"I AM MISANTHROPOS, AND HATE MANKIND"
Wingrave had just come in from an early gallop. His pale cheeks wereslightly flushed, and his eyes were bright. He had been riding hard toescape from disconcerting thoughts. He looked in at the study, and foundAynesworth with a mass of correspondence before him.
"Anything important?" he asked.
"Not yet," Aynesworth answered. "The letters marked private I have sentup to your room. By the bye, there was something I wanted to tell you."
Wingrave closed the door.
"Well?" he said.
"I was up in the gallery of the Opera House last night," Aynesworthsaid, "with a--person who saw you only once, soon after I first cameto you--before America. You were some distance away, and yet--my friendrecognized you."
Wingrave shrugged his shoulders.
"That, of course, is possible," he answered. "It really does not matterso very much unless they knew me--as Wingrave Seton!"
"My friend," Aynesworth said, "recognized you as Sir Wingrave Seton."
Wingrave frowned thoughtfully for a moment.
"Who was it?" he asked.
"A most unlikely person," Aynesworth remarked smiling. "Do you remember,when we went down to Tredowen just before we left for America, a little,long-legged, black-frocked child, whom we met in the gardens--theorganist's daughter, you know?"
"What of her?" Wingrave asked.
"It was she who was with me," Aynesworth remarked. "It was she who sawyou in the box with the Marchioness of Westchester."
Aynesworth was puzzled by the intentness with which Wingrave wasregarding him. Impenetrable though the man was, Aynesworth, who had notyet lost his early trick of studying him closely, knew that, for somereason or other, his intelligence had proved disturbing.
"Have you then--kept up your acquaintance with this child?" he demanded.
Aynesworth shook his head.
"She is not a child any longer, but a very beautiful young woman," hesaid. "I met her again quite by accident. She is up in London, studyingart at the studio of an old friend of mine who has a class of girls. Icalled to see him the other afternoon, and recognized her."
"Your acquaintance," Wingrave remarked, "has progressed rapidly if sheaccepts your escort--to the gallery of the Opera!"
"It was scarcely like that," Aynesworth explained. "I met her and Mrs.Tresfarwin on the way there, and asked to be allowed to accompany them.Mrs. Tresfarwin was once your housekeeper, I think, at Tredowen."
"And did you solve the mystery of this relation of her father who turnedup so opportunely?" Wingrave asked.
Aynesworth shook his head.
"She told me nothing about him," he answered.
Wingrave passed on to his own room. His breakfast was on the tableawaiting him, and a little pile of letters and newspapers stood by hisplate. His servant, his head groom, and his chauffeur were there toreceive their orders for the morning. About him were all the evidencesof his well-ordered life. He sent both the men away and locked thedoor. It was half an hour before he touched either his breakfast or hisletters....
He lunched at Westchester House in obedience to a somewhat imperativesummons. There were other guests there, whom, however, he outstayed. Assoon as they were alone, his hostess touched him on the arm and led himto her own room.
"At last!" she exclaimed, with an air of real relief. "There, sit downopposite to me, please--I want to watch your face."
She was a little paler than usual, and he noticed that she had avoidedtalking much to him at luncheon time. And yet he thought that he hadnever seen her more beautiful. Something in her face had altered. Hecould not tell what it was for he was not a man of much experience asregarded her sex. Yet, in a vague sort of way, he understood thechange. A certain part of the almost insolent quietness, the completeself-assurance of her manner, had gone. She was a little more like anordinary woman!
"Lady Ruth proved herself an excellent tactician last night," sheremarked. "She has given me an exceedingly uncomfortable few hours. Foryou, well for you it was a respite, wasn't it?"
"I don't know that I should call it exactly that," he answeredthoughtfully.
She looked at him steadfastly, almost wistfully.
"Well," she said, "I am not going to make excuses for myself. But thethings which one says naturally enough when the emotions provoke themsound crude enough in cold blood and colder daylight. We women arecreatures of mood, you know. I was feeling a little lonely and a littletired last night, and the music stole away my common sense."
"I understand," he murmured. "All that you said shall be forgotten."
