Lady Ruth’s maid stepped back and surveyed her mistress ecstatically.
“Milady,” she declared, “has never, no never, appeared more charming. The gown, it is divine—and the coiffure! Milady will have no rivals.”
Lady Ruth looked at herself long and earnestly in the glass. Her face reflected none of the pleased interest with which her maid was still regarding her. The latter grew a little anxious.
“Milady thinks herself a trifle pale, perhaps—a little more color?”
Lady Ruth set down the glass.
“No, thank you, Annette,” she answered. “I shall do very well, I suppose. Certainly, I won’t have any rouge.”
“Milady knows very well what becomes her,” the woman answered discreetly. “The pallor, it is the more distinguished. Milady cannot fail to have all the success she desires!”
Lady Ruth smiled a little wearily. And at that moment, there came a knock at the door. A servant entered.
“Someone wishes to speak to your ladyship on the telephone,” the girl announced.
“On the telephone, at this time of night?” Lady Ruth exclaimed. “Ridiculous! They must send a message, whoever they are!”
“Parkins told them so, your ladyship,” the girl answered; “but they insisted that the matter was important. They would give no name, but said that they were speaking from Mr. Wingrave’s rooms.”
Lady Ruth raised her eyebrows.
“It is very extraordinary,” she said coldly, “but I will come to the telephone.”
“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT”
Lady Ruth took up the receiver. Some instinct seemed to have prompted her to close the door of the study.
“Who is there?” she asked. “Who is it that wants me?”
A thin, unfamiliar voice answered her.
“Is that Lady Ruth Barrington?”
“Yes!”
“Is it—Mademoiselle Violet?”
The receiver nearly dropped from her hand.
“I don’t understand you,” she answered, “I am Lady Ruth Barrington! Who are you?”
“You are Mademoiselle Violet,” was the answer, “and you know who I am! Listen, I am in Mr. Wingrave’s rooms.”
She would have liked to have rung off and gone away, but it seemed a sheer impossibility for her to move! And all the time her knees were shaking, and the fear of evil things was in her heart.
“What are you doing there?” she asked.
“He brought me in himself,” the thin voice answered. “Can you hear me? I don’t want to speak any louder for fear anyone else should be listening.”
“Yes, I can hear,” she answered. “But how dared you ring me up? Say what you desire to quickly! I am going away.”
“Wait, please,” the voice answered. “I know why you have been angry with me. I know why you have kept away from me, why you have been so cruel! It was because I failed. Was it not, dear Mademoiselle Violet?”
She had not the breath or the courage to answer him. In a moment or two he continued, and there was a note of suppressed exultation in his tone.
“Listen! This time—I have not failed!”
She nearly screamed. The receiver in her hand burned like a live thing. Her eyes were set in a fixed and awful stare as though she were trying to see for herself outside the walls of the little room where she stood into the larger chamber from which the voice—that awful voice—came! Her own words were hysterical and uncertain, but she managed to falter them out at last.
“What do you mean? Where is Mr. Wingrave? Tell me at once!”
The voice, without being raised, seemed to take to itself a note of triumph.
“He is dying—on the floor—just here! Listen hard! Perhaps you can hear him groan! Now will you believe that I am not a coward?”
Her shriek drowned his words. She flung the receiver from her with a crash and rushed from the room into the hall. She brushed past her maid with a wild gesture.
“Never mind my wraps. Open the door, Parkins! Is the carriage waiting?”
“Yes, Milady! Shall—”
But she was past him and down the steps.
“No. 18, Grosvenor Mansions,” she cried to the man. “Drive fast.”
The man obeyed. The servants, who had come to the door, stood there a little frightened group. She ignored them and everything else completely. The carriage had scarcely stopped when she sprang out and crossed the pavement in a few hasty steps. The tall commissionaire looked in amazement at her. She wore an opera cloak—she was a bewildering vision of white satin and diamonds, and her eyes were terrible with the fear which was in her heart.
She clutched him by the arm.
