It was on the very last day of July, when the season had come to an
end, and streams of luggage-laden cabs were flowing in the direction of
all the great railway stations, that Gerard kept the engagement he had
made with Lady Jennings, and arrived at her house in time for dinner.
During the days which had elapsed since the luncheon at her house, and
his pursuit of Miss Davison and the mysterious white-haired man, Gerard
had seen and heard nothing whatever of the girl, and had indeed done
his best to think of other things, and to push her image out of the
unduly prominent position which it had occupied in his mind if not in
his heart.
The attempt had been, of course, unsuccessful. And it was with the
strongest possible feelings of passionate interest, and in a state of
keen excitement, that he presented himself again at the house of her
old friend and protectress, and found his heart beating high at the
thought of seeing her again.
Lady Jennings, however, came into the drawing-room alone, and though
three or four other guests came in almost immediately, Miss Davison
did not appear.
Gerard’s spirits sank when the gong sounded, and they all went down to
dinner, and he saw, with dismay, that all the places were filled, and
that the woman in whom his thoughts were centered was absent from the
circle.
No explanation of her absence was asked for by anybody.
He was so depressed that, although he of course took his share in the
general conversation and exerted himself to appear unmoved by his
disappointment, he felt sure that his hostess noticed it. When she and
the other ladies left the room, he asked the oldest of the men present,
who was a constant visitor at the house, what had become of Lady
Jennings’ young friend and protégée.
“Oh, haven’t you heard? There’s been a split, I believe, a
misunderstanding, quarrel, or something serious of that sort. I don’t
know the details myself, and I can’t find out more than that. But Lady
Jennings is very sensitive about it, and will not broach the subject
with anybody, while one gets snubbed if one starts it oneself.”
Gerard was on thorns.
“When did it happen?” he asked quickly.
“I don’t know exactly; but it was within the last few days. One by one
her friends, as they called, found Miss Davison missing, and gradually
so much has leaked out, and no more. So be warned.”
But Gerard could not accept the warning; he did not care two straws
about Lady Jennings’ anger, compared with Rachel’s fate. And he had
already decided to ask his hostess direct what had become of her young
companion.
In the meantime the gloomiest doubts and forebodings filled his heart.
Even that latest adventure with her had not cured the longings he
felt for a sight of her, for a touch of her hand, for a look into
those beautiful, mournful, enigmatic eyes, which had stirred him as no
woman’s eyes had ever done before.
He made an opportunity of approaching Lady Jennings, and at once, in
defiance of the warning he had received, asked where Rachel was, and
whether she had consented to take a holiday.
The old lady’s face hardened, and her manner grew cold as she answered--
“I don’t know what has become of her, Mr. Buckland; I have broken off
the acquaintance.”
“Is it indiscreet to ask on what grounds?” asked Gerard steadily.
“Well, yes, I should say it is indiscreet, decidedly. But as I know you
take an interest in the girl, I’ll tell you the reason. She has formed
an acquaintance with some people of whom I don’t approve--Americans.”
Gerard looked surprised. He knew that he had met several charming
Americans at the house. The old lady perceived his bewilderment.
“Oh, I don’t object to these Van Santens because they’re Americans,”
she explained; “but because they are a type of Americans whom I
dislike, and of whom I disapprove.”
Gerard had heard the name of Van Santen and knew that these people had
made some sort of stir in certain circles during the past season by
novel and tasteful entertainments, which had earned them the way into a
good “set.”
“I don’t know them,” he said; “but I know some people who do, and who
find them very charming.”
“I’ve no doubt,” retorted the old lady icily; “but I am old-fashioned,
and these Sunday bridge-parties which they give down at a place they
have hired in Hertfordshire are things of which I strongly disapprove.
I don’t like the thing, to start with, and I don’t like the way it is
done, as far as I have heard anything of it.”
“I’m sorry to hear there has been a rupture between you and Miss
Davison upon such an unimportant matter.”
“Oh, it is important in my eyes, though I daresay some people might
think me too strict. But, as you must know, we have been getting
on so much less well together for some time, that a comparatively
small thing was able to complete the separation. We won’t refer
to it further, please. I will only say this, that my quarrel, or
disagreement--whatever you like to call it--with the elder sister,
will not prevent my doing what I can for the younger. And I hope that
Rachel’s absence from my house will not cause you to forsake it, Mr.
Buckland.”
Of course Gerard protested that it would not, and equally of course he
knew in his own heart that he would never care to come near the place
again. He cherished quite an unreasonable resentment, indeed, against
the old lady, for what he felt to be an unjustifiable desertion of
Rachel in her hour of need; and this in spite of his knowledge that
Rachel was one of those difficult persons to deal with who make their
own troubles, and persist in their own chosen line of conduct in
defiance of the will and wishes of anybody.
The evening was a dull and tiresome one for him, and when he got to his
rooms that night he spent two or three hours in deep thought on the
subject of Rachel, and was surprised and ill pleased to find how deeply
he felt the disappointment at not having seen her.
