Loe raamatut: «Wild Margaret», lehekülg 17

"I could do without a career for him if the price is to be a war," said the signora, sighing.

"He seems very attentive to Miss Leslie," remarked the countess, looking at the two young people as they crossed the room.

The prince had found a seat for Margaret, but still remained by her side, bending over her with that rapt attention which distinguished him.

"Oh yes," assented the signora, placidly. "He thinks a great deal of her. I imagine that he is very pleased at the success of her picture. Ferdinand is devoted to art; and says that the villa is renowned as the birthplace of so great a picture as Miss Leslie has painted."

"Hem!" said the countess; then, with a frown, she said, "Don't you think that the charm you speak of may exert itself over Ferdinand?"

"Over Ferdinand?" the signora glanced across at them with a serene smile.

"Yes, over Ferdinand," repeated the old countess, almost impatiently, "or do you think that the male heart is less susceptible than the female. Do you suppose that Ferdinand is blind to Miss Leslie's loveliness, and that it is only revealed to you and Florence?"

"What do you mean?" asked the signora.

"What do I mean? Why, my dear Lucille, aren't you afraid that, to speak plainly, Ferdinand may – fall in love with Miss Leslie?"

The old princess looked at her for a moment with a mild surprise, then she drew her slight figure up to its full height and smiled with placid hauteur.

"Ferdinand will not fall in love with Miss Leslie," she said, with an air of calm conviction.

"Oh," said the countess, dryly. "Does he wear an amulet warranted to protect him from such eyes as hers, such beauty as hers?"

"Yes," said the mother. "Ferdinand wears such an amulet. It is the consciousness of his rank and all its duties and responsibilities. Miss Leslie is a most charming girl, and Florence and I are attached to her; but Ferdinand – " she paused and smiled. "I know Ferdinand very well, I think, my dear, so well, that if you were to hint that he was likely to fall in love with one of the maid-servants I should be as little alarmed."

The countess looked at her with a strange smile, then glanced at the prince and Margaret.

"My dear Lucille," she said, "I beg your pardon. Of course, you are quite right, and there is no danger. There has never been an instance of one of our rank marrying beneath him, has there?" and she laughed ironically.

The signora smiled and shook her head.

"My dear," she said, "there isn't a prouder man in Italy than Ferdinand. I am not at all uneasy."

CHAPTER XXII

I do not think I have at any time held up Lord Blair Leyton as an example to youth, and I am less likely than ever to do so now, now that he has reached an epoch in his life when, like a vessel without a rudder, he drifts to and fro on life's troubled sea, heedless of his course, and perilously near the rocks of utter ruin and destruction. But at any rate, I can claim one quality for our hero – he was thorough.

A wilder man than Blair, before he fell in love with Margaret, it would be difficult to imagine; it would be harder to find a better one, or one with better intentions, than he was during his short married life; and, alas, no wilder and more reckless being existed than poor Blair, after Margaret's supposed death.

He was quiet enough while he was ill, for he was too weak to do anything but sit still all day and brood.

He would sit for hours staring moodily at the dim line where sea and sky meet, without uttering a word – all his thoughts fixed upon his great loss, the sweet, lovable, lovely girl whom he had called wife for a few short weeks.

He never mentioned Margaret's name, and Austin Ambrose was too wise to disobey his injunction as regards silence. He made no further inquiries, and even if he had been desirous of doing so, there was no one of whom to make inquiries, for the Days had left Appleford, and no one knew anything more of Margaret than the common record, that she had been seen on the rock, and then – not seen!

Emaciated and haggard, Lord Blair sat day after day waiting for the renewal of strength, his sole employment that bitterest of all bitter amusements – recalling the past!

Austin Ambrose was his only companion, Austin leaving him only for short intervals, which he spent in town.

Vigilant as a lynx, untiring as a sleuthhound, Austin Ambrose kept continual watch and guard. By a series of accidents, Fate had assisted his schemes, and he felt himself the winner almost already. A few turns more of the wheel, and he would have Violet Graham at his feet.

Revenge is a powerful motor, so is the love of money; but when they act together, then the man who harbors them is propelled like a steam engine – swiftly yet carefully, and, therefore, barring accidents, surely.

Gradually the long, absent strength came back to Blair. As the doctor had said, he had a wonderful constitution, and it did more for him than the great Sir Astley or the great "Sir" anybody else could have done, and at last one morning he remarked, in the curt manner which had now become habitual to him:

"I shall go up to town, Austin."