“Come up with me to Mr. Wingrave’s rooms,” she exclaimed. “Something terrible has happened. I heard through the telephone.”
The man dashed up the stairs by her side. Wingrave’s suite was on the first floor, and they did not wait for the lift. The commissionaire put his finger on the bell of the outside door. She leaned forward, listening breathlessly. Inside all was silence except for the shrill clamor of the bell.
“Go on ringing,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t leave off!”
The man looked at her curiously. “Mr. Wingrave came in about an hour ago with a young man, madam,” he said.
“Yes, yes!” she cried. “Listen! There’s someone coming.”
They heard a hesitating step inside. The door was cautiously opened. It was Richardson, pale, disheveled, but triumphant, who peered out.
“Mademoiselle—Mademoiselle Violet,” he cried. “You have come to see for yourself. This way!”
She raised her arm and struck him across the face so that, with a little moan, he staggered back against the wall. Then she hastened forward into the room towards which he had pointed and the door of which stood open. The commissionaire followed her. The servants were beginning to appear.
The room was in darkness save for one electric light. A groan, however, directed them. She fell on her knees by Wingrave’s prostrate figure and raised his head slightly. His servant, too, was hurrying forward. She looked up.
“Get me some brandy,” she ordered. “Send someone for a doctor. Don’t let that young man escape. The brandy, quick!”
She forced some between his lips. There was already a spot of blood upon the gown which, a few minutes ago, had seemed so immaculate. One of the ornaments fell from her hair. It lay unnoticed by her side. Suddenly Wingrave opened his eyes. She saw at once that he was conscious and that he recognized her.
“Don’t move, please,” she begged. “It will be better for you not to speak. The doctor will be here directly.”
He nodded.
“I don’t think that I am much hurt,” he said slowly. “Your young friend was a born bungler!”
She shuddered, but said nothing.
“How on earth,” he asked, “did you get here?”
She whispered in his ear.
“The brute—telephoned. Please don’t talk.”
The doctor arrived. His examination was over in a few moments.
“Nothing serious,” he declared. “The knife was pretty blunt fortunately. How did it happen? It seems like a case for the police.”
“It was an accident,” Wingrave declared coolly.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He was busy making bandages. Lady Ruth rose to her feet. She was white and giddy. The commissionaire and Morrison were talking together at the door. The latter turned to Lady Ruth.
“Do you think that we had better send for the police, your ladyship?” he asked. “It was the young man who came in with Mr. Wingrave who must have done this! I thought he was a very wild-looking sort of person.”
“You heard what Mr. Wingrave said,” she answered. “I don’t think that I should disobey him, if I were you. The doctor says that, after all, it is not very serious.”
“He can’t have got far,” the hall porter remarked. “He only slipped out as we came in.”
“I should let him go for the present,” Lady Ruth said. “If Mr. Wingrave wishes to prosecute afterwards, it will be easy for him to do so.”
She stepped back to where Wingrave lay. He was in a recumbent position now and, although a little pale, he was obviously not seriously hurt.
“If there is nothing else that I can do,” she said, “I will go now!”
“By all means,” Wingrave answered. “I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kindness,” he added a little stiffly. “Morrison, show Lady Barrington to her carriage!”
She spoke a few conventional words of farewell and departed. Outside on the pavement she stood for a moment, looking carefully around. There was no sign of Richardson anywhere! She stepped into the carriage and leaned back in the corner.
AYNESWORTH PLANS A LOVE STORY
Wingrave disappeared suddenly from London. Aynesworth alone knew where he was gone, and he was pledged to secrecy. Two people received letters from him. Lady Ruth was one of them.
“This,” she remarked quietly, handing it over to her husband, “may interest you.”
He adjusted his eye glasses and read it aloud:—
“Dear Lady Ruth,—I am leaving London today for several weeks. With the usual inconsistency of the person to whom life is by no means a valuable asset, I am obeying the orders of my physician. I regret, therefore, that I cannot have the pleasure of entertaining your husband and yourself during Cowes week. The yacht, however, is entirely at your disposal, and I have written Captain Masterton to that effect. Pray extend your cruise, if you feel inclined to.—I remain, yours sincerely, W.”
