ON THE RIPLEY ROAD
Owen Odd worked hard through the early part of March, for it was his
busiest season. An epidemic of influenza had again broken out, and in
all the districts of the metropolitan area that of Hammersmith was the
most affected.
Therefore, being out both night and day, he saw but little of Dick,
who, seated in his high-up flat on the opposite side of the long
suspension bridge, pursued his studies.
He ran up to Perthshire for a fortnight’s curling, and to play in a
match on Corsbreck, but returned earlier than he intended, for Thyra
was still in London, and he longed to be again beside her.
Their constant association constituted in itself a grave danger. They
were both only too well aware of that. Yet somehow there existed a
magnetic attraction which drew them towards each other. Those grey eyes
held him in fascination now just as they had done on the first evening
they had met.
Whatever suspicions had been aroused in the mind of Jorgen Berentsen by
Peter Sundt had apparently been allayed by Dick’s frank, open manner.
Only Jorgen knew of Sundt’s presence in London. The man, living at his
ease in the best suite at the Ritz, had extracted a solemn promise from
Jorgen to tell no one of his whereabouts, hinting as the reason that in
the City were some busy speculators who were worrying him to sell his
fishing interests in the north to a public company; and who, if they
knew him to be in London, would allow him no peace.
Hence, old Jorgen kept the secret, and had not even told his widowed
daughter.
There being a spell of dry, frosty weather, Dick had on a good many
occasions hired a motor car, and taken Thyra and her father for runs to
various places around London, such as Hitchin, St. Albans, Chelmsford,
Guilford, and down to the Metropole at Brighton.
To the girl-widow, who had spent most of her days in the bleak Arctic,
motoring along those country roads was a new sensation in which she
delighted. Hitherto her only experience had been that of taxi-cabs, but
in a “forty” the run was so much more exciting and exhilarating.
The old whaler, too, grew fond of travelling by car, and many pleasant
days they thus passed together. Father and daughter had decided to
remain on in London until the warmer weather, the old fellow having
obtained further leave of absence from his post as harbour-master.
The character of the mysterious “business” upon which he was so often
absent from Talbot Road was never revealed. The truth was, however,
that, aided by Sundt, both financially and otherwise, he was making
diligent inquiries in Russia concerning the antecedents of Paul
Grinevitch.
Peter had telegraphed to his agent at St. Petersburg, and in
consequence the man had duly arrived at the Ritz. Then, after several
interviews, at which Jorgen was present, the Russian had received
instructions to proceed to Tula, Kiev, and other places, and make
inquiries. The result of these both men were now awaiting.
Notwithstanding the grave suspicion cast upon Richard Jervoise by
Peter, the old captain, nevertheless, liked him. He had taken to him
from the very first day when Martin had introduced him at Vardo.
On several occasions, when he had arrived at Talbot Road with the car,
Dick had found that the Captain was unavoidably absent “on business,”
but Thyra was always there to welcome him warmly. Of late she had, it
seemed, grown fonder of his company than hitherto, though at times he
was quick to notice the slightly thoughtful frown which clouded her
white brow.
One morning, when he called with the car, and found the Captain out, he
proposed that they should wait till his return after luncheon. But she
pointed out that it would be too late to go for a run of any length,
and suggested that they should travel down to Guilford and lunch
together at the inn where they had lunched a week previously.
This they did, going by way of Kingston and Ripley, duly arriving at
the inn, where they had a pleasant _tete-a-tete_ meal, no one else
happening to be present.
After a few sentences on indifferent matters when the waiter had left,
the pair had fallen silent. They exchanged glances, but Thyra spoke
within herself, as was her habit, and made note of a sudden and sad
discovery. Dick was changed! No; this time it really was not mere
fancy! He was changed.
She became puzzled. What could it mean? She held her breath when she
recollected all the past—that bitter, never-to-be-forgotten past.
She sighed for that free life at Vardo, with the fresh wind from the
ice-pack, those rolling, open seas, and the brilliant Northern lights
that so often lit the sky. Ah, how happy was her life there! How very
different from that stifled existence on a drawing-room floor at
Bayswater.
And yet? She looked into her companion’s face, and her gaze wavered.
And yet, alas! there was that bond which she could not now break!
He was proposing to take her father and herself to a play at the
Garrick on the following evening. But she said, almost mechanically:
“Is it wise? Remember that you should not be seen with me so much! You
never know who may be watching.”
He laughed—a scoffing laugh that was new to him. He was scornful. Was
it of herself?
Fancies! Folly! Peril!
“My dear Thyra,” he said, “you are so full of apprehension. What have
we to fear? Our secret is surely safe—as it always will be.”
And he looked at her again with that strange, unusual gaze that caused
her to shudder.
Half an hour later they were seated together in the closed car
travelling back over that well-kept, open road towards Ripley.
Yes. He was changed, she thought, as she sat at his side, gazing at the
ever-winding road and bare trees rising straight before her.
She had noticed how his expression had transformed. A woman is always
quick to read a man’s face, and certainly she was no exception.
Something gloomy, something deprecating, had come into his eyes. Had he
really lost faith in her?
To remove all vestige of her fear she spoke to him again, a smile in
her great grey eyes as they fell upon his. Her heart thumped wildly,
for he did not answer. He remained plunged in thought, his mouth hard
and rigid, still regarding her fixedly.
“Mr. Jervoise!” she exclaimed, as her gloved hand involuntarily fell
upon his and an unexplained anxiety took possession of her. It was
about as bad as the inexpressible terror of that night after the sudden
discovery of her widowhood. “Speak to me,” she urged. “What’s the
matter? At the inn you were defiant and scornful, yet now you seem just
as full of apprehension as I am.”