He remembered where he had heard talk about the Van Santens, the lively
and charming Americans who had supplied a fresh zest that year to the
entertainments of London society. It was at the Aldingtons’ that he had
heard the family discussed, and Arthur Aldington had been quite proud
of being invited to their house, as the Americans had found open to
them the doors of many houses which would have been rigidly closed to
English people of the standing which the Van Santens occupied in their
native country.
So on the following Sunday he went down to the Aldingtons’ house on the
river, where they spent the summer months, and found out all he could
about this American family of whom Lady Jennings disapproved.
Arthur was delighted to talk about them, and expatiated upon the
superior charm of American over English girls, and especially about the
dainty beauty and grace of Cora Van Santen, who, he said, was quite the
most charming girl he had met in London that season.
“Would you like to know them?” asked Arthur, quite proud to introduce
his handsome friend among his new and smart acquaintances. “If so,
I’ll take you down in the car one Sunday. They keep open house on
Sunday always, whether in town or in the country; and I have a general
invitation, and can bring a friend when I like.”
Gerard caught at the chance of seeing these people, and of deciding
whether Lady Jennings could have any serious complaint to make against
them, or whether, as he thought more likely, she had merely made use
of them as an excuse for breaking the relationship with the young
protégée who had offended her by her erratic ways.
The two young men went down the very next Sunday to the Priory, which
proved to be a very much modernized old house, which the Americans had
rented furnished from an English baronet.
It was a charming old place; and although these newly arrived rich
people had brought down with them from town, and even across with them
from New York, certain novelties necessary to their comfort, they had
had discretion enough to avoid swamping the old with the new so that
the house presented an appearance of refined comfort and luxury most
attractive to the eye.
The family consisted of five persons, and the first thing that Gerard,
who had grown keen in observation of late, noted about them was that
they all represented different types in form and feature.
Delia, the eldest girl, was what Arthur Aldington irreverently called
the nut-cracker type, and was a showy, tall woman, some thirty years of
age, vivacious, talkative, and amusing.
Cora, the younger girl, was much shorter, and was a dainty, pale girl
of twenty-five, who dressed with studied simplicity, and sang with
great charm and sweetness. Indeed, her voice was one of the family
assets, and being well trained, had been one of the most valuable aids
in the family rise to the enviable position they already occupied in
English society.
The mother was a dry, quiet American woman, very shy and watchful, as
if not quite sure of herself among her motley brood.
The rest of the family consisted of two old-young men, whose age seemed
to be greater than would have been expected in the brothers of the
girls, but who were supposed to be sons by a former wife of the head of
the family, Mr. Van Santen, who was shortly expected from America.
Neither was like the sisters; the one being withered and bent, with
long teeth and a curious hard smile, while the younger of the two was
a tall, rather good-looking man with a little fair mustache which he
appeared to have only recently grown, a deep voice and a genial and
almost homely manner.
The group was an interesting one, yet there was something about this
household which Gerard did not like--a strange, unwholesome atmosphere.
The afternoon was not far advanced when two parties were formed for
bridge-playing, and a third for poker. Gerard did not play, but he kept
his eyes open while the play went on, and listened, entranced, when
Cora sang for the guests.
Her beautiful voice, indeed distracted some of the card-players,
although they were in two of the suite of drawing-rooms opening on the
terrace, and she was in the third.
Gerard thought he had never heard any voice so sweet as that of this
pale girl with the washed-out blue eyes, and the soft, colorless
hair brushed straight back in a high full roll from her forehead. As
he stood at the piano, while her mother played her accompaniments, he
thought, looking at her slender figure, with her hands clasped behind
her and her plain white muslin dress falling in full folds round her,
without any other ornament than a wide white satin sash, that she made
a most charming picture against the background of old tapestry which
was one of the attractions of the music-room.
He was still listening enraptured to her singing of an old ballad which
he had never admired before, when Arthur Aldington and another young
fellow who had been playing cards all the afternoon came to join him on
the terrace.
“I’m cleaned out,” said Arthur. “This singing is beautiful but it
doesn’t go well with card-playing. I’m not the only man who has quite
lost his head between the two. Card-playing for high stakes and lovely
music don’t go well together.”
Gerard listened with attention. The very same idea had entered his
own head some time ago, and he wondered how any of the men could keep
their attention sufficiently fixed on the cards to play either poker or
bridge within hearing of Miss Cora Van Santen.
“That’s just what I should have thought,” said he.
“Of course her two brothers, who are used to the music can keep their
heads,” went on Arthur, who rather resented the inroads which the
afternoon’s play had made in his allowance; “so they made money, while
we lost it.”
Innocently as this was said, the speech struck an unpleasant note in
the mind of Gerard, who had grown much more suspicious of late than
he was by nature inclined to be. He was pondering the words, when
presently he heard Arthur’s voice, behind him, saying with surprise and
delight--
“What, you here! I am pleased to meet you. Are you staying here, then?”
“Yes, I’m staying here,” answered a voice which Gerard recognized.
And, in vague horror, he turned to find that this guest at the house of
the Van Santens was no other than Rachel Davison. There was a mutual
look of alarm in the eyes of the girl and Gerard as he turned sharply
and found himself face to face with her.