There was a long pause when this exclamation escaped the lips of Miss
Davison.
She sat back, trembling and silent, staring out before her as if
unconscious of the presence of Gerard Buckland, who, holding the side
of the victoria with fingers which tightened as he stood, looked into
the girl’s face with agony which he could not repress. For surely
her exclamation was a confession! If she had no connection with the
working-girl whom he had seen in the crowd on the night of the fête,
why should she mind what he told Lady Jennings? Yet at his suggestion
that he should speak to the old lady about what he had seen, Rachel had
shown the most helpless terror.
She presently recovered her composure, sat up in the carriage and
smiled faintly.
“I don’t know,” she said, “why I should mind your telling Lady Jennings
whatever you please. But it is, perhaps, a little disconcerting to be
frankly and candidly disbelieved, and the experience is new and strange
to me.”
Gerard hesitated what to say.
“All I want to say to her,” he said, in a low voice which he could not
keep steady, “is that I think you do rash things, and that you want
someone to take care of you, as you are too reckless as to what you do
yourself.”
Miss Davison looked at him with a frown.
“Do you still persist then,” said she, “in believing that it was I you
saw that night in the crowd opposite Chislehurst House?”
Gerard met her eyes fairly and frankly.
“I’m quite sure of it,” he said simply.
“Most extraordinary!” said she.
He was annoyed with her for persisting in her pretense that he was
mistaken.
“And I am sure,” he went on stubbornly, “that Lady Jennings has an idea
that there is something strange going on.”
Miss Davison was prepared for this, evidently.
“I shouldn’t like to answer for all the fancies the dear old lady takes
into her head,” she said. “But I’m sorry that you should think it
necessary to encourage her in them.”
He could say nothing to this, but drew back, growing very red. Raising
his hat, he was about to withdraw without another word, when Miss
Davison, suddenly sitting up again, imperiously made an emphatic
gesture of command to him to return. Then looking him full in the face
she said coldly--
“I object to your trying to make mischief, Mr. Buckland, between Lady
Jennings and me.”
“I don’t want to make mischief, Miss Davison; I want to get your
friends to take more care of you.”
His tone was so quiet, so stubborn, that she looked frightened again.
There was something feminine, helpless about her look and manner when
she was threatened, which touched him and made him sorry that he had
to seem so harsh. But remembering as he did the reference made by Lady
Jennings to the doctrine of “doubles,” he was sure that the old lady
guessed something, and he knew that, at all costs, he must find out the
meaning of what he had seen.
After a short pause, Miss Davison burst into a light laugh.
“My friends, Mr. Buckland, my real friends,” she said coolly, “have a
strong impression that I don’t need looking after, that I can take care
of myself.”
“Yes, I’ve no doubt you can take all the care of yourself that a girl
can take,” said he boldly; “but that is not enough, Miss Davison, if
I may daresay so, in the case of a lady as beautiful as you are and
as determined to let nothing stand in the way of carrying out her
ambitions.”
Miss Davison, who had by this time quite recovered her outward
serenity, laughed.
“I can’t see what ambition would be served by standing about in a
London crowd in clothes not one’s own,” she said. “It sounds to me like
the act of a lunatic; but as Lady Jennings considers me eccentric
already, I have no doubt, if you were to choose to put the notion into
her head, she would think me quite capable of what you suggest you saw
me do. In that case I should simply have to leave her house, where I am
very comfortable and very useful to her. For she would certainly worry
my life out, and I would not submit to that from anybody.”
Gerard bowed, but he did not promise, as she wished him to do, to say
nothing to Lady Jennings. There was another short silence.
“I am afraid you will think me a bore, Miss Davison, for obtruding upon
you so long,” said he, in another attempt to get away.
She detained him instead.
“Are you going to speak to Lady Jennings--and--and my mother?” she
asked imperiously.
“If there is nothing in my fancy, what harm is there in my mentioning
to both the ladies the extraordinary coincidence?” said he. “It would
prepare them, at any rate, for other such coincidences--which will most
certainly arise in the future.”
And he tried to retreat.
“I can’t let you frighten my poor old mother, and worry Lady Jennings
to death,” she said imperiously. “I must speak to you. I can’t here of
course; but I must explain.”
