An Eye for an Eye

he is bringing out, and has notbeen able to get back yet. We shall join him for a week or two, only Iso much dislike the Channel crossing. Besides, it is really verypleasant here just now."

  "Delightful," I answered, looking round upon the peaceful scene. At thesteps, opposite where we sat, was moored a motor-boat, together withMary's punt, a light wood one with crimson cushions, while behind us wasa well-kept tennis-court.

  Tea was brought after we had gossiped nearly an hour, and while we weretaking it a boat suddenly drew up at the landing-stage, being hailed byMary, who jumped up enthusiastically to welcome its occupants. Thesewere two young men of rather dandified air and a young girl of twenty,smartly dressed, but not at all good-looking, whom I afterwards learntwas sister to the elder of her companions. When the boat was at lastmoored, and the trio landed amid much shouting and merriment, I wasintroduced to them. The name of sister and brother was Moberly, afamily who lived somewhere up beyond Bell Weir, and their companion wasa guest at their house.

  "We thought we'd just catch you at tea, Mrs. Blain," cried Doris Moberlyas she sprang ashore. "And we are so frightfully thirsty."

  "Come along, then," said the elder lady. "Sit down, my dear. We haveit all ready."

  And so the three joined us, and the circle quickly became a very merryone.

  "They kept us so long in the lock that I feared tea would be all overbefore we arrived," young Moberly said, with a rather affected drawl.He appeared to be one of those young sprigs of the city who travelfirst-class, read the _Times_, and ape the aristocrat.

  "Yes," Doris went on, "there was a slight collision between a barge anda launch, resulting in lots of strong language, and that delayed us,otherwise we should have been here half an hour ago."

  "Did you call on the Binsteads?" Mary asked. "You know theirhouse-boat, the _Flame_? It's moored just at the bend, half-way betweenthe Lock and Staines Bridge."

  "We passed it, but the blinds were down. They were evidently taking anap. So we didn't hail them," Doris responded.

  Then the conversation drifted upon river topics, as it always driftswith those who spend the summer days idling about the upper reaches ofthe Thames--of punts, motor-launches, and sailing; of the prospects ofregattas and the dresses at Sunbury Lock on the previous Sunday. Theywere all river enthusiasts, and river enthusiasm is a malady extremelycontagious with those doomed to spend the dog-days gasping in a dustyoffice in stifled London.

  After tea followed tennis as a natural sequence, and while Moberly andhis sister played with Dick and the youth who had accompanied theMoberlys, Mary and I wandered away into the wood which skirted thegrounds of Riverdene. She was bright and merry, quite her old self ofShenley days, save perhaps for a graver look which now and then came toher eyes. She showed me the extent of their grounds and led me down anarrow path in the dark shadow to the bank to show me a nest ofkingfishers. The spot was so peaceful and rural that one could scarcelybelieve one's self but twenty miles from London. The kingfisher,startled by our presence, flashed by us like a living emerald in thesunlight; black-headed buntings flitted alongside among the reeds, andthe shy sedge warbler poured out his chattering imitations, while hereand there we caught sight of moor-hens down in the sedge.

  She had, I found, developed a love for fishing, for she took me furtherdown where the willows trailed into the stream, and pointed out theswirl over the gravel where trout were known to lie, showed me abush-shaped depth where she had caught many a big perch, and a long swimwhere, she said, were excellent roach.

  "And you are happier here than you were at Shenley?" I inquired, as wewere strolling back together, both bareheaded, she with her hat swingingin her hand.

  "Happy? Oh, yes," and she sighed, with her eyes cast upon the ground.

  "That sigh of yours does not denote happiness," I remarked, glancing ather. "What troubles you?"

  "Nothing," she declared, looking up at me with a forced smile.

  "It is puzzling to me, Mary," I said seriously, "that in all this timeyou've not married. You were engaged, yet it was broken off. Why?"

  At my demand she answered, with a firmness that surprised me, "I willnever marry a man I don't love--never."

