A Millionaire of Yesterday

  CHAPTER XV

  Probably nothing else in the world could so soon have transformedScarlett Trent from the Gold Coast buccaneer to the law-abiding tenantof a Surrey villa. Before her full, inquiring eyes and calm salute hefound himself at once abashed and confused. He raised his hand to hishead, only to find that he had come out without a hat, and he certainlyappeared, as he stood there, to his worst possible advantage.

  "Good morning, miss," he stammered; "I'm afraid I startled you!"

  She winced a little at his address, but otherwise her manner was notungracious.

  "You did a little," she admitted. "Do you usually stride out of yourwindows like that, bareheaded and muttering to yourself?"

  "I was in a beastly temper," he admitted. "If I had known who wasoutside--it would have been different."

  She looked into his face with some interest. "What an odd thing!" sheremarked. "Why, I should have thought that to-day you would have beenamiability itself. I read at breakfast-time that you had accomplishedsomething more than ordinarily wonderful in the City and had made--Iforget how many hundreds of thousands of pounds. When I showed thesketch of your house to my chief, and told him that you were going tolet me interview you to-day, I really thought that he would have raisedmy salary at once."

  "It's more luck than anything," he said. "I've stood next door to ruintwice. I may again, although I'm a millionaire to-day."

  She looked at him curiously--at his ugly tweed suit, his yellow boots,and up into the strong, forceful face with eyes set in deep hollowsunder his protruding brows, at the heavy jaws giving a certaincoarseness to his expression, which his mouth and forehead, well-shapedthough they were, could not altogether dispel. And at he same timehe looked at her, slim, tall, and elegant, daintily clothed from hershapely shoes to her sailor hat, her brown hair, parted in the middle,escaping a little from its confinement to ripple about her forehead, andshow more clearly the delicacy of her complexion. Trent was an ignorantman on many subjects, on others his taste seemed almost intuitivelycorrect. He knew that this girl belonged to a class from which hisdescent and education had left him far apart, a class of which he knewnothing, and with whom he could claim no kinship. She too was realisingit--her interest in him was, however, none the less deep. He was atype of those powers which to-day hold the world in their hands, makekingdoms tremble, and change the fate of nations. Perhaps he was allthe more interesting to her because, by all the ordinary standards ofcriticism, he would fail to be ranked, in the jargon of her class, as agentleman. He represented something in flesh and blood which had neverseemed more than half real to her--power without education. She likedto consider herself--being a writer with ambitions who took herselfseriously--a student of human nature. Here was a specimen worthimpaling, an original being, a creature of a new type such as never hadcome within the region of her experience. It was worth while ignoringsmall idiosyncrasies which might offend, in order to annex him. Besides,from a journalistic point of view, the man was more than interesting--hewas a veritable treasure.

  "You are going to talk to me about Africa, are you not?" she remindedhim. "Couldn't we sit in the shade somewhere. I got quite hot walkingfrom the station."

  He led the way across the lawn, and they sat under a cedar-tree. He wasawkward and ill at ease, but she had tact enough for both.

  "I can't understand," he began, "how people are interested in the stuffwhich gets into papers nowadays. If you want horrors though, I cansupply you. For one man who succeeds over there, there are a dozen whofind it a short cut down into hell. I can tell you if you like of mydays of starvation."

  "Go on!"

  Like many men who talk but seldom, he had the gift when he choseto speak of reproducing his experiences in vivid though unpolishedlanguage. He told her of the days when he had worked on the banks of theCongo with the coolies, a slave in everything but name, when the sun hadburned the brains of men to madness, and the palm wine had turned theminto howling devils. He told her of the natives of Bekwando, of the daysthey had spent amongst them in that squalid hut when their fate hung inthe balance day by day, and every shout that went up from the warriorsgathered round the house of the King was a cry of death. He spoke oftheir ultimate success, of the granting of the concession which had laidthe foundation of his fortunes, and then of that terrible journey backthrough the bush, followed by the natives who had already repented oftheir action, and who dogged their footsteps hour after hour, waitingfor them only to sleep or rest to seize upon them and haul them back toBekwando, prisoners for the sacrifice.

