Whither Thou Goest

He took her in to dinner the first night of his arrival, and he knew he had found the woman of his dreams. Isobel was a lovely girl of twenty-two, a little above the middle height, a vision of beauty and grace.

Her fresh and virginal charm, her spontaneous gaiety, drove out all recollection of the more artificial attractions of the older woman. The one suggested the brightness and freshness of spring, the other fading tints of summer.

It was love at first sight on both sides, and Guy knew that he had never really loved before. And Isobel had not even flirted with a man before she saw him. She came to him whole-hearted, and he came as little scarred as a man might be who has lived twenty-seven years in the world, and seen and known many women.

Mrs Hargrave roused herself from her reverie, and took up the letter for the second time. It was from an intimate acquaintance, and the envelope bore the Eastbourne post-mark. Again she read that particular paragraph which had so perturbed her.

“I have at last succeeded in meeting your Miss Clandon at a garden-party. I made myself as pleasant as I could, and you know I can make myself pretty well liked when I try. I think she has taken a fancy to me, and that we shall be great friends presently. I am going to tea with her to-morrow, and will let you know if I can get anything definite out of her.

“She is twenty-two, and certainly a lovely girl, also a very charming one. I introduced Mr Rossett’s name, of course, and she just looked a little shy. But I could not get her to say much, only this, that he is coming down to Eastbourne directly, and that he has just secured an important appointment abroad, at the British Embassy in Spain.

“She wears no engagement ring, so they are not publicly betrothed. But I am sure there is a very good understanding between them.”

The widow threw the letter down on her lap, with a fierce exclamation.

“Twenty-two, and a lovely girl,” she muttered angrily. “Some pink and white beauty, I suppose, immature, knowing nothing of life. And these are the women who catch men of the world with their youth and innocence.”

Her face grew hard, she looked almost plain, and for the moment her thirty years showed themselves unmistakably.

She tore the offending note into fragments, and threw them into a dainty little waste-paper basket – everything about the flat was dainty.

“But I will get even with Mr Guy Rossett before long,” she cried vindictively, as she returned to her seat.

It was somewhere about ten o’clock in the morning when she indulged in these bitter reflections, when she had to admit, in the face of that letter, that her ambitious schemes had gone astray.

At the same hour, a tall and corpulent gentleman, attired in an elegant morning coat and silk hat, descended the steps of his house at Walton, stepped into the Rolls-Royce car waiting for him, drove to the station, and took the train to London.

He was known in his business, and in the neighbourhood, as Mr Jackson, although his foreign appearance and swarthy complexion gave the direct lie to his English name.

Not for him the easy bowler or soft hat, and the lounge suit. He had an idea that to be successful in business it was necessary to preserve the old traditions. Financial stability was suggested by the frock coat and the topper.

He described himself as a financier, and so in a certain sense he was. But in spite of the name of Jackson, he was a Spaniard by birth, and his real cognomen was Juan Jaques. As regards his business, he was a moneylender, pure and simple.

He had a spacious suite of offices in one of the most private-looking houses in Dover Street. His staff was small, consisting of a confidential woman secretary who typed his letters, generally suave, but occasionally menacing; an equally confidential clerk who kept his accounts; and a smart office boy.

From this agreeable point of vantage, he accommodated young men of good family, and equally good prospects, when they were temporarily hard up. He had a very select clientèle, and, to do him justice, for a moneylender, he was not extortionate. “Treat your clients fairly, and they will come again. You make regular customers of them. They don’t go buzzing off to Tom, Dick, and Harry.” These were the principles on which he conducted his very lucrative business.

He was in a very good humour this morning, as he got out of the taxi which had brought him from Waterloo to his office.

There were very few letters, but their contents pleased him; they suggested good business. The last one was from Guy Rossett, who intimated that he would call about twelve o’clock, as he wanted to have a short chat.

The astute Spaniard, known to all but a very few as the naturalised Englishman, Jackson, smiled.

He had not enjoyed the pleasure of Guy’s acquaintance very long. Mrs Hargrave had brought the two men together, and the introduction had been effected through the following circumstances.

At a certain period, Guy had found himself very short of money, practically due to bridge losses at the flat in Mount Street. He had rather hesitatingly asked the charming widow if she knew of any decent moneylender, who would finance him at a rate of interest that was not too extortionate.

Violet had raised her candid blue eyes – they were her best asset – to his, with a world of pity in them.

