The Malefactor | Page 4

mouth, and he
addressed Aynesworth.
"Walter," he said, "you are talking rot. There is nothing very complex
or stimulating about the passion of war, when men kill one another
unseen; where you feel the sting in your heart which comes from God
knows where, and you crumple up, with never a chance to have a go at
the chap who has potted you from the trenches, or behind a rock, a
thousand yards off. Mine is going to be, except from a spectacular point
of view, a very barren sort of year, compared with what yours might be
if the fire once touched your eyes. I go where life is cruder and fiercer,
perhaps, but you remain in the very city of tragedies."
Aynesworth laughed, as he lit a fresh cigarette.
"City of tragedies!" he exclaimed. "It sounds all right, but it's bunkum
all the same. Show me where they lie, Lovell, old chap. Tell me where
to stir the waters."
Several of those who were watching him noticed a sudden change in
Lovell's face. The good humor and bonhomie called up by this last
evening amongst his old friends had disappeared. His face had fallen

into graver lines, his eyes seemed fixed with a curious introspective
steadiness on a huge calendar which hung from the wall. When at last
he turned towards Aynesworth, his tone was almost solemn.
"Some of them don't lie so very far from the surface, Walter," he said.
"There is one"--he took out his watch--"there is one which, if you like,
I will tell you about. I have just ten minutes."
"Good!"
"Go ahead, Lovell, old chap!"
"Have a drink first!"
He held out his hand. They were all silent. He stood up amongst them,
by far the tallest man there, with his back to the chimney piece, and his
eyes still lingering about that calendar.
"Thirteen years ago," he said, "two young men--call them by their
Christian names, Wingrave and Lumley--shared a somewhat extensive
hunting box in Leicestershire. They were both of good family, well off,
and fairly popular, Lumley the more so perhaps. He represented the
ordinary type of young Englishman, with a stronger dash than usual of
selfishness. Wingrave stood for other things. He was reticent and
impenetrable. People called him mysterious."
Lovell paused for a moment to refill his pipe. The sudden light upon his
face, as he struck a match, seemed to bring into vivid prominence
something there, indescribable in words, yet which affected his hearers
equally with the low gravity of his speech. The man himself was
feeling the tragedy of the story he told.
"They seemed," he continued, "always to get on well together, until
they fell in love with the same woman. Her name we will say was Ruth.
She was the wife of the Master of Hounds with whom they hunted. If I
had the story-writing gifts of Aynesworth here, I would try to describe
her. As I haven't, I will simply give you a crude idea of what she
seemed like to me.

"She was neither dark nor fair, short nor tall; amongst a crowd of other
women, she seemed undistinguishable by any special gifts; yet when
you had realized her there was no other woman in the room. She had
the eyes of an angel, only they were generally veiled; she had the figure
of a miniature Venus, soft and with delicate curves, which seemed
somehow to be always subtly asserting themselves, although she
affected in her dress an almost puritanical simplicity. Her presence in a
room was always felt at once. There are some women, beautiful or
plain, whose sex one scarcely recognizes. She was not one of these!
She seemed to carry with her the concentrated essence of femininity.
Her quiet movements, the almost noiseless rustling of her clothes, the
quaint, undistinguishable perfumes which she used, her soft, even voice,
were all things which seemed individual to her. She was like a study in
undernotes, and yet"--Lovell paused a moment--"and yet no Spanish
dancing woman, whose dark eyes and voluptuous figure have won her
the crown of the demi-monde, ever possessed that innate and mystic
gift of kindling passion like that woman. I told you I couldn't describe
her! I can't! I can only speak of effects. If my story interests you, you
must build up your own idea of her."
"Becky Sharpe!" Aynesworth murmured.
Lovell nodded.
"Perhaps," he admitted, "only Ruth was a lady. To go on with my story.
A hunting coterie, as you fellows know, means lots of liberty, and a
general free-and-easiness amongst the sexes, which naturally leads to
flirtations more or less serious. Ruth's little affairs were either too
cleverly arranged, or too harmless for gossip. Amongst the other
women of the hunt, she seemed outwardly almost demure. But