Chapter XX

Clare Cavan had wholly misunderstood the man with whom she had to deal when, by means of an anonymous letter, signed "A Well-Wisher," which she herself had delivered at his lodgings on the previous evening, she had summoned Wallace Armstrong the elder to her aunt's house.

From what her friends at the skating-party had told her she imagined him to be a degraded sot, lost to all sense of decency, barely sane, and utterly unpresentable.

"Awful thing for that poor young fellow Wallace Armstrong!" her friend Mr. Fitzroy Cleaver had confided to her. "He's got a cousin who's rather like him in appearance, and has the same name too, which is playing it very low down on a fellow. This chap--the other Wallace Armstrong, you know--is always getting had up for assault and drunkenness and all that sort of thing; and old Alexander Wallace has to pay to have the things kept out of the papers. He's been sent out of the country more than once, but always comes back, like a bad ha'penny. The last scandal about him was in the summer; my sister has a copy of the newspaper about it somewhere. I believe his uncle has disowned him since then. I am not quite sure but what he's doing 'time' now for that. People like that ought to be shut up--don't you think so? He'll only end by committing a murder or something unpleasant of that sort if he's left at large; and think how horrid that will be for his family!"

From her hostess, Mr. Cleaver's sister-in-law, Clare received the paragraph she showed to Laline, and other details concerning the reprobate in question.

"I had no idea what the creature was like, my dear; and, when he introduced himself to me at Hurlingham as a cousin of Mr. Armstrong and a nephew of Alexander Wallace, it never occurred to me to be on my guard against him. I made the terrible mistake of inviting him to dinner. Luckily, it was only ourselves and two very old friends. My dear child, when he arrived he was already half tipsy! Of course I affected not to notice it and tried to keep things out of his way; but it was of no use. He drank fearfully during dinner and grew very noisy and insulting. As to joining the ladies afterwards--he was hardly capable of standing upright and wanted to fight the butler--such an excellent man! He had been with us five years, and was really almost to be depended upon not to steal too much wine--and that is high praise for a butler! But this dreadful Armstrong person struck out at him and upset him so much that he gave notice the next morning. Mr. Armstrong used fearful language too, and made my parlour-maid cry by trying to kiss her when she handed him his hat. Dreadful, wasn't it? I assure you I didn't get over it for weeks. And the next time I heard of him he was in prison, where he richly deserved to be. My dear, such a person should be sent to an institution for dipsomaniacs or shipped to the Colonies! I believe he hates his cousin, whom he accuses of supplanting him in his uncle's favour, and that he will try and murder him some day."

Of Mr. Wallace Armstrong the elder's rough brutality Clare herself could bear personal evidence. Curiosity had led her on the occasion of her visit to Alexander Wallace's house to peer into the room on the top floor adjoining the studio; and she would not easily forget the momentary vision she had had of a man's face, red and swollen by drink and fury, which appeared at the doorway, or the violence with which, to an accompaniment of curses, she had been thrust from the room. The incident at the time had been inexplicable to her, although with characteristic mendacity she had made use of it to endeavour to prejudice Laline against the younger Armstrong. But as soon as she learned of the existence of the scapegrace cousin, recently released from gaol, who was forbidden his uncle's house and only frequented it by stealth, she judged rightly that it was he whom she had seen upon the evening in question.

She was far too spiteful to communicate her intelligence to Laline, and thoroughly enjoyed the latter's evident distress when she was led to believe that the man charged with repeated drunkenness and assault was her lover. Clare knew quite well that only a few words would suffice to remove this misconception from Laline's mind, and that she must therefore devise some new plan by which to revenge herself upon her. Understanding as she did to some extent the other girl's sensitive and impressionable nature, she decided that the coarse insults of a half-insane drunkard, who was the near relation of her affianced husband, would be infinitely painful to Laline, and that a visit paid by his disreputable cousin to his lady-love would deeply distress the younger Armstrong.

With this conviction, Clare had sat down on the preceding evening and indited the following letter, in a disguised handwriting, to the elder Wallace, whose address she had learned from her friends.

"SIR--I have never met you, but I have heard of you, and how you, the
elder and the legal heir, have been cruelly and unjustly supplanted
in your uncle's heart and your uncle's home--which last should
certainly be yours--by the cunning tricks of your younger cousin.
Although a stranger, I have a fellow-feeling for you, as I too have
had my rightful place in the affections of my relations usurped by
an interloper. It is only fair that you should know that your cousin
is now engaged to be married to a lady who has never even heard of
your existence, and who is marrying him for your uncle's money, to
which she believes him to be heir. In justice to yourself and to
her, can you not see her and tell her the truth? She resides with
Mrs. Vandeleur, the celebrated palmist, at 21, St. Mary's Crescent,
Kensington. If you call, you might pretend to consult her.

"A Well-Wisher."

