Desolate splendour

IT was with some trepidation that Mrs. Plethern had sealed her letter of summons to Rockarvon—summons it was, for all its flattering humility of phrase—because she was uncertain how far his inclination toward Viola had persisted during the foregoing months. She knew something of the capricious tastes of the fatigued voluptuary; she remembered that he was no longer young; she had had opportunity to realize that, as simple indulgence had no lure for him, on subtle elaborations must depend her power to hold his perverted interest. One enticement alone had certain power—her collection and its evil treasures. In Paris, at their first encounter, he had shown genuine anxiety to see her things. She knew the potency of a collector’s passion; she read the true zeal of a collector in his eyes. Their meeting in January had been friendly but inconclusive. She had been able only to reiterate her desire to serve his whims, to promise watchfulness and gesture hopefully to a future of opportunity. Now it was late in May. What more likely than that the very name of Viola had faded from his memory?

Wherefore when, Charles’ back once turned, she made her journey to her younger son, it was the problem so to set the bait as to attract a languid fish that occupied her mind.

“What would have served a while ago will not serve now,” she said. “He is coming, but more on his own account than mine. My letter luckily coincided with a desire to visit London, and he is anxious to go through my playing cards. They interest him.”

“What did your letter say?” demanded James.

“Very little. But I hinted at special advantages.”

“That was foolish, mother. There are no special advantages.”

“Is it no advantage to carry through the scheme actually at Morvane? You don’t know the man, my son. He is a tissue of spites and delicate perceptions. Every refinement has to such a man twice the value of the thing it rarefies.”

James grunted. He was of another breed; counted his chickens in terms of chickens and the more the merrier.

“He’ll want money,” he said sourly.

“Money?” She thought a moment. “Not a bad idea, James, for all your sarcasm. It will involve him the more deeply. Let him have money if he wants it. What will be won is worth a little cost.”

“Why should the proposal come from me, mother? You’d do it better.”

“You talk to try me, my son. Remember the affair is to your advantage, not to mine. Mine is the lion’s share of work, in any case.”

James sat scowling at his desk.... So he was to pay for what he longed to shirk! He hated the whole business. His cautious, stealthy mind, that could conceive a hundred careful treacheries, feared risks, feared above all open participation in a hazardous scheme. On the other hand, he was greedy with the accumulated greed of thwarted years. Even during the few days of March that Viola had been beneath his roof, he had raged inwardly to hear the girl’s assured chatter of Charles and Rome; to note the greater wisdom in her mien; to appraise, loathingly, her fairness and her grace. Then Christopher had lately been recalcitrant. There had been rows at college, frolics and heavy bills and idleness. These alone might not have mattered seriously, were it not that the boy had shown other signs of restiveness. Hitherto, to his mother’s threat of strong measures against Viola, James had preferred, and obstinately, the idea of marrying the girl to Christopher. His life had been a life of conspiracies within the law, and he had prospered. It suited him to juggle inexperience into positions profitable to himself; it did not suit him to flout the prejudice of his fellow-citizens. His mother had ever been impatient; had ever chafed at the careful complexities of diplomacy. He had at first dismissed her bitter menaces to Viola as typical of her hasty temperament, comforting himself with the thought that all would yet be pleasantly arranged, that Christopher would be sure of his inheritance at the attractive price of marrying a pretty girl. Under the rosy influence of this optimism he had at Morvane in September promised alliance to his mother; but now, as optimism faded, that promise and its consequence loomed more darkly over him. He had suggested that the boy spend Christmas at his uncle’s house. Then news had come that Charles and Viola would be in Rome. A vacation in Italy would be excellent for college work. But Christopher, independently, had pledged himself to Lavenham and gone there. After Rome the girl had come to stay at Montagu Square. James and his wife were ready to keep her there through Lent, through the season also if desirable. But once more Christopher, by his extraordinary behaviour, had baffled his elders’ thoughtfulness. Fetched up from Cambridge purposely to see her (the pretext was other: something more suited to academic tastes), he had avoided her markedly and fled back to work with a devotion, gratifying enough in other circumstances but, in view of his recent pranking, merely farcical. His mother had proposed a party for Mays. He was already pledged to join another party, could not make fresh arrangements. At least, the mother urged, let Viola and Corinne have a day or two in Cambridge during term time. The weather was too beastly, replied Christopher, and this was a rotten term to come. With Easter vacation came a good opportunity for the boy to have some weeks at Morvane. “Sorry, dad, but I’m due in Cornwall for the first part, and then doing a walking tour in France.” By now it was unmistakable to the chagrined parents that, for some reason, Christopher was shy of Viola. To wean him of his queer reluctance might take months or years. The dangers of delay were forcibly put by Mrs. Plethern in a letter received at this unhappy juncture. The old lady, after observing her eldest son and his ward in each other’s constant company at Morvane, wrote alarmingly. They were inseparable. Charles was becoming curiously dependent on the girl’s help and company. They rode together, walked together, drove together, sat out the evenings over cards or music, talked and played at billiards, even gardened side by side. “When Charles gardens,” wrote Mrs. Plethern, “something beyond silly flowers is taking root.” To this letter James owed finally the loss of his wife’s allegiance. Hitherto, though sceptically, she had supported his policy of legitimate intrigue; now she went over to the enemy.

“It’s no use whatever, James,” she said. “The little beast is out to catch him at this rate she’ll do it in a few more months. Chris is hopeless. I thought he was too much a boy to hold her, and probably likely to be difficult himself, but I’d no idea he was such a mule. Your mother is right after all. The girl must go. We can’t play about with the business any longer.”

