"Captain Weldon?" She turned aside her head. "He is in London, too." "You are shortly to be married, I am informed." She stood up. "I must really be going," she observed constrainedly;
then she held out her hand. I watched her pick her way through the
crowd to our hostess. It was a well-bred crowd, but it stared at her. She was worth looking at. She walked just as a woman should and she
bore herself with the proper touch of pride that is at the same time a
personal protection and a provocative of curiosity. Some people call
it dignity. Hubbard materialised from the shadow of a neighbouring
curtain. "My wife has invited me to dinner," he announced. "You, too. I have made her your excuses because I have a money matter to discuss
that should not be postponed." "You have my deepest sympathy," I answered, and left him as puzzled to
know what I meant as I was. Something was whispering over and over
in my ear--"Work! work! work!" and whispering in the imperative mood. I determined to call upon Captain Weldon and procure from him my
manuscript, at once. I remembered he lived in Jermyn Street. I walked
thither as fast as I was able. Chapter XIII

Hubbard Is Jealous


I encountered the Captain on his doorstep. He was just going out,
hatted and gloved, but on seeing me he abandoned his intention. His delight was that of a child, and so manifestly genuine, so
transparently sincere, that it warmed my heart. He dragged me into
his sitting-room and wrung my hands again and again, expressing his
pleasure in tones that made the windows rattle. One cannot help
liking a man so simple and at the same time so kind. There are too
many complex people in the world. He had grieved for my supposed loss
more than at his own brother's death, he said, and I believed him. Very few men care much for their brothers. Then he told me all about
his approaching marriage. It was to take place in five weeks and he
was dreading the ordeal already. He had just finished furnishing his
Wexford country house from top to bottom. They were to settle there
after a honeymoon in Italy and adopt the life and manners of country
magnates, only coming to town for the season. It was Miss Ottley's
desire; she did not care for London smart society, it seemed, and
although he did, he was quite willing to give it up or anything
else indeed to please her. It was pleasant to hear him rhapsodise
concerning her and to watch his happy face. Its spirit made him ten
times handsomer, and although his speech was boyish it did not detract
him from his exuberant virility. He was a man from the crown of his
head to the soles of his feet,--a splendid animal, with just enough
brains to be a force to command respect, and a heart big enough to
fill the whole world with his affection. There was not a single bitter
drop in the cup of his happiness. He was about to marry the woman he
adored. He was enormously wealthy, and his wife-to-be was the only
daughter of a millionaire. His plans for the future were Utopian. He
dreamed of enlarging his estates and providing for at least the welfare
of a hundred families. Wealth was given one in trust for others, he
declared, and he was resolved to make every one around him happy and
contented. As a wedding present to his tenants he had already ordered
the rebuilding of their homes and cottages on a scale of almost lavish
grandeur. Each farmhouse would be a model of luxury; each labourer's
cottage would be a miniature castle with tiled walls, and hot and
cold water attachments. Other landlords were annoyed with him and had
not hesitated to express their resentment. He was spoiling his own
tenants and making them dissatisfied, they said. But the Captain asked
me with eyes aglow how could one want to keep all the good things of
life to benefit a single class? It was monstrous, impossible, absurd. He only wished he could at one stroke make all the poor in the world
comfortable. "You ought to hear May on the subject," he cried out in a
burst of confidence. "You'd think she was a socialist. But she is only
an angel." Thence he wandered to her father. Sir Robert had given up
all his old stupid ways. He had reformed and was as sane as any man
in England. He had repudiated his ancient attachment to "spooks" and
spirit-rapping, and Mahatmas, and had sent his famous medium, Navarro,
to the right about, much to that gentleman's disgust and indignation. Sir Robert was now engaged with Dr. Belleville in compiling a history
of the dynasty from papyri they had found in the tomb of Ptahmes. The
Captain still thought that Ottley had treated me very badly, but he
begged me to forgive the old man as he had evidently not been quite
in his mind at the time. "You excited his professional jealousy,
don't you know, old chap," said Weldon. "Sir Robert has one fault--he
is dreadfully vain and he wanted to get all the credit out of his
discovery. He told me so himself. He quite opened up to me on the
voyage home." A vision of Sir Robert Ottley "opening up" to the Captain occurred to
me. The little, old, inscrutable, shut-in face of the baronet peering
slyly into the frank and unsuspicious countenance of the handsome,
simple-minded guardsman and making a confession of his faults the
while! For why? I could not guess, but I had a feeling that it was
for no straightforward purpose. We dined together, and while we ate I
questioned him about Dr. Belleville. For the first time I saw a shade
on his face. He did not like the doctor. I pursued the investigation. For a while he fenced with my questions but finally it all came out. "I have an idea," said he, "that Belleville annoys May. He is in love
with her. Of course one can't blame him for that, but as a guest in her
father's house and her father's closest friend, he has opportunities to
force his attentions, and I believe the brute abuses them. She does not
complain and will tell me nothing--but all the same I have my opinion. You see, she worships her father so much that she will run no risk of
hurting his feelings. She would put up with almost anything rather
than distress him, and Belleville knows it. He has Sir Robert under
his thumb far more than I like. I hate to think I may be wronging the
fellow--but upon my soul I cannot help distrusting him." "But you have nothing definite to go upon?" "Nothing--except this: One day about two weeks ago I went in
unannounced and found her--in tears. I had passed Belleville in the
hall a second earlier. He looked as black as night. And she--well, she
told me, weeping, that she would marry me when I pleased. Up till then
she had always put off naming the day. What would you make of it,
Pinsent?" "What did you?" "I concluded that he had been persecuting her and that--well, that she
felt safer with me than with her father. Don't rag me for being vain,
old chap. If you'd seen her cry. She is not that sort of a girl either. It was the first time I ever knew her to break down, and I've known her
all my life." "Did you speak to Belleville about it?"