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A South-Sea Siren

Chapter III

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Chapter III

Among those who had not been invited to the Seymours' wedding party were Mr and Mrs Wylde.

Their absence from the feast was not in any way conspicuous.

They were people who had held a somewhat equivocal position from their first advent, and who had not improved their social status on better acquaintance in the district.

The commodore—as he was called—was spoken of as a blow-hard and a spendthrift; hard to believe, but harder still to trust.

If his former career was a mystery, his present mode of existence was still a greater puzzle, for nobody could discover what he lived upon.

The only certainty about him was the fact that he never had any money. On that point no difference of opinion existed, but everything else concerning this remarkable man, and his still more remarkable history, was open to doubt.

It had even been doubted whether he had ever been to sea.

He held a small sheep run in the vicinity of Mount Pleasance, but it did not belong to him; there was also a lien on the sheep, a mortgage on the house, and a bill-of-sale on the furniture, while the very clothes he stood in had never been paid for. In short, nothing was considered his own except his wife, and it was doubted in most quarters whether he could be congratulated on that possession.

It would be a mistake, however, to suppose that in consequence of this chronic state of impecuniosity the Wyldes confessed to straitened circumstances, practised economy, or countenanced retrenchment in any form. Quite the reverse.

They lived in good style and managed to keep up appearances, which was essential to maintaining all that was left them—their credit.

‘There are two ways of financing,’ Philosopher Raleigh used to say, ‘one is to live within your income, and the other to make your income meet your expenses.’ He might have added a third and still more popular way—to live on other people.

The commodore adopted the latter course, and had to trim his sails accordingly. He had a free hand, and kept open house. Indeed, he was liberal in everything but cash, and the only extravagance he page 28 avoided was one he could not afford—paying his debts. Yet it must be admitted that although he displayed an inveterate antipathy to meeting bills, he had no objection to giving them; his ‘paper’ had found its way into many hands—where it remained.

In person the commodore looked the typical stage sailor. Tall and stout, with a burly figure, a rollicking humour, a hard-featured, weather-beaten face, a stentorian voice, and a swaggering manner. He could sing a good song, tell a good yarn, and hold his own over the bottle. He was not proud, and was prepared to fraternise with all comers, take them into his confidence, and borrow money from them.

Consequently he was popular with many, and it was not on account of his ‘crams’ or his general condition of insolvency that he got ‘the cold shoulder’.

The former failing was rather appreciated than otherwise—to be the champion liar of the district was considered no ordinary distinction—and as for his debts, they would have been forgiven him.

For in those ‘good old times’ a man was not thought much the worse of for being ‘hard up’.

It was a chronic state of things with many rattling good fellows. The fluctuations of fortune were sudden and unexpected; money changed hands rapidly, and was made and lost with almost equal facility; there was a glorious uncertainty about it, and nobody knew how anybody else stood.

It was realised by the community at large that life consisted in ‘ups and downs’, and when a good fellow was down it was everyone's duty to lend him a hand to get up again.

When the worst came to the worst the law provided an easy escape from the difficulty.

To call a meeting of creditors was a very simple process, and one of almost daily occurrence.

It involved little trouble, less expense, and no disgrace. People met by appointment to hear a report which was generally ‘taken as read’; they pocketed their sixpence in the pound with as pleasant a face as they could put on for the occasion, wiped off old scores, liquored up, shook hands, and parted the best of friends.

To fail in business was not deemed dishonourable, and was seldom more than a momentary check, for numerous thriving houses could be pointed out which had failed several times running, and that in not many years.

It was not therefore on account of his monetary troubles that the commodore was ostracised by a certain section of society; he suffered page 29 for other sins than his own, although those were bad enough—he was the victim of the fascinations of his wife.

Mrs Wylde was ‘a character’; whether for good or for evil was a question upon which men might differ, but not women—with her own sex she found no mercy.