Thus isolated James faced his mother when, on this June evening, she presented her considered scheme for Viola’s undoing. Driven from his first positions of obstructive argument, he was reduced to sincere protest on the score of risk. When, after a long pause of frowning silence, he spoke again, it was fear that moved him.

“It’s dangerous, mother. I don’t like rushing it in this way.”

“Pooh! High gains need high stakes. As for danger—the more quickly we manage it the less there can be. I will see to it there are no witnesses. At present she will hardly be missed locally. You trust me and Bathsheba, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes.” James waved his hand vaguely. “I trust you and Bathsheba. But the whole scheme——”

Mrs. Plethern interrupted impatiently.

“Pull yourself together, my son. Look at the matter calmly. I shall not meet the man at all, till the night at Morvane. You will see him in London, but not be in Gloucestershire. No letters will pass. Rockarvon himself is not a person with inquisitive busybodies about him; he can contrive to be in this place or that and no one the wiser.”

“But when the transaction is made public—Charles will know pressure has been applied——”

“Pressure! Where’s the harm in pressure? All Charles cares for is the land. He’ll be upset that the girl has vanished. Likely enough he’ll suspect; he may even talk wildly. But he can prove nothing, nothing at all. In the end, where the land is, there will his heart be. Property talks, you know, James: talks much louder than love or principle.”

“But why hustle it like this?” he persisted fretfully. “There’s lots of time.”

“Because it is urgent. Because we want all the time we have afterwards. To delay now will be risky. She is getting intimate with those people at Clonsall. Leave it even a few weeks and, now that she is alone, she will have the habit of going over there every day or so. Then, if she fails to turn up, they will start prying. But at present they don’t see her often enough. We must act quickly, both to avoid their meddling and to be sure that Charles remains out of the way for a good long while. If we carry through our little plan within ten days from now—or even less—it will be two full months before he can return. It will be a month, probably six weeks, before even he can hear of anything amiss. To casual inquiries I shall say she has gone visiting. So she will have—on a nice, long visit.”

James strode nervously about the room. He was biting his fingers, and abrupt movements showed his misliking of the plot.

“Suppose Rockarvon gives it away?”

“He daren’t!” retorted the old lady. “He would be a marked man. Charles would see to it. The man is a coward, James, like all sense-slaves. Also, once you get him to take money....”

There was a pause. James stood at a table, drumming with his fingers on the polished top. His mother watched him sourly from her chair. At last she spoke again:

“You gave your word to help,” she said solemnly. “Don’t forget that.”

He tossed his head.

“To help!” he exclaimed. “But not in crime!”

“Quibbler!” she cried angrily. “Crime indeed! You use big words. You purchase an estate; I ask a friend to visit me and see my interesting cards; by chance a girl encounters my friend; they leave together. Really, James, I had thought better of you! Even for your own son’s sake, will you not do the little thing I ask you? Do you not realize that once Chris is owner of Rockarvon his uncle will do everything for him? Must I explain it all again?”

His resistance was virtually broken. He dropped into a chair and his large body seemed shrunk and crumpled. Brushing the hair wearily from his forehead, he began to speak in a dull, level undertone.

“Rockarvon arrives in three days. I visit him, explain the scheme, get his consent——” He broke off, and with a note of eagerness demanded: “If he refuses? What then?”

She looked him sullenly in the eyes.

“If he refuses, naturally the plan fails. That is evident. But I don’t think he will refuse; not if the idea is properly presented; not if it is made worth his while.”

“He may refuse,” persisted James hopefully. “It’s a big price for a few hours’ pleasure.”

She smiled maliciously.

“That is probably what he will say—at first. You will point out to him that, when the few hours are over, the young lady will not be in a position to resume her normal life. You will point out that there will be only one thing left for her to do: that is, to go with him—for as long as he cares to tolerate her. She will have no claim on him, none whatever. But all houses will be closed to her, except his. He will be buying, not a few hours, but as much of a lifetime as he cares to enjoy. Tell him that, James. The point will appeal to him.”

The man shuddered violently.

“And when he has had enough of her...?”

Mrs. Plethern shrugged her shoulders.

“That is hardly our business.”

“She may come back to Charles.”

“James, you provoke me. Am I such a fool that Charles will not have been told of his ward’s wantonness? Is Charles the man to endure lightness among his own women? Don’t you realize that the rake is the strictest pasha of them all? No, she’ll not come back. Charles will forget her very name.”

“Then what will become of her?” he stammered.

The old woman thumped the arm of her chair with an exasperated fist.

“Haven’t I said that is not our business? You talk as though you were a Rescue Committee. Paris will swallow her up. It has swallowed many better girls than she. Now go on with your recital. You explain the scheme; Rockarvon agrees. What then?”

“What then?” he repeated stupidly. “Oh, I suppose we draft the deed of sale——”

She shook her head angrily.

“No! No! Listen and I will tell you once more. Three days from now you visit Rockarvon at his flat. Go carefully; tell no one, of course. First you must remind the man of his proposal to Charles. He asked that in exchange for the Gloucestershire land he should have Viola for wife. Then remind him of what I said when I saw him in London in January. Tell him the opportunity has arrived: that he can have the girl—not for wife, but for plaything, a much more satisfactory arrangement. In return he must make over Rockarvon valley. The transfer must be carried out in full legal form, as though it were a sale. A suitable sum must be named and the document must read so as to show that, in consideration of this payment by you, the land becomes the property, not of you, but of Chris. That is important. Charles wants to join Morvane and Rockarvon. If there is one sure way of securing everything for your son, it is to make him the man who can unite the properties. Of course the full deed will be drafted by lawyers afterwards. All you will have to do is to arrange for an exchange of signed memoranda. Finally, arrange as date the day following your interview. Unless you let me know to the contrary, I will expect him at Morvane at dinner-time on that date. You will merely have to send word in advance of the day of your discussion. The rest will be my responsibility. Of course, you will see that he comes by motor. Train is risky. Some one might notice him at the junction. I think that is all. Surely it is simple enough, isn’t it?”

