Aylmer could not repress a smile at the last sentence. It was so eminently characteristic of the young man and the atmosphere in which he had been brought up. Neither father nor son would have allowed his fancies to stray in the direction of a dowerless damsel, if she had possessed the beauty of Venus herself.
“What does it all mean, Claude?” asked Aylmer with unusual directness. “Is this a roundabout way of saying you are in love with her?”
Peyton smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, old man, I know that you are a frightfully romantic chap; in your case love would be a burning, devouring flame. I don’t think it will ever be in my nature to feel that sort of thing; there’s too much of the governor and other hard-headed ancestors in me. But I will say I have never come across a girl that I could be as fond of as I am of Lily. She seems to suit me down to the ground, to fit in with all my ideas of womanhood.”
A placid enough affection, thought Aylmer to himself. Though perhaps it was better so. To most people, the storm and turmoil of a great passion would be very devastating. Aloud he said: “Well, as you have got so far, I don’t suppose it will be long before you pop the question. The young lady seems to be your ideal, and from what you say of her good qualities, it would be hard to find a better wife.”
Up to the present, Peyton had seemed rather bashful about the matter; but after his friend’s cheering words, he grew more expansive, and, in consequence, more natural.
“We have exchanged views on this subject more than once,” he said. “And I have always told you what my own inclinations were, to have a few years of liberty before I finally settled down. From school to the office; after all, I have not seen so very much of life. But my father is strongly in favor of early marriages; he says nothing makes a man more energetic and self-reliant than a wife and family; he was married when he was a month or two younger than I am now. I dare say, when one looks at it from an unselfish point of view, there’s a good deal in what he contends. There’s no use blinking the fact that both he and old Murcheson have set their hearts on the match, and, of course, we are being driven a little bit along by that fact. My mother and Kate both adore her, and I think they would break their hearts if it didn’t come off.”
“Well, if her own sex like her,” remarked Aylmer, “that is a great thing to her credit. Women are the best judges of women, as men are of men. I know you don’t lay claim to be a romantic person, but you seem to have found your ideal, and the most ardent lover can desire no more. I take it, you are pretty sure Miss Murcheson reciprocates your sentiments? In other words, you don’t anticipate a refusal when you do make up your mind to throw the handkerchief?”
Peyton answered the question with his usual absence of finesse. “Lily is an awfully straightforward girl, and you may take it she knows as well as I do what the two families want. If the idea of my becoming her husband was distasteful to her, I think she would have taken care to keep out of my way. She’s the apple of her father’s eye, and however strong his wishes in the matter, I am sure he would never force her to act against her own inclinations.”
Aylmer lifted his glass. “I can see it won’t be long before I hear of a formal engagement. Well, here’s all good luck and happiness to yourself and to your very charming Lily.”
“Thanks very much, old man. She is staying here for another week; I don’t suppose it will be longer than then.”
Aylmer put down his glass after drinking the toast, and mused a little over Claude Peyton’s very straightforward love affair, so strangely different from his own. No obstacles here! The families approving the match, a pair of very placid lovers, both born of business-like and hard-headed people, eminently suited to each other and the unemotional life they would lead. Well, there was no reason why they should not find as great happiness as their more romantic brothers and sisters.
Peyton had been quite modest over the matter, but he seemed to be confident that Lily Murcheson would not refuse him. And, if such a catastrophe did occur, it was extremely unlikely that this well-balanced young man would suffer acutely in his health, his appetite, or his sleep. He would comfort himself with the reflection that when he decided again to take the plunge, he would somewhere find a girl quite as suitable as the unappreciative Lily.
A few minutes before they separated for the night, the younger man took a letter from his pocket and handed it to Aylmer. “You remember our old friend at the Continental, Cyrus J. Whitefield, the man who was so very much attracted by Mrs. Quentin?”
“Of course,” said Aylmer, who could not help flushing slightly at the mention of that name. It brought back such bitter-sweet memories.
“You’ll remember I told you he was a client of ours; he invests a lot of his money in English securities. Well, look at that letter. He makes an appointment at twelve o’clock to-morrow to consult me about some investments. Of course, if the governor had been all right, he would have seen him. So I have written to him to explain the position, and tell him I shall expect him at the time he names. I have asked him to come on to lunch at the City Carlton Club. My father always lunches him on the few occasions he comes to the office.”
Aylmer thought for a moment. “I should rather like to see the old boy again,” he said presently, “although he did not take much notice of me at Ostend. I wonder if he knows where the Quentins are?”
All the evening, Peyton had been hesitating as to whether or not he should show his friend Whitefield’s letter, and when he made up his mind to do so, he had acted rather on a sudden impulse. When he perceived Aylmer’s ill-concealed agitation, too late he wished he had kept silence about the visit of the American. Aylmer wanted to see Whitefield again, in order that he might find out the whereabouts of the Quentins. If Whitefield knew, as probably he did—for Quentin was not likely to put himself out of touch with such a valuable acquaintance—Aylmer would go after them, and all the trouble would begin afresh. He stigmatized himself as a fool for having blurted out the fact, in an impulsive moment. And here was his friend looking at him rather impatiently for an answer of some sort to his suggestion.
It was an embarrassing moment, for there was something in Aylmer’s manner which warned Peyton that it might lead to a breach of friendship if he uttered his real sentiments on the subject, if he told him frankly that the sooner he dismissed the Quentins from his thoughts the better it would be for his peace of mind.
“You really want to find out where they are?” he said at length.
Aylmer tried to speak with an air of unconcern which, of course, did not impose on his companion for a moment.
“As a matter of curiosity, I do. That sudden bolt was so extraordinary. I am keen on getting at the reason.”
There was no help for it, thought Peyton. He knew he must do what he would have given a great deal not to do—invite his friend to be of the party.
“Well, of course, if you are so interested, there is no reason why you should not meet the old chap. That letter I showed you is dated three days ago. I wrote at once asking him to lunch after our business was concluded. This morning I had a note accepting. So all you have got to do is to walk into the City Carlton about one o’clock, and you will either find us waiting for you, or we shall join you in a few minutes.”
“Thanks awfully, old man,” was Aylmer’s grateful response. Hope began to flow over him once more. It was pretty certain that Quentin would keep in touch with Whitefield and unless he had taken the precaution of imposing secrecy on the American—for obvious reasons a very unlikely procedure on his part—Whitefield was not likely to have any hesitation in imparting what information he possessed. There also would be a certain satisfaction in having scored over Duberry. Although, to do him justice, that consideration did not weigh very greatly with him.
The young men separated shortly, Peyton ruefully confessing to himself that he had made a complete fool of himself, and done his friend harm instead of good.
As he settled himself to that repose which naturally attends a man who has a clear conscience and a good digestion, he wondered whether he ought to warn Whitefield of the sort of man Quentin appeared to be.
On second thoughts he decided in the negative. This very sagacious young man had a strongly developed bump of caution. He was intensely reluctant to interfere in the private affairs of his friends or acquaintances. He knew both from experience and tradition that, however well-meant your intentions, however sound your advice, your intrusion usually is resented by those whom you wish to benefit.
