THE SERIES GOES ON
After all, Annesley had not written to her friends, Archdeacon Smith and
his wife, on leaving Mrs. Ellsworth's, to tell the surprising news of her
engagement. She had asked Mr. Ruthven Smith not to speak of it to his
cousins, because she would prefer to write. But then--the putting of the
news on paper in a way not to offend them, after their kindness in the
past, had been difficult.
Besides, there had been little time to think out the difficulties, and
find a way of surmounting them. There had been only one whole day before
the wedding, and that day she had spent with Knight, buying her
trousseau. It had been a wonderful day, never to be forgotten, but its
end had found her tired; and when Knight had said "good-bye" and left
her, she had not been equal to composing a letter.
Nevertheless, she had tried, for it had seemed dreadful to marry and go
away from London without letting her only friends know what had happened,
what she was doing, and why she had not invited them to her wedding.
Ah, _why_? In explaining that she confronted the great obstacle. She
had not known how to exonerate herself without hurting their feelings,
or--telling a lie.
The girl hated lying. She could not remember that in her life she had
ever spoken or written a lie in so many words, though, like most people
who are not saints, she had prevaricated a little occasionally to save
herself or others from some unpleasantness.
In this case no innocent prevarication would serve. Even if she had been
willing to lie, she could think of no excuse which would seem plausible.
Tired as she had been that last night as Annesley Grayle, and throbbing
as she was with excitement at the thought of the new life before her, she
did begin a letter.
It was a feeble effort. She tore it up and essayed another. The second
was worse than the first, and the third was scarcely an improvement.
Discouraged, and so nerve-racked that she was on the point of tears, the
girl put off the attempt. But days passed, and when no inspiration came,
and she was still haunted by the thought of a duty undone, she
compromised by telegraphing from Devonshire. Her message ran:
Dear Friends--
I beg you to forgive me for seeming neglect, but it was not really
that. I am married to a man I love. It had to be sudden. I could not
let you know in time, though I wanted to. I shall not be quite happy
till I've seen you and introduced my husband. Say to your cousin he may
explain as far as he can. When we meet will tell you more. Coming back
to London in fortnight to take house in Portman Square and settle down.
Love and gratitude always. My new name is same as yours.
Annesley Smith.
To this she added her address in Devonshire, feeling sure that, unless
the Archdeacon and his wife were hopelessly offended by her neglect and
horrified at Ruthven Smith's story, they would write.
She cared for them very much, and it would always be a grief, she
thought, that she and Knight had not been married by her old friend.
Every night she prayed for a letter, waking with the hope that the
postman might bring one: and five days after the sending of her telegram
her heart leaped at sight of a fat envelope addressed in Mrs. Smith's
familiar handwriting.
They forgave her! That was the principal thing. And they rejoiced in her
happiness. All explanations--if "dear Annesley wished to make any"--could
wait until they met. The kind woman wrote:
Cousin James Ruthven Smith was loyal to his promise, and gave us no
hint of your news. We did not, of course, know of the promise till
after your telegram came, and we showed it to him. Then he confessed
that he was in your secret; that he had been witness of a scene in
which poor Mrs. Ellsworth made herself more than usually unpleasant;
and that you had asked him to let you tell us the glad tidings of your
engagement and hasty wedding.
I say "poor Mrs. Ellsworth" because it seems she has been ill since you
left, and has had other misfortunes. The illness is not serious, and I
imagine, now I have heard fuller details of her treatment of you, that
it is merely a liver and nerve attack, the result of temper. If she had
not been confined to bed, and very sorry for herself, I am sure nothing
could have prevented her from writing to us a garbled account of the
quarrel and your departure.
As it turned out, I hear she rang up the household after you went that
night, had hysterics, and sent a servant flying for the doctor. He--a
most inferior person, according to Cousin James--having a sister who is
a trained nurse, put _her_ in charge of the patient at once, where she
has remained since. In consequence of the nurse's tyrannical ways, the
servants gave a day's notice and left in a body.
Three temporary ones were got in as soon as possible from some agency;
and last night (four days, I believe, after they were installed) a
burglary was committed in the house.
Only fancy, _poor Ruthven_! He was afraid to stay even with us in our
quiet house, when he came to London, because once, years ago, we were
robbed! You know how reticent he is about his affairs, and how he never
says anything concerning business. One might think that to _us_ he
would show some of the beautiful jewels he is supposed to buy for the
Van Vrecks.
But no, he never mentions them. We should not have known why he came to
England this time, after a shorter interval than usual, or that he had
valuables in his possession, if it had not been for this burglary. As
he was obliged to talk to the police, and describe to them what had
been stolen from him (I forgot to mention that he as well as Mrs.
Ellsworth was robbed, but you would have guessed that, from my
beginning, even if you haven't read the morning papers before taking up
my letter), there was no reason why, for once, he should not speak
freely to us.