"To town?"' said Austin Ambrose, raising his eyebrows. "Do you think you are fit, my dear Blair?"

"Yes," replied Blair slowly. "I am sick of sitting here day after day, and lying here night after night. I think I could" – he paused, and smothered a sigh – "sleep in London. This place is so infernally quiet – "

"Very well. Only don't run any risks," said Austin Ambrose.

Blair looked at him with a hard smile.

"If I thought I should run any risk, as you call it, I should go all the sooner. Will you wire and tell them at the Albany that I am coming?"

"I'll do better than that," said Austin Ambrose, who did not by any means desire that their whereabouts should be known. "I'll run up and see that things are straight and comfortable for you, old man."

Blair looked at him moodily.

"I don't know why you take so much trouble for me, Austin," he said. "I've no claim upon you; you are not my brother – "

"Wish I were, especially your elder brother!" said Austin Ambrose, smiling, "then I should have all the Leyton property, and be the Earl of Ferrers, shouldn't I? Well, I don't know quite why I fuss over you; I've done it so long that I can't get out of it, I suppose. It is wonderful, the force of bad habit. So you have made up your mind to go to London? Well, heaps of fellows will be very glad. Violet Graham amongst them."

Blair frowned.

"Why should Violet Graham be glad?" he said, coldly. "Why should anybody?"

"Oh, I don't know." Austin replied, carelessly; "but I suppose they will. You always were popular, you know, my dear fellow."

So Mr. Austin Ambrose, impelled by his extreme good-nature and friendship for Lord Blair, ran up to town first, and saw that the chambers were put straight, and the valet, who had been put on board wages, and kept in complete ignorance of his master's movements, warned of Lord Blair's return.

And in the evening, after he had done all this, he went to Park Lane.

Violet Graham was still in London, although like the last Rose of Summer, "all her companions" had gone. She had pressing invitations to county houses in England, Scotland, and Ireland – shooting and fishing parties clamored for the presence of the popular heiress; but in vain. She declared that she hated eating luncheon in wet turnip fields, and that fishing parties were a bore, and intended remaining in London, at any rate, for the present. The truth was that she could not tear herself away while there remained a chance of Blair's return.

Austin Ambrose found her sitting before the fire in the drawing-room, crouching almost, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals as if she were seeking the future in the red light; and she started and sprung up as he entered with an exclamation of surprise:

"Austin!" then she looked beyond him, as if she hoped and expected to see some one else with him, and not seeing him, her face fell.

"Well, Violet," he said, with his slow, calm smile.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, moving her hand toward a chair, "I thought you were dead!"

"I am alive," he answered, "and I have been wandering up and down like the gentleman mentioned in history. You are early with your fire, aren't you? It is quite warm out."

"It is quite cold within," she replied; "at least, I am cold, I always feel cold now. Well?" she added, with abrupt interrogation.

He smiled up at her.

"You want my news?" he said, shortly.

"Yes! Where is he? Where is Blair?" she demanded, and as she spoke his name a red spot burnt in either cheek, and her eyes grew hungry and impatient. "Why does he not come home or write? One would think you were both dead!"

"Blair is alive," he said, holding his hands to the fire, though he had said it was warm, and watching her with a sidelong look under the lowered lids. "He isn't dead, but he has been very nearly."

She uttered a faint cry, and put her hand to her heart.

"I knew it!" she murmured huskily, "I felt that something was wrong with him. Don't laugh at me," she went on fiercely, for the smile had crept into his face again, "I tell you I felt it. It was as if some one had passed over my grave. Blair nearly dead! And you never told me! What brutes men can be!" and the angry tears crowded into her eyes.

"Don't blame me," he said. "It was Blair's fault. I should have written and asked you to help me nurse him, but he wouldn't permit me to tell any one, even the earl."

"But why not?" she demanded.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"As well ask the wind why it blows north instead of south, or east, or west. Blair is whimsical; besides, he hates any fuss, and – forgive me, Violet – but he may have known that you would have made a fuss."

"I would have gone to him to the other end of the world, and have given my life to save his, if you call that making a fuss!" she retorted angrily.

"Exactly," he said; "and that is just what Blair didn't want."

"Where was he, and what was it?" she asked, dashing the tears from her eyes with a gesture that was almost savage.

"He got a fever at Paris," said Mr. Austin Ambrose promptly. "It was a narrow squeak for him; but we pulled him through."

Violet Graham's face went white, and her lips shut tightly.

"'We?' Then – then she was with him? She is with him now?" and her hands clenched so that the nails ran into the soft, pinky palms.

