by approaching dawn, for a hope had gradually developed—a hope which would mean the rejoicing of John's heart.
And the day when first this possibility of future fulfilment was pronounced a certainty was one of almost exalted beatitude, and when Doctor Geddis drove away down the Northern Avenue, Amaryllis seized a coat from the folded pile of John's in the hall, and walked out into the park hatless, the wind blowing the curly tendrils of her soft brown hair, a radiance not of earth in her eyes. The late September sun was sinking and gilding the windows of the noble house, and she turned and looked back at it when she was far across the lake.
And the whole of her spirit rose in thankfulness to God, while her soul sang a glad magnificat.
She, too, might hand on this great and splendid inheritance! She, too, would be the mother of Ardayres!
And now to write to John!
That was a fresh pleasure! What would he say? What would he feel? DearJohn! His letters had been calm and matter of fact, but that was his way.She did not mind it now. He loved her, and what did words matter withthis glorious knowledge in her heart?
To have a baby! Her very own—and John's!
How wonderful! How utterly divine—!
Her little feet hardly touched the moss beneath them, she wanted to skip and sing.
Next May! Next May! A Spring flower—a little life to care for when war, of course, would have ended and all the world again could be happy and young!
And then she returned by the tiny ancient church. She had the key of it, a golden one which John had given her on their first coming down. It hung on her bracelet with her own private key.
The sun was pouring through the western window, carpeting the altar steps in translucent cloth of gold.
Amaryllis stole up the short aisle, and paused when she came between the two tall canopied tombs of recumbent sixteenth century knights, which made so dignified a screen for the little side aisles—and then she moved on and knelt in the shaft of the sunlight there at the carved rails.
And no one ever raised to God a purer or more fervent prayer.
She stayed until the sun sunk below the window, and then she rose and went back to the house, and up to her cedar room. And now she must write to John!
She began—once—twice—but tore up each sheet. Her news was a supreme happiness, but so difficult to transmit!
At last she finished three sides of her own rather large sized note-paper, but as she read over what she had written, she was not quite content; it did not express all that she desired John to know.
But how could a mere letter convey the wordless gladness in her heart?
She wanted to tell him how she would worship their baby, and how she would pray that they should be given a son—and how she would remember all his love words spoken that last time they were together, and weave the joy of them round the little form, so that it should grow strong and beautiful and radiant, and come to earth welcomed and blessed!
Something of all this finally did get written, and she concluded thus:
"John, is it not all wonderful and blissful and mysterious, this coming proof of our love? And when I lie awake I say over and over again the sweet name you called me, and which I want to sign! I am not just Amaryllis any longer, but your very own 'Sweetheart'!"
John received this letter by the afternoon post in camp. He sat down alone in his tent and read and re-read each line. Then he stiffened and remained icily still.
He could not have analysed his emotions. They were so intermixed with thankfulness and pain—and underneath there was a fierce, primitive jealousy burning.
"Sweetheart!" he said aloud, as though the word were anathema! "And must I call her that 'Sweetheart'! Oh! God, it is too hard!" and he clenched his hands.
By the same post came a letter from Denzil, of whose movements he had asked to be kept informed, saying that the 110th Hussars were going out at once, so that they would probably soon meet in France.
Then John wrote to Amaryllis. The very force of his feelings seemed to freeze his power of expression, and when he had finished he knew that it was but a cold, lifeless thing he had produced, quite inadequate as an answer to her tender, exalted words.
"My poor little girl," he sighed as he read it. "I know this will disappoint her. What a hideous, sickening mockery everything is."
He forced himself to add a postscript, a practice very foreign to his usual methodical rule. "Never forget that I love you, Amaryllis—Sweetheart!" he said.
And then he went to his Colonel and asked for two days' leave, and when it was granted for the following Saturday and Monday he wired to his wife asking her to meet him in Brook Street.
"I must see her—I cannot bear it," he cried to himself.
And late at night he wrote to Denzil—it was just that he should do this.
"My wife is going to have a baby—if only it should be a son, then it will not so much matter if both of us are killed, at least the family will be saved, and be able to carry oh."
He tried to make the letter cordial. Denzil had behaved with the most perfect delicacy throughout, he must admit, and although they had met once and exchanged several letters, not the faintest allusion to the subject of their talk in the library at Brook Street had ever been made by him.