Celia Wylde was not a beautiful woman by any means, and it was not by personal charms of the ordinary kind that she could have achieved the marvellous conquests which were placed to her credit, or inspired among women so much jealousy and hatred.

Tall and lithe, loosely made, and even lanky in figure, with a slight stoop, she did not possess either a graceful or commanding presence. She had, indeed, a fine neck and shoulders, with a prominent bust, of which attractions she was fully cognisant, and willing to display to the best advantage on every possible occasion. Her face was rather small for her size, thin and pallid; she had a Jewish nose, with a little wart on the end of it; eyes of an uncertain colour, cold and bright, but generally half closed, for she always seemed to look at you from under her eyelids. Being shortsighted she needed an eye-glass, which she knew how to manipulate with the utmost effect, especially to disconcert an enemy. Her mouth was arched, scornful, and yet voluptuous; her hair brown and glossy, and generally tossed up in a most untidy fashion.

Her gait was peculiar, noiseless, and gliding, with a serpentine motion in all her supple limbs; indeed, there was something suggestively snake-like about Mrs Wylde.

She was a woman of a certain age, who had evidently seen a great deal of the world—not always of the best description either—but yet who had mixed in fashionable society.

An accomplished musician, a rapid and clever talker, with infinite tact, ready wit, unflinching assurance, together with a natural flow of Irish banter, spiced with a charming Irish accent, which made her a most entertaining companion.

Her manners were always refined; she might be insidious, spiteful, even venomous, but she was rarely dull, and never vulgar.

She knew a great deal—more than she was inclined to admit, for she had been a campaigner in many fields; but, even by her own showing, sufficient to justify the remark that was often made about her, that she knew a great deal too much.

She was a desperate flirt. Her love of admiration, with an insatiable craving for masculine attentions, had exceeded the bounds of passion; it had become a disease.

Adulation she would have, no matter from whom, or at what cost. page 30 She laid herself out to fascinate all men, high and low, young and old, and all were fish that came into her net.

She made desperate love to the Governor, and fastened on to that august functionary in a manner that shocked all the usages of official etiquette.

When Admiral Halliard visited the port she fairly threw herself into his arms, and quite turned the old man's head. She then made the wonderful discovery of some distant Scotch cousinship (Irish in the present case) with that gallant officer's family, was received as a relation, did the honours on board the flagship, and caused quite a sensation throughout the naval squadron. Captains and commanders followed in her train, but even lieutenants and gunners were not above her notice, and she broke the innocent hearts of several poor little ‘middies’.

On the departure of the fleet she turned her attention to the military, who were also held in high honour, for she dearly loved a gaudy uniform.

The commandant was soon captured; he became her devoted slave, and paraded her about on all public occasions. He was a single man, but with a numerous train of female relatives, and the consternation among this engaging suite may easily be imagined.

The learned judge was the next to be victimised. He was a vain man, and being rich withal, made an excellent subject. He invited the commodore and his wife to his country place, and Mrs Wylde went there—without her husband—and stayed many days; a proceeding that was viewed with the utmost disfavour by a puritanical society.

It was even reported that she had made eyes at the bishop, and had almost gained admittance within the sacred precincts of Bishops-court, but fortunately for the credit of the Church there had been too many devout ladies in attendance to permit of such a desecration.

But her sphere of conquest was by no means limited to court circles; she shone in lower regions, and condescended to bag much smaller game.

There was a fast set of men who frequented Dovecot, and who made open court to the mistress of the house. They formed her bodyguard, and were all more or less laid under contribution.

The wily and close-fisted Percival Prowler was one of the most constant and favoured attendants, and he was believed to have advanced large sums of money to the commodore.

Even their landlord—that miserly old McClaw, who although so wealthy used to go his rounds in the city, where he owned half a street, collecting weekly rent from struggling shopkeepers—had frequently page 31 been seen emerging from Dovecot, satisfied, if not subdued, with a complacent snigger on his withered countenance, but without his money.

