Violet Forster's Lover

What might have been meant for a smile distorted his attenuated visage.

"The sort of thing that I've gone through turns the whole world topsy-turvy; the ladies and gentlemen with whom I have associated think nothing of stealing; they've robbed me times without number of the worthless trifles of which I could be plundered, and-I had to bear it. I've said to myself over and over again when I've been mad with misery, that I would rob a bank if I dared."

"Yes, and if you had the chance. You would not see your way, for instance, to enter, say, the London County and Westminster Bank attired as you are, with the intention of coming out of it a wealthier man."

"You're quite right, I shouldn't."

"What I'm offering you is the opportunity to do that sort of thing with perfect impunity; I'm not doing it out of philanthropic motives; at least I'm not a humbug. I'll give you the means to replenish your wardrobe, which needs it, and to live in comfort for a reasonable time, on the understanding that you'll consider seriously certain propositions that I shall make you, and, if you see your way, that you'll give me your assistance in carrying them out, on sharing terms. Is it a deal?"

For the first time he moved, withdrawing himself from the table and standing up; he was so thin, there was something about him which was so little human, that the ill-assorted, filthy rags of which his attire consisted seemed to be hanging on a scarecrow.

"You feel that you can trust me?"

"I am sure of it."

"Knowing my record?"

"Records like yours don't count in my eye. There's nothing in your record which hints that you ever played false to a woman. I know that you won't play false to me."

"You expect me to tell you that I know you'll never play false to me?"

"Not a bit of it; I know what you've got in your head quite well. I don't ask you to trust me one inch farther than you can see. But at the beginning, at any rate, the confidence will be all on the other side. I'm willing to make an investment for which my only security is faith in you. When you know what these little schemes are of which I have spoken as being in my head, you'll see that it isn't trust I'm asking for; that what I propose is merely a matter of plain and open dealing, in which no question of trust or mistrust can arise on either side. Once more, is it a deal? Are you going back to carrying sandwich-boards in the Strand at a shilling a day in weather like this; with the certainty of there being certain intervals in which you'll be even without a sandwich-board; or are you willing to get something out of the world in return for what it's done for you; to throw black care to the dogs, and laugh with me? Which do you choose-the sty and the swine, cold, hunger and misery; or as good a time as ever a gentleman had? England was made by freebooters; I'm suggesting that you should be a freebooter up to date. As things are, a man can choose no other life which gives much promise of adventure."

There was silence; although she waited for him to speak, the silence remained unbroken. Presently he turned, and looked through the window at the snow which had begun to fall fast, and was being driven here and there by the shrieking wind; then he turned again, and looked at her and at the fire. He still said nothing; but he shivered; and she said:

"I see that you have chosen."

CHAPTER XI

In the Wood

"I Don't think I need tell you that this is a very severe blow to me; it almost knocks me out, but not quite; there's some fight still left in me. There's one thing which I should take it as a very great favour if you would tell me; have you said-what you have done, because-there's someone else? I know I've no right to ask such a question, but-I can't help it."

Major Harold Reith looked as if he could not; a more woe-begone looking gentleman of six-feet-two one could hardly expect to find. The most absurd part of it was that he had been so very nearly confident. The lady had been so kind-so very much kinder, perhaps, than he supposed, but for that she had her reasons. Then her uncle, old Geoffrey Hovenden, had been not only on his side but so delightfuly sanguine. When the major expressed a doubt as to what the lady's sentiments might be, Mr. Hovenden had pooh-poohed it.

"Don't talk like a schoolboy, Reith; you know better than that; you admit that the girl likes you-you can't expect to be told how much till you give her a chance."

Now he had given her a chance, and if he had not been told how much, she had at least endeavoured to make it clear that it was not as much as he wanted. Her answer to the question he had asked put an end to the little remaining hope he had left.

The proposal had been made in the wood. He had gone for a stroll with her with the intention of finding an opportunity to ask her to be his wife; being conceivably quite aware of his intentions, she had given him one. It was the commencement of April. Spring promised to be early that year. The wood was carpeted with primroses. She had been picking them as they walked, and was arranging her nosegay as she talked.