Whitefield was reputed to possess one of the keenest business brains in America. However much he might be smitten by Mrs. Quentin, he would keep his wits, and was old enough and wary enough to take care of himself. If he did make up his mind to fall in with any suggestions that the husband might make him, he would do so with his eyes open, humorously conscious that his ulterior motives were not much more creditable than those of the obliged party.
Aylmer was in the hall of the City Carlton Club the following morning, on the stroke of one. They were not there, and he awaited them with the natural impatience of a man who has one single object in view and chafes at the slightest delay in reaching it.
The pair came in a quarter of an hour late, no doubt having been detained by the importance of their business. The millionaire seemed in a very agreeable mood. At Ostend he had not taken much notice of either of the two young men; but then there was the disturbing element of Eileen ever present, and he had stored up all his reserve of geniality for her. He shook hands heartily with Aylmer, and laid his hand with a friendly gesture upon Peyton’s shoulder.
“A splendid boy, this; I wish I had a son like him,” he said in his rather boisterous tones. “A real chip of the old block—has given me as good advice as his father could have done. If he sticks to it, and I am sure he will, he will go far.”
They went in to lunch, and undisturbed by the proximity of female society, Whitefield proved himself a most interesting and companionable person to his male friends. He told them stories of great magnates in the business world, told one or two against himself, and seemed brimming over with vitality and the joy of living. Peyton, whose intelligence, within its natural limits, fed largely upon that of others, was absorbed in the racy conversation that showed so much knowledge of the world and affairs. Aylmer, knowing nothing of finance and very little about those connected with it, was perhaps a little less interested than the younger man. But still, he was bound to admit the mental strength and vigor of the American.
And then, at last, came a brief pause in what had been almost a monologue, which gave Aylmer the opportunity for which he had been waiting.
“It seems quite like old times, like the pleasant days at Ostend,” he said. “We only want the Quentins to make our party complete. By the way, have you come across them or heard from them?”
Whitefield was frankness itself; it was evident he had nothing to conceal. “Not come across them; but heard from them, yes. Two letters—one sent to me in America, the other awaiting me on my arrival at the Savoy. You know I was to have visited him at his house at Hampstead. Well, the first letter told me that, as his lease was running out, he had decided to give up the place, and therefore would not be able to receive me. He would write later and tell me his movements.”
“Where did that letter come from?” asked Aylmer eagerly.
“From Hampstead itself. I think he stated he was going over to Paris, and would be a bird of passage for some weeks. If I answered, I was to direct my reply to the care of the Pall Mall branch of the Consolidated Bank, which would be furnished from time to time with his address. I replied, saying that I should be in London on business about the present time, and glad to hear of his further movements. A very charming couple, the Quentins.” He concluded, perhaps a little irrelevantly: “He was a quite delightful chap, and she could only be expressed in superlative terms.”
Both the young men were surprised at this eulogistic opinion of Quentin. He was a pleasant, affable person, but there was not warmth and color enough in him to make him delightful. But certainly Quentin had played his cards well with this shrewd millionaire. He had effaced utterly his own individuality and allowed the other to exhibit his personality to the utmost possible advantage. No wonder that Whitefield’s faculties were lulled to sleep by this adroit and subtle flatterer.
“And the second letter, where did that come from?” queried Aylmer presently.
Whitefield opened a bulky letter-case. “I have forgotten; but here it is. I’ll just give you the points of it; it is rather a long screed. Been roaming about a great deal, both on the Continent and in various parts of England. Next month will be at the Hôtel Negresco, in Nice. Hopes I might find my way there, could have a good time together. I wrote yesterday to say that I would be pleased to join them next month about the tenth. Where does he write from? Here it is—Rosebank, Sherehaven, Sussex. The letter is dated a week ago; he says he is moving on the following day, doesn’t state where, doesn’t seem to know himself. Letters, as before, to be sent to the bank. You chaps had better come, too, and we’ll have the good old time over again. I shan’t be back in America for quite three months.”
Peyton shook his head at the suggestion, had he been a free agent it would not have attracted him greatly. But then he was not the victim to the charms of Eileen.
“Tied to Capel Court, you know,” he explained. “One holiday a year has to do for me.” He looked at his friend. “This chap is different; he can go when and where he likes.”
Aylmer suddenly became wary, he was not going to say too much. “The Negresco is a favorite pitch of mine. I can’t say definitely, my plans are rather in a state of flux at present. I had rather got Spain in my mind, but I might pop over for a few days.”
Well, that meeting had borne fruit, he was on the track at last. The irony of it, he thought. All the while that Duberry’s agent had been scouring the cities of Europe, Eileen had been hidden in the peaceful little village of Sherehaven.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Aylmer saw Peyton a few days later, but very little was said on the subject of the Quentins. Aylmer had resolved, after very little reflection, that he would go down to Sherehaven, which was only a short distance from London. Hardly big enough to be called a town, just a straggling sort of place full of rather picturesque cottages, with a few fair-sized houses interspersed, and a long, narrow street that led down to the shore. He had been there once before, on a motor tour, and had halted to take tea at the King’s Head, an old-fashioned hostelry dating back to the fifteenth century, half inn, half hotel.
There could be no confidence, of course, between the two men on the subject of Eileen, owing to the solemn promise to respect her confidence which Aylmer had given her. Without doubt Peyton suspected his feelings for her, and regarded the whole affair with the deepest disapproval. To a clean-minded fellow like himself, the idea of an understanding with a married woman was abhorrent, as it would have been to Aylmer himself.
He could not resist the idea of going down to Sherehaven, although he felt that the visit would not help him very much. But the urge to see the house, where his sweetheart so successfully had hidden herself from him, was irresistible. It could not fail to be with any lover as steadfast and devoted as he was.
It just might be possible that the Quentins were still there, that the statement that he was moving on the following day was only a piece of camouflage, that for some reason or another he did not want anybody to come down to the place, and had forestalled Whitefield’s intention of doing so, if the idea had occurred to the American of making an unannounced visit. But, somehow, Aylmer fancied that Quentin had told the truth.
Supposing, however, that the Quentins were still in residence at Rosebank, which he would find out in five minutes’ conversation with somebody at the King’s Head, how would he act? Would he go boldly to the house and ask for them, or would he not?
As he got into the train, he did not feel himself able to give a definite answer to that question. To beard Quentin, to tell him that he knew the truth, and to tax him with separating Eileen and himself from his own selfish motives, was an unusually drastic proceeding which would require a considerable amount of moral courage, more especially in face of the fact that Eileen herself had acquiesced in the cruel decision, and besought him never to seek her out.
Well, he could not decide now. He would wait till he got to Sherehaven itself, and shape his action according to the information he obtained there. There was a middle course that could be taken. It was a small place, little more than a big village. If the Quentins were still there he only had to put up for a night or two at the King’s Head; and, in the course of his stay, he would be sure to come upon Eileen alone. She was an open-air sort of woman, she would not shut herself up in the house for long, and in such a limited area there was not much chance of their missing each other.
