Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









 THE MOVING
 FINGER

 BY

 E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

 AUTHOR OF "THE LOST AMBASSADOR," "THE ILLUSTRIOUS
 PRINCE," "JEANNE OF THE MARSHES," ETC.

 _With Illustrations by_
 J. V. McFALL

 BOSTON
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
 1911




 _Copyright, 1910, 1911_,
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

 _All rights reserved._

 Published, May, 1911.

 _Printed by
 THE  COLONIAL  PRESS
 C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U. S. A._




 [Illustration: "Sit still," he whispered. "Don't say anything. There
 is someone coming."  FRONTISPIECE. _See p._ 166]




     "The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
     Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
     Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
     Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."




CONTENTS


 CHAPTER                                                     PAGE

         PROLOGUE--THE DREAMER                                 1
      I. A LETTER PROVES USEFUL                               11
     II. OLD ACQUAINTANCES                                    17
    III. "WHO IS MR. SATON?"                                  23
     IV. A QUESTION OF OBLIGATION                             32
      V. A MORNING WALK                                       46
     VI. PAULINE MARRABEL                                     54
    VII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR                                 61
   VIII. AN INSTANCE OF OCCULTISM                             67
     IX. A SENTIMENTAL TALK                                   74
      X. THE SCENE CHANGES                                    80
     XI. A BUSY EVENING                                       86
    XII. A CALL ON LADY MARRABEL                              97
   XIII. LADY MARY'S DILEMMA                                 105
    XIV. PETTY WORRIES                                       114
     XV. ROCHESTER IS INDIGNANT                              124
    XVI. PLAIN SPEAKING                                      133
   XVII. THE GREAT NAUDHEIM                                  141
  XVIII. ROCHESTER'S ULTIMATUM                               150
    XIX. TROUBLE BREWING                                     158
     XX. FIRST BLOOD                                         165
    XXI. AFRAID!                                             172
   XXII. SATON REASSERTS HIMSELF                             178
  XXIII. AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER                             186
   XXIV. LOIS IS OBEDIENT                                    194
    XXV. A LAST WARNING                                      202
   XXVI. THE DUCHESS'S DINNER PARTY                          209
  XXVII. THE ANSWER TO A RIDDLE                              215
 XXVIII. SPOKEN FROM THE HEART                               224
   XXIX. THE COURAGE OF DESPERATION                          232
    XXX. A SURPRISING REQUEST                                239
   XXXI. BETWEEN LOVE AND DUTY                               248
  XXXII. AT THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE                        255
 XXXIII. "YOU DO NOT BELIEVE IN ME!"                         261
  XXXIV. A WOMAN'S TONGUE                                    269
   XXXV. ON LOIS' BIRTHDAY                                   278
  XXXVI. THE CHARLATAN UNMASKED                              284
         EPILOGUE--THE MAN                                   294




 ILLUSTRATIONS


 "Sit still," he whispered. "Don't say anything.
 There is someone coming"                         _Frontispiece_

 He came to a standstill by the side of the boy       _Page_   2

 "Some water quick, and brandy," Rochester
 cried                                                   "    73

 She swayed for a moment, and fell over on
 her side                                                "   222




THE MOVING FINGER




PROLOGUE

THE DREAMER


The boy sat with his back to a rock, his knees drawn up and clasped
within fingers nervously interlocked. His eyes were fixed upon the
great stretch of landscape below, shadowy now, and indistinct, like a
rolling plain of patchwork woven by mysterious fingers. Gray mists
were floating over the meadows and low-lying lands. Away in the
distance they marked the circuitous course of the river, which only an
hour ago had shone like a belt of silver in the light of the setting
sun. Twilight had fallen with unexpected swiftness. Here and there a
light flashed from the isolated farmhouses. On the darkening horizon,
a warm glow was reflected in the clouds from the distant town.

The boy, when he had settled down to his vigil, had been alone. From
over the brow of the hill, however, had come a few minutes ago a man,
dressed in loose shooting clothes, and with a gun under his arm. He
came to a standstill by the side of the boy, and stood there watching
him for several moments, with a certain faintly amused curiosity
shining out of his somewhat supercilious gray eyes. The newcomer was
obviously a person of breeding and culture--the sort of person who
assumes without question the title of "Gentleman." The boy wore
ready-made clothes and hobnailed boots. They remained within a few
feet of one another for several moments, without speech.

"My young friend," the newcomer said at last, "you will be late for
your tea, or whatever name is given to your evening meal. Did you not
hear the bell? It rang nearly half-an-hour ago."

The boy moved his head slightly, but made no attempt to rise.

"It does not matter. I am not hungry."

The newcomer leaned his gun against the rock, and drawing a pipe from
the pocket of his shooting-coat, commenced leisurely to fill it. Every
now and then he glanced at the boy, who seemed once more to have
become unconscious of his presence. He struck a match and lit the
tobacco, stooping down for a moment to escape the slight evening
breeze. Then he threw the match away, and lounged against the
lichen-covered fragment of stone.

"I wonder," he remarked, "why, when you have the whole day in which to
come and look at this magnificent view, you should choose to come just
at the hour when it has practically been swallowed up."

The boy lifted his head for the first time. His face was a little
long, his features irregular but not displeasing, his deep-set eyes
seemed unnaturally bright. His cheeks were sunken, his forehead
unusually prominent. The whole effect of his personality was a little
curious. If he had no claims to be considered good-looking, his face
was at least a striking one.

[Illustration: He came to a standstill by the side of the boy.]

"I come at this hour," he said slowly, "because the view does not
attract me so much at any other time. It is only when the twilight
falls that one can see--properly."

The newcomer took his pipe from his mouth.

"You must have marvelous eyesight, my young friend," he remarked. "To
me everything seems blurred and uncertain."

"You don't understand!" said the boy impatiently. "I do not come here
to see the things that anyone can see at any hour of the day. There is
nothing satisfying in that. I come here to look down and see the
things which do not really exist. It is easy enough when one is
alone," he added, a little pointedly.

The newcomer laughed softly--there was more banter than humor in his
mirth.

"So my company displeases you," he remarked. "Do you know that I have
the right to tell you to get up, and never to pass through that gate
again?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders.

"One place is as good as another," he said.

The man smoked in silence for several moments. Then he withdrew the
pipe from his teeth and sighed gently.

"These are indeed democratic days," he said. "You do not know, my
young friend, that I am Henry Prestgate Rochester, Esquire, if you
please, High Sheriff of this county, Magistrate and Member of
Parliament, owner, by the bye, of that rock against which you are
leaning, and of most of that country below, which you can or cannot
see."

"Really!" the boy answered slowly. "My name is Bertrand Saton, and I
am staying at the Convalescent Home down there, a luxury which is
costing me exactly eight shillings a week."

"So I concluded," his companion remarked. "May I ask what your
occupation is, when in health?"

"It's of no consequence," the boy answered, a little impatiently.
"Perhaps I haven't one at all. Whatever it is, as you may imagine, it
has not brought me any great success. If you wish me to go----"

"Not at all," Rochester interrupted, with a little protesting gesture.

"I do not wish to remain here on sufferance," the boy continued. "I
understood that we were allowed to spend our time upon the hills
here."

"That is quite true, I believe," Rochester admitted. "My bailiff sees
to those things, and if it amuses you to sit here all night, you are
perfectly welcome."

"I shall probably do so."

Rochester watched him curiously for a few seconds.

"Look here," he said, "I will make a bargain with you. You shall have
the free run of all my lands for as long as you like, and in return
you shall just answer me one question."

The boy turned his head slightly.

"The question?" he asked.

"You shall tell me the things which you see down there," Rochester
declared, holding his hand straight out in front of him, pointing
downward toward the half-hidden panorama.

The boy shook his head.

"For other people they would not count," he said. "They are for myself
only. What I see would be invisible to you."

"A matter of eyesight?" Rochester asked, with raised eyebrows.

"Of imagination," the boy answered. "There is no necessity for you to
look outside your own immediate surroundings to see beautiful things,
unless you choose deliberately to make your life an ugly thing. With
us it is different--with us who work for a living, who dwell in the
cities, and who have no power to push back the wheels of life. If we
are presumptuous enough to wish to take into our lives anything of the
beautiful, anything to help us fight our daily battle against the
commonplace, we have to create it for ourselves. That is why I am here
just now, and why I was regretting, when I heard your footstep, that
one finds it so hard to be alone."

"So I am to be ordered off?" Rochester remarked, smiling.

The boy did not answer. The man did not move. The minutes went by, and
the silence remained unbroken. Below, the twilight seemed to be
passing into night with unusual rapidity. It was a shapeless world
now, a world of black and gray. More lights flashed out every few
seconds.

It was the boy who broke the silence at last. He seemed, in some
awkward way, to be trying to atone for his former unsociability.

"This is my last night at the Convalescent Home," he said, a little
abruptly. "I am cured. To-morrow I am going back to my work in
Mechester. For many days I shall see nothing except actual things. I
shall know nothing of life except its dreary and material side. That
is why I came here with the twilight. That is why I am going to sit
here till the night comes--perhaps, even, I shall wait until the dawn.
I want one last long rest. I want to carry away with me some absolute
impression of life as I would have it. Down there," he added, moving
his head slowly, "down there I can see the things I want--the things
which, if I could, I would take into my life. I am going to look at
them, and think of them, and long for them, until they seem real. I am
going to create a concrete memory, and take it away with me."

Rochester looked more than a little puzzled. The boy's speech seemed
in no way in keeping with his attire, and the fact of his presence in
a charitable home.

"Might one inquire once more," he asked, "what your occupation in
Mechester is?"

"It is of no consequence," the boy answered shortly. "It is an
occupation that does not count. It does not make for anything in life.
One must do something to earn one's daily bread."

"You find my questioning rather a nuisance, I am afraid," Rochester
remarked, politely.

"I will not deny it," the boy answered. "I will admit that I wish to
be alone. I am hoping that very soon you will be going."

"On the contrary," Rochester replied, smiling, "I am much too
interested in your amiable conversation. You see," he added, knocking
the ashes from his pipe, and leaning carelessly back against the rock,
"I live in a world, every member of which is more or less satisfied. I
will be frank with you, and I will admit that I find satisfaction in
either man or woman a most reprehensible state. I find a certain
relief, therefore, in talking to a person who wants something he
hasn't got, or who wants to be something that he isn't."

"Then you can find all the satisfaction you want in talking to me,"
the boy declared, gloomily. "I am at the opposite pole of life, you
see, to those friends of yours. I want everything I haven't got. I am
content with nothing that I have."

"For instance?" Rochester asked, suggestively.

"I want freedom from the life of a slave," the boy said. "I want
money, the money that gives power. I want the right to shape my own
life in my own way, and to my own ends, instead of being forced to
remain a miserable, ineffective part of a useless scheme of
existence."

"Your desires are perfectly reasonable," Rochester remarked, calmly.
"Imagine, if you please--you seem to have plenty of imaginative
force--that I am a fairy godfather. I may not look the part, but at
least I can live up to it. I will provide the key for your escape. I
will set you down in the world you are thirsting to enter. You shall
take your place with the others, and run your race."

The boy suddenly abandoned his huddled-up position, and rose to his
feet. Against the background of empty air, and in the gathering
darkness, he seemed thinner than ever, and smaller.

"I am going," he said shortly. "It may seem amusing to you to make fun
of me. I will not stay----"

"Don't be a fool!" Rochester interrupted. "Haven't you heard that I am
more than half a madman? I am going to justify my character for
eccentricity. You see my house down there--Beauleys, they call it? At
twelve o'clock to-morrow, if you come to me, I will give you a sum of
money sufficient to keep you for several years. I do not specify the
amount at this moment, I shall think it over before you come."

The boy had no words. He simply stared at his chance companion in
blank astonishment.

"My offer seems to surprise you," Rochester remarked, pleasantly.
"It need not. You can go and tell the whole world of it, if you like,
although, as a reputation for sanity is quite a valuable asset,
nowadays, I should suggest that you keep your mouth closed. Still,
if you do speak of it, no one will be in the least surprised.
My friends--I haven't many--call me the most eccentric man in
Christendom. My enemies wonder how it is that I keep out of the
asylum. Personally, I consider myself a perfectly reasonable mortal. I
have whims, and I am not afraid to indulge them. I give you this money
on one--or perhaps we had better say two conditions. The first is that
you make a _bonâ fide_ use of it. When I say that, I mean that you
leave immediately your present employment, whatever it may be, and go
out into the world with the steadfast purpose of finding for yourself
the things which you saw a few minutes ago down in the valley there.
You may not find them, but still I pledge you to the search. The
second condition is that some day or other you find your way back into
this part of the country, and tell me how my experiment has fared."

The boy realized with a little gasp.

"Am I to thank you?" he asked.

"It would be usual but foolish," Rochester answered. "I need no
thanks, I deserve none. I yield to a whim, nothing else. I do this
thing for my own pleasure. The sum of money which I propose to put
into your hands will probably represent to me what a five-shilling
piece might to you. This may sound vulgar, but it is true. I think
that I need not warn you never to come to me for more. You need not
look so horrified. I am quite sure that you would not do that. And
there is one thing further."

"Yes?" the boy asked. "Another condition?"

Rochester shook his head.

"No!" he said. "It is not a condition. It is just a little advice. The
way through life hasn't been made clear for everyone. You may find
yourself brought up in the thorny paths. Take my advice. Don't be
content with anything less than success. If you fail, strip off your
clothes, and swim out to sea on a sunny day, swim out until your
strength fails and you must sink. It is the pleasantest form of
oblivion I know of. Don't live on. You are only a nuisance to
yourself, and a bad influence to the rest of the world. Succeed, or
make your little bow, my young friend. It is the best advice I can
give you. Remember that the men who have failed, and who live on, are
creatures of the gutter."

"You are right!" the boy muttered. "I have read that somewhere, and it
comes home to me. Failure is the one unforgivable sin. If I have to
commit every other crime in the decalogue, I will at least avoid that
one!"

Rochester shouldered his gun, and prepared to stroll off.

"At twelve o'clock to-morrow, then," he said. "I wouldn't hurry away
now, if I were you. Sit down in your old place, and see if there isn't
a thread of gold down there in the valley."

The boy obeyed almost mechanically. His heart was beating fast. His
back was pressed against the cold rock. The fingers of both hands were
nervously buried in the soft turf. Once more his eyes were riveted
upon this land of shifting shadows. The whole panorama of life seemed
suddenly unveiled before his eyes. More real, more brilliant now were
the things upon which he looked. The thread of gold was indeed there!




CHAPTER I

A LETTER PROVES USEFUL


Bertrand Saton leaned against the stone coping of the bridge, and
looked downwards, as though watching the seagulls circling round and
round, waiting for their usual feast of scraps. The gulls, however,
were only his excuse. He stood there, looking hard at the gray, muddy
water beneath, trying to make up his mind to this final and inevitable
act of despair. He had walked the last hundred yards almost eagerly.
He had told himself that he was absolutely and entirely prepared for
death. Yet the first sight of that gray, cold-looking river, had
chilled him. He felt a new and unaccountable reluctance to quit the
world which certainly seemed to have made up its mind that it had no
need of him. His thoughts rushed backwards. "Swim out to sea on a
sunny day," he repeated to himself slowly. Yes, but this! It was a
different thing, this! The longer he looked below, the more he shrank
from such a death!

He stood upright with a little shiver, and began--it was not for the
first time that day--a searching investigation into the contents of
his pocket. The result was uninspiring. There was not an article
there which would have fetched the price of a dose of poison. Then
his fingers strayed into a breast-pocket which he seldom used, and
brought out a letter, unopened, all grimy, and showing signs of having
been there for some considerable time. He held it between his fingers,
doubtful at first from where it had come. Then suddenly he remembered.
He remembered the runaway horses in the Bois, and the strange-looking
old woman who had sat in the carriage with grim, drawn lips and pallid
face. He remembered the dash into the roadway, the brief, maddening
race by the side of the horses, his clutch at the reins, the sense
of being dragged along the dusty road. It was, perhaps, the one
physically courageous action of his life. The horses were stopped, and
the woman's life was saved. He looked at the letter in his hand.

"Why not?" he asked himself softly.

He hesitated, and glanced downward once more toward the river. The
sight seemed to decide him. He turned his weary footsteps again
westward.

Walking with visible effort, and resting whenever he had a chance, he
reached at last the Oxford Street end of Bond Street. Holding the
letter in his hand, he made his way, slowly and more painfully than
ever, down the right-hand side. People stared at him a little
curiously. He was a strange figure, passing through the crowds of
well-dressed, sauntering men and women. He was unnaturally thin--the
pallor of his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes spoke of starvation.
His clothes had been well-cut, but they were almost in rags. His cap
had cost him a few pence at a second-hand store.

He made his way toward his destination, looking neither to the right
nor to the left. The days had gone when he found it interesting to
study the faces of the passers-by, looking out always for adventures,
amusing himself with shrewd speculations as to the character and
occupation of those who seemed worthy of notice. This was his last
quest now--the quest of life or death.

He stopped in front of a certain number, and comparing it with the
tattered envelope which he held in his hand, finally entered. The
lift-boy, who was lounging in the little hall, looked at him in
surprise.

"I want to find Madame Helga," the young man said shortly. "This is
number 38, isn't it?"

The boy looked at him doubtfully, and led the way to the lift.

"Third floor," he said. "I'll take you up."

The lift stopped, and Bertrand Saton found in front of him a door upon
which was a small brass plate, engraved simply with the name of Helga.
He knocked twice, and received no answer. Then, turning the handle, he
entered, and stood looking about him with some curiosity.

It was a small room, luxuriously but sombrely furnished. Heavy
curtains were drawn more than half-way across the windows, and the
room was so dark that at first he was not sure whether it was indeed
empty. On a small black oak table in the middle of the rich green
carpet, stood a crystal ball. There was nothing else unusual about the
apartment, except the absence of any pictures upon the walls, and a
faint aromatic odor, as though somewhere dried weeds were being
burned.

Some curtains opposite him were suddenly thrust aside. A woman stood
there looking at him. She was of middle height, fair, with a
complexion which even in that indistinct light he could see owed
little of its smoothness to nature. She wore a loose gown which seemed
to hang from her shoulders, of some soft green material, drawn around
her waist with a girdle. Her eyes were deep-set and penetrating.

"You wish to see me?" she asked.

He held out the note.

"If you are Madame Helga," he answered.

She came a little further into the room, looking at him with a slight
frown contracting her pencilled eyebrows. He had no appearance of
being a client.

"You have brought a letter, then?" she asked.

"My name is Bertrand Saton," he explained. "This letter was given to
me in Paris more than a year ago, by an elderly lady. I have carried
it with me all that time. At first it did not seem likely that I
should ever need to use it. Unfortunately," he added, a little
bitterly, "things have changed."

She took the letter, and tore open the envelope. Its contents
consisted only of a few lines, which she read with some appearance of
surprise. Then she turned once more to the young man.

"You are the Mr. Bertrand Saton of whom the writer of this letter
speaks?" she asked.

He nodded.

"I am," he answered.

She looked him over from head to foot. There was scarcely an inch of
his person which did not speak of poverty and starvation.

"You have had trouble," she remarked.

"I have," he admitted.

"The lady who wrote that letter," she said, "is at present in Spain."

He turned to go.

"I am not surprised," he answered. "My star is not exactly in the
ascendant just now."

"Don't be too sure," she said. "And whatever you do, don't go away.
Sit down if you are tired. You don't seem strong."

"I am not," he admitted. "Would you like," he added, "to know what is
the matter with me?"

"It is nothing serious, I hope?"

"I am starving," he declared, simply. "I have eaten nothing for
twenty-four hours."

She looked at him for a moment as though doubting his words. Then she
moved rapidly to a desk which stood in a corner of the room.

"You are a very foolish person," she said, "to allow yourself to get
into such a state, when all the time you had this letter in your
pocket. But I forgot," she added, unlocking the desk. "You had not
read it. You had better have some money to buy yourself food and
clothes, and come here again."

"Food and clothes!" he repeated, vaguely. "I do not understand."

She touched the letter with her forefinger.

"You have a very powerful friend here," she said. "I am told to give
you whatever you may be in need of, and to telegraph to her, in
whatever part of the world she may be, if ever you should present this
letter."

Saton began to laugh softly.

"It is the turn of the wheel," he said. "I am too weak to hear any
more. Give me some money, and I will come back. I must eat or I shall
faint."

She gave him some notes, and watched him curiously as he staggered out
of the room. He forgot the lift, and descended by the stairs,
unsteadily, like a drunken person, reeling from the banisters to the
wall, and back again. Out in the street, people looked at him
curiously as he turned northward toward Oxford Street. His eyes
searched the shop-windows. He hurried along like a man feverishly
anxious to make use of his last stint of strength. He was in search of
food!




CHAPTER II

OLD ACQUAINTANCES


Rochester was walking slowly along the country lane which led from the
main road to Beauleys, when the hoot of a motor overtaking him caused
him to slacken his pace and draw in close to the hedge-side. The great
car swung by, with a covered top upon which was luggage, a chauffeur,
immaculate in dark green livery, and inside, two people. Rochester
caught a glimpse of them as they passed by--the woman, heavily muffled
up notwithstanding the warm afternoon, old and withered; the man,
young, with dark, sallow complexion, and thoughtful eyes. They were
gone like a flash. Yet Rochester stood for a moment in the road
looking after them, before he turned into a field to escape the cloud
of dust. The man's face was peculiar, and strangely enough it
was familiar. He racked his brains in vain for some clue to its
identity--searched every corner of his memory without success.
Finally, with a little shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the
subject.

He was soon to be reminded of it, though, for when he reached home, he
was told at once that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the study.
Then Rochester, with a little gasp of surprise, recalled that likeness
which had puzzled him so much. He knew who his visitor was! He walked
toward the study, filled with a curious--perhaps, even, an ominous
sense of excitement!...

They were face to face in a few seconds. The man was unchanged. The
boy alone was altered. Rochester's hair was a little grayer, perhaps,
but his face was still smooth. His out-of-door life and that wonderful
mouth of his, with its half humorous, half cynical curve, still kept
his face young. To the boy had come a change much more marked and
evident. He was a boy no longer--not even a youth. He carried himself
with the assured bearing of a man of the world. His thick black hair
was carefully parted. His clothes bore the stamp of Saville Row. His
face was puzzling. His eyes were still the eyes of a dreamer, the eyes
of a man who is content to be rather than to do. Yet the rest of his
face seemed somehow to have suffered. His cheeks had filled out. His
mouth and expression were no longer easy to read. There were things in
his face which would have puzzled a physiognomist.

Rochester had entered the library and closed the door behind him. He
nodded toward the man who rose slowly to greet him, but ignored his
outstretched hand.

"I am sure that I cannot be mistaken," he said. "It is my young friend
of the hillside."

"It is he," Saton answered. "I scarcely expected to be remembered."

"One sees so few fresh faces," Rochester murmured. "You have kept the
condition, then? I must confess that I am glad to see you. I shall
hope that you will have a great deal that is interesting to tell me.
At any rate, it is a good sign that you have kept the condition."

"I have kept the condition," Saton answered. "I was never likely to
break it. I have wandered up and down the world a good deal during the
past five years, and I have met many strange sorts of people, but I
have never yet met with philanthropy on such a unique scale as yours."

"Not philanthropy, my young friend," Rochester murmured. "I had but
one motive in making you that little gift--curiosity pure and simple."

"Forgive me," Saton remarked. "We will call it a loan, if you do not
mind. I am not going to offer you any interest. The five hundred
pounds are here."

He handed a little packet across to Rochester, who slipped it
carelessly into his pocket.

"This is romance indeed!" he declared, with something of the old
banter in his tone. "You are worse than the industrious apprentice.
Have I, by chance, the pleasure of speaking to one of the world's
masters--a millionaire?"

The young man laughed. His laugh, at any rate, was not unpleasant.

"No!" he said. "I don't suppose that I am even wealthy, as the world
reckons wealth. I have succeeded to a certain extent, although I came
very, very near to disaster. I have made a little money, and I can
make more when it is necessary."

"Your commercial instincts," Rochester remarked, "have not been
thoroughly aroused, then?"

The young man smiled.

"Do I need to tell you," he asked, "that great wealth was not among
the things I saw that night?"

"That was a marvelous motor-car in which you passed me," remarked the
other.

"It belongs to the lady," Saton said, "who brought me down from
London."

Rochester nodded.

"It will be interesting to me," he remarked, "later on, to hear
something of your adventures. To judge by your appearance, and your
repayment of that small amount of money, you have prospered."

"One hates the word," Saton murmured, with a sudden frown upon his
forehead. "I suppose I must admit that I have been fortunate to some
extent. I am able to repay my debt to you."

"That," Rochester interrupted, "is a trifle. It was not worth
considering. In fact I am rather disappointed that you have paid me
back."

"I was forced to do it," Saton answered. "One cannot accept alms."

Rochester eyed his visitor a little thoughtfully.

"A platitude merely," he said. "One accepts alms every day, every
moment of the day. One goes about the world giving and receiving. It
is a small point of view which reckons gold as the only means of
exchange."

The young man bowed.

"I am corrected," he said. "Yet you must admit that there is something
different in the obligation which is created by money."

"Mine, I fear," Rochester answered, "is not an analytic mind. A blunt
regard to truth has always been one of my characteristics. Therefore,
at the risk of indelicacy, I am going on to ask you a question. I
found you on the hillside, a discontented, miserable youth, and I did
for you something which very few sane people would have been inclined
even to consider. Years afterwards--it must be nearly seven, isn't
it?--you return me my money, and we exchange a few polite platitudes.
I notice--or is it that I only seem to notice--on your part an entire
lack of gratitude for that eccentric action of mine. The discontented
boy has become, presumably, a prosperous citizen of the world. The two
are so far apart, perhaps----"

Saton threw out his hands. For the first time, there flashed into his
face something of the boy, some trace of that more primitive, more
passionate hold upon life. He abandoned his measured tones, his calm,
almost studied bearing.

"Gratitude!" he interrupted. "I am not sure that I feel any! In those
days I had at least dreams. I am not sure that it was not a devilish
experiment of yours to send me out to grope my way amongst the
mirages. You were a man of the world then. You knew and understood.
You knew how bitter a thing life is, how for one who climbs, a
thousand must fall. I am not sure," he repeated, with a little catch
in his throat, "that I feel any gratitude."

Rochester nodded thoughtfully. He was not in the least annoyed.

"You interest me," he murmured. "From what you say, I gather that your
material prosperity has been somewhat dearly bought."

"There isn't much to be wrung from life," Saton answered bitterly,
"that one doesn't pay for."

"A little later on," Rochester said, "it will give me very much
pleasure to hear something of your adventures. At present, I fear that
I must deny myself that pleasure. My wife has done me the honor to
make me one of her somewhat rare visits, and my house is consequently
full of guests."

"I will not intrude," the young man answered, rising. "I shall stay in
the village for a few days. We may perhaps meet again."

Rochester hesitated for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth
twitched. There was humor in this situation, after all, and in the
thing which he proposed to himself.

"You must not hurry way," he said. "Come and be introduced to some of
my friends."

If Rochester expected any hesitation on the part of his visitor, he
was disappointed. The young man seemed to accept the suggestion as the
most natural in the world.

"I shall be very glad," he said calmly. "I shall be interested, too,
to meet your wife. At the time when I had the pleasure of seeing you
before, you were, I believe, unmarried."

Rochester opened the door, and led the way out into the hall without a
word.




CHAPTER III

"WHO IS MR. SATON?"


"Really, Henry," Lady Mary Rochester said to her husband, a few
minutes before the dinner-gong sounded, "for once you have been
positively useful. A new young man is such a godsend, and Charlie
Peyton threw us over most abominably. So mean of him, too, after the
number of times I had him to dine in Grosvenor Square."

"He's gone to Ostend, I suppose."

Lady Mary nodded.

"So foolish!" she declared. "He hasn't a shilling in the world, and he
never wins anything. He might just as well have come down here and
made himself agreeable to Lois."

"Matchmaking again?" Rochester asked.

She shook her head.

"What nonsense! Charlie is one of my favorite young men. I am not at
all sure that I could spare him, even to Lois. But the poor boy must
marry someone! I don't see how else he is to live. By the bye, who is
your protégé?"

Rochester, who was lounging in a low chair in his wife's
dressing-room, looked thoughtfully at the tip of his patent shoe.

"I haven't the faintest idea," he declared.

His wife frowned, a little impatiently.

"You are so extreme," she protested. "Of course you know something
about him. What am I to tell people? They will be sure to ask."

"Make them all happy," Rochester suggested. "Tell Lady Blanche that he
is a millionaire from New York, and Lois that he is the latest thing
in Spring poets. They probably won't compare notes until to-morrow, so
it really doesn't matter."

"I wish you could be serious for five minutes," Lady Mary said. "You
really are a trial, Henry. You seem to see everything from some quaint
point of view of your own, and to forget all the time that there are a
few other people in the world whose eyesight is not so distorted.
Sometimes I can't help realizing how fortunate it is that we see so
little of one another."

"I can scarcely be expected to agree with you," Rochester answered,
with an ironical bow. "I must try and mend my ways, however. To return
to the actual subject under discussion, then, I can really tell you
very little about this young man."

"You can tell me where he comes from, at any rate," Lady Mary
remarked.

Rochester shook his head.

"He comes from the land of mysteries," he declared. "I really am
ashamed to be so disappointing, but I only met him once before in my
life."

Lady Mary sighed gently.

"It is almost a relief," she said, "to hear you admit that you have
seen him before at all. Please tell me where it was that you met," she
added, studying the effect of a tiara upon her splendidly coiffured
hair.

"I met him," Rochester answered, "sitting with his back to a rock on
the top of one of my hills."

"What, you mean here at Beauleys?" Lady Mary asked.

"On Beacon Hill," her husband assented. "It was seven years ago, and
as you can gather from his present appearance, he was little more than
a boy. He sat there in the twilight, seeing things down in the valley
which did not and never had existed--seeing things that never were
born, you know--things for which you stretch out your arms, only to
find them float away. He was quite young, of course."

Lady Mary turned around.

"Henry!" she exclaimed.

"My dear?"

"You are absolutely the most irritating person I ever attempted to
live with!"

"And I have tried so hard to make myself agreeable," he sighed.

"You are one of those uncomfortable people," she declared, "who loathe
what they call the obvious, and adore riddles. You would commit any
sort of mental gymnastic rather than answer a plain question in a
straightforward manner."

"It is perfectly true," he admitted. "You have such insight, my dear
Mary."

"I am to take it, then," she continued, "that you know absolutely
nothing about your protégé? You know nothing, for instance, about his
family, or his means?"

"Absolutely nothing," he admitted. "He has an uncommon name, but I
believe that I gathered from him once that his parentage was not
particularly exalted."

"At least," she said, with a little sigh, "he is quite presentable. I
call him, in fact, remarkably good-looking, and his manners leave
nothing to be desired. He has lived abroad, I should think."

"He may have lived anywhere," Rochester admitted.

"Well, I'll have him next me at dinner," she declared. "I daresay I
shall find out all about him pretty soon. Come, Henry, I am quite sure
that everyone is down. You and I play host and hostess so seldom that
we have forgotten our manners."

They descended to the drawing-room, and Lady Mary murmured her
apologies. Everyone, however, seemed too absorbed to hear them. They
were listening to Saton, who was standing, the centre of a little
group, telling stories.

"It was in Buenos Ayres," Rochester heard him conclude, amidst a
ripple of laughter. "I can assure you that I saw the incident with my
own eyes."

Lois Champneyes--an heiress, pretty, and Rochester's ward--came
floating across the room to them. She wore a plain muslin gown, of
simpler cut than was usually seen at Lady Mary's house-parties, and
her complexion showed no signs whatever of town life. Her hair--it was
bright chestnut color, merging in places to golden--was twisted simply
in one large coil on the top of her head. She wore no jewelry, and
she had very much the appearance of a child just escaped from the
schoolroom.

"Mary," she exclaimed, drawing her hostess on one side, "you must send
me in with Mr. Saton! He is perfectly charming, and isn't it a lovely
name? Do tell me who he is, and whether I may fall in love with him."

Lady Mary nodded.

"My dear child," she said, "I shall do nothing of the sort. You are
not nearly old enough to take care of yourself, and we know nothing
about this young man at all. Besides, I want him for myself."

"You are the most selfish hostess I ever stayed with," Lois declared,
turning away with a little pout. "Never mind! I'll make him talk to me
after dinner."

"Is your friend in the diplomatic service?" Lord Penarvon asked
Rochester. "He is a most amusing fellow."

"Not at present, at any rate," Rochester answered. "I really forget
what he used to do when I met him first. As a matter of fact, I have
seen very little of him lately."

A servant announced dinner, and they all trooped across the hall a
little informally. It was only a small party, and Lady Mary was a
hostess whose ideas were distinctly modern. Conversation at first was
nearly altogether general. Saton, without in any way asserting
himself, bore at least his part in it. He spoke modestly enough, and
yet everything he said seemed to tell. From the first, the dinner was
a success.

Rochester found himself listening with a curiosity for which he
could not wholly account, to this young man, seated only a few feet
away. His presence was so decidedly piquant. It appealed immensely
to his sense of humor. Saton's appearance was in every respect
irreproachable. His tie was perfectly tied, his collar of the latest
shape. His general appearance was that of an exceedingly smart young
man about town. The only sign of eccentricity which he displayed was
an unobtrusive eyeglass, suspended from his neck by a narrow black
ribbon, and which he had only used to study the menu.

Rochester looked at him across the white tablecloth, with its
glittering load of silver and glass, its perfumed banks of pink
blossoms, and told himself that one at least of his somewhat eccentric
experiments had borne strange fruit. He thought of that night upon
the hillside, the boy's passionate words, his almost wild desire to
realize, to turn into actual life, the fantasies which were then only
the creation of his fancy. How far had he realized them, he wondered?
What did this alteration in his exterior denote? From a few casual and
half-forgotten inquiries, Rochester knew that he was the son, or
rather the orphan of working-people in the neighboring town. There
was nothing in his blood to make him in any way the social equal
of these men and women amongst whom he now sat with such perfect
self-possession. Rochester found himself watching for some traces of
inferior breeding, some lapse of speech, some signs of an innate lack
of refinement. The absence of any of these things puzzled him. Saton
was assured, without being over-confident. He spoke of himself only
seldom. It was marvelous how often he seemed to avoid the use of the
first person. He seemed, too, modestly unconscious of the fact that
his conversation was in any way more interesting than the speech of
those by whom he was surrounded.

"You seem to have lived," his hostess said to him once, "in so many
countries, Mr. Saton. Are you really only as old as you look?"

"How can I answer that," he asked, smiling, "except by telling you
that I am twenty-five."

"You must have commenced to live in your perambulator," she declared.

"I have lived nowhere," he answered. "I have visited many places, and
travelled through many lands, but life with me has been a search."

"A search?" she murmured, dropping her voice a little, and intimating
by the slight movement of her head towards him, that their
conversation was to become a tête-á-tête. "Well," she continued, "I
suppose that life is that with all of us, only you see with us poor
frivolous people, a search means nearly always the same thing--a
search for amusement or distraction, whichever you choose to call it."

Saton shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Different things amuse different people," he remarked. "My search, I
will admit, was of a different order."

"It is finished?" she asked.

"It will never be finished," he answered. "The man who finds what he
seeks," he added, raising his dark eyes to hers, "as a rule has fixed
his ambitions too low."

"Speaking of ambitions, Mr. Saton," Lord Penarvon asked across the
table, "are you interested in politics?"

"Not in the least," Saton answered frankly. "There seem to me to be so
many other things in life better worth doing than making fugitive laws
for a dissatisfied country."

"Tell me," his hostess asked, "what do you yourself consider the
things better worth doing?"

Saton hesitated. For the first time, he seemed scarcely at his ease.
He glanced across at Rochester, and down at his plate.

"The sciences," he answered, quietly. "There are many torches lit
which need strong hands to carry them forward."

Lois leaned across the table. As yet she had scarcely spoken, but she
had listened intently to his every word.

"Which of the sciences, Mr. Saton?" she asked, a little breathlessly.

He smiled at her, and hesitated a moment before answering.

"There are so many," he said, "which are equally fascinating, but I
think that it is always the least known which is the most attractive.
When I spoke, I was really thinking of one which many people would
scarcely reckon amongst the orthodox list. I mean occultism."

There was a little murmur of interest. Saton himself, however,
deliberately turned the conversation. He reverted to a diplomatic
incident which had come to his notice when in Brazil, and asked Lord
Penarvon's opinion concerning it.

"By the bye," the latter asked, as their conversation drew toward a
close, "how long did you say that you had been in England, Mr. Saton?"

"A very short time," Saton answered, with a faint smile. "I have been
something of a wanderer for years."

"And you came from?" Rochester asked, leaning a little forward.

Saton smiled as his eyes met his host's. He hesitated perceptibly.

"I came from the land where the impossible sometimes happens," he
answered, lightly, "the land where one dreams in the evening, and is
never sure when one wakes in the morning that one's dreams have not
become solid things."

Lady Mary sighed.

"Can one get a Cook's ticket?" she asked.

"Can one get there by motor-car, or even flying-machine?" Lois
demanded. "I would risk my bones to find my way there."

Saton laughed.

"Unfortunately," he said, "there is a different path for every one of
us, and there are no signposts."

Lady Mary sighed as she rose to her feet. She nodded a friendly little
farewell to her interesting neighbor.

"Then we may as well go and have some really good bridge," she said,
"until you men take it into your heads to come and disturb us."




CHAPTER IV

A QUESTION OF OBLIGATION


Afternoon tea was being served in the hall at Beauleys on the day
after Saton's arrival. Saton himself was sitting with Lois Champneyes
in a retired corner.

"I was going to ask you," he remarked, as he handed her some cakes,
"about Mr. Rochester's marriage. He was a bachelor when I--first met
him."

"Were you very intimate in those days?" she asked.

"Not in the least," he answered, with a faint reminiscent smile.

"Then you never heard about the romance of his life?" she asked.

Saton shook his head.

"Never," he declared. "Nor should I ever have associated the word with
Mr. Rochester."

She sighed gently.

"I daresay he was very different in those days," she said. "Before the
Beauleys property came to him, he was quite poor, and he was very much
in love with the dearest woman--Pauline Hambledon. It was impossible
for them to marry--her people wouldn't hear of it--so he went abroad,
and she married Sir Walter Marrabel! Such a pig! Everyone hated him.
Then old Mr. Stephen Rochester died suddenly, without a will, and all
this property came to Henry!"

"And then he married, I suppose?" Saton remarked.

"I was going to tell you about that," Lois continued. "Mary was a
niece of Stephen Rochester, and a daughter of the Marquis of Haselton,
who was absolutely bankrupt when he died. Stephen Rochester adopted
her, and then died without leaving her a farthing! So there she was,
poor dear, penniless, and Henry had everything. Of course, he had to
marry her."

"Why not?" Saton remarked. "She is quite charming."

"Yes! But this is the tantalizing part of it," Lois continued. "They
hadn't been married a year when Sir Walter Marrabel died. Pauline is a
widow now. She is coming here in a few days. I do hope you will meet
her."

"This is quite interesting," Saton murmured. "How do Lady Mary and her
husband get on?"

Lois made a little grimace.

"They go different ways most of the time," she answered. "I suppose
they're only what people call modern. Isn't that a motor horn?" she
cried out, springing to her feet. "I wonder if it's Guerdie!"

"For a man who has been a great lawyer," Lord Penarvon declared,
"Guerdon is the most uncertain and unpunctual of men. One never knows
when to expect him."

"He was to have arrived yesterday," Lady Mary remarked. "We sent to
the station twice."

"I suppose," Rochester said, "that even to gratify the impatience of
an expectant house-party, it is not possible to quicken the slow
process of the law. If you look at the morning papers, you will see
that he was at the Central Criminal Court, trying some case or other,
all day yesterday. The man who pleads 'Not Guilty,' and who pays for
his defence, expects to be heard out to the bitter end. It is really
only natural."

Saton, who had been left alone in his corner, rose suddenly to his
feet and came into the circle. He handed his cup to his hostess, and
turned toward Rochester.

"You were speaking of judges?" he remarked.

Rochester nodded.

"In a few moments," he said, "you will probably meet the cleverest one
we have upon the English bench. Without his robe and wig, some people
find him insignificant. Personally, I must confess that I never feel
his eyes upon me without a shiver. They say that he never loses sight
of a fact or forgets a face."

"And what is the name of this wonderful person?" Saton asked.

"Lord Guerdon," Rochester answered. "Even though you have spent so
little time in England of late years, you must have heard of him."

The curtains were suddenly thrown aside, and a footman entered
announcing the newly-arrived guest. From the hall beyond came the
sound of a departing motor, and the clatter of luggage being brought
in. The footman stood on one side.

"Lord Guerdon!" he announced.

Lady Mary held out her hands across the tea-tray. Rochester came a
few steps forward. Everyone ceased their conversation to look at the
small, spare figure of the man who, clad in a suit of travelling
clothes of gray tweed, and cut after a somewhat ancient pattern,
insignificant-looking in figure and even in bearing, yet carried
something in his clean-shaven, wrinkled face at once impressive and
commanding. Everyone seemed to lean forward with a little air of
interest, prepared to exchange greetings with him as soon as he had
spoken to his host and hostess. Only Saton stood quite still, still as
a figure turned suddenly into stone. No one appeared to notice him, to
notice the twitching of his fingers, the almost ashen gray of his
cheeks--no one except the girl with whom he had been talking, and
whose eyes had scarcely left his. He recovered himself quickly. When
Rochester turned towards him, a moment or so later, he was almost at
his ease.

"You find us all old friends, Guerdon," he said, "except that I have
to present to you my friend Mr. Saton. Saton, this is Lord Guerdon,
whose caricature you have doubtless admired in many papers, comic and
otherwise, and who I am happy to assure you is not nearly so terrible
a person as he might seem from behind that ominous iron bar."

