With one accord they peered up the dim well of the staircase. On the
floor above, leaning over the rail, one hand clutching an army
revolver, was a dishevelled young man, his hair tousled, his eyes
swollen with sleep. He was clad in orange-striped silk pyjamas open at
the neck, and even as he scowled darkly on the intruders below he
stifled a capacious yawn. Although his face was in shadow there seemed
something familiar about him. However, before anything had been said
on either side, the belligerence faded from the young man's manner, his
attitude altered, and he gave vent to a lazy chuckle, as with his free
hand he fastened the top button of his sleeping attire and smoothed
back his hair.
"Good God, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed. "I'd no idea; I thought
it was burglars."
In a flash Esther saw that it was Captain Holliday. Roger also
recognised him, and gave a nod, needlessly curt, Esther thought. After
all, there was no good being indignant with the man for using profanity
a moment ago when he could have had no knowledge that there was a woman
present.
"We didn't dream anybody was here," Esther explained quickly. "We came
to fetch something I left behind. I had a key, so we let ourselves in."
"Oh, I see! I woke up wondering who the hell was roaming about down
there. I knew it couldn't be Jacques; he's off for a couple of days.
I just roused up sufficiently to get my gun." He tossed the revolver
lightly into the air and caught it again. "I'm hanging out here
looking after things while Sartorius is away," he added, running his
fingers over his unshaven chin.
"Well, we won't interrupt your siesta any longer," Roger returned,
moving towards the front door and drawing Esther with him.
"Siesta! That's a good one. This is my first appearance to-day, old
man. I say, if you hold on a minute, I'll shake you up a side-car. I
feel inclined for one myself."
"No, thanks."
"No?" and the captain yawned again. "Then cheerio!"
The door slammed behind them, they descended the steps and got into the
car without speaking. Esther could not see why her companion appeared
to be so much annoyed. She stole a glance at him, and saw that his
mouth had taken on a grim line that made him more than ever like his
father, while his eyes were bleak and steely. An Englishman might have
said that this was the Lancashire coming out in him.
"Think of anyone being able to sleep like that!" she ventured, laughing
a little. "Why, it's nearly five o'clock. He must have been up all
night."
She had not meant to say exactly that, on account of what was in her
secret thoughts, but she was glad to see her friend's severe expression
relax a little.
"Ah, that's the advantage of a care-free life," he remarked lightly.
"But doesn't he ever do anything?--any work, I mean?"
"Not that I know of, but I lost track of him after the war and only ran
into him again about a year ago."
"He was in the air service, wasn't he?"
"Yes; he was at Marlborough with my brother, and the two of them went
into the Flying Corps together as boys of eighteen. Malcolm was
killed, and Arthur nearly so--he was in five or six bad smashes. He
always had plenty of courage, a fine record for bravery. The old man
has never forgotten that, nor the fact that he was Malcolm's friend."
"So that's how you came to know him?" mused Esther reflectively. "I'm
glad to find out. He interests me rather."
"Does he, indeed!"
She was gazing thoughtfully at the road ahead, oblivious of the quick,
faintly suspicious glance he bent upon her.
"Yes," she said slowly. "Merely, I suppose, because he is a new type
for me. He's not in the least what I should ever have considered a
lady's man, much too hard and indifferent, and yet I can see that he is
extremely attractive."
"So you can see that, can you?"
"Oh, certainly! I can feel his charm myself, in a sort of way."
She failed to add that Holliday was not the style of man she
particularly admired, partly because she was too busy thinking of Lady
Clifford and the very evident fascination he possessed for her. She
did not realise how long she sat absorbed in her speculations, and
still less had she any idea that the man beside her was for the second
time wondering if she, too, had fallen under the casual Arthur's spell,
and reflecting regretfully that he could not well disillusion her
without appearing caddish.
"It seems a bit of a come-down for him to be living in this comparative
obscurity," he observed, half to himself. "I daresay he's comfortable
enough, still, after the Ritzes and the Carltons..."
"I heard him tell the doctor a fortnight ago that he was absolutely
stony, so I suppose that accounts for it. He was going to sell his
car."
"Oh, I see!"
Indeed, Roger saw more than he would have cared to disclose. He felt
nearly sure now of what he had at first only dimly suspected, namely,
that Thérèse had been supplying Arthur with funds. He could comprehend
now his stepmother's rage at being summarily cut down, as clearly as he
understood the reasons back of Holliday's projected removal to the
Argentine. The conclusions he was coming to appeared to him sordid and
humiliating. He hoped his father had no suspicion of the truth.
They had reached the Villa Firenze; the car purred up the gravel drive
under the curving branches of the acacias.
"I'm glad you asked me to come," Esther said sincerely as she alighted.
