The Moving Finger E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Uncommon Oppenheim novel tells a strong story of the complicated love affairs, thrilling and mystifying revelations in the life of a young occult. Mr. Henry Rochester is an honest and honorable landowner in rural England. One evening he is walking his estate when he happens across the boy who is meditating on a hillside, and after a conversation, takes it into his head to give the boy money and see what he’ll make of himself. Unfortunately, he also tells the boy that if he fails, he’d be better off killing himself. Seven years later the boys has become Mr. Bertrand Saton, a mystical adventurer, adopted son of the Comtesse Rachael, and ravisher of female London. The two become enemies, with several women at stake in the contest. Henry’s wife, Lady Mary; his ward Lois, and his great love Pauline.

Leseprobe

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER XXXIV

CHAPTER XXXV

CHAPTER XXXVI

EPILOGUE

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.

“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!

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!

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.

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.”