Woodville let himself in with the key, and sat down, in deep despondency, in front of his easel. On it was a second copy of a copy that some one had found him doing at the National Gallery of the great Leonardo. It was not good, and it made him sick to look at it. The studio was a battered little barn in the depths of Chelsea, with the usual dull scent of stale paint and staler tobacco, and very little else; it was quite devoid of the ordinary artistic trappings. From the window shrill cries were heard from the ragged children, who fought and played in the gutter of a sordid street. Woodville had come here to think.
He knew how shocked and distressed Sylvia had been when he had ventured to say that he thought he saw something in the Athenian scheme. He smiled with a slight reaction of gaiety at his surroundings, and wondered, for the hundredth time, why that extraordinaryold American lady at the National Gallery had actually ordered from him the second copy of his picture. How marvellously bad it was!
An unusual noise in the street—that of a hansom cab rattling up to the door—startled him. He went to the window, with a strange feeling at his heart. It was impossible that it could be Sylvia; she did not even know the address. It was Sylvia, in pale grey, gracefully paying the cabman while dirty children collected round her feet. He saw through the window that she smiled at them, and gave them a bunch of violets and some money, for which they fought. Horrified, he almost fell down the stairs and opened the door. There was no one else in the house.
She followed him up to the studio, looking pale, but smiling bravely. He closed the door and leant against it. He was panting.
"What—on—earth," he said, "do you mean by this madness?"
Sylvia, seeing he was angry, took the hatpin out of her hat, and looked round for a place to sit down and quarrel comfortably.
There was no seat, except a thing that had once been red and once a sofa, but was now a skeleton, and looked so cold and bare that she instinctively took off her chinchilla fur cloak and covered it up. Then she said—
"Because—I—chose!I never can get a word with you at home, and I have a perfect right to come and talk to my future husband on a subject that concerns my whole happiness."
She had invented this speech coming along, being prepared for his anger.
"But what would people——"
"People! People! You live for people! Everything matters except me!"
He resolved on calmness.
"Sylvia, dear, since youarehere," he said quietly, "let us talk reasonably."
He tried to sit next to her, but the sofa gave way, and he found himself kneeling by her side.
They both laughed angrily. He got up and stood by the mantelpiece.
"So you think it isdecentto accept money to leave the country to please my enemy?" said Sylvia.
"Will you tell me a really better plan by which we can marry in a year on an assured income?" he asked patiently.
"Income! Haven't I when I marry——" But he looked too angry. She changed the sentence and became imploring.
"Frank! If you love mereally, you can't leave me. Think, every day, every hour without you!"
"Very well! We'll tell your father to-night, and chance it. I won't stand these subterfuges any more. After all, we have the right to do as we like."
"No, Frank, you willnottell him till I'm twenty-one. I haven't a right before. You would only be called horrid things—have to go, and—think how mean it is to poor Ridokanaki! Taking his kindness, only to round on him next year! Have you no pride, Frank?"
"Sylvia, that's all very well. But he knows all that. It's his idea."
"Yes, itwouldbe! As if I didn't see through his mean, sly scheme. Why, it's not kindness at all!" she exclaimed.
"Good God! Well, what is it? Does he think you'll forget me, do you mean?" said Woodville.
"No, he doesn't. Heknows you'llforgetme—in Athens. Oh, Frank," and she suddenly burst out crying, "there'll be Greeks there!"
At the sight of her tears Frank was deeply touched; but he smiled, feeling more in the real world again—the world he knew.
"My dear girl, I don't pretend for one moment to deny that there will be Greeks there. One can't expect the whole country to be expatriated because I go to Athens to work in a bank. What do you want there? Spaniards?"
"Oh! Vulgar taunts and jokes!" She dried her eyes proudly, and then said—
"Are you sure you'll be true to me?"
Woodville met unflinchingly that terrible gaze of the inquisitional innocent woman, before which men, guilty or guiltless equally, assume the same self-conscious air of shame. His eyes fell. He had no idea why he felt guilty. Certainly there had never been in his life anything to which Sylvia need have taken exception. Then his spirit asserted itself again.
"Oh, hang it all! I really can't stand this! All right, I won't go. Have it your own way. Distrust me! I dare say you think I deserve it. Is it a pleasure to leave you like this, surrounded by a lot of——Did any one look at you as you came along in the cab?"
"Idon't know," she said.
He spoke tenderly, passionately now.
"I worship you, Sylvia. You've got that? You take it in?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Well, I'm yours. You can do what you like. I give in. I dare say your woman's instinct is right. And, besides, I can't leave you. And now, my darling, lovely, exquisite angel you will go—AT ONCE!"
"Oh, Frank, forgive me."
A violently loud knock startled them fromeach other's arms. There was another cab at the door.
"Keep still. Keep over here, Sylvia," commanded Woodville.
From the window he saw, standing on the steps, Savile, in his Eton suit. He smiled and waved his hand to the boy.
"It's Savile. I'll open the door. It'll be all right. I expect he followed you."