When he got out at the somewhat primitive station and walked down to the King’s Head, a distance of about three-quarters of a mile, he found certain changes, from his recollection of the place some three years ago. The speculative builder had made his appearance on the scene. Close to the railway station itself, a few roads of modest, semi-detached houses had come into being, with a small accompanying colony of shops.
Between here and the beginning of the long, narrow street which led to the sea, he came upon further signs of building enterprise. It was evident there was the beginning of a slight boom in the somewhat sleepy locality. Sherehaven certainly possessed a fine and invigorating air, and no doubt, as the place grew in favor, the train service, which was now bad and infrequent, would be improved.
In the high street itself, if it could be called by such an important name, there were further signs of development, which, to Aylmer’s rather fastidious taste, did not make for improvement, from either an architectural or picturesque point of view. There were only a couple of houses of any pretension in the street—one large and old-fashioned, standing in a fair-sized garden and having a goodly portion of land at the back, enclosed by a fairly high wall; the other a residence of slightly smaller kind with a big forecourt. These were inhabited, respectively, by a retired solicitor and the local doctor, and remained untouched by time.
But a great change had taken place in some half a dozen of the small shops which had been so delightfully in keeping with the old-fashioned atmosphere of the little coast town. In these the iconoclast had worked his sacrilegious will. New stories had been added, new-fashioned kinds of windows had been thrown out, woefully out of keeping with the old-world surroundings.
The King’s Head itself had fallen a victim to the mania for development under a new proprietor. A large dining room, which was very tastefully decorated, had been built out at the back, and the rather wide hall had been converted into a good-sized lounge by the taking in of a small room. Aylmer distinctly remembered the former proprietor, a taciturn and lethargic man, who was quite civil in his slow way, but not the person to attract custom by any qualities of good fellowship.
The present Boniface was of a totally different stamp, alert, obliging, radiating geniality. Aylmer had brought a suitcase with him, as he intended to pass at least one night in the place, if not more. The landlord promised him a most comfortable bed and handed him the refreshment he asked for.
“Some changes have taken place since I was last here, some three years ago,” remarked the young man as he sipped his drink. “Sherehaven looks as if it were booming.”
The genial proprietor smiled. “Well, sir, there is a mild sort of boom. We should go along much faster if we could get a decent train service. But railway companies are so slow, they won’t do anything to help us. Still, the place is looking up. I took the King’s Head a couple of years ago, and in that time I have nearly doubled the trade. But, mind you, I’ve had to spend a lot of money to do it. That new dining room and this lounge have cost me a pretty penny. But it has paid. Most people who come once, come again.”
“The last proprietor was a bit old-fashioned, I should say.”
“More than that, sir, he was terribly slow and conservative. What was good enough for his father was good enough for him. One of that type, you know. You want a different kind nowadays to make and keep a business.”
Aylmer agreed, and there was more talk about Sherehaven, its wants and its possibilities. Its one great recommendation was its splendid air. No amusements of any kind, not the place for gay people. You must go to the big coast towns if you wanted that sort of thing. But an ideal spot for persons who were a bit run down and wanted rest.
Presently Aylmer inquired if there were any decent lodgings to be had in the neighborhood. He invented a neat little story of an elderly relative who was a bit run down and required a quiet place of the Sherehaven type where she could recuperate. The bustle and noise of an hotel would be too much for her; she would prefer comfortable lodgings with a respectable landlady who could cook suitably for an invalid. Did the landlord know of such? By this harmless subterfuge, he hoped to learn something about Rosebank.
The landlord, who rejoiced in the prosaic name of Smith, was naturally a mine of information, knowing pretty nearly everything about everybody in the small township of Sherehaven. He rattled off half a dozen addresses.
“Of course, here, as in other places, there is accommodation to suit all purses,” he explained in his genial way. “It can be done very cheap amongst the fisherfolk and their like. Your friend would not want anything of that sort; she would like a place fit for gentlefolks.”
Having paid this tribute to his new customer’s obvious station in life, he proceeded to explain further. “Any one of these places I can recommend—cleanliness, attention, and plain cooking. But for something a little bit better, of a higher quality altogether, I should suggest Mrs. Robinson, of Rosebank, one of the few houses on the front, facing the sea.”
Aylmer pricked up his ears. It made things easier that this pleasant-mannered landlord had come to Rosebank without any prompting.
“Mrs. Robinson is a widow, was cook for many years in a noble family, by whom she was allowed a liberal pension. So, she has something to fall back upon, when the times are a bit lean, as they often are in these seasonal places. Still, she is a very thrifty, managing woman and she has done well, never had to ask a favor of anybody. Just the sort of place, I should say, to suit your invalid relative. The house is never full; she rarely takes more than one set of lodgers at the time. And, at the moment, she is empty; she had a married couple for several weeks. They left five or six days ago.”
So Quentin had told the truth in his letter to the American; he had been on the point of leaving Sherehaven. Aylmer looked at his watch. A quarter to six, he would not dine till half-past seven. There were no other visitors staying at the King’s Head, so Mr. Smith had suggested to him a nice little dinner, a fried sole, and lamb cutlets, done in egg and bread-crumb in the good old-fashioned English way, followed by an apple tart. Aylmer agreed; he did not despise the art of the foreign chef, with his daintiness and his cunning sauces, but the good plain fare was an agreeable change.
Presently he bade his pleasant landlord a temporary farewell, announcing his intention of interviewing the worthy Mrs. Robinson and filling up the time to dinner by renewing his acquaintance with the beauties of Sherehaven.
It was not difficult to find Rosebank, the very diminutive parade being limited in extent. There was a small crescent of some twenty houses, half of which bore cards in the windows intimating that lodgings were to be let. The other half, presumably, were tenanted by private persons. At the west end, several yards from the crescent, was a staring block of unfinished buildings, gaunt and windowless, evidently the unsuccessful venture of a much too optimistic speculative builder who had appeared on the scene before Sherehaven was ready for him.
To the east of the rather picturesque crescent, he found Rosebank, a pretty little house of two stories, overhung with luxuriant creepers, its name painted in bold white letters on the green gate. There was an air of cleanliness and neatness about the place which was decidedly attractive. The door was in the center, and there were flower boxes in the windows, on each side. The landlady was evidently a person of refinement.
Still, pretty and picturesque as it was, it was hardly the place that the luxury-loving Quentin would have chosen to spend weeks in. Quentin, who had stayed in the most luxurious hotels in Europe, whose roomy house at Hampstead was all that the most refined taste could make it. What had driven a man of his cosmopolitan tastes here? Was there an imperative necessity to hide himself for a while, or had he sought Sherehaven simply in order that he might practise retrenchment till such time as he found himself again in funds?
Mrs. Robinson opened the door in person, but Aylmer had a vision of a white-capped maid standing in the rear. Obviously, the woman did not belong to the impecunious order of landladies.
The young man explained the reason of his visit, telling her the same tale about an invalid relative that he had told to the landlord of the King’s Head. “Mr. Smith spoke of you in the highest terms, and told me he knew that, at the moment, you were vacant,” he said in conclusion.