"She was," he answered gravely; "but she is not now."

"Not now!" she echoed, with a quick glance at the calm, set face. "Where is she, then? Has he sent her away? Tell me, quick!"

"He has not sent her away, but she has gone. Violet, prepare yourself for a shock. The poor girl is dead!"

She sprung to her feet, and stood staring at him for a moment, then sank into her chair, a light of relief and joy, almost demoniacal in its intensity, spreading over her face.

"Dead! Dead, Austin?" hoarsely; "you are not – not playing with me?"

"Rather too serious a subject for joking, isn't it?" he responded, coolly. "No, I am telling you the plain truth; the girl is dead!"

"When? How?" she demanded.

He was silent a second or two, then he said:

"Abroad. I don't think we need go into particulars, Violet."

She said nothing while one could count twenty, then she looked round at him with a glance half fearful.

"Did you – had you any hand – " She could not finish the sentence.

He looked her full in the face, then let his eyes drop.

"Better not ask for any of the details, my dear Violet! Take the thing in its bare simplicity. If I had, as you delicately suggested, any hand in bringing about this consummation you so devoutly desired, what would you say? Are you going to overwhelm me with reproaches and cover me with remorse?"

The two spots burnt redly on her cheeks, then, as she turned and faced him, her face went very white.

"No. Do you think I have forgotten what you said? You asked me if I was prepared to separate them at any cost, and I answered 'at any cost.' I have not forgotten. I do not retract my words. I said what I meant – "

"Even if it meant – murder?" he remarked, coolly.

She shuddered, and glanced toward the door fearfully, then she met his gaze defiantly.

"Yes, even if it meant murder!"

He smiled at her thoughtfully.

"You are a wonderful woman, Violet," he said, reflectively. "One would not expect to find a Lady Macbeth in a delicately made little lady like yourself! You don't look the character. But don't be uneasy; there are other ways of disposing of a person who is inconveniently in the way, than the dagger and poison-cup. The way is – "

She put out her hand.

"Don't tell me."

He laughed sardonically.

"I told you that you would not want the details," he said, "and you are wise to let the fact suffice. Margaret Hale is dead, and Blair is free once more."

"Free!" she murmured. "Free!" and she drew a long sigh. "And where is he?"

"On his way to London," he replied. "He will be here to-morrow."

"To-morrow?" and her face flushed.

"Yes," he said, promptly. "But I do not know that he will find his way to Park Lane quite so quickly."

"No?" scornfully.

"No, not just at first. You see, Blair has been through a rather heavy mill, and he is – well, to put it shortly – rather crushed."

"I understand."

"Yes," slowly, "I imagine that he will fight shy of all his acquaintances for a time, women especially. Why, he can scarcely bring himself to say half-a-dozen civil words to me, his best friend."

"'His best friend!'" she murmured.

"His best friend," he repeated, with emphasis. "So that one must not expect too much from him just yet. In a week or two he will come round, and you will find him only too glad to drop in for afternoon tea."

She looked at him quickly, for there seemed a hidden meaning in his words, commonplace as they were.

He nodded.

"Yes, just that. He will drop in some afternoon and you will, of course, greet him as if you had parted from him only the night before. Make a fuss over him, and he will be off like a frightened hare, and you will lose him. But just receive him with the politeness due to an ordinary acquaintance, and he will not be alarmed. He will get accustomed to dropping in and – and – " he smiled significantly – "any further hint would be superfluous."

She sat silently regarding the fire, with this new hope, the news of Margaret's death, shining softly in her eyes, and he sat watching her.

"What fools women are!" she murmured, at last.

"I would rather you said that than I," and he laughed softly.

"We are like children," she went on. "The one thing denied to us, that is the thing we must have and cry our eyes out for! I wish – I wish that I were dead or had no heart!"

"The two things are synonymous," he said. "Without a heart one, indeed, might as well be dead."

She looked at him with momentary interest and curiosity.

"They say that you have no heart, Austin."

"But you know that I have," he responded at once. "But we won't talk about my heart, it is a matter of such little consequence, isn't it? And now I think I will go. I have come like the messenger with good tidings, and my presence is now superfluous. You will see Blair shortly. I need scarcely hint that not a word of the past should escape your lips."

He spoke as carelessly and coolly as usual, but his eyes watched hers closely as he waited for her answer.

"No, no," she said; "I will say nothing about – her," and she shuddered.