In two seconds Sylvia was composed and calm, looking round at the pictures in her chinchilla cloak.
Savile followed his host up, laughing vaguely, and said when he saw Sylvia, in a rather marked way—
"Ah! You didn't believe me when I told you I'd come and fetch you! But, you see, here I am."
"Sweet of you, dear," said Sylvia.
"And a fine place it is—well worth coming to see, isn't it?" said Frank, laughing a great deal.
"Well, we'd better be off. I kept the cab because of dining at Aunt William's to-night. You know, Sylvia, we're late."
"Oh, yes, dear. I'd almost given you up."
As they went to the door, Savile suddenly turned round, and having decided a debate in his mind, said—
"I know all about it. I congratulate you, Woodville. But we'll keep it dark a bit yet, eh?"
Savile thought his knowing of the engagement made it more conventional.
The brother and sister drove off.
Sylvia was silent. Savile did not say a single word until they nearly reached home. Then he remarked casually—
"As I found out where you'd gone, I thought it would sort of look better, eh, for me to fetch you? Didn't mean to be a bore or anything."
"Oh, Savile dear,thankyou! I'll never——"
"Yes; it's not going to happen again. Go and dress, old girl. Wear your pink. Motor'll be round in half an hour; heaps of time. I'm going too, you know—at Aunt William's."
"I know what's the matter with you, Vera," said Felicity decidedly, as she sat down in her friend's flat in Cadogan Place. "It's that you haven't got the personal note!"
"I?" said Vera indignantly.
Mrs. Ogilvie was a very pretty dark woman of about thirty, who minimised her good looks and added to her apparent age by dressing in the style which had always suited her. Her dainty drawing-rooms were curiously conventional—the natural result ofcarte-blancheto a fashionable upholsterer. She wore a blue-green Empiretea-gown, a long chain of uncut turquoises, a scarab ring, and a curious comb in her black, loose hair, and was always trying, and always trying in vain, to be unusual. Her name was Lucy (as any one who understood the subject of names must have seen at a glance), but she had changed it to Vera, on the ground that it was more Russian. There seemed no special objectin this, as she had married a Scotchman. One really rare possession she certainly had—a husband who, notwithstanding that he felt a mild dislike for her merely, bullied her and interfered with her quite as much as if he were wildly in love. He was a rising barrister, and nearly every evening Vera had to undergo a very cross examination as to what she had done during the day, while being only too well aware that he neither listened to her answers, nor would have been interested if he had.
She sought compensation by being in a continual state of vague enthusiasm about some one or other, invariably choosing for the god of her idolatry some young man who, for one reason or another, could not possibly respond in any way. Yet she was always very much admired, except by the objects of her own Platonic admiration. This gave a certain interest to her life; and her other great pleasure was worshipping and confiding in her friend Felicity.
"Not the personal note!" repeated Mrs. Ogilvie, as if amazed. "I? I'm nothing if not original! Why, I actually copied that extraordinary gown we saw at the Gymnase when we were in Paris, and I wore it last night. It was a good deal noticed too——"
"Oh, yes, you wore it; but you'd copied it.That's just the point," said Felicity. "You can't become original by imitating some one else's peculiarities. The only way to be really unusual is to be oneself—which hardly anybody is. I can't see, though, why on earth you should wish it. It's much nicer to be like everybody else, I think."
"Oh, that you can know from hearsay only, dear," said Vera. "Your husband's come back, hasn't he?" she added irrelevantly.
"Yes. Now, thereisan unusual man, if you like!" said Felicity. "He has no pose of any sort or kind, and he hasn't the ordinary standard about anything in any way, but likes people really and genuinely on theirownmerits—as he likes things—not because they're cheap or dear!"
"It seems to me so extraordinary that a racing man who is more or less of a sportsman should think little ornaments matter so much! I mean, should worry about china, and so on."
"It is hereditary, dear," said Felicity calmly. "One of his ancestors was a great collector, and the other wasn't—I forget what he was. Ithinka friend of James I, or something military of that sort."
"I'm afraid Chetwode's rather a gambler—that's the only thing that worries me foryou, dear," said Vera.
"What do you mean by that?" said Felicity.
"Well ... I mean I shouldn't mind my husband attending sales and bringing home a lot of useless beautiful things.... At Christie's you know where you are to a certain extent ... but at Newmarket you don't."
"Chetwode," said Felicity, "isn't a gambler in the ordinary sense. He never plays cards. Little pictures on paste-board fidget him, he says; he loathes Monte Carlo because it's vulgar, and he dislikes roulette and bridge. He's only a gambler in the best sense of the word—and that's a very fine sense!"
"Oh dear, youareso clever, Felicity! Whatdoyou mean?"
"Isn't every one worth anything more or less of a gambler? Isn't going to a dinner-party a risk—that you may be bored? Isn't marriage a lottery—and all that sort of thing? Chetwode is prepared to take risks. That's what I admire about him!"
"He certainly stays away a great deal," said Vera.
