A Fatal Dose. Fred M. White
matter, but on the whole it would have been more loyal and straightforward to have told Eleanor Marsh this. And yet, all the time, Philip was haunted with the idea that Eleanor was the wife for him.
At any rate, he put her out of his mind now, resolved to think no more about her. Lena welcomed him shyly. She was glad to have her lover back again; she had striven not to feel in the least jealous of Eleanor Marsh.
“So you have come for me,” she said timidly. “Really, I began to feel quite anxious about you. I am so sorry we have had no opportunity as yet to discuss one or two little things that trouble me. Do you know, I sometimes feel afraid of the future. I doubt if, after all, you have made a wise selection, Philip. I am so shy of Society and its many strange ways.”
Philip laughed. He could understand quite clearly what was passing in the girl’s mind.
“You will get used to that in time,” he said. Not once during this time had he shown the slightest disposition towards endearment; indeed, Lena could have counted the times her lover had kissed her since their engagement.
“You want someone more stately,” she said—“someone more commanding. I used to think at one time that Eleanor Marsh would have suited you better.”
Hardy shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He felt a little mean, too.
“Yes?” he said. “An exceedingly brilliant woman—clever and all that sort of thing—but at the same time, I can never get it out of my mind that there is something of the adventuress about her. For instance, she never speaks of her people, except some vague references to relations in Virginia, and I am quite certain that the money she makes by her journalism is not sufficient to maintain that luxurious flat in Courtville Square. By the way, I saw that she was in the House to-night, with Lady Lorimer.”
They stood there for some time longer, discussing the future—always his future, by the way—until Hardy noticed a little impatience pass over the face of his companion.
“I am sure, I beg your pardon,” he said contritely. “You are ready. Had we not better get on as far as Lexington House?”
They drove away together and came at length to their destination—one of the largest houses in Grosvenor Place. The establishment was lighted from top to bottom. Crimson cloth lay across the pavement, a constant stream of carriages ebbed and flowed before the door, and at the head of the stairs one of the most fashionable and exclusive hostesses in London greeted Hardy warmly.
He was already beginning to feel the subtle intoxication of success. In her shy, quiet way Lena slipped in; she was terribly afraid of great ladies like her hostess. She had only come here to-night to please Hardy, but there were many people here to whom she was known, and almost at once she was surrounded by a bevy of friends. Looking up presently, she saw with a smile that Philip Hardy was in animated discussion with the very woman whom they had so recently been discussing. They made a handsome pair as they stood there together, and Lena sighed just a little enviously as she recognised the fact.
The dark, glittering eyes of Eleanor Marsh rested on Hardy’s face with a subtle flattery. He was always moved to his best in the presence of this woman, though there was something about her at the same time that repelled him. She was smiling her sweetest and best now; her words of welcome were smooth and well chosen.
“Lucky in war, lucky in love,” she said gaily. “Is it a fact that I am to congratulate you on your engagement to Lena Grey? But why did you not tell me before supper to-night?”
Philip nodded gravely. Just for a moment the woman’s face grew hard; she hid her eyes behind her fan. It was only a fleeting spasm, and a second later she was smiling as gloriously as ever. With a bow and a smile she turned to another man who had just come up to claim her society. Philip moved on, thinking nothing of this interview, and little dreaming how fateful it was going to be for him. He was somewhat bored and tired of this idle frivolity; he wanted to be alone, to think over the events of the evening. Perhaps Lena divined what was uppermost in his mind, for she stole across the room and laid her hand on his arm.
“Don’t you want to go?” she asked. “Philip, you have been working too hard lately, your eyes look tired and misty. Whatever you do, don’t neglect your health.”
Hardy laughed indifferently. He was feeling to-night that he could defy the fates in all directions. He was so well, so strong, and so successful that illness of any kind seemed far removed from him. He had listened lightly to a famous specialist’s statement that he would have to be careful of his heart. True, he saw things in a dim and hazy way sometimes, but a day or two’s rest speedily gave relief. Nevertheless, he professed himself ready to do anything that Lena needed. She drew him towards the door.
“Then let us go,” she said. “Take me home to aunt’s flat. She will not be back just yet, so that we can have a delicious hour together. We have been in London now for over a month, and I have only seen you twice in the last fortnight.”
“I feel horribly guilty,” Hardy laughed. “We won’t have a cab; we will walk as far as the flat.”
Lena asked nothing better; she felt perfectly happy now, as she sauntered along with her hand in her lover’s arm, listening to his glowing plans for the future. It was about himself that he talked, and Lena was too wrapped in him to notice the selfish egotism of it all. She was only too happy in the knowledge that she had won this man’s affection; she was frightened by the reflection that she might not be worthy of him. With his head in the air. Hardy strode along, quickening his pace unconsciously. As they turned a corner, a shabbily-dressed man, loafing furtively, came in more or less violent contact with Hardy. The man’s shiny hat fell to the ground; he muttered something angrily about the stupidity of people who would not take the trouble to look where they were going. Hardy apologised in his superior manner; the man appeared to be about to retort angrily, then suddenly turned on his heel and crossed the road.
He stood for a moment watching the retreating figures, his face working convulsively; then he threw up his head and laughed bitterly. The others were out of sight now.
“Philip Hardy—and, as I live, Lena Grey,” he muttered. “I wonder if they recognised me; but that is impossible. If they had, Lena would have stopped; she was always forgiving and sweet-tempered. I wonder if it is possible—”
The man stopped abruptly and drifted down the street.
V. — A ROLLING STONE
THE outcast wandered on, stopping from time to time as if waiting or hoping for something. He was conscious of the doubtful glances of the passers-by; he noticed also that more than one policeman took a mental note of him. It was not to be wondered at, seeing that, despite the way he carried himself, his general appearance was suspicious to the last degree. His shabby frock suit at one time had been fashionable enough—indeed, frayed and creased and soiled as it was, the flavour of Bond Street still clung to it. The coat was buttoned up tightly to disguise the absence of a shirt; the greasy top hat was stuck on the head at a defiant angle. Altogether he looked a man to be shunned, as a glance at his shifty eye and unshaven face testified.
And yet there was a time when Jasper Cleave had walked the West End on terms of equality with the best of them. He had been accounted a good fellow and a true friend. He had ample means at his disposal, and more than one designing mother had been ready to welcome him as a probable son-in-law.
But there had been a weak spot somewhere—something wanting in the man’s mental fibre. There had been a scandal, sudden and unexpected, and Jasper Cleave’s place knew him no more. He had drifted abroad as men of his class do; the waters of oblivion had closed over his head; his name had ceased to be mentioned.
Those had been terribly trying years for the ruined gambler. He had starved with others of his clan and had seen many strange and unspeakable experiences, and now some backwater of the sea of life had cast him back upon the streets of London without hope, without