"Then you do not understand," she answered, smiling at him. "What I saidI do not wish to be forgotten. Only--just at that moment, it soundednatural enough--and today--I think that I am a little ashamed."
He rose from his seat. Her eyes leaped up to his expectantly, and thecolor streamed into her cheeks. But he only stood by her side. He didnothing to meet the half-proffered embrace.
"Dear Lady Emily," he said, "all the kind things that you said werespoken to a stranger. You did not know me. I did not mean anyone to knowme. It is you who have commanded the truth. You must have it. I am notthe person I seem to be. I am not the person to whom words such as yoursshould have been spoken. Even my name is an assumed one. I should preferto leave it at that--if you are content."
"I am not content," she answered quietly; "I must hear more."
He bowed.
"I am a man," he said, "who spent ten years in prison, the ten bestyears of my life. A woman sent me there--a woman swore my liberty awayto save her reputation. I was never of a forgiving disposition, I wasnever an amiably disposed person. I want you to understand this. Any ofthe ordinary good qualities with which the average man may be endowed,and which I may have possessed, are as dead in me as hell fire couldburn them. You have spoken of me as of a man who failed to find asufficient object in life. You were wrong. I have an object, and I domy best to live up to it. I hate the whole world of men and women wholaughed their way through life whilst I suffered--tortures. I hate thewoman who sent me there. I have no heart, nor any sense of pity. Nowperhaps you can understand my life and the manner of it."
Her hands were clasped to the side of her head. Something of horror hadstolen into the steadfast gaze with which she was still regarding him.Yet there were other things there which puzzled him.
"This--is terrible!" she murmured. "Then you are not--Mr. Wingrave atall?"
He hesitated. After all, it was scarcely worth while concealing anythingnow.
"I am Sir Wingrave Seton," he said. "You may remember my little affair!"
She caught hold of his hands.
"You poor, poor dear!" she cried. "How you must have suffered!"
Wingrave had a terrible moment. What he felt he would never haveadmitted, even to himself. Her eyes were shining with sympathy, and itwas so unexpected. He had expected something in the nature of a coldwithdrawal; her silence was the only thing he had counted upon. It was afierce, but short battle. His sudden grasp of her hands was relaxed. Hestood away from her.
"You are very kind," he said. "As you can doubtless imagine, it is alittle too late for sympathy. The years have gone, and the better partof me, if ever there was a better part, with them."
"I am not so sure of that!" she whispered.
He looked at her coldly.
"Why not?"
"If you were absolutely heartless," she said, "if you were perfectlyconsistent, why did you not make me suffer? You had a great chance! Alittle feigned affection, and then a few truths. You could have draggedme down a little way into the pit of broken hearts! Why didn't you?"
He frowned.
"One is forced to neglect a few opportunities!"
She smiled at him--delightfully.
"You foolish man!" she murmured. "Some day or other, you will turn outto be a terrible impostor. Do you know, I think I am going to ask youagain--what I asked you last night?"
"I scarcely think that
you will be so ill-advised," he declared coldly."Whether you believe it or not, I can assure you that I am incapable ofaffection."
She sighed.
"I am not so sure about that," she said with protesting eyebrows, "butyou are terribly hard-hearted?"
He was entirely dissatisfied with the impression he had produced. Heconsidered the attitude of the Marchioness unjustifiably frivolous. Hehad an uneasy conviction that she was not in the least inclined to takehim seriously.
"I don't think," he said, glancing at the clock, "that I need detain youany longer."
"You are really going away, then?" she asked him softly.
"Yes."
"To call on Lady Ruth, perhaps?"
"As it happens, no," he answered.
Suddenly her face changed--she had remembered something.
"It was Lady Ruth!" she exclaimed.
"Exactly!" he interrupted.
"What a triumph of inconsistency!" she declared scornfully. "You arelending them money!"
"I am lending money to Lady Ruth," he answered slowly.
Their eyes met. She understood, at any rate, what he intended to convey.Certainly his expression was hard and merciless enough now!
"Poor Ruth," she murmured.
"Some day," he answered, "you will probably say that in earnest."