At the end of a week Gerard received a letter addressed in a
hand-writing which he did not know, but which he felt sure was that of
Rachel Davison. The very envelope and note paper seemed, he thought, to
be characteristic of her.
The letter itself was very short.
“DEAR MR. BUCKLAND,--I have kept my word to you. I have tried, and I
have failed, as I said I should. Burn this, please.--RACHEL.”
Gerard looked long at the words, which seemed to burn into his brain.
He knew what misery of effort and failure they recorded. But he did not
comply with her command and burn the letter. He folded it carefully
again, and treasured it as he might have done a communication from a
dear friend. It seemed to him to be the knell of all his hopes.
But in spite of the despair with which the letter and his knowledge of
some of the facts of Rachel’s position inspired him, he did not cease
to think about her, and to wonder if there were no possible means of
freeing her from the unseen hands which were holding her prisoner. If
he had believed Denver to be an honorable man, he would have stifled
his own feelings, and would have found consolation in knowing that, by
marrying him, she would free herself at once from the thraldom in which
she was held.
But unhappily, he could not feel sure that Denver himself was honest,
and his memories of the day spent at the Priory were by no means of
a sort to leave upon his mind an impression of unmixed innocence and
bliss.
Was Denver one of the guiding spirits of a conspiracy, of which the man
with the white mustache was a member? And was Denver anxious to marry
Rachel in order to make stronger the bonds in which she was held?
Against this notion there stood out the remembrance of the rest of the
Van Santen family; his knowledge that the father was a man of wealth
and good repute; the mother a good creature incapable of guile; the
daughters charming women, of whom it was difficult to suspect anything
wrong; the two brothers indeed were not so satisfactory, but there
was this to be said of Denver, that he boasted openly of his skill at
cards, and was ready to challenge all comers. Of the plain-featured
Harry, with the hard, sunless smile, Gerard knew nothing. Whether he
won or lost at cards he did not talk about his luck, and his manner was
as quiet and reticent as that of his brother was swaggering and loud.
Somehow Gerard did not trust him the more on that account.
While Gerard was still smarting from the blow of Rachel’s letter, he
was much surprised on reaching home to his chambers one afternoon at
about five o’clock, to hear that a lady had called to see him, and not
finding him, had said that she would call again between five and six.
While he was still asking questions about this mysterious lady, with
certain absurd but undefined hopes in his heart, he was informed that
she had come back again, and there was ushered into his presence, to
his intense astonishment, the homely figure of Mrs. Van Santen.
He was so much surprised that for the moment he could scarcely greet
her. He at once guessed that she had something to tell which he should
not care to hear.
“You didn’t expect to see me, did you, Mr. Buckland? I guess you are
about as surprised as if the Empress of Morocco had looked in.”
“I didn’t expect this pleasure, certainly. It is all the greater,”
stammered Gerard, as he offered her a chair, and ordered some tea.
“No, don’t you trouble to get me any tea. I’ve had some,” said the good
lady, as she settled herself in his best arm-chair, and looked round
the room. “And so these are bachelor chambers, are they? And do you do
your own house-keeping, Mr. Buckland?”
“Some of it,” said Gerard, smiling. “Not always very successfully.”
“I wonder you don’t suit yourself with a wife, Mr. Buckland?”
“I’ve had thoughts of it sometimes. But on the whole--”
“They tell me,” and she suddenly turned upon him a pair of eyes which
he saw to be full of unexpected shrewdness, “that you had thoughts of
Miss Davison.”
He grew pale at the remark.
“Unfortunately she had no thoughts of me,” he said hurriedly.
“Ah!” Mrs. Van Santen bent forward, and stared intently into his face.
“There was something in it then? You know her well, this Miss Davison,
Mr. Buckland?”
What on earth was she going to ask him? Gerard, feeling that he should
be called upon to go through a trying ordeal, braced himself up to the
occasion.
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her at the house of several of my
friends.”
“You know her people too, I suppose?”
“Yes, I know her mother, her sister, and, as I’ve said, a good many
friends of hers.”
“Ah! And they’re good sort of people, satisfactory sort of people?
There, there, don’t get so red. I don’t mean to put you through a long
catechism. But the fact is, one of my sons has gone and fallen in love
with the girl, and I’m not quite sure I approve of it. I’m particular
about my sons. I want them to marry girls who will have a good
influence over them, and I’m not quite sure about this young woman.”
Gerard was aghast. He could see that the mother’s shrewdness had
fathomed the fact that there was some mystery about Miss Davison, and,
with the daring of an American, she had at once searched in the ranks
of her acquaintances for someone who would be likely to tell her all
she wanted to know about her proposed daughter-in-law. She had had
the wit to guess that Gerard, who was evidently in love with the girl
himself, would not be inclined to be too indulgent towards her, or
to paint her family or herself in too rosy colors to his successful
rival’s family.
Gerard did not know what to say. He felt quite sure that, whatever
might be the ugly truth about the bondage Rachel was in, she was quite
good enough for a man like Denver, a boastful, swaggering fellow,
fond of cards and of little else, and as obtrusive and bold in his
love-making as if he had been twenty times Rachel’s superior.
On the other hand, he shrank from telling a direct lie to this simple
and trusting woman, who had come to him in her doubts and fears to
learn the truth about her son’s future wife.
“Surely,” he said rather coldly, “your son is old enough and clever
enough to hold his own, and to be ready to influence his wife rather
than to be influenced by her.”
The old lady shook her head slowly.
“One might say so, if one knew the world less well than I do,” she said
shortly. “But a handsome wife can do a lot one way or the other with a
man.”