James, who had listened, head on hands, to his mother’s abrupt instructions, rose wearily to his feet.

“It’s simple enough,” he said, “but frankly I’m frightened of it. However, I said I wouldn’t fail you, and I won’t. Where is Charles now? You’re sure he’s gone?”

She nodded.

“He’s two days out already. I telegraphed to Southampton; the yacht left yesterday morning.”

“And the girl?”

“Oh, she’s at Morvane, eating her curds and whey. There’ll come a big spider—I hope in less than a week’s time—to spirit Miss Muffet away!”

He had no answering smile for her pleasantry.

“I’m tired,” he said shortly. “Let us go to bed.”

§ 2

When three days later, after a cautious meeting and prolonged discussion, James had left him, Rockarvon considered his new and piquant adventure with languid enjoyment.

At first he had shown ill-temper and some lack of interest in the scheme proposed. Mrs. Plethern had read the probabilities aright. His volatile mind, inconstant even in its pleasure-seeking, had wearied of Viola. She was lovely and desirable, but remote. The tedious preliminaries to her conquest, the ghoulish dramatics of the old woman who pursued him with her plotting, fatigued and bothered. Rockarvon had disliked being fetched from Paris, for all the courtesy of Mrs. Plethern’s letter; he had disliked the entanglement of formal conspiracies, of this for that, of dates and ingenuities. Until collector’s curiosity tipped the scale. He had crossed Europe before now to examine a single strange antiquity; should he refuse the simple trip to England that gave opportunity to see a houseful? Wherefore, though peevishly, he had agreed to come. Now arose a fresh annoyance—intrusion of a pompously insistent stranger. With ill grace enough he had heard James Plethern out until, before appreciation of an elegant revenge and before avarice, his peevish indolence began to yield. As James Plethern talked, the smart of the other Plethern’s angry scorn was felt again. Then, as James Plethern talked, Rockarvon saw an opportunity of turning these people’s greedy hatred of the girl they offered him to his material as well as to his sensual advantage. Finally, as James Plethern talked, he had a vision of a supreme dishonesty.

Thus it was that, from lust, from vengefulness, from money-greed and from a sour liking for out-villaining a villain, he found himself, after his visitor had departed well satisfied with the comedy to which he was committed. He liked its fantastic mounting. It had a bizarre freshness of quality that stirred a jaded imagination. As the old woman had predicted, the idea of debauching an English virgin of the upper class in her own guardian’s country house appealed deliciously to his sense of poetic justice; for thus not only would he turn the tables handsomely upon Charles Plethern, but he would also flout that English prudery that he affected to despise as hypocritical but, in his heart, dreaded for its penetrating judgment.

And then he had contrived actually to be paid for wreaking his revenge! True, as at first laid down, the scheme had offered Viola and Viola alone in exchange for a document purporting to record the sale of Rockarvon valley for some twenty thousand pounds. He had demurred. More from disputatious habit than from conviction (once more how sound was Mrs. Plethern’s power to prophecy!) he had objected that the price asked was too high, even for so choice a piece of goods as Charles Plethern’s ward. He had tried what he had conceived to be a bold stroke. Would the parties, who were so concerned to remove Miss Marvell, make a nominal payment that should give a something of validity to the transaction? James shook his head, but his tormentor read vacillation in his eyes. Rockarvon realized the man was frightened of his own mission, frightened but desperately determined to succeed. He returned to the charge. A trifle of five thousand pounds——? Almost to his surprise James yielded.

Flattered by success, Rockarvon allowed another more audacious fancy to take root in his imagination. Were it not doubly savourous to wreak his revenge on Morvane, to get the girl and the money, and then to cheat his benefactors? It should prove possible enough. Accordingly he took a fresh line with his visitor. He argued that to make over the estate thus early was to pay for goods not yet delivered. He emphasized the confidence he felt in Mrs. Plethern, but spoke of the hazard of adverse circumstance, of the hundred possibilities of mischance that lay between the present hour of conversation and that of the bargain’s completion. It was evident to him that, as the argument lengthened, James’ nervousness increased. The man wished to be free of the whole discussion, longed to be out of the flat and at the end of his share in a conspiracy that terrified him. Shrewdly the earl concluded that, if the conversation were to drag still more slowly on its way, the determination of his opponent would droop and weaken. He set himself to prolong the argument. He elaborated his precautionary objections, sparing no compliment to the enterprise and ingenuity of old Mrs. Plethem and of her son and envoy. James’ impatience grew. At last, with a poor semblance of practical vigour, he demanded peevishly what alternative the earl suggested; when in his view the transfer of the land should rightly be effected. Rockarvon hesitated, as though in thought. Then:

“I suppose you would empower your mother to sign one copy of the document and to receive the other on your behalf?” he asked.

James nodded brusquely. He hardly understood the question so restless was he, so anxious to be gone.

“The exchange shall be made,” said the earl slowly, “at Morvane. The document, in duplicate, shall go down with me, and the moment it is clear that the transaction is complete, each party shall sign.”

