Chapter NINETEEN

There was silence between them for a little time after Quentin had made that sudden exit. Aylmer was a man of very acute sensibility; he knew exactly what his companion was feeling--a very real distress that they were alone, that he had an opportunity of re-opening the previous discussion. All the chivalry in him rose to the mute appeal in that white, miserable face.

“Since you will not break the silence, it seems I have had my journey for nothing,” he said sadly. “I did hope, when we were face to face, the promptings of your own heart would compel you to speak. I am sure that you underrate the strength of my love. What could you confess to me that I would not pardon, that I would not make excuses for?”

“You are torturing me,” she said in a stifled voice. “If it were my own secret only, I might tell you. What am I saying? Oh, please, please, take pity on me and press me no further. It is not like you to be indifferent to a woman’s pleading.”

These last words touched him deeply. He laid his hand gently upon hers. “So be it, then, I must accept what you have said as final. But, Eileen, you have broken my heart.”

What she might have replied to this he did not know, for at that moment Whitefield crossed the lounge and came up to them. With a careless smile to Aylmer, he attached himself at once to his companion.

“Mrs. Quentin, you don’t appear to be in your usual spirits. Let an old man try to cheer you up. Let us take a brisk walk together.”

She rose with alacrity. Aylmer could feel that she was relieved by the advent of this breezy and not overdelicate-minded millionaire, who had arrived in the nick of time to extricate her from an intolerable situation. The two went out together. Whitefield evidently wanted the lady to himself and did not pay the young man the compliment of asking him to make a third. In his present mood, half-angry, half-despairing, Aylmer stigmatized the American as a silly old philanderer, forcing his attention on a woman young enough to be his daughter.

He sat there by himself, ruminating over what had taken place between them, over the abrupt departure of Quentin after that allusion to Biarritz. And, suddenly, a strange thought flashed into his mind and began to assume a very definite and persistent shape. Little by little, he began to piece certain things together--the almost desperate attempt of Quentin to get from him that large sum of money, his studious cultivation of Whitefield, the persistency with which he had followed the millionaire up, taking advantage of his _penchant_ for Eileen to lure him to Nice. He was disturbed in his absorbing reverie by the approach of Martyn.

That usually taciturn person seemed in an unusually expansive mood this morning: he sat down beside the young man and entered at once into conversation by asking him if he intended to make a long stay in Nice.

At the end of that interview with Eileen, Aylmer almost definitely had made up his mind to return to England in a day or two, but that long reverie had altered his plans. He was not going till he had found out something he wanted to know. His reply to Martyn was to the effect that he thought he would stay quite a week, perhaps a little longer.

After this brief interchange of remarks, there was silence for some time between the two men. Aylmer broke it with the sudden question: “By the way, I suppose you read in the papers that strange affair of Quentin’s butler--the fight between him and another man in a common lodging-house in Soho, the result of which was that they both killed each other?”

Martyn always had a shifty expression. Aylmer noticed it was more shifty than usual as he made a somewhat hesitating answer. “No, I did not see it myself; Quentin told me about it quite recently. Queer sort of affair, certainly. He must have been mixed up with a questionable lot. Most surprising. He always seemed the very embodiment of respectability. Quentin had the most wonderful testimonials from his last place. It shows how easy it is for a man to lead a double life.”

Aylmer made a few more remarks, but it was obvious that Martyn was not inclined to discuss the matter. After a little while, the young man went out and dispatched a long telegram to his valet, whom he had left in London. It contained very minute instructions concerning the dispatch of a certain parcel to the Hôtel Negresco, and it was to be forwarded to him with as little delay as possible.

When he got back, he found Whitefield in the lounge. He had returned from his walk with Eileen, who at once had left him and gone to her own room. The American seemed a little dissatisfied with the state of things.

“Old Quentin’s all right with me,” he remarked. “Don’t find any difference in him. But somehow we don’t seem to have reproduced the atmosphere of Ostend. Mrs. Quentin could never be anything but charming, but she seems a bit off color. To use the old expression, there seems to be a fly in the ointment.”

Aylmer guessed accurately what was passing in the other’s mind, and had no hesitation in voicing it. “I expect that fly is my very humble self. You yourself noticed that he didn’t seem very overjoyed to see me. I expect he thinks it rather a piece of impertinence that I presumed to follow him here.”

Whitefield nodded his head. “Mind you, he hasn’t said a word to me on the subject, but I have the same idea. Of course, I shouldn’t have said so, if you had not seen it for yourself. What are you going to do? Stick it, or sheer off?”

Aylmer could not tell his companion the truth, that he was proposing to remain until he had finished certain investigations which he intended to make. He passed the subject off as lightly as he could.

“I certainly shan’t sheer off until I am quite ready. I shall give Quentin a pretty wide berth except at meals, when we must meet for the sake of keeping up appearances. As he seems to have taken such a dislike to me, he will be grateful to me for withholding my company.”

The American looked as he felt, puzzled and curious, and as usual, he had no hesitation in expressing his feelings.

