He may come at any time,” cried Clare, after breakfast the next morning. “But I shall be prepared for him. Why will men be so foolish? Why should he follow me to England in the month of November? Has he no regard for his voice? Where would he be if he failed to do the C natural some day? And yet he is foolish enough to run the risk of ruining his career simply for the sake of impressing me with his devotion!”
There seemed to Agnes to be a note ot hardness in the girl's way of speaking about her unhappy lover. Her intolerance of his devotion seemed a trifle unkind.
“Don't you think that he should have your sympathy, my dear?” she asked. “Do you fancy that he is to be blamed on account of the shortcomings in Signor Marini's system? Surely he is more to be pitied than blamed for falling in love with some one who refuses to respond to him?”
Clare made a little impatient movement, but in another second she became penitent, and hung her head.
“I suppose I should be sorry for Ciro,” she said, mournfully. “Yes, I think I do feel a little pity for him, in spite of his sentimental foolishness. Undoubtedly the maestro was to blame. I know that it was he who encouraged the susceptible Ciro in spite of all that I could say. But why should the foolish boy single me out for his adoration when he knew very well that there were four soprani and three contralti in the class who were ready to catch the handkerchief whenever it might please him to throw it? They all worshipped him. I could see it plainly when he got upon his upper register, with now and again a hideous falsetto D; and yet nothing would content him—he must lay his heart at my feet. Those were his words; don't fancy that they are mine.”
“Even so, you should not be too hard on him,” said Agnes. “Ah, my dear Clare, constancy and devotion in a man are not to be lightly considered. They may be part of a woman's nature—it seems to be taken for granted that they are part of a woman's nature; but they certainly are no part of a man's. That is why I am disposed to say a good word for our friend with that sweet tenor voice.”
“What am I to do?” cried Clare. “I must either tell him the truth—that I am quite indifferent to him; or make him believe what is untrue—that I am not without a secrettendressefor him. Now, surely I should be doing a great injustice to him—yes, and to the score of young women who worship him—if I were to encourage him to fancy that some day I might listen to his prayer.”
“There is no question, my Clare, as to what course you should pursue,” said Agnes. “All that I would urge upon you is not to hurt him more than is absolutely necessary.”
“You are thinking of the lethal chamber again,” said Clare. “Never mind; what you say is quite true, and I shall endeavor to treat him so gently that he will leave me feeling that he has been complimented rather than humiliated. After all, he means to pay to me the greatest compliment in his power, poor fellow.”
“And you will show him that you appreciate it?”
“I will do my best.”
Before they had had their little chat the bell sounded.
“I knew that he would become prosaic enough to pull the bell like an ordinary mortal,” said Clare. “Of course you will remain by my side, Agnes. Even a sentimental Italian cannot expect to enter a lady's house surreptitiously.”
It was not, however, Signor Rodani who was shown into the room, but Mr. Westwood. He was wearing a great fur coat, and was actually on his way to the railway station. He was to read his paper to the Society at night, and had merely looked in at The Knoll to say good-bye to his friends.
This was the explanation he offered to account for his visit at so irregular an hour. He had under his arm a small case containing all the trophies which he had succeeded in bringing from the land of his captivity—the small bow, the poisoned arrows, and the seeds of the linen plant. The bow and arrows were in a glazed case, which was locked. The more precious seeds were carefully wrapped in wadding. Neither Agnes nor Clare had seen these trophies before, though Claude Westwood had frequently alluded to them after that first day on which he had spoken about his travels through the wonderful forest.
“I shall make a very poor display on the platform, I fear,” said he. “I remember the first African lecture at which I was present. The explorer appeared on the platform surrounded by his elephant rifles, his lions' skins, his elephants' tusks, his rhinoceros' skulls, his countless antlers. He made an imposing show—very different from what I shall make with my half-dozen arrows and my few seeds. I'm afraid that the people will take me for a fraud. The idea of a man going to Central Africa, and returning after a nine years' residence, with nothing better than these, will seem a little foolish in many people's eyes.”
Clare was indignant at the suggestion that any one would venture to underrate the achievements of an explorer who had come through the most terrible parts of Africa with no arms that would give him an advantage over the natives. And as for the trophies, what were all the discoveries of all the explorers in comparison with the seeds of the linen plant, she asked.
