CHAPTER XXIX I AM TEMPTED

Early on the following morning I mounted for the last time into the high dog-cart, which had been kept in the coach-house at the "cottage" for my use, and was driven rapidly away with my back to Devereux Court. It was a grey, misty morning, and a watery sun was shining feebly down from a cloud-strewn sky. It had been raining, and innumerable glistening drops of moisture were hanging and falling from the well-nigh leafless trees. A desolate morning; with a slight vapoury mist rising from the ground and chilling the air. But my thoughts were not of the weather, for I was taking my last lingering farewell of Devereux Court. As we turned the corner and lost sight of it for a while, a stronger ray of sunlight than any which had as yet succeeded in piercing the bank of clouds reached its windows, and transformed its whole appearance. A thousand rays of light seemed to be smiling down at me from the massive stretching front and the frowning towers, all the brighter from the contrast with the black woods above and around. I was young and impressionable to anything in nature, especially with my heart so full as it was then, and, with a sudden start, I rose up and waved my hat in an answering farewell Then I sat down and would not look round again lest the light should have died out from the diamond-framed windows, and the gloom from the threatening clouds reign there instead. I was superstitious, perhaps—but I wanted to carry away with me in my heart the memory of Devereux Court, as I had seen it a moment ago, with its dark grey front softened and its windows sparkling gaily in that chance flickering ray of sunlight. And so I would not look round, even when John slackened at the top of the last hill, and, pointing with his whip, "reckoned that this wur the last I should see of t'ould place, and rare sorry he wur too," he added, with grateful recollections of a piece of gold at that moment reposing snugly in his waistcoat pocket.

But I would not look, and, a little offended, he touched the old hunter with his whip, and before long we reached the station of Devereux.

In six hours I was in London, friendless, and I had well-nigh said, purposeless, for, after I had written out and myself taken to the office of the Times, a brief but imploring message to my father, I knew not which way to turn or what to do with myself. London disgusted, sickened me, and at every step I took I felt myself longing the more for a strong fresh breeze from a Yorkshire moor, and for the sight of a country lane and a few ruddy-cheeked, good-natured country folk, instead of this never-ceasing stream of pale-faced anxious men and over-dressed artificial women, and this interminable succession of great dirty buildings. I felt awkward, too, and ill at ease, for though in the country there had never seemed to be anything extraordinary in my stature, here, as I walked down the Strand with my hands behind my back, I seemed head and shoulders above everybody else, and people looked up at me wonderingly and made laughing remarks to one another, some of which I could not help but overhear. At last, in despair, it occurred to me that my country costume had something to do with it; so I went to a tailor's in Bond Street, and, with a sigh, abandoned my loose shooting jacket and breeches and brown deer-stalker for a black frock coat, dark grey trousers, and tall hat. The change was an effectual one, however, for though people still stared at me, it was no longer as though I were some wild animal.

One afternoon during the second week of my stay in London I turned with a crowd of other loungers into the Park, and there, to my surprise, I saw Maud. She was sitting in a victoria by herself, leaning back amongst the cushions with pale face and a light in her cold blue eyes which seemed to speak of indifference to everything and everybody around her. As fate would have it there was a block just then, and her carriage, with its pair of restless fuming bays, came almost to a standstill close to where I was leaning over the railing. I would have drawn back, but I could not. I seemed fascinated, and I remained there with my eyes fixed upon hers, and from that moment I was a believer in animal magnetism, for suddenly she looked languidly up, and her eyes rested deliberately upon the little crowd of black-coated loungers of whom I was one. She saw me, she singled me out from the rest in a moment, and instantly the proud, bored look left her face, and she leaned forward in her carriage towards me with her lips parted in a slight smile. I obeyed her imperious little gesture, and, stepping over the railings, stood by her side hat in hand.

She laid an exquisitely gloved little hand in mine for a moment, and then leaned back, looking at me with the old look, half mocking, half tender, altogether bewildering.

"Saul amongst the prophets!" she laughed. "Since when, might I ask, has Mr. Arbuthnot become an acclimatised Londoner? Really you ought to feel flattered that I recognised you," she added, looking at my black coat and hat and the gardenia in my buttonhole; I had bought it only because other men were wearing them, and I wished to look as little singular as possible.

Bandying words with Maud was beyond me. I rested my foot on the step of her carriage, and pretended to be carefully examining it, for into her eyes I dared not look.

"I am only waiting in London until I have news from abroad," I answered. "When did you come from Devereux?"

"Only yesterday. And I had not thought to see you so soon," she said, in an altered tone.

Why was I standing there at Maud's feet? Why had I come into the Park at all? I, who was so little of a man that, amidst all this great crowd of people I was obliged to struggle hard to keep an unmoved countenance and a measured tone. I felt bitterly angry with myself as I answered, with averted face—

"Nor I you. I had forgotten that Devereux was not your home. You live here, do you not?"

She smiled indulgently at my ignorance.

"We are generally here for the season," she said. "We have a house in Mayfair. Will you come and see me?"

I shook my head, and answered bluntly—

"Thank you, no, Miss Devereux."

She leaned forward in her carriage, with a sudden increase of animation in her manner.

"You are a Don Quixote, Hugh," she said, half angrily, half reproachfully. "How can you be so foolish as to believe that rubbish about my father! Wait till you hear how people talk of him, and then you will know how stupidly mistaken you have been. And he likes you so much, too. You might come and see us whenever you liked, if you would only not be so silly."

"How do you do, Miss Devereux?"

She turned round quickly, and saw Lord Annerley, who had ridden up to the other side of the carriage.

"Lord Annerley! Really, how very surprising! I thought that you had gone off to break the bank at Monaco. Francis said so."

"I had meant to go," he began, twirling his little waxen moustache with his small hand, of which he seemed inordinately proud; "but something kept me in London."

He looked down at her boldly in a manner which he, no doubt, considered fascinating. Resisting a strong inclination to throw the little cad, with his irreproachable tailor-like get-up into the mud, I raised my hat to Maud, and turned away. But she called me back.

"You have not answered me, Mr. Arbuthnot. Is it to be no or yes?"

"I am sorry, Miss Devereux, that I have nothing to add to my previous answer," I said stiffly, for her beautiful smiling face seemed to me like the face of a temptress just then.

"Just as you wish, of course," she answered coldly, with a slight haughty inclination of her head. "And now, Lord Annerley," I heard her add, in a very altered tone, "I hear that you have a new team. Do tell me all about them. Are they greys or mixed?"

I walked away, nor did I enter the Park again whilst I was in London.