“His tastes changed a good deal after he went abroad, I believe,” Miss Bettesford answered. “He was in the diplomatic service, you know. He was secretary to the Embassy at Rome for several years, and they say that if he had chosen to go in for politics, he would have had a great career. He wrote a volume of verse, too, and people were beginning to talk about him as a second Byron; but directly he found that he was in a fair way to become famous, wrote no more. He was always like that. He affects to despise everything and everybody, and to prefer a life of cultured isolation. The last time I saw him—it was a long while ago—I heard him say that England was a country in which it was utterly impossible to live. He has spent most of his life at Florence, as you know.”
“I’d like awfully to read that volume of his poems!” Raymond remarked.
“So should I,” Bryan echoed in his deep voice.
Miss Bettesford looked searchingly at Bryan for a moment. Then she felt in her pocket, and produced her keys.
“Well, suppose I indulge you,” she said slowly. “I dare say you’ll be disappointed.”
Raymond sprang up, nearly upsetting his cup.
“What! have you got them?” he cried.
She handed him her keys. “Look in my secretary, in the third drawer,” she directed.
Raymond retreated to the other end of the room, jingling the keys in his hand. Bryan looked up from his ottoman by Miss Bettesford’s side. He leaned over towards her.
“I have heard people speak of the Earl as an utterly selfish man—as a wicked man!” he said slowly. “Was this true?”
She appeared troubled. The firelight was falling upon her sweet, wan face, with its soft crown of white hair, and Bryan could see that the gentle repose of her features had been disturbed by his question.
“I am afraid that in great measure—it is true,” she answered sadly. “He called himself a philosopher—Philip the Epicurean, was the name he was known by at college—and what he called philosophy, other people would have called by a harder name. He used to admit that he had no morals, and no religion. Yet there were people who were very fond of him.”
“Ah!”
Bryan looked steadily into the fire. She watched him, watched the firelight flash upon his bowed face and ruddy brown beard, and gleam in his set bright eyes; and when she withdrew her furtive glance she shivered a little. It was a noble head, but the lines of the mouth were firm and cruel.
There was a little exclamation from behind. Raymond had advanced out of the shadows, holding before him small volume bound in sage-green morocco. He was looking at the title-page.
“Why, Aunt, this is a presentation copy!” he cried. “It was given to you by him, and he calls you by your Christian name! Here it is:
“‘To Marion, from Guy B. Nugent.’”
There was a moment’s deep silence. She was leaning back in her chair, and her face was in the shadow.
“I had forgotten—the inscription!” she said. “But I think I told you that we used to see a good deal of one another just then. Your grandfather was Vicar here, you know!”
“Why, of course!” Raymond exclaimed. “This is interesting!”
He sat down, and commenced turning over the pages. Miss Bettesford looked at Bryan.
“You haven’t had your second cup of tea!” she said quietly. “How silent we all are this afternoon!”
Bryan held out his cup readily.
“I’m not going without it, all the same,” he answered. “I never tasted such tea in my life.”
She smiled faintly as she lifted the silver teapot.
“I should like to have seen what you made in those tin things—pannikins, didn’t you call them?”
Bryan made a wry face.
“Seeing would have been quite enough,” he remarked. “We had no milk, you know, and often no sugar. One chap had a goat, and we milked it sometimes—but it wasn’t very good!”
“I don’t think men are any good at all at making tea,” she said, smiling, as she handed him the dainty little blue cup. “It needs a woman!”