Explanation was just what he wanted, and Gerard’s heart beat high at
the word.
“Shall I call--” he began.
She interrupted him by a shake of the head.
“No, no,” she said. “How can we talk before her? Let me see.” She took
out an engagement book from her carriage pocket, and glanced at it
reflectively.
“Will you meet me to-morrow somewhere and take me to tea?” she said.
“I shall be delighted.”
“I’ll get Lady Jennings to lend me the victoria to-morrow, and meet you
outside Lyons’ tea room at four. Will that do?”
She spoke with the air of an angry empress, cold, reserved, with a
suggestion of suppressed thunder in look and voice. Gerard went away in
a state of bewilderment impossible to describe.
Not only was he now quite sure that it was she whom he had seen in the
crowd, but he knew that she had the strongest possible objection to
its being known that she led a double life. He could not understand
it. If she had been a clever “sensational” journalist, with subjects
to work up by actual observation, as he had at first supposed, there
was no reason in the world why she should not have confessed the fact
to him. Although he was not an intimate friend of hers, she knew him
quite well enough for an ordinary girl to feel sure that he could be
trusted with a paltry little secret such as that. It was true that
she might naturally prefer to keep her own counsel to her friends on
such a point: old ladies would certainly feel nervous about such an
undertaking on the part of a handsome young girl as the passing under a
disguise.
But when she was found out, and by a man, surely common sense ought
to have suggested to her that confession was the only safe course! If
she had told him simply that she wore a disguise in the course of her
professional pursuits, and had begged him to keep her little secret,
she might have been sure of his delighted acquiescence, and of his
satisfaction in the thought that he knew something about her which she
wished to keep unknown to the world in general.
Considering the high level of her intelligence, Gerard was greatly
surprised and disturbed at her obstinacy.
But he told himself that she would certainly be more open on the
following day, and that she would tell him, if not all the truth, at
least enough to endeavor to engage his loyalty in keeping her secret.
Yet in spite of these reflections, Gerard felt that there was still
something ugly about what he had seen. That passing of the flashing
stone to an unknown man, and then the prompt disappearance of the two
persons! What was he to think of that? What would she say when he told
her, pointblank, as he meant to do, that that was what he saw?
There was all the time underlying his admiration for this beautiful,
spirited girl, a sickening horror of what might be in store for him
when he should learn all the truth. It was not, could not be possible
that she was a common thief, that the money she earned was made by
practices of absolute dishonesty. And yet, the longer he lingered
upon the circumstances, the more he thought about that interview with
Rachel that afternoon, the more he wondered whether there was something
horrible, something dishonorable about the whole affair.
That she was not a designer or artist he was by this time quite sure:
every circumstance confirmed him in his opinion. No artist worthy the
name can live long without a pencil in his hand; yet no one appeared
ever to have seen her at this mysterious work which brought in eight
hundred a year!
That notion then he took to be disposed of.
He had suggested to her that she was a journalist, and if she had been
one, common sense would have made her confess at once and add that she
did not wish the fact generally known.
What then was left? She could not possibly be on the stage without the
knowledge and consent of either Lady Jennings or her mother.
What other calling was open to her?
She had herself bewailed the fact that women can do so little, and that
so few callings were really open to them.
Yet here was she, admittedly without training in any direction, making
what must be a good income.
Gerard tormented himself all that day and the next by these and similar
thoughts, all leading in the same unpleasant and unwelcome direction.
The next day when he was waiting outside the tea room in Piccadilly, he
was in such a state of morbid excitement and harassed thought, that he
wished he had asked her to put off the appointment, to give him time
to find out, before seeing her again, what he wanted to know about her
mysterious way of life.
He had not to wait very long, for Rachel, being used to business
appointments, was punctual. He soon saw Lady Jennings’ victoria driving
up, and saw that Rachel herself, very quietly but well-dressed in
striped black and white silk, with black hat, black gloves, and a black
and white sunshade, was the sole occupant.
He helped her out of the carriage and saw that she looked rather
flushed, a fact which added to her beauty, and then he led her into the
tea room.
They were early, so they had their choice of a table, and seated
themselves near enough to the little orchestra for the music to help to
cover their conversation, which they knew was going to be serious.