He has been lunching here and has just gone, as I write, but will
transfer himself later to our house, as it has now become unbearable
for him at Mrs. Ellsworth's. I fancy _that_ arrangement has been
brought to an end! Your presence in the _ménage_ was the sole
alleviation.
James, it appears, came to London on an unexpected mission, differing
from his ordinary trips. You may remember seeing in the papers some
weeks ago that an agent of the Van Vreck firm was robbed on shipboard
of a lot of pearls and things he was bringing to show an important
client in England--some Indian potentate. James tells us that _he_
procured the finest of the collection for the Van Vrecks, and as he is
a great expert, and can recognize jewels he has once seen, even when
disguised or cut up, or in different settings, he was asked to go to
London to help the police find and identify some of the lost valuables.
Also, he was instructed to buy more pearls, to be sold to the Indian
customer, instead of those stolen from the agent on shipboard. James
had not found any of the lost things; but he _had_ bought some pearls
the day before the burglary at Mrs. Ellsworth's.
Wasn't it _too_ unlucky? I have tried to give the poor fellow a little
consolation by reminding him how fortunate it is he hadn't bought
_more_, and that the loss will be the Van Vrecks' or that of some
insurance company, not _his_ personally. But he cannot be comforted. He
says that his not having ten thousand pounds' worth of pearls doesn't
console him for being robbed of _eight_ thousand pounds' worth.
James has little hope that the thieves will be found, for he feels that
the Van Vrecks are in for a run of bad luck, after the good fortune of
many years. They have lost the head of the firm--"the great Paul," as
James calls him--who has definitely retired, and occupies himself so
exclusively with his collection that he takes no interest in the
business.
Then there was the robbery on the ship, which, in James's opinion, must
have been the work of a masterly combination. And now another theft!
The poor fellow has _quite_ lost his nerve, which, as you know, has for
years not been that of a young man. His deafness, no doubt, partly
accounts for the timidity with which he has been afflicted since the
first (and only other) time he was robbed. And now he blames it for
what happened last night.
He's trained himself to be a light sleeper, and if he could hear as
well as other people, he thinks the thief would have waked him coming
into his room. Once in, the wretch must have drugged him, because the
pearls were in a parcel under his pillow. But how the man--or men--got
into the house is a mystery, unless one of the new servants was an
accomplice.
_Nothing_ was broken open. In the morning every door and window was
as usual. Of course the servants are under suspicion; but they seem
stupid, ordinary people, according to James.
As for Mrs. Ellsworth, he says she is making a fuss over the wretched
bits of jewellery she lost, things of no importance. She, too, slept
through the affair, and knew what had happened only when she waked to
see a safe she has in the wall of her bedroom wide open.
It seems that in place of her jewel box and some money she kept there
was an _insulting_ note, announcing that for the first time something
belonging to her would be used for a good purpose. To James this is the
one bright spot in the darkness.
When Annesley had read this long letter with its many italics, she passed
it to Knight who, in exchange, handed her a London newspaper with a page
folded so as to give prominence to a certain column. It was an account of
the burglary at Mrs. Ellsworth's house, which he had been reading.
* * * * *
Generous with money as "Nelson Smith" was, he was not a man who would
allow himself to be "done," and in some ways the Annesley-Setons were
disappointed in the bargain they arrived at with him. He appeared
delighted with the chance of getting their London house, and of having
them come to stay, in order to introduce his wife and himself to the
brightest, most "particular" stars in the galaxy of their friends.
Yet, when it came to making definite terms he seemed to take it for
granted that, as the Annesley-Setons would be living in the house as
guests, they would not only be willing, but anxious, to accept a low
price.
This had not been their intention. On the contrary, they had meant
their visit and social offices to be a great, extra favour, which
ought to raise rather than lower the rent. In some mysterious way,
however, without appearing to bargain or haggle, Nelson Smith, the young
millionaire from America, made his bride's relatives understand that he
was prepared to pay so much, and no more. That they could take him on his
own terms--or let him go.
Terrified, therefore, lest he and his money should slip out of their
hands, they snapped at his carelessly made offer without venturing an
objection. And they realized at the same time in a way equally
mysterious, and to their own surprise, that not they but Mr. and Mrs.
Nelson Smith would be master and mistress of the house in Portman Square.
If there were ever a clash between wills, Nelson Smith's would prevail
over theirs.
How this impression was conveyed to their intelligence they could hardly
have explained even to each other. The man was so pleasant, so careless
of finances or conventionalities, that not one word or look could be
treasured up against him.
"The fellow's a genius!" Annesley-Seton said to Constance, when they were
talking over the latest phase of the game. And they respected him.