Mrs. Robinson showed him the rooms, very cozy, very clean, but also very small. She told him that she occasionally let another bedroom, if there was a very great demand for accommodation, but as a rule she took only one set of lodgers, reserving the other apartments for her own use. No doubt, the liberal pension from the noble family enabled her to jog along in her quiet, thrifty way, without having to fill her house as full of people as it could hold.
The inspection was over, and Aylmer descended into the tiny little sitting room. Again he found himself wondering how the Quentins could have endured even a brief sojourn in such cramped apartments.
His object, of course, was to get her to talk about her previous lodgers. “I suppose you don’t have many people at this time of the year? Your business is just confined to the few summer months?” he remarked.
He had seen at once that she was a genial, talkative sort of woman. There was no difficulty in engaging her in conversation.
“That is mostly the case, sir, but this year I have been very fortunate. I had a dear old lady staying with me for some time. And then, a few weeks ago, when I was thinking it was hardly worth while keeping the bill in the window, a very delightful couple came along, a Mr. and Mrs. Quentin.”
She was fairly started now, a very little encouragement would keep her going. “I have met a Mr. and Mrs. Quentin abroad. I wonder if they are the same? Would you mind describing them to me?” said Aylmer.
She did so, at once. “Mr. Quentin was a dark man, very quiet and rather reserved, I should say about forty years of age, or perhaps a little over. The wife was a beautiful young woman, little more than a girl. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.”
Aylmer drew a deep breath. “Ah! they were not a very happy couple, in your opinion?”
“How could they be, sir, when there was such a disparity in age between them—she a mere girl, and he a middle-aged man, and so quiet and grave? Take my word for it, May and December ought never to mate.”
“Hardly December in his case, was it? You could scarcely describe a man in the forties as in his Autumn much less his Winter,” said Aylmer, suddenly conscious of his own ten years’ seniority.
“Well, perhaps you couldn’t, sir,” replied the garrulous landlady. “But, to my thinking, it’s wrong. Youth should go to youth, not to middle age. There was always a sad, dissatisfied look on her pretty face all the time she was here. Many a time have I gone into her room of a morning—she always had her breakfast in bed—and seen her eyes swollen with crying. She slept over here; Mr. Quentin’s bedroom was on the other side of the passage.”
“Did they quarrel at all?”
“No, I am quite sure they did not; they could not have kept it from me in a small place like this where you can hear every sound. To do him justice, I must say he seemed most attentive and considerate towards her, rather gave me the impression that he was trying his best to make up to her for the injury he had done her by persuading her to such a marriage. But he could never chase that sad look away.”
“How did they amuse themselves while they were here? Sherehaven doesn’t appear to me to be a very gay place.”
Mrs. Robinson smiled. “It’s never that, sir, in the height of the season, and out of it, it is as dull as ditch water. Well, they got through the time somehow. Mr. Quentin stopped in the house a great deal, reading, and writing long letters which he always took to the post himself; I think that was really the only exercise he got. She used to take long walks in the morning and afternoon; one of her favorite excursions was to Ockham Glen, about a mile and a half from here, a very pretty and romantic spot. But I have often seen her come back looking more unhappy than when she went out. She had such a sweet, charming way with her, you couldn’t help getting fond of her. But you have met her, you say?”
“Yes, abroad. I stayed in the same hotel with them for some little time,” was Aylmer’s reply. “I did not notice any signs of depression about her then. She seemed to be in good spirits and ready to take her share in any gaiety that was going forward.”
Mrs. Robinson reflected a few seconds before she spoke again. “It may be that the quiet life here made her melancholy. There was another thing, although perhaps I ought not to mention it. Mr. Quentin was a good lover of the pleasures of the table; he spent a lot of money on food. Well, there’s no harm in that, but he was also a heavy drinker. In the daytime, the whisky decanter was never far from his elbow, and at dinner he used to consume a great deal of wine. Considering the quantity he got through, he carried it fairly well; but there was hardly a night that he did not get pretty mellow. When he was like that, he grew jocular and not a little foolish. Many a time when the maid was out and I have been into the room to clear the things, I have seen him in that condition. I think this weakness of his disgusted her, and that in those moods she hated and despised him.”
Aylmer had heard as much as he wanted, and he thought it time to bring the interview to a close. It was clear that Eileen was very miserable, and, no doubt, on his account. She had not been sad at Ostend. Her altered demeanor must be due to what had happened since.
He felt he had gained the kindly woman’s confidences under false pretenses with that story of an invalid relative. He must make her some amends.
“Well, Mrs. Robinson, about these rooms. They are just the sort of thing that would suit me under similar circumstances; but, as you know, ladies have a knack of suddenly altering their plans. I think the best thing for me to do will be to pay you now a week’s rent in advance for the option on them. Before the week is up I will send you a telegram saying yes or no.”
After a little polite reluctance, the landlady accepted this very gracious offer, and Aylmer went away with the agreeable reflection that he had not wasted his time. In a few days he would send her a wire from London stating his regret that other arrangements had been made.
He stayed the night at the King’s Head, and next morning walked about Sherehaven before he returned to London by the midday train. His journey had not been a failure. He had derived a certain melancholy satisfaction in getting into touch with somebody who had so recently seen and spoken to his dear sweetheart.
There was also a certain sad pleasure in following in the wake of her footsteps in the solitary rambles she had taken to divert her unhappy thoughts. He could picture her walking about that pretty and picturesque road to Ockham Glen, her favorite excursion according to Mrs. Robinson. He could imagine her gazing on the romantic prospect with feelings as miserable as his own, mourning bitterly over the past, chafing at the bonds which, for some inscrutable reason, bound her so firmly to a man she could neither love nor respect, for whom her only feeling could be one of gratitude for the compassion he had shown her in one of the saddest hours of her life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aylmer was due at the Savoy, the day after his return to London, to keep an appointment with the American millionaire. Mr. Whitefield never accepted hospitality without giving a more than adequate return. And before leaving the City Carlton Club, he had given an invitation to the two young men to lunch with him at the Savoy.
Peyton and Aylmer arrived there within a few seconds of each other; the host had not yet put in an appearance. When ten minutes had passed, the younger man began to show signs of impatience. His father used to make a proud boast that never in his life had he been late for an appointment. His son had the same scrupulous regard for time, and voiced his annoyance.
“A typical business man in so many ways, and yet always unpunctual,” he remarked to his friend. “A remarkable kink, I can’t understand it myself. He’s so full of energy that he’s always trying to cram the work of two hours into one, with the result—that he gets a bit behindhand in the process. Bet you he gives us a magnificent spread; he always likes to make his dollars felt, does Cyrus J. He’ll make my modest club lunch look a mean thing. Personally, I hate these heavy meals in the middle of the day; you’re not fit for any work in the afternoon. If we had many clients like him, they would kill us with kindness.”
During the next few minutes, Peyton volunteered the announcement that he had fixed matters up with Miss Murcheson the evening before, and was now an engaged man. He received his friend’s congratulations with his usual sang froid. He certainly did not seem unduly elated that the charming Lily had consented to be his wife. They were to be married in six months.
