CHAPTER XXIX

At six o'clock that same evening Colonel Treves issued from the front door of his fine Tudor residence at Freshwater, and made his way down the drive. The weather had cleared, there was a golden light in the west, and the Colonel, wearing a tweed suit, walked briskly towards the lodge-keeper's cottage. He told himself that he had come there entirely upon business--merely to give the man certain personal orders. The truth of the matter was, however, that he could no longer stay in the house. He was expecting his son; he was looking forward to meeting his boy Bernard with a keener and happier interest than he had felt for many years. During recent months all his old love for his only offspring had returned. He was an old man, and the son who for many years had disappointed him had now grown to be a real Treves, and a man of honour. A smile flitted across his fine, kindly face. He believed that he had at last discovered the reason of Bernard's altered behaviour. The boy who had been tragically cashiered from the army, who had, indeed, been almost proved guilty of cowardice in the face of the enemy, had righted himself; and not only had he won the confidence of his superiors, but he had been entrusted with delicate and difficult duties.

When Colonel Treves reached the lodge-keeper's single-storied abode, he held the man in conversation for some minutes, but his eyes turned incessantly towards the sloping road that led past his gate. When at last he saw a khaki-clad figure on a bicycle, he turned to his elderly employee:

"Adams," he said, "is that Mr. Bernard coming along?"

"Yes, sir," answered the man, after a minute or two's scrutiny.

When John reached the drive, the Colonel was at the gate to meet him.

"Well, Bernard, boy, so there you are," he exclaimed, gripping the young man's hand. "I just happened to be doing a little business here with Adams, and caught sight of you. Come in, boy, come in. How do you think Mr. Bernard's looking, Adams?" he said, turning to the old servant.

"He's looking fine, sir," answered the man. "I've seldom seen him looking so well."

"Leave your bicycle with Adams," said the Colonel; "you can take me up to the house. I am not quite so brisk as I used to be." And he slipped his arm through John's and went up the drive, talking happily and cheerfully as he went. John had always felt drawn towards him; it was impossible for him not to feel admiration and pity for this splendid old fellow. He experienced a sense of pleasure that his visit could give the old man such genuine delight.

"Now, Bernard, boy," said the Colonel, "I have a word to say to you before we go in the house. I have a surprise waiting for you there, but before we go in I want to ask you one thing?"

"What is it?" John asked quietly.

"It's this, Bernard, boy; you haven't been trusting me. You haven't relied upon me as a son should rely on his father."

"In what way, sir?"

"You'll find that out, Bernard, boy, when we get indoors," said the Colonel enigmatically.

John questioned him closely, but he could learn nothing, and presently Gates, the old butler, drew open the door, greeted John with a smile, and took his hat and gloves.

"Your suit-case arrived this morning, sir," he informed John. "I have taken it to your room."

"It's the south room, Bernard, boy," intervened the Colonel; "it's the first time you've had the honour of sleeping in the room that used to be your mother's. But this is a special reunion, Bernard. I had to do something to mark the occasion."

He took John's arm again, and together they ascended to the library, the room in which John had first made his acquaintance. There was something on the Colonel's mind which gave him pleasure, and filled him with an air of humorous mystery.

"When you've seen who's in the library, Bernard," he said, as they drew near the green baize-covered door, "you'll understand what I mean about trusting me better in the future."

He drew open the door.

"Come in, Bernard, boy; come in."

John followed him into the big, handsome apartment, with its mullioned windows and its fine view of the sea. There was some one standing by the hearth with back to the fire-place, and John suddenly caught his breath and stood still. Elaine Treves was there, smiling at him, and as he entered the room she came forward, holding out both hands in greeting.

"Bernard," she exclaimed, a light of happiness radiating her gentle beauty; "you didn't expect to find me here, did you?"

