SEYMOUR CHARLTON.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVI, Issue 14145, 21 August 1909, Page 3 (Supplement)

SEYMOUR CHARLTON.

i: BY W. B. MAXWELL, Author of " The Countess of liaytmrv." , ? Sabulous Fancies." "Ills Bagged '" ' Messenger," Th« Guarded 1 ■' Flame," etc., etc.

1 PUBLISHED BT SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

[COPYRIGHT.]

-j }.'. CHAPTER XXl.—(Continued.) "Wrru faithful, well-tried Waller Sir • ;:!'.'.Gregory had no secrets and he said now, ,i bluntly and boldly, that he would ask this charming and talented young lady •logo to the deuce. He spoke of her and - - iier sex grossly and almost violently. Indeed, it was characteristic of Sir Gregory V"that he could not talk of women—wheiv ther confidentially to a toady or in geneI ral terms among strangers—without beI '-$. traving his intrinsic coarseness and brutality. i: . ■ "What do women want, I should like ■:■ to know? They're all the same. They'll -: thuek yonno matter what you've done for them— throw themselves at the head of the first, fancy man that comes ; ; their way. look a,t that fellow Brentwood —that's the type to get everything for ;" nothing. They go mad about himand ?: fellows of that sort." r "But Lord Brentwood has not interfered with "Oh, no; he came into my mind because all the women are in love with him. Edio bought his photograph and made me r vbny.tho frame. ... If you're kind to 'them, they always round on you. And ■ when a woman begins to play the fool v-I don't care who she is— may take ;" it from me, Walter, there's only one thing to do with her." ■"■'": And what may that be?" .':'•' "Give her a dashed good thrashing," Eaid red-faced Sir Gregory brutally, de- ,,,.'■' cisively, and by no means as if he meant ': this for a coarse joke. , r . Then, without any transitional pause, S;, he spoke most affectionately of his wife. t: "I hope my dear Leonora hasn't been >f worried by tale-bearers. Poor soul! It •would be very cruel if my enemiesand ;i I know I've plenty of 'em—made her suffer because they hadn't the pluck to strike zfi&b me." - Mr. Waller was able to assure his pat- '■':■:• ron that Lady Stuart had never been dis- ' turbed by rumours of diamond latticeWork and other follies. Curiously enough, there was little exaggeration in what Mr. Waller had told Copland of Sir Gregory's love of wife and ■;■■ family. In spite of all Edies series of infidelities co-extensive with his married fife •-Sir Gregory was truly a devoted husband ..;«-)u)d father. There was no trickery or deception in the pretty home pictures" that he H offered to charm or soften sentimental visif;.: tors at Knightsbridge. . He went now to his wife's darkened room, pat with the cherished if deceived invalid for more than an hour— left her side when the gong sounded for the children's ,'.' early dinner. Then he went down to pre- : side at the innocent meal, to carve the roast mutton or chicken-: for the happy noisy , • diners, to chop up her meat for the little ' golden-haired girl whose place at table was always next to dad, and to plead with her hr~. governess that she might have another ; helping of gooseberry pie and custard pud1H ding. He was not acting, posing as a kind ■ dad in order to make this picture of pure |; ■ home joy; he was really happy in the k society of his children. }£.;/■ He loved to take them to the Zoo on J';'-*. Sundays, to the pantomime at Christmas, 11to the Crystal Palace on warm summer :. Evenings for the fireworks. He gave them the most expensive and proficient goverr nesses, tutors, music masters, and took the liveliest interest in their mental and bodily |j.education. He had bought his fine house chiefly for their pleasure. They had a carriage reserved solely for the use of the nur--1 sery.. They had 'ponies to ride, a groom ?1 Vigo on horseback and a groom to go on I loot. He loved to make an appointment it ■with his little girl and meet her in Hyde I Park when she was riding her long-tailed .: : Shelty.' \" You look out for daddy to-morrow at . j» quarter-past twelve, at the top of Rotten .Row ; and if daddy can be there he will be there." l*;>j"I shall wait for you, daddy, so don't || disappoint." . To keep such an engagement he would ' lush through business interviews in the City, bustle and hurry directors at board Imeetings, flout and scout people who tried I to etop him in the street, make himself hot I and frantic, as he came tearing westward, ,5f a block of traffic threatened his Lorna with a disappointment. Coming thus to Hyde Park Corner on a "aright June day he found the family cavalyfcade at the appointed hour and spot, and fctood mopping his brow while the children ■■,fchattered to him. '"' "There, see how warm dad is. You idon't know what a race I've had, Lora. SAnd I am a naughty dad to come to-day. lA big, angry gentleman is expecting me |ih; Lombard-streetand that's where I pught to be now." W". "Oh, no, dad ;i.Then Sir Gregory took the leading rein I from the groom's hand, and led his little iv girl's diminutive pony down the Row. J "You go ahead," "he said to the other Children. "You can go faster than we I,;; tan." ~ !