A deep flush stole into Bryan’s cheeks, and he made a sudden impetuous movement which nearly upset the little bamboo table. A swift vision of his evening meal so deftly prepared for him in that far-away pinewood shanty on the banks of the Blue River, had flashed up before him. Everything was there—his memory had been absolutely faithful to him. There was his little bed in the corner, neatly made, and half concealed; the rude table, scrubbed and polished, and his supper set out upon it with a care and neatness which had been a revelation to him. There was an attempt at a white cloth, a thing he had never dreamed of, and in the centre a great bunch of scarlet blossoms gathered from the shrubs outside. Even the floor had been cleaned of the dibris of many a night’s smoking and drinking, and the odour of stale tobacco smoke had unaccountably disappeared, to be replaced by the sweet aromatic perfume of the clustering flowers. But more than anything else, the memory of the girl had clung to him. There she stood, just where the sunlight touched her hair, and flashed in her glad, dark eyes, straight and slim in the tight-fitting serge dress, but as supple and elegant as some beautiful wild creature of the woods. He heard her little musical cry of welcome, and saw the faint colour flushing in her dusky cheeks—almost he could feel the soft caress of her arms, and the touch of her passionate kiss upon his lips. Bryan ground his teeth together, utterly forgetful for the moment of his whereabouts. Was he never to escape from the poison of these memories? His cheeks burned with a sort of shame that they should have found their way into this little home circle whose sweet refinement had become so unspeakably dear to him. For the first effects of his association with Miss Bettesford and this quiet, secluded life at the Vicarage had been the growth of a sort of ultra-Puritanism, from which standpoint he looked back with absolute horror upon his Californian life, and everything connected with Myra and his association with her. Even to think of those days while he sat side by side with Miss Bettesford, and looked into her sweet, worn face, was like a sacrilege; it was like bringing some unclean thing into the presence of God. In another moment he felt that he must have cried out under the lash of these memories, but there came a welcome interruption. Raymond commenced reading aloud a dainty little sonnet which had taken his fancy.
“These verses are delightful!” he exclaimed, shutting up the volume with regret. “No wonder that he had to give up writing to escape fame! What a man he must be to know!”
No one answered. There was a brief silence, broken by unaccustomed sounds from without—the trampling of horses’ feet in the little avenue, and the rolling of wheels. Then an open carriage flashed past the window, and came to a sudden standstill before the door.
“Talk of—an angel!” cried Raymond, springing up. “And here comes the Earl of Wessemer!” concluded Bryan, with a little hard laugh.
But Miss Bettesford did not move or speak. She was sitting as one turned to stone.
VII. THE EARL OF WESSEMER
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There was scarcely a moment’s delay before the trim little maid threw open the door, and announced the visitor: “The Earl of Wessemer!”
He was following her close behind, but stood still for a moment upon the threshold, whilst she passed him and set down a rose-shaded lamp upon a little stand. Miss Bettesford was leaning back in her chair with half-closed eyes. The two men had risen.
He was wrapped from head to foot in a long fur coat, and he carried a sealskin cap in his hand. As he moved slowly forward towards them, and came into the broad circle of the dancing firelight, a sort of glow seemed to fall upon his perfectly-shaped head, with its classic features and full dark eyes. He wanted only the limp—Raymond declared afterwards—and he would have been a perfect elderly Byron.
He walked up to Miss Bettesford’s side with extended band, and a very slight smile upon his lips.
“I owe you a thousand apologies for this informal call,” he said, bending over her hand. “Last night I heard that you we
re living here with your nephew, and I could not deny myself the pleasure of this visit.”
“We are glad to see you, Lord Wessemer,” she answered quietly.
“And this is your nephew, of course,” he said, shaking hands with Raymond, “and this—”
He had turned a little abruptly to where Bryan was standing exactly opposite to him, and looked at him fixedly. There was something striking in the appearance of the two men, both unusually tall, and sharing a common air of distinction, and yet so utterly different. Bryan, drawn up to his full height, and with his head thrown back, seemed to tower over the Earl, and he did not flinch for a moment from the other’s keen scrutiny. Neither of them moved a muscle. There was a shade of something more than ordinary curiosity in Lord Wessemer’s face, but it faded away before Bryan’s perfect immovability. There was not the slightest trace of a smile upon his lips, or any sign of embarrassment.
“This is my nephew’s friend and a new neighbour of ours,” Miss Bettesford said, breaking the momentary silence. “Mr. Bryan!”
