CHAPTER II.

When Aylmer came down to breakfast, the next morning, later than his usual custom, he found that his friend Peyton already had breakfasted and had gone out, leaving word with the waiter that he would be back in about an hour.

The table where the trio had sat at dinner, the previous night, was occupied only by Quentin, who beckoned to Aylmer to join him.

“Eileen danced too much last night; she is not very strong and has to pay the penalty by having her breakfast in bed,” Quentin explained, “My friend Martyn is always an early bird; comes down before us and gets out for the morning air as soon as he can. I see you are alone; Mr. Peyton left when I came in, a few minutes ago. We might as well join forces, if it is agreeable to you.”

Aylmer, who had taken rather a liking to the man for his dignified defense of Eileen, against Martyn’s sneering attack, the previous evening, declared he would be delighted, and took his seat at Quentin’s table. He said something suitable about Mrs. Quentin’s fatigue, and expressed the hope that she was not seriously indisposed.

The grave-faced man, whose hair was thinning rapidly at the top, smiled reassuringly. “Oh, dear no, nothing of that sort—just a little bit overdoing it the last two nights. One could not call her exactly robust, but as a rule she has excellent health. The only thing wrong with her is her heart. That is a trifle weak and pays her out if she over-exerts herself. She will just have to take things quietly for a day or two, and she’ll be all right again.”

Quentin was a very slow eater, and Aylmer out of courtesy accommodated his pace to his. In consequence, they sat a long time at the breakfast table, and during this period the elder man never allowed the conversation to flag. When he recalled that conversation, Aylmer came to the conclusion his new acquaintance had a strong streak of curiosity in his composition. For during the time he had adroitly succeeded in inducing the young man to tell him a good deal about himself and young Peyton, and, in return for these disclosures, had revealed some portion of his own history, and a little of Martyn’s.

He had begun with a very direct question. “Very nice chap, that young friend of yours. Looks to me as if he had got the public-school stamp about him.”

Aylmer explained that his surmise was correct. Peyton had been at Rugby, and from there had gone straight into his father’s office. A year ago he had been given a junior partnership, and was now quite proud of the fact that he was a full-fledged stockbroker.

Mr. Quentin pursued his inquiries. “I know his firm very well by repute, although I have not had the pleasure of knowing any of the partners personally. A fine business, I understand, and an old-established one. I should say you hailed from a public school, too.”

Aylmer, who was a little amused at the man’s determination to ferret out everything, modestly stated his credentials—Harrow and Magdalen, Oxford.

Mr. Quentin nodded his head approvingly on receipt of this information. “I was right, then. I have rather a knack of classifying my fellow-creatures. And have you got a snug business, like your friend? Or, are you a gentleman at large?”

“Very much at large,” laughed Aylmer. “Circumstances have made it unnecessary for me to work, and I am afraid at heart I am an idle fellow. I love this roaming about from one place to another, following just the whim of the moment.”

The elder man’s tones were thoughtful when he spoke again.

“Yes, such a life has many advantages; but, on the whole, I have come to the conclusion that work is the best thing for a man—a busy life full of duties to be done, of ambitions to be achieved. I know, I feel it to be so in my own case.”

Aylmer began to evince a little curiosity on his side. His interest in the wife had led him to take an interest in the husband.

“Like you, Mr. Aylmer, I am lord of myself—that heritage of woe, as some poet has put it. My father died before I was of age. I was the only child, and I came into a quite comfortable income. Like you, I was of an idle, unambitious temperament, and I thought I could manage to lounge through life very comfortably. Well, I have had a good many years of it—I am close upon forty-five, though some people are kind enough to say I don’t look it—and I have begun to think I should have been happier on the whole if I had gone into some business or profession. It is too late now, of course; my habits are too set. But, there are moments when I find time hangs very heavily on my hands.”

So, he was more than twenty years older than his young wife. Peyton, that masterful observer, had guessed fifteen. But it was a pardonable error, for even with the telltale thinness of the hair he did not look forty-five.

“The worst of it is, I have no hobbies,” remarked Mr. Quentin, presently. “I have read a good deal, but I find I don’t take the interest in books I used to do. Theaters bore me; this hotel life is the same day after day, week after week. I have seen everything worth seeing in the shape of scenery. I suppose it is inevitable that one should become a bit blasé when life is a perpetual holiday. By the way, have you any hobbies?”

“Like you, I read a good deal, and I haven’t yet got to that stage when the theater bores me. Yes, I have, I think, one especial hobby, rather a peculiar one. I am a keen student of criminology.”

