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  LOVE AND HATRED

  By MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES

  Author of "Lilla," "Good Old Anna," "The Chink in the Armour," "The End of Her Honeymoon," etc.

  "_Alas! The love of Woman! It is known To be a lovely and a fearful thing._"--BYRON.

  [Decoration]

  NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

  COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  LOVE AND HATRED

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER I

  "Oh, but this is terrible----"

  Laura Pavely did not raise her voice, but there was trembling pain, aswell as an almost incredulous surprise, in the way she uttered the fivewords which may mean so much--or so little.

  The man whose sudden, bare avowal of love had drawn from her that low,protesting cry, was standing just within the door of the littlesummer-house, and he was looking away from her, straight over thebeautiful autumnal view of wood and water spread out before him.

  He was telling himself that five minutes ago--nay, was it as long asfive minutes?--they had been so happy! And yet, stop--_he_ had not beenhappy. Even so he cursed himself for having shattered the fragile, tohim the already long perished, fabric, of what she no doubt called their"friendship."

  It was she--it always is the woman--who, quite unwittingly, had provokedthe words which now could never be unsaid. She had not been thinking atall of him when she did so--she had spoken out of her heart, the heartwhich some secret, sure instinct bade him believe capable of depths offeeling, which he hoped, with a fierce hope, no man had yet plumbed....

  What had provoked his avowal had been the most innocent, in a sense themost beautiful, feeling of which a woman is capable--love for her child.

  "The doctor says Alice ought to have a change, that she ought to go tothe sea, for a little while. I asked Godfrey if I might take her, but hesaid he didn't think it necessary." She had added musingly, "It's odd,for he really is devoted to the child."

  They had been walking slowly, sauntering side by side, very close to oneanother, for the path was only a narrow track among the trees, towardsthe summerhouse where they were now--she sitting and he standing.

  He had answered in what, if she had been less absorbed in herself andher own concerns, she might have realised was a dangerously still voice:"I think I can persuade Godfrey to let her go. Apart from the childaltogether, you ought to have a change." And then--then she had said,rather listlessly, not at all bitterly, "Oh, it doesn't matter aboutme!"

  Such a simple phrase, embodying an obvious truth, yet they had forcedfrom him the words: "I think it does matter about you, Laura. At least Iknow it matters a good deal to me, for, as of course you know by now, Ilove you."

  And if his voice had remained quite low and steady, she had seen theblazing, supplicating eyes....

  But he had looked away, at once, when he had uttered those irrevocablewords; and after a few moments, which had seemed to him an eternity, hadcome that low, heart-felt cry, "Oh, but this is terrible----"

  * * * * *

  "Terrible? Why, Laura?" He crossed his arms, and turning, gazed straightdown at her bowed figure.

  Again there came a long, unnatural pause.

  And then she lifted up her face, and under the shadow cast by herwide-brimmed garden hat he saw that even her forehead was flushed. Therewas an anguished look in the large, deeply blue eyes, which were to himthe most exquisite and revealing feature of her delicately drawn face.

  "Perhaps I ought not to have said 'terrible,'" she said at last in a lowvoice, "but--but degrading, ignoble, _hateful_, Oliver." She added, herfalse calm giving way, "And to me such a bitter, bitter disappointment!"

  "Why?" he asked harshly. "Why a disappointment, Laura? Most women, nay,all wise human beings, value love--any kind of love offered by even themost unworthy--as the most precious thing in the world!"

  His face had become expressionless, and the measured, carefully chosenwords made her feel suddenly ashamed, but with a shame merged in aneager hope that she had cruelly misunderstood her--friend.

  She stood up and took a step towards him. "Oliver," she saiddiffidently; "forgive me! I was stupid not to understand. Of course welove one another," she was on firm ground now. "All friends love oneanother, and you've been such a good friend to me, and more, far more,than a good friend to my poor brother--to Gillie."

  He withdrew his gaze from her beseeching eyes, and looked away oncemore. Now was his chance to play the hypocrite, to eat the words whichhad given her so much offence....

  Hardly knowing that he spoke aloud, he muttered hoarsely, "I can't!" Andthen he turned to her: "Listen, Laura. I owe you the truth. I have lovedyou, yes, and in the sense you think so ignoble and so degrading, almostfrom the first day we met. As time went on, I thought it impossible thatyou did not know that."

