Part 22 (1/2)
”We were talking about you at the club, only the other afternoon; coincidence, wasn't it? Two or three of us,--Marston, and Hallett, and old Pryor. You remember old Pryor, don't you? Stock Exchange, and swears a lot--ah, you know; he wanted to know what had become of you and your d.a.m.ned career; it was a d.a.m.ned pity for the most brilliant man at the bar, and the only one with a conscience, to be wasted on a lot of d.a.m.ned foreigners, and so on. You know old Pryor. Of course I agreed with him, but it wasn't my business to say so.”
He paused a little wistfully, as though he expected Paul to say something to explain his long absence; but the latter only smiled slightly, and walked across to his cupboard in the corner.
”I'm going to have some tea,” he observed, ”but I don't expect you to join me in that, Heaton. There's some vermuth here, Italian vermuth; or, of course, you can have whiskey if you prefer it.”
”Thanks, my boy,” laughed the other. ”I'm glad to see that five months in the infernal regions haven't spoilt your memory. Claret for boys, brandy for heroes, eh?”
He helped himself to whiskey, and then leaned back in his chair to survey Paul, who was making a cigarette while the water boiled. There was one of the long silences that were inevitable with Paul, unless his companion took the initiative; and for the next five minutes the only sounds to be heard were the singing of the kettle, the rise and fall of footsteps in the court below, and the occasional rattle of the window sash as the wind wrestled with it. Paul made the tea, and brought his cup to the table, and flung himself at full length on the sofa beside it.
”Well,” he said at last, ”haven't you any news to tell me? Who is the last charming lady you have been trotting round to all the picture galleries,--the one who is more beautiful, and more intellectual, and more sympathetic than any woman you have ever met?”
Heaton laughed consciously.
”Now, it's odd you should happen to say that,” he said in his simple manner. ”Of course I know it's only your chaff, confound you, but there _is_ just a smattering of truth in it. By Jove, Wilton, you must come and meet her; you never saw such a figure, and she's the wittiest creature I ever ran across! I'm nowhere, when it comes to talk; but she's so kind to me, Wilton,--you can't think; I never met such a sympathetic woman. Really, she has the most extraordinary effect upon me; I haven't been so influenced by any woman since poor little May died, 'pon my word I haven't. I can't think how it's all going to end, I tell you I can't. It's giving me a lot of worry, I know.”
”Ah,” said Paul gravely. ”Widow?”
”Her husband was a brute,” said Heaton energetically. ”Colonel in the army, drank, used her villainously I expect, though she doesn't say much; she's awfully staunch to the chap. Women are, you know; I can't think why, when we treat them so badly. That's where they get their hold over us, I suppose. But her influence over me is wonderful. I wouldn't do anything to lose her respect, for the world.”
He blinked his eyes, and drank some more whiskey. Perhaps it occurred to him that his companion was even less responsive than usual, for there was more vigour and less sentiment in his tone when he resumed the conversation.
”You never tell me anything about yourself,” he complained, rather pathetically. ”You draw me out, and I'm a.s.s enough to be drawn; and then you sit and smile cynically, while I make a fool of myself. How about _your_ experiences, eh? 'Pon my word, I don't remember a single instance of your giving me your confidence! You're such a rum, reserved sort of chap. Well, I dare say you're right to keep it all to yourself. It does me good to tell things; but then, I'm different.”
”My dear fellow, I've nothing to tell,” replied Paul, smiling. ”You forget that my life is not full of the charming experiences that seem to fall so continually to your lot. And your conversation is so much more interesting than mine would be, that I prefer to listen; that's all. I'm not secretive; I have merely nothing to secrete.”
”That's all very well,” said Heaton, shaking his head; ”but I'm older than you, so that won't wash. You should have heard what those fellows at the club were saying about you.”
”Yes? It doesn't interest me in the least,” said Paul coldly. But tact was not the strong point of his friend's character, and he went on, notwithstanding.
”Of course I didn't say much,--it isn't my way; besides, you know I think you're always right in the main. But it's enough to make fellows talk, when a man like you, who always sets his career before his pleasure, goes away out of the vacation, and stays away all these months. You must own it's reasonable to speculate a little; it's only in man's nature.”
”Some men's,” said Paul, as coldly as before. ”I should never dream of speculating about anybody's course of action, myself.”
”No, no, of course not; I quite agree with you, quite,” said Heaton.
”By the way,” he added, with bland innocence in his expression, ”what sort of people are these Kerrys you have been travelling with? An old married couple of sorts, I suppose!”
Paul raised himself on his elbow and drank his tea straight off, as though he had not heard the question. He was always divided, in his conversations with Heaton, between a desire to snub him and a fear of wounding his sensitiveness.
”You haven't told me the charming widow's name,” he said, dropping back into his former position. The other man's face brightened, and the conversation again became a monologue until even Heaton's prosiness was exhausted, and silence fell upon them both. And then, very characteristically, as soon as he was quite sure he was not expected to say anything, Paul suddenly became communicative.
”The Keeleys are rather nice people,” he observed, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and staring fixedly at the lighted end of it. ”Mother and daughter, you know, just abroad for the winter. Nice little place in Herefords.h.i.+re, I believe, but they come to town for the season,--Curzon Street.”
Heaton was wise enough to remain silent; and Paul went on, after a pause.
”Sat next to them at table d'hote, and that sort of thing. One is always glad of a compatriot abroad, don't you know! And the mother was really rather nice,” he added, as an afterthought.
”And what was the daughter like?” asked Heaton.
”Oh, just an ordinary amusing sort of girl! She's pretty, too, in a sort of way, but I don't admire that kind of thing much, myself. And I think she found me very dull.” He paused, and looked thoughtful. ”I must take you there when they come up to town, Heaton. You'd get on with them, and the girl is just your style, I fancy. She is really very pretty,” he added, becoming thoughtful again.
”Nothing I should like better! Delightful of you to think of it!”