-It made another pretty family picture, and many riders, glancing at the group, /noticed itthe fair-haired child, the brave ; little pony resolutely plodding over the tan, and red-faced Sir Gregory, stout, square, ■robust, with hie hat on "the back of his pad, resolutely plodding over the tan beside the pony. : "What's the matter, dad? Why have Jou stopped?" I The email Shelly was untired, but the Jan was too much for big Sir Gregory. He pad stopped short, seized with a queer fatigue, hi» feet aching and seeming a-s heavy as lead, after lie had gone about a hundred jiirds. He beckoned the groom, gave him the «m again, and eat down to rest. It was *ne tan that had pumped him so suddenly end so queerly. Confounded stuff—only railed tan—not tan really: beastly loose «arth and muck, as stickv'and holding as a Roughed field after rain! His feet were all right again directly he reached the Snivel path. Sitting on a chair in the 'shade beneath a tree he felt refreshed immediately; and when the children returned an two or three minutes he was able to !*alk with them comfortably. But he kept pa the gravel, inside the rails, and let the «">om lead the pony. Once or twice he Rooked down at the rough loose tan with a father curious expression on his red face, .# if the tan had made him angry and at jtnc same time frightened him. M He could not go home with the children ?nd carve their chicken for-them to-day. jUad, he said, must hurry back to the City pa earn some more money for them. He jMust fly as fast as he "could, or angry, fowling Mr. Makolmson, of Lombard,«reeV would eat him up in angor. ;V Mr. Malcomson certainly was in no plea«nt humour when Sir Gregory arrived, an "our and 'twenty minutes after he had ■ween .expected. ..;. Let's have some lunch," he said brusquely. "When we've done. I'll hear what ffouve got to tell mo about this new business."

:'ri -the ■ now business, expounded presently I 7 on* Gregory, was still another company r-another bouncing child of. the parent K?Pany. This child would be a real ; tapper—a giant offspring of a prolific Sip 1 parent. Sir Gregory proposed and Firmly intended to take over the Darm|fpt.< Hotel, Brook-street, W-, merely to **?ock (it down, build it up again thrice ;is Itf'gDj.and run it as the most extravagantly ■; luxurious hotel in all London. Ho meant Evjjfrj he would do it. 11, But -,vo want a chairman," said Sir | '"gory enthusiastically '"we can't work |/"s 'by ourselves. I want « figurehead—l ■b* *t oraamenta l chairman— I'll tell |fe °n the ' man. I have in my eye. Lord jtorentwood!" | ..' and gloomily Malcomson lis- * hile Sir Gregory described the l!l , ar virtues of this nobleman as a behead. . ~

He ma big pot politically, and he is a big pot in society. He'll draw all the fashionable people after him, and the really big people too, and then the crowd will follow. lie. is a favourite with our side and the other side; and I am hanged if I know why, but he is a favourite with the' public. Last week I was at the Mansion louse— meet those Frenchmen Lord Brentwood had the beet reception of anybody there—and everybody was there. Another thing : the women are all mad about him, buy his photographs, run along the pavement to look at him. He'll draw all the women after him. Another thing : he used to live at the Darmstadt, and people know that, so he is identified with it already. Given him for chairman, the place will be known as Lord Brentwood's Hotel. It will go off with a bang, make its hit right away. . . You may take it from me, Malcomson, ho is our man. No one would be so goodand 1 moan to get him."

And then Sir Gregory asked for Malcorason's assistance in this far from easy enterprise.