"Of course, on the face of it, no one has a right to ask a girl such a question; she might be consumed by a secret passion which was not reciprocated, which she knew never would be, and yet which she was aware would render it impossible that she should ever listen to another; by another I mean, for instance, you."

"Is yours a case of a secret passion?" She had dropped some of her primroses; he stooped to pick them up for her; a great bunch of them she had, almost as large as her two hands would hold.

"Thanks; no, I can't say that mine is; yet all the same-I've a fellow-feeling for you."

"That's very good of you; but in what sense have you what you call a fellow-feeling, and to what extent does it go?"

"It goes all the way. There go some of these primroses again; they are such droppy things."

"If you really mean what you say then I am a very happy man."

"You may be or you mayn't; happiness is often largely a question of temperament. For example, I ought to be a very unhappy girl, but I'm not; somehow unhappiness doesn't seem to come easy to me."

"You are very fortunate; what cause have you for unhappiness? I should have thought that there were few people who had less. Has it anything to do with the imagination?"

"There's only one thing I want in this world, and it looks as if I were as little likely to get it as if it were the moon; you may call that imagination, but it's a fact."

"And what may that one thing be?"

"You were just now saying some pretty things about there being only one thing you wanted, and that was the girl you loved, meaning me. I am in the same delightfully romantic situation; there's only one thing I want, and that's the man I love."

A slight change took place in his face, as if a cloud had obscured the sun. He looked at her in silence; it would have been hard to say which was the prettier-she or the flowers. It was seen when he spoke that the change had extended to his voice.

"So there is someone?"

"Oh dear, yes; there always has been, and there always will be."

"Your uncle gave me to understand that the field was clear."

"My uncle Geoffrey Hovenden is-I'm sorry to have to say it of a relation of mine-a Machiavellian old gentleman. No one is better acquainted with my piteous plight than he is; but because he wants you, and wants me to want you, he says nothing about it. Do you mean to say you don't know who it is?"

"Do you suppose that if I had even guessed that there was another I should have said what I have done?"

"There's no telling; his own brother knew all about it, but that didn't stop him."

"Who is the lucky man?"

"Lucky! Pray do let us keep clear of the language of exaggeration, but I doubt if there is a more unlucky creature on the face of God's earth."

"You pique my curiosity; standing with you as he does I can hardly conceive of him as unlucky. Do I know him?"

"You did, if you don't now."

"You speak in riddles, at which I was never any good."

"Sydney Beaton."

He seemed to start away from her. This time not only his face, but his whole bearing, the entire man, seemed to change.

"Miss Forster, are you in earnest?"

His tone, his manner seemed all at once to have grown cold; he could hardly have held his figure more stiffly erect.

"And pray why shouldn't I be in earnest?"

"You place me in a difficult position; what answer am I to give to that?"

"I know very well what you mean. No one knows better than I do that Sydney is not all wisdom, but do you suppose a woman loves a man because he is wise? Go to!"

"I presume that there are qualities that a woman requires in a man."

"What are they?"

"Surely she looks for at least some of the primitive virtues, say, common honesty, some sense of decency, and that kind of thing."

"Well?" She paused as if for him to speak, but he was still. "Now how am I going to tie these flowers together? I ought to have brought a reel of cotton; as I haven't, you'll have to find me a nice long piece of grass. Yes, I think that will do. Now, I'll hold the flowers if you'll pass it round-so."

While together they secured the primroses she went on. The exigencies of the situation required that they should be very close together; her nearness so affected him that he found it difficult to comment upon her words as frankly as he might otherwise have done, which was a fact of which she was possibly aware.

"I know very well all about his having been supposed to have cheated at cards; but I also know him much too well to believe for a single instant that he ever did it; he couldn't, not Sydney Beaton."

"Then-forgive my saying so-why did he run away?"

