What a Man Wills

Mrs George de Horne Vaizey

"What a Man Wills"

Chapter One.

At the Dying of the Year.

The New Year festivities were over; in the hall of the old country Manor the guests had danced and sung, had stood hand in hand in a widening circle, listening to the clanging of bells in the church-tower near by. Now, with much hooting and snorting of motors, the visitors from afar had departed to their homes, and the members of the house-party had settled themselves by the log fire for the enjoyment of a last chat.

There were eleven people left around the fire, counting the host and hostess, four men, and five girls, all young, as youth is counted in these days, the women averaging about twenty-four or five, the men a few years older, and in the mellow light of the fire, and of the massed candles in the old brass sconces on the walls, they looked a goodly company. They belonged, it was easy to see, to the cultured classes; whatever might be their means or present position, these people had been born of gentlefolks, had been educated according to the traditions of their kind, and were equipped with the weapons of courtesy and self-control, which had descended to them as a heritage from those passed and gone. Mentally, they might be guilty of anger and impatience; mentally, they might rage and storm—that was their own business, and concerned no one but themselves; in the presence of their fellow-creatures they could be trusted to present a smiling front.

There are occasions, however, when the most reserved natures are tempted to unclose, and of these the opening of the New Year is surely the most seductive. When the guests have departed, and the laughter is stilled, when for a last half-hour men and women sit quietly over the fire, there arises in the mind a consciousness of severance with the past, a sense of newness, which is not untouched with awe.

A new year has opened—what will it bring? What gifts, what losses, lie awaiting in its lap? When its last hour trembles away on the striking of a deep twelfth chime, what will happen to me? Where shall I be? In the language, the consciousness of earth—shall I be at all?

The tall dark girl, who had borne herself so proudly during the dance, shivered and bent forward to warm her hands at the fire.

“Whew! It’s eerie!” she cried. “How I hate new years, and birthdays, and anniversaries that make one think! What’s the use of them, anyway? One ambles along quite contentedly in the daily rut—it’s only when one’s eyes are opened to see that it is a rut...”

“And that there are a solid three hundred and sixty-five days of it ahead!” chimed in the man with the firm chin and the tired eyes. “Exactly! Then one pants to get out.”

“And bowl triumphantly along the road in a C-spring carriage, or the very latest divinity in motor-cars!” laughed the beauty who sat in the corner of the oak settle, agreeably conscious that the background was all that could be desired as a foil to her red-gold hair, and that the dim light shed a kindly illusion over a well-worn frock. “I object to ruts of every kind and persuasion. They disagree with me, and make me cross, and I’m so nice when I’m pleased! The parsons say that prosperity makes people hard and selfish, but it is just the other way about with me. When there’s not enough to go round—well, naturally, I keep it all for myself; but so long as I have everything I want, I like other people to be happy. I really do! I’d give them everything that was over.”

She looked around with a challenging smile, and the others obediently laughed and applauded. It was fashionable to have a new rôle, and it was Claudia’s rôle to be honest, and quite blatantly selfish. She was pretty enough to carry it off, and clever enough to realise that her plain speaking served as a blind. No one believed for a moment that she was speaking the truth, whereas, if she had not distracted attention by waving this red flag, they must certainly have discovered the truth for themselves. Claudia’s god was self; she would have seen her best friend cut up into mincemeat, to provide herself with a needed hors d’oeuvre.

The tall man with the large head and the sharp, hawklike features, sprang to his feet, and stood in the centre of the circle, aflush with excitement.

“Ruts!” he repeated loudly. “What’s the matter with us all is we’re content with ruts! The thing which depresses me most at the beginning of a year is to look back and realise the futility, the weakness, the lack of progress. Great heavens! how much longer are we to be content with ruts? Our youth is passing; in a short time it will have gone. What have we done with our years? If we had been worthy the name, we should have been done with ruts by now, they would have been paved over with a smooth white path—the path to fortune! We should have walked along it—our own road, a private road, forbidden to trespassers!”

A girl seated on an oak stool, in the shadow of the settle, raised her quiet eyes, and watched him while he spoke. She was a slim, frail thing, with hair parted in the centre and coiled flatly round her head. She had taken the lowest seat, and had drawn it into the shadow, but now she leaned forward, and the firelight searched her face. She was not beautiful, she was not even pretty, she was small and insignificant, she had made no effort to join in the conversation, and now, as John Malham finished speaking, she shrank back into her corner, and became once more a frail, shadowy shape; nevertheless, a beholder who had been vouchsafed that one glimpse would have found himself turning once and again to that shaded corner. He would have wanted to see that girl again; he would have been conscious of a strange attraction towards her; he would have asked himself curiously was it liking, or—hate?

The girl said nothing, but a man by her side punctuated the pause by a laugh. He was a handsome fellow, with a bright, quizzical face and a pair of audacious blue eyes.

“Oh, be hanged to fortune!” he cried loudly. “Be hanged to flagged paths! They’re the deepest ruts of all, if you could but see it. What’s wrong with us all is lethargy, slackness, the inability to move of our own accord. What we get matters nothing, it’s the getting that counts! Why, when I think of the whole wide world lying open, waiting, beckoning, and of fellows like myself pacing every day of our lives in a square mile cage in the City, I—I—” (he snapped his fingers in a frenzy of impatience) “I wonder how long I can carry my chains! They’ll snap some day, and I’ll be off, and it will be a long good-bye to the civilised world.”

The girl in the blue dress looked at him with wistful eyes, but she laughed more gaily than ever, and cried:

“Wait, please, till after the dance on the tenth, and when you do go, send home things to us, won’t you? Shawls and cashmeres, and embroideries. And pearls! I’ve always longed to know a real live pearl-fisher. He ought to remember us, oughtn’t he, everybody—because we’ve been so kind and patient with his vagaries? We all deserve something, but bags Me the pearls!”

“Oh, you shall have your pearls right enough,” said the handsome man, but there was a careless tone in his voice which made the promise seem worthless as sand, and he never glanced in the direction of the girl in the blue dress.

Pretty, wistful little Norah Boyce looked up quickly as if she were about to speak; thought better of it, and turned back to stare into the fire.

The girl seated on the oak stool leaned forward once again, and looked straight into the face of the handsome man. One white hand rested against her throat, a slim column of a throat, bare of ornament. Her fingers moved as though in imagination they were fingering a rope of pearls.

Buried in the depth of a great arm-chair lay the form of a giant of a man who had listened to the conversation with a sleepy smile. At this point a yawn overcame him; he struggled with it, only to find himself entangled in a second.

“I say,” he drawled lazily, “what about bed? Doesn’t that strike you as about the most sensible proposition for the moment? I know this dissatisfied feeling. No New Year’s gathering is complete without it. Best thing to get to sleep as soon as possible, and start afresh next day. Things look better after coffee and bacon. What’s the use of grizzling? If we can’t have what we want, let us like what we can get. Eh? It’s pretty certain we’ll never get what we want.”

“Are you so sure of that?” asked a quiet voice. The hostess sat erect in her seat, her graceful head with its silvering hair silhouetted against the wall. She looked round the circle of her guests, and smiled, a fine, delicate smile. “When you make that statement, Frank, you are contradicting flatly all the premises of modern thought. The time has passed for sitting still and lamenting the impossible. The time is past for calling anything impossible. The thing that a man strives for—deeply, strongly, persistently—that thing he can hovel That is the theory held by many great thinkers of to-day. And it is true.”

There was silence for a moment, while everyone looked questioningly at the figure of the speaker. The man with the tired eyes asked a question:

“I suppose that applies to women as well as to men! Have you proved it, Mrs Ingram?”

“I have proved it,” answered the quiet voice. The host leaned forward, and knocked the ash of his cigarette into the grate. His face was hidden from view. Mrs Ingram looked round with a sudden, challenging smile. “Why don’t you all prove it?” she cried. “Why don’t you all start forth on this year with an aim in view? I don’t say you will gain it in one year, or in two, or possibly in a dozen; but if you care enough to go on trying, it will be gained! It’s a question of one big aim instead of a dozen. The lesser things must go; you must become a man, a woman, of one idea. There are other things which are good and pleasant and alluring, but they must be set aside as weights which would hamper the chase. You cannot have the one big thing—and everything else! Therefore it is well to ask oneself seriously at the beginning—Is it worth while?”

Once more the guests were silent, staring into the heart of the fire. That last question, uttered in a deep, grave tone, had called to the bar those inner voices which had so long breathed envy and discontent. Each listener examined his own motives, and knew a chill of doubt, but the chill passed, and the conviction remained. Each one felt convinced that life held no good outside the coveted goal.

The silence gave assent, as Mrs Ingram realised without need of further words.

“Suppose,” she said gently, “you make me your father confessor to-night, and confess your various aims and ambitions? It is the sort of confession appropriate to a New Year’s dawn, and perhaps the very putting into words will vitalise your dreams and take them the first step towards becoming realities. You must all confess, remember! There must be no holding back; if one begins the rest must follow, and after the confessions have been made, we must pledge ourselves to help each other towards our separate goals, if not by material aids, by reinforcing his will with our own!”

The girl in blue laughed lightly, and cried: “Oh, let’s! Let’s all confess, and then, years afterwards, when we are old, and wear transformations, we’ll meet again, at the dying of the year, and sit round the Yule log, and tell the stories of our lives. And if we have failed, we will weep salt tears of disappointment; and if we have succeeded, we’ll weep more, because it’s all hollow and stuffed with bran, and we’ll make pious reflections, and sigh: ‘Oh, me! Oh, my!’ and preach sermons to the youngsters, and they won’t believe a word. And so it will all begin over again. Juliet, you set the ball rolling, by speaking of ruts. You ought to be the first to confess. What is the secret longing of your heart?”