  "I did not know it! I trusted you absolutely! I thought that we were allthree, friends,--you and I and Godfrey! It was the very first time thatGodfrey and I had ever had a friend in common, and it made me so happy."

  "Did it indeed?" His words cut like a whip.

  "But it's true that you are Godfrey's friend?" she spoke a littlewildly. "I've never known him as fond of any man as he is now of you,Oliver."

  "His fondness is not returned."

  "Then it ought to be!" she cried. "For you've made him like you,Oliver."

  She hardly knew what she was saying, distressed, humiliated, wounded asshe was in her pride and sense of personal dignity. But what was hesaying--this challenging, wrathful stranger who, but a few moments ago,had been her dear, dear friend?

  "I would rather, Laura, that you did not bring your husband into thismatter."

  "But I must bring him in!" She became suddenly aware that here ready toher hand was a weapon with which she could hurt and punish this man whowas looking at her with so inscrutable a look--was it a look of love orof hatred?

  "I'm sorry now," she went on rapidly, "bitterly, bitterly sorry andashamed that I ever said a word to you of Godfrey and his--his rathertiresome ways. I ought not to have done it. It was disloyal. I've neverspoken of Godfrey to any other man--but somehow I thought _you_ weredifferent from other men."

  "Different?" he interjected. "How so, Laura? What right had you to thinkme different from other men?"

  "Because I trusted you," she said inconsequently. "Because somehow youseemed really to care for me--" her voice broke, but she forced herselfto go on: "You're not the first man, Oliver, who's made love to me sinceI married--" she covered her face with her hands.

  It seemed to her that some other woman was being driven to make theseintimate confidences--not the fastidious, refined, reserved LauraPavely, who had an almost morbid dislike of the betrayal of any violentor unseemly emotion. But this other woman, who spoke through her lips,had been, was being, wantonly insulted....

  Hanging her head as a child might have done, she said defiantly: "Isuppose you're surprised?"

  "No, I'm not surprised. Why should I be? Go on--" He clenched his handstogether. What was it she was going to tell him?

  Speaking in short, broken sentences, she obeyed him:

  "It was when we used t
o go about much more than we do now--in the firsttwo or three years after our marriage. I suppose that every woman--whoisn't quite happy with her husband--is exposed to that kind of thing. Iused to loathe it when I saw it coming. I used to try and fend it off.Sometimes I succeeded--more often I failed. But I never, never expectedanything of the sort to happen with you, Oliver. We were suchfriends--such good, happy friends--you and I and my little Alice," andthen she burst into a passion of weeping.

  And at that what self-control Oliver Tropenell had retained departed. Aflood of burning, passionate words burst from his lips--of endearment,of self-abasement, and promises which he intended, come what might,should be kept.

  And she listened shrinkingly, with averted face, absorbed in her ownbewildered pain and disappointment.

  "I must go back to the house," she said at last. "The doctor will behere in half an hour." And she forced herself to add: "Perhaps you'll becoming over this afternoon?" (How often she had said these words in thelast three months--but in how different a tone!).

  "I think not. My mother said something about wishing me to stay into-day--Lord St. Amant may be coming over." As she made no comment, heconcluded quietly, "Well, I suppose I had better be going now. Good-bye,Laura."

  "Good-bye," she said. And without taking her hand he left her.

  She watched his tall figure making its way quickly down through therough ground to the wood where, ultimately, he would find a path whichwould lead him to his mother's house.

  * * * * *

  It was late in the afternoon of the same day. From where she wassitting, under a great cedar tree, Mrs. Tropenell at last saw her sonOliver and Godfrey Pavely come out of Freshley Manor.

  Though the glory and warmth of the summer were now over, Mrs. Tropenellstill spent many hours of each day in her garden. She had always been anout-of-door woman from the days when she was an eager, impetuous,high-spirited girl, till now, when youth had gone, though something ofthe eager impetuosity of youth remained with her concealed fromstrangers by a manner marked by a strong sense of personal dignity.

  The two men began walking, slowly, down the grass path leading to thebeech avenue which was the glory of Freshley Manor, as well as a shortcut to Lawford Chase, Godfrey Pavely's larger property.