The gallant Albert de Courcy Fitzroy, although engaged to the most charming girl in the country, had yet been numbered among the most ardent admirers of this matured enchantress, and this circumstance had not escaped the comments of the ladies of Sunnydowns.

Then there was a whole troup of young fellows whom Mrs Wylde always kept about her, and who were made to fetch and carry, to wait and serve. They were ostensibly rewarded with smiles and soft speeches, while occasionally a favoured page would be permitted to kiss her jewelled hand; for she had elegant fingers, which always glittered with costly rings, and she had trained her youthful admirers to modes of homage that were considered unbecoming by plain English people, and were certainly obsolete ‘in the bush’.

Failing anything better ‘the middle-aged flirt’, as she was called, would condescend to captivate even the common herd. Enamoured tradespeople ‘sighed and looked’, and her very domestics were believed to be smitten. The butcher left a nosegay with the leg of mutton; the local storekeeper quarrelled with his wife in consequence of the latter's jealousy towards ‘the queen of his heart’. The old pedagogue was so hard hit that he could hardly conceal his emotion whenever she deigned to visit the school, and he refrained from flogging her boy—an ill-favoured, mischievous imp—when found guilty of mutinous conduct.

Ned Wagtail, ‘the sporting snob’, re-christened with her adored name his favourite mare, wore the Wylde colours at the steeplechase, and nearly succeeded in breaking his neck in her honour.

It was even said that Sam Bowers, the commodore's handsome young gardener, had been discovered on his knees before his mistress, and had never been dismissed for the offence; but the sting had been taken out of that scandalous story by the commonplace suggestion that the poor lad might have been seen in that humble posture while engaged upon his lawful occupation of sowing peas.

Notwithstanding the multitude of her legitimate admirers–if such a term can be used with regard to a married lady—Mrs Wylde was not satisfied, and was ever hankering for more, and of a more questionable sort. She delighted beyond all things in poaching upon other people's preserves. She might be said to have reversed the Byronic maxim, and acted on the principle—‘to love every man, and to hate every man's wife’. Wedded felicity was not congenial to her page 32 taste, and she delighted in striking a discord between otherwise harmonious souls, but an engaged young couple afforded the daintiest prize upon which she could fasten; indeed she must have found as much pleasure in breaking matches as most women do in making them.

Yet even these exciting pursuits would occasionally pall, else the field would become exhausted, or she would meet with some cruel rebuff. Then the siren would subside for a time, and without going to the extremity of throwing herself from a cliff, would take to her bed, and give herself up to lamentations and despair. She would become, all at once, a confirmed invalid, suffering from a multitude of indefinable and mysterious complaints that would baffle the physician's skill, until something fresh would turn up to rouse her dormant passions, and restore her energies.

What was the secret of this astounding fascination, exerted so unsparingly on ‘all sorts and conditions of men’?

That was a question that had often been asked, and was frequently discussed in many moods and tenses and with very different results.

The friends of the siren, who were numerous, but almost exclusively men, took a lenient view of her conduct. When called upon to pass judgment, they might deem her blameable on minor charges, but they would enter a verdict of ‘not guilty’ on the main issue. According to them, hers was a passionate and uncontrollable nature, a highly-strung soul, in revolt against the irksome restrictions and stupid conventionalities of society. She was a creature of impulse that rose superior to vulgar prejudices, and was not to be judged by ordinary rules. Hers was also a loving disposition, united to a highly sensitive temperament. Sympathy was necessary to her existence, and sentiment the food she lived upon. It was conceded that she had many of the frailties of her sex to an exaggerated degree, but—it was contended—she was sound at heart. Then she was one of the ‘unrequited’ ones. Married to a blustering boor, exiled from all congenial associations, pining for sympathy, harassed by monetary difficulties, afflicted by ill-health, misunderstood by the world, and libelled by her own sex, was it surprising that so high spirited a creature should occasionally ‘kick over the traces’?