The Earl bowed slightly. He did not offer his hand, and Bryan had clasped his behind him, as was often his custom when standing.
“Ah, we met Mr. Bryan and your nephew on the moor, I think, on the day of our arrival,” Lord Wessemer said, dropping into a low chair. “What a wild, bleak country this is!”
“You must find it so, after Florence,” Raymond remarked.
The Earl shrugged his shoulders.
“Florence is the draughtiest city in the world,” he declared. “I am afraid I have outgrown my love for it. I have bought a villa at Algiers, and I shall winter there in future. Florence has become a city of ghosts to me. My few friends have all left it, or died. The English element has become absorbed in the American. It was time for me to come away. Pardon me! Do I see a teapot there, Miss Bettesford?”
“I am so sorry, I forgot to ask you,” Miss Bettesford said, ringing the bell. “You will have some tea, won’t you?”
“If I may—a single cup. One gets nauseated with green tea a la Russe on the Continent. English tea with cream is the only tea fit to drink. By-the-bye, Mr. Bettesford, I had a letter from you about some schools, I think. I don’t believe in education myself, but I have told my agent to call upon you, and take your instructions. Whatever you wish, shall be done.”
“I am very much obliged, Lord Wessemer,” Raymond answered earnestly, with a flushed face. Those few careless words meant more to him than he could possibly have expressed. Henceforth he regarded Lord Wessemer in a new light.
Their visitor stayed for half an hour, chatting pleasantly, and every now and then, during the pauses in the conversation, glancing keenly at Bryan, who sat apart and talked very little. Towards the end of his visit he rose, and looked towards the conservatory.
“Are you still as fond of palms as ever, Miss Bettesford?” he asked. “I caught a glimpse of banks of green as I drove past.”
“Yes, I am still fond of them,” she answered. “I have only a few, though.”
“Will you show them to me?”
He rose and offered his arm, bending over her with the easy grace of a courtier. She hesitated for a moment, and then slowly rising, placed her fingers upon his coat-sleeve.
“They are scarcely worth looking at,” she said, “I have only one or two that are at all rare.”
They crossed the room and entered the little glass house,
Lord Wessemer closing the door after them with some careless remark about the draught. Neither of them made any pretence at examining the palms. She stood leaning against the wall, with her hands pressed to her heart, and very pale. He stood over her, his eyes fixed upon hers as though they were trying to read her thoughts.
“Who is that young man?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I do not know. He has come to the Old Hall. He reads with Raymond. I know no more of him.”
“Is this true?”
“As I live!”
He hesitated.
“Have you noticed anything about him?”
“It is fancy!” she said hoarsely. “It must be fancy!”
“Has he given any account of himself at all?”
“None—except that he made his money abroad. I dare not question him. Sometimes—his eyes frighten me!”
The Earl bent over a palm, and let its slender threads run through his fingers.
“You must let me know, if—if—”
“Don’t!” she cried. “You have no right to come here at all! It is terrible! I—I am not strong!”
He looked into her worn, white face, and sighed. He had made sonnets to it when the eyes had been soft and bright, and the hair golden. He was an aesthete, and the decay of beauty was painful to him.
“Permit me!” he said, offering his arm. “It is too cold for you here!”
They were back again in the warm drawing-room after an absence of barely five minutes. But Miss Bettesford tottered a little as she walked, although she made no effort to lean upon Lord Wessemer’s arm. Bryan, who was watching, sprang up and moved towards her. She left the Earl, and gratefully accepted his support.
“Thank you!” she said, leaning heavily upon him. “I am afraid that I am not very strong to-day!”
Lord Wessemer murmured a little regretful sentence, and stood prepared to take his leave.
“Will you lunch with me to-morrow, Mr. Bettesford?” he asked, as he shook hands with him.
“I shall be very pleased,” Raymond answered at once.
