A CRITICAL GAME.
The day after the one in which so many confidences had been bestowed
upon Mrs. Dollman and her friends by Miss Stratton was one of
considerable anxiety to the latter. Poor little Phœbe, although one of
the brightest and nicest women in the world, was a very bad actress, and
she could not for the life of her treat Mr. Staines with the same
cordiality as before, although warned of the immense importance of
self-restraint. Personally, she did not feel as aggrieved as might have
been expected, for her heart had never been touched, although she had
been led to admire a man who knew very well how to be fascinating when
he pleased. Now she felt extremely disgusted with herself for having
been pleased with the flattery her lodger had bestowed upon her, and the
young fellow of whom her brother-in-law had spoken as an honest admirer
now stood a good chance of getting his innings.
But, try as she might, she could not help showing something of the
detestation which a knowledge of Gregory Staines’ real character had
awakened in her. As he sat at her breakfast-table, she pictured poor
Harley Riddell languishing for his crime in prison. And when, after
being out for a few hours, he faced her at the dinner-table, she
conjured Hilton’s spectre behind him, and was seized with such a
trembling that she let the soup-ladle fall back into the soup-tureen
with a crash that cracked the latter, and a splash that covered the
tablecloth and her dress with the hot liquid. Suspecting the real cause
of her emotion, Miss Stratton, who was sitting near her, pressed her
foot warningly upon hers, and exclaimed solicitously--
“You seem quite shaky to-day, Mrs. Dollman. Are you not well?”
“Oh, yes, I am quite well, thank you,” replied the little widow. “But
I’m all in a tremble with something or other. It’s the heat, I think.”
The heat! And it had been found necessary to have a good fire in the
dining-room, as everybody was complaining of the cold. Miss Stratton
felt the moment to be a critical one. But she did not lose her
self-possession, although she saw the sudden suspicion which leaped into
the eyes of Gregory Staines, who, with knife and fork slightly raised
from his plate, was sitting immovable, mutely questioning the faces of
the blundering Phœbe and herself.
“Really,” she laughed, “if you go on like this, I shall swear that you
are in love, and that your inamorato has had the bad taste to transfer
his affections elsewhere. Fancy complaining of the cold one minute, and
being all of a tremble with the heat the next! Those are genuine love
symptoms--I’ve felt them myself.”
As Miss Stratton spoke, with such apparent disregard of Phœbe’s
feelings, she darted an admiring and meaning look at Gregory Staines,
which at once put that gentleman at his ease again for a little while.
“The little fool has seen that the artist is more in my line, and is
jealous,” he mused. “But what of that? She can’t harm me, though she may
make things deucedly uncomfortable for me here. Query, will it really
pay me to break with her? That remains to be seen. I’m by no means sure
that Miss Stratton has money that I can secure, or that it would be as
good a prospect to take up with her as to settle down here, with Phœbe
to keep me. I think I must retain both irons in the fire for a few days
longer. Stratton is so awfully infatuated that she will be only too glad
to condone a flirtation with Phœbe.”
In pursuance of this train of thought, Mr. Staines became very
solicitous about Mrs. Dollman’s state of health, smiled quite tenderly
at her, suggested that she should lie down to compose her nerves, and
offered to take all the labours of carving off her hands. But it was not
in Phœbe’s nature to restrain her feelings, and when he accidentally
touched her hand in taking the carving-knife from her, she sprang away
from him with such an agony of horror and repulsion in her face, that he
could no longer doubt her real sentiments towards him, and everyone at
the table could see that there was more beneath the surface than met the
eye. As for Gregory Staines, he was thunderstruck, although he was able
to keep both his actions and his facial expression under admirable
control.
“She has been told something about me,” was his savage inward comment.
“Somebody has betrayed me, and the little idiot has been made the sharer
of a secret that she cannot keep. Betrayal means enmity, and the
presence of a betrayal argues the near proximity of an enemy. I have but
one enemy whom I need fear, and she has been cleverly put off the scent.
And, yet, who knows? The devil himself must be in her, for she has
followed and traced me to all sorts of places, and why not here? Good
God! I never thought of it! Surely it can’t be this woman who has flung
herself at my head as if I were the God of Love in the flesh? But, after
all, even if it were, what can she do to me? She dare not move openly,
for no plans for my arrest can be made effectual on Spanish territory.
If she has really traced me, I am safe for to-day, at all events. I must
meet her with her own weapons, and if I find that Miss Stratton and my
arch-enemy are one and the same, may the Lord have mercy on her soul!”
The object of his meditations was not slow to observe that Mr. Staines
had suddenly received food for thought, and was not deceived, even
though he kept his countenance so cleverly.
“I must be careful not to place myself for any length of time in his
power,” she thought. “He is quite capable of murdering me, if his
suspicions of my true identity are assured, and with me all hope of
Harley’s salvation would die.”
And yet all this bye-play was unnoticed by the other boarders sitting
at the table. Mrs. Dollman was a little nervous, and Mr. Staines was
good-naturedly solicitous on her behalf. That was all. An hour later the
room was empty of all but Miss Stratton and Mr. Staines, and the two
were outwardly as enamoured of each other as yesterday. She wished to
amuse him, lull his suspicions, and engage his attention until it was
time to meet her in the evening, in her assumed character of Mr. Bootle.
He was bent upon watching every gesture and movement of hers, and upon
comparing her personality with that of the girl he suspected her to be.