Ordinary people who were not under the spell, did not, as a rule, attempt to explain the subtle character. They were satisfied to pronounce her ‘an enigma’, while they considered the charges against her as ‘not proven’; but they took grave exception to many of her sayings and doings, and they held her an undesirable companion for their wives and daughters.

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Her enemies jeered at her reputed triumphs; they called her a ‘garrison hack’, and declared that she was a heartless intriguer, and possessed of a devil.

Her own sex was almost invariably hostile, and quite beyond the ‘influence’ that worked so insidiously on men. Women, as a rule, feared and distrusted her. Even those who hesitated in believing her guilty of serious misconduct, yet were not backward in attributing her freaks and flirtations to unworthy motives, they denounced her as a fast and designing woman. But many were much less charitable, and would allow of no extenuating circumstances whatever.

The epithets ‘shocking’, ‘wicked’, ‘horrid’ were freely applied to her conduct, and it was hinted—the most terrible indictment of all—that she was ‘an improper person’.

Mrs Wylde was much chagrined at not being invited to the Seymours' wedding-party. It was a bitter disappointment to her, for she had been at great pains to ingratiate herself with that family. Towards Mr Seymour she had ever been on her best behaviour, treating the old gentleman with marked respect, while she had lavished on Mary the most flattering attentions. Between Alice and herself, however, there had always existed a feeling of coolness and restraint. The two natures were so opposite that they could have nothing in common. Alice heartily despised the tricks and blandishments of the elderly flirt, and Mrs Wylde showed ill-concealed contempt for the simple tastes and frank behaviour of one ‘in whom there was no guile’. As the Seymours resolutely closed their ears to outside scandal, and were too innocently minded themselves to attribute evil to others, they were not nearly as unfavourably disposed towards the commodore's wife as most people in the neighbourhood, but her exclusion from the wedding-party was really a matter of necessity, as few ladies could have been induced to meet her.

Mrs Wylde might be excused, however, if she did not see the matter in quite the same light; her pride was cruelly hurt, and her worst passions aroused. To Mr Richard Raleigh, whom she met by accident a few days later, she gave full vent to her overcharged feelings, and took him into her confidence on certain passages that she usually kept secret.

The young man was jogging quietly along the high road, absorbed in thought, when he was overtaken by the lady on horseback, riding as usual at a hand gallop, and with only a small boy in attendance. She seemed to burst upon him out of a cloud of dust. She drew up suddenly, brought her foaming steed close up to his side, bent page 34 graciously forward as he saluted her, and held out her hand, while looking, in her peculiar contracted way, straight into his eyes.

Raleigh was startled at the penetrating glance, and he felt a magnetic tremor shoot through him as he touched the taper fingers that grasped his own with a nervously clinging sensation. He almost held back, as if afraid that Mrs Wylde was going to embrace him, so demonstrative she was. After the first exchange of civilities she invited him to spend the evening at Dovecot, where a few friends were expected to dinner, and in her impetuous manner she would take no refusal. Raleigh had to promise to be there, although rather unwillingly, for he was conscious of a vague presentment of evil, and for the first time he realised a sense of mistrust, and even repulsion, towards his volatile friend.

Then, with a mocking laugh, she launched forth on the subject that was nearest her heart.

‘So you saw the dear innocent despatched, did you? Of course you had to be there; almost one of the family, and in such high favour too with the bride. Poor innocent! So pure and so meek to be handed over to such a—never mind!—I suppose you could appreciate the man? But it is always the way—the lamb to the wolf. It is perhaps just as well I was not there. I might have disturbed his equanimity; then, my profane presence would have quite shocked the sanctimonious lot; besides, I can't gush, you know. Did you gush, dear friend?’