John's surprise was complete. Thoughts of Elaine had been with him during the greater part of his ride, but he remembered Treves's secret in regard to his wife, the fact that he had always kept his marriage from his father's knowledge. He was therefore astonished to find Elaine installed under her father-in-law's roof. She looked very much at home, and John wondered consumedly how she had managed to come there. He also foresaw new difficulties for himself; nevertheless he was delighted to see her, her freshness, her beauty, her winning confidence in himself all tended to please him. It took him very few minutes to observe that her presence brightened Colonel Treves's home amazingly. It was obvious to John that she had already won her way into the old fellow's heart, and as Elaine reached up and shyly kissed him, the Colonel smiled upon them both with an air of infinite benevolence.

"Now," exclaimed Colonel Treves, rallying John half an hour later, when Elaine had gone to dress for dinner. "Now do you see why I asked you to trust me?"

"I think I do," said John, somewhat awkwardly.

"Here, you young rascal, you go and marry a charming girl, who would bring credit and honour to my family, and you hide her away from me, pretending all the time that I am the strict and cruel father. That shows how greatly you misunderstood me, Bernard boy. Why, if I had chosen a wife for you myself, I couldn't have made as good a choice as you made in marrying Elaine. She's been here three days, Bernard, and already I feel towards her as to my own daughter. I always feared you would make a fool of yourself in marrying." He paused and looked at John with his dim eyes. "Sometimes, Bernard boy," he said, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone, "I cannot understand the change that has come over you, the improvement. But it's the good blood coming out, eh--the Treves blood. I always hold that blood tells, and in your case my conviction has been proved more than right. Now, Bernard, how long can you stay with me this time?"

"Only to-night, sir, I am sorry to say."

"Come, come," protested the old Colonel, "I'd expected a week at least." As he spoke the door opened, and Elaine entered the room dressed for dinner. For the first time John saw her in evening apparel. Her dress was of an inexpensive pale yellow material, muslin or silk, John did not know which, and did not care. Her dark hair was beautifully coiffeured, her cheeks glowed with colour, and there was a light of happiness in her eyes.

Colonel Treves glanced at the clock on his desk.

"Why, it's nearly seven!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. I must run away and change. You'll want to get out of those puttees, Bernard," he said, glancing at John.

"Thank you," said John. "I am in the south room, sir?"

The Colonel nodded, and John, wondering exactly where the south room might be, went out of the library. He walked along the corridor, and chanced upon a house-maid.

"Which is my room, please?" he said.

The housemaid preceded him along the passage, and opened a door, switched on the electric light.

John thanked her, and found himself in an imposing bedroom, beautifully furnished in the French style. His suit-case had been unstrapped and was upon a stand at the foot of the bed. Laid neatly out upon the bed itself were his clothes for the evening. A fine apartment, thought John, and at that moment a knock fell upon the door.

"Come in," he called. The door opened quietly, and Elaine stepped into the room. She advanced across the room in the most natural manner in the world. There was a light in her fine grey eyes, and she was visibly and quite frankly delighted to be alone with John. John, for his part, saw in a flash the awkwardness of the position chance had imposed upon him. In his sudden surprise in finding Elaine under Colonel Treves's roof he had overlooked a _tete-a-tete_ of this kind. He had indeed hardly had time to think of the matter at all.

"Bernard, are you really pleased to see me?"

"Delighted," John answered, wondering what other word he could use, for, as a matter of truth, he was delighted and appalled at the same time. He felt that the situation involving him would require the utmost finesse, if he meant to escape satisfactorily. His own nerves were strung up to a high pitch of tension, and it came as a surprise to him that Elaine should act as though their presence together in that stately sleeping apartment was the most natural event in the world.

"Do you like my dress, Bernard?"

She came towards the glittering dressing-table and turned slowly for his inspection. Her attitude, her confidence were exquisitely attractive to John. Her wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. And once again the splendid rich duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her cheeks, the fine contours of her well-turned lips, and the fairness of her skin won his admiration. But it was not this, it was in no sense her radiant and girlish beauty that had evoked John's feelings. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the frankness and generous natural trust, the appealing femininity, in fact, which is always potent in the winning of a man's love. For it was love, and love only that John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who was nothing to him, and could never be anything.

To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress suited her to perfection.