It was some time, however, before Gerard dared to broach the subject
upon which Miss Davison had promised to enlighten him.
He could not very well say, “And now for an explanation!” but had to
wait her good pleasure.
Miss Davison, however, seemed to have forgotten the reason of their
meeting. She chatted gaily, ate buttered scones hungrily, saying that
she had been too hard at work to have any luncheon, and enjoyed herself
in looking about her, which she did with a certain keenness which was
not at all like the casual glance of the ordinary girl out to tea.
It was not until they had nearly finished tea, and when there was a
short silence, that Gerard dared to say--
“I have been thinking all night about our meeting yesterday, and about
what you said to me.”
He was nervous, agitated. Miss Davison clasped her hands, and turned to
him superbly--
“And what was that?” she asked.
But he would not be silenced like that. Gathering all his courage, he
said--
“You know you promised me an explanation of--of what I told you I
saw--that night--in front of Lord Chislehurst’s--in the crowd.”
“And what was that? Tell me exactly what you did see,” said she
imperiously.
And if she was disturbed she hid the fact very thoroughly indeed.
He hesitated, and then said steadily--
“I saw you--in a poor sort of dress, with a large, flopping black hat
bent out of shape and with a feather out of curl that hung over it and
shaded the eyes, standing alone--or you seemed to be alone, in the
crowd. Then I saw you hand something that flashed--I think,” he added,
bending forward to speak low and hurriedly, “it was diamonds or a
diamond--to a man, who took it from you. And then you disappeared, and
so did he, so completely that I did not see a trace of either of you
again.”
Miss Davison listened with an unmoved face.
“And what,” she said, when he had finished, as she put her elbows on
the table, still with her hands laced together, and looked at him with
a sort of scornful challenge, “did you think of that?”
Once more he hesitated. Then he said--
“I did not know what to think, Miss Davison.”
She smiled with the same superb scorn.
“Did you,” she asked majestically, as she looked at him through her
eyelashes with an air of ineffable contempt, “think I was a thief?”
The blood rushed to his cheeks.
“How can you ask me such a question?” he stammered.
“But,” persisted she, “I don’t know what else you can mean, if
you really saw what you say you did, and if you put upon it the
construction which anybody else would put.”
“You said,” he murmured, in a hoarse whisper, “that you would explain.”
“Well,” said she, “what do you want me to say? Do you want me to assure
you that I am not a thief?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you want me to say that it was not I you saw?”
He drew a long breath.
“You can’t say that,” he retorted passionately.
“Oh yes, I can, and I do,” said Rachel slowly. “Forgive me, Mr.
Buckland, if I’ve seemed to take this too lightly, but the truth is
that the whole affair is a desperately serious one for me. That girl
has roused suspicions in more people than one, and will again, I’m
afraid.”
“What girl?”
“The one you saw--my ‘double’--Maud Smith, as she calls herself, a
well-known thief.”
Gerard sat back and looked at her incredulously. Then he bent forward
again, and looking earnestly, entreatingly into her face, asked--
“Do you mean to tell me that the girl I saw that night was not you?”
“I can answer for that,” she said. “What should I be doing in a crowd
at that time of night--and picking pockets?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that!”
“Didn’t you? I think you implied it, though. You saw this girl pass
jewelry to another person. And then you saw no more of them. Is any
other explanation possible than that they were a couple of thieves?”
It seemed to him callous, horrible, for her to put his unspoken dread
into simple, straightforward speech. He shrank before her as she did so.
“I--I thought perhaps I was mistaken, and that--”
“But you were not,” she interrupted sharply. “It is the bane of my
life, that this girl, who is, I am sorry to say, a relation of mine--”
“A relation?”
“A near relation,” she repeated solemnly. “I say it is the greatest
trial I have to put up with that she should go about as she does, and
lead the dishonest career she does, and that the likeness between us
should be so strong that not you only, but two or three more of my
friends have seen her and have thought--what you thought,” she added
quickly.
He tried to look as if he believed her, but failed.
“And you say her name is Maud Smith?”
