The Pauper of Park Lane — Context and Discussion

She had only seen Samuel Statham, the well-known millionaire, on one occasion. She had called at the offices in Old Broad Street one afternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, when the old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded old man, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who she was and what she wanted there.

One of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and Marion knew that.

In a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary, whereupon his manner instantly changed. He became the acme of politeness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass of port--which, of course, she refused--and chatted to her most affably till her brother's return.

Why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herself could not tell. Possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and that his pleasant suavity was feigned. And this, combined with the extraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his great mansion in Park Lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice.

Several customers were waiting to be served, and Marion saw Mr Warner's eye upon her.

"Well, Charlie," she said, "perhaps I'll get down to Charing Cross to see you off. You go to Paris first, I suppose?"

"Yes. I take the Orient Express from there, by way of Vienna and Budapest to Belgrade. But," he added, "don't come and see me off, there's a good girl."

"Why? I've been before, when you've gone to the Continent."

"Yes, I know," he answered impatiently; "but--well, it makes me feel as if I shan't come back. Don't come, will you?"

Marion smiled. His anxiety that she should not come struck her as distinctly curious.

He was not himself. Of that she was convinced. To her, ever since her father's death, he had been a good friend, and for a year prior to her engagement at Cunnington's he had divided his salary with her. No girl ever had a better brother than he had been, yet of late she had noticed a complete change in his manner. He was no longer frank with her, as he used to be, and he seemed often to hide from her facts which, with her woman's keen intelligence, she afterwards discovered.

"Miss Rolfe!" exclaimed Mr Warner, emerging from his office. "Disengaged?" And he pointed to a pair of somewhat obese ladies who were examining a costume displayed on a stand.

"Well, good-bye, Charlie," she said, shaking his hand. "I must go. We're very busy this afternoon. Perhaps I shall see you at Charing Cross. If not--then take care of yourself, dear. Good-bye."

And she turned and left him to attend to the two ladies, while he, with a nod across to Mr Warner, strode out of the shop.

"I hope to goodness Marion doesn't come," he muttered to himself. "Women are so infernally inquisitive. And if she does go to Charing Cross she's sure to suspect something!"

CONCERNS A SILENT SECRET.

That same afternoon, while Charlie Rolfe was bidding farewell to his sister Marion, Max Barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of the smaller houses in Cromwell Road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced, grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayed him to be a foreigner.

The well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as its owner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while upon the floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leather easy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliar type--the Greek alphabet.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual to English nostrils--that pleasant aroma peculiar to Servian tobacco.

The younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his long legs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease and gossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow. Tall beyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart and well-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes, and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air was distinctly military. Indeed, until a few months before he had held a commission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of the death of his father and his consequent succession to the wide and unencumbered Barclay estates in Lincolnshire and up in the Highlands.

Though now possessor of a fine old English home and a seventeenth-century castle in Scotland, Max Barclay preferred to divide his time between his chambers in Dover Street and wandering about the Continent. There was time enough to "settle down," he always declared. Besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rather simple bachelor tastes. His Aunt Emily, an old lady of seventy, still continued to live at Water Newton Hall, not far from that quaint, old world and many-spired town, Stamford; but Kilmaronock Castle was unoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for the shooting season.

Agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place to certain wealthy Americans, but he refused all inducements. The fine old place between Crieff and Perth had never been let during his father's lifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his own friends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now.

"My dear Petrovitch," he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, "It is indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of the country. You have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late."

"Ah, yes!" sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon his pleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance. "Servia has passed through her great crisis--the crisis through which every young nation must pass sooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawned for us. Under our new _regime_ prosperity is assured. But"--and pausing, he looked Max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, a voice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only a slight accent, for he spoke English very well--"I did not ask you here to discuss politics. We Servians are, I fear, sad gossips upon our own affairs. I wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importance to myself personally, and of someone very dear to me. Now we have been friends, my dear Max, you and I, through some years, and I feel--nay, I know, that you will regard what I say in entire confidence."

"Most certainly," was the young Englishman's reply, though somewhat surprised at his friend's sudden change of manner.

It was true that he had known Dr Michael Petrovitch for quite a number of years.

Long ago, when he had first visited Belgrade, the Servian capital, the man before him, well-known throughout the Balkans as a patriot, was occupying the position of Minister of Finance under King Milan. Both his Excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, had introduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the _entree_ to the Palace festivities, and had presented him to Queen Nathalie. Thus a firm friendship had been established between the two men.

But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then. Madame Petrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, after becoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister in several succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at foreign Courts, first St Petersburg, then Berlin, and then Constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.

Even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whispered that his Majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept the portfolio of Finance or of Commerce. But he steadily declined. As a statesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by Europe, and none knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yet for private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the Cromwell Road to returning to all the worries of State and those eternal bickerings in the Servian Skuptchina.