Mr. Quentin lifted his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Yes, it seems to me quite a peculiar one; it would make no appeal to me. Personally, I think all crime is sordid, and I would prefer to shut it out of my thoughts. I suppose it appeals to you on the scientific side?”

Conversation languished for a little while. During the pause Aylmer indulged in a few reflections. From what he had said, Quentin did not seem to be a happy man in spite of his fortunate circumstances. Surely, the possession of such a beautiful wife ought to have brought him serene contentment. He wished that he could induce the man to talk about Eileen, to give him some details of their wooing, of how they had become acquainted. But, good taste forbade him to steer the conversation into such delicate channels.

However, he had no hesitation in imitating his companion’s frankness in the direction of the man whom Peyton had thought was a bit of a bounder.

So, he put a direct question. “And what about your friend Mr. Martyn—has he any occupation?”

Quentin laughed pleasantly. “Poor old Martyn, he has had a wonderfully checkered career. He ran away from home when he was sixteen—a stepmother made his life unbearable—and, according to his own account, he has been nearly everything under the sun: bartender, cattle-puncher, ranch-hand, and all sorts of things. I can’t help thinking he draws the long bow a bit when he discourses about the past; but, there is no doubt he has had a tremendously varied experience. He made good in the gold-fields, got together a nice little pile, invested it with judgment and a fair slice of good luck, and from that hour forswore adventure and settled down to a quiet, uneventful life.”

“Certainly a very romantic history,” was Aylmer’s remark.

Mr. Quentin went on with further details of his friend.

“He comes of a quite respectable family. His father, who died a few years ago, a merchant of some sort, left a very tidy sum of money behind him. But, his stepmother, who evidently hated him intensely, took care that he should have none of it. His name was never mentioned in the old man’s will. No wonder that he’s hard and cynical, at times. An experience like his doesn’t tend to soften a man or develop his finer feelings.”

“Have you known him long?” asked Aylmer.

“The best part of five or six years,” was the answer. “I met him in a casual sort of way, and somehow took a fancy to him. He is a trifle rough and unpolished, and although not uneducated—he is a brainy fellow and has taught himself a lot—not educated in the strict sense of the term. Only material things interest him; he cares nothing for art, literature or music. But he is essentially a man, and has lived in every sense of the term. He has made of his life a very different thing from my dolce far niente existence.”

Mr. Quentin ended the little history with what seemed like a note of regret. If he was sincere in what he said, he appeared to brood very much over what he considered his idle and purposeless existence. Aylmer found himself wondering if, later on, he would experience the same sense of disappointment at not having put what talents he possessed to more strenuous use; if he would grow as weary as this man seemed to be of a butterfly life.

After breakfast was over they went into the smoking-lounge and chatted away there on general topics till young Peyton made his appearance, very fresh and rosy from an invigorating swim. On his appearance Quentin rose and threw away his half-finished cigarette, saying that the young men would like to go out together and that it was time he went to see how his wife was getting on.

As Aylmer and his friend sauntered along, the conversation naturally turned to the Quentins. Peyton rather sniffed when he was told that Quentin had revealed himself in the light of a disillusioned and disappointed character.

“He’s a very agreeable chap,” he said, “but I have a strong notion that he’s a bit of a poseur, and doesn’t mean half he says; just likes to strike an attitude for the benefit of his audience. A man who has got plenty of money has no right to get morbid and think he ought to be leading a different sort of life. I’m not so fond of work and the Stock Exchange that I wouldn’t change with you or him if I had half a chance.”

Aylmer smiled indulgently at the younger man, who never had any hesitation in avowing his real sentiments, and honestly confessed that he was not greatly in love with work for work’s sake. He looked upon it as a means to an end, he was always careful to explain. He would slog away hard while he was young, so that he could make a nice little pile for his middle age, when he would give up business and enjoy himself, to make up for his strenuous days of self-denying youth.

Aylmer mentioned to him the fact of Mrs. Quentin’s indisposition. The young man, who was so observant in small things, looked at his friend rather intensely.

“I expect it’s quite slight,” he said. “But it strikes me that you seem a bit worried about it. You won’t mind my saying, old chap, that I think it would be wise for you to take yourself in hand in that quarter. She’s a very fascinating young woman, and I can see with half an eye she has bowled you over.”

“Rubbish,” replied Aylmer a little testily, although he could not prevent himself from flushing at those direct remarks. Peyton always went so straight to the point.

