CHAPTER I.

In the marble hall of the gay Hôtel Continental, Ostend, that reckless center of bathing, gambling and dancing, stood two Englishmen, chatting together.

The younger of the pair, about twenty-two, and dressed in tennis flannels, was a young sprig of the Stock Exchange named Claude Peyton; the elder, a handsome, dark man, about ten years his senior, was Frank Aylmer.

Aylmer was of somewhat foreign appearance, owing to the fact of his mixed parentage, his father having been an Englishman, his mother a Spaniard. He had lived in Spain for the first twelve years of his life, and was a thoroughgoing cosmopolitan.

After coming down from Oxford, he studied for the Bar, and, in due course, was called. But his father having died about that period, he came into possession of a comfortable fortune which rendered it unnecessary to work for a living. His beautiful Spanish mother had died before he and his father had come to England.

Passionately fond of travel, he made up his mind to lead a busy, cosmopolitan life at the various Continental resorts, as the seasons came and went. Though outwardly gay and irresponsible, at heart he was a quiet, rather studious man, with drowsy, half-closed eyes, and sleek black hair. Women were greatly attracted to him by his smartness, his handsome features, the perfect little dinners he frequently gave, and perhaps by his innate politeness, and his foreign manner of kissing a woman’s hand.

He was quite well off enough to make him an eligible parti, with the money he had inherited from his father, a member of an old North-Country family. But fortune sometimes delights to give with both hands to her favorites. And she had done so in his case. Two years before this story opens, a distant cousin of his father’s, Sir Charles Reeks, had died suddenly at Biarritz, apparently of heart disease.

Sir Charles was a rich man, a bachelor of somewhat eccentric character. He had not taken any very great notice of either father or son since they had been in England, and he had a heap of other relatives, some with very much stronger claims on him. To such, his will must have been a bitter disappointment; for, with the exception of a few trifling legacies, he left the whole of his considerable fortune to Frank Aylmer, the relative of whom he had seen so very little.

It was the eccentric benefaction of an eccentric man; but, as he was of perfectly sound mind when he made this disposition of his property, the disappointed ones had no hope of upsetting the will. In all probability he had derived great satisfaction in leaving his money to somebody who never had asked him a favor, and never had harbored the idea that he would receive anything from him.

As the two men stood chatting in the marble hall, a party of three passed them on their way out—a charming-looking young woman, apparently in the early twenties, and two men. Peyton bowed to them, and they returned his salutation.

Aylmer’s rather sleepy eyes displayed considerable animation as his gaze followed the young woman whose slender form was enveloped in a mauve bathing-wrap. He turned to his companion.

“What a lovely creature! You know her, then! Who is she?”

Peyton gave him the desired information. “A very slight acquaintance. They only arrived yesterday, and I danced with her last night. She’s as charming as she looks, and was a delightful partner. That tall, dark fellow is her husband, I should say a good fifteen years older than herself. I shouldn’t wonder if they were on their honeymoon—he seems rather attentive. I should say she wasn’t a day older than twenty-two, or three.”

“Who is the other man with them—the short, fair one?” asked Aylmer.

“A great friend of the husband’s so I learned last night. They came here together from England.”

“Of course you know her name?”

“She is a Mrs. Quentin. They live at Hampstead. I didn’t find out what the man is. He looks rather like the Foreign Office type, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” assented Aylmer. “Do you know anything of the husband’s friend?”

“Only that his name is Martyn. You see, old man, I had not too much time with her. But, by Jove, she is a ripping partner; she dances the tango to perfection. She’s as light as a fairy.”

“There is certainly something very uncommon about her, she carries herself so splendidly,” remarked the elder of the young men after a pause. “That mauve bathing-dress suits her down to the ground. I like women better in that sort of gear, don’t you? There are no trimmings when they bathe. If I were the husband of a beautiful woman like that I think I should be disposed to keep her more to myself. I shouldn’t care to have a fellow like this Martyn hanging about. He seems as attentive as her lawful owner.”

“Quite as attentive, if not more so,” laughed young Peyton. “He may be Quentin’s friend, but I think he is very much interested in the delightful young wife. When I was dancing with her last night, I could see his eyes were on her all the time. A bit jealous, perhaps; he can’t dance a little bit, she told me. As soon as I get an opportunity to-night I will introduce you. She’s mad on dancing, and as you are a very fine performer, you’ll just suit her. I can just keep my end up, but I’m not in it with you.”

There was nothing mean or paltry about this bright, open-hearted specimen of the best English youth. He was always ready to yield the palm to those superior to himself in any particular accomplishment, and he had a very humble idea of his own merits. Just a plain, breezy, straightforward Englishman, reflecting credit upon his public-school training. All his friends agreed that he was a thorough “sportsman” in every sense of the word.

