The Featherstones were a remarkable family—remarkable in their unparalleled irresponsibility. They had a house in Grosvenor Place and another in Devonshire. The latter, like the Featherstones, was gorgeous in its external aspect, but thoroughly unstable in its foundations. The instability of Lord Featherstone was of a financial character. He, like the rest of his family, believed in giving a wide berth to such sordid considerations as money. Whenever he wanted money he called in the family solicitor, who promptly raised another mortgage on something.

Featherstone was so used to signing his name on pieces of paper that custom grew into habit. Lady Featherstone still gave expensive house parties, and the Honorable Angela acted as 49 though all the wealth of the Indies was behind those magic signatures of papa.

Young Claude, with a liberal allowance per annum, managed to wring a few thousands overdraft from his banker by dint of a plausible tongue and a charm of manner. When the crash came and Featherstone was forced to face realities, the house was like a mortuary.

“But surely you can raise the wind, my dear Ayscough?”

The aged solicitor, an intimate friend of the family, shook his head.

“There’s Little Badholme.”

“Mortgaged to the last penny. It was never worth the ten thousand they advanced.”

Featherstone paced up and down and blew rings of smoke into the air.

“We shall have to economize, my dear Ayscough. We shall have to economize.”

He had said that so many times before, that like the production of his autograph it had become a habit. Ayscough, seeing Carey Street looming in the distance, was unusually glum. Economy was scarcely an antidote at this stage, for mortgagees were threatening foreclosure. 50

“I rely upon you, Ayscough. I rely on you absolutely.”

Ayscough looked blank. It was no use trying to explain to Featherstone the exact state of the family’s finance. Generations of Featherstones had eaten well into the coffers. Prodigality was their outstanding characteristic.

“If I might make a suggestion——”

Featherstone was in the mood to consider the wildest suggestion. He had none of his own.

“There is—er—Miss Angela.”

“There is, Ayscough. Precisely—there is.” Then he suddenly halted and looked at the lawyer. “By Jove! I see your point. But it won’t avail us. Angela is a queer girl. She has distinct aversions to marriage.”

“But if she knew that a wealthy—er—fortunate marriage would save you and Lady Featherstone a certain amount of anxiety——?”

“I doubt it. Besides, wealthy husbands are not so easily picked up. There are a dozen girls after every man of ample means. No, I think we may discard that possibility. Think it over, my dear Ayscough. I leave it entirely in your hands.” 51

Ayscough had been thinking it over for the last three years. He went away with visions of the fall of the house of Featherstone at no very distant date.

At that moment the Honorable Angela was busily engaged sending out invitations to a dinner party. She was two years older than Claude, a typical Featherstone, fair and straight of limb, with finely chiseled features and delicate complexion. Her eyes were large and long-lashed, but somewhat cold. A life of indolence and luxury had bred a certain air of imperiousness in her. She was known to her friends as Angela the frigid. But this appellation was not quite justified. At times she was far from frigid. Under different circumstances she might have been as warm-blooded as any Southern peasant-girl, but pride of birth and breeding had dampered down most of the natural emotions. She was exquisite in every physical detail.

She had almost finished her list of invitations when Claude burst into the library. She turned her head for a second and went on writing. He strode up to the table and began to read the cards. 52

“Please go away, Claude. Don’t touch them. They’re still wet.”

“Great heavens! You aren’t asking Mrs. Carruthers!” he ejaculated.

“Why not?”

“She’s simply impossible. Angela, take her off the list.”

“This is mother’s list, not mine.”

“But that woman—Angela, she isn’t proper.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, ask any of her friends. Oh, by the way, I want one of those cards. Thanks!”

He took one, to her great annoyance, and then asked for a pen. She gave it to him with a little sigh. He filled in the blank card and read it with a grin.

“Mother will be annoyed if you send out invitations without consulting her.”

“I’ll tell her when I’ve posted it. It’s to a fellow I know very well.”

Angela took the pen. She began to write the last card, hesitated, and then asked:

“Who is he?” 53

“Man named Conlan.”

The pen dropped from her fingers.

“Not your cowboy friend?”

“Even so, fair sister. And why not? I tell you Jim—Conlan is the greatest thing on earth. Oh, you’ll love him.”

She frowned.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Claude. You simply can’t ask that man here. You told me he swore and——”

“But only when he’s annoyed. You swear when you are annoyed, don’t you? I’ve heard you.”