“I knew that I could trust to you to say something encouraging to me,” cried Claude. “That is why I could not go up to London without first coming to bid you good-bye, and to get you to wish me good luck.”
“Good luck—good luck—good luck!” said Clare, as he wrapped up his case of arrows. “Of course, we wish you all the good luck in the world; the fact being that our fortunes are bound up with yours. Was it not Agnes and I who insisted on your promising to write that book?”
“I am quite content that you should look on our fortunes as bound up together,” said he, slowly and with curious emphasis. “Our fortunes are bound up together”—he had taken her hand, and continued holding it while he was speaking. “Our fortunes—what is my fortune must be yours.”
“That is quite true, for am not I your illustrator?” cried Clare. “The book will be a success, and no matter how bad the pictures may be, they will be part of a successful book.”
He looked at her for a few moments and then said good-bye to her and Agnes. Agnes had not opened her lips throughout the interview. She could not help thinking, as she watched him go down the drive, of the marvellous change that had come over him since the day of his return to Brackenshire—the day when he had paid her that visit during which he had been able to talk of nothing except the man who had murdered his brother. A few weeks had been sufficient to awaken the ambition which she had thought was dead. It seemed to her that he had just left the room, saying the very words that he had spoken years before:
“I will make a name worthy of your acceptance.”
She stood at the window of the room so lost in her own reflections that she did not hear the ringing of the bell or the announcement of the new visitor. She only became aware of the fact that Clare was talking to some one in the room. She supposed that Claude had returned for some purpose, and was quite surprised to see the half-bent figure of an under-sized man, who wore an exceedingly neat moustache, and a tie with long flying ends.
He remained for a long time in the attitude of some one giving an exaggerated parody of an overpolite foreigner.
“This is Signor Rodani,” said Clare: and the young man straightened himself for a second, and bowed once again, even lower than before. And now he had both his hands pressed together over the region of his heart. Agnes felt as if she were once again in the act of taking a lesson from her dancing master, it seemed a poor thing after such a flourish to inquire if Signor Rodani found the day cold.
She spoke in French, that being the language in which Clare had presented him. The young man bowed once again—this was the third time to Agnes's certain knowledge, though she fancied he must have indulged in more than a nod before she had become aware of his presence—and begged leave to assure Madame—he called her Madame—that the weather was very charming. She then ventured to remark that now and again in England the latter days of November were fine, and then inquired if he meant to winter in England; at which he gave a slight start, and Agnes felt sure his lips shaped themselves to pronounce the word “Diable!” He did not utter the word, however; he only gave a smile and a shrug, and said that a winter in England was not in his mind at that moment; still—it depended.
She interpreted his smile and his shrug into a sort of acknowledgment that if it were made worth his while he might even be induced to consider the possibility of his wintering in England.
She then saw him looking imploringly but politely at Clare, and it occurred to her that the sooner he was left alone for the girl to explain to him whatever matters might stand in need of an explanation, the more satisfactory it would be to every one. So without telling him how greatly she had enjoyed his singing of the tenor part in the “Nightingale” duet the previous evening, she made a very feeble excuse for leaving the room. She had an idea that Signor Rodani would not be severely exacting in regard to the validity of her excuses: he would be generous enough to accept as ample any pretext she might offer for leaving him alone with Clare.
When he straightened himself after bowing her to the door, he allowed Agnes to perceive that Clare was certainly a full head taller than he was.
For the next quarter of an hour any one passing the drawing-room door might have heard the sound of a duet (parlando) being delivered in the musical Italian tongue within that room. As a matter of fact some impassioned phrases made themselves heard all over the house. Then there was heard a quick opening of the door; a few words of bitter but highly musical upbraiding, sounded in a man's, though not a very manly, voice, and before the butler had time to get to the hall-door the hall-door was opened, and Agnes saw the figure of Signor Rodani on the drive. He was hurrying away with a considerable degree of impetuosity, and he held a brilliant coloured handkerchief to his eyes.
“He is gone,” said Clare, when Agnes returned to the room in the course of the next half-hour.
“I saw him on the drive,” said Agnes. She noticed that Clare kept her head carefully averted for some time; but when she happened to glance round, Agnes saw that she had been weeping. The handkerchief of Signor Rodani was not the only one that had been requisitioned for the purpose of removing the traces of tears. She was pleased to observe that little tint of red beneath the girl's lashes: it told her that she was not so hard-hearted as she had tried to make Agnes believe.
