Tristram of Blent. Anthony Hope

as I was saying" (Lord Southend spoke a little lower), "she went straight from the Duchess of Slough's ball to the station, as she was, in a low gown and a scarlet opera cloak—met Edge, whose wife had only been dead three months—and went off with him. You know the rest of the story. It was a near run for young Harry Tristram! How is the boy, Iver?"

      "The boy's very much of a man indeed; we don't talk about the near run before him."

      Southend laughed. "A miss is as good as a mile," he said, "eh, Neeld? I'd like to see Addie Tristram again—though I suppose she's a wreck, poor thing!"

      "Why couldn't she marry the man properly, instead of bolting?" asked Iver. He did not approve of such escapades.

      "Oh, he had to bolt anyhow—a thorough bad lot—debts, you know—her people wouldn't hear of it; besides she was engaged to Fred Nares—you don't remember Fred? A devilish passionate fellow, with a wart on his nose. So altogether it was easier to cut and run. Besides she liked the sort of thing, don't you know. Romantic and all that. Then Edge vanished, and the other man appeared. That turned out all right, but she ran it fine. Eh, Neeld?"

      Mr. Neeld was sadly flustered by these recurring references to him. He had no desire to pose as an authority on the subject. Josiah Cholderton's diary put him in a difficulty. He wished to goodness he had been left to the peaceful delights of literary journalism.

      "Well, if you'll come down to my place, I can promise to show you Harry Tristram; and you can go over and see his mother if she's better."

      "By Jove, I've half a mind to! Very kind of you, Iver. You've got a fine place, I hear."

      "I've built so many houses for other people that I may be allowed one for myself, mayn't I? We're proud of our neighborhood," he pursued, politely addressing himself to Mr. Neeld. "If you're ever that way, I hope you'll look me up. I shall be delighted to welcome a fellow-member of the Imperium."

      A short chuckle escaped from Lord Southend's lips; he covered it by an exaggerated devotion to his broiled kidneys. Mr. Neeld turned pink and murmured incoherent thanks; he felt like a traitor.

      "Yes, we see a good deal of young Harry," said Iver, with a smile—"and of other young fellows about the place too. They don't come to see me, though. I expect Janie's the attraction. You remember my girl, Southend?"

      "Well, I suppose Blent's worth nine or ten thousand a year still?" The progress of Lord Southend's thoughts was obvious.

      "H'm. Seven or eight, I should think, as it's managed now. It's a nice place, though, and would go a good bit better in proper hands."

      "Paterfamilias considering?"

      "I don't quite make the young fellow out. He's got a good opinion of himself, I fancy." Iver laughed a little. "Well, we shall see," he ended.

      "Not a bad thing to be Lady Tristram of Blent, you know, Iver. That's none of your pinchbeck. The real thing—though, as I say, young Harry's only got it by the skin of his teeth. Eh, Neeld?"

      Mr. Neeld laid down his napkin and pushed back his chair.

      "Sit still, man. We've nearly finished, and we'll all have a cup of coffee together and a cigar."

      Misfortunes accumulated, for Neeld hated tobacco. But he was anxious to be scrupulously polite to Iver, and thus to deaden the pangs of conscience. Resigned though miserable, he went with them to the smoking-room. Colonel Wilmot Edge looked up from the Army and Navy Gazette, and glanced curiously at the party as they passed his table. Why were these old fellows reviving old stories? They were better left at rest. The Colonel groaned as he went back to his newspaper.

      Happily, in the smoking-room the talk shifted to less embarrassing subjects. Iver told of his life and doings, and Neeld found himself drawn to the man: he listened with interest and appreciation; he seemed brought into touch with life; he caught himself sighing over the retired inactive nature of his own occupations. He forgave Iver the hoardings about the streets; he could not forgive himself the revenge he had taken for them. Iver and Southend spoke of big schemes in which they had been or were engaged together—legitimate enterprises, good for the nation as well as for themselves. How had he, a useless old fogy, dared to blackball a man like Iver? An occasional droll glance from Southend emphasized his compunction.

      "I see you've got a new thing coming out, Neeld," said Southend, after a pause in the talk. "I remember old Cholderton very well. He was a starchy old chap, but he knew his subjects. Makes rather heavy reading, I should think, eh?"

      "Not all of it, not by any means all of it," Neeld assured him. "He doesn't confine himself to business matters."

      "Still, even old Joe Cholderton's recreations——"

      "He was certainly mainly an observer, but he saw some interesting things and people." There was a renewed touch of nervousness in Mr. Neeld's manner.

      "Interesting people? H'm. Then I hope he's discreet?"

      "Or that Mr. Neeld will be discreet for him," Iver put in. "Though I don't know why interesting people are supposed to create a need for discretion."

      "Oh yes, you do, Iver. You know the world. Don't you be too discreet, Neeld. Give us a taste of Joe's lighter style."

      Neeld did not quite approve of his deceased and respected friend being referred to as "Joe," nor did he desire to discuss in that company what he had and what he had not suppressed in the Journal.

      "I have used the best of my judgment," he said primly, and was surprised to find Iver smiling at him with an amused approval.

      "The least likely men break out," Lord Southend continued hopefully. "The Baptist minister down at my place once waylaid the wife of the Chairman of Quarter Sessions and asked her to run away with him."

      "That's one of your Nonconformist stories, Southend. I never believe them," said Iver.

      "Oh, I'm not saying anything. She was a pretty woman. I just gave it as an illustration. I happen to know it's true, because she told me herself."

      "Ah, I'd begin to listen if he'd told you," was Iver's cautious comment.

      "You give us the whole of old Joe Cholderton!" was Lord Southend's final injunction.

      "Imagine if I did!" thought Neeld, beginning to feel some of the joy of holding a secret.

      Presently Southend took his leave, saying he had an engagement. To his own surprise Neeld did not feel this to be an unwarrantable proceeding; he sat on with Iver, and found himself cunningly encouraging his companion to talk again about the Tristrams. The story in the Journal had not lost its interest for him; he had read it over more than once again; it was strange to be brought into contact, even at second-hand, with the people whose lives and fortunes it concerned. It was evident that Iver, on his side, had for some reason been thinking of the Tristrams too, and he responded readily to Neeld's veiled invitation. He described Blent for him; he told him how Lady Tristram had looked, and that her illness was supposed to be fatal; he talked again of Harry Tristram, her destined successor. But he said no more of his daughter. Neeld was left without any clear idea that his companion's concern with the Tristrams was more than that of a neighbor or beyond what an ancient family with odd episodes in its history might naturally inspire.

      "Oh, you must come to Blentmouth, Mr. Neeld, you must indeed. For a few days, now? Choose your time, only let it be soon. Why, if you made your way into the library at Blent, you might happen on a find there! A lot of interesting stuff there, I'm told. And we shall be very grateful for a visit."

      Neeld was conscious of a strong desire to go to Blentmouth. But it would be a wrong thing to do; he felt that he could not fairly accept Iver's hospitality. And he felt, moreover, that he had much better not get himself mixed up with the Tristrams of Blent. No man is bound to act on hearsay evidence, especially when that evidence has been acquired through a confidential channel. But if he came to know the Tristrams, to know Harry Tristram, his position would certainly be peculiar. Well, that was in the end why he wanted to do it.

      Iver