When they returned to the hotel, they found Mrs. Quentin sitting alone in the lounge. She looked a trifle pale, but was in quite good spirits, and answered their inquiries after her health in her usual bright manner.

“Oh, there’s really nothing the matter with me. I have just overdone it a tiny bit these last two evenings, and my tiresome heart has an unpleasant way of reminding me when I do silly things. I am going to be very quiet for the rest of the day; I wouldn’t even go out with my husband and Mr. Martyn. And to-night I shall not have a single dance. So it’s no use your asking me, Mr. Aylmer, for I shall be adamant.”

Aylmer protested that he would not think of doing anything which might retard her recovery, and took a seat beside her. He had not quite made up his mind as to whether he was going to stay or beat a precipitate retreat. But, so long as he was here he could not deny himself the happiness of basking in the sunshine of her presence. Peyton, seeing how matters stood, left them after a few minutes. He was not the sort of fellow to spoil sport anyway. He had given his friend a warning. If Aylmer did not choose to take it, that was his own affair.

“An awfully nice boy that,” remarked Mrs. Quentin when Peyton was out of earshot. “You seem very great friends. Have you known him long? Or, is it just a casual acquaintance?”

The young man enlightened her as to the relations between them. Yes, they were very good pals in spite of the ten years’ difference in their ages. He had known Claude since he and his father came to England, Aylmer senior and Peyton’s father being distantly connected by marriage. Claude frequently had spent a part of his holidays with the Aylmers when a boy, and the friendship between them had continued until the present time.

“In spite of his youth Claude has got a fair share of brains, and he takes a very common sense view of life. I don’t suppose he is particularly fond of work; but, his father is very satisfied with the way he is shaping, he tells me, and is sure he will turn into a first-class man of business when he has had a bit more experience,” said Aylmer in conclusion.

A little while later he told Mrs. Quentin how he had enjoyed a long talk with her husband that morning, and of his apparent regret that he led such an idle life.

She indulged in a faint smile. “Oh, that is rather a pose of his. My husband could never have been a worker in the real sense of the term,” she said. “Not for such as he laborious days and the strenuous life of a business man. If fate had destined him to such a career, he would have abhorred drudgery and wanted to get rich quickly, with the result that he would have plunged into all sorts of doubtful and risky schemes.

“He hasn’t the dogged temperament necessary for commercial success. And, between you and me, he would much rather live on what he has than make five times as much by steady application and industry. But I know he cheats himself into the belief that he was born to be one of the workers of the world, and he tries to impress everybody with the fact.” She added, with what seemed a touch of bitterness: “If he were sincere in what he says, it would have been easy enough for him to take on a more strenuous life at any time within the last twenty years. A man who has got any capital can soon find an opening. That he has not done so is sufficient proof that he is contented as he is.”

“And I suppose you are equally contented?” He put the question carelessly, but he was very curious to know what were her real sentiments on the subject.

She shrugged her shapely shoulders slightly. “Oh yes, I think I am quite happy as I am. When I was a girl, I fancy I had different ideals, that inclined to a husband who was ambitious in the best sense of the term, who would carve out a career for himself. But those were idle dreams, and fate willed it otherwise.”

“And was the hero of those youthful dreams always a man older than yourself?” asked Aylmer.

“Always,” she answered, “though perhaps not quite old enough to be my father as Mr. Quentin really is, although he does not look his full age.”

He would have liked to question her further, but she saved him the trouble by volunteering a rather frank explanation of her marriage.

“Mine has been a rather strange life. My father died a couple of years after my birth, leaving very little money behind him. It had been a love-match, against the wishes of my mother’s family, and they disowned her in consequence. Poor and friendless, as she was, she was too proud to beg for assistance from them, she preferred to fight for herself and her helpless child. She had made the acquaintance of Mr. Quentin during her short married life, and there is no doubt he had formed a strong attachment for her. When she was left a widow, she turned to him as practically the only friend she had in the world. He was ready to make her his wife, but she had no love to give him, it was all buried in her husband’s grave. He turned out a true and faithful friend, in spite of the fact that she would not reward his devotion in the way he wished. She had always been very fond of the stage, and she had one accomplishment; she was a splendid dancer.”

“When you spoke of dancing being in your blood, you were thinking of her. You inherited her gift.”