Instead of the tipsy maniac she had confidently expected, this letter had produced a man of sardonic humour and rough and unpleasant manners, but undeniably sane and passably sober--a man, too, of strikingly handsome appearance, however marred by an ill-regulated life; and Clare, wholly ignorant of the deadly blow struck at Laline's happiness by his very existence, felt that her shot had missed fire.

Tea was brought in at this point and refused with some disdain by the visitor. With a sickening pang of remembrance, Laline recalled the fact that at Boulogne Wallace had never partaken of tea.

"Liquids that didn't intoxicate weren't worth swallowing," he had declared; and as a child she had been shocked and startled by such a statement until he had managed to convince her that he was joking. How could she have been so blind, so foolish, as to suppose that such a man as this could develop into the Wallace Armstrong she had grown to love? This creature before her was but the man of four years ago, with all his evil habits, his roughness of manners, his scorn for his fellow-creatures, his cynicism, and his degraded tastes intensified; and a shudder ran through her at the thought that, but for her flight on her wedding-day, she would be even now his property, his chattel, dragged down in all possibility to his level.

"Not that! I should be dead!" was the cry that rose within her heart at the thought.

And yet she was his wife! Those few words spoken before the English Consul by a reckless adventurer and an ignorant child had made her his for life, even though he ignored her existence, even though she had given her heart and her word to another.

A shudder ran through her at the thought, and involuntarily her dark eyes turned upon him again with a look in which hate and fear were mingled. Meeting his gaze, she quickly averted her own; but that second look had the effect of completely sobering Wallace.

The intensity of contempt and dislike it suggested was a revelation to him. Demoralised as he was, he would rather have faced any danger than this girl's quiet scorn, and the aversion she entertained against him, which her sensitive face unmistakably betrayed, attracted his attention to her as nothing else could have done.

As he watched her, a dull resentment against his cousin grew stronger within him at every moment. It was impossible that this girl could look at him and speak to him as she had done if her mind had not been poisoned against him. That her haughty coldness was assumed he knew from the manner in which she had at first greeted him. It must certainly be Lorin who had made her hate him in advance, and for this Lorin should be made to suffer.

"You expect my cousin this afternoon, I believe?" he said, addressing Clare, abruptly.

"Don't ask me," the young lady replied, archly; "you must ask my friend, Miss Grahame. Lina dear, do you expect Mr. Armstrong to-day?"

"I think not."

"Think? Surely you know, darling! When you were skating at his uncle's house at Hampstead yesterday, didn't he make any appointment to come to-day? But perhaps I oughtn't to ask."

"Were you at the Homestead yesterday?" Wallace asked, his face changing suddenly.

"Yes."

"It's a charming old house, is it not?" Clare asked him, innocently.

"Oh, you mustn't ask me!" he answered, with an assumption of carelessness. "I am not allowed inside it, and I haven't seen even the outside for ten years now. You must know, Miss Cavan, that during that time I have been a pariah, driven from my home, and sent as a scapegoat into the wilderness. You know the Prodigal Son story; well, I am the prodigal nephew, only there wasn't any outlay on veal on my account! And so far from my excellent industrious apprentice of a cousin having to turn out for me, it is only by his condescending charity that I am enabled to live at all! He has my uncle's confidence and affection, and no doubt he will have his money. He has his position in Wallace's Bank and will be made a partner there very shortly. He lives in clover in the best rooms in the house and the Homestead is practically his own property already. Everywhere in society he is courted and _fêted_--he is such a charming-mannered man, you see, and wears such nice clothes, and, best of all, he will be Alexander Wallace's heir. Consequently, beautiful girls, all saintly pride and touch-me-not coldness towards poor broken-down disinherited devils like me, carney to my cousin, and throw themselves into his arms, declaring that they can't live without him, and should have gone mad had he stayed away one moment longer. Oh, it's the way of the world, Miss Cavan! Your vestal virgin of the present day is ice to the man with no banking-account, but thaws marvellously in the presence of a fellow with ready cash and expectations. The men who go under need expect no sympathy nor any civility. The really good women are so busy making love to and marrying the eligibles that they have no time to waste on the others; and the modern prodigal son, if he ventured back to his father's villa, would be insulted on the doorstep by his younger brother's _fiancée_, who would look at him as if he were dirt, and speak to him as if he were a dog. That, at least, is my experience of women!"

He had risen while he spoke, and now towered massively in the centre of the room, his hands clenched, his face pale with anger, which he with difficulty repressed from breaking into a storm of fury. Although nominally addressing Clare, he stared across at Laline where she sat with lowered eyes by the fire, and clearly directed his diatribe against her.

Clare glanced from one to the other, barely able to conceal her delight at the turn things were taking. To hear Laline insulted was balm to Miss Cavan; and she with difficulty kept a note of triumph out of her voice as she begged Mr. Armstrong to resume his seat and not to distress himself.