“He is gone, so that nothing further need be said about him, except that, if he gets within observing distance of the Maestro Marini within the next week or so—I suppose it will take a few weeks to bring him to himself again—he may make the good maestro aware of some of the shortcomings in the working of his system,” said Agnes.
“I wonder it never occurred to us to go up to London to hear the paper read at the Geographical Society to-night,” said Clare; and Agnes was startled at the suddenness with which she flung aside Signor Rodani as a topic and began to talk of Mr. Westwood.
“We could scarcely go without an invitation, and Mr. Westwood certainly never offered to procure tickets for us,” said Agnes.
When they had nearly finished their dinner that night, the French clock on the bracket chimed the half hour. Clare dropped the spoon with which she was eating her jelly.
“Half-past eight; he will be beginning to read his paper now,” she said. “How I wish I were at the Albert Hall! I can hear the people cheering him—I suppose they will cheer him, Agnes?”
“If you can hear them cheering, my dear, you may take it for granted they are cheering him,” said Agnes, smiling across the table at her.
Clare laughed.
“Oh yes, they will cheer,” she said.
“I daresay they are about it now,” said Agnes. “I don't quite know how long the people as a rule keep up their enthusiasm to the cheering point in regard to a man who has achieved something. I believe they have been known to cheer a great soldier for an entire month after his return from adding a country about the size of France to the Empire. They may cheer Mr. Westwood, although he has been at home for more than a month. I don't think, however, that he would have been wise to keep in seclusion for many more days. An Arctic traveller who is likely to turn up shortly will soon shoulder him aside.”
“Oh, Arctic exploration is a very poor thing compared with African,” said Clare. “What good was ever got by going to the North Pole, I should like to know?”
“The person who went very close to it made as much money during the year after his return as should keep him very comfortably for the rest of his days, I hear,” said Agnes. “The North Pole did him some good, if his excursion was a complete failure from a scientific standpoint. However, the people cheered him for coming back safe and sound, and I think that for the same reason you may assume that they are cheering Mr. Westwood at the present moment.”
And so they were. The London newspaper which was received the next morning made at least that fact plain. Clare was waiting at the hall door to receive it from the hand of the messenger from the book-stall, and she was tearing off the cover as Agnes came down the stairs to breakfast, and before the coffee had been poured out Clare had found the series of headings that marked the report of Mr. Westwood's lecture, delivered in the Royal Albert Hall, at the invitation of the Royal Geographical Society.
“Here it is,” she cried. “Mr. Westwood at the Albert Hall—Thrilling Narrative—the Hebrew Ritual in Central Africa—The Linen Plant. But they only give three columns to the lecture while they have devoted seven to—to—you will not believe it—but there is the heading: 'The Chancellor of the Exchequer on Bimetallism'—just think of it—Bimetallism! As if any one in the world cares a scrap about Bimetallism! Seven columns! What a foolish paper! But the cheers were all right. 'The intrepid explorer on coming forward was greeted by enthusiastic cheers from the large and distinguished audience who had assembled to do him honour. Several minutes elapsed before Mr. Westwood was permitted to proceed with his paper.' Oh, we were not mistaken; the cheers were all right.”
“Your coffee will be cold,” remarked Agnes.
Some days had passed before Claude Westwood was able to return to the Court. He seemed now to be as anxious for publicity as on his landing in England he had been to avoid it. He was daily with Messrs. Shekels & Shackles completing his arrangements with them for the production of his book, so as to preclude the need for another visit until he had written the last page of the manuscript. He did not want to be disturbed, he said, while engaged at the work; and Messrs. Shekels & Shackles cordially agreed with him in thinking that he should be allowed to give all his attention to the actual writing of his narrative, without being worried by any of the technical incidents of presenting it in book form to the public.
