Chapter II: Part 2

‘Well, perhaps I will. No, I’ll tell you what; if you like to come down to the river mead, I will bring out the book and read a little of it this afternoon. Now go; I don’t want the girl to see us come in together.’ He obediently went on ahead. She sat on a stile for a moment or two thinking. ‘Suppose I go off; suppose I get an engagement, what then?’ Lord Kirkdale looked round as he turned the corner, which took him out of her sight. And she wondered why he looked so heavy and sheepish, and foolish.

In case my reader should get a wrong impression of Lord Kirkdale, they must be here informed that he was an extremely well made young man, six feet one in height, thirteen stone in weight, with fair hair and ruddy complexion; there was nothing comic or unseemly about his appearance, but to a woman who had taken it into her head to adore the type of man represented by the Dancing Faun, no Hercules, however laboriously devoted, need apply.

* * * * *

‘Who is this dreadful ineligible man Robert tells me was dining here the other night?’ said Maisy. She had been lunching at Davies Street with her mother and sister, and the three were sitting in the drawing-room.

‘I don’t think you need trouble about his being detrimental, unless it is on mamma’s account; he devotes himself entirely to her,’ said Geraldine.

Lady Kirkdale laughed. ‘I was telling Geraldine the other day, that in a few seasons no woman this side of fifty will have a chance in society.’

‘I wonder what the meaning of it is,’ said Maisy.

‘Age has its advantages,’ said Lady Kirkdale. ‘Besides, as Edgar Allen Poe says, “What man truly loves in woman is her womanhood.”’

‘That’s so true, dear mamma; a womanly woman can do anything she likes with a man, the other sort sets his teeth on edge at once.’

‘A womanly woman indeed,’ broke out Geraldine; ‘it is only within the last few years women have dared show their womanhood. At last they are permitted to possess a small quota of human nature; they may be something more than waxen masks of doll-like acquiescence without disgracing themselves in the eyes of the world.’

‘My dear Geraldine, don’t be so disgustingly Ibsenish.’

‘You make me perfectly wild, Maisy. Do you suppose all these questions haven’t been working in everybody’s mind for the last fifty years. You may be pretty sure they have, if _we_ have come to hear of them. I consider the whole machinery of society to be especially contrived to keep an influential set of people sufficiently ignorant to effectually counter-balance the work of men and women of genius, who see clearly enough what the next stage of progress will be; and the mob would follow them readily if the dead weight of authority and influence did not keep them back.’

‘Mamma, what is becoming of her? My dear Geraldine, you’ll never get married if you go on like this. You’ll have to take to lecturing on temperance or something, like poor Emily.’

‘I hate marriage; I think it’s a degrading bargain, which can only be carried out by unlimited lying on both sides.’

‘Really, mamma; why don’t you speak to her?’

‘Because I can’t deny the truth of what she says.’

‘But--look at Robert and me!’

‘Yes, look at you, that’s just what I mean----’

‘Geraldine, my dear, my dear, hush!’ cried Lady Kirkdale. ‘You mustn’t talk like this, you distress Maisy. And after all, you needn’t be so bitter about it. God knows, if you prefer not to marry, I am not the woman to wish to force you to it. You’ve been upset, hadn’t you better go and lie down?’

‘Oh no! I’m all right. One must speak sometimes, one can’t spend one’s life grinning like a Cheshire cat, and pretending one thinks everything perfect.’

‘Well, to change this very unpleasant subject,’ said Maisy, ‘what is this Mr. George Travers like?’

‘He is tall and slight, I should say about forty, with a careworn face and a charming smile: he can dance, ride, scull, and play billiards to perfection. There is no subject on which he is not well informed,--in fact, if he were only safely married, he would be a great acquisition to society,’ replied Lady Kirkdale.

‘And Geraldine is in love with him,’ said Maisy.

‘How dare you say such things!’ cried Geraldine.

‘When a girl, who is generally good-tempered, becomes snappish and disagreeable, you may be sure she is in love with a detrimental. The detrimental is on the spot, you are snappish. The situation is complete, my dear.’

Geraldine walked out of the room and banged the door loudly.

‘What is to be done about her, mamma?’

‘I must take her abroad, I suppose. Love is like bronchitis, a thorough change is the only cure.’

At this moment Mr. Travers was announced.

‘I must apologise for this untimely call; but I have just been at the club, and Lord Snordenham was mentioning that he must send round to tell you that his coach had to start half an hour earlier for Hurlingham to-morrow than was arranged. I said I should be passing your door, and he commissioned me to deliver the message.’

‘Thank you very much. You are to be one of us, then?’

‘I have that honour.’

‘May I introduce you to my daughter, Lady Maisy Potter. She has just returned from her honeymoon.’

‘O mamma, don’t give such a wrong impression! I must tell you, Mr. Travers, my honeymoon lasted six months,’ she said, turning to him with an engaging smile.

‘It ought to last for ever,’ he said, bowing. ‘At any rate it has agreed with you splendidly.’

‘Oh, please don’t say that; I know I am terribly sunburnt. It is so dreadful to come to London looking so healthy, late in the season, isn’t it?’

‘I am afraid my tastes are not sufficiently æsthetic to allow me to appreciate a sickly style of beauty.’

‘I am so glad to hear you say that. It is exactly what I think myself; only it doesn’t do nowadays to say anything you think, or one might be taken for one of those dreadful advanced people that are always clamouring for free thought, and free speech, and free everything. I feel it so very necessary to keep on thinking just what is right and proper. Our responsibilities as leaders of thought are so grave. For we are the leaders of thought, are we not, Mr. Travers?’

