Chapter 12

THE HARLEQUIN'S ERRAND

Lady Huntingford, alarmed by his manner, arose and steadied herself against the deck-house. His exclamation rang in her ears, filling them with its horror. At length he roughly grasped her arm, thrusting his face close to hers, fairly grated out the words:

"You think she is a wife?"

"I feared so."

"She is not! Do you hear me? She is not!" he cried so fiercely that there was no room for doubt. "She is the purest, dearest girl in the world, and she has done all this for me. For God's sake, do not expose us." He dropped back in the chair. "It's not for my sake that I ask it, but for hers," he went on quickly.

"I'm sure I have wronged her and I have wronged you. Will you believe me?"

He did not answer at once. His turbulent brain was endeavoring to find words with which to convince her of the innocence of the escapade. Looking up into her eyes, he was struck by their tender staunchness. Like a flash came to him the decision to tell her the true story, from beginning to end.

"Lady Huntingford, I will tell you everything there is to tell. It is not a long tale, and you may say it is a very foolish one. I am sure, however, that it will interest you."

"You shall not tell me a word if you do so in order to appease my curiosity," she began earnestly.

"I think it is best that you should know," he interrupted. "One favor first. You will earn my eternal gratitude if you do not allow Grace to feel that you have discovered our secret."

"You have my promise. I have kept many secrets, Mr. Ridge." He drew his chair quite close to hers. Then he told her the full story of the adventure, from first to last. She scarcely breathed, so deeply was her interest centred in this little history of an impulse. He spoke hurriedly, excitedly. Not once did she take her eyes from his earnest face, almost indistinguishable in the darkness; nor could he remove his from hers.

"And here we are approaching Aden, your Ladyship," he concluded. Her big dark eyes had held him enthralled, inspiring him to paint in glorious colors every detail of the remarkable journey. As he drew to a close, her hand fell involuntarily on his knee. A tremor dashed through his veins, and his heart throbbed fiercely.

"How glorious it must be to love like that," she almost whispered. There was a catch in her voice, as she uttered that soft, dreamy sentence, almost a sigh. She turned her face away suddenly and then arose, crying in tones so low and despairing that he could hardly believe they came from the usually merry lips: "Oh, how I envy her this life and love! How wonderful it all is!"

"It has its drawbacks," he lamented. "As a brother I am a nonentity, Lady Huntingford; it's not altogether relishable, you know. It's a sort of pantomime, for me, by Jove. I'm the fool, and this seems to be the fool's errand."

"If you will play a part in the pantomime, Mr. Ridge, let an Englishwoman suggest that you be the harlequin. How I loved the harlequin in the Drury Lane pantomimes at Christmas time! He was always the ideal lover to me, for there was no trick, no prank this bespangled hero could not play to success. He always went incognito, for he wore his narrow mask of black. He performed the most marvellous things for his Columbine,--and was she not a worthy sweetheart? No, no, Mr. Ridge:--not the fool, I pray. Please be the harlequin," she cried in rare good humor.

"As you like it," he said, reflecting her spirits. "I am the harlequin and this is, perforce, the harlequin's errand." They were silent for a long time, then he said soberly:

"It was such a foolish thing to do, after all." She looked up at him for a moment, the bitterness fading from her hungry eyes, a smile struggling feebly into power. Then came the radiance of enthusiasm.

"Foolish!" she exclaimed, with eyes sparkling and breast heaving. "It was magnificent! What a brave girl she is! Oh, how clever you both are and how much you will enjoy the memory of this wonderful trip. It will always be fresh and novel to you--you will never forget one moment of its raptures. How I wish I could have done something like this. If I dared, I would kiss that brave, lucky girl a thousand times."

"But you must not let her suspect," cautioned he.

"It would ruin everything for her if she even dreamed that you had told me, and I would not mar her happiness for the world. Really, Mr. Ridge, I am so excited over your exploit that I can scarcely contain myself. It seems so improbable, so immense, yet so simple that I can hardly understand it at all. Why is it other people have not found this way to revolutionize life? Running around the world to get married without the faintest excuse save an impulse--a whim. How good, how glorious! It is better than a novel!"

"I hope it is better than some novels."

"It is better than any, because it is true."

"I am afraid you are trying to lionize me," he jested.

"You have faced a British lion," she said slowly.

"My only regret is that he is old and clawless."

"We are retracing our steps over dangerous ground," she said with a catch in her breath.

"You would have me to believe that I am a brave man, so I am determined to court the danger of your displeasure. How did you happen to marry this old and clawless lion?"

She did not exhibit the faintest sign of surprise or discomfiture, certainly not of anger. Instead, she looked frankly into his eyes and answered: "That is what I thought you would ask me. I shall not refuse to answer. I married because I wanted to do so."

"What!" exclaimed he incredulously. "I had hoped--er--I mean, feared that you had been--ah--sort of forced into it, you know."

"Since my marriage I have discovered, however, that there is no fool like the ambitious fool," she went on as if he had not spoken. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"That you married for position?"

"That I married simply to become Lady Huntingford."

"And you did not love him at all?" There was something like disgust, horror in Hugh's voice.

"Love him?" she exclaimed scornfully, and he knew as much as if she had spoken volumes. Then her face became rigid and cold. For the first time he saw the hard light of self-mastery in her eyes. "I made my choice; I shall abide by it to the end as steadfastfully as if I were the real rock which you may think me to be. There is nothing for me to tell--nothing more that I will tell to you. Are you not sorry that you know such a woman as I? Have you not been picking me to pieces and casting me with your opinions to the four winds?"

"I am truly sorry for you," was all that he could say.

"You mean that you despise me," she cried bitterly. "Men usually think that of such women as I. They do not give us a hearing with the heart, only with the cruel, calculating brain. Think of it, Mr. Ridge, I have never known what it means to love. I have been loved; but in all my life there has been no awakening of a passion like that which sends Grace Vernon around the world to give herself to you. I know that love exists for other people. I have seen it--have almost felt it in them when they are near me. And yet it is all so impossible to me."

"You are young--very young," he said. "Love may come to you--some day."

"It will be envy--not love, I fear. I threw away every hope for love two years ago--when I was transformed from the ambitious Miss Beresford to Lady Huntingford, now thoroughly satiated. It was a bad bargain and it has wounded more hearts than one. I am not sorry to have told you this. It gives relief to--to something I cannot define. You despise me, I am sure--"

"No, no! How can you say that? You are paying the penalty for your--of your--"

"Say it! Crime."

"For your mistake, Lady Huntingford. We all make mistakes. Some of us pay for them more bitterly than others, and none of us is a judge of human nature except from his own point of view. I am afraid you don't feel the true sympathy I mean to convey. Words are faulty with me to-night. It shall be my pleasure to forget what you have confessed to me. It is as if I never had heard."

"Some men would presume greatly upon what I have told to you. You are too good, I know, to be anything but a true friend," she said.

"I think I understand you," he said, a flush rising to his temples. After all, she was a divine creature. "You shall always find me the true friend you think I am."

"Thank you." They were silent for a long time, gazing out over the sombre plain of water in melancholy review of their own emotions. At last she murmured softly, wistfully, "I feel like an outcast. My life seems destined to know none of the joys that other women have in their power to love and to be loved." The flush again crept into his cheek.

"You have not met the right man, Lady Huntingford," he said.

"Perhaps that is true," she agreed, smiling faintly.

"The world is large and there is but one man in it to whom you can give your heart," he said.

"Why should any man desire possession of a worthless bit of ice?" she asked, her eyes sparkling again.

"The satisfaction of seeing it melt," he responded.

She thought long over this reply.