Denzil had indeed acted and written as though such knowledge between them did not exist. He—Denzil—in these last seven weeks had been extremely occupied, and while his forces were concentrated upon the exhilarating preparations for war, it would happen in rare moments before sleep claimed him at night that he would let his thoughts conjure a waking dream, infinitely, mystically sweet. And every pulse would thrill with ecstasy, and then his will would banish it, and he would think of other subjects.
He could not face the marvel of his emotions at this period, nor dwell upon the romantically exciting aspect of some things.
He was up in London upon equipment business on the very Saturday that John got leave, and he was due to dine at the Carlton with Verisschenzko who had that day arrived on vital matters bent.
As they came into the hall, a man stopped to talk to the Russian, and Denzil's eyes wandered over the unnumerous and depressed looking company collected waiting for their parties to arrive. War had even in those early Autumn days set its grim seal upon this festive spot. People looked rather ashamed of being seen and no one smiled. He nodded to one or two friends, and then his glance fell upon a beautiful, slim, brown-haired girl, sitting quietly waiting in an armchair by the restaurant steps.
She wore a plain black frock, but in her belt one huge crimson clove carnation was unostentatiously tucked.
"What a lovely creature!" his thoughts ran, and Verisschenzko turning from his acquaintance that moment, he said to him as they started to advance:
"Stépan, if you want to see something typically English and perfectly exquisite, look at that girl in the armchair opposite where the band used to be. I wonder who she is?"
"What luck!" cried Verisschenzko. "That is your cousin, AmaryllisArdayre—come along!"
And in a second Denzil found himself being introduced to her, and being greeted by her with interested cordiality, as befitted their cousinly relationship.
But Verisschenzko, whose eyes missed nothing, remarked that under his sunburn, Denzil had grown suddenly very pale. Amaryllis was enchanted to see her friend, the Russian. John had gone to the telephone, it appeared—and yes, they were dining alone—and, of course, she was sure John would love to amalgamate parties, it was so nice of Verisschenzko to think of it! There was John now.
The blood rushed back to Denzil's heart, and the colour to his face—he had only murmured a few conventional words. Mercifully John would decide the matter—it was not his doing that he and Amaryllis had met.
John caught sight of the three as he came along the balcony from the telephone, so that he had time to take in the situation; he saw that the meeting was quiteimprévu, and he had, of course, no choice but to accept Verisschenzko's suggestion with a show of grace. At that very moment, before they could enter the restaurant, and re-arrange their tables, Harietta Boleski and her husband swept upon them—they were staying in the hotel. Harietta was enraptured.
What a delightful surprise meeting them! Were they all just together, would they not dine with her?
She purred to John, while her eyes took in with satisfaction Denzil's extraordinary good looks—and there was Stépan, too! Nothing could be more agreeable than to scintillate for them both.
John hailed their advent with relief: it would relax the intolerable strain which both he and Denzil would be bound to have to experience. So looking at the rest of the party, he indicated that he thought they would accept. It suited Verisschenzko also for his own reasons. And any suggestion to enlarge the intimate number of four would have been received by Denzil with graciousness.
He had not imagined that he would feel such profound emotion on seeing Amaryllis, the intensity of it caused him displeasure. It was altogether such a remarkable situation. He knew that it would have been of thrilling interest to him had it not been for the presence of John. His knowledge of what John must be suffering, and the knowledge that John was aware of what he also must be feeling, turned the whole circumstance into discomfort.
As soon as he recalled himself to Madame Boleski they all went into the restaurant to the Boleski table, just inside the door, by the window on the right. Harietta put John on one side of her and Denzil at the other, and beyond were Verisschenzko and her husband, with Amaryllis between, who thus sat nearly opposite Denzil, with her back to the room.
Harietta, when she desired to be, was always an inspiriting hostess, making things go. She intended to do her best to-night. The turn affairs had taken, England being at war, was quite too tiresome. It had spoilt all her country house visits and nullified much of the pleasure and profit she was intending to reap from her now secured position in this promised land.
Stanislass, too, had been difficult, he had threatened to go back to Poland immediately, which he explained was his obvious duty to do—but she had fortunately been able to crush that idea completely with tears and scenes. Then he suggested Paris, but information from Hans gave her occasion to think this might not be a comfortable or indeed quite a safe spot, and in all cases if the Frenchmen were fighting for dear life they would not have leisure to entertain her, therefore, dull and gloomy as England had become, she preferred to remain.