"I do not know Lord Brentwood," said Malcomson, gloomily, "and I do not go into society, so I am unlikely to meet him." "We must got you to Andover House, somehow," said Sir George, with a suddenly patronising tone. "I go there. I know him wellthough it's difficult to come to close grips with him. But somehow or other I must get him to ask you to dinner." " No, thank you," said Mr. Malcomson, " I do not care for dining out with people who—"

"Don't you?" interrupted Sir Gregory? and he laughed. " Oh, I thought you liked dining out, but didn't like inviting people to dine with you."

Notwithstanding their close alliance, Mr. Malcomson had never yet invited Sir Gregory to cross the threshold of the Bayswater mansion. Ho had dined five or six times in Knightsbridge, and some return of hospitality was therefore long overdue. Sir Gregory, noticing this strange lack of proper attention, resented it, and was glad of an opportunity to show hie associate that he considered himself neglected, if not affronted.

"I see your point," he continued, smiling grimly. " You don't wish to go where you feel you're not really welcome. I feel just like that."

Tackled in so firm a manner, Mr. Malcomson was constrained to offer some sort of apology, or at least an explanation of his remissness.

" You," he said very gloomily, " would be welcome as a guest at arc time— I hope you will diuo with us son;* d«»y soon. But my wife and I have been &jkhig no one lately. We have had anxietier. ill health in our family."

Mr. Malcomson, rich before, and now growing richer, was certainly also growing gloomier. The Lombard-street clerks could have told Sir Gregory that every day he was more morose, more overbearing, and generally a greater terror to all in his employ. The clerks and managers of the banking establishment all believed that there must be some secret trouble at home to account for the sullen rage and explosive captiousness that Mr. Malcomson brought with him to the office morning after morning.

Coarsely bluff and genial Sir Gregory was contented by his friend's implied apology. If no offence had been meant, no offence was taken. Sir Gregory thought he knew the cause of Bayswater private anxiety. Malcomson had a marriageable but unmarried daughter, concerning whom some extremely scandalous stories had reached Sir Gregory. They were true, then? This was why old Malcomson and his fat wife had ceased to give dinner-par-ties ; had closed their doors, and concealed their domestic circle from an inquisitive world. Sir Gregory was sorry for the glum old patriarch, plagued by a scandal-pro-ducing daughter ; and, forgetting his own fatherly tenderness, he thought to himself, "If I was in his place I'd give, her a dashed good hiding, or break her neck, before I'd lot her upset roe like that." CHAPTER XXII. The trouble at the house in the Bayswater Road was Irene. She upset everybody mother, brothers, sisters, friends* servants—all who came within the hysterical-storm, area of which she was the unstable centre or moving vortex. For the last two years she had been as completely out of hand as some natural and yet catastrophic phenomenon— tidal wave, a trembling of the ground, an eruption of lava dust. One could only watch the phenomenon, clasp one's hands, and pray that the manifestation of uncontrollable energy would soon cease. Mr. Malcomson prayed and swore, but could not sleep at night. As to portly Mrs. Malcomson, perpetual fear of what Irene was now doing or would do next had weakened the action of her fat-enveloped heart. The poor, fat, over-burdened creature fainted when her son Tom came and excitedly clamoured for her help to break off the friendship between Irene and his young wife.

Honest Tom Malcomson, growing weary of bachelor amusements after office hours, had appropriately chosen and wedded a nice little wife. Miss Dukke was a cousin of the banking business; she was pretty and amiable, if feather-heacW; in all respects . a promising life-partner for Tom until Irene made an intimate chum of her, debauched her by baleful. advice, filled her empty head full" of morbid, fantastic notions, and thus played the devil with Tom's hope of well-earned peace and well-de-served happiness. The Irene virus, poisoning their lives, induced a horrid ambition to be fashionable and hang the expense. The comfortable, modest house in Sussex —wedding gift of old Malcomson — was abandoned after three months' occupation. Mr. Malcomson, senior, said the house was good enough for a lord ; and young Mrs. Tom said if you are a lord any locality is good enough, but if your name is Malcomson you must be made to live in Bayswater— give yourself away too utterly. She moved her reluctant, untitled husband to Pont-street, hanging the expense—set him up in a profusely fashionable style: and then, within two months, talked "boldly of moving him to Berkeley Square. Poor Tom, then, used to go to his day's work and work hard to achieve impossibilities. He could never earn money so fast as his wife could spend it for him. The ship had sprung a bad leak, the crew had stove in the rum casks and were carousing up there above his head, and he was down hero in the hold with no hand to aid him at the pump. It was worse than that! he was a man who had mistaken a millstone for a life-belt, had carefully adjusted it round his neck. and flung himself into the sea—to drown when he thought to float. Willi these thoughts and feelings he went to his work, worked, all day, and all day long was ''ery miserable. But worse than the thought of money was the dread of dishonour. While he sat tied to his oSlce desk a frivolous, foolish wife rushed hither and thither with her newly-acquired men-friends —to race meetings, Henley regattas, fleet and army reviews. She had many friends to whom he was a stranger. She stayed in country houses without him, in ono country house that he had long since protested against—the house of Irene's dressmaker. Did she mean to ruin him first, and then offer him escape through the doors of the Divorce Court?