The dark girl showed no sign of embarrassment at being chosen to lead the way. There was no sign of shrinking or hesitation upon her face; on the contrary, at the sound of that penetrating question, the careless smile died away, and her features seemed suddenly to glow with life.

“Adventure!” she cried quickly. “Give me that, and, for good or ill, I shall be satisfied. Fate made me with a vagrant’s heart shut up in a woman’s body, and for twenty-four years it’s been fed on monotony in a country parish. Since I left the schoolroom I’ve never had a real experience of my own. I’ve had trivial pleasures, never one real big joy; never”—she looked slowly, thoughtfully, from face to face—“never a grief! There’s something here”—she laid her hand on her heart—“fighting to get out! The ordinary, quiet, comfortable life would not content it. It wants more. It wants happenings, changes, excitement—it wants the big world, and I am a prisoner in the castle of convention. Mrs Ingram, how does your prophecy apply to me? How am I to get out?”

“No prison is so strong that it cannot be pulled down, Juliet. The walls of Jericho fell at the sound of the trumpet. But you must discover your own trumpet, and the walls won’t fall at the first flourish,” said Mrs Ingram, and then suddenly and incontinently she added: “Poor child!”

“Just so! Miss Juliet will certainly be one of those who will sigh: ‘Woe’s me!’ at our future merry meeting,” cried the tall man with the hawklike features, “and it’s rough on her, too, for she’s so touchingly modest in her desire. Doesn’t care a pin apparently whether she comes out better or worse! Now, for my own part, that’s all I do care for. Success! Success! that’s my mania: forging ahead, gaining on my opponents, winning the lead. Adventure doesn’t count. I’d sit at an office desk for fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, for fourteen years at a stretch, if it ensured success at the end—a big success, a success which left me head and shoulders above the ruck. I’d walk the world barefooted from one end to the other to gain a secret that was worth while. Success is my god. To gain it I would sacrifice everything else.”

“Then, of a certainty, it can be yours,” said Mrs Ingram quietly, and she looked at him with such a gentle glance that he asked her a laughing question: “Are you going to call me ‘poor child!’ too?”

“Not yet,” she said quietly. Then she turned to the big man, and laid a hand on his arm. “You next, Frank?”

“Oh, well!” he laughed good-humouredly yet with a tinge of embarrassment. “I didn’t bargain for this confession business, but since it’s the rule, I must follow suit, I suppose. I’m a commonplace beggar! I’m pretty well content with things as they come. I’m not keen on any adventures that I know of; if I can have enough to be comfortable, that’s all I want. I’d like a nice wife, and a house with a bit of garden; and a youngster or two, and a runabout car, don’t you know, and the usual accessories! That’s about all I fancy. ‘Man wants but little here below.’”

“Frank plumps for comfort,” said Mrs Ingram, smiling. “His programme sounds distinctly restful, for a change. Take care of your figure, Frank! I should suggest mowing the garden as a helpful recreation. Next, please! Claudia!”

“Oh, money, please!” cried Claudia eagerly. “Lots of money, and a safe full of jewels. Do you know, I dress on forty pounds a year all told, and a rich cousin sends me cast-offs! I take them hungrily, but I hate her for it, and when I’m a millionaire I’ll cut her dead. A German Jew stock-broker, dear, or a Maharajah of ‘something-core,’ or a soap-boiler without h’s—anyone will do if he has enough money! I’d rather not, of course, but it’s the only way! Dear people, will you all come to my wedding?”

“Claudia, you are impossible! You ought to be ashamed!”

“Yes, I should, but I’m not! Isn’t it horrid of me? If I blow very loudly, do you think I shall go off this season?”

“Claudia speaks in her usual highly coloured fashion, but there’s no doubt about her aim. She wants money, and, incidentally, all that it can buy.—Adventure. Success. Comfort. Money. We are getting plenty of variety! Rupert, what are you going to give us?”

The man with the tired eyes and the firm chin leaned forward in his seat, with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin supported in the hollow of his hands. The firelight showed the delicate network of lines round eyes and mouth, the modelling of the long curved lips.

“I—want—Love!” he said quietly, and a stir of amazement passed round the circle of listeners. He looked round and smiled, a slow, amused smile. “Surprised, aren’t you? Didn’t expect that from me; but it isn’t as simple as it sounds. I’m not thinking of Frank’s ‘nice’ wife, and a house in the suburbs, the usual midsummer madness followed by settling down to live—stodgily!—ever after. I’m speaking of something big, primal, overwhelming; something that lasts. Love comes to most men in the course of their lives, a modicum of love. The dullest dog has his day, a day uplifted, glorified, when he walks like a god. Afterwards he looks back upon it from his padded arm-chair, and smiles—a smug smile. It was a moment of madness; now he is sane, that’s his point of view; but mine happens to be precisely the opposite! To me those moments are life, the only life worth living. The rest is a sleep. If I could have what I wish, I’d choose to love, to be loved, like the great masters in the art, the lovers par excellence of the ages. I’d be willing, if needs be, to sacrifice everything else, and count the world well lost. It would be a love not only of the senses, but of the mind, of the soul, and so it would live on, undimmed by the passing of youth. That is my dream, you understand! As regards expectation, I don’t share Mrs Ingram’s optimism. It’s not only myself who is involved, you see. It is another person, and my desires are so absurdly in excess of my deserts. Who am I that I should expect the extraordinary?”

He ceased, and again the silence fell. The girl in blue bit hard on her under lip and shrank back into the shadow; the girl who had wished for adventure drew a quick gasp of excitement; the woman who had lived, and gained her desire, drew a quivering sigh. Silent, immovable, in the shadow of the settle, sat the girl in white.

“Oh, dear!” cried Claudia suddenly. “If he only had money! I’d adore beyond all things to be worshipped on a pedestal! Rupert, if an old aunt dies, and leaves you her millions,—would I do?”

That was the best of Claudia, her prattle bridged so many awkward gaps! In an instant the tension had eased, and a general laugh broke the silence. Rupert laughed with the rest, no whit embarrassed by the question.

“Not at all, Beauty,” he said calmly. “I need a great passion in return, and you are incapable of it. Most women are! I doubt if in the whole course of my life I have met one who could rise to it,” and he cast a quick glance round the group until his eyes met those of his hostess.

“Very few men would understand what you are talking about, or, if they did, would desire so demanding a romance,” Mrs Ingram told him. “The man who does will find his mate, but—he must pay the price! So we have come to Love at last! I thought it would have taken an earlier place.”

“Mrs Ingram,” cried Claudia boldly, “was that what you wished for yourself? You told us you had proved your own theories. Did you wish for love?”

“No!” said the hostess quietly. “It was not love.” She glanced across the hearth as she spoke, and her eyes and her husband’s met, and exchanged a message.

The man with the magnetic eyes burst hastily into the conversation, as if anxious to divert attention to himself.

“I suppose I come next? I’ve been questioning myself while you’ve all been talking. It’s difficult to condense one’s ambitions into just one word, but I’ve got it at last—or the one which most nearly expresses what I mean. Danger! That’s it. That’s what I want. I’m fed up with monotony, and convention, and civilisation, but I go a step farther than Miss Juliet, for I demand, so to speak, the superlative of adventure. Risk, uncertainty, the thrill, the fear! I want to take my life in my hands, to get out into the open of life, and come face to face with the unknown. Put me down as ‘Danger,’ Mrs Ingram, and when you think over all the wishes, mine really seems the easiest of fulfilment. There’s plenty of trouble knocking around, and a man need not have far to search. I think, on the whole, I’ll absolve my friends from that promise to help! It might land them in disagreeable consequences!”

“But are we expected to wish you good luck? It really is an invidious position!” cried the girl in blue. She sighed, and twisted her fingers together in her lap.

“It’s coming to my turn,” she continued, “and I’m so horribly embarrassed, for my confession sounds the most selfish of all: I want just to be happy! That’s all! But it means so much, and it’s such a difficult thing to accomplish. Don’t anyone dare to tell me that it’s in my own power, and must be manufactured inside, because I’ve heard it so often, and it’s not true! I need outside things, and I can’t be happy till I get them. But I only want them so that I can be happy, and I’d give them up in a minute if other things would have the same effect. Don’t I express myself lucidly and well? I’m a sweet, tender-hearted little girl, dear friends, and I ask for so little! Kind contributions gratefully received. Mrs Ingram dear, you won’t preach, will you?”

“Not for the world,” cried Mrs Ingram laughing. “Why shouldn’t you be happy, Meriel dear? I am sure we all wish you a short quest, and a rich harvest! And what does Norah want?”