As Aylmer’s glance rested on that placid, contented face, he could not repress a certain feeling of admiration for a man who conducted his life on such well-ordered lines. Claude Peyton was perfectly satisfied with himself and his lot. He was not asking for any more out of existence than it was giving him—a handsome income at an early age, increasing as the years rolled on, the reversion of his father’s share of the business when that worthy gentleman, in the fullness of time, would be gathered unto his fathers. A very pretty and quite charming young woman for a fiancée, who would make an ideal wife and mother and never give him a moment’s uneasiness.
Yes, Claude Peyton was an admirable specimen in many ways—honest, capable, and practical—of the type that had made England great in the past. If there were many more like him, young men who had responded instinctively to their early training, England would be great and prosperous in the future.
Of course, there were certain things lacking in this estimable young man. You could not say that he was a fine spirit touched to fine issues. If he had been in the same unhappy position as his friend, you could not picture him following in the footsteps of Miss Murcheson, and visualizing the presence of his lost sweetheart as she tripped daintily along.
Aylmer even felt a certain sense of humility as he contrasted himself with his friend, so limited, yet so blissfully unconscious of his limitations. He felt that he was the thrall of his own romantic temperament, and was ready to admit such a temperament was more of a curse than a blessing. Whatever he adventured upon would never be undertaken with the same sound common sense, the same calm detachment which characterized this youngster, so much his junior. Was not Peyton much the happier of the two? Did he, Aylmer, rather lose than gain by his deeper insight into the subtleties of life, by the fact that his emotions were more easily stirred, more deeply touched?
That insight enabled him to gauge Peyton very thoroughly, to anticipate the ordinary thoughts and feelings of his commonplace personality. On the other hand, Peyton, even in moments of supreme illumination, could only glimpse a very little of his friend’s temperament. Yes, surely, this prosperous young stockbroker was to be envied. And, in every situation, he always would acquit himself well. He would make an excellent fiancé, escorting Lily to dances and theatres, attentive but not ardent. He would make an exemplary husband; there never would be the faintest cloud on the domestic horizon. On the other hand, he would miss something, he would never thrill to a word or a kiss from sweetheart or wife. The Peytons of this world are not thrilled by such unsubstantial things. Perhaps, after all, he would not change temperaments with his friend.
Any further reflections were arrested by the entrance of the host, a quarter of an hour behind time, full of boisterous apology, a figure of remarkable vitality and vigor. It was difficult for ordinary people not to feel a certain insignificance in the presence of this dominant, overpowering man whose sixty years sat so lightly upon him, and who expressed so eloquently the immense energy of his strenuous nation. He shepherded them into the dining room as if they were a couple of schoolboys.
He appeared to be in the best of spirits, and talked unceasingly during the progress of the very profuse lunch. Peyton remarked later on to his friend, with a sarcasm he did not often indulge in: “The old boy was at the top of his form, wasn’t he? I expect he had brought off a big coup and ruined half a dozen people. That’s the cheerful sort of sport in which these chaps delight.”
Presently Whitefield turned to Aylmer. “What about Nice? Have you made up your mind yet?”
Aylmer spoke with just a shade of hesitation: he was conscious that Peyton’s disapproving eye was fixed on him. “Yes, I think I will run over for a few days. I might as well go there as anywhere else.”
“Good,” cried Whitefield heartily. “Well, what do you say to our going together and springing a surprise on good old Quentin? He won’t expect to see you in my company.”
Aylmer was delighted with the suggestion; such a proposition suited him very well. Considering what had happened, he would have felt a certain embarrassment in entering the Hôtel Negresco by himself. Now he would have a very natural explanation of his visit. He had met Whitefield in London and he had pressed him to be his companion. A third party would remove the awkwardness inseparable from the situation.
Eileen in her letter of renunciation had given him no details of what had passed between herself and the man she called her husband. But Aylmer had imagination enough to reconstruct them for himself. When Martyn had revealed the fact of his having seen them come out together from the Soho restaurant, Quentin would naturally demand an explanation of their clandestine meeting. Eileen, in self-defense, would have to confess the truth, that they were in love with each other. She hardly could go so far without going farther, without admitting that she had given away the secret of her not being Quentin’s wife. The meeting between the two men, were they alone, could not fail to be a very awkward one. Whitefield would certainly prove a most convenient third party.
“Yes, I shall be awfully pleased to accompany you,” Aylmer answered. “By the way, it would be a good idea that of springing it upon them as a surprise. So, if you are writing to them again, perhaps you would not say anything about me.”
Whitefield promised. “I may write them a brief note, stating the time of my arrival; but as regards yourself—mum’s the word, you can rely upon me.”
Peyton left soon after lunch, pleading, with absolute truth, a pressure of business. As he went along to his office, he had considerable food for reflection. First and foremost, he was heartily sorry that Aylmer had succumbed to temptation, and, to use his rather confused imagery, was again going to put his head in the lion’s mouth.
Then, he fell to wondering why Whitefield had pressed Aylmer so heartily to go to Nice. There was no doubt, Mrs. Quentin was the attraction for the millionaire. Why did he want to take an attractive young man with him? Was Whitefield such a supreme egotist that he considered himself irresistible, in spite of his sixty years and grey hair, so irresistible that he thought nobody else had a chance against him and his dollars? There was no telling. He was a shrewd and very clever man, but the cleverest men are often blinded by their own overpowering vanity.
After Peyton had left them, the other two went into the lounge and stayed there, talking and smoking, for the best part of an hour, and Aylmer found the millionaire a much more genial and companionable person than that for which he had given him credit. He certainly had not shown the best side of himself at Ostend; but, that might be accounted for by the fact that he was too greatly engaged with Mrs. Quentin to take much notice of anybody else.
From the Savoy, Aylmer went on to Duberry’s office. It was only an act of common courtesy to let him know that he had discovered the whereabouts of the Quentins. Not a twitch of the eyelid showed that the detective was deeply chagrined to learn that the young man had succeeded where he and his satellite had failed.
“Well, that was a bit of luck your coming across Whitefield,” he said in a cheerful voice. “So the old fox doubled back to England after all; you will remember I hinted at that possibility. I don’t suppose, considering the slender material we had to work upon, we should ever have located him at an obscure place like Sherehaven, if we had put a dozen men on his track. You are a student of criminology yourself; you know what a great part mere chance plays in so many of these discoveries, that to the public appear so wonderful.”
Aylmer agreed ungrudgingly that it was so. If he had not, by the merest good luck, come across the American millionaire, he would have been as much in the dark, as ever. Before leaving, he paid Duberry a handsome compliment on what he had done for him in finding out so much about the two men, Ramon and Dicks, and assured him that he did not begrudge a penny of the money he had laid out on the business. They parted the best of friends.
It was with the greatest difficulty that he could possess his soul in patience during the weary time of waiting. The days seemed interminable. But, at last, the hour came when he and Whitefield were speeding towards Nice, as fast as express could carry them. Would his journey bear fruit? He wondered. Would he be able to extract from Eileen the nature of that insuperable barrier to which she had alluded in her brief letter of farewell?