‘After a certain point necessarily so. Progress is made in circles; and if you stand still long enough you will find yourself in the van.’

‘But,’ said Lady Kirkdale, ‘suppose it doesn’t come back to the same point exactly, but goes onward in a spiral.’

‘That’s the whole problem of life. Is it a circle or a spiral?’ said Travers.

‘If it’s the latter I am sorry for all of us.’

‘Oh, don’t be afraid, mamma, life is very nice as it is. We’ll take it for granted it’s a circle, and sit still and not bother ourselves. Spirals are such uncomfortable-looking things.’

The carriage was announced, and Lady Kirkdale asked Travers to drive with them. He did so, sitting next to Geraldine and opposite Maisy. They dropped Maisy at the hotel in Albemarle Street she and Mr. Potter were staying at. Travers of course escorted her in, and as they parted she hoped he would accept the invitation to come to Cowes that her husband was going to send him for the yacht-week.

When he re-entered the carriage he said to Lady Geraldine, ‘I imagined your sisters were all out of town.’

‘So they were when we last spoke of them, but Maisy and Mr. Potter returned last month.’

‘Ah, I met Mr. Potter at your dinner-party on Thursday, of course. I didn’t know he was a relation.’

‘He is an odd man. He has inherited a large fortune from his father. He is what I call disgustingly rich; he never seems to do anything with his money. His chief pleasure in life seems to be sitting still and thinking.’

‘What does he think about?’

‘Nobody knows. I used to offer him a penny for his thoughts last year, but he always made one answer.’

‘What was that?’

‘He only said, “My mind is a perfect blank.”’

‘Oh,’ cried Lady Kirkdale, ‘that is like those Indian people who sit contemplating their big toes all day. What are they called?’

‘Do you mean the Yogis?’

‘Ah yes, that was it.’

‘I am never quite accurate about things. You see, Geraldine, dear, it’s one of my womanly qualities.’

‘Are you going down to Cowes, Mr. Travers? I think I heard Maisy asking you to join her party.’

‘Are you going?’

‘We have taken rooms in the hotel.’

‘Then I shall certainly take advantage of the proposal. That is, if Mr. Potter sends the invitation. Does his mind ever cease to be a blank?’

‘No one knows.’

* * * * *

It was the first Sunday in August. Lady Kirkdale and Lady Geraldine Fitzjustin had gone to spend a few days in Essex with Mary, the eldest daughter of the family, before proceeding to Cowes. Lord Kirkdale, left in possession at Davies Street, had invited Travers to dinner, and the two men were sitting in the smoking-room ruminating over their cigars and whisky and Seltzer. There had been a long pause in the conversation when Kirkdale suddenly looked up and said, ‘Look here, Travers, who is this girl down at the cottage?’

‘I’ve been waiting for that question for some time; I thought she must have told you herself.’

‘Not a word.’

‘Well, I think perhaps I ought to let you know that she is secretly married to a very dear friend of mine.’

‘Ah, I knew it; she is your wife.’

‘Ha! ha! ha! that’s good; my dear fellow, you never made such a mistake in your life. I may be foolish, but I’m not such a fool as to go and put my head into a noose like that.’

‘Travers, I don’t believe you. I am sure she loves you.’

‘That’s quite possible.’

‘Look here, you think you’re a very clever man; you think you are deceiving the whole world, because you can deceive a parcel of women. But the time has come for a little plain speaking, old fellow. I know all about you. Clausen has told me. He recognised you that first day you called in Davies Street. He was present when the card-party at Canning’s ended your career in London society. Since then I have had many proofs of how a fellow can go from bad to worse; how a man who begins with cheating at cards can end by picking up half-crowns from his friend’s dressing-table. No! no! old fellow, hitting me won’t put it right,’ and he seized Travers by the wrists.

‘What are you going to do?’ said Travers, helpless and sullen in Kirkdale’s powerful grasp.

‘I am going to hear the truth about this girl.’

‘And what else?’

‘Then I shall decide what to do. Who is she?’

‘My wife, you fool! Now are you satisfied?’

Kirkdale dropped his hands suddenly. Travers walked over to the looking-glass, settled his cuffs, and wiped his forehead. Then he leaned his back against the mantelpiece and surveyed Kirkdale, who had thrown himself into an armchair on the other side of the room. After a pause he spoke.

‘I need not tell you, Kirkdale, that I have long foreseen this situation: I knew we should have to come to an understanding sooner or later.’

‘And you played your cards accordingly?’

‘There is no necessity to be so bitter about it. When a man has absolutely nothing but his wits to rely upon, he must cultivate them. Because I have acquired some skill in the marshalling of events, I don’t see that you need reproach me. We all have our temptations. Your father succumbed to the temptations of idleness, I to the temptations of necessity. I was brought up rather more luxuriously than yourself, for my father’s vices did not make him bad-tempered; your father’s did, and that always has a chastening effect upon a man’s offspring. As I was saying, no want of mine was denied until I was practically cast on my own resources, just at the age when one’s tastes are most expensive. I needn’t tell you what it means to be in a crack regiment with no private income. I had not learnt how to make money as a middleman, or by gambling on the stock exchange; the only resources open to me I took advantage of and kept afloat for some time, then luck deserted me and the crash came. I went abroad; I associated with men not fit to black my boots. My life was a perfect hell. My God! how do you suppose a man brought up as I have been can earn enough to keep him going in a way that makes life worth living? One must have at least five thousand a year. Where is it to come from?’