  It was more than an hour since a servant had come out to say that Mr.Pavely was waiting to see Mr. Tropenell in the library. The man hadadded that Mr. Pavely had had tea before leaving the Bank, and onlywanted to see Mr. Tropenell for a few minutes on his way home. AndOliver, with "I don't think he'll keep me long, mother; I suppose you'llstill be here when I come back?" had stridden off with a certainreluctance towards the house.

  It had always been his mother's joy, but now for many years past herinfrequent joy, to fall in with even the least reasonable of her son'swishes, and so she had gone on sitting out there, waiting for him tocome back, long after the tea-things had been taken away. There was abook on the low garden table by her side--such a book as she loved,telling of great adventure by one of the adventurers--but she left itwhere it was.

  Mrs. Tropenell felt a vague, exasperating sense of restlessness andunease. At the back of her heart--that heart which, if no longer that ofa young woman, could still thrill with many varied emotions and a verypassion of maternal love--was the dull ache of a secret, unacknowledgedsense of fear and pain.

  She had every reason to be happy to-day--not only happy in her son'scompany, but in the coming back, after a long absence on the Continent,of her old friend, Lord St. Amant. To him she could, perhaps, bringherself to say something of what was touching her so deeply, and he, sheknew, would reassure her and make light of her fears. St. Amant was whatis called in ordinary parlance a man of the world--the last man, thatis, to be horrified, still less frightened, by a tale of illicit love,especially when, as the mother honestly believed, it was a love likelyto remain unrequited.

  Yes, she would tell her one trusted friend of these besetting fears, ofher more than suspicion that her son Oliver was deep in love with LauraPavely, and St. Amant would laugh at her, persuade her maybe to laughwith him.

  And yet? Yet, even so, she asked herself again and again during thatlong time of waiting, what these two men who, if of life-longacquaintanceship and now at any rate nominally intimate friends, were sounlike the one to the other, could have to talk about, indoors, forover an hour? Godfrey Pavely and Oliver Tropenell met very often--toooften to her thinking--so why should Godfrey have pursued Oliver hometo-day, just when Oliver had had an hour to spare for his mother?

  It was now Thursday, and her son had already dined with the Pavelystwice this week. To-morrow night Godfrey Pavely was to be in London, andit had been arranged that his wife, Laura, should spend the eveninghere. But that, or so Mrs. Tropenell had quickly reminded herself, hadbeen Laura's usual custom, long before Oliver had come home from Mexicofor the holiday which had now already lasted nearly four months. In herlong life Mrs. Tropenell had only had one beloved woman friend, and thatfriend, that more than sister, had been Laura's mother.

  Even now Godfrey Pavely did not seem eager to go home. The two men wereclose to the furthest edge of the wide lawn, but they were still talkingearnestly.

  Mrs. Tropenell gazed across, with a painful scrutiny, at her son'svisitor.

  Godfrey Pavely was a neatly made, neatly dressed, neatly manneredman--in a way not ill-looking. His reddish-brown hair toned in oddlywith his light, ginger-coloured eyes. He had become rather particularabout his health of late, and went to some trouble to keep himself fit,and in good condition. Yet he looked more like a townsman than like thecountryman he certainly was. For if the fortunate inheritor of asuccessful county banking business, which so far he had managed withsuch skill as to save it from any thought of amalgamation, he was alsothe owner of a fine old property.

  Lawford Chase had belonged to Mrs. Tropenell's ancestors forcenturies--for almost as many centuries as the years in which he,Godfrey, had owned it. But her father had been careless and extravagantduring his long, happy life, so the owner of Pavely's Bank had bought upthe mortgages on Lawford Chase, and finally foreclosed.

  All this was ancient history now, and Mrs. Tropenell felt no bitternesson that account. Indeed, she had rejoiced, with a sense of real joy,when her friend's daughter had become mistress of her own old home.

  The two men whom she was watching went on talking for what seemed to theonlooker a very long time; but, at last, Godfrey Pavely, turning on hisheel, walked on, to be at once engulfed by the dark green arch formed bythe high beech trees. Then Mrs. Tropenell saw her son, all her heartwelcoming him, come striding towards her across the long stretch ofshort, green turf.