"You said when we first met, Bernard, that this primrose colour suited me best, so I put it on to-night."

"Only to please me?" asked John.

Elaine nodded.

"Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard," she went on. "I think he is wonderful; just the beau ideal of a fine, upright soldier. I cannot understand how you could ever have doubted his generosity."

"I didn't doubt him," John answered. "I only misunderstood him, and acted like a fool."

"But in regard to our marriage. If you had told him months ago, I am sure he would have been just as pleased as he is now. Why didn't you, Bernard?"

"I don't know," John answered. "But I am sure he would have been pleased if I had been sensible enough to trust him."

Elaine seated herself upon an ottoman, an old-fashioned circular piece of furniture which decorated the middle of the apartment. For a minute she let her eyes wander over the refined luxury of the room, then said quietly and thoughtfully:

"So this used to be your mother's room, Bernard?"

John drew in his breath slowly. "Yes," he answered, and, as he spoke, he felt suddenly and acutely the falsity of his position. He was upon dangerous ground, and he felt again intense dislike at having to deceive this woman, who was everything in the world to him.

"I think it was so dear of your father," resumed Elaine thoughtfully, "to let us have this room." John cast a swift look in her direction. "He could not have paid us a greater compliment," Elaine went on.

She was entirely absorbed in her thoughts. To her it was the most natural thing in life that the Colonel should honour his son and his son's wife by allotting to them this fine apartment. In doing so he was tacitly informing the young couple that Elaine in her turn was to be the lady of the house. But so far as John was concerned, Elaine's quiet acceptance of himself and of this fact filled him with consternation. He felt himself enmeshed and hopelessly bewildered. This was not his room only, but Elaine's. It had not entered his mind to look into the wardrobe; he had not even noticed the pair of ladies' gloves which lay upon the dressing-table. But now as he turned away, so that Elaine might not read his glance, his eyes fell upon her gloves for the first time. A moment of acute crisis had arisen. Nevertheless he still fenced, peeking a way out of the situation.

"I cannot understand," he said, "how you managed to get into touch with my father after all."

Elaine laughed brightly.

"I have been wondering when you would ask that, Bernard. It was all owing to the old butler, Mr. Gates. He came to 65, Bowles Avenue. It seems that you gave that address once at the Savoy Hotel in case Mr. Dacent Smith sent for you suddenly. Gates went to the Savoy to find you, to give you a message from your father, and the Savoy people gave him my address. I answered the door to Gates myself, and in the course of his inquiries about you, I told him who I was. He had never heard of me before and was very much surprised. Naturally, when he came back here, he told your father."

"I see," said John, "and my father invited you here?"

Elaine nodded.

"Not only invited me, but he has been absolutely charming to me."

"I don't see anything very extraordinary in that," returned John.

"Oh, but I might have been the most horrid sort of creature. He knew nothing whatever about me."

"He only needed to look at you," John answered, "to see that--that I had made an ideal marriage."

"I have made him tell me everything about your boyhood, Bernard."

John winced. He had no wish to discuss a boyhood that was naturally a blank to him.

"I believe I know more about your schoolboy days than you do yourself," smiled Elaine.

"I shouldn't wonder," said John with a smile.

Despite himself, against caution and his better judgment, he was beginning to enjoy the scene. He was still at the dressing-table, and in the depths of the mirror he could see behind him Elaine's reflection, a delicate and beautiful picture, seated on the ottoman behind him, looking at him with admiring and loving eyes, believing in him, and trusting him.

"Bernard!" Her tone was low and intimate.

"Yes."

"Come and sit beside me."

"Oh, I don't know whether I can," said John; "I've--I've got a letter to write." He was quick at inventing excuses.

"You can't care much for me, Bernard, if you bother to write a letter, after not seeing me for so long." She rose and came towards him. He felt foolish and awkward when she took his hand in hers, led him to the ottoman and seated him beside her. "Tell me what you have been doing all these long days."

"Oh, all sorts of things," John answered.

"Did you ever think of me?"

"Often," John answered, truthfully.

"Have you been loving me? Look into my eyes and say it, Bernard."