‘Oh, go to the devil!’

‘Precisely, that is the only answer to my question. I have been.’

Kirkdale rose and walked up and down the room impatiently. He snapped his fingers.

‘I don’t care that for you. I am thinking of her.’

‘I don’t think that is at all a proper way to talk to a man about his wife, my dear boy.’

‘Oh, damn!’

‘By all means.’

Kirkdale walked towards Travers, who looked him straight in the face. After a prolonged stare they both burst out laughing.

‘O what fools we are! what fools we are!’ cried Kirkdale almost hysterically, as he flung himself into a chair.

‘Well, that’s agreed; now let’s clear the ground before us. You are in love with my wife; I am as much in love with her myself as the holy estate of matrimony will permit a man to be. She is in love with me, and not with you, unless I am very much deceived.’

‘Yes, yes. I had no hope of that kind. I don’t know if you can understand or not, but I would do anything on earth to save her pain and to make her life happy.’

‘The feeling does you honour, my dear boy. It is one often roused by unrequited affection. A woman who does not love you is always an angel, a woman who does is often a devil.’

‘Look here, Travers, don’t keep her down in that wretched hole any longer. Let her go on the stage.’

‘I can’t do that, old fellow.’

‘Why not?’

‘I know too much about it. The stage isn’t a fit place for a woman unless she is a firstrate actress; she must be able to boss the show or quit.’

‘But she could boss the show, she’d be firstrate.’

‘Not quite that, old fellow. I first saw her on the stage; I could see all she had in her at a glance; it wasn’t good enough.’

‘She has been on the stage, then?’

‘Yes; you may have heard of her, there was some talk of her early in the year. Grace Lovell was her name.’

‘I do vaguely remember hearing something or other about her.’

‘How long was she on the stage before you met her?’

‘Five or six years, I think. She has been working hard down in the country.’

‘What at?’

‘Oh, reading things. I know I heard her read a bit of Shelley, which fetched me more than anything I’ve ever heard on the stage.’

‘Well, I’ll see what we can do--with her.’

‘You may rely on me, if you want help.’

‘Thanks, old fellow.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘We shall meet at Cowes on Monday. By-the-bye, can I be of any use to you?’ and Kirkdale took out his pocket-book.

‘Well, old man, if you like to make it a pony this time it would be rather a weight off my mind.’

Kirkdale handed over some notes. Travers took them, folded them up deliberately, buttoned his coat, took up his hat and stick, and walked out of the room. He nodded pleasantly to Kirkdale as he closed the door after him.

Kirkdale sat still for some time, then he lighted a cigar and began to smoke. As he was finishing it the footman tapped and asked if he was at home to Mr. Clausen. Kirkdale signified that he would see him, and Mr. Clausen was shown up.

‘Stephen, my boy,’ he said, ‘this must be put a stop to. I have just come round from the club, and that fellow Travers came in and is hand in glove with every one. Potter was there, and they are sitting down to _écarté_. You know what it will end in--there will be a devil of a row.’

‘I can’t help it, old fellow; I have tied my hands in the matter. I must let things take their course. It won’t hurt Robert if he does lose his money.’

‘But, my dear fellow, we can’t possibly countenance this sort of thing. A man must draw the line somewhere, and I draw it at conniving at----’

‘It’s no use, I tell you. He must be left alone; at any rate, for the present.’

‘Well, if nothing else will move you, I suppose I shall have to tell you what I really fear from him. He will marry your sister----’

‘Oh no, he won’t.’

‘You don’t know her as well as I do. She is a woman who will have her own way, whatever it costs.’

‘He cannot marry her.’

‘It is what he has been working for the whole time.’

‘You’re a fool!’ yelled Stephen. ‘No, no, no! I dare say you’re right. I’ve been thinking about something else. I dare say he’s capable of it. But I tell you she’s quite safe. He is already married.’

‘And therefore you consider she is quite safe.’

‘She is my sister, sir.’

‘And your father’s daughter.’

‘You will drive me wild between you all,’ cried Stephen.

‘My dear boy, it’s for your own sake.’

‘All the damnable things done under heaven are done for my sake it would seem.’

‘Have you no regard for duty? Would you like to see your sister fall a victim to this swindler?’

‘She must be told he is married, of course.’

‘And that he is a low cad no gentleman would associate with.’

‘Yes, Clausen, yes, anything you like--anything you like. Be off with you and tell her all you told me and all I have told you. Be off now, no time like the present.’

‘Stop a bit! not so fast, my young friend. I want a little more explanation from you first. You say he is married. Where does he conceal his wife?’

‘She is at Old Windsor.’

‘You have made several excursions there lately. What is she like?’

‘Oh, young and pretty; much too good for him.’

‘Too vague, my boy, describe her.’

‘I don’t know how to describe her.’

‘Well, is she dark or fair, tall or short?’

‘She’s dark. No though, her hair is black and curly, and her eyes are brown, but she has a most beautifully fair complexion. As you sit and watch her reading, you wonder which is the whitest, the little bit of neck shown behind her ear, or the white lawn stuff she ties round her throat.’

‘Is she tall?’

‘About a head shorter than I am; I suppose that is tallish for a woman. Yes, she’s tall, and very, very graceful. She walks beautifully, makes you remember all the old bits of poetry you learned at school.’