He was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupulous honesty. Had he been dishonest in his dealings he might have amassed a great fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries. But he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even though comparatively poor.

"Well?" asked Max, after a long silence. "I am waiting."

"It is a matter to which I refer not without some hesitation," declared his friend. "I want to speak to you about Maud."

"I am worried about the child--a good deal."

"For what reason?" asked Max, considerably surprised.

Maud was Petrovitch's only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteen years of age, who had been brought up in England and to whom he was entirely devoted.

"Well, she has fallen in love."

"All girls do sooner or later," replied Max, philosophically.

"But she's too young yet--far too young. Twenty-five is quite early enough for a girl to marry."

"Your friend--Charlie Rolfe."

"Charlie!" he exclaimed, in great surprise. "And he's in love with Maud. Are you quite sure of this?"

"Quite. She meets him in secret, and though Rolfe is your friend, Max, I tell you I don't like it," he declared.

"I am not surprised. Secret affections never meet with a parent's approbation. If Charlie is in love with her, and the affection is mutual, why doesn't he come straight and tell you?"

"Exactly my argument," declared Petrovitch, lighting a fresh cigarette with the end of one half-consumed. "But tell me, Rolfe is an intimate friend of yours, is he not?"

"Very," was Max's reply, though he did not inform his friend of his love for Marion.

"What is his exact position?"

"As far as I know, he is private secretary to old Samuel Statham, the great financier. His position is quite a good one--as far as confidential secretaryships go."

"Statham! I've heard of him. There's some extraordinary story about his house in Park Lane, isn't there? Nobody has ever been inside, or something."

"There is, I believe, some cock and bull story," responded Max. "The old fellow is a bit eccentric, and doesn't care for people prying all over his house. He lives alone, and has no friends. Do you know, one can be very lonely in London. It is a perfect Sahara to those who are friendless."

"Yes," said Petrovitch, huskily. "I know it by experience myself. When I was a youth I lived here. I was a foreign clerk in an insurance office in the city, and I lived perfectly alone--among all these millions. I remember it all as though it were only yesterday. I was indeed glad to get back to Servia."

"But why are you worried about Maud, old fellow?" Max asked. "Don't you like Rolfe--or what?"

"I like him very much, indeed I took a great fancy to the young fellow when you introduced him to me last year at Aix-les-Bains. From the very first I noticed that he was attracted towards the child, and I did not object because I thought a little flirtation would amuse her. These secret meetings, however, I don't like. It is not right. She's met him in St James's Park, and at other places of late, and they have gone for long walks together without my knowledge or sanction."

Max thought for a moment.

"Does she know that you are aware of the meetings?"

"Well, I must admit that I had no idea matters had gone so far as they evidently have," he said. "I, of course, knew that he has greatly admired Maud from the very first. He was, in fact, always speaking of her in admiration, yet I believed that he did not consider his position to be sufficiently established in warranting him to declare his love to her. Shall I throw out a gentle hint to him that the secret meetings would be best discontinued?"

"If he were to discontinue his visits here altogether it would, I think, be best," said Petrovitch in a hard voice, quite unusual to him.

Max was surprised at this. Had any unpleasantness occurred between the two men, which his friend was concealing, knowing that Rolfe was his most intimate chum?

"Does he come often?"

"He calls about once a week--upon me, ostensibly, but really in excuse to see the child."

"And now--let us speak frankly, old fellow," Max said, bending slightly towards the man seated opposite him. "Do you object to Rolfe paying his attentions to your daughter?"

"Then I very much regret that I ever introduced him. We were together at Aix-les-Bains for three weeks last summer, and, as you know, we met. You were my old friend, and I could not help introducing him. I regret it now, and can only hope you will forgive me such an indiscretion."

"It was not indiscreet at all--only unfortunate," he answered, almost snappishly.

"But tell me straight out--what do you wish me to do?" Max urged. "Recollect that if I can serve you in any way you have only to command me."

"Even at the expense of your friend's happiness?" asked Petrovitch, his sharp eyes fixed upon the young man.

"If he really loves her, the circumstances of the cue are altered," was the diplomatic answer.

"And if he does not? If it is, as I suspect, a mere flirtation--what then?"

"Then I think you should leave the matter to me, to act with my discretion," young Barclay replied. He recollected that Charlie was Marion's brother, and he saw himself already in a somewhat difficult position. "My own idea is," he went on, "that it is something more than a mere flirtation, and that the reason of the secret meetings is because he fears to ask your consent to be allowed to pay court to your daughter."

"What makes you think so?"

"From some words that his sister Marion let drop the other day."

"Ah! Marion is a sweet and charming girl," the elder man declared. "What a pity she should be compelled to drudge in a shop!"