“And if your friend, Mr. Bryan, will pardon the informality, perhaps he will accompany you?” Lord Wessemer added, turning to Bryan.
“I shall be glad to come!” Bryan answered promptly. The two men bowed. Then Lord Wessemer bent once more over Miss Bettesford.
“Helen will be coming to see you very soon,” he said. “If she can persuade you to come and see my palms, and pay us a little visit, it will make us very happy. Once more, good afternoon.”
Raymond walked with him to the front door. In the little drawing-room, they could bear the sound of courteous voices, the closing of the carriage door, and the trampling of the horses as they pawed up the gravel of the little avenue. To her, the sound seemed to come from a great distance, and echoed faintly in her ears. She was passing through minutes of torture—she, a weak woman for whom excitement was death. And Bryan, kneeling by her side, with his eyes looking into hers, seemed also to realize in some vague way the acute tension of those long minutes. He never knew exactly why he did it—it was one of those impulses which leap up from the heart; but, as the carriage drove off, he took the slender white hands which had been resting in his broad palm, and pressed them tenderly to his lips.
VIII. THE TOTTERING OF THE BARRIER
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The stable clock was striking two when Raymond Bettesford and Bryan arrived at Wessemer Court on the following morning. They were shown by a footman in scarlet livery into the billiard-room—really a part of the great hall—where the Earl stood, watching a game between two of his neighbours.
He shook hands with them, and introduced Bryan to the two men who were playing—Captain Forrester, and Sir George Brankhurst. They all three remained watching the game, Bryan standing by Lord Wessemer’s side.
“We are waiting lunch for my ward, Lady Helen,” he said. “She has driven to the station to meet her brother. An excellent cannon, Brankhurst! Do you understand billiards, Mr. Bryan?”
Bryan, who had played once or twice in the great second-class hotels of San Francisco with men who wore but a soiled shirt and a pair of trousers, and who spat on the floor and swore volubly after every stroke, could scarcely refrain from smiling as he glanced round the lofty room, with its domed roof and stately appointments, and noticed the silent nonchalance of the two men.
“I have played occasionally on an American table—without pockets!” he answered. “This seems a very different thing, though.”
“Perhaps you would like to try in a few minute
s?” the Earl suggested. “This game is nearly up.”
Bryan shook his head.
“Thanks! I’d much rather watch.”
The windows looked out upon the broad avenue, and, just then, a phaeton and pair of horses drove rapidly past, and drew up at the front door. At the same time Sir George Brankhurst made the winning stroke, and carefully replaced his cue in the stand.
“I haven’t seen Gerald for nearly four years,” he remarked, turning towards the door. “I wonder if he is as much like his sister as ever?”
They all went out into the hall, Bryan keeping as much as possible in the background, but of necessity a conspicuous figure. Lady Helen was standing at the foot of the broad oak staircase in the centre of the hall, and by her side was a tall, fair boy in a light travelling-coat.
“Well, Gerald,” said the Earl kindly. “Home again, then!”
“Yes, sir; and not half sorry, either! How do you do, Sir George?”
He shook hands all round. Then his eyes fell upon Bryan, and he gave a start of amazement. He took a quick step forward, and then hesitated.
“Why, it isn’t—why—my God, it is!” he cried. “Of all the wonderful things in the world!”
He held out both his hands, and seized Bryan’s. Bryan was not looking particularly well pleased.
“How are you?” he said gruffly. It was odd, but at the sight of the boy and the associations he evoked, his voice and his bearing had suddenly altered. He was in San Francisco again.
“You two have met before, then!” the Earl remarked, looking from one to the other in polite surprise.
“Met before!” the boy repeated, with an odd little note of seriousness in his tone. “It was lucky for me that we did meet before. He saved my life in San Francisco!”
A sudden exclamation escaped from Lord Wessemer’s compressed lips, and he turned a shade paler. At any other time so rare a departure from his innate nonchalance could scarcely have passed unnoticed.
The World's Great Snare Page 18