Mrs Ingram’s voice was a trifle apologetic as she looked towards where Norah Boyce sat, turning her head from side to side to listen to the pronouncements of her fellow guests, sometimes serious, sometimes smiling, but always with that little wistful pucker of the brows which of late had become a settled expression. It seemed at the moment as if it would be more sensible to inquire what Norah did not want, for a very harvest of last straws had combined to break her back within the last two years. She was an orphan, but having been possessed of a moderate, but comfortable income (five hundred a year to wit), had contrived to lead a sufficiently full and agreeable life during the half-dozen years which had elapsed since she had left school. She paid visits, she travelled abroad with congenial friends, she had a room at a ladies’ club, and stayed frequently as paying guest with such of her friends as were not overburdened with this world’s wealth. Everyone was pleased to entertain a pretty, particularly sweet-tempered girl, and to receive five pounds a week for the privilege, for there was no meanness about Norah, she looked upon money simply as a means to an end, spent lavishly, and was as ignorant as a doll as to the investments from which her income arose. She knew by reference to her bank-book that a cheque for about a hundred pounds was due in December, and was convenient for Christmas gifts, and that another—about fifty—arrived in time for the July sales. She knew that her receipts varied, but that, of course, was the result of a Liberal Government, and would come right with its fall from power! On one occasion a cheque never came at all, and it appeared that something had gone wrong in America, and that it never would come any more. Norah felt very indignant with her trustee, and was convinced that the loss was entirely his fault. She asked pathetically what was the use of having a trustee, and felt very Christian and forbearing, because she was quite civil to him when they next met,—from all which it will be gathered that Norah Boyce was a survival of the old-fashioned, unworldly, more or less helpless young women of a past generation. She had not been trained either to work, or to think for herself; her education had not specialised on any one subject; her value in the wage-earning market was exactly nil, and before the end of her twenty-fifth year her income had fallen to nearly the same point.

It had been a year of calamity. Everything went wrong. A European war sent down the prices of stocks and shares. A railway strike at home swallowed up dividends; a bank failed; water leaked into an oil well, and dried up on a rubber plantation. Norah had no time to recover from one disaster before another burst upon her; while she was still sorrowfully digesting the fact that a summer remittance was not to hand, intelligence arrived that as regarded autumn payments, the trustee regretfully pronounced no dividends. In short, Fortune, having smiled upon the young woman for twenty-five years, had now turned her back with a vengeance, until eventually she was face to face with the fact that in future her work must be to earn, rather than to spend.

Mrs Ingram had played her usual part of confidante and consoler during the year of upheaval, and the invitation had been given with the intention of allowing “the poor little dear time to think.” It would not be tactful to exclude her from the general questioning that had sprung out of New Year confidences, but in her heart the hostess shrank from putting the question.

“And what do you want, Norah? I think it’s your turn!”

Contrary to expectation Norah did not look at all perturbed. She shrugged her shoulders, and cried instantly, “Oh, Work, of course! Plenty of work. At once. With a handsome remuneration, paid quarterly in advance! It sounds very moral and praiseworthy, but it isn’t a bit. I’m not fond of work; I’d a great deal sooner go on amusing myself in my own way. I’ve never had one scrap of longing to be a bachelor girl, and live on my own, and cook sketchy meals on a greasy stove. I detest food in the raw, and should never be able to eat it, after contending with it in its earliest stages. I’d live on tea and nuts. But it’s a got-to! I must earn money, so I must work. The trouble is to discover what I can do... I can think of thousands of things that I can’t... I can—with care—make five shillings go about as far as an ordinary person’s half-crown, so I’m not exactly suited to be a housekeeper. I couldn’t trim a hat to save my life, but I can alter one quite well. I’m clever at it. It’s generally accomplished by first sitting on it, and then putting it on in the dark. You wouldn’t believe how smart it can look! Do you think there’d be any chance of selling the patent? Or could I advertise in a fashion paper—‘Lady remodels hats to latest mode. Send orders for two and six to N.B.’? ... I can’t write a book, or paint a picture, or teach a child over three, or nurse, or massage, or type, or keep a beauty parlour—or—or—or anything that working women do do! I might offer myself to the Educational Society, as a horrible example of how a girl ought not to be brought up, and be exhibited on the platform at lectures. The work would be light, and I could wear pretty clothes, but I don’t think it would be respectful to my parents. I think I must be a ‘nice old-fashioned girl,’ but there’s no demand for old-fashioned girls to-day. Nobody wants them!”

“I don’t agree with you there, Norah. I think there’s a big demand,” Mrs Ingram said quickly, and from the men present came a deep murmur of agreement. No one present was in love with Norah Boyce herself, but all were in love with her type. She would make a charming wife, a delightful mother. To the end of her life she would probably have difficulties with cheques, and remain hopelessly mixed on political questions, but she would be a genius in the making of a home!

“You’ll find your right niche, dear, I’ve no doubt of that. You mustn’t allow yourself to despair before you begin your search.” Mrs Ingram continued smiling. “Your ambition, at any rate, is a thing in which we can all help. Please everybody remember Norah, and let her know at once if you hear of a suitable post! I think we must make a strong point of her disposition. Such a very sweet temper ought to be priced above rubies.”

“I’ll sell it cheap at three pounds a week!” said Norah ruefully, and there was a merry outburst of laughter. It died quickly, however, and a general expectation made itself felt, the echo of which sounded in Mrs Ingram’s voice.

“Only one more confession, and we have gone through our list. Lilith is hiding, as usual, but she shall not escape. Come out of your corner, you silent sprite, and tell us what gift you would ask of the Fates to-night!”

“A white moss rose!” drawled Claudia mockingly, but the ripple of laughter which usually followed her words was this time feeble and unreal.

Every eye was turned towards that darkened corner; the very fire, as though following the general example, threw up a long blue flame which flickered strangely over Lilith’s face.

She moved forward with a noiseless deliberation; first, two tiny, white-shod feet gleamed upon the oak floor, then two small hands clasped on folds of satin; last of all, the small head with the tightly swathed hair, the small, straight features, and the curious light-rimmed eyes. For a long, silent moment she sat gazing before her. Her voice when she spoke had an unexpected depth and richness.

“I want,” said Lilith slowly—“Power!”

Mrs Ingram disapproved of anachronisms, and set her face sternly against electric lighting in her ancestral home. To-night, as every night, the retiring guests helped themselves to one of a row of silver candlesticks on a table near the staircase, and lit it with a match before beginning the ascent. Lilith was the last of the ladies to receive her candle; the last to receive the salutations of the four men. She raised her face to each in turn, and gazed deep in his eyes, while their hands met and parted, and to three men out of the four came, at that moment, a vision and a dream. The man who had wished for love, thrilled at the thought of a woman’s eyes looking out of an unknown face, which yet would share some magical quality with those now looking into his own. John Malham saw in a vision an icy peak, sharp and white, and beautiful with a deadly beauty. The touch of her hand in his was cold and light as a snowflake. Val Lessing looked at the white column of her throat, and beheld round it ropes of pearls—lustrous, shimmering pearls for which a man might venture his life; but Francis, the giant, had no illusions—he was sleepy, and he thought of bed.

Alone in the great hall, husband and wife stood over the dying logs.

“Well, wonderful woman!” he said, “you have given us a wonderful evening, and now we must stand by, and watch those nine strugglers in the maelstrom. It will be interesting; it will be awful. How many of them do you suppose will win through to their goal?”

Mrs Ingram did not answer his question; she asked another of her own accord:

“Did you notice,” she said softly, “that no one, not one of them—”

“Wished your wish?” he finished for her. “Yes! I noticed!”

He laid his hands on her shoulders, and they stood together, gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.

“But,” she sighed softly, “it is the best!”

Chapter Two.

The Girl Who Wished for Money.

Claudia Berrington prided herself that if she had many faults, she had at least one supreme virtue—she was honest! She condescended to no subterfuges, no half-truths, no beatings about the bush. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth fell from her coral lips with a nakedness which astonished her hearers, and this despite the fact that few people had less consideration for honesty for honesty’s sake. There was no “I can, because I ought” in Claudia Berrington’s composition; her outspokenness was simply a means to an end. Very early in life her sharp wits had mastered the fact that honesty was the best policy, and that to speak the truth was at once to disarm criticism and to avoid the danger of pitfalls.

To Claudia’s supreme delight, she discovered that her adopted virtue was quite an asset in society. It was so uncommon, so arresting to meet a girl who really said what she meant, that it made quite a sensation, when found. People said to one another: “Have you heard Claudia’s latest?” and hung upon her lips in delighted anticipation of shocks. And Claudia duly shocked them, and enjoyed the process.

Openly, at the New Year’s party, Claudia had confessed that the one overwhelming ambition of her heart was to be rich, and as there seemed only one way in which a helpless young woman could obtain a limitless command of money, had declared herself ready to marry the highest bidder in the market. “A German Jew stock-broker, or a Maharajah of ‘something-core,’ or a soap-boiler bereft of h’s. Anyone will do!” she had cried, “if he can only give me enough.” And in a tête-à-tête with a girl friend over her bedroom fire the same night, she had repeated and defended the same statement.

“Ashamed?” she cried, “why should I be ashamed? I’m not a bit! How can I help my own nature? Most girls put love before everything else. Well, so do I; but it’s love for myself. I love myself better than any stupid young man, and I mean to make myself happy. I couldn’t be happy without money, therefore money I must have, and if I find a man who is ready and willing to give it to me, why on earth should I refuse?”

The friend looked at the fair, delicately cut face with a pang of envy.

“You are so lovely, Claudia; you’ll find him fast enough, and he’ll worship you, and think you a paragon of virtue. It is unfair! A plain-looking girl who would have loved him back, and been amiable and devoted, would have no chance, whereas you will carry all before you. It is unfair!”

“Oh, I’ll be quite sweet to him. I’ll have to be, to keep him in a good temper. I’ll be wickedly extravagant, you see, like all nouveaux riches, and I detest rows! Don’t you worry about the man, dear. He’ll be happy enough. So long as I get all I want, I’m quite easy to live with!”