They urged upon him the advisability of losing no moment of time in settling down to his work. Already a valuable month had been thrown away, they reminded him; and although, happily, the reports from the North were to the effect that the winter had set in with such severity as to make it practically impossible for Mr. Glasnevin, the Arctic explorer, to free himself from his ice-prison before the spring, so that his formidable rivalry would not interfere with the popularity of Mr. Westwood, still they had heard that another gentleman might be expected any day from the Amazon. This gentleman, in addition to a narrative of two years' residence among the Indians of the Pampas, would, it was reported, be able to give the public photographs of the injuries which had been inflicted on him by his captors, who were known to be the most ingenious torturers in the world. They feared that if this gentleman got home during the winter his arrival would seriously interfere with the sale of Mr. Westwood's book. They could only hope, however, that the Foreign Office would take up the case of the traveller at the Amazon, for that would mean the indefinite postponement of his liberation, so that Mr. Westwood would have the field to himself.
Without waiting to say whether or not he took the same bright and cheery view of the freezing in of the Arctic explorer or of the operation of the British consular system in regard to the tortured gentleman in South America, Mr. Westwood promised to do his best for his optimistic if anxious publishers, and so departed.
He regretted, however, that he could not see his way to dictate to a shorthand writer a dozen or so interviews with himself which could be judiciously distributed among the newspapers at intervals, so as to keep his name prominently before a public who are ever ready to throw over one idol for another.
It was probably his strong sense of what was due to his publishers, that caused him to hasten to The Knoll on the very day of his return to Brackenshire. It was perfectly plain from the comments on his lecture, which had already appeared and were appearing daily in the newspapers, that the discoveries made by him in Central Africa had become the topic of the hour. Why, even Brackenhurst had awakened to find that a famous man was residing in its neighbourhood, and when one's native place is brought to acknowledge one's fame, which all the rest of the world is talking about, one may rightly feel that one is famous. Therefore, as Mr. Westwood explained to Agnes and Clare, it was necessary for him to start upon his book at once.
He wasted as much time explaining this as would have been sufficient to write a chapter; and in the end he did nothing except invite them to dine at the Court on the following night, in order that they might talk more fully on the question of the need for haste.
“Do you think that it is necessary to waste time discussing the advisability of not wasting time?” asked Agnes; and immediately Clare turned her large eyes reproachfully upon her; there was more of sorrow than reproach in Claude's eyes as he looked at her. She met their eyes without changing colour.
“Oh, of course, I know that I am quite outside the plans of you workers,” she continued. “It is somewhat presumptuous for me to assume the position of your adviser on a purely literary question, so I shall be very happy to dine at the Court.”
“Thank you,” said Claude. “I have been out of touch for so long with English society I have almost forgotten their traditions; but I don't think that I am wrong in assuming that no work of any importance, either charitable or social, can be begun without a dinner. Now, without venturing to suggest that our work—Clare's and mine—is one of supreme importance, I do not think that it would be wise for us to ignore the custom which tradition has almost made sacred—especially when it is in sympathy with our own inclinations. We'll take care not to bore you, Agnes,” he added. “I met Sir Percival Hope just now, and he promised to be of our party.”
“Now!” cried Clare, in a tone that seemed to suggest that Agnes could not possibly have further ground for objection.
Agnes raised her hands.
“I am overwhelmed with remorse for having made any suggestion that was not quite in keeping with your inclinations,” she said.
She and Clare accordingly drove to the Court on the next evening, and found Sir Percival in one of the drawing-rooms talking to his host on the subject of the recent poaching in the coverts of the Court and also on Sir Percival's property. The poachers were getting more daring every day, it appeared, and Ralph Dangan's vigilance seemed overmatched by their cunning so far as Sir Percival's preserves were concerned. Sir Percival said that his new gamekeeper accounted for the recent outbreak on the ground that neither of the proprietors had displayed the sporting tastes of the previous holders of the property, and the poachers thought it a pity that the pheasants should become too numerous.
Claude smiled as Sir Percival made him acquainted with his late gamekeeper's theory.
“It is very obliging on their part to undertake the thinning down of my birds,” said he, “and if I could rely on their discretion in the matter all would be well. I am afraid, however, that one cannot take their judgment for granted; so that whenever Dangan thinks that our forces should be joined to make a capture of the gang, I'll give instructions for my keepers to coôperate with him.”
At dinner, too, the conversation, instead of flowing in literary channels, was never turned aside from the question of poaching and poachers. Sir Percival's experiences in Australia had no more changed his views than Claude Westwood's experiences of Central Africa had altered his, on the subject of the English crime of poaching.