“No, I said she called herself so. Her real name, unfortunately, is
much more like mine. So far she has escaped detection and conviction,
though often only by the skin of her teeth. Until she is taken up and
convicted I suppose I shall be exposed constantly to the same annoyance
of having her mistaken for me.”
“But won’t it be a great scandal for the family?”
“Not necessarily. Her real name might not come out. But even if it did,
I think it would be better than for me to suffer the constant misery
of being mistaken myself for a pickpocket, and by people who ought to
know me better,” she ended with a flash of anger.
Gerard hung his head, but he could not feel very guilty.
“The resemblance is indeed extraordinary,” he murmured.
She shook her head with a bitter little laugh.
“I see you don’t believe it is only a resemblance,” she said. “Then
pray what do you think about it? At least I know. You must believe that
I pick pockets for a livelihood.”
“Miss Davison!”
“Well, what other explanation is possible?”
He sat back again, pained and uneasy.
“I wish,” he burst out suddenly, “that you would let me see you and
this girl--side by side.”
She smiled contemptuously.
“I see you don’t believe what I’ve told you,” she said.
“Frankly, I can’t.”
“You can’t believe that a face seen for a few moments--in a crowd--in
the darkness--surmounted by an old tawdry hat with a bedraggled
feather--was any other than mine?”
Gerard replied stoutly--
“Well, no I can’t. I could believe myself mistaken with regard to any
other person’s face. I could think I had let my imagination play tricks
with me; but not with your face.”
“Why not with mine?”
Their heads were close together, the music was playing, and there was
nobody near enough to hear. So he blurted out the words which he had
that morning thought it impossible that he should ever say to this
woman who charmed him, but tantalized him at the same time.
“Because I love you.”
“You love a pickpocket?”
“No, no, no.”
“But it’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
“No. I don’t believe your explanation; I can’t. But I don’t believe
either that you could be guilty of anything that was not absolutely
honorable and right. I’d rather believe that my own senses had betrayed
me than believe one word of anything but good about you.”
When he had once begun Gerard found himself fluent enough. He
would rather have expected, if he had left himself time to expect
anything, that Miss Davison would have affected to scoff at his abrupt
confession, and would have laughed at him and as it were brushed him
from her path with scorn, putting on airs of indignation that he should
dare to make a sort of accusation against her in one breath, and a
declaration of love to her the next.
But she did nothing of the sort. On the contrary, he saw her face
change, the muscles tremble, the head bend, and a tear glitter in her
eye.
“Thank you,” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I--I--we’d better go now,
I think. Lady--Lady Jennings--”
She did not finish her sentence, but rose from her chair, put out a
trembling hand for her sunshade, and began to walk up the long room.
When they were outside, Gerard, who was surprised and infinitely
distressed at the unexpected effect of his words upon her, said humbly--
“Are you very angry with me?”
“Yes,” said Miss Davison.
But her tone belied her words: it was gentle, soft, womanly, almost
tender.
He grew bolder.
“Not very angry, I think?” he suggested, as they stood in the gathering
crowd on the curbstone, neither quite sure what they were going to do
next.
“Yes, I’m very angry,” said she. “You’ve accused me of disgraceful
things, and then you’ve dared--”
“Well, what have I dared?” ventured he, seeing that the anger she
talked about was of the kind that usually melts on being challenged.
“Oh, don’t let us talk nonsense,” said Miss Davison.
“Is the carriage to meet you here? Or may I take you--”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere you want to go to.”
“I sent the victoria away,” she said, “to meet Lady Jennings, and I
don’t suppose it will come back for me.”
“Let me take you to see pictures, or something. Do.”
Something in her manner, in her tone, had suddenly made him forget
everything in the consciousness that she was not so indifferent as she
pretended. He felt that the explanation she had promised him having
turned out so unsatisfactorily, he had a right to a better one, and he
thought that, if she would only be coaxed into spending a little more
time in his society, he should get it.
She hesitated. Then she looked at her watch.
“It’s five o’clock,” she said. “We might fill up the time somehow till
seven, when I have to be home to get ready for dinner.”
Gerard hailed a hansom, and helped her in.
“Where are we going to?” asked she.
“To the park,” said he. “The part where the people aren’t, and where we
can talk.”
Bold as the speech was, he had been confident that it would meet with
no challenge.
And it did not.