"Now, you're only pretending to be disagreeable. You don't mean it. He has just been explaining to me that he hates the sort of things that amuseme,—dances and the opera, and social things. Why, then, should he go with me? He does sometimes, but I know it's an agonising sacrifice. What do you think he is going to do to-night? A really rather dreadful thing."
"Idon't know."
"Dine with me at Aunt William's! A sort of family dinner. Aunt William has asked papa, Sylvia, Savile, and us, and I know just the sort of thing it will be. She has got some excellent match to take Sylvia to dinner, a boring married man forme, a suitable old widow or married man's wife for papa, Dolly Clive for Savile (although she isn't out—but then I supposeHEisn't out either, but she spoils Savile), and probably Chetwode will takeHERin. Fairly horrible, isn't it? And you know the house. Wax flowers under glass, rep curtains. And the decorations on the table! A strip of looking-glass, surrounded by smilax! And the dinner! Twelve courses, port and sherry—all the fashions of 1860, or a little later, which is worse. Not mahogany and walnuts. Almonds and raisins."
"How is it that you're not ill, and unable to go?" said Vera, looking really concerned, and almost anxious.
"Because I happen to know that she has asked two or three people to come in in the evening. Bertie Wilton is one. He amuses her."
"Bertie Wilton?"exclaimedVera.
"Yes. He's so clever and persevering! He'sbeen making up steadily to Aunt William for several days, so that she might ask him to meet me. At last she has. As he says, everything comes to the man who won't wait."
"I wonder she approves of him."
"Well, she does in a sort of peculiar way, because he's of a good old family, and hasn't gone into anything—like stockbroking or business of any kind, and she thinks she can find him a nice suitable wife. She thinks Lucy Winter would be very suitable. Aunt William lives for suitability, you know. Isn't it funny of her?"
Vera laughed. "Lucy? Why, I took him with Lucy and me to choose a hat, and there wasn't a thing she could wear. They don't get on at all. Lucy likes serious, intellectual men; she says Bertie's frothy and trivial. She wants to marry a great author, or a politician. However, thank goodness, she's left off bothering about Bobby Henderson." Here Vera sighed heavily.
"Has Bobby left off bothering about Agatha? That's the point."
"Idon't know," said Vera. "I don't understand him; we've been having some very curious scenes together lately. I can't think what he means."
"He doesn't mean anything at all," said Felicity "and that's what youwon'tunderstand.What curious things, as you call them, has he been doing lately?"
"Well, he called yesterday by appointment."
"Yourappointment, I suppose?" said Felicity.
"By telephone," said Vera evasively. "And stayed two hours. And at last I took a very strong line."
"Oh, good gracious! What were you wearing?"
"My yellow gown—and the amber beads; it was quite late and the lights—pink shades—were turned on—or else it would have been too glaring, you know, dear."
"What was your strong line?" said Felicity.
"I suddenly said to him, like some one in a play, 'Do you dislike me, Captain Henderson?'"
Felicity began to laugh. "What a fine speech! What did he say?"
"He answered, 'If I did, I shouldn't be here.' After that—not directly after—he said, 'You look all right in yellow, Mrs. Ogilvie.' Do you think that shows great admiration—or not?"
"I've heard more passionate declarations," said Felicity impartially. "It's the sort of thing Savile would say tome. What else did he talk about?"
"Oh, about horses and things, and the new play at the Gaiety, and then I said, 'It's rather a tragic thing for a woman to say, perhaps, butI'm sure you don't care a bit for me, so perhaps you'd better not call any more.'"
"What on earth did he say to that?" said Felicity.
"I'll tell you the exact truth, dear," Vera answered. "He got up and walked round the room, and then said, 'I say, would you think it too awful if I asked for a drink?' What do you think that showed?"
"It showed he was thirsty. I don't think he was going to faint away. Still, I suppose hehada drink; and—then—what happened?"
"I hardly like to tell you, dear."
"Go on!"
"I pressed him for his real opinion of me quite frankly, and he said: 'Frankly, I think you're a very pretty woman, and very jolly, but aren't you a bit dotty on some subjects?' Of course I was very much hurt, and said, 'Certainly not aboutyou!' So then he said, 'For instance, you always write that you have something particular to say to me, but you never say it. I left several important appointments this afternoon to come round, and you don't seem to have any news.' Ihadsaid it, you see, but he didn't take it in. I was very much offended at his calling me dotty, but he explained afterwards he only meant that I was 'artistic'!"
Felicity went into fits of laughter. "Well, how did it end?"
"I asked him to dinner for next Wednesday, and he said he was going out of town, and didn't know when he would be back. Now tell me, darling Felicity,doyou think he is going away to—try and conquer his feelings—or anything of that sort? That is what I should like to think," said Vera.
"No," answered Felicity. "Either it was a lie, because your husband bores him and he didn'twantto come to dinner, or else he's really going to Newmarket, and doesn't know when he'll be back."
"Tell me, Felicity. I can bear it.... Then—he does not care about me, and I ought to cut him out of my life?"