Rightly or wrongly, he blamed Irene for all his miseries and disasters. Decree nisi, or at least judicial separation, was coining nearer and nearer when. Father-in-law Dulake interposed. There wore noisy, distressing scenes—bellowings of Malcomson, senior, faintings, Raspings, heart-flutterings of mamma, and then patched-up reconciliation for Mr. and Mrs. Tom. Dulake and Tom, standing shoulder to shoulder, enforced a humiliating condition to the secret family treaty. Freedom from Irone— Malcomson for the future debarred by treaty from oral or written communication with her sister-in-law arid chum!

But, with this friendship broken by treaty, the trouble deepened in the Bayswafer Road. Malcomson had bullied Tom for not checking the extravagance of his wifo; but when he tried to keep his daughter within bounds ho himself failed. Irene 'did not ask for money; she plunged into debt.

" You needn't make a fuss," she said scornfully. "If you don't want to pay, let mo go bankrupt." —

, Soon, , lonely, ohumlesa Irene took up motoringtravelled at prohibited rates of speed, went to Exeter and back between breakfast and bedtime, ran over dogs and poultry, nearly killed a cliild in the Bath Road. She said the high speed was good for her nerves, soothed her, drove away insomnia. She had her own motorand her own chauffeur. Handsome car —neighbours said— handsome man. The stationary motor, tlirobbing and rattling in the Bayswater Road, made Malcoinson's seventeenhand barouche horses snort and shy, made the policeman on his beat look suspiciously at its number, made the neighbours wink and smile «nd talk. Sec that Malcomson girl— started, sitting in the front part by the side of her motor-man— the twice with a vengeance. Smugly respectable, malicious-tongued Bayswater expected explosion louder than any back-firing, smelt mischief more unpleasant than any naphtha fumes.

Then, while neighbours watched and chattered, there came sudden eclipse of Irene. Miss Malcomson has gono to Switzerland under the chaperonage of her old governess. Bayswater gossips, making much out of little, talked loudly of "the assault case." The chauffeur had summoned old Malcomson for assaulting him on the steps of No. 1000, but the complainant never appeared before the magistrate and the charge fell to the ground. What of it? Malcomson, in anger, did strike or man — wilfully frightening the barouche horses. Scandalous "tales about Malcomson's daughter spread far and wide in Bayswater; then farther and wider outside it. There was nothing to stop them reaching Knightsbridge and Sir Gregory Stuart. But there* were social barriers, many non-conducting circles of rank and fashion to be passed, ore they could reach the heart of Mayfair. Yet they got thero at last—to the remote, wellguarded ears of so great a personage as Seymour Charlton, sixth Earl of Brentwood. Tho cheerfulness of Gladys liad not- been enduring. Tho brave Schiller who enlivened her soon began to sadden her. At first she could rely on him to fill all blank hours and banish dull thoughts, but now her bravo and volatile brother often preferred to amuse himself by himself. it had been a delight to supply him with pocket-money. She pressed her gifts upon him, overcame his reluctance, and by affectionate solicitation forced him to accept them. With salary from papa and presents from her, Mr. Schiller had, in his own phrase, been made flush. Once when she spoke of him anxiously to his pal, Mr. Ingram hinted at the danger of making Schiller 1,00 flush—a high-spirited wanderer from t<he wilds may be safer in London with empty pockets than with uncounted gold to jinglo and throw about him. Harold Ingram, who knew her Schiller letter than she did and loved him almost, as much, plainly hinted that her gifts had been imprudent. She was saddened by the thought that her money was worse than useless; that with it she could not help Schiller; that perhaps she could not in any way help him; that, in truth, he did not want her. There was returning sadness for her in all that lie said of her father, and in all that Mr. Copland said of him. Schiller complained of the old man's swagger, his ridiculous ruses and inventions, his vainglorious boastings, and his frequent stinginess. Mr. Copland complained of Schiller's idleness, carelessness, and ingratitude. Perhaps depressed by these and other cares, she looked sad and languid as ever when ehe approached her husband with a petition. Almost at the first words of the petition Lord Brentwood became stern and grave; without bearing tho end of it, he shook his head negatively. "My dear Gladys, I told you long ago that she was not a proper friend for you, but you would not believe me. Since then she lias proved how right I was; she is now an impossible friend." Gladys pleaded humbly and sweetly on behalf of her friend.