  "It was only our revolvers which kept them away," he went on. "I shoteight or nine of them at different times when they came too close, andto hear them wailing over the bodies was one of the most hideous thingsyou can imagine. Why, for months and months afterwards I couldn't sleep.I'd wake up in the night and fancy that I heard that cursed yellingoutside my window--ay, even on the steamer at night-time if I was ondeck before moonlight, I'd seem to hear it rising up out of the water.Ugh!"

  She shuddered.

  "But you both escaped?" she said.

  There was a moment's silence. The shade of the cedar-tree was deep andcool, but it brought little relief to Trent. The perspiration stood outon his forehead in great beads, he breathed for a moment in little gaspsas though stifled.

  "No," he answered; "my partner died within a mile or two of the Coast.He was very ill when we started, and I pretty well had to carry him thewhole of the last day. I did my best for him. I did, indeed, but it wasno good. I had to leave him. There was no use sacrificing oneself for adead man."

  She inclined her head sympathetically.

  "Was he an Englishman?" she asked.

  He faced the question just as he had faced death years before leering athim, a few feet from the muzzle of his revolver.

  "He was an Englishman. The only name we had ever heard him called by was'Monty.' Some said he was a broken-down gentleman. I believe he was."

  She was unconscious of his passionate, breathless scrutiny, unconsciousutterly of the great wave of relief which swept into his face as herealised that his words were without any special meaning to her.

  "It was very sad indeed," she said. "If he had lived, he would haveshared with you, I suppose, in the concession?"

  Trent nodded.

  "Yes, we were equal partners. We had an arrangement by which, if onedied, the survivor took the lot. I didn't want it though, I'd rather hehad pulled through. I would indeed," he repeated with nervous force.

  "I am quite sure of that," she answered. "And now tell me somethingabout your career in the City after you came to England. Do you know, Ihave scarcely ever been in what you financiers call the City. In a wayit must be interesting."

  "You wouldn't find it so," he said. "It is not a place for such as you.It is a life of lies and gambling and deceit. There are times when Ihave hated it. I hate it now!"

  She was unaffectedly surprised. What a speech for a millionaire ofyesterday!

  "I thought," she said, "that for those who took part in it, it possesseda fascination stronger than anything else in the world."

  He shook his head.

  "It is an ugly fascination," he said. "You are in the swim, and you musthold your own. You gamble with other men, and when you win you chuckle.All the time you're whittling your conscience away--if ever you had any.You're never quite dishonest, and you're never quite honest. You comeout on top, and afterwards you hate yourself. It's a dirty little life!"

  "Well," she remarked after a moment's pause, "you have surprised me verymuch. At any rate you are rich enough now to have no more to do withit."

  He kicked a fir cone savagely away.

  "If I could," he said, "I would shut up my office to-morrow, sell out,and live upon a farm. But I've got to keep what I've made. The more yousucceed the more involved you become. It's a sort of slavery."

  "Have you no friends?" she asked.

  "I have never," he answered, "had a friend in my life."

  "You have gue
sts at any rate!"

  "I sent 'em away last night!"

  "What, the young lady in blue?" she asked demurely.

  "Yes, and the other one too. Packed them clean off, and they're notcoming back either!"

  "I am very pleased to hear it," she remarked.

  "There's a man and his wife and daughter here I can't get rid of quiteso easily," he went on gloomily, "but they've got to go!"

  "They would be less objectionable to the people round here who mightlike to come and see you," she remarked, "than two unattached youngladies."

  "May be," he answered. "Yet I'd give a lot to be rid of them."

  He had risen to his feet and was standing with his back to thecedar-tree, looking away with fixed eyes to where the sunlight fell upona distant hillside gorgeous with patches and streaks of yellow gorse andpurple heather. Presently she noticed his abstraction and looked alsothrough the gap in the trees.

  "You have a beautiful view here," she said. "You are fond of thecountry, are you not?"

  "Very," he answered.

  "It is not every one," she remarked, "who is able to appreciate it,especially when their lives have been spent as yours must have been."

  He looked at her curiously. "I wonder," he said, "if you have any ideahow my life has been spent."

  "You have given me," she said, "a very fair idea about some part of itat any rate."

  He drew a long breath and looked down at her.