‘How does he treat her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How’s that?’

‘I have never seen them together.’

‘But----’

‘She lives at the cottage, he at the house.’

‘He isn’t married to her.’

‘Oh yes, he is; I made him confess.’

‘What was she?’

‘An actress.’

‘No good, of course.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d be making money out of her if she were.’

‘Her name was Grace Lovell.’

‘What! that little girl? Why, she’s got the makings of a great actress in her. How comes he to be so shortsighted as to let her remain idle?’

‘He tells me she’s not good enough.’

‘Much he knows! Why, she’s delicious; so fresh, so spontaneous. She’d take the town in no time. How old is she?’

‘About twenty or twenty-one.’

‘Well, to think that rascal has got hold of her. I was wondering only the other day what had become of her, and I asked Horsham what made him part with her. He said she had insisted on leaving, and he fancied she’d gone abroad with some man.’

‘I wish to God she had! Anything would be better for her than being tied to such a devil as that.’ Then Kirkdale asked suddenly, ‘By the way, didn’t you say Travers was the son of that old rascal Swanwick?’

‘Ah yes, capital actor he was; we don’t see that sort of thing now. He knew his business thoroughly, and did it. No high-falutin about intellect, imagination, and rubbish of that sort. He had the instinct here’--and Mr. Clausen thumped his chest,--‘and let the new school say what they like, that’s the place to find the link between an actor and his audience.’

‘That girl has it _there_ too, if ever woman had,’ murmured Kirkdale dreamily. ‘You should hear her read Shelley.’

‘Shelley, nonsense! she’s a comedy actress. No doubt she has the touch of pathos necessary for that line; but no power, no passion.’

‘She may have altered since you saw her, she’s very young.’

‘Yes, that’s possible. It happened in the case of Décles. You sometimes do get a surprise from a woman in that way.’

‘Now, Clausen, like a good fellow, think over what’s to be done. I am determined to get her back on the stage. Shall I take a theatre for her?’

‘What nonsense! As things are at present, you might just as well chuck your capital into the gutter. She won’t draw until she’s done a good deal more hard work, and if you gave him such an opportunity, Travers would spend your money for you and she’d get none of the benefit.’

‘No, the first step is evidently to get rid of Travers.’

‘That is very easily done. I have only to say what I know.’

‘I wonder if he has anything up his sleeve: he’s always vaguely hinting that certain personages are at his mercy,’ said Kirkdale.

‘Very likely he has a whole bundle of scurrilous gossip at his finger-ends; but after all it doesn’t very much matter, people say all they can now, and no respectable paper gives currency to these things. Such stories serve two purposes: they give the radicals something to talk about, and add considerably to the popular interest. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” and the poor sinner in the street feels his heart go out to the weaknesses of the great, in a way never to be invoked by the mere pompous exterior of public ceremonial.’

‘But think of the effect on public opinion.’

‘My dear boy, when Burke said a country was ruled by its public opinion, he was right. The only difficulty about it is that the real public opinion is never expressed; what is expressed is what each man or woman thinks his or her neighbours consider ought to be his or her opinion. But to return to Grace Lovell; what do you suppose she would do if her husband was sent back into limbo?’

‘I’m terribly afraid she’d go with him.’

‘Have you ever discussed the position with her?’

‘She does not even know I am aware of the marriage, she has kept her own counsel; all she has said to me was, that she was anxious to go on the stage.’

‘Let’s go down and find out about her. I want a little country air, and have nothing on earth to do on Monday.’

‘I was going down to Cowes, but I’m sick of the function there; if I go down on Tuesday or Wednesday I shall see all I want,’ said Kirkdale.

‘Agreed; well, I’ll be off. Find out the best train, and call for me in the morning.’

A loud knock at the front door delayed Clausen’s contemplated departure. He looked at his watch and said, ‘By Jove, it’s two o’clock! We’d better open the door, the servants will be in bed.’

Potter was standing on the doorstep. He entered, and said, ‘Sorry to disturb you, but it’s rather important I should see you at once, Kirkdale.’

Clausen offered to go. Potter stopped him, saying, ‘It doesn’t signify. It’ll be all over the place to-morrow. Only I thought I owed it to Kirkdale here to warn him.’

‘Well, come in; sit down and have a smoke.’

‘I don’t mind if I do; I want to settle myself a little. To tell the truth, we’ve had a hell of a row.’

‘Ah!’ said Kirkdale, feeling his blood run cold, ‘it’s all out, then?’

‘What, you knew? And you allowed such a man to associate with your mother and sisters. You must be mad.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am. What has occurred?’

‘I suspected Travers, from the first time I saw him. Then Maisy came home charmed with him. You’ll pardon my saying so, but I always regard that as a bad sign; I find she has a natural affinity for rogues.’

Clausen chuckled.

‘I admit it. I am no exception. I am no doubt a rogue myself, but that doesn’t make me inclined to tolerate other rogues. I met this Travers at the club two or three times, and I noticed him playing at cards. To-night I proposed a game of _écarté_, and gave him a good chance for his particular little game. I caught him in the very act, and, as I have said, there was a devil of a row.’

‘What has become of him?’

‘Well, after we had made it sufficiently clear to him that we did not desire more love and knowledge of him, he went out into the void. I followed shortly after and came here, thinking he possibly might have come to give you his version of the affair, and there might be another chance of wigs on the green. My blood’s up now. That’s the worst of a nature like mine. Just as I get thoroughly roused and interested everything is over. And my blood has to simmer down again in a desolation of peace and good humour.’