"I think he likes you all right, but I really shouldn't worry about him," said Felicity.
"Then I certainly shan't. I am far too proud!Howdifferent Bertie Wilton is," she went on. "So amusing, and lively and nice to every one! Butheis devoted toyou."
"Oh, you can have him if you like," said Felicity, "and if you can. You wouldn't get on, really. You see, he isn't romantic, like you, and he likes people best who don't run after him."
"Yes, I have often noticed that in people," said Vera thoughtfully. "I'll tell yousome one,though, who really interests me; that is your friend, Arthur Mervyn, the actor. He has such a wonderful profile."
"Yes—in fact, two. Oh, that reminds me, I came to ask you to come to Madame Tussaud's to-morrow afternoon. We're making up a party to go to the Chamber of Horrors. I'm taking Sylvia and Bertie. But I can't manage Arthur Mervyn and Bertie too,—at least, not at the Waxworks,—so I'm going some other day with him—I mean Arthur."
"Oh, what fun! I should love to come! Thanks, dearest."
"All right. Meet us there at four, and if you ever meet Arthur Mervyn again,don'ttalk about the stage. He hates it."
"What does he like?"
"He's interested in murders, and things of that kind," said Felicity; "or anything cheery, you know, butnotthe theatre."
"Do you think he would come to see me if I asked him?" asked Vera.
"He hates paying visits," said Felicity, and she glanced round the room judicially, "but if you can make him believe that some horrible crime has been acted here,—I must say it doesn't look like it, all pink and white!—then I think hewouldcall. Or, if you suggested—just hinted—that you believed the liftman had once beenmixed up in some horrible case—I think he likes poisoning or strangling best—then he'd come like a shot!"
Felicity got up laughing.
"I say," she continued as she fastened her white furs, "have you heard the very latest thing about the Valettas and Guy Scott? Bertie's going to tell me all about it to-night; he is the onlyreallybrilliant gossip I know. He's raised it to such an art that it's no longer gossip: it's modern history and psychology! First he gets his facts right; then he takes a sort of vivid analytical interest in every one—always a humorously sympathetic view, of course—and has so much imagination that he makes youseethe whole thing!"
"Good gracious! I think I don't care for gossip about other people," said Vera; "I'm sure I shouldn't like that at all. I am really only interested in my own life."
"Then no wonder you find it so difficult to be amused, darling."
They parted, kissing affectionately.
"I have to go down to Fulham this morning; don't let me forget it," said Lord Chetwode.
He was sitting in the green library with Felicity, markedly abstaining from the newspapers surrounding him, and reading over an old catalogue. He was a fair, delicate-looking young man of twenty-eight years the amiability of whose expression seemed accentuated by the upward turning of his minute blonde moustache. He had deep blue eyes, rather far apart, regular features, and a full, very high forehead, on which the fair hair was already growing scanty. Tall and slight, he had a rather casual, boyish air, and beautiful but useful-looking white hands, the hands of the artist. His voice and manner had the soft unobtrusive gentleness that comes to those whose ancestors for long years have dared and commanded. In time, when there's nothing more to fight for, the dash naturally dies out.
"My dear boy, why Fulham?" said Felicity, who was sitting at her writing-table not answering letters.
"About that bit of china."
"We don't want any more china, dear."
"It isn't a question of what we want! It is a question of what it would be a crime to miss. Old Staffordshire going for nothing! Really, Felicity!"
Felicity gave up the point. "I see.... How long are you going to stay in London?" she said.
"Well, I was just thinking.... You know, I don't care much about the season."
"You haven't had ten days of it," his wife answered. "Don't you think it looks rather odd always letting me go to dances and things alone?"
"No. Why odd? You like them. I don't."
She looked rather impatient. "Has it ever struck you that I'm—rather young—and not absolutely hideous?"
"Yes, very often," he said smiling. "Don't I show how it strikes me? Why?"
"It's so difficult to say. Don't you see; people try to flirt with me, and that sort of thing."
"Oh yes, they would. Naturally."
"Sometimes," said Felicity, darting a look at him like a needle, "I shouldn't be surprised if people fell in love with me. So there!"
"You couldn't be less surprised than I should," said her husband, rather proudly. "Shows their good taste."
"Well, for instance—you know Bertie Wilton, don't you?"
"Oh yes, I think I've seen him. A boy who rattles about in a staring red motor-car. How any one on earth can stand those things when they can have horses——"
"That's not the point, Chetwode. I think Bertie Wilton is really in love with me. I really do."
Chetwode tried to look interested. "Is he though?"
"Well, I don't like it," she said pettishly.
"Then, don't stand it. But why? Isn't he a nice fellow?"
"Oh yes, he's verynice. But he seems to—sort of think you neglect me."
"But other men go away, for months at a time, shooting big game, or anything of that sort. Only shows he doesn't know....Whatan ass he must be!" Chetwode's voice showed slight irritation.
"No he's not. He was quite disappointed that you came home the other night when Savile went to fetch you. He went away at once."