"Yes," replied Max, quickly. "It is a thousand pities. She's far too refined and good for that life."

"A matter of unfortunate necessity, I suppose."

Necessity! Max Barclay bit his lips when he recollected how very easily she might leave that shop-life if she would only accept money from him. But how could she? How could he offer it to her without insult?

No. Until she consented to be his wife she must still remain there, at the beck and call of every irritating tradesman's wife who cared to enter the department to purchase a ready-made costume or a skirt "with material for bodice."

"I'm sorry for Marion," Dr Petrovitch went on. "She frequently comes here of an evening, and often on Sundays to keep Maud company. They get on most excellently together."

"Yes; she is devoted to Maud. She has told me so."

"I believe she is," Petrovitch said. "And yet it is unfortunate, for friendliness with Marion must also mean continued friendliness with her brother."

"Ah! I see now that you do not like him," Max said, openly, for he could not now fail to see from his friend's expression that something had occurred. What it was he was utterly unable to make out.

"No, I don't," was the ex-Minister's plain, determined answer. "And to tell you the truth, I have other views regarding Maud's future. So just tell the young man whatever you think proper. Only request him neither to call here, nor to attempt to see the child again!"

TELLS OF A WOMAN'S LOVE.

In the dull hazy London sunset Fopstone Road, which leads from Earl's Court Road into Nevern Square, was quite deserted.

There is a silence and monotony in the eminently respectable thoroughfares in that particular district that, to their residents, is often very depressing. Traffic there is none save a stray hansom or a tradesman's cart at long intervals, while street organs and even the muffin men avoid them because, unlike the poorer districts, they find no stray coppers and no customers.

On the same evening as the events recorded in the previous chapters, about six o'clock, just as the red dusky after-glow was deepening into twilight, Charlie Rolfe emerged from Earl's Court Station, walked along to the corner of Fopstone Road, and, halting, looked eagerly down it.

But there was not a soul. Indeed there was no sound beyond that of a distant cab whistle somewhere in Nevern Square.

For about five minutes he waited, glancing impatiently at his watch, and then, turning upon his heel, strolled along in the direction of the Square.

A few moments later, however, there hurried up behind him a sweet-faced, smartly-dressed girl who, as he turned to meet her, laughed merrily, saying:

"I do hope, Charlie, I haven't kept you waiting, but I've had such trouble to get out. Dad asked me to write some private letters in English for him; I really believe he suspects something. We meet too often."

"No, darling," answered Rolfe, raising his hat and taking her small gloved hand. "We don't meet frequently enough for me. And I think that your father is entirely unsuspicious. I was with him last night, and he did not strike me as possessing any knowledge of these secret meetings of ours."

"Yes, but you know how dangerous it is," replied the pretty girl, glancing round. "Somebody might pass, recognise me, and tell dad."

"And what then, dearest?" he laughed. "Why your fears are utterly groundless."

"Well, dad would be annoyed--that's all--annoyed with both of us."

"He must already have seen, darling, that I love you. He isn't blind," said Charlie Rolfe, moving slowly along at her side.

Hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval, delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement of meeting her lover. Her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figure still girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in its refined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slender form, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair, a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath her neat black hat, and the dark brown eyes, so large, luminous, and expressive.

Her gaze met his. Every sensitive feature, every quiet graceful movement told plainly of her culture and refinement, while on her face there rested an indescribable charm, a look of shy, sweet humility, of fond and all-consuming love for the man beside her.

As she lifted her eyes at the words of affection he was whispering into her ear as they went along the quiet, deserted street, she perceived how tall and athletic he was, and noticed, woman-like, the masculine perfection of his dress, alike removed from slovenliness and foppery.

"No," she said at last, her eyes gazing in abstraction in front of her. "I don't suppose dad is in any way blind. He generally is too wide-awake. I have to make all sorts of excuses to get out-- dressmakers, painting-lessons, buying evening gloves, a broken watch-- and all sorts of thing like that. The fact is," she declared, laughing sweetly and glancing again at him, "I have almost exhausted all the subterfuges."

"Ah, dearest, a woman can always find some excuse," he remarked, joining in her laughter.

"Yes, but that's all very well; you haven't a father," she protested, "so you don't know."

She had only left school at Brighton two years before, therefore her clandestine meetings with Charlie Rolfe were adventures which she dearly loved. And, moreover, they both of them were devoted to each other. Charlie absolutely adored her. Hitherto women had never attracted him, but from the day of their introduction on the gravelled walk in front of the Villa des Fleurs at Aix, his whole life had changed. He was hers-- hers utterly and entirely.

For three months he had existed in constant uncertainty, until one warm evening at Scarborough--where she and her father were staying at the Grand--while they were alone together in the sloping garden of the Spa he summoned courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and to his overwhelming joy found that his passion was reciprocated. Thus had they become lovers.