“No one gets all one wants in life, Claudia,” said the friend tritely. “All the money in the world can’t protect you from the troubles which enter every life!”

“Perhaps not; but it can gild them! If I’m bound to have troubles, let me have them de luxe. A million or two can make anything picturesque. All the difference between sables and bombazine. Shouldn’t I look sweet, Meriel, as a widow, with a Marie Stuart bonnet and a cloak of priceless sables? He might die, you know! You never can tell!”

Then Meriel had arisen and swept scornfully from the room, and Claudia had laughed, and yawned, and gone to bed.

Several men proposed to Claudia during the next two years, only to be rejected with a finality which left no ground for appeal, and then, soon after the celebration of her twenty-fifth birthday, John Biggs appeared upon the scene. He was neither a Maharajah nor a German Jew, and he knew nothing whatever about soap-boiling. Probably in early years he had hardly been better acquainted with soap itself! He was an Australian by birth; a man of the people, who by a series of lucky chances had first discovered a gold reef, and then secured it for his own. A born fighter, he had experienced a delight in every step on the road to success, which was strangely lacking when the summit was reached. He was a multi-millionaire; he owned more money than he could spend. The battle had been fought and won, and henceforth life stretched before him barren of interest. He made his way to London, as millionaires have a habit of doing, was eagerly welcomed by a certain section of society, and in the course of a few weeks met Miss Berrington at a musical “At Home.”

“Who’s the Ogre?” asked Claudia of her companion as she watched the entrance of the big, lumbering man, who still carried his dress clothes with an air of discomfort. She shuddered daintily. “He looks like, ‘The better to eat you, my dear.’ Such teeth oughtn’t to be allowed! Has he any eyes? They are so buried in fat that one can’t see. It’s very inconsiderate of Lady Rollo to give us such shocks! If he comes over here, I shall scream!”

“That’s Biggs, the Australian millionaire, the third richest man in the world, so they say. He is an ugly beggar, and as glum as he’s ugly. Doesn’t appear to get much fun out of his pile! There’s no need to be introduced to him, Miss Berrington, if you’d rather not. Shall we go and hide in the conservatory?”

The speaker was a recent acquaintance, sufficiently under the spell of Claudia’s dimples to believe her everything that was disinterested and simple. Her reply gave him a shock.

“A millionaire, is he? That covers a multitude of—teeth! I shan’t scream, after all. No; I don’t want to hide. I’ve a penchant for millionaires! I’ll sit here and look pretty! How long do you give him, Mr Bruce, before he asks for an introduction?”

Mr Bruce gave him ten minutes, but, as a matter of fact, it was only seven and a half by the clock before the Ogre was bowing before the Beauty’s sofa, and being smilingly welcomed to a seat by her side. He was portentously ugly! Claudia, regarding him with her long green eyes, thought she had never before beheld so unattractive a man. “Flabby dabby” was her not inappropriate mental definition, but the small grey eyes looking out of the vast mass of flesh were disconcertingly keen and alert. Claudia realised that her description did not apply to the man’s mind, however aptly it might fit his body.

As for John Biggs, no words could describe his admiration of this wonderful new specimen of womanhood. Never in all his life had he beheld anyone so fair, so exquisite, so ethereal. Her hair was like threads of gold. The exquisite fineness and beauty of her complexion was like that of a child. It seemed a miracle in the eyes of the big, rough man that a grown-up woman should preserve such delicacy of charm. Yet as they exchanged the first commonplaces of conversation there was something in the expression of those sunken eyes which was not wholly approving. They seemed to Claudia like small steel gimlets, piercing into her soul! As he bade her good-bye that evening, John Biggs announced coolly:

“I shall see you again on Thursday, as arranged!” and when Claudia exclaimed, he waved aside her protests with a sarcastic laugh.

“You have been at pains to tell me exactly what you are to be doing every day of this week! Didn’t you intend me to meet you?”

Claudia shrugged her shoulders, and took refuge in her usual honesty.

“Well—I did! But you might have pretended that I didn’t. It’s rather unkind to show that you see through my poor little machinations with such ease.”

“I never pretend,” said John Biggs. His eyes rested on the string of imitation pearls encircling the slender neck, and he spoke again, roughly, insolently: “Why do you deck yourself with sham beads?”

“Because I have nothing better, of course. What a stupid question to ask!”

“You ought to wear emeralds,” he said. “They are the stones for you, with your complexion and eyes. You ought to wear emeralds. Ropes of emeralds.”

“I intend to!” answered Claudia calmly.

Their eyes met, and they stared at one another; a cold and challenging stare.

During the next fortnight Society watched with interest the progress of the affair between “Beauty and the Beast,” and speculation was rife as to its outcome. Would he propose; and, if so, would she—could she accept? It seemed impossible to her friends that even Claudia, the mercenary, could sell herself to this ogre-like man. But Claudia herself had no hesitation.

On the fifteenth day after their introduction, the couple sat together under a tree at one of the outdoor functions of the year, and John Biggs asked a sudden question:

“What did you think of me,” he asked, “when you first saw me that evening at the Rollos’?”

Claudia smiled at him with the sweetness of an angel.

“I thought,” she said, “you were the ugliest man I had ever seen!”

“And yet,” he said sneering, “you made eyes at me across the room. You willed me to come and be introduced!”

“Yes, I did. But that,” said Claudia serenely, “was because you were rich.”

The gimlet-like eyes stared long and straight at the lovely face, beneath the rose-crowned hat.

“I think,” John Biggs said deliberately, “you are the most soulless human creature on earth! That lovely body of yours is a shell—a beautiful shell with nothing inside. You have no soul!”

“I don’t want one, thank you. They’re such a bother. Why are you so cross with me all of a sudden?” cried Claudia, making a delightful little moue of childlike injury and distress. “I’ve been so nice to you all this time, and it’s mean to ask questions, and then get cross when I tell you the truth.”

“You are false!” he replied coldly. “Your honesty is a blind to hide the falseness beneath. There is nothing true, nor straight, nor honest about you.” And then bending nearer, so that his huge brown face almost touched her own, he hissed a question into her ear: “Claudia—will you marry me?”

Claudia gave a trill of birdlike laughter.

“Yes, please!” she cried gaily. “But what a funny proposal! You don’t ‘lead up’ a bit well. They are generally so flattering and nice, and you were horrible. Why do you want to marry me, if you disapprove of me so much?”

“Why do you want to marry me?” he asked in return. There was no lover-like ardour in his voice; the sunken eyes gleamed with a mocking light; every tooth in his head seemed to show as he bent over her. “Is it because you love me, Claudia?”

“N-ot exactly,” said Claudia, with a gulp. His nearness gave her a momentary feeling of suffocation, but she braced herself to bear it without shrinking. “N-ot exactly; but I love the things you can give me! It’s a fair exchange, isn’t it? You want a hostess; I want a home. You don’t pretend to love me, either!”

Then suddenly his eyes blazed upon her.

“Not you, perhaps, but your beauty! I worship your beauty,” he cried. “Your beauty has driven me mad! Make no mistake, my girl, you don’t deceive me—you are not worth loving, not even worth buying, though you are so ready to sell your dainty pink and white self, but I am going to buy you all the same. I’ve worked hard for my money, and I can afford to indulge myself in worthless trifles if it suits my fancy. It is, as you say, a fair exchange. You want my money, I want your beauty. I have worked among grim sights; now, for a change, I shall look upon—You!” He stretched out his great hand, and laid it beside hers. “Hide and satin! Who would believe that we belonged to the same species! You’re a dainty morsel, my dear. We shall make a pretty pair.”

Claudia looked at him, and felt a shrinking of heart.

“You’ll be good to me?” she asked him. “You’ll promise not to quarrel, or be stingy? You won’t make me marry you, and then put me on an allowance, or fuss about bills? You’ll promise faithfully!”

“You shall have as much money as you can spend. You’re an object de luxe, my dear, and shall be shielded carefully in your glass case. I’m not a fool to buy a curio, and not look after its preservation. Take care of your beauty! Deck it up! It’s mine! I’ve bought it—see that I get my price!”

He lifted his hand and stroked the exquisite cheek. Seen close at hand, the fineness and smoothness of the skin was even more wonderful than from afar. He gripped the chin between finger and thumb, and turned her face to his, staring greedily at each curve and line. In appearance, as in manner, Claudia went in for honesty. There was no artificiality about her beauty, not even a brush of powder upon the skin. The man who had just settled his terms regarded his purchase with kindling eyes.

“I’ll buy you your emeralds, my beauty, the finest emeralds I can find,” he cried. “Everyone shall talk of you; everyone shall envy you. The Queen of Beauty, Mrs John Biggs!”

Claudia Biggs had been married for two years, and had flourished like the proverbial bay-tree. Her wedding had been one of the smartest functions of the season, her honeymoon had been spent in a lordly castle “lent for the occasion” by its titled owner. As Mrs John Biggs, she had made her presentation curtsey to her sovereign in a gown whose magnificence was the talk of the town; every house that was worth visiting threw open its doors to the millionaire and his wife, and Society flocked to the entertainments given by them in their turn. There had been those who had prophesied disaster from the marriage, who had felt convinced that Claudia would not be able to endure so close a companionship with her Ogre, but as time passed on they were obliged to confess their mistake, for Claudia bloomed into an amazing, an almost incredible, beauty. She had always been lovely, but the loveliness of Claudia the maid was as nothing compared with that of Claudia the wife. What had been, as it were, a flower of the wayside, had become the most rare and costly of exotics, tended with every extravagance of care. The most exquisite garments, the most costly gems, were showered upon her by a husband who took no account of money spent on the adornment of the beauty for which he had paid so high a price; but if he were generous in the fulfilment of his promise, he insisted that Claudia should do her own share. She must be sparing in food and drink, she must take regular exercise; she must keep early hours, and retire to the country for specified periods of rest. John commanded, and, after one memorable attempt at rebellion, Claudia had silently obeyed. She never voluntarily recalled that occasion, but from time to time it visited her in dreams, and then she awoke screaming, as from a nightmare.