"Poor chap!—Well, ask him to dinner," relented Chetwode.
She got up and went close to him. "You're hopeless! Chetwode, do you really care for me—or do you like your curiosities and things better?"
Lord Chetwode looked slightly nervous. His one mortal horror was anything that bore the most distant resemblance to a scene.
"My dear child, why, surely you know you are far and away the most beautiful thingIam ever likely to have in my collection!" he said, most admiringly.
She turned away. She was terribly hurt; in her heart she had always feared her husband regarded her as a bibelot. The subject was, to her, too painful to discuss further. That he was sure of her—that showed knowledge of her—that she deserved. But he ought to haveminded about little thingsas she would. And he ought not always to be satisfied to leave her safe as the gem of the collection—and just come and look at it sometimes.
Chetwode returned to the catalogue, and then said, "Of course you know I'm going to Teignmouth's for a week."
"And you don't wantmeto go?"
"It's a man's party, darling! Only a week."
"But wouldn't you like me to go racing with you sometimes? I would. I should love to."
He looked up lazily. "I don't think a racecourseis the place for a woman. I like you better here. Of course, come if you like. Whenever you like. Would you like to see Princess Ida run?"
"No, thanks.—Shall you be home to lunch?"
"Yes, I dare say I shall. Are you lunching at home?"
"I was going to Vera's, but I'd rather stay at home—for you."
"Oh, don't do that, dear," he said decidedly. "I may look in at White's."
"Well, when shall I see you?"
"Why this evening, of course. Aren't we going to the opera, or something?" he asked.
"Is it great agony for you to sit out Wagner?" She showed real sympathy. "It's Tannhäuser, you know."
"Can't say I'm keen about it," he answered in a depressed voice.
"If youlike," she said, slightly piqued, "I could easily go with Sylvia and papa."
"All right—or, I know—don't let us go at all!" said Chetwode. He was now in the hall, and she followed him. "Anything I can do for you, darling?" Then he added, "Don't move for a minute!" He was admiring her golden hair against the tapestry, and smiled with the real pride of thecollectionneur. "Yes, you must really have your portrait painted, Felicity,"he said. "Sargent's the man, I think—or—well, we'll talk it over." He went out, and the door banged relentlessly.
Felicity moved back to the library and looked in the little carved silver mirror that lay on the table. She saw tears gradually stealing into her beautiful blue eyes, enlarging them, and she grew so sorry for the lovely little sad face—in fact for herself!—that she hastily put down the looking-glass, ran upstairs, and rang for her maid to dress her to go out.
Chetwode completely failed in his mission, as the china-man, not expecting him to call so soon, had gone out for the day. He strolled down the Brompton Road, stopping from time to time to look at various pretty things in little curiosity shops, and then he thought, as a contrast, he would have a look at the Albert Memorial. But, changing his mind again, he went a little way into Kensington Gardens. Suddenly, he thought he recognised two people, rather beautiful people, who were sitting under a tree, talking together with animation. It was his sister-in-law, Sylvia, with her little dog, and Woodville. Before they saw him, Sylvia got up and walked quickly towards the Row with the dog. Woodville looked after her, and then strolled slowly towards the bridge. How well thesylvan surroundings suited them! Sylvia was a wood nymph in a fashionable dress; Woodville, a faun in Bond Street clothes. Chetwode smiled to himself. Then for a moment he was surprised.... It seemed odd to see the secretary so far from his usual haunts. Why should Sylvia sit in Kensington Gardens with him, and then go on alone to the Row? However, he thought, it wasn't his business. As he walked towards Knightsbridge, it struck him that he would tell Felicity. She would understand, and explain. Then he thought he wouldn't tell Felicity. He had a curious delicate dislike to mentioning anything he had seen accidentally. He would chaff Sylvia about it when he saw her again.... No, he wouldn't; it would be a shame to make a girl uncomfortable. He would mention it to Woodville. Yes, that was it; he would chaff Woodville about it....
Seeing a hansom, he jumped into it and went to the Club. As he drove there he remembered vaguely several little things that he had noticed subconsciously before, and he began to think that probably Woodville and Sylvia were in love with each other. What more natural! In that case one wouldn't talk about it. It might annoy them. There was nothing on earth Lord Chetwode disliked so much as the idea of anything that would annoy any one.
So he never did tell Woodville nor anybody else. When it did not slip his memory, his almost morbid dread of anything disagreeable prevented his mentioning it, and he left London without having spoken of the incident. Probably it was of no importance after all.
At this time Woodville was really miserable. Their position was more difficult than ever. Of course he had kept his word to her, and written to Ridokanaki that he could not accept the offer. They remained privately engaged, and waiting;Saviletheir only confidant. He had got rid of the little studio, and was half sorry and half relieved not to be able to go there as a retreat. It had some painful but also some exquisite associations. Since he had made the sacrifice of Athens for Sylvia—for it was a sacrifice—he was, of course, more in love with her than before. That quarter of an hour in Kensington Gardens this morning was the only clandestine appointment they had ever made in the course of five years.