Agnes had not been within the house since the week preceding the tragedy that had taken place in the grounds surrounding it. She had had no idea that she would be so deeply affected on entering the drawing-room. But the instant she found herself in the midst of the beautiful old furniture that had been familiar to her for so many years, she was nearly overcome by the crowd of recollections that were brought back to her. She put out her hand nervously to a sofa and grasped the back of it for an instant before moving round it to seat herself.
She felt herself staggering, but hoped that no one had noticed her apprehension, and when she had seated herself she closed her eyes. It seemed to her that she was in a dream. She heard the sound of voices, but not the voices of any one present, only the voices of those who were far away; and it seemed to her that among them was the Claude Westwood whom she had known and loved so many years ago. She had suddenly become possessed of the strange dream fancy that the man who had taken her hand on her entering the room was the man who had killed both Dick Westwood and his brother Claude.
Happily the conversation was only about the poachers, so that she could not be expected to take part in it; and during the five minutes that elapsed before dinner was announced, she partly recovered herself. But the shiver which came over her when she opened her eyes was noticed by Clare.
“What, you are cold?” she whispered. “Come to the fire; you can pretend to be pointing out the carving of the mantel to me.”
Agnes shook her head and smiled. She knew that just at that moment she had not strength to walk to the fireplace, and she did not under-estimate her own powers; when, however, the butler appeared at the door, and Claude came in front of her, she was able to rise and walk into the diningroom by his side.
After dinner Clare showed the greatest possible interest in the drawing-rooms and their contents, and Agnes, who was, of course, familiar with everything, told her much about the furniture and the pictures. For a century and a half the Westwoods had been a wealthy family, and many treasures had been accumulated by the successive owners of the Court. But there was one picture on an easel which Agnes had not seen before. It was a portrait of Dick Westwood, and it had been painted by a great painter.
Agnes and Clare were standing opposite to it when Claude and Sir Percival entered the room; they had only remained for a few minutes over their wine. Claude came behind Agnes, saying:
“You did not see that until now? I am sure that it is an excellent likeness, and the face is not, after all, so different from poor Dick's as I remember him.”
“It is a perfect likeness,” said Agnes. “But I cannot understand how you got it. It is not the sort of portrait that could be painted only from a photograph.”
“He did not tell you that he was giving sittings to the painter when he was last in London?” said Claude.
“He never mentioned it,” said Agnes.
“I brought it with me from the painter's studio the day before yesterday,” said Claude. “He wrote to me the day before I left for London, explaining that Dick had given him a few sittings in May, and had promised to return to the studio in July. He said he should like me to see the portrait in its unfinished condition. Judge of my feelings when I found myself facing that fine work. I carried it away with me at once.” Then he turned to Clare, saying, “Look at it; it is the portrait of the best fellow that ever lived—that ever died by the hand of a wretch whom he had never injured—a wretch who is alive to-day.”
Agnes moved away from the picture with Sir Percival; but Clare remained by the side of Claude looking at the face on the easel.
“How you loved him!” Agnes heard her say in a low voice.
“Loved him—loved him!” said Claude Westwood. He gave a little laugh as he took a step or two away from the picture. “Loved him! I love him so dearly that”—
Agnes looked with eager eyes across the room. She waited for Clare to say a word of pity for the man whose life had been spared, who had been given time to repent of his dreadful deed, but that word remained unspoken.
For the second time that evening a shiver went through Agnes. Sir Percival watched her as she watched the others across the room. There was a long interval of silence before Claude began to talk to the girl In a low voice, and shortly afterwards went with her through theportièrethat divided the two drawing-rooms.
“I want Clare to see the picture of Dick and myself taken when he was ten and I was eight—you know it, Agnes,” he said, as he followed Clare. The next minute the sound of his voice and Clare's came from the other room.
Sir Percival had been examining the case containing the poisoned arrows which lay on a table; but now he stood before Agnes.
“You have seen it,” he said. “I know that you have seen it as well as I. Is it too late to send her away?”
Agnes started.
“It cannot be possible that you, too, know it,” she said. “Oh no; you cannot have become acquainted with that horrible thing.”
“I must confess that I never suspected it before this evening,” said he. “But what I have seen here has been enough to tell me all that there is to be told.”
She stared at him in silence for a few moments. “What have you been told?” she asked at last. “You cannot have failed to learn the truth,” said he. “You cannot have failed to see that Claude Westwood is in love with that girl.”