“Deuced rum a chap should change suddenly like that. Do you know of any cause yourself for the alteration?”

It was, of course, a very awkward question for a man who particularly disliked deception. But then it was impossible to tell Whitefield the actual truth. Aylmer dissembled as best he could.

“I have certainly given him no cause for offense, so far as I am aware. But there is something peculiar about him, I mean he’s the sort of man you never would get to the bottom of, and he may have taken offense where none was intended.”

“You don’t find Mrs. Quentin’s attitude at all changed, I suppose?” persisted Whitefield, his curiosity still unslaked.

“She and I are still good friends,” was Aylmer’s answer. “But she certainly seems a little more staid than when we met at Ostend.”

Although delicacy was not a distinguishing characteristic of the American, he was well-bred enough not to pursue the subject further. But it was easy to see that he was not at all satisfied with the replies his companion had given him.

It was true, in a general way, that Aylmer had made up his mind to have as little to do with Quentin as possible, but he had resolved to have one perfectly frank interview with the man, as soon as he could get the opportunity.

It came two days later. Quentin was alone, and Aylmer addressed him without any preliminary beating about the bush.

“I think the time has come for some plain speaking between us, Mr. Quentin,” he said gravely. “We are on quite equal terms, you know what I know, and I am equally cognizant of what you know.”

There was just a little quiver on Quentin’s face. But, he did not at once seek to avoid the issue. He spoke in a voice as grave as Aylmer’s own. “If you think it will serve any useful purpose, pray speak what is in your mind, Mr. Aylmer. Eileen, of course, is to be the subject of the discussion.”

“Certainly,” answered the young man firmly. “You know that, in a moment of confidence, she imported to me the strange secret of your pretended relations; you know that she told me, further, that when you induced her to enter into this compact with you, you gave her your solemn promise that you would never stand in the way of her happiness if, later on, she should meet with a man whom she could love.”

Quentin inclined his head. “She has given you a perfectly accurate account of the circumstances. I did make that promise.”

“And now you have withdrawn it.”

“Pardon me, that is not quite the correct word to use,” replied Quentin in the same level, restrained tones. “When she told me you loved each other, that she wished to become your wife, I was confronted with a very painful situation. It was my duty to tell her certain things which I had concealed from her for her own good, things which, in all probability, would have still been concealed from her, but for the fact of what I must call your unfortunate intervention.”

“She speaks of an insuperable barrier between us. I maintain that I have a right to know the nature of that barrier, in order that I may judge if it is as insuperable, as she believes it to be.”

“Hardly a right, I think, Mr. Aylmer. The whole circumstances are so very peculiar, that it is difficult to apply ordinary canons of right and wrong to them. But I do not think you are in a position to demand what you ask from either of us. No doubt, you have questioned Eileen on the subject?”

“I have, and she refuses to enlighten me. That is why I come to you.”

There was a long pause, and then Quentin’s manner suddenly seemed to alter. From the grave, self-contained man of the world, he seemed to change into a friendly and sympathetic being. There was extreme kindliness in his tones, in the rather melancholy glance with which he surveyed the unhappy young lover.

“Mr. Aylmer, I have more sympathy than you are likely to credit me with, and I am very sorry for you both in this unhappy _impasse_ in which you find yourselves. I loved Eileen’s mother with a passionate love, and Eileen is very dear to me for that mother’s sake. I have always liked you very much. I still like you; and, moreover, I have a very great respect for you as a man of steadfast and unblemished character.”

“Pardon me if I speak quite frankly,” interrupted Aylmer, “but you have not displayed any marked liking for me during my brief stay at the Negresco. Even Whitefield has remarked upon your almost ostentatious coldness.”

“I cannot help feeling deeply chagrined at your following us here, after the explicit letter Eileen wrote you; and, I dare say, I have shown that feeling pretty plainly.”

“You dictated that letter, perhaps.”

“Certainly not,” answered Quentin with a dignity that rather repressed Aylmer’s impetuosity. “I left it to her to say what she pleased, and of her own free will she told me the contents. She told you there was an insuperable barrier between you. I tell you the same. She refuses to give you any further explanation. I am sorry to say that I must follow her example. You have sought this interview, Mr. Aylmer, not I; and if it leaves you with any sense of grievance against either of us, or both, you will forgive me for saying you have acted very unwisely in following us here. I go further and say I think you have acted with a want of consideration for Eileen herself, in not taking that very explicit letter she wrote you, as final.”

There was such a calm and forceful dignity about Quentin’s attitude that, though the young man’s heart was hot and angry within him, he kept his temper in check.

“You will give me no other answer, then?” he said, speaking as quietly as he could.

“No other, not if you asked me till doomsday,” replied Quentin firmly. Then he spoke very gently, and it seemed there was genuine feeling, not only in his words, but in the tone in which they were spoken.