“Claude!” She jerked her beautiful head upward.

“Swearing isn’t a matter of words entirely—it’s an emotion. You say ’bother,’ I should say ’damn,’ and Conlan would say something far more effective, and they each express exactly the same emotion. But you can’t judge a man by his vocabulary.”

“I judge him by your description of him—a retired cowboy, with few manners and less morals——” 54

Claude put the card into an envelope and sealed the latter with a heavy blow of his fist.

“Angela, you are perfectly cattish at times. Why shouldn’t I ask Conlan here? He’s as good as you or I, or any of the people who visit us. That he is rough in his ways and speech is due to the fact that he has had to work for his living.”

Angela’s lips curled a little.

“And, moreover, unless something happens to prevent it, I shall in all probability have to solicit orders for motor-cars, or some other necessary evil. You, Angela, may have to write figures in a ledger, or look after somebody else’s children.”

Angela treated him to a withering glance.

“It’s not so big an exaggeration after all,” he resumed. “You’ve seen Ayscough hanging around of late, haven’t you? What does it convey? We’re broke, Angela. Lord, we are an extraordinary family! Broke, and sending out invitations to scores of the high and mighty as though we owned the earth!”

Angela flushed. Even now the specter of bankruptcy failed to affect her. She had never reckoned luxury in terms of money. Money values she was positively ignorant of. Things 55 were ordered and delivered, and there was an end of it. She suddenly burst into laughter.

“You are most amusing, Claude. Bring your American Hercules here and we’ll charge half a guinea for a sight of him.”

Claude said nothing. He posted his letter, and meant to make it clear to Angela and the family that Conlan was a friend of his, and therefore should be treated as any other guest would be. When, later, he confessed his escapade to his parents, they were almost too shocked for words.

“You must write and tell him it was a mistake,” urged Her Ladyship.

“My dear Claude!” expostulated Featherstone. “You let impetuosity carry you to the verge of insanity. What can this poor fellow——”

“Poor fellow be hanged!” retorted Claude, now thoroughly roused. “He’s no more poor fellow than you. He’s rich enough to buy us up lock, stock, and barrel; and he is as proud of his name as we are of ours, though he doesn’t make a song about it.”

Featherstone looked hurt at this exhibition of filial revolt. Being a wise man he dropped the 56 subject pro tem. Later Claude went in and apologized.

“Pater, I particularly want you to meet Conlan. He isn’t what you think him to be. If, when you see him, you don’t approve of him, I’ll never ask him home again.”

Featherstone gripped his son’s hand.

“Very well, my boy. You can rely upon me. But I do hope he won’t swear—much.”

Jim’s sensations at receiving the invitation were indescribable. Claude’s people were the cream of English aristocracy. At first he decided he wouldn’t go, but second thoughts brought him to realize that Claude must have arranged this, and his regard for Claude was very deep. He hunted out the discarded dress-suit and tried it on again. Certainly he felt more at home in it than of yore. The collar caused him less torture, and he managed to keep the “breastplate” of the shirt from buckling, which it seemed to delight in doing. He had lost some of his facial sun-brown, and this lent him a more refined appearance.

“I’ll go,” he muttered, “if it kills me.”

When the great day arrived he felt as though 57 some invisible being were pouring quarts of ice-water down his spine. He had already made himself acquainted with “Enquire Within,” and found that Claude’s mother should be addressed as “Lady Featherstone”; but the question of Angela caused him anxious moments. He thought “Honorable Miss” sounded a little too Japanese. He tackled Claude on this delicate problem.

“Oh, call her anything,” said that worthy. “What do you say to ’Angy’?”

Jim didn’t feel like jesting on so serious a subject. He decided that in Angela’s case he would drop the ceremonial form, and call her Miss Featherstone.

The memory of that evening is destined to live as long as the body of James Conlan inhabits this mortal coil. When he gave the servant his hat and stick and the footman his card, and heard that powdered monstrosity bawl “Mr. James Conlan” to a room filled with shimmering gowns and glistening shirt-fronts, Jim’s flesh went cold. But the vigilant Claude helped him through. Claude was like a streak of greased lightning, bouncing Jim here and there to be introduced to 58 a hundred and one people, leaving our hero a nervous wreck.

Featherstone and his wife acted in the most courteous fashion, her Ladyship having been coerced into accepting the inevitable with as good a grace as possible. Featherstone himself was instantly impressed by this muscular giant, who looked like an enlarged statue of Phoebus Apollo. He adjusted his monocle to get a fuller view.

