"Not sent!"
Miss Clifford laid down the comb she was using and turned upon her
nephew a face of bewilderment.
"No, it wasn't sent."
"But that's impossible; it must have been."
"It wasn't. There's no record of it."
"Oh, there is some mistake. Why, Thérèse herself ..."
Her voice trailed off; she stared before her in a puzzled fashion.
Then reluctantly her eyes met the young man's.
"Then you think," she said hesitatingly, "that she didn't send it after
all?"
"There's no question about it; I know she didn't."
The old lady shook her head slowly, utterly perplexed.
"But why? I can't see the least sense in it."
Roger sank upon the Chesterfield sofa and pushed his hair back from his
forehead.
"Why? Because she didn't want me to come, I suppose. Of course, you
must realise that Thérèse isn't fond of me."
"But even so, it's so--so stupid! You were sure to hear about your
father sooner or later."
"Yes. I should think she merely meant to postpone it a little. I have
figured it out like this: she dislikes to have me here, so she omitted
to send that cable in order to put off my knowing the old man was ill.
Not hearing from me, in a few days you'd cable again. Then I should
wire back to ask if there was any necessity of my coming over, she
would show the message to Father, knowing perfectly well he would
insist on my staying to finish up the business. She knows he would
have to be in the last extremity before he'd be willing for me to quit
in the middle of a big job. In the end the chances were I'd not have
to come at all. Do you see?"
His aunt picked up the comb again and carefully smoothed her front hair.
"It sounds very complicated. Do you suppose she reasoned all that out
and was prepared to take so much trouble to keep you away?"
"I do," he said simply, and lit a cigarette.
"It's hard to believe. And yet... Roger, why is it Thérèse dislikes
you?"
He got up and strolled about aimlessly.
"Ask me another," he replied lightly, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"You've never quarrelled?"
"Oh, no, certainly not!"
He had no intention of revealing that hidden episode. After a moment,
seeing the troubled look on his aunt's face, he put his arm around her
ample waist.
"I'm sorry I mentioned the beastly matter, Dido, honestly I am! Don't
attach too much importance to what I've said. We all have our little
peculiarities, and I just happened to stumble on one of Thérèse's,
that's all. She doesn't mean any harm. Stand up and let me look at
you. Is that a new gown?"
It evidently was, as her frank pleasure showed. She added a long
string of tortoiseshell beads which Roger had given her on his last
visit, and surveyed the effect in the glass, thinking what a long time
it was since anyone had admired her appearance.
"My dear," she said after a pause, "I think perhaps I ought to tell
Thérèse about that cable, and give her the chance to explain."
"Don't," commanded her nephew quickly. "She can only say one of two
things--either that she forgot it, or else she'll swear she sent it and
blame the cable office. In either event we sha'n't believe her, and
the result will create an unpleasant atmosphere. Better let it drop."
"I suppose you're right," sighed his aunt. "Only it makes me
uncomfortable."
"It would make us much more uncomfortable to have Thérèse in one of her
sulky moods, especially with strangers in the house. I don't care
about the doctor chap, he doesn't appear very sensitive, but that
little day-nurse, for instance..."
"She is nice, isn't she? Of course she is a lady. I realised that the
moment I saw her. I recall now that she was in the room when I told
Thérèse you were coming, and although she made no sign I'm sure she
noticed how upset Thérèse was. I felt humiliated."
"Oh, so Thérèse was upset, was she?" mused Roger, pondering this
confirmation of his theory. "I wonder what your little nurse thinks of
her?"
"Oh, Thérèse is charming to both nurses. The night-nurse, who has been
here from the beginning, would do anything for her. She is always
saying how lovely she is."
"Oh well!"--he yawned and gave a lazy stretch--"that's all to the good.
I'm glad. I have an impression that the little Canadian girl is a
pretty good judge of character, for all she looks so young and
innocent."
Quitting his aunt's room, he sauntered in the direction of his own. He
was fairly satisfied with the explanation he had evolved regarding the
cable. He alone knew the extent to which Thérèse hated having him
under the same roof with her. Outwardly she was cordial enough, but he
realised that he must be a thorn in the flesh to her, although he had
never had reason to believe she would take so definite a step to keep
him away from Cannes. How furious she must have been at the shipwreck
of her little plan!
He laughed aloud, so absorbed in the mental picture of her chagrin,
that he collided with a dapper young man in a dinner jacket at that
moment about to enter Thérèse's sitting-room. Pulling up short, he
looked to see who it was who made so free of the house, and,
simultaneously, the visitor wheeled round with an expression of
nonchalant arrogance.
"Holliday!"
"Ah, it's you, Clifford!"
The greeting, though not exactly unfriendly, lacked warmth on both
sides.
"I heard over the telephone you were expected. How's the great New
World?"
"Oh, flourishing. I suppose you're dining here?"
"Why, no. As a matter of fact, I thought of taking Thérèse out
somewhere. She's a bit frayed out, poor girl; she thought it might
help her to sleep if she got away for a couple of hours. Rotten shame
about your father. Typhoid's no joke at his time of life."