Lady Annesley-Seton wished to bring to town the servants, including a
wonderful butler, who had been transferred for economy's sake to Valley
House. This proposal, however, Nelson Smith dismissed with a few
good-natured words. He had his eye upon a butler whose brother was
a chauffeur.
"Besides, it wouldn't be fair to Anita," he explained. "Your servants
would scorn to take orders from her, and I want her to learn the dignity
of a married woman with responsibilities of her own. That's the first
step toward being the perfect hostess. She's the sweetest girl in the
world, but she's timid and distrustful of herself. I want her to know her
own worth, and then it won't be long before everyone around her knows
it."
There was no answer to this except acquiescence, which Dick and Constance
were obliged to give. They did give it: the more readily because they
were inclined to suspect a hidden hint, a pill between layers of jam.
If the girl had been transferred from the earth to Mars, the new
conditions of life could scarcely have been more different from the old
than was life in Portman Square married to Nelson Smith, from the
treadmill as Mrs. Ellsworth's slave-companion. What the Portman Square
experiences of the bride would have been if Knight had allowed the
Annesley-Setons to begin by ruling it would be dangerous to say. But he
had taken his stand; and without guessing that she owed her freedom of
action to her husband's strength of will, she revelled in it with a joy
so intense that it came close to pain. Sometimes, if he were within
reach, she ran to find Knight, and hugged him almost fiercely, with a
passion that surprised herself.
"I'm so happy; that's all," she would explain, if he asked "What has
happened?" "My soul was buried. You've brought it back to life."
When she said such things Knight smiled, and seemed glad. He would hold
her to him for a minute, or kiss her hand, like an humble squire with a
princess. But now and then he looked at her with a wistfulness that was
like a question she could not hear because she was deaf. She never got
any satisfaction, though, if she asked what the look meant.
"Oh, I don't know. I was only thinking of you," he would answer, or some
other words of lover-language.
The Annesley-Setons' first move on the social chessboard was to make use
of a pawn or two in the shape of "society reporters." They knew a few men
and women of good birth and no money who lived by writing anonymously for
the newspapers. These people were delighted to get material for a
paragraph, or photographs for their editors. Connie took her new cousin
to the woman photographer who was the success of the moment; and, as she
said to Knight, "the rest managed itself."
Meanwhile, an application was made to the Lord Chamberlain for Mrs.
Nelson Smith's presentation by her cousin Lady Annesley-Seton at the
first Court of the season. It was granted, and the bride in white and
silver made her bow to their majesties. As for Knight, he laughingly
refused Dick's good offices.
"No levees for me!" he said. "I've lived too long in America, and roughed
it in too many queer places, to take myself seriously in knee-breeches.
Besides, they have to know about your ancestors back to the Dark Ages,
don't they, or else they 'cancel' you? My father was a good man, and a
gentleman, but who _his_ father was I couldn't tell to save my head. My
mother was by way of being a swell; but she was a foreigner, so I can't
make use of any of her 'quarterings,' even if I could count them."
Annesley was presented in February, and had by that time been settled in
Portman Square long enough to have met many of her cousins' friends.
After the Court, which launched her in society, she and Knight (with a
list supplied by Connie) gave a dinner-dance. The Countess de Santiago
was not asked; but soon afterward there was a luncheon entirely for
women, in American fashion, at which the Countess was present.
When luncheon was over, she gave a short lecture on "the Science of
Palmistry" and "the Cultivation of Clairvoyant Powers." Then there was
tea; and the Countess allowed herself to be consulted by the guests--the
dozen most important women of Connie's acquaintance.
Annesley, though she was not able to like the Countess, was pleased with
the praise lavished upon her both for her looks and her accomplishments
that afternoon. She had guessed, from the beautiful woman's constrained
manner when they met at a shop the day after the dinner-dance, that she
was hurt because she had not been invited: though why she should expect
to be asked to every entertainment which the Nelson Smiths gave, Annesley
could not see.
Vaguely distressed, however, by the flash in the handsome eyes, and the
curt "How do you do?" the girl appealed to Knight.
"Ought we to have had the Countess de Santiago last evening?" she asked,
perching on his knee in the room at the back of the house which he had
annexed as a "den."
"Certainly not," he reassured her, promptly. "All the people were howling
swells. The Annesley-Setons had skimmed the topmost layer of the cream
for our benefit, and the Countess would have been 'out' of it in such a
set, unless she'd been telling fortunes. You can ask her when you've a
crowd of women. She'll amuse them, and gather glory for herself. But I'm
not going to have her encouraged to think we belong to her. We've set the
woman on her feet by what we've done. Now let her learn to stand alone."
The ladies' luncheon was a direct consequence of this speech; but
complete as was the Countess's success, Annesley felt that she was not
satisfied: that it would take more than a luncheon party of which she was
the heroine to content the Countess, now that Nelson Smith and his bride
had a house and a circle in London.