“Claude has spoken a good deal about you, Mr. Conlan,” he drawled. “It is a pleasure to meet you here.”

Jim, scarcely trusting his voice, carried out a bow, at which much practice had been put in.

“Say, kid, how did I do that?” he whispered.

“Fine!” said Claude.

They found Angela strolling with a girl friend in the conservatory, which was gayly illuminated with Chinese lanterns. They turned at the sound of footsteps. Angela wore a dress of deep mauve, against which her pale Grecian face and her exquisite neck shone with enhanced beauty. The other girl was literally outshone by her 59 beautiful companion. Jim felt a hot wave run through him. Never in his life had he seen anything so amazingly beautiful as Angela. He heard Claude’s introduction, and bowed automatically. Then Claude did the most outrageous thing: he took the arm of Angela’s companion and tripped away with her.

Jim was horrified. He looked round seeking for some way of escape, but there was none. Angela’s face relaxed in a cold smile as she realized the terrible nervousness of this big uncouth man. It pleased her somewhat to feel that she was the cause of it.

“You are a member of my brother’s club, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yep—yes,” he stuttered.

He wondered if he ought to offer his arm as Claude had done to the other girl, and escort her back to the house; but he dare not. There was a seat near by. Angela sank into it.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked.

He did so, with a sigh of relief. He was more at his ease sitting than standing. For the first time in his life he was ashamed of his size. 60 Angela’s delicate limbs and hands made his, by contrast, appear elephantine.

“Have you been long in England?”

“Few months.”

“And what do you think of it?”

Here was a question that was easy enough to answer.

“I guess it’s a cute little country, but it ain’t big enough for a man to breathe in. There’s no wind, no sunshine. And the people are as cold as the climate.”

Angela laughed.

“So we are cold?”

“Oysters. I came the hul way from Devonshire to London in a train with another guy—man. ’Good-morning,’ says I. ’Good-morning,’ says he—and that’s all there was to it. It beats me, this frostiness—ain’t natural.”

Angela winced at the speech. The mutilated Anglo-Saxon caused her almost physical pain, yet the voice was musical enough and deep as a bassoon.

“All you Americans say the same thing.”

“But I ain’t American. I was born in Cornwall. Went to Colorado in ’82 and sailed round 61 in a prairie schooner, with wild Injuns after our scalps. I reckon that was no picnic for my people. I was a little fellow then—not big enough to tell an Injun from a bear. We didn’t find gold, but we found God’s own country. Wal, I can’t remember much about it—thank God, I can’t remember much.”

She looked at him, amazed by the tenseness of his words.

“What don’t you wish to remember?”

His brows contracted and the big hands closed till the knuckles almost penetrated the skin that covered them.

“The Injuns got us in the end,” he said huskily. “I jest remember the huge red sun going down on the prairie, with the wagon and two tents down by a stream, where the horses were watering. There was a kind o’ grotto affair beyond the stream. Old Sam, the driver, came and yanked me into that. I was young, but I savvied what it meant.... It was hell arter that—shooting and screaming.... When I came out.... When I came out....”

He said no more. His eyes were staring into nothingness as through his brain flashed the 62 dreadful scene of youth. He remembered running and crying—running and crying into the wilderness until a party of emigrants rescued him from madness.

Angela sat with parted lips. It was strange to be sitting there listening to such horrors. She was conscious of the giant personality behind his nervousness. The great voice commanded her attention. In those few moments she was afraid of him.

“Let us go in,” she said.

The rest of the evening was a dream to Jim. Occasionally people stared at him as though he were a creature from a menagerie, and several adventurous folks actually talked with him. But all this was like a hazy background against which shone the almost unearthly beauty of Angela. A new phase had been entered in the life of Colorado Jim. Passion, long dampered down by wild living and arduous toil, leaped up in one soul-consuming flame. He was in love with a woman—a woman as far above him, and as unattainable as a star. He moved about like a drunken man, bewildered by this new and terrible desire. 63

“What do you think of Angy?” queried Claude.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said fiercely.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me she was like that.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Jim shut his mouth with a snap.

“Nothin’,” he said.

These Featherstones knew how to enjoy themselves. For hour after hour the dreamy strains of waltz music came from the string orchestra, and couples moved rhythmically round the big room, as though fatigue was a thing unknown. Once or twice Jim caught sight of the angel of his dreams, with face no longer pale, hanging on some man’s arm, immersed in the all-consuming measure. It was maddening....