“Oh, Mr Rossett, I am so sorry to hear of this. It is all this horrible bridge. I always seem lucky, but such a lot of my friends have bad luck. I think I shall give up these parties, if they are going to embarrass the people I like.”

There was a soft mist in her eyes, as she gave utterance to these noble sentiments. Guy felt a little thrill pass through him. She was not a mere worldling, she had her full share of real kindness, of real womanliness.

“One’s own fault, you know,” he answered lightly. “I suppose I ought to be old enough to take care of myself. I needn’t play bridge if I don’t want to, need I?”

Mrs Hargrave did not answer for a moment. She seemed struggling with her remorseful thoughts. Then, after a brief space, inspiration came to her, and she played a strong and winning card.

She laid her hand upon his arm, and her voice trembled ever so little as she spoke.

“Mr Rossett, we have been very good friends, have we not? And you were a pal of dear old Jack’s long before I met him.”

Rossett nodded. At the moment he had no idea what she was driving at, or what she was leading up to. And he was pretty quick too.

“Then I want you, for the moment, to think of me as a pal. Fancy for the time I am Jack, your old friend. What I want to say is this, don’t go to these horrible people. They are sure to rook you. I have a little money put by – dear old Jack left me comfortably off – and I make quite a small income out of my winnings. Let me be your banker. Now, don’t be proud.”

Guy was profoundly touched, and he thanked her in no measured terms. But the idea of borrowing money from a woman, even if she were a dear friend, was too horrible to contemplate for a second. Had there been no alternative, he would sooner have blown his brains out.

He told her this, and she sighed regretfully, as one amazed at the obstinacy of a certain type of man. She knew, could she once have got him to accept this loan, she would be sure of him.

“You see, it is quite impossible,” he ended, rather awkwardly. It is not a pleasant thing to refuse the kindness thrust upon you in the most graceful way by a charming woman. “Do you happen to know of any of these sharks?”

Frustrated in her clever little scheme, the fair Violet reflected for a few seconds. Then she spoke in a hesitating voice, as if she were trying to recall certain memories of the past.

“Yes, I do know a man who, I believe, is a decent specimen of his kind. You know, a lot of people wonder that Jack was so well-off. Well, in the first place, he was awfully clever, and he had two or three good friends in the City who gave him tips. But he wanted a bit of capital. He found out this man Jackson, who has offices in Dover Street. Jackson believed in him, and financed him, of course taking a good share. That was only natural.”

Rossett pricked up his ears. The thing that had puzzled so many people was already partly explained. Jack had been, as his wife said, a clever fellow, and a bit of a dark horse. He had been making money in the City in a subterranean way, with the help of the philanthropic Mr Jackson, who, no doubt, had looked after his own share of the profits. But why the deuce had not Jack Hargrave told this openly to his intimates? Then all innuendos and suspicions would have been silenced at once.

Mrs Hargrave went on in her sweet, low voice. “I don’t think I have ever told this to a soul. You will respect my confidence. I always thought it a little silly of Jack, but he made a point of keeping the secret to himself.”

“Need you ask the question?” queried Guy Rossett reproachfully.

“No, I am sure I can trust you. Well, this man Jackson; by the way, that is not his real name, he is a naturalised Spaniard. I see him sometimes on a few matters in which he is still interested, and which he looks after for me. I will give you a note to him, and ask him to treat you very gently.”

But, before she moved to her writing-table, she again looked pleadingly at him.

“Are you sure you will not reconsider my suggestion? Surely you would rather be indebted to me than to a mere sordid moneylender?”

Again Guy repeated his thanks. But on this point he was adamant; nothing would move him.

He took the letter of introduction to Mr Jackson. This gentleman was affability itself. Mrs Hargrave’s introduction was quite sufficient. Guy was too much a gentleman to put searching questions as to Jackson’s private knowledge of the Hargraves, husband and wife.

On his side, Mr Jackson had the private dossier of every eligible young man, from the moneylender’s point of view, entered in his reference book. He knew all about the Earl of Saxham, and the Lady Henrietta. Young Mr Rossett was quite a desirable client. He was pleased to add him to his list.

As a matter of fact, the loan was quite a small one, and was granted on reasonable terms. There was no speculative element in the transaction. Guy was a young man who might make a mistake now and again, but he would never kick over the traces for long, and he was as straight as a die.

On this particular morning, Mr Jackson received him with the greatest affability.

“Delighted to see you, Mr Rossett. Too early for a drink, I am afraid, but have a cigar.”