Saton held out his hand, but almost immediately withdrawing it,
contented himself with a murmured word, and a somewhat low bow. For a
second the judge's eyebrows were upraised, his keen eyes seemed to
narrow. He made no movement to shake hands.

"I am very glad to meet Mr. Saton," he said slowly. "By the bye," he
continued, after a second's pause, "is this our first meeting? I seem
to have an idea--your face is somehow familiar to me."

There were few men who could have faced the piercing gaze of those
bright brown eyes, set deep in the withered face, without any sign of
embarrassment. Yet Saton smiled back pleasantly enough. He was
completely at his ease. His face showed only a reasonable amount of
pleasure at this encounter with the famous man.

"I am afraid, Lord Guerdon," he said, "that I cannot claim the
privilege of any previous acquaintance. Although I am an Englishman,
my own country has seen little of me during the last few years."

"Come and have some tea at once," Lady Mary insisted, looking up at
the judge. "I want to hear all about this wonderful Clancorry case.
Oh, I know you're not supposed to talk about it, but that really
doesn't matter down here. You shall have a comfortable chair by my
side, and some hot muffins."

Saton went back to his seat by the side of Lois Champneyes, carrying
his refilled teacup in his hand. She looked at him a little curiously.

"Tell me," she said, "have you really never met Lord Guerdon before?"

"Never in my life," he answered.

"Did he remind you of anyone?" she asked.

"It is curious that you should ask that," Saton remarked. "In a way he
did."

"I thought so," she declared, with a little breath of relief. "That
was it, of course. Do you know how you looked when you first heard
his name--when he came into the room?"

"I have no idea," he answered. "I only know that when I saw him enter,
it gave me almost a shock. He reminded me most strangely of a man who
has been dead for many years. I could scarcely take my eyes off him at
first."

"I will tell you," she said, "what your look reminded me of. Many
years before I was out--in my mother's time--there was a man named
Mallory who was tried for murder, the murder of a friend, who everyone
knew was his rival. Well, he got off, but only after a long trial, and
only by a little weakness in the chain of evidence, which even his
friends at the time thought providential. He went abroad for a long
time. Then he came into a title and returned to England. He was
obliged to take up his position, and people were willing enough to
forget the past. He opened his London house, and accepted every
invitation which came. At the very first party he went to, he came
face to face with the judge who had tried him. My mother was there. I
remember she told me how he looked. It was foolish of me, but I
thought of it when I saw you just then."

Saton smiled sympathetically.

"And the end of the story?" he asked.

"The man had such a shock," she continued, "that he shut up his house,
gave up all his schemes for re-entering life, left England, and never
set foot in the country again."

Saton rose to his feet.

"I see that my host is beckoning me," he said. "Will you excuse me for
a moment?"

Rochester passed his arm through the younger man's.

"Come into the gun-room for a few minutes," he said. "I want to show
you the salmon flies I was speaking of."

Saton smiled a little curiously, and followed his host across the hall
and down the long stone passage which led to the back quarters of the
house. The gun-room was deserted and empty. Rochester closed the door.

"My young friend," he said, "if you do not object, I should like to
have a few minutes of plain speaking with you."

"I should be delighted," Saton answered, seating himself deliberately
in a battered old easy-chair.

"Seven years ago," Rochester continued, leaning his elbow against
the mantelpiece, "we made a bargain. I sent you out into the world,
an egotistical Don Quixote, and I provided you with the means with
which you were to turn the windmills into castles. I made one
condition--two, in fact. One that you came back. Well, you have kept
that. The other was that you told me what it was like to build the
castles of bricks and mortar, which in the days when I knew you, you
built in fancy only."

"Aren't you a little allegorical?" Saton asked, calmly.

"I admit it," Rochester answered. "I was very nearly, in fact, out of
my depth. Tell me, in plain words, what have you done with yourself
these seven years?"

"You want me," Saton remarked, "to give an account of my stewardship."

"Put it any way you please," Rochester answered. "The fact remains
that though you are a guest in my house, you are a complete stranger
to me."

Saton smiled.

"You might have thought of that," he said, "before you asked me here."

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps," he said, "I preferred to keep up my reputation as an
eccentric person. At any rate, you must remember that it was open to
me at any moment to ask you the question I have asked you now."

Saton sat perfectly still in his chair, his eyes apparently fixed upon
the ground. All the time Rochester was watching him. Was it seven
years ago, seven years only, since he had stood by the side of that
boy, whose longing eyes had been fixed with almost passionate
intensity upon that world of shadows and unseen things? This was a
different person. With the swiftness of inspiration itself, he
recognised something of the change which had taken place. Saton had
fought his battle twice over. He might esteem himself a winner. He
might even say that he had proved it. Yet there was another side. This
young man with the lined face, and the almost unnatural restraint of
manner, might well have taken up the thread of life which the boy had
laid down. But there was a difference. The thread might be the same,
but it was no longer of gold.

Then Saton raised his eyes, and Rochester, who was watching him
intensely, realized with a sudden convincing thrill something which he
had felt from the moment when he had stepped into the library and
welcomed this unexpected visitor. There was nothing left of gratitude
or even kindly feeling in the heart of this young man. There was
something else which looked out from his eyes, something else which he
did not even trouble to conceal. Rochester knew, from that moment,
that he had an enemy.

"There are just two things," Saton said quietly, "of which I should
like to remind you. The first is that from the day I left this house
with five hundred pounds in bank-notes buttoned up in my pocket, I
regarded that sum as a loan. I have always regarded it as a loan, and
I have repaid it."

"I do not consider your obligation to me lessened," Rochester remarked
coldly. "If it was a loan, it was a loan such as no sane man would
have made. You had not a penny in the world, and I did not even know
your name. The chances were fifty to one against my ever seeing a
penny of my money again."

"I admit that," Saton answered. "Yet I will remind you of your own
words--five hundred pounds were no more to you than a crown piece to
me. You gave me the money. You gave me little else. You gave me no
encouragement, no word of kindly advice. Go back that seven years, and
remember what you said to me when you stood by my side, toying with
your gun, and looking at me superciliously, as though I were some sort
of curiosity which it amused you to turn inside out.--The one
unforgivable thing in life, you said, was failure. Do you remember
telling me that if I failed I was to swim out on a sunny day--to swim
and swim until the end came? Do you remember telling me that death was
sometimes a pleasant thing, but that life after failure was Hell
itself?"

Rochester nodded.

"I always had such a clear insight into life," he murmured. "I was
perfectly right."

"From your point of view you doubtless were," Saton answered. "You
were a cynic and a pessimist, and I find you now unchanged. I went
away with your words ringing in my brain. It was the first poisonous
thought which had ever entered there, and I never lost it. I said to
myself that whatever price I paid for success, success of some sort I
would gain. When things went against me, I seemed to hear always those
bitter, supercilious words. I could even see the curl of your lips as
you looked down upon me, and figured to yourself the only possible
result of trusting me, an unfledged, imaginative boy, with the means
to carve his way a little further into the world. Failure! I wrote the
word out of the dictionary of my life. Sin, crime, ill-doing of any
sort if they became necessary--I kept them there. But failure--no! And
this was your doing. Now you come to ask me questions. You want to
know if I am a fit and proper person to receive in your house. Perhaps
I have sinned. Perhaps I have robbed. Perhaps I have proved myself a
master in every form of ill-doing. But I have not failed! I have paid
you back your five hundred pounds."

"The question of ethics," Rochester remarked, "interests me very
little if at all. The only point is that whereas on the hillside you
were simply a stray unit of humanity, and the things which we said to
one another concerned ourselves only, here matters are a little
different. In a thoughtless moment, I asked you to become a guest
under my roof. It was, I frankly admit, a mistake. I trust that I need
not say more."

"If you will have my things removed to the Inn," Saton said slowly--

"No such extreme measures are necessary," Rochester answered. "You
will stay with us until to-morrow morning. After luncheon you will
probably find it convenient to terminate your visit as soon as
possible."

"I shall be gone," Saton answered, "before any of your guests are up.
In case I do not see you again alone, let me ask you a question, or
rather a favor."

Rochester bowed slightly.

"There is a house below the Convalescent Home--Blackbird's Nest, they
call it," Saton said. "It is empty now--too large for your keepers,
too small for a country seat. Will you let it to me?"

Rochester looked at him with uplifted eyebrows.

"Let it to you?" he repeated. "Do you mean to say that after an
adventurous career such as I imagine you have had, you think of
settling down, at your age, in a neighborhood like this?"

"Scarcely that," Saton answered. "I shall be here only for a few days
at a time, at different periods in the year. The one taste which I
share in common with the boy whom you knew, is a love for the country,
especially this part of it."

"You wish to live there alone?" Rochester asked.

"There is one--other person," Saton answered with some hesitation.

Rochester sighed gently.

"Alas!" he said. "Instinct tells me that that person will turn out to
be of the other sex. If only you knew, my young friend, what the
morals of this neighborhood are, you would understand how fatal your
proposal is."

Something that was almost malign gleamed for a moment in Saton's eyes.

"It is true," he said, "that the person I spoke of is a woman, but as
she is at least sixty years old, and can only walk with the help of a
stick, I do not think that she would be apt to disturb the moral
prejudices of your friends."

"What has she to do with you?" Rochester asked, a little shortly.
"Have you found relatives out in the world, or are you married?"

Saton smiled.

"I am not married," he answered, "and as the lady in question is a
foreigner, there is no question of any relationship between us. I am,
as a matter of fact, her adopted son."

"You can go and see my agent," Rochester answered. "Personally, I
shall not interfere. I am to take it for granted, then, I presume,
that you have nothing more to tell me concerning yourself?"

"At present, nothing," Saton answered. "Some day, perhaps," he added,
rising, "I may tell you everything. You see," he added, "I feel that
my life, such as it is, is in some respects dedicated to you, and that
you therefore have a certain right to know something of it. But that
time has not come yet."

Once more there was a short and somewhat inexplicable pause, and once
more Rochester knew that he was in the presence of an enemy. He
shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the door.

"Well," he said, "we had better be getting off. Guerdon is a decent
fellow, but he always needs looking after. If he is bored for five
minutes, he gets sulky. If he is bored for a quarter of an hour, he
goes home. You never met Lord Guerdon before, I suppose?" he asked, as
he threw open the door.

They were men of nerve, both of them. Neither flinched. Rochester's
question had been asked in an absolutely matter-of-fact tone, and
Saton's reply was entirely casual. Yet he knew very well that it was
only since the coming of the great judge that Rochester had suddenly
realized that amongst the guests staying in his house, there was one
who might have been any sort of criminal.

"I have seen him in court," Saton remarked, with a slight smile, "and
of course I have seen pictures of him everywhere. Do not let me keep
you, please. I have some letters to write in my room."

Rochester went back to his guests. His brows were knitted. He was
unusually thoughtful. His wife, who was watching him, called him
across to the bridge table, where she was dummy.

"Well?" she asked. "What is it?"

Rochester looked down at her. The corners of his mouth slowly unbent.

"Have you ever heard," he whispered in her ear, "of the legend of the
Frankenstein?"




CHAPTER V

A MORNING WALK


"My dear Henry," Lady Mary said, a few days later, swinging round in
her chair from the writing-table, "whatever in this world induced you
to encourage that extraordinary person Bertrand Saton to settle down
in this part of the world?"

Rochester continued for a moment to gaze out of the window across the
Park, with expressionless face.

"My dear Mary," he said, "I did not encourage him to do anything of
the sort."

"You let him Blackbird's Nest," she reminded him.

"I had scarcely a reasonable excuse for refusing to let it," Rochester
answered. "I did not suggest that he should take it. I merely referred
him to my agents. He went to see old Bland the very next morning, and
the thing was arranged."

"I think," Lady Mary said deliberately, "that it is one of those cases
where you should have exercised a little more discrimination. This is
a small neighborhood, and I find it irritating to be continually
running up against people whom I dislike."

"You dislike Saton?" Rochester remarked, nonchalantly.

"Dislike is perhaps a strong word," his wife answered. "I distrust
him. I disbelieve in him. And I dislike exceedingly the friendship
between him and Lois."

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

"Does it amount to a friendship?" he asked.

"What else?" his wife answered. "It was obvious that she was
interested in him when he was staying here, and twice since I have met
them walking together. I hate mysterious people. They tell me that he
has made Blackbird's Nest look like a museum inside, and there is the
most awful old woman, with white hair and black eyes, who never leaves
his side, they say, when he is at home."

"She is," Rochester remarked, "I presume, of an age to disarm
scandal?"

"She looks as old as Methuselah," his wife answered, "but what does
the man want with such a creature at all?"

"She may be an elderly relative," Rochester suggested.

"Relative? Why, she calls herself the Comtesse somebody!" Lady Mary
declared. "I do wish you would tell me, Henry, exactly what you know
and what you do not know about this young man."

"What I do know is simple enough," he answered. "What I do not know
would, I begin to believe, fill a volume."

"Then you had better go and see him, and readjust matters," she
declared, a little sharply. "I want Lois to marry well, and she
mustn't have her head turned by this young man."

Rochester strolled through the open French-window into the
flower-garden. He pulled a low basket chair out into the sun, close to
a bed of pink and white hyacinths. A man-servant, seeing him, brought
out the morning papers, which had just arrived, but Rochester waved
them away.

"Fancy reading the newspapers on a morning like this!" he murmured,
half to himself. "The person who would welcome the intrusion of a
world of vulgar facts into an æsthetically perfect half-hour,
deserves--well, deserves to be the sort of person he must be. Take the
papers away, Groves," he added, as the man stood by, a little
embarrassed. "Take them to Lord Penarvon or Mr. Hinckley."

The man bowed and withdrew. Rochester half closed his eyes, but opened
them again almost immediately. A white clad figure was passing down
the path on the other side of the lawn. He roused himself to a sitting
posture.

"Lois!" he called out. "Lois!"

She waved her hand, but did not stop. He rose to his feet and called
again. She paused with a reluctance which was indifferently concealed.

"I am going down to the village," she said.

He crossed the lawn towards her.

"I will be a model host," he said, "and come with you. It is always
the function of the model host, is it not, to neglect the whole of the
rest of the guests, and attach himself to the one most charming?"

She shook her head at him.

"I dare not risk being so unpopular," she declared. "Really, don't
bother to come. It is such a very short distance."

"That decides me," he answered, falling into step with her. "A short
walk is exactly what I want. For the last few days I have been
oppressed with a horrible fear. I am afraid of growing fat!"

She looked at his long slim figure, and laughed derisively.

"You will have to find another reason for this sudden desire for
exercise," she remarked.

"Do I need to find one?" he answered, laughing down into her pretty
face.

She shook her head.

"This is all very well," she said, "but I quite understand that it is
my last morning. I know what will happen this afternoon, and I really
do not think that I shall allow you to come past that gate."

"Why not?" he asked earnestly.

"You know very well that Pauline is coming," she answered.

The change in his face was too slight for her to notice it, but there
was a change. His lips moved as though he were repeating the name to
himself.

"And why should Pauline's coming affect the situation?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"You say nice things to me," she declared, looking at him
reproachfully, "but only when Pauline isn't here. We all know that
directly she comes we are no longer any of us human beings. I wish I
were intelligent."

"Don't!" he begged. "Don't wish anything so foolish. Intelligence is
the greatest curse of the day. Few people possess it, it is true, but
those few spend most of their time wishing they were fools."

"Am I a fool?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered. "All pretty and charming people are fools."

"And Pauline?" she asked.

"Pauline, unfortunately, is amongst the cursed," he answered.

"That, I suppose," she remarked, "is what brings you so close
together."

"It is a bond of common suffering," he declared. "By the bye, who is
this ferocious-looking person?"

It was Saton who had suddenly turned the corner, and whose expression
had certainly darkened for a moment as he came face to face with the
two. He was correctly enough dressed in gray tweeds and thick walking
boots, but somehow or other his sallow face and dark, plentiful hair,
seemed to go oddly with his country clothes.

Rochester glanced at his companion, and he distinctly saw a little
grimace. Saton would have passed on, for Rochester's nod was of the
slightest, but Lois insisted upon stopping.

"Mr. Saton," she said, "I have been hearing all sorts of wonderful
things about your house. When are you going to ask us all to tea to
see your curiosities?"

Saton looked into Rochester's immovable face.

"Whenever you choose to come," he answered calmly. "I am nearly always
at home in the afternoon, or rather I shall be after next Thursday,"
he added, as an afterthought. "I am going to town this evening."

"Going away?" she asked, a little blankly.

"I have to go up to London," he answered, "but it is only for two
days."

There was a short, uneasy silence. Rochester purposely avoided speech.
He understood the situation exactly. They had something to say to one
another, and wished him away.

"You won't be able to send me that book, then?" she asked.

"I will leave it at the house this afternoon, if I may," he answered,
half looking toward Rochester.

Rochester made no sign. Saton raised his cap and passed on.

"Wonderful syringa bush, that," Rochester remarked, pointing with his
stick.

"Wonderful!" Lois answered.

"Quite an ideal village, mine," he continued. "You see there are
crocuses growing out even in the roadway."

"Very pretty!" she answered.

"You are not by any chance annoyed with me?"

"I did not think you were very civil to that poor young man."

"Naturally," he answered. "I didn't mean to be civil. I am one of
those simple folk who are always annoyed by the incomprehensible. I do
not understand Mr. Bertrand Saton. I do not quite understand, either,
why you should find him an interesting companion for your morning
walks."

"You are a hateful person!" she declared, as he held open the gate
which led back to the Park.

"I intend to remain so," he answered drily.

The sound of footsteps coming along the path which they had just
quitted, attracted his attention momentarily. He turned round. Lois,
too, hesitated.

"I beg your pardon, sir," the newcomer said, "but can you tell me
whereabouts in this neighborhood I can find a house called Blackbird's
Nest? A Mr. Bertrand Saton lives there, I believe."

Rochester hesitated for a few seconds. He looked at the woman, summing
her up with swift comprehension. Lois, by his side, stared at her in
surprise. She was inclined to be stout, and her face was flushed with
walking, notwithstanding an obviously recent use of the powder-puff. A
mass of copper-colored hair was untidily arranged underneath a large
black hat. Her clothes were fashionable in cut, but cheap in quality.
She wore openwork stockings and high-heeled shoes, which had already
suffered from walking along the dusty roads. While she waited for an
answer to her question, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and
the perfume of the violet scented hedge by the side of which they
stood, was no longer a thing apparent.

Rochester, whose hatred of perfumes was one of his few weaknesses,
drew back a step involuntarily.

"If you pass through the village," he said, "Blackbird's Nest is the
second house upon the right-hand side. It lies a little way back from
the road, but you cannot miss it."

"I am sure I am very much obliged," the lady answered. "If I had known
it was as far as this, I'd have waited till I could have found a
carriage. The porter at the station told me that it was just a step."

Rochester raised his cap and turned away. Lois walked soberly by his
side for several moments.

"I wonder," she said softly, "what a person like that could want with
Mr. Saton."

Rochester shrugged his shoulders.

"We know nothing of Saton or his life," he answered. "He has wandered
up and down the world, and I daresay he has made some queer
acquaintances."

"But his taste," Lois persisted, "is so perfect. I cannot understand
his permitting a creature like that to even come near him."

Rochester smiled.

"One does strange things under compulsion," he remarked. "I see that
they have been rolling the putting greens. Shall we go and challenge
Penarvon and Mrs. Hinckley to a round at golf?"

She glanced once more over her shoulder toward the village--perhaps
beyond.

"If you like," she answered, resignedly.




CHAPTER VI

PAULINE MARRABEL


The words which passed between Pauline Marrabel and her host at the
railway station were words which the whole world might have heard and
remained unedified. The first part of their drive homeward, even,
passed in complete silence. Yet if their faces told the story,
Rochester was with the woman he loved. He had driven a small pony-cart
to the station. There was no room, even, for a groom behind. They sat
side by side, jogging on through the green country lanes, until they
came to the long hill which led to the higher country. The luggage
cart and the omnibus, with her maid and the groom who had driven down
with Rochester, passed them soon after they had left the station. They
were alone in the country lane, alone behind a fat pony, who had ideas
of his own as to what was the proper pace to travel on a warm spring
afternoon.

More than once he looked at her. Her oval face was almost devoid of
color. There were rings underneath her large soft eyes. Her dark hair
was brushed simply back from her forehead. Her travelling clothes were
of the plainest. Yet she was always beautiful--more so than ever just
now, perhaps, when the slight hardness had gone from her mouth, and
the strain had passed from her features.

Rochester, too, was curiously altered by the change in the curve of
his lips. There was a new smile there, a new light in his eyes as they
jogged on between the honeysuckle-wreathed hedges. Their silence was
even curiously protracted, but underneath the holland apron his left
hand was clasping hers.

"How are things with you?" she asked softly.

"About the same," he answered. "We make the best of it, you know. Mary
amuses herself easily enough. She has what she wanted--a home, and I
have someone to entertain my guests. I believe that we are considered
quite a model couple."

Pauline sighed.

"Henry," she said, "it is beautiful to be here, to be here with you.
The days will not seem long enough."

Rochester, so apt of speech, seemed curiously tongue-tied. His fingers
pressed hers. He made no answer. She leaned a little forward and
looked into his face.

"Wonderful person!" she declared. "Never a line or a wrinkle!"

He smiled.

"I live quietly," he said. "I am out of doors all day. Excitement of
any sort has not touched my life for many years. Sometimes I feel that
this perfect health is a torture. Sometimes I am afraid of never
growing old."

She laughed very softly--a dear, familiar sound it was to him. He
turned his head to watch the curve of the lips that he loved, the
faint contraction of her eyebrows as the smile spread.

"You dear man!" she murmured. "To look at you makes me feel quite
_passée_."

"The _Daily Telegraph_ should reassure you," he answered. "I read this
morning that the most beautiful woman at the Opera last night was Lady
Marrabel."

"The _Daily Telegraph_ man is such a delightful creature," she
answered. "I do not like reporters, but I fancy that I must once have
been civil to this one by mistake. Henry, you have had the road
shortened. I am perfectly certain of it. We cannot be there."

"I am afraid it is the sad truth," he answered. "You see they are all
having tea upon the lawn."

He touched the pony with his whip, and turning off the main avenue,
drew up at the bottom of one of the lawns, before a sunk fence. A
servant came hurrying down to the pony's head, and together Pauline
and he made their way across the short green turf to where Lady Mary
was dispensing tea. Rochester's face suddenly darkened. Seated next to
his wife, with Lois on the other side of him, was Saton!

Lady Mary rose to welcome her guest, and Rochester exchanged greetings
with some callers who had just arrived. To Saton he merely nodded, but
when a little later Lois rose, and announced that she was going to
show Mr. Saton the orchid houses, he intervened lazily.

"We will all go," he said. "Lady Penarvon is interested in orchids,
and I am sure that Pauline would like to see the houses."

"I am interested in everything belonging to this delightful place,"
she declared, rising.

Lois frowned slightly. Saton's face remained inscrutable. In the
general exodus Rochester found himself for a moment behind with his
wife.

"Did you encourage that young man to stay to tea?" he asked. "I
thought you disliked him so much."

Lady Mary sighed. She was a gentle, fluffy little creature, who had a
new whim every few minutes.

"I am so changeable," she declared. "I detested him yesterday. He wore
such an ugly tie, and he would monopolize Lois. This afternoon I found
him most interesting. I believe he knows all about the future, if one
could only get him to tell us things."

"Really!" Rochester remarked politely.

"He has been talking in a most interesting fashion," continued Lady
Mary.

"Has he been telling you all your fortunes?"

"You put it so crudely, my dear Henry," his wife declared. "Of course
he doesn't tell fortunes! Only he's the sort of person that if one
really wanted to know anything, I believe his advice would be better
than most peoples'. Perhaps he will talk to us about it after dinner."

"What, is he dining here?" Rochester asked.

"I have asked him to," Lady Mary answered, complacently. "We are short
of young men, as you know, and really this afternoon he quite
fascinated us all. The dear Duchess is so difficult and heavy to
entertain, but she quite woke up when he began to talk. Lady Penarvon
just told me that she thought he was wonderful."

"He seems to have the knack of interesting women," Rochester remarked.

"And therefore, I suppose," Lady Mary said, "you men will all hate
him. Never mind, I have changed my opinion entirely. I think that he
is going to be an acquisition to the neighborhood, and I am going to
study occultism."

Rochester turned away with a barely concealed grimace. He went up to
Lois, calmly usurping Saton's place.

"My dear Lois," he said, as they fell behind a few paces, "so your
latest young man has been charming everybody."

"He is nice, isn't he?" she answered, turning to him a little
impulsively.

"Marvelously!" Rochester answered. "Hatefully so! Has he told you
anything, by the bye, about himself?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing that I can remember," she answered. "He is so clever," she
added, enthusiastically, "and he has explained all sorts of wonderful
things to me. If one had only brains," she continued, with a little
sigh, "there is so much to learn."

Rochester picked a great red rose and handed it to her.

"My dear child," he said, "there is nothing in knowledge so beautiful
as that flower. By the bye," he added, raising his voice to Saton, who
was just ahead, "I thought you were going to London to-day."

"I have put off my visit until to-morrow," Saton answered. "Your wife
has been kind enough to ask me to dine."

Rochester nodded. He carefully avoided endorsing the invitation.

"By the bye," he remarked, "we had the pleasure of directing a lady in
distress to your house this morning."

Saton paused for a moment before he answered.

"I am very much obliged to you," he said.

He offered no explanation. Rochester, with a little shrug of the
shoulders, rejoined Pauline. Lady Mary was called away to receive some
visitors, and for the first time Lois and Saton were alone.

"Mr. Rochester has taken a dislike to me," he said quietly.

Lois was distressed.

"I wonder why," she said. "As a rule he is so indifferent to people."

Saton shook his head a little sadly.

"I cannot tell," he answered. "Certainly I cannot think of anything I
have done to offend him. But I am nearly always unfortunate. The
people whom I would like to have care about me, as a rule don't."

"There are exceptions," she murmured.

She met his eyes, and looked away. He smiled softly to himself. Women
had looked away from him before like that!

"Fortunately," he continued, "Lady Mary seems to be a little more
gracious. It was very kind of her to ask me to dine to-night."

"She is always so interested," Lois said, "in things which she does
not understand. You talked so well this afternoon, Mr. Saton. I am
afraid I could not follow you, but it sounded very brilliant and very
wonderful."

"One speaks convincingly," he said, "when one really feels. Some day,
remember," he continued, "we are going to have a long, long talk. We
are going to begin at the beginning, and you are going to let me help
you to understand how many wonderful things there are in life which
scarcely any of us ever even think about. I wonder----"

"Well?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Will they let me take you down to dinner?"

She shook her head doubtfully.

"I am afraid not," she said. "I am almost certain to go in with
Captain Vandermere."

He sighed.

"After all," he said, "perhaps I had better have taken that train to
town."




CHAPTER VII

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR


Saton was only a few minutes being whirled down the avenue of Beauleys
and up along the narrow country lane, wreathed with honeysuckle and
wild roses, to Blackbird's Nest. He leaned back in the great car, his
unseeing eyes travelling over the quiet landscape. There was something
out of keeping, a little uncanny, even, in the flight of the motor-car
with its solitary passenger along the country lane, past the hay
carts, and the villagers resting after their long day's toil. The man
who leaned back amongst the cushions, with his pale, drawn face, and
dark, melancholy eyes, seemed to them like a creature from another
world, even as the vehicle in which he travelled, so swift and
luxurious, filled them with wonder. Saton heard nothing of their
respectful good-nights. He saw nothing of their doffed hats and
curious, wondering glances. He was thinking with a considerable amount
of uneasiness of the interview which probably lay before him.

The car turned in at the rude gates, and climbed the rough road which
led to Saton's temporary abode. A servant met him at the door as he
descended, a gray-haired, elderly man, irreproachably attired, whose
manner denoted at once the well-trained servant.

"There is a lady here, sir," he said--"she arrived some hours ago--who
has been waiting to see you. You will find her in the morning-room."

Saton took off his hat, and moved slowly down the little hall.

"I trust that I did not make a mistake, sir, in allowing her to wait?"
the man asked. "She assured me that she was intimately known to you."

"You were quite right, Parkins," Saton answered. "I think I know who
she is, but I was scarcely expecting her to-day."

He opened the door of the morning-room and closed it quickly. The
woman rose up from the couch, where she had apparently been asleep,
and looked at him.

"At last!" she exclaimed. "Bertrand, do you know that I have been here
since the morning?"

"How was I to know?" he answered. "You sent no word that you were
coming. I certainly did not expect you."

"Are you glad?" she asked, a little abruptly.

"I am always glad to see you, Violet," he said, putting his arm around
her waist and kissing her. "All the same, I am not sure that your
coming here is altogether wise."

"I waited as long as I could," she answered. "You didn't come to me.
You scarcely even answered my letters. I couldn't bear it any longer.
I had to come and see you. Bertrand, you haven't forgotten? Tell me
that you haven't forgotten."

He sat down by her side. She was a young woman, and though her face
was a little hardened by the constant use of cosmetics, she was still
well enough looking.

"My dear Violet," he said, "of course I have not forgotten. Only don't
you see how unwise it is of you to come down here? If she were to
know----"

"She will not know," the girl interrupted. "She is safe in London, and
will be there for a week."

"The servants here might tell her that you have been," he suggested.

"You will have to see to it that they don't," she said. "Bertrand, I
am so unhappy. When are you coming back?"

"Very soon," he answered.

"We can spend the evening together, can't we?" she asked, looking at
him anxiously. "My train doesn't go back until nine."

"That is just what we cannot do," he answered. "You did not tell me
that you were coming, and I have to go out to dinner to-night."

"To dinner? Here?" she repeated. "You have soon made friends." And her
face darkened.

"I stayed here when I was a boy," he answered. "There is someone
living here who knew me then."

"Can't you put it off, Bertrand?" she begged. "It is five weeks since
I have seen you. Every day I have hoped that you would run up, if it
was only for an hour. Bertrand dear, don't go to this dinner. Can't we
have something here, and go for a walk in the country before my train
goes, or sit in your study and talk? There are so many things I want
to ask you about our future."

He took her hand and leaned towards her.

"My dear Violet," he said, "you must be reasonable. I dare not offend
these people with whom I have promised to dine, and apart from that, I
think it is very unwise that I should spend any time at all here with
you. You know what sort of a person it is whom we both have to
consider. She would turn us both into the street and treat it all as a
jest, if it pleased her. I tell you frankly, Violet, I have been too
near starvation once to care about facing it again. I am going to send
you back to the station in the car now. You can catch a train to
London almost at once."

Her face grew suddenly hard. She looked older. The light which had
flashed into her face at his coming, was gone. One saw now the
irregularities of her complexion, the over-red lips.

"You dismiss me," she said, in a low tone. "I have come all this way,
have waited all this time, and you throw me a kiss out of pity, and
you tell me to go home as fast as I can. Bertrand, you did not talk
like this a few months ago. You did not talk like this when you asked
me to marry you!"

"Nor shall I talk like it," he answered, "when we meet once more in
London, and have another of our cosy little dinners. But frankly, you
are doing an absolutely unwise thing in staying here. These people are
not my servants. They are hers. They are beyond my bribing. Violet,"
he added, dropping his voice a little, and drawing her into his arms,
"don't be foolish, dear. Don't run the risk of bringing disaster upon
both of us. You wouldn't care to have to do without her now. Nor
should I. It was a little thoughtless of you to come, dear. Do follow
my advice now, and I will try and make it up to you very soon. I shall
certainly be in London next week."

She rested in his arms for a moment with half closed eyes, as though
content with his words and his embrace. Yet, as she disengaged
herself, she sighed a little. She was willing to deceive herself--she
was anxious to do so--but always the doubt remained!

"Very well, Bertrand," she said, "I will go."

"You will just catch a fast train to London," he said, more
cheerfully. "You will change at Mechester, and you will find a
dining-car there. Have you plenty of money?"

"Plenty, thank you," she answered.

He walked with her out into the hall.

"Madame will be so sorry," he said, "to have missed you. The telegram
must have been a complete misunderstanding. Till next week, then."

He handed her into the car, and raising her fingers to his lips,
kissed them gallantly.

"To the station, William," he ordered the chauffeur, "and then get
back for me as quickly as you can."

The car swung off. Saton stood watching it with darkening face. There
was some pity in his heart for this somewhat _passée_ young person,
who had been kind to him during those first few weeks of his
re-entering into life. He recognised the fact that his swift progress
was unfortunate for her. He even sat for a moment or two smoking a
cigarette in his very luxurious dressing-room, fingering the
gold-topped bottles of his dressing-case, and wondering what would be
the most effectual and least painful means of coming to an
understanding with her!




CHAPTER VIII

AN INSTANCE OF OCCULTISM


The guests at Beauleys were all grouped together in the hall after
dinner, the men, and some of the women, smoking cigarettes. Coffee and
liqueurs were being served from the great oak sideboard. Lord Guerdon
and his host had drawn a little apart from the others, at the former's
instigation.

"Your friend Saton--extraordinary name, by the bye--seems to have
struck upon an interesting theme of conversation," the judge remarked,
a little drily, glancing across to where Saton stood, surrounded by
most of the other guests.

"He has travelled a great deal," Rochester said, "and he seems to be
one of that extravagant sort of persons who imbibe more or less the
ideas of every country. Chiefly froth, I should imagine, but it gives
him plenty to talk about."

The judge nodded thoughtfully.

"His face," he declared, "still puzzles me a little. Sometimes I am
sure that I have seen it before. At others, I find it quite
unfamiliar."

Rochester, who was watching Pauline, shrugged his shoulders.

"We may as well hear what the fellow is talking about," he remarked.
"Let us join the adoring throng." ...

"I will tell you one thing which I have realized in the course of my
travels," Saton was saying as they drew near. "Amongst all the nations
of the world, we English are at once the most ignorant, and the
slowest to receive a new thing. In the exact sciences, we are perhaps
just able to hold our own, but when it comes to the great unexplored
fields, the average English person turns away with a shrug of the
shoulders. 'I do not believe!' he says stolidly, and that is
sufficient. He does not believe! Since the birth of Time there has
been no more pitiful cry than that."

"One might easily be convinced that the fellow is in earnest,"
Rochester whispered.

The judge laid his hand upon his host's shoulder. There was a curious
gleam in those deep-set eyes.

"Let him go on," he said. "This is interesting. I begin to remember."

"We all have a hobby, I suppose," Saton continued. "Mine has always
been the study of the least understood of the sciences--I mean
occultism. I, too, was prejudiced at first. I saw wonderful things in
India, and my British instincts rose up like a wall. I did not
believe. I refused to believe my eyes. In Egypt, and on the west coast
of Africa, I had the chance of learning new things, and again I
refused. But there came a time when even I was impressed. Then I began
to study. I began to see that some of those things which we accept as
being wonderful, and from which we turn away with a shrug of the
shoulders, are capable of explanation--are submissive, in fact, to
natural laws. There is not a doubt that in the generations to come,
people will smile upon us, and pity us for our colossal stupidity."

"No wise person, my dear Mr. Saton," Mrs. Hinckley remarked, "would
deny that there is yet a great deal to learn in life. But tell us
exactly to what you refer?"

Saton raised his dark eyes and looked steadfastly at her.

"I mean, madam," he said, "the apprehension of things happening in the
present in other parts, the apprehension of things about to happen in
the future. Our brain we realize, and our muscles, but there is a
subtler part of ourselves, of which we are as ignorant to-day as our
forefathers were of electricity."

Lady Mary drew a little sigh.

"This is so fascinating," she said. "Do you really believe, then, that
it is possible to foretell the future?"

"Why not?" Saton answered quietly. "The world is governed by laws just
as inevitable as the physical laws which govern the seasons. It is
only a matter of apprehension, a deliberate schooling of ourselves
into the necessary temperament."

"Then all these people in Bond Street--these crystal gazers and
fortune-tellers--" Lois began eagerly.

"They are charlatans, and stand in the way of progress," Saton
declared, fiercely. "They have not the faintest glimmering of the
truth, and they turn what should be the greatest of the sciences into
buffoonery. To the real student it is never possible to answer
questions to foretell specific things. On the other hand, it is as
sure as the coming of night itself that there are times when a person
who has studied these matters even so slightly as I myself, can feel
the coming of events."

"Give us an instance," Lady Mary begged. "Tell us of something that is
going to happen."

Saton moved a little back. His face was unnaturally pale.

"No!" he answered. "Don't ask me that. Remember, this is not a game.
It might even happen that I should tell you something terrifying. I am
sorry that I've talked like this," he went on, a little wildly. "I am
sorry that I came here to-night. Before I came I felt it coming. If
you will excuse me, Lady Mary----"

She held out her hands and refused to accept his adieux.

"You shall not go!" she declared. "There is something in your mind.
You could tell us something if you would."

Saton looked around, as one genuinely anxious to escape. On the
outskirts of the circle he saw Rochester, smiling faintly, half
amused, half contemptuous, and by his side the parchment-like face of
Lord Guerdon, whose eyes seemed riveted upon his.

"My dear Saton," Rochester said, "pray don't disappoint us of our
thrill, after all this most effective preliminary. You believe that
you possess a gift which we none of us share. Give us a proof of it.
No one here is afraid to hear the truth. Is it one specific thing you
could tell?"

"One specific thing," Saton answered quickly, "about to happen to one
person, and one person only."

"Is it a man or a woman?" Rochester asked.

"A man!" was the quick reply.

Rochester glanced carelessly around the little circle.

"Come," he said, "the women can have their thrill. There is nothing to
fear. Penarvon here has all the pluck in the world. Hinckley is a V.C.
Captain Vandermere is a soldier, and I will answer for it that he has
no nerves. Guerdon and I, I am sure, are safe. Let us hear your
gruesome prophecy, my dear Saton, and if it comes true, we will form a
little society, and you shall be our apostle. We will study occultism
in place of bridge. We will be the founders of a new cult."

Saton pushed them away from him. His face was almost ghastly.

"It is not fair, this," he cried. "You do not know what you are
asking. Can't you feel it, any of you others, as I do?" he exclaimed,
looking a little wildly around. "There is something else in the room,
something else besides you warm and living people. Be still, all of
you."

There was a moment's breathless silence. Some papers on the table
rustled. A picture on the wall shook. Lady Mary sat down in a chair.
Lois gave a little scream.

"There is a slight draught," Rochester remarked, calmly.

"It is no draught," Saton answered. "You want the truth and you shall
have it. See, there are five men present."--He counted rapidly with
his forefinger. "One of them will be dead before we leave this room."

Rochester strolled over to the sideboard, and helped himself to a
cigarette.

"Come," he said, "this is going a little too far! Look at the cheeks
of these ladies, Saton. A little melodrama is all very well, but you
are too good an actor. Hinckley, and all of you," he said, looking
around, "I propose that we end the strain. Let us go into the
billiard-room and have a pool. I presume that the spell will then be
broken."

Lady Mary shrieked.

"Don't move, any of you!" she cried. "I am afraid!"

Rochester laughed softly, and crossed the floor with firm footsteps.
He stood on the threshold of the door leading to the billiard-room.

"Come," he said, "I am indeed between life and death, for I have one
foot in one room and one in the other. Come, you others, and seek
safety too."

The women also rose. There was a rush for the door, a swish of
draperies, a little sob from Lois, who was terrified. Saton remained
standing alone. He had not moved. His eyes were fixed upon the figure
of the judge, who also lingered. They two were left in the centre of
the hall.

"Come, Guerdon," Rochester cried. "You and I will take the lot on."

Guerdon did not move. He motioned to Saton slightly.

"Young man," he said, "we have met before. I said so when you first
came in. My memory is improving."

Saton leaned forward.

[Illustration: "Some water, quick, and brandy," Rochester cried.]

"Be careful, judge," he said.

"Be careful be d--d!" the judge answered. "Rochester, come here. God
in Heaven!"

His left hand went suddenly to his throat. He almost tore away the
collar and primly arranged tie. Rochester was by his side in a second,
and saved him from falling. His face was white to the lips. A shriek
from the women rang through the hall, and came echoing back again from
the black rafters.

"Some water quick, and brandy," Rochester cried, tearing open the
shirt from the man he was supporting. "Send for a doctor, someone.
Penarvon, you see to that. Let them take the motor. Keep those d--d
women quiet!"

The judge opened his eyes.

"I remember him," he faltered.

"Drink some of this, old fellow," Rochester said. "You'll be better in
a moment."

The judge's eyes were closed again. He had suddenly become a dead
weight on Rochester's arm. Vandermere, who had done amateur doctoring
at the war, brought a pillow for his head. They cut off more of his
clothes. They tried by every means to keep a flicker of life in him
until the doctor came. Only Rochester knew it was useless. He had seen
the shadow of death pass across the gray, stricken face.




CHAPTER IX

A SENTIMENTAL TALK


Lois opened the gate and stole into the lane with the air of a guilty
child. She gave a little gasp as she came face to face with Saton, and
picking up her skirts, seemed for a moment about to fly. He stood
quite still--his face was sad--almost reproachful. She dropped her
skirt and came slowly, doubtfully towards him.

"I have come," she said. "I was forced to come. Oh, Mr. Saton! How
could you?"

His features were wan. There were lines under his dark eyes. He was
looking thin and nervous. His voice, too, had lost some of its
pleasant qualities.

"My dear young lady," he said, "my dear Lois, what do you mean? You
don't suppose--you can't--that it was through me in any way that--that
thing happened?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she faltered, with white lips. "It was all so
horrible. You pointed to him, and your eyes when you looked at him
seemed to shine as though they were on fire. I saw him shrink away,
and the color leave his cheeks. It was horrible!"