"Oh, I'll forgive you anything; I want you to say just what is in your mind; that's what I brought you here for. You brought me here to propose; and I brought you because I wanted you to tell me things which I could never find out from anybody else; you've done what you wanted, so now it's my turn."

"It's beginning to occur to me that your uncle is not the only Machiavellian member of your family."

"No? Perhaps not. I wish you'd pull that tighter-what big, strong fingers you have got! Most of my information has been derived from what I call tainted sources-from his brother, for instance. George Beaton wants me to believe that his brother is an unutterable creature. He has told me tales about him which have had quite a different effect to that which he intended; it sometimes is like that when a man tells a girl tales about another man. It seems to me that between you Sydney has been very badly used indeed. His brother's behaviour has been inconceivably bad, and so I took the liberty to tell him. And I'm afraid you don't come out with flying colours."

"What have I done? I am not conscious of having even mentioned his name to you."

"All those men against one; though I'll do you the justice to admit that I think it's quite possible that you are ashamed of yourself."

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow." Again his bearing had stiffened.

"If you don't take care, all these primroses will fall, and then where shall we be? That's better-tied at last. Thank you, Major Reith. George Beaton told me all about the affair-how all you men set upon one, and actually-according to Sir George-threw him out of the room. I can't think whatever men can be made of, that you should still be walking about with your heads in the air."

"It's a subject, Miss Forster, which I'm afraid I can hardly discuss with you; there are subjects which men do not discuss with women."

"Is that so, Major Reith? And pray is that meant for a snub? That shows the kind of treatment which I might expect to receive if I consented to become your wife; because I'll have you know that this is a subject that I mean a good many men to discuss with this woman, and, to begin with, you're going to be one of them. What do you think I brought you into the wood for? Didn't I tell you? Now you're in the witness box; if you don't answer all the questions which are put to you I'll have you committed for contempt of court. Sydney Beaton is alleged to have cheated at cards; what is the exact act of which he is said to have been guilty?"

"He substituted one card for another."

"Did you see him do it?"

"No, but he was seen by others. The original accusation was made by Anthony Dodwell-you know Dodwell?"

"I know of him, Major Reith, and, thank you, that is quite enough. Was Mr. Dodwell the only eyewitness?"

"Draycott saw him also. Do you know Draycott?"

"Mr. Noel Draycott? Oh, yes, I do know Mr. Noel Draycott. I daresay Mr. Noel Draycott means well; I wish to speak ill of no one, but I've heard him make some surprising statements, and I'm afraid I shouldn't believe anything Mr. Noel Draycott said merely because he said it. Was he seen to do this thing by anyone else?"

"He was not actually seen."

"What do you mean by that, Major Reith? Either he was, or he was not, seen; surely in such a juxtaposition the word 'actually' is out of place. Explain yourself; don't convey to my mind the impression that you also are prejudiced."

"I assure you that, so far as I am concerned, it is all the other way. I should be only too glad to believe him innocent, but-Miss Forster, it's a tall order."

"Tell me exactly why; has he ever been suspected of such practices before?"

"Never. God forbid! To some extent I am inclined to excuse him as it is; he had been drinking too much. I think that had as much to do with it as anything."

"My dear Major Reith, that is not an excuse, but an aggravation. I have seen it written somewhere that when a man is drunk his real character is seen, because he is no longer able to hide it. If what you suggest is correct, then-Sydney Beaton must be past praying for. But it is incorrect. I am convinced that Sydney Beaton, drunk or sober, is a man of honour; else I could not love him as I do."

"But what has become of him? Do you know?"

"I do not, but I'm going to find out; so now you see why I ought to be unhappy. All these months I've been wondering where he was-waiting, longing, hoping to hear. Every post I thought would bring me news; every time that there was a telegram my heart beat a little faster. I made inquiries in my own way, but I've found nothing. All I know is that one night his brother officers attacked him-about twelve men to one. I have the charity to suppose that they were in a condition in which they did not know what they were doing. Sydney was always apt to do things first and think afterwards. I don't wonder that such treatment caused him to lose his head; I should have wondered if it hadn't. I can understand why he hasn't communicated with me; I know my Quixote. But now that all these months have gone, and there's still no news, I'm getting anxious."