James demurred. He hardly liked to say that he did not trust the earl to keep his word. The other read his thoughts.

“You needn’t fear I shall go without it,” he said.

James protested.

“I should not dream of doubting you. It was the wording of the document that worried me.”

“I will draft it to-night,” replied Rockarvon promptly, “post you a copy, and if you disapprove my wording you can let me know. There will be plenty of time. I shall leave about five to-morrow afternoon. It will take three hours to reach Morvane by road, and I ought to be there at eight o’clock. A little dinner before the show, you know.... Or would you prefer to come round and see the draft to-morrow morning?”

The thought of once more visiting this flat, the dread of being seen entering its doors, set James in a tremble. Panic-stricken he soothed his conscience with sophistry. He would accept the man’s suggestion and then send an express letter to his mother, formally empowering her to sign and warning her to bring about an exchange of documents before she delivered Viola to her fate. This seemed the only thing to be done; at any rate it threw responsibility on his mother and left him clear of the entanglement.

“All right,” he said ungraciously. “Post me your draft; if you have no reply by four o’clock, it is approved. I am afraid I shall be busy to-morrow afternoon.”

“And the five thousand?” said the early gently.

“That should be subject to the same precautions,” replied James.

Rockarvon shook his head regretfully.

“Then I am afraid our little negotiation must be off.”

James blustered. Must they do their part before the earl did his? Was that fair bargaining?

“I will post-date a cheque a week from to-day,” he said.

The earl shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “I am sorry, but I cannot accept that arrangement.”

In vain James stormed and pleaded. Rockarvon remained coolly obstinate. At last he observed:

“You see, we shall not meet again. For that reason I must insist that we conclude the business now. Unless you prefer to come with me to Morvane?”

James shivered. That never! Ruefully he resigned himself.

“I’ll do it now,” he said.

Handing the cheque seemed symbolic of release.

“You have arranged to go by motor?” he asked, with a new lightness in his voice.

Rockarvon nodded.

“Do you go alone?”

The other shook his head and smiled self-pity.

“You see the invalid I am! Impossible. I shall take one of my faithful bodyguard.”

With which words the conference ended; James taking flight to safety; Rockarvon, reclining on his couch, content to anticipate his night of pleasure, amused to applaud his own exploitation of human foolishness. What was to become of the girl afterwards, he hardly troubled to think. Probably her attraction would end with her vanquishing. Then he would leave her on the hands of the old hag who was procuring her. On the other hand, if she was complacent or unusually pleasing, he would take her away, hide her awhile in London and then get her to Paris through channels with which he was familiar. He stretched and smiled and set himself, languidly enough, to draft the memorandum of agreement.

With characteristic carelessness, he forgot that in theory he was making a formal sale of property. He forgot the five-figure price that was to stand in the ultimate deed of sale. Only did he recall that he had James Plethern’s cheque, that it lay ready sealed for sending to the bank. Accordingly, on a half-sheet of note-paper he scribbled a statement to the effect that by agreement between himself and James Plethern, Esquire, of — Montagu Square, the said James Plethern should purchase at the price of five thousand pounds the freehold property known as the Rockarvon estate in Gloucestershire, that purchase should be completed within one month from the date of the present memorandum, and that, on completion, the property should be conveyed to Christopher Plethern, Esquire, of White’s Club, St. James’ Street. He wrote the words “Signed” and “Witnessed.” Finally, in a moment of sardonic humour, he added, “Morvane, June 6th, 1903.” The day on which the words were written was the fourth, but, if he had to deliver the document at all, it would be after the entertainment, not before it. And that would be two mornings later. It pleased him to be accurate over dates; also it pleased him that the transaction should be put on record under the roof he had contrived to desecrate.

During his visits to London, the earl was accustomed to engage as secretary a young woman of the name of Phipps. He did not, of course, entrust to her such confidential work as was performed by his male secretary Donchet in the Rue des Montagnards, but for the usual routine of a collector’s correspondence he found her adequate. His document composed, he summoned this young woman and, handing her the paper which was to make Christopher Plethern master of Rockarvon, gave his instructions.

“Type that, Miss Phipps. Three copies. Post one to-night to Mr. James Plethern—the address is on the paper. Give the others to Letchmere to pack in my dressing-case. I am going away to-morrow afternoon and want them with me.”

Miss Phipps withdrew to the dull little room in which her typewriter was lodged. She was a scatter-brained young person, to whom chocolates and lace-insertion were life’s absorbing interests. It was already after six o’clock and she was eager to be gone. Quickly transcribing her employer’s scribble, she took an envelope and glanced at the completed draft in search of the address. Lord Rockarvon had said that one copy must be posted to a Mr. Plethern. ‘Mr. Something Plethern....’ Her eye fell on the name of Christopher and on his address at White’s. ‘Was that the Mr. Plethern, or the other?’ She was to see The Country Girl that evening; melodies that in a few weeks had become the rage of London hummed in her head. ‘Christopher Plethern?’ Sounds all right. Let it go! She wrote the envelope, her mind intent on other, more alluring, themes. ‘C. Plethern, Esq., White’s Club, St. James’ Street.’ How late it was! She must hurry. Shuffling her letters into a pile, she found the stamps, nimbly tore them, licked them one by one and thumped them into place. Then she struggled into her coat, thrust on her hat, caught up bag, gloves and letters and hurried from the house. At the first pillarbox she paused just long enough to push the letters through the slit and hear them plump into the depths, then danced away in search of lights and music.