"But, Lois," he protested, "you cannot imagine that by looking at a
man I could help to kill him? I can't explain what happened. As yet
there are things in the world which no one can explain. This is one of
them. I know a little more than most people. It is partly temperament,
perhaps--partly study, but it is surely true that I can sometimes feel
things coming. From the first moment I looked into Guerdon's face at
dinner-time, I knew what was going to happen. Out there in the hall I
felt it. Once before in South America, I saw a man shoot himself. I
tell you that I was certain of what he was going to do before I knew
that he had even a revolver in his pocket. It comes to me, the
knowledge of these things. I cannot be blamed for it. Some day I shall
write the first text-book that has ever been written of a new science.
I shall evolve the first few rudimentary laws, and after that the
thing will go easily. Every generation will add to them. But, Lois,
because I am the first, because I have seen a little further into the
world than others, you are not going to look at me as though I were a
murderer!"

She drew a little breath, a breath of relief. Her hand fell upon his
arm.

"No!" she said. "I have been foolish. It is absurd to imagine that you
could have brought that about by just wishing for it."

"Why, even, should I have wished for it?" he asked. "Lord Guerdon was
a stranger to me. As an acquaintance I found him pleasant enough. I
had no grudge against him."

She drew him a little way on down the lane.

"I must only stay for a few minutes," she said. "If we walk down here
we shall meet nobody. Do you know what Mr. Rochester has suggested?"

"No!" Saton answered. "What?"

"He says that Lord Guerdon had always been uneasily conscious of
having seen you somewhere before. He says that at the very moment when
he was stricken down, he seemed to remember!"

"That does not seem to me to be important," Saton remarked.

"Can't you understand?" she continued. "Mr. Rochester seems to
think that Lord Guerdon had seen you somewhere under disgraceful
circumstances. There! I've got it out now," she added, with a wan
little smile. "That is why he feels sure that somehow or other you
did your best to help him toward death."

"And the others?" Saton asked.

"Oh, it hasn't been talked about!" she answered. "Everyone has left
the house, you know. I only knew this through Mary."

Saton smiled scornfully.

"My dear girl," he said, "I know for a fact that Lord Guerdon was
suffering from acute heart disease. He went about always with a letter
in his pocket giving directions as to what should become of him if he
were to die suddenly."

"Is that really true?" she asked. "Oh, I am glad! Lord Penarvon said
so, but no one else seemed sure."

"There is no need, even for an inquest," Saton continued. "I went to
see the doctor this morning, and he told me so. I am very, very
sorry," he went on, taking her hand in his, "that such a thing should
happen to spoil the memory of these few days. They have been wonderful
days, Lois."

She drew her hand quietly away.

"Yes!" she admitted. "They have been wonderful in many ways."

"For you," he continued, walking a little more slowly, and with his
hands clasped behind him, "they have been, perhaps, just a tiny little
leaf out of the book of your life. To me I fancy they have been
something different. You see I have been a wanderer all my days. I
have had no home, and I have had few friends. All the time I have had
to fight, and there seems to have been no time for the gentler things,
for the things that really make for happiness. Perhaps," he continued,
reflectively, "that is why I find it sometimes a little difficult to
talk to you. You are so young and fresh and wonderful. Your feet are
scarcely yet upon the threshold of the life whose scars I am bearing."

"I am not so very young," Lois said, "nor are you so very old."

"And yet," he answered, looking into her face, "there is a great gulf
between us, a gulf, perhaps, of more than years. Miss Lois, I am not
going to ask you too much, but I would like to ask you one thing. Have
these days meant just a little to you also?"

She raised her eyes and looked him frankly in the face. They were
honest brown eyes, a little clouded just now with some reflection of
the vague trouble which was stirring in her heart.

"I will answer you frankly," she said, "Yes, they have meant something
to me! And yet, listen. I am going to say something unkind. There is
something--I don't know what it is--between us, which troubles me. Oh,
I know that you are much cleverer than other men, and I would not have
you different! Yet there is something else. Would you be very angry, I
wonder, if I told the truth?"

"No!" he assured her. "Go on, please."

"I feel sometimes," she continued, "as though I could not trust you.
There, don't be angry," she went on, laying her fingers on his arm. "I
know how horrid it sounds, but it is there in my heart, and it is
because I would like to believe, it is because I want there to be
nothing between us of distrust, that I have told you."

They walked slowly on, side by side. His face was turned a little from
hers. She was bending forward, as though anxious to catch a glimpse of
his expression. Through the case hardening of years, her voice for a
moment seemed to have found its way back into the heart of the boy, to
have brought him at least a momentary twinge as he realized, with a
passing regret, the abstract beauty of the more simple ways in life.
Those few minutes were effective enough. They helped his pose. The
regret passed. A shadow of pain took its place. He came to a
standstill and took her hands in his.

"Dear little girl," he said, "perhaps you are right. I am not
altogether honest. I am not in the least like the sort of man who
ought to look at you and feel towards you as I have looked and felt
during these wonderful days. But all of us have our weak spots, you
know. I think that you found mine. Good-bye, little girl!"

She would have called him back, but he had no idea of lending himself
to anything so inartistic. With head thrown back, he left the footpath
and climbed the hill round which they had been walking. Not once did
he look behind. Not once did he turn his head till he stood on the top
of the rock-strewn eminence, his figure clearly outlined against the
blue sky. Then he straightened himself and turned round, thinking all
the time how wonderfully effective his profile must seem in that deep,
soft light, if she should have the sense to look.

She did look. She was standing very nearly where he had left her. She
was waving her handkerchief, beckoning him to come down. He raised his
hand above his head as though in farewell, and turned slowly away. As
soon as he was quite sure that he was out of sight, he took his
cigarette case from his pocket and began to smoke!




CHAPTER X

THE SCENE CHANGES


Saton left the country on the following afternoon, arrived at St.
Pancras soon after five, and drove at once to a large, roomy house
on the north side of Regent's Park. He was admitted by a trim
parlormaid--Parkins had been left behind to superintend the removal
from Blackbird's Nest--and he found himself asking his first question
with a certain amount of temerity.

"Madame is in?" he inquired.

"Madame is in the drawing-room," the maid answered.

"Alone?" Saton asked.

"Quite alone, sir."

Saton ascended the stairs and entered the drawing-room, which was on
the first floor, unannounced. At the further end of the apartment a
woman was sitting, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes fixed
upon the wall. Saton advanced with outstretched hands.

"At last!" he exclaimed.

The woman made no reply. Her silence while he crossed a considerable
space of carpet, would have been embarrassing to a less accomplished
_poseur_. She was tall, dressed in a gown of plain black silk, and her
brown, withered face seemed one of those which defy alike time and
its reckoning. Her white hair was drawn back from her forehead, and
tied in a loose knot at the back of her head. Her mouth was cruel. Her
eyes were hard and brilliant. There was not an atom of softness, or of
human weakness of any sort, to be traced in any one of her features.
Around her neck she wore a scarf of brilliant red, the ends of which
were fastened with a great topaz.

Saton bent over her affectionately. He kissed her upon the forehead,
and remained with his arm resting upon her shoulder. She did not
return his embrace in any way.

"So you've come back," she said, speaking with a sharpness which would
have been unpleasant but for the slight foreign accent.

"As you see," he answered. "I left this afternoon, and came straight
here."

"That woman Helga has been down there. What did she want?" she
demanded.

Saton shrugged his shoulders slightly, and turning away, fetched a
chair, which he brought close to her side.

"I am afraid," he said bluntly, "that she came to see me."

The woman's eyes flashed.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Go on."

Saton took her hand, and held it between his. It was dry and withered,
but the nails were exquisitely manicured, and the fingers were aflame
with jewels.

"Dear Rachael," he said, "you must remember that when I was alone in
London waiting to hear from you, I naturally saw a good deal of
Helga. She was kind to me, and she was the means by which your letters
and messages reached me. I am afraid," he continued, thoughtfully,
"that I was so happy, in those days, to have found anyone who was kind
and talked decently to me, that I may have misled her. There has been
a little trouble once or twice since. I have tried to be pleasant and
friendly with her. She seems--forgive me if it sounds conceited--she
seems to want more."

"Hussy!" the old lady declared. "She shall go."

"Don't send her away," he begged, replacing her hand gently on her
lap. "I daresay it was entirely my fault."

The woman looked at him, and a cruel smile parted her lips.

"I have no doubt it was," she said. "You are like that, you know,
Bertrand. Still, one must have discipline. She asked for a day's
holiday to go into the country to see her relatives, and I find her
going to see you behind my back. It cannot be permitted."

"It will not happen again," he assured her. "I feel myself so much to
blame."

"I have no doubt," she said, "that you are entirely to blame, but that
is not the question. Unfortunately, there are other things to be
considered, or she would have been sent packing before now. Tell me,
Bertrand, what kept you down in the country these last few days?"

"I wanted a rest," he answered. "I have to read my paper to-night, you
know, and I was tired."

"You have been spending your time alone?"

"No!" he answered, with scarcely a second's hesitation. "I have been
once or twice to Beauleys."

"To see your friend Henry Rochester, I suppose?" she asked.

Saton's face darkened.

"No!" he answered. "I would not move a step to see him. I hate him,
and I think he knows it."

"Who were the ladies of the party?" the woman asked. "Their names one
by one, mind. Begin with the eldest."

"Lady Penarvon."

"I know. Go on," she said.

"Mrs. Hinckley."

"Go on."

"Miss Lois Champneyes."

"Young?" the woman asked.

"Yes!"

"Pretty?"

"Yes!"

"A victim?"

Saton frowned.

"There was also," he continued, "my hostess, Lady Mary Rochester."

"A silly, fluffy little woman," Madame declared. "Did she flirt?"

"Not with me, at any rate," Saton answered.

"Too experienced," Madame remarked. "Perhaps too good a judge of your
sex. Who else?"

"Lady Marrabel."

"A very beautiful woman, I have heard," Madame remarked. "Also young,
I believe. Also, I presume, a victim."

"It is not kind of you," Saton protested. "These women were staying in
the house. One has to make oneself agreeable to them."

"Someone else was staying in the house," Madame continued, fixing her
brilliant eyes upon his face. "Someone else, I see, died there."

"You mean Lord Guerdon?" Saton muttered, softly.

"He died there," she said, nodding. "Bertrand, did he--did he
recognise you?"

"He would have done," Saton said slowly, "if he had not died. He was
just beginning to remember."

She looked at him curiously for several minutes.

"Well," she said, "I ask no questions. Perhaps it is wiser not. But
remember this, Bertrand, I know something of the world, and the men
and women who live in it. You are a born deceiver of women. It is the
rôle which nature meant you to play. You can turn them, if you will,
inside out. Perhaps you think you do the same with me. Let that go.
And remember this. Have as little to do with men as possible. Your
very strength with women would be your very weakness with men.
Remember, I have warned you."

"You don't flatter me," he said, a little unpleasantly.

"Bah!" she answered. "Why should you and I play with words? We know
one another for what we are. Give me your hands."

He held them out. She took them suddenly in hers and drew him towards
her.

"Kiss me!" she commanded.

He obeyed at once. Then she thrust him away.

"I go with you to this conversazione to-night," she said. "It is well
that we should sometimes be seen together. I shall let it be known
that you are my adopted son."

"That is as you will," he said, with secret satisfaction.

"Why not?" she declared. "I never had a son, but I'm foolish enough to
care for you quite as much as I could for any child of my own. Go and
get ready. We dine at seven.--No! come back."

She placed her long, clawlike fingers upon his shoulders, and kissed
him on both cheeks. She held him tightly by the arms, as though there
was something else she would have said--her lips a little parted, her
eyes brilliant.

"Go and get ready," she said abruptly. "Look your prettiest. You have
a chance to make friends to-night."




CHAPTER XI

A BUSY EVENING


The conversazione was, in its way, a brilliant gathering. There were
present scientists, men of letters, artists, with a very fair
sprinkling of society people, always anxious to absorb any new
sensation. One saw there amongst the white-haired men, passing
backwards and forwards, or talking together in little knots,
professors whose names were famous throughout Europe.

A very great man indeed brought Saton up to Pauline with a little word
of explanation.

"I am sure," he said to her--she was one of his oldest friends--"that
you will be glad to meet the gentleman whose brilliant paper has
interested us all so much. This is Lady Marrabel, Saton, whose father
was professor at Oxford before your day."

The great man passed on. Pauline's first impulse had been to hold out
her hand, but she had immediately withdrawn it. Saton contented
himself with a grave bow.

"I am afraid, Lady Marrabel," he said, "that you are prejudiced
against me."

"I think not," she answered. "Naturally, seeing you so suddenly
brought into my mind the terrible occurrence of only a few days ago."

"An occurrence," he declared, "which no one could regret so greatly
as myself. But apart from that, Lady Marrabel, I am afraid that you
are not prepared to do me justice. You look at me through Rochester's
eyes, and I am quite sure that all his days Rochester will believe
that I am more or less of a charlatan."

"Your paper was very wonderful, Mr. Saton," she said slowly. "I am
convinced that Mr. Rochester would have admitted that himself if he
had been here."

"He might," Saton said. "He might have admitted that much, with a
supercilious smile and a little shrug of the shoulders. Rochester is a
clever man, I believe, but he is absolutely insular. There is a belt
of prejudice around him, to the hardening of which centuries have come
and gone. You are not, you cannot be like that," he continued with
conviction. "There is truth in these things. I am not an ignorant
mountebank, posing as a Messiah of science. Look at the men and women
who are here to-night. They know a little. They understand a little.
They are only eager to see a little further through the shadows. I do
not ask you to become a convert. I ask you only to believe that I
speak of the things in which I have faith."

"I am quite sure that you do," she answered, with a marked access of
cordiality in her tone. "Believe me, it was not from any distrust of
that sort that I perhaps looked strangely at you when you came up. You
must remember that it is a very short time since our last meeting. One
does not often come face to face with a tragedy like that."

"You are right," he answered. "It was awful. Yet you saw how they
drove me on. I spoke what I felt and knew. It is not often that those
things come to one, but that there was death in the room that night I
knew as surely as I am sitting with you here now. They goaded me on to
speak of it. I could not help it."

"It was very terrible and very wonderful," she said, looking at him
with troubled eyes. "They say that Lady Mary is still suffering from
the shock."

"It might have happened at any moment," he reminded her. "The man had
heart disease. He had had his warning. He knew very well that the end
might come at any moment."

"That is true, I suppose," she admitted. "The medical examination
seemed to account easily enough for his death. Yet there was something
uncanny about it."

"The party broke up the next day, I suppose," he continued. "I have
been down in the country, but I have heard nothing."

"We left before the funeral, of course," she answered.

"Fortunately for me," he remarked, "I had important things to think
of. I had to prepare this paper. The invitation to read it came quite
unexpectedly. I have been in London for so short a time, indeed, that
I scarcely expected the honor of being asked to take any share in a
meeting so important as this."

"I do not see why you should be surprised," she said.

"You certainly seem to have gone as far in the study of occultism as
any of those others."

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"You yourself should read a little about these things," he
said--"read a little and think a little. You would find very much to
interest you."

"I am sure of it," she answered, almost humbly. "Will you come and see
me one day, and talk about it? I live at Number 17, Cadogan Street."

"I will come with pleasure," he answered, rising. "Will you forgive me
if I leave you now? There is a man just leaving with whom I must
speak."

He passed away, and left the room with a little thrill of
satisfaction. He had contrived to impress the one woman whom he was
anxious to impress! Children like little Lois Champneyes and those
others, were easy. This woman he knew at once was something different.
Besides, she was a friend of Rochester's, and that meant something to
him.

He walked along Regent Street to the end, and crossing the road,
entered a large café. Here he sat before one of the marble-topped
tables, and ordered some coffee. In a few minutes he was joined by
another man, who handed his coat and hat to the waiter, and sat down
with the air of one who was expected. Saton nodded, a little curtly.

"Will you take anything?" he asked.

"A bottle of beer and a cigar," the newcomer ordered. "A shilling
cigar, I think, to-night. It will run to it."

"Anything special?" Saton asked.

"Things in general are about the same as usual," his companion
answered. "They did a little better in Oxford Street and Regent
Street, but Violet had a dull day in Bond Street. I have closed up
the Egyptian place in the Arcade--'Ayesha' we called it. The police
are always suspicious of a woman's name, and I had a hint from a
detective I know."

Saton nodded.

"You have something else to tell me, haven't you?" he asked.

"Yes!" the other answered. "We had a very important client in Bond
Street this afternoon, one of those whose names you gave me."

Saton leaned across the table.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"Lady Mary Rochester of Beauleys," the other answered--"got a town
house, and a big country place down in Mechestershire."

Something flashed for a moment in Saton's eyes, but he said nothing.
His companion commenced to draw leisurely a sheet of paper from his
breast coat pocket. He was fair and middle-aged, respectably dressed,
and with the air of a prosperous city merchant. His eyes were a little
small, and his cheeks inclined to be fat, or he would have been
reasonably good-looking.

"Lady Mary called without giving her name," he continued, "but we knew
her, of course, by our picture gallery. She called professedly to
amuse herself. She was told the usual sorts of things, with a few
additions thrown in from our knowledge of her. She seemed very much
impressed, and in the end she came to a specific inquiry."

"Go on," said Saton.

"The specific inquiry was briefly this," the man continued. "She gave
herself away the moment she opened her mouth. She behaved, in fact,
like a farmer's daughter asking questions of a gipsy girl. She showed
us the photograph of a man, whom we also recognised, and wanted to
know the usual sort of rubbish--whether he was really fond of her,
whether he would be true to her if she married him."

"Married him?" Saton repeated.

"She posed as a widow," the other man reminded him.

"What was the reply?"

"Violet was clever," the man remarked, with a slow smile. "She saw at
once that this was a case where something might be done. She asked for
three days, and for a letter from the man. She said that it was a case
in which a sight of his handwriting, and a close study of it, would
help them to give an absolutely truthful answer."

"She agreed?" Saton asked.

The other nodded, and produced a letter from his pocket.

"She handed one over at once," he said. "It isn't particularly
compromising, perhaps, but it's full of the usual sort of rot. She's
coming for it on Tuesday."

Saton smiled as he thrust it into his pocketbook.

"I will put this into Dorrington's hands at once," he said. "This has
been very well managed, Huntley. I will have a liqueur, and you shall
have some more beer."

"Don't mind if I do," Mr. Huntley assented cheerfully. "It's thirsty
weather."

They summoned a waiter, and Saton lit a cigarette.

"You've been amongst the big pots to-night," Huntley remarked, looking
at him.

Saton nodded.

"I have been keeping our end up," he said, "in the legitimate branch
of our profession. You needn't grin like that," he added, a little
irritably. "There is a legitimate side, and a very wonderful side,
only a brain like yours is not capable of assimilating it. You should
have heard my paper to-night upon self-directed mesmeric waves."

The man shook his head, and laughed complacently.

"It's not in my way," he answered. "Our business is good enough as it
is."

"You are a fool," Saton said, a little contemptuously. "You can't see
that but for the legitimate side there would be no business at all.
Unless there was a glimmer of truth at the bottom of the well, unless
there existed somewhere a prototype, Madame Helga, and Omega, and
Naomi might sit in their empty temples from morning till night. People
know, or are beginning to know, that there are forces abroad beyond
the control of the ordinary commonplace mortal. They are willing to
take it for granted that those who declare themselves able to do so,
are able to govern them."

He broke off a little abruptly. Huntley's unsympathetic face, with the
big cigar in the corner of his mouth, choked the flow of his words.

"Never mind," he said. "This isn't interesting to you, of course. As
you say, the business side is the more important. I will see you at
the hotel to-morrow night. Considering where I have been this
evening, it is scarcely wise for us to be seen together."

Huntley took the hint, finished his drink, and departed. Saton sat for
a few more minutes alone. Then he too went out into the street, and
walked slowly homewards. He let himself into the house in Regent's
Park with his latchkey, and went thoughtfully upstairs. The room was
still brilliantly illuminated, and the woman who was sitting over the
fire, turned round to greet him.

"Well?" she asked.

Saton divested himself of his hat and coat. Madame's black eyes were
still fixed upon him. He came slowly across towards her.

"Well?" she repeated.

"You were there," he reminded her. "I saw you sitting almost in the
front row. What did you think of it?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"What does it matter what I think of it? Tell me about the others."

"My paper was pronounced everywhere to be a great success," he
declared. "Many of the cleverest men in London were there. They
listened to every syllable."

Madame nodded.

"Why trouble to teach them?" she asked, a little scornfully. "What of
Huntley? Have you seen him? How have they done to-day?"

"It goes well," he answered. "It always goes well."

She moved her head slowly.

"Yet to-night you are not thinking of it," she said. "For many nights
you have not counted your earnings. You are thinking of other things,"
she declared harshly. "Don't look away from me. Look into my eyes."

"It is true," he answered. "To-night I have been with clever men. I
have measured my wits against theirs. I have pushed into their
consciousness things which they were unwilling to believe. I have made
them believe. There were many people there who felt, I believe, for
the first time, that they were ignorant."

The woman looked at him scornfully. There was no softening in her
face, and yet she had taken his hand in hers and held it.

"What do we gain by that?" she asked harshly. "What we want is gold,
gold all the time. You ought to know that, you, who have been so near
to starvation. Are you a fool that you don't realize it?"

"I am not a fool," Saton answered calmly, "but there is another side
to the whole matter. A meeting such as to-night's gives an immense
fillip on the part of society to what they are pleased to call the
supernatural. It is only the fear of ridicule which keeps half the
people in the world from flooding our branches, every one of them
eager to have their fortunes told. A night like to-night is a great
help. Clever men, men who are believed in, have accepted the principle
that there are laws which govern the future so surely as the past in
its turn has been governed. One needs only to apprehend those laws, to
reduce them to intelligible formulæ. It is an exact study, an exact
science. This is the doctrine which I have preached. When people once
believe it, what is to keep them from coming in their thousands to
those who know more than they do?"

The woman shook her head derisively.

"No need to wait for those days," she answered. "The world is packed
full of fools now. No need to wrestle with nature, to wear oneself
inside out to give them truth. Give them any rubbish. Give them what
they seem to want. It is enough so long as they bring the gold. How
much was taken to-day altogether?"

Saton passed on to her the papers which the man Huntley had given him
in the café.

"There is the account," he said. "You see it grows larger every day."

"What becomes of the money?" she asked.

"It is paid into the bank, and the banker's receipt comes to me each
morning. There is no chance for fraud. I must make some more
investments soon. Our balance grows and grows."

The woman's eyes glittered.

"Bring me some money to-morrow," she begged, grasping his other hand.
"I like to have it here in my hands. Money and you, Bertrand, my
son--they are all I care for. Banks and investments are well enough. I
like money. Kiss me, Bertrand."

He laughed tolerantly, and kissed her cheek.

"My dear Rachael," he said, "you have already bagsful of gold about
the place."

"They are safe," she assured him, "absolutely safe. They never leave
my person. I feel them as I sit. I sleep with them at night. I am
going to bed now. Bertrand!"

"Well?" he asked.

She pointed to him with long forefinger, a forefinger aflame with
jewels.

"Look! We play with no fortune-telling here. What is there in your
face? What is there in your life you are not telling me of? Is it a
woman?"

"There are many women in my life," he answered. "You know that."

"I do," she answered. "Poor fools! Play with them all you will, but
remember--the one whom you choose must have gold!"

He nodded.

"I am not likely to forget," he said.

She left the room with a farewell caress. There was something almost
tigress-like about the way in which her arms wound themselves around
him--some gleam of the terrified victim in his eyes, as he felt her
touch. Then she left the room. Saton sank back into an easy-chair, and
gazed steadfastly into the fire through half-closed eyes.




CHAPTER XII

A CALL ON LADY MARRABEL


Saton, after the reading of his paper before the members of the London
Psychical Society, established a certain vogue of which he was not
slow to avail himself. His picture appeared in several illustrated
papers. His name was freely mentioned as being one of the most
brilliant apostles of the younger school of occultism. He subscribed
to a newspaper cutting agency, and he read every word that was written
about himself. Whenever he got a chance, he made friends with the
press. Everything that he could possibly do to obtain a certain
position in a certain place, he sedulously attempted. He was always
carefully dressed, and he was quite conscious of the fact that his
clothes were of correct pattern and cut. His ties were properly
subdued in tone. His gloves and hat were immaculate.

Yet all the time he lacked confidence in himself. The word charlatan
clung to him like a pestilential memory. His hair was cropped close
to his head. He had shaved off his moustache. He imitated almost
slavishly the attire and bearing of those young men of fashion with
whom he was brought into contact. Yet he was somehow conscious of a
difference. The women seemed never to notice it--the men always.
Was it jealousy, he wondered, which made them, even the most
unintelligent, treat him with a certain tolerance, as though he were
a person not quite of themselves, whom they scarcely understood, but
were willing to make the best of?

With women it was different always. His encounter with Pauline
Marrabel at the conversazione had given him the keenest pleasure. He
had at once fixed a day sometime ahead upon which he would take to her
the books he had spoken of. The day had arrived at last, but he had
first another engagement. Early in the afternoon he turned into
Kensington Gardens, and walked up and down the broad path, glancing
every now and then toward one of the entrances. He saw at last the
person for whom he was waiting.

Lois, in a plain white muslin gown, and a big hat gay with flowers,
came blithely towards him, a little Pomeranian under one arm, and a
parasol in the other hand.

"I do hope I'm not too dreadfully late!" she exclaimed, setting the
dog down, and taking his hand a little shyly. "It seems such an age
since I saw you last. Where can we go and talk?"

"You are not frightened at me any more, then?"

"Of course not," she answered. "We spoke about that at Beauleys. I do
not want to think any more of that evening. It is over and done with.
What a clever person you are becoming!" she went on. "I saw your name
one day last week in the _Morning Post_. You read a paper before no
end of clever men. And do you know that your photograph is in two or
three of the illustrated papers this week?"

His cheeks flushed with pleasure. He was unreasonably glad that she
appreciated these things. His vanity, which had been a trifle ruffled
by some incident earlier in the day, was effectually soothed.

"These things," he said, "are absolutely valueless to me except so far
as they testify to the importance of my work. Before long," he went
on, "I think that there will be many other people like you, Miss Lois.
They will believe that there is a little more in life than their dull
eyes can see. You were one of those who understood from the first. But
there are not many."

She sighed.

"I don't think I am a bit clever," she admitted.

"Cleverness," he answered, "is not a matter of erudition. It is a
matter of instinct, of capacity for grasping new truths. You have that
capacity, dear Lois, and I am glad that you are here. It is good to be
with you again."

"You really are the most wonderful person," she declared, poking at
her little dog with the end of her fluffy parasol. "You make me feel
as though I were something quite important, and you know I am really a
very unformed, very unintelligent young person. That is what my last
governess said."

"Cat!" he answered laughing. "I can see her now. She wore a
_pince-nez_ and a bicycling skirt. I am sure of it. Come and sit down
here, and I will prove to you how much cleverer I am than that ancient
relic." ...

They parted at the gates, an hour or so later. Saton resented a little
her evident desire to leave him there, and her half frightened
refusal of his invitation to lunch, but he consoled himself by taking
his mid-day meal alone at _Prince's_, where several people pointed him
out to others, and he was aware that he was the object of a good deal
of respectful interest.

Later in the day, with several books under his arm, he rang the bell
at 17, Cadogan Street. He was committed now to the enterprise, which
had never been out of his thoughts since the night of the
conversazione.

Pauline kept him waiting for nearly a quarter of an hour. When at last
she entered, he found himself lost in admiration of the marvelous
simplicity of her muslin gown and her perfect figure. There was about
her some sort of exquisite perfection, a delicacy of outline and
detail almost cameolike, and impossible of reproduction.

She welcomed him kindly, but without any enthusiasm. He felt from the
first that he still had prejudices to conquer. He sat down by her side
and commenced his task. Very wisely, he eliminated altogether the
personal note from his talk. He showed her the books which he had
brought, and he talked of them fluently and well. She became more and
more interested. It was scarcely possible that she could refrain from
showing it, for he spoke of the things which he knew, and things which
the citizens of the world in every age have found fascinating. He
seemed to her to have gone a little further into the great mysterious
shadowland than anyone else--to have come a little nearer reading the
great riddle. She was a good listener, and she interrupted him only
once.

"But tell me this," she asked, towards the close of one of his
arguments. "This apprehension which you say one must cultivate, to be
able--how is it you put it?--to throw out feelers for the things which
our ordinary senses cannot grasp--isn't it a matter largely of
temperament?"

"One finds it difficult or easy to acquire," he answered, "according
to one's temperament. A nervous, magnetic person, who is not afraid of
solitude, of solitary thought, of taking the truth to his heart and
wrestling with it--that person is, of course, always nearer the truth
than the person of phlegmatic temperament, who has to struggle ever so
hard to be conscious of anything not actually within the sphere of his
physical apprehension. These things in our generation will have a
great effect. In centuries to come, they will become less and less
apparent. We move rapidly," he went on, "and I am still a young man.
Before I die, it is my ambition to leave behind me the first text-book
on this new science, the first real and logical attempt to enunciate
absolute laws."

"It is all very wonderful," she said, sighing gently. "Do you think
that I shall understand any more about it when I have read these
books?"

"I am sure that you will," he answered. "You have intelligence. You
have sensibility. You are not afraid to believe--that is the trouble
with most people."

"Answer me one question," she begged. "All these fortune-telling
people who have sprung up round Bond Street--I mean the palmists and
crystal-gazers, and people like that--do they proceed upon any
knowledge whatever, or are they all absolute humbugs?"

"To the best of my belief," he answered fervently, "every one of them.
Personally, I haven't very much information, but it has not come under
my notice that there is a single one of these people who even attempts
to probe the future scientifically or even intelligently, according to
the demands made upon them. They impose as much as they can upon the
credulity of their clients. I consider that their existence is
absolutely the worst possible thing for us who are endeavouring to
gain a foothold in the scientific world. Your friend Mr. Rochester,
you know, called me a charlatan."

"Mr. Rochester is never unjust," she answered quietly. "Some day,
perhaps, he will take that word back."

He tried to give their conversation a more personal note, but he found
her elusive. She accepted an invitation, however, to be present at a
lecture which he was giving before another learned society during the
following week. With that he felt that he ought to be content.
Nevertheless, he left her a little dissatisfied. He was perfectly well
aware that the magnetism which he was usually able to exert over her
sex had so far availed him nothing with her. Her eyes met his freely,
but without any response to the things which he was striving to
express. She had seemed interested all the time, but she had dismissed
him without regret. He walked homewards a little thoughtfully. If only
she were a little like Lois!

As he passed the entrance to the Park, an electric brougham was
suddenly pulled up, and a lady leaned forward towards him. He stepped
up to her side, hat in hand. It was Lady Mary Rochester. She was
exquisitely gowned and hatted, with a great white veil which floated
gracefully around her picture-hat, and she welcomed him with a
brilliant smile.

"My dear Mr. Saton," she exclaimed, "what a fortunate meeting! Only a
few minutes ago I was thinking of you."

"I am very much flattered," he answered.

"I mean it," she declared. "I wonder whether you could spare me a few
minutes. I don't mean here," she added. "One can scarcely talk,
driving. Come in after dinner, if you have nothing to do, just for
half-an-hour. My husband is down in the country, and I am not going
out until eleven."

"I shall be very pleased," he answered, a little mechanically, for he
found the situation not altogether an easy one to grasp.

"Don't forget," she said. "Number 10, Berkeley Square," with a look of
relief.

The electric brougham rolled on, and Saton crossed the road
thoughtfully. Then a sudden smile lightened his features. He realized
all at once what it was that Lady Mary wanted from him.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rachael was waiting for him when he returned. She was seated before
the table, her head resting upon her hands, her eyes fixed upon the
little piles of gold and notes which she had arranged in front of her.
She watched him come in and take off his hat and coat, in silence.

"Well?" she asked. "How do things go to-day?"

"I have not the reports yet," he answered. "It is too early. I shall
have them later."

"What have you been doing?" she asked.

"I walked with a girl, Lois Champneyes, in Kensington Gardens most of
the morning, and I called upon a woman--Lady Marrabel--this
afternoon," he answered.

Rachael nodded.

"Safe companions for you," she muttered. "Remember what I always tell
you. You are of the breed that can make fools of women. A man might
find you out."

He turned an angry face upon her.

"What is there to find out?" he demanded. "I am not an impostor. I am
a man of science. I have proved it. Your fortune-telling temples are
all very well, and the money they bring is welcome enough. But
nevertheless, I am not the vulgar adventurer that you sometimes
suggest."

The woman laughed, laughed silently and yet heartily, but she never
spoke. She looked away from him presently, and drawing the pile of
gold and notes nearer to her, began to recount them with her left
hand. Her right she held out to him, slowly drawing him towards her.




CHAPTER XIII

LADY MARY'S DILEMMA


Lady Mary's boudoir was certainly the most luxurious apartment of its
sort into which Saton had ever been admitted. There were great bowls
of red roses upon the small ormolu table and on the mantelpiece.
Several exquisite etchings hung upon the lavender walls. The furniture
was all French. Every available space seemed occupied with costly
knick-knacks and curios. Photographs of beautiful women, men in court
dress and uniform, nearly all of them signed, were scattered about on
every available inch of space, and there was also that subtle air of
femininity about the apartment, to which he was unaccustomed, and
which went to his head like wine. It was evident that only privileged
visitors were received there, for apart from the air of intimacy which
seemed somehow to pervade the place, there were several articles of
apparel, and a pair of slippers lying upon the hearthrug.

Lady Mary herself came rustling in to him a few minutes after his
arrival, gorgeous in a wonderful shimmering gown, which seemed to hang
straight from her shoulders--the very latest creation in the way of
tea-gowns.

"I know you will forgive my receiving you like this," she said,
holding out her hand. "To tell you the truth, I dined here absolutely
alone, and I thought that I would not dress till afterwards. I am
going on to the ball at Huntingford House, and it is always less
trouble to go straight from one's maid. You have had coffee? Yes? Then
sit down at the end of this couch, please, and tell me whether you
think you can help me."

Saton was not altogether at his ease. The brilliancy of his
surroundings, the easy charm of the woman, were a little
disconcerting. And she was Rochester's wife, the wife of the man
whom he hated! That in itself was a thing to be always kept in mind.
Never before had she seemed so desirable.

"If you will tell me in what way I can be of service, Lady Mary," he
began----

She turned towards him pathetically.

"Really," she said, "I scarcely know why I asked for your help, except
that you seem to me so much cleverer than most of the men I know."

"I am afraid you over-rate my abilities," he said, with a slight
deprecating smile. "But at any rate, please be sure of one thing. You
could not have asked the advice of anyone more anxious to serve you."

"How kind you are!" she murmured. "I am going to make a confession,
and you will see, after all, that the trouble I am in has something to
do with you. You remember that night at Beauleys?"

"Yes!" he answered.

"We won't talk about it," she continued. "We mustn't talk about it.
Only it gave me foolish thoughts. From being utterly incredulous or
indifferent, I went to the other extreme. I became, I suppose,
absolutely foolish. I went to one of those stupid women in Bond
Street."

"You went to have your fortune told?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Oh, I suppose so!" she said. "I asked her a lot of things, and she
looked into a crystal globe and told me what she saw. It was quite
interesting, but unfortunately I went a little further than I meant
to. I asked her some ridiculous questions about--a friend of mine."

He smiled sympathetically.

"Well," he said, "this all seems rather like a waste of time, but I
scarcely see how it would be likely to land you in a difficulty."

"But it has," she answered. "That is what I want to explain to you.
The woman insisted upon having a letter in the handwriting of the
person I asked questions about, and I foolishly gave her one that was
in my pocket. When I asked for it back again, the day afterwards, she
said she had mislaid it."

"But was the letter of any importance?" he asked.

"There wasn't much in it, of course," she answered, "but it was a
private letter."

"It is infamous!" he declared. "I should give information to the
police at once."

She held out her hands--tiny little white hands, ringless and soft.

"My dear man," she exclaimed, "how can I? Give information to the
police, indeed! What, go and admit before a magistrate that I had
been to a fortune-teller, especially," she added, looking down, "on
such an errand?"

He drew a little nearer to her.

"I beg your pardon," he answered. "I was thoughtless. That, of course,
is not possible. Tell me the name and the address of the person to
whom you went."

"The woman's name was Helga," she answered, "and it was in the upper
end of Bond Street. Daisy Knowles told me about the place. Heaps of
people I know have been."

"And the letter?" he asked. "Tell me, if you can, what is its precise
significance?"

"It was a letter from Charlie Peyton," she answered--"Major Peyton, in
the Guards, you know. There wasn't anything in it that mattered
really, but I shall not have a moment's peace until it is returned to
me."

"Have you told me everything?" he asked.

"No!" she admitted.

"Perhaps it would be as well," he murmured.

She produced a letter from the bosom of her gown.

"I received this last night," she said.

He glanced it rapidly through. The form of it was well-known to him.

     "_Dear Madam_,

     "_A letter addressed to you, and in the handwriting of a
     certain Major Charles Peyton, has come into our hands within
     the last few hours. It is dated from the Army and Navy Club,
     and its postmark is June 1st. The contents are probably
     well-known to you._

     "_It is our wish to return same into your hands at once, but
     we may say that it was handed to us in trust by a gentleman
     who is indebted to us for a considerable sum of money and he
     spoke of this document, which we did not inspect at the
     time, as being a probable form of security._

     "_Perhaps your ladyship can suggest some means by which we
     might be able to hand over the letter to you without
     breaking faith with our friend._

                     "_Sincerely yours_,
                         "_Jacobson & Co.--Agents._

     "_17, Charing Cross Road._"

"A distinct attempt at blackmail!" Saton exclaimed, indignantly.

"Isn't it wicked?" Lady Mary replied, looking at him appealingly. "But
how am I to deal with it? What am I to do? I don't wish to correspond
with these people, and I daren't tell Henry a thing about it."

"Naturally," he answered. "My dear Lady Mary, there are two courses
open to you. First, you can take this letter to the police, when you
will get your own letter back without paying a penny, and these
rascals will be prosecuted. The only disadvantage attached to this
course is that your name will appear in the papers, and the letter
will be made public."

"You must see," she declared, "that that is an absolute impossibility.
My husband would be furious with me, and so would Major Peyton. Please
suggest something else."

"Then, on the other hand," he continued, "the only alternative course
is to make the best bargain you can with the scoundrels who are
responsible for this."

"But how can I?" she asked plaintively. "I cannot go to see these
people, nor can I have them come here. I don't know how much money
they want. You know I haven't a penny of my own, and although my
husband is generous enough, he likes to know what I want money for. I
have spent my allowance for the whole of the year already. I believe I
am even in debt."

Saton hesitated for several moments. Lady Mary watched him all the
time anxiously.

"If you will allow me," he said, "I will take this letter away with
me, and see these people on your behalf. I have no doubt that I can
make much better terms with them than you could."

She drew a little sigh of relief.

"That is just what I was hoping you would propose," she declared,
handing it over to him. "It is so good of you, Mr. Saton. I feel there
are so few people I could trust in a matter like this. You will be
very careful, won't you?"

"I will be very careful," he answered.

"And when you have the letter," she continued, "you will bring it
straight back to me?"

"Of course," he promised, "only first I must find out what their terms
are. They will probably begin by suggesting an extravagant sum. Tell
me how far you are prepared to go?"

"You think I shall have to pay a great deal of money, then?" she
asked, anxiously.

"That depends entirely," he answered, "upon what you call a great deal
of money."

"I might manage two hundred pounds," she said, doubtfully.

He smiled.

"I am afraid," he said, "that Messrs. Jacobson & Co., or whatever
their name is, will expect more than that."

"It is so unlucky," she murmured. "I have just paid a huge
dressmaker's bill, and I have lost at bridge every night for a week.
Do the best you can for me, dear Mr. Saton."

He leaned towards her, but he was too great an artist not to realize
that her feeling for him was one of pure indifference. He was to be
made use of, if possible--to be dazzled a little, perhaps, but nothing
more.

"I will do the best I can," he said, rising, as he saw her eyes travel
towards the clock, "but I am afraid--I don't want to frighten you--but
I am afraid that you will have to find at least five hundred pounds."

"If I must, I must," she answered, with a sigh. "I shall have to owe
money everywhere, or else tell Henry that I have lost it at bridge.
This is so good of you, Mr. Saton."

"If I can serve you," he concluded, holding her hand for a moment in
his, "it will be a pleasure, even though the circumstances are so
unfortunate."

"I shall esteem the service none the less," she answered, smiling at
him. "Come and see me directly you know anything. I shall be so
anxious."

Saton made his way to the café at the end of Regent Street. This time
he had to wait a little longer, but in the end the man who had met him
there before appeared. He came in smoking a huge cigar, and with his
silk hat a little on one side.

"A splendid day!" he declared. "Nearly double yesterday's receipts.
The papers are all here."

Saton nodded, taking them up and glancing them rapidly through.

"Do you know where I can find Dorrington?" he said. "I want that
letter--the Peyton letter, you know."

Huntley nodded.

"I've got it in my pocket," he said. "I was keeping it until
to-morrow."

Saton held out his hand.

"I'll take it," he said. "I can arrange terms for this matter myself."

Huntley looked at him in surprise.

"It isn't often," he remarked, "that you care to interfere with this
side of the game. Sure you're not running any risk? We can't do
without our professor, you know."

Saton shivered a little.

"No! I am running no risk," he said. "It happens that I have a chance
of settling this fairly well."

He had a few more instructions to give. Afterwards he left the place.
The night outside was close, and he was conscious of a certain
breathlessness, a certain impatient desire for air. He turned down
toward the Embankment, and sat on one of the seats, looking out at
the sky signs and colored advertisements on the other side of the
river, and down lower, where the tall black buildings lost their
outline in the growing dusk.