"It must be very hard to feel yourself supplanted, as you say," she purred in her soft tones; "but really I can't allow you to speak so severely against women! I am sure that many--indeed, most of them--sympathise with the unfortunate, and that we are not all mercenary. I for one am extremely sorry for you, and so, I am sure, is Miss Grahame--aren't you, Lina dear!"

Laline did not speak; and after a few seconds of silence Wallace took up his tale again.

"You are most kind, Miss Cavan," he said; "but you are injudiciously so when you lavish sympathy upon an unsuccessful man. Your friend Miss Grahame is, if I may say so, far more business-like. She metes out devotion to the rich man and scorn to the poor one in admirably calculating fashion."

Challenged thus directly, Laline slowly rose from her seat, quivering in every limb, and almost as white as her dress.

"My affection and respect are not given to your cousin because he is rich, Mr. Armstrong," she said in a low voice that vibrated with intense feeling, "but because he is a frank and loyal and honourable gentleman, honest in his dealings with men, and gentle and chivalrous to all women. I have never heard of you until to-day, but now that I have seen you my warmest sympathy goes to your cousin. Please let me pass!"

Her soft dark eyes literally blazed with excitement as she waved him imperiously aside and passed from the room, leaving Clare and Wallace standing opposite each other, subdued with sudden quiet by Laline's words and by the note of passionate indignation and despair they could not understand which thrilled through her voice.

"I can't understand Lina," Clare protested, after a pause; "she is usually so gentle. I am afraid you and she have taken a dislike to each other."

"How long has she known my cousin?" her companion inquired.

"Oh, she has only met him two or three times! I myself had no idea that there was anything at all between them until yesterday, when she was out with him all the afternoon; but this morning she confessed to me that she was engaged to him. It seems so very strange, as dear Lina had never given me or my aunt the least hint of such a thing. But of course I am extremely glad for her sake, as she is an orphan, poor child, and hasn't a penny----"

"Why do you say you are glad," Wallace interrupted, bluntly, "when in reality you are bitterly angry? Do you suppose I haven't guessed who wrote me that letter I got last night telling me to call here to-day?"

"What can you mean?"

"Oh, humbug is no good with me, Miss Cavan!" he said, laughing scornfully. "You've got your knife into this Grahame girl, and into my cousin too, for some reason best known to you. Did you want to marry him yourself?"

"Really, Mr. Armstrong----"

"Oh, it's no use turning on injured innocence for me! I never yet met the woman whose word I believed. If you want to know how it was I guessed you wrote me that letter, I'll tell you in a very few words. In it you spoke about sympathising with me and being very sorry for me; and you used the same expressions this evening. Well, no one is really sorry for me--why should they be? My troubles are of my own making; and if I get disinherited, it is entirely my own fault. What are you opening those pretty wicked-looking eyes for? Are you so little accustomed to truth that it startles you to hear it? I say my troubles are my own fault, because my uncle cares more for my little finger than for my cousin's whole body. Being a narrow-minded and a tediously pious and virtuous old nuisance himself, he has a secret love for a thorough-paced scamp. I have only to pretend to reform for a few weeks to get what I liked out of him; but I can't be bothered with it. For years roughing it among bad company in the Colonies took away all the taste for civilised society I ever had, which was never much. I can't sit hour after hour tied to a desk quill-driving; I can't pretend to interest myself in tomes and ledgers and bills-of-exchange any more than I can talk twaddle in a drawing-room over sloppy tea, or play lawn-tennis with a lot of prim bread-and-butter misses without a word to say for themselves. If I think a woman pretty, I tell her so; if I feel inclined to make love, I do so. I am made to lead my own life, to eat and drink and walk and sleep and fight and make love, and perhaps get drunk and get sober again, but it must be in my own way. No one can drive me, and no one presumes to pity me. Consequently, it wasn't difficult for me to guess that this pretty but unnecessary sympathy of yours was only a trick of speech to serve your own ends. Do you understand, Miss Cavan?"

"I understand," she replied, a rare blush creeping over her white skin, "that you are frightfully impertinent!"

"I mean to be more impertinent yet," he said, and, suddenly stooping, kissed her.

"That is the way to treat pretty women who tell lies," he observed, coolly picking up his hat as he spoke. "And, now that I have sampled both the young ladies, I won't stop and see the old one. You and I are friends, Miss Cavan, and you may rely on me to do you a good turn if it suits my book also. As to this proposed marriage of my angelic cousin with that infernally proud stuck-up girl, I'm no more minded to it than you. I should dearly love to pay her out for her insolence, and I have little doubt that an opportunity will come in my way. You know who obligingly finds mischief for idle hands. Well, mine are always idle. There's some one coming in down-stairs--your aunt, I expect. Give me another kiss before she comes. Oh, don't pretend to be offended; it's silly waste of time! Girls with eyes like yours--_les yeux en coulisse_--always like kisses! And who knows? I am worth encouraging, for I may be my uncle's heir after all."