Miss Malcomson, in the most moving terms, had appealed for aid: it was in the power, of Gladys, or her of her husband, to do a great kindness; surely it would be wrong to refuse. Surely when one was strong one should not be harsh to the weak.

" Seymour, I wouldn't ask you if I did not feel that we ought to do it." " Have you any idea what people are saying of her?"

"Yes; she told me herself that they are saying horrible things." " And how do we know they are not true?" And Seymour, delicately and yet clearly, gave outlines of the story that had reached him from distant Bayswater. "No doubt she told you the. scandal hail no foundation in fact; but do you, yourself, know anything definite?" "I haven't tried to know," said Gladys, still pleading the cause of her ancient friend. '" I only know that she is in disgrace with her parents— her father especially— and that she is very unhappy. She says if we countenance tier people will stop talking. And if we invite her parents too, her father will forgive her." "Why should he do that?" "They want to come here—to be seen here."

" Oh, they can't be so foolish as—" "Irene says they are." Lord Brentwood was flattered by the thought that Andover House and its even-ing-parties loomed so large in the mind of a hard-headed man of business like old Malcomson. This was pleasantly conclusive evidence of his success. Andover House under the new regime had done more than uphold the old traditions;- it had obtained for itself a cachet as of a princely court. The honour of entree reinstated lost reputations. To be received there was the final ambition of City magnates after praiseworthy and prosperous lives of labour. The thought softened him, touched him with pity for maligned Irene and her honest parents. It was to the credit of Mies Malcomson that she went the right way to work in begging for so great a favour. She did not belittle the extent of the boon. She was aware that everybody wanted to go to these grand evening-parties. So many people had bothered Lord Brentwood with similar requests that he dreaded the sharp twist of conversation that led to open or hinted demands for an invitation. But applicants— with or without well-founded claims—nearly always adopted a wrong tone. Often they seemed to cay in effect: For myself I do not care a hang for your evening-party, and possibly shall be bored by it. I ask only to give pleasure to another wife, daughter, or ward. Thus old Mr. Killick had asked for his grand-daughterjust out. But that meant having Mr. and Mrs. George Killick also. The old gentleman brought them in his landau, four of them. All very well, but an indiscretion, deficiency of social tact on the part of Mr. Killick, not to tell the truth and say he and his son and eon's wife were pining to see Andover House en fete, and their names in the Morning Post next morning. Miss Irene did not blunder after this manner. She said: "It is a great thing that I ask. Have mercy on me, and grant my prayer." The prayer was granted. To do a kind thing, to please an eloquently pleading, sad-eyed wife, Seymour at last shook his head affirmatively. Mr. Roberts had instructions to increase the immense list of guests for the next evening-party by one more entry—Mr. and Mrs. Malcomson; Miss Malcomson.

•Irene at once made her appearance at Andover House. Before, the cards were sent out for the evening reception she had been admitted two or three times to luncheon. Bayswater might know that if it fought shy of her, Mayfair welcomed her. Bayswater could see her driving through the Park at the fashionable hour with her friend Lady Brentwood. The dark cloud was lifting from Irene ; slowly she raised her bronze head, and with her violet eyes looked the world in the face.