His thoughts travelled backwards. It seemed to him that once more he
sat upon the hillside and built for himself dream houses, saw himself
fighting a splendid battle, gathering into his life all the great
joys, the mysterious emotions which one may wrest from fate. Once more
he thrilled with the subtle pleasure of imagined triumphs. Then the
note of reality had come. Rochester's voice sounded in his ears. His
dreams were to become true. The sword was to be put into his hand. The
strength was to be given him. The treasure-houses of the world were
to fly open at his touch. And then once more he seemed to hear
Rochester's voice, cold and penetrating. "_Anything but failure! If
you fail, swim out on a sunny day, and wait until the waves creep over
your neck, over your head, and you sink! The men who fail are the
creatures of the gutter!_"

Saton gripped the sides of his seat. He felt himself suddenly choking.
He rose and turned away.

"It would have been better! It would have been better!" he muttered to
himself.




CHAPTER XIV

PETTY WORRIES


Saton threw down the letter which he had been reading, with a little
exclamation of impatience. It was from a man whom, on the strength of
an acquaintance which had certainly bordered upon friendship, he had
asked to propose him at a certain well-known club.

     _"My dear Mr. Saton," it ran, "I was sent for to-day by the
     Committee here upon the question of your candidature for the
     club. They asked me a good many questions, which I answered
     to the best of my ability, but you know they are a very
     old-fashioned lot, and I think it would perhaps be wisest if
     I were to withdraw your name for the present. This I propose
     to do unless I hear from you to the contrary._

                    "_Sincerely yours,_
                         "_Gordon Chambers."_

Saton felt his cheeks flush as he thrust the letter to the bottom of
the little pile which stood in front of him. It was one more of the
little annoyances to which somehow or other he seemed at regular
intervals to be subjected. Latterly, things had begun to expand with
him. He had persuaded Madame to give up the old-fashioned house in
Regent's Park, and they had moved into a maisonette in Mayfair--a
little white-fronted house, with boxes full of scarlet geraniums, a
second man-servant to open the door, and an electric brougham in place
of the somewhat antiquated carriage, which the Countess had brought
with her from abroad. His banking account was entirely satisfactory.
There were many men and women who were only too pleased to welcome him
at their houses. And yet he was at all times subject to such an
occurrence as this.

His lips were twisted in an unpleasant smile as he frowned down upon
the tablecloth.

"It is always like it!" he muttered. "One climbs a little, and then
the stings come."

Madame entered the room, and took her place at the other end of the
breakfast table. She leaned upon her stick as she walked, and her face
seemed more than ever lined in the early morning sunlight. She wore a
dress of some soft black material, unrelieved by any patch of color,
against which her cheeks were almost ghastly in their pallor.

"The stings, Bertrand? What are they?" she asked, pouring herself out
some coffee.

Saton shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing that you would understand," he answered coldly. "I mean that
you would not understand its significance. Nothing, perhaps, that I
ought not to be prepared for."

She looked across the table at him with cold expressionless eyes. To
see these two together in their moments of intimacy, no one would ever
imagine that her love for this boy--he was nothing more when chance
had thrown him in her way--had been the only real passion of her later
days.

"You do not know," she said, "what I understand or what I do not
understand. Tell me what it is that worries you in that letter."

He pushed it away from him impatiently.

"I asked a friend--a man named Chambers--to put me up for a club I
wanted to join," he said. "He promised to do his best. I have just
received a letter advising me to withdraw. The committee would not
elect me."

"What club is it?" she asked.

"The 'Wanderers'," he answered. "The social qualification is not very
stringent. I imagined that they would elect me."

The woman looked at him as one seeking to understand some creature of
an alien world.

"You attach importance," she asked, "to such an incident as this?
You?"

"Not real importance, perhaps," he answered, "only you must remember
that these are the small things that annoy. They amount to nothing
really. I know that. And yet they sting!"

"Do not dwell upon the small things, then," she said coldly. "It is
well, for all our sakes, that you should occupy some position in the
social world, but it is also well that you should remember that your
position there is not worth a snap of the fingers as against the great
things which you and I know of. What do these people matter, with
their strange ideas of birth and position, their little social
distinctions, which remind one of nothing so much as Swift's famous
satire? You are losing your sense of proportion, my dear Bertrand. Go
into your study for an hour this morning, and think. Listen to the
voices of the greater life. Remember that all these small happenings
are of less account than the flight of a bird on a summer's day."

"You are right," he answered, with a little sigh, "and yet you must
remember that you and I can scarcely look at things from the same
standpoint. They do not affect you in the slightest. They cannot fail
to remind me that I am after all an outcast, rescued from shipwreck by
one strange turn in the wheel of chance."

She looked at him with penetrating eyes.

"Something is happening to you, Bertrand," she said. "It may be that
it is your sense of proportion which is at fault. It may be that your
head is a little turned by the greatness of the task which it has
fallen to your lot to carry out. It is true that you are a young man,
and that I am an old woman. And yet, remember! We are both of us
little live atoms in the great world. The only things which can appeal
to us in a different manner are the everyday things which should not
count, which should not count for a single moment," she added, with a
sudden tremor in her tone.

"You are right, of course," he answered, "and yet, Rachael, you must
remember this. You have finished with the world. I am compelled to
live in it."

"If you are," she rejoined, "is that any reason, Bertrand, why you
should pause to listen to the voices whose cry is meaningless? Think!
Remember the blind folly of it all. A decade, a cycle of years, and
the men who pass you in Pall Mall, and the women who smile at you from
their carriages, will be dead and gone. You--you may become the
Emperor of Time itself. Remember that!"

"And in the meantime, one has to live."

"Keep your head in the clouds," she said. "Make use of these people,
but always remember that in the light of what may come, they are only
the dirt beneath your feet. Remember that you may be the first of all
the ages to solve the great secret--the secret of carrying your
consciousness beyond the grave."

"Life is short," he said, "and the task is great."

"Too great for cowards," she answered. "Yet look at me. Do I despair?
I am seventy-one years old. I have no fear of death. I have learnt
enough at least to help me into the grave. That will do, Bertrand. Go
on with your breakfast, and burn that letter."

He tore it in half, and went to the sideboard to help himself from one
of the dishes. When he returned, Madame was drumming thoughtfully upon
the tablecloth with her long fingers.

"Bertrand," she said.

He looked toward her curiously. There was a new note, a new expression
in the way she had pronounced his name.

"The girl, the little fair fool of a girl with money--Lois Champneyes
you called her--where is she?"

"She is in London," he answered.

"With the Rochesters?"

"Yes!"

Rachael frowned.

"You find it difficult to see her, then?" she remarked, thoughtfully.

"I can see her whenever I choose to," he answered.

"You must marry her," Rachael said. "The girl will serve your purpose
as well as another. She is rich, and she is a fool."

"She is not of age," Saton said drily, "and Mr. Rochester is her
guardian."

"She will be of age very soon," Rachael answered, "and the money is
sure."

"Do we need it?" he asked, a little impatiently. "We are making now
far more than we can spend."

"We need money all the time," she answered. "At present, things
prosper. Yet a change might come--a change in the laws, a campaign in
the press--anything. Even the truth might leak out."

Saton rose from his place, and going once more to the sideboard, took
up and lit a long Russian cigarette. He returned with the box, and
laid it before Rachael.

"If the truth should leak out," he said, "that would be the end of us
in this country. We have had one escape. I do not mean to find myself
in the prisoner's dock a second time."

"There is no fear of that," she answered. "The whole business is so
arranged that neither you nor I would be connected with it. Besides,
we have rearranged things. We are within the pale of the law now. To
return to what I was saying about this girl."

"There is no hurry," he said. "Marriage does not interest me."

"Marriage for its own sake, perhaps, no," she answered, "and yet money
you must have. No man has ever succeeded in any great work without it.
If a pauper proclaims a theory, he is laughed to scorn. He is called a
charlatan and an impostor. If a rich man speaks of the same thing, his
words are listened to as one who stirs the world. There is a change in
you, Bertrand," she continued. "You have avoided this girl lately. You
have avoided, even, your work. What is it?"

"Who knows?" he answered, lightly. "The weather, perhaps--the
moon--one's humor. I will walk this morning in Kensington Gardens.
Perhaps I shall see Lois."

He left the house half-an-hour later, after dictating some letters to
a newly installed secretary. He accepted a carefully brushed hat from
a well-trained and perfectly respectful servant, who placed also in
his hands his stick and gloves. He descended a few immaculate steps
and turned westward, frowning thoughtfully. The matter with him! He
knew well enough. He had taken his fate into his hands, played his
cards boldly enough, but Fate was beginning to get her own back.

He turned not toward Kensington Gardens, but towards Cadogan Street.
He rang the bell at one of the most pretentious houses, and asked for
Lady Marrabel. The butler was doubtful whether she would be inclined
to receive anyone at that hour. He was shown into a morning-room and
kept waiting for some time. Then she came in, serene as usual, with a
faint note of inquiry in her upraised eyebrows and the tone of her
voice as she welcomed him.

"I must apologize," he began, a little nervously. "I have no right to
come at such an hour. I heard this morning that Max Naudheim will be
in London before the end of the week, and I wondered whether you would
care to meet him."

"Of course I should," she answered, "only I hope that he is more
comprehensible than his book."

"I have never met him myself," Saton answered, "but I know that he has
a letter to me. He will come to my house, I believe, and if he follows
out his usual custom, he will scarcely leave it while he stays in
England. I shall ask a few people to talk one night. I cannot attempt
anything conventional. It does not seem to me to be an occasion for
anything of the sort. If you will come, I will let you know the night
and the time."

She hesitated for a moment.

"And if you should come," he continued, "even though it be the
evening, please wear an old dress and hat. Naudheim himself seldom
appears in a collar. Any social gathering of any sort is loathsome to
him. He will talk only amongst those whom he believes are his
friends."

"I will come, of course," Pauline answered. "It is good of you to
think of me."

"He may speak to you," Saton continued. "He takes curious fancies
sometimes to address a perfect stranger, and talk to them intimately.
Remember that though he lives in Switzerland, and has a German name,
he is really an Englishman. Nothing annoys him more than to be spoken
to in any other language."

"I will remember," Pauline said.

There was a moment's silence. Saton felt that he was expected to go.
Yet there was something in her manner which he could not altogether
understand, some nervousness, which seemed absolutely foreign to her
usual demeanour. He took up his hat reluctantly.

"You are busy to-day?" he asked.

"I am always busy," she answered. "Perhaps it is because I am so lazy.
I never do anything, so there is always so much to do."

He made the plunge, speaking without any of his usual
confidence--hurriedly, almost indistinctly.

"Won't you come and have some luncheon with me at the Berkeley, or
anywhere you please? I feel like talking to-day. I feel that I am a
little nearer the first law. I want to speak of it to someone."

She hesitated, and he saw her fingers twitch.

"Thank you," she said, "I am afraid I can't. If you like, you can come
and have luncheon here. I have one or two people coming in."

"Thank you," he said. "I shall be glad to come. About half-past one, I
suppose?"

"From that to two," she answered. "My friends drop in at any time."

He passed out into the street, not altogether satisfied with his
visit, and yet not dissatisfied. He had an instinctive feeling that in
some degree her demeanour towards him was changed. What it meant he
could not wholly tell. She no longer met his eyes with that look of
careless, slightly contemptuous interest. Yet when he tried to find
encouragement from the fact, he felt that he lacked all his usual
confidence. He realized with a little impulse of annoyance that in the
presence of this woman, whom he was more anxious to impress than
anyone else in the world, he was subject to sudden lapses of
self-confidence, to a certain self-depreciation, which irritated him.
Was it, he wondered, because he was always fancying that she looked at
him out of Rochester's eyes?

A cab drove past him, and stopped before the house which he had just
left. He looked behind, with a sudden feeling of almost passionate
jealousy. It was Rochester, who had driven by him unseen, and who was
now mounting the steps to her house.




CHAPTER XV

ROCHESTER IS INDIGNANT


Rochester accepted his wife's offer of a lift in her victoria after
the luncheon party in Cadogan Street.

"Mary," he said, as soon as the horses had started, "I cannot imagine
why you were so civil to that insufferable bounder Saton."

She looked at him thoughtfully.

"Is he an insufferable bounder?" she asked.

"I find him so," Rochester answered, deliberately. "He dresses like
other men, he walks and moves like other men, he speaks like other
men, and all the time I know that he is acting. He plays the game
well, but it is a game. The man is a bounder, and you will all of you
find it out some day."

"Don't you think, perhaps," his wife remarked, "that you are
prejudiced because you have some knowledge of his antecedents?"

"Not in the least," Rochester answered. "The fetish of birth has never
appealed to me. I find as many gentlefolk amongst my tenants and
servants, as at the parties to which I have the honor of escorting
you. It isn't that at all. It's a matter of insight. Some day you will
all of you find it out."

"All of us, I presume," Lady Mary said, "includes Pauline."

Rochester nodded.

"Pauline has disappointed me," he said. "Never before have I known her
instinct at fault. She must know--in her heart she must know that
there is something wrong about the fellow. And yet she receives him at
her house, and treats him with a consideration which, frankly, shall
we say, annoys me?"

"One might remind you," Lady Mary remarked, "that it is you who are
responsible for this young man's introduction amongst our friends."

"It is true," Rochester answered. "I regret it bitterly. I regret it
more than ever to-day."

"Because of Pauline?" Lady Mary asked.

"Because of Pauline, and for one other reason," Rochester answered,
lowering his voice, and turning a little in his seat towards his wife.
"Mary, I was unfortunate enough to hear a sentence which passed
between you and this person in the hall. I would have shut my ears if
I could, but it was not possible. Am I to understand that you have
made use of him in some way?"

Lady Mary gasped. This was a thunderbolt to descend at her feet
without a second's warning!

"As a matter of fact," she said slowly, "he has done me a service."

Rochester's face darkened.

"I should be interested," he said, "to know the circumstances."

Lady Mary was not a coward, and she realized that there was nothing
for it but the absolute truth. Her husband's eyes were fixed upon her,
filled with an expression which she very seldom saw in them. After
all, she had little enough to fear. Their relations were scarcely such
that he could assume the position of a jealous husband.

"I suppose that you will laugh at me, Henry," she said. "Perhaps you
will be angry. However, one must amuse oneself. Frankly, I think that
all this talk that is going on about occultism, and being able to read
the future, and to find new laws for the government of the will, has
perhaps turned my brain a little. Anyhow, I went to one of those Bond
Street people, and asked them a few questions."

"You mean to one of these crystal-gazers or fortune-tellers?" he
asked.

"Precisely," she answered. "No doubt you think that I am mad, but if
you had any idea of the women in our own set who have done the same
thing, I think you would be astonished. Well, whilst I was there I
chanced to drop, or leave behind--it scarcely concerns you to know
which--a letter written to me by a very dear friend. One of my
perfectly harmless love affairs, you know, Henry, but men do make such
idiots of themselves when they have pen and paper to do it with."

Rochester moved a little uneasily in his place.

"May I inquire----" he began.

"No, I shouldn't!" she interrupted. "You know very well, my dear
Henry, the exact terms upon which we have both found married life
endurable. If I choose to receive foolish letters from foolish men,
it concerns you no more than your silent adoration of Pauline Marrabel
does me. You understand?"

"I understand," he answered quietly. "Go on."

"Well," she continued, "a few days afterwards I had just about as
terrifying a specimen of a blackmailing letter as you can possibly
imagine."

"From these people?" Rochester asked.

"No! From a firm who called themselves agents, and said that the
letter had come into their possession, had been deposited with them,
in fact, by someone who owed them some money," Lady Mary answered. "Of
course, I was frightened to death. I don't know what made me think of
Bertrand Saton as the best person to consult, but anyhow I did. He
took the matter up for me, paid over some money on my account, and
recovered the letter."

"The sum of money being?"

"Five hundred pounds," Lady Mary answered, with a sigh. "It was a
great deal, but the letter--well, the letter was certainly very
foolish."

Rochester was silent for several moments.

"Do you know," he asked at length, "what the natural inference to me
seems--the inference, I mean, of what you have just told me?"

"You are not going to say anything disagreeable?" she asked, looking
at him through the lace fringe of her parasol.

"Not in the least," he answered. "I was not thinking of the personal
side of the affair--so far as you and I are concerned, I have
accepted your declaration. I claim no jurisdiction over your
correspondence. I mean as regards Saton."

"No! What?" she asked.

"It seems to me highly possible," he declared, "that Saton was in
league with these blackmailers, whoever they may have been. Any
ordinary man whom you had consulted would have settled the matter in a
very different way."

"I was quite satisfied," Lady Mary answered. "I thought it was really
very kind of him to take the trouble."

"Indeed!" Rochester remarked drily. "I must say, Mary, that I gave you
credit for greater perspicuity. The man is an intriguer. Naturally, he
was only too anxious to be of service to so charming a lady."

Lady Mary raised her eyebrows, but did not answer.

"I might add," Rochester continued, "that however satisfactory our
present relations may seem to you, I still claim the privilege of
being able to assist my wife in any difficulty in which she may find
herself."

"You are very kind," she murmured.

"Further," Rochester said, "I resent the interference of any third
party in such a matter. You will remember this?"

"I will remember it," Lady Mary said. "Still, the circumstances being
as they are, you can scarcely blame me for having been civil to him
to-day. Besides, you must admit that he is clever."

"Clever! Oh! I've no doubt that he is clever enough," Rochester
answered, impatiently. "Nowadays, all you women seem as though you can
only be attracted by something freakish--brains, or peculiar gifts of
some sort."

Lady Mary laughed lightly.

"My dear Henry," she said, "you are not exactly a fool yourself, are
you? And then you must remember this. Bertrand Saton's cleverness is
the sort of cleverness which appeals to women. We can't help our
natures, I suppose, and we are always attracted by the mysterious. We
are always wanting to know something which other people don't know,
something of what lies behind the curtain."

"It is a very dangerous curiosity," Rochester said. "You are liable to
become the prey of any adventurer with a plausible manner, who has
learned to talk glibly about the things which he doesn't understand.
I'll get out here, if I may," he added, "and take a short cut across
the Park to my club. Mary, if you want to oblige me, for Heaven's sake
don't run this fellow! He gets on my nerves. I hate the sight of him."

Lady Mary turned towards her husband with a faint, curious smile as
the carriage drew up.

"You had better talk to Pauline," she said. "He is more in her line
than mine."

Rochester walked across the Park a little gloomily. His wife's last
words were ringing in his ears. For the first time since he could
remember, a little cloud had loomed over his few short hours with
Pauline. She had resented some contemptuous speech of his, and
as though to mark her sense of his lack of generosity, she had
encouraged Saton to talk, encouraged him to talk until the other
conversation had died away, and the whole room had listened to this
exponent of what he declared to be a new science. The fellow was a
_poseur_ and an impostor, Rochester told himself vigorously. He knew,
he was absolutely convinced that he was not honest.

He sat down on a seat for a few minutes, and his thoughts somehow
wandered back to that night when he had strolled over the hills and
found a lonely boy gazing downward through the tree tops to the fading
landscape. He remembered his own whimsical generosity, the feelings
with which he had made his offer. He remembered, too, the conditions
which he had made. With a sudden swift anger, he realized that those
conditions had not been kept. Saton had told him little or nothing of
his doings out in the world, of his struggles and his failures, of the
growth of this new enthusiasm, if indeed it was an enthusiasm. He had
hinted at strange adventures, but he had spoken of nothing definite.
He had not kept his word.

Rochester rose to his feet with a little exclamation.

"He shall tell me!" he muttered to himself, "or I will expose him, if
I have to turn detective and follow him round the world."

He swung round again across the Park toward Mayfair, and rang the bell
at Saton's new house. Mr. Saton was not at home, he was informed, but
was expected back at any moment. Rochester accepted an invitation to
wait, and was shown into a room which at first he thought empty. Then
someone rose from an old-fashioned easy-chair, set back amongst the
shadows. Rachael peered forward, leaning upon her stick, and shading
her eyes as though from the sun.

"Who is that?" she asked. "Who are you?"

Rochester bowed, and introduced himself. As yet he could see very
little of the person who had spoken. The blinds, and even the curtains
of the room, were close drawn. It was one of Rachael's strange fancies
on certain days to sit in the darkness. Suddenly, however, she leaned
forward and touched the knob of the electric light.

"My name is Rochester," he said. "I called to see Mr. Saton for a few
minutes. They asked me to wait."

"I am the Comtesse de Vestignes," Rachael said slowly, "and Bertrand
Saton is my adopted son. He will be back in a few moments. Draw your
chair up close to me. I should like to talk, if you do not mind this
light. I have been resting, and my eyes are tired."

Rochester obeyed, and seated himself by her side with a curious little
thrill of interest. It seemed to him that she was like the mummy of
some ancient goddess, the shadowy presentment of days long past. She
had the withered appearance of great age, and yet the dignity which
refuses to yield to time.

"Come nearer," she said. "I am no longer a young woman, and I am a
little deaf."

"You must tell me if you do not hear me," Rochester said. "My voice is
generally thought to be a clear one. I am very much interested in this
young man. Suppose, while we wait, you tell me a few things about
him. You have no objection?"

Rachael laughed softly.

"I wonder," she said, "what it is that you expect to hear from me."




CHAPTER XVI

PLAIN SPEAKING


From the depths of her chair, Rachael for several moments sat and
subjected her visitor to a close and merciless scrutiny.

"So you," she said at last, "were the fairy godfather. You were the
man who trusted a nameless boy with five hundred pounds, because his
vaporings amused you. You pushed him out into the world, you bade him
go and seek his fortune."

"I was that infernal fool!" Rochester muttered.

The woman nodded.

"Yes, a fool!" she said. "No one but a fool would do such a thing. And
yet great things have come of it."

Rochester shrugged his shoulders. He was not prepared to admit that
Bertrand Saton was in any sense great.

"My adopted son," she continued, "is very wonderful. Egypt had its
soothsayers thousands of years ago. This century, too, may have its
prophet. Bertrand gains power every day. He is beginning to
understand."

"You, too," Rochester asked politely, "are perhaps a student of the
occult?"

"Whatever I am," she answered scornfully, "I am not one of those who
because their two feet are planted upon the earth, and their head
reaches six feet towards the sky, are prepared to declare that there
is no universe save the earth upon which they stand, no sky save the
sky toward which they look--nothing in life which their eyes will not
show them, or which their hands may not touch."

Rochester smiled faintly.

"Materialism is an easy faith and a safe one," he said. "Imagination
is very distorting."

"For you who feel like that," she answered, "the way through life is
simple enough. We others can only pity."

"Comtesse," Rochester said, "such an attitude is perfectly reasonable.
It is only when you attempt to convert that we are obliged to fall
back upon our readiest weapons."

"You are one of those," she said, looking at him keenly, "who do not
wish to understand more than you understand at present, who have no
desire to gain the knowledge of hidden things."

"You are right, Comtesse," Rochester answered, with a smile. "I am one
of those pig-headed individuals."

"It is the Saxon race," she muttered, "who have kept back the progress
of the world for centuries."

"We have kept it backward, perhaps," he answered, "but wholesome."

"You think always of your bodies," she said.

"They were entrusted to us, madam, to look after," he answered.

She smiled grimly.

"You are not such a fool," she said, "as my adopted son would have me
believe. You have spared me at least that hideous Latin quotation
which has done so much harm to your race."

"Out of respect to you," he declared, "I avoided it. It was really a
little too obvious."

"Come," she said, "you are a type of man I have not met with for
years. You are strong and vigorous and healthy. You have color upon
your cheeks, and strength in your tone and movements. In any show of
your kind, you should certainly be entitled to a prize."

Rochester laughed, at first softly, and then heartily.

"My dear lady," he said, "forgive me. I can assure you that although
my inclinations do not prompt me to sit at your son's feet and accept
his mythical sayings as the words of a god, I am really not a fool. I
will even go so far as this. I will even admit the possibility that a
serious and religious study of occultism might result in benefit to
all of us. The chief point where you and I differ is with regard to
your adopted son. You believe in him, apparently. I don't!"

"Then why are you here?" she asked. "What do you want with him? Do you
come as an enemy?"

Rochester was spared the necessity of making any answer. He heard the
door open, and the woman's eyes glittered as they turned toward it.

"Bertrand is here himself," she said. "You can settle your business
with him."

Rochester rose to his feet. Saton had just entered, closing the door
behind him. Prepared for Rochester's presence by the servants, he
greeted him calmly enough.

"This is an unexpected honor," he said, bowing. "I did not imagine
that we should meet again so soon."

"Nor I," Rochester answered. "Where can we talk?"

"Here as well as anywhere," Saton answered, going up to Rachael, and
lifting her hand for a moment to his lips. "From this lady, whose
acquaintance I presume you have made, I have no secrets."

Rochester glanced from one to the other--the woman, sitting erect and
severe in her chair, the young man bending affectionately over her.
Yes, he was right! There was something about the two hard to explain,
yet apparent to him as he sat there, which seemed in some way to
remove them out of direct kinship with the ordinary people of the
world. Was it, he wondered, with a sudden swift intuition, a touch of
insularity, a sign of narrowness, that he should find himself so
utterly repelled by this foreign note in their temperaments? Was his
disapproval, after all, but a mark of snobbishness, the snobbishness
which, to use a mundane parallel, takes objection to the shape of an
unfashionable collar, or the cut of a country-made coat? There were
other races upon the world beside the race of aristocrats. There was
an aristocracy of brains, of genius, of character. Yet he reasoned
against his inspiration. Nothing could make him believe that the boy
who had held out his hands so eagerly toward the fire of life, had not
ended by gathering to himself experiences and a cult of living from
which any ordinary mortal would have shrunk.

"I am quite content," Rochester said, "to say what I have to say
before this lady, especially if she knows your history. I have come
here to tell you this. I have been your sponsor, perhaps your
unwilling sponsor, into the society and to the friends amongst whom
you spend your time. I am not satisfied with my sponsorship. That you
came of humble parentage, although you never allude to the fact, goes
for nothing. That you may be forgiven. But there are seven years of
your past the knowledge of which is a pledge to me. I have come to
insist upon your fulfilment of it. For seven years you disappeared.
Where were you? How did you blossom into prosperity? How is it that
you, the professor of a new cult, whose first work is as yet
unpublished, find yourself enabled to live in luxury like this? You
had no godmother then. Who is this lady? Why do you call her your
godmother? She is nothing of the sort. You and I know that--you and I
and she. There are things about you, Saton, which I find it hard to
understand. I want to understand them for the sake of my friends."

"And if you do not?" Saton asked calmly.

"Well, it must be open war," Rochester declared.

"I should say that it amounted to that now," Saton answered.

"Scarcely," Rochester declared, "for if it had been open war I should
have asked you before now to tell me where it was that you and Lord
Guerdon had met. Remember I heard the words trembling upon his lips,
and I saw your face!"

Saton did not move, nor did he speak for a moment. His cheeks were a
little pale, but he gave no sign of being moved. The woman's face was
like the face of a sphinx, withered and emotionless. Her eyes were
fixed upon Saton's.

"You have spoken to me before somewhat in this strain, sir," Saton
said. "What I said to you then, I repeat. The account between us is
ruled out. You lent or gave me a sum of money, and I returned it. As
to gratitude," he went on, "that I may or may not feel. I leave you to
judge. You can ask yourself, if you will, whether that action of yours
came from an impulse of generosity, or was merely the gratification of
a cynical whim."

"My motives are beside the question," Rochester answered. "Do I
understand that you decline to give me any account of yourself?"

"I see no reason," Saton said coldly, "why I should gratify your
curiosity."

"There is no reason," Rochester admitted. "It is simply a matter of
policy. Frankly, I mistrust you. There are points about your
behaviour, ever since in a foolish moment I asked you to stay at
Beauleys, which I do not understand. I do not understand Lord
Guerdon's sudden recognition of you, and even suddener death. I do not
understand why it has amused you to fill the head of my young ward,
Lois Champneyes, with foolish thoughts. I do not understand why you
should stand between my wife and the writers of a blackmailing letter.
I do not ask you for any explanation. I simply tell you that these
things present themselves as enigmas to me. You have declared your
position. I declare mine. What you will not tell me I shall make it my
business to discover."

The Comtesse leaned a little forward. Her face was still unchanged,
her tone scornful.

"It is I who will answer you," she said. "My adopted son--for he is my
adopted son if I choose to make him so--will explain nothing. He has,
in fact, nothing more to say to you. You and he are quits so far as
regards obligations. Your paths in life lie apart. You are one of the
self-centred, sedentary loiterers by the way. For him," she added,
throwing out suddenly her brown, withered hand, aflame with jewels,
"there lie different things. Something he knows; something he has
learned; much there is yet for him to learn. He will go on his way,
undisturbed by you or any friends of yours. As for his means, your
question is an impertinence. Ask at Rothschilds concerning the
Comtesse de Vestignes, and remember that what belongs to me belongs to
him. Measure your wits against his, to-day, to-morrow, or any time you
choose, and the end is certain. Show your patron out, Bertrand. He has
amused me for a little time, but I am tired."

Rochester rose to his feet.

"Madam," he said, "I am sorry to have fatigued you. For the rest," he
added, with a note of irony in his tone, "I suppose I must accept your
challenge. I feel that I am measuring myself and my poor powers
against all sorts of nameless gifts. And yet," he added, as he
followed Saton towards the door, "the world goes round, and the things
which happened yesterday repeat themselves to-morrow. Your new science
should teach you, at least, not to gamble against certainties."

He passed out of the room, and Saton returned slowly to where Rachael
was sitting. Her eyes sought his inquiringly. They read the anguish in
his face.

"You are afraid," she muttered.

"I am afraid," he admitted. "Given an inversion of their relative
positions, I feel like Faust befriended by Mephistopheles. I felt it
when he stood by my side on the hilltop, seven years ago. I felt it
when he thrust that money into my hand, and bade me go and see what I
could make of life, bade me go, without a word of kindness, without a
touch of his fingers, without a sentence of encouragement, with no
admonitory words save that one single diatribe against failure. You
know what he told me? 'Go out,' he said,'and try your luck. Go out
along the road which your eyes have watched fading into the mists. But
remember this. For men there is no such thing as failure. One may swim
too far out to sea on a sunny day. One may trifle with a loaded
revolver, or drink in one's sleep the draught from which one does not
awake. But for men, there is no failure.'"

The woman nodded.

"Well," she said harshly, "you remembered that. You did not fail. Who
dares to say that you have failed!"

Saton threw himself into the easy-chair drawn apart from hers. His
head fell forward into his hands. The woman rested her head upon her
fingers, and watched him through the shadows.




CHAPTER XVII

THE GREAT NAUDHEIM


Naudheim had finished his address, and stood talking with his host.

"Do you mind," Saton asked, "if I introduce some of these people to
you? You know many of them by name."

Naudheim shook his head. He was a tall man, with gray, unkempt hair,
and long, wizened face. He wore a black suit of clothes, of ancient
cut, and a stock which had literally belonged to his grandfather.

"No!" he said vigorously. "I will be introduced to no one. Why should
I? I have spoken to them of the things which make life for us. I have
told them my thoughts. What need is there of introduction? I shake
hands with no one. I leave that, and silly speeches, and banquets, to
my enemies, the professors. These are not my ways."

"It shall be as you wish, of course," Saton replied. "You are very
fortunate to be able to live and work alone. Here we have to adapt
ourself in some way to the customs of the people with whom we are
forced to come into daily contact."

Naudheim suddenly abandoned that far-away look of his, his habit of
seeing through the person with whom he was talking. He looked into
Saton's face steadily, almost fiercely.

"Young man," he said, "you talk like a fool. Now listen to me. These
are my parting words! There is stuff in you. You know a little. You
could be taught much more. And above all, you have the temperament.
Temperament is a wonderful thing," he added. "And yet, with all these
gifts, you make me feel as though I would like to take you by the
collar and lift you up in my arms--yes, I am strong though I am
thin--and throw you out of that window, and see you lie there, because
you are a fool!"

"Go on," Saton said, his face growing a little pale.

"Oh, you know it!" Naudheim declared. "You feel it in your blood. You
know it in your heart. You truckle to these people, you play at living
their life, and you forget, if ever you knew, that our great mistress
has never yet opened her arms save to those who have sought her
single-hearted and with a single purpose. You are a dallier,
philanderer. You will end your days wearing your fashionable clothes.
They may make you a professor here. You will talk learnedly. You will
write a book. And when you die, people will say a great man has gone.
Listen! You listen to me now with only half your ears, but listen once
more. The time may come. The light may burn in your heart, the truth
may fill your soul. Then come to me. Come to me, young man, and I will
make bone and sinew of your flabby limbs. I will take you in my hands
and I will teach you the way to the stars."

Silently, and without a glance on either side of him, Naudheim left
the room, amidst a silence which was almost an instinctive thing--the
realization, perhaps, of the strange nature of this man, who from a
stern sense of duty had left his hermit's life for a few days, to
speak with his fellow-workers.

It had been in some respects a very curious function, this. It was
neither meeting nor reception. There was neither host nor hostess,
except that Saton had shaken hands with a few, and from his place by
the side of Naudheim had indicated the turn of those who wished to
speak. Their visitor's peculiarities were well-known to all of them.
He had left them abruptly, not from any sense of discourtesy, but
because he had not the slightest idea of, or sympathy with, the
manners of civilized people. He had given them something to think
about. He had no desire to hear their criticisms. After he had gone,
the doors were held open. There was no one to bid them stay, and
so they went, in little groups of twos and threes, a curious,
heterogeneous crowd, with the stamp upon their features or clothes or
bearing, which somehow or other is always found upon those who are
seekers for new things. Sallow, dissatisfied-looking men; women whose
faces spoke, many of them, of a joyless life; people of overtrained
minds; and here and there a strong, zealous, brilliant student of the
last of the sciences left for solution.

Pauline would have gone with the others, but Saton touched her hand.
Half unwillingly she lingered behind until they were alone in the
darkened room. He went to the window and threw it wide open. The
scent of the flowers in the window-boxes and a little wave of the soft
west wind came stealing in. She threw her head back with an
exclamation of relief.

"Ah!" she said. "This is good."

"You found the room close?" he asked.

Pauline sank into the window-seat. She rested her delicate oval face
upon her fingers, and looked away toward the deep green foliage of the
trees outside.

"I did not notice it," she said, "and yet, somehow or other the whole
atmosphere seemed stifling. Naudheim is great," she went on. "Oh, he
is a great man, of course. He said wonderful things in a convincing
way. He made one gasp."

"This afternoon," Saton declared slowly, "marks an epoch. What
Naudheim said was remarkable because of what he left unsaid. Couldn't
you feel that? Didn't you understand? If that man had ambitions, he
could startle even this matter-of-fact world of ours. He could shake
it to its very base."

She shivered a little. Her fingers were idly tapping the window-sill.
Her thoughtful eyes were clouded with trouble. He stood over her,
absorbed in the charm of her presence, the sensuous charm of watching
her slim, exquisite figure, the poise of her head, the delicate
coloring of her cheeks, the tremulous human lips, which seemed somehow
to humanize the spirituality of her expression. They had talked so
much that day of a new science. Saton felt his heart sink as he
realized that he was the victim of a greater thing than science could
teach. It was madness!--sheer, irredeemable madness! But it was in
his blood. It was there to be reckoned with.

"It is all very wonderful," she continued thoughtfully. "And yet, can
you understand what I mean when I say that it makes me feel a trifle
hysterical? It is as though something had been poured into one which
was too great, too much for our capacity. It is all true, I believe,
but I don't want it to come."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Oh! It seems somehow," she answered, "as though the whole balance of
life would be disturbed. Of course, I know that it is feasible enough.
For thousands of years men and women lived upon the earth, and never
dreamed that all around them existed a great force which only needed a
little humoring, a little understanding, to do the work of all the
world. Oh, it is easy to understand that we too carry with us some
psychical force corresponding to this! One feels it so often.
Premonitions come and go. We can't tell why, but they are there, and
they are true. One feels that sense at work at strange times.
Experiments have already shown us that it exists. But I wonder what
sort of a place the world will be when once it has yielded itself to
law."

"There has never been a time," Saton said thoughtfully, "when
knowledge has not been for the good of man."

She shook her head.

"I wonder," she said, "whether we realize what is for our good.
Knowledge, development, culture, may reach their zenith and pass
beyond. We may become debauched with the surfeit of these things. The
end and aim of life is happiness."

"The end and aim of life," he contradicted her, "is knowledge."

She laughed.

"I am a woman, you see," she said thoughtfully.

"And am I not a man?" he whispered.

She turned her head and looked at him. The trouble in her eyes
deepened. She felt the color coming and going in her cheeks. His eyes
seemed to stir things in her against which her whole physical self
rebelled. She rose abruptly to her feet.

"I must go," she said. "I have a thousand things to do this evening."

"To play at, you mean," he corrected her. "You don't really do very
much, do you? The women don't in your world."

"You are polite," she answered lightly. "Please to show me the way
out."

"In a moment," he said.

She was inclined to rebel. They had moved a little from the window,
and were standing in a darker part of the room. She felt his fingers
upon her wrist. She would have given the world to have been able to
wrench it away, but she could not. She stood there submissively, her
breath coming quickly, her eyes compelled to meet his.

"Stay for a moment longer," he begged. "I want to talk to you for a
little while about this."

"There is no time now," she said hurriedly. "It is an inexhaustible
subject."

"Inexhaustible indeed," he answered, with an enigmatic laugh.

She read his thoughts. She knew very well what was in his mind, what
was almost on his lips, and she struggled to be free of him.

"Mr. Saton," she said, "I am sorry--but you must really let me go."

He did not move.

"It is very hard to let you go," he murmured. "Can't you--don't you
realize a little that it is always hard for me to see you go--to see
you leave the world where we have at least interests in common, to go
back to a life of which I know so little, a life in which I have so
small a part, a life which is scarcely worthy of you, Pauline?"

Again she felt a sort of physical impotence. She struggled desperately
against the loss of nerve power which kept her there. She would have
given anything in the world to have left him, to have run out of the
room with a little shriek, out into the streets and squares she knew
so well, to breathe the air she had known all her life, to escape from
this unknown emotion. She told herself that she hated the man whose
will kept her there. She was sure of it. And yet--!

"I do not understand you," she said, "and I must, I really must go.
Can't you see that just now, at any rate, I don't want to understand?"
she added, fighting all the time for her words. "I want to go. Please
do not keep me here against my will. Do you understand? Let me go, and
I will be grateful to you."

Somehow the strain seemed suddenly lightened. He was only a very
ordinary, rather doubtful sort of person--a harmless but necessary
part of interesting things. He had moved toward the door, which he was
holding open for her to pass through.

"Thank you so much," she said, with genuine relief in her tone. "I
have stayed an unconscionable time, and I found your Master
delightful."

"You will come again?" he said softly. "I want to explain a little
further what Naudheim was saying. I can take you a little further,
even, than he did to-day."

"You must come and see me," she answered lightly. "Remember that after
all the world has conventions."

He stepped back on to the doorstep after he had handed her into her
carriage. She threw herself back amongst the cushions with something
that was like a sob of relief. She had sensations which she could not
analyze--a curious feeling of having escaped, and yet coupled with it
a sense of something new and strange in her life, something of which
she was a little afraid, and yet from which she would not willingly
have parted. She told herself that she detested the house which she
had left, detested the thought of that darkened room. Nevertheless,
she was forced to look back. He was standing in the open doorway, from
which the butler had discreetly retired, and meeting her eyes he bowed
once more. She tried to smile unconcernedly, but failed. She looked
away with scarcely a return of his greeting.

"Home!" she told the man. "Drive quickly."

Almost before her own door she met Rochester. The sight of him was
somehow or other an immense relief to her. She fell back again in the
world which she knew. She stopped the carriage and called to him.

"Come and drive with me a little way," she begged. "I am stifled. I
want some fresh air. I want to talk to you. Oh, come, please!"

Rochester took the vacant seat by her side at once.

"What is it?" he asked gravely. "Tell me. You have had bad news?"

She shook her head.

"No!" she said. "I am afraid--that is all!"




CHAPTER XVIII

ROCHESTER'S ULTIMATUM


The Park into which they turned was almost deserted. Pauline stopped
the carriage and got out.

"Come and walk with me a little way," she said to Rochester. "We will
go and sit amongst that wilderness of empty chairs. I want to talk. I
must talk to someone. We shall be quite alone there."

Rochester walked by her side, puzzled. He had never seen her like
this.

"I suppose I am hysterical," she said, clutching at his arm for a
moment as they passed along the walk. "There, even that does me good.
It's good to feel--oh, I don't know what I'm talking about!" she
exclaimed.

"Where have you been this afternoon?" he asked gravely.

"To hear that awful man Naudheim," she answered. "Henry, I wish I'd
never been. I wish to Heaven you'd never asked Bertrand Saton to
Beauleys."

Rochester's face grew darker.

"I wish I'd wrung the fellow's neck the first day I saw him," he
declared, bitterly. "But after all, Pauline, you don't take this sort
of person seriously?"

"I wish I didn't," she answered.

"He's an infernal charlatan," Rochester declared. "I'm convinced of
it, and I mean to expose him."

She shook her head.

"You can call him what you like," she said, "but there is Naudheim
behind him. There is no one in Europe who would dare to call Naudheim
a charlatan."

"He is a wonderful man, but he is mad," Rochester said.

"No, he is not mad," she said. "It is we who are mad, to listen a
little, to think a little, to play a little with the thoughts he gives
us."

"I know of Naudheim only by reputation," Rochester said. "And so far
as regards Saton, nothing will convince me that he is not an
impostor."

She sighed.

"There may be something of the charlatan in his methods," she said,
"but there is something else. Henry, why can't we be content with the
things that we know and see and feel?"

He smiled bitterly.

"I am," he answered. "I thank God that I have none of that insane
desire for probing and dissecting nature to discover things which we
are not fit yet to understand, if, even, they do exist. It's a sort of
spiritual vivisection, Pauline, and it can bring nothing but disquiet
and unhappiness. Grant for a moment that Naudheim, and that even this
bounder Saton, are honest, what possible good can it do you or me to
hang upon their lips, to become their disciples?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "Yet it's hideously fascinating,
Henry--hideously! And the man himself--Bertrand Saton. I can't tell
what there is about him. I only know----"

She broke off in the middle of her sentence. Rochester caught her by
the wrist.