  "Then it was at your father's suggestion--that proposed marriage ofyours?"

  "Of course, I hated him."

  "Surely it was unwise to allow the announcement to get into the papers,wasn't it?"

  "It was my father's doing, not mine," she responded. "When it wasbroken off I hastened to publish the contradiction."

  "On reading the first announcement," I said, "I imagined that you had atlength found a man whom you loved, and that you would marry and behappy. I am sure I regret that it is not so."

  "Why?" she asked, regarding me with some surprise. "Do you wish to seeme married, then?"

  "Not to a man you cannot love," I hastened to assure her. I was tryingto learn from her the reason of her sudden renewed friendship andconfidence, yet she was careful not to refer to it. Her extreme care inthis particular was, in itself, suspicious.

  Her effort at coquetry when at my chambers two days before made itapparent that she was prepared to accept my love, if I so desired. Yetthe remembrance of Eva Glaslyn was ever in my mind. This woman at myside had once played me false, and had caused a rent in my heart whichwas difficult to heal. She was pretty and charming, without doubt, yetshe had never been frank, even in those long-past days at Shenley. Onceagain I told myself that the only woman I had looked upon with thoughtsof real genuine affection was the mysterious Eva, whom once, with my owneyes, I had seen cold and dead. When I reflected upon the latter fact Ibecame puzzled almost to the verge of madness.

  Yet upon me, situated as I was, devolved the duty of solving the enigma.

  Life, looked at philosophically, is a long succession of chances. It isa game of hazard played by the individual against the multiform forcesto which we give the name of "circumstance," with cards whose realstrength is always either more or less than their face value, and whichare "packed" and "forced" with an astuteness which would baffle thewiliest sharper. There are times in the game when the cards held by themortal player have no value at all, when what seem to us kings, queens,and aces change to mere blanks; there are other moments when ignobletwos and threes flush into trumps and enable us to triumphantly sweepthe board. Briefly, life is a game of roulette wherein we always play_en plein_.

  As, walking at her side, I looked into her handsome face there came uponme a feeling of mournful disappointment.

  Had we met like this a week before and she had spoken so softly to me Ishould, I verily believe, have repeated my declaration of love. But thetime had passed, and all had changed. My gaze had been lost in theimmensity of a pair of wondrous azure eyes. I, who tired before mytime, world-weary, despondent and cynical, was angry and contemptuous atthe success of my companions, had actually awakened to a new desire forlife.

  So I allowed this woman I had once loved to chatter on, listening to herlight gossip, and now and then putting a question to her with a view tolearning something of her connexion with that house of mystery. Stillshe told me nothing--absolutely nothing. Without apparent intention sheevaded any direct question I put to her, and seemed brimming over withgood spirits and merriment.

  "It has been quite like old times to have a stroll and a chat with you,Frank," she declared, as we emerged at last upon the lawn, where tenniswas still in progress. The sun was now declining, the shadowslengthening, and a refreshing wind was already beginning to stir thetops of the elms.

  "Yes," I laughed. "Of our long walks around Harwell I have manypleasant recollections. Do you remember how secretly we used to meet,fearing the anger of your people; how sometimes I used to wait hours foryou, and how we used to imagine that our love would last always?"

  "Oh, yes," she answered. "I recollect, too, how I used to send younotes down by one of the stable lads, and pay him with sweets."

  I laughed again.

  "All that has gone
by," I said. "In those days of our experience webelieved that our mutual liking was actual love. Even if we now smileat our recollections, they were, nevertheless, the happiest hours of allour lives. Love is never so fervent and devoted as in early youth."

  "Ah!" she answered in a serious tone. "You are quite right. I havenever since those days known what it is to really love."

  I glanced at her sharply. Her eyes were cast upon the ground in suddenmelancholy.

  Was that speech of hers a veiled declaration that she loved me still! Iheld my breath for an instant, then looking straight before me, saw,standing a few yards away, in conversation with Mrs. Blain, a femalefigure in a boating costume of