‘He hasn’t been here. But I’ll tell you what, Potter, I’d have given a thousand pounds not to have had this happen to-night.’

‘I’m very sorry, Kirkdale, but next time you propose to bring a cardsharper and blackguard into your family circle you had better take us into your confidence, so that we can have some common basis of operations. Good night, Clausen. Good night, Stephen. Better luck next time, eh!’

* * * * *

Grace Lovell was lying asleep when a hansom cab drove up. Travers opened the door of the cottage with a latch-key, and bursting into her room told her to give him a couple of sovereigns without delay. She scrambled up, opened her little desk, and produced the money. He paid his cab, then came in, sat down heavily on the side of the bed, and breathed hard for a moment or two. Suddenly he fell forward on the floor. She sprang to his side, wetted his face, loosened his collar, held smelling salts to his nose, but for a long time it seemed to her his heart had altogether ceased to beat. Presently he moved slightly, and she renewed her efforts to revive him, calling him by all the endearing terms she could think of. At last he put out his arm and held her gently against him, whispering that she was his darling wife. She nestled close to him and kept perfectly still, waiting for him to speak. After a long time he opened his eyes and sat up; she begged him to lie down on the bed, which he did, but it was some time before he spoke. Then he said, ‘It’s all up, Gracie, I’m a ruined man. I shall have to go away.’

‘What has happened, my dearest?’

‘They have done for me between them. You know I told you that I knew a good deal more than some people would like to set about; well, they came to hear of it, and they have made use of one of their agents, a despicable man, to ruin me in the eyes of society. He induced me to play _écarté_ with him; he manipulated the cards in such a way that I should appear to be cheating; then he denounced me before the whole club, and they believed him. I had to go.’

‘O George, why didn’t you turn the tables on him, and tell them what he had done?’

‘My dear child, it’s no use a woman supposing she can understand these things; you must take what I tell you on trust; don’t keep making idiotic suggestions, and asking idiotic questions. I tell you it was so, that should be enough for you.’

‘Yes, George. What are you going to do?’

‘God knows.’

‘George.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure you didn’t do it?’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘Didn’t cheat.’

‘Of course not, of course not! Oh, do go to sleep. I’ve talked until I’m wearied out. I shall go up to the house now.’

‘Are you well enough?’

‘Don’t bother,’ and he went out banging the door after him. He lay in bed all day on Monday. About five o’clock he ordered some tea, and played with little Pierre, then he got up and dined. He did not go down to the cottage until about ten o’clock. He found Grace busily engaged packing up. He lounged in, and said, ‘What _are_ you doing?’

‘I am going up to London.’

‘What for?’

‘I am going back to Horsham’s Theatre.’

‘No, you are not.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘How dare you speak to me like this?’

‘Because I dare speak to any one like this, when I do not love them.’

‘Oh! oh! that’s it, is it? We’ll see,’ and he came towards her threateningly.

She stood perfectly still, looking straight into his eyes. He dropped his hands and sat down, saying sneeringly, ‘I always thought women were brutes, now I see it’s perfectly true.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘women are brutes. If you had loved me, if you had believed in me, and trusted me last night, nothing would have made me leave you. I should not have cared if you had been a thief, or a murderer perhaps.’ Here he interrupted her.

‘Oh, don’t let us have all these heroics. I know it all: you’d go to hell for me, wouldn’t you, as long as I feed your insatiable passion for admiration? I’m sick of women and their melodramas.’ She stood still looking at him. ‘I’ll just tell you the plain facts of the case,’ he continued more calmly. ‘Our love was of that resistless kind, brought about when the appetite is so strong that every other faculty, all prudence, all considerations of every sort, are thrust on one side to gratify it. I admit it is a very charming state of things for the parties concerned, while it lasts, but it does not last long. Our delirium is over. You are a woman full of dreams and imaginations; you worry me with the persistent foolishness of your ideas and ideals. I am a man who knows all the moves, and the long and short of it is that I know how to play the game; you do not.’

‘I shall soon learn, and perhaps my game will not be such a losing one as yours has been.’

‘No one can tell, but the game is over sooner or later, and then it doesn’t matter much whether you have lost or won, the pleasure is in the game itself.’

‘Perhaps it does matter.’

‘I don’t think so. What really matters is letting your chessmen rule you, that is what all mediocre people do.’

‘Why have you never talked seriously to me before?’

‘Because you were in love with me.’

‘What a horribly unscrupulous wretch you are!’

‘In his relations with women a man has to act two parts: at first he must be Adam, young, ardent, and resistless, then he must be the serpent, able to teach her all wisdom of the world.’

‘And is neither part a serious one?’

‘That depends upon the woman. Now we’ll talk things over quietly. You want to go back to Horsham’s Theatre?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s no use your going on as you used to do.’

‘No. I know I was very bad, but I think I shall be better now.’

‘Well, let’s see what you’ve got in you, and then I shall know what is to be done.’

He put her through the balcony scene in _Romeo and Juliet_, making her cry with his severity, torturing her, and finding fault in every possible way with her efforts to express the feeling of the words she uttered. At the end of it she stood hopeless and dumfoundered at the new world opening before her. For the first time it dawned on her what acting really meant. She looked timidly at Travers. He was sitting in a chair watching her doubtfully. He said, ‘Yes, that’s very good. You work away at that, and we’ll do them all yet.’

