Lady Mary Dombey was a young woman of very pleasing appearance, but
there were occasions upon which she could look stern. This was one of
them.
“I am never surprised at anything that Gerald does,” she told
Christopher, who was seated next her at the dinner table, “but I must
say that I should never have expected you to have been mixed up in one
of his escapades. What are you going to do with the girl?”
“We rather hoped for some advice from you,” was the somewhat rueful
reply.
“You are welcome to it. Send her home.”
“You wouldn’t talk like that if you’d seen the state of terror she was
in when we found her, Mary,” Gerald remarked from the other side of the
table.
“Is she very beautiful?” his sister enquired.
“Wonderfully,” Christopher pronounced.
Gerald shrugged his shoulders.
“She is of an age when all girls are beautiful,” he observed.
“Perfectly filthy time she seems to have been having, though.”
“We hoped,” Christopher ventured, a little doubtfully, “that you might
be able to make use of her as a kind of under sewing maid, or something
of that sort.”
“Thank you,” Lady Mary replied, without enthusiasm, “I am perfectly
satisfied with the services of my own maid. Besides, the servants’
quarters here are ridiculously cramped. They are all complaining, as it
is.”
Lord Hinterleys, who had taken only a languid interest in the
conversation, intervened for the first time.
“Where is the young person now?” he enquired.
“In some rooms one of the housekeepers at the hotel found for me, sir,”
Gerald replied.
“Perhaps the housekeeper can find her some employment,” his father
suggested.
“We’ll dispose of her all right,” Gerald declared confidently. “She may
wake up in the morning and feel homesick, and, if so, we’ll send her
back.”
“You know very well that she won’t do anything of the sort,”
Christopher protested.
Lady Mary rose to her feet.
“I can’t quite decide,” she said, “which of you two has lost his heart
to this paragon of village loveliness. However, I feel sure that my
advice is the best. Send her back to her people.”
Gerald strolled to the door with his sister and returned to his place,
fingering his cigarette case irritably.
“I have always thought,” he remarked, with mild sarcasm, “that a
barrister should be a person of infinite tact and perceptions. It
appears that I was wrong. I never dreamed that any one could be such a
blithering ass as you, Chris.”
“Thank you, Gerald,” his friend replied, helping himself from the
decanter which Lord Hinterleys had passed around. “In what respect have
I merited this severe criticism?”
“Why, by talking about the girl as though she were something unusual!
Mary’s a good sort, and all that, but no girl likes the man who is
sitting next her at dinner time to rave about his latest discovery of
violet eyes. You’d probably have had those violet eyes to look at
every time you came down to stay at Hinterleys, if you hadn’t made such
an ass of yourself.”
Lord Hinterleys sipped his wine thoughtfully. Gerald, who was longing
to smoke, watched its leisurely disappearance with impatience.
“I am not suggesting for a single moment,” the former observed, “that
your attitude towards this young woman is not and will not always be
entirely irreproachable, but at the same time you must remember that we
are in a country where such adventures are likely to be misunderstood.
I feel inclined, therefore, to endorse your sister’s advice. It is very
possible that the young woman, at the time you discovered her, was
indulging in a passing fit of petulance. I should do all that I could
to encourage her to return to her people.”
“We’ll talk to her in the morning, sir,” Gerald promised. “Wonderfully
this port has travelled.”
“We brought it out six years ago,” his father remarked. “Martin laid
it down himself, and it has not been disturbed since.--There, I have
finished my two glasses. I shall retire to the drawing-room and
persuade Mary to sing to me, and you two young fellows can smoke to
your hearts’ content. Give me your arm, Gerald.”
“Don’t think we shall stop long, if you’ll excuse us, sir,” Gerald
confided, as he rose to his feet. “It’s Christopher’s first night in
Monte Carlo and I want to show him the ropes. Come along, old chap, and
make your adieux,” he added, turning to his friend.
Lord Hinterleys nodded as he leaned on his ivory-topped stick.