‘Not exactly. I believe, on the contrary, that I rather put my foot in it, for, when called upon for a speech, I got up to denounce matrimony! Couldn't help it—came out spontaneous like, you know. Some people had a good laugh, but I was afterwards told it was in horrid bad taste.’

‘How delightful! You must tell me all about it tonight. Did you kiss the bridesmaids?’

‘Not I! I am not a kissing man. Indeed there was very little of that sort of thing or any crying either.’

‘What? A wedding without crying and kissing? What a fraud! It must have been a stupid affair. How did “dear Bertie” show up?’

‘Finely; he looked every inch a man, and didn't talk enough to destroy the illusion.’

‘How spiteful you are—as bad as a woman. It seems to me that altogether you were not much edified.’

‘Can't say that I was; nothing edifies me. To speak the truth, I felt rather sorry for the bride. She deserved a better mate, and I had my doubts whether the marriage will turn out well. We will hope so, but still … it seemed like the breaking up of such a happy home. Why cannot people learn to realise when they are blessed and happy, and page 35 be satisfied to remain so? Besides, you know,’ he continued with a smile, ‘I was fond of her myself.’

Fond of her! What a word! I wonder what it means. Fond of her. What do you do when you are fond. Of all the silly words that is the silliest. If a man was to tell me he was fond of me I should box his ears.’

‘Indeed? Do you always box the ears of gentlemen who make you declarations? I shall have to be on my guard.’

Cela dépends, mon choux. I can understand a man declaring bis love, his devotion. … I could appreciate that. … I feel sometimes as if I might forgive, yes, even respond; for what may not a woman do for the sake of love? … But it must come from the heart; it must be true, earnest, passionate!—but I have no patience with people who are only fond. I should always strive to be a queen; I might stoop to be a man's slave, but I should never be his fondling, never!’ This was said in a very ardent and suggestive manner, with a telling side-glance; then altering her tone, she added mockingly, ‘So you were gone on the fair May, were you? I suspected a slight penchant in that direction, but always thought the staid Alice was first favourite. Captain Fitzroy had his doubts too, I can tell you.’

‘Captain Fitzroy is an ass.’

‘Worse than that, he is a mule, which is a treacherous brute, as gentle Mary will soon find out, unless she knows how to take him. I could have opened her eyes, but I refrained. It was no concern of mine; besides, I was only anxious for her happiness, poor thing. She little knows! I consider the Seymours have acted very shabbily towards us, and Jim feels it more than I do. As for the other lot—commonplace, stupid, mischief-making old frumps—I don't care two Jack straws. I know they detest me, and the feeling is fully reciprocated, but it was quite different with the Seymours; we looked upon them as friends. Yet they have insulted us, and treated me like an enemy, while I have been their staunchest ally, if they only knew it.’

‘In what way?’ inquired Raleigh, drily.

‘In this way; I could have broken off that match by just holding up this little finger; they owe it entirely to my good offices that it ever took place.’

‘Oh! come now,’ said the other, incredulously.

‘What I tell you is in the strictest confidence; let it go no further,’ she continued with bated breath, and a dark look. ‘You are a friend in whom I can trust, and one of the few to whom I can open my heart. The fool is married, and I wish him no harm, and only hope that he will learn to behave himself in future. As for Mary Seymour page 36 I always loved her; she was gentle, affectionate, and trusting—a good girl, and worthy of a better man, as you say. Still, from a worldly point of view, it was a good match, and I would not stand in the way of her happiness; indeed I would have made any sacrifices to promote it. Believe me, Mr Raleigh, I am not heartless, nor as bad as they paint me.’

The young man, when thus appealed to, looked calmly at her, and saw that her eyes glistened, and that she was trembling with emotion.

‘You know,’ she added, in a hoarse whisper, ‘that Fitzroy was one of my set, and rather épris.’

‘Who is not?’ remarked the other, with a poor attempt at a gallant smile.

