We all turned to walk along the little drive, when Mr. Baddock’s car came whizzing round the corner of the road from the village. He pulled up at our gate, and the next moment had joined us in the drive.
There was a very black look in his eyes, as they wandered restlessly from my dear lady’s face to that of his friend. Lady Molly’s little hand was even then resting on Mr. Felkin’s coat-sleeve; she had been in the act of leading him herself towards the house, and did not withdraw her hand when Mr. Baddock appeared upon the scene.
“Burton has just called about those estimates, Felkin,” said the latter, somewhat roughly; “he is waiting at the Castle. You had better take the car—I can walk home later on.”
“Oh! how disappointing!” exclaimed Lady Molly, with what looked uncommonly like a pout. “I was going to have such a cosy chat with Mr. Felkin—all about horses and dogs. Couldn’t you see that tiresome Burton, Mr. Baddock?” she added ingenuously.
I don’t think that Mr. Baddock actually swore, but I am sure he was very near doing so.
“Burton can wait,” said Mr. Felkin, curtly.
“No, he cannot,” retorted Philip Baddock, whose face was a frowning mirror of uncontrolled jealousy; “take the car, Felkin, and go at once.”
For a moment it seemed as if Felkin would refuse to obey. The two men stood looking at each other, measuring one another’s power of will and strength of passion. Hate and jealousy were clearly written in each pair of glowering eyes. Philip Baddock looked defiant, and Felkin taciturn and sulky.
Close to them stood my dear lady. Her beautiful eyes literally glowed with triumph. That these two men loved her, each in his own curious, uncontrolled way, I, her friend and confidant, knew very well. I had seen, and often puzzled over, the feminine attacks which she had made on the susceptibilities of that morose lout Felkin. It had taken her nearly two years to bring him to her feet. During that time she had alternately rendered him happy with her smiles and half mad with her coquetries, whilst Philip Baddock’s love for her was perpetually fanned by his ever-growing jealousy.
I remember that I often thought her game a cruel one. She was one of those women whom few men could resist; if she really desired to conquer she invariably succeeded, and her victory over Felkin seemed to me as purposeless as it was unkind. After all, she was the lawful wife of Captain de Mazareen, and to rouse hatred between two friends for the sake of her love, when that love was not hers to give, seemed unworthy of her. At this moment, when I could read deadly hatred in the faces of these two men, her cooing laugh grated unpleasantly on my ear.