“You young men choose weird games at which to lose your money,
nowadays,” he observed. “Filthy places, all Casinos--no ventilation,
foul atmosphere, reeking of scent and tobacco, and, to say the least
of it, a very dubious company. Still, if I were your age I suppose I
shouldn’t notice these things.--Did you do any good with those two
hunters you bought from Loxley, Gerald? One of them I thought was good
enough for some of these country steeplechases.”
Father and son became temporarily absorbed in a subject of common
interest. Lady Mary made room for Christopher by her side. She was
scarcely possessed of her brother’s good looks, but her complexion
was good, her features unexceptionable, her eyes clear and as a rule
sympathetic, her tone and manner attractive. Her figure, especially
in a riding habit, was undeniable, her skill at golf and tennis far
above the ordinary amateur. It was not for lack of offers that, at
twenty-four years of age, she was still unmarried.
“Must you rush off so soon on your first evening?” she asked
reproachfully.
“Not so far as I am concerned,” he assured her. “I would rather stay
here and listen to you sing. It’s Gerald who is dying to lose his
money.”
She made a little grimace.
“Every one goes to the Casino or the Sporting Club at night,” she said,
“and for the first few times it is amusing enough. I hope you won’t
spend all your time there. When shall we play golf?”
“To-morrow afternoon?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I’m taking father out to lunch at the Club,” she said. “We’ll play
directly afterwards, if that suits you. Tell me, have you had any
interesting cases lately? I saw that you won the libel suit you were
telling me about.”
They talked for some time with interest. Lady Mary’s wit was keen
and her insight unusual. During a pause in their conversation, Lord
Hinterleys looked across the room through his horn-rimmed eyeglass.
“Your friend seems to get on very well with Mary,” he remarked.
“They’ve always been pals,” Gerald acquiesced.
“Doing pretty well at the Bar, isn’t he?”
“Thundering well. They say he’s certain to be one of our youngest K.
C’s.”
“I knew his father,” Lord Hinterleys reflected. “He was at Eton with
me. Very good stock, though not remarkably prosperous.”
“Christopher isn’t well off,” Gerald admitted. “You don’t make a lot of
money at the Bar your first few years.”
Lord Hinterleys said nothing for several moments.
“Mary has her aunt’s hundred thousand pounds,” he said at length. “She
is a difficult young person to marry. Knows her own mind, though. I
should never interfere.”
“Chris is a good fellow, but I don’t fancy he has any thought of
marrying just yet,” Gerald remarked. “You won’t mind if I take him off
now, sir? We shall meet for lunch at the Golf Club to-morrow.”
Christopher obeyed his friend’s summons without enthusiasm. Gerald,
however, was both insistent and impatient, and the two young men took
their leave a few minutes later.
Christopher, quickly impressed with the charm of the place, would have
willingly spent the remainder of the evening seated outside the Café de
Paris, watching the passers-by, listening to the music, and marvelling
at the amphitheatre of lights which fringed the bay and dotted the
whole background of hills with little specks of yellow fire. Gerald,
however, was too anxious to do the whole honours of the place. He
dragged his friend into the bureau of the Casino, where they obtained
their tickets for the Cercle Privé, and afterwards on to the Sporting
Club, the Mecca of Gerald’s desires for the evening, at any rate.
Christopher breathed a little more freely here than in the Casino; the
atmosphere was less pernicious, the crowd by which he was surrounded
far more attractive. After Gerald had taken a seat at the baccarat
table, he wandered around for some time, fascinated by this strange,
cosmopolitan gathering, their diversity in class, manners and dress.
Presently he found a seat in the little bar, ordered a whisky and soda
and leaned back to watch the never-ceasing stream of pleasure-seeking
loiterers. Suddenly, without any warning, his thoughts played him a
queer trick. The walls of the thronged room fell away; its murmur of
silvery voices, its tangle of exotic perfumes, were nonexistent. He
was back on the cool, sunlit hillside, with the odour of the violets
and the pines in his nostrils, and the girl looking over the gate. She
turned her head and he saw her face,--her beautiful eyes, with their
passionate, terrified appeal; her quivering lips, her child’s figure;
the tender appeal of her, the soul and sweetness of her innocent youth
clinging like some fresh, sweet perfume to her trembling body.
