William Le Queux - Whither Thou Goest

The two women took to each other at once. It did not take the shrewd Mary long to discover that this beautiful girl was genuinely in love with the equally good-looking Guy, that here was no artful and designing maiden.

The General, simple and dignified, made an equally good impression upon her. In manner and bearing he was the true type of aristocrat, as much so as Lord Saxham himself. Fortunately for others, he lacked the Earl’s somewhat explosive qualities.

They lingered in the lounge some time after lunch, and here the two women had a little private chat together, with the view of cementing their acquaintance.

Mary promised to be their friend, and to use all her influence to wear down her father’s opposition.

Isobel thanked her warmly. “It seems an unkind thing to say,” she added, at the conclusion of her little outburst of gratitude. “But I almost wish that Guy were a poor man.”

Mary looked at her questioningly; she did not, for the moment, catch the drift of her thoughts.

“There couldn’t, then, be all this fuss and trouble,” explained Isobel, with a little catch in her voice. “People wouldn’t be able to think that I had run after him, they would know I only cared for him for himself. Now, whatever happens, they will always think the worst of me.”

Mary whispered back the consoling answer, “There are two people who will never think that, myself and Guy.”

The happy hours passed. They all saw Mary off by her train, and a little later the General and his daughter went back to Eastbourne.

There were many delightful days to follow, days when Guy ran down, dined with the General, and put up for the night at the “Queen’s.”

And then the time drew near for Guy to take up his new post, to leave London for Madrid. Still, things were not any further advanced. In spite of Lady Mary’s powerful and persistent advocacy, the Earl remained as obdurate as ever. If Guy insisted upon making Isobel Clandon his wife, all friendly relations between father and son would be suspended.

On the night preceding the young diplomatist’s departure, there was a farewell dinner, this time at a less public restaurant than the Savoy. The party was the same, Guy and his sister, Isobel and her father.

Lady Mary would have to stay the night in London. This she had arranged to do with an old girl friend, now married, Lady May Brendon.

The Earl, with that uncanny sense which distinguishes some people, suddenly had an inkling of the truth. Guy had said good-bye to them the day before. “I believe it’s all a blind,” he burst out angrily, a few minutes before Mary’s departure. “You may be staying with May Brendon for the night, but she is not the reason of your visit. You are going to meet that wretched girl.”

Mary could never bring herself to tell a lie. She had already admitted she had made the acquaintance of Isobel Clandon, and had taken a great liking to her.

“To tell the truth, I am. Guy is giving a dinner to-night, in order to bid her farewell. It is only right he should have the support of some member of his family.”

“You deliberately go against my wishes,” thundered her father, in his most irate tones.

“In this instance, I fear I must,” replied his daughter very quietly and firmly. “I love you very dearly, but I love Guy too. He has chosen for himself, and in my opinion he has chosen wisely.”

“I love Guy too,” said the Earl in a less aggressive tone. “I would like also to see him happy. But a man in his position must marry according to the traditions of his family. You are a weak sentimentalist, Mary.”

A rather sad smile crept over the sweet face.

“Perhaps I am, too much for my own peace of mind. But, what I do feel strongly is this – you have no right to dictate to Guy in this matter. He is a second son, he is independent of you. With Ticehurst, it may be different. He has to transmit the family honours, to maintain the family traditions as you call them. In his case, interference may be justifiable. In Guy’s case, I say emphatically not.” The Earl began to splutter again. “My word, the world is coming to something. You talk as if a father had no right, no authority over his children. Look what I have done for him. I wrung this appointment from Greatorex, with my own personal influence.”

Lady Mary laid a light, cool kiss upon his inflamed cheek.

“Dearest father, do try and be just for once. You did not get this appointment solely for Guy’s benefit. You know you don’t care a straw whether he succeeds in his profession. Your real motive was to drive him out of England, so that he should be separated from Isobel Clandon.”

This was too much for Lord Saxham. He burst into volcanic language, inveighing against ungrateful sons and undutiful daughters, and stamped from the room in a blind rage.

Lady Mary smiled a little when he left. How many of these domestic storms had she witnessed! Her father would give way in the end. But there would be a long period of waiting. She got into the car, and drove to the railway station.

The dinner-party was a great success, even if it was slightly overcast with the sadness of farewell. Two people alone can be quite comfortably sad; there is a luxury in woe. But melancholy cannot be permanently maintained amongst four persons. The lovers would not see each other for some time, but, as Mary cheerfully reminded them, Madrid was not quite as far as the Antipodes, and they could write to each other every day, if they wished.

Half-way through the meal, two men entered and took their seats at a small adjoining table; they were both in evening dress. One was a tall, slim Englishman of the well-groomed type. His companion was short and swarthy, evidently a foreigner.

Isobel was the first to observe them. She leaned across the table, and addressed the General in a low voice.

“Maurice has just come in, father. Just there, on your left, with a foreign-looking man.”

The General looked in the direction indicated, and caught the eye of the tall young man, who rose, and advanced hesitatingly to their table.

He shook hands with Isobel and her father. The General effected a hasty introduction.

“My nephew, Mr Farquhar, Lady Mary Rossett, Mr Rossett.”

Lady Mary bowed. Guy half rose and bowed. He felt a little bit churlish. He was of a very jealous disposition. He fancied Isobel’s reception of her cousin was perhaps a little too cordial. Her smile was very welcoming, as she murmured, “Fancy meeting you here, Maurice.”

Farquhar looked at the young diplomatist steadily, as if he were trying to recall a memory. Then he recollected.

“Rossett, Guy Rossett, of course, I remember you now perfectly. You were with me at Harrow for one term. You came into Brogden’s House just as I was leaving.”

And then Guy remembered too. “Of course, I recollect now. I thought your face was familiar to me. You were the head of the house, and I was your fag. A graceless little cub, I fancy.”

Farquhar laughed genially. “No, I fancy you were an awful decent little chap while I was there. I can’t vouch for you after my restraining influence was removed.”

There was a little more conversation, and then Mr Farquhar returned to his foreign friend.

“Who the deuce has he got with him?” growled the General, almost under his breath. “Maurice is an awfully clever fellow, and they say is one of the most rising members of the junior bar, but he is awfully fond of Bohemian society. That long-haired chap he has got with him. Well, he looks like an anarchist.”

Guy Rossett laughed. “I fancy I know who he is, General; in the Foreign Office, like your nephew, we get to know some queer people. He is a Spaniard by birth, but English by adoption. He is a well-known journalist in Fleet Street. But he is by no means an anarchist; he is dead against them.”