At the end of two years, the girl friend who had lectured Claudia on the night of her confession that she wanted money came to pay a visit to the Mayfair mansion, afire with eagerness to see with her own eyes this strangely matched pair. Claudia was lazy about correspondence, and on the rare occasions when she did exert herself to write, her letters were stiff and artificial. She was aware of her own lack of epistolary skill, and was in the habit of referring her friends to the Society papers for news of her doings. “They’ll tell you all about my dresses,” she would say serenely, and following her advice her friends read accounts of wonderful brocades embroidered with real jewels, of trains composed of cloth of gold, and cobweb creations of lace, whose value ran high in four figures, and they laughed to themselves as they read, recalling the old days and the rich cousin’s “cast-offs.”

Certainly Claudia could now claim to be one of the most gorgeously dressed women in society, but—was she happy? Meriel, who was of a romantic and sensitive temperament, recalled the appearance of John Biggs as he had appeared at the wedding ceremony: the gross bulk of the man, the projecting teeth, the small eyes glowing like points of light, the large coarse face; remembering, she shuddered at the remembrance, and for the hundredth time repeated the question—was it possible that Claudia could know happiness with such a mate?

Meriel arrived at the Mayfair mansion late one March afternoon, and was escorted up a magnificent staircase into an equally magnificent drawing-room on the first floor. Everything on which the eyes rested was costly and beautiful, but, looking around with dazzled eyes, Meriel realised that this was but a show-room, an enlarged curio case, in which were exhibited isolated objects of value. There was no harmony about the whole, no skilful blending of effect; the loving touch which turns a house into a home was missing here. The perfect specimens stood stiffly in their places, there was no sign of occupation, not so much as a book lying upon a chair.

The first impression was undoubtedly disappointing, but presently the door opened, and Claudia herself appeared on the threshold, and ran forward, impulsive, loving, and unaffected as in the days of her obscurity.

“Meriel! Oh, Meriel! It is ripping to see you again, you dear, nice old thing! I’m ever so pleased you could come. I don’t often have visitors. I’m bored with visitors, but I wanted you. And you look just the same; not a bit older. I always did say you had the sweetest eyes in the world—and the ugliest hats! Meriel darling, I shall take you at once to my milliner’s.”

“No good, my dear, I’ve no money to spend. Besides, what’s the use of worrying about clothes while I’m with you? I’m bound to look the veriest frump in comparison, so why worry any more? We are not all the wives of millionaires.”

“No! Isn’t it a pity? I do wish you were. Sit down, dear, and we’ll have tea.”

Claudia touched the electric bell and seated herself on a sofa a little to the left of her friend’s chair, looking towards her with a smile in which complacency was tinged with a touch of anxiety.

“How do I look?”

Meriel looked, laughed, and waved her hands in the air with a gesture meant to convey the inadequacy of words.

“A vision! A dream. Snow white. Rose red. A fairy princess. A diamond queen. Quite unnecessarily and selfishly beautiful, my dear, and as sleek as a well-stroked cat! Really, Claudia, you’ve eclipsed yourself!”

“Oh, have I? You think so really? Honestly, you think so? Meriel, you are a dear; I do love you!” cried Claudia, and Meriel noticed with amazement that there was unfeigned relief in her voice. It was a new development for Claudia to show any uncertainty concerning her own charms!

Throughout the meal which followed Meriel was absorbed in admiration of the beautiful creature who sat beside her; her unaccustomed eyes dwelt with something like awe upon the costly intricacies of her attire, the limpid purity of the gems which glittered on the white hands. Claudia’s clothing expressed the last word in smartness, but she had not been infected by the modern craze for powder and rouge. The beauty of her face and hair were due to nature alone, but, despite the warmth, of her friend’s admiration, she herself seemed to feel some uncertainty as to their effect. From time to time she craned her head to study herself in a mirror which hung upon the wall, and at each glance her forehead wrinkled. Meriel pushed her chair slightly to the left so that she also might see that reflection, and discovered with amusement that the cause of this perturbation was a slight pink flush which rose above the lace collar, and touched the base of the cheek; she bit her lips to restrain a smile, realising with increased amusement that ever since she had entered the room Claudia had skilfully manoeuvred to hide this trifling disfigurement from observation. What a bore to be a society belle who was obliged to worry seriously about a trifle which would probably disappear in the course of a few hours!

The two friends were talking merrily together when the door opened, and John Biggs entered the room. He was slightly thinner, a thought more presentable than of yore, but the small eyes had lost none of their sunken gleam. Meriel had to keep a strong control over herself to hide her shuddering dislike as his hand touched hers, but she acknowledged that he was a gracious host, and that she had no cause to find fault with the manner in which he gave her welcome. The greetings over, she discovered that Claudia had taken advantage of the breathing space to move her chair to the opposite side of the small tea-table, so that her husband from his arm-chair should see her to the best advantage, and the disfigurement of that slight rash should be inflicted upon the guest rather than upon himself. It struck Meriel as a pretty, almost a touching action, and she watched eagerly to discover if it were possible that the miracle of love had united this husband and wife.

First for the husband—his conversation was addressed as in duty bound mainly to his guest, but ever and anon his eyes returned to his wife, and dwelt upon her, fascinated, absorbed, as though of all the treasures which the room contained she was in his sight the most priceless of all. Then for the wife—a slight but very perceptible change had come over Claudia’s manner since the moment of his entrance. Her affectation of candour disappeared, an air of caution and reserve enveloped her like a mist. She gave the altogether new impression of considering her words, of shaping them continually to please the ears of her audience. Yet she had shown her old outspokenness during the first few minutes of the interview, had for instance had no hesitation in condemning the ugliness of Mend’s hat. Obviously then it was her husband whom she was considering, not her guest. Once more Meriel commended the attitude; once more hope raised her head. She addressed herself to her host in quite a cordial and friendly manner.

“I have been telling Claudia that she has eclipsed all her former records! She is looking younger, and more brilliant than I have ever seen her.”

John Biggs looked at his wife, and his eyes gleamed. What did that gleam mean? Did it mean love, the love which a man might naturally be supposed to cherish for a wife so young and lovely?

It was Meriel’s nature to believe in her fellow creatures, and she told herself that of course it meant love. What else could it be? It was imagination only which had read into that glance something cold and cruel, a triumph of possession more malignant than tender. When Claudia rose to escort her friend to her room, there came the first note of discord, for her husband rose too, and as she would have passed by stretched out one great hand to detain her, while with the other he held her chin, turning her face so that the pink rash was deliberately exposed to his gaze. A moment before it had been hardly noticeable, but at that touch the pink flush faded from Claudia’s cheek, leaving her so pallid that the disfigurement was increased by contrast.

“Still there, I notice!” he said shortly, and then with a certain brutality of emphasis: “Get rid of that!” he cried deeply. “Get rid of it. And quickly. Do you hear?”

“Yes, John,” Claudia said, and there was a breathless catch in her voice, as though his words filled her with fear.

Meriel marvelled still more!

Later on that evening, Meriel repaired to her friend’s room to indulge in one of those hair-brushing tête-à-têtes dear to the feminine soul.

“Well, Claudia,” she began, a touch of something approaching envy sounding in her voice, “you at least have gained what you wished for! You plumped for money, and you have more than you can spend. Do you find the experience as satisfactory as you expected?”

Claudia smiled, and leaned back luxuriously against her cushions.

“Oh, quite!” she cried emphatically. “After two years’ experience, I am still of the opinion that it is the only thing that matters. It’s wonderful what money can do, Meriel; it’s magical! Good people talk of greater gifts that you may get if you are good and self-denying, and have a dull time, but they are all in the clouds, and money is so delightfully, so tangibly real!” She glanced round the beautiful room, then down to the little ringed hand stretched out to the fire; she moved her fingers to and fro, so that the flames might wake the sparkle of gems, and heaved a sigh of luxurious content. “I used to long for things that I could not have; now I never need to long, for they are mine as soon as I think of them! How can one help being happy, when one has everything one wants?”

“There are some things that money cannot buy.” Once more Meriel could not resist echoing the truism of centuries, but Claudia shook her head with laughing contradiction.

“Rubbish! Don’t you believe it! Anyway, money can buy such good imitations that you can’t tell them from real! It can do more than that. It—” She paused, with a sudden intake of breath, and her voice sank to a deeper note: “It can cover things up!”

Meriel’s eyes shot a curious glance. Through the evening she had studied the husband and wife with a puzzled scrutiny, and now, at the end of it, she felt as far as ever from solving the mystery which she sensed as lying beneath the surface. Claudia’s manner to her husband was gay and charming, but in the midst of her lightest badinage the friend of her youth had discerned an effort, a strain, an almost painful endeavour to win his approval.

And he? Nothing could be more marked than the man’s care for his beautiful wife. Why was it that through all his elaborate attentions there lurked a cold, a sinister effect?