Mr. Barrington looked at his wife inquiringly.
“That seems to me entirely satisfactory, Ruth,” he said. “I think that he might have added a word or two of acknowledgment for what you did for him. There is no doubt that, but for your promptness, things might have gone much worse.”
“Yes,” Lady Ruth said slowly, “I think that he might have added a few words.”
Her husband regarded her critically.
“I am afraid, dear,” he said, “that all this anxiety has knocked you up a little. You are not looking well.”
“I am tired,” she answered calmly. “It has been a long season. I should like to do what Wingrave has done—go away somewhere and rest.”
Barrington laid his hand upon hers affectionately. It seemed to him that the rings hung a little loosely upon the thin, white fingers. She was pale, too, and her eyes were weary. He did not notice that, as soon as she could, she drew her hand away.
“Pon my word,” he said, “I wish we could go off somewhere by ourselves. But with Wingrave’s yacht to entertain on, we must do something for a few of the people. I don’t suppose he minds whom we ask, or how many.”
“No!” she answered, “I do not suppose he cares.”
“It is most opportune,” Barrington declared. “I wanted particularly to do something for the Hendersons. He seems very well disposed, and his influence means everything just now. Really, Ruth, I believe we are going to pull through after all.”
She smiled a little wearily.
“Do you think so, Lumley?”
“I am sure of it, Ruth,” he answered. “I only wish I could see you a little more cheerful. Surely you can’t still—be afraid of Wingrave,” he added, glancing uneasily across the table.
She looked him in the eyes.
“That is exactly what I am,” she answered. “I am afraid of him. I have always been afraid. Nothing has happened to change him. He came back to have his revenge. He will have it.”
Lumley Barrington, for once, felt himself superior to his clever wife. He smiled upon her reassuringly.
“My dear Ruth,” he said, “if only you would reflect for a few moments, I feel sure you would realize the absurdity of such fancies. We did Wingrave a service in introducing him to society here, and I am sure that he appreciated it. If he wished for our ruin, why did he lend us eight thousand pounds on no security? Why does he lend us his yacht to entertain our friends? Why did he give me that information which enabled me to make the only money I ever did make on the Stock Exchange?”
She smiled contemptuously.
“You do not understand a man like Wingrave,” she declared. “Nothing that he has done is inconsistent with my point of view. He gave you a safe tip, knowing very well that when you had won a little, you would try again on your own account and lose—which you did. He lent us the money to become our creditor; and he lends us the yacht to give another handle to the people who are saying already that he occupies the position in our family which is more fully recognized on the other side of the Channel!”
“You are talking rubbish,” he declared vehemently. “No one would dare to say such a thing of you—of my wife!”
She laughed unmercifully.
“If you were not my husband,” she said cruelly, “you would have heard it before now. I have been careful all my life—more careful than most women, but I can hear the whisperings already. There are more ways to ruin than one, Lumley.”
“We will refuse the yacht,” Barrington said sullenly, “and I will go to the Jews for that eight thousand pounds.”
“We will do nothing of the sort,” Lady Ruth answered. “I am not going to be a laughing stock for Emily and her friends if I can help it. We’ll play the game through now! Only—it is best for you to know the risks...”
Wingrave’s second letter was to Juliet. She found it on her table one afternoon when she came back from her painting class. She tore it open eagerly enough, but her face clouded over as she read.
“Dear Juliet,—I am sorry that I am unable to carry out my promise to come and see you, but I have been slightly indisposed for some days, and am leaving London, for the present, almost at once. I trust that you are still interested in your work, and will enjoy your trip to Normandy.
“I received your letter, asking for my help towards re-establishing in life a poor family in whom you are interested. I regret that I cannot accede to your request. It is wholly against my principles to give money away to people of this class. I look upon all charity as a mischievous attempt to tamper with natural laws, and I am convinced that if everyone shared my views, society would long ago have been re-established on a sounder and more logical basis. To be quite frank with you, also, I might add that the gift of sympathy has been denied to me. I am quite indifferent whether the family you allude to starve or prosper.