“Quentin doesn’t seem a bad sort of chap,” he remarked presently. “A little bit grave and reserved, perhaps, but possessing excellent manners, and, I should say, decidedly well-informed. I don’t take much to the Martyn chap; a bit of a bounder, I fancy. But that may be just prejudice, because I resented his watching us so closely last night. He gave me the impression that he rather begrudged Mrs. Quentin enjoying herself. But, of course, I may be wrong, not by any means for the first time.” He ended with his boyish laugh.

That evening, young Peyton fulfilled his promise and introduced his friend to the charming Mrs. Quentin, and she and Aylmer danced together.

In appearance the young woman was a typical blond—blue eyes, fair hair, shingled in the latest fashion, a complexion of cream and roses. She wore a wonderful hyacinth dance-frock which suited her delicate beauty to perfection. Young Peyton had not exaggerated her proficiency. She danced like a fairy, or a professional. As Aylmer, no mean performer himself, guided her slender form through the crowded room, he thought she embodied the very poetry of motion.

They were much too good performers not to take their dancing seriously, more especially as they could not fail to perceive the admiration that their graceful partnership was exciting both amongst their fellow dancers and those who, like Mr. Quentin and his friend Martyn, contented themselves with looking on at the gay scene. During the dance they did not say much to each other. But, after it was over he found that this very beautiful young woman was a most bright and entertaining companion as well as an exquisite dancer. He paid her some compliments on her skill and expressed his pleasure at having found such a partner.

She smiled very sweetly at his sincere praise.

“But, I can return the compliment, Mr. Aylmer,” she said in her pretty, well-bred voice. “It would be affectation to pretend that I am not generally the best dancer amongst the women in most places where I find myself, for dancing is in my blood. But you are quite as good. Except amongst professionals, I have never met anybody your equal. I danced last night with your friend, that nice boy, Mr. Peyton. He is a most delightful young fellow, so fresh and ingenuous; but, of course, his notions of the art are of the most elementary kind, and he has no false pride about it. He admitted it frankly.”

Frank Aylmer smiled. It amused him to hear this young woman, a girl in spite of her wedding-ring, talking so condescendingly of a man of her own age, as if he were a child.

“There can’t be many months between you and Peyton, either way,” he said good-humoredly; “but you speak of him as some elderly woman might speak of a little boy. He is as modest a chap as ever breathed. But I am sure he thinks himself quite a man.”

Mrs. Quentin smiled in her turn. “I dare say you are right, and there is not much difference in our ages. But you will surely admit, Mr. Aylmer, that women are always much older than men. I have just turned twenty-two, but I always feel quite the equal of a man of thirty. The young men in the twenties always seem to me more or less, boys. I cannot take them seriously.”

Evidently Mrs. Quentin had no great penchant for quite young men, except as occasional cavaliers or dancing partners. The fact that she had married a man so much her senior, no doubt, was due to this particular characteristic. Aylmer was not sorry to hear her voice this sentiment. He often told himself that he was beginning to get on to the borderland: he was going on thirty-three. It was refreshing to find one very beautiful young woman who did not admit the supremacy of masculine youth.

At this point in their conversation they had come to the spot where Mr. Quentin was watching the dancers, in the company of his inseparable friend, Mr. Martyn. The tall, dark man greeted them with a smile.

“You have been the admired of all beholders,” he said, speaking in suave, refined tones. “Some of the couples have stopped in order that they might watch you; it seemed to give them more pleasure than dancing themselves. And all round us I have heard most enthusiastic remarks on your performance. I am sure it must have been a treat for my wife to come across such a partner as you, Mr. Aylmer. Perhaps I ought not to say it, but she seldom meets anybody who is in the same class with her.”

Mr. Quentin by no means gave the impression of being a gushing person, but it was evident he appreciated his beautiful young wife. Mr. Martyn stood by, and did not attempt to join in his friend’s compliments. His face wore an expression of indifference.

Aylmer stole a quick glance at the silent man, who did not mask his indifference under even a genial smile. He was not a bad-looking fellow. His stature, a good deal under middle height, militated somewhat against his appearance, but he was good-looking, with clean-shaven, clearcut features. In spite of these redeeming points, Aylmer did not take to him. His eyes were shifty, and he had a way of averting his gaze from the one seeking his, that produced a rather uncomfortable impression.

Young Peyton had thought that he was a bit of a bounder. Was the boy right? In spite of his youth and want of experience, he had an uncanny knack of getting at the bottom of people on a very cursory acquaintance. With his natural modesty, he used to allude to it as his one and only “gift.”

There was a slight pause after this. Aylmer, who in some ways was quite as modest as his young friend, felt a little embarrassed by Quentin’s suave compliments. Mrs. Quentin, who did not appear to suffer from embarrassment, broke the silence.