“But what can you have that you wish to cover, Claudia?” Meriel inquired. “By your own confession, you have only to wish and it is yours, and you have a devoted husband who looks after you as if you were the most fragile of hothouse flowers. It’s absurd, you know, for you were always as strong as a horse! That transparent look of yours is a delusion; but how upset he seemed, poor man, because your cheek was just a little inflamed to-night.”

Claudia straightened herself; an involuntary shiver shook her slight form. Her voice had a nervous ring:

“It’s nothing—it’s nothing!” she cried. “Just spring, and these horrid east winds. But it won’t go! I’ve tried a dozen things; and he hates it—he hates any fuss or illness! I must never be ill, or have anything that spoils. There’s this ball coming on next week, and I am to be the Ice Queen. I must get my face better before then! I’ve got the most wonderful dress. He planned it for me. He is determined there shall be nothing to touch it in the room. Goodness knows the amount he has spent upon it! I simply daren’t look anything but my best!”

“My dear Claudia!” Meriel’s voice was full of protest. “What nonsense you talk! You are very beautiful, my dear, but you can’t expect an eternal perfection! You must have your ups and downs like other people, and grow old in your turn, and lose your hair and complexion, and grow withered and toothless!”

Claudia leaped to her feet with a gesture which was almost fierce in its intensity.

“Be quiet!” she cried. “Be quiet! Don’t dare to speak of it. I’m young still; not twenty-seven. I’ve ages and ages ahead before I need think of growing old. And women don’t lose their beauty nowadays. They know how to keep it. They have to keep it! And I—I more than anyone!”

She crossed the room to her dressing-table, and, switching on an extra electric light, bent low to examine her face in the glass.

“It’s only a slight rash, Meriel; but it won’t go! I—I don’t know what to do about it. I’m worried to death. Do help me. Do advise. Do tell me what to do.”

It was the first time that Claudia’s friend had ever heard her appeal for help, and there was a thrill in her voice which could not be denied.

“My dear girl,” she said quickly, “I’m no good at cosmetics. My complexion has to take its chance, and nobody cares whether it’s good or bad. But if you are specially anxious to look your best at this ball, why waste time in experiments? A few guineas more or less is nothing to you. Go to-morrow to consult the first skin specialist in London.”

Claudia looked at her, a long, thoughtful look. She began to speak and checked herself, subduing as it were a bidden fear. Then she nodded slowly, once and again.

“I will!” she said firmly. “I will. It’s folly putting it off. I’ll telephone at once, and make an appointment.”

The examination was over. A longer and more exhaustive examination than seemed necessary for so slight a cause. The specialist stood hesitating, his face puckered in thought.

Claudia smiled at him with her most dazzling smile.

“You think you can make me quite better for the ball?”

He looked at her swiftly, and as swiftly looked away.

“That is a very short time. I am afraid I can hardly promise that.”

“How soon can you make me better?”

“These skin troubles are sometimes lengthy affairs. It will be necessary for you to have a course of treatment. I should like to see Mr—er—your husband, and talk the matter over with him.”

But at that Claudia swept forward with a commanding air.

“It is impossible! I forbid it! He does not know that I am here to-day. He must not know! If there is anything to be done, I must do it without his knowledge! I cannot tell him. I dare not tell him: What is it that is wrong with my face? It is only a little rash. Why do you look at me like that? For God’s sake say that it won’t take long, that it won’t get worse; that I shall be able to—to hide it from him; to keep my beauty! What is the matter? Why don’t you speak? You must tell me. If you know! Whatever it is I must bear it alone! I daren’t tell him—he must never know!”

The great doctor turned away his face. His lips moved, once and again, before at last the dread word echoed through the room:

“Lupus!”

Chapter Three.

The Girl who Wished for Adventure.

The girl who had wished for adventure journeyed back to her native village two days after the New Year’s party, and spent the following eighteen months in tramping monotonously along a well-worn rut. The only difference made by that oft-remembered conference was in her point of view. Before that date she had sighed for the unattainable; after it, the unattainable became the possible. Some day, if she but waited, opportunity would come; some day the end of a thread would float downward towards her hand, and grasping it, she would be led into a new world! To the best of her power, she cultivated this attitude, and each monotonous month, as it dragged past, added strength to her determination to snatch the first opportunity that came her way.

At the end of eighteen months the girl packed up her trunk, and left home to pay a dull visit to a great-aunt.

“Don’t expect me to write letters,” she said to her family at parting, and the family groaned in chorus, and cried: “Please, don’t! It’s quite enough for one of us to be victimised. Spare us the echoes of Aunt Eliza! Just send a postcard when you’re coming back.”

Great-aunt Eliza was a daunting old lady who prided herself upon speaking the truth.

“Goodness! How you have gone off,” was the first remark which she hurled at her great-niece’s head, after the conventional greetings had been exchanged. She poured out a cup of strong, stewed tea, and offered a slice of leathery muffin. “And you used to be quite nice looking!”

Juliet smiled with the laboured brightness of a wallflower in a ballroom, and said, but did not for a moment mean:

“I’m growing old, Aunt Eliza.”

“You are, my dear,” agreed Aunt Eliza. “Twenty-eight, is it, or twenty-nine? And three other girls at home. Pity you haven’t married! Your father will have precious little to leave.”

Juliet, who was twenty-six, and had never had a real definite proposal, smiled more laboriously than before, but the muffin tasted bitter as gall.

On the third day of the visit, Aunt Eliza read a letter at the breakfast-table, and said suavely:

“I shall have to curtail your visit, my dear! Cousin Maria Phillips writes that she is in the neighbourhood, and wishes to come over to see me. I can’t refuse to receive Maria, but two guests would upset the servants. You must come again later on. Perhaps there are some other friends you would like to visit?”

Juliet replied haughtily that there were many other friends. When would Aunt Eliza wish—

“Oh, there’s no hurry. Perhaps to-morrow,” said the old lady calmly. “This afternoon, my dear, I want you to go to the hospital for me. I distribute flowers in the Mary Wright Ward every Thursday, but I have a slight cold to-day, and daren’t venture out. Be ready by three, and the brougham will take you there. You can walk home.”

At half-past three o’clock, therefore, Juliet entered the long bare stretch of the Mary Wright Ward, dedicated to female surgical cases, and passed from bed to bed, distributing little bunches of drooping flowers affixed to little white cards inscribed with texts. The patients accorded but a lukewarm welcome to these offerings, but were unaffectedly pleased to welcome the handsome girl whose coming made a break in the monotonous day. Some of the patients were sitting upright against their pillows, progressed so far towards convalescence as to be able to enjoy a chat; others could only give a wan smile of acknowledgment; at the extreme end of the ward the sight of a screened-off bed told its own sad tale.

The woman in the nearest occupied bed related the story in a stage aside.

“Accident case, brought in this morning. Dying, they think! Run over by a motor in the street. And only a bit of a girl like yourself! Mumbles a bit at times, delirious-like—nothing you can understand. There! she’s beginning again!”

The sound of the thin, strained voice sent a shiver down Juliet’s spine, for there was in it a note which even her unaccustomed ears recognised. She turned to depart, with the natural shrinking of the young and healthy, but her haste made her careless, and the remaining bunches of flowers tilted out of her basket and rolled along the polished floor. Those that had fallen the farthest were almost touching the screen, and as Juliet bent to pick them up the mumbled voice seemed suddenly to grow into distinctness.

It was a number that the voice was mumbling; number whispered over and over.

“Eighty-one! ... Eighty-one! ... Grosvenor. Are you there? ... Eighty-one, are—you—there?”

The mumbling died away, rose again, was lost in groans. Despite the weakness and the haste, the listener realised a quality in the voice which differentiated it from those of the other occupants of the ward. It was the voice of a woman of education and refinement, a woman belonging to her own class.

Juliet shivered, and, clutching her flowers, walked quickly down the ward. Half-way down its length she met the Sister, and put a tentative question, to which was vouchsafed a cool, professional reply:

“Yes. Very sad! Internal injuries. Sinking rapidly. Evidently a girl in good circumstances.”

“Do you know her name—anything about her?”

The Sister shrugged slightly.

“Her clothes are marked ‘Alice White,’ and she had some American addresses and steamship tickets in her purse. The Lusitania landed her passengers this morning. She has said nothing coherent, and, of course, cannot be questioned. The matron is making inquiries—”

At that moment the quiet of the ward was broken by a sound of a cry of terrible import. Juliet quailed before it, and the Sister, darting forward, disappeared behind the screen.

Alas for Alice White, who but a few hours ago had been young and strong, and heedless of disaster! Juliet descended the staircase of the hospital thrilling with horror at the remembrance of that cry, her mind seething with agitated questions. Who was Alice, and who—a thrill of excitement ran through her veins—who was Eighty-one, Grosvenor, with whom the dying girl’s thoughts had sought communion?

Grosvenor? That meant London. Alice White, then, had friends in London. Would it not be better to communicate with them, rather than with mere officials in an office?

At the door of the great building, Juliet hesitated and turned from the street as if to retrace her steps. Should she go back to the Mary Wright Ward, tell the Sister what she had overheard, and suggest telephoning forthwith? For a moment the suggestion found favour, then, with her foot outstretched to remount the first step, she drew back and walked rapidly away. In the flash of a moment it had darted into her brain as a crystallised resolution to give her information into no second hand, but to go herself to the nearest call office and ring up Eighty-one Grosvenor. The woman in the nearest bed had spoken of mutterings. The sister had caught no coherent words. If death had immediately followed her own interview, it seemed probable that no one but herself had overheard the number.