  Once more she asked herself what possible link there could be betweenmen so utterly unlike. Her Oliver--more hers now, she felt, than everbefore, and that though for the first time he was making her secretly,miserably jealous--was a creature of light and air, of open spaces, ifneed be of great waters. He was built, like herself, on a big andpowerful plan; and yet so tall, so spare, so sinewy, that though he wasbroad he looked slim, and though four-and-thirty years of age he mighthave been taken, even at this small distance from where she sat, for along-limbed youth. His life for the last twelve years had been one thatoften ages a man--but it had not aged him. His vigour was unbroken, hisvitality--the vitality which had made him so successful, and whichattracted men and women of such very different types--unimpaired.

  Mrs. Tropenell had been touched, perhaps in her secret heart littlesurprised, at the pleasure--one might almost have said theenthusiasm--with which her neighbours for miles round had welcomedOliver home again, after what had been so long an absence from England.The fact that he had come back a very wealthy man, and that during thoseyears of eclipse he had managed to do some of them good turns, of coursecounted in his popularity, and she was too open-eyed a woman not to bewell aware of that.

  The mother knew that her son was not the downright, rather transparent,good-natured fellow that he was now tak
en to be. No man she had everknown--and she had ever been one of those women of whom men make aconfidant--could keep his own or another's secrets more closely thancould Oliver. He had once written to her the words: "You are the onlyhuman being, mother, to whom I ever tell anything," and she hadinstinctively known this to be true.

  Yet their relationship was more like that of two friends than of motherand son. She knew all there was to know of his thoughts, and of hisdoubts, concerning many of the great things which trouble and disturbmost thinking modern men. Of the outward life he led in the Mexicanstretch of country of which he had become the administrator andpractical ruler, she also knew a great deal, indeed surprisingly much,for he wrote by each mail long, full letters; and the romance of hisgreat business had become an ever continuous source of interest, ofamusement, and of pride to the mother who now only lived for him.

  But of those secret things which had moved his heart, warred with hispassions, perchance seared his conscience, he had never told heranything. Only once had the impenetrable mist of reserve been lightened,as it were pierced for a moment--and that was now a long time ago, onhis second visit home five years before. He had then come to Englandmeaning to stay a month. But at the end of ten days he had received atelegram--what he called, in the American fashion, a cable--and withinan hour he had gone, saying as he kissed his mother good-bye, "A friendof mine--a woman who has been ill a long time--is now dying. I must go,even if I'm not in time to see her alive."

  In the letters which had followed his return to Mexico, there had beenno word more--nothing even implying sorrow, or a sense of loss--only agraver note, of which the mother might have remained unaware but forthat clue he had left to sink deep in her mother-heart.

  * * * * *

  He was now close to her, looking down out of his dark, compellingeyes--eyes which were so like her own, save that now hers shone with asofter light.

  "Pavely stayed a long time," he said abruptly. "Are you tired? D'youwant to go in yet, mother?"

  She shook her head. "I'd rather stay out here till it's time to dress."

  As she spoke she lifted her face to his, and he told himself what abeautiful, and noble face it was, though each delicate, aquiline featurehad thickened, and the broad low forehead was now partially concealedby thick bands of whitening hair. It was a lined, even a ravagedface--the face of a woman who had lived, had loved, had suffered. But ofthat Oliver was only dimly conscious, for his mother's nature ifimpetuous and passionate was almost as reserved and secretive as was hisown.

  It may be doubted, even, if Oliver Tropenell knew how much his motherloved him, for it may be doubted if any son ever knows how much hismother--even if she appear placid or careless--loves him. One thingOliver did know, or confidently believed he knew, and that was that hismother loved him more than she had ever loved anything in the world.There he was quite content to leave it.

  "Pavely wants me to become trustee to Laura's marriage settlement, insuccession to old Mr. Blackmore."

  When with Godfrey Pavely, Oliver Tropenell always called the other manby his Christian name, but behind his back he always spoke of him as"Pavely."

  As his mother remained silent, he went on, a little hurriedly: "Thepowers vested in the trustee are very wide, and it seems that moneywhich was later added to the trust--a matter of seventeen thousandpounds or so--is invested in some queer form of security."

  They both smiled--he a little drily, she with a kind of good-humouredcontempt.