“So far as you yourself are concerned, however, the matter is entirely different. If it gives you pleasure to assist in pauperizing any number of your fellow creatures, pray do so. I enclose a check for L100. It is a present to you. Use it entirely as you please—only, if you use it for the purpose suggested in your letter to me, remember that the responsibility is yours, and yours alone.—I remain, sincerely yours, Wingrave Seton.”
Juliet walked straight to her writing table. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wet with tears. She drew out a sheet of note paper and wrote rapidly:—
“My dear guardian,—I return you the check. I cannot accept such presents after all your goodness to me. I am sorry that you feel as you do about giving money away. You are so much older and wiser than I am that I dare not attempt to argue with you. Only it seems to me that life would be a cruelly selfish thing if we who are so much more fortunate than many of our fellow creatures did not sometimes try to help them a little through their misery. Perhaps I feel this a little more keenly because I wonder sometimes what might not have become of me but for your goodness.
“I am sorry that you are going away without coming to see me again. You are not displeased with me, I hope, for asking you this, or for any other reason? I am foolish enough to feel a little lonely sometimes. Will you take me out again when you come back?—Your affectionate ward, Juliet.”
Juliet went out and posted her letter. On the way back she met Aynesworth.
“Come and sit in the Park for a few minutes,” he begged.
She turned and walked by his side willingly enough.
“Have you been in to see me?” she asked.
“Yes!” he answered. “I have some tickets for the Haymarket for tonight. Do you think we could persuade Mrs. Tresfarwin to come?”
“I’m sure we could,” she answered, laughing. “Hannah never wants any persuading. How nice of you to think of us!”
“I am afraid,” he answered, “that I think of you a good deal.”
“Then I think that that also is very nice of you!” she declared.
“You like to be thought of?”
“Who doesn’t? What is the play tonight?”
“I’ll tell you about it afterwards,” he said. “There is something else I want to say to you first.”
She nodded. She scarcely showed so much interest as he would have liked.
“It is about Berneval,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed upon her face. “I saw Mr. Pleydell today, and he told me that you were all going there. He suggested that I should come too!”
“How delightful!” she exclaimed. “Can you really get off?”
“Yes. Sir Wingrave is going away, and doesn’t want me. I must go somewhere, and I thought that I might go over and take rooms near you all. Would you care to have me?”
“Of course I would,” she answered frankly. “Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, her face clouding over—“I forgot!”
“Well?”
“I am not sure,” she said, “that I am going.”
“Not going?” he repeated incredulously. “Mr. Pleydell told me that it was all arranged.”
“It was—until today,” she said. “I am a little uncertain now.”
He looked at her perplexed.
“May I know why?” he asked.
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
“You are rather an inquisitive person,” she remarked. “The fact is, I may need the money I have saved for Berneval for somewhere else.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, “if you don’t go—I don’t. But you can’t stay in London all through the hot weather!”
“Miss Pengarth has asked me to go down there,” she said.
He laid his hand suddenly upon hers.
“Juliet,” he said.
She shook her head.
“Miss Lundy, please!”
“Well, Miss Lundy then! May I talk to you seriously?”
“I prefer you frivolous,” she murmured. “I like to be amused.”
“I’ll be frivolous enough later on this evening. I’ve been wondering if you’d think it impertinent if I asked you to tell me about your guardian.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Just who he is, and why he is content to let you live with only an old woman to look after you. It isn’t the best thing in the world for you, is it? I should like to know him, Juliet.”
She shook her head.
“I am sorry,” she said, “I cannot tell you anything.”
There was a short silence. Aynesworth was disappointed, and showed it.
“It isn’t exactly ordinary curiosity,” he continued. “Don’t think that! Only I feel that you need someone who has the right to advise you and look after you. I should like to be your guardian, Juliet!”
She laughed merrily.