How often he remembered the day he had first arrived at the Croftons! Sylvia was fifteen then, and her governess, Miss Dawe, took the place, as far as could be, of her dead mother, chaperoning Felicity and teaching Sylvia. He remembered that it was bitterly cold and snowing hard. As he passed the schoolroom, of which the door was open, to his own room,escorted by the servant, he heard what sounded like a quarrel going on. A poor old man with a battered accordion was making a pathetic noise on the cold pavement.
"You shallnotdo it, Sylvia!" Miss Dawe was speaking authoritatively. "Your father did not give you five pounds to throw away. It isn't the right thing for young ladies to run down to the hall." And Felicity's voice said imperiously, he knew it afterwards, "Quick; ring the bell, and tell Price to give him the money."
While the electric bell was being rung he distinctly heard the window flung wide open, and a soft thud on the pavement. Sylvia had thrown her purse into the street. From his own room next to the schoolroom, he saw the man pick it up and go away. The doors were closed now, but he imagined the governess's anger. The incident had afterwards seemed very characteristic of the two girls, and he often thought of it.... That evening at dinner he met Sylvia for the first time, and he felt now as if he had loved her ever since. But it was not until three years ago, when she was seventeen, that he betrayed himself, by some word or look.... As she grew into a woman she filled his life, became his one joy and torment. On Felicity's wedding-day he had told Sylvia of his love, and they had become engaged. How was it to end?
"Savile," said Sylvia, smoothing his tie unnecessarily (a process that he endured like a martyr who had been very well brought up), "Felicity's coming to fetch me to go to Madame Tussaud's this afternoon. Would you like to come too, dear?"
"Who's your party?"
"Frank is going to meet us there, and Mrs. Ogilvie and Bertie Wilton."
"Oh, then, can I bring Dolly Clive?"
"Yes, of course, she's sweet. But—will they let her come?"
"Yes, they will with us. It's good for her history, and she can have a look in at her precious Charles II. What time?"
"Punctually about four," Felicity said. "Don't forget, Savile!"
"Righto! I'll bring Dolly and take her back. I say, shall we have tea there?"
"Of course, if you want to. Why fancy, Franksaid it would be the greatest joke todinethere! You can, you know, if you like; wouldn't it be fun, and ghastly, with Byron and Peace, and Sir Campbell-Bannerman, and people like that, looking on?"
"No it wouldn't. These ghastly jokes never come off. They last too long. While you're about it, have a good dinner for Heaven's sake. And I dare say the people at the Savoy are quite as bad—if that's all—if you only knew, and more up to date."
"Yes, very likely, and people at real places often have no more expression than the waxworks. But, Savile, I thought it was all off between you and Dolly now?"
He answered, with a sigh, "So it is, in a way, but you'll learn in this life, old girl, that you must take what you can get—especially if you're not sure you can get it! Mind you," lowering his voice, "that little foreign bounder, de Saules, isn't going to have it all his own way."
"Oh," Sylvia, being in good spirits, was inclined to tease him, "I should have thought it would be a capital opportunity to show an intelligent foreigner the sights of London!"
"The intelligent foreignersarethe sights of London," said Savile as he went out.
The same morning Vera rustled into her friend's room, with her usual air of vaguenessand devotion, and said with a sort of despairing cry—
"Oh, Felicity darling! you're the only person in the world who always has clothes for every occasion, and knows everything. How on earth does one dress for Tussaud's? Should you regard it as a Private View, or treat it more like—say—Princes'?"
"Neither. Why on earth Princes'? Were you thinking of bringing your skates?"
"Don't be absurd. Then I had better not wear my new Paquin?"
"Certainly not. Nothing trailing, or showy. But for Heaven's sake don't dress for skating or bicycling. I fancy there is a notice up to say you can't do either of those things there. And please not too much of your Oriental embroideries."
"Well, my new tailor-made dress then, and a large hat?"
Felicity laughed.
"My dear girl, what does it matter? If you fondly imagine that any one will look at your dress while there arerealhorrors to see——!"
"Darling little creature!" said Vera, who absolutely idolised Felicity, and looked up to her in the most absurd way, although she was five years younger—often taking her ironical advice quite literally, and regarding her as a rarecombination of faultless angel, brilliant genius, and perfect beauty.
"And now," said Felicity, standing up to her full height—which was far from imposing—"Go, please, Vera! I expect the hairdresser."
"Oh, then, you're taking a little trouble, after all," Vera said, laughing, and she vanished vaguely, behind a brocadedportière, leaving a very faint perfume of gilliflower.
The party met fairly punctually in the hideous hall, furnished with draughts and red velvet. The gloom was intensified by the sound of an emaciated orchestra playing "She was a Miller's Daughter," with a thin reckless airiness that was almost ghostly.
"Let's be a regular party," said Felicity, "and keep together, and get that nice chasseur-looking person to show us round."