The two men entered the lounge of the Negresco, together. There were only two people seated in it, Eileen and Quentin. The girl’s face paled, and then flushed deeply, as she recognized Aylmer. Quentin made a slight gesture of surprise as he rose to greet the newcomers, one of whom he certainly did not expect, but his self-control was wonderful. Of the two, he appeared much less embarrassed than Aylmer.
Whitefield explained matters in his usual loud, boisterous style. “You didn’t bargain for two old acquaintances, eh? I ran across Claude Peyton—you remember Peyton at Ostend, of course—told him I was coming here and suggested he should join me. So here we are. If Peyton were here, the old party would be complete. By the way, is your friend Martyn with you?”
Quentin replied in a rather cold voice that Martyn was with them, but out at the present moment; they would see him at dinner. It was evident that he was considerably taken aback by the unexpected encounter, although he did his best to mask his feelings under the guise of indifference.
Presently Quentin drew Whitefield a little apart, and engaged him in a conversation which presently became animated. No doubt, like Aylmer himself, he found it impossible to maintain easy relations with a man who knew so much about him and his real relations with his supposed wife. The young man addressed himself to Eileen, with whom, for the moment, he felt almost as embarrassed as with Quentin himself.
“It is a very small world, Mrs. Quentin. But as you travel so much and I am a confirmed globe-trotter myself, we should have been bound to meet some day.”
She motioned to him to sit beside her where they were out of earshot of the two men. “Why did you come, after what I told you in my letter?” she asked in a low voice. “In a way, I am glad to see you, to speak to you once more; yet I am miserable that you are here, because—because——” Her voice broke in a smothered sob.
“I came because I had to, as soon as I knew where you were to be found,” was the fervent answer. “If you had been at the ends of the earth, instead of this trifling distance, I should have had to come, to implore you to tell me the whole truth, to learn what it is that stands in the way of our happiness.”
“Hush!” she said, sending a nervous glance in the direction of Quentin. “We cannot talk here.”
“Where and when can we talk, then?” he asked doggedly.
“Oh, my dear, so much better that we should talk nowhere. But if you insist, to-morrow morning, here, as soon as you find me alone. It must not be to-night, even if we get the opportunity. I am too miserable, too unstrung. You were always so gentle and considerate, you will not press me, you will make allowance for my weakness.”
A diversion was created by the arrival of Martyn, who had been taking one of his solitary rambles. He greeted Whitefield first, and then crossed over to Aylmer. He held out his hand, as in politeness bound, but there was no affability in his manner. Apparently, he was as little pleased to see him as Quentin himself.
Whitefield and Aylmer had rooms on the same floor. A little time before dinner they went up together. Evidently the American had noticed the cool demeanor of the two men towards his companion. “Old Quentin was all right with me,” he remarked, “but he didn’t appear to give you a very warm welcome. Of course, Martyn’s manner doesn’t count; he was always a surly sort of chap.”
If it had not been for Whitefield, who was in one of his most genial moods, dinner and the evening that followed would have been very dull indeed. Eileen spoke hardly a word and only smiled faintly in response to some of the American’s sallies. Martyn was never a talker at the best of times. And, although Quentin drank liberally, he did not become mellow under the influence of the generous wines as was his wont. There was a curious constraint about the man; and, as a matter of course, Aylmer knew that it was due to his presence. A similar constraint was upon him, himself.
Finding that the party was such a dull one, Whitefield devoted his attention to Eileen for the rest of the evening. He was always accustomed to blurt out his thoughts without much consideration for the feelings of others, so he had no hesitation in imparting his opinion of the situation to his companion.
“Seems as if I had made a bit of a mistake asking young Aylmer along. Your husband doesn’t appear to want him at all, would rather he had stayed away. Can’t make it out; he was such pals with him at Ostend.”
Eileen made some evasive reply to the effect that Quentin had been upset by some unpleasant news from England. Whitefield, all unconscious of the silent drama that was being carried on before his eyes, little guessed that she could have given him the true reason of this changed attitude.
It was some little time after breakfast the next morning before Aylmer could get Eileen alone. It showed that either Quentin or Martyn was keeping guard over her, and then the American was perpetually buzzing about. But at last, after half a dozen futile attempts, he found the opportunity he wanted.
“You must be very quick,” she said, as she beckoned him to a seat beside her. “Richard is terribly upset at your following me here; you could see that for yourself last night; his manner to you was almost rude. He won’t give us many chances of being together.”
“I got your letter, of course, but it told me no details, only stressed the fact that there was an insuperable barrier between us,” said Aylmer, speaking rapidly. “Now, I should like to know something of what passed between Quentin and yourself after he received that information from that spying Martyn. Did you tell him the whole truth of our relations, or only a portion of that truth?”
“I told him the whole truth,” she answered, speaking quickly, in her turn. She knew that at any moment their interview might be interrupted. “I told him that we had fallen in love with each other, and reminded him of his promise to let me go if I found some one I really cared for.”
He paused for a moment, then said:
“Did you tell him you had confessed to me that the supposed marriage to him was a pretense, a sham, a mere compact entered into in a foolish moment for the sake of keeping up appearances?”
“Of course. That was almost the first thing I did tell him.”
“And what attitude did he take up then?”
She answered him almost in a whisper, and as she spoke, her eyes seemed ever on the watch for the interruption she felt sure would come. “He was not so disturbed at that as I thought he would be. He spoke very gravely, said there was something he was bound to tell me, and after he had done so, he would leave it to my own judgment to decide whether I would or would not marry you. He told me, and when he had finished, I knew that I must give up all hope of becoming your wife.”
In his eagerness, the agitated lover drew closer to her. “And what is the nature of that barrier that you say divides us?”
The answer came in a faltering voice. “That I cannot tell you; I don’t think I shall ever be able to tell you.” Suddenly she made a slight movement of the hand. “Hush! I hear his footsteps coming down the staircase. For pity’s sake, do not ask me the question again; my answer will always be the same. Believe me, there is no hope of its ever being different.”
Quentin was upon them almost as soon as she had spoken the last sentence. For a moment the two men gazed at each other with that hard look in their eyes which two duellists might wear before they crossed swords. The next instant, they both relaxed—the man who was supposed to be Eileen’s husband, the man who wanted her for his wife. Quentin spoke in a cool, indifferent voice.
“Many times as I have been to Nice, I always find in it a fresh charm. If I were compelled to choose one place for a perpetual residence, I think my choice would fall here.”
Aylmer, imitating his mood of well-bred indifference, was rather disposed to agree.
When he had said a few laudatory words in favor of the place, Eileen joined in the conversation, although the short scene between Aylmer and her had so tired her that she could hardly keep her voice steady.
“I am very fond of Nice, but if I had to make a choice, I think I should select Biarritz. I don’t think I ever enjoyed myself as much at any place as there, when we stayed at the Hôtel du Palais.”
Aylmer looked up quickly. “You have stayed at the Hôtel du Palais? When were you last there?”
She gave him the date, in a voice that had grown more assured, now that they were fairly launched on impersonal topics.
“Ah, then you were there at the same time as my relative Sir Charles Reeks. He died suddenly of heart disease, according to the medical verdict. I dare say you remember the occurrence.”
