“But you implied it.”
Guy Oscard shook his head. “I hate being a notoriety,” he said. “I like to pass through with the crowd. If I go away for a little while I shall return a nonentity.”
At this moment another visitor was announced, and presently made his appearance. He was an old gentleman of no personality whatever, who was nevertheless welcomed effusively, because two people in the room had a distinct use for him. Lady Cantourne was exceedingly gracious. She remembered instantly that horticulture was among his somewhat antiquated accomplishments, and she was immediately consumed with a desire to show him the conservatory which she had had built outside the drawing-room window. She took a genuine interest in this abode of flowers, and watered the plants herself with much enthusiasm—when she remembered.
Added to a number of positive virtues the old gentleman possessed that of abstaining from tea, which enabled the two horticulturists to repair to the conservatory at once, leaving the young people alone at the other end of the drawing-room.
Millicent smoothed her gloves with downcast eyes and that demure air by which the talented fair imply the consciousness of being alone and out of others’ earshot with an interesting member of the stronger sex.
Guy sat and watched the Suede gloves with a certain sense of placid enjoyment. Then suddenly he spoke, continuing his remarks where they had been broken off by the advent of the useful old gentleman.
“You see,” he said, “it is only natural that a great many people should give me the cold shoulder. My story was a little lame. There is no reason why they should believe in me.”
“I believe in you,” she answered.
“Thank you.”
He looked at her in a strange way, as if he liked her terse creed, and would fain have heard it a second time. Then suddenly he leant back with his head against a corner of the piano. The fronds of a maidenhair fern hanging in delicate profusion almost hid his face. He was essentially muscular in his thoughts, and did not make the most of his dramatic effects. The next remark was made by a pair of long legs ending off with patent-leather boots which were not quite new. The rest of him was invisible.
“It was a very unpleasant business,” he said, in a jerky, self-conscious voice. “I didn’t know that I was that sort of fellow. The temptation was very great. I nearly gave in and let him do it. He was a stronger man than I. You know—we did not get on well together. He always hoped that I would turn out a literary sort of fellow, and I suppose he was disappointed. I tried at one time, but I found it was no good. From indifference it turned almost to hatred. He disliked me intensely, and I am afraid I did not care for him very much.”
She nodded her head, and he went on. Perhaps he could see her through the maidenhair fern. She was getting more and more interested in this man. He obviously disliked talking of himself—a pleasant change which aroused her curiosity. He was so unlike other men, and his life seemed to be different from the lives of the men whom she had known—stronger, more intense, and of greater variety of incident.
“Of course,” he went on, “his death was really of enormous advantage to me. They say that I shall have two or three thousand a year, instead of five hundred, paid quarterly at Cox’s. He could not prevent it coming to me. It was my mother’s money. He would have done so if he could, for we never disguised our antipathy for each other. Yet we lived together, and—and I had the nursing of him.”
Millicent was listening gravely without interrupting—like a man. She had the gift of adapting herself to her environments in a marked degree.
“And,” he added curtly, “no one knows how much I wanted that three thousand a year.”
The girl moved uneasily, and glanced towards the conservatory.
“He was not an old man,” Guy Oscard went on. “He was only forty-nine. He might have lived another thirty years.”
She nodded, understanding the significance of his tone.
“There,” he said, with an awkward laugh, “do you still believe in me?”
“Yes,” she answered, still looking away.
There was a little pause. They were both sitting forward in their chairs looking towards the conservatory.
“It was not the money that tempted me,” said Guy very deliberately; “it was you.”
She rose from her chair as if to join her aunt and the horticultural old gentleman.
“You must not say that,” she said, in little more than a whisper, and without looking round she went towards Lady Cantourne. Her eyes were gleaming with a singular suppressed excitement, such as one sees in the eyes of a man fresh from a mad run across country.
Guy Oscard rose also, and followed more deliberately. There was nothing for him to do but to take his leave.
“But,” said Lady Cantourne graciously, “if you are determined to go away you must at least come and say goodbye before you leave.”
“Thanks; I should like to do so, if I may.”
“We shall be deeply disappointed if you forget,” said Millicent, holding out her hand, with a smile full of lightheartedness and innocent girlish friendship.
VI
Under the Line
Enough of simpering and grimace,
Enough of vacuity, trimmed with lace.
“Curse this country! Curse it—curse it!” The man spoke aloud, but there was no one near to hear. He shook his skinny yellow fist out over the broad river that crept greasily down to the equatorial sea.
All around him the vegetable kingdom had asserted its sovereignty. At his back loomed a dense forest, impenetrable to the foot of man, defying his puny hand armed with axe or saw. The trees were not high, few of them being above twenty feet, but from their branches creepers and parasites hung in tangled profusion, interlaced, joining tree to tree for acres, nay for miles.
As far as
