Whither Thou Goest

Guy laughed, but this time his laugh did not ring clear and boyish; it betrayed uneasiness.

“Oh, come, Mary, you are a bit uncharitable, aren’t you. Violet Hargrave is generally considered a charming, not an odious, person.”

His sister spoke a little sternly for her.

“I don’t pretend to have a man’s knowledge of the world, but I have not been brought up in a nursery. I know her type, and it is one from which any pure woman, and any decent man, ought to shrink. Have you given her up?”

Guy looked her squarely in the face.

“Honestly, Mary, I have, just after I met Isobel. Of course, a man can’t throw a woman over in a second, but I have cooled down gradually. At the present moment, I think the fascinating widow hates me.”

Mary rose and spoke decidedly.

“I am glad to have your assurance of that. If it had not been so, I might have felt it my duty to warn Isobel. She is too sterling a girl to be played with.”

Her brother rose too, half resentful, half admiring. It was not the first time that Lady Mary had spoken salutary words of wisdom to him.

“By Jove, Mary, you are uncompromising. Do you mean to say you would give me away to Isobel – me, your own brother?”

“Of course,” answered Mary firmly. “To Isobel, or any other woman, if I thought you were unworthy of her.”

Admiration conquered. He tucked her arm in his, as they returned to the house.

“You dear old girl, you are one out of a million. But you know you are a little uncomfortable at times, and when you are inclined that way, you have a knack of making a fellow feel a bit of a worm.”

Mary laughed pleasantly.

“So good for you feeling that, dear old boy, and equally good for Eric. I expect dad has woken up by now, and wondering where we have got to.” They found the Earl wide-awake. The doze of a few minutes over his port had refreshed him immensely. He fell at once to discussing Spain, a country he knew well.

In his youth, Lord Saxham had been an attaché at the Spanish Court, and he knew the ropes. Guy listened respectfully to his father.

The old man concluded his somewhat rambling remarks with a final exhortation.

“And remember, my dear boy, always to keep on the right side of Greatorex. He is the Foreign Office. Secretaries, mere figure-heads, come and go with different Governments. Greatorex remains there, permanent, unchangeable. Get into his good graces, and your fortune is made.”

Guy promised that he would do his best to propitiate the all-powerful Greatorex. Two days later he left. He undertook to pay them a farewell visit before he started for Spain.

The Earl and his daughter watched the car flying down the avenue. The old man turned to his daughter with a grunt.

“Might have given us another couple of days, I think. But I know what’s in his mind. He is running down to Eastbourne after that minx.”

He always alluded to Isobel Clandon as “that minx,” owing to his unreasonable prejudice against her.

Mary spoke with spirit.

“Very natural under the circumstances, I should think. He would want to see something of the girl he loves before he left.”

Lord Saxham turned on her angrily.

“Mary, I have always thought you a sensible woman. Do you mean to tell me you are going to aid and abet him in his folly.”

Lady Mary answered him in a few words.

“I don’t call it folly, father.”

She walked out of the room, with a resolute expression on her face, and uplifted chin. She would have been the last to admit it, but she had inherited no small share of the family obstinacy.

Chapter Two

Mrs Hargrave sat in her pretty flat in Mount Street, absorbed in deep thought. On her lap lay an open letter, and it was a passage in that letter just received which accounted for her preoccupation.

She was a pretty woman, petite and slender, with clear-cut, refined features and delicate colouring. She had soft, candid blue eyes, and a wealth of fair hair which was always arranged in the most becoming fashion.

In a strong and searching light, a keen judge would have guessed her real age, just a little over the wrong side of thirty. But she was quite a clever person, and she always avoided strong lights as much as possible. Under favourable conditions, most people took her to be at least four or five years younger. She owned herself to twenty-six.

There was no getting at the truth of the matter. Since she first came to London, four years ago, having been married abroad to her husband, Jack Hargrave, a young man of good family, but a bit of a mauvais sujet, she had made many acquaintances. But she appeared to have no old friends who could throw any light on her real age or her antecedents.

Her husband’s relatives received her with scant cordiality, there was too much reticence about her previous history to incline them in her favour. As a matter of fact, they were not over-fond of Jack himself. There had been certain early episodes in his career which had not endeared him to right-thinking persons.

It was well-known that he was in no sense of the word a wealthy man. Yet he kept an expensive flat, he was always immaculately dressed, and his wife, to judge by her costly costumes, must have had a very liberal allowance.

They entertained a great deal, and they had bridge parties every night when they were at home. Knowing people whispered amongst themselves that it was their winnings at bridge which enabled them to make such a brave show. They were certainly both very skilful players. Not a few persons thought they were a bit too skilful, too uniformly successful.

Two years after their marriage, Jack Hargrave died suddenly of pneumonia, the result of a neglected chill. Strange to say, he left no will. His widow explained this by the fact that he had made all his property over to her, by deed of gift, soon after their marriage, as he did not want her to be burdened with death duties.

Things were not altered in any way by Jack’s death. His widow kept on the expensive flat in Mount Street. When a decent period of mourning had elapsed, she appeared in her usual tasteful costumes, and resumed her bridge parties.

There was nothing to wonder at in this. If Jack Hargrave had made over all his property to her, she was as well-off after his death as before. Rather better, as there was only one to spend the income instead of two.

A certain thing, however, did occur which made some people suspicious. Her husband’s relatives, who had never been more than coldly civil during Jack’s lifetime, now dropped her altogether.

Jack, who was a few years younger than his wife, had been at Eton and Oxford with Guy Rossett, and they were old friends. When Hargrave returned from abroad with his pretty bride, he had hunted up Guy and induced him to become a frequent visitor in Mount Street.

Guy was considerably attracted by the young hostess. Of course, he knew that his friend was looked at askance by many people, and he knew nothing more than the rest about Mrs Hargrave’s antecedents.

When the fair young widow resumed her normal existence, and her bridge parties, young Rossett again became a frequent visitor. And now that there was no obstacle in the shape of a husband, he allowed her to see that her attraction for him had grown very considerably.

She met him more than half-way. There was no doubt that the attraction was mutual. But there were other reasons that weighed strongly with her. Guy had a small allowance from his father, but it was supplemented by a very handsome one from his great-aunt, an old lady of eighty, who would also leave him her very considerable private fortune.

In every sense, he was a most eligible person. He was handsome, distinguished-looking and charming, with the perfect manners of the young diplomatist. And one day, and it could not be a very long one now, he would be a rich man by the death of Lady Henrietta.

For many months, Guy Rossett went to the flat in Mount Street, losing a considerable sum of money at bridge to his hostess and various members of her circle.

There was a certain strain of caution in him, a certain recognition of the fact that he would require to know a good deal more than he did about the charming widow’s past, before he committed himself definitely, that kept the sense of attraction on his side within reasonable bounds.

Still, there is no knowing what might have happened, but for the occurrence of a certain event. Mrs Hargrave was very charming, very subtle, equipped with all the wiles of a clever and experienced woman. One day, his self-control might have given way, her fascination might have overpowered his prudence, and he would have committed himself beyond recall.

Then something happened which switched away his thoughts for ever from the flat in Mount Street and its fascinating owner. At a certain country house he met Isobel Clandon, the daughter of a retired general, a widower who lived at Eastbourne.