Gerald stood suddenly before him, his face aflame, his eyes brilliant.
His voice quivered with excitement.
“Christopher, you moonstruck old dodderer,” he cried, “wake up! I have
seen the most wonderful creature on earth. I won’t leave this place
until I find out who she is.”
“What, another adventure?” Christopher exclaimed. “Sit down and have a
whisky and soda.”
“Don’t talk to me about whiskies and sodas,” Gerald replied, sinking
into the vacant chair, however, and calling a waiter. “I tell you she’s
the most amazing person I ever saw--a revelation!”
“You’re not thinking about Myrtile?”
“That child? No!” was the impatient rejoinder. “I tell you it’s some
one here to-night. She’s either French or Russian or Italian--I can’t
make up my mind which. She is with an older woman, who seems to be a
sort of attendant. Every one’s talking about her, but no one seems to
know who she is.”
“This place is full of that sort of people, isn’t it?” Christopher
asked, not greatly impressed.
“That sort of people!” Gerald repeated contemptuously. “Wait till you
see her! I’m not easily led away. I’ve seen the most beautiful women in
most of the capitals of the world. I was at Vienna and Rome before the
war, you know, but I never---- Don’t move, Chris. Don’t look as though
I’ve been talking about them. Here they come!”
Christopher watched the approach of the two women with an interest
casual at first but real enough as they drew nearer. The younger of the
two walked slightly in advance. She was rather over the medium height,
and her carriage, although she was not in the least assertive, was
full of the simple dignity of one who has been accustomed to command
respect. She was slim, yet the outlines of her figure were so soft as
to become almost voluptuous. She wore a dress of perfectly plain black
lace, against which the skin of her neck and shoulders seemed of almost
alabaster whiteness. Her only ornament was a long, double string of
pearls of unusual size. Her hair, glossy and absolutely jet black,
was brushed from her forehead and around her ears so that it seemed
almost like a sheath. Her complexion was absolutely pallid, her lips a
natural scarlet. Her eyes were of a deep shade of brown, inclined to be
half-closed, as though she were short-sighted. Her eyelashes were long
and silky; her eyebrows looked as though they had been pencilled, and
yet left a conviction of entire naturalness. Such details as remained
of her toilette were unique yet simple. The woman who followed her
possessed also an air of distinction, but she was middle-aged, with
grey hair and somewhat unwieldy figure. She carried herself with an air
of deference towards her companion.
“Well?” Gerald whispered excitedly.
“She is very beautiful and very unusual,” Christopher admitted. “Have
you no idea who she is?”
“If I had found any one who knew who they were, I should have been
introduced before now,” was the blunt reply. “Freddie Carruthers has
gone down to ask the Superintendent.”
The two women subsided on to a couch. The elder one gave an order
to a waiter, the younger one glanced indifferently around. Her eyes
rested for a moment upon Gerald. There was nothing personal in their
regard--her manner was, indeed, if anything, austere--but Christopher
was conscious of a sudden indrawn breath, almost a sob, which escaped
from his companion’s lips.
“I wish Carruthers would come,” the latter muttered impatiently. “I
didn’t exaggerate, did I, Chris?”
“No,” the latter admitted, “I can’t say that you did. She is very
wonderful and very interesting. It is quite your day for adventures.”
Gerald laughed scornfully.
“You’re not comparing our little protégée from the hills with--with
her, are you?” he demanded.
“Each has her charm,” Christopher replied.
Gerald leaned back in his chair and laughed long and heartily.
“Our little wild rose,” he said, “is like a thousand others--a pretty
face, a fascinating age, confiding manners. In twenty-four hours she
would have taught you all that she could know of love and life. She is
as much a yokel intellectually as this girl is a mystery. Are there any
queens or royal princesses wandering about the world nowadays, Chris?
I swear that she looks as though she had stepped down from a throne.
Thank heavens, here comes Carruthers!”
A young man who had been staring in at the doorway recognised Gerald
and came across to them.
