“One moment of your valuable time, if you please, Mr Rossett. You are fond of running away when the situation becomes a little inconvenient to yourself. But on this, I hope, our last meeting, I wish to say a few words to you, which it is well you should hear. May I presume to trespass on your time for a few seconds longer?”
There was still in her tones the same bitter note of sarcasm. But by this time, Guy had recovered himself a little, and was able to muster a remnant of dignity.
“My time is at your disposal,” he replied quietly.
“You have not acted the part of a gentleman, Mr Rossett. You were supposed to be my husband’s friend; you pretended to be mine. Certain events occurred, the nature of which it is easy to guess, which caused you to think my friendship was no longer desirable. That is the truth, is it not? Be frank for once, if a diplomatist can ever be frank.”
She dominated the situation. Rossett could only stammer forth a shamefaced admission that it was the truth.
“You admit it. Would you not have played a more manly part, if you had come to me with a frank and proper explanation of those events?”
“That is just what I ought to have done,” said Guy Rossett humbly. He had never admired her more than now. Up to the present moment he had no idea that this dainty, slender woman, more or less of a butterfly, had such spirit in her fragile frame.
“Instead of that,” pursued Violet Hargrave in her inflexible, vibrating tones, “you adopt a device pursued by many men I know, by the type of man who lacks moral courage. I am afraid I shall hurt you a little now, but I don’t mind because you have hurt me, and I want to cry quits. You adopted the coward’s device of running away from the woman to whom you were afraid to tell the truth.”
Rossett was utterly beaten. He could not say a word in self-defence. He stood speechless under the lash of her scorn, her not unjustifiable indignation. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“I will keep you no longer, Mr Rossett. For some years we were rather intimate friends. To-day we are strangers. As a stranger, I will bid you good-bye.”
And Guy Rossett was happy to escape. He had never felt more humiliated in his life.
He put himself into a taxi, and drove straight to the St. James’s Club, beloved of diplomatists. He ruminated ruefully over his discomfiture at the hands of the sharp-tongued Mrs Hargrave.
“Some women have the knack of making a man feel like a worm,” he thought bitterly. “Mary has it in her quiet, incisive way. Violet has it to perfection.”
The young widow entered the sanctum of the moneylender. Outwardly, her demeanour was calm, but in her breast a volcano was raging. Her pride had been humbled, her hopes ruthlessly crushed. She was raging with all the resentful impotence of the woman scorned.
Jackson met her with outstretched hands, and took both of hers.
“My poor little Violet,” he said kindly. “I can see you are very upset; at least, it is plain to me who have known you from a baby. If you had only told your maid to ’phone me up before you started, I would have delayed you, and prevented this.”
She sank down on a chair with a little weary sigh. “You have always been my best friend, Juan. Heaven knows what I should have done or where I should have been without you.”
“Tut, tut.” The “financier” was very human where women were concerned. “And you are fond of this fellow, eh, apart from other considerations?”
“I was, Juan, but now I hate him,” was the uncompromising reply. “Still, on the whole, I am not sure I would have missed that little talk with him. Clever young man of the world as he is, ready and quick as he was, I cut him to the quick. I made him feel very small.”
Jackson chuckled. “I will wager you gave him a good dressing down, when you once started. Well now, my child, I guess you want to see me on something important.”
“Something very important,” was the reply.
The two drew their chairs closely together, and conversed in low tones, using the Spanish language.
Chapter Three
To a man of Lord Saxham’s ancient lineage and broad acres, although those same broad acres were somewhat heavily encumbered, General Clandon was a mere nobody. He was just one of the many thousands of persons who are entitled to be called gentlemen, as a matter of courtesy, but have no claim to rank in the same category with pure aristocracy.
All the same, the General came of very respectable stock, from that section of the small landowning class which is the backbone of the territorial interest. His forbears had been settled in Kent for some six generations. His eldest brother, Hugh Clandon, who had ruled over Clandon Place, had a rent roll of some five thousand a year clear.
To an ordinary person, in a lower walk of life, this would seem by no means a despicable income. But Clandon Place was a large house, and cost a good deal to keep up, even on an economical scale. And all the Clandons, with the solitary exception of the General himself, were exceedingly prolific.
His brother Hugh had eight children. He was one of ten. Daughters had to be portioned off, sons had to be educated and started in the world. Geoffrey Clandon inherited a few thousands on his father’s death; he always thought his father must have been a wonderful man to leave so much, considering the calls upon him. The General contrived to live upon the modest income derived from this small capital, plus his half-pay.
He now lived at Eastbourne upon the somewhat slender revenue. When he died, his only child, Isobel, would have a few hundred pounds a year to call her own.
In his youth, he had been exceedingly handsome, and, had he been of a more worldly turn of mind, he might easily have married money. Instead, he married for love, and never repented it. His wife brought him no fortune, but she brought him other things beyond price.
Mrs Clandon died when Isobel was sixteen, and all the intense love which the General had borne his wife was transferred to his daughter, who fully reciprocated her father’s devotion.
She was a very sweet and lovable girl, perhaps just a little wiser and older than her actual years, as is often the case with only children, who have been brought up in close companionship with their parents.
She looked after his house admirably, saw that his meals were well cooked and daintily served. As for herself, thanks to an admirable figure, and a knack of knowing how to wear her clothes, she always looked smartly turned out on a most slender allowance.
They lived on the outskirts of Eastbourne, in an unpretentious house, a cottage which had been turned into a half villa. All the added rooms were spacious, with the original low ceilings, which gave a picturesque effect.
There was over an acre of garden, and half of that was devoted to the cultivation of flowers. Isobel adored flowers, and loved to see bowls of them in the different rooms. She was no mean gardener herself, and often worked hard in conjunction with the rather ancient person who attended to the small domain.
County society did not have anything to say to General Clandon and his daughter, they were too small fry, but in the selecter circles of strictly Eastbourne residents they were considerable figures.
The General had preferred not to settle down in his native place, near his brother. His means were too small to allow him to compete on equal terms with the local magnates who were his contemporaries. He was a very proud man, and he was still more sensitive on Isobel’s account.
From all she had heard of small county society, of which her uncle was a specimen, she did not think she had missed much. She was quite happy in her little circle at Eastbourne; it was more amusing, and not at all stiff or pretentious.
Once a year, since she was eighteen, she had a brief glimpse of a more fashionable world. The General had kept up a life-long intimacy with an old and wealthy friend, Sir William Glanville, who owned a large estate in Kent. Every autumn an invitation came for the shooting,