“Certainly, it was a very sudden death, and cast a gloom over the hotel.” She turned to Quentin: “You remember it, of course, Richard; you and he were rather by way of being friends.”
Quentin rose, somewhat to Aylmer’s surprise; he had expected him to mount guard over Eileen. “Perfectly, my dear; Sir Charles was one of the most agreeable, well-bred men I ever met. Well, I think I will take a short stroll. I can trust to Mr. Aylmer to take charge of you in my absence.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There was silence between them for a little time after Quentin had made that sudden exit. Aylmer was a man of very acute sensibility; he knew exactly what his companion was feeling—a very real distress that they were alone, that he had an opportunity of re-opening the previous discussion. All the chivalry in him rose to the mute appeal in that white, miserable face.
“Since you will not break the silence, it seems I have had my journey for nothing,” he said sadly. “I did hope, when we were face to face, the promptings of your own heart would compel you to speak. I am sure that you underrate the strength of my love. What could you confess to me that I would not pardon, that I would not make excuses for?”
“You are torturing me,” she said in a stifled voice. “If it were my own secret only, I might tell you. What am I saying? Oh, please, please, take pity on me and press me no further. It is not like you to be indifferent to a woman’s pleading.”
These last words touched him deeply. He laid his hand gently upon hers. “So be it, then, I must accept what you have said as final. But, Eileen, you have broken my heart.”
What she might have replied to this he did not know, for at that moment Whitefield crossed the lounge and came up to them. With a careless smile to Aylmer, he attached himself at once to his companion.
“Mrs. Quentin, you don’t appear to be in your usual spirits. Let an old man try to cheer you up. Let us take a brisk walk together.”
She rose with alacrity. Aylmer could feel that she was relieved by the advent of this breezy and not overdelicate-minded millionaire, who had arrived in the nick of time to extricate her from an intolerable situation. The two went out together. Whitefield evidently wanted the lady to himself and did not pay the young man the compliment of asking him to make a third. In his present mood, half-angry, half-despairing, Aylmer stigmatized the American as a silly old philanderer, forcing his attention on a woman young enough to be his daughter.
He sat there by himself, ruminating over what had taken place between them, over the abrupt departure of Quentin after that allusion to Biarritz. And, suddenly, a strange thought flashed into his mind and began to assume a very definite and persistent shape. Little by little, he began to piece certain things together—the almost desperate attempt of Quentin to get from him that large sum of money, his studious cultivation of Whitefield, the persistency with which he had followed the millionaire up, taking advantage of his penchant for Eileen to lure him to Nice. He was disturbed in his absorbing reverie by the approach of Martyn.
That usually taciturn person seemed in an unusually expansive mood this morning: he sat down beside the young man and entered at once into conversation by asking him if he intended to make a long stay in Nice.
At the end of that interview with Eileen, Aylmer almost definitely had made up his mind to return to England in a day or two, but that long reverie had altered his plans. He was not going till he had found out something he wanted to know. His reply to Martyn was to the effect that he thought he would stay quite a week, perhaps a little longer.
After this brief interchange of remarks, there was silence for some time between the two men. Aylmer broke it with the sudden question: “By the way, I suppose you read in the papers that strange affair of Quentin’s butler—the fight between him and another man in a common lodging-house in Soho, the result of which was that they both killed each other?”
Martyn always had a shifty expression. Aylmer noticed it was more shifty than usual as he made a somewhat hesitating answer. “No, I did not see it myself; Quentin told me about it quite recently. Queer sort of affair, certainly. He must have been mixed up with a questionable lot. Most surprising. He always seemed the very embodiment of respectability. Quentin had the most wonderful testimonials from his last place. It shows how easy it is for a man to lead a double life.”
Aylmer made a few more remarks, but it was obvious that Martyn was not inclined to discuss the matter. After a little while, the young man went out and dispatched a long telegram to his valet, whom he had left in London. It contained very minute instructions concerning the dispatch of a certain parcel to the Hôtel Negresco, and it was to be forwarded to him with as little delay as possible.
When he got back, he found Whitefield in the lounge. He had returned from his walk with Eileen, who at once had left him and gone to her own room. The American seemed a little dissatisfied with the state of things.
“Old Quentin’s all right with me,” he remarked. “Don’t find any difference in him. But somehow we don’t seem to have reproduced the atmosphere of Ostend. Mrs. Quentin could never be anything but charming, but she seems a bit off color. To use the old expression, there seems to be a fly in the ointment.”
Aylmer guessed accurately what was passing in the other’s mind, and had no hesitation in voicing it. “I expect that fly is my very humble self. You yourself noticed that he didn’t seem very overjoyed to see me. I expect he thinks it rather a piece of impertinence that I presumed to follow him here.”
Whitefield nodded his head. “Mind you, he hasn’t said a word to me on the subject, but I have the same idea. Of course, I shouldn’t have said so, if you had not seen it for yourself. What are you going to do? Stick it, or sheer off?”
Aylmer could not tell his companion the truth, that he was proposing to remain until he had finished certain investigations which he intended to make. He passed the subject off as lightly as he could.
“I certainly shan’t sheer off until I am quite ready. I shall give Quentin a pretty wide berth except at meals, when we must meet for the sake of keeping up appearances. As he seems to have taken such a dislike to me, he will be grateful to me for withholding my company.”
The American looked as he felt, puzzled and curious, and as usual, he had no hesitation in expressing his feelings.
“Deuced rum a chap should change suddenly like that. Do you know of any cause yourself for the alteration?”
It was, of course, a very awkward question for a man who particularly disliked deception. But then it was impossible to tell Whitefield the actual truth. Aylmer dissembled as best he could.
“I have certainly given him no cause for offense, so far as I am aware. But there is something peculiar about him, I mean he’s the sort of man you never would get to the bottom of, and he may have taken offense where none was intended.”
“You don’t find Mrs. Quentin’s attitude at all changed, I suppose?” persisted Whitefield, his curiosity still unslaked.
“She and I are still good friends,” was Aylmer’s answer. “But she certainly seems a little more staid than when we met at Ostend.”
Although delicacy was not a distinguishing characteristic of the American, he was well-bred enough not to pursue the subject further. But it was easy to see that he was not at all satisfied with the replies his companion had given him.
It was true, in a general way, that Aylmer had made up his mind to have as little to do with Quentin as possible, but he had resolved to have one perfectly frank interview with the man, as soon as he could get the opportunity.
It came two days later. Quentin was alone, and Aylmer addressed him without any preliminary beating about the bush.
“I think the time has come for some plain speaking between us, Mr. Quentin,” he said gravely. “We are on quite equal terms, you know what I know, and I am equally cognizant of what you know.”
There was just a little quiver on Quentin’s face. But, he did not at once seek to avoid the issue. He spoke in a voice as grave as Aylmer’s own. “If you think it will serve any useful purpose, pray speak what is in your mind, Mr. Aylmer. Eileen, of course, is to be the subject of the discussion.”