“No go, old thing,” he confided, leaning down. “They are registered
here as Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière--aunt and niece. The old
buffer downstairs, however, admitted that he believed that to be an
assumed name.”
“Couldn’t you bribe him, or something?” Gerald asked eagerly.
“Old Johnny fairly cornered me,” Carruthers explained. “The two ladies,
he told me, had declared their desire to remain incognito. It was not,
therefore, the business of a gentleman to be inquisitive. Whereupon I
came away with my tail between my legs. All the same, I don’t believe
he has the least idea who they are.”
“They can’t possibly escape for more than a few days, in a place like
this, without being recognised,” Gerald declared.
Carruthers stroked an incipient moustache.
“One gets nasty knocks sometimes,” he observed. “There was a milliner
and her head mannequin who fairly knocked them all silly at Biarritz
last season.”
“Don’t be a blatant ass, Freddy!” Gerald exclaimed contemptuously.
“Mannequins can learn to strut but not to walk. That habit of walking
into a crowded room as though you were the only person in it isn’t
picked up in Bond Street or the Rue de la Paix. I----”
Gerald was suddenly on his feet. The younger of the two women, in
turning towards her companion, had swept a small lace handkerchief,
which she had laid upon the table in front of them, to the floor. She
made no effort herself to regain possession of it, but glanced towards
the waiter. Gerald, however, already held it in his fingers.
“I believe this is your handkerchief, mademoiselle,” he ventured.
She accepted it with a very slight but sufficiently gracious smile.
“I thank you very much, sir,” she said, speaking in English, with a
slight foreign accent.
Some casual remark was already framing itself upon Gerald’s lips, but
it remained unuttered. The girl had turned and resumed her conversation
with her companion. She had the air of not realising that there was
another person in the room. The young man, with a little bow, returned
to his place. He hid his feelings perfectly, but his two companions
could guess at his discomfiture.
“It’s no good, old chap,” Carruthers assured him confidentially.
“They simply aren’t taking any. That Italian Prince with the swivel
eye, whom all the women are raving about, tried his best to get into
conversation. Managed to get one of his pals to address him by name,
so that they knew who he was, but there was nothing doing. Dicky Gordon
tried to get a word in edgeways at the roulette table, but it didn’t
come off. One of the croupiers, whom he knew, went out of his way to
whisper to him that the ladies did not desire acquaintances.”
Gerald sighed.
“I shall know her sooner or later,” he muttered, “but it’s such a waste
of precious time.”
The woman and the girl rose presently to their feet and turned towards
the door. Gerald, for the first time in his life, felt himself guilty
of an impertinence. He watched them descend the stairs, watched a
bowing servant run and fetch a waiting automobile. He even, from his
position at the top of the steps, leaned forward to hear if any word of
address was spoken. He was unrewarded. A footman opened the door of the
car, closed it and mounted to the side of the chauffeur. The car drove
rapidly away in the direction of Nice. Gerald waited for the porter to
remount the steps and slipped a ten franc note in his hand.
“Do you know who those two ladies were?” he asked.
“They call themselves Madame and Mademoiselle de Ponière,” the man
replied, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Call themselves?” Gerald repeated. “What do you mean by that?”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“There are many who come here who do not desire their presence to be
known, monsieur,” he said cautiously.
“Criminals, perhaps,--or royalty?” Gerald ventured.
The man looked imperturbably through the revolving doors.
“Many of all sorts, monsieur,” he assented. “Monsieur will excuse.”
He hastened off on some excuse connected with a waiting automobile.
Gerald had no alternative but to rejoin Carruthers and Christopher,
whom he found watching the play at one of the roulette tables.
“Any luck?” the former asked eagerly.
“Not an iota,” Gerald confessed. “I tipped the man who saw them off,
but he either knew nothing or would tell me nothing.--I shall have a
plunge at baccarat,” he added. “I feel like gambling this evening.”
“You won’t forget that we promised to go and see Myrtile early?”
Christopher reminded him.
Gerald stared at his friend.
“Myrtile? Who the devil---- Why, the child from the violet farm, of
course! I’d forgotten all about her.”