"I feel like another person."
"So do I."
He looked at her gravely and for a longer space than the occasion
demanded. Again there was the sense of pleasant confusion within her
as she raced up the stairs to her room, a smile played about her lips,
her pulse beat quickly. She had forgotten the matter that had been in
her thoughts ever since she had entered the doctor's dining-room, but
once she had closed her door it came back to her. That cigarette-tip
with its scarlet edge uncurled--had her companion associated it with
anyone in particular? She wondered. Opening her bag, she shook out
the tiny hairpin she had picked up off the floor. So few hairpins were
used at all these days of shingled heads ... yet she had recently seen
one identical with this. It was Lady Clifford who used it to anchor
into position her big wavy lock of hair.
"She was there last night, I am sure of it," Esther said to herself as
she threw off her hat and coat. "It was quite safe, Jacques was away.
I'm the only person who knows, and that by the merest accident....
Well, it's just as well for her it isn't some malicious person. She's
all right in my hands."
How odd it seemed to think that she, a stranger, should know more about
Lady Clifford than her own family! Or perhaps it wasn't so strange
after all. One's family was often the last to know things, its
ignorance was proverbial. She felt a sudden wave of pity for the old
man, lying ill and unsuspecting.
When she slipped back into Sir Charles's room, she found Miss Clifford
in a chair by the window, knitting.
"He's just waked up," she said, rising and coming towards her. "You've
had a good nap, haven't you, Charlie?"
"Oh, yes, once I managed to get to sleep. Thérèse would keep coming in
and fidgeting around my pillow; she can't seem to let me alone."
"She does so want to be useful, poor child," the old lady made excuse
gently. "You can't blame her if she doesn't know much about nursing.
I finally insisted on her going and lying down. I thought she looked
very tired, as though she hadn't slept well."
Esther felt annoyed, particularly after what the doctor had said about
trying to keep Lady Clifford out of the room.
"I hope I haven't stayed out too long," she said with compunction,
glancing at her watch.
"Not a bit of it. You must get fresh air. I hope you'll go often with
my nephew; it is good for him too. I'll go and get my tea now. You'll
be wanting yours, too, no doubt," and with a kindly pat on Esther's
shoulder she quitted the room.
"Is my son coming in after tea, nurse?" inquired the old man feebly.
"Yes, in a few minutes."
"I have something I want to say to him. Will you leave us alone?"
"Of course," she promised, smiling.
Sir Charles closed his eyes, then spoke without opening them:
"Where's Lady Clifford?"
"I expects she's still lying down, Sir Charles, but I'm not sure.
Would you like to see her?"
"No, no, not at all, not at all. I'd like to speak to my son alone; I
don't want her to interrupt us."
"I'll see to it, Sir Charles; don't worry."
He appeared satisfied. When some minutes later Roger came in, Esther
left him with his father, merely cautioning him against staying too
long. Roger watched her till the door had closed behind her, then he
drew a chair beside the bed. He saw that the old man was fumbling
ineffectually in the effort to get at something under his pillow.
"Here, I'll do that for you," Roger said, coming to his aid. "What is
it, anyhow?"
"Only that copy of my will. I want you to put it away again. No good
leaving it about for people to pry into."
Roger smiled at the invalid's native cautiousness. He had to lift his
head before he was able to extract the document, planted under the very
centre of the pillow.
"Pretty safe there, eh?" Sir Charles commented with a gleam of humour.
"Just as well, just as well. Take it now and lock it up, then come
back. I've something to say to you."
When Roger returned, he had several minutes to wait before his father
spoke again. The ill man seemed to be husbanding his resources as well
as considering how best to begin. At last he moistened his dry lips
and made an effort.
"You all of you assume I'm going to get well of this," he stated
casually.
"Get well? Of course you are!"
"I'm not so sure. Not that it bothers me. I've had my day. Only, in
case I do peg out, it seems fair to tell you beforehand about a slight
alteration I have seen fit to make in my will."
"Yes, what is it?"
The old man drew a deep breath, then continued, pausing between
sentences.
"It has nothing to do with the disposition of the property. That
remains the same. Only, I have appointed you as executor and a sort of
trustee of the whole estate."
"Me!"
Utterly unprepared for this information, his son regarded him in dismay.
"Why not?"
Roger could think of nothing to say. He was filled with chagrin, but
afraid to voice his reasons for objecting.
"It struck me," went on Sir Charles in a laboured manner, "that as
Thérèse is a young woman, the trustee ought to be a young man. An old
one might not have so much understanding."
"Perhaps not, but why me? Wouldn't it be better to choose someone
outside the family?"