Juliet’s eyes brightened, and a flush of colour showed in her cheeks. The information received might be of the driest; the sequel of reporting it to the hospital authorities promised but small excitement; nevertheless, in her uneventful life, small things counted as great, and the touch of uncertainty fired her blood.

She seated herself in the little boxed-off room, and at the end of ten minutes’ wait received an affirmative answer to the oft-repeated question.

“Yes. This is Eighty-one, Grosvenor. Who is speaking?”

Though she had waited so long, Juliet was still pondering how to word her inquiries. It seemed useless to mention an unknown name, so on the impulse of the moment she decided to give a simple account of the accident.

“Alice White—” She was about to add—“has been mortally injured,” or some such statement, when, cutting swiftly across her words, came a cry of relief from the other end of the wire:

“Alice White! At last! We’ve been expecting to hear from you all day. It’s urgent. Why didn’t you wire?”

“I—I—” Juliet stammered in confusion, and the voice, a woman’s voice, interrupted again, in a sharp, businesslike accent:

“Never mind now. You can explain later. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s right! Then listen to me, and give your answers in monosyllables. I will spell any names you miss, if you ask me to repeat. Don’t attempt to pronounce them yourself, but write them down in a note-book. There must be no mistake. Are you ready?”

“One moment.” Juliet had no note-book, but a search in her bag found a pencil and the blank page of a letter. “Ready!”

“You are ready to write instructions? I have been keeping over a case until your arrival, as it seemed in your line. It is urgent. Nice people. Comfortable surroundings. You would stay in the house as a guest. Can you go on first thing to-morrow?”

For one second, barely a second, Juliet hesitated; then the answer came, short and sharp:

“I can!”

“That’s good! Go to the station to-day, and look up your route. There will be several changes. Have you your pencil? Write down ‘Maplestone—Antony Maplestone.’ Have you got it? ‘The Low House.’ L-o-w. ‘Nunkton.’ N-u-n-k-t-o-n. ‘Great Morley.’ ‘Maplestone, The Low House, Nunkton, Great Morley.’ Have you got that? Go on to-morrow by the first train. I will wire to Mr Maplestone to expect you. He will explain the case. Are you all right for money? Take your best clothes, as for a country visit. Report to me in the course of a week. Do your best. Good chance for you. (Yes, I’ve nearly finished. I’ve not had my three minutes.) You understand, Miss White? You quite understand?”

“I quite understand,” said Juliet, and sat down heavily on the chair beside the receiver.

How had it happened? How much was she to blame? From the moment of that first interruption it seemed as if she had had no chance to explain. Without any preconceived intention of taking the injured girl’s place, she had done so, as it were, without volition of her own. The spirit of adventure, so long nourished, had grasped at the opportunity, before the slower brain had had time to decide on its action.

Juliet drew a deep breath, and stared with dilated eyes at the opposite wall. “How could I?” she asked herself, breathlessly. “How dared I? How can I?” And then, with a bursting laugh, “But I will!” she cried, and leaped nimbly to her feet.

“Urgent! Nice people! Good chance! A guest in the house!” Her lips moved in repetition of the different phrases as she walked rapidly back in the direction of the hospital. She knitted her brows in the effort to understand, to reconcile contradictions. What was this Alice White, and on what mission had she crossed the ocean? And who was Eighty-one, Grosvenor, who issued orders as to a subordinate, and gave instructions as to reports?

Only one thing seemed certain, and that was that it would be many a long day, if ever, before poor Alice White was fit to take up any work, however interesting. Remembering that last choking cry, it seemed probable that even now—Juliet resolutely stifled further questionings until once more she stood within the portals of the hospital, and made her inquiries of the porter. He retired, and returned, after a few minutes’ absence, with a face appropriately lengthened.

“Gone, miss! Directly you left. Went off in a moment.”

Juliet nodded, and turned back to the street. What exactly had she intended to do had Alice White still been alive? Honestly, she did not know! It seemed as though she would never be able to answer that question. She waved it impatiently aside. Why trouble about might-have-beens? The girl was dead! The only question of importance which now remained was, what was she herself going to do?

Juliet thought of the long years of boredom and waiting which had made up her life; she thought of her dull, comfortable home; of her dull, comfortable visits, and longingly, daringly, she thought of the interesting “case” which was “urgent,” and a “good chance.” She recalled with a tingling of excitement her aunt’s morning announcement, which necessitated her own departure on the morrow.

“I could go over to Nunkton, and see what it meant. If there was anything I didn’t like I could move on at once to the Blakes. No one need know; no one need guess. Even if I stayed for a few days, it could be arranged!” She stopped short in the middle of the pavement, and drew a deep breath of excitement.

“It’s my chance!” she cried to herself. “The chance I’ve been waiting for! Whatever happens, whatever comes of it—I shall go!”

The next day Juliet set forth on her voyage of adventure, with the mingling of elation and nervousness inevitable under the circumstances. Remindful of telephone instructions, she attired herself with especial care, and was agreeably conscious that she looked her best. A travelling costume as smart as it was simple, a trig little hat, with just one dash of colour at the side to give the needed cachet and emphasise the tints of the face beneath. “Really quite a creditable face!” she told herself, smiling back at a reflection of grey eyes thickly fringed with black lashes, curling, humorous lips, and the prettiest flush of pink—genuine, washable pink—upon the cheeks. “If I were happy, if I were interested, I might be almost—beautiful,” she told herself with a sigh. “Every woman grows plain when she is superfluous and alone.”

Seated in the train, drawing near to her destination, Juliet found herself repeating the words over and over, like a child rehearsing a lesson. “Alice White,” cried the mental voice, “Alice White,” and again, “Alice White. It’s my name! I must answer to it. I must give it when asked. I am Alice White, professional something—I don’t know what. I am obeying a telephone summons meant for someone else, and, if I don’t want to be discovered within five minutes of my arrival, I must keep my wits about me, and think seventeen times at least before I utter a word. I’m to be met at the station and treated as one of the family, and to remember that appearance is a strong point, and wear my best clothes...” She knitted her brows, and for the hundredth time endeavoured to reach a solution of the mystery. “I can’t be a sick-nurse; the clothes settle that. If it had been that, I should have had to confess at once. But in other capacities I’m intelligent, I’m experienced, I’m willing. I’m more than willing—I’m eager! There’s no reason why I should not do as well as the real Alice. After all, it’s quite a usual thing to take up work under a professional name. Writers do it, artists, actors; there can be no harm in using the poor girl’s name, if I do my best with her work.”

The train drew up at the station, a small, flowery country station, and, opening the door, Juliet stepped lightly to the ground. Her carriage had been at the end of the train, and the length of platform stretched before her. A glance showed a solitary porter approaching the luggage van; one commanding figure of an unusually big man, in a tweed knickerbocker suit; and, farther off still, by the door of the booking-office, two ladies in navy-blue costumes, apparently awaiting the arrival of friends. At the extreme end of the train another door opened, and an elderly man carrying a bag made a heavy descent to the platform. The ladies stood motionless; the man in tweeds hurried towards where Juliet stood. She looked at him anxiously, met the glance of a pair of level brown eyes, and was instantly conscious of two things concerning his state of mind. He was embarrassed; he was also agreeably relieved. The next moment he was facing her, and was holding out his hand.

“Miss White?”

“Yes.”

“I am Antony Maplestone.”

“Oh!”

Juliet was conscious that her own sensations exactly duplicated those of her companion. She was embarrassed; she was also agreeably relieved, for if adventure were to be her portion, no girl could have wished for a more attractive stage manager to initiate her into her part. She stood blushing and smiling, wondering what to say next, subconsciously aware the while that, by placing his tall form between her and the end of the platform, Maplestone was designedly screening her from the scrutiny of the blue-robed dames.

“I have a dog-cart waiting,” he said hastily. “I’m going to drive you home, and explain things en route; my man will look after your boxes. Er—there’s just one thing—” The air of embarrassment grew more marked; a flush showed in his cheeks. “It’s a nuisance; there are two women over there—neighbours; I’m afraid I’ll be obliged to introduce you. Do you think, for a few minutes, until we can escape, you could manage to look a little—intimate?” His voice, his look, were so full of apology at the suggestion, that Juliet’s surprise gave way to amusement. She laughed, a bright girlish laugh, and said, “Certainly!” in crisp, matter-of-fact tones which were evidently a vast relief to her companion. He stepped quickly to one side, as if anxious that her smiling face should be seen by others besides himself, and led the way down the platform, inclining his head towards her with an air of deepest solicitude. “You have had a comfortable journey?”

“Oh, yes,” Juliet nodded gaily, responding readily to his cue. He wished her to talk, he wished the watching women to believe that this was no first meeting, but a reunion of friends. For some unknown reason it was necessary to his interests that they should receive this impression. Very well, then, it should be done. “Alice White” was not going to fail in the first call upon her.

“Oh, yes, quite comfy. I had a tea basket. China tea. Did you know you could get China tea in baskets? And a ducky little pot of jam, all to myself. Isn’t this station pretty? Such sweet flowers!”

They were close to the ticket office by this time. The man’s eyes flashed a look of gratitude and appreciation. He laid a light touch on her arm, and brought her to a stand before the waiting women.