  "I have given you no idea at all," he said firmly. "I have told you afew incidents, that is all. You have talked to me as though I were anequal. Listen! you are probably the first lady with whom I have everspoken. I do not want to deceive you. I never had a scrap of education.My father was a carpenter who drank himself to death, and my mother wasa factory girl. I was in the workhouse when I was a boy. I have neverbeen to school. I don't know how to talk properly, but I should be worseeven than I am, if I had not had to mix up with a lot of men in the Citywho had been properly educated. I am utterly and miserably ignorant.I've got low tastes and lots of 'em. I was drunk a few nights ago--I'vedone most of the things men who are beasts do. There! Now, don't youwant to run away?"

  She shook her head and smiled up at him. She was immensely interested.

  "If that is the worst," she said gently, "I am not at all frightened.You know that it is my profession to write about men and women. I belongto a world of worn-out types, and to meet any one different is quite aluxury."

  "The worst!" A sudden fear sent an icy coldness shivering through hisveins. His heart seemed to stop beating, his cheeks were blanched.The worst of him. He had not told her that he was a robber, that thefoundation of his fortunes was a lie; that there lived a man who mightbring all this great triumph of his shattered and crumbling about hisears. A passionate fear lest she might ever know of these things wasborn in his heart at that moment, never altogether to leave him.

  The sound of a footstep close at hand made them both turn their heads.Along the winding path came Da Souza, with an ugly smirk upon his whiteface, smoking a cigar whose odour seemed to poison the air. Trent turnedupon him with a look of thunder.

  "What do you want here, Da Souza?" he asked fiercely.

  Da Souza held up the palms of his hands.

  "I was strolling about," he said, "and I saw you through the trees. Idid not know that you were so pleasantly engaged," he added, with a waveof his hat to the girl, "or I would not have intruded."

  Trent kicked open the little iron gate which led into the garden beyond.

  "Well, get out, and don't come here again," he said shortly. "There'splenty of room for you to wander about and poison the air with thoseabominable cigars of yours without coming here."

  Da Souza replaced his hat upon his head. "The cigars, my friend, areexcellent. We cannot all smoke the tobacco of a millionaire, can we,miss?"

  The girl, who was making some notes in her book, continued her workwithout the slightest appearance of having heard him.

  Da Souza snorted, but at that moment he felt a grip like iron upon hisshoulder, and deemed retreat expedient.

  "If you don't go without another word," came a hot whisper in his ear,"I'll throw you into the horse-pond."

  He went swiftly, ungracious, scowling. Trent returned to the girl. Shelooked up at him and closed her book.

  "You must change your friends," she said gravely. "What a horrible man!"

  "He is a beast," Trent answered, "and go he shall. I would to Heaventhat I had never seen him."

  She rose, slipped her note-book into her pocket, and drew on her gloves.

  "I have taken up quite enough of your time," she said. "I am so muchobliged to you, Mr. Trent, for all you have told me. It has been mostinteresting."

  She held out her hand, and the touch of it sent his heart beating witha most unusual emotion. He was aghast at the idea of her imminentdeparture. He realised that, when she passed out of his gate, she passedinto a world where she would be hopelessly lost to him, so he took hiscourage into his hands, and was very bold indeed.

  "You have not told me your name," he reminded her.

  She laughed lightly.

  "How very unprofessional of me! I ought to have given you a card! Forall you know I may be an impostor, indulging an unpardonable curiosity.My name is Wendermott--Ernestine Wendermott."

  He repeated it after her.

  "Thank you," he said. "I am beginning to think of some more things whichI might have told you."

  "Why, I should have to write a novel then to get them all in," she said."I am sure you have given me all the material I need here."

  "I am going," he said abruptly, "to ask you something very strange andvery presumptuous!"

  She looked at him in surprise, scarcely understanding what he couldmean.

  "May I come and see you some time?"

  The earnestness of his gaze and the intense anxiety of his tone almostdisconcerted her. He was obviously very much in earnest, and she hadfound him far from uninteresting.

  "By all means," she answered pleasantly, "if you care to. I have alittle flat in Culpole Street--No. 81. You must come and have tea withme one afternoon."

  "Thank you," he said simply, with a sigh of immense relief.

  He walked with her to the gate, and they talked about rhododendrons.

  Then he watched her till she became a speck in the dusty road--shehad refused a carriage, and he had had tact enough not to press anyhospitality upon her.

  "His little girl!" he murmured. "Monty's little girl!"