‘You think I can go back to Horsham’s Theatre?’

‘No, I do not. But I’ll tell you what we will do. I’ll run you through the States as a star, and then I’ll bring you over to England as a new American actress. We’ll do them yet.’

‘But who is to pay?’

‘I’ll find the money, don’t you worry your head about that.’

* * * * *

On the following Tuesday the waiter at the Crown Hotel, Cowes, respectfully informed Lady Kirkdale that Mr. Potter had sent the pinnace of the _Sunflower_ to convey their ladyships on board.

‘I suppose, as Kirkdale hasn’t arrived yet, you and I will have to go by ourselves,’ said Lady Kirkdale.

‘It’s a very funny thing he should suddenly change his mind and leave us in the lurch like this.’

‘Perhaps Mr. Travers will be able to give us some information; he is to be with the Potters to-day, I believe.’

‘I thought he would have called on us this morning. I didn’t understand, Maisy, that he was to stay on board with them. Don’t you think it’s rather odd of the Potters to ask him to stay there when Kirkdale hasn’t anywhere to go to?’

‘A great many things in this life are odd, my dear, and I’m afraid my thinking won’t alter them, so I don’t trouble my head.’

As Geraldine climbed the side of the yacht she looked in vain for Travers.

‘What has happened to everybody?’ she said to Maisy the moment she could take her aside.

‘Why? what have you heard?’ asked Maisy doubtfully.

‘Nothing. Kirkdale has not sent a word of explanation. I thought we should get an explanation from Mr. Travers, but he is not here either.’

‘Come down to my cabin a minute,’ said Maisy, leading the way into an exceedingly shipshape-looking little apartment, full of the typical _multum in parvo_ contrivances which have been invented for the convenience of those who have little space at command. They sat down on the locker, and Maisy began--

‘A dreadful thing has happened, and I don’t know how to break it to mamma, I’m sure.’

‘To whom?’

‘Of course, I think Kirkdale terribly to blame for not making sure first----’

‘What are you talking of? Is Kirkdale dead?’

‘No, no, what nonsense! I mean he should have made sure of Mr. Travers.’

‘Good God, Maisy! you will drive me mad. Is Mr. Travers dead? Say yes or no.’

‘Perhaps it would be better if he were.’

‘Has he had an accident? Is Kirkdale nursing him?’

‘I tell you he’s quite well. You won’t let me explain properly what has happened.’

‘Go on,’ said Geraldine, in a dull, toneless voice.

‘He played a game of _écarté_ with Robert at the club on Saturday night, and Robert found out that he was cheating him.’

‘What did Robert do?’

‘Well, he watched him very carefully, and when he was quite sure he got up and told him he would not play any more with him.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘The members of the club were very angry, I believe, and agreed that Mr. Travers should not be re-admitted.’

‘I think Robert behaved abominably.’

‘Why?’

‘I think he owed it to Kirkdale to shield his friend. What does it matter whether a man cheats at cards or not? Everybody cheats, at other things besides cards, in their own particular way.’

‘My dear Geraldine, how often have I told you we must take things as we find them? It is considered wrong for men to cheat at cards, and it disgraces them. It is not considered very wrong for women to cheat at cards; people rather expect it, and laugh at it. It’s no use arguing about it. It is so, and there’s an end of it.’

‘Why should there be one law for men and another for women?’

‘I don’t know, I dare say there are some things winked at in a man which would not be permitted to women. I don’t know what they are, but one never can tell.’

‘What will Mr. Travers do?’

‘Disappear.’

‘O Maisy, how dreadful! I expect he is terribly hard up. Can’t we help him?’

‘I expect Kirkdale is seeing after him. Kirkdale is very foolish. It is a great pity he has not turned out better. He is such a very handsome man.’

‘I don’t think Mr. Travers handsome, if you are talking of him; but there was a sort of pleasure in his society I never felt with any one else.’

‘Yes, he had a charm, there is no doubt of that.’

‘You think so. You felt it too. O Maisy, Maisy, whatever shall I do?’ Lady Geraldine broke down into passionate sobs. ‘I am a fool! What shall I do? what shall I do?’ she cried.

‘My poor dear Gerry, don’t cry; I didn’t know it was as serious as all this. I took a great fancy to him myself, but I don’t feel as badly as you do, thank goodness.’

‘I know he is the only man in the world I could ever care for,’ sobbed Geraldine.

‘Try and think of somebody else.’

‘I hate everybody else. If I think of other people, it is only to think of the difference between him and them. He is so graceful, they are so proper. He always has something charming to say, they always say the things one has heard over and over again. He is like the Dancing Faun, they are like a tailor’s block. Oh, what is the use of saying all this? He makes my heart beat with happiness when I only hear his footstep. When I touch other men my blood turns cold, and my heart turns to ice.’

‘Geraldine, Geraldine, you are really dreadful. I’m sure it isn’t at all proper to feel like that. I never felt so about Robert. I always liked other people. Of course, one feels that one’s husband _is_ one’s husband. But still----’

‘I never thought I felt like this till to-day; I didn’t realise it before: it has come upon me suddenly. It is as if I had been swimming about in beautiful blue water, and suddenly found myself being sucked down by a whirlpool.’

‘Don’t you think we had better ask mamma about it? I really don’t know what to advise.’

‘Not on any account. Swear to me you will not breathe a word of this to any one. I shall get over it. Don’t be afraid. See now, I will bathe my eyes and come upstairs.’