"Pauline," he said, "for God's sake, don't tell me that that fellow
has dared to make love to you."

"I don't know," she answered. "Sometimes I hate the very sight of him.
Sometimes I feel almost as you do. And at others, well, I can't
explain it. It isn't any use trying."

"Pauline," he said, "you see for yourself the state to which you have
been reduced this afternoon. Tell me, is there happiness in being
associated with any science or any form of knowledge the study of
which upsets you so completely? There are better things in life.
Forget this wretched little man, and his melodramatic talk."

"If only I could!" she murmured.

They sat side by side in silence. Strong man though he was, Rochester
was struggling fiercely with the wave of passionate anger which had
swept in upon him. For years he had treated this woman as his dearest
friend. The love which was a part of his life lay deep down in his
heart, a thing with the seal of silence set upon it, zealously
treasured, in its very voicelessness a splendid oblation to the man's
chivalry. And now this unmentionable creature, this Frankenstein of
his own creation, the boy whom he had pitchforked into life, had dared
to be guilty of this unspeakable sacrilege. It was hard, indeed, for
Rochester to maintain his self-control.

"Pauline," he said, "I cannot stand by and see your life wrecked. You
are too sane, too reasonable a woman to become the prey of such a
pitiful adventurer. Won't you listen to me for a moment?"

"Indeed I am listening," she faltered.

"Give yourself a chance," he begged. "Leave England this
week--to-morrow, if you can. Go right away from here. You have friends
in Rome. I heard your cousin ask you not long ago to pay her a visit
at her villa on the Adriatic. Start to-morrow, and I promise that you
will come back a sane woman. You will be able to laugh at Saton, to
see through the fellow, and to realise what a tissue of shams he's
built of. You will be able to feel a reasonable interest in anything
Naudheim has to say. Just now you are unnerved, these men have
frightened you. Believe me that your greatest and most effectual
safety lies in flight."

A sudden hope lit up her face. She turned towards him eagerly. She was
going to consent--he felt it, he was almost conscious of the words
trembling upon her lips. Already his own personal regrets at her
absence were beginning to cloud his joy. Then her whole expression
changed. Something of the look settled upon her features which he had
seen when first she had stopped the carriage. Her lips were parted,
her eyes distended. She looked nervously around as though she were
afraid that some one was following them.

"I cannot do that, Henry," she said. "In a way it would be a relief,
but it is impossible. I cannot, indeed."

She led the way to the carriage. They walked in absolute silence for
nearly a minute. He felt that he had lost a great part of his
influence over her and he was bitter.

"Tell me why you almost consented," he asked, abruptly, "and then
changed your mind? In your heart you must know that it is for your
good."

"I only know," she answered, slowly, "that at first I longed to say
yes, and now, when I come to think of it, I see that it is
impossible."

"You are going to allow yourself, then, to be the prey of these morbid
fancies? You are going to treat this creature as a human being of your
own order? You are going to let him work upon your imagination?"

"It is no use," she said wearily. "For the present, I cannot talk any
more about it. I do not understand myself at all."

They stood for a moment by the carriage.

"We shall meet to-night," he reminded her.

She gave him a doubtful little smile.

"You are really coming to the Wintertons?" she asked.

"I have promised," he answered. "Caroline has bribed me. I am going to
take you in to dinner."

"Will you drive home with me now?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"I have another call to make," he said, a little grimly.

Saton was still in the half darkened library, sitting with his back
turned to the light, and his eyes fixed with a curious stare into
vacancy, when the door opened, and Rochester entered unannounced.
Saton rose at once to his feet, but the interrogative words died away
upon his lips. Rochester's fair, sunburnt face was grim with angry
purpose. He had the air of a man stirred to the very depths. He came
only a little way into the room, and he took up his position with his
back to the door.

"My young friend," he said, "it is not many hours since you and I came
to an understanding of a sort. I am here to add a few words to it."

Saton said nothing. He stood immovable, waiting.

"Whatever your game in life may be," Rochester continued, "you can
play it, for all I care, to the end. But there is one thing which I
forbid. I have come here so that you shall understand that I forbid
it. You can make fools of the whole world, you can have them kneeling
at your feet to listen to your infernal nonsense--the whole world save
one woman. I am ashamed to mention her name in your presence, but you
know whom I mean."

Saton's lips seemed to move for a moment, but he still remained
silent.

"Very well," Rochester said. "There shall be no excuse, no
misunderstanding. The woman with whom I forbid you to have anything
whatever to do, whom I order you to treat from this time forward as a
stranger, is Pauline Marrabel."

Saton was still in no hurry to speak. He leaned a little forward. His
eyes seemed to burn as though touched with some inward fire.

"By what right," he asked, "do you come here and dictate to me? You
are not my father or my guardian. I do not recognize your right to
speak to me as one having authority."

"It was I who turned you loose upon the world," Rochester answered. "I
deserve hanging for it."

"I should be sorry," Saton said coldly, "to deprive you of your
deserts."

"You have learned many things since those days," Rochester declared.
"You have acquired the knack of glib speech. You have become a past
master in the arts which go to the ensnaring of over-imaginative
women. You have mixed with quack spiritualists and self-styled
professors of what they term occultism. Go and practise your arts
where you will, but remember what I have told you. Remember the
person's name which I have mentioned. Remember it, obey what I have
said, and you may fool the whole world. Forget it, and I am your
enemy. Understand that."

"And you," Saton answered with darkening face, "understand this from
me, Rochester. I do not for a moment admit your right to speak to me
in this fashion. I admit no obligation to you. We are simply man and
man in the world together, and the words which you have spoken have no
weight with me whatever."

"You defy me?" Rochester asked calmly.

"If you call that defiance, I do," Saton answered.

Rochester came a step further into the room.

"Listen, my young friend," he said. "You belong to the modern
condition of things, to the world which has become just a little
over-civilized. You may call me a boor, if you like, but I want you to
understand this. If I fail to unmask you by any other means, I shall
revert to the primeval way of deciding such differences as lie between
you and me, the differences which make for hate. I can wield a
horse-whip with the strongest man living, and I am in deadly earnest."

"The lady whose name you have mentioned," Saton said softly--"is she
also your ward? You are related to her, perhaps?"

"She is the woman I love," Rochester answered. "Our ways through life
may lie apart, or fate may bring them together. That is not your
business or your concern. When I tell you that she is the woman I
love, I mean you to understand that she is the woman whom I will
protect against all manner of evil, now and always. Remember that if
you disregard my warning, in the spirit or in the letter, so surely as
we two live you will repent it."

Saton crossed the room with noiseless footsteps. He leaned toward the
wall and touched an electric bell.

"Very well," he said. "You have come to deliver an ultimatum, and I
have received it. I understand perfectly what you will accept as an
act of war. There is nothing more to be said, I think?"

"Nothing," Rochester answered, turning to follow the servant whom
Saton's summons had brought to the door.




CHAPTER XIX

TROUBLE BREWING


Saton turned out of Bond Street, and climbed the stairs of a little
tea-shop with the depressed feeling of a man who is expiating an
offence which he bitterly repents. Violet was waiting for him at one
of the tables shut off from the main room by a sort of Japanese
matting hanging from the ceiling. He resigned his stick and hat with a
sigh to one of the trim waitresses, and sat down opposite her.

"My dear Violet," he said, "this is an unexpected pleasure. I thought
that Wednesday was quite one of your busiest days."

"It is generally," she answered. "To tell you the truth," she added,
leaning across the table, "I was jolly glad to get away. I have a kind
of fear, Bertrand, that we are going to be a little too busy."

"What do you mean?" he asked sharply.

She nodded her head mysteriously.

"There have been one or two people in, in the last few days, asking
questions which I don't understand," she told him. "One of them, I am
pretty sure, was a detective. He didn't get much change out of me,"
she added, in a self-satisfied tone, "but there's someone got their
knife into us. You remember the trouble down in the Marylebone Road,
when you----"

"Don't!" he interrupted. "I hate to think of that time."

"Well, I tell you I believe there is something of the sort brewing
again," the woman said. "I'll tell you more about it later on."

The waitress brought their tea, which Violet carefully prepared.

"Two pieces of sugar," she said, "and no cream. You see I haven't
forgotten, although it is not often we have tea together now,
Bertrand. You are becoming too fashionable, I suppose," she added with
a little frown.

"You know it isn't that," he answered hastily. "It's my work, nothing
but my work. Go on with what you were telling me, Violet."

"You needn't look so scared," she said, glancing round to be sure that
they were not overheard. "The only thing is that Madame must be told
at once, and we shall all have to be careful for a little time. I shut
up shop for the day as soon as I tumbled to the thing."

"I wonder if this is Rochester's doings," he muttered.

"The husband of the lady?" Violet enquired.

Saton nodded.

"He is my enemy," he said. "Nothing would make him happier than to
have the power to strike a blow like this, and to identify us with the
place in any way."

"I don't see how they could do that," she said meditatively. "I should
be the poor sufferer, I suppose, and you may be sure I shouldn't be
like that other girl, who gave you away. You are not afraid of that,
are you, Bertrand? Things are different between us. We are engaged to
be married. You do not forget that, Bertrand?"

"Of course I do not," he answered.

"Well," she said, "we won't talk about the past. You are safe so far
as I am concerned--for the present, at any rate. But Madame must know,
and your friends in Charing Cross Road."

"We will close the office to-morrow for a little time," Saton
declared. "It's no use running risks like this."

"The old lady must have made a tidy pile out of it," Violet declared,
flourishing an over-scented handkerchief. "If she takes my advice, she
will go quiet for a little time. I can feel trouble when it's about,
and I have felt it the last few days."

"It is very good of you, Violet, to have sent for me at once," he
said. "I know you won't mind if I hurry away. It is very important
that I see Madame."

"Of course," she agreed. "But when will you take me out to dinner?
To-night or to-morrow night?"

"To-morrow night," he promised, eager to escape. "If anything happens
that I can't, I'll let you know."

She laid her hand upon his arm as they descended the stairs.

"Bertrand," she said, "if I were you, I'd make it to-morrow night...."

He called a taximeter cab, and drove rapidly to Berkeley Square. In
the room where she usually sat he found Rachael, looking through a
pile of foreign newspapers.

"Well?" she said, peering into his face. "You have bad news. I can see
that. What is it?"

"Helga has just sent for me," he answered. "She says that she has had
one or two mysterious visitors to-day and yesterday. One of them she
feels sure was a detective."

"Huntley has just telephoned up," Rachael said calmly. "Something of
the same sort of thing happened at the office in the Charing Cross
Road. Huntley acted like a man of sense. He closed it up at once,
destroyed all papers, and sent Dorrington over to Paris by the morning
train."

Saton sat down, and buried his face in his hands.

"Rachael," he said, "this must stop. I cannot bear the anxiety of it.
It is terrible to feel to-day that one is stretching out toward the
great things, and to-morrow that one is finding the money to live
by fooling people, by charlatanism, by roguery. Think if we were
ever connected with these places, if even a suspicion of it got
about! Think how narrow our escape was before! Remember that I have
even stood in the prisoner's dock, and escaped only through your
cleverness, and an accident. It might happen again, Rachael!"

"It shall not," she answered. "I would go there myself first. It is
well for you to talk, Bertrand, but you and I are neither of us fond
of simple things. We must live. We must have money."

"We live extravagantly," he said.

"All my life I have lived extravagantly," she answered. "Why should I
change now? I have but a few years to live. I cannot bear small rooms,
or cheap servants, or bad cooking."

"We have some money left," he said. "Come with me into the country. We
can live there for very little. Soon my book will be ready. Then the
lectures will begin. There will be money enough when people begin to
understand."

"No!" she said. "There is only one way. I have spoken of it to you
before. You must marry that foolish girl Lois Champneyes."

"What do you know about her?" he asked, looking up, startled.

"I have made inquiries," Rachael answered. "It is the usual thing in
the countries I know of. She will be of age in a short time, and she
will have one hundred and seventy thousand pounds. Upon that you can
live until our time comes, and you can afford to keep this house
going."

"I do not want to marry," he said.

Her hand shot out towards him--an accusing hand; her eyes flashed fire
as she leaned forward, gripping the arm of the chair with her other
fingers.

"Listen," she said, "I took you from the gutter. I saved you from
starvation. I showed you the way to ease and luxury. I taught you
things which have set your brain working, which shall fashion for you,
if you dare to follow it, the way to greatness. I saved your life. I
planted your feet upon the earth. Your life is mine. Your future is
mine. What is this sacrifice that I demand? Nothing! Don't refuse me.
I warn you, Bertrand, don't refuse me! There are limits to my patience
as there are limits to my generosity and my affection. If you refuse,
it can be but for one reason, and that reason you will not dare to
tell me. Do you refuse? Answer me, now, I will have no more evasions."

"She would not marry me," he said. "I have not seen her for days."

"Where is she?" Rachael demanded.

"In the country, at Beauleys," he answered. "The Rochesters have all
left town yesterday or to-day, and she went with them."

"Then into the country we go," she declared. "It is an opportune
time, too. We shall be out of the way if troubles come from these
interfering people. I do not ask you again, Bertrand, whether you will
or will not marry this girl. For the first time I exercise my rights
over you. I demand that you marry her. Be as faithless as you like.
You are as fickle as a man can be, and as shallow. Make love to
her for a year, and treat her as these Englishmen treat their
housekeepers, if you will. But marry her you must! It is the money
we need--the money! What is that?"

The bell was ringing from a telephone instrument upon the table. Saton
lifted it to his ear.

"There is a trunk call for you," a voice said. "Please hold the line."

Saton waited. Soon a familiar voice came.

"Who is that?" it asked.

"Bertrand Saton," Saton answered.

"Listen," the voice said. "I am Huntley. I speak from Folkestone. I am
crossing to-night to Paris. Dorrington is already on ahead. Someone
has been employing detectives to track us down. It commenced with
that letter--the one for which you settled terms yourself. You hear?"

"I hear," Saton answered. "Was it necessary for you, too, to go?"

"I cannot tell," Huntley answered. "All I know is that I have done
pretty well the last two years, and I am not inclined to figure in the
police courts. If the thing blows over, I'll be back in a few weeks.
Every paper of importance has been destroyed. I believe that you and
Madame are perfectly safe. At the same time, take my tip. Go slow! I'm
off. I've only a minute for the boat."

Saton laid down the receiver on the instrument.

"If it must be," he said, turning to Rachael, "I will go down to
Blackbird's Nest to-morrow."




CHAPTER XX

FIRST BLOOD


Lois came walking down the green path that led to the wood, her head a
little tilted back to watch the delicate tracery of the green leaves
against the sky, her thoughts apparently far away. Suddenly she came
to a standstill, the color rushed into her cheeks, her eyes danced
with pleasure. Saton had come suddenly round the corner, and was
already within a few feet of her.

"You?" she exclaimed. "Really you? I had no idea that you had left
London."

He smiled as he took her hands.

"London was a desert," he said. "I have finished my work for a few
days, and I have brought my writing down here."

"When did you come?" she asked.

"Last night," he answered. "I was just wondering how I could send a
note up to you. Fortunately, I remembered your favorite walk."

"Did you really come to see me?" she murmured.

He laughed softly, and bent towards her. All her hesitation and
mistrust seemed to pass away. She lay quietly in his arms, with her
face upturned to his. He kissed her on the lips. All the time his eyes
were watching the path along which he had come.

"Let us sit down," she said at last, gently disengaging herself from
him. "There are so many things I want to ask you."

"And I too," he answered. "I have something to say--something I cannot
keep to myself any longer."

He led the way to a fallen tree, a little removed from the footpath.
They were scarcely seated, however, before he turned his head sharply
in the direction from which he had come. His whole frame seemed to
have become suddenly rigid with an intense effort of listening. He
raised his finger with a warning gesture.

"Sit still," he whispered. "Don't say anything. There is someone
coming."

Her hand fell upon his. They sat side by side in an almost breathless
silence, safely screened from observation unless the passers-by,
whoever they might be, should be unusually curious.

It was Pauline and Rochester who came--Pauline in a tailor-made gown
of dark green cloth--Pauline, slim, tall and elegant. Rochester was
bending toward her, talking earnestly. He wore a tweed shooting suit,
and carried a gun under either arm.

"You see who it is?" Lois whispered.

Saton nodded. His face had darkened, his cheeks were almost livid. His
eyes followed the two with an expression which terrified the girl who
sat by his side.

"Bertrand," she whispered, "why do you look like that?"

"Like what?" he asked, without moving his eyes from the spot where
those two figures had disappeared.

She shivered a little.

"You looked as though you hated Mr. Rochester. You looked angry--more
than angry. You frightened me."

"I do hate him," Saton answered slowly. "I hate him as he hates me. We
are enemies."

"Yet you were not looking at him all the time," she persisted. "You
looked at Pauline, too. You don't hate her, do you?"

He drew a little breath between his clenched teeth. If only this child
would hold her peace!

"No!" he said. "I do not hate Lady Marrabel."

"Is it because he has interfered between us," she asked timidly, "that
you dislike Mr. Rochester so much? Remember that very soon I shall be
of age."

"He has no right to interfere in my concerns at all," Saton answered,
evasively. "Hush!"

The two had halted at a little wooden gate which led into the strip of
field dividing the two plantations. Rochester was looking back along
the footpath by which they had come. They could hear his voice
distinctly.

"Johnson must have got lost," he remarked, a little impatiently. "I
will leave my second gun here for him. It is quite time I took up my
place. The beaters will be in the wood directly."

He leaned one of the guns against the stone wall, and with the other
under his arm, opened the gate for Pauline to pass through. They
crossed the field diagonally, and came to a standstill at a spot
marked by a tiny flag.

All the time Saton watched them with fascinated eyes. The thoughts
were rushing through his brain. He turned to Lois.

"Dear," he said, "I think that you had better run along home. I will
come up to the shrubbery after dinner, if you think that you can get
out."

"But there is no hurry," she whispered. "Can't we sit here and talk
for a little time, or go further back into the wood? I know a most
delightful little hiding-place just at the top of the slate pit--an
old keeper's shelter."

Saton shook his head. He avoided looking at her.

"The beaters are in the other part of the wood already," he said.
"Very likely they will come this way, too. If they see us together,
they will tell Mr. Rochester. I don't want him to know that I am here
just yet."

She rose reluctantly.

"Dear me," she said, sighing, "and I thought that we were going to
have such a nice long talk!"

"We will have it very soon," he whispered, a little unsteadily. "We
must, dear. Remember that I have only come down here so that we may
see a little more of one another. I will arrange it somehow. Only just
now I think that you had better run away home."

He kissed her, and she turned reluctantly away. She stole through the
undergrowth back into the green path. Saton watched her with fixed
eyes until she had turned the corner and disappeared. Then he seemed
at once to forget her existence. He too rose to his feet, and stole
gently forward, moving very slowly, and stooping a little so as to
remain out of sight. All the time his eyes were fixed upon the gun,
whose barrel was shining in the sunlight.

From the other side of the wood there commenced an intermittent
fusilade. The shots were drawing nearer and nearer. Rochester stood
waiting, his gun held ready. Pauline had retreated round the corner of
the further wood, beyond any possible line of fire.

Saton had reached the gate now, and was within reach of the gun and
the bag of cartridges, which were hanging by a leather belt from the
gate-post. He turned his head, and looked stealthily along the path by
which Rochester had come. There was no one in sight, no sound except
the twittering of birds overhead, and the rustling of the leaves. He
sank on one knee, and his hand closed upon the gun. The blood surged
to his head. There was a singing in his ears. He felt his heart
thumping as though he were suddenly seized with some illness.
Rochester's figure, tall, graceful, debonair, notwithstanding the
looseness of his shooting clothes, and his somewhat rigid attitude,
seemed suddenly to loom large and hateful before his eyes. He saw
nothing else. He thought of nothing else. It was the man he hated. It
was the man who understood what he was, the worst side of him--the man
whom his instincts recognised as his ruthless and dangerous enemy.

The rush of a rabbit through the undergrowth, startled him so that he
very nearly screamed. He looked around, pallid, terrified. There was
no one in sight, no sign of any life save animal and insect life in
the wood behind.

The stock of the gun came to his shoulder. His fingers sought the
trigger. Cautiously he thrust it through the bars of the gate. Bending
down, he took a long and deliberate aim. The fates seemed to be on his
side. Rochester suddenly stiffened into attention, his gun came to his
shoulder, as with a loud whir a pheasant flew out of the wood before
him. The two reports rang out almost simultaneously. The pheasant
dropped to the ground like a stone. Rochester's arms went up to the
skies. He gave a little cry and fell over, a huddled heap, upon the
grass.

Saton, with fingers that trembled, tore out the exploded cartridge,
seized another from the bag, thrust it in, and replaced the gun
against the wall. His breath was coming in little sobs. Trees and sky
danced before his eyes. Once he dared to look--only once--at the spot
where Rochester was lying. His hands were outstretched. Once he half
raised himself, and then fell back. From round the corner of the wood
came Pauline. Saton heard her cry--a cry of agony it seemed to him. He
bent low, and made his way back into the plantation, plunging through
the undergrowth until he reached a narrow and little frequented
footpath. He was deaf to all sounds, for the thumping in his ears had
become now like a sledge-hammer beating upon an anvil. He was not sure
that he saw anything. His feet fled over the ground mechanically. Only
when he reached the borders of the wood, and crossed the meadow
leading to the main road, he drew himself a little more upright. He
must remember, he told himself fiercely. He must remember!

He paused in the middle of the field, and looked back. He was out of
sight now of the scene of the tragedy. Nothing was to be seen or heard
but the low, musical sounds of the late summer afternoon--the beat of
a reaping-machine, the humming of insects, the distant call of a
pigeon, the far-away bark of a farmhouse dog. The shooting had ceased.
By this time they must all know, he reflected. He lit a cigarette, and
inhaled the smoke without the slightest apprehension of what he was
doing. He took a book from his pocket, held it before him, and glanced
at the misty page of verse. Then he made his way out on to the
highroad, sauntering like a man anxious to make the most of the
brilliant sunshine, the clear air.

There was no one in sight anywhere along the white, dusty way. He
crossed the road, and opened another gate. A few minutes' climb, a
sharp descent, and he was safe within the gate of his own abode. He
looked behind. Still not a human being in sight--no sound, no note of
alarm in the soft, sunlit air. He set his teeth and drew a long
breath. Then he closed the gate behind him, and choosing the back way,
entered the house without observation.




CHAPTER XXI

AFRAID!


Saton wondered afterwards many times at the extraordinary nonchalance
with which he faced the remainder of that terrible day. He wrote
several letters, and was aware that he wrote them carefully and well.
He had his usual evening bath and changed his clothes, making perhaps
a little more careful toilet even than usual.

Rachael, who was waiting for him when he descended to dinner, even
remarked upon the lightness of his step.

"The country suits you, Bertrand," she said. "It suits you better than
it does me. You walk like a boy, and there is color in your cheeks."

"The sun," he muttered. "I always tan quickly."

"Where have you been to?" she asked.

"I have been walking with Miss Champneyes," he answered.

Rachael nodded.

"And your friend at Beauleys?" she asked, with a little sneer. "What
if he had seen you, eh? You are very brave, Bertrand, for he is a big
man, and you are small. I do not think that he loves you, eh? But what
about the girl?"

A servant entered the room, and Saton with relief abandoned the
conversation. She returned to it, however, the moment they were alone.

"See here, my son," she said, "remember what I have always told you.
One can do without anything in this world except money. We have plenty
for the moment, it is true, but a stroke of ill-fortune, and our
income might well vanish. Now listen, Bertrand. Make sure of this
girl's money. She is of age, and she will marry you."

"Her guardian would never give his consent," Saton said.

"It is not necessary," his companion answered. "I have been to
Somerset House. I have seen the will. One hundred thousand pounds she
has, in her own right, unalienable. For the rest, let her guardian do
what he will with it. With a hundred thousand pounds you can rest for
a while. We might even give up----"

Saton struck the table with his clenched fist.

"Be careful," he said. "I hate to hear these things mentioned. The
windows are open, and the walls are thin. There might be listeners
anywhere."

Her withered lips drew back into a smile. She was not pleasant just
then to look upon.

"I forgot," she muttered. "We are devotees of science now in earnest.
You are right. We must run no risks. Only remember, however careful we
are, you are always liable to--to the same thing that happened before.
It took a thousand pounds to get you off then."

Saton rose from his seat impatiently. He walked restlessly across the
room.

"Don't!" he exclaimed. "Can't we live without mentioning those
things? I am nervous to-night. Hideously nervous!" he added, under his
breath.

He stood before the open window, his face set, his eyes riveted upon a
spot in the distance, where the great white front of Beauleys flashed
out from amongst the trees. Its windows had caught the dying sunlight,
and a flood of fire seemed to be burning along its front. The flag
floated from the chimneys. There was no sign of any disturbance. The
quiet stillness of evening which rested upon the landscape, seemed
everywhere undisturbed. Yet Saton, as he looked, shivered.

Down in the lane a motor-car rushed by. His eyes followed it,
fascinated. It was one of the Beauleys cars, and inside was seated a
tall, spare man, white-faced and serious, on whose knees rested a
black case. Saton knew in a moment that it was one of the doctors who
had been summoned to Beauleys, by telephone and telegraph, from all
parts.

"You are watching the house of your patron," she said, drily.

"Patron no longer!" Saton exclaimed, rolling himself another
cigarette. "We are enemies, declared enemies--so far as he is
concerned, at any rate."

"You are a fool!" the woman said. "He might still have been useful.
You quarrel with people as though it were worth the trouble. To speak
angry words is the most foolish thing I know."

Saton glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece.

"I am going out for an hour," he said.

"To Beauleys?" she asked, mockingly.

"Somewhere near there," he answered. "Good night!"

He strolled out, hatless, and with no covering over his thin black
dinner-coat. He crossed the meadow, and climbed the little range of
broken, rocky hills, from which one could see down even into the
flower-gardens of Beauleys. He could see there no sign of disturbance,
save that there were two motor-cars before the door. Slowly he made
his way to the lodge gates, and passing through approached the house.
There were many lights burning. A certain repressed air of excitement
was certainly visible. Saton longed, yet dared not, to ask for news
from the people at the lodge. At any rate, the blinds were still up,
and the doctors there. Probably the man was alive. Perhaps, even, he
might recover!

He struck off from the drive, and followed a narrow path, which led at
first between two great banks of rhododendrons, and finally wound a
circuitous way through an old and magnificent shrubbery. He reached a
path whence he could command a view of the house, and where he was
himself unseen. He looked at his watch. He was five minutes late, but
as yet there was no sign of Lois. He composed himself to wait,
watching the birds come home to roost, and the insects, whom the heat
had brought out of the earth, crawl away into oblivion. The air was
sweet with the smell of flowers. From a little further afield came the
more pungent odor of a fire of weeds. The great front of the house,
ablaze though it was with lights, seemed almost deserted. No one
entered or issued from the hall door.

Half an hour passed. There was no sign of Lois. Then he saw her come,
very slowly--walking, as it seemed to him, like one afraid of the
ground upon which she trod. As she came nearer, he saw that her face
was ghastly pale. Her eyes, which wandered restlessly to the right and
to the left, were frightened, dilated. The thing had been a shock to
her, of course.

He stepped a little way out from the shrubs, showing himself
cautiously. She stopped short at the sight of him.

"Lois!" he called softly.

She looked at him, and a sudden wave of terror passed across her face.
She made no movement towards him. He himself was wordless, struck dumb
by her appearance. She gave a little cry. What the word was that she
uttered, he could not tell. Then suddenly turning round, she fled
away.

He watched her with fascinated eyes, watched her feet fly over the
lawns, watched her, without a single backward glance, vanish at last
through the small side door from which she had first issued. He wiped
the moisture from his forehead, and a little sob broke from his
throat. The vision of her face was still before him. He knew for a
certainty what it was that had terrified her. She had started to keep
her engagement, but she was afraid. She was afraid of him. Something
that he had done had betrayed him. She knew! His liberty--perhaps his
life--was in this girl's hands!

He crept out of the shrubbery and staggered down the drive, making his
way homeward across the hills as swiftly as his uncertain footsteps
would take him. It was dusk now, and he met no one. Yet his heart beat
at every sound--the clanking of a chain, attached to the fetlock of a
wandering horse, the still, mournful cry of an owl which floated out
from the plantation, the clatter of the small stones which his own
feet dislodged as he feverishly climbed the rocks. Above him, on the
other side of the road, towered the hill where he had sat and dreamed
as a boy, where Rochester had come and encouraged him to prate of his
ambitions.

He looked away from its dark outline with a little groan. Up on the
hillside flashed the lights of Blackbird's Nest. He stretched out his
hands and groped onwards.




CHAPTER XXII

SATON REASSERTS HIMSELF


Rochester asked only one question during those few days when he lay
between life and death. He opened his eyes suddenly, and motioned to
the doctor to stoop down.

"Who shot me?" he asked.

"It was an accident," the doctor assured him, soothingly.

Rochester said no more, but his lips seemed to curl for a moment into
the old disbelieving smile. Then the struggle began. In a week it was
over. A magnificent constitution, and an unshattered nerve, triumphed.
The doctors one by one took their departure. Their task was over.
Rochester would recover.

_"Who shot me?"_

The doctor had seen no reason to keep silence, and this question of
Rochester's had created something like a sensation as it travelled
backwards and forwards. Rochester had been shot in the left side, in
the middle of a field, where no accident of his own causing seemed
possible. One barrel only of his gun had been fired, and to account
for that a cock pheasant lay dead within a few feet of him. The
shooting-party were all old and experienced sportsmen. The gun which
Rochester had left leaning against the gate was discovered exactly as
he had left it there, loaded in both barrels. There was not the ghost
of a clue.

Only Lois kept to her room for three days, until she could bear it no
longer. Then she walked out a little way toward the woods, and met
Saton. He recognised her with a shock. He himself, especially now it
was known that Rochester would live, had rapidly recovered from the
fit of horrors which had seized him on that night. It was not so with
Lois. Her cheeks were ghastly pale, and her eyes beringed. She walked
like one recovering from a long illness, and when she saw Saton she
screamed.

He held out his hand, and noticed with swift comprehension her first
instinctive withdrawal.

"Bertrand!" she cried. "Oh, Bertrand!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, hoarsely.

"You know what I mean," she answered. "I don't want to touch you, but
I must or I shall fall. Let me take your arm. We will go and sit
down."

They sat side by side on the trunk of a fallen tree. A small stream
rippled by at their feet. The meadow which it divided was dotted
everywhere with little clumps of large yellow buttercups. She sat at a
little distance from him, and she kept her eyes averted.

"Bertrand," she murmured, "what does it mean? Tell me what I saw that
afternoon. You took up the gun. Was it an accident? But no," she
added, "it is absurd to ask that!"

"You saw me?" he exclaimed quickly. "You believe that you saw me touch
that gun?"

She nodded.

"I hated to go and leave you there," she said. "I waited about behind
those thick blackthorn trees, hoping that you might come my way. I saw
you creep up to the gun. I saw you raise it to your shoulder. Even
then I had no idea what you were going to do. Afterwards I saw the
smoke and the flash. I heard the report, and Mr. Rochester's cry as he
fell. I saw you slip a fresh cartridge into the gun, and go stealing
away. Bertrand, I have not slept since. Tell me, was it a nightmare?"

"It was no nightmare," he answered. "I shot him, and I wish that he
had died!"

She looked at him with horror.

"Bertrand," she faltered, "you can't mean it!"

"Little Lois," he answered, "I do. You do not understand what hatred
is. You do not understand all that it may mean--all that it may cause.
He is my enemy, that man, and I am his. It is a duel between us, a
duel to the death. The first blow has been mine, and I have failed.
You will see that it will not be long before he strikes back."

"But this is horrible!" she muttered.

"Horrible to you, of course!" he exclaimed. "Hatred is a thing of
which you can know nothing. And yet there it is. People might think
that he was my benefactor. He gave me money to go out and find
my level in the world, gave it to me with the bitter, cynical
advice--advice that was almost a stipulation--that if I failed, I
ceased to live. I did fail in every honest thing I touched," he
continued, bitterly. "Then I tried a bold experiment. It was the last
thing offered, the last wonderful chance. I took it, and I won. Then I
returned. I paid him back the money which he had lent me--I did my
best to seem grateful. It was of no use. He mistrusted me from the
first. In his own house I was the butt for his scornful speeches. I
was even bidden to leave. I ventured to speak to the woman with whom
he is slavishly in love, and he came to me like a fury. If I had been
a hairdresser posing as a duke, he could not have been more violent.
He wanted me to promise never to speak to her again--her or you. I
refused. Then he declared war, and, Lois, there are weak joints in my
armor. You see, I admit it to you--never to him. When he finds his way
there, he will thrust. That is why I struck first."

She shook her head sadly.

"Ah, but I do not understand!" she said. "He is very stern and very
quiet, but he is a just man. I have never known him to find fault
where there was none."

"There are faults enough in my life," Saton answered. "I have never
denied it. But I have had to fight with my back to the wall. I shall
win. I am not afraid of a thousand Mr. Rochesters. I am gathering to
my hands--no, I will not talk to you about that! Lois, I am more
anxious about you than Mr. Rochester. I am afraid that you will hate
me for always now."

"No!" she said. "I cannot do that, I cannot hate you. But I do not
wish to see you any more. As long as I live, I shall see you kneeling
there, with your finger upon the trigger of that gun. I shall see the
flash, I shall see him throw up his hands and fall. It was hideous!"

Saton passed his hand across his forehead. Her words had touched his
keen imagination. The horror of the scene was upon him, too, once
more.

"Don't!" he begged--"don't! Lois!"

"Well?" she asked.

"You will not speak of this to anyone?"

"No!" she answered, sadly, leaning a little forward, with her head
resting upon her clasped hands. "I don't suppose that I shall. If he
had died, it would have been different. Now that he is going to get
well, I suppose I shall try to forget."

"To forget," he murmured, trying to take her hand.

She drew it away with a shiver.

"No!" she said. "That is finished. I had to see you. I had to talk to
you. Go away, please. I cannot bear to see you any more. It is too
terrible--too terrible!"

A born cajoler of women, he forced into play all his powers. He
whispered a flood of words in her ear. His own voice shook, his eyes
were soft. He pleaded as one beside himself. Lois--Lois whom he had
found so sensitive, so easily moved, so gently affectionate--remained
like a stone. At the end of all his pleadings she simply looked away.

"Do you mind," she asked, "leaving me? Please! Please!"

He got up and went. Defeat was apparent enough, although it was
unexpected. Lois stole back to the house--stole back to her room and
locked the door.

Saton walked home across the hills, with white face and set eyes. He
looked neither to the right nor to the left, and when he arrived at
Blackbird's Nest, he walked straight into the long, old-fashioned room
on the ground floor, which he called his library, and where Rachael
generally sat.

She was there, crouching over the fire, when he entered, and looked
around with frowning face.

"Bertrand," she said, "I hate this country life. Even the sunshine
mocks. There is no warmth in it, and the winds are cold. I must have
warmth. I shall stay here no longer."

He threw a log on to the fire, and turned around.

"Listen," he said. "The girl Lois Champneyes--I have lost my hold of
her. She knows something about the accident to Rochester."

"Bungler!" the woman muttered. "Go on. Tell me how you lost your
power."

"I cannot tell," he answered. "I was in an unsettled mood. I think
that I was a little afraid. She spoke of that afternoon. It all came
back to me. I am sure that I was afraid," he added, passing his hand
across his forehead.

She leaned toward him and her eyes glittered, hard and bright, from
their parchment-like setting.

"Bertrand," she said, "you talk like a coward. What are you going to
do?"

"To bring her here," he answered hoarsely. "She has gone back to
Beauleys. She is passing up through the plantation, on her way to the
house, perhaps, at this very moment. She wore white, and she carried
her hat in her hand. There were rims under her eyes. She walks
slowly. She is afraid--a little hysterical. You see her?"

He pointed out of the window. The woman nodded.

"Sit down," she muttered. "We shall see."

He sank into a low chair, with his face turned toward the window. No
further words passed between them. They sat there till the sun sank
behind the hills, and the dusk began to cast shadows over the land.

A servant came and said something about dinner. Rachael waved her
away.

"In an hour, or an hour and a half," she said.

The shadows grew deeper. Rachael's face seemed unchanged, but
Saton had grown so pale that his fixed eyes seemed to have become
unnaturally large. Sometimes his lips moved, though the sounds which
he uttered never resolved themselves into speech. At last Rachael rose
to her feet. She pointed out of the window. Saton gave a little gasp.

"She is there?" he asked, breathlessly.

"She comes," Rachael answered. "See that you do not lose your power
again. I am exhausted. I am going to rest."

She passed out of the room. Saton went and stood before the low
window. Slowly, and with hesitating footsteps, Lois came up the path,
lifted the latch of the little gate, and stood in the garden, close to
a tall group of hollyhocks.

Saton went out to her.

"You have come to tell me that you are sorry?" he said.

"Yes!" she answered.

"You did not mean what you said?"

"No!"

"Come in," he whispered.

He laid his fingers upon her hand, and she followed him into the room.
She was very pale, and she was breathing as though she had been
running. He passed his arm around her waist.

"You are not angry with me any longer?" he whispered in her ear. "You
will kiss me?"

"If you wish," she answered.

He looked into her eyes for a moment. Then he took her into his arms.

"Dear Lois," he whispered, "you must never be so unkind to me again."




CHAPTER XXIII

AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER


Rochester and Pauline were driving through the country lanes in a
small, old-fashioned pony carriage. Westward, the clouds were still
stained by a brilliant sunset. The air was clear and brisk, chill with
the invigorating freshness of the autumn evening. Already the
stillness had come, the stillness which is the herald of night. The
laborers had deserted the fields, the wind had dropped, a pleasant
smell of burning weeds from a bonfire by the side of the road crept
into the air. The silence was broken for a moment by the cry of a
lonely bird, drifting homewards on wings that seemed almost
motionless.

Rochester was quite convalescent now, and with the aid of a stick
was able to walk almost as far as he chose. Pauline had remained at
Beauleys, and her presence had divested those last few weeks of all
their irksomeness. He stole a glance at her as she leaned back in
the carriage. She was a little pale, perhaps, and her eyes were
thoughtful, but the lines of her mouth were soft. There was no shadow
of unhappiness in her face, none of that look which in London had
driven him almost to madness.

His fingers closed upon hers. They were walking uphill, and the pony
took little guiding.

"You are sure, Pauline," he asked, "that you are not bored yet with
the country?"

"I am quite sure," she answered.

Something in her tone puzzled him. He looked at her again, long and
fixedly. Her eyes met his, they answered his unspoken question.

"I suppose," she said, "that I should look happier. I have been
content. I am content still. I suppose it is all one ought to expect
from life."

"There are other things," he answered, "but not for us, Pauline--not
yet."

"Life is a very perplexing matter," she declared.

He shook his head.

"There is no perplexity about it," he declared. "Its riddle is easily
enough solved. The trouble is that the fetters which bind us are
sometimes beyond our power to break."

"If we were free," she murmured, "you and I know very well whither we
should turn. And yet, Henry, are you sure, are you quite, quite sure
that there is nothing in life greater even than love?"

"If there is," he answered, "we will go in search of it, hand in hand,
you and I together."

"Yes," she echoed simply, "we will go in search of it. But first of
all we must find someone to light our torch."

He shook the reins a little impatiently, but they were not yet at the
top of the hill, and the pony crawled on, undisturbed.

"Dear Pauline," he said, "sometimes lately I fancied that you have
seemed a little morbid. I have lived longer than you. I have lived
long enough to be sure of one thing."

"And that is?" she asked.

"That all real happiness," he said, "even the everyday forms of
content, is to be found amongst the simple truths of life. Love is the
greatest of them. Look at me, Pauline. Don't you think that even
though we live our lives apart, don't you think that to me the world
is a different place when you are near?"

She looked into his face a little wistfully. Then she let her hand
rest on his.

"You are so steadfast," she said--"so strong, and so certain of
yourself. Forgive me if I seem a little restless. One loses one's
balance sometimes, thinking and thinking and wondering."

They were at the top of the hill, and the pony paused. Rochester
stepped out.

"Come," he said, "I will take you for a little walk. We will leave
Peter here."

He unlocked a gate with a key which he took from his pocket, and hand
in hand they ascended a steep path which led between a grove of pine
trees. Out once more into the open, they crossed a patch of green turf
and came to another gate, set in a stone wall. This also Rochester
opened. A few more yards, and they climbed up to the masses of tumbled
rock which lay about on the summit of the hill.

"Turn round," he said. "You have seen this view many a time in the
daylight. You can see it now fading away into nothingness."

They stood hand in hand, looking downwards. Mists rose from along the
side of the river, and stood about in the valleys. The lights began to
twinkle here and there. Afar off, like some nursery toy, they saw a
train, with its line of white smoke, go stealing across the shadowy
landscape.

Rochester's face darkened with a sudden reminiscence.

"It was here," he said, "that I first saw your friend the charlatan."

"My friend?" she murmured.

"More yours than mine, at any rate," he answered. "He sat with his
back against that rock, and if ever hunger was written into a boy's
face, it was there in his pale cheeks, burning in his eyes."

"He was very poor, then?" she asked.

"He was very poor," Rochester answered, "but it was not hunger for
food, it was hunger for life that one saw there. He had been down at
the Convalescent Home, recovering from some illness, and the next day
he was going back to his work--work which he hated, which made him
part of a machine. You know how many millions there are who live and
die like that--who must always live and die like that. They are part
of the great system of the world, and nine-tenths of them are
content."

"You set him free," she murmured.

"I did," Rochester answered. "It was a mistake."