Savile and Dolly preferred to stroll about alone, with a catalogue, and "take the Royal Family in their order." Woodville and Sylvia sat down near the band.
The amiable chasseur, who greatly enjoyed his work, and who saw that the living celebrities left our friends rather cold, showed them "The road to ruing," as displayed in six tableaux.
"No. 1, Temptation. 'Ere you see the young man being tempted to 'is ruing by cards—and what not."
The party gazed at the green table on which were strewn a few cards.
"Fancy being able to be ruined by only half a pack of cards!" said Felicity admiringly.
"Who," asked Wilton with interest, "is the lady in crimson satin, with pearls as big as oysters and diamonds like broken windows, holding out her hand so cordially to welcome the young man with long hair and an intelligent expression? (Obviously a very excellent model of Arthur Symons, the poet)."
"Why, she's the Decoy," said the chasseur, with intense relish. A sinister man with very black hair (probably in collusion with the decoy) was looking on, enjoying the scene.
"How symbolic those two champagne-glasses are on the card-table! What is that dark brown liquid in them?" asked Wilton.
"Still champagne, I suppose," said Felicity.
"Oh dear, yes, ma'am! It ain't been changed. Nothing's been changed."
"How sad it all is!" sighed Vera.
"It gets better later on," said Bertie consolingly.
"No. 3. 'Ere you find 'im ruinged by gambling. Take notice of the evil appearance of 'is accomplice."
The young man was now forging ahead for all he was worth (and a great deal more) witha cheque-book and a fountain pen. The sinister friend was leaning over his shoulder as if to jog his elbow.
"No. 4. 'Ere you see the sad result of all these goings on," said the chasseur morally, if vaguely. "The pore young man is condemned to several years."
"Does he break out again?" asked Wilton.
"Oh, lor', yes, sir! Don't you fret!hebreaks out again all right. And 'ere you 'aveRevenge! A dark resolve 'as taken distinct form in the ruinged man's mind."
"Poor man, how long his hair has grown in prison," murmured Felicity sympathetically. "Who has he killed?"
"Why, the decoy!" said the chasseur, "and (if you ask me) serve 'er right!"
"How helpful all this is," said Bertie Wilton. "I feel really a better man since I've seen it. Seriously, I don't think I shall ever drink champagne of that colour now that we have seen the appalling results. It's a terrible lesson, isn't it, Lady Chetwode?"
They left the young man to his fate and followed the showman.
"'Ere we see Mary Manning, also Frederick George of same name, who, in singularly atrocious circumstances, killed a retired custom-'ouse officer."
"Why?" asked Vera inquisitively.
"They took against him, miss."
"I think I like the ladies best," said Bertie. "Who is this really terrible-looking woman?"
The showman hurried towards him, still repeating like a parrot what he wished to tell them about Manning.
"Yes, Manning was a railway guard, and 'is wife was highly connected with the best families—as lady's-maid. Ah, sir, you're looking at Cathering Webster. She was executed for the murder of another lady at Richmond. Jealousy was the reason of 'er motive for the crime."
"I say," said Felicity suddenly, to the guide, "don't you find all this terribly depressing? Do you hate all these creatures?"
"No, miss," said the showman smilingly, "I'm so used to them. I regard them almost like relations. 'Ere we 'ave a couple of French criminals.Theirlittle game, if you please, was to decoy to their 'ome young ladies, and take away all their belongings, and everything else they possessed."
"Oh, how horrid of them!" said Vera indignantly.
The chasseur grinned. "Yes, they weren't nice people, miss."
"I think you would like Burke and Hare, sir,"he said persuasively to Wilton. "Let me tell you a bit about them."
"He talks as if they were Marshall and Snelgrove," murmured Wilton.
"What was the reason of their motive?" asked Felicity.
"Strychnine, miss," readily answered the well-informed guide.
"I suppose people get awfully hardened, eventually, to this sort of thing?I'mnot. I'm terribly nervous. I'm frightened out of my life. If it weren't for you, Lady Chetwode, I should faint, and be carried out by the emergency exit."
While the chasseur went into atrocious details, Bertie was so frightened that he had to hold Felicity's hand.... Vera felt quite out of it, and in the cold. When once they got into the Chamber of Horrors, nobody had taken any notice of her, nor even heard her remarks. Felicity and Bertie were evidently at once excited and amused. As she was standing alone pretending to look at some relics, the gallant chasseur came up and said, "There's an emergency exit 'ere, if you like to go out 'ere, madam."
"There seems to be nothing else," said Bertie. "As soon as you get into Madame Tussaud's the main object seems to be to drive youout. They keep on telling youhowyou can get out, andwhereyou can get out, and when. How wonderful a fire would be here!"
"Do you think Sylvia got out by one of the emergency exits? I haven't seen her or Woodville for some time."
"Oh, can't you let them have tea in peace?" said Bertie.
"I'm sure they are not having tea. Sylvia hates Bath buns. But we'll go and look for them, and the children too."
Savile and Dolly were found on a red velvet sofa, sulking, while Sylvia and Woodville were still listening to the band.