"Certainly not. Take care you do not. It is grewsome work raising specters, and I warn you that to speak of Margaret Hale to Blair would be to raise a specter which will send him from your side at once."

She sighed and bit her lips.

"He – he cared for her so much?" she murmured huskily.

Austin Ambrose shrugged his shoulders.

"Who can tell? I suppose so. Certainly, he raved about her enough. But all that is past, you know; the girl is dead, and Time – which, so they say, will wipe out anything save an I O U – will erase her from his memory!"

He got his hat, and stood looking down at her slight figure as she sat leaning forward over the fire.

Then she glanced up and caught his eyes.

With a little start, she rose and held out her hand.

"I – I do not know what to say to you, Austin," she said, falteringly. "To speak of gratitude seems a mere formal way of expressing what I feel. You have done me a great service – " She stopped and hesitated, embarrassed by his steadfast gaze. "If there is anything I can do – "

He shook his head.

"No," he said, with a smile, "there is nothing you can do for me, thanks, except win the day and be happy."

"And – and yet you spoke of – hinted at – some possible reward?" she said, wondering whether she should offer him money.

"Are you dying to make me a present of, say, a thousand pounds?" he said, laughing softly. "I am sorry to balk your generous intentions, but I do not want money – at present. I am not rich, excepting in the sense that the man whose requirements are small is never poor. No, I do not want your money, Violet. Some day I may – I only say I may – come to you and remind you of my share in this little business. Perhaps I may never do so; but at any rate, your bare 'I thank you' will reward me sufficiently now."

"Then, I thank you!" she said.

He pressed her hand, looked into her eyes with the same half-comical smile, and then left her.

CHAPTER XXIII

Blair came back to town, thin, and pale, and haggard, with only one desire in his heart: to forget the past and kill the present! He had been wild and reckless as a youth, and it had only been his love for Margaret that had checked him in his road to ruin.

If she had still been by his side, he would have swung round and become one of the steadiest of men – she would have been his saving and guardian angel. But he had lost her, and with her all that had made his life worth living.

So he came back to the old life in London, hating it with a weariness bitter as death, and yet not knowing of any other way in which to kill time and escape from the past.

As Austin Ambrose had said, his friends were glad to see him, but they were aghast at the change which a few weeks had wrought in the old light-hearted Blair; and the pace he was going alarmed even the most reckless of them.

They dared not ask him any questions, for there was something about him, a touch of savageness and smothered bitterness in his manner which warned them that any display of curiosity would be resented.

"I can't make Blair out," said Lord Aldmere to Colonel Floyd. It was at a well-known club which does not open its doors until well-regulated people have gone to bed. "What he has been doing, Heaven only knows; but I never saw a man so changed. Why it was only this summer that he was in the best of form bright as a – a star, don't you know, and now – look at him!" he concluded, glancing across the room at Blair, as he sat moodily over the fire, a big cigar in his mouth, his haggard face drooping on his breast, his sad eyes fixed gloomily on the ground. "Never saw such a change in a man in all my life."

"He has been ill, you know," said the colonel, eying the drooping, listless figure with a troubled regard; "had a fever and all that kind of thing."

"Yes – I know," said the marquis, stammeringly; "but other fellows have had fevers, and they don't cut up like that. I had the fever – no, I think it was measles, or mumps, or something, but I pulled round all right, and was as jolly as a sandboy after all. It isn't the fever that's done it, Floyd; there's something else, depend upon it. Where has he been all this time? nobody knows exactly."

"You'd better ask him," said the colonel, with grim irony.

"Ask him!" stuttered the marquis; "I dare say! I expect I should get my head snapped off! Some fellow said something about Paris yesterday, and turning to Blair, said: 'But you were there then, weren't you, Blair?' and Blair just turned and glared at him as if he was going to eat him! No, by George, you bet I don't ask him anything!"

"Perhaps you'd better not," assented the colonel. "Discretion is the better part of valor. But he isn't always like this, is he?" he asked, in an undertone.

"No, not always," replied Aldmere. "He'll wake up presently and pull himself together, and then he'll go into the dining-room and order some dinner, and as like as not when it comes he'll march out and leave it! I've seen him do it two or three times, by Jove! and then later on he'll take a big drink, and when he's livened up a bit, he'll go down to the Green Table."

The colonel whistled. The Green Table was the fashionable gaming club, and the proprietor might appropriately have inscribed over its handsome stone doorway, "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!" for many a man had found cause to rue the hour in which he passed its portals.

There was no more dangerous place in all London than the Green Table, and Colonel Floyd's whistle was not by any means superfluous.

