They are fond of investing a sentient
figure-head with exaggerated attributes of majesty and bowing down
before it. It is the survival of an aboriginal instinct to glorify the
insubordinate. Weldon admired two things above all others: strength of
body and strength of mind. In both these gifts he felt himself inferior
to me, therefore he must needs put me on a pedestal. His gratitude
in finding me willing to stoop to ask a favour of him was unbounded. It resembled that of an Eton fag to a monitor kind enough to take an
interest in his doings. I have said before that he was essentially a
boy at heart. But what an honest, clean-minded, fresh, wholehearted
boy! I found myself liking and admiring him more and more each day. He
taught me one of the greatest truths a man may learn. It is this--there
is a more admirable thing in the world than intellect. Weldon's
intellect was not of the first order. That is why I began by very
nearly despising him. But he was the straightest, truest, manliest and
simplest-minded man I have ever met. And I ended by half-humorously but
none the less sincerely, reverencing him. If it were only for his sake
I shall while I live regard the highest type of brain as incomplete
without a paramount ideal of morality. And the best thing about Weldon
was that he was utterly unconscious of his goodness. He was perfectly
incapable of posing, but he had a fine, robust vanity of sorts, and he
liked to regard himself as a bit of a "sad dog!" Romance was at the
bottom of this. He envied the more than questionable experience of some
of his acquaintances. It was because of the glamour of their perfumed
wickedness. But their callous self-extrication from entanglements after
growing weary of their chains made him long to wring their necks. For
his own part, a certain shop girl had once fallen in love with him. He
twirled his moustache and cast furtive glances at the mirror near him. It appears he had dallied with the temptation for a while--the "sad
dog"--but Miss Ottley's portrait had saved him. He had kissed the shop
girl once--horror of horrors!--in the Park after dark. He apologised
to her father with a thousand pounds and fled to South America. When
he came back she was married. He had confessed the whole of his truly
dreadful criminality to Miss Ottley in a letter--and she had kept him
waiting three miserable days for a reply. He believed he would have
gone to the dogs headlong if she had refused to pardon him. But she
did not. Vanity told him the reason. But it was beautiful to see the
colour flush his cheeks and his eyes sparkle as he protested that he
couldn't understand why she ever brought herself to speak to him again. I believe that was as far as Weldon ever got to telling a downright
falsehood; the dear, great gander. On the third afternoon of my stay at Jermyn Street I was busily at work
writing, when a knock sounded. Weldon was out; he had gone to take
Miss Ottley for a drive in his newest dogcart. His man, too, had a day
off, so I was quite alone. I said "Come in," and there entered Lady
Helen--Hubbard's wife. She was a vision of lace fripperies and arch,
mincing daintiness. "So! run to earth!" she cried. I sprang up and offered her a chair. She settled into it with a swish and a sigh. "Been searching for you
everywhere! I had thought of applying to the police." I suppose I looked astonished, for she laughed. I stammered, "Why have you been searching for me?" She gave me a glance of scorn. "Should a dutiful wife regard with
indifference the sudden desertion of her husband by the only friend he
possesses? Just tell me that." "You take my breath away." "No," she flashed, "the 'dutiful wife' did that. Confess!" "Well, since you insist--I admit that Helen becomes you better than
Joan," I said audaciously. Her eyes glittered. "May be, my fine gentleman--but would you say
'Dixon' was synonymous with 'Darby'?" "Not quite. Still, they both commence with a 'D.' That is something,
eh?" "So does another word which rhymes with lamb," she retorted cuttingly. "Oh! I might have known that you would take his part. You men always
stick together." "I beg your pardon, Lady Helen. I consider that you deserve well of
your country. You have improved Hubbard past belief. He is worth
improving." She smiled. "I have humanised him, just a little, don't you think?" I nodded. She leaned forward suddenly and looked me in the eye. "It's only the
commencement, the thin edge of the wedge." "Oh!" She began speaking through her teeth. "I'll make a man of him yet if I
have to beggar him in the process." "I beg you to excuse me." She fell back and began to laugh. "Oh, how solemn you are. You
disapprove of me. Ha! ha! ha! You don't even begin to hide it." "You see I do not understand you." "Yet you disapprove?" "No. I wonder." "You are a man, Doctor, that one can't help trusting!" She stood up
and began to move about the room. "I am going to confide in you," she
announced, stopping suddenly. "A dangerous experiment," I observed. "One risks death every time one crosses a car-crowded thoroughfare. I'll take the risk." I shrugged my shoulders. She frowned. "You used to like me once. What stopped you?" "I haven't stopped." She smiled bewitchingly and, gliding forward, placed her hand upon
my arm. "He wanted to take me away to South America--he owns a ranch
there--and to bury us two for ever from the world. That was his idea of
marriage. It all came of a rooted disbelief in his own ability to keep
me interested in himself while I possessed an opportunity to contrast
him with his social equals. He saw a rival in every man I looked at or
who looked at me. He should have been born a Turk. I should then have
been the queen of his zenana. But no, I must do him justice--he is not
polygamously inclined. Still, he would have shut me up." "The poor devil," I muttered. "It is his disposition. He cannot help
himself." "But he may be cured of it," said Lady Helen. "He thinks every woman
is a rake at heart. But he is mad. I for one am not. Mind you, I love
society. I like men. I live for admiration. But as to--pshaw!" --she
spread out her hands. "You quarrelled?" I inquired. "No, we argued the matter out and came to an arrangement. We are good
friends. But he does not conceal his opinion that some day or another I
will go to the devil. He thinks it inevitable. Pride, however, forbids
him from looking on except at a distance. That is why he separated from
me. He imagines that no woman can keep true to one man unless she is
immured. The fool, the utter fool! As if walls and locks and keys were
ever an encumbrance. Love is the only solid guarantee of a woman's
faith." "But my dear Lady Helen, your husband has not the faintest idea that
you love him!" She drew back gasping. "You--you--you!" she cried. She was scarlet. Then she said, "How dare you!" She looked so lovely that I no longer
wondered at Hubbard's infatuation. "You should not have kept it from him," I said severely. "But there,
it's wonderful.