“From my mother I inherited a small income, which proved about sufficient for my extravagances, and I passed my days with a crowd of boon companions, traveling when and whither I pleased, just as the mood seized me. Among my acquaintances was one whom I held dearer than all; we were bound together by the firmest bond—true friendship. Conway was a handsome fellow, with a reckless, dare-all style that suited my wild nature, and an honest heart; we were inseparable. And next to him in my friendship was a man called Everest, a strong-willed being with a plain face, but having the manners of a Crichton, together with a fund of common sense. Everest was a barrier to Conway’s and my wildness, and to him we owed many lucky escapes. We were with one accord railers at matrimony, and a very bad time of it any poor fellow had who deserted our ranks to take unto himself a wife. I laughed and bantered like the others, deeming myself invulnerable; yet, when I laughed the loudest, I fell wounded. My raillery was over, my whole nature changed. The laughter and jokes of my comrades jarred on me; my soul revolted from the lazy, useless life I was leading. I grew earnest and grave—I had fallen in love. I had seen a woman who suddenly changed the current of my life.
“Gladys, my angel, my sweet star! She was the niece of one of my mother’s old friends. I rarely visited any of the old set, but one day the mood seized me to pay a visit to a Lady Leverick, with whom as a boy I used to be a great favorite; and at her house I saw my darling. What need to tell you all that followed? I haunted the house, unconscious that Lady Leverick grew colder and colder, heedless of all but Gladys’ sweet face and glorious eyes.
“At last the dream was dispelled; her aunt spoke to me. Gladys was an orphan under her charge; she was penniless, dependent on her charity, and she would not have so wild, so dissolute a man propose for the girl’s hand. I was mad, I think, for I answered angrily; but in the midst of the storm came a gleam of golden light. Gladys entered the room, and, in response to her aunt’s commands to retire, put out her fair, white hands to me, and, leaning her head on my breast, whispered that she loved me, and that nothing would separate us.
“We were married. Lady Leverick refused to see, or even receive a letter from my darling; and my brother Eustace, in lieu of a wedding present, sent a curt note informing me that I was a madman. A madman I was, but my mania was full of joy. Could heaven be fuller of bliss than was my life in those first three months? My income was all we had, but Gladys had had little luxury, and we laughed together over our poverty, resolutely determining to be strictly economical. We took a small house in St. John’s Wood, and then began my first real experience of life. I sighed over the money I had wasted, but Gladys never let me sigh twice, and always declared that she would manage everything. Out of all my old friends, I invited only two to our home, Guy Conway and Hugh Everest; but very happy little reunions we had.
“We were quite alone, and though Gladys tried over and over again to reinstate herself with her aunt, from affectionate desire only, she failed. Lady Leverick would not see her or own her, and my darling had only me in the wide world.
“How happy I was then! Through Everest’s influence, I obtained a secretaryship of a good club, and the addition to our income was most welcome and helpful.
“The months slipped by with incredible swiftness and sweetness till a year was gone and our baby born. All this time Conway and Everest were our beloved and most intimate friends, and Gladys seemed to like them both. We christened the child Margery, but she was to me no earthly being—her beauty and delicacy seemed scarcely mortal. She was like her mother, and both were marvels of loveliness, so much so that Conway, who was a bit of an artist, insisted on painting them in angel forms.
“Have you ever seen a storm gather in a summer sky and in one moment darken the brightness of the sunshine with gray, heavy clouds? Yes? Then you can conceive how my life was changed by a swift, fell stroke that almost crushed my manhood. I was much occupied at the club, and was away from home many hours. Sometimes it struck me, when I returned at night, that my wife’s face was disturbed and sad, but the feeling did not last, and as soon as we were together the expression changed.
“One evening I was leaving the club, and, in passing out of the door to enter the cab—I could afford that luxury now—I felt myself touched on the arm, and, turning, found myself face to face with Hugh Everest. I welcomed him warmly, yet something in his manner sent a chill to my heart.
“‘Dismiss your cab and walk a little way with me; I want to speak to you,’ he said. I turned to the cabman and did as my friend wished.