"You cannot tell," she said. "I know that you mistrust him. You are
very, very English, dear Henry, and you have so little sympathy with
those things which you do not understand--which do come, perhaps, a
little near what you call charlatanism. Still, though you may deny it
as much as you like, there are many, many things in the world--things,
even, in connection with our daily lives, which are absolutely,
wonderfully mysterious. There are new things to be learned, Henry.
Bertrand Saton may be a self-deceiver. He may even deserve all the
hard things you can say of him, but there are cleverer people than you
and I who do not think so."

"Dear," Rochester answered, "I did not bring you here to talk of
Bertrand Saton. To tell you the truth," he added, "I even hate to hear
his name upon your lips."

There was no time for her to answer. From the shadow of the rock
against which they leaned, he rose with a subtle alertness which
seemed somehow a little uncanny--as though, indeed, he had risen from
under the ground upon which they stood.

"I heard my name," he said. "Forgive me if I am interrupting you. I
had no wish to play the eavesdropper."

Pauline took a quick step backwards. Even in that tense moment of
surprise, Rochester found himself able to notice the color fading from
her cheeks. He turned upon the newcomer, and there was something like
fury in his tone.

"What the devil are you doing here, Saton?" he asked.

Saton's tone was almost apologetic.

"I did not know," he said, "that I was forbidden to walk upon your
lands. I am often here, and this is my favorite hour."

Rochester laughed, a little harshly.

"You like to come back," he said. "You like to sit here, perhaps, and
think. Well, I do not envy you. You sat here and thought, years ago.
You built a house of dreams here, unless you lied. You come here now,
perhaps, to compare it with the house of gewgaws which you have built,
and in which you dwell."

Saton did not for a moment shrink. In his heart he felt that it was
one of his inspired moments. There was confidence alike in his bearing
and in his gentle reply.

"Why not?" he asked. "Why should you take it for granted that there is
so much amiss in my life, that I have fallen so far away from those
dreams? It may not be so," he continued. "Remember that the man who
lives, and comes a little nearer toward knowledge, has nothing to be
ashamed of. It is the man who lives, and eats and drinks and sleeps,
and knows no more when his head presses the pillow at night than when
the sun woke him in the morning, it is that man who is ignoble. You
have spoken of the past," he added, turning face to face with
Rochester. "Once more I will remind you of your own words. _'The only
crime in life is failure. If the crash comes, and the pieces lie
around you, swim out to sea too far, and sink beneath the waves
forever!_' Wasn't that your advice? Not your exact words, perhaps, but
wasn't that what you told the boy who sat here and dreamed?"

Rochester shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Youth," he said, "may be forgiven much. Manhood must accept its own
responsibilities."

Saton smiled grimly.

"Always the same," he said. "All the time you play with the truth,
Rochester, as though it were a glass ball committed into your keeping,
and yours alone. Don't you know that the one inspired period of life
is youth--youth before it is sullied with experience, youth which
knows everything, fears nothing--youth which has the eyes of the
clairvoyant?"

Rochester frowned.

"Your tongue goes glibly to-night," he remarked. "Talk to the shadows,
my friend. Lady Marrabel and I are going."

"I did not bid you come," Saton answered. "This is my spot, and my
hour. It was you who intruded."

"The fact that this is my property----" Rochester began, gently.

"Is of no consequence," Saton answered. "You may buy the earth upon
which we stand, but you cannot buy the person whose feet shall press
it, or the thoughts that rise up from it, or the words that are
breathed from it, or the hopes and passions which go trembling from it
to the skies. Go away and jog homeward behind your fat pony, but----"

"Well, sir?" Rochester asked, turning suddenly.

Saton's eyes did not meet his. They were fixed upon Pauline's, and
Pauline was as white as death.

"Take her, too, if you will," Saton said slowly. "Take her, too, if
she will go."

"I am going this instant," Pauline cried, with a sudden nervous
passion in her tone. "Come, Henry, come away. I hate this place. Come
away quickly."

Rochester caught her hand. It was cold as a stone. She was pale, and
she commenced to tremble.

"Take her," Saton said, "if she will go. Take her, because you are
strong and she is weak. Lead her by the arm, guide her as you will,
only be sure that you leave nothing with me."

He sat down upon the rock, and with folded arms looked away from
them--even as though they had not existed--across to the world of
shadows and vague places. Rochester passed his arm through Pauline's,
and led her down the hill. Her hands were cold. She seemed to lift her
feet as though they had been of lead. She did not look at him. Always
she looked ahead. She moved slowly and heavily. When he spoke, her
lips answered him languidly. Rochester felt an intense and passionate
anger burning in his veins. The vague disquiet of an hour ago had
settled down into something definite. She was his no longer! Something
had come between them! Even though he might take her into his arms,
might hold her there, and dare anyone in the world to take her from
him, it was her body only, the shadow of herself. Something--some part
of her seemed to have flitted away. He asked himself with a sudden
cold horror, whether indeed it had remained by the side of that silent
figure, blotted out now from sight, who sat upon the rocks while the
darkness fell about him!




CHAPTER XXIV

LOIS IS OBEDIENT


Lois and her companion stopped on the summit of the hill to look at
the rolling background of woods, brilliant still with their autumn
coloring. The west wind had blown her hair into disorder, but it had
blown also the color back into her cheeks. Her eyes were bright, and
her laughter infectious. Her companion stooped down and passed his arm
through hers, looking into her face admiringly.

"Lois," he said, "this is the first day I have seen you like your old
self. I can't tell you how glad I am."

She smiled.

"I wasn't aware, Maurice," she said, "that I have been very different.
I have had headaches now and then, lately. Fancy having a headache an
afternoon like this!" she added, throwing back her head once more, and
breathing in the fresh, invigorating air.

"You ought to have seen a doctor," her companion declared. "I told
Lady Mary so the other day."

"Rubbish!" Lois exclaimed, lightly.

"Nothing of the sort," Captain Vandermere replied. "I was beginning to
worry about you. I almost fancied----"

"Well?"

"It almost seemed," he continued, a little awkwardly, "as though you
had something on your mind. You seemed so queer every now and then,
little girl," he added, "I do hope that if there was anything
bothering you, you'd tell me all about it. We're old pals, you know."

She laughed--not quite naturally.

"My dear Maurice," she said, "of course there has been nothing of that
sort the matter with me! What could I have on my mind?"

"No love affairs, eh?" he asked, stroking his fair moustache.

She shook her head thoughtfully.

"No!" she said. "No love affairs."

He tightened his grasp upon her arm. He had an idea that he was being
very diplomatic indeed. And Lady Mary had begged him to find out
whatever was the matter with poor dear Lois!

"Well," he said, "I am glad to hear it. To tell you the truth, I have
been very jealous lately."

"You jealous!" she exclaimed, mockingly.

"Fact, I assure you," he answered.

"Captain Maurice Vandermere jealous!" she repeated, looking up at him
with dancing eyes--"absolutely the most popular bachelor in London!
And jealous of me, too!"

"Is that so very wonderful, Lois?" he asked. "We have been pretty good
friends, you know."

She felt his hand upon her arm, and she looked away.

"Yes," she said, "we have been friends, only we haven't seen much of
one another the last month or so, have we?"

"It hasn't been my fault," he declared. "I really couldn't get leave
before, although I tried hard. I shouldn't have been here now, to tell
you the truth, Lois," he went on, "but Lady Mary's been frightening me
a bit."

"About me?" Lois asked.

"About you," he assented.

"What has she been saying?"

"Well, nothing definite," Captain Vandermere answered, "but of course
you know she's an awful good pal of mine, and she did write me a line
or two about you. It seems there's some young fellow been about down
here whom she isn't very stuck on, and she seemed to be afraid----"

"Well, go on," Lois said calmly.

"Well, that he was making the running with you a bit," Captain
Vandermere declared, feeling that he was getting into rather deeper
waters. "Of course, I don't know anything about him, and I don't want
to say anything against anybody who is a friend of yours, but from all
that I have heard he didn't seem to me to be the sort of man I fancied
for my little friend Lois to get--well, fond of."

"So you decided to come down yourself," Lois continued.

"I decided to come down and say something which I ought to have said
some time ago," Captain Vandermere continued, "only you see you are
really only a child, and you've got a lot more money than I have, and
you are not of age yet, so I thought I'd let it be for a bit. But you
know I'm fond of you, Lois."

"Are you?" she asked, artlessly.

"You must know that," he continued, bending over her. "I wonder----"

"Are you aware that we are standing on the top of a hill," Lois said,
"and that everybody for a good many miles round has a perfectly clear
view of us?"

"I don't care where we are," he declared. "I have got to go on now.
Lois, will you marry me?"

"Is this a proposal?" She laughed nervously.

"Sounds like it," he admitted.

She was silent for several moments. Into her eyes there had come
something of that look which had sent Lady Mary into her room to write
to Captain Vandermere, and bid him come without delay. The color had
gone. She seemed suddenly older--tired.

"Oh, I don't know!" she said. "I think I should like to, but I
can't!--no, I can't!"

They began to descend the hill. He kept his arm in hers.

"Why not?" he asked. "Don't you care for me?"

"I--I don't know," she answered. "I don't know whether I care for
anybody. Wait, please. Don't speak to me for several moments."

Their path skirted the side of a ploughed field, and then through a
little gate they passed into a long, straggling plantation. Directly
she was under the shelter of the trees, she burst into tears.

"Don't come near me," she begged. "Leave me alone for a moment. I
shall be better directly."

He disregarded her bidding to the extent of placing his arm around her
waist. He made no attempt, however, to draw her hands away from her
face, or stop her tears.

"Little girl," he said, "I knew that there was some trouble. It is
there in your dear, innocent little face for anyone to see who cares
enough about you to look. When you have dried those eyes, you must
tell me all about it. Remember that even if you won't have me for a
husband, we are old enough friends for you to look upon me as an elder
brother."

She dried her eyes, and looked up at him with a hopeless little smile.

"You are a dear," she said, "and I am very fond of you. I don't know
what's happened to me--at least I do know, but I can't tell anyone."

"Is it," he asked gravely, "that you care about this person?"

"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "I hope not. I don't know, I'm sure.
Sometimes I feel that I do, and sometimes, when I am sane, when I am
in my right mind, I know that I do not. Maurice," she begged, "help
me. Please help me."

His face cleared.

"I'll help you right enough, little girl," he answered. "Just listen
to me. I'm not going to see you throw yourself away upon an outsider.
Just remember that. On the other hand, I'm not going to bother you
to death. Here I am by your side, and here I mean to stay. If
that--no, I won't call him names!" he said, stopping short in his
sentence--"but if anyone tries to make you unhappy, well, I shall have
something to say. Come along, let's finish our walk. We'll talk about
something else if you like."

She drew a little sigh of relief.

"You are a dear, Maurice," she repeated. "Come along, we'll go down
the lane and over the hills home. I do feel safe, somehow, with you,"
she added, impulsively. "You are not going away just yet, are you?"

"Not for a fortnight, at any rate," he answered.

"And you won't leave me alone?" she begged--"not even if I ask to be
left alone? You see--I can't make you understand--but I don't even
trust myself."

He laughed reassuringly.

"I'll look after you, never fear," he answered. "I'll be better than a
watchdog. Tell me, what's your handicap at golf now? We must have a
game to-morrow."

They walked down the lane, talking--in a somewhat subdued manner,
perhaps, but easily enough--upon lighter subjects. And then at the
corner, just as they had passed the entrance to Blackbird's Nest, they
came face to face with Saton. Vandermere felt her suddenly creep
closer to him, as though for protection, and from his six feet odd of
height, he frowned angrily at the young man with his hat in his hand
preparing to accost them. Never was dislike more instinctive and
hearty. Vandermere, an ordinarily intelligent but unimaginative
Englishman, of the normally healthy type, a sportsman, a good fellow,
and a man of breeding--and Saton, this strange product of strange
circumstances, externally passable enough, but with something about
him which seemed, even in that clear November sunshine, to suggest the
footlights.

"You are quite a stranger, Miss Champneyes," Saton said, taking her
unresisting hand in his. "I hope that you are going in to see the
Comtesse. Only this morning she told me that she was finding it
appallingly lonely."

"I--I wasn't calling anywhere this afternoon," Lois said timidly.
"Captain Vandermere has come down to stay with us for a few days, and
I was showing him the country. This is Mr. Saton--Captain Vandermere.
I don't know whether you remember him."

The two men exchanged the briefest of greetings. Saton's was civil
enough. Vandermere's was morose, almost discourteous.

"Let me persuade you to change your mind," Saton said, speaking
slowly, and with his eyes fixed upon Lois. "The Comtesse would be so
disappointed if she knew that you had passed this way and had not
entered."

Vandermere was conscious that in some way the girl by his side was
changed. She drew a little away from him.

"Very well," she said, "I shall be pleased to go in and see her. You
do not mind, Maurice?"

"Not at all," he answered. "If I may be allowed, I will come with
you."

There was a moment's silence. Then Saton spoke--quietly, regretfully.

"I am so sorry," he said, "but the Comtesse de Vestinges--my adopted
mother," he explained, with a little bow--"receives no one. She is
old, and her health is not of the best. A visit from Miss Champneyes
always does her good."

Lois looked up at her companion.

"Perhaps," she said, "you will have a cigarette in the lane."

"I am sorry to seem inhospitable," Saton said smoothly. "If Captain
Vandermere will come up to the house, my study is at his service, and
I can give him some cigarettes which I think he would find passable."

"Thank you," Vandermere answered, a little gruffly, "I'll wait out
here. Remember, Lois," he added, turning towards her, "that we are
expected home to play bridge directly after tea."

"I will not be long," she answered.

She moved off with Saton, turning round with a little farewell nod to
Vandermere as they passed through the gate. He took a quick step
towards her. Was it his fancy, or was there indeed appeal in the quick
glance which she had thrown him? Then directly afterwards, while he
hesitated, he heard her laugh. Reluctantly he gave up the idea of
following them, and swinging himself onto a gate, sat watching the two
figures climbing the field toward the house.




CHAPTER XXV

A LAST WARNING


The laugh which checked Vandermere in his first intention of following
Lois and Saton up the field, was scarcely a mirthful effort. Saton had
bent toward his companion, and his tone had been almost threatening.

"You must not look at anyone like that while I am with you," he said.
"You must not look as though you were frightened of me. You must seem
amused. You must laugh."

She obeyed. It was a poor effort, but it sounded natural enough in the
distance.

"Come," Saton continued, "you are not very kind to me, Lois. You are
not very kind to the man whom you are going to marry, whom you have
said that you love. It has been very lonely these last few days, Lois.
You have not come to me. I have watched for you often."

"I could not come," she answered. "Lady Mary has been with me all the
time. I think that she suspects."

"Surely you are clever enough," he answered, "to outwit a little
simpleton like that. Has Rochester been interfering?"

"If he knew that I even spoke to you," she answered, "I think that he
would send me away."

"It is not kind of them," he said, "to be so bitter against me."

She shrank from him.

"If they knew!" she said. "If they only knew that I even thought of
marrying you, or--or--"

Saton shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, well," he said, "they know as much as it is well for them to
know! After all, you see, no harm has happened to your guardian. I saw
him to-day, on his way home from hunting. He looked strong and well
enough. Tell me, Lois," he continued, "has he had any visitors from
London the last few days? I don't mean guests--I mean people to see
him on business?"

"Not that I know of," she answered. "Why?"

Saton's face darkened.

"It is he, I am sure," he said, "who is interfering in my concerns.
Never mind, Lois, we will not talk about that, dear. Give me your
hand. We are engaged, you know. You should be glad to have these few
minutes with me."

Her fingers which he clasped were like ice. He was puzzled at her
attitude.

"A month ago," he said softly, "you did not find it such a hardship to
spend a little time alone with me."

"A month ago," she answered, "I had not seen you on your knees with a
gun, seen your white face, heard the report, and seen Mr. Rochester
fall. I had not seen you steal away through the bracken. Oh, it was
terrible! You looked like a murderer! I shall never, never forget it."

He laughed softly.

"These things are fancies," he said--"dreams. You will forget them, my
dear Lois. You will forget them very soon."

They entered the house, and in the hall he drew her into his arms. She
wrenched herself free, and crouched back in the corner, with her hands
stretched out in front of her face.

"Don't!" she cried. "Don't! If you kiss me, I shall go mad. Can't you
see that I don't want to come with you, that I don't want to be with
you? You shall let me go! You must let me go!"

He stood frowning a few feet away. To tell the truth, he was honestly
puzzled at her attitude. At last, with a little shrug of the
shoulders, he threw open the door of the sitting-room.

"Rachael," he said, "Lois has come to see you for a few minutes."

Lois went timidly into the room. Rachael, with a shawl around her
shoulders, was sitting in front of a huge fire. She turned her head
and held out her long withered hand, as usual covered with rings.

"Sit opposite me, child. Let me look at you."

Lois sat down, gazing with fascinated eyes at the woman whose presence
she found almost as terrifying as the presence of Saton himself.

"My son--I call Bertrand my son," she said, "because I have adopted
him, and because everything I have, even my name if he will have
it--will be his--my son, then, tells me that he has not seen you for
several days."

"It is very difficult," Lois said, trembling.

"Why?" Rachael asked.

"My guardian, Mr. Rochester, does not allow Bertrand to come to the
house," Lois said, hesitatingly, "and Lady Mary tries not to let me
come out alone."

Rachael nodded her head slowly, her eyes glittered in the firelight.
Wrapped in her black shawl, she looked like some quaint
effigy--something scarcely human.

"Your guardian and his wife," she said, "are foolish, ignorant people.
They do not understand such men as Bertrand. You will understand him,
child. You will know him better when he is your husband, know him
better, and be proud of him. Is it not so?"

"I--I suppose so," Lois said.

"I am glad that you came this afternoon," Rachael continued. "Bertrand
and I have been talking. We think it well that you should be married
very soon."

"I am not of age," Lois said, breathlessly.

"It does not matter," Rachael declared. "Your guardian can keep back
your money, but that is of no consequence. It will come to you in
time, and Bertrand has plenty himself. I am afraid that they might try
and tempt you to be faithless to my son. You are very young and
impressionable, and though I do not doubt but that you are fond of
him, it is not easy to be faithful when you are alone, and with such
people as Mr. Rochester and Lady Mary. I am going to London in a few
days. I think it would be well if you went with me. Bertrand could get
a special license, and you could be married at once."

"No!" she shrieked. "No! No!"

Rachael said nothing. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Only her eyes
flashed unutterable things.

Upon the somewhat hysterical silence came the sound of Saton's
voice--cold, decisive.

"Lois," he said, "what my mother has advised would make me very happy.
Will you remember that I wish it? Will you remember that?"

"Yes!" she faltered.

"I shall make you a good husband," he added, coming a little nearer to
her, sinking on one knee by her side, and taking her cold, unresisting
hands into his. "I shall make you a good husband, and I think that you
will be happy. We cannot go on like this. I only see you now by
stealth. It must come to an end."

"Yes!" she faltered.

"Next time we meet," he continued, "I will tell you what plans we have
made."

She turned her head slowly, and looked at him with frightened,
wide-open eyes.

"Why?" she asked. "Why do you want me to marry you? You do not care
for me. You do not care for me at all. Is it because I am rich? But
you--you are rich yourselves. I would offer you my money, but you
cannot want that."

He smiled enigmatically.

"No!" he said. "Money is a good thing, but we have money ourselves.
Don't you believe, Lois," he added, bending towards her, "that I am
fond of you?"

"Oh! yes," she answered, "if you say so!"

"Of course I say so!" he declared. "I am very fond of you indeed, or I
should not want to marry you. Come, I think that you had better say
good-bye to my mother now. Your friend outside will be tired of
waiting."

She rose to her feet, and he led her from the room. They walked down
the field side by side, and Lois felt her knees trembling. She was
white as a sheet, and once she was obliged to clutch his arm for
support. As they neared the gate, they saw that Vandermere was talking
to someone on horseback. Saton's face darkened as he recognised the
tall figure. His first impulse was to stop, but with Lois by his side
he saw at once that it was impossible. With the courage that waits
upon the inevitable, he opened the gate and passed out into the lane.

"Good afternoon, Miss Champneyes!" he said, holding out his hand. "It
was very good of you to come in and visit the Comtesse. She is always
so glad indeed to see you."

The girl's fingers lay for a moment icy cold within his. Then she
turned with a little breath of relief to Vandermere. They walked off
together.

Rochester signalled with his whip to Saton to wait for a moment. As
soon as the other two were out of earshot, he leaned down from his
saddle.

"My young friend," he said, "it seems to me that you are wilfully
disregarding my warning."

"I was not aware," Saton answered, "that Miss Champneyes was a
prisoner in your house, nor do I see how I am to be held responsible
for her call upon the Comtesse."

"We will not bandy words," Rochester said. "I have no wish to quarrel
with you, but I want you always to remember the things which I have
said. Lois Champneyes is very nearly of age, it is true, but she
remains a child by disposition and temperament. As her guardian, I
want you to understand that I forbid you to continue your friendship
or even your acquaintance with her!"

The quiet contempt of Rochester's words stung Saton into a moment of
fury.

"What sort of a creature am I, then," he exclaimed, "that you should
think me unworthy even to speak to your ward, or to the women of your
household? You treat me as though I were a criminal, or worse!"

Rochester tapped his riding boot with the end of his whip. Saton
watched him with fascinated eyes. There seemed something a little
ominous in the action, in the sight of that gently moving whip, held
so firmly in the long, sinewy fingers.

"What you are," Rochester said, leaning a little down from his horse,
"you know and I know. Let that be enough. Only remember that there
comes a time when threats cease, and actions commence. And as sure as
you and I are met here together this evening, Saton, I tell you that
if you offend again in this matter, I shall punish you. You
understand?"

Rochester swung his horse round and cantered down the lane. Saton
stood looking after him with white, angry face and clenched hands.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE DUCHESS'S DINNER PARTY


The Duchess welcomed the little party from Beauleys in person, and
with more than ordinary warmth.

"I am glad to see you all, of course," she said, "but I am really
delighted to see you about again, Henry. Do tell me, now. I have heard
so many contradictory reports. Did you shoot yourself, or was it one
of your guests who did it? I don't know how it is, but poor Ronald
always says that the men one asks to shoot, nowadays, hit everything
except the birds."

"My dear Duchess," Rochester answered, "I certainly did not shoot
myself. I have every confidence in my guests, and so far as we have
been able to ascertain, there wasn't another soul in the neighborhood.
Shall we say that I was shot by the act of God? There really doesn't
seem to be any other explanation."

The Duchess was not altogether satisfied.

"To-night I am going to offer you a great privilege," she said. "I am
going to give you a chance of finding out the answer to your riddle."

Rochester looked perplexed, and Lady Mary blandly curious. Pauline
alone seemed as though by instinct to realize what lay beneath their
hostess's words. Her face seemed suddenly to grow tense. She shrank
back--a slight, involuntary movement, but significant enough under the
circumstances.

"An answer to my riddle," Rochester remarked, smiling. "Really, I did
not know that I had propounded one."

"Only a moment ago," the Duchess reminded him, "you spoke of being
shot by the act of God. That, of course, was a form of speech. You
meant that you did not know who did it. Perhaps we shall be able to
solve that little mystery for you."

Rochester looked at his hostess as though for a moment he doubted her
sanity. Tall and slim in his immaculate clothes, standing before the
great wood fire which burned in the open grate, he leaned a little
forward upon his stick, with knitted brows. Then his eyes caught
Pauline's, and something which he was about to say seemed to die away
upon his lips.

"Of course, you are unbelievers, all of you," the Duchess said,
calmly, "but some day--perhaps even to-night--you may become converts.
Did I tell you, Mary," she continued, turning away from Rochester,
"that I met that extraordinary man Naudheim in London? He told me so
many interesting things, and since then I have been reading. He
introduced me to--to one of his most brilliant pupils--a young man, he
assured me, whose insight was more highly developed, even, than his
own. Of course, you understand that in these matters, insight and
perception take the place almost of brains."

"My dear Duchess," Rochester interrupted, "what are you talking
about?"

"The new science," the Duchess answered, with a note of triumph in her
tone. "You will learn all about it some day, and you cannot begin too
soon. The young man whom Professor Naudheim spoke so highly of is
dining here to-night. Curiously enough, I found that he was almost a
neighbor of both of ours."

There was an instant's silence. Pauline, who was prepared, was now
perhaps the calmest of the trio. Rochester's face was dark with anger.

"You refer, Duchess, I suppose," he said--

The Duchess left him unceremoniously. She took a step or two forward
with outstretched hands. The butler was announcing--

"Mr. Saton!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The dinner was as successful as the Duchess's country dinners always
were. She herself, a hostess of renown, led the conversation at her
end of the table. Like all women with a new craze, she conscientiously
did her best to keep it in the background, and completely failed.
Before the third course had been removed, she was discussing occultism
with the bishop of the diocese. Rochester, from her other side,
listened with a thin smile. She turned upon him suddenly.

"Oh, I know that you're an unbeliever!" she said. "You're one of those
people who go through life doubting everything. You shan't have him
for an ally, Bishop," she said, "because your points of view are
entirely different. Henry here doubts everything, from his own
existence to the vintage of my champagne. You, on the other hand," she
added, turning toward her other companion, "are forced to disbelieve,
because you feel that any new power or gift that may be granted to us,
and which we discover for ourselves, is opposed, of course, to your
creed."

"It depends," the bishop remarked, "upon the nature of that power."

"Even in its elementary stages," the Duchess said, "there is no doubt
that it is a power which can do a great deal for us towards solving
the mysteries of existence. Personally, I consider it absolutely and
entirely inimical to any form of religious belief."

"Why?" Rochester asked quietly.

"Because," the Duchess answered, "all the faith that has been lavished
upon religion since the making of the world, has been a misapplied
force. If it had been applied toward developing this new part of
ourselves, there is no doubt that so many thousands of years could
never have passed without our entering the last and greatest chamber
in the treasure-house of knowledge."

The bishop, being a privileged guest, and a cousin of his hostess,
deliberately turned his back upon her and escaped from the
conversation. The Duchess looked past him towards Saton, who was
sitting a few places down the table.

"There!" she exclaimed. "I have been braver than even you could have
been."

Saton smiled.

"That sort of courage," he remarked, "is the prerogative of your sex."

"You have heard what I said," she continued. "Don't you agree with
me?"

"Of course," he answered.

He hesitated for a moment, but the Duchess was looking at him. She
evidently expected him to continue the subject.

"We are told," he said slowly, "that there is no such thing as waste
in the physical world--that matter simply changes its form. I suppose
that is true enough. And yet a change of form can be for the better or
for the worse, according to our caprices. Strictly speaking, it is a
waste when matter is changed for the worse. It is very much like this,
I think, with regard to the subject which you were just then
discussing. Faith, from our point of view, is a very real and
psychical force. The faith which has been spent upon religion through
all these ages, seems to us very much like the tragedy of an
unharnessed Niagara."

The Duchess looked around her triumphantly. She was chilled a little,
however, by Rochester's curling lip.

"Dear hostess," he whispered in her ear, "this sort of conversation is
scarcely respectful to the bishop, even though he be a relative. You
can let your young protégé expound his marvelous views after dinner."

The Duchess shrugged her ample shoulders.

"I wonder how it is," she declared, a little peevishly, "that directly
one sets foot in the country, one seems to come face to face with the
true Briton. What hypocrites we all are! We are broad enough to
discuss any subject under the sun, in town, but we seem to shrink into
something between the Philistine and the agricultural pedagogue, as
soon as we sniff the air of the ploughed fields."

She rose a little pettishly, and motioned to Rochester to take her
place.

"Five minutes only," she said. "You will find us all over the place.
The cigarettes and cigars are in the hall. You can finish your wine
here, and come out."

"Is there anything particular," Rochester asked grimly, "that we are
permitted to talk about?"

"With this crowd," she whispered, "if I forbid politics and
agriculture, I don't think you'll last the five minutes."




CHAPTER XXVII

THE ANSWER TO A RIDDLE


A few of the Duchess's guests left early--those who had to drive a
long distance, and who had not yet discarded their carriage horses for
motor-cars. Afterwards the party seemed to draw into a little circle,
and it was then that the Duchess, rising to her feet, went over and
talked earnestly for a few minutes with Saton.

"Some slight thing!" she begged. "Anything to set these people
wondering! Look at that old stick Henry Rochester, for instance. He
believes nothing--doesn't want to believe anything. Give him a shock,
do!"

"Can't you understand, Duchess," Saton said, "how much harm we do to
ourselves by any exhibition of the sort you suggest? People are at
once inclined to look upon the whole thing as a clever trick, and go
about asking one another how it is done."

The Duchess was disappointed, and inclined to be pettish. Saton
realized it, and after a moment's hesitation prepared to temporize.

"If it would amuse you," he said, "and I can find anyone here to help
me, I daresay we could manage some thought transference. All London
seems to be going to see those two people at the Alhambra--or is it
the Empire? You can see the same thing here, if you like."

The Duchess beamed.

"That would be delightful," she said. "Whom would you like to help
you?"

"Leave me alone for a minute or two," Saton said. "I will look around
and choose somebody."

The Duchess stepped back into the circle of her guests.

"Mr. Saton is going to entertain us in a very wonderful manner," she
announced.

Rochester, who had been on his way to the billiard room, came back.

"Let us stay and see the tricks," he remarked to the bishop, who had
been his companion.

The Duchess frowned. Saton shot a sudden glance at Rochester. A dull,
angry color burned in his cheeks.

"Stay, by all means, Mr. Rochester," he said. "We may possibly be able
to interest you."

There was almost a challenge in his words. Rochester, ignoring them
save for his slightly uplifted eyebrows, sat down by the side of
Pauline.

"The fellow's cheek is consummate!" he muttered.

"I need," Saton remarked quietly, "what I suppose Mr. Rochester would
call a confederate. I can only see one whom I think would be
temperamently suitable. Will you help me?" he asked, turning suddenly
toward Pauline.

"No!" Rochester answered sternly. "Lady Marrabel will have nothing to
do with your performance."

Rochester bit his lip the moment he had spoken. He felt that he had
made a mistake. One or two of the guests looked at him curiously. The
Duchess was literally open-mouthed. Saton was smiling in a peculiar
manner.

"In that case," he remarked quietly, "if Mr. Rochester has spoken with
authority, I fear that I can do nothing."

The Duchess was very nearly angry.

"Don't be such an idiot, Henry!" she said. "Of course Pauline will
help. What is it you want her to do, Mr. Saton?"

"Nothing at all," he answered, "except to sit in a corner of the room,
as far from me as possible, and answer the questions which I shall ask
her, if she be able. You will do that?" turning suddenly towards her.

"Of course she will!" the Duchess declared. "Be quiet, Henry. You are
a stupid, prejudiced person, and I won't have you interfere."

Pauline rose to her feet.

"I am afraid," she said, "that I can scarcely be of much use, but of
course I don't mind trying."

Saton was standing a little away, with his elbow leaning upon the
mantelpiece.

"If two of you," he said, helping himself to a cigarette, and
deliberately lighting it, "will take Lady Marrabel over--say to that
oak chair underneath the banisters--blindfold her, and then leave her.
Really I ought to apologize for what I am going to do. Everything is
so very obvious. Still, if it amuses you!"

Pauline sat by herself. The others were all gathered together in the
far corner of the great hall. Saton turned to the bishop.

"This is only a repetition of the sort of thing which you have
doubtless seen," he said. "Have you anything in your pocket which you
are quite sure that Lady Marrabel knows nothing of?"

Silently the bishop produced a small and worn Greek Testament. Saton
opened it at random. Then he turned suddenly toward the figure of the
woman sitting alone in the distance. Some change had taken place in
his manner and in his bearing. Those who watched him closely were at
once aware of it. His teeth seemed to have come together, the lines of
his face to have become tense. He leaned a little forward toward
Pauline.

"I have something in my hands," he said. "I wonder if you can tell me
what it is."

There was no answer. They listened and watched. Pauline never spoke.
Already a smile was parting Rochester's lips.

"I think, Lady Marrabel," Saton said slowly, "that you can tell me, if
you will. I think that you will tell me. I think that you must!"

Something that sounded almost like a half-stifled sob came to them
from across the hall--and then Pauline's voice.

"It is a small book," she said--"a Testament."

"Go on," Saton said.

"A Greek Testament!" Pauline continued. "It is open at--at the sixth
chapter of St. Mark."

Saton passed it round. The Duchess beamed with delight upon everybody.
Saton seemed only modestly surprised at the interest which everyone
displayed.

"We are only doing something now," he said, "which has already been
done, and proved easy. The only trouble is, of course, that Lady
Marrabel being a stranger to me, the effort is a little greater. If
you will be content with one more test of this sort, I will try, if
you like, something different--something, at any rate, which has not
been done in a music-hall."

A gold purse was passed to him, with a small monogram inscribed. Again
Pauline slowly, and even as though against her will, described
correctly the purse and its contents.

Saton brushed away the little murmurs of surprise and delight.

"Come," he said, "this is all nothing. It really--as you will all of
you know in a few years time--can be done by any one of you who
chooses seriously to develop the neglected part of his or her
personality. I should like to try something else which would be more
interesting to you."

The Duchess turned towards him with clasped hands.

"Can't you," she said, "make her say how Mr. Rochester met with his
accident?"

There was a little thrill amongst everyone. Saton stood as though
absorbed in thought.

"Why not?" he said softly to himself.

Rochester laughed hardly.

"Come," he said, "we are getting practical at last. Let one thing be
understood, though. If our young friend here is really able to solve
this little mystery, he will not object to my making use of his
discovery."

"By no means," Saton answered. "But I warn you that if the person is
one unknown to Lady Marrabel or myself, I cannot tell you who it was.
All that I can do is perhaps to show you something of how the thing
was done."

"It will be most interesting!" Rochester declared.

There was a subdued murmur of thrilled voices. One or two looked at
each other uneasily. Even the Duchess began to feel a little
uncomfortable. Saton was suddenly facing Pauline. He was standing a
little nearer, with the fingers of his right hand resting upon the
round oak table which stood in the centre of the hall. His figure had
become absolutely rigid, and the color had left his cheeks. His voice
seemed to them to come from some other person.

"Listen," he said, bending even a little further toward the woman, who
was leaning forward now from her chair, as though eager or compelled
to hear what was being said to her. "A month--six weeks--some time
ago, you were with Henry Rochester, a few minutes after his accident.
He was shot--or he shot himself. He was shot by design or by
misadventure. You were the first to find him. You came round the
corner of the wood, and you saw him there, lying upon the grass. You
heard a shot just before--two shots. You came round the corner of the
wood, and you saw nothing except the body of Henry Rochester lying
upon the ground."

"Nothing!" she murmured. "Nothing!"

There was an intense silence. The little group of people were all
leaning forward with eyes riveted upon Pauline Marrabel. Even
Rochester's expression had become a little tense.

"Think again," Saton said. "There was only a corner of the wood
between you and that field when the shot was fired. You are walking
there now, now, as the shots are fired. Bend forward. You can see
through those trees if you try. I think that you do see through them."

Again he paused. Again there were a few seconds' silence--silence save
for the quick breathing of the Duchess, who was crumpling her lace
handkerchief into a little ball in her hands.

Then Pauline's voice came to them.

"There is a gun laid against a gate which leads into the field," she
said--"a gun, and by its side a bag of cartridges. Someone has been
hiding behind the wall. He has the gun in his hands. He looks along
the path. There is no one coming."

A woman from the little group of people commenced to sob softly.
Pauline's voice ceased. Someone put a hand over the mouth of the
frightened woman.

"Go on," Saton said.

"The man has the gun in his hand. He goes down on his knees," Pauline
continued. "The gun is pointed towards Mr. Rochester. There is a puff
of smoke, a report, Mr. Rochester has fallen down. He is up again.
Then he falls!--yes, he falls!"

Saton passed his hand across his forehead.

"Go on," he said.

"The man is taking the cartridge from the gun," Pauline said. "He
slips in another from the bag. He has leaned the gun against the gate.
He is stealing away."

Saton leaned towards her till he seemed even about to spring.

"You could not see his face?" he said.

There was no answer. Two of the women behind were sobbing now. A third
was lying back, half unconscious. Rochester had risen to his feet. The
faces of all of them seemed suddenly to reflect a new and nameless
terror.

Saton moved slowly towards Pauline. He moved unsteadily. The
perspiration now was standing in thick beads upon his forehead. He
suddenly realized his risk.

"You could not see his face?" he repeated. "You do not know who it was
that fired that gun?"

"I could not see his face," she repeated. "But I--I can see it now."

"You do not recognise it?" he said, and his voice seemed to come
tearing from his throat, charged with some new and compelling quality.
"You cannot recognise it? You do not know whether you have ever seen
it before?"

Pauline rose suddenly to her feet. Her bosom was heaving, her face was
like a white mask. Her hands were suddenly thrown high above her head.

[Illustration: She swayed for a moment, and fell over on her side.]

"It is horrible!" she shrieked. "It was you who fired the gun!--You!"

She swayed for a moment, and fell over on her side like a dead
woman--her arms thrown out, her limbs inert, as though indeed it
were death which had stricken her.

Rochester, with a shout of anger, sprang towards her, sending Saton
reeling against the table. He fell on his knees by her side.

"Bring water, some of you idiots!" he cried out. "Ring the bell! And
don't let that cursed charlatan escape!"




CHAPTER XXVIII

SPOKEN FROM THE HEART


Pauline took the card from the hand of her servant, and glanced at it
at first with the idlest of curiosity--afterwards with a fixed and
steadfast attention, as though she saw in those copperplate letters,
elegantly traced upon a card of superfine quality, something
symbolical, something of far greater significance than the unexpected
name which confronted her.

"I told you, Martin," she said, "that I was at home to nobody except
those upon the special list."

"I know it, your ladyship," the man answered, "but this gentleman has
called every day for a week, and I have refused even to bring his name
in. To-day he was so very persistent that I thought perhaps it would
be better to bring his card."

Pauline was lying upon a couch. She had been unwell for the last two
or three weeks. Nothing serious--nerves, she called it. A doctor would
probably have prescribed for her with a smile. Pauline knew better
than to send for one. She knew very well what was the matter. She was
afraid! Fear had come upon her like a disease. The memory of that one
night racked her still--the memory of that, and other things.

Meanwhile, the servant stood before her in an attitude of respectful
attention.

"I will see Mr. Saton," she decided at last. "You can show him in
here, and remember that until he has gone, no one else is to be
allowed to enter. Come yourself only if I ring the bell, or when you
serve tea."

The man bowed, and went back to where Saton was waiting in the hall.

"Her ladyship is at home, sir," he announced. "Will you come this
way?"

A certain drawn expression seemed suddenly to vanish from the young
man's face. He followed the servant almost blithely. In a few seconds
he was alone with her in the firelit drawing-room. The door was closed
behind him.

Pauline was sitting up on the couch. For a moment they neither of them
spoke. She, too, had been suffering, then, he thought, recognising the
signs of ill-health in her colorless cheeks and languid pose.

He came slowly across the room and held out his hand. She hesitated,
and shook her head.

"No!" she said. "I do not think that I wish to shake hands with you,
Mr. Saton. I do not understand why you have come here. I thought it
best to see you, and hear what you have to say, once and for all."

"Once and for all?" he repeated.

"Certainly," she answered. "It does not interest me to fence with
words. Between us I think that it is not necessary. What do you want
with me?"

"You know," he answered calmly.

She paused for a moment or two. She told herself that this was the
most transcendental of follies. Yet it seemed as though there were
something electrical in the atmosphere, as though something had come
into the room unaccountable, stimulating, terrifying. All the languor
of the last few days was gone.

"Am I to understand, then?" she said at last, speaking in a low tone,
and with her face averted from him, "that you have come to offer me
some explanation of the events of that night?"

"No!" he answered.

The seconds ticked on. She found his taciturnity maddening.

"Your visit had some purpose?" she asked.

"I came to see you," he answered.

"I am not well," she said, hurriedly. "I am not fit to see people or
to talk at all. I thought that you must have some special purpose in
coming, or I should not have received you."

"You wish to talk then, about that night?" he asked.

"No!" she answered--"and yet, yes!"

She sat upright. She looked him in the eyes.

"I have not dared to ask even myself this," she said, "but since you
are here, since you have forced it upon me, I shall ask you and you
will tell me. That night I had--what shall I call it?--a vision. I saw
you shoot Henry Rochester. Now you are here you shall tell me if what
I saw was the truth?"

"It was," he answered.

She drew back, shuddering.

"But why?" she asked. "He has never done you any harm."

"On the contrary," Saton answered, "he is my enemy. With all my heart
and soul I wish him dead!"

"It is terrible!" she murmured.

"It is the truth," he answered. "The truth sometimes is terrible. That
is why people so often evade it. Listen. I was only a boy, a
sentimental boy, when I first knew Rochester. Perhaps he has posed to
you as my benefactor. Certainly he lent me money. I tell you now,
though, that upon every penny of that money was a curse. Whatever I
did went wrong. However hard I fought, I was worsted. If I gambled, I
lost. If I played for safety, something--even though it might be as
unexpected as an earthquake--came to wreck my plans. It was like
playing cards with the Devil himself. One by one I lost the tricks.
When I was penniless, I had nothing left to think of but the only
piece of advice your friend Henry Rochester gave me when he sent me
out into the world. The sting of his voice was like a lash. Creatures
of the gutter he called those who had failed, and who dared to live
on. I tell you that until the time came when I looked down into the
Thames, and hesitated whether or no I should take his cynical advice
and make an end of myself, every action, every endeavor, and every
effort I had made, had been honest. It was his words, and his words
entirely, which drove me into the other paths."

"You admit, then--" she began.

