The Malefactor [54]
gown of dove color, with faint touches of blue, was effective, and she knew it. Nevertheless, she was a little pale, and her manner lacked that note of quiet languor which generally characterized it. She talked rather more than usual, chattering idly about the acquaintances to whom she was continually nodding and bowing. Her face hardened a little as the Marchioness, on her way through the room with a party of friends, stopped at their table.
The two women exchanged the necessary number of inanities, then the Marchioness turned to Wingrave.
"You won't forget that you are dining with me tomorrow?"
Wingrave shook his head regretfully.
"I am sorry," he said, "but I have to go out of town. I have just written you."
"What a bore," she remarked. "Business, of course!"
She nodded and passed on. Her farewell to Lady Ruth was distinctly curt. Wingrave resumed his seat and his luncheon without remark.
"Hateful woman," Lady Ruth murmured.
"I thought you were friends," Wingrave remarked.
"Yes, we are," Lady Ruth assented, "the sort of friendship you men don't know much about. You see a good deal of her, don't you?"
Wingrave raised his head and looked at Lady Ruth contemplatively.
"Why do you ask me that?" he asked.
"Curiosity!"
"I do," he remarked; "you should be grateful to her."
"Why?"
"It may save you a similar infliction."
Lady Ruth was silent for several moments.
"Perhaps," she said at last, "I do not choose to be relieved."
Wingrave bowed, his glass in his hand. His lips were curled into the semblance of a smile, but he did not say a word. Lady Ruth leaned a little across the table so that the feathers of her hat nearly brushed his forehead.
"Wingrave," she asked, "do you know what fear is? Perhaps not! You are a man, you see. No one has ever called me a coward. You wouldn't, would you?"
"No!" he said deliberately, "you are not a coward."
"There is only one sort of fear which I know," she continued, "and that is the fear of what I do not understand. And that is why, Wingrave, I am afraid of you."
He set down his glass, and his fingers trifled for a moment with its stem. His expression was inscrutable.
"Surely," he said, "you are not serious!"
"I am serious," she declared, "and you know that I am."
"You are afraid of me," he repeated softly. "I wonder why."
She looked him straight in the eyes.
"Because," she said, "I did you once a very grievous wrong. Because I know that you have not forgiven me. Because I am very sure that all the good that was in you lies slain."
"By whose hand?" he asked quietly. "No! You need not answer. You know. So do I. Yes, I can understand your fear. But I do not understand why you confess it to me."
"Nor I," she answered. "Nor do I understand why I am here--at your bidding, nor why I keep you always by my side whenever you choose to take your place there. Are you a vain man, Wingrave? Do you wish to pose as the friend of a woman whom the world has thought too ambitious to waste time upon such follies? There is the Marchioness! She would do you more credit still."
"Thank you," he answered. "I like to choose the path myself when I pass into the maze of follies!"
"You have not yet explained yourself," she reminded him. "Of all people in world, you have chosen us for your presumptive friends. Why? You hate us both. You know that you do. Is it part of a scheme? Lumley is investing money on your advice, I am allowing myself to be seen about with you more than is prudent--considering all things. Do you want to rake out the ashes of our domestic hearth--to play the part of--melodramatic villain? You are ingenious enough, and powerful enough."
"You put strange ideas into my head," he told her lightly. "Why should I not play the part that you suggest? It might be amusing, and you certainly deserve all the evil which I could bring upon you."
She leaned a little across the table towards him. Her eyes were soft and bright, and they looked full into his. The color in her cheeks was natural. The air around him was faintly
The two women exchanged the necessary number of inanities, then the Marchioness turned to Wingrave.
"You won't forget that you are dining with me tomorrow?"
Wingrave shook his head regretfully.
"I am sorry," he said, "but I have to go out of town. I have just written you."
"What a bore," she remarked. "Business, of course!"
She nodded and passed on. Her farewell to Lady Ruth was distinctly curt. Wingrave resumed his seat and his luncheon without remark.
"Hateful woman," Lady Ruth murmured.
"I thought you were friends," Wingrave remarked.
"Yes, we are," Lady Ruth assented, "the sort of friendship you men don't know much about. You see a good deal of her, don't you?"
Wingrave raised his head and looked at Lady Ruth contemplatively.
"Why do you ask me that?" he asked.
"Curiosity!"
"I do," he remarked; "you should be grateful to her."
"Why?"
"It may save you a similar infliction."
Lady Ruth was silent for several moments.
"Perhaps," she said at last, "I do not choose to be relieved."
Wingrave bowed, his glass in his hand. His lips were curled into the semblance of a smile, but he did not say a word. Lady Ruth leaned a little across the table so that the feathers of her hat nearly brushed his forehead.
"Wingrave," she asked, "do you know what fear is? Perhaps not! You are a man, you see. No one has ever called me a coward. You wouldn't, would you?"
"No!" he said deliberately, "you are not a coward."
"There is only one sort of fear which I know," she continued, "and that is the fear of what I do not understand. And that is why, Wingrave, I am afraid of you."
He set down his glass, and his fingers trifled for a moment with its stem. His expression was inscrutable.
"Surely," he said, "you are not serious!"
"I am serious," she declared, "and you know that I am."
"You are afraid of me," he repeated softly. "I wonder why."
She looked him straight in the eyes.
"Because," she said, "I did you once a very grievous wrong. Because I know that you have not forgiven me. Because I am very sure that all the good that was in you lies slain."
"By whose hand?" he asked quietly. "No! You need not answer. You know. So do I. Yes, I can understand your fear. But I do not understand why you confess it to me."
"Nor I," she answered. "Nor do I understand why I am here--at your bidding, nor why I keep you always by my side whenever you choose to take your place there. Are you a vain man, Wingrave? Do you wish to pose as the friend of a woman whom the world has thought too ambitious to waste time upon such follies? There is the Marchioness! She would do you more credit still."
"Thank you," he answered. "I like to choose the path myself when I pass into the maze of follies!"
"You have not yet explained yourself," she reminded him. "Of all people in world, you have chosen us for your presumptive friends. Why? You hate us both. You know that you do. Is it part of a scheme? Lumley is investing money on your advice, I am allowing myself to be seen about with you more than is prudent--considering all things. Do you want to rake out the ashes of our domestic hearth--to play the part of--melodramatic villain? You are ingenious enough, and powerful enough."
"You put strange ideas into my head," he told her lightly. "Why should I not play the part that you suggest? It might be amusing, and you certainly deserve all the evil which I could bring upon you."
She leaned a little across the table towards him. Her eyes were soft and bright, and they looked full into his. The color in her cheeks was natural. The air around him was faintly