With a little cry she had sprung to her feet and grasped his arm.
“No, no; not that—not that!” she whispered. “Oh no; that would be too horrible!”
“It is horrible to think that a man can forget all that he has forgotten. Good heavens! After eight years! Was ever woman so true? Was ever man so false?”
“I have been blind—blind! Whatever I may have thought, I never imagined this. He met her aboard the steamer—he must have become attached to her before he saw her with me.”
She was speaking in a low voice and without looking at him. He remained silent. She walked across the room with nervous steps. Several times she passed and repassed the picture on the easel, her fingers twitching at the lace of her dress.
Gradually then her steps became firmer and more deliberate. The sound of a rippling laugh came from the other room. She stopped suddenly in her restless pacing of the floor. She looked at the portrait on the easel, and after a short space, she too laughed.
“It is a just punishment!” she said. “He loves her and she loves another—she confessed it to me. He will be punished, and no one will pity him.”
Then Clare reappeared in the arch from which the curtain had been drawn, and Claude followed her.
Agnes glanced first at the girl, then at the man. She looked toward Sir Percival and smiled.
It seemed to her that there was something marvellously appropriate in the punishment which was to be his, and she would not stretch out a hand to avert it. He who had made her to suffer for her constancy to him was about to suffer for his cruelty to her. Her love had brought suffering to her, and it was surely the justice of Heaven which had decreed that his new love was to mean suffering to himself.
She could not feel the least pity for him; on the contrary, she felt ready to exult over him—to laugh in his face when the blow had fallen upon him. She felt that she should like to see him crushed to the earth—overwhelmed when he fancied that his hour of triumph had come. Only this night did the desire to see him punished take possession of her. She wondered how it was that she had been so patient in the face of the wrong which he had done to her. When she had flung down and trampled on the ivory miniature of him which had stood on her table, she had wept over the fragments, and the next day she had been filled with remorse. She had seen him many times since that day, but no reproach had passed her lips, for no reproach had been in her heart. She had merely thought of him as having ceased to love her whom he had promised to love. But now when she stood alone in her room, knowing that he had not merely forsaken her but had come to love another woman, her hands clenched and her heart burned with the desire of revenge.
A few hours before, she had been shocked by his desire to be revenged upon the wretch who had killed his brother; but she did not think of this as she paced her room in the sway of that sudden passion which had come to her. She felt exultant in the thought of his coming humiliation. It was the justice of Heaven overtaking him. She would laugh in his face when the blow fell upon him.
An hour had transformed her. She had flung her patience and her forbearance to the winds. She hated herself for the folly of her fidelity all those years; but she did not think of Clare with any feeling of jealousy. On the contrary, she felt that the girl was an ally. Without Clare the man would escape all punishment; but with her as an ally he would be crushed.
She was too excited to sleep when at last she got into bed. The rush of this new, strange passion carried her along, and she experienced that positive pleasure of yielding to it, which a release from all trammels of civilisation brings for a time to most people of a healthy nature. She had in a moment been released from the strain which she had put upon herself for so tong. She felt that she was a woman at last—a woman carried along by the most natural of woman's impulses: a passion for revenge. After all, such constancy as had been hers was an agony and not a pleasure. Claude Westwood had spoken the truth: it should be taken for granted that after the lapse of a certain time the validity of a promise made in love ceased.
She told him so much the next day, when he called at The Knoll to see Clare. The girl had gone to Brackenhurst to try to obtain some materials in which she had found her store deficient—a special sort of tracing paper, the need for which Claude had told her of or the previous evening.
Agnes noticed how his face clouded when he learned that Clare was not in the house. She wondered how it was that she had never before seen signs of his new attachment. A few minutes had been sufficient to make Sir Percival acquainted with the truth. And yet it was generally assumed that in such matters women were much more sensitive than men. Could it be that the womanliness in her nature had been blunted by her unnatural constancy?
This was her sudden thought on noticing the disappointment on his face.
“You will wait for her?” she said. “She has been gone some time; she is sure to return very shortly. Brackenhurst has not so many shops as should occupy her for long.”
“Perhaps I had better wait,” said he. “I want to make a start upon the book. My shorthand writers are coming to me to-morrow.”
“They will save you a great deal of trouble, I am sure,” said Agnes. Their conversation could not be too commonplace, she thought. “You will take a seat near the fire? I am so sorry that Clare is out.”
