REVENGE IS--BITTER
At no time during his career did Wingrave appear before the public moreprominently than during the next few months. As London began to fill upagain, during the early part of October, he gave many and magnificententertainments, his name figured in all the great social events, hebought a mansion in Park Lane which had been built for Royalty, and theaccount of the treasures with which he filled it read like a chapterfrom some modern Arabian Nights. In the city, he was more hated anddreaded than ever. His transactions, huge and carefully thought out,were for his own aggrandizement only, and left always in their wake ruinand disaster for the less fortunate and weaker speculators. He playedfor his own hand only, the camaraderie of finance he ignored altogether.In one other respect, too, he occupied a unique position amongst thefinancial magnates of the moment. All appeals on behalf of charity hesteadily ignored. He gave nothing away. His name never figured amongstthe hospital lists; suffering and disaster, which drew their humblecontributions from the struggling poor and middle classes, left himunmoved and his check book unopened. In an age when huge gifts on behalfof charity was the fashionable road to the peerage, his attitude wasall the more noticeable. He would give a thousand pounds for a pieceof Sevres china which took his fancy; he would not give a thousandfarthings to ease the sufferings of his fellows. Yet there were fewfound to criticize him. He was called original, a crank; there were evensome who professed to see merit in his attitude. To both criticism andpraise he was alike indifferent. With a cynicism with seemed only tobecome more bitter he pursued his undeviating and deliberate way.
One morning he met Lady Ruth on the pavement in Bond Street. She pointedto the vacant seat in her landau.
"Get in, please, for a few minutes," she said. "I want to talk to you. Iwill take you where you like."
They drove off in silence.
"You were not at the Wavertons' last night," he remarked.
"No!" she answered quietly. "I was not asked."
He glanced at her questioningly.
"I thought that you were so friendly," he said.
"I was," she answered. "Lady Waverton scarcely knows me now! It is thebeginning of the end, I suppose."
"You are a little enigmatical this morning," he declared.
"Oh, no! You understand me very well," she answered. "Everybody knowsthat it is you who keep us going. Lumley has not got quite used totaking your money. He has lost nearly all his ambition. Soon his daywill have gone by. People shrug their shoulders when they speak of us.Two years ago the Wavertons were delighted to know me. Society seemsbig, but it isn't. There are no end of little sets, one inside theother. Two years ago, I was in the innermost, today I'm getting towardsthe outside edge. Look at me! Do you see any change?"
He scrutinized her mercilessly in the cold morning light.
"You look older," he said, "and you have begun to use rouge, which is apity."
She laughed hardly.
"You think so? Well, I don't want Emily to see my hollow cheeks--or you!Are you satisfied, Wingrave?"
"I am afraid I don't understand--" he began.
"Don't lie," she interrupted curtly. "You do understand. This is yourvengeance--very subtle and very crafty. Everything has turned outexactly as you planned. You have broken us, Wingrave! I thought myself aclever woman, but I might as well have tried to gamble with the angels.Why don't you finish it off now--make me run away with you?"
"It would bore us both," he answered calmly. "Besides, you wouldn'tcome!"
"I should, and you know that I would," she answered. "Everyone expectsit of us. I think myself that it would be more decent."
He looked at her thoughtfully.
"You are a strange woman," he said. "I find it hard sometimes tounderstand you."
"Then you are a fool," she declared in a fierce little whisper. "Youknow what is underneath all my suffering, all my broken pride! You knowthat I was fool enough to keep the flame flickering--that I have caredalways and for no one else!"
He stopped the carriage.
"You are the most original woman I ever met," he said quietly. "Ineither wish to care nor be cared for by anyone. Go home to yourhusband, and tell him to buy Treadwells up to six."
That same afternoon Wingrave met Aynesworth and cut him dead. Somethingin the younger man's appearance, though, perplexed him. Aynesworthcertainly had not the air of a successful man. He was pale, carelesslydressed, and apparently in ill health. Wingrave, after an amount ofhesitation, which was rare with him, turned his car towards Battersea,and found himself, a few minutes later, mounting the five flights ofstone steps. Juliet herself opened the door to him. She gave a littlegasp when she saw who it was, and did not immediately invite him toenter.
"I am sorry," Wingrave said coldly, "to inflict this visit upon you. Ifyou are alone, and afraid to ask me in, we can talk here."
Her cheeks became as flushed as a moment before they had been pale. Shelooked at him reproachfully, and, standing on one side to let him pass,closed the door behind him. Then she led the way into her sitting room.
"I am glad that you have come to see me," she said. "Won't you sitdown?"
He ignored her invitation, and stood looking around him. There was anoticeable change in the little room. There were no flowers, some of theornaments and the silver trifles from her table were missing. The placeseemed to have been swept bare of everything, except the necessaryfurniture. Then he looked at her. She was perceptibly thinner, and therewere black rings under her eyes.