"And does he win?" he asked.

"Sometimes, but not often," replied the marquis. "Loses four nights out of five. Seems to have lost his game, too. You know how good he was at most things? First rate all round man, you know. But now he seems to have lost his head, and plays like a man in a dream. I saw him miss two points at baccarat last night. Poor old Blair!"

"Poor old Blair!" echoed the colonel. "Can't something be done?"

The young marquis shook his head sadly.

"Who could do anything? In the old times, Blair was as good-natured a fellow as you'd meet in a day's walk; but, by George! as I said, you dare not speak to him now. If one of us were to drop a word signifying that he was going to the devil – well, by jingo! he'd send us there ourselves, and pretty sharp."

"I suppose it was some love affair?" said the colonel, thoughtfully.

"Don't know. Perhaps so. There is one fellow who could tell us, and that's that fellow Austin Ambrose."

The colonel made a grimace.

"I hate that fellow more than ever," he said. "He's back, too, by the way. Shouldn't wonder if he has been with Blair all the time, and isn't, in some way or other, mixed up with the business. I never thought that fellow up to much."

"Don't see what harm he could be up to," said the young marquis. "And so the fair Violet won't go down to Scotland this autumn, eh, Floyd?"

"No," said the colonel, ruefully; "and so I can't, either, confound it! Not that there seems much use in hanging about, for one can't get a civil word from her lately."

"They say," whispered the marquis, "that she's still sweet on Blair."

The colonel glanced over at him and shrugged his shoulders.

"Then she's wasting that same sweetness on desert air, Aldy, for to my certain knowledge he hasn't been near Park Lane since he came back. Hallo, talk of the devil – here is that fellow!"

For Austin Ambrose entered the room in his peculiar noiseless fashion, and, bestowing a nod upon the colonel and the marquis, crossed the room to Blair's chair.

Blair looked up as Austin Ambrose greeted him, looked up with that listless, spiritless glance which speaks so eloquently of the wrecked hopes and consequent despair.

"Well Blair," said Austin Ambrose, with his slow smile. "Thought I should find you here! You've dined, of course?"

Blair thought a moment as if he were trying to recollect.

"No, I haven't," he said.

"No?" cheerfully. "Come and have some grilled bones with me."

"I hate grilled bones," was the listless response.

Austin Ambrose laughed and dropped into a chair.

"So do I, if it comes to that, but man must eat to live; but never mind the bones. Blair," and he leaned forward, "you have seen the evening paper?"

"No," said Blair, lighting his cigar, which he had allowed to die out.

"No! Then you don't know that Springtime has lost?"

"Has he?" was the indifferent response. "Did I back him?" and he passed his thin wasted hand over his forehead.

Austin Ambrose raised his eyebrows.

"Did you back him? My dear Blair, what a question! Didn't you tell me this morning to get what odds I could?"

"Yes, I remember," said Blair, leaning back and gazing into the fire. "That's the horse you thought so well of, isn't it?"

Austin Ambrose colored faintly.

"Well, I don't know. I would not put it exactly that way. But I did think he had a chance, and I backed him myself for as much as I could afford," he said in a much lower tone than Blair had used, for he did not want the marquis and the colonel to hear them.

"And he lost?" said Blair, indifferently. "Well, somebody must lose," and he shrank back in his chair as if he were both weary and cold.

"I suppose the money is all right? – I mean that you have a balance at the bank?" said Austin Ambrose.

Blair nodded languidly.

"I suppose so. Oh, yes, I think so," he said, carelessly. "If not, Tyler & Driver will see to it."

Then he relapsed into his old attitude, and into the silence which had lately become habitual to him. Presently he rose and absently took two or three turns up and down the room. He was the shadow of his former self in bulk, but the stalwart frame was there still, and the marquis and Floyd watched him sadly.

"Going home, Blair?" said the colonel, in that tone of forced cheerfulness which we use toward a friend that has been stricken down by illness or a great sorrow.

"Home?" he said, with a little start and suppressed shudder. "Good heavens, no! What should I do with the rest of the night?"

"It's morning now," said the marquis with a yawn. "Why not go to bed, old man?"

"No, thank you," said Blair with a grim smile. "Why should I go to bed?"

"Why, to sleep," replied the young lord.

"Yes, but I don't sleep," came the instant retort. "No, I think I'll go down to the Green Table."

"Oh, hang the Green Table!" exclaimed the colonel. "What's the use of going to that beastly place?"