“I have told you that I sympathize with you both, and it is the literal truth. I am an older man than you, and I have known the bitterness of disappointed love. But time brings solace, and also healing, to the deepest wound. The world, perhaps, is never what it might have been if one’s early dreams had been fulfilled, but it is possible to find a tranquil happiness. If I may presume to give you advice, you may resent it at the moment, but I am sure you will admit the wisdom of it later. Leave this place as soon as possible. Accustom yourself to look at the future with Eileen dismissed from the foreground. Mix as before with your own circle of friends, your relations, till in time you forget that you ever came across such birds of passage as ourselves, people not the least in touch with your own world. Do this, and surely you will forget.”

“I shall never forget,” said the young man bitterly. “You have hinted that you have suffered as I am suffering now. Have you forgotten?”

“Not forgotten, certainly,” answered Quentin in the same gentle tones. “But the memories are no longer painful. The years have brought to me the anodyne, as they will to you.”

Aylmer rose. He felt there was no use in prolonging the interview; he would get nothing more out of this calm, inscrutable man who had revealed a strain of feeling that he had not given him credit for. He had very dark suspicions about him, and he looked at him with a long, searching gaze that sought to penetrate behind the reserve in which he always seemed to wrap himself. But Quentin endured the scrutiny without flinching. On his calm face was still that smile, half-melancholy, half-kindly, that seemed to express an infinite compassion for the impetuosity, the warm, reckless temperament of the other man.

“I cannot say whether or not I shall take your advice, Mr. Quentin. Of one thing you may be sure, I shall not intrude my company upon you more than is absolutely necessary. If it were not for Whitefield, I would not burden you with my presence at meals. But it would be hardly politic to let him into the secret that there is a serious disagreement between us. He is curious enough as it is.”

Quentin lifted a warning finger. He had caught sight of the millionaire entering the lounge.

Whitefield fortunately, however, had not caught any portion of what Aylmer was saying. He came up to them in his loud, breezy way, and addressed the older man. “Now then, Quentin, it is quite early; I don’t suppose your wife will show herself yet, and Martyn has gone off on one of his solitary walks as usual. Good opportunity for us to take a little stroll together. You can give me full details of that business you broached last night.”

The two men went out together, and Aylmer stood looking after their retreating figures, an expression of deep thought on his face. So there was going to be a business talk between them, and the subject of it had been broached the previous night. Quentin must have been sorry that Whitefield had blurted out the matter so openly.

A few days later the parcel arrived from London. Aylmer untied it in his bedroom, and satisfied himself that everything he wanted was there. When he went down to breakfast the next morning, he learned that Whitefield was leaving for Rome a few days later. He gathered that there had been arranged, between him and Quentin, a meeting in that city on a subsequent date; and, he further understood that, on this occasion, Martyn was not to be one of the party.

He had spoken very little to Eileen since that unsatisfactory interview with Quentin. He was beginning to accept his fate with some sort of resignation, and he was conscious that the girl felt unhappy and ill at ease in his society. He would have left ere this but for his resolve to test certain very strong suspicions which had suddenly arisen in him out of some random remarks dropped by Eileen.

After breakfast he took a stroll round the town, and on his return was surprised to find her standing in the hall equipped for traveling.

“I am going back to England at once,” she explained hurriedly. “I am waiting for Richard to take me to the station. A telegram arrived about an hour ago; it is in consequence of that I am going.”

He looked at her steadily till the telltale color rose to her face. She might have had a telegram; but, if so, its transmission had been arranged by Quentin to get her out of the way. Of that he was confident.

“That is the official explanation,” he said quietly. “It may be good enough for some people--Whitefield, for instance, whom you will see later on in Rome--but it is not good enough for me. You are going away because you want to avoid me.”

She did not attempt to refute him. He could see that she was very near to tears when she spoke.

“Cannot you see it is better for us both, dearest?” she said in a low voice. “It breaks my heart to part from you so soon after our brief reunion, which made me happy in a way, at the same time that it made me miserable. But it is best, for you as well as for me.”

“It is Quentin who has engineered this sudden _coup_, who has forced you to go,” he cried jealously.

She shook her head. “I believe he is glad I am going, but he has not insisted on it. I want to go myself, because I know it is the best thing I can do. I should leave of my own free will without his intervention.”

“And you will not tell me where you are going?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Because, if I did, we should have all this miserable business over again. You would follow me to England as you followed me here.”

“It is all finished, then,” he said gloomily. “Do you remember the beginning of our ill-starred love was when you asked me at Ostend to be your friend?”

“Am I ever likely to forget it?”

“Does it mean that, under no circumstances, will you ever call upon my friendship?”

“No, dearest, it does not mean that. If ever a day comes when I can be frank with you, I may remind you of that promise. Strange that on that day I had an overpowering presentiment of impending disaster, and it was a false alarm. I feel the same to-day in even greater measure. I inherit a strong vein of superstition from my dear mother. Though we say good-by now, we may meet sooner than we think.”

They were the last words she said to him for, a few seconds later, Quentin joined her and hurried her into the taxi that was to convey her to the station.