"Where is Mrs. Tresfarwin?" he asked.
"In Cornwall," she answered.
"Why?"
"I could not afford to keep her here any longer."
"What are you doing for a living--painting still?"
She shook her head a little piteously.
"They can't sell any more of my pictures," she said. "I am trying to geta situation as governess or companion or--anything."
"When did you have anything to eat last?" he asked.
"Yesterday," she answered, and he was just in time to catch her. She hadfainted.
He laid her upon the sofa, poured some water over her face, and fannedher with a newspaper. His expression of cold indifference remainedunmoved. It was there in his face when she opened her eyes.
"Are you well enough to walk?" he asked.
"Quite, thank you," she answered. "I am so sorry!"
"Put on your hat," he ordered.
She disappeared for a few minutes, and returned dressed for the street.He drove her to a restaurant and ordered some dinner. He made her drinksome wine, and while they waited he buried himself in a newspaper.They ate their meal almost in silence. Afterwards, Wingrave asked her aquestion.
"Where is Aynesworth?"
"Looking for work, I think," she answered.
"Why did you not stay down in Cornwall?"
"Miss Pengarth was away--and I preferred to return to London," she toldhim quietly.
"When are you going to marry Aynesworth?" he asked.
She looked down into her glass and was silent. He leaned a littletowards her.
"Perhaps," he remarked quietly, "you are already married?"
Still she was silent. He saw the tears forced back from her eyes. Heheard the sob break in her throat. Yet he said nothing. He only waited.At last she spoke.
"Nothing is settled yet," she said, still without looking at him.
"I see no reason," he said calmly, "why, until that time, you shouldrefuse to accept your allowance from Mr. Pengarth."
"I cannot take any more of your money," she answered. "It was a mistakefrom the first, but I was foolish. I did not understand."
His lip curled with scorn.
"You are one of those," he said, "who, as a child, were wise, but asa young woman with a little knowledge, become--a prig. What harm is mymoney likely to do you? I may be the Devil himself, but my gold is nottainted. For the rest, granted that I am at war with the world, I do notnumber children amongst my enemies."
She raised
her eyes then, and looked him in the face.
"I am not afraid of you," she declared. "It is not that; but I have beendependent long enough. I will keep myself--or starve."
He shrugged his shoulders and paid the bill.
"My man," he said, "will take you wherever you like. I have a call tomake close here."
They stood upon the pavement. She held out her hand a little timidly.Her eyes were soft and wistful.
"Goodbye, guardian," she said. "Thank you very much for my lunch."
"Ah!" he said gravely, "if you would let me always call myself that!"
She got into the car without a word. Wingrave walked straight back tohis own house. Several people were waiting in the entrance hall, andthe visitors' book was open upon the porter's desk. He walked through,looking neither to the right nor the left, crossed the great library,with its curved roof, its floor of cedar wood, and its wonderfulstained-glass windows, and entered a smaller room beyond--his absoluteand impenetrable sanctum. He rang the bell for his servant.
"Morrison," he said, "if you allow me to be disturbed by any livingperson, on any pretense whatever, until I ring, you lose your place. Doyou understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
Wingrave locked the door. The next hour belonged to himself alone...
When at last he rang the bell, he gave Morrison a note.
"This is to be delivered at once," he said.
The man bowed and withdrew. Wingrave, with his hands behind him,strolled out into the library. In a remote corner, a small spectacledperson was busy writing at a table. Wingrave crossed the room and stoodbefore him.
"Are you my librarian?" he asked.
The man rose at once.
"Certainly, sir," he answered. "My name is Woodall. You may haveforgotten it. I am at work now upon a new catalogue."
Wingrave nodded.
"I have a quarto Shakespeare, I think," he said, "that I marked atSotheby's, also a manuscript Thomas a Kempis, and a first edition ofHerrick. I should like to see them."
"By all means," the man answered, hurrying to the shelves. "You have,also, a wonderful rare collection of manuscripts, purchased from theAbbey St. Jouvain, and a unique Horace. If you will permit me."
Wingrave spent half an hour examining his treasures, leaving hisattendant astonished.
"A millionaire who understands!" he exclaimed softly as he resumed hisseat. "Miraculous!"
Wingrave passed into the hall, and summoned his major domo.
"Show me the ballroom," he ordered, "and the winter garden."
The little man in quiet black clothes--Wingrave abhorred liveries--ledhim respectfully through rooms probably unequaled for magnificence inEngland. He spoke of the exquisite work of French and Italian artists;with a gesture almost of reverence he pointed out the carving in thewonderful white ballroom.
Wingrave listened and watched with immovable face. Just as they hadcompleted their tour, Morrison approached.
"Mr. Lumley and Lady Ruth Barrington are in the library, sir," heannounced.
Wingrave nodded.
"I am coming at once," he said.
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