‘None of your foolery!’ exclaimed Mrs Wylde, almost angrily. ‘You are not, otherwise I should not speak to you as I am doing now. Well, it was only about a month ago that he made quite a scene at our house. Oh! an awful scene. He went down on his knees, he swore, he protested. I was very angry, and scolded away, but it was no use. At last we came to high words. I reminded him scornfully of his fair intended, and his approaching marriage, and asked him how he dared to address me under the circumstances; and then it was that he vowed most solemnly—and he meant it too—that even at that late hour he would jilt the girl, and break off the match, if only—I would be kind.’

The words were hissed forth with suppressed passion, and a meaning glance shot forth from her half-closed eyes. Then with a scornful toss of the head and a sudden jerk, she broke away, waved a suggestive adieu with her whip, put her horse to a gallop, and vanished from the scene in a cloud of dust, with the little groom following, just as she had appeared.

Raleigh remained for a moment dumbfounded. What could the woman mean? And he repeated mechanically the words, which still reverberated in his ear, ‘If only I would be kind.’

Hitherto he had been a staunch believer in Mrs Wylde—he had pinned his faith upon her virtue—now, he felt a horrible doubt creeping over him. Again and again he asked himself, ‘What can the woman mean?’ again and again the hissing words returned to him, ‘if only I would be kind.’

The hot blood mounted to his cheeks, and he blushed with shame and indignation; shame for her who, notwithstanding her insane vanity and reckless eccentricities, had yet never forfeited his respect; and indignation towards the despicable man who could be guilty of such page 37 an outrage to the pure and lovely being who had just confided her honour and happiness to his care.

Then, as he wended his way homeward, he resolved not to attend the party at Dovecot that night.

* * * * *

He went there nevertheless. Against his conscience, which forbad him; against his judgment, which warned him of danger; but impelled by some mysterious infatuation which he could not explain to himself, or even realise.

The night was dark, and the track deserted, and as he rode his solitary way over wide stretches of open plains, towards Mount Pleasance, he kept thinking about Mrs Wylde and her disgraceful revelations.

He asked himself what there could possibly be about such a woman to captivate any man of taste and discrimination. She was amusing, certainly, original and lively, with a consummate knowledge of the art of making herself agreeable to men. But Raleigh could not understand how she could inspire any passion; for to his eye she was neither beautiful nor seductive. As to the declaration of Albert Fitzroy's it appeared to him villainous, and yet he could not doubt its truth; indeed, it even occurred to him that Mrs Wylde had only confided a portion of the truth.

Once upon that train of thought he travelled far. He recalled to mind the frequent conversations he used formerly to have with his friend Doctor Valentine, about this strange woman and her alluring ways. The doctor had been in her intimate confidence, and had had to diagnose her many complaints, yet even he could not claim to understand her subtle character. Raleigh put many things together, which hitherto had escaped his notice, and he endeavoured to draw a conclusion from them. He pondered over her tricks and deceptions, the suspicious circumstances charged against her, her numerous dupes, and the valuable presents she had extracted from men, who were never known to give without obtaining an ample return.

The result of all these cogitations was not favourable to the subject of them, and several times during his solitary ride Raleigh pulled up his horse and hesitated whether he should not turn back again. Then, on reflection, he pursued his journey, but unwillingly, and with anxious forebodings. He endeavoured to reassure himself, however, with the thought that this matured siren was not likely to enchant him. He realised that he was altogether too insignificant a person to merit the distinction of being bewitched, or even to engage the attention page 38 of the sorceress. He would remain outside the pale of enchantment; an indifferent looker-on.

‘After all,’ he said to himself, ‘what matters it to me whether the woman be good or bad. She amuses me, and interests me greatly; neither can I help sympathising with her sufferings, which are real, however much they may be deserved. I must pity her, even if forced to condemn her. Besides, I am not assured of her guilt—she may be innocent, and more sinned against than sinning; neither am I her guardian. I am not responsible for her actions, nor in any respect a party to them.’