“Certainly,” answered the young man firmly. “You know that, in a moment of confidence, she imported to me the strange secret of your pretended relations; you know that she told me, further, that when you induced her to enter into this compact with you, you gave her your solemn promise that you would never stand in the way of her happiness if, later on, she should meet with a man whom she could love.”
Quentin inclined his head. “She has given you a perfectly accurate account of the circumstances. I did make that promise.”
“And now you have withdrawn it.”
“Pardon me, that is not quite the correct word to use,” replied Quentin in the same level, restrained tones. “When she told me you loved each other, that she wished to become your wife, I was confronted with a very painful situation. It was my duty to tell her certain things which I had concealed from her for her own good, things which, in all probability, would have still been concealed from her, but for the fact of what I must call your unfortunate intervention.”
“She speaks of an insuperable barrier between us. I maintain that I have a right to know the nature of that barrier, in order that I may judge if it is as insuperable, as she believes it to be.”
“Hardly a right, I think, Mr. Aylmer. The whole circumstances are so very peculiar, that it is difficult to apply ordinary canons of right and wrong to them. But I do not think you are in a position to demand what you ask from either of us. No doubt, you have questioned Eileen on the subject?”
“I have, and she refuses to enlighten me. That is why I come to you.”
There was a long pause, and then Quentin’s manner suddenly seemed to alter. From the grave, self-contained man of the world, he seemed to change into a friendly and sympathetic being. There was extreme kindliness in his tones, in the rather melancholy glance with which he surveyed the unhappy young lover.
“Mr. Aylmer, I have more sympathy than you are likely to credit me with, and I am very sorry for you both in this unhappy impasse in which you find yourselves. I loved Eileen’s mother with a passionate love, and Eileen is very dear to me for that mother’s sake. I have always liked you very much. I still like you; and, moreover, I have a very great respect for you as a man of steadfast and unblemished character.”
“Pardon me if I speak quite frankly,” interrupted Aylmer, “but you have not displayed any marked liking for me during my brief stay at the Negresco. Even Whitefield has remarked upon your almost ostentatious coldness.”
“I cannot help feeling deeply chagrined at your following us here, after the explicit letter Eileen wrote you; and, I dare say, I have shown that feeling pretty plainly.”
“You dictated that letter, perhaps.”
“Certainly not,” answered Quentin with a dignity that rather repressed Aylmer’s impetuosity. “I left it to her to say what she pleased, and of her own free will she told me the contents. She told you there was an insuperable barrier between you. I tell you the same. She refuses to give you any further explanation. I am sorry to say that I must follow her example. You have sought this interview, Mr. Aylmer, not I; and if it leaves you with any sense of grievance against either of us, or both, you will forgive me for saying you have acted very unwisely in following us here. I go further and say I think you have acted with a want of consideration for Eileen herself, in not taking that very explicit letter she wrote you, as final.”
There was such a calm and forceful dignity about Quentin’s attitude that, though the young man’s heart was hot and angry within him, he kept his temper in check.
“You will give me no other answer, then?” he said, speaking as quietly as he could.
“No other, not if you asked me till doomsday,” replied Quentin firmly. Then he spoke very gently, and it seemed there was genuine feeling, not only in his words, but in the tone in which they were spoken.
“I have told you that I sympathize with you both, and it is the literal truth. I am an older man than you, and I have known the bitterness of disappointed love. But time brings solace, and also healing, to the deepest wound. The world, perhaps, is never what it might have been if one’s early dreams had been fulfilled, but it is possible to find a tranquil happiness. If I may presume to give you advice, you may resent it at the moment, but I am sure you will admit the wisdom of it later. Leave this place as soon as possible. Accustom yourself to look at the future with Eileen dismissed from the foreground. Mix as before with your own circle of friends, your relations, till in time you forget that you ever came across such birds of passage as ourselves, people not the least in touch with your own world. Do this, and surely you will forget.”
“I shall never forget,” said the young man bitterly. “You have hinted that you have suffered as I am suffering now. Have you forgotten?”
“Not forgotten, certainly,” answered Quentin in the same gentle tones. “But the memories are no longer painful. The years have brought to me the anodyne, as they will to you.”
Aylmer rose. He felt there was no use in prolonging the interview; he would get nothing more out of this calm, inscrutable man who had revealed a strain of feeling that he had not given him credit for. He had very dark suspicions about him, and he looked at him with a long, searching gaze that sought to penetrate behind the reserve in which he always seemed to wrap himself. But Quentin endured the scrutiny without flinching. On his calm face was still that smile, half-melancholy, half-kindly, that seemed to express an infinite compassion for the impetuosity, the warm, reckless temperament of the other man.
“I cannot say whether or not I shall take your advice, Mr. Quentin. Of one thing you may be sure, I shall not intrude my company upon you more than is absolutely necessary. If it were not for Whitefield, I would not burden you with my presence at meals. But it would be hardly politic to let him into the secret that there is a serious disagreement between us. He is curious enough as it is.”
Quentin lifted a warning finger. He had caught sight of the millionaire entering the lounge.
Whitefield fortunately, however, had not caught any portion of what Aylmer was saying. He came up to them in his loud, breezy way, and addressed the older man. “Now then, Quentin, it is quite early; I don’t suppose your wife will show herself yet, and Martyn has gone off on one of his solitary walks as usual. Good opportunity for us to take a little stroll together. You can give me full details of that business you broached last night.”
The two men went out together, and Aylmer stood looking after their retreating figures, an expression of deep thought on his face. So there was going to be a business talk between them, and the subject of it had been broached the previous night. Quentin must have been sorry that Whitefield had blurted out the matter so openly.
A few days later the parcel arrived from London. Aylmer untied it in his bedroom, and satisfied himself that everything he wanted was there. When he went down to breakfast the next morning, he learned that Whitefield was leaving for Rome a few days later. He gathered that there had been arranged, between him and Quentin, a meeting in that city on a subsequent date; and, he further understood that, on this occasion, Martyn was not to be one of the party.
He had spoken very little to Eileen since that unsatisfactory interview with Quentin. He was beginning to accept his fate with some sort of resignation, and he was conscious that the girl felt unhappy and ill at ease in his society. He would have left ere this but for his resolve to test certain very strong suspicions which had suddenly arisen in him out of some random remarks dropped by Eileen.
After breakfast he took a stroll round the town, and on his return was surprised to find her standing in the hall equipped for traveling.
“I am going back to England at once,” she explained hurriedly. “I am waiting for Richard to take me to the station. A telegram arrived about an hour ago; it is in consequence of that I am going.”
He looked at her steadily till the telltale color rose to her face. She might have had a telegram; but, if so, its transmission had been arranged by Quentin to get her out of the way. Of that he was confident.
“That is the official explanation,” he said quietly. “It may be good enough for some people—Whitefield, for instance, whom you will see later on in Rome—but it is not good enough for me. You are going away because you want to avoid me.”
She did not attempt to refute him. He could see that she was very near to tears when she spoke.
“Cannot you see it is better for us both, dearest?” she said in a low voice. “It breaks my heart to part from you so soon after our brief reunion, which made me happy in a way, at the same time that it made me miserable. But it is best, for you as well as for me.”