Hans, too, had given her orders. For the present London must be her home, and the lease of the Mount Lennard house in Grosvenor Square having expired, they had moved to the Carlton Hotel.
The misery of war, the holocaust of all that was noblest, left her absolutely cold. It was certainly a pity that those darling young guardsmen she had danced with should have had to be killed, but there was never any use in crying over spilt milk—better look out for new ones coming on. She was quite indifferent as to which country won. It was still a great bother collecting information for her former husband, but he threatened terrible reprisals if she refused to go on, and as in her secret heart she thought that there was no doubt as to who would be victor, she felt it might be wiser to remain on good terms with the power she believed would win!
Ferdinand Ardayre had been very helpful all the summer—he had moved from the Constantinople branch of his business to one in Holland and had just returned to England now; he was, in fact, coming to see her later on when she should have packed Stanislass safely off to the St. James' Club.
Harietta had no imagination to be inflamed by terrible descriptions of things. She saw no actual horrors, therefore war to her was only a nuisance—nothing ghastly or to be feared. But it was a disgusting nuisance and caused her fatigue. She had continually to remember to simulate proper sympathy, and concern and to subdue her vivacity, and show enthusiasm for any agreeable war work which could divert her dull days. If she had not been more than doubtful of her reception in America, even as a Polish magnate's wife, she would have gone over there to escape as far as possible from the whole situation, and she had been bored to death now for several days. People were too occupied and too grieved to go out of their way now to make much of her, and she had been left alone to brood. Thus the advent of Verisschenzko, who thrilled her always, and a possible new admirer in Denzil, seemed a heaven-sent occurrence. Amaryllis and John were undesired but unavoidable appendages who had to be swallowed.
Denzil's type particularly attracted her. There was an insouciance about him, adébonnair sans gênewhich increased the charm of his good looks; he had everything of attraction about him which John Ardayre lacked.
Amaryllis, against her will, before the end of the dinner, was conscious of the fact also, though Denzil studiously avoided any conversation with her beyond what the exigencies of politeness required. He devoted himself entirely to Harietta, to her delight, and Verisschenzko and Amaryllis talked while John was left to Stanislass. But the very fact of Denzil's likeness to John made Amaryllis look at him, and she resented his attraction and the interest he aroused in her.
His voice was perhaps even deeper than John's, and how extraordinarily well his bronze hair was planted on his forehead; and how perfectly groomed and brushed and soldierly he looked!
He seemingly had taken the measure of Madame Boleski, too, and was apparently enjoying with a cultivated subtlety the drawing of her out. He was no novice it seemed, and there was a whimsical light in his eyes and once or twice they had inadvertently met hers with understanding when Verisschenzko had made some especially cryptic remark. She knew that she would very much have liked to talk to him.
Verisschenzko was observing Amaryllis carefully. There was a new expression in her eyes which puzzled him. Her features seemed to be drawn with finer lines and pale violet shadows lay beneath her grey eyes. Was it the gloom of the war which oppressed her? It could not be altogether that, because her regard was serene and even happy.
"Did I not know that nothing could be more unlikely, I should say she was going to have a child. What is the mystery?" He found himself very much interested. Especially he was anxious to watch what impression Denzil made upon her. He saw, as the dinner went on, that Amaryllis was aware that he was an attractive creature.
"There is the beginning of a chapter of necessary and expedient—romance—here," he decided. "If only Denzil is not killed." But what did his growing so pale on learning that she was his cousin mean…? that was not a natural circumstance—some deep undercurrents were stirred. And in what way was all this going to affect the lady of his soul?
They could not have any intimate conversation at dinner; they spoke of ordinary things and the war and the horror of it. Russia was moving forward, but Verisschenzko did not appear to be very optimistic in spite of this. There were things in his country, he told Amaryllis, which might handicap the fighting.
Stanislass Boleski looked extremely depressed. He had a hang-dog, strained mien and Verisschenzko's contemptuously friendly attitude towards him wounded him deeply. Once he had shone as a leader and chief in Stépan's life, and now after the stormy scene in the smoking-room at Ardayre, that he could greet him casually and not turn from him in anger, showed, alas! to where he had sunk in Verisschenzko's estimation—a thing of nought—not even worth his disapproval. The dinner to him was a painful trial.