"I don't wonder. Has absolutely nothing been heard of him, by anyone, by his brother?"

"Sir George Beaton would be the last to hear, if Sydney could help it. You can be trusted to keep a secret?"

"Where you are concerned I certainly can."

"I have been a bone of contention between those two brothers since ever. George, being the head of the family, is of opinion that he has the first claim on me; as I think otherwise, he shows what seems to me to be the most unfraternal eagerness to think the very worst of Sydney. And that seems to be the case with everyone. You all, when you come to look into the matter, seem to have discreditable reasons of your own for pretending to think ill of him."

"Am I included among that 'all'?"

"No, it happens that you're not, and that's why I'm talking to you now. I'm going to look for Sydney; I'm going to leave no stone unturned to find out where he is. I'm getting tired of waiting; and, while I'm looking, I'm going to find out the truth of what took place on that disgraceful night. You're going to tell me all you know; I'm sure that will be the truth as far as it goes, but I'm afraid it won't go far enough. I shall have to go to other sources to get at all I want, and that is what I am presently going to do."

"How do you propose to set about it?"

"I have a friend-a very, very dear friend. You know Lady Cantyre?"

"Who doesn't? Saving your presence, is there anyone better worth knowing?"

"Saving nothing, there isn't; and she's my very, very dear friend. She knows the pickle I'm in and she's going to help me; this is between ourselves, mind. I want to get at Mr. Noel Draycott under circumstances in which he will find it hard to get away. She has asked him down to Avonham, and I shall be there to meet him; before we part I shall find out a great deal more about what Mr. Noel Draycott really did see, as well as about other things, than he in the least anticipates."

"I can quite believe it; when a man like Draycott is concerned, I should imagine that you could turn him inside out like an old glove."

"I don't know about the old glove, but I do mean to do something like turn him inside out, and the process is going to begin next week. Sydney has been too long under a cloud which was none of his making; I am going to bring him out from under it into the sun. I am going to do it single-handed; and it's because I am so sure that I shall do it that I cannot be unhappy. Major Reith, I talk like a braggart of doing it all single-handed; but all the same I am conscious that occasion may arrive when I shall require some assistance; if I do, will you give it?"

"I will give you, very gladly, all the assistance which, in such a position, a man may give to a woman."

"Then-that's all right. Thank you, Major Reith."

In her left hand she had the bunch of primroses, which she held close to her face; her right she held out to him.

CHAPTER XII

"What Does it Mean?"

The night of the Easter Ball-the event of the year at Avonham.

The Countess of Cantyre, on her way to the scene of action, looked in on Miss Violet Forster. That young lady, apparently already fully equipped, seated in an arm-chair, was studying what seemed to be a small memorandum book. She looked up as the Countess entered. Her ladyship came well into the centre of the room, drew herself to her full height, which was less than she would have liked it to be, and slowly revolved in a complete circle, by way of exhibiting her plumes for the lady's inspection. When she had made an end, she prompted the criticism which did not come.

"Well?"

"Excellent."

"You think I shall do?"

"Margaret, you're a dream of delight."

"You really think so? You like the dress? I was afraid there was a little too much on the bodice."

"There is nothing anywhere which could be altered in the slightest degree for the better; the gown and the wearer are perfectly matched: they are both lovely."

Her ladyship dropped a curtsy.

"Thank you, that's just what I wanted you to say. Now you stand up, and I'll give you my candid opinion."

"Very much obliged, but I'm not sure that I want it; I'm not the Countess of Cantyre. Who cares what I look like?"

"You little humbug! It's only your conceit; it's simply that you take it for granted that you always look your best, which couldn't be improved." Her ladyship was arranging the drapery of her skirt as she glanced in the mirror. "What have you got out of Noel Draycott?"

"Nothing, as yet. I haven't tried; but I shall. I mean to drop a bomb at his feet at the moment he least expects it."