  "He's cautious and successful--in spite of that odd, gamblingpropensity," she spoke a little defensively. Then, "I suppose you'veconsented to act?"

  She waited anxiously for his answer; and at last it came, uttered in atone of elaborate unconcern: "I said I'd think it over. But I thinkI'll take it on, mother. Pavely made rather a personal favour ofit--after all, there's some kind of relationship."

  "Yes," agreed Mrs. Tropenell, "yes, there is certainly a connection,hardly a relationship, between ourselves and Laura."

  Her son sat down. He began poking about an invisible stone, lying inamong the grass, with his stick.

  "You cared for Laura's mother as if she had been your sister--didn'tyou, mother? And yet I can't imagine you with a great woman friend, Imean, of course, a friend of your own age."

  She turned and looked at him. "Ah, my dear,--those are the friends thatcount!" and she nearly added, "Don't _you_ find it so?" But, instead,she went on quickly, "Yes, I loved Laura's mother dearly, dearly--and itwas for her sake that I asked you to be good to her son, to Gillie."

  "Laura's extraordinarily fond of Gillie----" There always came a curiouschange over Oliver Tropenell's voice when he uttered the name "Laura."It became as it were softer, infused with feeling--or so his motherthought.

  She waited a moment; then answered slowly, "Women generally are fond oftheir only brothers."

  "Oh, but it's more than that!"

  As she remained silent, he went on musingly: "And Gillie, in his queerway, is very fond of Laura--though I don't believe he writes to her oncein three months!"

  "I suppose Gillie still hates Godfrey?" she said hesitatingly. "Godfreybehaved so--so--well, not so much badly perhaps, as meanly and evenstupidly--about that unfortunate affair." It was almost as if Mrs.Tropenell were speaking to herself. Her son turned and looked at hersquarely.

  "Yes! Gillie still hates Pavely. And yet, mother, since I came home thistime I've wondered sometimes if Pavely was so very unreasonable about itafter all. You see, Gillie must have been about the most troublesomeand--well, the most dangerous brother-in-law an unlucky country bankercould well have had!"

  "And but for you he'd be so still," she said quietly. "From somethingGodfrey said the other day I gather that he's really grateful to you,Oliver?"

  Oliver Tropenell got up. "Yes," he said shortly, "he's certainlygrateful. In fact, he seems to think I've limitless power of gettingpeople out of scrapes----" there was an undercurrent of triumph in hisdeep, even tones.

  "I suppose the real reason he came to-day was that he's afraid to let astranger be Laura's trustee?" There was only the slightest touch ofinterrogation in Mrs. Tropenell's voice, and she went on: "Perhaps he'dbe kinder to poor Gillie _now_--" a curious smile played round hermouth. It was a full-lipped, generous mouth, but it was the leastrefined feature of her face.

  "No, no. It's not as bad as that! But well, yes, Pavely _has_ used thisportion of Laura's fortune in a way he had no business to do, knowing itwas trust money."

  "And you----?"

  "Oh, I'm going to buy out her interest in the concern."

  "Will that cost you seventeen thousand pounds?"

  "Yes, it will. But I don't mind--it's quite a likely gamble. Have youever heard of Greville Howard?"

  "You mean the great money-lender?"

  "He's retired now. But Pavely and he seem to be in a kind of secretpartnership--queer isn't it? Pavely's a clever chap about money, but oh,mother! he's such an insufferable cad!"

  Mrs. Tropenell felt a sudden tremor of fear sweep over her. She hadlately come to what she now realised was a quite wrong conclusion--shehad believed, that is, that Oliver, in a queer, contemptuous way, hadgrown fond of Godfrey, as Godfrey had certainly grown fond of Oliver.But now, all at once, her son had opened a dark window into his soul--orwas it into his heart? There was an under-current of hatred, as well asof the contempt to which she was accustomed, in the way Oliver had justspoken of his "friend"--of the man, at once fortunate and unfortunate,who was Laura Pavely's husband.

  She stood up, and put her hand through her son's arm. "It's getting verycold," she said, and shivered.

  He turned on her with quick concern: "I left you too long! I ought tohave sent him away before--but he was such a long time getting it out--"under his breath he muttered "Damn him!"