"I admit nothing," he answered. "Yet I will tell you this. There are
things in my life which I loathe, and they are there because of
Rochester's words. Yet bad though I am," he continued, bitterly, "that
man's contempt is like a whip to me whenever I see him. What, in
God's name, is he? Because he has ancestors behind him, good blood in
his veins, the tricks of a man of breeding, the carriage and voice of
a gentleman, why, in Heaven's name for these things should he look
upon me as something crawling upon the face of the earth--something to
be spurned aside whenever it should cross his path? I have lived and
spoken falsehoods. The greatest men in the world have lived and spoken
falsehoods. But I am not a charlatan. I have mastered the rudiments of
a great and mighty new science. I am not a trickster. I have a claim
to live, as he has. There is a place in the world for me, too, as well
as for him. You know what he has told me? You know with what he has
threatened me? He has told me that if he even sees you and me
together, that if I even dare to find my way into your presence, that
he will horse-whip me. This because he has muscles and I have none.
Yet you ask me why I desire to kill him! I have had only one desire in
my life stronger than that, one thing in my life more intense than my
hatred of this man."

"You are both in the wrong," she said. "Henry Rochester is a
straight-living, God-fearing man, a little narrow in his views, and a
little violent in his prejudices. You are a person such as he would
not understand, such as he never could understand. You and he could
never possibly come into sympathy. He is wrong when he utters such
threats. Yet you must remember that there is Lois. He has the right
there to say what he will."

"There is Lois, yes!" Saton repeated.

"You wish to marry her, don't you?" she asked.

The question seemed to madden him. Suddenly he threw aside the almost
unnatural restraint with which he had spoken and acted since his
entrance into the room. He rose to his feet. He stood before her couch
with clenched hands, with features working spasmodically as the words
poured from his lips.

"Listen," he said. "I have no money. I have lived partly upon the
woman who adopted me, and partly by nefarious means. Science is great,
it is fascinating, it is the joy of my life, but one must live. I have
tasted luxury. I cannot live as a workingman. The woman who adopted me
is all the time at my elbow, telling me that I must marry Lois because
of her money. The child is willing. I have been willing."

"To marry her for her money--for her money only!" Pauline exclaimed,
with scorn trembling in her tone.

"Absolutely for her money only!" Saton answered. "Now you know how
poor a thing I am. Yet I tell you that all men have a bad spot in
them. I tell you that I am dependent upon that woman for every penny I
spend, and for the clothes I wear. When I tell her that I will not
marry Lois Champneyes, she will very likely throw me into the street.
What is there left for me to do? I have tried everything, and failed.
I have no strength, I have a cursed taste for the easy ways of life.
Yet this has come to me. I will not marry Lois Champneyes. I will
break with this woman, notwithstanding all I owe to her, and I will go
away and work once more, wherever I can earn enough to keep me. And I
will tell you why. I haven't a good quality that I know of. I am as
selfish as a man can be. I am a murderer at heart, an actor most of
the time, but in one thing I am honest. I love you, Pauline Marrabel!
I can't help it. It is the curse of my life, if you will, but it is
the joy of it. Rochester knows it, and he hates me. I know that
Rochester loves you, and I hate him. Listen. There is a man who
believes in me--a great man. I'll go to him. I'll work, I'll study,
I'll write. I'll live the thoughts I want to live. I'll shape my life
along the firm straight lines. I'll make a better thing of myself, if
you'll wait. Mind, I don't ask you to touch me now. If you offered me
your hands, I wouldn't take them. I'm not fit. But there is just this
one thing in me. I know myself and I know you. Give me the chance to
climb!"

Time seemed to stand still while she looked at him. Yes, he had been
honest! She saw him stripped of all the glamour of his unusual
learning. She saw him as he was--small, false, a poor creature, who
having failed on the mountains, had been content to crawl through the
marshes. He seemed in those few moments to be stripped bare to her. He
was not even a gentleman. He wore his manners as he wore his clothes.
He belonged to her world no more than the servant who had announced
him. She clenched her fingers. It was ignoble that her heart should be
beating, that the breath should come sobbing through her parted lips.
He was a creature to be despised!

She raised her head and told him so, fighting all the while with
something greater and stronger which seemed to be tearing at her heart
strings.

"If that is what you came here to say," she said, "please go."

He rose at once. She saw the anxious light with which his eyes had
been filled, fade away. He turned almost humbly toward the door.

"You are quite right," he said. "I should not have come. I do not
often have impulses. It is a mistake to listen to them. Yet I came
because it was the one honest desire which I have had since I looked
down into the water and turned away."

He walked toward the door. She stood with her finger pressing the
bell. He seemed somehow to have lost what little presence he had ever
possessed. His head was bowed; he walked as one feeling for his way in
the dark. Never once did he look round. As he stood before the door,
her lips were suddenly parted. A great wave of pity rose up from
amongst those other things in her heart. She would have called out to
him, but her butler was already there. The door had been opened.

She clenched her teeth, and resumed her place upon the sofa. She heard
the front door closed, and she found herself watching him through the
blind. She saw him cross the road very much as he had crossed the
room--unseeing, stricken. She watched him until he crossed the corner
of the square. Her eyes were misty with tears!




CHAPTER XXIX

THE COURAGE OF DESPERATION


Captain Vandermere had a friend from the country, and was giving him
supper at the _Savoy_. He was also pointing out the different people
who were worthy of note.

"That," he said, pointing to an adjoining table, "is really one of the
most interesting men in London."

"He looks like an actor," his friend remarked.

"So he may be," Vandermere answered grimly, "but his is not the
Thespian stage. He is a lecturer and writer on occultism, and in his
way, I suppose, he is amazingly clever."

"Do you mean Bertrand Saton?" his friend asked, with interest.

Vandermere nodded.

"You have heard the fellow's name, of course," he said. "For the last
month or so one seems to meet him everywhere, and in all sorts of
society. The illustrated papers, and even the magazines, have been
full of the fellow's photograph. Women especially seem to regard him
as something supernatural. Look at the way they are hanging upon his
words now. That is the old Duchess of Ampthill on his left, and the
others are all decent enough people of a sort."

"I gather from your tone," his friend remarked, "that the young man is
not a favorite of yours."

"He is not," Vandermere answered. "I don't understand the breed, and
that's a fact. Apart from that, he has had the confounded impertinence
to make love to--to a very charming young lady of my acquaintance."

"He isn't particularly good-looking," the friend remarked--"striking I
suppose people would say."

"He has a sort of unwholesome way of attracting women," Vandermere
remarked. "Look how they all manoeuvre to walk out with him."

Saton was exercising his rights as lion of the party, and leaving
early. The Duchess whispered something in his ear, at which he only
laughed. Half-a-dozen invitations were showered upon him, which he
accepted conditionally.

"I never accept invitations," he said, "except with a proviso. As a
matter of fact, I never can tell exactly when I shall want to work,
and when the feeling for work comes, everything else must go. It is
not always that one is in the right mood."

"How interesting!" one of the women sighed.

"Must be like writing poetry, only far more exciting," another
murmured.

"Tell me," a girl asked him, as he stooped over her fingers to say
good night, "is it really true, Mr. Saton, that if you liked you could
make me do things even against my will--that you could put ideas into
my head which I should be forced to carry out?"

"Certainly."

"And you never make use of your power?"

"Very seldom," he answered. "That is the chicanery of science. It is
because people when they have discovered a little are so anxious to
exploit their knowledge, that they never go any further. It is very
easy indeed to dominate the will of certain individuals, but what we
really want to understand before we use our power, is the law that
governs it. Good night, once more!"

"A wonderful man!" they sighed one to another as he passed out.

"I am one of the few," the Duchess remarked complacently, "who has
seen a real manifestation of his powers. It is true," she added, with
a little shudder, "there was a mistake toward the end. The experiment
wasn't wholly successful, but it was wonderful, all the
same--wonderful!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Saton left the restaurant, and entered the small electric brougham
which was waiting for him. He lit a cigarette and leaned back amongst
the cushions, musing over the events of the evening with a complacent
smile. The last few weeks seemed to have wrought some subtle change in
the man. His face was at once stronger and weaker, more determined,
and yet in a sense less trustworthy. His manner had gained in
assertion, his bearing in confidence. There was an air of resolve
about him, as though he knew exactly where he was going--how far, and
in what direction. And with it all he had aged. There were lines under
his eyes, and his face was worn--at times almost haggard.

He let himself into the little house in Berkeley Square with his
latchkey, and turned at once into Rachael's room. She was sitting over
the fire in a brilliant red dressing-gown, her head elaborately
coiffured, her fingers and neck brilliant with jewels. Yet when she
turned her head one saw a change. Age had laid its grip upon her at
last. Her voice had lost its decision. Her hands trembled in her lap.

"You are late, Bertrand," she said--"very late."

"Not so very," he answered. "I have been supping at the _Savoy_ with
the Duchess of Ampthill and some friends."

She looked at him searchingly, looked at him from head to foot, noted
the trim exactness of his evening attire, and his enamel links and
waistcoat buttons, the air of confidence with which he crossed the
room to mix himself a whiskey and soda. It was she who had been like
that a few months ago, and he the timid one. They seemed to have
changed places.

"Bertrand," she said, "you frighten me. You go so far, nowadays."

"Why not?" he answered.

"Huntley has been here to-night," she went on. "He tells me that you
have opened even another place, and that all the old ones are going.
He tells me that the offices are hard at work, too."

"Business is good," remarked Saton, drily.

"I thought that we were going quietly for a time," she said. "It was
you who were so terrified at the risk. Do you imagine that the danger
is over?"

"My dear Rachael," he answered, coming over to her, "I have come to
the conclusion that I was over-timid. There is no success in life to
be won without daring. Money we must have, and these places are like a
gold mine to us. If things go wrong, we must take our chance. I am
content. In the meantime, for all our sakes, it suits me to be in
evidence everywhere. The papers publish my portrait, the Society
journals record my name, people point me out at the theatres and at
the restaurants. This is not vanity--this is business. I am giving a
lecture the week after next, and every seat is already taken. I am
going to say some daring things. Afterwards, I am going to Naudheim
for a month. When I come back, I shall give another lecture. After
that, perhaps these places will not be necessary any more. But who can
tell? Money we must have, money all the time. Science is great, but
men and women must live."

She looked at him with a grim smile.

"You amuse me," she said. "Are you really the half-starved boy who
flung himself at my horses' heads in the Bois?"

"I am what the Fates have made of that boy."

She shook her head.

"You are going too fast," she said. "You terrify me. What about Lois?"

"Lois is of age in six weeks," he replied. "On the day she is of age,
I shall go to Rochester and demand her hand. He will refuse, of
course. I shall marry her at once."

"Why not now?" Rachael asked. "Why wait a day? The money will come
later."

"I will tell you why," Saton answered. "Because I have ambitions, and
because it would do them harm if people believed that I had exercised
any sort of influence to make that girl marry me against her
guardian's wishes. I do use my influence as it is, although," he
added, frowning, "I find it harder every day. She walked with me in
the Park this morning; she came to tea with me the day before."

"What do you mean when you say that you find it harder?" Rachael
asked.

"I mean that I have lost some of my hold over her," he answered. "It
is the sort of thing which is likely to happen at any time. She has
very weak receptive currents. It is like trying to drive water with a
sieve."

"You must not fail," she muttered. "I am nervous these days. I would
rather you were married to Lois, and her money was in the bank, and
that these places were closed. I start when the bell rings. Huntley
himself said that you were rash."

"Huntley is a fool," Saton answered. "Let me help you upstairs,
Rachael."

He passed his arm around her affectionately, and kissed her when they
parted for the night. Then he came down to his little room, and sat
for a time at his desk, piled with books and works of reference. He
brooded gloomily for several moments over what Rachael had been
saying. A knock at the door made him start. It was only a servant,
come to see to the fire, but his hand had darted out toward a certain
drawer of his desk. When the servant had retired, he opened it for a
minute and looked in. A small shining revolver lay there, and a box of
cartridges.

"Your idea, my friend Rochester!" he muttered to himself.




CHAPTER XXX

A SURPRISING REQUEST


The Duchess of Ampthill was giving a great dinner-party at her house
in Grosvenor Square. She had found several new prodigies, and one of
them was performing in a most satisfactory manner. He sat at her left
hand, and though, unlike Saton, he had at first been shy, the
continual encouragement of his hostess had eventually produced the
desired result. His name was Chalmers, and he was the nephew of a
bishop. He had taken a double first at Oxford, and now announced his
intention of embracing literature as a profession. He wore glasses,
and he was still very young.

"There is no doubt at all," he said, in answer to a remark from the
Duchess, "that London has reached just that stage in her development
as a city of human beings, which was so fatal to some of her
predecessors in pre-eminence, some of those ancient cities of which
there exists to-day only the name. The blood in her arteries is no
longer robust. Already the signs of decay are plentiful."

"I wonder," Rochester inquired, "what you consider your evidences
are for such a statement. To a poor outsider like myself, for
instance, London seems to have all the outward signs of an amazingly
prosperous--one might almost say a splendidly progressive city."

Chalmers smiled. It was a smile he had cultivated when contradicted at
the Union, and he knew its weight.

"From a similar point of view," he said, "as yours, Mr. Rochester,
Rome and Athens, Nineveh, and those more ancient cities, presented the
same appearance of prosperity. Yet if you ask for signs, there are
surely many to be seen. I am anxious," he continued, gazing around him
with an air of bland enjoyment, "to avoid anything in the nature of an
epigram. There is nothing so unconvincing, so stultifying to one's
statements, as to express them epigrammatically. People at once give
you credit for an attempt at intellectual gymnastics which takes no
regard to the truth. I will not, therefore, weary you with a diatribe
upon the condition of that heterogeneous mass which is known to-day as
Society. I will simply point out to you one of the portents which has
inevitably heralded disaster. I mean the restless searching everywhere
for new things and new emotions. Our friend opposite," he said, bowing
to Saton, "will forgive me if I instance the almost passionate
interest in this new science which he is making brave efforts to give
to the world. A lecture to-day from Mr. Bertrand Saton would fill any
hall in London. And why? Simply because the people know that he will
speak to them of new things. Look at this man Father Cresswell. There
is no building in this great city which would hold the crowds who
flock to his meetings. And why? Simply because he has adopted a new
tone--because in place of the old methods, he stands in his pulpit
with a lash, and wields it like a Russian executioner."

Lady Mary interrupted him suddenly from her place a little way down
the table.

"Oh, I don't agree with you!" she said. "Indeed, I think you are
wrong. The reason why people go to hear Father Cresswell is not
because he has anything new to say, or any new way of saying it. The
real reason is because he has the gift of showing them the truth. You
can be told things very often, and receive a great many warnings, but
you take no notice. There is something wrong about the method of
delivering them. It is not the lash which Father Cresswell uses, but
it is his extraordinary gift of impressing one with the truth of what
he says, that has had such an effect upon everyone."

Rochester looked across at his wife curiously. It was almost the first
time that he had ever heard her speak upon a serious subject. Now he
came to think of it, he remembered that she had been spending much of
her time lately listening to this wonderful enthusiast. Was he really
great enough to have influenced so light a creature, he wondered?
Certainly there was something changed in her. He had noticed it during
the last few days--an odd sort of nervousness, a greater kindness of
speech, an unaccustomed gravity. Her remark set him thinking.

Chalmers leaned forward and bowed to Lady Mary. Again the shadow of a
tolerant smile rested upon his lips.

"Very well, Lady Mary," he said, "I will accept the truth of what you
say. Yet a few decades ago, who cared about religion, or hearing the
truth? It is simply because the men and women of Society have
exhausted every means of self-gratification, that in a sort of
unwholesome reaction they turn towards the things as far as possible
removed from those with which they are surfeited. But I will leave
Father Cresswell alone. I will ask you whether it is not the bizarre,
the grotesque in art, which to-day wins most favor. I will turn to the
making of books--I avoid the term literature--and I will ask you
whether it is not the extravagant, the impossible, the deformed, in
style and matter, which is most eagerly read. The simplest things in
life should convince one. The novelist's hero is no longer the fine,
handsome young fellow of twenty years ago. He is something between
forty and fifty, if not deformed, at least decrepit with dissipations,
and with the gift of fascination, whatever that may mean, in place of
the simpler attributes of a few decades ago. And the heroine!--There
is no more book-muslin and innocence. She has, as a rule, green eyes;
she is middle-aged, and if she has not been married before, she has
had her affairs. Everything obvious in life, from politics to
mutton-chops, is absolutely barred by anyone with any pretensions to
intellect to-day."

"One wonders," Rochester murmured, "how in the course of your long
life, Mr. Chalmers, you have been able to see so far and truthfully
into the heart of things!"

Chalmers bowed.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "it is the newcomer in life, as in many
other things, who sees most of the game."

The conversation drifted away. Rochester was reminded of it only when
driving home that night with his wife. Again, as they took their
places in the electric brougham, he was conscious of something
changed, not only in the woman herself, but in her demeanor towards
him.

"Do you mind," he asked, soon after they started, "just dropping me at
the club? It is scarcely out of your way, and I feel that I need a
whiskey and soda, and a game of billiards, to take the taste of that
young man's talk out of my mouth. What a sickly brood of chickens the
Duchess does encourage, to be sure!"

"I wonder if you'd mind not going to the club to-night, Henry?" Lady
Mary asked quietly.

He turned toward her in surprise.

"Why, certainly not," he answered. "Have we to go on anywhere?"

She shook her head.

"No!" she said. "Only I feel I'd like to talk to you for a little
time, if you don't mind. It's nothing very much," she continued,
nervously twisting her handkerchief between her fingers.

"I'll come home with pleasure," Rochester interrupted. "Don't look so
scared," he added, patting the back of her hand gently. "You know very
well, if there is any little trouble, I shall be delighted to help you
out."

She did not remove her hand, but she looked out of the window. What
she wanted to say seemed harder than ever. And after all, was it worth
while? It would mean giving up a very agreeable side to life. It would
mean--Her thoughts suddenly changed their course. Once more she was
sitting upon that very uncomfortable bench in the great city hall.
Once more she felt that curious new sensation, some answering
vibration in her heart to the wonderful, passionate words which were
bringing tears to the eyes not only of the women, but of the men, by
whom she was surrounded. No, it was not an art, this--a trick! No
acting was great enough to have touched the hearts of all this time
and sin-hardened multitude. It was the truth--simply the truth.

"It isn't exactly a little thing, Henry. I'll tell you about it when
we get home."

       *       *       *       *       *

No, it was no little thing, Rochester thought to himself, as he stood
upon the hearthrug of her boudoir, and listened to the woman who sat
on the end of the sofa a few feet away as she talked to him. Sometimes
her eyes were raised to his--eyes whose color seemed more beautiful
because of the tears in them. Sometimes her head was almost buried in
her hands. But she talked all the time--an odd, disconnected sort of
monologue, half confession, half appeal. There was little in it which
seemed of any great moment, and yet to Rochester it was as though he
were face to face with a tragedy. This woman was asking him much!

"I know so well," she said, "what a useless, frivolous, miserable sort
of life mine has been, and I know so well that I haven't made the
least attempt, Henry, to be a good wife to you. That wasn't altogether
my fault, was it?" she asked pleadingly. "Do tell me that."

"It was not your fault at all," he answered gravely. "It was part of
our arrangement."

"I am afraid," she said, "that it was a very unholy, a very wicked
arrangement, only you see I was badly brought up, and it seemed to me
so natural, such an excellent way of providing a good time for myself,
to marry you, and to owe you nothing except one thing. Henry, you will
believe this, I know. I have flirted very badly, and I have had many
of those little love-affairs which every woman I know indulges
in--silly little affairs just to pass away the time, and to make one
believe that one is living. But I have never really cared for anybody,
and these little follies, although I suppose they are such a waste of
emotion and truthfulness and real feeling, haven't amounted to very
much, Henry. You know what I mean. It is so difficult to say. But you
believe that?"

"I believe it from my soul," he answered.

"You see," she went on, "it seemed to me all right, because there was
no one to point out how foolish and silly it was to play one's way
through life as though it were a nursery, and we children, and to
forget that we were grown-up, and that we were getting older with the
years. You have been quite content without me, Henry?" she asked,
looking up at him wistfully.

"Yes, I have been content!" he admitted, looking away from her,
looking out of the room. "I have been content, after a fashion."

"Ours was such a marriage of convenience," she went on, "and you were
so very plain-spoken about it, Henry. I feel somehow as though I were
breaking a compact when I turn round and ask you whether it is not
possible that we might be, perhaps, some day, a little more to one
another. You know why I am almost afraid to say this. It has not been
with you as it has been with me. I have always felt that she has been
there--Pauline."

She was tearing little bits from the lace of her handkerchief. Her
eyes sought his fearfully.

"Don't think, when I say that," she continued, "that I say it with any
idea of blaming you. You told me that you loved Pauline when we were
engaged, and of course she was married then, and one did not
expect--it never seemed likely that she might be free. And now she is
free," Lady Mary went on, with a little break in her voice, "and I am
here, your wife, and I am afraid that you love her still so much that
what I am saying to you must sound very, very unwelcome. Tell me,
Henry. Is that so?"

Rochester was touched. It was impossible not to feel the sincerity of
her words. He sank on one knee, and took her hands in his.

"Mary," he said, "this is all so surprising. I did not expect it. We
have lived so long and gone our own ways, and you have seemed until
just lately so utterly content, that I quite forgot that anywhere in
this butterfly little body there might be such a thing as a soul. Will
you give me time, dear?"

"All the time you ask for," she answered. "Oh! I know that I am asking
a great deal, but you see I am not a very strong person, and if I give
up everything else, I do want someone to lean on just a little. You
are very strong, Henry," she added, softly.

He took her face between his hands, and he kissed her, without
passion, yet kindly, even tenderly.

"My dear," he said, "I must think this thing out. At any rate, we
might start by seeing a little more of one another?"

"Yes!" she answered shyly. "I should like that."

"I will drive you down to Ranelagh to-morrow," he said, "alone, and we
will have lunch there."

"I shall love it," she answered. "Good night!"

She kissed him timidly, and flitted away into her room with a little
backward glance and a wave of the hand. Rochester stood where she had
left him, watching the place where she had disappeared, with the look
in his eyes of a man who sees a ghost.




CHAPTER XXXI

BETWEEN LOVE AND DUTY


Rochester's hansom set him down in Cadogan Street just as a new and
very handsome motor-car moved slowly away from the door. His face
darkened as he recognised Saton leaning back inside, and he ignored
the other's somewhat exaggerated and half ironical greeting.

"Lady Marrabel is 'at home'?" he asked the butler, who knew him well.

The man hesitated.

"She will see you, no doubt, sir," he remarked. "We had our orders
that she was not 'at home' this afternoon."

"The gentleman who has just left--" Rochester began.

"Mr. Saton," the butler interrupted. "He has been with Lady Marrabel
for some time."

Rochester found himself face to face with Pauline, but it was a
somewhat grim smile with which he welcomed her.

"Still fascinated, I see, by the new science, my dear Pauline," he
said. "I met your professor outside. He has a fine new motor-car. I
imagine that after all he has discovered the way to extract money from
science."

Pauline shrugged her shoulders.

"Those are matters which do not concern me," she said--"I might add,
do not interest me. You are the only man I know who disputes Mr.
Saton's position, and you are wrong. He is wonderfully, marvelously
gifted."

Rochester bowed slightly.

"Perhaps," he said, "I judge the man, and not his attainments."

"You are very provincial," she declared. "But come, don't let us
quarrel. You did not come here to talk about Mr. Saton."

"No!" Rochester answered. "I had something else to say to you."

His tone excited her curiosity. She looked at him more closely, and
realized that he had indeed come upon some mission.

"Well," she said, "what has happened? Is it----"

She broke off in her sentence. Rochester stood quite still, as though
passionately anxious to understand the meaning of that interrupted
thought.

"It is about Mary," he said.

"Yes?" Pauline whispered. "Go on. Go on, please."

"It is something quite unexpected," Rochester said slowly--"something
which I can assure you that her conduct has never at any time in any
way suggested."

"She wants to leave you?" Pauline asked, breathlessly.

"On the contrary," Rochester said, "she wants what she has never asked
for or expected--something, in fact, which was not in our marriage
bond. She has been going to this man Father Cresswell's meetings. She
is talking about our duty, about making the best of one another."

Pauline was amazed. Certainly no thought of this kind had ever entered
into her head.

"Do you mean," she said, "that Mary wants to give up her silly little
flirtations, and turn serious?"

"That is exactly what she says," Rochester answered. "I don't believe
she has the least idea that what she proposes comes so near to
tragedy."

"What have you answered?" Pauline asked.

"We have established a probationary period," he said. "We have agreed
to see a little more of one another. I drove her down to Ranelagh
yesterday afternoon, and we are going to dine together to-night. What
am I to do, Pauline? I have come to ask you. We must decide it
together, you and I."

She leaned a little forward in her chair. Her hands were clasped
together. Her eyes were fixed on vacancy.

"It is a thunderbolt," she murmured.

"It is amazing."

"You must go back to her."

Rochester drew a little breath between his teeth.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked.

"Yes, I know!" she answered. "And yet it is inevitable. What have you
and I to look forward to? Sometimes I think that it is weakness to see
so much of one another."

"I am afraid," Rochester said slowly, "that I would sooner have you
for my dear friend, than be married to any woman who ever lived."

"I wonder," she said softly. "I wonder. You yourself," she continued,
"have always held that there is a certain vulgarity, a certain loss of
fine feeling in the consummation of any attachment. The very barrier
between us makes our intercourse seem sweeter and more desirable."

"And yet," he declared, leaning a little toward her, "there are times
when nature will be heard--when one realizes the great call."

"You are right," she answered softly. "That is the terrible part of it
all. You and I may never listen to it. We have to close our ears, to
beat our hands and hide, when the time comes."

"And is it worth while, I wonder?" he asked. "What do we gain----"

She held out her hand.

"Don't, Henry," she said--"don't, especially now. Be thankful, rather,
that there has been nothing in our great friendship which need keep
you from your duty."

"You mean that?" he asked hoarsely.

"You know that I mean it," she answered. "You know that it must be."

He rose to his feet and walked to the window. He remained there
standing alone, for several minutes. When he came back, something had
gone from his face. He moved heavily. He had the air of an older man.

"Pauline," he said, "you send me away easily. Let me tell you one of
the hard thoughts I have in my mind--one of the things that has
tortured me. I have fancied--I may be wrong--but I have fancied that
during the last few months you have been slipping away from me. I
have felt it, somehow. There has been nothing tangible, and yet I have
felt it. Answer me, honestly. Is this true? Is what I have told you,
after all, something of a relief?"

She answered him volubly, almost hysterically. Her manner was
absolutely foreign. He listened to her protestations almost in
bewilderment.

"It is not true, Henry. You cannot mean what you are saying. I have
always been the same. I am the same now. What could alter me? You
don't believe that anything could alter me?"

"Or any person?" he asked.

"Or any person," she repeated, hastily. "Go through the list of our
acquaintances, if you will. Have I ever shown any partiality for
anyone? You cannot honestly believe that I have not been faithful to
our unwritten compact?"

"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I have had a horrible fear. Pauline, I
want you to be kind to me. This has been a blow. I cannot easily get
over it. Let me tell you this. One of the reasons--the great
reason--why I fear and dread this coming change, is because it may
leave you more susceptible to the influence of that person."

"You mean Mr. Saton?" she said.

"I do," Rochester answered. "Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned his
name. Perhaps I ought not to have said anything about it. But there
the whole thing is. If I thought that any part of your interest in the
man's scientific attainments had become diverted to the man himself,
I should feel inclined to take him by the neck and throw him into the
Serpentine."

She said nothing. Her face had become very still, almost
expressionless. Rochester felt his heart turn cold.

"Pauline," he said, "before I go you will have to tell me that what I
fear could not come to pass. Perhaps you think that I insult you in
suggesting it. This young man may be clever, but he is not of our
world--yours and mine. He is a _poseur_ with borrowed manners,
_flamboyant_, a quack medicine man of the market place. He isn't a
gentleman, or anything like one. I am not really afraid, Pauline, and
yet I need reassurance."

"You have nothing to fear," she answered quietly. "I am sorry, Henry,
but I cannot discuss Mr. Saton with you. Yet don't think I am blind. I
know that there is truth in all you say. Sometimes little things about
him set my very teeth on edge."

Rochester drew a sigh of relief.

"So long as you realize this," he said, "so long as you understand, I
have no fear."

Pauline looked away, with a queer little smile upon her lips. How
little a man understood even the woman whom he cared for!

"Henry," she said, "I can only do this. I can give you my hands, and I
can wish you happiness. Go on with your experiment--I gather that for
the moment it is only an experiment?"

"That is all," he answered.

"When it is decided one way or the other," she continued, "you must
come and tell me. Please go away now. I want to be alone."

Rochester kissed her hands, and passed out into the street. He had a
curious and depressing conviction that he was about to commence a new
chapter of his life.




CHAPTER XXXII

AT THE EDGE OF THE PRECIPICE


Naudheim's disapproval was very marked and evident. He scoffed at the
great bowl of pink roses which stood upon the writing-table. He pushed
scornfully on one side the elegantly shaped inkstand, with its burden
of pens; the blotting-pad, with its silver edges; the piles of
cream-laid foolscap. Most of all he looked with scornful
disapprobation at his young host.

Saton was attired for his morning walk in the Park. During the last
few weeks--or months, perhaps--a touch of foppishness had crept into
his dress--a fondness for gray silk ties, a flower in his buttonhole,
white linen gaiters drawn carefully over his patent boots. Certainly
the contrast between this scrupulously dressed young man and Naudheim,
bordered upon the absurd. Naudheim was shabby, unbrushed, unkempt. His
collar was frayed, he wore no tie. The seams of his long black
frock-coat had been parted and inked over and parted again. He wore
carpet slippers and untidy socks. There were stains upon his
waistcoat.

From underneath his shaggy gray eyebrows he shot a contemptuous glance
at his host.

"My young friend," he said, "you are growing too fine. I cannot work
here."

"Nonsense!" Saton answered, a little uneasily. "You can sweep all
those things off the writing-table, if they seem too elaborate for
you, and pitch the flowers out of the window if you like."

"Bah!" Naudheim answered. "It is the atmosphere. I smell it
everywhere. This is not the house for thoughts. This is not the house
wherein one can build. My young friend, you have fallen away. You are
like all the others. You listen to the tin music."

"I think," Saton answered, "that the work which I have done should
be my answer to you. We are not all made alike. If I find it easier
to breathe in an atmosphere such as this, then that is the atmosphere
which I should choose. We do our best work amidst congenial
surroundings. You in your den, and I in my library, can give of our
best."

Naudheim shook his head.

"You are a fool," he said. "As for your work, it is clever, fatally
clever. When I read what you sent me last month, and saw how clever it
was, I knew that you were falling away. That is why I came. Now I have
come, I understand. Listen! The secrets of science are won only by
those who seek them, like children who in the time of trouble flee to
their mother's arms. Never a mistress in the world's history has asked
more from man than she has asked or has had more to give. She asks
your life, your thoughts, your passions--every breath of your body
must be a breath of desire for her and her alone. You think that you
can strut about the world, a talking doll, pay court to women, listen
to the voices that praise you, smirk your way through the days, and
all the time climb. My young friend, no! I tell you no! Don't
interrupt me. I am going to speak my say and go."

"Go?" Saton repeated. "Impossible! I am willing to work. I will work
now. I simply thought that as the morning was so fine we might walk
for a little time in the sunshine. But that is nothing."

Naudheim shook his head.

"Not one word do I speak of those things that are precious to me, in
this house," he declared. "I tell you that its atmosphere would choke
the life out of every thought that was ever conceived. You may blind
others, even yourself, young man," he went on, "but I know. You are a
renegade. You would serve two mistresses. I am going."

"You shall not," Saton declared. "This is absurd. Come," he added,
trying to draw his arm through his visitor's, "we will go into another
room if this one annoys you."

Naudheim stepped back. He thrust Saton away contemptuously. He was the
taller of the two by some inches, and his eyes flashed with scorn as
he turned toward the door.

"I leave this house at once," he said. "I was a fool to come, but I am
not such a fool as you, Bertrand Saton. Don't write or come near me
again until your sham house and your sham life are in ruins, and you
yourself in the wilderness. I may take you to my heart again then. I
cannot tell. But to-day I loathe you. You are a creature of no
account--a foolish, dazzled moth. Don't dare to ring your bells. I
need no flunkeys to show me the way to the door."

Naudheim strode out, as a prophet of sterner days might have cast the
dust of a pagan dancing hall from his feet. Saton for a moment was
staggered. His composure left him. He walked aimlessly up and down the
room, swinging his gloves in his hand, and muttering to himself.

Then Rachael came in. She walked with the help of two sticks. She
seemed gaunter and thinner than ever, yet her eyes had lost little of
their fire, although they seemed set deeper in the caverns of her
face.

"Naudheim has gone," she said. "What is wrong, Bertrand?"

"Naudheim is impossible," Saton answered. "He came in here to work
this morning, looked around the room, and began to storm. He objected
to the flowers, to the writing-table, to me. He has shaken the dust of
us off his feet, and gone back to his wretched cabin in Switzerland."

She leaned on her sticks and looked at him.

"On the face of the earth," she said, "there does not breathe a fool
like you."

Saton's expression hardened.

"You, too!" he exclaimed. "Well, go on."

"Can't you understand," the woman exclaimed, her voice shaking, "that
we are on the verge of a precipice? Do you read the papers? There were
questions asked last night in the House about what they called these
fortune-telling establishments. Yet everything goes on without a
change--by your orders, I am told. Oh, you fool! Huntley knows that he
is being spied upon. In Bond Street, yesterday alone, three detectives
called at different times. The thing can't go on. The money that we
should save ready to escape at the end, you spend, living like this.
And the girl Lois--you are letting her slip out of your fingers."

"My dear Rachael," he answered, "in the first place, there is not a
thread of evidence to connect you or me with any one of these places,
or with Huntley's office. In the second place, I am not letting Lois
slip out of my fingers. She will be of age in three weeks' time, and
on her birthday I am going to take her away from Rochester, whatever
means I have to use, and I am going to marry her at once. You think
that I am reckless. Well, one must live. Remember that I am young and
you are old. I have no place in the world except the place I make for
myself. I cannot live in a pig-sty amongst the snows like Naudheim. I
cannot find the whole elixir of life in thoughts and solitude as he
does. There are other things--other things for men of my age."

"You sail too near the wind. You are reckless."

"Perhaps I am," he answered. "Life in ten years' time may very well
become a stranger place to those who are alive and who have been
taught the truth. But life, even as we know it to-day, is strange
enough. Rachael, have you ever loved anyone?"

The woman seemed to become nerveless. She sank into a chair.

"Of the past I do not speak," she said--"I choose never to speak."

He took up his hat.

"No!" he remarked. "One sees easily enough that there are things in
your past, Rachael. Sometimes the memory may burn. You see, I am
living through those days now. The fire has hold of me, and not all
the knowledge I have won, not all the dim coming secrets, from before
the face of which some day I will tear aside the veil, not all the
experiences through which I and I alone have passed, can help me
to-day. So perhaps," he added, turning toward the door, "I am a little
reckless."

Rachael let him depart without uttering a word. She turned in her
chair to watch him cross the square. He was drawing on his light kid
gloves. His silk hat was a mirror of elegance. His gold-headed stick
was thrust at exactly the right angle under his arm. He swaggered a
little--a new accomplishment, and he had the air of one who is well
aware that he graces the ground he treads upon.

The woman looked away from him, and with a slow, painful movement her
head drooped a little until it reached her hands. A slight shiver
seemed to pass through her body. Then she was still, very still
indeed. It seemed to her that she could see the end!




CHAPTER XXXIII

"YOU DO NOT BELIEVE IN ME!"


Saton deliberately turned into the Park, and sauntered along under the
trees in the wake of a throng of fashionable promenaders. He exchanged
greetings with many acquaintances, and here and there he stopped to
say a few words. He noted, as usual, and with a recurrence of his
constant discontent, the extraordinary difference in the demeanor of
the women and the men of his acquaintance. The former, gracious and
smiling, accepted him without reservation. Their murmured words and
smiles were even more than gracious. On the other hand, there was
scarcely a man whose manner did not denote a certain tolerance, not
unmixed with contempt, as though, indeed, they were willing to accept
the fact that he was of their acquaintance, but desired at the same
time to emphasize the fact that he was outside the freemasonry of
their class--a freak, whom they acknowledged on sufferance, as they
might have done a wonderful lion-tamer, or a music-hall singer, or a
steeplejack. He knew very well that there was not one of them who
accepted his qualifications, notwithstanding the approval of their
womankind, and the knowledge stung him bitterly.

Presently he came face to face with Lois, walking with Vandermere.
His face darkened for a moment. He had expressed his desire that she
should see as little of this young man as possible, and here they
were, not only walking together, but laughing and talking with all the
easy naturalness of old acquaintanceship.

Saton drew a little breath of anger through his teeth as he paused and
waited for them. He recognised the terms of intimacy upon which they
were. He recognised that between them there was something which had
never existed between Lois and himself, something which made their
friendship a natural and significant thing. It was the freemasonry of
class again, the magic ring against which he had torn his fingers in
vain.

They saw him. The whole expression of the girl's face changed. All the
animation seemed to leave her manner. For a moment she clung
instinctively to her companion. Afterwards she looked at him no more.
She came to Saton at once, and held out her hand without any show of
reluctance, yet wholly without spontaneity. It was as though she was
obeying orders from a superior.

"Only this morning," he said, "the Comtesse was speaking of you, Lois.
She was so sorry that you had not been to see her lately."

"I will come this afternoon," Lois said quietly.

Vandermere, who had frowned heavily at the sound of her Christian name
upon Saton's lips, could scarcely conceal his anger at her promise.

"I have never had the pleasure," he said, "of meeting the Comtesse.
Perhaps I might be permitted to accompany Miss Champneyes?"

"You are very kind," Saton answered. "I am sorry, but the Comtesse is
beginning to feel her age, and she receives scarcely anyone. I am
afraid that the days are past when she would care to make new
acquaintances."

"In any case," Vandermere said, turning to his companion, "weren't we
going to Hurlingham this afternoon?"

"We were," she said doubtfully, "but I think----"

She looked towards Saton. His face was inexpressive, but she seemed to
read there something which prompted her words.

"I think that we must put off Hurlingham, if you do not mind," she
said to Vandermere. "I ought to go and see the Comtesse."

"It is very kind of you," Saton said slowly. "She will, I am sure, be
glad to see you."

Vandermere turned aside for a moment to exchange greetings with some
acquaintances.

"Lois," Saton said in a low tone, "you know I have told you that I do
not like to see you so much with Captain Vandermere."

"I cannot help it," she answered. "He is always at the house. He is a
great friend of Mr. Rochester's. Besides," she added, raising her eyes
to his, "I like being with him."

"You must consider also my likes and dislikes," Saton said. "Think how
hard it is for me to see you so very little."

"Oh, you don't care!" Lois exclaimed tremulously. "You know very well
that you don't care. It is all pretence, this. Why do you do it? Why
do you make me so unhappy?"

"No, Lois," he answered, "it is not pretence. I do care for you, and
in a very few weeks I am coming to fetch you away to make you my wife.
You will be glad, then," he went on. "You will be quite happy."

Vandermere turned back towards them. He had heard nothing of their
conversation, but he saw that Lois was white, and he had hard work to
speak calmly.

"Come," he said to Lois, "I think we had better go on. Good morning,
Mr. Saton!"

Saton stood aside to let them pass. He knew very well that Lois would
have stayed with him, had he bidden it, but he made no attempt to
induce her to do so.

"Till this afternoon," he said, taking off his hat with a little
flourish.

"Hang that fellow!" Vandermere muttered, as he looked at Lois, and saw
the change in her. "Why do you let him talk to you, dear? You don't
like him. I am sure that you do not. Why do you allow him to worry
you?"

"I think," Lois answered, "that I do like him. Oh, I must like him,
Maurice!"

"Yes?" he answered.

"Don't let us talk about him. He has gone away now. Come with me to
the other end of the Park. Let us hurry...."

Saton walked on until he saw a certain mauve parasol raised a little
over one of the seats. A moment afterwards, hat in hand, he was
standing before Pauline.

"Has he come?" she asked, as he bent over her fingers.

Saton's face clouded.

"Yes!" he answered. "He came last night. To tell you the truth, he has
just gone away in a temper. I do not know whether he will return to
the house or not."

"Why?" she asked quickly.

Saton laughed to cover his annoyance.

"He does not approve of the luxury of my surroundings," he answered.
"He declined to write at my desk, or to sit in my room."

"I don't wonder at it," she answered. "You know how he worships
simplicity."

"Simplicity!" Saton exclaimed. "You should see the place where he
writes himself. There is no carpet upon the floor, a block of wood for
a writing-table, a penny bottle of ink, and a gnawed and bitten
penholder only an inch or two long."

Pauline nodded.

"I can understand it," she said. "I can understand, too, how your
rooms would affect him. You should have thought of that. If he has
gone away altogether, how will you be able to finish your work?"

"I must do without him," Saton answered.

Pauline looked at him critically, dispassionately.

"I do not believe that you can do without him," she said. "You are
losing your hold upon your work. I have noticed it for weeks. Don't
you think that you are frittering away a great deal of your time and
thoughts? Don't you think that the very small things of life, things
that are not worth counting, have absorbed a good deal of your
attention lately?"

He was annoyed, and yet flattered that she should speak to him so
intimately.

"It may be so," he admitted. "And yet, do you know why I have chosen
to mix a little more with my fellows?"

"No!" she answered. "I do not know why."

"It is because I must," he said, lowering his tone. "It is because I
must see something of you."

The lace of her parasol drooped a little. Her face was hidden now, and
her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

"That is very foolish," she said. "In the first place, if my opinion
of you is worth anything, I tell you frankly that I would rather see
you with ink-stained fingers and worn clothes, climbing your way up
toward the truth, working and thinking in an atmosphere which was not
befouled with all the small and petty things of life. It seems to me
that since it amused you to play the young man of fashion, you have
lost your touch--some portion of it, at any rate--upon the greater
things."

Saton was very angry now. He was only indifferently successful in his
attempt to conceal the fact.