§ 3

Meantime at Morvane in the sweet peace of early summer Viola lingered, facing her own unhappiness; facing the more unhappy future. Lady Grieve had written: “Now that Charles has gone you will come back at once, won’t you? Come and stay as long as ever you like.” And she had replied that she would come soon; not immediately, but soon. She could not brave the task of smiling, day in day out, to cheat the perception of her friendly hosts; of being, day in day out, casually polite to visitors for lunch or tea. Strain enough to meet old Mrs. Plethern’s insistent sympathies with collected calm, to elude the slow pursuit of the old lady’s curiosity.

“You must be lonely, my dear. Come and see me, if the dull company of an old woman seems preferable to none. You are not leaving me just yet? I hope not, for I like to think young life is near. You will tell me when you plan to go to Lavenham?”

And so continually.

But Mrs. Plethern was more easily escaped than would be Lady Grieve, Sir Algernon and (as would likely be added to their number) Daniel on week-ends from the Foreign Office. As always poor Daniel! He wrote to her occasionally, so gently fond, so gaily sensitive. ‘I could talk to him,’ thought Viola, ‘but not on this of all subjects in the world. In any other difficulty, I could talk to him.’

Longingly she followed Charles in fancy. She saw him on the snowy deck of the swift, shining yacht; pictured his lean brown face, his quick infectious laugh; imagined his words, his amusements, his every trivial deed. Did he ever think of her? Sometimes, no doubt, with the kindly approval of a habitual bachelor for a charming child. She shook herself impatiently. Such kindliness was worse than none. Better to haunt his brain as the fair phantom of a secret pleasure. That would show need of her at least. Sadly she bent her head. ‘He does not want me now,’ she thought. Perhaps he never did.’ When he returned, how would it be with them? Filial duty and paternal tenderness? Presents lovingly chosen to please her vanity, inquiries after her amusements while he was away? Once more she murmured to herself, “Not that! Pray God, not that!” but meant quite other than on the night in Rome.

She tried to find distraction with the Grays, but timed her call between two periods of children’s visits. More were expected in a day or two; some had departed but the day before. Only the children tempted her to Clonsall. She was wrought up and heavy with her griefs and Madeleine’s bland, untiring gaiety jarred unbearably. Walter, if dull, she found more sympathetic. She would meet him on her rides and they would go a little way together, hardly speaking, content to value each other’s silences. Madeleine was never silent.

“They chatter intolerably, these nice wholesome women!” grumbled Viola. She felt some of a man’s impatience with the ceaseless treble of female brightness. “Charles would hate it,” she told herself. Always Charles! She wondered. ‘Do I chatter?’ When he came again she would be silent, endlessly. Or if he bade her talk or sing or laugh or dance she would do each and all—to please him.

But now no longer could she burk the solution of her great dilemma. Stay on and lose him, stay on and see him flit to other lips, to other laughter, to the sweet selfishness of other arms. Stay on and seek to win him; stay on and think him hers, only in the hour of happiness to be cried out upon as an adventuress; to see him waver, shrinking from the mockery of the world; to see him doubt her; to be gently put aside; to pine and wilt and then to hide for ever as the fortune-hunter that had set her nets and failed. Both were horrible; both were beyond her strength to bear. Better begone and let him find her gone. Feverishly she explored this passage of escape. Whither should she go? Should she pretend to pledge love to another, so that he could come back to an engagement and to the pretty, facile compliments proper to such nice occasions? Daniel? No, not Daniel. He deserved too well of her to have a falsehood offered him for happiness. She could not lie on Daniel’s heart, wishing it Charles’, fancying it Charles’; yet knowing that Daniel loved her and believed and trusted her. If she must find a mate that would be proxy for her real love, he must be one she cared nothing for, one she could deceive in her suffering mind without adding to its pain the tortured knowledge that she wronged a friend. But could she meet a stranger’s lips, yield in a stranger’s arms what she must gladly yield? Worse: what if Charles suspected? What if he came and found her promised to a man she had not known before he went away, or hardly known? He would be puzzled and angry he would think her light-natured and ungrateful. He would imagine she had done this foolish thing to escape her life with him at Morvane; he would be grieved and, perhaps, come to hate her. Certainly, if by so doing she made Charles unhappy, to marry thus would be as harmful to him as it were misery to her. Its only purpose would be to serve him, and likely it would contrive the opposite.

From where, drearily pondering, she sat near the window of her room, she could see the late sunlight of the gracious afternoon. A knock at the door roused her. Bathsheba stood shyly sullen in the corridor. She brought a message from her mistress, who asked Miss Marvell, for the servants’ sake, to dine that evening in the tower instead of in the house. Mrs. Plethern had just learned there was a local feast at a small town not far away and understood that the house-servants wished to go. She hoped Miss Marvell would not be put out, but would be willing to set the servants free. Perhaps, in the latter case, she would be kind enough to let the staff know that she would take supper in the tower; then those who desired could reach the place of festival in good time for the evening’s gaiety. Mrs. Plethern would have wished to make the request in person, but she was tired with the heat and knew from experience that, in her present headachy condition, she must lie quietly till the air grew cooler. “Mrs. Plethern brightens in the evenings” said the maid; then, as by afterthought, added: “Oh yes, miss, and Mrs. Plethern told me to say she had news of Mr. Plethern that you’d be interested to hear.”

“News of Mr. Plethern?” queried Viola sharply. “A letter? Have you brought it?”

Bathsheba shook her head.

“What day is it to-day?” demanded Viola.

“The fifth of June, miss.”

