He got up and had some more brandy, walking about the room. "I knew the old fool would find out soon. My God, though, it's rather sudden. I haven't twopence in the world, and the High Church people are beginning to smell a rat. Damn this collar—it's tight...." He tore it off, smashing the head of the stud, which rolled under the fender with a sharp metallic click. After a time he sat down again. The feeling of ruin was already passing away, and his face lost its sweetness and youth, while a sharp keen look took its place—the look that he wore when at night he was alone and plotting, a haggard, old look which no one ever saw but Condamine or Sturtevant.
He took up the next letter, a small envelope addressed in a girl's hand:—
"Westcott,
"Wooton Woods."
"Dearest Caradoc,—You cannot think how delighted I was to get your letter on Saturday. I have been thinking of you a good deal the last two or three weeks, and wondering why you did not write.
"Had you forgotten all about me? I expect so, but there is some excuse for you, as you must meet heaps of pretty girls in Oxford. Do write me a nice long letter soon—a nice letter, you know.
"Good-bye, dearest—
"Your very loving"Goodie.
"P.S.—Excuse scrawl."
The hard, keen expression faded away, his eyes filling with tears, while the light played caressingly on his face and tumbled hair.
It was his one pure affection, an attachment for a dear little girl of seventeen, a clergyman's daughter in the country. He thought of the evening walks in the sweet summer meadows, when the "mellow lin lan lone of evening bells" ringing for evensong floated over the corn. He remembered how her hair had touched his face, and how she had whispered "dearest."
And then the thoughts of all the other women in Oxford and London came crowding into his brain. The hot kisses, the suppers and patchouli-scented rooms, the slang and high tinkling laughter. His brow wrinkled up with pain as he walked up and down the room, filled with a supreme self-pity.
He remembered half unconsciously that Charles Ravenshoe had said, "Will the dawn never come? Will the dawn never come?" and he began to moan it aloud, with an æsthetic pleasure in the feeling of desolation and melancholy wasted hours—"will the dawn never come?" He came opposite the looking-glass, and was struck with the beauty of his own face, sad and pure. He gazed intently for a minute or two, then his features relaxed, and he breathed hard and smiled, murmuring, "Ah, well, a little purity and romance whip the jaded soul pleasantly. Goodie is a darling, and I love her, but still the others were amusing and piquant. They were the iota subscripts of love!"
There were still two more letters to be opened. One ran:—
"162a, Strand, W.C.
"Dear Mr. Yardly Gobion,—I shall be glad if you will do us a review of Canon Emeric's new book, Art and Religion. We can take half a column—leaded type; and shall be glad to have the copy by Friday at the latest. Are you going to be in town at all soon? If so I shall possibly be able to give you work on The Pilgrim, as we want an extra man, and I have been quite satisfied with what you have done for us so far.
"Please do not be later than Friday with the review.
"Believe me, yours very truly,
"James Heath."