“What makes you think Miss Davison’s influence would be other than
good?” asked Gerard.
The old lady put her head on one side and looked at him keenly.
“Perhaps it’s a kind of instinct, as one may say,” said she. “Or
perhaps it’s something I’ve noticed and wondered at. She’s by way of
being a bit of a flirt, isn’t she now, Mr. Buckland? She’s been nice to
you, and nice to Denver, of course. And it seems to me she’s looked at
that young man Jones in a way that suggested that she’d been nice to
him too, though, mind you, she told us she’d never met him before he
came to our house. Now do you happen to know whether that was true or
not?”
The old lady had been sharp-eyed, and Gerard felt uneasy under her keen
glance.
He thought evasion of the point his best course.
“Who is Jones?” he asked innocently. “Have I met him? Do I know him?”
“He was at the Priory that day you came,” said Mrs. Van Santen. “A
quiet-looking young man with a black mustache.”
Now Gerard had some reason for believing that the young Van Santens
knew Cecil Jones as well as Rachel did, but he could not make this
suggestion to their innocent old mother. So he said--
“I remember; but I can tell you nothing about him, as it was the first
time I’d met him myself, and I haven’t seen him since.”
The old lady was watching him keenly. Evidently she was conscious that
something was not quite above-board in her surroundings; but Gerard,
while sympathizing with her strongly, felt that he could not betray his
own fears, lest he should bring suspicion upon Miss Davison.
He thought that the motherly body had perhaps been slowly waking to the
knowledge that her sons’ card-playing was excessive, and that she might
also have heard nasty things said about Denver’s unfailing luck. She
seemed rather disappointed that she could not learn more from him.
“Now as to this Miss Davison,” she went on, in a grumbling tone, “of
course she’s very good-looking and all that, and dresses in style, and
carries herself like a queen; but I should like to meet her mother, and
the girl doesn’t seem to want to let us meet. Do you know all about the
old lady? And her family?”
“I know the mother is the widow of an officer who had rather a
distinguished career, and that the family is a good one, several
members of it holding high posts in the army and navy, especially the
army.”
The old lady nodded dubiously.
“I should like to see some of these grand relations,” she said at last,
rather sharply. “We’re good enough for ladies with titles to call upon;
I should have thought we were good enough for these Davisons!”
“Oh, there’s no suspicion of that sort of thing about them,” said
Gerard hastily. “Mrs. Davison is the mildest and gentlest of elderly
ladies, and she would be very shy, I think, if she were to find herself
in such a merry crowd as that you had at the Priory the Sunday I was
there.”
“Why don’t she live with her daughter?” asked Mrs. Van Santen
aggressively.
“Miss Davison has to live in London, on account of her work. It doesn’t
agree with her mother.”
“H’m! That place agrees with most mothers that agrees with their young
daughters,” said she dryly. “And as for Miss Davison’s work, she’s
having a good long holiday, I guess, just now!”
“Doesn’t she come backwards and forwards to town from the Priory?”
“Oh, yes, she does, now and then; but she must be clever if she can do
much work during the short time she’s away! However, I won’t take up
your time, Mr. Buckland, if you’re busy. I’m sorry you can’t say more
to set my mind at rest about the girl. But, anyhow, I hope you’ll come
down and see us again. We’re always glad to see our friends, you know,
and there’s generally a good many of them down there, and we give them
a good time, as you know. Good-bye.”
She shook hands with him and went away, refusing to let him accompany
her as far as the door, where she said that she had a cab waiting.
Her visit made Gerard uneasy, as it confirmed some of his fears. He
felt little doubt that the mother was anxious about her sons’ gambling
propensities, and that her sharp eyes had discovered that there was
some mystery about the woman whom she, at least, looked upon as her
younger son’s fiancée.
The visit of the old lady left him in a state of great confusion of
mind. He did not know quite how things stood at the Priory, whether
the engagement was definite, in spite of Rachel’s promise, or whether
she was waiting, as she had said she would do, for Mr. Van Santen’s
appearance.
And he could not tell how much Mrs. Van Santen really knew about
Miss Davison, and whether she was concealing the full extent of her
suspicions, in order to learn more if she could.
He wished that he could get another opportunity of conversing with
Rachel herself; and he resolved, in spite of his knowledge that he
would find the experience a trying one, upon going down to the Priory
again, as Mrs. Van Santen had invited him to do, on the very next
Sunday.
The weather had changed since his last visit; the evenings had become
chilly; and the card-playing was carried on with more zest than ever in
consequence.
Otherwise the essential features of the hospitality offered were the
same. Cora sang; Delia went from group to group, with ready tact and
charm smoothing over gaps in the conversation, and introducing to each
other such people as she thought would find each other’s conversation
congenial. Mrs. Van Santen was the same homely, dear old soul as
ever, pouring out tea and coffee with energy, and plaintively telling
her sons she wished they had something better to do than play cards
morning, noon, and night. While the brothers played poker and bridge
assiduously, and Rachel, as handsomely dressed as ever, but with a
face paler than before, took rather a background position, and seemed
listless and languid, and anxious to avoid Gerard.
Arthur Aldington was there, but Cecil Jones was not. And the time
passed much as it had passed on the occasion of Gerard’s last visit
until quite late in the evening, when suddenly, while Gerard was
sitting in the music-room, with Arthur, listening to Cora’s exquisite
singing, a man’s voice rang out through the adjoining room, and that in
which they were, from the room devoted to card-playing, which was the
furthest away of all.
“I say that you’re not playing fair! I say that I’ve been cheated!”
It was the voice of Sir William Gurdon, and upon the last word they all
heard his fist come down with a loud crash upon the table.