Seymour Brentwood, finding her seated at the luncheon table, observed that she was altered, and that the alteration was a great improvement. He remembered an over-dressed, theatrical young lady who, after the wedding-breakfast, had squeezed his hand and gushed at him. She had left him with an unpleasant memory; but now he wondered if lie had judged her too hardly. The theatrical gestures had gone: he could detect no pretensions or affectations; she was subdued but self-possessed; her voice even mounded differently. When he made her talk she spoke in low-modulated —and very intelligently. A clever girl undoubtedly. She took interest in the politics of the day, and she was apparently well-versed in the- politics of other days, and countries other than England. • She appeared to , understand quite clearly the aim and scope of the pro-

gramme of the existing (government, and tho immense difficulties that confronted the Government in their endeavour to realise the smallest part of their scheme. "But you'll go' on trying," said Irene, and there came from her violet eyes the first subdued flash—as of nascent confidence or momentary enthusiasm. " You'll go on fighting. If you fail to-day, you are winning the battle for the men who will fight to-morrow." Seymour glanced at her doubtfully and critically. A theatrical touch —enthusiasm overdone, and not appropriate? But the flash had faded; Irene had--turned to his wife, was talking of the weather. It had been quite genuine then —the warmer tone, the intense expression, aroused by interest, not assumed artificially. Gladys, too, observed and greatly wondered. For her the altered manner was strikingly noticeable. Listening, she remembered Irene's philosophic outbreaks and windy, extemporised nonsense. On all subjects she used to be didactic, violent, and anxious to shock one. Now she was modest, hesitating; not wishing to teach, asking to ••bo instructed. She never shocked one now; in private talk as in general conversation she was strangely circumspect. Outwardly the alteration was as remarkable. Dignity of aspect as well as an extraordinary increase of beauty had come to slandered Irene. She moved more slowly, carried herself better, and could stand still. Her white skin was smoother, softer; her red lips seemed more perfectly moulded. Perhaps they had lost the old petulance, and gained beauty from repose. Her hair was magnificent, stronger, and yet softer and more lustrous. Gladys, who had never admired her before, thought her surprisingly handsome. What had happened to Irene thus to change her? Gladys had no wish to pierce the mystery. She wanted to help her friend, and not to understand her.

Once Irene offered sympathy to Gladys; with her new voice spoke of the great affliction that had befallen the house of Brentwood a year ago. " I was so sorry," said Irene, and she would have kissed her friend. - But Gladys recoiled from the sympathetic, embrace. Fear mingled with a proud revolt against this unsolicited sympathy. Shp would help her friend, but she could not trust her.

" Gladys, you are my oldest chummy best and truest chum. I was so sorry for you. Tell me about your grief." " I can't sneak of it, Irene." " Tell me what you suffered when you lost your baby." " I can't speak of it to you, Irene. I—l can't speak of it to anyone." " Poor Gladys ! I see how you feel it still. I can guess how you suffered." Irene did not further condole with her hostess, or press her implied requests for mutual confidence. The favour she had prayed for had been granted. And she said she was grateful. The cloud had been lifted for her; tongue-tied, bewildered middle-class gossips could see her entering and leaving Andover House; she could soon stare Bayswater out of countenance.

She rushed no more in terrifying motorcars. She rode a well-bred, good-man-nered hack very quietly and sedately. Early of a morning she used to jog or canter round the park among business men, Civil servants, politicians, and doctors, taking a healthy exercise before their hard day's work "began. Sometimes "she met Lord Brentwood hacking for the good of his liver—and indirectly of course for the good of the partybecause occupants of front benches must "keep themselves fit and strong. Sometimes the Under-Secretary rode with her for a little way, told her what they had done in the Lords yesterday, and what they hoped to do this afternoon. But Irene would pull back her whitelegged chestnut and, smiling, turn his small head from Lord Brentwood's blackpointed bay. '' You are not to trouble to talk to me," said Irene. "You come here to think, and not to be bothered. I shall read every word you say about the Land Values Bill and Irene slowly cantered away. She wore a brown habit which became her < exceedingly well; she sat quite straight; and, so far as Lord Brentwood could judge, had light, firm hands. Her long, willowy figure showed to advantage on horseback; her white skin did not turn red and hot; her bronze hair, rigorously bound and rolled, was splendid, and never got loose or untidy. Seymour, observing her improved looks, her schooled manner, and her considerate selfeffacement when she dreaded she might bore people, could not regret that he had conferred upon Miss Malcomson a great and important kindness. (To be continued next Saturday.