"You, too," he muttered. "Well, we shall see. Naudheim has brains, and
he has worked for many years. He had worked, indeed, for many years
when the glimmerings of this thing first came to me. He could help me
if he would, but if he will not, I can do it alone."

"I wonder."

"You do not believe in me," he declared.

"No," she answered, "I do not believe in you--not altogether!"

Rochester and his wife drove down the Park. Saton followed her eyes,
noticing her slight start, and gazed after them with brooding face.

"Rochester is becoming quite a devoted husband," he remarked, with a
sneer.

"Quite," she answered. "They spend most of their time together now."

"And Lady Mary, I understand," he went on, "has reformed. Yesterday
she was opening the new wing of a hospital, and the day before she was
speaking at a Girls' Friendly Society meeting. It's an odd little
place, the world, or rather this one particular corner of it."

She rose, with a little shrug of the shoulders, and held out her hand.

"I must go," she said. "I am lunching early."

"May I walk a little way with you?" he begged.

She hesitated. After all, perhaps, it was a phase of snobbery to
dislike being seen with him--something of that same feeling which she
had never failed to remark in him.

"If you please," she answered. "I am going to take a taximeter at the
Park gates."

"I will walk with you as far as there," he said.

He tried to talk to her on ordinary topics, but he felt at once a
disadvantage. He knew so little of the people, the little round of
life in which she lived. Before they reached the gates they had
relapsed into silence.

"It is foolish of me," he said, as he called a taximeter, "to come
here simply in the hope of seeing you, to beg for a few words, and to
go away more miserable than ever."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"It is certainly very foolish," she admitted.

"I don't see why," he protested, "you should disapprove of me so
utterly."

"I do not disapprove," she told him. "I have not the right. I have not
the desire to have the right. Only, since you will have me tell you, I
am interested in your work. I like to talk about it, to hear you talk
when you are enthusiastic. It does not amuse me to see you come down
to the level of these others, who while their morning away doing
nothing. You are not at home amongst them. You have no place there.
When you come to me as a young man in Society, you bore me."

She stepped into the taximeter and drove away, with a farewell nod,
abrupt although not altogether unkindly. Yet as she looked behind, a
few seconds later, her face was very much softer--her eyes were almost
regretful.

"It may hurt him," she said to herself, "but it is very good that he
should hear the truth."




CHAPTER XXXIV

A WOMAN'S TONGUE


The man was harmless enough, to all appearance--something less than
middle-aged, pale, and with stubbly brown moustache. He was dressed in
blue serge clothes, and a bowler hat a little ancient at the brim.
Neither his appearance nor his manner was remarkable for any
particular intelligence. Yet the girl who looked him over was at once
suspicious.

"What can I do for you?" she asked a little curtly.

He pointed to the crystal upon the table, and held out his hand.

"I want my fortune told," he said.

Violet shook her head.

"I do not attempt to read fortunes," she said, "and I do not, in any
case, see gentlemen here at all. I do not understand how the boy could
have shown you up."

"It wasn't the boy's fault," the visitor answered. "I was very keen on
coming, and I gave him the slip. Do make an exception for once, won't
you?" he went on. "I know my hand is very easy to read. I had it read
once, and nearly everything came true."

Again she shook her head.

"I cannot do anything for you, sir," she said.

The man protested.

"But you call yourself a professional palmist," he said, "and you add
crystal gazing to your announcement. I have seen it being carried
along on Regent Street."

"It is quite true," Violet said, "that I sometimes try to amuse
ladies, but I make no serious attempt to tell fortunes. And as I said
before, I do not even receive gentlemen here at all. I am sorry that
you have had your visit for nothing."

He rose to his feet with a shrug of the shoulders. There was nothing
to be done but to accept defeat. And then, at the moment of defeat,
something happened which more than reconciled him to his wasted visit.
The door was opened abruptly, and Saton entered.

He realized the situation, or its possibilities, in an instant. His
bow to Violet was the bow of a stranger.

"You are engaged," he said. "I will come again. I am sorry that your
boy did not tell me."

"This gentleman came under a misapprehension," Violet answered. "I am
sorry, but the same thing applies to you. I do not receive gentlemen
here."

Saton bowed.

"I am sorry," he said.

The page-boy for whom Violet had rung, opened the door. The first
comer passed out, with obvious reluctance. The moment that the door
was closed, Violet turned towards Saton with a little exclamation.

"Well," she said, "of all the idiots I ever knew. Haven't I told you
time after time that this place is infested with detectives? We get
them here every day or so, trying to trap us, women as well as men.
And yet you walk in as though the place belonged to you. The one thing
they are so anxious to find out is who is running this show."

"I was a fool to come, Violet," Saton admitted, "and I am going at
once. You think, then, that he was a detective?"

"I am sure of it," she answered. "I was sure of it, from the moment he
came in."

"I will go," Saton said.

"Did you come to see me?" she asked, with a momentary softening in her
tone.

Saton nodded.

"It must be another time," he said. "I will not stop now, or that man
below will suspect."

"When will our next evening be, Bertrand?" she begged, following him
to the door.

"I'll send you a telegram," he answered--"perhaps, to-morrow."

Saton descended the stairs quickly. On the threshold of the door he
paused, with the apparent object of lighting a cigarette. His eyes
travelled up and down the street. Looking into a shop-window a few
yards away, was the man whom he had found with Violet.

He strolled slowly along the pavement and accosted him.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "Please don't think me impertinent, but
I am really curious to know whether that young woman was honest or
not. She refused to read my hand or look into the crystal for me,
simply because I was a man. Did she treat you in just the same way?"

The detective smiled.

"Yes!" he said. "She was very much on her guard indeed. Declined to
have anything to do with me."

"Well," said Saton, "I only went in for a joke. I'll try one of the
others. There's a wonderful lady in Oxford Street somewhere, they tell
me, with the biggest black eyes in London. Good day, sir!"

Saton walked off, and entered a neighboring tea-shop. From there he
telephoned to Violet, who a few minutes later appeared.

"Sit down and have some tea," he said. "I want to talk to you."

"It's almost time, isn't it?" she asked, reproachfully.

"Never mind about that just now," he said. "You can guess a little how
things are. Those questions in the House upset the Home Secretary, and
I am quite convinced that they have made up their minds at Scotland
Yard to go for us. You are sure that you have been careful?"

"Absolutely," she answered. "I have not once, to man or woman,
pretended to tell their fortune. I tell them that the whole thing is a
joke; that I will look into the crystal for them if they wish it, or
read their hands, but I do not profess to tell their fortunes. What I
see I will tell them. It may interest them or it may not. If it does,
I ask them to give me something as a present. Of course, I see that
they always do that. But you are quite right, Bertrand. Every one of
our shows is being watched. Besides that fellow this afternoon I had
two detectives yesterday, and a woman whom I am doubtful about, who
keeps on coming."

"Three weeks longer," Saton remarked, half to himself. "Perhaps it
isn't worth while. Perhaps it would be better to close up now."

"Only three weeks?" Violet asked eagerly. "Bertrand, what are you
going to do then? What is going to become of me?"

Saton patted her on the hand.

"I will tell you a little later on," he said. "Everything will be
arranged all right. The only thing I am wondering about is whether it
wouldn't be better to close up at once."

"They've got a big piece of business on at the office," she remarked.

Saton frowned.

"I know it," he answered. "It's a dangerous piece of business, too.
It's blackmail, pure and simple. I wonder Huntley dare tackle it. It
might mean five years' penal servitude for him."

"He'd give you away before he went to penal servitude," Violet
remarked. "You may make yourself jolly sure of that."

Saton passed his hand across his forehead.

"Phew!" he said. "How stuffy this place is! Violet, I wish you'd go
round to Huntley, and talk to him. Of course, he gets a big percentage
on the returns, and that makes him anxious to squeeze everyone. But I
don't want any risks. We're nearly out of the wood. I don't want to
be trapped now. And I've an enemy, Violet--a pretty dangerous enemy,
too. I fancy that most of this activity at Scotland Yard and
thereabouts lately, is due to him."

"I'll go," she said, drawing on her gloves. "Shall I telephone to
you?"

He nodded.

"Telephone me at home," he said. "Tell Dorrington, or
Huntley--whichever you see--that the affair must be closed up--either
dropped or settled. The risk is too great. My other work is becoming
more and more important every day. I ought not to be mixed up with
this sort of thing at all, Violet."

"Why are you?" she asked.

"Money," he answered. "One must have money. One can do nothing without
money. It isn't that you or any of the other places make such an
amazing lot. It's from Dorrington, of course, that the biggest draws
come. Still, on the whole it's a good income."

"And you're going to give it all up?" she remarked.

He nodded.

"I daren't go on," he said. "We've reached about the limit."

"How are you going to live, then?" she asked curiously. "You're not
the sort of man to go back to poverty."

Saton considered for a moment. After all, perhaps it would pay him
best to be straightforward with this girl. He would tell her the
truth. If she were disagreeable about it, he could always swear that
he had been joking.

"Violet," he said, "I will tell you what I am going to do. It does
not sound very praiseworthy, but you must remember that my work, my
real hard work, means a great deal to me, and for its sake I am
willing to put up with a good deal of misunderstanding. I am going to
ask you to break off our engagement. I am going to marry a young lady
who has a great deal of money."

Violet sat perfectly still in her chair. For several seconds she did
not utter a syllable. Her lips were a little parted. The color seemed
suddenly drawn from her face, and her eyes narrowed. One realized then
the pernicious effect of cosmetics. Her blackened eyebrows were
painfully apparent. The little patch of rouge was easily discernible
against the pallor of her powdered skin. She was suddenly ugly. Saton,
looking at her, was amazed that he could ever have brought himself to
touch her lips.

"Ah!" she remarked. "I hadn't thought of that. You want to marry some
one else, eh?"

Saton nodded.

"It isn't that I want to," he declared, "only, as you know, I must
have money. I can't marry you without it, can I, Violet? We should
only be miserable. You understand that?"

"Yes, I understand!" she answered.

She was turning one of her rings round, looking down at her hands with
downcast head.

"You're upset, Violet," he said, soothingly. "I'm sorry. You see I
can't help myself, don't you?"

"Oh, I suppose so!" she answered. "Who is the young lady?"

"A Miss Lois Champneyes," Saton said. "She is a ward of a Mr. Henry
Rochester, who has been my enemy all along. It is he, I believe, who
has stirred up these detectives to keep watching us."

"Henry Rochester," she repeated. "Yes, I remember the name! He lives
at the great house near Blackbird's Nest."

Saton nodded.

"He showed you the way to my cottage once there," he reminded her.
"Well, I'm glad I've told you, Violet. I hope you understand exactly
how much it means. It's Rachael's doings, of course, and I daren't go
against her."

"No, I suppose not!" she answered.

They parted in the street. Saton called a taximeter and drove off.
Violet walked slowly down Bond Street. As she passed the corner of
Piccadilly, she was suddenly aware that the man who had visited her
that afternoon was watching her from the other side of the street. She
hesitated for a moment, and then, standing still, deliberately
beckoned him over.

"You are a detective, are you not?" she asked, as he approached, hat
in hand.

He smiled.

"You are a very clever young lady," he remarked.

"I don't want any compliments," she answered. "Did you come to my show
this afternoon hoping just to catch me tripping, or are you engaged in
a larger quest altogether?"

"In a larger quest," he answered. "I want some information, and if
you can give it me, I can promise that you will be remarkably well
paid."

"And the information?" she asked.

"I want," he said slowly, "to be able to connect the young man who
came in and pretended to be a stranger, and who has just been having
tea with you--I mean Mr. Bertrand Saton--I want to connect him with
your establishment, and also with a little office where some very
strange business has been transacted during the last few months. You
know where I mean. What do you say? Shall we have a talk?"

She walked by his side along Piccadilly.

"We may as well," she said. "We'll go into the Café Royal and sit
down."




CHAPTER XXXV

ON LOIS' BIRTHDAY


"Lois is late this morning," Vandermere remarked, looking up at the
clock.

"And on her birthday, too!" Lady Mary declared. "Young people,
nowadays, are so _blasé_. Look at all those presents on the table for
her, and here the breakfast gong has rung twice, and there is no sign
of her."

Vandermere turned to his host.

"You haven't heard anything about that fellow Saton?" he asked. "You
don't know whether he is in the neighborhood or not?"

"I have not heard," Rochester answered. "To tell you the truth, if he
has as much sense as I believe he has, he is probably on his way to
the Continent by now."

"I have an idea, somehow," Vandermere continued, "that Lois is afraid
he'll turn up to-day."

"If Lois is afraid," Rochester remarked, "let me tell you in
confidence, Vandermere, that I don't think you need be."

"My dear girl!" Lady Mary exclaimed, looking toward the staircase. "We
were just going in to breakfast without you, and on your birthday,
too!"

Lois came slowly down the broad stairs into the hall. It was
impossible to ignore the fact that she was pale, and that she walked
as one in fear. Her eyes were sunken, and spoke of a sleepless night.
Her manner was almost furtive. She scarcely glanced, even, at the
little pile of packages which stood upon the table.

"How nice of you all to wait!" she said. "Good morning, everybody!"

"Good morning, and many happy returns to you!" Lady Mary called out.
"Will you look at your presents now or after breakfast?"

"I think after breakfast," she said. "Are there any letters?"

"They are on the table," Rochester said.

She glanced them through eagerly. When she had come to the last one,
she drew a little breath of relief. A tinge of color came into her
cheeks.

"You dear people!" she exclaimed, impulsively. "I know I am going to
have ever such nice things to thank you for. May I be a child, and put
off looking at them until after breakfast? Do you mind, all of you?"

"Of course not," Vandermere answered. "We want you to tell us how you
would like to spend the day."

"I would like to ride--a long way away," she declared, breathlessly.
"Or the motor-car--I shouldn't mind that. I should like to go as far
away as ever we can, and stay away until it is dark. Could we start
directly after breakfast?"

Rochester smiled.

"You can have the car so far as I am concerned," he said. "I have to
go over to Melton to sit on the Bench, and your aunt and I are
lunching with the Delameres afterwards. But if you can put up with
Vandermere as an escort!"

"I'll try," she answered. "Dear Maurice, do order the car for
half-an-hour's time, will you?"

He laughed.

"Why this wild rush?" he inquired.

"I don't know," she answered. "It is just a feeling, perhaps. I want
to get away, a long way off, very soon. I can't explain. Don't ask me
to explain, any of you. You are sure those are all the letters?"

"Certain," Rochester answered. "And, Lois," he added, looking up,
"remember this. You speak and look this morning like one who has
fears. I repeat it, you have absolutely nothing to fear. I am your
guardian still, although you are of age, and I promise you that
nothing harmful, nothing threatening, shall come near you."

She drew a little sigh. She did not make him any answer at all, and
yet in a sense it was clear that his words had brought her some
comfort.

"Don't expect us back till dinner-time," she declared. "I am going to
sit behind with Maurice and be bored to death, but I am going to be
out of doors till it is dark. I wish you did not bore me so, Maurice,"
she added, smiling up at him.

"I won't to-day, anyhow," he answered, "because if I talk at all I am
going to talk about yourself."

As the day wore on, Lois seemed to lose the depression which had come
over her during the early morning. By luncheon she was laughing and
chattering, talking over her presents. Soon, when they were speeding
on the road again, she felt her hand suddenly held.

"Lois," her companion said, "this is your birthday, and you are a free
woman, free to give yourself to whom you will. It should be the
happiest day of your life. Won't you make it the happiest day of
mine?"

"Oh, if only I could!" she answered, with a sudden return of her old
nervousness. "Maurice, if only I dared!"

He laughed scornfully.

"Dear Lois," he said, "you are impressionable, and you have let
yourself become the victim of some very foolish fancies. You are a
free agent. I tell you this now, and I tell you the truth. You are a
free agent, free to give your love where you will, free to give
yourself to whom you choose. And I come to you first on your birthday,
Lois. You know that I love you. Give yourself to me, little girl, and
never anything harmful shall come near you. I swear it, on my honor,
Lois."

She drew a little sigh of content, and her arm stole shyly up to his
shoulder. In a moment she was in his arms.

"Don't be angry with me, Maurice," she sobbed, "if I am a little
strange just at first. I am afraid--I can't tell you what of--but I am
afraid."

He talked to her reassuringly, holding her hands--most of the time, in
fact, for the country was a sparsely populated one, with his arm
around her waist. And then suddenly she seemed to lose her new-found
content. Her cheeks were suddenly white. She looked everywhere
restlessly about.

"What is the matter, dear?" he asked anxiously.

"I thought that I heard something!" she exclaimed. "What is the time?"

"Four o'clock," he answered, looking at his watch.

"Please tell the man to go back, straight back home," she said. "I am
tired. I must get back. Please, Maurice!"

He gave the chauffeur instructions through the speaking-tube. The car
swung round, and they sped on their way through the quiet lanes.

"Dear Lois," he said, "something has come over you. Your hands are
cold, and you have drawn yourself away. Now please be honest and tell
me all about it. If you have fears, all I can say is that you may
dismiss them. You are safe now that you have given yourself to me, as
safe as anyone in the world could be."

"Oh! If I could believe it!" she whispered, but she did not turn her
head. Her eyes sought his no longer. They were fixed steadfastly on
the road in front.

"You must believe it," he declared, laughing. "I can assure you that I
am strong enough to hold you, now that I have the right. If any
troubles or worries come, they are mine to deal with! See, we will not
mince words. If that little reptile dares to crawl near you, I'll set
my foot upon his neck. By God, I will!"

She took no notice of his speech, except to slowly shake her head. It
seemed as though she had not heard him. By and bye he left off talking.
There was nothing he could say to bring back the color to her cheeks,
or the light to her eyes, or the confidence to her tone. Something had
happened--he could not tell what--but for the moment she was gone from
him. The little hands which his still clasped were as cold as ice. It
seemed to him that they were unwilling prisoners. Once, when he would
have passed his arm around her waist, she even shuddered and drew
away.

The car rushed on its way, turned into the great avenue, and drew up
in front of Beauleys. Lois stepped out quickly, and went on ahead. In
the hall several people were standing, and amongst them Bertrand
Saton!

Vandermere's face was dark as a thundercloud when his eyes fell upon
the young man--carefully, almost foppishly dressed, standing upon the
hearthrug in front of the open fire. Rochester was there with Pauline,
and Lady Mary was seated behind the tea-tray. There was a little
chorus as the two entered. Lois went straight to Saton, who held out
his hands.

"Dear Lois," he said softly, "I could not keep away to-day. I have
been waiting for you, waiting for nearly an hour."

"I know," she answered. "I came as soon as I knew."




CHAPTER XXXVI

THE CHARLATAN UNMASKED


There seemed for the next few minutes to be a somewhat singular
abstention from any desire to interfere with the two people who stood
in the centre of the little group, hand-in-hand. Saton, after his
first speech, and after Lois had given him her hands, had turned a
little defiantly toward Rochester, who remained, however, unmoved,
his elbow resting upon the broad mantelpiece, his face almost
expressionless. Vandermere, too, stood on one side and held his peace,
though the effort with which he did so was a visible one. Lady Mary
looked anxiously towards them. Pauline had shrunk back, as though
something in the situation terrified her.

Even Saton himself felt that it was the silence before the storm. The
courage which he had summoned up to meet a storm of disapproval, began
to ebb slowly away in the face of this unnatural silence. It was clear
that the onus of further speech was to rest with him.

Still retaining Lois' hand, he turned toward Rochester.

"You have forbidden me to enter your house, or to hold any
communication with your ward until she was of age, Mr. Rochester," he
said. "One of your conditions I have obeyed. With regard to the other,
I have done as I thought fit. However, to-day she is her own
mistress. She has consented to be my wife. I do not need to ask for
your consent or approval. If you are not willing that she should be
married from your roof, I can take her at once to the Comtesse, who is
prepared to receive her."

"A very pleasant little arrangement," Rochester said, speaking for the
first time. "I am afraid, however, that you will have to alter your
plans."

"I do not admit your right to interfere in them," Saton answered. "If
you continue your opposition to my marriage with your ward, I shall
take her away with me this afternoon."

Rochester shook his head.

"I think not," he answered.

"Then we shall see," Saton declared. "Lois, come with me. It does not
matter about your hat. Your things can be sent on afterwards. Come!"

She would have followed him towards the door, but Rochester, leaning
over, touched the bell, and almost at once two men stepped into the
hall. One, Saton remembered in an instant. It was the man whom he had
found with Violet--the man who was there to have his fortune told. The
other was a stranger, but there was something in his demeanor, in the
very cut of his clothes, which seemed to denote his profession.

Saton was suddenly pale. He realized in a moment that it was not
intended that he should leave the room. He looked toward Rochester as
though for an explanation.

"My young friend," Rochester said, "when you leave this place, you
will leave it, unless I change my mind, in the company of those
friends of mine whom you see there. I don't want to terrify you
unnecessarily. These gentlemen are detectives, but they are in my
employ. They have nothing to do with Scotland Yard. I can assure you,
however, that there need not be ten minutes' delay in the issuing of a
warrant for your arrest."

"My arrest?" Saton gasped. "What do you mean?"

Rochester sighed.

"Ah!" he said. "Why should you force me for explanations? Ask
yourself. Once before you have stood in the dock, on the charge of
being connected with certain enterprises designed to wheedle their
pocket-money from over-credulous ladies. You got off by a fluke, but
you did not learn your lesson. This time, getting off will not be
quite so easy, for you seem to have added to your former profession
one which an English jury seldom lets pass unpunished. I am in a
position to prove, Bertrand Saton, that the offices in Charing Cross
Road, conducted under the name of Jacobson & Company, and which are
nothing more nor less than the headquarters of an iniquitous
blackmailing system, are inspired and conducted by you, and that the
profits are the means by which you live. A more despicable profession
the world has never known. There are a sheaf of cases against you. I
will remind you of one. My wife--Lady Mary here--left a private letter
in the rooms of a Madame Helga. The letter was passed on at once to
the blackmailing branch of your extremely interesting business, and
the sum of, I think, five hundred pounds, was paid for its recovery.
You yourself were personally responsible for this little arrangement.
And there are many others. If all the poor women whom you have
robbed," Rochester continued, "had had the common sense of my wife,
and brought the matter to their husbands, you would probably have been
a guest of His Majesty some time ago."

Such fear as had at first drawn the color from Saton's cheeks, and
filled his eyes with terror, passed quickly away. He stood upright,
his head thrown back, a faint smile upon his lips. He had some
appearance, even, of manhood.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I deny your charges. I have no connection
with the fortune-telling establishments to which you have alluded. I
know nothing of the blackmailing transactions you speak of. You have
been my enemy, my hopeless and unforgiving enemy. I am not afraid of
you. If this is your great blow, strike. Let me be arrested. I will
answer everything. Afterwards, you and I will have our reckoning.
Lois," he added, turning to her, "you do not believe--say that you do
not believe these things."

"I--do--not--believe--them--Bertrand," she answered slowly.

"You will come with me?"

"I--will--come--with--you," she echoed.

"By God, sir, she shan't!" cried Vandermere. "Take your hands off her,
sir, or you shall learn how mountebanks like yourself should be
treated."

Saton struck him full in the face, so that losing for a moment his
balance upon the slippery floor, Vandermere nearly fell. In a moment
he recovered himself, however. There was a struggle which did not last
half-a-dozen seconds. He lifted Saton off his feet and shook him, till
it seemed as though his limbs were cracking. Then he threw him away.

Rochester stepped forward to interfere.

"Enough of this, Vandermere," he said sternly. "Remember that the
fellow's career is over. He may try to bluff it out, but he is done
for. I have proofs enough to send him to prison a dozen times over."

Saton rose slowly to his feet. Unconsciously his fingers straightened
his tie. He knew very well that life--or rather the things which life
meant for him--was over. He had only one desire--the desire of the
born _poseur_--to extricate himself from his present position with
something which might, at any rate, seem like dignity.

"Do I understand," he asked Rochester, "that my departure from this
house is forbidden?"

Rochester shook his head.

"No!" he answered. "For what you are, for the ignoble creature that
you have become, I accept a certain amount of responsibility. For that
reason, I bid you go. Go where you will, so long as your name or your
presence never trouble us again. Let this be the last time that any
one of us hears the name of Bertrand Saton. I give you that chance.
Find for yourself an honest place in the world, if you can, wherever
you will, so that it be not in this country. Go!"

Saton turned toward the door with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"You need have no fear," he said. "The country into which I go is one
in which you will never be over-anxious to travel."

He passed out, amidst a silence which seemed a little curious when one
considered the emotions which he left behind. Lois' pale face seemed
all aglow with a sort of desperate thankfulness. Already she was in
Vandermere's arms. And then the silence was broken by a woman's
sobbing. They all turned towards her. It was Pauline who had suddenly
broken down, her face buried in her hands, her whole frame shaking
with passion.

Rochester moved towards her, but she thrust him aside.

"You are a brute!" she declared--"a brute!"

She staggered across the room towards the door by which Saton had
departed. Before she could reach it, however, they heard the crunching
of wheels as his car swept by the front on its way down the avenue.

       *       *       *       *       *

Rochester pushed open the black gate which led from the road into the
plantation at the back of the hill, and they passed through and
commenced the last short climb. No word passed between them. The
silence of the evening was broken only by the faint sobbing of the
wind in the treetops, and the breaking of dried twigs under their
feet. They were both listening intently--they scarcely knew for what.
The far-away rumble of a train, the barking of a dog, the scurrying of
a rabbit across the path--these sounds came and passed--nothing else.


They neared the edge of the plantation. There was only a short climb
now, and a gray stone wall. Rochester passed his arm through his
companion's. Her breath was coming in little sobs.

"We shall be there in a moment, Pauline," he said. "It is only a fancy
of mine. Perhaps he is not here after all, but at any rate we shall
know."

She said nothing. She seemed to be bracing herself for that last
effort. Now they could see the bare rocky outline of the summit of the
hill. A few steps more, and they would pass through the gate. And then
the sound came, the sound which somehow they had dreaded. Sharp and
crisp through the twilight air came the report of a revolver. They
even fancied that they heard a little moan come travelling down the
hillside.

Rochester stopped short.

"We are too late," he said. "Pauline, you had better stay here. I will
go on and find him."

She shook her head.

"I am coming," she said. "It is my fault!--it is my fault!"

He held out his hand.

"Pauline," he said, "it may not be a fit sight for you. Sit here. If
you can do any good, I will call to you."

She brushed him aside and began to run. With her slight start she
outdistanced him, and when he scrambled up to the top, she was already
on her knees, kneeling down over the crouching form.

"He is not dead," she cried. "Quick! Tell me where the wound is."

Rochester stooped down on the other side, and Saton opened his eyes
slowly.

"I am a bungler, as usual!" he said.

Rochester opened his coat carefully.

"He has shot himself in the shoulder," he said to Pauline. "It is not
serious."

Saton pointed to the rock.

"Lift me up a little," he said. "I want to sit there, with my back to
it. Carefully!"

Rochester did as he was bid. Then he took his handkerchief and tried
to staunch the blood.

"I don't know why you came," Saton faltered--"you especially," he
added to Rochester. "Haven't you had all the triumph you wanted?
Couldn't you have left me alone to spend this last hour my own way? I
wanted to learn how to die without fear or any regret. Here I can do
it, because it is easier here to realize that failure such as mine is
death."

"We came to try and save you," said Rochester quietly.

"To save you!" Pauline sobbed. "Oh! Bertrand, I am sorry--I am very,
very sorry!"

He looked at her in slow surprise.

"That is kind of you," he said. "It is kind of you to care. You know
now what sort of a creature I am. You know that he was right--this
man, I mean--when he warned you against me, when he told you that I
was something rotten, something not worth your notice. Give me the
revolver again."

Rochester thrust it in his pocket, shaking his head.

"My young friend, I think not," he said. "Listen. I have no more
to say about the past. I am prepared to accept my share of the
responsibility of it. You are still young. There is still time for you
to weave fresh dreams, to live a new life. Make another start. No!
Don't be afraid that I'm going to offer you my help. There was a curse
upon that. But nevertheless, make your start. It isn't I who wish it.
It is--Pauline."

Saton looked at her wonderingly.

"She doesn't care," he said. "She knows now that I am really a
charlatan. And I needn't have been," he added, with a sudden fury. "It
was only that cursed taste for luxury which seemed somehow or other to
creep into my blood, which made me so dependent upon money. Naudheim
was right! Naudheim was right! If only I had stayed with him! If only
I had believed in him!"

"It is not too late," she whispered, stooping low over him. "Be a man,
Bertrand. Take up your work where you left it, and have done with the
other things. This slipping away over the edge, slipping into
Eternity, is the trick of cowards. For my sake, Bertrand!"

He half closed his eyes. Rochester was busy still with his shoulder,
and the pain made him faint.

"Go back to Naudheim," she whispered. "Start life from the very bottom
rung, if he will have it so. Don't be afraid of failure. Keep your
hands tight upon the ladder, and your eyes turned toward Heaven. Oh!
You can climb if you will, Bertrand. You can climb, I am sure. Don't
look down. Don't pause. Be satisfied with nothing less than the great
things. For my sake, Bertrand! My thoughts will follow you. My heart
will be with you. Promise!"

"I promise," he murmured.

His head sank back. He was half unconscious.

"We will stay with him for a moment," Rochester whispered. "As soon as
he comes to, I will carry him down to the car."

In a moment or two he opened his eyes. His lips moved, but he was half
delirious.

"Anything but failure!" he muttered to himself, with a little groan.
"Death, if you will--a touch of the finger, a stroke too far to
seaward. Oh! death is easy enough! Death is easy, and failure is
hard!"

Her lips touched his forehead.

"Don't believe it, dear," she whispered. "There is no real failure if
only the spirit is brave. The dead things are there to help you climb.
They are rungs in the ladder, boulders for your feet."

He leaned a little forward. It seemed as though he recognised
something familiar amongst the treetops, or down in the mist-clad
valleys.

"Naudheim!" he cried hoarsely. "I shall go to Naudheim!"




EPILOGUE

THE MAN


About half-way up, where the sleighs stopped, Lady Mary gave in.
Pauline and Rochester went forward on foot, and with a guide in front.
Below them was a wonderful unseen world, unseen except when the snow
for a moment ceased to fall, and they caught vague, awe-inspiring
glimpses of ravines and precipices, tree-clad gorges, reaching down a
dizzy height to the valley below. Above them was a plateau, black with
pine trees. Higher still, the invisible mountain tops.

"It is only a few hundred yards further," Rochester said, holding his
companion by the arm. "What a country, though! I wonder if it ever
stops snowing."

"It is wonderful!" she murmured. "Wonderful!"

And then, as though in some strange relation to his words, the storm
of whirling snow-flakes suddenly ceased. The thin veil passed away
from overhead like gossamer. They saw a clear sky. They saw, even, the
gleam of reflected sunshine, and as the mist lifted, the country above
and beyond unrolled itself in one grand and splendid transformation
scene: woods above woods; snow-clad peaks, all glittering with their
burden of icicles and snow; and above, a white chaos, where the
mountain-peak struck the clouds.

They paused for a moment, breathless.

"It is like Naudheim himself," she declared. "This is the land he
spoke of. This is the place to which he climbed. It is wonderful!"

"Come," Rochester said. "We must be up before the darkness."

Slowly they made their way along the mountain road, which their guide
in front was doing all he could to make smooth for them. And then at
the corner they found a log hut, to which their guide pointed
triumphantly.

"It is there!" he exclaimed--"there where they live, the two madmen.
Beyond, you see, is the village of the woodhewers."

Rochester nodded. They struggled a few steps upwards, and then paused
to look with wonder at the scene below. The one log cabin before which
they were now standing, had been built alone. Barely a hundred yards
away, across the ravine, were twenty or thirty similar ones, from the
roofs of which the smoke went curling upwards. It seemed for a moment
as though they had climbed above the world of noises--climbed into the
land of eternal silence. Before they had had time, however, to frame
the thought, they heard the crashing of timber across the ravine, and
a great tree fell inwards. A sound like distant thunder rose and
swelled at every moment.

"It is the machinery," their guide told them. "The trees fall and are
stripped of their boughs. Then they go down the ravine there, and
along the slide all the way to the river. See them all the way, like a
great worm. Day and night, month by month--there is never a minute
when a tree does not fall."

Again they heard the crashing, and another tree fell. They heard the
rumble of the slide in the forest. The peculiar scent of fresh sap
seemed like a perfume in the air. Then suddenly the snow began to fall
again. They could not see across the ravine.

The guide knocked at the door and opened it. Rochester and Pauline
passed in....

There was something almost familiar about the little scene. It was, in
many respects, so entirely as she had always imagined it. Naudheim,
coatless, collarless, with open waistcoat, twisted braces, and unkempt
hair, was striding up and down the room, banging his hands against his
side, dictating to the younger man who sat before the rude pine table.

"So we arrive," they heard his harsh, eager tones, "so we arrive at
the evolution of that consciousness which may justly be termed
eternal--the consciousness which has become subject to these primary
and irresistible laws, the understanding of which has baffled for so
many ages the students of every country. So we come----"

Naudheim broke off in the middle of his sentence. A rush of cold air
had swept into the room. He thrust forward an angry, inquiring
countenance toward the visitors. The young man sprang to his feet.

"Pauline!" he exclaimed.

He recognised Rochester, and stepped back with a momentary touch of
his old passionate repugnance, not unmixed with fear. He recovered
himself, however, almost immediately, Rochester gazed at him in
amazement. It would have been hard, indeed, to have recognised the
Bertrand Saton of the old days, in the robust and bearded man who
stood there now with his eyes fixed upon Pauline. His cheeks were
weather-beaten but brown with health. He wore a short, unkempt beard,
a flannel shirt with collar but no tie, tweed clothes, which might
indeed have come, at one time or another, from Saville Row, but were
now spent with age, and worn out of all shape.

Pauline's heart leaped with joy. Her eyes were wet. It had been worth
while, then. He had found salvation.

"We hadn't the least right to come, of course," she began, recognising
that speech alone could dissolve that strange silence and discomposure
which seemed to have fallen upon all of them. "Mr. Rochester and Lady
Mary and I are going to St. Moritz, and I persuaded them to stay over
here and see whether we couldn't rout you out. What a wonderful
place!" she exclaimed.

"It is a wonderful place, madam!" Naudheim exclaimed glowering at them
with darkening face. "It is wonderful because we are many thousands of
feet up from that rotten, stinking little life, that cauldron of
souls, into which my young friend here had very nearly pitched his own
little offering."

"It was we who sent him to you," Pauline said gently.

"So long as you have not come to fetch him away," Naudheim muttered.

Pauline shook her head.

"We have come," she said, "because we care for him, because we were
anxious to know whether he had come to his own. We will go away the
moment you send us."

"You will have some tea," Naudheim growled, a little more graciously.
"Saton, man, be hospitable. It is goat's milk, and none too sweet at
that, and I won't answer for the butter."

Saton spoke little. Pauline was content to watch him. They drank tea
out of thick china cups, but over their conversation there was always
a certain reserve. Naudheim listened and watched, like a mother
jealous of strangers who might rob her of her young. After tea,
however, he disappeared from the room for a few moments, and Rochester
walked toward the window.

"It is very good of you to come, Pauline," Saton said. "I shall work
all the better for this little glimpse of you."

"Will the work," she asked softly, "never be done?"

He shook his head.

"Why should it? One passes from field to field, and our lives are not
long enough, nor our brains great enough, to reach the place where we
may call halt."

"Do you mean," she asked, "that you will live here all your days?"

"Why not?" he answered. "I have tried other things, and you know what
they made of me. If I live here till I am as old as Naudheim, I shall
only be suffering a just penance."

"But you are young," she murmured. "There are things in the world
worth having. There is a life there worth living. Solitude such as
this is the greatest panacea the world could offer for all you have
been through. But it is not meant to last. We want you back again,
Bertrand."

His eyes were suddenly on fire. He shrank a little away from her.

"Don't!" he begged. "Don't, Pauline. I am living my punishment here,
and I have borne it without once looking back. Don't make it harder."

"I do not wish to make it harder," she declared, "and yet I meant what
I said. It is not right that you should spend all your days here. It
is not right for your own sake, it is not right----"

She held out her hands to him suddenly.

"It is not right for mine," she whispered.

Rochester stepped outside. Again the snow had ceased. In the forest he
could hear the whirl of machinery and the crashing of the falling
timber. He stood for a moment with clenched hands, with unseeing eyes,
with ears in which was ringing still the memory of that low,
passionate cry. And then the fit passed. He looked down to the little
half-way house where he had left his wife. He fancied he could see
someone waving a white handkerchief from the platform of pine logs. It
was all so right, after all, so right and natural. He began to descend
alone.

Saton brought her down about an hour later. Their faces told all that
there was to say.

"Bertrand is going to stay here for another year," Pauline said,
answering Lady Mary's unspoken question. "The first part of his work
with Naudheim will be finished then, and we think he will have earned
a vacation."

Saton held out his hands to Rochester.

"Mr. Rochester," he said, "I have never asked you to forgive me for
all the hard things I have said and thought of you, for my
ingratitude, and--for other things."

"Don't speak of them," Rochester interrupted.

"I won't," Saton continued quickly. "I can't. That chapter of my life
is buried. I cannot bear to think of it even now. I cannot bear to
come in contact with anything which reminds me of it."

Rochester took his hand and grasped it heartily.

"Don't be morbid about it," he said. "Every man should have at least
two chances in life. You had your first, and it was a rank failure.
That was because you had unnatural help, and bad advice. The second
time, I am glad to see that you have succeeded. You have done this on
your own. You have proved that the real man is the present man."

Saton drew Pauline towards him with a gesture which was almost
reverent.

"I think that Pauline knows," he said. "I hope so."

Early in the morning their sleigh rattled off. Saton stood outside the
cottage, waving his hand. Naudheim was by his side, his arm resting
gently upon the young man's shoulder. A fine snow was falling around
them. The air was clean and pure--the air of Heaven. There was no
sound to break the deep stillness but the tinkle of the sleigh-bells,
and behind, the rhythmic humming of the machinery, and the crashing of
the falling trees.

"Naudheim is a great master," Rochester said.

Pauline smiled through her tears.

"Bertrand isn't such a very bad pupil."

                         THE END




E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels


He possesses the magic art of narration.--_New York Herald._

Mr. Oppenheim never fails to entertain us.--_Boston Transcript._

The author has acquired an admirable technique of the sort demanded by
the novel of intrigue and mystery.--_The Dial, Chicago._

Mr. Oppenheim is a past master of the art of constructing ingenious
plots and weaving them around attractive characters.--_London Morning
Post._

By all odds the most successful among the writers of that class of
fiction which, for want of a better term, maybe called "mystery
stories."--_Ainslee's Magazine._

E. Phillips Oppenheim has a very admirable gift of telling good
stories, thoroughly matured, brilliantly constructed, and convincingly
told.--_London Times._

Readers of Mr. Oppenheim's novels may always count on a story of
absorbing interest, turning on a complicated plot, worked out with
dexterous craftsmanship.--_Literary Digest_, New York.

We do not stop to inquire into the measure of his art, any more than
we inquire into that of Alexandre Dumas, we only realize that here is
a benefactor of tired men and women seeking relaxation.--_The
Independent_, New York.




E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels


=The Moving Finger.=

     A mystifying story dealing with unexpected results of a
     wealthy M. P.'s experiment with a poor young man.

=Berenice.=

     Oppenheim in a new vein--the story of the love of a novelist
     of high ideals for an actress.

=The Lost Ambassador.=

     A straightforward mystery tale of Paris and London, in which
     a rascally maître d'hotel plays an important part.

=A Daughter of the Marionis.=

     A melodramatic romance of Palermo and England, dealing with
     a rejected Italian lover's attempted revenge.

=Mystery of Mr. Bernard Brown.=

     A murder-mystery story rich in sensational incidents.

=The Illustrious Prince.=

     A narrative of mystery and Japanese political intrigue.

=Jeanne of the Marshes.=

     Strange doings at an English house party are here set forth.

=The Governors.=

     A romance of the intrigues of American finance.

=The Missioner.=

     Strongly depicts the love of an earnest missioner and a
     worldly heroine.

=The Long Arm of Mannister.=

     A distinctly different story that deals with a wronged man's
     ingenious revenge.

=As a Man Lives.=

     Discloses the mystery surrounding the fair occupant of a
     yellow house.

=The Avenger.=

     Unravels an intricate tangle of political intrigue and
     private revenge.

=The Great Secret.=

     Unfolds a stupendous international conspiracy.

=A Lost Leader.=

     A realistic romance woven around a striking personality.

=A Maker of History.=

     "Explains" the Russian Baltic fleet's attack on the North
     Sea fishing fleet.

=Enoch Strone: A Master of Men.=

     The story of a self-made man who made a foolish early
     marriage.

=The Malefactor.=

     An amazing story of a man who suffered imprisonment for a
     crime he did not commit.

=The Traitors.=

     A capital romance of love, adventure and Russian intrigue.

=A Prince of Sinners.=

     An engrossing story of English social and political life.

=A Millionaire of Yesterday.=

     A gripping story of a wealthy West African miner.

=The Man and His Kingdom.=

     A dramatic tale of adventure in South America.

=Anna the Adventuress.=

     A surprising tale of a bold deception.

=Mysterious Mr. Sabin.=

     An ingenious story of a world-startling international
     intrigue.

=The Yellow Crayon.=

     Containing the exciting experiences of Mr. Sabin with a
     powerful secret society.

=The Betrayal.=

     A thrilling story of treachery in high diplomatic circles.

=A Sleeping Memory.=

     A remarkable story of an unhappy girl who was deprived of
     her memory.

=The Master Mummer.=

     The strange romance of beautiful Isobel de Sorrens.

Little, Brown, & Co., _Publishers_, Boston




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;
otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's
words and intent.

2. In the advertising pages at the end of this book, titles were set
in bold typeface; this is noted by the = at the beginning and end of
the title.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Moving Finger, by E. Phillips Oppenheim