Dolly complained that Savile had been "horrid to her about Charles II," and that he said she was too young to see the Horrors.
Sylvia and Woodville had simply forgotten all about the waxworks.
The band was so very good and had been playing musical-comedy airs so charmingly.
Wilton declared his nerves were completely shattered and he must have a rest cure in the form of being driven home by Felicity, he could not possibly go alone.
Vera had to fetch Mr. Ogilvie from the chambers. Savile, feeling very grown-up, drove Dolly back in a hansom.
"Oughtn't I to take you?" said Felicity to Sylvia.
"My dear Lady Chetwode, please remember that Woodville is staying in the same house as Miss Crofton, and it is perfectly absurd, and cruelty to the horses to drag them out of their way, when you live in Park Street, and I only a stone's-throw from you!Dobe practical!" cried Wilton.
"Oh, all right."
"Won't you take Miss Sylvia home?" said Bertie.
"Oh, certainly," said Woodville, and they walked a little way towards the cab together.
Ever since Ridokanaki's departure, Woodville, having consented to keep their engagement secret until Sylvia was twenty-one, had sought, and thought he had found, a solution, which was at once balm to his conscience and support to his pride. Sylvia and he should make a compact that they should be to one another in reality as they appeared to her father, and to the world: friends only. They would neither seek nor avoidtête-a-têtes, and when alone would ignore, crush, and temporarily forget their tenderer relations. Sylvia had willingly, eagerly agreed. She knew, in fact, that these were the only terms on which he would remain there.And yet it was rather hard. She remembered (how clearly!) that during all these years he had kissed her on seven separate occasions only, and those occasions, after the first, were always, or nearly always, at her suggestion—because it was her birthday—or because it was Christmas Day—because she was unhappy—or because he was in good spirits, and similar reasons. How admirable they had seemed! How sophistically she argued!
All this, Woodville had explained, must now cease. He tried with some difficulty to point out to her that this innovation was because he loved her, not less, but more. He could not trust himself, and did not intend to try. She was so happy to think he had given up going to Athens that she was only too glad to consent to anything.
This was the first time they had been alone since the compact. She looked at him beamingly as they started on their drive.
"But I'm not going home," said Woodville.
"Aren't you? Where are you going?"
"To the Beafsteak Club. I'm dining with Mervyn, and we're not going to dress. I'll take you home first, if you like."
"No," said Sylvia. "I shall drive you nearly as far as the Club, drop you, and then go homeby myself." She spoke decidedly, and gave the direction to the cabman. She had calculated that it would be a longer drive.
"It's twice as far!" she said with childish triumph. He looked at her trusting, adoring eyes, her smiling, longing lips, and looked out of the window. She put her hand on his arm, and he moved away quickly, almost shaking her off. With a smile she sat as far from him as possible. They began talking of all kinds of things—Sylvia talked most and most gaily—then, gradually, they fell into silence.
It was the end of a warm April day; they passed quickly, in the jingling cab, through the stale London streets, breathing the spring air that paradoxically suggested country walks, tender vows, sentiment and romance.... Was she hurt at his coldness? On the contrary, it seemed to exhilarate her. So close, yet so absolutely separated—not in mind, but by his will only—by that extraordinary moral sense of his, that was, to her, in her innocence, a dark mystery. Sylvia never forgot that drive. She felt one of those unforgettable moments of exalted passion, like the attainment of some great height that one may never reach again. She worshipped him.
As they reached the end of their drive, the personal magnetism was almost too strong forher—she nearly took his hand again, but resisted. The cab stopped.
"I should like to drive you back, Sylvia," he said, as he got out, "but—it's better not."
"All right!—Good-bye! I suppose I shall see you to-morrow morning."
"I hate leaving you here," he said.
"Never mind!" She smiled brightly, and waved her hand. The cab drove off, and he seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness of the street, looking, as she thought, very wonderful, very handsome.... Then, quite suddenly, she felt cold, quite lonely, almost forsaken....
For hours she could not shake off the horrible impression of his walking away from her into the darkness, leaving her alone.
After her conventional evening at home, she shed bitter tears on her pillow. Could he care for her really? She knew he did, and she suddenly suspected that it was a sort of pleasure, a kind of indulgence to him to play the ascetic when so near her, and at this fancy she felt a little momentary resentment. But as soon as she saw him again, a word or a smile was sunshine and life to her. She wanted so little, and she was again her happy and gentle self.... At least, she could see him—while, if he had gone to Athens.... Surely they would not have to wait a year? No—Savile would find out somesplendid arrangement that would make it all right. She loved Woodville too much not to be hopeful; he cared too much for her not to feel, almost, despair. The conditions of their present existence were far harder for him, though she never knew it, and did not dream how much she—not he—was exacting.
Woodville was sitting in the library, supposed to be digging up old Bluebooks for Sir James, but, instead, he found himself lingering over a curious book of poems with a white cover and a black mask on the outside. He read (and sighed):