“The fifth? Where has the news come from? Is it a telegram?”

The maid was sorry but she could not say. She knew nothing as to how the news had been received nor what it was. She had delivered her mistress’ message and could do no more.

Impatiently Viola turned away.

“All right” she said. “Tell Mrs. Plethern I’ll be with her about eight o’clock.”

Bathsheba bobbed a sullen curtsy and crept away, while Viola, the interruption over, returned sadly to her brooding. But as she was about to sink into her chair again, the extreme beauty of the low-striking sunshine caught pleasantly her notice. Perhaps she could think better out of doors. The room felt suddenly hot and airless. A ride might clear her brain. She rang the bell, ordered her horse and made the desired announcement of her evening plans.

It was after six o’clock when she rode away. The young leaves glittered golden green along the beech trees of the avenue. An obscure impulse to think out her difficulties in shadowy solitude drove her from the open sunlight to where, in a half-darkness, dry husks of last year’s nuts and last year’s fallen leaves were littered in profuse decay.

She walked her horse slowly between broad, smooth trunks that had shone silver grey from the sunny spaces of the park, but now rose through the soft, greenish air of their own leaves’ shade like columns of weathered bronze, mottled with verdigris. Above her head each delicate leaf gleamed pale as silver against the shining sky; her horse trod crisply on the drifted leaves.

What news had Mrs. Plethern? Why had she news and Viola no word? Bitter to think that he had written or cabled to the old lady, but sent no word to her! Bitter perhaps, but probable enough. His mother or an orphan he had sheltered, which ranked the first? Foolish question that was no question. Mrs. Plethern was his mother had been for years beside him in his house. She—Viola, the orphan—was a stranger, housed in charity. She was of no account at Morvane; a child and negligible to Morvane’s master. ‘Charles; darling, darling Charles,’ she thought, ‘if I am nothing, it is not for want of loving you. God!’ she prayed miserably. ‘Dear God! Help me to help him! Help me, no matter how, to serve his happiness!’

A soft wind from the south muttered in the beech-tops. Silent she listened to the restless air moving from tree to tree, coming in sweet urgency only to kiss and pass onward. She could hear it afar off; almost could she watch its whimsical approach. The murmur of swaying boughs would grow louder till the whole avenue began to tremble, until the boughs above her heaved desperately as a girl in the soft arms of a dream-lover. But in the very moment of his coming the wind was gone again, and could be heard, breathing deliciously from tree to yearning tree as it passed lovely on its heedless way.

‘Poor trees!’ thought Viola. ‘They have their love thoughts, but they too awake to loneliness!’

She left the park and, crossing a road, entered a deep-banked lane. A crazy gate gave access to more woods, through which long, empty drives stretched away to sun-flecked greenery. The air was powdered with pollen from the flowering trees. In grassy clearings, blackthorn white with flowers bristled at the cloudless sky. She set Achilles to a canter. Down vistas of green solitude they thundered, Viola just conscious of the blue mist of hyacinths between the tree-trunks, of a sudden scuffle of rabbits across open spaces, of bird-songs, of murmurous bees, of the whisper of wind-voices in the warm, scented air that whistled in her ears.

At last she checked her headlong rush, drew up and let the reins fall loose about her horse’s neck. The sun had fallen low behind the level of the trees. The wood to either side was filling rapidly with shadows. Ahead through thinning trunks she saw the sky and, pushing on, found herself on a stretch of common over which, some little distance from her, ran a road. It was still bright, here in the open, and tussocks of moss and heather called invitingly. She slipped from the saddle, hitched Achilles to a withered tree and flung herself full length upon the warm, soft ground. Already half-past seven! She lay back against wiry heather-stalks, deliberately defiant of the time. Mrs. Plethern must wait. Mrs. Plethern had news of Charles; that should suffice for pastime, waiting for her guest. The guest—poor girl!—had nothing; was nothing; mattered nothing. Turning on her side, she pillowed her head in the crook of her arm. Monotonously beat his loved name about her tired brain. ‘Charles!’ she moaned. ‘Come back to me, Charles!’ But later: ‘It is good-bye, sweetheart! Good-bye, Charles. Charles, say good-bye to me!’ Again later: ‘Why did you go? It was cruel, Charles! You lose only me, but I have lost everything. Everything, Charles, everything you gave me and all the rest beside....’

Through the murk of her grieving gleamed suddenly her mother’s smile, the sweet, helpless smile of girlhood’s memory. So had this sweetly-erring mother smiled, first on the man she married, then on her tiny child, then on that other man.... Now on her daughter’s agony she seemed to smile once more, remotely comforting. ‘Oh, mother!’ cried Viola, with all the voiceless anguish of her loneliness. ‘Little mother, you heard love calling and you followed.... Bravely, mother ... bravely and splendidly.... Was it so wonderful, that second love-call, mother? At least there was one that called to you. Pity your little girl, who hears no call save in her own sad heart, who yet would die or suffer any shame, so that some echo of the music in her heart might touch deaf ears, so that some sign might pierce the blindness of dear eyes.... Charles! Charles!... How can I make you hear me? How can I show my love in helping you? What mother suffered, I can suffer—that and more—for no reward, Charles, save for the sake of knowing that some day you will know.... And when you know, you will not hate your Viola?... Promise me that, Charles ... only that.’ Once more she fell a-moaning his loved name, over and over, ceaselessly.