Mrs. Quentin nodded her graceful head. “Yes, it was her wish that I should follow in her footsteps. But, alas! I had no confidence in myself, nothing would have induced me to face the footlights; if I had found myself before an audience I should have been paralyzed. My dear mother, fortunately for us, had not my nervous temperament. Mr. Quentin worked very hard on her behalf, and at length he succeeded in getting her into musical comedy. She was nothing of an actress; but she could dance exquisitely, and she earned enough by that one gift to keep the wolf from the door. Then, when I was fifteen, she died. She had managed to save a little, but it was very little, for she never earned a big salary. The interest on what she left brought in about fifty pounds a year; so, for the second time I was thrown practically upon the world.”

Aylmer looked his sympathy. In spite of her brightness and vivacity, it appeared that this charming girl had had her full share of trouble.

“On her death-bed my poor dear mother confided me to Mr. Quentin as a sacred trust. And very nobly he acquitted himself of the obligation he had accepted out of his deep love for her. After I had finished the education he generously provided for me, he put me to board in the house of some friends of his, paying for my maintenance, and doing everything he could to make my life easy for me. And so—and so,” she ended with a little catch in her voice, “it came about that the peculiar relationship between us drifted into marriage. I felt towards him the greatest gratitude, and not a little affection; he was the only friend I had in the world, and he was very fond of me. That is the history of my life so far, and during the three years of my married life he always has shown me the greatest kindness and consideration.”

So they had “drifted into marriage,” to use her own expression, as the easiest way out of a rather difficult situation. Aylmer did not suppose that Quentin loved the daughter as he had loved the mother, and she had only admitted affection, not love. He suspected it was a very placid relationship on both sides; that the feelings of the man were more those of a parent than a husband, and hers more of a daughter than a wife. She seemed so full of life, so born for enjoyment, that he found himself rather pitying her. Even if she did prefer men older than herself, there could have been no romance in this union with one old enough to be her father. Ten years would surely have been sufficient disparity.

Aylmer stayed on for another couple of days, and on neither of the evenings did Mrs. Quentin join the dancers. He understood her abstention the first night, she had given him fair warning that she was not going to run any risk of a relapse. But, on the second evening she seemed fully recovered, and he experienced a keen sense of disappointment, when, in response to his suggestion, she announced that she would be content with looking on. By then he had almost definitely made up his mind to leave Ostend. But, he had hoped to take away with him the memory of a last dance with her.

He wondered for a moment if her health was the real cause of her refusal, or whether she was obeying a secret instruction of her husband; if Quentin had displayed a fit of jealousy of a man a good deal younger than himself, and had compelled her to abstain from dancing altogether so that she should not dance with him.

Small things are often great factors in clinching a determination. After that refusal on what he was sure were insufficient grounds, he told himself that he was now eager to leave, to remove himself from the sphere of her fascinations. He would stay one more day and night at the most, taking Peyton with him, or leaving him at the hotel, according to the young man’s choice.

And then, on the next morning, an incident occurred that made him change his mind. In the lounge, after breakfast, he saw Mrs. Quentin and Martyn engaged closely in conversation. There was nobody else in the apartment, and the man looked up quickly as Aylmer came in. There was an angry gleam in his eyes, as if he resented the fact of their being disturbed.

At least that was the impression made on Aylmer by that sudden hostile glance. Taking the hint, he left them and went up to his own room. In that moment, brief as it was, he had noticed that the young woman seemed very agitated, and on Martyn’s face was a cold, hard expression. It looked very much, he thought, as if they were indulging in a quarrel.

At the end of a quarter of an hour he came down again, into the lounge, on his way out of the hotel. Martyn had left, and Mrs. Quentin, apparently oblivious of observation, was sitting alone with her handkerchief pressed to her face. He could see, by the movement of her shoulders, that she was crying.

His natural impulse was to steal away; she would hardly care that he should be a spectator of her sudden distress. But, as he tried to carry out his intention, she suddenly dropped her handkerchief and, recognizing him, greeted him with a wan smile. It was a most awkward situation. He could not think of anything fitting to say, and yet it was impossible to ignore her agitated condition.

His words came nervously, in a stammer.

“Mrs. Quentin, I am so distressed to see you like this. Can I do anything, be of any help?”

Her self-control seemed suddenly to return to her, the recollection of where she was, in a public apartment open to all comers. She rose, evidently with the intention of going to her own room, in order to remove the telltale traces of her emotion. But before she left, she threw him a grateful glance out of the tearful eyes and she spoke these remarkable words:

“It is very sweet of you, and I should judge you are the kind of man who is always chivalrous to a woman. But you cannot help me.” As she moved away, she added in a tone that seemed one almost of despair: “Nobody can help me.”