"No, I don't think so. Who outside the family would take enough
interest? Besides, frankly, I don't know any other young man whose
judgment I'd trust as I would yours."
Great as was the compliment, it did not mitigate for Roger the onerous
nature of the responsibility.
"Are you quite sure it's necessary?" he asked unhappily.
"Quite. I could not rest easy unless I had placed what I have to leave
in the hands of a competent man of business. You know it as well as I
do, Thérèse needs looking after."
Roger rose and walked to the window, where he stood for several seconds
staring out, unable to bring himself to make a suitable comment. There
was but one thing he felt inclined to say, which was, "Oh, give her the
usual amount for a widow, and let her go to hell!" which, of course,
wouldn't do. Why had his father forced this irksome duty upon him? To
be forcibly kept in contact with his stepmother, to be compelled to
advise her, overlook her expenditures--it was intolerable. At all cost
he felt he must get out of it--that is, at all cost save that of
exciting and distressing his father. Ah, that was the difficulty! How
could he refuse without giving the old man some hint of his feelings
regarding Thérèse?
"Surely," he said at last, with great restraint, "such a trusteeship
isn't necessary. Thérèse is not a child; she ought to be capable of
managing her own affairs."
Sir Charles's face assumed an expression of obstinacy that Roger knew
well.
"Where money is concerned, Thérèse is a fool. She has no judgment
whatever, money drips through her fingers. I've no intention of
allowing her to fritter away the property it has taken me a lifetime to
get together. You will find I have tied it up pretty securely. She
won't be able to throw it away, she won't be at liberty to do
anything--I repeat, _anything_--without your full knowledge and
consent."
He had spoken with such emphasis that he closed his eyes with an
expression of great lassitude.
"I don't like it," protested Roger, helpless in the face of his
father's iron determination; "it's too much responsibility."
"Not too much," retorted his father calmly.
"And besides, you know yourself that Thérèse won't like it, either.
She--she may resent it very deeply."
There was a pause, then the heavy eyebrows went up with a slightly
ironical movement.
"Don't trouble your head about Thérèse; leave her to me."
There was nothing to be done; any further objection might cause the old
man serious annoyance. Roger's only hope lay in waiting till his
father was well, when, perhaps, he might renew the argument.
Accordingly he gave in with a good grace.
"Oh, very well, there's no more to be said about it. By the way, have
you told Thérèse?"
"Not yet. I wanted to speak to you first. But I shall broach the
subject to her ... when I feel equal to it."
The dry humour in this last phrase caused Roger to wonder if, after
all, his father was quite as blind as he thought him. Did he suspect
the baccarat story? Was this a diabolical plan for getting even?
There was no way of knowing; the old chap would keep his counsel till
the last gasp. Yet, as Roger gazed on the mask-like face, he thought
that his father's decision constituted a delicate and appropriate
revenge for many a secret indignity.
He himself had no wish to score off Thérèse; his sole desire was to
leave her strictly alone. It was true that the very perfume she used
had become offensive to him--he fancied he could smell it now about the
covers of the bed, which showed how she was getting on his nerves--but
certainly he wished her no harm.
He was silent and thoughtful when a few minutes later he joined his
aunt and Esther in the adjoining room. He had overcome his first
avoidance of the boudoir, yet he still disliked the hint of incense
that clung to its atmosphere. He drew a breath of slight distaste as
he sank down on the pale blue chaise-longue and mechanically drew out
his cigarette-case, only to find it empty.
"There are cigarettes on the table in that box, if you want to smoke,"
suggested his aunt.
He picked up the box, made of turquoise-blue shagreen, and opened it.
There were three compartments within, holding three kinds of
cigarettes. In the middle one was a single cigarette with a scarlet
tip and a scarlet monogram--T. C. He lifted it between his thumb and
finger and examined it with a slight frown.
"That's one of Thérèse's own special kind," observed his aunt placidly.
"She has them made for her. They're scented with amber."
He let the little object fall and selected a plain cigarette. Then as
he lit it, his eyes encountered for a fleeting instant the clear gaze
of the nurse. Immediately she looked away and, rising, perhaps too
hurriedly, left the room. However, that single glance had been
sufficient to tell Roger what was in her thoughts.
His first impulse was one of regret. He felt a poignant humiliation to
think that this young girl, a stranger in the house, should be aware of
a thing of that kind concerning his father's wife. Yet, oddly enough,
a second later, he realised that he no longer regarded Esther as a
stranger. He felt as though he had known her for years; she had
mysteriously become something quite personal. Strange, how the sharing
of a secret knowledge can change a relationship.
When Esther opened the door into the bedroom, she was just in time to
see Lady Clifford bending over the ill man, with one hand lifting up
his head, while with the other she turned over the pillow beneath it.