“I was thinking,” he said, his eyes fixed upon hers. “Nothing,” he
added. “Don’t be alarmed.”
“But——”
She did not conclude her sentence. The car roared on through the grey,
threatening afternoon, and with a sudden swerve sped through the
village street of Ripley and out again into the country roads.
“Why do you ask?” he murmured at last. His voice was hardly a breath,
but a breath in which Thyra felt the raging of a storm of resentment.
Again she was afraid.
She now became conscious of a mysterious transformation. Only a day,
nay, only an hour, previously it was her own soul which had escaped
that of Richard Jervoise, hiding itself behind a world of littleness,
of vanity, of vain desires and ambitions; now, on the contrary, it was
his soul which some occult, unseen, but violent, force was trying to
wrest away from her. She attempted to fathom the mystery. It was weird
and inexplicable.
What is it? she asked herself. Does he mistrust—is he afraid of me? Why
is this?
“Thyra,” he said at last, “you must explain to me what you intend to
do. You seem mysterious to-day.”
“As soon as my father is ready we go back to Vardo,” she answered quite
simply.
“Without further thought of me—eh?” he asked in a voice of reproach.
“I did not say that. I shall always remember you as a very kind and
very dear friend of my father and myself,” she faltered, not quite
understanding the drift of his conversation. The car roared on.
“Nothing else?” he asked hoarsely, his eyes fixed upon hers.
Again she was silent. What, indeed, could she say?
He repeated his question in a low, intense voice.
“You know already,” was her answer at last.
“I don’t—I don’t understand,” he exclaimed.
But he could get no word from her lips. There was a whole gulf between
them, an immense expanse of cold, colourless water, perfidiously
silent, like that of the broad lake along the edge of which the car was
at that moment travelling.
“Thyra,” he exclaimed suddenly, after another long silence, “yesterday,
as I was leaving the club, I saw a friend of your father’s coming down
St. James’s Street in a hansom.”
“A friend of my father’s?” she echoed. “Whom?”
“That stout, red-faced man to whom I was introduced in your house,” he
replied.
“What, Peter Sundt!” she cried. “Why, he cannot possibly be in London.
He’s always at his villa at Ragusa all the winter!”
“I’m quite certain it was the man. One cannot forget a pimply face like
his!” he laughed lightly.
“No,” she declared. “But are you quite certain you were not mistaken?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then,” she said reflectively, “if he really is in London, my father’s
mysterious absences on business are easily accounted for. He goes to
see him.”
“Why?”
Her breast heaved slowly, and fell.
“Well—I believe there is some secret between them. I’ve thought so
for months past. When you met him at Vardo he had come up there
expressly to consult my father upon some point. They held several long
consultations in private.”
“What is the nature of their secret, do you imagine?”
“How can I tell? Except——” And she hesitated, a slight flush rising
upon her pale cheeks.
“Except what?”
“Well,” she faltered, when he had repeated his question, “the secret is
mine alone. The fact is that we had met in Christiania before I left
school, and I had been invited to a garden fete he had given. My father
and he being very old friends, he used to send me pretty presents at
Christmas and on my birthday.”
“Well?”
She was again silent. The car, with horn sounding ever and anon, was
rushing onward towards London.
“About a year ago he came to Vardo on his yacht, and stayed with us for
several days,” was her reply. “One afternoon, when we were out together
walking, he took my hand, and—and he declared that he loved me; and,
despite the great difference of our ages, that if I would consent he
would make me his wife.”
“That man?” Dick gasped, staring at her in surprise. “He proposed to
you?”
“Yes,” she answered blankly. “It was only a week before I met Paul. I
told him frankly that I could never marry a man whom I did not love.
But he refused to take my refusal for an answer, and said he hoped
that I would reconsider my decision. With the pride of the parvenu he
pointed out to me the social position I might occupy, and the means
that would be at my command, if only I became his wife. And further, he
promised that on my marriage he would place to my father’s credit such
an amount that would secure for him a competency, so as to allow him
to resign his appointment at Vardo and come to live somewhere in the
south.”
“In fact, he wished your father to sell you to him just as though you
were a barrel of cod-liver oil—eh?” he asked grimly.
“Yes—almost,” she laughed uneasily.
“Was your father aware of this?” Dick quickly asked.
“I told him. But he only replied that he would never wish to influence
me in any way regarding my marriage, and urged me not to marry until I
could honestly love. But——”
“Well?”
“My surmise is that the secret between Peter and my father is still in
regard to my marriage—as it has always been,” she replied in a strange
voice.
“You think, then, that this rough, red-faced fisherman still desires to
marry you?” asked Dick, with quick resentment.
“Yes,” she answered very slowly. “Though my father has never once
referred to the subject since, I somehow entertain a vague suspicion
that Peter has again approached him upon the subject. Marriage with
that man, with his fine house in Christiania, his villa on the
Adriatic, and his immense wealth, would be regarded by the world as a
splendid match I suppose,” she added, laughing bitterly.
“But you surely will never marry him, Thyra!” he urged earnestly,
taking her hand tenderly in his. “You do not love him—do you?”
“I do not,” was her prompt answer, as with a sudden movement she pushed
her hair back from her brow, as though its weight oppressed her. “But
who knows what the future may bring?” and she stared at the white,
winding road before her.
“It will bring you happiness, I hope.”
“Happiness!” she echoed hoarsely. “I married for love, alas!—for
happiness! But what did I receive in return? Ah! _You!_” she cried,
staring at him, and suddenly drawing herself away from his contact in
repulsion. “You—you speak to me of happiness—_you_—of all men!”
And, unable to restrain herself longer, she burst into a flood of
bitter tears.