WHY SHE CAME
Surprised by the abruptness of his question, Annesley's eyes dropped
from the eyes of her host, which tried to hold them. She felt that she
ought to be angry with him for taking advantage of her generosity--for
it amounted to that! Yet anger would not come, only shame and the desire
to hide a thing which would change his gratitude to contempt.
"Don't let's waste time talking about me," she said. "We haven't
arranged----"
"We've arranged everything as well as we can. For the rest, I must trust
to luck--and you. Do tell me why you came here, why you _thought_ you
came here, I mean; for I'm convinced you were sent for my sake by any
higher powers there may be. I felt that, the minute I saw you. I feel it
ten times more strongly now. I know that whatever your reason was, it's
nothing to be ashamed of."
"I _am_ ashamed," Annesley was led on to confess. "You'd despise me if I
told you, for you can't realize what my life's been for five years. And
that's my one excuse."
"Only a fool would want a woman like you to excuse herself for
anything. I swear I wouldn't despise you. I couldn't. If you should tell
me--knowing you as little, or as well, as I do, that you'd been plotting
a murder, I'd be certain you were justified, and my first thought would
be to save you, as you're saving me now."
Annesley felt again the man's intense magnetism. Suddenly she wanted to
tell him everything. It would be a relief. She would watch his face and
see how it changed. It would be like having the verdict of the world on
what she had done--or meant to do.
"I saw an advertisement in the _Morning Post_," she said with a kind of
breathless violence, "from a man who--who wanted to meet a girl with--a
'view to marriage.'"
The words brought a blush so painful that the mounting blood forced tears
to her eyes. But she looked her _vis-à-vis_ unwaveringly in the face.
That did not change at all, unless the interest in his eyes grew warmer.
The sympathy she saw there gave Annesley a new and passionate desire to
defend herself. If he had shown disgust, she would not have cared to try,
she thought.
"I told you it was horrid, and not interesting or romantic," she
dashed on. "But I was desperate. Mrs. Ellsworth is awful! I don't
suppose you ever met such a woman. She's not cruel about starving my
body. It's only my soul she starves. What business have _I_ with a soul,
except in church, where it's proper to think about such things? But she
nags--_nags_! She makes my hair feel as if it were turning gray at the
roots, and my face drying up--like an apple.
"I wasn't nineteen when I came to her. I'm twenty-three now, and I feel
_old_--desiccated, thanks to those piling-up hundreds of days with her.
They've killed my spirit. I used to be different. I can feel it. I can
see it in the mirror. It isn't only the passing days, but having nothing
better to look forward to. I'm too cowardly--or too religious or
something, to kill myself, even if I knew how to, decently. But the
deadliness of it all, the airlessness of her house and her heart!
"A man couldn't imagine it. She's made me forget not only my own youth,
but that there's youth in the world. Why, at first I was so wild I should
have loved to say dreadful things, or strike her. But now I haven't the
spirit left to feel like that. My blood's turning white. The other day
when I was reading aloud to Mrs. Ellsworth (I read a lot: the stupidest
parts of the papers and the silliest books, that turn my brain to fluff)
I caught sight of an advertisement in the Personal Column.
"I stopped just in time and didn't read it out. Only a glimpse I had, for
I was in the midst of something else when my eyes wandered. But when Mrs.
Ellsworth was taking her nap after luncheon I got the _Post_ again and
read the advertisement through carefully. The reason I was interested was
because even the glance I took showed that the girl who was 'wanted'
seemed in some ways rather like me. The advertisement said she must be
from twenty-one to twenty-six; needn't be a beauty, but of pleasant
appearance; money no object; the essentials were that she must have a
fair education and be of good birth and manners, so as to command a
certain position in society.
"I believe those were the very words. And it didn't seem too conceited
to think that I answered the description. I'm not bad-looking, and my
mother's father was an earl--an Irish one. I couldn't get the
advertisement out of my head. It fascinated me."
"No wonder!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. He had been listening intently, and
though she had paused, panting a little, more than once, he had not
broken in with a word.
"Do you _honestly_ think it no wonder?" Annesley flashed at him.
"It was like a prisoner seeing a key sticking in a door that has always
been locked," he said.
"How strange you should think of that!" she cried. "It was the thought
which came into my mind, and seemed to excuse me if anything could."
Annesley felt grateful to the man. She was sure she could never have
explained herself in this way or pleaded her own cause with the real Mr.
Smith. A man cold-blooded enough to advertise for a wife "well-born and
able to command a certain position in society" would have frozen her into
an ice-block of reserve.
She might possibly have accepted his "proposition" (one couldn't speak of
it in the ordinary way as a "proposal"), provided that, on seeing her, he
had judged her suitable for the place; but she could never have talked
her heart out to him as she was led on to do by this other man, equally
a stranger, yet sympathetic because of his own trouble and the mystery
which made of him a figure of romance.
"It isn't strange I should think of the prison door and the key," her
companion said. "That was the situation. 'N. Smith' was rather clever in
his way. There must be many girls of good family and good looks who are
in prison, pining to escape. He must have had a lot of answers, that
fellow; but none of the girls could have come within a mile of you. I'm
selfish! I bless my lucky stars he didn't turn up here."
"I dare say it's the best thing that could happen," Annesley agreed with
a sigh. "Probably he's horrible. But there was one thing: I thought,
though he must be a snob and vulgar, advertising as he did for a wife of
good birth, that very thing looked as if he were no _worse_ than a snob.