Achilles roused her. He had walked round and round his withered tree, twisted his length of rein to nothing, then half unwound himself, then put one hoof through a low loop of hanging rein, then become flustered and a trifle scared. She rose and released him, stood at his side and saw the sun sink behind a bank of cloud that stealthily was rising from the west. The wind blew colder; the light was dying rapidly over the far fields and along the green wall of the wood’s edge. ‘I must go home,’ she thought, but still stood unmoving there. Oh, just to ride away into the darkness, to ride away and be forgotten, ride to oblivion, so that she was to Charles as though she had never been! Scornful she chid herself. Was she a coward, fleeing from unpleasant fate? She loved him and, loving him, must serve to show her love. She loved (poor girl) as they who are content to serve and die, but, till their chance appears of serving whom they love, live desperately. She must remain and work and think. Her prayer would yet be answered; she would find ways to tell him she was his; perhaps could leave some sign that, when he came again, would show how humbly and how dearly she had loved him.

Over the now dusk-veiled road crawled a dark shape. She heard the slow beat of a motor-engine. Curiosity (motors were rare along those lonely roads) tempted her nearer, and, as fast as prudently she might, over the rough ground in the uncertain gloom, she made her way toward the car. It was moving very slowly. Already had the thought occurred to her that the occupants had lost their way, when, seeing her a few yards from the road, the chauffeur shouted. She dismounted and drew closer. To her surprise, at the window of the limousine she saw a negro. The chauffeur began to speak, hoarsely, with town-bred servility. But before he could complete his sentence or say whither he was bound, the door opened and the negro leaped to the road. He silenced the chauffeur with an angry gesture; then addressed Viola, goggling horribly. With difficulty she understood his halting English. He was requesting her to speak to some invisible occupant of the vehicle. Craning forward she looked into the car. There was a note of genuine surprise in the sweet, mocking voice that greeted her, a voice that set her pulses racing, that brought back, in the first moment of its sounding, memories of the happiness she had known but squandered in the good days when Charles was with her.

“Nom de Dieu, mademoiselle, you drop from heaven! What a chance indeed! I have lost my way. In this barbarous paradise of your Gloucestershire I have embarked upon a visit, but I cannot find my hosts. Where am I? Surely near my own land and your respected guardian’s home, if I meet you thus, riding so late?”

“You are more unexpected than I, Lord Rockarvon, for, as you imagine, Morvane is not far off. But where are you going?”

“To a house beyond—Wellborough—Wellborough, I think it is——,” he paused, considering the name. “Wellborough, yes. Is there a Wellborough?”

“There is,” replied Viola doubtfully, “but you’ve gone badly wrong. Wellborough is on the other side of Sawley.”

“Sawley? That is the junction for Morvane, is it not?”

“More or less. You are west of it. This road would take you to the edge of Morvane, near where it borders on—on Rockarvon....”

Then it was that the thing happened. Could it have been the God to whom she lately prayed that put the madness on her? Was it not rather the uneasy spirit of an outlawed mother, fluttering feebly about a daughter’s misery, that with weak desperation suddenly inspired her to a tragic folly? Inspiration it must have been. Inspiration alone could, as by lightning, thus make falsely clear her path. Dazzled, she hesitated; her heart throbbed with the wild, sacrificial fervour of her vision. The next instant:

“Lord Rockarvon,” she said steadily, “I want to say something to you.”

He raised himself painfully from the seat on which he lay and, leaning forward, studied her with his uncanny eyes.

“Not very long ago,” she began, “you made a proposal to my guardian. It concerned me and your estate here. My guardian (who very unwillingly, and because I bothered him, told me of the honour you had done me) refused your offer. Do you—I mean, is it still ... open? If so—I accept it.”

The earl was utterly taken aback. Resentfully he played for time.

“My dear young lady!” he replied with a touch of haughtiness. “What a very extraordinary speech!”

“Extraordinary?” she retorted. “No more so than your original idea! I am quite serious, Lord Rockarvon.”

He did not answer, but sank back into the motor, taking in his mind swift measure of the last incredible development of his incredible experience of the house of Plethern. They were mad, these people! First, one of them refused insultingly an honourable proposal; then another volunteered herself as procuress; a third paid him five thousand pounds to ruin a young girl; and now that very girl made use of chance encounter by the roadside to put a price upon her own attractions and offer him the bargain! Certainly they were mad. Their desperate anxiety to win his land had sent them crazy. The girl—what did she want his valley for? She must realize that to yield to him would be to part for ever from her guardian. Was it a title she so passionately desired? Perhaps—but she had not seemed that type of naïve fool. And even if she were, why did she choose the valley for a settlement? If she aspired confusedly to buy Charles Plethern’s favour for her tuft-hunting with the Rockarvon property, she must be madder than the rest. Yet she had not seemed mad, nor foolishly ambitious. The earl had mind and humour to smile in passing at an explanation that a vainer man might seriously have entertained. ‘My charms,’ he thought, ‘are hardly such as would lead a young girl to heedless passion for myself.’ The fancy tickled him and, pausing in his rapid thought to relish it, he realized her waiting presence at his side. The absurdity of the situation took a distasteful tinge. His temper began to rise.

“Serious, mademoiselle? It is well to be serious in such a matter. But I am not sure if I understand you, You are kind enough to propose yourself as Countess of Rockarvon?”

“I did not say so,” replied Viola in a low voice. “I asked if you were still inclined to ... take me in exchange for your estate.”

“To take you?” he echoed, now more amazed than ever. “On what—forgive my stupidity!—on what ... er ... footing, if I may so express myself?”

She waived the question from her.

“Any footing!” she said violently. “Any or no footing! As you will.”