“Here she is! I’m not disappointed, you see. I want to introduce you to each other while I have a chance. Miss Clare Lawson, Lady Lorrima, Miss Bridges.”

Juliet bowed and smiled, her senses momentarily stunned by the responsibility of yet another cognomen. Now she would have to begin all over again and train herself to be “Clare.”

The eyes of the two women were keenly critical; their words were cordial, if somewhat mysterious.

“So pleased to meet you! Quite an honour to be the first to welcome you. The Squire will be delighted!”

“I shall be delighted to see him,” Juliet declared smiling. She disliked the attitude of these women as much as she was attracted by that of the man by her side. Despite their assurances, she had a conviction that they were not pleased at her arrival; that it was a disappointment to them to find her appearance beyond criticism. The big man stood silent by her side; she divined also that he was nervous and troubled, momentarily dreading a slip on her part. She was determined to make no slip. Already she had ranked herself on his side, and felt the stirring of the true actor’s joy in making the best of his part.

The younger of the two women gave a difficult, unmirthful laugh. She was a thin, elegant-looking creature, rather over thirty, whose good looks were marred by an expression of discontent.

“Really, you know,” she cried in affected tones, “we were beginning to think that your name was Harris, and that Antony had invented you for his own convenience. It seemed so strange that he had never spoken of you before.”

Juliet’s little laugh of response was quite sweet and unruffled. “Oh, I’m very real, I assure you. A most substantial person. I’m so glad he didn’t bore you with descriptions; they lead to so much disappointment.” She held out her hand with a charming assurance. “Good-bye! Perhaps we may meet again.”

The next moment they were passing through the office, out of view of the curious eyes, and a low-toned “Bravo!” acclaimed the success of her effort. Juliet laughed in involuntary self-congratulation, and Maplestone laughed in sympathy. The two women, catching a sight of the dog-cart as it wheeled down the lane, saw the two laughing faces turned towards each other in mutual enjoyment, and the sight was not good in their eyes.

“It’s true, then; an absolute fact. And quite presentable, too. Well, Honoria, I’m sorry!”

Meanwhile Juliet was putting her first question to her companion.

“Please—why am I Clare Lawson?”

His face fell. Amusement gave place to embarrassment. “Do you object? I’m sorry to have sprung it upon you so suddenly, but—well, you had to have some name, hadn’t you? I suppose one is as good as another.”

“Perhaps so, but it’s just a trifle confusing, because—” Juliet drew herself up on the verge of an incriminating confession. “As you say, it doesn’t really matter, but I am naturally interested. Who is Clare Lawson?”

“Er—as a matter of fact, there is no such person. I invented a fictitious girl, then, suddenly, was called upon for her name, so had to christen her on the spur of the moment. Clare happened to be the name of the heroine in a novel I’d just finished reading, and Lawson was the first surname which came to my mind. It’s not such a bad name, is it?”

Juliet made an expressive little grimace.

“Considered as an artistic effort, I can’t say much for it. You might have done so much better. Clare! I’m not a bit like a Clare. And who is Clare supposed to be?”

He looked at her with a keen, comprehensive glance. Juliet had an impression that what he saw increased his embarrassment, from the very reason of his admiration. What he had to say would evidently have been easier if she had been less attractive, had not so obviously belonged to his own class. The flush mounted once more to his cheeks.

“Miss Lawson, I should like to begin with a word of self-defence. I have the reputation of being straight in my dealings and I think I may say that it is deserved, yet at this moment, owing to an—impulse, to—er—the folly of a moment, I find myself stranded, implicated—how shall I express it? I’m in the dickens of a hole, anyway, and for the moment can’t imagine how I am ever to get out.”

“And if you only knew it, so am I!” was Juliet’s mental reflection. Aloud, she said sententiously, “Such things do happen. I’ve heard of them. Please tell me about it. Perhaps I can help.”

“That’s ripping of you! You see, obviously, there had to be a girl, and, obviously also, I couldn’t ask a friend. There was nothing for it but to get someone from outside. I searched the newspapers and spotted your office. They said they employed ladies, and being trained to detec—to inquiry work, I thought it would come easy to act a part.”

In after years Juliet never quite understood how she retained her balance at that moment, and did not topple sideways, fall out of the high cart, and find a solution of her troubles. The sudden realisation that she was masquerading as nothing more or less than a lady detective, was so stunning in its unexpectedness and chagrin, that even the tactful softening of the term to that of inquiry agent failed to restore her equanimity. Now, indeed, there was nothing before her but confession, for her whole nature revolted from the position of a “spy” in the household. It required a strong effort to speak in a natural voice.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you began at the beginning and told me the whole story?”

“That’s what I am trying to do, but it’s so difficult... The Squire, Mr Maplestone, is my uncle. He and his wife have been like parents to me. I am in the army—Indian regiment—home on a year’s leave. They have no children, and I am their heir. Naturally, under the circumstances, they are anxious that I should—er—”

“Marry!”

“Quite so. Well!” in a tone of aggrieved self-vindication, “I mean to marry. Every fellow does when he gets past thirty. I came home this time with the determination to get engaged at the first opportunity, but—er—the time has passed by, and—it hasn’t come off. I’ve met lots of girls, charming girls. I can’t honestly say that I haven’t had the opportunity, but when it came to the point”—he shrugged again—“I simply didn’t want them, and that was the end of the matter. The dickens of it is, my leave is up in two months from now, and the old man is at the end of his patience. Last week he had an attack of gout, a bad one too, and that brought matters to a crisis. He declared he’d cut me off there and then if I did not get engaged at once. I was sorry for the old fellow; he was in horrible pain; the doctor said he must be soothed at all costs, so—er—er—on the spur of the moment I invented Clare. I said I was engaged to Clare, but that Clare was afraid of the Indian climate, and refused to marry me till the regiment returned home, two years from now. I hardly realised what I was saying. I was between the devil and the deep sea. But he swallowed it whole, went off to sleep, and woke up as bright as a button. I was inclined to congratulate myself on having done a clever thing, for as I told you, I intend to marry. I am only waiting for the right girl to turn up. I may very likely meet her on the voyage out. Many men do. But, retribution fell upon me. He demanded to see Clare. I prevaricated. He grew suspicious. There was another scene, another relapse; it was a case of confessing all, at goodness knows what risk, or of finding Clare, and producing her for inspection. So—you see—”

Juliet sat silent; petrified, aflame. While he had been speaking, Maplestone had kept his eyes rigorously averted from her face; he continued to do so now, and they drove along the quiet lane in a silence which could be felt—a throbbing, palpitating, scorching silence, which grew momentarily more unendurable. Juliet told herself fiercely that she was a fool to feel embarrassed. Alice White would not have been embarrassed. Alice White would have accepted the position as a pure matter of business. As Alice White’s substitute, she must pull herself together and discuss the matter in a cool, rational fashion. If only her cheeks were not quite so hot!

“It’s—er—rather an unusual proposition, isn’t it? It is, as you say, somewhat difficult to discuss. Suppose,” she cried desperately, “we treat it with a sense of humour! Don’t let us be serious. Let us laugh over it, and then it will become quite easy.”

“Oh, thank you, yes. How ripping of you!” His eyes flashed relief. “I can promise you that it won’t be nearly as trying as it sounds. The old people will be all that is kind, and—er—you understand that he is an invalid, and his wife is his nurse. They are engrossed with their own affairs, and won’t worry you with questions. It is only in your supposed connection with me that you will—er—enter into their lives. As to myself, I have the reputation of being reserved to a fault. They won’t expect me to—er—er—”

Juliet forced a determined smile. “Precisely so! We’ll be a model of all that an engaged couple—ought to be. But I had better not make myself too agreeable, in case the subsequent breaking off should prejudice the old people against you. I conclude I am to break it off?”

“Yes, please, if you don’t mind—when I meet the real girl. But please do me credit pro tem. The great thing is to demonstrate to the old man that I seriously think of marriage, and those two years give plenty of time. You understand that you have an insuperable objection to the Indian climate?”

“Certainly; that’s easy. I’ve always longed to go, so I shall just turn my arguments upside down. And—er—where did we meet?”

“Oh, yes, of course, we must have some mutual coaching. There’s not much time now, but after tea they’ll expect us to have a tête-à-tête; we’ll go over it then. I was introduced to you at Henley. You’re the sister of Phil Lawson, an old school friend. It—er—it was a case at first sight. We got engaged on the third day.”

“Most unwise!” said Juliet primly, and they laughed together with the heartiness born of relief from a painful situation. Really, this sense-of-humour attitude was an admirable solution.

Antony slackened the reins and, fumbling in a pocket, drew out a small box.

“May I—just for the next few days—beg your acceptance of this bauble?”

“Oh, thank you.” Juliet drew off her gloves and held up a well-shaped hand, on the third finger of which sparkled a row of diamonds. “It’s not necessary. I can put this one on my left hand. It has quite an engagementy look about it, and I’d rather—”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it won’t do. This is a family heirloom. The old man would consider it a slight if it were not used. Just for one week.”

He opened the box, and showed a great square-cut emerald set in a border of diamonds—an antique jewel, evidently of considerable value—lifted it between finger and thumb, and held it out with calm expectancy. Quite calmly also, Juliet extended her left hand; but at the mutual touch, it was impossible to resist a thrill of embarrassment, a lightning realisation of what the moment might have meant had the action been real instead of masquerade. Juliet hastily drew on her gloves; Antony became engrossed in driving. They drove in silence up a long drive, and saw before them an old stone mansion, covered with clustering ivy.