Not a villain, I mean. Otherwise, I shouldn't have dared answer. But I
did answer the same day, while I had the courage. I posted a letter with
some of Mrs. Ellsworth's, which she sent me out to drop into the box. His
address was 'N. S., the _Morning Post_'; and I told him to send a reply,
if he wrote, to the stationery shop and library where Mrs. Ellsworth
makes me go every day to change her books."
"And the answer? What was it like? What impression did it give you?"
questioned the man who sat in Mr. Smith's place.
"Oh, it was written in a good hand. But it was a stiff, commonplace sort
of letter, except that it asked me to wear a white rose. White roses
happen to be the ones I like best."
"So do I," said Mr. Smith. "Did he tell you to come to a table here and
wait for him?"
"Not exactly. He was to meet me in the foyer. But if he did not, I was
to understand he'd been delayed; and in that case I must come to the
restaurant and inquire for a table engaged by Mr. N. Smith. Lots of times
I decided not to do anything. But you see I came, and this is my reward."
"A poor one," her companion finished.
"I don't mean that! I mean he hasn't come at all. Maybe he never meant
to. Maybe he got some letter he liked better than mine, and arranged to
meet the girl somewhere else. A man of that sort wouldn't write to tell
the straight truth in time, and save the unwanted one from humiliation."
"Are you very sorry he didn't?"
"No," Annesley said, frankly. "I'm not sorry. It's good to be able to
help someone. I'm glad I came."
"So am I," Mr. Smith answered with a sudden change in his voice from calm
to excitement. "And now the moment isn't far off, I think, for the help
to be given. The men I spoke of are here. They're in the restaurant. You
can't see them without turning your head, which would not be wise.
They're speaking to a waiter. They haven't seen me yet, but they're sure
to look soon. They're pointing to a table near us. It's free. The
waiter's leading them to it. In an instant you'll have a better view
of them than I shall. Now ... but don't look up yet."
From under her lashes Annesley saw--in the way women do see without
seeming to use their eyes--two men conducted to a table directly in front
of her. As she sat on her host's right, at the end of the table, not
opposite to him, this gave her the advantage--or disadvantage--of
facing the newcomers fully, while Mr. Smith, who had faced them as they
entered, would have his profile turned toward their table.
The pair seated themselves in the same way that Annesley and her
companion were placed, one at the right hand of the other. This caused
the first man to face the girl fully and gave her the second in profile.
One table only intervened between Mr. Smith's and that selected by the
late arrivals, and the latter had hardly sat down when the party of four
at the intermediate table rose to go.
Under cover of their departure, bowing of waiters and readjustment of
ladies' sable or ermine stoles, Annesley ventured a lightning glance at
the men. She saw that both were black-haired and black-bearded, with dark
skins and long noses. There was a slight suggestion of resemblance
between them. They might be brothers. They were in evening dress, but
did not look, Annesley thought, like gentlemen.
Mr. Smith was eating _blennes au caviar_ apparently with enjoyment. He
called a waiter and told him to put more whipped cream on the caviare as
yet untouched in the middle of Annesley's pancake.
"That's better, I think," he said, genially. And as the waiter went away,
"What are they doing now?"
Annesley lifted her champagne glass as an excuse to raise her eyes. "I'm
afraid they've seen us and are talking about you. Can't we--hadn't we
better go?"
"Certainly not," replied Mr. Smith. "At least, _I_ can't. But if you
repent----"
"I don't," Annesley broke in. "I was thinking of you, of course."
"Bless you!" said her host. His tone was suddenly gay. She glanced at him
and saw that his face was gay also, his eyes bright and challenging, his
look almost boyish. She had taken him for thirty-three or four; now she
would have guessed him younger.
Annesley could not help admiring his pluck, for he had said that the
arrival of these men meant danger. She ought to be sorry as well as
frightened because they had come, but at that moment she was neither. Her
companion's example was contagious. Her spirits rose. And the thought
flashed through her head, "This adventure won't end here!" If she had had
time she would have been ashamed of her gladness; but there was no time.
Smith was talking again in a suppressed yet cheerful tone.
"You won't forget that we're Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith?"
"No--no. I sha'n't forget."
"You may have to call me Nelson, and I--to call you Annesley. It's a
pretty name, odd for a woman to have. How did you get it?"
"Oh, you don't want to hear that now!"
"Why not?--unless you'd rather not tell me. We can't do anything more
till the blow falls, except enjoy ourselves and go on with our dinner.
How did you come to be Annesley?"
"It was part of my mother's maiden name. She was an Annesley-Seton."
"There's a Lord Annesley-Seton, isn't there?"
"Yes."
"Related to you?"
"A cousin. But Grayle isn't a name in their set. He and his wife have
forgotten my existence. I'm not likely to remind them of it."
"His wife was an American girl, wasn't she?"
"How odd that you should know!"
"Not very. I remember there being a lot in the papers about the wedding
six or seven years ago. The girl was very rich--a Miss Haverstall. Her
father's lost his money since then."
"How _can_ you keep such uninteresting things in your mind--just now?"
"They're not uninteresting. They concern you!"
"Lord Annesley-Seton's affairs don't concern me, and never will."
"I wonder?" said Smith, looking thoughtful; and the girl wondered, too:
not about her future or her relatives, but what the next few minutes
would do with this strange young man, and how at such a time he could
bear to talk commonplaces.
"If you're trying to keep me from being nervous," she whispered, "it's
not a bit of use! I can't think of anything or any one except those men.
They've stopped whispering. But they're looking at you. Now--they're
getting up. They're coming toward us!"