"As for that, what's the use of going to any beastly place?" said Blair, and he rang the bell and asked for his overcoat.

"We'd better go with him, I suppose?" whispered the marquis; and when the footman had helped Blair on with his coat, they got theirs and followed him; Austin Ambrose walking by his side, his face calm and serene with its cool, set smile.

The tables at the gaming club seemed pretty well crowded, but Blair found a chair presently and began to play. The marquis and Colonel Floyd stood behind him with Austin Ambrose.

Neither of the men had spoken a word to him, beyond returning his greeting as he entered the club, but now impelled by his anxiety on Blair's account, the marquis addressed him.

"I say, Ambrose, you know," he interposed; "poor old Blair is going to the – de – devil, don't you know!"

Austin Ambrose shook his head.

"He was always very wild," he said in an undertone, without removing his eyes from Blair's cards.

"Wild! Yes; but not like this. What's come to him? – what's happened to him? He's like a man half off his head, poor old chap. Look how he's playing now! Why, a child could beat him. And he plays so confounded high. I've heard there's a lot of money in the family; but, hang it all, a gold mine couldn't stand it!"

Austin Ambrose heaved a deep sigh.

"I quite understand your feelings, my dear marquis; but what am I to do? If you think my poor friend is a man to be coaxed or managed, well, try it."

The marquis swore under his breath.

"I will!" he said, and laying his hand on Blair's shoulder, he said, in an undertone: "Old fellow, the luck is dead against you to-night; throw the cards up and come away."

Blair turned as a man might turn from a dream, and looked up at him.

"Oh, is it you, Aldy? I beg your pardon. Want to go? All right, just wait till I have had another hand. The luck is against me, as you say, but what does it matter?" and he smiled. "The next best thing to winning is losing, you know."

"You see!" said Austin Ambrose in a low voice. "What is to be done? I have tried everything, but it is of no use," then he bent over Blair, and said:

"Are you coming my way, Blair? I am going now."

"No, I think not," was the listless reply. "Going? Good-night."

The marquis and Colonel Floyd walked out of the club.

"I wonder what that fellow's game is," said the latter, "for, mark my words, Aldy, he has a game, all these sort of men have. Did you see his face when poor Blair lost?"

"No, I was watching the cards," said the marquis.

"Well, I wasn't. I was watching our palefaced friend, and if it was sorrow on his face, then I don't know joy when I see it. I don't know what his game is, and I can't even guess at it, but if he isn't winning it, then I'm a Dutchman."

Blair played on until the daylight came in faint streaks through the Venetian blinds of the card room, and the hour of closing arrived. Then he rose as listless and weary, as unmoved and calm as when he sat down.

"You have lost," said Austin Ambrose, who still stood beside him.

"Yes, I think so. Oh, yes, heavily."

"Heavily!" echoed Austin Ambrose. "My dear Blair! And you have had a run of bad luck all the week?"

"Yes, luck has been against me," assented Blair, and he beckoned to a footman who brought him some champagne.

"You don't know how much you have lost?" continued Austin Ambrose, watching him as he drank the wine.

"No, not exactly. I told them to send the I O U's to Tyler & Driver's. Are you going now? I am afraid I have kept you."

"To Tyler & Driver's!" said Austin Ambrose, as he strove to keep pace with Blair's long strides. "My dear fellow, Tyler told me only yesterday that you had overdrawn your account, and that he did not know how to arrange! And that was before this loss on Springtime! And there are those I O U's to-night! Good heavens, my dear Blair, you will be utterly ruined."

Blair stopped and took out his cigar-case.

"Got a light?" he said. "Never mind, I've found one. Ruined? Do they say that? Well, they ought to know," and he laughed grimly. "So they say I am ruined; well, what does it matter? If I am broke, I am the only person to whom it will signify. If I were a married man, now, and had got a wife – " He stopped, and the hand that held his cigar quivered in the lamplight; "but I haven't, you see. Ruined! Well, perhaps it's as well. What do fellows do when they go under, Austin? Why, go abroad, don't they? I'll go abroad. I'll go to Boulogne, and be a billiard marker, or I'll work my way out to Australia and turn cattle runner." He stopped abruptly and looked up at the sky, now streaked with the red rays of the coming sun. "Oh, Austin, if I could only go to some place where I could forget her! She haunts me – haunts me day and night! Go where I will, do what I will, I see her before me, just as she looked as she stood on the hill waving her hand the last morning" – his voice broke – "the last time I saw her. Oh, my darling, my darling!"