"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 pa.s.sing regret, the abstract beauty of the more simple ways in life.

Those few minutes were effective enough. They helped his pose. The regret pa.s.sed. 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 s.p.a.ce of carpet, would have been embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.sured 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?"