Thus the afternoon wore away, and tea-time arrived. Miss Stratton had
declined an invitation to have a walk with Mr. Staines, saying that she
preferred a tête-à-tête by the fireside, and she had found an
opportunity to warn Mrs. Dollman against saying or doing anything that
could ruin the plans which were being matured with a view to capturing
Mr. Staines. He was apparently as complaisant and love-stricken as ever,
and both played at exchanging confidences which bore very little
relation to their actual experiences. When, shortly before tea-time,
Miss Stratton adjourned to her own room, she imagined that her influence
over the man whom she was befooling was almost as strong as it was
yesterday.
But he was deeper than she gave him credit for being, and had made an
important discovery. While toying with her hair, and enthusiastically
admiring its golden brilliance, he had satisfied himself that it was an
artificial covering which hid the darker glory which was her natural
heritage. For one brief period our heroine’s life was in immediate
danger, and the reason it was spared then was because her enemy had
promptly resolved to seek an opportunity likely to be fraught with less
danger to himself.
They saw each other at the tea-table awhile later, and Miss Stratton
was looking lovelier than ever--so lovely that, though he hated her,
Gregory Staines felt himself moved by the wildest admiration of her
outward charms, for her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed with the
excitement of her conviction that at last the hour of her triumph was
near at hand. Mrs. Twiley was here again. She had brought a message from
her husband, and fully understood the importance of the step he
contemplated taking that night. The adventure he proposed was a somewhat
risky one. But she had every confidence in his courage and discretion,
and was, moreover, much more capable of keeping a secret than her
sister. Gregory Staines watched her narrowly, but could not detect any
embarrassment in her intercourse with him, or any covert collusion
between her and Miss Stratton.
“She knows nothing about me,” he thought, “and she does not seem to get
on very well with the girl who is masquerading here as an artist. But
that sort of thing is only natural with women. They are always jealous
of anyone prettier than themselves. By heaven, I wish I had really the
chance I fancied I had of winning this superb creature. Fancy having a
gambling-house, with a wife like that at the head of affairs! Why, there
would be no end of a fortune to be made. But it is useless to think of
it, if she is really Annie Cory. If! Why, there is a doubt yet, in spite
of appearances. I can’t see what her motive in making love to me can be,
after all. What could she gain by it, so long as I stayed in Spain? It
strikes me that I had better not be too rash. I will watch and wait. If
my suspicions are unfounded, so much the better. If not, so much the
worse--for her!”
Meanwhile, Miss Stratton excused herself to Mrs. Dollman, and announced
her intention of spending the evening in her room, as she had a great
many letters to write. Arrived there, she found plenty to occupy her for
half an hour. At the end of that time Mrs. Twiley came to her by
prearrangement, and was utterly astonished to watch the metamorphosis
effected in her appearance while she was there.
“Why, you make me feel inclined to run away again,” she laughed. “It’s
dreadfully compromising to be here alone with you. Suppose a servant, or
one of the other boarders saw me, the consequences would be awful! My
reputation would be gone, and poor, dear Twiley’s only consolation would
be a divorce. But, seriously, it is wonderful to think of all you have
done and are doing for the sake of your lover. I hope you will be
successful in all your plans, and some day I expect the pleasure of
seeing Mr. Riddell enjoying liberty and happiness once more.”
“Thank you so much,” said the lady addressed, who was, to all
appearances, a man again, to wit, Mr. Bootle, “Whenever that happy day
arrives, believe me, I shall esteem it a sacred duty to bring him to see
all who have helped us in our dark days.”
“In fact, you will come here for your honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon! I dare not think of such happiness while he is languishing
in prison. See, would you like to judge how he looked only a year ago?”
As she spoke, the girl handed a photograph of a handsome, smiling young
fellow to her visitor, at which the latter gazed with a mist gathering
in her eyes.
“And this,” she was next told, “is the brother who has been foully
murdered.”
It struck Mrs. Twiley that the brother was even a nobler type of
manhood than the unfortunate lover, but she had too much tact to betray
that opinion, though she looked long and earnestly at the lineaments of
one who was supposed to have come to so sad an end.
Then the whole of the evening’s intended work was gone over again in
detail, not an item being overlooked that could conduce to either
success or failure. Everything being at length arranged, Mrs. Twiley
rejoined her sister, and “Mr. Bootle” prepared to sally forth on her
evening’s adventures, of which she by no means underestimated the
possible peril. But the courage engendered by devotion to others
transcends all other courage in its nobility and strength, and not the
faintest twinge of fear assailed our heroine, as, feeling added security
in her capital disguise, she told Briny to remain on guard, and stepped
out of the window into the garden, whence she presently emerged into the
lane, and thence into the open street.
But what was that dark object creeping in her footsteps, and dodging
nearer and nearer to her? It was no friend, that is certain, as he would
not have slunk out of sight so promptly every time that there was any
likelihood of his being observed. Had “Mr. Bootle” looked round, he, or
she, if the reader prefers, might possibly have seen a mortal enemy,
armed with a knife, and carefully watching his opportunity for removing
the one whom he feared.
And had Mr. Staines looked round, he would have noticed a pursuer in
his turn, one who disliked him already, and who would not hesitate to
protect “Mr. Bootle” at the cost of his life. This was the faithful
Briny, who, for once, had disobeyed his owner by following her when
forbidden to do so. His consciousness of wrong-doing made him linger in
the background. But he was none the less a valuable protector, even
though his presence was unsuspected.
Yet neither of the beings whom he was following looked round, and
neither one nor the other dreamed of danger behind, so anxious were they
to reach the goal that lay before them.