Occasionally, when she was giving an "At Home," or a dinner, Annesley
consulted Knight. "Shall we ask the Countess?" was her query, and the
first time she did this he answered with another question: "Do you want
her for your own pleasure? Do you like her better than you did?"
Annesley had to say "no" to this catechizing, whereupon Knight briefly
disposed of the subject. "That settles it. We won't have her."
And so, during the next few weeks, the Countess de Santiago (who had
moved from the Savoy Hotel into a charming, furnished flat in Cadogan
Gardens) came to Portman Square only for one luncheon and two or three
receptions.
By this time, however, she had made friends of her own, and if she had
cared to accept a professional status she might have raked in a small
fortune from her séances. She would not take money, however, preferring
social recognition; but gifts were pressed upon her by those who, though
grateful and admiring, did not care for the obligation to admit the
Countess into their intimacy.
She took the rings and bracelets and pendants, and flowers and fruit, and
bon-bons and books, because they were given in such a way that it would
have been ungracious to refuse. But the givers were the very women whose
bosom friend she would have liked to seem, in the sight of the world: a
duchess, a countess, or a woman distinguished above her sisters for some
reason.
She worked to gain favour, and when she had any personal triumph without
direct aid from Portman Square, she put on an air of superiority over
Annesley when they met. If she suffered a gentle snub, she hid the smart,
but secretly brooded, blaming Mrs. Nelson Smith because she was asked to
their house only for big parties, or when she was wanted to amuse their
friends.
She blamed Nelson, too; but, womanlike, blamed Annesley more. Sometimes
she determined to put out a claw and draw blood from both, but changed
her mind, remembering that to do them harm she must harm herself.
Once it occurred to her to form a separate, secret alliance with
Constance Annesley-Seton. There were reasons why that might have suited
her, and she began one day to feel her ground when Connie had telephoned,
and had come to her flat for advice from the crystal. She had "seen
things" which she thought Lady Annesley-Seton would like her to see, and
when the séance was ended in a friendly talk, the Countess de Santiago
begged Constance to call her Madalena. "You are my _first_ real friend in
England!" she said.
"Except my cousin Anne," Connie amended, with a sharp glance from the
green-gray eyes to see whether "Madalena" were "working up to anything."
"Oh, I can't count _her_!" said the Countess. "She doesn't like me. She
wouldn't have me come near her if it weren't for her husband. I am quick
to feel things. You, I believe, really _do_ like me a little, so I can
speak freely to you. And you _know_ you can to me."
But Constance, in the slang of her girlhood days, "wasn't taking any."
She was afraid that Madalena was trying to draw her into finding fault
with her host and hostess, in order to repeat what she said, with
embroideries, to Nelson Smith or Annesley. She was not a woman to be
caught by the subtleties of another; and in dread of compromising herself
did the Countess de Santiago an injustice. If she had ventured any
disparaging remarks of "Cousin Anne," they would not have been repeated.
* * * * *
The season began early and brilliantly that year, for the weather was
springlike, even in February; and people were ready to enjoy everything.
The one blot on the general brightness was a series of robberies.
Something happened on an average of every ten or twelve days, and always
in an unexpected quarter, where the police were not looking.
Among the first to suffer were Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith. The Portman
Square house was broken into, the thief entering a window of the "den"
on the ground floor, and making a clean sweep of all the jewellery
Knight and Annesley owned except her engagement ring, the string of
pearls which had been her lover's wedding gift, and the wonderful blue
diamond on its thin gold chain. These things she wore by night as well as
day; but a gold-chain bag, a magnificent double rope of pearls, a diamond
dog-collar, several rings, brooches, and bangles which Knight had given
her since their marriage, all went.
His pearl studs, his watch (a present out of Annesley's allowance,
hoarded for the purpose), and a collection of jewelled scarf-pins shared
the fate of his wife's treasures.
Unfortunately, a great deal of the Annesley-Seton family silver went at
the same time, regretted by Knight far beyond his own losses. Dick was
inclined to be solemn over such a haul, but Constance laughed.
"Who cares?" she said. "We've no children, and for my part I'm as pleased
as Punch that your horrid old third cousins will come into less when
we're swept off the board. Meanwhile, we get the insurance money for
'loss of use' again. It's simply splendid. And that dear Nelson Smith
insists on buying the best Sheffield plate to replace what's gone. It's
handsomer than the real!"
Neither she nor Dick lost any jewellery, though they possessed a little
with which they had not had the courage to part. And this seemed
mysterious to Constance. She wondered over it: and remembering how the
Countess de Santiago had prophesied another robbery for them, telephoned
to ask if she'd be "a darling, and look again in her crystal."
Madalena telephoned back: "I'll expect you this afternoon at four
o'clock."