Geraldine soon effaced all traces of her emotion, except a slight redness about the whites of her eyes, and the two sisters went on deck.

Robert Potter had in the meantime communicated the news to Lady Kirkdale, who was sitting under a large Japanese umbrella looking unusually perturbed. Geraldine took her place under the awning and was soon surrounded with a group of merrymakers, and she laughed and talked and picnicked, drank champagne, and made feeble jokes, quite as gaily as the rest. However, directly she got back to the hotel she told her mother her head ached. She went and shut herself up in her room. Here she wrote the following letter:--

‘DEAR MR. TRAVERS,--I am so sorry, so very sorry, for what has
happened. I have been afraid you were in money difficulties for some
time. Will you give me the happiness of helping you out of them?
Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy. I don’t believe in society,
or any of its laws. I enclose twenty-five pounds in notes, hoping
you will accept them as a proof that I will do anything I can to
extricate you from the difficulties in which you are involved.--Yours
always sincerely,
‘GERALDINE FITZJUSTIN.’

She took the letter to the post herself. It was almost the first time in her life she had left the house unattended. She felt that every one must know what she was doing, that she was being watched, and that the post-office clerk guessed the reason of her sending a registered letter. At last she completed the business, and putting the tell-tale little flimsy receipt-paper in her purse, she hurried back to the hotel. Just as she entered it she encountered Lord Kirkdale and Mr. Clausen, who had that moment arrived.

‘Out alone, Lady Geraldine?’

‘Yes, what is one to do when one’s brother deserts one like this?’

‘Your maid?’

‘Gone out herself; she didn’t expect us back so soon, I suppose; we have been on board the _Sunflower_ all the afternoon, you know.’

‘Have you heard the news?’ asked Kirkdale as they entered the private sitting-room.

‘Yes; what has become of Mr. Travers? Is he at Old Windsor?’

‘He is.’

She sighed with relief.

‘Clausen and I went down yesterday and arranged to get his wife something to do.’

‘His wife!’

‘Oh! didn’t you know that he was married? I thought you said you had heard the news.’

‘Married? married? When? who to?’

‘About three months ago: a most beautiful girl. You may have heard of her--Grace Lovell--she was an actress.’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Geraldine, in a bewildered tone. ‘What did you say? Why didn’t he tell us?’

‘I can’t say. It’s all very ugly, on the face of it; and I tell you what, Geraldine, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s one of the biggest villains on earth. I did you all a terrible wrong in bringing him to the house. I have to ask your forgiveness.’

She looked at her brother a long time, and the tears gathered in her eyes; then she turned away, and hastily entered her own room. Here she found her maid laying out her clothes for the evening.

‘Never mind now, Elizabeth, I want to lie down quietly.’ As she spoke she crossed to her writing-desk and her eyes fell on a sheet of note-paper on which she had scribbled the first wild words that had come into her head when she sat down to write to George Travers. There they were, staring her in the face, ‘My dearest, dearest one on earth, I have heard of your ruin. Come and let me see you once more. I will give you all I have to enable you to----’; then she had stopped herself and written the more moderate note for his eyes, leaving her real passionate words, the words which had been the expression of her inmost feelings, for the eyes of her maid.

She turned to look at the woman, but found she was calmly taking her wrapper out of the wardrobe. Had she seen or not? No trace was visible on her face. Geraldine sat down in front of the glass, and said, ‘You can wash my head, Elizabeth; I think it will refresh me.’

The woman made all the preparations. While she had gone for hot water, Geraldine seized the incriminating note and tore it into a thousand pieces. She had just time to thrust it behind the grate and walk quietly across the room when the maid re-entered. Her eye fell for a moment on the writing-table. ‘She has read it,’ thought Geraldine. She sat quite still for a long time; then she said, ‘What should you say if I were to marry Lord Foreshort after all, Elizabeth?’

Elizabeth started visibly.

‘I should hope your ladyship would be very happy, I’m sure.’

‘Why were you so surprised?’

‘I didn’t think your ladyship seemed willing to take him before.’

There was a long pause while her hair was washed, and Elizabeth was rubbing vigorously when Lady Geraldine said, ‘How is your poor sister now?’

‘The one that was deceived so cruelly?’

‘Yes. The one that fell in love with a married man.’

‘Well, your ladyship, I didn’t like to tell you after all your kindness to her in finding her that place and all, but I’m very much afraid she’s gone off to America with him.’

‘Really! She has done that, has she?’

‘I was afraid your ladyship would be annoyed, so I didn’t mention it. But she disappeared, and some time afterwards I had a letter from her, telling me about how he had got a bit of land out in Canada, and she had joined him there.’

‘And what were they doing?’

‘I’m sorry to say, they seemed doing very well; she wrote most bright and cheerful like. I must beg your ladyship’s pardon for saying it, but they do say the wicked flourish like green bay trees, don’t they, your ladyship?’

‘I suppose they do, sometimes; but don’t be sorry they are happy, Elizabeth.’

‘No, your ladyship.’

‘Elizabeth, I want you to bring all the letters that come for me into my bedroom. Tell the waiter to give them to you.’

‘Yes, your ladyship.’

‘You’d better have that black silk petticoat; it will be nice and cool for you to wear, and I shall keep to white all the rest of the summer.’

‘Yes, your ladyship.’

‘Now I will lie down; don’t let me be disturbed until it is time to dress for dinner.’

‘No, your ladyship.’

