But Beatrice! Why did the thought of her haunt him? Why was he angry with Sir George Weston, and bitter at the idea of his marrying this simple country girl? As for himself he could never marry.
The following morning he wrote to Countess Olga Petrovic. It was a courteous note saying that at present he was too engaged to call on her, but he hoped that later he might have that pleasure. Then he plunged into his work again.
About a fortnight after his visit to Hugh Stanmore, a letter came to him from the housekeeper at Wendover. He had told her his London address, and she had taken advantage of her knowledge by writing.
"There are all sorts of rumours here about Mr. Anthony Riggleton," she wrote; "and we have all been greatly excited. Some soldiers have been in the neighbourhood who declare that they know of a certainty that he is dead. I thought it my duty to tell you this, sir, and that is my excuse for the liberty I take in writing.
"Perhaps, sir, you may also be interested to learn that Sir George Weston and Miss Beatrice Stanmore are engaged to be married. As you may remember, I told you when you were here that I thought they would make a match of it. Of course she has done very well, for although the Stanmores are a great family, Mr. Stanmore is a poor man, and Miss Beatrice has nothing but what he can give her. It is said that the wedding will take place in June."
The letter made him angry. Of course he understood the old lady's purpose in writing. She thought that if Anthony Riggleton died, the estate might again revert to him, and she hoped he would find out and let her know. She had grown very fond of him during his short sojourn there, and longed to see him there as master again. But the letter made him angry nevertheless. Then as he read it a second time he knew that his anger was not caused by her interest in his future, but because of her news about Beatrice Stanmore. The knowledge that she had accepted this Devonshire squire made his heart sink like lead. It seemed to him that the sky of his life had suddenly become black.
Then he knew his secret; knew that he loved this simple country girl with a consuming but hopeless love. He realised, too, that no one save she had ever really touched his heart. That this was why Lady Blanche Huntingford had passed out of his life without leaving even a ripple of disappointment or sorrow.
Oh, if he had only known before! For he had loved her as he had walked by her side through Wendover Park; loved her when he had almost calmly discussed her possible marriage with Sir George Weston. Even then he had hated the thought of it, now he knew why His own heart was aching for her all the time.
But what would have been the use even if he had known? He was a homeless, penniless man. He could have done nothing. He was not in a position to ask any woman to be his wife.
His mood became reckless, desperate. What mattered whatever he did? Were not all his dreams and hopes so much madness? Had he not been altogether silly about questions of right and wrong? Had he not been Quixotic in not fighting for Wendover? Supposing he had signed that paper, what could Romanoff have done? He almost wished—no, he didn't; but after all, who could pass a final judgment as to what was right and wrong?