There was a considerable pause before he said: “After all, perhaps it is as well for her to be out. The fact is, my dear Agnes, I have been wishing to—to—well, to have a chat with you alone about Clare—yes, and other matters. The present is as good an opportunity as I am likely to have.”
“What can you possibly want to say to me?” said Agnes, raising her eyebrows.
“What? Well, apart from the fact that you and I were once—nay, we are still the best of friends, I think it but right to tell you that I—I—oh, what a strange thing is Fate!”
“Is it not?” said Agnes, with a little smile. “Yes, I have often wondered that that remark was not made by some one long ago. Perhaps it was.” The note of sarcasm was scarcely perceptible in her words; and yet it seemed as if he detected it. He gave a quick glance toward her; but she looked quite serious.
“Was it not Fate that brought her here after I fancied I had seen her for the last time?” said he.
“Would it not save you a great deal of trouble—a good deal of stoic philosophy, if you were to come to the point at once and tell me that you fell in love with Clare Tristram when you were sailing down the Mediterranean with her by your side, that you were overjoyed to see her here, and that, although quite six weeks have passed, your constant heart has not changed in its affection for her? Is not that what you mean to say to me?”
“What, have I worn my heart upon my sleeve?” he said, giving a little laugh. “Have you read my secret?”
“Your secret? Do you really fancy that there is any one in this neighbourhood to whom your secret is still a secret? I'm convinced that the servants have been talking about nothing else for the past fortnight. Jevons, the butler, is too well trained to give any sign, but you may depend upon it that the housemaids nudge each other every time you call. You see, they know that you cannot possibly be calling to see me, and therefore they assume—Psha! what's the need to talk more about it? I can understand everything there is to be understood in this matter, except why you should come to tell me about it. What concern is it of mine?”
He looked at her rather reproachfully. He was not accustomed to hear her talk in such a way. She had accustomed him to gentleness and words in which there was no tone of reproach. He felt disappointed in her now.
“I felt sure that you would be at least interested in—in”—
“In—shall we call it the wondrous workings of Fate? If you think that I am not interested in Fate you are greatly mistaken.”
“I don't like to hear you talk in that strain, Agnes. It jars upon me. You were always so gracious—so sweet.”
“How do you know what I was?”
“Cannot I remember you long ago?”
“I do believe we did meet now and again before you left England. What a memory you have, to be sure!”
He rose from his chair and stood beside her.
“My dear Agnes,” he said, “I remember all the past. Were ever any two people so unfortunate as we were? I have often wondered if we were really in love with each other. I know that I, for one, fancied that we were. If all had gone well and I had returned at the end of the year I meant to spend at the Zambesi, we—well, we might have got married. But, of course, it would be absurd to fancy that, after so many years.... as I told you when I returned, we are physically different people to-day from what we were some years ago, and in affairs of the heart nature decrees that there is a Statute of Limitations. It would be cruel, as well as unjust, for a man to hold a woman to a compact made nearly nine years before—made, be it remembered, by practically a different woman with a different man. That is why I regarded you as free from every obligation to me. If you had got married after I had been absent for two years, do you fancy that I would have blamed you? Oh no; I have too strong a sense of what is just and reasonable.”
“Will you sell your book at thirty-two shillings for the two volumes?” she asked after a long pause. “I read in some paper the other day that people will pay thirty shillings for a book, if they want it, quite as readily as they will pay ten.”
He was too startled to be able to reply to her. The inconsequence of her question was certainly startling. After the lapse of a minute, however, he had sufficiently recovered himself to be able to say:
“Yes, I believe that thirty-two shillings will be the published price. Personally I cannot understand how people should want to buy the book in such numbers as will make it pay; but I suppose Shekels & Shackles are the best judges of their own business.”
He thought that, on the whole, he had reason to be satisfied at the result of their interview. He had for some days an uneasy feeling that before he could confess to Clare that he loved her, he should make a further attempt to explain to Agnes—well, whatever there was left for him to explain. He had now and again felt that it might actually be possible that she expected him to regard the compact made between them nearly nine years before, as still binding on him. This would, of course, be rather absurd on her part; but, however absurd women and their whims might be, they were capable at times of causing men a good deal of annoyance; and thus he had come to the conclusion that it would be wise for him to have a few words of reasonable explanation with her. He had great hopes that she would be amenable to reason; she had always been a sensible woman, her only lapse being in regard to this matter of fancying—if she did fancy—that in love there is no Statute of Limitations.