* * * * *

‘A telegram for your ladyship,’ said Elizabeth as Geraldine entered her bedroom about twelve o’clock next morning to get ready for a stroll on the beach.

‘All right. I shall not want you for a minute or two.’ Elizabeth discreetly left the room.

She opened the brown envelope, took out the flimsy pink paper, and read, ‘Have started for Portsmouth. Will write. Travers.’

That she could not prevent, that she could do nothing to stop, him coming was a thought that filled her with exultation. He was getting nearer and nearer every moment; and what was more, she was to have a letter from him--it would arrive that evening by the last post perhaps; if not, certainly in the morning. Then she thought of his being married, but it made no difference; she knew he had married before he saw her, that was all that really mattered to her. She rang for Elizabeth, and crushing the telegram up put it into the front of her dress. She dressed, and went out in the highest spirits. She was charming to every one, and made herself so agreeable that Lord Foreshort felt quite encouraged. He said, ‘How well this climate agrees with you!’

‘Doesn’t it. It is exactly the sort of place I like: plenty of life about, and at the same time everything is clean, and spick and span.’

‘It’s perfect. Our tastes are so alike.’

‘You are always saying that, Lord Foreshort.’

‘I am always thinking it, Lady Geraldine.’

‘Then you have no time to think about your tastes?’

‘No, I am always thinking of yours.’

‘So am I.’

‘There, I told you we agreed.’

‘Well, that’s settled. Now let us talk of something else.’

‘When will you begin to let me hope.’

‘You are hoping now, are you not?’

‘Do you really mean it?’

‘Mean what?’

‘That I may hope?’

‘I can’t prevent you hoping, can I?’

‘Yes, you know you can.’

‘Well, I’ve tried to a good many times.’

‘But you will give up trying now, won’t you? Take another tack.’

‘Very well. You have hoped without my permission the whole of the London season; you can hope with my permission during the shooting season, then perhaps you will be sick of hope.’

‘Yes, I shall claim my reward then.’

‘Ah! that’s “another story.” We mustn’t get on too fast.’

That evening the expected letter arrived. It ran thus--

‘DEAR LADY GERALDINE,--You have restored my belief in the human race.
I have indeed received a crushing blow from your brother-in-law, and
it is not fitting that I should inform you of the true facts of the
case. Honour seals my lips. But although it is forbidden to me to
justify myself in your eyes without degrading those who must ever be
first in your esteem, your generous letter emboldens me to ask you to
believe me, on my bare word, that things are not as they, no doubt,
have been represented to you. I am coming to Portsmouth so as to hold
myself in readiness to obey any commands you may care to issue to
your most devoted adorer,
‘GEORGE TRAVERS.’

Geraldine wondered a good deal over this letter, but all the same she wore it next her heart for four days. She wrote in reply--

‘DEAR MR. TRAVERS,--I can’t think of any way of seeing you here, but
next Monday we go to our place near Ringwood. If you will put up at
the village hotel there, I will write and let you know what I can
arrange.--Yours most sincerely,
‘G. F.’

On Sunday she took a long walk with a party of friends. She and Mr. Clausen were ahead. Mr. Clausen knew the island well, and had undertaken to act as pioneer. By degrees she led the conversation to the subject which occupied so many of her thoughts, and Clausen found himself giving her a full account of what had taken place at Old Windsor the previous Monday.

‘Kirkdale and I went down to Datchet and drove to Old Windsor: there we found Mrs. Travers occupying a little cottage, pretty enough in its way, but only fit for a labouring man,--the chairs covered and windows hung with white dimity, an old oak settle, and so on. You know the kind of thing.’

‘What is she like?’

‘An exceedingly pretty, dark, slight woman. She is very young; but she gives you an extraordinary impression of knowing her own mind at moments.’

‘What is her version of their life together?’

‘She spoke of nothing but her great desire to go on the stage again; he has been preventing her doing so, all this time. They appear to have been exceedingly happy together otherwise.’

‘Do you believe he really loves her?’

‘He must have, I should think; there seems to have been no other reason why he should marry her?’

‘He may have liked her at first, but perhaps she is a shallow sort of person. I should think he wanted a very deep nature to sympathise with him.’

‘I don’t think she is shallow; but you mustn’t forget, when you talk of depth of character, the thinnest sheet of gold-leaf is a good deal more valuable than a whole bogful of mud.’

‘And is she going back to the stage now?’

‘We promised to arrange it for her. Horsham is a great friend of mine. She made her success with him, and he was delighted to hear she was ready to come back again; but now----’

‘What?’ said Lady Geraldine.

‘Well, I fear her husband has found out what a little gold-mine she may become. She wrote to me yesterday, saying he had been coaching her in some leading parts, and proposed touring with her in the States if he can get some capital to start them.’

‘But isn’t he fearfully hard up now?’

‘A man like that is never without resources; if he cannot get money out of men, he can get it out of women.’

‘O Mr. Clausen, how dreadful that sounds!’

‘Lady Geraldine, I beg your pardon. I should not have said such a thing to you; forgive me.’

‘No, Mr. Clausen, I beg of you, don’t think I am so absurd; girls hear of all sorts of things nowadays. I want to know what you really think Mr. Travers will do.’

‘He will do anything that he thinks most likely to bring in a quick return.’

‘But what is his object? His tastes are so fastidious. I cannot imagine his being content to mix with actors and actresses for the rest of his life, they are such flashy, noisy people. Whenever one sees any very disagreeable set at Henley or Lords, one is always told they are actresses.’