“Good!” she declared. “I like you so much better frivolous. Well, you shall have your wish. You shall be my guardian for the evening. I have one cutlet for dinner, and I am sure it will be spoilt. Will you come and share it?”
She rose to her feet and stood looking down upon him. He was struck, for the first time, by something different in her appearance. The smooth, delicate girlishness of her young face was, as yet, untroubled. Her eyes laughed frankly into his, and all the grace of natural childhood seemed still to linger about her. And yet—there was a change! Understanding was there; understanding, with sorrow in its wake. Aynesworth was suddenly anxious. Had anything happened of which he was ignorant? He rose up slowly. He was sure of himself now! Was he sure of her?
A DEED OF GIFT
Wingrave threw the paper aside with an impatient exclamation. A small notice in an obscure corner had attracted his attention; the young man, Richardson, had been fished out of the river half drowned, and in view of his tearful and abject penitence, had been allowed to go his way by a lenient magistrate. He had been ill, he pleaded, and disappointed. His former employer, in an Islington emporium, gave him a good character, and offered to take him back. So that was an end of Mr. Richardson, and the romance of his days!
A worm like that to have brought him—the strong man, low! Wingrave thought with sullen anger as he leaned back in his chair with half-closed eyes. Here was an undignified hiatus, if not a finale, to all his schemes, to the even tenor of his self-restrained, purposeful life! The west wind was rippling through the orchards which bordered the garden. The muffled roar of the Atlantic was in his ears, a strange everlasting background to all the slighter summer sounds, the murmuring of insects, the calling of birds, the melodious swish of the whirling knives in the distant hayfield. Wingrave was alone with his thoughts, and he hated them!
Even Mr. Pengarth was welcome, Mr. Pengarth very warm from his ride, carrying his hat and a small black bag in his hand. As he drew nearer, he became hotter and was obliged to rest his bag upon the path and mop his forehead. He was more afraid of his client than of anything else in the world.
“Good afternoon, Sir Wingrave,” he said. “I trust that you are feeling better today.”
Wingrave eyed him coldly. He did not reply to the inquiry as to his health.
“You have brought the deed?” he asked.
“Certainly, Sir Wingrave.”
The lawyer produced a roll of parchment from his bag. In response to Wingrave’s gesture, he seated himself on the extreme edge of an adjacent seat.
“I do not propose to read all that stuff through,” Wingrave remarked. “I take it for granted that the deed is made out according to my instructions.”
“Certainly, Sir Wingrave!”
“Then we will go into the house, and I will sign it.”
Mr. Pengarth mopped his forehead once more. It was a terrible thing to have a conscience.
“Sir Wingrave,” he said, “I apologize most humbly for what I am about to say, but as the agent of your estates in this county and your—er—legal adviser with regard to them, I am forced to ask you whether you are quite determined upon this—most unexampled piece of generosity. Tredowen has been in your mother’s family for a great many years, and although I must say that I have a great affection for this young lady, I have also an old fashioned dislike to seeing—er—family property pass into the hands of strangers. You might, forgive me—marry!”
Wingrave smiled very faintly, otherwise his face was inscrutable.
“I might,” he admitted calmly, “but I shall not. Do you consider me, Mr. Pengarth, to be a person in possession of his usual faculties?”
“Oh, most certainly—most certainly,” the lawyer declared emphatically.
“Then please do not question my instructions any further. So far as regards the pecuniary part of it, I am a richer man than you have any idea of, Mr. Pengarth, and for the rest—sentiment unfortunately does not appeal to me. I choose to give the Tredowen estates away, to disappoint my next of kin. That is how you may regard the transaction. We will go into the house and complete this deed.”
Wingrave rose slowly and walked with some difficulty up the gravel path. He ignored, however, his companion’s timid offer of help, and led the way to the library. In a few minutes the document was signed and witnessed.
“I have ordered tea in the garden,” Wingrave said, as the two servants left the room; “that is, unless you prefer any other sort of refreshment. I don’t know much about the cellars, but there is some cabinet hock, I believe—”
Mr. Pengarth interposed.
