The Malefactor. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
his advice was sound, that he was showing a most comprehensive grasp of the situation.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that none of what we call the careers are open to you. You could not enter Parliament, and you are too old for the professions. The services, of course, are impossible. You might write, if your tastes ran that way. Nowadays, it seems to be the fashion to record one’s experiences in print, if—if they should happen to be in any way exceptional. I can think of nothing else!”
“I am very much obliged to you,” Wingrave said. “Your suggestions are eminently practical. I will think them over. Don’t let me keep you any longer!”
“About this evening,” Rocke remarked. “Shall I fix up that little dinner party? You have only to say the word!”
“I am very much obliged to you, but I think not,” answered Wingrave. “I will dine with you alone some evening, with pleasure! Not just as present!”
Rocke looked, as he felt, puzzled. He honestly wished to be of service to this man, but he was at a loss to know what further suggestion he could make. There was something impenetrable about his client, something which he could not arrive at, behind the hard, grim face and measured words. He could not even guess as to what the man’s hopes or intentions were. Eventually, although with some reluctance, he took up his hat.
“Well, Sir Wingrave,” he said, “if there is really nothing I can do for you, I will go. If you should change your mind, you have only to telephone. You can command me at any time. I am only anxious to be of service to you.”
“You have already been of service to me,” Wingrave answered quietly. “You have spoken the truth! You have helped me to realize my position more exactly. Will you give your father my compliments and thanks, and say that I am entirely satisfied with the firm’s conduct of affairs during my—absence?”
Rocke nodded.
“Certainly,” he said. “That will please the governor! I must be off now. I hope you’ll soon be feeling quite yourself again, Sir Wingrave! It must seem a bit odd at first, I suppose, but it will wear off all right. What you want, after all, is society. Much better let me arrange that little dinner for tonight!”
Wingrave shook his head.
“Later on, perhaps,” he answered. “Good morning!”
A STUDENT OF CHARACTER
Left alone, Wingrave walked for several minutes up and down the room, his hands behind him, his head bent. He walked, not restlessly, but with measured footsteps. His mind was fixed steadfastly upon the one immediate problem of his own future. His interview with Rocke had unsettled—to a certain extent unnerved—him. Was this freedom for which he had longed so passionately, this return into civilized life, to mean simply the exchange of an iron-barred cell for a palace whose outer gates were as hopelessly locked, even though the key was of gold! Freedom! Was it after all an illusion? Was his to be the hog’s paradise of empty delights; were the other worlds indeed forbidden? He moved abruptly to the window and threw it open. Below was Piccadilly, brilliant with May sunshine, surging with life. Motors and carriages, omnibuses and hansoms, were all jostled together in a block; the pavements were thronged with a motley and ever-hurrying crowd. It seemed to him, accustomed to the callous and hopeless appearance of a less happy tribe, that the faces of these people were all aflame with the joy of the springtime. The perfume from the great clusters of yellow daffodils and violets floated up from the flower sellers’ baskets below; the fresh, warm air seemed to bring him poignant memories of crocus-starred lawns, of trim beds of hyacinths, of the song of birds, of the perfume of drooping lilac. Grim and motionless, as a figure of fate, Wingrave looked down from his window, with cold, yet discerning eyes. He was still an alien, a denizen in another world from that which flowed so smoothly and pleasantly below. It was something to which he did not belong, which he doubted, indeed, if ever again he could enter. He had no part in it, no share in that vigorous life, whose throbbings he could dimly feel, though his own heart was beating to a slower and a very different tune. They were his fellows in name only. Between him and them stood the judgment of—Rocke!
The evil chances of the world are many! It was whilst his thoughts traveled in this fashion that the electric landaulette of Lady Ruth Barrington glided round the corner from St. James’ Street, and joined in the throng of vehicles slowly making their way down Piccadilly. His attention was attracted first by the white and spotless liveries of the servants—the form of locomotion itself was almost new to him. Then he saw the woman who leaned back amongst the cushions. She was elegantly dressed; she wore no veil; she did not look a day more than thirty. She was attractive, from the tips of her patent shoes, to the white bow which floated on the top of her lace parasol; a perfectly dressed, perfectly turned out woman. She had, too, the lazy confident air of a woman sure of herself and her friends. She knew nothing of the look which flashed down upon her from the window overhead.
Wingrave turned away with a little gasp; a half-stifled exclamation had crept out from between his teeth. His cheeks seemed paler than ever, and his eyes unnaturally bright. Nevertheless, he was completely master of himself. On the table was a large deed box of papers, which Rocke had left for his inspection. From its recesses he drew out a smaller box, unlocked it with a key from his chain, and emptied its sole contents—a small packet of letters—upon the table. He counted them one by one. They were all there—and on top a photograph. A breath of half-forgotten perfume stole out into the room. He opened one of the letters, and its few passionate words came back to his memory, linked with a hundred other recollections, the desire of her eyes, of her lips raised for his, the caressing touch of her fingers. He found himself wondering, in an impersonal sort of way, that these things should so little affect him. His blood ran no less coldly, nor did his pulses beat the faster, for this backward glance into things finished.
There was a knock at the door. He raised his head.
“Come in!”
A slim, fair young man obeyed the summons, and advanced into the room. Wingrave eyed him with immovable face. Nevertheless, his manner somehow suggested a displeased surprise.
“Sir Wingrave Seton, I believe?” the intruder said cheerfully.
“That is my name,” Wingrave admitted; “but my orders below have evidently been disobeyed. I am not disposed to receive visitors today.”
The intruder was not in the least abashed. He laid his hat upon the table, and felt in his pocket.
“I am very sorry,” he said. “They did try to keep me out, but I told them that my business was urgent. I have been a journalist, you see, and am used to these little maneuvers.”
Wingrave looked at him steadily, with close-drawn eyebrows.
“Am I to understand,” he said “that you are in here in your journalistic capacity?”
The newcomer shook his head.
“Pray do not think,” he said, “that I should be guilty of such an impertinence. My name is Aynesworth. Walter Aynesworth. I have a letter for you from Lovell. You remember him, I daresay. Here it is!”
He produced it from his breast coat pocket, and handed it over.
“Where is Lovell?” Wingrave asked.
“He left for the East early this morning,” Aynesworth answered. “He had to go almost at an hour’s notice.”
Wingrave broke the seal, and read the letter through. Afterwards he tore it into small pieces and threw them into the grate.
“What do you want with me, Mr. Aynesworth?” he asked.
“I want to be your secretary,” Aynesworth answered.
“My secretary,” Wingrave repeated. “I am much obliged