John turned his face towards hers. He saw love in her eyes; love that was offered to himself alone; and as he sustained the radiant tenderness of her gaze a wild impulse came to him to cast discretion to the winds. He hovered on the verge of telling her frankly and bluntly that he was not her husband. Nevertheless he longed to tell her that she was the one woman in all the world for him, that she had won his deepest love, and that he was prepared to break down all barriers, to risk everything if----. Then suddenly he caught himself up. His lips were sealed. As an honourable man, even if he admitted his true identity, he must not utter his love.

"Why are you looking at me so strangely, Bernard?" There was a puzzled and anxious light in her eyes.

"Was I?"

"You suddenly drew your brows together and looked at me so furiously that I thought I must have offended you."

"You could never offend me."

"I don't think you love me after all." She was holding his hand in hers, looking wistfully up into his face. "Do you?"

John slid his fingers away from her touch and rose. He began to pace the floor uneasily. As always, he was seeking a way out, racking his brains for a solution. But there was only one method of escape, and that lay in sudden and ignominious flight.

"Look here, Elaine!" he said, suddenly and brutally. "It has occurred to me that I ought to go away again to-night, immediately after dinner!"

She rose and looked at him with startled eyes. John went on, clumsily:

"Something important has turned up!"

"Oh, but, Bernard, that would be too cruel. I have hardly seen you!" She came to him quickly and laid her hands on his shoulders. There was entreaty in her fine eyes, upraised to his. "You'll stay just to-night," she implored, wistfully, "just for my sake."

John put her away from him almost roughly; his voice was hoarse and low.

"It's impossible, Elaine!"

She stood for a moment regarding him with steady gaze. A long, tense silence lay between them. Then she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity that somehow wrung John's heart.

"Then all your protestations of love for me mean nothing at all!"

"They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone.

"And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?"

"I don't mean to act cruelly."

"If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay. It isn't the first time, Bernard, that you--you've humiliated me!"

John looked into her face that had grown suddenly tragic. He saw in a moment how completely justified she was in her attitude. He had protested his love for her only a few minutes earlier, and had then snatched at something that must have seemed to her the thinnest of excuses for hurrying away--for leaving her.

"If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay." Her voice was very low. "However, I have suffered the humiliation of your refusal. I shall not make the same mistake again." She turned and walked slowly towards the door. John saw that she could scarcely restrain her tears; her head was uplifted--she was superb in her dignity. For the life of him John could not refrain from striding a few paces towards her.

"Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with emotion. "Don't misjudge me. And as for humiliating you, I'd do anything in the world rather than do that! Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"

She turned quietly and looked at him.

"I have every proof of it! In London you refused to stay with me; it is the same here. Your words say one thing--your actions another!"

"You will be able to make some excuse to your father for not occupying the same room with me----"

In that moment, with her face pale, her head erect, a strange light in her eyes, she was more than ever beautiful. In John's eyes she was the fairest and finest-looking woman that ever breathed. Something made him put out his hand and grip her fingers.

"Elaine!"

She strove with surprising strength to release herself.

"No, Bernard, don't!"

Then John's elaborate and well-sustained defences fell. He forgot everything in a sudden wild rush of passion.

"I don't love you, Elaine?" he cried.

"You never loved me----" she began. And in that moment John's arms swept about her. He forgot everything--the world faded. He and the fairest of women--the woman of his love--were together, and he was kissing her as he had never kissed any woman.... Elaine's weak protests faded; astonishment swept over her, and gave place to a wonderful and radiant happiness.

"My God!" breathed John; "if you only knew how much I loved you!"

"Bernard--Bernard--Bernard!" she whispered. Then, to her infinite astonishment, John wrenched himself free; he put his hands to his brows, and fell back several paces, like a man who has received a stunning blow between the eyes.

"Elaine," he said, with clenched fists, his face suddenly pale, his eyes wild--"forget that I held you in my arms! Forget what I said! Forget everything!" His voice rose almost to a shout.

A moment later he had rushed out of the room, and had drawn the door behind him.