“I am very much obliged,” he said, “but I will not intrude upon you further. If you will allow me, I will ring the bell for my trap.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Wingrave answered testily. “You will stay here and talk to me.”
“I will stay with pleasure if you desire it,” the lawyer answered. “I had an idea that you preferred solitude.”
“Then you were wrong,” Wingrave answered. “I hate being alone.”
They moved out together towards the garden. Tea was set out in a shady corner of the lawn.
“If you will forgive my remarking it,” Mr. Pengarth said, “this seems rather an extraordinary place for you to come to if you really dislike solitude.”
“I come to escape from an intolerable situation, and because I was ill,” Wingrave said.
“You might have brought friends,” the lawyer suggested.
“I have no friends,” Wingrave answered.
“Some of the people in the neighborhood would be very glad—” Mr. Pengarth began.
“I do not wish to see them,” Wingrave answered.
Mr. Pengarth took a peach, and held his tongue. Wingrave broke the silence which followed a little abruptly.
“Tell me, Mr. Pengarth,” he said, “do I look like a man likely to fail in anything he sets out to accomplish?”
The lawyer shook his head vigorously.
“You do not,” he declared.
“Nor do I feel like one,” Wingrave said, “and yet my record since I commenced, shall I call it my second life, is one of complete failure! Nothing that I planned have I been able to accomplish. I look back through the months and through the years, and I see not a single purpose carried out, not a single scheme successful.
“Not quite so bad as that, I trust, Sir Wingrave,” the lawyer protested.
“It is the precise truth,” Wingrave affirmed drily. “I am losing confidence in myself.”
“At least,” the lawyer declared, “you have been the salvation of our dear Miss Juliet, if I may call her so. But for you, her life would have been ruined.”
“Precisely,” Wingrave agreed. “But I forgot! You don’t understand! I have saved her from heaven knows what! I am going to give her the home she loves! Benevolence, isn’t it? And yet, if I had only the pluck, I might succeed even now—so far as she is concerned.”
The lawyer took off his spectacles and rubbed them with his handkerchief. He was thoroughly bewildered.
“I might succeed,” Wingrave repeated, leaning back in his chair, “if only—”
His face darkened. It seemed to Mr. Pengarth as he sipped his tea under the cool cedars, drawing in all their wonderful perfume with every puff of breeze, that he saw two men in the low invalid’s chair before him. He saw the breath and desire of evil things struggling with some wonderful dream vainly seeking to realize itself.
“Some of us,” the lawyer said timidly, “build our ideals too high up in the clouds, so that to reach them is very difficult. Nevertheless, the effort counts.”
Wingrave laughed mockingly.
“It is not like that with me,” he declared. “My plans were made down in hell.”
“God bless my soul!” the lawyer murmured. “But you are not serious, Sir Wingrave?”
“Ay! I’m serious enough,” Wingrave answered. “Do you suppose a man, with the best pages of his life rooted out, is likely to look out upon his fellows from the point of view of a philanthropist? Do you suppose that the man, into whose soul the irons of bitterness have gnawed and eaten their way, is likely to come out with a smirk and look around him for the opportunity of doing good? Rubbish! My aim is to encourage suffering wherever I see it, to create it where I can, to make sinners and thieves of honest people.”
“God bless my soul!” the lawyer gasped again. “I don’t think you can be—as bad as you think you are. What about Juliet Lundy?”
Fire flashed in Wingrave’s eyes. Again, at the mention of her name, he seemed almost to lose control of himself. It was several moments before he spoke. He looked Mr. Pengarth in the face, and his tone was unusually deliberate.
“Gifts,” he said, “are not always given in friendship. Life may easily become a more complicated affair for that child with the Tredowen estates hanging round her neck. And anyhow, I disappoint my next of kin.”
Morrison, smooth-footed and silent, appeared upon the lawn. He addressed Wingrave.
“A lady has arrived in a cab from Truro, sir,” he announced. “She wishes to see you as soon as convenient.”
A sudden light flashed across Wingrave’s face, dying out again almost immediately.