With these sage reflections, and comforted internally, Mr Richard Raleigh arrived at Dovecot, and having tied up his horse in the stockyard, he made his way silently to the house where he saw lights shining, and heard the sound of festivities.

The house was a two-storied one, standing in the midst of a dense grove of pine trees. It was built of wood, and in the style of a Swiss châlet, with a broad balcony and outside stairs. The drawing-room was brilliantly lighted, and Raleigh could perceive through the open casements that there was a distinguished company present; that the ladies were in full evening-dress, and that the men wore black coats—an unusual display in those days in the country, as the formal evening dress was generally reserved for ceremonious occasions in town only. Raleigh was surprised at this, and made to feel extremely uncomfortable, as he was in his ordinary riding costume, consisting of breeches and boots, and a tweed ‘jumper’. Thus attired he felt considerable compunction at joining the festive throng within and he remained for a few minutes standing in the shade of the corridor, listening to the sound of revelry, but undecided what to do.

Just at that moment Mrs Wylde, looking flushed and animated, and very much décolletée, appeared in the open doorway. She perceived her bashful young friend, posted in the dark, and with cat-like instinct she pounced upon him. He expostulated in vain, and his humble request to be allowed to retire on account of his unbecoming dress was promptly refused.

The mistress of the house, who was in a merry mood, would not hear of any such excuse, and in her demonstrative way she laid hands upon him and endeavoured to lead him towards the door. The young man resisted; the lady insisted. They stood quite alone, face to face, on the stair-landing, in the darkness of the corridor, and as Raleigh attempted to force his way down, his fair opponent intercepted him with outstretched arms, and barred the way. In the half obscurity he could dimly perceive the outline of her undulating form, the cold light page 39 from her lustrous eyes, and the faint glimmer of a white neck and heaving bosom.

She closed upon him and tried to force him back; he held his ground, and the contest grew warmer. From a playful tussle it became a wrestling match. She tightened her grasp, and in a moment an overpowering sensation thrilled through his whole being and paralysed all his faculties. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek; he inhaled an intoxicating perfume from her dishevelled hair and open bodice, her bare arms encircled his neck and held him spellbound. Faint and giddy, he staggered backwards. Then her embrace relaxed, and as he allowed himself unresistingly to be pushed along the passage he heard a little mocking laugh.

That challenge fired his blood. A sudden revulsion of feeling vibrated through every nerve, and brought a hot flush to his face; then yielding to an uncontrollable impulse; wildly, fiercely, he turned on his pursuer, caught her yielding form in his arms, sought her lips, and impressed a passionate kiss upon them.

The warm contact sent a magnetic shock through him, and restored him to his senses.

Then instantly he felt her figure stiffen within his arms, disengage itself quickly, and repel him. She stood up, cold, erect, defiant, with an angry and terrified look, and her features suddenly transformed from beaming playfulness to stern resentment, almost haggard in its intensity. Raleigh turned pale, muttered confusedly some words of apology, and fell back a few steps; when, with a start, he perceived the figure of a man in the doorway.

He immediately recognised the very objectionable presence of Mr Percival Prowler, who, with his large and lynx-like eyes and feline expression, stood still, intently watching the proceedings.

‘Skylarking again!’ the intruder remarked, with his usual sneering accent.

‘I was trying to induce Mr Raleigh to enter the drawing-room,’ replied Mrs Wylde, with perfect composure. ‘He is diffident, not being dressed for the occasion’; and she met the other's leering look with a haughty and unflinching glance.

‘I hope you have overcome his scruples, for he seemed rather hard of persuasion,’ remarked Mr Prowler, viciously, as he passed on and took a seat on the balcony.

The next moment Raleigh was blinking in the glare of the lighted room, and being vigorously clapped on the back by the commodore, who roared out to him that he was looking for all the world like an owl, just dislodged from its hole.