"Still, he seems to be going on fairly well."
"So I hear. I've been having a chat with Sartorius. He's by way of
being a pal of mine, you know."
"Yes, my aunt tells me he did great things for you."
"Great!"--with a short laugh--"I should think he did. You didn't see
me at that time, did you? I was just about to 'pass in my checks,' as
your Yankee friends would say. He's a wizard, that's what he is.
Never will be a fashionable physician, not enough ambition. Well,
cheerio. I shall be seeing you soon no doubt."
He disappeared into the boudoir and closed the door. Roger continued
thoughtfully across the landing. Resentment stirred in him at the cool
manner in which Arthur Holliday came upstairs unannounced and went into
rooms without knocking. Not that he cared on his stepmother's account,
but it seemed to him an indignity to his father, an old man, belonging
to another and more formal generation. It was evidence of a vulgar
streak in Thérèse that she should permit such familiarities, whatever
her relations with Holliday might be. He was glad that his
simple-minded aunt appeared to remain in the dark about an affair which
was plainly apparent to him, had been so a year ago. Probably by now
Thérèse had completely lost her head over the casual Arthur, who on his
side would never lose his head over any woman.
"Odd, that boy's success with women," he reflected a moment later as he
turned on his bath. "He makes no effort whatever, yet they all pursue
him. Since he was a youngster he has always had some woman hanging
around his neck, usually a rich one."
Here a sudden thought came to him.
"By George! I wonder if Thérèse has been taking care of him all this
time? Funny not to think of it before. I suppose it never occurred to
me such a thing could happen where the old man's money was concerned,
and yet he is old, and--damn it all, that would account for her
consuming rage when he put her on short commons. I'd give something to
know if that baccarat story is true."
The speculation engrossed him until the bath was full; then, lying in
the warm water, he ceased to concern himself with his stepmother's
affairs and gave himself up to sheer exultation at the prospect of the
month of idleness before him. Since October he had worked with every
atom of brain energy he possessed; now he could revel in his holiday,
knowing he had earned it. He thought of tennis, of motoring to Monte
Carlo, of dining and dancing afterwards, provided he could find a girl
he liked. Somehow, as this idea occurred to him, he had a mental
"flash-back" of the little nurse, more particularly of her slender legs
and ankles as she had hurried along the passage that morning. There
was a girl, now, who looked as if she knew how to enjoy things. Why
should not he ask her to come out with him one evening to sample a
little of the night-life of Cannes? He felt that with her as a
companion the usual round would have twice its savour.
Esther came out of Sir Charles's room just as Captain Holliday issued
from the adjoining apartment, with the result that they met face to
face in the hall. She was about to pass after a formal greeting, but
he, bestowing on her a perfunctory salutation, suddenly came a step
nearer and stared at her so pointedly that she stopped, thinking he
must have something to say.
"So you've taken on this job, have you?" he remarked tentatively, his
eyes boring into hers. "You know, I've never been satisfied with that
story of yours about my seeing you--where was it you said?--at the
Carlton."
"I said I saw you there. Perhaps it wasn't where you saw me," she
replied simply.
"Anyhow, it's not the occasion I mean. I've seen you somewhere else,
in different circumstances ... not that it matters a damn, but..."
"But it makes conversation," she finished the sentence for him,
laughing.
"If you hadn't that thing on your head, now," he suggested seriously,
"I might be able to recall where it was."
With a quick gesture she whipped off her white coif. Her bronze hair
ruffled up all over her head in a shining crop of short curls. She put
up her hands to tidy the mass, enduring his exploring gaze with a
twinkle in her eyes, perfectly sure the alteration in her appearance
would not help him, since on that other occasion she had worn a hat.
After a close scrutiny he slowly shook his head.
"I can't get it," he admitted reluctantly. "But I shall one day."
"Let me know when you do," she bade him with irony.
"I will."
Still he did not move, and his shallow eyes held her. Into them had
crept what she knew to be admiration, though of a lazy and indifferent
sort. Without knowing why, for the second time that day--or was it the
third?--she felt the blood rise in a wave to her cheeks. How silly,
this facile blushing! She was angry with herself. It was not as if
she were really embarrassed or confused, it came simply from that kind
of physical sensitiveness which causes the closing of leaves in those
plants we call "touch-me-not."
At this precise instant Roger, ready for dinner, came out on to the
landing. What he saw was the young nurse, her head uncovered and
blushing as she had that morning blushed for him, her eyes upraised
with a provocative sparkle in them, standing close to Holliday, who was
staring at her with unnecessary intentness, a grudging smile just
beginning to stir the corners of his mouth.
Involuntarily Roger halted, conscious of an acute displeasure at the
sight before him, a feeling compounded of resentment towards Holliday,
whom he regarded as a puppy, and a sort of hurt disappointment in the
girl. Was she, too, one of the many women who fell victims to Arthur's
charm? He had thought better of her.