“Who is she, Morrison?” he asked.
The man glanced at Mr. Pengarth.
“She did not give her name, sir.”
Mr. Pengarth and Wingrave both rose. The former at once made his adieux and took a short cut to the stables. Wingrave, who leaned heavily upon his stick, clutched Morrison by the arm.
“Who is it, Morrison?” he demanded.
“It is Lady Ruth Barrington, sir,” the man answered.
“Alone?”
“Quite alone, sir.”
FOR PITY’S SAKE
The library at Tredowen was a room of irregular shape, full of angles and recesses lined with bookcases. It was in one of these, standing motionless before a small marble statue of some forgotten Greek poet, that Wingrave found his visitor. She wore a plain serge traveling dress, and the pallor of her face, from which she had just lifted a voluminous veil, matched almost in color the gleaming white marble upon which she was gazing. But when she saw Wingrave, leaning upon his stick, and regarding her with stern surprise, strange lights seemed to flash in her eyes. There was no longer any resemblance between the pallor of her cheeks and the pallor of the statue.
“Lady Ruth,” Wingrave said quietly, “I do not understand what has procured for me the pleasure of this unexpected visit.”
She swayed a little towards him. Her head was thrown back, all the silent passion of the inexpressible, the hidden secondary forces of nature, was blazing out of her eyes, pleading with him in the broken music of her tone.
“You do not understand,” she repeated. “Ah, no! But can I make you understand? Will you listen to me for once as a human being? Will you remember that you are a man, and I a woman pleading for a little mercy—a little kindness?”
Wingrave moved a step further back.
“Permit me,” he said, “to offer you a chair.”
She sank into it—speechless for a moment. Wingrave stood over her, leaning slightly against the corner of the bookcase.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will explain what all this means. If it is my help which you require—”
Her hands flashed out towards him—a gesture almost of horror.
“Don’t,” she begged, “you know that it is not that! You know very well that it is not. Why do you torture me?”
“I can only ask you,” he said, “to explain.”
She commenced talking quickly. Her sentences came in little gasps.
“You wanted revenge—not in the ordinary way. You had brooded over it too long. You understood too well. Once it was I who sought to revenge myself on you because you would not listen to me! You hurt my pride. Everything that was evil in me rebelled—”
“Is this necessary?” he interrupted coldly. “I have never reproached you. You chose the path of safety for yourself. Many another woman in your place would doubtless have done the same thing! What I desire to know is why you are here in Cornwall. What has happened to make this journey seem necessary to you?”
“Listen!” she continued. “I want you to know how thoroughly you have succeeded. Before you came, Lumley and I were living together decently enough, and, as hundreds of others live, with outside interests for our chief distraction. You came, a friend! You were very subtle, very skillful! You never spoke a word of affection to me, but you managed things so that—people talked. You encouraged Lumley to speculate—not in actual words, perhaps, but by suggestion. Then you lent me money. Lumley, my husband, let me borrow from you. Everyone knew that we were ruined; everyone knew where the money came from that set us right. So misery has been piled upon misery. Lumley has lost his self respect, he is losing his ambition, he is deteriorating every day. I—how can I do anything else but despise him? He let me, his wife, come to your rooms to borrow money from you. Do you think I can ever forget that? Do you think that he can? Don’t you know that the memory of it is dragging us apart, must keep us apart always—always?”
Wingrave leaned a little forward. His hands were clasped upon the handle of his stick.
“All that you tell me,” he remarked coldly, “might equally well have been said in London! I do not wish to seem inhospitable, but I am still waiting to know why you have taken an eight hours’ journey to recite a few fairly obvious truths. Your relations with your husband, frankly, do not interest me. The deductions which society may have drawn concerning our friendship need scarcely trouble you, under the circumstances.”
Then again the light was blazing in her eyes.