“Mr. Aylmer dances divinely—about that there can be no question,” she said emphatically. “I do hope, for purely selfish reasons, he is going to stay here as long as we do. I shall never find another partner like him.”

And then Mr. Martyn broke his rather marked silence. “You live only for pleasure, Eileen. I wonder if it will be always so?” He had the grace to accompany these peculiar words with a smile, but it was certainly not a genial one. Anybody could perceive that they were meant in a depreciatory sense, as a reproach.

A deep flush rose to Mrs. Quentin’s beautiful face, and she seemed on the point of making an angry retort. But before she could frame it, her husband’s smooth tones broke in.

“My dear Martyn, you must remember that Eileen is very young, little more than a girl. It is natural she should love gaiety and pleasure, at her age. It will be a long time yet before she need adopt more serious views of life. Personally, I should be content that she never adopted them. Rather let her teach us to be young, than we constrain her to be old.”

Aylmer took rather a fancy to the man for saying what he did. However intimate Martyn might be with the husband, it was a gross presuming on their friendship to address such remarks to the wife. Quentin had administered a justifiable, but very dignified, reproof.

At that moment, Claude Peyton danced past them with a very charming young girl with shingled hair. They were smiling and chatting merrily to each other like a couple of children; they evidently did not take their dancing too seriously. Mrs. Quentin turned away from the undiplomatic and rebuffed Martyn, and watched them with rather a tender look on her fair young face.

“Now, are not those two perfectly matched?” she said to Aylmer, when the couple had swum beyond her gaze. “She is a dear little thing, quite a child—I doubt if she has seen seventeen; but she is as wise as he with his twenty-two years, just a little bit more sentimental, perhaps. Men don’t become really sentimental till they have turned thirty.” She added, with a rather mischievous smile: “And she dances as badly as he does. Neither can complain on that score.”

Aylmer thought over one of her remarks. They had drawn a little away from Quentin and his friend, and he said to her in a low voice:

“Is it your real opinion that a man does not develop proper sentiment till he has turned thirty?”

She nodded her pretty shingled head, and spoke in as low a voice as his own.

“I am sure of it.”

His next question was delivered in a whisper.

“What age is Mr. Martyn?”

She had a sense of humor, and grasping the drift of the query, she whispered back:

“Come a little farther away, he can hear through a brick wall. According to reliable evidence, he is thirty-five, and therefore ought to be overflowing with romance. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t an ounce of sentiment in his nature. He is hard, sour, and joyless.”

“I thought he was decidedly rude to you,” Aylmer ventured to remark.

She shrugged her shoulders, and her usually charming mouth took on a disdainful expression as she answered in the same low tone:

“When we happen to be alone, he is often much ruder than that. I don’t know whether he likes me or not. He worships my husband like a dog, and he may think I have come between them. And yet, in his own way, he appears quite fond of me. He would do anything I asked him. But he would like me to lead the life he thinks proper for a young married woman. He looks upon me as light and frivolous.”

“I thought Mr. Quentin dealt very well with him.”

“Oh yes, Richard knows how to set him down when he goes too far. He is a kind old thing. I don’t suppose I am all that he would like me to be, but he will always take up the cudgels on my behalf.”

When he thought over the happenings of that evening, Frank Aylmer found much food for reflection. Eileen Quentin was a dangerously fascinating girl; he could not quite think of her as a woman in spite of her married state. She had told him in an indirect way that she was not attracted by very young men. Was she really in love with this rather serious husband of hers, whom he guessed to be nearer twenty than fifteen years older than his young wife? Or, had it been only a marriage of convenience, and was she pretending in order to save her face?

And where did the unsmiling Martyn come in, in this apparently inseparable trio? What were his real sentiments towards his friend’s wife? He had been guilty of rudeness to her in Aylmer’s presence; and, according to her account, he was often rude to her. If Quentin was in love with his wife, why did he not get rid of this churl.

But then did Martyn really dislike her? Peyton was by no means clever or profound, but he was sharp in some things. He observed a good deal that escaped Aylmer, in spite of the latter’s experience and deeper knowledge of the world. He said that Martyn showed her as much, if not more, attention than her own husband. Clearly, then, he had seen something that Aylmer had missed. Was the man’s rudeness and fault finding a sort of revenge for his baffled hopes, for his chagrin in knowing that she belonged to another?

It was a puzzle! Aylmer was terribly fascinated with this beautiful young married woman; he was half in love with her after the briefest of acquaintances. Was it wise to stay and lose his heart irretrievably to her? He was an upright and honorable young man. Would it spell disaster, to both, if he remained? He was singularly free from vanity. But he could not help seeing that Eileen—he already called her that to himself—had taken a great interest in him. She seemed to hold Martyn in contempt; Peyton she regarded as a callow youth; but he was sure her feeling for him was altogether different.

If he stayed, would he not be playing with fire?