Now and again, however, he thought that perhaps he was doing her an injustice in attributing to her such a theory. She might, after all, look on the matter from the same standpoint as he did; still, he thought it might be as well to define as fully as he could his views in regard to their relative positions.
Well, a very few minutes had been sufficient for his purpose, and here he was, talking with a light heart about the peculiarities of the public in the matter of book-buying.
He had not exhausted this interesting topic when Clare appeared, ready to take her instructions regarding the first of the illustrations which she was to draw. He had long ago described to her so thoroughly the characteristics of several of the wild tribes among whom he had lived, she could have no difficulty in dealing with some of the scenes pictorially. He jotted down for her the particulars of the various incidents which he thought should be illustrated, and within half an hour she was hard at work.
When he called the next day he was delighted with the progress which she had made. She worked in a bold, free style which was certainly very effective, and he was unable to suggest any alteration in her pictures of the natives. So well had she remembered his instructions that she had never once confused the head-dresses of the Subaki warriors with those of the Aponakis. He told her that in the morning she would receive from one of his secretaries the type-written copy of the chapters which he had already dictated to the shorthand writers. For the remainder of the day he would be in the hands of his cartographer, for, as a matter of course, the volumes were to contain maps of those portions of the interior which he had discovered.
Agnes watched him leaning over her lovingly as she worked at one of her drawings. She watched him and smiled. She knew that the more deeply he fell in love with the girl, the greater would be the blow that he should receive when she told him that she loved another man. Only once the thought occurred to her that perhaps Clare might be carried away by constant association with him, and by the glamour of the countless newspaper articles that appeared on the subject of his work as an explorer; so when they were going upstairs that night she said:
“You made a very pretty confession to me a few days ago, my Clare.”
“A confession?”
“On the day you were visited by your friend, Signor Rodani.
“Oh!”
The girl's face had become rosy in a moment. “Does your heart remain faithful? You do not think you are likely to change?”
“Oh, never, never!” cried Clare. “I may be foolish, but if so, I must remain foolish. Ah, my dear Agnes, my confession was forced from me—I spoke on the impulse of the moment; but I was not the less certain of myself.”
“I think you are a girl to be depended on,” said Agnes. “You are not one of those whose fancies change with every new face that comes before them. Good-night, my dear child.”
She was now assured of his punishment. As she thought of the way he had come to her, smiling as he repeated that phrase which he had invented—it had become quite a favorite phrase with him—that about the Statute of Limitations in affairs of love, she felt that no punishment could be too great for him. He had talked of Fate in extenuation of his faithlessness. She had heard of people throwing all the blame that was due to themselves upon Fate. When a pretty face comes between a man and his duty he calls it Fate and yields without a struggle.
Well, he would soon find out that Fate had not yet done with him.
Two days later Clare got a letter from him asking her if she would see him immediately after lunch. He had got some technical instructions to give to her from the publishers; but he had been so closely occupied with his secretaries, he had not been able to call at The Knoll the previous day.
Immediately after lunch Agnes found it necessary to go in haste to the village; so that Clare was left alone in the room which had been turned into a studio.
When Agnes returned in a couple of hours, she found the girl, not in the studio, but in the drawingroom. The wintry twilight had almost dwindled away. The room was nearly dark. The gleam of a white handkerchief drew her eyes to the sofa, upon which Clare was lying, her face upon one of the cushions.
“Why, what on earth is the matter?” she cried. “Why are you lying there? What—tears?”
Clare sprang to her feet, touched her eyes once more with her handkerchief, and then flung it away. In another instant she was in Agnes's arms.
“Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “I am only crying because I am so happy. Never was any one so happy before since the beginning of the world. He has been here.”
“Who has been here—Mr. Westwood?”
“Of course. Who else was there to come? Who else is worth talking about in the world? He has been here, and he loves me—he loves me—he loves me! Only think of it.”
“And you sent him away?”
“Not until I had told him all that was in my heart.”
“You told him that you loved another man?”
“How could I do that? How could I tell him a falsehood? I told him that I loved him; that I had always loved him, and that it would be impossible for me to love any one else.”