“Under the circumstances!” she repeated. “I know what you mean. It is true that you have asked for nothing. It is true that all this time you have never spoken a single word which all the world might not hear, you have never even touched my fingers, except as a matter of formality. Once I was the woman you loved—and I—well you know! Is this part of your scheme of torture, to play with me as though we were marionettes, you and I, with sawdust in our veins, dull, lifeless puppets! Well, it is finished—your vengeance! You may reap the harvest when you will! Publish my letters, prove yourself an injured man. Take a whip in your hand if you like, and I will never flinch. But, for heaven’s sake, remember that I am a woman! I am willing to be your slave, nurse you, wait upon you, follow you about! What more can your vengeance need? You have made me despise my husband, you have made me hate my life with him! You have forced me into a remembrance of what I have never really forgotten—and oh! Wingrave,” she added, opening her arms to him with a little sob, “if you send me away, I think that I shall kill myself. Wingrave!”
There was a note of despair in her last cry. Her arms fell to her side. Wingrave was on his way to the further end of the room. He rang the bell and turned towards her.
“Listen,” he said calmly, “you will return to London tonight. If ever I require you, I shall send for you—and you will come. At present I do not. You will return to your husband. Understand!”
“Yes,” she gasped, “but—”
He held out his hand. Morrison was at the door.
“Morrison,” he said, “you will order the motor to be round in half an hour to take Lady Ruth to Truro, She has to catch the London express. You will go with her yourself, and see that she has a reserved carriage. If, by any chance, you should miss the train, order a special.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And tell the cook to send in tea and wine, and some sandwiches, in ten minutes.”
Once more they were alone. Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet and, trembling in every limb, she walked down the room and fell on her knees before Wingrave.
“Wingrave,” she said, “I will go away. I will do all that you tell me; I will wear my chains bravely, and hold my peace. But before I go, for heaven’s sake, say a kind word, look at me kindly, kiss me, hold my hands; anything, anything, anything to prove to me that you are not a dead man. I could bear unkindness, reproaches, abuse. I can bear anything but this deadly coldness. It is becoming a horror to me! Do, Wingrave—do!”
She clasped his hand—he drew it calmly away.
“Lady Ruth,” he said, “you have spoken the truth. I am a dead man. I have no affections; I care neither for you nor for any living being. All that goes to the glory and joy of life perished in that uncountable roll of days, when the sun went out, and inch by inch the wall rose which will divide me forever from you and all the world. Frankly, it was not I who once loved you. It was the man who died in prison. His flesh and bones may have survived—nothing else!”
She rose slowly to her feet. Her eyes seemed to be dilating.
“There is another woman!” she exclaimed softly. Her voice was like velvet, but the agony in her face was unmistakable.
“There is no other woman,” he answered.
She stood quite still.
“She is here with you now,” she cried. “Who is it, Wingrave? Tell me the truth!”
“The truth is already told,” he answered. “Except my cook and her assistants, there is not a woman in the house!”
Again she listened. She gave a little hoarse cry, and Wingrave started. Out in the hall a girl’s clear laugh rang like a note of music to their ears.
“You lie!” she cried fiercely. “You lie! I will know who she is.”
Suddenly the door was thrown open! Juliet stood there, her hands full of roses, her face flushed and brilliant with smiles.
“How delightful to find you here!” she exclaimed, coming swiftly across to Wingrave. “I do hope you won’t mind my coming. Normandy is off, and I have nowhere else to go.”
She saw Lady Ruth and stopped.
“Oh! I beg your pardon!” she exclaimed. “I did not know.”
“This is Lady Ruth Barrington,” Wingrave said; “my ward, Miss Juliet Lundy.”
“Your—ward?” Lady Ruth said, gazing at her intently.
Juliet nodded.
“Sir Wingrave has been very kind to me since I was a child,” she said softly. “He has let me live here with Mrs. Tresfarwin, and I am afraid I sometimes forget that it is not really my home. Am I in the way?” she asked, looking wistfully towards Wingrave.
“By no means!” he exclaimed. “Lady Ruth is just going. Will you see that she has some tea or something?”
Lady Ruth laughed quietly.
“I think,” she said, “that it is I who am in the way! I should love some tea, if there is time, but whatever happens, I must not miss that train.”