Whatever the situation, his appearance put an end to it. He saw the
nurse's slender, capable fingers replace the cap, watched her smooth
the tendrils of her hair at the sides. She was demure once more,
utterly seemly, and the sly glance she shot him conveyed the hint that
she might, perhaps, admit him into the joke. He felt inclined to
modify his judgment and give her the benefit of the doubt. "Probably,"
he heard her remark to Holliday, "you've got me confused with someone
else. I've only been a very short time in Cannes."
A door opened: they all looked around to discover Lady Clifford,
attired for the evening. The vision took Esther's breath. She was
reminded of what the spinster from Chester had said about the fair
Thérèse being "like something on the films." The Frenchwoman was
wrapped in a chinchilla cloak, caught about her with a grace Esther
felt she could never emulate, even granting the chinchilla cloak.
There was a revelation of apple-green and silver beneath, of white
skin, pearls, and the flash of an immense diamond brooch. Held high
gleamed the impeccable golden head, one of those flawless marvels of
our time. Thérèse looked radiant, younger than Esther had yet seen
her. Her grey eyes, rayed round with black lashes, shone like stars.
There was a sort of cold purity about her that dazzled.
"Ready?"
Holliday's voice sounded as nonchalant as ever. Glancing at him,
Esther felt amazement that he could accept all this supreme feast of a
woman's beauty without so much as the flicker of an eyelash. Roger,
too, appeared unimpressed. What were the two men made of?
"Have I kept you long?"
Something slightly sharp in the tone caused Esther to turn back towards
Lady Clifford. She was astonished to see that the grey eyes had
narrowed a little and were searching her own face, even while the
question was addressed to her escort.
"No, I've been having a chat with Miss Rowe," replied the young man
negligently, and as he spoke, he turned to Esther and smiled, a
sophisticated smile, holding the hint of conspiracy.
She wished he had not done that. It called up an expression on Lady
Clifford's face which there was now no mistaking. Heavens! Could it
be possible that this transcendently lovely creature was able to feel
even the tiniest bit jealous of her? It was incredible--and yet her
instinct assured her it was so. She felt all at once that she had a
good deal to learn. Days later, looking back, she thought that Lady
Clifford's manner towards her altered from this exact moment.
Roger, too, saw that glance, momentary though it was. It struck him
that Arthur was very clever; he never let any woman be too sure of his
affections. As this thought came to him, Thérèse turned in his
direction with a little wistful, appealing manner that she sometimes
had.
"Will you forgive me for running away on your first evening here?" she
asked sweetly. "I think perhaps a little change of scene will quiet my
nerves a bit. _Au revoir, mon cher--à domain_."
She kissed the tips of her fingers to him and moved slowly down the
stairs, followed by her indifferent swain. When the front door banged
Roger spoke:
"Then you've met that fellow before?"
For the life of him he didn't know why he said "that fellow."
"He came to lunch at the doctor's one day," Esther informed him, then
added with a reminiscent and faintly malicious smile: "He thinks he has
seen me before, and it bothers him."
"Has he?" demanded Roger bluntly.
"Yes, but he can't recall where, and I'm not going to tell him. As a
matter of fact, it was at the Restaurant des Ambassadeurs. I was
sitting at the table next to him one afternoon."
"Oh, I see!"
Somehow this explanation was very agreeable to Roger's ruffled
sensibilities.
"Coming down to dinner?" he inquired, feeling a glow of regret at
having misjudged her.
"Yes, but I want to make a quick change first."
"I'll wait for you."
He didn't know why he said that either. It came out unbidden.
Ridiculous, the interest he was taking in this girl, whom he had not
set eyes on before this morning. Yet there it was, he felt a distinct
desire for her company and a longing to know if he could again inspire
that sudden blush. It still irked him to think she had been able to
blush for Holliday; the little beast was not worth it.
Lighting a cigarette, he strolled to the window at the end of the hall
near his own door and, parting the curtains, looked out. Through the
black fretwork of the acacias showed the thin crescent of the new moon,
clean and sharp as a knife-blade. He made a wry face. He had seen the
new moon through both trees and glass!
"It's a good thing I'm not superstitious," he reflected; yet for all
his avowal he was conscious of a sudden qualm, which irritated him.
A heavy, inelastic step creaked across the floor behind him. Turning,
he found Dr. Sartorius beside him. The gravity of the large face, with
its bald, slanting forehead and small lightish eyes, slightly alarmed
him.
"Is anything wrong, doctor?" he asked quickly.
"No, no, nothing at all. I merely promised to tell you that your
father would like you to attend to a small matter for him in the
morning before you go out. I believe he wants you to open his safe and
get out the copy of his will which is there."
"His will?" repeated Roger, slightly dismayed.
"There is no reason for alarm. He appears anxious to refresh his
memory, that is all. It seems better to humour him. I fancy there is
some point he would like to discuss with you."
"Very well, I'll come in the first thing after breakfast."
In spite of himself the thought took root that the old man believed he
was going to die.