He was sitting in the conservatory, smoking, when Featherstone came out. All the evening he had kept an inquisitive eye on Jim. This was Featherstone’s mental day, and one of those rare occasions when he thought about money and things.

“Ah, Mr. Conlan,” he drawled. “So you don’t dance?” 64

“No—leastways, not that sort.”

“Pity. Dancing is a fine exercise.”

“I guess I’m not in want of exercise.”

“No?” He looked at Jim’s huge figure. “’Pon my word, I think you’re right.... Are you settling down in this country—buying a small estate, making the most of your fortune, and all that sort of thing?”

“There ain’t no place in this country big enough to hold me long. I could swaller all the oxygen in the Strand in one gulp.”

Featherstone laughed amusedly.

“London isn’t England. It’s a growth upon the land. There is still Wales, Scotland, Devonshire——”

“Ah, Devonshire! Now, that is some pretty little garden, I agree.”

“Oh, you like it?”

“Sure.”

“So do I. Wish I might live there always, but one must consider one’s family, and Bond Street and the Opera have their attractions for the young people. That is why I am selling the Devonshire place. Can’t let good property lie 65 unoccupied, and letting is so devilishly unsatisfactory.”

He was congratulating himself he had wrapped that pill up not so badly for an unbusiness-like man. Jim took the bait quite well, too. He didn’t want to buy any property, but he wasn’t averse to keeping on the right side of Featherstone. Where Featherstone was there was Angela, and he might extend negotiations over months of time and then “turn down” the proposition if he felt like it.

“Say, is that property sold yet?” he queried casually.

“No. It was only recently that I decided to sell. I have another country place in Kent, much more convenient.”

“Mebbe I could see it?”

“Certainly. My agent will be pleased to show you over.”

As an afterthought he added: “Better still, we are spending a fortnight there, and I should be happy if you would spend the time with us. You could—ah—then examine the place at your leisure.”

Jim’s eyes glistened. The prospect of a fortnight 66 in close proximity to Angela—it was magnificent, unbelievable! He strove to control his eagerness.

“I’ll be sure pleased,” he said.

Jim went home with his brain in a whirl. Love had come, late, but with tremendous fury. He gained no sleep that night. The star of his desire shone like a mocking mirage before his mind’s eye. It was all impossible, hopeless, but to love and lose were better than to live in ignorance of life’s strongest passion. To dally with the impossible were sheer madness, he knew that. But what was to be done but obey the yearnings of his heart, though it brought its own revenge?

The next morning saw Featherstone in a perfectly angelic mood. The cause was soon revealed.

“My dear,” he confided to his wife, “I have sold Little Badholme.”

“Claude!”

“Ah, I thought that would come in the nature of a surprise.”

“But you said it was mortgaged?”

“Quite so, but I shall get a sum much in excess of the mortgage.” 67

“But who——?”

“That American fellow—Conlan; not a bad chap, not at all a bad chap.”

Lady Featherstone looked a trifle hurt. She looked more so when her noble spouse added:

“So I’ve invited him down with us for a fortnight to look over the place.”

“Claude! Whatever has taken possession of you? I thought we had done with that man. And besides, I am not going to bury myself in Devonshire at the height of the season.”

“If you don’t, my dear, there is likely to be no season—for us. You must look realities in the face. If I can sell Badholme——”

“But you said you had sold it!”

“Tut—tut! It is as good as sold. He can’t refuse it after having stayed there with us. Besides, the fellow is as rich as Croesus!”

It was accordingly settled. Featherstone sent volleys over the telephone.

“Get the place thoroughly redecorated, Ayscough. It has to be finished in three weeks. Armies of workers.... And the blue room on the first floor, put in a new ceiling, something elaborate. What’s that? Can’t do it in three 68 weeks? But it has to be done. I leave it to you, my dear Ayscough.... Oh, the garden wants seeing to. I must have the garden put straight.... And the paths graveled.... A few sheep in the park might lend a nice effect.... Don’t talk about impossibilities. This is a very urgent matter. Do you think you could hire half a dozen horses?”

When Claude heard the extraordinary news that the family was leaving for Little Badholme in three weeks’ time he wondered what was in the wind. When he subsequently learned that one James Conlan was to visit them as guest, his suspicions overleaped his delight. Angela, the imperturbable, merely went on reading Bernard Shaw.