"If it's to be to-night, don't let it go off with too loud a bang. I don't know if I told you that the whole regiment has decided to come. They telegraphed this afternoon that they would all be able to get off, as I understand, to a man. You'll have a chance of dropping a bombshell at the feet of every one of them."

"I should like to. Every time I look at Mr. Noel Draycott I feel-I can't tell you what I feel."

"Any news of the absentee?"

"None; but I'm beginning to dream of him again."

"You'd better be careful what you have for dinner; eat nothing for at least three hours before you go to bed."

"Last night I dreamt that he was starving; and to save himself from starving he was doing something so awful that it woke me up, and I lay wide awake, trembling with terror."

"You poor child! You may congratulate yourself that it was a dream. Are you coming? I must be off."

"I'll follow in a minute or two; don't you wait for me."

Left alone, the girl tried to resume her study of the small volume she was holding; but the effort seemed in vain. Her eyes refused to be fixed upon the page; they stared into vacancy at something which was not there. She rose; placing the little book in a leather case which stood upon the dressing-table, she pressed down the lid, which shut with a spring.

"It's very odd, but I seem to feel that something is going to happen to-night; I wonder what it is?"

There was a tapping at the door; a maid came in. She advanced towards the girl with something held out in her hand.

"Excuse me, Miss Forster, but is this yours?"

It was a locket, attached to a slender gold chain. The girl looked round quickly; she made as if to open the box she had just now shut. Then she said:

"I don't think it can be mine, but it resembles one I have; please let me look at it."

She took the locket and examined it closely. As she did so her face changed, as if something had startled her. She looked at the maid, with in her eyes what might almost have been a look of fear. Then, turning her back, as if to hide the agitation which she could not help but feel, she touched a spring; the locket came open. At the sight of what was within she broke into a sudden exclamation; she swung right round again. There was no doubt that something had startled her now; the blood had come into her cheeks, her eyes were wide open, she trembled.

"Where did you get this?" she cried.

"If you please, miss, I found it on the floor outside your room. I was coming along and I saw it lying there, and it was so close to your door that I thought you might have dropped it."

"When was this? When did you see it there?"

"A moment ago, miss; as soon as I had picked it up, I knocked at your door."

"But it's inconceivable, incredible! It certainly wasn't there just now when Lady Cantyre went out."

"That I can't say, miss; I didn't see her ladyship."

"But if it had been there she would have seen it." The girl moved a step closer. "Who are you?"

The maid seemed as if she did not know what to make of Miss Forster's manner, which was peculiar; so peculiar that it might almost have been described as threatening.

"Me, miss? I'm Simmons."

Miss Forster was silent, not, it would seem, because she had nothing to say, but because she had so much that she didn't know how to say it. All at once she moved towards the door of the room.

"Come here; now show me, please, exactly where you found this locket, the very spot."

Opening the door, she allowed the maid to precede her into the passage. As if, as was only natural, disconcerted by the young lady's manner, the maid did what was required. She pointed to the floor.

"I can't, of course, miss, say which was the exact spot-nobody could; but I should say, as near as possible, it was just there."

"Then Lady Cantyre must have seen it as she went out; if she had she would have brought it to me; she would have done something."

"As to that, miss, I cannot speak."

"You say that your name is Simmons?"

"Yes, miss, Jane Simmons."

"Have you been here long?"

"No, miss; I'm one of the new servants who came in just before Easter when the family returned from town."

"What made you think that the locket had anything to do with me?"

"I didn't, miss. I didn't think anything at all about it; there was the locket and there was your door. I thought that someone who was the other side of the door might have something to do with the locket. I didn't know that you were in your room, miss; I thought that you might have dropped it going out."

"There's something about this that I don't understand; but, for the present, that will do. I may have some questions to put to you later, Jane Simmons. You can go; when I've spoken to Lady Cantyre, you will probably hear from me again."

Violet Forster, back in her room, stared at the locket as if it were some strange, terrible mystery; which to her, in a sense, it was.