“But, Miss Marvell,” he protested, “without some explanation I must really hesitate—not that your flattering offer lacks appreciation——”

She turned away and stood trembling with fear and with distress. When, on an impulse, she had mooted this extraordinary bargain, all had seemed simple. Now, as she heard his mocking courtesies and realized that he thought her crazed, she knew not whether to flee from him or laugh it off or cling to her own lunacy. The thought of Charles Plethern came to steady her. Almost had she forgotten the purpose of her gambler’s throw. When it recurred, though it made no less mad the madness that had so betrayed her, it linked her present plight with her despairing love for Charles and gave her strength.

During her struggle for self-mastery Rockarvon sought to decide his course of action. Time was getting on. He was overdue at Morvane. But to what purpose should he go to Morvane now? If the victim was thus hysterical or witless, might not the old woman prove a maniac? Was it a plot to fool or trap him, the whole bizarre affair? Surely a queer plot, that began with cheques and ended with a virgin’s prayer for ruin! If they were mad, he would do well to leave them to their madness. If they were sane and laying snares for him, he would do well to leave them also, however little he could imagine what their snares might be. The cheque was cashed: the money in his bank; that was real enough. Better to swallow the bait and yet escape the hook. The card collection and its rarities could wait an easier season. On every count the verdict was for rapid disappearance. There remained the girl. A pity that her mania had taken her thus inconveniently! How lithe and fair and succulent she was! Another time...? Folly to miss the hundredth chance that she was sane. What if for some involved and foolish reason she was genuine in this her eagerness for self-surrender? He addressed her with a new gentleness.

“Miss Marvell,” he said, “it is getting late and I should be hurrying on. Will you allow me to think over what you say? Do you do likewise. If to-morrow you are of the same mind as to-day, you will find me at my flat in Jermyn Street. The number is 100A. Easy to remember, is it not? I leave for Paris by the train at two.”

She paused a moment and replied.

“I will come to-morrow morning.”

He bowed ornately.

“I am overwhelmed! Now, if you would be good enough to tell the driver the way to Sawley, we can be as little late as maybe with my friends at Wellborough.”

Viola gave the desired direction; then, without looking back, moved quickly out of sight into the darkness. At the first convenient gate she clambered painfully to saddle.

§ 4

For the first ten minutes of her riding she was sensible only of a sick disappointment at her own grandiloquent absurdity. It had seemed so easy and so noble, thus to obliterate herself and, in so doing, to honour the man she loved. But she had merely shamed herself and him. This mighty gift of a girl’s purity, proffered impulsively but in all seriousness, had been rejected. Maybe the man valued his tangled valley more than the pathetic price she could afford to put upon it. To-morrow morning! The polite delay was a refusal; her very acquiescence in delay a bow to the inevitable. Her great, her wonderful idea had been a piteous failure; and she was ashamed; and that old man with his lean, painted face could tell her shaming in the streets and laugh again at her presumptuous wantonness.

The night had fallen. The reins, loose on Achilles’ neck, gave him no hint of riderly control. Accordingly he walked towards his stable, while, limply distraught, the girl that rode him let him walk nor heeded where he went. The nearest homeward way was by the lane that separated Morvane from Rockarvon. Along that lane they crept, till at the wrought iron gates Achilles stopped. He hoped his mistress would lead him past the gates into the avenue; it was a long way round if he must follow the lane to where it joined another road, then turn and plod a dark way to the northern lodge. He stopped and tossed his head. Viola struggled wearily to consciousness. It was so dark that she could hardly see the slim intersections of the upper grille against the sky. When, after moments of bemused reflection, she grasped her whereabouts, unthinkingly she turned the horse up the grass slope toward the avenue, nor until almost involved among the tumbled ruins of the wall did she awake to the first elements of common sense. Dismounting, she began carefully to lead Achilles through the stone-strewn undergrowth. He stumbled now and then, but soon she had him through and on the safe footing of the open turf. Then she paused. Why had she come back to Morvane? What was there left to her at Morvane or at any other place, that she should come and seek it? Dimly she called to mind plans for a supper in the tower. It seemed a memory of a former life, a life on which the sun had shone and the rain softly fallen, a life when every detail of the daily round had kindly meaning, a life in which one waited—quietly or delightedly—for a succession of to-morrows. But now...? Dark night and the cold, whispering wind and neither hope nor fear to stir the sluggish blood. A great sob wracked her body. She bowed her head between her hands and, swaying to her knees, crouched against the proud grille of Morvane, weeping bitterly.

Achilles, feeling no twitch of hand upon his mouth, wandered, first slowly, then more quickly down the avenue. The chill wind rustled bleakly in the beech tops. By the side of the grey, lichenous gate-post Viola, tiny and broken in her misery, lay in a heavy dew. Time crawled unnoticed on his way. When from her despairing trance she dazedly awoke and struggled, stiff and cold-wracked, to her feet, she reeled. In self-support she laid hands on the iron gate, feeling the roughness of its old bars prick her skin. The slight pain roused her finally. She was so tired that to go home no longer seemed a tragic fantasy. There at least was bed and rest and shelter from the cold taunt of the night wind. She laid her forehead against the wrought-iron of the grille. Once more she saw herself with Charles, heedlessly happy in that very spot. ‘Rockarvon ...’ she murmured, and along the wind came the quiet words that even on that happy afternoon had spelt despair: ‘Is it the only thing you ever really wanted?’ ... ‘I think so ... the only thing——’

She turned from the old gate and, lurching a little in her weariness, dragged her tired limbs down the long avenue toward the house.